Anglo-Norman Studies XLIII: Proceedings of the Battle Conference 2020 [43] 9781783276059, 9781800102934, 1783276053

Table of contents :
Front Cover
Contents
Illustrations and Tables
Editor’s Preface
Abbreviations
Joan of England and Al-ʿÂdil’s Harem: The Impossible Marriage between Christians and Muslims
The Forests and Elite Residences of the Earls of Chester in Cheshire, c. 1070-1237
The Coinage of Harold II in the Light of the Chew Valley Hoard
Change and Continuity: Multiple Lordship in Post-Conquest England
‘Fitting the Missing Tile’: Universal Chronicle-Writing and the Construction of the Galfridian Past
‘Audi Israel’: Apostolic Authority in the Coronation of Mathilda of Flanders
Between the Ribble and the Mersey: Lancashire before Lancashire and the Irish Sea Zone
The Helmet and the Crown: The Bayeux Tapestry, Bishop Odo and William the Conqueror
Knighting in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries
Enquête, Exaction and Excommunication: Experiencing Power in Western France, c. 1190-1245
Contents of Previous Volumes

Citation preview

S. D. CHURCH is Professor of Medieval History at the University of East Anglia. Contributors: Martin Aurell, Richard Barton, Hannah Boston, Laura L. Gathagan, Charles Insley, Max Lieberman, Christopher Norton, Gabriele Passabì, Rachel E. Swallow, Gareth Williams.

Anglo-Norman Studies XLIII

The articles brought together here demonstrate the exciting vitality of this field. The volume begins with a keynote article on the failure of marriages among Christians and Muslims in crusader diplomacy. Other articles consider the ceremony of knighting and the coronation ritual of Matilda of Flanders. There are also investigations of hunting landscapes in Cheshire, and Lancashire before Lancashire in the context of the Irish Sea World, while lordship is examined in two contexts, in post-Conquest England and early thirteenth-century Le Mans and Chartres. The sources for our knowledge of the period, as always, receive attention, whether drawn from documentary evidence or material culture, with essays on universal chronicle-writing and the construction of the Galfridian past in the Continuatio Ursicampina; the coinage of Harold II; and the patronage of the Bayeux Tapestry by Odo of Bayeux.

Anglo-Norman Studies t xliii Proceedings of the Battle Conference 2020

Edited by S. D. Church

Edited by S. D. Church

ANGLO-NORMAN STUDIES XLIII PROCEEDINGS OF THE BATTLE CONFERENCE 2020

The articles brought together here demonstrate the exciting vitality of this field. The volume begins with a keynote chapter on the failure of marriages among Christians and Muslims in crusader diplomacy. Other chapters consider the ceremony of knighting and the coronation ritual of Matilda of Flanders. There are also investigations of hunting landscapes in Cheshire, and of Lancashire before Lancashire in the context of the Irish Sea World. Lordship is examined in two contexts, in post-­ Conquest England and early thirteenth-century Le Mans and Chartres. The sources for our knowledge of the period, as always, receive attention, whether drawn from documentary evidence or material culture, with essays on universal chronicle-writing and the construction of the Galfridian past in the Continuatio Ursicampina; the coinage of Harold II; and the patronage of the Bayeux Tapestry by Odo of Bayeux. S. D. CHURCH is Professor of Medieval History at the University of East Anglia.

ANGLO-NORMAN STUDIES ISSN 0954-9927

Editor S. D. Church Editorial Board Lindy Grant (University of Reading) Mark Hagger (Bangor University) Leonie V. Hicks (Canterbury Christ Church University) C. P. Lewis (Institute of Historical Research, University of London) Elisabeth van Houts (Emmanuel College, Cambridge)

ANGLO-NORMAN STUDIES XLIII PROCEEDINGS OF THE BATTLE CONFERENCE 2020

Edited by S. D. Church

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Editor and Contributors 2020, 2021 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner First published 2021 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge ISBN 978–1–78327–605–9 hardback ISBN 978–1–80010–293–4 ePDF

ISSN 0954-9927 Anglo-Norman Studies (Formerly ISSN 0261-9857: Proceedings of the Battle Conference on Anglo-Norman Studies)

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

CONTENTS LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS AND TABLES EDITOR’S PREFACE LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS Joan of England and Al-ʿÂdil’s Harem: The Impossible Marriage between Christians and Muslims (Eleventh–Twelfth Centuries) (The Allen Brown Memorial Lecture) Martin Aurell The Forests and Elite Residences of the Earls of Chester in Cheshire, c. 1070–1237 (The Des Seal Memorial Lecture) Rachel E. Swallow

vi viii ix

1

15

The Coinage of Harold II in the Light of the Chew Valley Hoard (The Christine Mahany Memorial Lecture) Gareth Williams

39

Change and Continuity: Multiple Lordship in Post-Conquest England (The Marjorie Chibnall Essay Prize) Hannah Boston

61

‘Fitting the Missing Tile’: Universal Chronicle-Writing and the Construction of the Galfridian Past in the Continuatio Ursicampina (The Marjorie Chibnall Essay Prize Proxima Accessit) Gabriele Passabì ‘Audi Israel’: Apostolic Authority in the Coronation of Mathilda of Flanders Laura L. Gathagan

75 89

Between the Ribble and the Mersey: Lancashire before Lancashire and the Irish Sea Zone Charles Insley

105

The Helmet and the Crown: The Bayeux Tapestry, Bishop Odo and William the Conqueror Christopher Norton

123

Knighting in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries Max Lieberman Enquête, Exaction and Excommunication: Experiencing Power in Western France, c. 1190–1245 Richard E. Barton

151

177

ILLUSTRATIONS AND TABLES

Rachel E. Swallow, The Forests and Elite Residences of the Earls of Chester in Cheshire, c. 1070–1237 Fig. 1 Medieval Cheshire forests and comital elite residences, c. 1070–1237 Fig. 2 Lands held by Earl Edwin, 1066, and Earl Hugh, c. 1086

17 18–19

Fig. 3 Medieval Cheshire and Lyme place-names

23

Fig. 4 Domesday woodland and forest, 1086

25

Gareth Williams, The Coinage of Harold II in the Light of the Chew Valley Hoard Fig. 1 Silver penny of Harold II, moneyer Osmær of Bath, from the Chew Valley hoard

47

Table 1 Rulers and types represented in the Chew valley hoard

40

Table 2 Mints and moneyers of Harold’s PAX type represented in the Chew Valley hoard 57–9 Hannah Boston, Change and Continuity: Multiple Lordship in Post-Conquest England Table 1 Lordship pattern of 194 families by c. 1216, broken down by category 63 Table 2 Instances of clear multiple tenancy, by date

63

Charles Insley, Between the Ribble and the Mersey: Lancashire before Lancashire and the Irish Sea Zone Fig. 1 Inter Ripam et Mersham. Domesday Hundreds and Hundredal Centres

108

Fig. 2 Inter Ripam et Mersham. Roman roads and places mentioned in the text

116



vii

Illustrations and Tables

Christopher Norton, The Helmet and the Crown: The Bayeux Tapestry, Bishop Odo and William the Conqueror Fig. 1 Reconstructed plan of Bayeux Cathedral in the late eleventh century, with the position of the tapestry shown in blue 124 Fig. 2 Reconstructed elevation of the north side of the crossing of Bayeux Cathedral in the late eleventh century, with the nave elevation to the left and the presbytery elevation raised above the crypt to the right

126

Fig. 3 The layout of the Bayeux Tapestry as originally displayed in the nave of the cathedral

129

Fig. 4 Bays 2 and 6 of the tapestry as originally displayed on the south side of the nave

130–1

Fig. 5 The north–south section of the tapestry as originally displayed across the west wall of the nave

132

Fig. 6 Bays 6 and 2 (reconstructed) of the tapestry as originally displayed on the north side of the nave

133

Fig. 7 The junction of pieces III and IV of the Bayeux Tapestry, marking the original centre of the tapestry

134–5

Fig. 8 Reconstruction views of the nave of Bayeux Cathedral in the eleventh century, looking west from the north end of the choir screen, showing how the tapestry might have been hung at different heights

136

Fig. 9 Drawing of the incomplete text next to the raised banner on the Bayeux Tapestry, showing its present state (above) and a possible reconstruction (below) 138 Fig. 10 The banqueting sequence from Bay 6 of the north side of the Bayeux Tapestry

142

Table 1 Bay widths in the eleventh-century nave of Bayeux Cathedral

125

Table 2 Physical structure of the Bayeux Tapestry

127

Max Lieberman, Knighting in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries Table 1 Possible knightings of William the Conqueror and his male descendants over seven generations (selection)

174–5

Full credit details are provided in the captions to the images in the text. The editor, contributors and publisher are grateful to all the institutions and persons for permission to reproduce the materials in which they hold copyright. Every effort has been made to trace the copyright holders; apologies are offered for any omission, and the publisher will be pleased to add any necessary acknowledgement in subsequent editions.

EDITOR’S PREFACE The forty-third Battle Conference of Anglo-Norman Studies took place in the virtual sphere and in a much shortened form. That the conference took place at all was thanks to the kindness of Charles Insley at the University of Manchester. He encouraged us to offer a cut-down version of the conference, and he provided the platform on which our skirmish took place. Not all speakers were able to participate in the event, but we are grateful to those who reduced their papers to the twenty minutes the changed format required. The conference attracted some 130 delegates, a reminder that the online event did have the advantage of allowing more people to join the conference than would otherwise have been the case. We look forward to returning to the face-to-face conference experience, perhaps with an added virtual element, when eventually the current pandemic comes to an end. I owe a special debt of gratitude to Ann Williams, which must be acknowledged here, for her feedback and insightful comments on a number of the papers. This volume’s qualities are in no small part due to her expertise. Stephen Church

ABBREVIATIONS ×

[The form 1066×1087 indicates an uncertain date within the range] AD Archives départementales AmHR American Historical Review ANS Anglo-Norman Studies ASC Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, cited by year (corrected in square brackets if necessary) and manuscript; unless otherwise stated the edition is Two of the Saxon Chronicles Parallel, ed. Charles Plummer, 2 vols (Oxford, 1892–9) ASC, trans. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, trans. and ed. M. J. Swanton Swanton (London, 1996) ASE Anglo-Saxon England BAR British Archaeological Reports BIHR Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research BL London, British Library BM Bibliothèque Municipale BnF Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France Carmen The Carmen de Hastingae Proelio of Guy, Bishop of Amiens, ed. and trans. Frank Barlow (Oxford, 1999) CBA Council for British Archaeology Dugdale, Monas- William Dugdale, Monasticon Anglicanum, new edn by ticon Henry Ellis and Bulkeley Bandinel, 6 vols (London, 1817–30) Eadmer, HN Eadmer, Historia novorum in Anglia, in Eadmeri Historia novorum in Anglia, et Opuscula duo; De Vita Sancti Anselmi et quibusdam miraculis ejus, ed. Martin Rule, RS 81 (London, 1884) EEA English Episcopal Acta EETS Early English Text Society EHR English Historical Review EME Early Medieval Europe English Lawsuits English Lawsuits from William I to Richard I, ed. R. C. van Caenegem, 2 vols, Selden Society 106–7 (London, 1990–1) Freeman, Norman Edward A. Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest of Conquest England, Its Causes and Its Results, 6 vols, rev. edn (New York, 1873–6) [1st edn, Oxford 1867–79]

x Abbreviations GDB

Great Domesday Book, followed by the folio number, a or b (for recto or verso), cited from Domesday Book, seu Liber Censualis Willelmi Primi, 2 vols (London, 1783), I; or from Great Domesday Book: Library Edition, ed. Ann Williams and R. W. H. Erskine (London, 1986–92); followed in parentheses by the abbreviated county name and the entry number (substituting an oblique for a comma between the first and second parts) used in Domesday Book, ed. John Morris et al., 34 vols (London, 1974–86) Gesetze, ed. Die Gesetze der Angelsachsen, ed. Felix Liebermann, 3 vols Liebermann (Halle, 1903–16) GND The Gesta Normannorum ducum of William of Jumièges, Orderic Vitalis, and Robert of Torigni, ed. and trans. Elisabeth M. C. van Houts, 2 vols (Oxford, 1992–5) Harmer, AS Writs F. E. Harmer, Anglo-Saxon Writs, 2nd edn (Stamford, 1989) Howden, Chronica Rogeri de Houedene, ed. William Stubbs, 4 vols, Chronica RS 51 (London, 1868–71) Howden, Gesta Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi [now attributed to Roger of Howden], ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols, RS 49 (London, 1867) HSJ Haskins Society Journal Huntingdon Henry, Archdeacon of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum: The History of the English People, ed. and trans. Diana Greenway (Oxford, 1996) IE Inquisitio Eliensis, in Inquisitio Comitatus Cantabrigiensis [and] Inquisitio Eliensis, ed. N. E. S. A. Hamilton (London, 1876) JEH Journal of Ecclesiastical History JL Regesta pontificum romanorum ab condita ecclesia ad annum post Christum natum MCXCVIII, ed. Philipp Jaffé et al., 2 vols (Leipzig, 1885–8) JMH Journal of Medieval History John of Worcester The Chronicle of John of Worcester, ed. R. R. Darlington and P. McGurk, II–III (Oxford, 1995–8) KCD Codex Diplomaticus Aevi Saxonici, ed. J. M. Kemble, 6 vols (London, 1839–48), cited by charter number LDB Little Domesday Book, followed by the folio number and a or b (for recto or verso), cited from Domesday Book, seu Liber Censualis Willelmi Primi, 2 vols (London, 1783), II; or from Great Domesday Book: Library Edition, ed. Ann Williams and R. W. H. Erskine (London, 2000); followed in parentheses by the abbreviated county name and the entry number (substituting an oblique for a comma between the first and second parts) used in Domesday Book, ed. John Morris et al., 34 vols (London, 1974–86)

Abbreviations

xi

The Letters of Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, ed. and trans. Helen Clover and Margaret Gibson (Oxford, 1979) William of Malmesbury, Gesta pontificum Anglorum: The History of the English Bishops, ed. and trans. M. Winterbottom and R. M. Thomson, 2 vols (Oxford, 2007) Malmesbury, William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum: The History Gesta regum of the English Kings, ed. and trans. R. A. B. Mynors, M. Winterbottom and R. M. Thomson, 2 vols (Oxford, 1998–9) Malmesbury, William of Malmesbury, Historia novella: The ContempoHistoria novella rary History, ed. Edmund King, trans. K. R. Potter (Oxford, 1998) MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica ODNB Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, usually cited from online edn (www.oxforddnb.com), with article number and date accessed OED Oxford English Dictionary OMT Oxford Medieval Texts Orderic The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ed. and trans. Marjorie Chibnall, 6 vols (Oxford, 1969–80) P&P Past and Present PL Patrologia cursus completus, series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–65) Poitiers The Gesta Guillelmi of William of Poitiers, ed. and trans. R. H. C. Davis and Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford, 1998) PR The Great Roll of the Pipe for [regnal year, king], Pipe Roll Society; except for 2–4 Henry II, ed. Joseph Hunter (London, 1844); 1 Richard I, ed. Joseph Hunter (London, 1844); 26 Henry III, ed. Henry Louis Cannon (London, 1918) Proc. Brit. Acad. Proceedings of the British Academy RADN Recueil des actes des ducs de Normandie de 911 à 1066, ed. Marie Fauroux, Mémoires de la Société des Antiquaires de Normandie 36 (Caen, 1961) Regesta Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum, 1066–1154, 3 vols (I, ed. H. W. C. Davis (Oxford, 1913); II, ed. Charles Johnson and H. A. Cronne (Oxford, 1956); III, ed. H. A. Cronne and R. H. C. Davis (Oxford 1968)) Regesta: William I Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum: The Acta of William I (1066–1087), ed. David Bates (Oxford, 1998) Robertson, AS A. J. Robertson, Anglo-Saxon Charters (Cambridge, 1939) Charters RS Rolls Series (Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during the Middle Ages, Published under the Direction of the Master of the Rolls) Letters of Lanfranc Malmesbury, Gesta pontificum

xii Abbreviations S P. H.

s.a. SS s.v. Tabularia Telma Torigni, ed. Bisson Torigni, ed. Delisle Torigni, ed. Howlett TRE TRHS TRW VCH Vita Eadwardi Wace, trans. Burgess Whitelock, AS Wills

Sawyer, Anglo-Saxon Charters: An Annotated List and Bibliography (London, 1968), with a revised and updated version largely edited by S. E. Kelly, available at http://www.esawyer. org.uk/ sub anno, annis (‘under the year, years’) Scriptores (in Folio) [in MGH] sub verbo, verbis (‘under the word, words’) Tabularia: Sources écrites de la Normandie medieval [online journal: www.unicaen.fr/mrsh/craham/revue/tabularia/] Chartes originales antérieures à 1121 conservées en France, ed. C. Giraud, J.-B. Renault and B.-M. Tock (Nancy and Orléans, 2010), http://www.cn-telma.fr/originaux/ The Chronography of Robert of Torigni, ed. Thomas N. Bisson, 2 vols (Oxford, 2020) Chronique de Robert de Torigni: Abbé du Mont-Saint-Michel, ed. L. Delisle, 2 vols, (Rouen, 1872–3) Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II, and Richard I, ed. R. Howlett, 4 vols, Rolls Series (London, 1884–9), IV tempore regis Eadwardi (‘in King Edward’s time’) Transactions of the Royal Historical Society tempore regis Willelmi (‘in King William’s time’) The Victoria History of the Counties of England [with county name], in progress The Life of King Edward who Rests at Westminter, Attributed to a Monk of Saint-Bertin, ed. and trans. Frank Barlow, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1992) The History of the Norman People: Wace’s Roman de Rou, trans. Glyn S. Burgess (Woodbridge, 2004) D. Whitelock, Anglo-Saxon Wills (Cambridge, 1930)

The Allen Brown Memorial Lecture

JOAN OF ENGLAND AND AL-ʿÂDIL’S HAREM: THE IMPOSSIBLE MARRIAGE BETWEEN CHRISTIANS AND MUSLIMS (ELEVENTH–TWELFTH CENTURIES) Martin Aurell In October 1191, Ramadan 587, on the Palestinian coast, the negotiations between Richard I and Saladin to end the crusade were progressing.1 On both sides, the troops were exhausted by a difficult six-month campaign. Winter was approaching. The king of England was wary of the ambitions of his brother John and the intentions of King Philip Augustus, who had hastily returned to Europe two months earlier. He wished to obtain a lasting peace in the Holy Land in order to return to his lands. Saladin delegated the talks to his brother al-ʿÂdil, who befriended the king. Three Arabic-speaking historians took part in the embassies: Bahāʾ ad-Dīn (1145–1234), an army judge; ʿImād ad-Dīn al-Isfahānī (1125–1201), Saladin’s secretary; and Ibn al-Athīr (1160–1233), a warrior in his troop. Based on their own experience, their testimony is invaluable. The three authors report, concordantly, Richard I’s proposal to give his sister Joan (1165–1199), aged twenty-four,2 the young widow of the king of Sicily, to al-ʿÂdil in marriage. A year earlier, shortly after her husband’s death, Joan’s brother and Philip Augustus had wintered in Messina with their troops on their way to the Holy Land. The king of France had then asked for her hand, hoping to enjoy her rights in Sicily and even the throne of England, while Richard, still single, had no heir. The king of England had refused and his relations with Philip Augustus had suffered as a result.3 Consequently, a few months later, in Palestine where she followed Richard, Joan was still available. According to the three Arab chroniclers, it was hoped that the union to al-ʿÂdil would put an end to the crusade by creating an autonomous Palestine ruled by Saladin’s brother. Under the terms of the marriage contract, Joan would keep the ports between Acre and Ascalon, conquered by Richard I. She would reside in Jerusalem where Latin priests could serve her chapel. Some localities, excluding the fortresses on the heights, would be left to the Franks and the military orders, who would

I am indebted to Carole Avignon, Estelle Ingrand-Varenne and Olivier Hanne for their information and commentaries to this article. Stephen Church, who proposed that I present it as an Allen Brown Memorial lecture at the Anglo-Norman Studies conference in Manchester, has kindly improved the form and content of its first draft. I have taken advantage of the comments of the listeners to three lectures on this subject, given at the Stanford conference on Medieval East and Southern France Transfers, organized by Marisa Galvez; at the ‘Transitions Centre’ of University of Liège, invited by Laure Fagnart and Marjolaine Raguin; and at the Paris seminar on Islam and peace organized by Sylvie Denoix. 2 Torigni, ed. Bisson, i, 252. 3 Howden, Gesta, ii, 126; Howden, Chronica, iii, 56. See M. Aurell, ‘Philippe Auguste et les Plantagenêt’, in Autour de Philippe Auguste, ed. M. Aurell and Y. Sassier (Paris, 2017), 42. 1

2

Martin Aurell

recover the True Cross lost at the battle of Hattin (1187). ʿImād ad-Dīn concluded: ‘Thanks to a woman, the word “war” would be transformed into “peace”’.4 The project failed. After a few days of negotiations, Richard I notified the ambassadors of his sister’s refusal of the proposal. Indeed, in a fit of rage, she swore to Richard that she would never give herself to a Muslim. The clergy supported her. The king of England, therefore, could but propose conversion to Christianity to al-ʿÂdil, who obviously declined in his turn.5 At the beginning of the thirteenth century, the testimony of the Arab chroniclers is corroborated by the continuator in French of the Latin History by William of Tyre. He mentions the promise of marriage and the proposed ensuing conversion of al-ʿÂdil, but also Richard’s determination to recover the whole of the kingdom of Jerusalem, which caused the negotiations to fail.6 In short, the evidence makes clear that during the peace discussions, the possibility of Joan of England joining al-ʿÂdil’s harem was seriously considered. The topic of mixed marriages is rarely dealt with by the specialists of the eleventh and twelfth centuries, because by this point it had become exceptional in comparison with the previous period, when Islam was in full territorial expansion.7 Nonetheless, its political, social and religious implications remained important. In particular, its study makes us refine the methods of historical anthropology in a comparative perspective between Christianity and Islam. It sheds light on exogamous matrimonial strategies and on their influence on kinship structures. On the political level, the case of Joan of England proves, if proof were needed, the essential role that exchanging women played in diplomatic relations, and, more specifically, in the quest for peace between Christians and Muslims. Finally, interfaith marriage is a key issue in the study of cultural transfers between East and West, a subject of great interest nowadays.8 Conjugality is the form par excellence of exchanges of lifestyles, existential experiences and ideas between two individuals, but also between their respective groups of origin.9 The offspring of a mixed couple is the concrete expression and perpetuation of a rich cultural hybridization.

About the play on words of ʿImād ad-Dīn concerning war (ḥarb) and the female sex (hir), see A.-M. Eddé, ‘Rituels de paix au Proche-Orient à l’époque des croisades: intermédiaires et médiations’, in Médiation, paix et guerre au Moyen Âge, ed. M. Sot (Paris, 2012), 10 n. 21. 5 Bahāʾ ad-Dīn bin Shaddād, Al-Nawādir al-sultāniyya wa l-Mahāsin al-Yūsufiyya, ed. J. al-Dīn al-Shayyāl (Cairo, 1964), 188–9, 197–8; ed. and French trans. in Recueil des historiens des croisades: historiens orientaux (Paris, 1884), iii, 278–9, 290–1; ʿImād ad-Dīn al-Isfahānī, Al-Fatḥ al-Qussī fī al-fatḥ al-Qudsī, ed. C. de Landberg (Leiden, 1888), 284; French trans., H. Massé, Conquête de la Syrie et de la Palestine par Saladin (Paris, 1972), 349–51; Ibn al-Athīr, ‘Kamel-Altevarykh’, ed. and French trans. in Recueil des historiens des croisades publié par les soins de l’Académie des inscriptions et belles-lettres, 16 vols (Paris, 1841–1906); Historiens orientaux, ii, 53; trans. D. S. Richards, The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir for the Crusading Period from al-Kamil fi’l-Ta’rikh. Part 2 (Farnham, 2010), 392. See M. Deabes, ‘Richard Cœur de Lion et la troisième croisade d’après les sources arabes’, in Culture politique des Plantagenêt, ed. M. Aurell (Poitiers, 2003), 209–13; Eddé, ‘Rituels de paix au Proche-Orient’, 10. 6 La Continuation de Guillaume de Tyr (1184–1197), ed. M. R. Morgan (Paris, 1982), 150. 7 For the earlier period see L. E. Weitz, Between Christ and Caliph: Law, Marriage, and Christian Community in Early Islam (Philadelphia, 2018); and, more focused on cultural representations than on social practices, S. Barton, Conquerors, Brides, and Concubines: Interfaith Relations and Social Power in Medieval Iberia (Philadelphia, 2015). 8 This issue has recently given rise to several symposia leading to a publication: Construire la Méditerranée, penser les transferts culturels: approches historiographiques et perspectives de recherche (Munich, 2012); M. Aurell, M. Galvez and E. Ingrand-Varenne (eds), Transferts culturels: France et Orient latin aux xiie et xiiie siècles (Paris, Classiques Garnier, in press). 9 Conjugality is the core of the excellent thesis for ‘Habilitation à diriger des recherches’ by Emmanuelle Santinelli-Foltz, ‘Structures de parenté, femmes, genre au Haut Moyen Âge’ (Université de Paris I, 2017). 4



Joan of England and Al-ʿÂdil’s Harem

3

Diplomacy and Femininity Several factors account for the exceptional marriage proposal of Richard I’s sister to Saladin’s brother. On 13 February 1177, in Palermo, at the age of twelve, which at that time marked the woman’s legal majority, Joan of England had married the Norman William II, king of Sicily; she was crowned the same day.10 In her new kingdom, the Muslim population was large. Arabic preserved the prestige of a language of culture, and was sometimes still used in bureaucracy.11 During the twelve years of her stay in Palermo, Joan had to familiarize herself with this language and with Islam. She even had Arab speakers in her close entourage. Two Muslim maids, who came with her from Sicily, served her at the crusaders’ headquarters in Acre: Bahāʾ ad-Dīn proudly recounts how they managed to escape from the Christian camp to join their co-religionists.12 In Sicily, Joan of England often had to come into contact with the Near East, if only because of the products brought back by the merchants of her kingdom. Her family-in-law of Hauteville had played a leading role in the Holy Land for a long time: there it founded the Latin principality of Antioch, which was ruled, between 1136 and 1149, by Raymond of Poitiers, Joan’s maternal great-uncle. Her husband himself, William II, took advantage of his powerful fleet to attack Alexandria in 1174 and come to the aid of the Franks after the fall of Jerusalem in 1187. He should have participated in the crusade with his brother-in-law Richard I, but he had died prematurely, at the age of thirty-six, in 1189.13 In brief, Joan was not unknown in the Near East, where she enjoyed the prestige of being the queen of Sicily. Femininity is crucial in the relationship between individuals and in communication between them. All too often, it plays the role of pacification between two enemy communities, encouraging the hybridization of their respective cultures. It sometimes took concrete forms in the diplomatic activity between Christians and Muslims. At least two Latin princesses corresponded with Muslim emirs in the tenth and eleventh centuries. In 906, Berthe, marquise of Tuscany, daughter of King Lothary II, sent a letter to the Abbasid caliph al-Muktafī bi-llāh, which was accompanied by sumptuous gifts.14 Around 1060, Almodis de la Marche, countess of Barcelona, exchanged correspondence with ʿAlī bin Mujāhid Iqbāl ad-Dawla, 10 Howden, Gesta, i, 157–8; Howden, Chronica, ii, 94–8; Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, in Opera Historica, ed. W. Stubbs, RS 68 (London, 1876), i, 416–18; Romualdo II Guarna, Chronicon, ed. and Italian trans. C. Bonetti (Cava de’Tirreni, 2001), 220. See C. Bowie, The Daughters of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine (Turnhout, 2014), 131–40; C. Bowie, ‘Shifting Patterns in Angevin Marriage Policies: The Political Motivations for Joanna Plantagenet’s Marriages to William II of Sicily and Raymond VI of Toulouse’, in Les Stratégies matrimoniales (IXe–XIIIe siècle), ed. M. Aurell (Turnhout, 2013), 155–67. 11 A. Metcalfe, Muslims and Christians in Norman Sicily: Arabic Speakers and the End of Islam (London, 2003). 12 Ibn Shaddād, ed. J. al-Dīn al-Shayyāl, 152, ed. and French trans. in Recueil des historiens des croisades: historiens orientaux, iii, 225. 13 A. Schlichte, Der ‘gute’ König: Wilhelm II. von Sizilien (1166–1189) (Tübingen, 2005). 14 Ibn al-Zubayr [al-Qadi al-Rashid], Kitab al-Dhakha’ir wa-l tuhaf, ed. M. Hamidullāh (Kuwait City, 1959), 48–9; trans. G. al-Ḥijjāwī al-Qaddumi, Book of Gifts and Rarities (Kitab al-Hadaya wa al-Tuhaf) (Cambridge, MA, 1996), 91–2; Al-Khalidiyyan, Abu Bakr Muhammad and Abu Uthman Sa’id, Al-Tuhaf wa-l Hadaya, ed. S. Dahan (Cairo, 1956), 165–6; Ibn al-Nadim, Al-Fihrist (Cairo, 1930), 23; trans. B. Dodge, The Fihrist of Ibn al-Nadim: A Tenth-Century Survey of Muslim Culture (New York, 1970), 38. See M. Hamidullah, ‘Embassy of Queen Bertha of Rome to Caliph al-Muktafi Billah in Bagdad’, Journal of the Pakistan Historical Society 1 (1953), 1–29; G. Levi della Vida, ‘La corrispondenza di Berta di Toscana col califfo Muktafî’, Rivista storica italiana 66 (1954), 21–38; A. Christys, ‘The Queen of the Franks Offers Gifts to the Caliph al-Muktafi’, in The Languages of Gift in the Early Middle Ages, ed. P. Fouracre and W. Davies (Cambridge, 2010), 149–70.

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emir of Denia. Even imprisoned by the formal rules of the epistolary genre, formalized in the treatises of Ars dictaminis or Inšāʾ, this correspondence adopts the affective register, which in many ways recalls the poetics of ‘courtly love’, present in both the Occitan fin’amor and the Arabic wadd. In the autumn of 1191, Richard I, whose mother came from a line of troubadours who were used to the courts of al-Andalus,16 asked al-ʿÂdil to arrange for Arab singers to perform at an evening in his honour.17 Their words were about love. Diplomacy, then, took on an undeniable feminine tone. Marriage represents the culmination of diplomatic relations. It goes without saying that, in the royal families of the twelfth century, it must be considered above all in the anthropological meaning of ‘alliance’ in the double sense of treaty ending war and of matrimonial union. At the time, any important coalition was endorsed by a betrothal. In 1159, at Blaye, in the Gironde estuary, Henry II had stipulated that his son Richard would marry a daughter of Raymond Berenguer IV, count of Barcelona, who, by his own marriage, had become prince of Aragon; the two rulers had then Raymond V of Toulouse as their common enemy.18 Two years later, to seal the reconciliation between the kings of England and France, Richard was promised to Alix, daughter of Louis VII.19 After his accession to the throne, Richard finally married Berengaria of Navarre on 12 May 1191 in Limassol (Cyprus), thus obtaining the support of his father-in-law, Sancho VI, against the unreliable Gascon lords.20 Between 1159 and 1191, Richard’s three separate engagements are an obvious example of how the princely marriage was instrumentalized in the service of diplomacy. Throughout the twelfth century, while commercial and political agreements between Christians and Muslims multiplied, they were never recorded as having been accompanied by interfaith marriages. An exception to the rule, however, might have occurred some twenty years before the meeting of Richard I and al-ʿÂdil. According to the Royal Chronicle of Cologne, in 1173, ambassadors from Cairo, a city recently taken by Saladin, arrived at the court of Frederick Barbarossa. After having handed over their gifts, they declared that ‘the Sultan asked to marry his son to the emperor’s daughter. The answer was given to them that the wedding could take place on condition that the sultan, with his son and his entire kingdom, should first embrace Christianity and free all Christian captives.’21 Written in Cologne, perhaps in the monastery of Saint Pantaleon, the chronicle is regarded as being quite reliable. 15

Els Pergamins de l’Arxiu Comtal de Barcelona de Ramon Borrell a Ramon Berenguer I, ed. J. M. Salrach and G. Feliu (Barcelona, 1999), iii, 1325–1326, doc. 776. See M. Aurell, Les Noces du comte: mariage et pouvoir en Catalogne (785–1213) (Paris, 1995), 272–5; T. Bruce, ‘An Intercultural Dialogue between the Muslim Taifa of Denia and the Christian County of Barcelona in the Eleventh Century’, Medieval Encounters 15 (2009), 1–34. 16 M. Aurell, ‘Guillaume IX et l’Islam’, in Guilhem de Peitieus: Duc d’Aquitaine et prince du trobar, ed. K. Bernard and L. de Goustine (Ventadour, 2015), 69–125. 17 Ibn al-Athīr, Kamel-Altevarykh, ii, 53; The Chronicle of Ibn al-Athir, 392. 18 Torigni, ed. Bisson, i, 214. See M. Aurell, ‘Le Refus de la royauté d’Aragon par Raimond Bérenger IV selon Guillaume de Newburgh’, in Figures de l’autorité médiévale: mélanges offerts à Michel Zimmermann, ed. Pierre Chastang, Patrick Henriet and Claire Soussen (Paris, 2016), 36, nn. 13–15. 19 This marriage would ‘double’ the one contracted, some months before, between Henry the Young King and Margaret of France: L. Diggelmann, ‘Marriage as Tactical Response: Henry II and the Royal Wedding of 1160’, EHR 119 (2004), 954–64; M. Strickland, Henry the Young King (New Haven and London, 2016), 25–33. 20 J. Gillingham, ‘Richard I and Berengaria of Navarre’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research 53 (1980), 157–73. 21 ‘Chronica regia Coloniensis’, ed. G. Waitz, MGH SRG (Hanover, 1880), xviii, 124. The translation above presupposes that the condition (ea conditione) is set by the emperor and not by Saladin. See J. 15



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Active in the port of Alexandria, the Genoese merchants enjoyed the protection of Saladin, who was close to Frederick Barbarossa because of their common anti-Byzantine policy. This marriage proposal, therefore, aimed to strengthen an alliance between the Hohenstaufen and the Ayyubids. The Insurmountable Religious Barrier According to Bahāʾ ad-Dīn, during the negotiations, permission was requested from Pope Celestine III for Joan of England to be married to al-ʿÂdil: ‘The whole Christian community blames me for desiring the marriage of my sister to a Muslim, without having obtained before the consent of the pope, the head of our religion’, Richard I is said to have complained. Again in the words of the cadi of Saladin’s army, the sovereign pontiff had jurisdiction over the ‘marriage of a widow, daughter of a king, but not over virgins’. This is why, if the pope were to refuse permission, the king of England undertook to give to al-ʿÂdil ‘his brother’s daughter’.22 Bahāʾ ad-Dīn accurately expressed the degree of kinship between the young woman and her paternal uncle. Historical anthropology teaches us that, in the medieval Arab aristocracy, the ‘taker of wives’ enjoyed more prestige than the ‘giver’; the same is not true in the West, where a noble woman is often of a higher social rank than her husband. In the tenth century, the Umayyads of the caliphate of Córdoba, in a position of strength in the Iberian Peninsula, sometimes demanded that Christian kings give them one of their daughters in order to ratify a peace treaty.23 In Sunni Islam, male hypogamy often took the form of marriage between a man and his father’s brother’s daughter, the couple were therefore related as first cousins. But importantly, the man, as the son of the elder brother, was destined to be the family chief and therefore the holder of most of the family heritage.24 By mentioning Richard I’s niece by his younger brother, Bahāʾ ad-Dīn applied to the matrimonial negotiations of 1191 a reference grid specific to his milieu. The intellectual context in which Bahāʾ ad-Dīn evolved, along with his contacts with the Franks of the Holy Land, explain his perception of Latin Christianity. As a man of law, the cadi was aware of the authority of the pope, to whom he correctly attributed the right to reserve jurisdiction over princely marriages. Since at least the middle of the eleventh century, as the so-called Gregorian reform progressed, the sovereign pontiff increasingly intervened in them. Leo IX, for example, facilitated the marriage of William I, duke of Normandy, and Matilda of Flanders, a union which was opposed by the French bishops whom he had brought together at the Council of Reims in 1049.25 The historian Abū Ubayd al-Bakrī (1014–1094) from al-Andalus recounts how, around 1055, Blanca, the repudiated wife of Raymond Berenguer I of Barcelona, appealed to Victor II, who excommunicated Raymond.26

B. Freed, Frederick Barbarossa: The Prince and the Myth (New Haven and London, 2016), 355, with a different translation. 22 Ibn Shaddād, ed. J. al-Dīn al-Shayyāl, 197–8; ed. and French trans. Recueil des historiens des croisades: historiens orientaux, iii, 290–1. 23 Barton, Conquerors, Brides, and Concubines, 27–32. 24 P. Guichard, Structures sociales ‘orientales’ et ‘occidentales’ dans l’Espagne musulmane (Paris and The Hague, 1977), 19, 28–41, 72–3, 161, 181–6. 25 Anselme de Saint-Rémy, ‘Histoire de la dédicace de Saint-Rémy’, ed. J. Hourlier, Travaux de l’Académie Nationale de Reims 160 (1981), 236–52; John of Fécamp, ‘Epistola ad Leonem IX’, PL CXLIII, 798–800. See D. Bates, William the Conqueror (New Haven and London, 2016), 99–102. 26 French trans. É. Lévi-Provençal, La Péninsule Ibérique au Moyen Âge, d’après le Kitàb Ar-Rawd al-mi’tar Fi Habar Al-Aktar (Leiden, 1938), 54–5. See Aurell, Les Noces du comte, 261–9.

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Pontifical jurisdiction over royal marriages seems to have been well established in 1191, the year of the negotiations around Joan of England. In fact, a few months earlier, in 1189, her brother, John Lackland, had asked Rome, and not the English bishops, for a dispensation of consanguinity to marry Isabella of Gloucester.27 Innocent III (1198–1216), who was strongly attached to the indissolubility of marriage,28 was to intervene assiduously in royal marriages, as evidenced by his excommunications of both Philip Augustus of France and Peter II of Aragon over their attempts to divorce their wives.29 Contrary to the statements of Bahāʾ ad-Dīn, a clear distinction between the status of the nubile girl and the widow does not exist in the legislation and jurisprudence of the episcopal courts on marriage. Nevertheless, like ʿImād ad-Dīn or Ibn al-Athīr, the cadi is correct in attributing the failure of the union to the refusal in the name of religion of Joan of England to agree to, and of the Christian clergy to sanction, the proposal. The Church’s legislation was based on the doctrine of 1 Corinthians (7:12–16), which made it almost impossible for a couple to follow different creeds. In the twelfth century, canonists discussed the indissolubility and legitimacy of marriages between infidels, and subsequently between the faithful and infidels. In his Decretum (c. 1140), Gratian compiles three canons that warn against marriage to the unbeliever.30 From these authorities, he orders the separation of mixed couples, as he did for those connected by consanguinity or affinity, because these unions are contracted ‘against the laws of the Church’.31 Later, in the bull Quanto te of 1199, Innocent III insisted on the indissolubility of marriage between Christians, even if one of them became a heretic, a category that included Muslims; he took an explicit stand against his predecessor, Celestine III, who maintained the opposite.32 Canonists then subtly played between the validity of such marriages, and thus the legitimacy of their offspring, and their illegality according to the Church.33 Moreover, the episcopal courts decided, on a case-by-case basis, on the existence or otherwise of the matrimonial bond. In short, marriage to the infidel was strongly discouraged. The Quran presents a very different position. It accepts that a Muslim should take a Jewish or Christian woman as his lawful wife, because she belongs to the ‘People of the Book’. He will therefore be able to celebrate a wedding with her, constituting her a dower in due form (5:5). In addition to a legal marriage, he is allowed to 27 Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, ii, 166–7; Ralph de Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. J. Stevenson, RS 66 (London, 1875), 103. See D. L. d’Avray, Dissolving Royal Marriages: A Documentary History, 860–1600 (Cambridge, 2014), 53–7. 28 M. Maccarrone, ‘Sacramentalità e indissolubilità del matrimonio nella dottrina di Innocenzo III’, Lateranum 44 (2) (1978), 449–514; O. Hanne, ‘Vivre en société, vivre marié: le mariage d’après les écrits de Lothaire de Segni’, Vivre en société au Moyen Age, Occident chrétien, VIe–XVe siècle, ed. Claude Carozzi, Daniel Le Blévec and Huguette Taviani-Carozz (Aix-en-Provence, 2008), 79–103. 29 Die Register Innocenz’ V. 5. Pontifikatsjahr, 1202/1203: Texte, ed. O. Hageneder (Wien, 1993), 93–7; ‘Der Eherprozess Peters II. von Aragon (1206–1213)’, ed. J. Vincke, Spanische Forschungen der Görresgesellschaft 5 (1935), 108–89. See J. W. Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus (Berkeley, CA, 1986), 82–6; Aurell, Les Noces du comte, 427–58; d’Avray, Dissolving Royal Marriages, 58–75. 30 More precisely between Christians and unbelievers (infideles, understood as pagans or Jews, c. 15), between Christians and heretics (c. 16) and between Christians and Jews (c. 17), Corpus Iuris Canonici: Decretum Magistri Gratiani, ed. E. L. Richter and E. Friedberg (Leipzig, 1922 [1879]), c. 28, q. 1, c. 15–17. 31 Corpus Iuris Canonici, C. 28, q. 1., Va pars, founded mainly on Ambrose of Milan. I am grateful to Carole Avignon for her help on medieval canon law. 32 Die Register Innocenz’ III. 2., ed. O. Hageneder, W. Maleczek, A. A. Strand, 88–9. See S. Swiaczn, ‘La disolución del vínculo en el matrimonio de los no bautizados ejercicio de la potestad pontificia’, Cuadernos doctorales: Derecho Canónico, Derecho Ecclesiástico del Estado 16 (1999), 65–125; J. Kamas, The Separation of the Spouses with the Bond Remaining (Rome, 1997), 107–9. 33 J. Brundage, ‘Marriage Law in the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem’, in Outremer: Studies in the History of the Crusading Kingdom of Jerusalem, presented to Joshua Prawer (Jerusalem, 1982), 263 and n. 27.



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have relations with his slaves. The Quran speaks of them as ‘captives in your right hand’ (4:24–5; 33:50; 70:28–30). One tradition, attested by the scholar al-Tirmidhī (824–892), saw in these words a hadith pronounced by the Prophet after the victory of Awtas (630).34 On this occasion, he allowed the combatants of his troop to unite with polytheistic women belonging to their spoils of war. Ultimately, Islam permits the constitution of harems. Moreover, it legalizes the distinction between legitimate Muslim – and also Jewish and Christian – wives on the one hand, and concubines and slaves as second-class spouses on the other. In the twelfth century, the institutionalized polygyny of Muslim nobles in the Near East made it easier for them to marry a Christian woman. This was not at all the case for Christian men, who could only marry one co-religionist. Usāma bin Munqidh (1095–1187), Muslim lord of Shayzar, near Apamea, who knew in person a number of Latin nobles in the Holy Land, understood this restriction placed on Christians when he wrote with astonishment: ‘The Franks, may Allah curse them, belong to a hateful race: they only marry each other.’35 This is why the proposed wedding of Joan of England to al-ʿÂdil was doomed to failure. Marry the Christian Captive Well-informed about the First Crusade, the chronicler Albert (d. 1120), canon of Aachen, accurately related a story of the union of a Muslim fighter with a Christian captive. Shortly after the fall of Antioch in June 1098, the Turks ambushed a convoy from the city of Edessa, which should have supplied the crusaders in Palestine. The Christians were then beheaded. Only the wife of Fulbert de Bouillon, leader of the troop, was spared because of her beauty. She was taken to the fortress of ʿAzāz from where the raid had started. The lord of the place intended to ransom her, but one of his warriors fell madly in love with her. In exchange for his pledges, he proposed to marry legally the Christian widow (in coniugium accipere) and the wedding took place (nuptie; ducere uxorem). A war then broke out between the Turks of ʿAzāz and Aleppo. Still according to Albert, ‘inspired by his wife’, the warrior proposed to the lord of ʿAzāz that he ally himself with Godfrey of Bouillon, first ruler of the Latin kingdom of Jerusalem, in order to defend his land from the aggression of Aleppo. The pact took place and the crusaders’ allies repelled the attack.36 Like any chronicler of the clergy, Albert of Aachen was a prisoner of narrative patterns inherited from the Bible, with which he learned to read and which he constantly consulted. He may have been thinking of Esther, interceding on behalf of her people to the king of Persia, of whom she was one of the wives, or of the verse from 1 Corinthians 7:14: ‘The unfaithful man is sanctified by his faithful wife.’ However, Albert’s passage on the captive of ʿAzāz is devoid of the marvellous or miraculous. It is a fairly straightforward testimony about the legal marriage of a Muslim to a Christian prisoner who urges her husband to ally himself with her co-religionists.

Jamiʿ at-Tirmidhi, 11, 54; ii, VI, hadith 1132, https://sunnah.com/tirmidhi/11, accessed 10 Sept. 2020. Un Émir syrien au premier siècle des croisades (1095–1188), ed. and French trans. H. Derenbourg (Paris, 1895), 127; An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior in the Period of the Crusades: Memoirs of Usamah Ibn-Munqidh (Kitab al-i’tibar), trans. P. K. Hitti (Princeton and New York, 1929), 159. According to Olivier Hanne, the translation above is possible even if yaʾlifūn (infinitive ʿalifa) does not mean stricto sensu ‘marrying’, but ‘getting used to’, ‘composing’, ‘having affinities’ or ‘taming’. Nonetheless the word used for ‘race’ (jins) means also ‘sex’. 36 Historia Ierosolimitana: History of the Journey to Jerusalem, ed. and trans. S. B. Edgington (Oxford, 2007), 344–6, v, 5–7. 34 35

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Usāma bin Munqidh tells a story that appears to be the Arabic counterpart to the Latin story of Albert of Aachen. As a child, he saw a group of young Frankish women arriving in his fortress who had been captured during a raid. His father decided to send the most beautiful of them to his friend Shihāb ad-Din Malik, lord of Jaʿbar, with the words: ‘We have obtained a booty from the Franks and I am sending you a share of it.’ The girl gave a son to Malik, who designated that son as his heir. When Baldrān, the boy, succeeded to his father, he granted to his mother a privileged status. Yet she preferred to flee at night, descending by rope the wall of Jaʿbar. She took refuge in a Christian town, where she married a poor shoemaker.37 Like the captive of ʿAzāz, the woman mentioned by Usāma bin Munqidh was united with a member of the Muslim aristocracy. Unlike her, however, the mother of Baldrān probably did not belong to the nobility because, having returned to a Latin town, she could not claim aristocratic kinship networks and had to marry far below the rank she had acquired at Jaʿbar. Furthermore, her union with Malik may have been legally confirmed, since her son was the legitimate successor to his father. This woman kept the Christian religion in the land of Islam. Indeed, her attachment to it was such that she preferred to abandon her son and her privileged status to go and live in a city ruled by the Franks. In the summer of 1101, in Cappadocia, near Iraclia Cybistre (Ereğli, Konya), the crusaders led by William IX of Aquitaine, great-grandfather of Joan of England, were defeated by the sultan of Rûm. Quality women were among the many prisoners who were ransomed or reduced to slavery. Around 1170, the History of the Welfs, written by a cleric in the service of this Swabian dynasty or by a monk from Weingarten, in southern Bavaria, imagined the fate of one of these ladies: Ida of Formbach-Ratelnberg, widow of Leopold II of Austria. The anonymous author wrote about her: ‘Ida, mother of the Marquis Leopold [III], who was also part of the expedition, was caught by one of the Saracen princes, who joined her in a very impure marriage: it is said that he begat from her the very scoundrel Sanguinus.’38 In Latin historiography, this nickname – meaning ‘bloody’ – refers to Zengi (1087–1146), the future conqueror of the Latin county of Edessa, often victorious over the Franks. By evoking his sinful birth, the chronicler reproduced a fantasy quite widespread in the Latin world: the Muslim fighter engenders from a Christian woman particularly hardened boys, predisposed to war. Raymond d’Aiguilers, the chaplain of Raymond de Saint-Gilles (d. 1101), one of the leaders of the First Crusade, asserts, for instance, that the emir of Cairo sent his troops to the Holy Land to capture young Latin girls to give them to his own fighters ‘so that they could found warlike families of the same race of the Franks’.39 The atavistic fear of abduction of women by the enemy was rooted in most ancient societies at war, for which the enslaved prisoner was the most prized booty. This dread was heightened among Christians fighting Muslims. Indeed, stereotypical views of Islam led them to equate it with the polygyny of its prophet, the permissiveness of its sexual behaviour or the debauchery of its paradise.40 Such

An Arab-Syrian Gentleman, trans. Hitti, 159–60. See C. Hillenbrand, The Crusades: Islamic Perspectives (New York, 2000), 351. 38 Historia Welforum, ed. and German trans. E. König (Stuttgart, 1938), 22. See Aurell, ‘Guillaume IX et l’Islam’, 94–5, 103–4. 39 Le ‘Liber’ de Raymond d’Aguilers: Historia Francorum qui ceperunt Jerusalem, ed. J. H. and L. L. Hill (Paris, 1969), 155. 40 J. V. Tolan, Faces of Muhammad: Western Perceptions of the Prophet of Islam from the Middle Ages to Today (Princeton and Oxford, 2019), 47, 51–3, 57–63; A.-M. Eddé, Saladin (Paris, 2008), 546–7. 37



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clichés increased the illusions around the Christian female captive. The theme of the strong offspring that she gave birth to in the service of her captors even joined eschatological theology. The exegesis of the book of Revelation during the early Middle Ages, synthesised in the famous booklet of Adson of Montier-en-Der (920– 992),42 considered Antichrist ‘engendered in sin’ (Ps. 50, 7). His maculate conception from a deviant sinful woman and an incubus devil appeared as the repulsive pole of Christ’s virginal birth. In the story about Ida or in the order of the emir of Cairo, the child born of interfaith unions was a disturbing mixture of a Christian woman, bearer of the genealogical power of her family in spite of her situation, and her Muslim spouse, demonized for the occasion. 41

Sancho VII of Navarre and Abū Yūsuf’s Daughter As an inverted figure of the Christian captive, the epic songs and romances in the vernacular evoke her imprisoned male co-religionist. However, gender roles change here completely, as the knight is no longer a passive victim, but seduces the emir’s daughter, escapes with her and marries her after she is baptized. In other stories, it is the Christian mercenary in the service of a ‘good’ Saracen who ends up marrying the young Muslim woman. Finally, a few princesses, rebels against their fathers and lovers of the Christian attackers to their town, open their doors to the enemy with whom they end up uniting. This is the case, among many others, of the daughter of the emir of Ascalon in Graf Rudolf, of Guibourc in Guillaume d’Orange or of Orionde of Toledo in Mainet.43 In opposition to the motive of the Christian captive, the marriage of the knight searching far for new ventures and wealth to a Muslim bride is always hypogamic, as the emir’s daughter is of a much higher rank than him. The stories in the vernacular sung by the jongleurs can be found in the Latin historiography kept by the clergy. The prolific Roger of Howden (d. 1202), a priest and a royal clerk, was usually so precise that he is often considered to have been an ‘administrative historian’.44 Nonetheless, on occasion he succumbed to the temptation to tell a good but fictional story. In order to preserve his reputation for historiographical rigor, it has been asserted that the legend in the Chronicle about an interfaith marriage was composed not by Roger himself, but by one of his continuators or copyists.45 The suggestions that Roger was not the author of the fantastic parts of his chronicle may seem trivial, but they deny to him a key concern of those writing history in the twelfth century: the desire to provide a captivating narrative, a ‘serious entertainment’.46 According to Roger, or (allowing the defenders of his reputation their conceit) perhaps to his continuator, the unnamed daughter of Abū Yūsuf Yaʿqūb al-Manṣūr

For the historical ‘reality’ and the legends on her in Castile, see Barton, Conquerors, Brides, and Concubines, 35–7, 82–109. 42 De Ortu et tempore Antichristi necnon et tractatus qui ab eo dependunt, ed. D. Verhelst, CC CM 45 (Turnhout, 1976), 23. 43 C. Girbea, Le Bon Sarrasin dans le roman médiéval (1100–1225) (Paris, 2014), 410–84; M. de Combarieu, ‘Un personnage épique: la jeune musulmane’, in Mélanges de langue et littérature françaises du Moyen Âge offerts à Pierre Jonin (Aix-en-Provence, 1979), 181–96. 44 M. Staunton, The Historians of Angevin England (Oxford, 2017), 51. 45 B. Nevil, ‘The Relations of King Sancho VII of Navarre with the Almohads’, Revue de l’Occident musulman et de la Méditerranée 4 (1967), 16–17. 46 N. F. Partner, Serious Entertainments: The Writing of History in 12th-Century England (Chicago and London, 1977). 41

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(1184–1199), ruler of the Almohad caliphate, heard of ‘Sancho [VII, 1194–1234], king of Navarre, brother of Berengaria, queen of England’. She fell madly in love with him and threatened to hang herself if her father did not succeed in marrying her to him. The caliph replied: ‘How can this be done when you are a pagan and he is a Christian?’ But in the end, the caliph could only bend to the will of his suicidal daughter. He therefore sent emissaries to Sancho offering him her hand, money at will, and ‘Saracen Spain’. The king then sped to Maghreb, where he arrived the day after the death of Abū Yūsuf, an event which had caused the rebellion of his subjects. The new caliph, the son of the previous one, imposed on Sancho the task of quelling the revolt on pain of imprisonment. After three years of heroic war, the Navarrese ruler succeeded in his task, but he had to return urgently to his lands, which had just been invaded by the king of Castile and the king of Aragon.47 The anecdote owes much to the literary motif of the young Muslim woman in love with her father’s mercenary. It also borrows from the theme of love from afar (amor de lonh), popularized by the poetry of Jaufre Rudel,48 lord of Blaye and a regular visitor to the court of William X of Aquitaine (1126–1137), grandfather of Richard I, who grew up on his land of Poitou.49 In the Vida (a fictionalized biography of Jaufre accompanying the poems of the troubadours in the manuscripts), ‘Jaufre fell in love with the countess of Tripoli, without having seen her, but because of the good he heard about her from the pilgrims who had arrived from Antioch.’50 The caliph’s daughter had fallen in the same way, ‘thanks to a widespread reputation for probity’ (per communem famam probitate) of Sancho. According to Roger of Howden, this honesty is the very hallmark of Sancho’s Christianity. His religion should have nonetheless prevented him from a mixed marriage. The caliph insists indeed on the canonical impossibility of uniting a Christian and a Muslim woman, presented here as a ‘pagan’ in the purest tradition of the epic songs. Even if romanticized, Roger of Howden’s story is a response to a precise diplomatic context, known at the English court thanks to Berengaria of Navarre and her entourage. In July 1195, in Alarcos, near Ciudad Real, Abū Yūsuf defeated King Alfonso VIII of Castile, another brother-in-law of Richard I thanks to his marriage to Eleanor of England. Sancho VII took immediate advantage of the desperate situation facing his neighbour to ravage his lands.51 Dated 29 March 1196, a bull of Celestine III criticized the king of Navarre for his neutrality towards the Almohads in exchange for the annual tribute they paid him. The bull also urged him to reconcile with the king of Castile and the king of Aragon ‘in order to turn his weapons against the Saracens alongside with them’.52 Two years later, Sancho VII’s relations with Abū Yūsuf continued to be as excellent as those with Alfonso VIII were abysmal. For this reason, on 16 April 1198, Howden, Chronica, iii, 90–2. Les Chansons de Jaufré Rudel, ed. and French trans. A. Jeanroy (Paris, 1915). See F. Boutoulle, ‘L’Appel du large: Jaufré Rudel et les autres seigneurs de Blaye au XIIe siècle’, in Jaufre Rudel: prince, amant et poète, ed. K. Bernard (Ventadour, 2012), 81–102. 49 M. Cosson, Richard Cœur de Lion, comte de Poitou, duc d’Aquitaine (1157–1199) (La Roche-sur-Yon, 2017). 50 Biographies des troubadours: textes provençaux des XIIIe et XIVe siècle, ed. and French trans. J. Boutière and A. H. Schutz (Paris, 1950), 16. 51 ‘Rex Navarre ex alia parte deuastans Soriam et Almaçanum, cedes et incendia exercebat’, Roderici Ximenii de Rada, Historia de rebus Hispaniæ siue Historia Gothica, ed. J. Fernández Valverde, CCCM 72 (Turnhout, 1987), 252, vii, 30. 52 ‘Cum inimicis catholice fidei, imo ipsius domini nostri Iesu Christi, amicitiam contraxisti, ab eis certam pecunie quantitatem annis singulis percepturus si auxilium et consilium in huius necessitatis articulo christianis regibus denegares’, in F. Fita, ‘Bulas históricas del reino de Navarra en los postreros años del siglo XII’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia 26 (1895), 417, i. 47 48



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the newly elected Pope Innocent III ordered his legate to the Iberian Peninsula: ‘If, as they say, the king of Navarre continues to foment conspiracies with the Saracens against the Christians, especially against the king of Castile, you will severely anathematize him and put his lands under interdict until he gives worthy satisfaction.’53 Sancho VII could do nothing other than ignore the pontifical threat because, on 20 May 1198, his two powerful neighbours, Alfonso VIII of Castile and Peter II of Aragon, agreed the Treaty of Calatayud dividing Navarre between them. They instantly attacked the kingdom, the former to the west and the latter to the east.54 If the king of Aragon, distrustful of his ally, did not persevere in the campaign, Alfonso VIII managed, within a few months, to attach to Castile a third of Navarre, corresponding to the Basque territories of Álava, Guipúzcoa and Duranguesado.55 In order to avoid the dismemberment of his kingdom, Sancho VII had no choice but to move closer to the Almohads. So as to cement his alliance with Abū Yūsuf, would the king of Navarre have considered marrying the caliph’s daughter, as Roger de Howden claims? At the time, he separated canonically from his wife, Constance of Toulouse, who married afterwards Peter Bremond of Sauve, lord of Anduze.56 However, there is no further evidence of his possible marriage to the Muslim princess. Sancho VII died in 1234 without legitimate heir and was succeeded by his nephew Thibaut IV of Champagne (d. 1253). Nor is his journey to Maghreb mentioned elsewhere than in Howden’s Chronicle. Given the constant threats, pressures and attacks that Castile and Aragon inflicted on Navarre, it seems impossible that the king could be away from his kingdom for three years without anyone noticing.57 At most, he was able to seek the support of the Almohads, personally travelling to the south of the Iberian Peninsula, as Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada, archbishop of Toledo, states that he did.58 However, Rodrigo Jiménez de Rada was steadfastly loyal to Alfonso VIII and would not have failed to criticize Sancho VII if he had given military aid to Abū Yūsuf and, on the latter’s death in 1199, to his son Muhammad an-Nāsir. After a decade, the diplomacy of Innocent III eventually won Sancho VII’s support for the crusade. In 1212, he participated with his former enemies, the kings of Castile and Aragon, in the decisive victory of Las Navas de Tolosa over the Almohads, his past allies.59 Does reality belie the fiction of epic songs, of romance and of the Chronicle of Roger of Howden? Did Christians marry Muslim women? In a famous text, Fulcher of Chartres (c. 1059–c. 1128), chaplain of King Baldwin I of Jerusalem, notes the Ibid., 424–5, iv. El reino de Castilla en la época de Alfonso VIII, ed. J. González (Madrid, 1960), iii, no. 667; Roderici Ximenii de Rada, Historia de rebus, ed. J. Fernández Valverde, 253–4, vii, 32. 55 L. J. Fortún, ‘La quiebra de la soberanía navarra en Álava, Guipúzcoa y el Duranguesado (1199– 1200)’, Revista internacional de los estudios vascos 45/2 (2000), 439–94. 56 Guillaume de Puylaurens, Chronique (1145–1275), ed. and French trans. J. Duvernoy (Toulouse, 1996 [1976]), 44, v. 57 La relación de Rogerio Hoveden, más que historia es pura novela, Fita, ‘Bulas históricas’, 434; La ficción de Haveden (sic), A. Huici Miranda, Las grandes batallas de la reconquista (Madrid, 1956), 223. Cf. contra Nevil, ‘The Relations of King Sancho VII’, 13–16, mainly n. 9, with a not very reliable interpretation of Rodrigo de Rada’s chronicle in order to make credible Howden’s story about the long stay of Sancho VII in Maghreb. 58 ‘Sancius Rex Navarre […] cum paucis magnatibus migrationis comitibus ad Arabes transmigrauit et eis aliquandiu commorans nuncios quos ad Amiramomeninum transtirrhenum transmiserat, expectauit. Quibus pecunias et donaria reducentibus, rex nichilominus deductionis causa peragrans Arabum civitates et in eorum patria morabatur’, Roderici Ximenii de Rada, Historia de rebus, ed. J. Fernández Valverde, 254, vii, 32. 59 M. Alvira, Las Navas de Tolosa, 1212: idea, liturgia y memoria de la batalla (Madrid, 2012), 419–28. 53

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specific identity of the Franks settled in the Holy Land: ‘God transformed the West into the East: we who were Westerners have now become Orientals.’ For the benefit of his demonstration, he mentions the settlers who married ‘not to a compatriot, but to a Syriac or Armenian and sometimes even to a Saracen after she had received the grace of baptism’.60 If the first two categories of wives are Eastern Christians, the third is a Muslim woman who has converted to Christianity. Fulcher’s testimony seems to be corroborated by a recent DNA analysis of nine individuals, probably members of the same Frankish troop, who died at the end of thirteenth century as a result of wounds received in combat and were buried in a mass grave near Sidon: alongside five western Europeans, there are two Near Easterners and, more importantly for our purposes, two individuals whose ancestors had been both Westerners and Near Easterners.61 Usāma bin Munqidh recounts that, while passing through the Christian city of Nablus, he was served by a young blind man who asked him to take him to Damascus to his Muslim co-religionists. He was born to a Christian man and to a Muslim woman, who had ended up killing her husband. Rumour has it that the young man and his mother had slain several Latin pilgrims, presumably to rob them. When his murders had been discovered, he was subjected to the ordeal of water, found guilty, and then blinded.62 The anecdote is hardly credible, at least in its entirety. It is based on ‘what they say’. As usual, Usāma uses it to denigrate the savagery of the Franks in comparison with the advanced civilization of the Muslims of the East, while also seeking to teach his co-religionists through storytelling.63 In his view, the Latin judicial system, based on the judgement of God and not on evidence, is as backward as their medicine, which he constantly criticizes. However, the character of the Muslim woman, legitimately married to a Christian, but attached to her old religion, may not be so fanciful. This woman was able to receive baptism and continue to secretly practise Islam, which she passed on to her son. It was also in Nablus that the first legislative collection of the kingdom of Jerusalem took place, proclaimed by Patriarch Warmund and King Baldwin II on 16 January 1120. Canon 12 deals with concubinage – not marriage – between a Christian man and a Muslim woman, the punishment for which was castration for the former and amputation of the nose for the latter. The legislator translated from the Greek these disproportionate penalties, which appear in the Roman laws about the relationship between masters and slaves. They are reproduced in the Byzantine Ecloga, a code that was widely disseminated in the Holy Land.64 The code was never applied. More probably, the union between a Christian and a Muslim was punished, as was adultery, by a less mutilating but yet humiliating penalty: both culprits had to run naked through a crowd that flogged them.65 Whatever the harshness of the chastiseHistoria Hierosolymitana (1095–1127), ed. H. Hagenmeyer (Heidelberg, 1913), 748, xxxvii, 3–5. M. Haber et al., ‘A Transient Pulse of Genetic Admixture from the Crusaders in the Near East Identified from Ancient Genome Sequences’, The American Journal of Human Genetics (2019), https://doi. org/10.1016/j.ajhg.2019.03.015, accessed 18 Apr. 2019. 62 An Arab-Syrian Gentleman and Warrior, trans. Hitti, 168–9. 63 A. Husain, ‘Wondrous Crusade Encounters: Usamah ibn Munqidh’s Book of Learning by Example’, in The Middle Ages in Texts and Texture: Reflections on Medieval Sources, ed. J. Glenn (Toronto, 2011), 189–202. 64 Ed. B. Z. Kedar, ‘On the Origins of the Earliest Laws of Frankish Jerusalem: The Canons of the Council of Nablus, 1120’, Speculum 54 (1999), 333, xii. See ibid., 313–14, 324, 329. 65 Albert of Aachen, Historia Hierosolimitana, ed. Edgington, 228, iii, 57; Guibert of Nogent, Dei Gesta per Francos, ed. R. B. C. Huygens, CCCM 127 (Turnhout, 1996), 196, iv, 15. See J.-M. Carbasse, ‘Currant nudi: la répression de l’adultère dans le Midi médiéval, XIIe–XVe siècles’ [1987], in Droits et justices du Moyen Âge: recueil d’articles d’histoire du droit, (Paris, 2017), 51–66. 60 61



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ments, the civil authorities ensured that the conjugal norm was respected and they repressed transgressions, among which was the union of Christian men and Muslim women. It is therefore highly probable that the blind servant of Nablus was born into a marriage in due form between a Frank and a formally baptized Muslim woman. Only one marriage between a king and a woman converted from Islam is attested in the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Alfonso VI (1065–1109) of Castile-Leon married Zaida, who is known to have been the daughter-in-law of the emir of the city-state of Seville, possibly as the wife of his son Al-Maʾmūn, governor of Córdoba. In 1091 the Almoravids conquered Seville and Córdoba. Zaida fled to the king of Castile. Written close in time to the events, the Chronicle of Pelagius (d. 1153), bishop of Oviedo, and the Chronicon of the monastery of Fleury-sur-Loire say that Zaida was baptized and given the name Elisabeth; two Arab historians from the late Middle Ages corroborate their testimony.66 After her baptism, Zaida became the legitimate wife of Alfonso VI and the mother of his only son, Sancho, who was killed fighting the Almoravids at the battle of Uclés (1108). It is likely that beforehand Zaida was one of Alfonso VI’s several concubines. Was she his mistress during the lifetime of Constance of Burgundy (d. 1093) or of Berthe (d. 1093/1100), the king’s second and third wives? Would she have married him, in 1100, at Berthe’s death, which would have facilitated the legitimization of Sancho in view of the dynastic succession? Founded largely on documentary evidence, this hypothesis would explain why their son reached the age of majority at the time of his defeat and death in Uclés in 1108.67 It is a theory that coincides with Alfonso VI’s polygynous practice, often denigrated by his contemporaries. The record of interfaith marriages in the eleventh and twelfth centuries is very poor. It concerns a few rare Christian women captured in Syria who were able to legally marry a Muslim lord thanks to the fact that, in Islam, they enjoyed the status of ‘People of the Book’. Concerning Christian men, marriage to baptized Muslim women could not be assimilated to the prohibited ‘disparity of cult’, as their espoused were indeed converts. In this respect, Christianity is an exclusive religion. Islam, on the other hand, allows legal union to Christian women or their reduction to the inferior status of concubines, while the harem is lawfully institutionalized in a polygynous aristocracy. In the context of these disparities in belief and practice, the failure of the proposed union of Joan of England’s with al-ʿÂdil is hardly surprising. After her return to the West, the widow of the king of Sicily was available to serve the matrimonial strategies of her dynasty a second time. In 1196, in Rouen, barely thirty years old, she celebrated her wedding with Count Raymond VI of Toulouse, who had just repudiated his second wife.68 This marriage confirmed a real

Crónica del obispo don Pelayo, ed. B. Sánchez Alonso (Madrid, 1924), 87; ‘Chronicon Floriacense’, Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France (Paris, 1877), xii, 7; Ibn ʽIḏārī al-Marrākushī, Kitāb al-bayān al-mughrib fī akhbār al-Andalus wa-al-Maghrib, ed. and French trans. É. Lévi-Provençal, ‘La “mora Zaida”, femme d’Alphonse VI de Castille, et leur fils l’infant D. Sancho’, Hespéris 18 (1934), 6; Abu ʿl-ʿAbbās Aḥmad ibn Yaḥyā, Al-Miyar al-Murib, ed. and French trans. É. Lévi-Provençal, ‘La “mora Zaida”, belle-fille d’al-Mu’tamid’, Hespéris 18 (1934), 200–1. 67 A. Montaner, ‘La mora Zaida, entre historia y leyenda (con una reflexión sobre la técnica historiográfica alfonsí)’, in Historicist Essays on Hispano-Medieval Narrative in Memory of Roger M. Walker, ed. B. Taylor (London, 2005), 272–352; J. de Salazar, ‘Contribución al estudio del reinado de Alfonso VI de Castilla: algunas aclaraciones sobre su política matrimonial’, Anales de la Real Academia Matritense de Heráldica y Genealogía 2 (1992–3), 299–336; J. de Salazar, ‘De nuevo sobre la mora Zaida’, Hidalguía 321 (2007), 225–42. 68 Ralph de Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. Stevenson, 70; ‘Annales de Margan’, Annales Monastici, ed. H. R. Luard, RS 36 (London, 1864), i, 23. 66

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‘diplomatic revolution’. After long decades of war between the duchy of Aquitaine and the county of Toulouse, the wedding gave Richard I a powerful ally from Languedoc in his fight against Philip Augustus. However, the marriage lasted only three years. The Toulouse chronicler William (1201–1275), parson of Puylaurens, reports its tragic end. After having given birth to a son, also Raymond, in 1197, Joan directed the siege of the castle of Cassès, held by the lords of Saint-Félix en Lauragais, who were suspected of heresy. Members of her troop betrayed her and set fire to her camp. She fled north to seek the support of her brother Richard I, of whose death she soon learned. It had occurred on 6 April 1199 at the siege of Chalus (Limousin). William de Puylaurens adds that she was pregnant at the time and that this distressing news caused her to miscarry, from which she died, ‘oppressed by a double pain’ of losing both her brother and her son.70 In the summer of 1199, during her agony in Rouen, she became a nun at Fontevraud, where she was buried near her father and brother.71 Dead at thirty-three years of age, Joan had on several occasions been the passive object of matrimonial negotiations. Did she then have a say in the matter? Canon law prescribes the consent freely given by the bride at the wedding. Both Arab and French sources insist on Joan’s own refusal, certainly influenced by the clergy, of al-ʿÂdil. Once married to the king of Sicily, then to the count of Toulouse, she extended her power. She took part in the government headed by each of her husbands. Raymond of Toulouse even entrusted her with supervising his troops. Her military command at the siege of Cassès was probably not an invention of William of Puylaurens, as noble women were sometimes present on battlefields. Her defeat, coupled with the untimely death of her brother Richard I, caused her to miscarry and ultimately to lose her life. Her passing in childbirth was not uncommon, even in aristocratic families surrounded by experienced midwives. Did the taking of the veil, albeit ad succurrendum, at the point of death, involve her rejection of political and forced marriage? It took place at Fontevraud, the family necropolis, but also the refuge for so many aristocratic women left behind by the oppressive lineage structures, in disenchantment with their husbands who were adept at easy repudiation, open bigamy, and love outside wedlock. Marriage is alliance. It should promote peace, or at least the pact of two families against a common enemy. Could the impossible marriage between Christians and Muslims have stopped the interfaith war? Some poets believed so. Fiction opens wide the doors to escape from the reality of relations between the two monotheisms, so often dominated by violence. Proof of this evasion through the literary dream can be found in Wolfram von Eschenbach, a knightly writer. In his Willehalm (1212–20), a German adaptation of Guillaume d’Orange, he gives the floor to Gyneburc, the daughter of the emir of Orange, converted to Christianity to marry the hero. It is she who forbids Willehalm’s men from slaughtering Muslim warriors, her former co-religionists: ‘Treat with respect these creatures that God made with his hand; the first man was a pagan and we were all born into paganism, since we need baptism to become Christians. We must always imitate the mercy with which Christ forgave his executioners.’72 69

J. Gillingham, Richard I (New Haven, 1999), 306. Guillaume de Puylaurens, Chronique, ed. and French trans. Duvernoy, 44–6, v. 71 Howden, Chronica, iv, 96 (she died in September 1199); ‘Epitaphium’, ed. B. Pavillon, La Vie du Bienheureux Robert d’Arbrissel (Saumur and Paris, 1666), 588, xcvi (in 11 July 1199). 72 Wolfram von Eschenbach, Willehalm, ed. W. Schröder (Berlin, 1978), 573, ccccl.

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The Des Seal Memorial Lecture

THE FORESTS AND ELITE RESIDENCES OF THE EARLS OF CHESTER IN CHESHIRE, c. 1070–1237 Rachel E. Swallow The influence of forest, defined as a legal entity of land subject to Forest Law, on the form and siting of medieval elite residences is a neglected subject. There has, however, been an increasing awareness of the role of forests in enhancing the power of place of elite residence: palaces, castles and great houses. A number of pre-Conquest English royal residences where assemblies took place were almost certainly located within areas subsequently called forest,1 since councils normally met within territories attached to royal vills.2 While it is only after 1066 that we have the first references to the term foresta in England, it is now generally interpreted that the concept of the legal term of the forest was not in fact an Anglo-Norman importation.3 Indeed, the word ‘forest’ may have demonstrated pre-Anglo-Norman existence and significance: its early derivations of Latin foris (‘outside’), and of Continental Germanic first (‘enclosure’), both appear to have meant an area of land set apart under the king’s right.4 The application of Anglo-Norman Forest Law therefore took into account the legacy of Anglo-Saxon royal rights, the legal theory behind the post-Conquest land settlement, and the way the laws were applied.5 By 1086, we can see that land belonging to others had been placed in the royal forest,6 effectively demonstrating a continuation of ‘royal monopoly over the ownership, rights, control, management, and distribution of resources formerly enjoyed by lords and communities.’7 Most post-Conquest forests were royal creations, but Anglo-Norman Cheshire was a quasi-independent county, legally afforested by the earls of Chester, rather than by the king himself. Despite little documentary evidence for early AngloNorman builds of elite residences in Cheshire within a generation of the Norman Conquest, the continuity of pre-Anglo-Norman cultural significance is nevertheless implied, when the wider social, political and landscape context of the earls’ residences is considered. It is probable that the earls of Chester located their elite D. Rollason, ‘Forests, Parks, Palaces and the Power of Place in Early Medieval Kingship’, Early Medieval Europe 20 (4) (2012), 428–49 at 434. 2 G. Jones, ‘A Common of Hunting? Forests, Lordship and Community before and after the Conquest’, in Forests and Chases of Medieval England and Wales c. 1000 to c. 1500, ed. J. Langton and G. Jones (Oxford, 2010), 36–67 at 59. 3 A. Gautier, ‘Game Parks in Sussex and the Godwinesons’, ANS 29 (2006), 51–64 at 56; K. Mew, ‘The Dynamics of Lordship and Landscape as Revealed in a Domesday Study of the Nova Foresta’, ANS 23 (2001), 155–66; J. A. Green, ‘Forest Laws in England and Normandy in the Twelfth Century’, Historical Research 86 (2013), 416–31 at 422. 4 Rollason, ‘Forests, Parks, Palaces’, 430. 5 D. Jørgensen, ‘The Roots of the English Royal Forest’, ANS 32 (2010), 114–28; Green, ‘Forest Laws in England and Normandy’, 422. 6 Green, ‘Forest Laws in England and Normandy’, 422. 7 Mew, ‘The Dynamics of Lordship and Landscape’, 161–2. 1

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residences in order to appropriate pre-Anglo-Norman power centres and ancient locales within a forestal landscape. This exploratory study tests, and potentially revises, established general explanations for the likely inter-influence of medieval forests and elite residences. Cheshire was held by powerful Anglo-Norman earls between c. 1070 and 1237, when the county ‘rejoiced in the prerogative of regality’.8 The frontier was first held in 1070 by Gherbod, whose lands passed shortly afterwards to Earl Hugh I.9 Until 1237, there was no terra regis in Anglo-Norman Cheshire, its full geographical extent including present-day areas of north-east Wales and Greater Manchester (Fig. 1).10 Earl Hugh I’s estates in Domesday largely comprised both the retention and augmentation of the more valuable manors which had belonged to Hugh’s predecessor, Earl Edwin (d. after 1087). Edwin’s brother, Morcar, also held three manors in Cheshire TRE, including the significant estate with hall (aula) and court (curia) at Acton, Warmundestrou Hundred (Fig. 2).11 Earl Hugh I notably retained landholdings that were not only formerly held by Edwin, but were also jurisdictional territories known in the Anglo-Norman period as forests. To the Welsh, the earl was known as ‘Hugh Vras’ (Hugh the Fat), or ‘Hugh Dirgane’ (the gross),12 and he gained the reputation, fabulously described by Orderic Vitalis (1073–c. 1142), of being ‘so much a slave to the gluttony of his belly that, weighed down by his fat, he could hardly move’.13 Orderic continued: ‘Hugh took no account [either] of his receipts or disbursements: he daily wasted his estate, and delighted more in falcons and huntsmen than in tillers of his land, or Heaven’s orators, the ministers.’14 Hugh’s supposed gluttonously driven retention and creation of Cheshire’s forests was mocked by the Welsh and the retrospectively judging Orderic Vitalis in his Historia Ecclesiastica – but hunting was only half of Earl Hugh I’s and his successors’ story, as will be demonstrated.

8

Polychronicon Ranulphi Higden manachi Cestrensis: together with the English translations of John Trevisa and of an unknown writer of the fifteenth century, 9 vols, ed. J. R. Lumby, RS 41 (London, 1882), 2010; B. E. Harris, ‘Ranulph III, Earl of Chester’, Journal of the Chester Archaeological Society 58 (1935), 99–114. 9 C. P. Lewis, ‘The Formation of the Honor of Chester, 1066–1100’, in The Earldom of Chester and Its Charters, ed. A. T. Thacker (Denbigh, 1991), 37–68 at 38–9. 10 Figure 1 (© Rachel E. Swallow) sources: coast derived from Ordnance Survey Boundary-Line (accessed May 2015). Forests after R. Edwards, The Cheshire Historic Landscape Characterisation (Chester, 2007), 66, fig. 17; A New Historical Atlas of Cheshire, ed. A. D. M. Phillips and C. B. Phillips (Chester, 2002), 35, fig. a. Hundreds derived from F. I. Dunn, The Ancient Parishes, Townships and Chapelries of Cheshire (Chester, 1987); Phillips and Phillips, New Historical Atlas, 29, fig. c. Rivers derived from Ordnance Survey Open Rivers (accessed May 2015). Roman roads after I. D. Margary, Roman Roads in Britain (London, 1973), map 17. 11 R. E. Swallow, ‘The Eleventh-Century Elite Landscapes of Nantwich Castle and Acton, Cheshire: A Paradigm Shift in Continuity of Site Significance?’, in Castles: History, Archaeology, Landscape, Architecture, and Symbolism. Essays in Honour of Derek Renn, ed. N. Guy (Dorchester, 2019), 12–32. Figure 2 (© Rachel E. Swallow) sources: coast derived from Ordnance Survey Boundary-Line. Dykes from Ordnance Survey 1:25,000 and 1:50,000 maps and CADW Scheduled Ancient Monuments in Wales GIS Polygon Dataset. Landholdings from PASE GIS dataset. Rivers derived from Ordnance Survey Open Rivers. Topography derived from Ordnance Survey Terrain-50 (all accessed May 2015). Hundreds derived from Dunn, Ancient Parishes; Phillips and Phillips, New Historical Atlas, 29, fig. c. Roman roads after Margary, Roman Roads, map 17. 12 W. Andres, Bygone Cheshire (Hull, 1895), 112. 13 Orderic, iii, 260–2; B. M. C. Husain, Cheshire under the Norman Earls 1066–1237 (Chester, 1973), 83. 14 Orderic, iii, 260–2; D. Crouch, ‘The Administration of the Norman Earldom’, in The Earldom of Chester and Its Charters, ed. A. T. Thacker (Denbigh, 1991), 69–95 at 72.

Fig. 1 Medieval Cheshire forests and comital elite residences, c. 1070–1237. Contains OS data © Crown copyright [and database right] (2015). Image © Rachel E. Swallow.

Fig. 2 Lands held by (top) Earl Edwin, 1066, and (bottom) Earl Hugh, c. 1086. Contains OS data © Crown copyright [and database right] (2015). Image © Rachel E. Swallow.

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The royal forests created by the Norman kings were the most intensively governed and closely controlled component of the king’s lands.15 In Cheshire, Earl Hugh sought to emulate them within his semi-regal county. ‘Forest’ denoted large tracts of land subject to Forest Law, and related not only to woodland and settlement, but also to areas for the hunting of deer, such as open moorland or heath.16 The definition of ‘forest’ is further complicated when considering Cheshire as a border county between England and Wales. Hunting retained great symbolic significance for both Welsh inhabitants and Anglo-Norman lords, with foresters having additional military roles in managing conflict within Wales and along the Anglo-Welsh border.17 Added to this, Welsh forests have generally been treated by scholars as subordinate to, or even as synonymous with, their English counterparts, which has meant that forests and woods have generally been conflated here.18 Continuity of cross-period significance for both the interpretation and existence of ‘forest’ could also derive from the saltus area (Latin: leap, wooded area, wilderness), being the uncultivated lands over which the Roman emperors claimed control, and which functioned as hunting areas.19 Later medieval forests may in turn have followed the custom, and thus fossilized Roman and later Anglo-Saxon patterns of jurisdiction, hunting and woodland tenure. Although purely speculative, this is an important point considering the Anglo-Norman earls’ seat of Chester in Cheshire, formerly an important Roman fortress. It may have been the norm that a pre-Anglo-Norman elite residence usually had its legal entity of ‘forest’, and that the residence had been characteristically placed in a liminal position between the peripheral or marginal forest on one side, and the more cultivated lands on the other.20 In fact, the term ‘forest’ itself seems to have applied to areas which were peripheral or marginal.21 Cheshire in Great Domesday Book indicates a correlation between geld exemption and forest.22 Sometimes the land in question was waste, especially along the liminal northern Anglo-Welsh border with Cheshire; forest and waste, while having different meanings, could thus have been coterminous.23 The Anglo-Saxon king’s council represented the itinerant royal court, and its meetings sited within such theatres of power and display would have been important symbolic messages, particularly on county/country borders. Indeed, Richardson has demonstrated that the joint management of Clarendon with other royal forests east and west of the Wiltshire–Hampshire border was key to their operation as a fundamental element in royal patronage and display.24 It is equally likely that Earl

Rollason, ‘Forests, Parks, Palaces’, 435; J. Langton, ‘Forests and Chases in Wales and the Welsh Marches: An Exploration of Their Origins and Characteristics’, Journal of Historical Geography 37 (2011), 263–72 at 263–4. 16 D. Hooke, ‘Pre-Conquest Woodland: Its Distribution and Usage’, Agricultural History Review 37 (1989), 113–29 at 122; R. Muir, Landscape Encyclopaedia (Macclesfield, 2004), 93. 17 Langton, ‘Forests and Chases’, 263–4. 18 H. L. Edlin, England’s Forests: A Survey of the Woodlands Old and New in the English and Welsh Counties (London, 1958); T. Hindle, Forests of Britain (London, 1985); W. Linnard, Welsh Woods and Forests: History and Utilization (Cardiff, 1982); R. Whitlock, Historic Forests of England (Bradford-onAvon, 1975); Langton, ‘Forests and Chases’, 264. 19 Rollason, ‘Forests, Parks, Palaces’, 434–5. 20 Ibid., 434. 21 Ibid. 22 Mew, ‘The Dynamics of Lordship and Landscape’, 161; Green, ‘Forest Laws in England and Normandy’, 424. 23 J. M. Gilbert, Hunting and Hunting Reserves (Edinburgh, 1979), 94–5. 24 Jones, ‘A Common of Hunting?’, 60. 15



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Hugh I retained pre-existing liminal areas and elite residences of pre-Anglo-Norman cultural significance in Cheshire for this purpose. Such cultural significance was reflected in the hunt itself, which reinforced relationships between the king and his fideles and vassals: hunting was, of course, a major aspect of elite sociability both before and after the Conquest.25 Nelson has referred to the hunt as ‘an exercise in, and demonstration of, the virtues of collaboration’, in which the king ‘shared his favour, his sport, his military training and his largesse, and helped at the same time, to provision the palace’.26 Hunting, therefore, was an ideological and intrinsically enduring part of rulership.27 Importantly, such ‘theatres of power’ were also arenas of contest: the king’s forest formed part of a strategic and defensive ‘royal enclave’.28 There are incidental references in Domesday of lands being placed ‘in the forest’, or ‘in defence’,29 including those of Earl Hugh in Cheshire.30 The term foresta was evidently being employed in Domesday for an area of jurisdiction’,31 a point reinforced by eleventh-century assassinations occurring during royal hunts,32 and perhaps also by King William II’s probable assassination during a royal hunt in 1100. Jones argues that on the Continent such assassinations that likely occurred near to royal halls within the forest could well have represented late manifestations of a phenomenon established in the Anglo-Saxon period.33 Forests were clearly of considerable strategic importance, in that they were ideal areas in which to organize military resistance.34 Moreover, forests had long served a military purpose, as qualified by Casset’s conclusions in her study of the priests’ castrum (castle) and its landscape at Neuilly-la-Forêt, Bayeux, Normandy: The term haia [hay/enclosure] in the list [of indices] from 1035–37 is without doubt the lexicographic remnant indicating the type of forest which defended frontiers, and which were established by public power during the [ninth-century] Carolingian period.’35 The purpose of Anglo-Norman Cheshire forestal locations seems also to have been twofold: forests were intended not only to display continuing elite power in the form of hunting, but also as a defensive boundary zone of separate jurisdiction, to protect and demarcate the county as it existed from c. 1070. It is to this proposed dual purpose of forestal location within Cheshire, and the elite residences and hay enclosures within them, that we will now turn.

Gautier, ‘Game Parks in Sussex’, 51. J. L. Nelson, ‘The Lord’s Anointed and the People’s Choice: Carolingian Royal Ritual’, Rituals of Royalty: Power and Ceremonial in Traditional Societies, ed. D. Cannadine (Cambridge, 1987), 137–80 at 169; Rollason, ‘Forests, Parks, Palaces’, 439. 27 Rollason, ‘Forests, Parks, Palaces’, 439. 28 Jones, ‘A Common of Hunting?’, 59–60. 29 Gautier, ‘Game Parks in Sussex’, 54; Green, ‘Forest Laws in England and Normandy’, 419. 30 Green, ‘Forest Laws in England and Normandy’, 419. 31 Ibid. 32 For example, in 1006, Eadric Streona instigated the murder of Earl Ælfhelm in a wood (in silvam) while the earl was out hunting (John of Worcester, ii, 456–9); and in 1038, Karli Thorbrandson murdered Earl Ealdred in a wood called Risewood (‘in silva quae Risewde vocatur’): Symeonis Monachi Opera Omnia, ed. T. Arnold, RS 1, (London, 1882), 219; C. Morris, Marriage and Murder in Eleventh-Century Durham: A Study of ‘De Obsessione Dunelmi’, Borthwick Paper 82 (York, 1992), 3. 33 Jones, ‘A Common of Hunting?’, 59–60. 34 Gilbert, Hunting and Hunting Reserves, 32. 35 M. Casset, Les Éveques aux champs. Chateaux et manoirs des évêques normands au Moyen Age (XI–XV siècle) (Rouen and Le Havre, 2007), 368. 25

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The Anglo-Norman earls inherited or created six forests: Lyme, Atiscros, Rhuddlan, Delamere, Macclesfield and Wirral.36 Although comparatively well documented, their boundaries are not easy to locate today (see Fig. 1).37 Each of the six forests will now be considered, together with the comital residences situated within them. The first Cheshire forest to be considered is the little-recognized, liminal geographical and afforested boundary called the Lyme, evidenced in an extensive series of place-names, such as Audlem, Lyme Park, Lyme Handley and Lymm, situated along the south and east of the county’s border (Fig. 3). ‘Lyme’ place-names also exist on the northern boundary of the county, with Inter Ripam et Mersam (Latin: ‘between the Ribble and the Mersey’, now south Lancashire), and also immediately south of Cheshire in Staffordshire (e.g. Newcastle-under-Lyme).38 Now a lost regional place-name, ‘Lyme’ was understood to have referred to an area of lime trees.39 However, Latin līmen also means ‘threshold, lintel’, or, at times, ‘field-baulk, limit, boundary’, and this interpretation is more plausible.40 Contextual evidence would substantiate this suggestion: in Kent, early eighth-century charters mention Limemvearawealde, ‘the wood of the men of the Lympne region’ (Latin: Liminga, from Limen ge), probably derived from an earlier Welsh/British name.41 Lympne (pronounced by the locals Limm) is the name of the present-day village close by the site of a Roman fort.42 The Lyme in Cheshire was a district about 80 km long, and, with the exception of the west of the county, it covered all the routes into and out of Cheshire.43 It seems to have been used as a political and administrative boundary term for a region of natural landscape features: woods, moors, the Lyme Brook, and particularly uplands above a contour height of approximately 120 m.44 The Lyme was clearly a significant boundary term for the Cheshire frontier in c. 1195, when Chester’s monk, Lucian, described the Lyme as forest that enclosed Cheshire to the side, and which bound a distinction of privilege different from the rest of England, allowing the earl to enjoy regal rights.45 Two decades later, Earl Ranulf III de Blundeville (earl from 1181 to 1232) issued his own Magna Carta in Cheshire,46 mentioning the one county boundary of the Lyme. Here, the Lyme has been interpreted as a boundary zone Four forests are normally interpreted, based on the post-thirteenth-century, not contemporary, boundaries of Cheshire: Atiscros, Wirral, Delamere and Macclesfield: J. A. Green, ‘Forests’, in The Victoria History of the County of Chester, ii, ed. B. E. Harris (Oxford, 1979), 167–87. 37 Langton, ‘Forests and Chases’, 272. 38 J. McN. Dodgson, The Place-Names of Cheshire, part II, English Place-Name Society 45 (Cambridge, 1967–8 [1970]), 36–7; R. Coates, ‘The Lyme’, Journal of the English Place-Name Society 36 (2004), 40, 39–50. 39 J. McN. Dodgson, The Place-Names of Cheshire, part I, English Place-Name Society 44 (Cambridge, 1970), 2–6; J. D. Bu’Lock, Pre-Conquest Cheshire, 383–1066 (Chester, 1972), 25; and contra, Coates, ‘The Lyme’, 44; R. E. Swallow, ‘Hilltop Castles in a Medieval Landscape: Beeston and Buckton, Cheshire, England’, in Chateau Gaillard 28: Castles and Landscape (Roscommon, 2018), 271–82. 40 Swallow, ‘Hilltop Castles’, 271–82; and see Coates, ‘The Lyme’, 39–50; D. Horovitz, The PlaceNames of Staffordshire (Stafford, 2005), 376–7; N. J. Tringham, Staffordshire’s ‘New Castle’ and Trentham Abbey: A Royal Estate in the Eleventh to Thirteenth Centuries (forthcoming). 41 Jones, ‘A Common of Hunting?’, 62. 42 geopaethas.com Pathways to the Past (accessed Sept. 2020). 43 D. Sylvester and G. Nulty, The Historical Atlas of Cheshire (Chester, 1958), 1; Lewis, ‘The Formation of the Honor of Chester’, 41; Swallow, ‘Hilltop Castles’. 44 G. J. White, The Magna Carta of Cheshire, with a translation of the charter by J. Pepler (Chester, 2015), 75. 45 Liber Luciani de Laude Cestrie, ed. M. V. Taylor (London, 1912), 29, 65. 46 R. E. Swallow, ‘Gateways to Power: The Castles of Ranulf III of Chester and Llywelyn the Great of Gwynedd’, Archaeological Journal 171 (2014), 291–314; White, Magna Carta of Cheshire. 36

Fig. 3 Medieval Cheshire and Lyme place-names. Taken from N. J. Higham, The Origins of Cheshire (Manchester, 1993), 120. Reproduced with kind permission of Professor N. J. Higham.

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exempting the barons from military obligations outside Cheshire in any direction, including the west and potentially the north of the county where the Lyme did not extend.47 The Lyme therefore outlined the frontier, and dictated the positions of the comital residences within it. Just as for the Anglo-Welsh border zone (see Atiscros Forest, below), the extent of the Lyme’s zone as it stretched into England was subject to fluctuation. Both forestal zones were ill defined,48 and both were probably contested during the medieval period.49 Coincident with this liminal area of the Lyme were a number of baronial castles (see Fig. 1), as well as the majority of haiae (hays/enclosures) mentioned in Cheshire Domesday. The Old English haga (Latinized: haia) was thought to have been a synonym for the Anglo-French parc (Latin: parcus), the two words for ‘enclosure’ perhaps used interchangeably. Their co-occurrence with the peripheral boundary of the county and the Lyme Forest zone would seem to suggest that Lyme Forest (and indeed Atiscros Forest, discussed below) was a type of forest that defended frontiers, as noted by Casset, above (Fig. 4). As regards the Anglo-Norman earls’ own elite residences within Lyme Forest, there appears to be but one: the first documentary mention for Buckton Castle (National Grid Reference [NGR]: SD989016) was in 1360, when it was already in ruins. It is situated about 353 m Above Ordnance Datum (AOD), and commanded views over not only the boundary zone of the Lyme Forest to its east and north, but also Macclesfield Forest to its south and, to the west and north, over the valleys of the river Tame and Carr Brook.50 From the eastern limits of the county, Buckton Castle therefore demarcated comital territory in east Cheshire, and stared north-west into the face of the often contested territory of Inter Ripam et Mersam. Buckton was a stone-built keepless castle of enclosure,51 where the surrounding ditch was cut out of the surrounding rock. The design of the gateway reflects an earlier build than that of the D-shaped double gateway at the later comital castle at Beeston (see below). Otherwise, the gatehouse designs and enclosure plans of both comital castles are similar. Excavations at Buckton52 concluded that its construction could be attributed to the earls of Chester in a period when the lands of Mottram and Longendale in the ‘panhandle’ of east Cheshire had been held by them;53 it is likely that its builder was Earl Ranulf II (de Gernon) of Chester.54 The panhandle was an area of Cheshire which projected up to the Pennine hills and the watershed in the north-east of the medieval county. Structural and phasing evidence points to the probability that the castle was short-lived, suggesting that it was built for defensive purposes, and in a period of unrest.55 This interpretation is possibly substantiated by the lack of evidence for a contemporary park at Buckton Castle. G. Ormerod, The History of the County Palatine and City of Chester, 2nd edn, 3 vols (London, 1882), i, 705; White, Magna Carta of Cheshire, 76. 48 R. R. Davies, Lordship and Society in the March of Wales 1282–1400 (Oxford, 1978), 15; The Victoria History of the County of Chester II, ed. B. E. Harris (Oxford, 1979), 2. 49 R. E. Swallow, ‘Cheshire Castles of the Irish Sea Cultural Zone’, The Archaeological Journal 173 (2) (2016), 288–341. 50 B. Grimsditch, M. Nevell and R. Nevell, Buckton Castle and the Castles of North West England (Loughborough, 2012), 42, 80–4. 51 Ibid., 79. 52 Ibid., 258. 53 Ibid., 81. 54 Swallow, ‘Hilltop Castles’. 55 M. Nevell and J. Walker, Lands and Lordships in Tameside: Tameside in Transition 1348–1642 (A History and Archaeology of Tameside) (Manchester, 1998), passim; Grimsditch, Nevell and Nevell, Buckton Castle, 42, 80–4. 47

Fig. 4 Domesday woodland and forest, 1086. Taken from Phillips and Phillips, A New Historical Atlas of Cheshire, 31(d). Manors recorded in Cheshire Domesday for which no woodland data is mentioned are marked with an ×. Reproduced with kind permission of C. B. Phillips (2015).

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The second Cheshire forest was Atiscros, which extended from Chester towards Hawarden, where the vills of Dodleston and Claverton were in the forest created before 1086 by Earl Hugh I in Atiscros Hundred, the rest of which lay in what became Flintshire (see Fig. 1).56 The Domesday TRW entry for the creation of Hugh’s forest in Atiscros Hundred merits quoting in full here: Of these 20 hides the Earl has all the woodland, which he has put in his forest; whence the manors have greatly deteriorated. The forest is 10 leagues long and three leagues wide; there are 4 hawks’ eyries.57

Bounds of forests generally seem to have followed natural features, such as streams and valleys, ridge crests and hills, woodland edges, and occasionally roads or tracks.58 Certainly dykes could have demarcated the forest perimeters: Earl’s Dyke separated the jurisdictions of the earls of Chester and Leicester in Charnwood Forest, Leicestershire. It is therefore probable that the Mercian dykes – Offa’s, Wat’s and Whitford – bounded Atiscros Hundred and Forest to their west.59 As regards continuity of cultural significance within forestal areas, Jørgensen notes that post-Conquest lords had haiae (hays) within their own forests, and that the Welsh border also contained a large number of such enclosures she interpreted as for hunting purposes (i.e. parks).60 That haiae mentioned in Domesday Book were in fact almost non-existent TRW along the northern Anglo-Welsh border in the largely unhidated wasted lands of the newly created Atiscros Forest (see Fig. 3), perhaps points instead to the similar lack of pre-Conquest Forest in this area, rather than to the exact definition and purpose of haiae themselves. Interpreting the function of haiae enclosures is indeed problematic. In a woodland or hunting context, some did comprise long linear banks providing intended protection for animals, or were used to funnel wild deer into areas where they could be netted or shot.61 However, at Sutton Coldfield, the Midlands Mercian manor held by Earl Edwin TRE, a hay is recorded in the middle of the twelfth century, was described as liberam haiam in defensione.62 This phrase implies an area of protection, and therefore could apply to forests/woods in which hunting had been prohibited, or woodland from which domestic animals were excluded;63 it was possibly a fenced enclosure for domestic livestock, therefore, which may have been a gathering point for animals being taken to be sold and exchanged.64 Indeed, Hugh I’s likely intended defensive jurisdictional zone provided by Atiscros Forest established certain rights of way through it, where the detection of offenders of all kinds was a key priority, and the collection of a toll – a passagium ([right of] passage) – was levied on travel.65 This is demonstrated particularly with GDB: Domesday Book: Cheshire, including Lancashire, Cumbria and North Wales, ed. P. Morgan (Chichester, 1978), 268d (Dodleston and Claverton). 57 GDB, 268d, 269a. 58 R. Sylvester, ‘Forests of the Welsh Borderlands’, in Forests and Chases of Medieval England and Wales c. 1000 to c. 1500, ed. J. Langton and G. Jones (Oxford, 2010), 141–54 at 145. 59 Discussed in full, in Swallow, ‘Cheshire Castles’. 60 Jørgensen, ‘Roots of the English Royal Forest’, ANS 32 (2010), 114–28 at 122–7. 61 Hooke, ‘Pre-Conquest Woodland’, 113–29; R. Liddiard, ‘The Landscape of Anglo-Norman England: Chronology and Cultural Transmission’, in People, Texts and Artefacts: Cultural Transmission in the Medieval Norman Worlds, ed. D. Bates, E. D’Angelo and E. Van Houts (London, 2017), 115. 62 S. Bassett and S. Wager, ‘Donnelie (Warwicks) – Identifying a Lost Domesday Manor and Understanding the Nature and Function of Its Haia (Hay)’, Midland History 20 (2017), 1–17 at 16. 63 Ibid., 6. 64 Ibid., 17; S. J. Wager, ‘The Hays of Medieval England: A Re-appraisal’, Agricultural History Review 65 (2) (2017), 167–93. 65 Gilbert, Hunting and Hunting Reserves, 112: as demonstrated by Shotwick Castle, Wirral Forest. 56



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King Edward I’s (r. 1272–1307) plan to invade Wales in 1277, when an army of woodcutters widened a very overgrown Pulford Pass for clear access from Cheshire into Wales, the pass lying within the defensive watch of the baronial/tenants’ castles of Dodleston, Pulford and Poulton within the area of Atiscros Forest TRW.66 Additionally, the forest’s defensive nature is highlighted by the building of wooden towers known as brattices (Latin: bretachias) within this west Cheshire border area.67 In 1245, King Henry III (r. 1216–72) requested John le Strange, justice of Chester, to make two good wooden towers (bretachias) in the nearest forest of Wales where it may be most conveniently and safely done.68 Earl Hugh I’s castles of Chester, Hawarden, Rhuddlan and – it is suggested – Mold,69 projected boldly north-westwards through Atiscros Forest from Chester and the river Dee towards the river Conwy, laying claim to lands previously held by Earl Edwin, and culminating with Rhuddlan (Twt Hill). The creation of Atiscros Forest, together with the earls’ baronial and tenants’ watchtower-type castles, would have encapsulated this projection of movement of land acquisition within and beyond the Anglo-Welsh border zone.70 By way of comital elite residences within the defensive zone of Atiscros Forest, therefore, Earl Hugh held Mold Bailey Hill and Hawarden castles, both later subinfeudated by the Anglo-Norman earls to their hereditary constables, the de Montalts; both also controlled the coastal routes from Chester into North Wales.71 The motte-and-bailey/possible ringwork72 of Hawarden Castle (NGR: SJ319653) was first mentioned in 1205,73 and was the caput of what has been described as a large Anglo-Saxon royal and later comital estate and parochial centre with links to Chester.74 Earl Hugh I’s cluster of landholdings and the outlier castles of Connah’s Hey Mound and Trueman’s Hill to the east of his large castle at Hawarden indicate that the Mercian Earl Edwin’s significant estate was of particular and continuing strategic importance to the Anglo-Norman Earl Hugh. The same argument is proposed for Mold Bailey Hill Castle and its two outlier castles of Mold Tyddyn Mount and Mold Leeswood, where there was a similarly concentrated cluster of Earl Hugh’s landholdings. The motte-and-double-bailey castle of Mold Bailey Hill (NGR: SJ235643) made a political statement in terms of its forestal boundary zone location, as well as with its elevation in the landscape: Mold is an Anglo-Norman place-name, first mentioned in 1241, the original form being Mont-hault, meaning ‘high mountain’.75 First recorded as Bailey Hill in 1146,76 the castle was probably built to serve as a flanking defence for Hawarden and Ches-

J. G. Edwards, Calendar of Ancient Correspondence Concerning Wales (Cardiff, 1935), 66–7; D. Pratt, ‘Anatomy of Conquest: Bromfield and Yale, 1277–84’, Transactions of the Denbighshire Historical Society 56 (2008), 17–58 at 24–5. 67 R. Allen Brown, H. M. Colvin and A. J. Taylor, The History of the King’s Works, I & II: The Middle Ages (London, 1963), 118 and 674–5, respectively. 68 Calendar of the Liberate Rolls preserved in the Public Record Office: Henry III, vol. 2, 1245–1251: 29 Henry III, 1245: January 25, at Westminster, 287. 69 Swallow, ‘Cheshire Castles’; and R. E. Swallow, ‘Domesday and Castles: Patterns of Continuity and Change in North-East Wales’, in Domesday Book and Wales, ed. D. Thornton (Woodbridge, forthcoming). 70 Ibid. 71 N. J. Higham, The Origins of Cheshire (Manchester, 1993), 117. 72 See Swallow ‘Cheshire Castles’. 73 PR 7 John, 57. 74 Higham, Origins of Cheshire, 117. 75 H. W. Owen, Place-Names of Dee and Alun (Conwy, 1995), 59. 76 Brut y Tywysogion, or Chronicle of Princes: Red Book of Hergest Version, ed. T. Jones, History and Law Society, XVI (Cardiff, 1955), 125. 66

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ter. It oversaw Wat’s Dyke and the (postulated) Roman road from Chester to its east, and, from a distance, the landscape of Offa’s Dyke to the south. Earl Hugh I’s creation of Atiscros Forest, therefore, with his elite residences of castles deliberately placed to succeed pre-Anglo-Norman capita, was less a symbol of Earl Hugh’s proclivity for hunting, and more to provide a defensive jurisdictional zone to protect his newly acquired lands and elite residences in the county of Cheshire. To the north-west of Atiscros Forest, Rhuddlan Forest was the third medieval forest within the Domesday bounds of Cheshire. Hugh and his cousin Robert of Rhuddlan ‘each had half the forest which did not belong to any vill’ at Rhuddlan Castle.78 Only Rhuddlan (Twt Hill) Castle (NGR: SJ024679), built within the former royal burh site, was mentioned in Domesday Cheshire in Atiscros Hundred;79 Chester Castle (NGR: SJ405658), built as a motte-and-bailey just outside the previous royal burh site, was built by King William in 1069, according to Orderic Vitalis.80 There is scant evidence of a hunting park at Chester Castle, which is situated to the east of Atiscros Forest: in 1244 a mandate mentions ‘the King’s parks nearest the port of Chester’.81 The first documentary reference to Rhuddlan was the battle of Rhuddlan (bellum Rudglann) between the Mercians and the Welsh, dating to AD 796.82 Archaeological and textual evidence shows that Rhuddlan was the Anglo-Saxon burh of King Edward the Elder (r. 899–924) called Cledemuthe, mentioned in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle at AD 921.83 After the death of King Edgar (r. 959–75), Rhuddlan became the royal seat, or llys, by 1063, of Gruffudd ap Llywelyn (r. 1055–63/4).84 A decade later, Robert built the motte-and-bailey of Twt Hill at Rhuddlan at King William’s command to control the Welsh.85 The position was probably influenced by the burh and Welsh defences (i.e. court/palace: llys, sing.; llysoedd, pl.) or ‘palatium’ (palace).86 The Anglo-Norman role of Rhuddlan Castle in this jurisdictional area of forest, held by both Earl Hugh and Robert, was that it was more defensive in form and purpose, not purely intended to serve Earl Hugh I’s recreational hunting requirements. The fourth Cheshire medieval forest was in fact made up of two possibly connected parts: Mara and Mondrem. By 1086, Hugh had wholly afforested three vills and partially afforested two others, including woods not in his demesne.87 The forest of Mara, meaning ‘Forest at the Mere’, was first mentioned TRW as foresta.88 The Forest of Mondrem (Mondreym), notably Old English for ‘the 77

D. Sylvester, The Rural Landscape of the Welsh Borderland: A Study in Historical Geography (London, 1969), 467. 78 Langton, ‘Forests and Chases’, 267. 79 GDB, 269a, b. 80 Orderic, ii, 236. 81 Calendar of the Liberate Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office, III (London, 1930), 28 Hen. III., m. 8; Calendar of Documents Relating to Ireland Preserved in Her Majesty’s Public Record Office, I, ed. H. S. Sweetman (London, 1975), n. 2671; F. Beglane, Anglo-Norman Parks in Medieval Ireland (Dublin, 2015), 23. 82 H. Quinnell and M. R. Blockley, with P. Berridge, Excavations at Rhuddlan, Clwyd, 1969–73: Mesolithic to Medieval, CBA Research Report 95 (York, 1994), 7. 83 Ibid., 209. 84 D. Longley, ‘The Royal Courts of the Welsh Princes of Gwynedd ad 400–1283’, in Landscape and Settlement in Medieval Wales, ed. N. Edwards (Oxford, 1997), 43. 85 Quinnell, Blockley and Berridge, Excavations at Rhuddlan, 214. 86 Ibid., 212–14. 87 Husain, Cheshire under the Norman Earls, 54–59. 88 GDB, passim. 77



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Pleasure Ground’, was first mentioned in 1294. The extent of the subsequently lost Mondrem is uncertain, as is the date of its loss,90 but it is known that it was considered part of the jurisdiction of Delamere.91 Both forests were in central Cheshire, situated on the uplands of the Mid-Cheshire Ridge – a north–south discontinuous ridge of Triassic sandstone – in the valleys of the rivers Mersey to the north, Gowy to the west, and Weaver to the east.92 The forests of Mara and Mondrem were thinly inhabited and potentially well-wooded, as evidenced by references in Domesday to hawks’ eyries and enclosures (haiae), notably specifically mentioned to capture roe deer.93 The earliest reference to the earls hunting in Delamere (Mara and Mondrem) was in 1245. There are also references to red and fallow deer in Delamere from the mid-thirteenth century,94 and Delamere passed in 1237 to King Henry III, who annexed it to the Crown in 1246.95 By the seventeenth century, deer were no longer kept in Delamere.96 The place-name ‘Dernhale’ within Delamere Forest is first mentioned in 1225,97 when it would have been in Earl Ranulf III’s hands. Darnhall does appear to have been a favourite residence in Cheshire of earls Ranulf III and John le Scot – the latter died here in 123798 – where two parkers are recorded in 1241,99 and a park certainly existed in the 1370s, when it was described in the Palatine of Chester Indictment Roll, 1354–77, as ‘Darnhall park within the forest of Mondrem’, associated with Stephen, abbot of Vale Royal.100 Darnhall was later a royal manor of King Edward I, who founded the Cistercian Darnhall Abbey in 1274. While at Darnhall, Edward gave to the monastery ‘30 pounds out of his treasury at Chester, [and] the manors of Weverham & Cunewardesleye’. These manors had been held by Earl Hugh I, who had put them into his forest by 1086.101 Earl Hugh I’s Delamere Forest manors included Weaverham to the south-east of his manor in Frodsham, both manors in Roelau Hundred. Domesday records a hall (aula) at Weaverham, and two deer hay enclosures (haiae capreołoƺ);102 Earl Hugh had put three hides of Wich (Northwich) in the forest here.103 The unidentified ‘Conersley’ manor, described as being ‘all in the Forest’,104 likely to have been adjacent to Weaverham, was also held by Earl Hugh. The conversion to forest might have resulted in settlement desertion, and the reason why ‘Conersley’ became a lost manor. This theory could explain the unidentified ‘Alredelie’ (possibly part of 89

Dodgson, Place-Names of Cheshire, I, 8, 10. Ibid.; J. S. Green, ‘Forests’, 172–8. 91 Green, ‘Forests’, 172–8. 92 Ibid., 167, 172. 93 GDB, passim; R. Edwards, The Cheshire Historic Landscape Characterisation (Chester, 2007), 31. 94 Cal. Lib. Rolls 1245–61, 15, and Cal. Close Rolls 1251–53, 301; 1272–79, 210, respectively, cited in Green, ‘Forests’, 176. 95 J. Langton, ‘Medieval Forests and Chases: Another Realm?’, in Forests and Chases of Medieval England and Wales c. 1000 to c. 1500, ed. J. Langton and G. Jones (Oxford, 2010), 14–35 at 22, n. 129. 96 Green, ‘Forests’, 171. 97 Cheshire Heritage Environment Record (CHER) 815/1; Annales Cestrienses, A Chronicle of the Abbey of St Werburgh, ed. & trans. R. C. Christie (London, 1887), 60. 98 Annales Cestrienses, ed. Christie, 60. 99 Cal. of the Liberate Rolls preserved in the Public Record Office: Henry III, vol. 2, 1240–1245–1251: 1241 m.18, at 20. 100 P. M. Hill, ‘A Study of PRO Ches. 25/4 (Palatine of Chester Indictment Roll, 1354–77)’, unpublished MPhil thesis (University of Liverpool, 1996), 733. 101 CHER 815/2. 102 GDB, 263c. 103 in foresta: ibid. 104 Tota ͝e in forefta: GDB, 263c. 89

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Alderley?) and ‘Done’ manors near Frodsham, both described as having been waste, but by 1086 were ‘now in the Earl’s forest’.105 In addition to these manors, we have more secure evidence for elite residences occupied by the earls of Chester within Delamere Forest, at Beeston, Frodsham and Kingsley castles. It has been argued recently that Beeston Castle was built within Delamere Forest for predominantly symbolic and offensive reasons.106 Beeston Castle (NGR: SJ537593) was situated 16 km south-east of Cheshire’s comital caput at Chester (see Fig. 1). Its location is upon a 110 m-high hill of the Mid-Cheshire Ridge, which overlooks the surrounding, relatively flat expanse of lowland almost entirely within Cheshire, known as the Cheshire Plain. The castle, built in c. 1225 by Earl Ranulf III,107 commands views over the Lyme and Midland England to the south, Wales to the west, Merseyside to the north, and the Pennine hills to the east. It is a keepless castle of enclosure and the extant masonry includes a double gateway with D-shaped towers of banded masonry, argued to have been influenced in form and location by Ranulf II’s build of Buckton within the Lyme Forest boundary.108 As with Buckton Castle, there is no evidence for a park at Beeston Castle contemporary with its build.109 This could be because neither castle had been completed by its builder, and because both were primarily intended to be inter-visible symbols of significant comital power on and beyond the forestal bounds of the Cheshire frontier. Apart from the fact that Earl Edwin had held the manor and its hall (aula) there,110 little of the comital residence at Frodsham in Delamere Forest is known, and thus one cannot be certain to what extent or not ‘castle’ applied to its form and architecture; it has most recently been interpreted as a fortified manor house.111 In 1278, when Prince Dafydd ap Gruffudd was staying at Frodsham at the invitation of King Edward I,112 he wrote to the king, describing his stay as hard and tedious, and Edward granted Dafydd a licence to hunt in the common of the vill.113 Frodsham’s manor tower, with the later insertion of an oriel window in 1347,114 probably served as the solar, or private living and sleeping quarters of the lord, with a view across the fourteenth-century park and forest landscape. Indeed, Domesday records two enclosures (haiae) at Frodsham, presumably for keeping deer,115 although the Domesday entry is unspecified. The privileged Forest Eyre of the Justiciar at Frodsham, situated within Delamere Forest, indicates a significant elite residence as a base for both the Mercian and Anglo-Norman earls’ hunting.

Wafta fuit 7 ě m̊ in forefta co͝ m: GDB, 263d; see also, Green, ‘Forest Laws in England and Normandy’, 419, n. 19: in mid-Cheshire at 1086 there were three waste vills, ‘Aldredelie’, Conersley and ‘Done’, which had been placed in the forest, and two others, Weaverham and Kingsley, were partly in the forest. 106 First mentioned in 1225: Annales Cestrienses, ed. Christie, 59, 95; Polychronicon Ranulfi Higden, viii, 198; Swallow, ‘Gateways’. 107 Polychronicon Ranulfi Higden, 55, 95. 108 Swallow, ‘Hilltop Castles’. 109 Ibid. 110 GDB, 263d. 111 R. E. Swallow, ‘What Law Says that There Has to Be a Castle? The Castle Landscape of Frodsham, Cheshire’, in Archaeologies of Rules and Regulation: Between Text and Practice, ed. B. Hausmair et al. (Oxford and New York, 2014), 127–47. 112 The Acts of the Welsh Rulers, 1120–1283, ed. H. Pryce and C. Insley (Cardiff, 2005), 646–7. 113 Ibid., 648. 114 R. Stewart-Brown (ed.), ‘Accounts of the Chamberlains and other Officers of the County of Chester’, Record Society of Lancashire and Cheshire 59 (1910), 271; TNA: CHESH SC12 22/96; TNA: CHESH SC6 801/12; TNA: CHESH SC6 801/13; H. J. Hewitt, Medieval Cheshire: An Economic and Social History of Cheshire in the Reigns of the Three Edwards (Manchester, 1929), 92. 115 GDB, 263d; R. Liddiard, ‘The Deer Parks of Domesday Book’, Landscapes 4 (1) (2003), 4–23 at 4. 105



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There are forty-nine haiae recorded in Domesday nationwide, which Hooke referred to as enclosures within the newly fortified burhs of Wessex and Mercia. They may have had a strong association with royal land rights, therefore, where they occurred along the boundaries of royal estates bordering upon royal land in Worcestershire, for instance.116 The comital residences of both Frodsham in Delamere Forest, and Macclesfield in Macclesfield Forest (see below), therefore, were probably originally held by the Anglo-Saxon kings. Notably, the haiae listed in Domesday Cheshire specifically mentioned for catching roe deer, occur only in manors within Delamere Forest, and include those in Kingsley with four haiae and a hawk’s eyrie.117 Kingsley, situated about 3 km to the south-east of Frodsham, was also within Roelau Hundred. The small motte at Kingsley, known as Castle Cob Motte,118 could have been part of Frodsham’s wider hunting landscape. Kingsley is first mentioned in Domesday119 and its place-name, significantly, means ‘the king’s wood or clearing’.120 Because Dunning held Kingsley as a freeman prior to holding it from Earl Hugh I TRW, the implication is that there was continuity across the Anglo-Norman period as regards the management of the forest for hunting, as well as with the earls’ steward for their court at Frodsham.121 This is reinforced by the fact that in the early twelfth century Earl Ranulf I (le Meschin) of Chester (d. 1129) is said to have conferred the master forestership of Delamere on Ranulf Kingsley by delivery of a horn,122 which has late AngloSaxon significance as a symbol of forestal status.123 It is presumed that it was the latter’s son, also called Ranulf Kingsley, who witnessed a charter of Earl Hugh II (de Cyfeiliog) of Chester (d. 1181) dating to 1162×1173, in which he granted a moiety of the earl’s hunting rights in the forest of Mara to Robert Grosvenor of Budworth in Cheshire, as well as the custody of his dogs.124 Bourne highlights a dearth of ‘King’ prefixes in north-west English place-names. The presence of ‘Kingsley’ so close to the previous royal vill of Frodsham, and within the township of Delamere Forest called Kingswood, therefore reinforces the fact that some aspect of royal activity took place, or royal power was enforced,125 connected with the caput at Frodsham and its mother church at Overton on Overton Hill to the immediate south.126 ‘Kingsley’ possibly represented the last ‘toe-hold of land’ that the king held onto when the rest of the Anglo-Saxon estate had been granted away.127 Retaining elite and valuable forest for hunting from Frodsham is a reasonable conclusion here. D. Hooke, ‘The Hinterland and Routeways of Late Saxon Worcester: The Charter Evidence’, in Medieval Worcester, An Archaeological Framework, ed. M. O. H. Carver, Transactions of the Worcestershire Archaeological Society, 3rd. series, 7 (Worcester, 1980), 39–43; Hooke, ‘Pre-Conquest Woodland’, 123. 117 GDB, 267d. 118 A. H. A. Hogg and D. J. C. King, ‘Early Castles in Wales and the Marches: A Preliminary List’, Archaeologia Cambrensis 112 (1963), 77–124; D. J. C. King, Castellarium Anglicanum: An Index and Bibliography of the Castles in England, Wales, and the Islands (New York, 1983), 68; CHER 898. 119 Ormerod, History, ii, 43; GDB, 267d. 120 J. McN. Dodgson, The Place-Names of Cheshire, part III, English Place-Name Society 46 (Cambridge, 1968–9 [1971]), 239; Higham, Origins of Cheshire, 152. 121 Ormerod, History, ii, 43; Higham, Origins of Cheshire, 153. 122 Ormerod, History, ii, 87, 107; The Charters of the Anglo-Norman Earls of Chester, c. 1071–1237, ed. G. Barraclough, (Gloucester, 1988), no. 163, p. 169. 123 For example, see M. J. Petry, Herne the Hunter: A Berkshire Legend (Reading, 1972). 124 Charters of the Anglo-Norman Earls, ed. Barraclough, no. 163, pp. 168–9. 125 J. Bourne, ‘Kingston: The Place-Name and Its Context’, in Sense of Place in Anglo-Saxon England, ed. R. Jones and S. Semple (Donington, 2012), 260–83. 126 GDB, 263d; Higham, Origins of Cheshire, 152–3. 127 Bourne, ‘Kingston’, 280. 116

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Kingsley motte is a steep-sided earthen mound 19 m in diameter, which has a height of approximately 2.8 m, and a flat top measuring approximately 6 m across. It is highly likely that this was not in fact a castle, but a defended hunting lodge for the earls’ use: in the Cheshire Forest Eyre roll of 1357, six rooms within the peel (tower/fortified house) at Kingsley had been erected ‘to the nuisance of the beasts’, which were not allowed, because ‘they are in a hunting station’.128 A hunting lodge was a specialized building, which served as a base for the park keeper,129 and which also existed within regal forestal landscapes prior to the AngloNorman period. This would contradict Green’s comment that fourteenth-century references to ‘tristres’ or hunting stations have not been found as hunting lodges of the Cheshire earls.130 Indeed, a hunting lodge (‘Old Chamber’) in Macclesfield (see below) is first mentioned in 1374.131 A similarly implicit reference to the existence of hunting lodges occurs 300 years earlier in Cheshire Domesday, where ‘by custom’ the Inter Ripam et Mersam thegns constructed ‘houses’ (domos regis) for the king in the forest,132 which were likely to have been temporary hunting lodges.133 The same thegns also kept up the king’s fisheries and deer hedges or woodland enclosures (silua haias) there.134 Frodsham, then, was a significant settlement within an elite hunting landscape, where the Mercian hall (aula) mentioned in Domesday Book could well have been part of an Anglo-Saxon royal palace complex held first by King Edward the Confessor (r. 1042–66). These early lordly architectural and landscape components could have remained unaltered until the early thirteenth century – a situation experienced on the Anglo-Scottish border135 – when Frodsham developed as a borough under Earl Ranulf III. Importantly, Ranulf created only two boroughs in Cheshire: one at Frodsham, and one at Macclesfield, the latter probably also very early in the thirteenth century.136 The fifth medieval forest in Cheshire was Macclesfield, one of the largest areas of woodland in Domesday England, and occasionally mentioned with the Lyme.137 The earliest charter (c. 1165–70) for Macclesfield Forest refers to the earl’s forest of Leek and Macclesfield, suggesting that Macclesfield Forest extended beyond Cheshire to Earl Hugh II’s manor of Leek in Staffordshire in the eleventh century.138 Recorded settlements in Cheshire Domesday Book were few.139 It passed in 1237 to King Henry III, who annexed it to the Crown in 1246.140 A charter of the Lord Edward in 1259 removed the restrictions on the woods belonging to the men of the parts of Lyme which had arisen from when Earl Ranulf III put the woods in defence (see TNA CHES 33/6 m 23 3.181 (1357); Dodgson, Place-Names of Cheshire, III, 241. T. Williamson, Rabbits, Warrens and Archaeology (Stroud, 2007), 136. 130 Green, ‘Forests’, 186. 131 camera foreste infra Forestam de Macclesfield: CHER 1574/1. 132 GDB, 40a, 269d. 133 R. Faith, The English Peasantry and the Growth of Lordship (Leicester, 1999), 111. 134 GDB, 40a, 269d. 135 P. Dixon, ‘From Hall to Tower: The Change in Seigneurial Houses on the Anglo-Scottish Border after c. 1250’, Thirteenth Century England 4 (1992), 85–107 at 85–7. 136 Account of Master John De Burnham the Younger, Chamberlain of Chester, of the Revenues of the Counties of Chester and Flint, 1361–62, ed. P. H. Booth and A. D. Carr (Stroud, 1991), xiv. 137 Stewart-Brown, ‘Accounts of the Chamberlains’, 230: ‘in Lyme, in the forest of Macclesfield’. 138 J. Sleigh, A History of the Ancient Parish of Leek in Staffordshire (Leek, 1862), 11–12; Green, ‘Forests’, 178; Charters of the Anglo-Norman Earls, ed. Barraclough, no. 176, pp. 180–1; Crouch, ‘Administration of the Norman Earldom’, 90; N. J. Tringham, ‘An Early Thirteenth-Century Survey of the Earl of Chester’s Fee of Leek’, Staffordshire Studies 5 (1993), 1–12 at 7. 139 Green, ‘Forests’, 167. 140 Langton, ‘Medieval Forests and Chases: Another Realm?’, 22, n. 129. 128

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above). Between 1327 and 1330, dowager queen Isabella held Macclesfield Forest, evidencing the forest as a symbolic exercise of power, in which queens played a key role.142 The business of Macclesfield Forest halmote overlapped with the borough portmote, hundred and manor courts, and offences against forest deer were also indicted in the county court of the earldom of Chester.143 The comital power of Macclesfield Forest extended across the whole of Cheshire. For example, in 1247, Roger de Montalt, constable, received four bucks and two does from Macclesfield Forest to stock his own park at Mold Castle.144 Within Macclesfield Forest, in 1301–2, ‘an inclosure round the chase of “Coumbes”’ was made, and the hiam [hay] del Coumbes was repaired in 1304.145 The chase was legal entity of free liberty where the Forest Laws did not apply;146 ‘chase’ and ‘forest’ seem to have been used interchangeably in some places.147 The Coumbes (Coombs) were guarded by fences and said to ease hunting by being used to drive game,148 as implied by an Inquisition Post Mortem held at Chester in 1388: 141

by the rent of 5 shillings and the finding of 33 men for the making fast the ‘Coumbes’ (pro stabilitate facienda in les Coumbes) within the forest of Macclesfield whenever the King hunted there, and the making of 72½ rods of hedge (haie) in the said ‘Coumbes’ there within the said Forest.149

In Cheshire Domesday, stabilitura seems to imply an enclosure of nets of fences, similar in purpose to ‘hay’,150 and they are generally translated as stag-beats (fenced and ditched areas equipped with nets, into which huntsmen drove stags).151 These are mentioned in Inter Ripam et Mersam,152 and in Hollinhay Wood, Staffordshire, presumed to have been part of the Cheshire earls’ forest of Leek, first recorded in a charter dated c. 1165–70.153 Just as for Delamere Forest, therefore, Macclesfield Forest was clearly an area for comital recreational hunting, and probably also for the earls’ lesser defended elite residences. Adlington, the non-castle manor held by Earl Hugh I from Earl Edwin in Macclesfield Forest/Hundred, had dramatically reduced in value from TRE (£8) to TRW (20s), with only 4½ hides paying tax, and land for ten ploughs (see Fig. 2). The secret for its former, and likely potential, success, was clearly the value of hunting

141

77.

Dodgson, Place-Names of Cheshire, I, 9; Green, ‘Forests’, 167, 178; Annales Cestrienses, ed. Christie,

Langton, ‘Forests and Chases’, 253. D. J. Clayton, The Administration of the County Palatine of Chester 1442–1485, Chetham Society, RHL 3rd ser., 35 (Manchester, 1990), 6–7, 34; Langton, ‘Medieval Forests and Chases: Another Realm?’, 27. 144 Green, ‘Forests’, 183. 145 Stewart-Brown, ‘Accounts of the Chamberlains’, 9, 44. 146 R. Almond, ‘The Forest as Hunting Ground’, in Forests and Chases of Medieval England and Wales c. 1000 to c. 1500, ed. J. Langton and G. Jones (Oxford, 2010), 68–80 at 69. 147 Langton, ‘Medieval Forests and Chases: Another Realm?’, 24. 148 CHER 1574. 149 J. P. Earwaker, East Cheshire Past and Present (London, 1877), i, 47. 150 Jones, ‘A Common of Hunting?, 62. 151 Revised Medieval Latin Word-List from British and Irish Sources, ed. R. E. Latham (Oxford, 1999), 449. 152 GDB, 40a, 269d. 153 Charters of the Anglo-Norman Earls, ed. Barraclough, no. 176, pp. 180–1; Tringham, ‘Early Thirteenth-Century Survey’, 7. 142 143

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in the latter part of the eleventh century: Adlington, which must have had a hall or a court, also had seven enclosures (haiae), and four hawks’ eyries.154 Macclesfield manor itself lay in eastern Cheshire on the boundary of the forest of Macclesfield,155 and Domesday Book notes the existence of a court here.156 There is evidence for a later fourteenth-century ‘castle’ within Earl Ranulf III’s early thirteenth-century planned borough town, which is generally interpreted as a manor house.157 There is as yet no evidence that there was ever an early castle at Macclesfield. There are, however, primary sources and suggested landscape evidence for an Anglo-Saxon manorial complex within the area of a field called ‘Castle Field’ to the south-west of Macclesfield near Congleton road, which persisted into the AngloNorman period.158 The site of a park was near Park Lane to the south of Congleton Road, which was first mentioned in documents from 1237 (parcum de Makefeld; parcarius de Maclesfeld), during the same year as the manor passed back in its entirety to the Crown. From the early fourteenth century, Macclesfield manor house and its great hall adjacent to the park were surrounded by a timber fence.159 Notably, as at Frodsham, Earl Hugh I succeeded Earl Edwin at Macclesfield, and both comital manors would appear to have been within hunting estates for the Anglo-Norman earls of Chester.160 Both comital elite residences also underwent building work in the mid-fourteenth century: at Macclesfield in 1347–8, the manor of Macclesfield, its stables, Queen’s Hall and Chamber, and the ‘inclosing of the said manor with an earthen wall’ costing £39 12s 8d are perhaps parallels of considerable building work for potentially aesthetic and comfort purposes within the other significant forestal area of Delamere at Frodsham.161 Domesday records seven enclosures (haiae) at Macclesfield, presumably for keeping deer,162 although Domesday is not specific here, as was also the case for Frodsham. In 1217 there is a reference to a boscus de Wilwhik,163 the location of which is unknown. This place-name is, notably, Old English for woodland in a ‘hamlet at a trap’, the wīl element probably meaning ‘a deer or game trap’.164 Macclesfield is therefore an important parallel when considering Frodsham and its wider pre-and post-Conquest comital hunting context. The sixth and final Cheshire forest is Wirral. Wilaveston Hundred, on the Wirral Peninsula, was afforested by Earl Ranulf I in 1119–28,165 and a master forester’s horn of office at Wirral carries the date 1120.166 The earliest documented existence is in GDB 263d, 264a; S. Matthews, ‘William the Conqueror’s Campaign in Cheshire in 1069–70: Ravaging and Resistance in the North-West’, Northern History 40 (2003), 53–70 at 64–5. 155 Ormerod, History, ii, 535. 156 GDB, 263d. 157 R. E. Swallow, ‘What Law Says that there Has to Be a Castle? The Castle Landscape of Frodsham, Cheshire’, Archaeologies of Rules and Regulation: Between Text and Practice, ed. B. Hausmair et al. (Oxford, New York, 2014), 127–47. 158 Ormerod, History, iii, 366; R. E. Birkett, ‘Macclesfield Castle Mound and Manor House’, Cheshire History 35 (1995–6), 10–11; M. Shaw and J. Clark, Cheshire Historic Towns Survey: Archaeological Assessment: Macclesfield (Chester, 2003), 4; the late Jane Laughton, pers. comm., March 2013. 159 Ormerod, History, iii, 366; CHER 1561/3; 1363/0/0; 1563/3/1; 1563/3/2. 160 Higham, Origins of Cheshire, 172; Liddiard, ‘The Deer Parks’, 12–13. 161 Register of Edward the Black Prince Preserved in the Public Record Office, Pt. III (Palatinate of Chester), A. D. 1351–65, ed. M. C. B. Davies and A. E. Stamp (London, 1931), 347–8. 162 GDB, 263d. 163 Wilwhik wood: Dodgson, Place-Names of Cheshire, I, 120. 164 Ibid. 165 Ormerod, History, ii, 353; Dodgson, Place-Names of Cheshire, I, 13; Green, ‘Forests’, 184–5. 166 R. Stewart-Brown, ‘The Disafforestation of Wirral’, Transactions of the Historic Society of Lancashire and Cheshire 59 (1907), 165–80. 154



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a charter of between 1194 and 1208 requiring the freemen of Wirral to maintain six foresters,167 and the first mention of Wirral Forest itself, as foresta de Wirehal, was in 1240. It passed to the Crown in 1246.168 Two stags and five does were taken from Wirral Forest to Shotwick Park, which lay within it, for the Black Prince’s larder in 1347–8.169 It was disafforested in July 1376.170 Wirral Forest was of dense settlement compared to Macclesfield and Delamere forests, with low woodland cover, including a number of landholdings and manors held by St Werburgh’s Abbey.171 Just as no doubt for the defensive boundary forests of Atiscros and the Lyme, the ‘wilderness of Wirral’ mentioned in the late-fourteenth-century tale Sir Gawain and the Green Knight indicates that the area attracted bands of armed men.172 The tale suggests that wilderness was not a zone of desertion, but a region of carefully managed forest. Within Wilaveston Hundred, Earl Hugh I held Eastham manor, of significantly high TRE value (see Fig. 2), which had a mill and a priest;173 also within the forest was Shotwick Castle (NGR: SJ349704), situated to the north of Chester. It is the only certain castle on the Peninsula. There is no evidence that Shotwick Castle, which guarded a ford on the old river Dee estuary, was built by Earl Hugh I, despite assertions to this effect;174 he did not hold land here TRW. The castle is first mentioned in 1240, three years after its park had been created by King Edward III (r. 1327–77) in 1327–8, and about 100 years prior to the disafforestation of Wirral Forest.175 Shotwick is a motte-and-bailey castle on the crest of a steep escarpment above the east bank of the former course of the river Dee, its form and siting thus suggesting that the castle was indeed an early Anglo-Norman build,176 and likely predominantly defensive in its original form. Of note is that, in Cheshire, the wīc place-name element generally relates to the production of salt, and Shotwick Ford, and its passagium [passage] et batillagium [ferry] de Shotewyk are mentioned numerous times in documents post-1340.177 Given the place-name and location for fishing, the ford and the ferry,178 there is every reason to believe that the ford was in existence prior to the Norman Conquest. Indeed, the ‘Saltesway’ road indicates that traders crossed the ford at Shotwick carrying salt from the Wiches in Cheshire into North Wales.179 Its defensive position is enhanced by two steep-sided watercourses flanking it to the north and south.

Green, ‘Forests’, 184–6. Langton, ‘Medieval Forests and Chases: Another Realm?’, 22, n. 129. 169 Stewart-Brown, ‘Accounts of the Chamberlains’, 126; Register of Edward the Black Prince, ed. Davies and Stamp, 126: 1347–8. 170 Stewart-Brown, ‘Disafforestation of Wirral’, 165–80; Dodgson, Place-Names of Cheshire, I, 13; Green, ‘Forests’, 171, 184–5. 171 GDB, passim; Green, ‘Forests’, 167, 185. 172 J. R. R. Tolkein and E. V. Gordon (eds), Sir Gawain and the Green Knight (Oxford, 1967), 20; Green, ‘Forests’, 185. 173 GDB, 263d. 174 Husain, Cheshire under the Norman Earls, 102; Grimsditch, Nevell and Nevell, Buckton Castle, 104. 175 J. McN. Dodgson, The Place-Names of Cheshire, part IV, English Place-Name Society 47 (Cambridge, 1969–70 [1972]), 210; Cal. Lib. Rolls Hen. III (1226–1240) vol. I, 451, cited in King, Castellarium Anglicanum, I, 68, 71. 176 CHER 2015/1/1. 177 Dodgson, Place-Names of Cheshire, IV, 211. 178 See Saughall entry: GDB, 265b. 179 R. E. Swallow, ‘Cheshire Castles in Context’, unpublished PhD thesis (University of Chester, 2015). 167 168

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Conclusion Having considered each of medieval Cheshire’s six forests and the comital elite residences situated within them, it can be seen that Earl Hugh I created new forests at Rhuddlan and Atiscros, the latter upon areas of waste and unhidated land along the western boundary zone of Cheshire. Hugh effectively put this area into defence: a jurisdictional ‘no-go’ zone of elite power and symbolism placed under Hugh’s own Forest Law, akin to that of the king. Clearly, the Welsh were not going to like this impingement on what had been former Welsh territory, any more than they would have appreciated the carefully controlled forestal passes; the haiae enclosing animals for protection and possible cross-boundary trade purposes; heavily defended routeways studded with the earls’ baronial/tenants’ watchtower-type castles; and Earl Hugh I’s own fortified residences of Chester, Hawarden, Mold and Rhuddlan castles, symbolic of the continuity of past, inherited powers. Atiscros Forest therefore served to seal the western county boundary, thus linking with Wirral Forest and Shotwick Castle projecting into the Dee estuary and the Irish Sea region, and the likely pre-existing, and long-serving, Lyme Forest. Here, Buckton Castle was situated, at an inter-visible vantage point overlooking key jurisdictional and factional areas of the landscape that threatened the semi-regal position of the earls of Chester from England. Likewise, Beeston Castle sat proud within its Delamere Forest setting, overlooking the ancient boundary of the Lyme, at a time when the earl was threatened, not from Wales, but from England. These comital border castles are still extant in the landscape today, and are generally recognized as symbolic, defensive and offensive structures. Embedded midway and within the east of the county were Delamere and Macclesfield forests, respectively, where all the now non-extant comital elite residences could well be interpreted to have been not castles per se, but capita palaces, manor houses, courts or halls. Frodsham, Kingsley and Macclesfield were no doubt elite residences with elements of fortification, but their encapsulation within forestal landscapes, and the specific Domesday Book mentions of haiae for enclosing deer, point to the cross-period cultural significance of hunting predominantly for leisure. In Cheshire, it can be seen that the Welsh were in fact right about Earl Hugh I: he and his successors clearly enjoyed their recreational hunting. However, this brief examination of the contextual inter-influence of elite residence and forest indicates that this contemporary interpretation must have been somewhat simplistic. Certainly, the varying temporal, geographical, political and social definitions and purposes of haiae (hays) and elite residences (including palaces, courts, halls, Welsh llysoedd, fortified manors and castles), as well as the forests themselves, remain subject to continuing debate. However, it is only by considering all components as integral to each other that renewed definitions and interpretations for each can be proposed within a given geographical and political context. It is by also focusing on pre-Anglo-Norman power centres and ancient locales that we can begin to understand the multiple purposes – and the cross-period continuities in the cultural and defensive significance of former and ongoing royal identity – of medieval forests and their associated elite residences.



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Acknowledgements I feel particularly honoured to have been asked to deliver this paper as the second Des Seal Memorial Lecture, and I thank Professor Stephen Church for this kind invitation. I am indebted to Drs John Langton and Graham Jones, of St John’s College, University of Oxford, for reading an early draft of this paper, and for very generously sharing with me their invaluable knowledge, research, guidance and time, on the historical geography of the forests and chases of England and Wales, and of medieval Cheshire in particular. I am highly grateful to Dr Ann Williams for her comments on, and additions to, the final draft. I am also very thankful to Dr Paul Booth for providing me with access to Cheshire Medieval Latin documents held at TNA that he has transcribed relating to Frodsham and Kingsley, and to Mr Rob Edwards, Cheshire’s Historic Environment Record Officer, whose outstanding expertise and patience created Figures 1 and 2 for me. All interpretations, and any errors and/or omissions, are entirely my own.

The Christine Mahany Memorial Lecture

THE COINAGE OF HAROLD II IN THE LIGHT OF THE CHEW VALLEY HOARD Gareth Williams In January 2019, metal detectorists discovered a large hoard of Anglo-Saxon and Norman coins in the Chew Valley area of what is now Bath and North-East Somerset, although firmly within the historic county of Somerset.1 The hoard was buried in the years immediately following the Norman Conquest, and was essentially a two-type hoard, composed of the PAX type of Harold II, and the Profile / Cross Fleury type of William I, and thus spans the Conquest, like a small number of other hoards of similar date, including Soberton, Rotherham and Corringham. However, the Chew Valley hoard is by far the largest hoard recorded to date from the immediate post-Conquest period, and although a number of other hoards were deposited in 1066, presumably in the build-up to Hastings (see below, p. 44), Chew Valley contained nearly twice as many coins from Harold’s short reign as the whole of the previously recorded corpus. The hoard thus provides an unprecedented opportunity to re-examine Harold’s coinage, which will be considered here in its historical context. At the same time, the fact that the hoard was compiled and deposited in William’s reign also offers a chance to reflect on the brief period of transition between Harold’s death on 14 October and William’s coronation on 25 December 1066. This transition period rarely receives detailed consideration, being viewed either as a coda to studies of Harold (or of the late Anglo-Saxon period) or as an introduction to William’s inevitable establishment of Norman rule in England. This essay will first provide a brief account of the hoard itself, before moving on to consider Harold’s coinage as a whole, with some preliminary thoughts on how the hoard impacts on our understanding of that coinage. The next section will consider what previous scholarship has already established as the otherwise minor mint of Wilton within this coinage, and how the Chew Valley hoard reinforces a previous suggestion that Wilton’s sudden pre-eminence may post-date Harold’s death at Hastings. The final section will discuss the possible role of Edith, widow of Edward the Confessor and sister of Harold, both as the likely instigator of the anomalous Wilton coinage and as one of the most important political figures in England in the aftermath of Hastings. The Chew Valley hoard was found by a group of metal detectorists investigating ploughed land with the permission of the landowner in January 2019. They promptly reported the find, but removed it from the ground themselves, meaning that valuable archaeological information relating to the internal composition of the hoard was lost, although some of this information had already been destroyed as I am grateful to Martin Allen and Rory Naismith for discussion of aspects of the Chew Valley hoard, and to Stephen Church, Tom Licence and Pauline Stafford for discussion of aspects of the historical context. Lesley Smith read and commented on the paper as a whole in draft. Any remaining mistakes are of course my own. 1

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the hoard had been partially broken up by ploughing.2 The hoard was transferred to the British Museum (BM) in order for a report to be prepared for Her Majesty’s Coroner under the terms of the Treasure Act (1996). It went through an initial phase of basic cleaning at the BM, during which the finders continued to search the findspot, bringing a further parcel of coins to the BM when their investigations were complete. At the time of writing, the hoard has been declared Treasure, but it has not yet been valued, and the site has not yet received any archaeological investigation. Because of this it has been agreed by all parties that, for the time being at least, the find-spot will not be identified more precisely at this stage than the Chew Valley, which lies to the west of Bath and south of Bristol. Further contextual interpretation based on the ownership of the land on which the hoard was deposited will be possible if and when the parish in which the hoard was deposited is made public. The Roman Baths Museum and Spa in Bath, which holds the archaeological collections for Bath and north-east Somerset, hopes to acquire the hoard, working in partnership with the BM and with other organizations in the region to research the hoard and to make it publicly accessible. The contents of the hoard are summarized in Table 1.3 It is essentially a two-type hoard, straddling the Norman Conquest, with Harold’s sole type and William’s first type both represented in unprecedented numbers, along with a small number of mules combining re-used obverses of Edward the Confessor and Harold with reverses of William. These include the first recorded mules of Harold/William, although their existence is no particular surprise. Table 1 Rulers and types represented in the Chew valley hoard Ruler

Type

Harold II

PAX type, regular issue

Harold II

PAX type, variety without sceptre

Quantity 1132 101

Harold II

PAX type, variety with beaded inner circle on obverse

3

Harold II

PAX type, variety with no sceptre and solid inner circle on obverse

3

Sub-total

1239

William I

Profile / Cross Fleury

William I

Profile / Cross Fleury, variety without sceptre

William I

Profile /Cross Fleury, variety with right-facing bust

Sub-total Edward / William I

1278 13 20 1311

Pyramids – Profile / Cross Fleury mule

1

Harold II / William I PAX – Profile / Cross Fleury mule

2

Sub-total

3

Total

2553

G. Williams, ‘The Chew Valley Hoard’, British Archaeology (November 2019). The figures in Table 1 and elsewhere in this article are based on working notes from March 2020. Because of the Covid situation I have been almost entirely absent from the British Museum since then, and have therefore not had the opportunity to check those figures as I had expected to do before delivering this paper to the Battle Conference, and would normally do as a matter of course before proceeding to publication. It is therefore possible that these figures may be slightly different in the final publication of the hoard, whenever that may be. However, I have no reason to believe that changes, if any, will be sufficiently significant to impact on any of the interpretation presented here. 2 3



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The hoard was deposited during the currency period of the first coin type of William’s reign. William continued the pattern of the late Anglo-Saxon coinage (see more detailed discussion below) in issuing a series of distinct coin types in succession, each of which was apparently withdrawn from circulation when the next was introduced. Obsolete types retained their bullion value (and were sometimes hoarded for this reason), but were not permitted to circulate as currency. Unfortunately, there is no evidence to indicate whether these re-coinages took place at regular intervals or on a more ad hoc basis.4 Matters are further confused for the reigns of William I (1066–87) and William II (1087–1100) by the fact that no distinction is made between the name and title of the two Williams, making it impossible to state definitively which was the last type of William I and the first of William II.5 Thus, while there is general agreement on the relative chronology of the coin types of both rulers, there is no absolute chronology. The Profile / Cross Fleury type, which make up over half of the hoard, was undoubtedly William I’s first issue, and was probably introduced very quickly after his coronation and thus either at the very end of 1066 or the beginning of 1067, and probably circulated for no more than three years, suggesting a date for the deposition of the hoard of somewhere in the period 1067–9, although the possibility that this period should be extended slightly cannot be altogether ruled out. This was a period of continued political unrest, which provides a likely context for the deposition of the Chew Valley hoard and of other hoards of similar date, but the precise circumstances of the deposition of the hoard fall beyond the scope of this essay. The hoard is significant because of its size, and because it spans the Norman Conquest. Although relatively small compared with some of the larger Roman and late medieval hoards, such as Cunetio (c. AD 274: 54,951 coins) or Tutbury (AD 1322: approximately 360,000 coins), this is one of the larger recorded hoards of the eleventh century, and second only in the Norman period to the Beauworth hoard, buried in the late 1080s and containing at least 8,000 coins. Chew Valley is also by a considerable distance the largest hoard of the immediate post-Conquest years. It contains nearly twice as many coins of the PAX type as the whole of the previous corpus, and five times as many coins as the previous corpus of the much rarer Profile / Cross Fleury type. As such, and with relatively few coins previously recorded in each type, the hoard has unsurprisingly extended the range of mints and moneyers in both types, confirming that many of the existing gaps in the respective corpora reflect chance survival rather than genuine inactivity. Not only does this allow for a more detailed study of each type, but it also permits a more compreG. C. Brooke, ‘Quando moneta vertebatur: The Change of Coin-Types in the Eleventh Century; Its Bearing on Mules and Overstrikes’, British Numismatic Journal 21(1931/33), 59–66; D. M. Metcalf, ‘The Taxation of Moneyers under Edward the Confessor and in 1086’, in Domesday Studies: Papers Read at the Novocentenary Conference of the Royal Historical Society and the Institute of British Geographers, Winchester, 1986, ed. J. C. Holt (Woodbridge 1987), 279–93; I. Stewart, ‘Coinage and Recoinage after Edgar’s Reform’, in Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage in Memory of Bror Emil Hildebrand, ed. K. Jonsson, Svenska Numismatiska Meddleanden, 35 (Stockholm, 1990), 455–85; G. Williams, ‘Monetary Contacts between England and Normandy, c. 973–1180: A Numismatic Perspective’, in Circulations monétaires et réseasux d’échanges en Normandie et dans le Nord-Ouest européen (Antiquité-Moyen Âge), Tables rondes du CRAHM 8, ed. J. Chameroy and P.-M. Guilhard (Caen, 2012), 173–84 at 175; M. R. Allen, Mints and Money in Medieval England (Cambridge, 2012), 35–40. 5 M. M. Archibald, ‘Coins’, in English Romanesque Art, 1066–1200, ed. G. Zarnecki, J. Holt and T. Holland (London, 1984), 320–41 at 320, 328; R. J. Eaglen, The Abbey and Mint of Bury St Edmunds to 1279, British Numismatic Society Special Publication 4 (London, 2006), 55–8; Williams, ‘Monetary Contacts’, 182; M. R. Allen, ‘Coinage and Currency under William I and William II’, in Early Medieval Monetary History: Studies in Memory of Mark Blackburn, ed. R. Naismith, M. Allen and E. Screen (Farnham, 2014), 85–112. 4

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hensive analysis of the degree of continuity in moneyers across the Conquest. As long ago as 1965, Michael Dolley highlighted the high proportion of Harold’s moneyers who continued to issue coins under William, noting that while some individual moneyers appear to have retired, the proportion was no greater than between many consecutive types in late Anglo-Saxon England.6 This view has been much quoted by historians wishing to promote wider views of continuity of elements of Anglo-Saxon administration and government across the Conquest, as well as by numismatists. However, this trend towards continuity was not universal, and in some cases not just individual moneyers but the entire complement of particular mints apparently changed under William (e.g. Cambridge and Wilton); the extent to which such change was significant has been debated.7 Following the discovery of the Chew Valley hoard, the increased numbers of both mints and moneyers in both types tends to reinforce Dolley’s position, as well as suggesting more strongly that where there was a complete change in the complement of moneyers at a particular mint against the trend, this is likely to have been significant. A preliminary assessment of the numismatic significance of the hoard will be published elsewhere,8 and more detailed discussion of the hoard’s impact on our understanding either of the Profile / Cross Fleury type or of the question of continuity falls beyond the scope of this essay. However, to consider the impact of the hoard on our understanding of Harold’s coinage, it is first necessary to consider briefly what was already known of that coinage. Harold’s coinage in most respects follows the general pattern of late Anglo-Saxon coinage introduced by a reform towards the end of the reign of Eadgar (957–75). There are two main characteristics of this coinage. The first is that, with minor variations, at any given time a single coinage was produced in a large number of different towns across the whole kingdom, to a common design and (sometimes with more variation) a common size and weight standard. However, this was customized to indicate the name of the moneyer who issued the coin, and the name of the town with which the moneyer was linked.9 An individual town might have anything from a single moneyer working there in the case of some small towns, to ten or more in major towns such as London or York. Although it is not clear that all coins were necessarily struck in the towns named on them, or that all moneyers in any particular towns issued coins in the same place, it is normal to refer to the named towns as ‘mints’, and that convention is followed here.10 The second point is that, although the detail of coin designs changed from type to type, English coinage from Edgar’s reform to the Conquest and beyond followed a fairly consistent model. The obverse showed a Roman imperial bust, surrounded by the ruler’s name and title, while the reverse showed a Christian image and/or text, surrounded by the name of the moneyer and the mint. Edgar’s initial design showed a diademed bust facing left on the obverse, with a small cross in the centre of the reverse. The same design was used by Edward the Martyr (975–8) and at the beginning of the reign of Æthelræd II. However, at some point relatively early in Æthelræd’s reign this was replaced by R. H. M. Dolley, The Norman Conquest and the English Coinage (London, 1966), 11–12. M. R. Allen, ‘The Cambridge Mint after the Norman Conquest’, Numismatic Chronicle 166 (2006), 237–44. 8 G. Williams, ‘The Chew Valley Hoard: Preliminary Report and Interpretation’, British Numismatic Journal (forthcoming). 9 K. Jonsson, The New Era: The Reformation of the Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage, Commentationes de Nummis Saeculorum IX–XI in Suecia Repertis, n.s., 1 (Stockholm, 1987). 10 I. Stewart, ‘The English and Norman Mints, c. 600–1158’, in A New History of the Royal Mint, ed. C. E. Challis (Cambridge, 1992), 1–82; Allen, Mints and Money, 1–4. 6 7



The Coinage of Harold II

43

a type with a right-facing diademed bust, combined with a reverse image of the hand of God, and Æthelræd’s reign saw a number of further type changes, all containing explicitly Christian images, and all but one combining some form of bust on the obverse with some form of cross on the reverse. The general pattern of combining obverse busts with reverse crosses, but with multiple types for each reign, continued under Æthelræd’s successors, but each new type was visually distinct from the previous one to avoid confusion. Older coin types might be hoarded for their bullion value, but only the latest type was legally permitted to circulate as currency, and old coins were probably exchanged for new on payment of a premium. This approach, referred to by numismatists as renovatio monetae, was continued by all kings of England to 1066, and indeed beyond. Although no contemporary historical evidence survives to explain this, it may be inferred from later evidence that this was a deliberate process aimed at enforcing re-coinage in order to create an artificial demand for new coin. This generated profit for the moneyers, and in turn for the king, who received payments from the moneyers for all new dies.11 The brevity of Harold’s reign meant that there was only time for a single type. The standard type showed a bearded and crowned left-facing bust on the obverse, normally with a sceptre in front of the bust, with the single word PAX across the field on the reverse. The bust on the obverse is unusual for the late Anglo-Saxon coinage in that it terminates at the neck, without drapery or armour representing the body, although there are precursors in Roman and earlier Anglo-Saxon coinage.12 Otherwise, the bust follows the later types of Edward the Confessor in seeking inspiration not from ancient Rome but from the contemporary ‘Roman’ coinage of imperial Germany, which in turn was influenced by Byzantium.13 It is unclear whether there was any particular significance to the lack of drapery, but I would suggest that the bust was a deliberate compromise between being sufficiently distinct from the preceding type of Edward to permit an effective renovatio monetae, but sufficiently similar to convey continuity and legitimacy in Harold’s succession. It is notable that the obverse of William’s first type was also very similar to Edward’s final type. The PAX inscription has a partial precedent in the use of the inscription CRVX on one type of Æthelræd, and of PACX on the first type of Edward the Confessor, but on both those types the inscription was placed in the angles of a cross rather than as a horizontal bar.14 The use of the word PAX may signify a desire for peace for the departed soul of Edward, or a positive (if perhaps mistaken) comment on the peaceful state of the kingdom at the time of Harold’s accession, or perhaps a more aspirational hope for peace, given that the succession was always likely to be disputed. There are also a number of minor variations in the obverse design, including the absence of the sceptre, the addition of an inner circle between the inscription and the bust, and the bust facing right instead of left. Of these, only the variation without sceptre is relatively common, and even there the overall number of dies is low. There is no reason to believe that any of these variations had any significance, and they all probably reflect careless die-cutting. In addition, there is stylistic variation

See n. 4. For example, the gold mancus issued by the moneyer Pendræd, BM 1962, 0313.1. 13 T. Talvio, ‘The Design of Edward the Confessor’s Coins’, in Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage in Memory of Bror Emil Hildebrand, ed. K. Jonsson (Stockholm, 1990), 487–500; M. M. Archibald, ‘The German Connection: German Influences on the Later Anglo-Saxon and Norman Coinages in Their English Context’, in Fundamenta Historiae, ed. R. Cunz (Hanover, 2004), 131–50. 14 S. D. Keynes, ‘An Interpretation of the Pacx, Pax and Paxs Pennies’, ASE 7 (1978), 165–73. 11

12

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Gareth Williams

in the form of the bust and inscriptions, pointing to the work of multiple die-cutters (see further below). Like all coin types of this period, the corpus of Harold’s PAX type is drawn from a combination of known hoards, provenanced single finds, and individual coins with no recorded provenance. Several hoards are recorded from Harold’s own reign, and the majority of these were found in Sussex (Chancton, Offham, Oving and Arundel). It seems likely with such a concentration that these reflect either the anticipation or the reality of William’s invasion in Sussex. A further hoard from Castor, near Peterborough, is dominated by coins from the York mint, and the location of the find-spot close to Ermine Street may mean that it was linked with the movement of Harold’s army south after Stamford Bridge. In addition to hoards from Harold’s own reign, his coins also appear in hoards from early in the reign of William, including Soberton, Rotherham and Corringham as well as Chew Valley.15 To date, there has been only one detailed study of the PAX type, published by Hugh Pagan in 1990.16 Pagan identified a total of 609 coins, but some of these were known only from numismatic literature and sales catalogues, while the coins themselves could not be traced. Nevertheless, Pagan was able to identify exact details for 512 actual coins. From this he was able to produce a summary catalogue by mint and moneyer, indicating the number of recorded dies as well as the number of recorded coins, although the format of the publication permitted only a small number of coins to be illustrated. Pagan divided the obverse designs into four main stylistic groups, based on details such as the size and proportion of the bust, the shape of the crown, and the way the beard was formed, as well as variation in the layout of the inscription HAROLD REX ANGLORVM, and the extent to which this was typically contracted. In the two larger groups, A and B, the sceptre was normally present, and in the smaller groups C and D it was normally absent, but this was not completely consistent, reinforcing the view that the absence of the sceptre was largely the result of die-cutting error rather than conscious policy. Pagan was then able to consider the distribution of these four groups across coins of different mints, and noted that these did not appear to represent any form of regional pattern. He therefore suggested that dies of all four groups were probably cut in London. However, he also noted a small group of mints in northern Mercia where non-standard dies were used either exclusively or alongside dies of standard types, and which he suggested were produced locally, as well as the use of a number of apparently locally produced dies at York and at Wilton in Wiltshire.17 Pagan also discussed the distribution of different mints within the type. Across late Anglo-Saxon coinage as a whole, mints can be identified from a number of towns across the kingdom, although there is considerable variation in the number and size of mints in different regions, probably in part reflecting differences in the degree of centralization of royal authority in different areas before the unification of the tenth century.18 London is typically the largest mint across most types, followed by a tier of major mints spread across different regions, including York, H. E. Pagan, ‘The Coinage of Harold II’, in Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage in Memory of Bror Emil Hildebrand, ed. K. Jonsson (Stockholm, 1990), 179–205 at 189; D. M. Metcalf, An Atlas of AngloSaxon and Norman Coin Finds: 973–1086 Royal Numismatic Society Special Publication 32 (London, 1998). 16 Pagan, ‘Coinage’. 17 Ibid., 181–3. 18 G. Williams, ‘Civil Defence or Royal Powerbase? Military and non-Military Functions of the late Anglo-Saxon Burh’, in Landscapes of Defence in the Viking Age: Anglo-Saxon England and Comparative Perspectives, ed. J. Baker, S. Brookes and A. Reynolds (Turnhout, 2013), 129–64. 15



The Coinage of Harold II

45

Lincoln, Stamford, Thetford, Canterbury and Winchester, although the ranking of these varies from type to type. Below this is a tier of moderately large mints with three or more moneyers, and below that a number of minor mints with only one or two moneyers and typically a modest output.19 Pagan observed that the overall distribution of Harold’s coinage reflected this national pattern, and that while some mints known from earlier and later types were absent, this was probably the result of chance survival, given that the corpus of the type was not large, and that there was no regional pattern to the mints that were missing. He also noted two anomalies. The first was the relatively high representation of coins from the mints of Chichester, Lewes and Steyning. This he attributed to the fact that hoards of this period are concentrated in Sussex, and to the presence of a relatively high proportion of coins from local mints within those hoards. The number of dies recorded for the mints and moneyers concerned does not suggest unusually high production, so that the high numbers of surviving coins simply points to chance survival in those hoards.20 The other more significant anomaly was a leap in the volume of production at Wilton. Here, not only was the number of recorded coins a much higher proportion of the national total than would be expected from a normally minor mint, but the number of recorded dies is also extremely high, several of which were the dies of irregular style mentioned above. Many of the recorded Wilton coins were also poorly struck. Pagan noted that Wilton was owned by the Crown, and the site of a nunnery under royal patronage, and suggested that these factors may have led Harold ‘or some less exalted figure in his service to have chosen … the site for a special coining operation’.21 He did not explore this point further, but the significance of Wilton is discussed in greater detail below. A final important point which emerged from Pagan’s study was that most moneyers in the PAX type seem only to have issued coins from between one and three pairs of dies, averaging two pairs of dies per moneyer, with the notable exception of London and Wilton.22 This needs to be revisited in the light of the expanded corpus, especially since Chew Valley clearly contains large numbers of coins up to and beyond the end of the PAX type. Assuming that the pattern remains more or less the same, this could indicate that the bulk of the PAX coinage was struck within a very short time, even by the standards of Harold’s short reign. Later mint records indicate that a single reverse die could produce up to 25,000 coins before it became too worn for further use.23 Experimentation indicates that it is possible for a practised individual to strike as many as 2,000 coins in the course of a single day. Thus the first reverse die for each moneyer could be used to exhaustion in no more than a fortnight if used to full capacity, and the first two reverse dies within a month, if used consecutively rather than concurrently. The fact that the coins could have been produced so quickly does not mean that they necessarily were, but the idea of a high proportion of the coins being struck quickly to accommodate the replacement of existing coins through re-coinage is consistent with the accepted understanding of the renovatio monetae.

19 20 21 22 23

Metcalf, Atlas, 193–248. Pagan, ‘Coinage’, 187. Ibid.. Ibid., 201–2. Allen, Mints and Money, 131–3.

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Re-evaluation of Harold’s Coinage in the Light of Chew Valley The discovery of the Chew Valley hoard provides an opportunity to re-examine Harold’s coinage. Since the publication of Hugh Pagan’s article, the corpus had already expanded slightly, with the addition of a number of single finds, plus thirty coins of Harold from a hoard found at Corringham in Lincolnshire in 1994.24 With the addition of Chew Valley, the corpus has expanded dramatically, although the fact that the hoard represents such a high proportion of all the known finds means that regional biases within Chew Valley (see below) necessarily impact on the corpus as a whole. Plans for further research include a comprehensive study of the PAX type, including the coins in the hoard, but the extraordinary circumstances of 2020 mean that there have been only very limited opportunities to examine the hoard, or related material, in the ten months prior to the completion of this essay, and some elements of the study must await further examination of the material, including detailed study of die-links and an examination of whether or not Pagan’s classification of the coinage requires any adjustment in the light of the new material.25 Nevertheless, it is possible to make some observations both on the coinage itself and on its wider implications for our understanding of the history of Harold’s reign. First, the hoard reinforces the existence of a reasonably uniform national coinage, with some variation in the style of the design, and also some minor variations in detail. The majority of the known coins of the type, both from Chew Valley and elsewhere, show a left-facing bust with a sceptre in front, surrounded by a circumscription with no inner circle between the bust and the inscription. The most significant variation from this is the simple omission of the sceptre. There are 92 examples in the hoard of this particular variation from nine or possibly ten mints. There appears to be no regional pattern to this variation. The absence of the sceptre is typical of groups C and D in Pagan’s classification, but not of groups A and B, although this is not an absolute division, and this classification generally also appears to reflect die-cutting practice rather than having any regional significance. The absence of the sceptre may simply reflect carelessness and/or haste in the die-cutting, especially as three coins within this group also have blundered legends.26 Another minor variant in the hoard has the addition of a beaded inner circle between the inscription and the field, with the sceptre present (known from two die-duplicates), and a third variant again has a missing sceptre, but with the addition of an unbroken circle between the inscription and the field. This is known from three examples, two of which are die duplicates. These variations again probably point to carelessness and/or haste in the die-cutting. More detailed analysis of the dies may establish whether there is any consistent sequence to the variation of style within the coinage. What is perhaps slightly more significant is that with a relatively small number of variant forms, and a small number of mints represented within these, the mint of Dover is represented in all three variations, with all four of the recorded moneyers known to have coins of one or more of the variant forms.27 This may indicate an element of local die-cutting at Dover, and this may possibly reflect increased demand for coins to pay the fleet during the summer of 1066, when William’s invasion was To be published in full in M. M. Archibald and G. Williams, English Medieval Coin Hoards 2: AngloSaxon and Norman Coin Hoards, British Museum Research Publications 214 (London, 2021). 25 For the same reason, it has not been possible to check all of the figures given here, so it is possible that these may be slightly different when the final publication of the hoard appears, although I am confident that there will be no major changes. 26 Williams, ‘Preliminary Report’. 27 Pagan, ‘Coinage’, 190; Williams, ‘Preliminary Report’. 24



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Fig. 1 Silver penny of Harold II, moneyer Osmær of Bath, from the Chew Valley hoard. Osmær is a known moneyer under both Edward the Confessor and William I, but neither the mint nor the moneyer were previously recorded in Harold’s coinage. Reproduced with kind permission of the Trustees of the British Museum.

expected, but might simply reflect Dover’s status as a port at which foreign coin might be exchanged for English. Unsurprisingly, the large increase in the corpus has also led to the discovery of new mints and moneyers in the type (see Table 2 at the end of this article). Representation of mints and moneyers in any coin type of this period is to some extent a matter of chance survival. There is a general assumption among numismatists that some if not necessarily all apparent gaps in any coinage will be filled over time, and Pagan had already made this observation with regard to Harold’s coinage.28 The hoard contains the first examples of the type from Bath and Salisbury. Coins with the mint signatures OVND and SVNI, both from the moneyer Godric, probably represent slightly blundered versions of the London mint, while a coin with the inscription EORLEDON CEICCELA is probably a blundered die for Leofred of Cricklade, a known mint and moneyer. The hoard also contains over twenty new moneyers for Harold’s reign, although some of these were previously recorded under Edward the Confessor. The hoard also contains mints and moneyers previously unrecorded in the first type of William I, and the new mints in both types reinforce the sense of a fully national coinage in both cases. This is significant, given the relatively short duration of Harold’s reign, as it demonstrates that it had been possible to carry out a complete re-coinage across the whole kingdom despite this. Comparison of the overall list of mints and moneyers known in both types also overwhelmingly supports the observation made many years ago by Michael Dolley that there is a general tendency towards continuity in moneyers from Harold’s reign to William’s.29 The presence in the hoard of moneyers previously known under William in Harold’s coinage and vice versa strengthens Dolley’s case, and while some individual moneyers disappear at the end of Harold’s type, this was true at the

28 29

Pagan, ‘Coinage’, 202. See n. 6.

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end of any coin type and is rarely likely to be significant, with occasional exceptions (see below). The hoard also changes the pattern of distribution of individual mints within the type. In common with many other hoards, there is an element of local bias. One of the new mints for type within the hoard is Bath (see fig. 1), with 59 coins, and Bristol is also comparatively well represented with 24 coins. These probably represent coins drawn from local circulation (other south-western mints are also present), and as a result may be slightly over-represented in the corpus as a whole, as both were relatively minor mints with only two and three moneyers respectively, and all the coins from these two mints come from a very limited number of dies. By far the most common mint in the hoard is London, with 429 coins and two new moneyers for the type, Eadweard and Godric, taking the total of London moneyers recorded in the type to nine. London was already the most common mint in the type, reflecting its consistent position as one of the most prominent mints in the country throughout the late Anglo-Saxon and Norman periods. London is nevertheless over-represented within the hoard compared to the rest of the corpus, and the size of the hoard means that it is now over-represented both in the hoard and in the corpus as a whole, when compared with other types. This may be contrasted with the status of Lincoln and York. Lincoln also had nine moneyers in the PAX type, and York eleven, suggesting that they should have been capable of producing coinage on a comparable scale to London. However, they are both poorly represented in the hoard (Lincoln by three certain and three probable examples, and York by a single coin), suggesting that coins from the north-east had only a limited circulation that far down in the south-west, perhaps unsurprising given the short circulation period of the type as a whole. More detailed work is needed on the dies represented in the London coins to establish whether these are likely to represent a large volume of coins in general circulation, or the distorting effect of one or more distinct parcels of London coins in the hoard. The latter possibility is worthy of consideration, because of another clear bias apparent in the hoard. As noted above, Sussex mints were unusually well represented in Hugh Pagan’s corpus, which he attributed to the fact that a significant proportion of the corpus was drawn from hoards buried in Sussex, in which one would expect local coins to be prominent.30 Rather more unexpected is the presence of a large West Sussex element in the Chew Valley hoard, with 244 coins of Chichester and 96 of Steyning as well as smaller numbers from other south-eastern mints. The Chichester and Steyning coins come from a very limited number of dies, and appear in many cases show no signs of wear from circulation, suggesting that in each case they may derive from a single payment. It is possible, of course, given the proximity of Chew Valley to Bristol and the Bristol Channel, that these relate to coastal trade of some sort, but the link with Sussex in particular is striking, given the events of 1066. The fyrd was called out to defend Kent and Sussex against potential invasion in the summer, so it is possible that this element of the hoard relates to a member of the Somerset fyrd serving in the south-east. That might also partially account for the high representation of London, as well as a slight over-representation of southeastern mints generally. Harold has often been criticized by later historians for not waiting for reinforcements before engaging with William, and with such a concentration of coins from West Sussex, but fewer from further east, another possibility is that this element of the hoard may relate to reinforcements from Wessex who did not make it in time for the battle. All these possibilities remain speculative, but it 30

Pagan, ‘Coinage’, 189.



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is notable in any case that, in contrast, there is no such south-eastern bias among the William I coins in the hoard, which share the local Somerset and south-western bias, but otherwise appear simply to reflect a fairly random national circulation of currency. Full die analysis of Harold’s coinage as a whole may help to place the south-eastern coins from the hoard, and especially those from Chichester and Steyning, more precisely within the chronological sequence of the coinage, and thereby perhaps to indicate whether this component of the hoard was acquired early in Harold’s reign or at the end, or somewhere in the middle, and this would help to clarify the context in which these particular coins were acquired. The Mint of Wilton A final point of interest in the Harold element of the hoard is the presence of 124 coins of Wilton, struck by all three of the Wilton moneyers, from a variety of dies, although again a full die study has not yet been carried out. This reflects the anomalous status of Wilton in Hugh Pagan’s corpus, in which Wilton was over-represented in total numbers of coins, given its normal status as a relatively minor mint. Over-representation of a particular mint within a type corpus need not in itself be significant, as it can often be accounted for by the presence of a large group of coins from that mint in a single important hoard. As discussed above, both London and Lewes are represented in Chew Valley in such large numbers that they will inevitably skew the balance of the PAX corpus as a whole, and a similar pattern can be observed with Canterbury and other Kentish mints in Edward the Confessor’s Expanding Cross type, as a result of the strong local component in the large hoard from Appledore in Kent.31 More importantly, however, Pagan noted that the Wilton coins were struck from a large number of dies, whereas the normal number of dies per moneyer within the type was low, because of its short duration, indicating that the total production at Wilton was genuinely likely to have been on the scale of a much larger mint. Furthermore, many of the dies used at Wilton are of irregular style, suggesting the possible use of locally cut dies to turn out large quantities of coin in a short period to meet an unusually high level of demand. This is perhaps also reinforced by the existence within the type of mules with obverse dies of Edward’s Pyramids type, indicating that obsolete dies had been brought back into use after a regular Wilton PAX type had worn out.32 Pagan noted that Wilton had particular royal associations, and suggested that this was an emergency coinage struck in response to the events of 1066, but did not really explain why the need for additional coin in Harold’s reign could be best provided by a large irregular coinage from Wilton, rather than increasing production at a number of mints, especially those such as London or Winchester, which had more obvious capacity for large-scale minting. He also observed that it was likely that all the evidence for Wilton’s anomalous status came from a single hoard from Soberton in Hampshire, which was partially dispersed, but which is known to have contained significant numbers of coins of both Wilton and Winchester. However, Pagan’s interpretation was constrained by his wider view of the PAX coinage that it can ‘be asserted with some confidence that all of the dies for the coins were prepared in the nine-month period between January and October 1066’, and he did not push his observations G. Williams, ‘A Hoard of “Expanding Cross” Pennies from Appledore: Preliminary Report’, Spink Numismatic Circular 106: 4 (May 1998), 152–3. 32 G. Williams, ‘Was the Last Anglo-Saxon King of England a Queen? A Possible Posthumous Coinage of Harold II’, Yorkshire Numismatist 4 (2012), 159–70 at 160. 31

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on the significance of the Wilton mint further, although he did note that all three of the Wilton moneyers under Harold were replaced under William, contrary to the general trend.33 I later revisited this evidence and was unable to find any provenanced examples of the irregular Wilton coins which do not derive from Soberton, so I share Pagan’s view that many or even all of the unprovenanced examples also derive from that hoard. However, that raised the further question of why this large but irregular coinage should appear in the Soberton hoard, which dates from early in the reign of William, but not in the many hoards which appear to have been deposited in Harold’s own reign. I suggested the possibility that this might be a posthumous coinage, issued between the death of Harold and William’s coronation, or at the earliest before his acceptance as king by the Witan and other key individuals.34 That might seem too much to build into one hoard, especially since Wilton does not have the same prominence in hoards from Corringham in Lincolnshire, and Rotherham in South Yorkshire, which also span the Conquest. However, those areas are typically dominated by coins from the major mints of York and Lincoln, and to a lesser extent by other eastern mints as is the case in those two hoards.35 Furthermore, the general pattern of coin circulation in the eleventh century indicates a movement of coin south and west away from this area, so the presence of substantial numbers of coins from Wilton in those hoards would be contrary to the general trend, however extraordinary the volume of its minting. If the anomalous Wilton coins were issued after Hastings, they had a relatively brief circulation period before being replaced by William’s first coinage, providing a very limited opportunity for them to circulate over large distances, and making it even less likely that they would be able to move against the general direction of coin flow as far as Lincolnshire and Yorkshire. The combination of these factors means that it is unlikely that Wilton coins would have featured in significant numbers in the Corringham or Rotherham hoards irrespective of whether or not the interpretation of the irregular Wilton coins as posthumous is correct. By contrast with the two northern hoards, the Chew Valley hoard does reinforce the evidence of Soberton. Both hoards were deposited within the earldom of Wessex, and in both cases Wilton was local enough that a Wilton presence is unsurprising, but not so local that one would normally expect it to be particularly prominent. However, both hoards contain not just unusually large numbers of Wilton coins, but Wilton coins struck from a surprising number of dies. It has not yet been possible to compare the dies of the Wilton coins in the Chew Valley hoard with those in Pagan’s corpus, but preliminary examination certainly indicates striking from several dies. The only difference that is immediately apparent is that while according to Pagan’s analysis the anomalous minting was limited to two of the three Wilton moneyers, Ælfwold and Centwine, the Chew Valley evidence suggests that the third moneyer, Winus, was also involved, with at least four obverse and four reverse dies reprePagan, ‘Coinage’, 180–1, 187. Williams, ‘Last Anglo-Saxon King’, 165–9. 35 J. D. A. Thompson, Inventory of British Coins Hoards, AD 600–1500, Royal Numismatic Society Special Publications 1 (London, 1956), 118; Pagan, ‘Coinage’, 199; Metcalf, Atlas, 177–8, 182; Archibald, Anglo-Saxon and Norman Coin Hoards. Only 32 coins are recorded from an original total of 43 at Rotherham, including a single example of the PAX type by the moneyer Ælfwold of Wilton. I have not yet been able to check whether this is a regular issue or one of the suggested posthumous group. The latter, in another hoard from William’s reign, would further support this interpretation, but the presence of a regular issue from the early part of Harold’s reign does not particularly challenge that thesis, for the reasons given above. 33

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sented in fifteen coins, so the volume of coinage produced at Wilton is likely to have been even greater than previously thought. The presence of a variety of Wilton dies in both the Soberton and Chew Valley hoards suggests that in each case these represent coins drawn from circulation, rather than a single payment of recently issued coins, in contrast to the Chichester component of Chew Valley. On current evidence, therefore, we have two hoards from different parts of Wessex, both deposited early in the reign of William, and both containing evidence of a substantial and irregular coinage minted at Wilton, which had time to mix into the circulating currency within Wessex before the introduction of William’s first coinage around the end of 1066, but which does not seem to have extended its circulation beyond Wessex, and does not appear in any hoard deposited during Harold’s own reign, despite the fact that several such hoards are known. This position could, of course, change in the light of further discoveries, but at the present time the evidence continues to support the view that this coinage was a posthumous issue. If this is the case, it is necessary to consider the context in which such a coinage could have been issued. Queen Edith and the Posthumous Coinage of Harold at Wilton Wilton was a moderately sized town, large enough to warrant three moneyers despite the presence of several other mints nearby. However, it is most notable in this period as the location of a major nunnery which had enjoyed the patronage of the royal house since the reign of Edgar, and most recently had enjoyed the personal patronage of Queen Edith, wife of Edward the Confessor, and daughter of Earl Godwine. It is this association with Edith that seems likely to explain the anomalous minting at Wilton after Hastings, especially as Edith had lands of her own at Wilton, and probably spent much of her time there after Edward’s death. Edith was linked with Wilton throughout her life. She was educated there as a girl, acquiring a reputation for learning unusual in a lay woman of that time.36 According to the Vita Edwardi and John of Worcester, she was sent to Wilton in royal style by Edward in 1051 during the breach between Edward and Godwine, and remained there in comfort during the exile of her father and brothers until the restoration of the Godwine dynasty to royal favour the following year. This conflicts with other sources which place her at Wherwell, in implied harsher circumstances, under the supervision of the abbess, who was Edward’s half-sister. This difference has been interpreted in different ways, and it is impossible to tell at this remove which version is correct. It is, of course, possible that in an exile from court lasting several months, she stayed in more than one place during that time.37 However, while the Vita Edwardi may here, as elsewhere, seek to portray things in the best possible light for Edith, if nothing else the reference to Wilton in this context indicates a recognized relationship between Edith and Wilton. In any case, she certainly went on to be a major patron of Wilton, endowing a rebuilding of the church in stone, possibly with a view to retiring there in widowhood, when she could expect to lose some of the property which she held as queen. In the event, she retained at least some of her lands elsewhere, including Winchester, so Wilton was not her only P. Stafford, Queen Emma & Queen Edith: Queenship and Women’s Power in Eleventh-Century England (Oxford, 1997), 257–9; E. Mason, The House of Godwine: The History of a Dynasty (London and New York, 2004), 45. 37 Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 264; Mason, House of Godwine, 66–7; T. Licence, Edward the Confessor: Last of the Royal Blood (London and New Haven, 2020), 141. 36

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base after Edward’s death. Nevertheless, she may well have been a regular visitor. In one of the rare mentions of Edith after 1066, she appears with her household in an upper room in the westworks of the church at Wilton, presiding over a sale of land to Giso, bishop of Wells, by Azur son of Thored.38 Wilton may also have been where Edith kept her personal wealth, once she was no longer queen if not before. According to Domesday, she was one of the wealthiest individuals in England at the time of Edward’s death, after only the king himself, Archbishop Stigand of Canterbury and her brother Earl Harold.39 It is unclear what proportion of those lands she held through her family and what proportion as queen, but probably the majority were the latter, augmented by lands of her own acquired through her influence as queen rather than formally in relation to her position. She certainly used her influence to obtain wealth and relics on at least two occasions, demanding treasures from Abingdon Abbey and contesting the will of Archbishop Cynsige with regard to a gold gospel and £300-worth of gold ornaments at the expense of Peterborough Abbey, the intended recipient. A third tale of her cupidity preserved at Evesham is cast into doubt by its otherwise unverified account of her being struck blind in punishment by saintly intercession, but the story suggests a widespread reputation for acquisitiveness.40 It is possible, and even likely, that she had already lost some of the lands she held as queen under Harold, as he had his own queen to endow, but the short duration of Harold’s reign means that this is not certain, and if there is any foundation to the Vita’s account of Harold’s oath at Edward’s deathbed to protect Edith and her property for the rest of her life (an episode generally thought to be aimed more at justifying her continued possession of those lands under William), Harold may not have wished to begin dispossessing his sister too quickly.41 Whether or not Edith had formally lost control of any of her estates between January and October 1066, there is no reason to doubt that she was still in October a woman of massive wealth, and probably possessed of a substantial personal treasury. She had also endowed Wilton lavishly, and church plate could also have been an important additional source of silver in an emergency situation. Edith was not the only person of royal status to be associated with Wilton. The nunnery had been connected with the royal house of Wessex since the reign of Edgar, and Edith’s own patronage of Wilton has plausibly linked with her role as the wife of Edward, a member of that West Saxon dynasty, in addition to any personal ties.42 It is also likely that her niece, Gunhild, was already a nun at Wilton by this time, and Margaret, sister of Edgar the Ætheling, and later the wife of Malcolm III of Scotland, may also have been based there at this point, reinforcing the link with the old West Saxon royal house.43 However, both were still young, and there is no evidence to suggest that either had significant political influence at this point, or the command of resources to issue coins on a large scale. Edith may also have had prior involvement with coinage, and certainly connections with individuals who could have produced the additional dies at Wilton. The Vita Edwardi tells us that Edith was directly involved in the creation of Edward’s public image: 38 S. Keynes, ‘Giso, Bishop of Wells’, ANS 19 (1997), 203–71; Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 109–10; Mason, House of Godwine, 190. 39 Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 123–42, 280–305. 40 Ibid., 145 41 Ibid., 273–4; Mason, House of Godwine, 134–5. 42 Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 257–8. 43 Tyler, E., England and Europe: English Royal Women and Literary Patronage, c. 1000–1150 (Toronto 2017), 213–7, 262ff. I am grateful to Pauline Stafford for this reference, and for discussion of this point.



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She dressed him in garments either embroidered by herself or of her choice … In the ornamentation of these no count was made of the precious stones, rare gems, and shining pearls that were used … the amount of gold which flowed in the various complicated floral designs was not weighed. The throne, adorned with coverings embroidered with gold, gleamed in every part, the floors were strewn with precious carpets from Spain. Edward’s staff, for everyday use when walking, was encrusted in gold and gems. His saddles and horse-trappings were hung with little beasts and birds made from gold by smiths under her direction.44

The combination of elements described here indicates an attention to the regalia, and to Edward’s formal appearance more generally, whether at court or externally, on foot or on horseback. However, the medium with which royal identity could be projected to the widest possible audience was the coinage. Relatively few people would ever have seen the king, and fewer still would have would have seen the trappings of his throne room. By contrast, coinage circulated among the population as a whole, and provided a convenient vehicle for transmitting a visual identity of the king that went beyond the bald name and title to which the inscription on the coins was limited. Although in the past it has been argued that coin use in the mid-eleventh century was limited to the wealthy, a recent important study by Henry Fairbairn, based on a combination of numismatic and textual evidence, makes a strong case for coin use having been much more extensive than previously believed, and it is likely that the vast majority of the population would have handled coins to varying degrees.45 While there is no direct reference to Edith designing or commissioning coinage, her involvement with Edward’s dress and accoutrements would undoubtedly have brought her into contact with the royal goldsmiths, and thus with potential die-cutters. In the post-Conquest period, Theobald of Lisson Green was described as ‘goldsmith and cutter of the coin-dies of all England’. By the 1190s the position of die-cutter was held by Otto the Goldsmith, whose family, also goldsmiths, continued to hold the office in serjeantry until 1237.46 Prior to the Conquest, there is no such direct identification between goldsmiths and die-cutters, nor is it clear that there was a single die-cutter under Edward or Harold. The national distribution of Pagan’s two main styles in Harold’s coinage, for example, suggests that there were two main official die cutters at that point. The two rarer styles might also indicate additional die-cutters, or perhaps a second wave of die-production when the first sets of dies within the type were in need of replacement, but the existence of two or more die-cutters seems likely. Be that as it may, Edith certainly associated with goldsmiths, both during Edward’s reign and later. According to Domesday, Ælfweard the goldsmith held land from Edith at Shottesbrook in Berkshire in 1066. This may also be the same Ælfweard who is described as a thegn, held land in Worcestershire, and was married to one of the ladies of Edith’s bedchamber, although the name is not so uncommon as to make this certain. A more likely identification can be made with the individual of the same name recorded in Domesday as a moneyer in Winchester. Shottesbrook was in the twelfth century held in return for providing charcoal for the forging of the crown and regalia, suggesting that it was held ex officio by a royal goldsmith, while among Ælfweard’s replacements as moneyers at Winchester were the family Vita Eadwardi, 23. H. Fairbairn, ‘Was There a Monetary Economy in Late Anglo-Saxon and Norman England?’, EHR 134 (2019), 1081–1135. 46 Allen, Mints and Money, 117. 44 45

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of Otto, goldsmiths and die-cutters.47 Ælfweard may perhaps have replaced Abbot Spearhafoc, Edward’s goldsmith who fled in 1051 with the gold entrusted to him for a new crown.48 Edith was also accompanied by two goldsmiths at Wilton in 1072 as witnesses to the Combe charter in favour of Bishop Giso. The context suggests that they may at that point have been part of Edith’s household. Little is known of Æthelsige the goldsmith, but Theoderic the goldsmith held land in Oxfordshire and Berkshire, and may possibly also be the same Theoderic who held land in Winchester.49 Theoderic, whose name suggests a German origin, has long been linked, with varying levels of caution (and largely on the basis of his name), with the introduction both of Edward’s German-influenced Great Seal and the related Sovereign/Eagles coin type, and has also been seen as a direct successor to Spearhafoc in 1051.50 This identification is not without problem, not least because there is no evidence that Theoderic was active in England in the 1050s, while it seems unlikely that the German influence on the Great Seal and the coinage came before the mid-1050s. As noted above there is currently no basis for an absolute chronology for most late Anglo-Saxon coin-types, but the Sovereign/Eagles type is the seventh of the ten coin types issued in Edward’s reign, and is likely to fall into the second half of the reign. Adjustments to the weight of the coinage in the Expanding Cross type have been linked with the abolition of the heregeld in 1051, or with the expulsion of Godwine and his sons in the same year, or their restoration the following year.51 The Pointed Helmet type which follows (German in that it portrays the king bearded rather than clean-shaven, but otherwise wholly English) may portray an image of military kingship suitable for the early 1050s when Harold and Tostig were asserting Edward’s authority in Wales and Scotland respectively.52 The Sovereign/Eagles type follows the Pointed Helmet, and the adoption of contemporary imperial imagery on the coinage to reflect a new imperial style of kingship is appropriate in the aftermath of successful campaigns in Scotland and Wales. This would also be consistent with the earliest evidence for the Great Seal, which shares the design of a seated sovereign. This was attached to two writs dated 1052×1066 and 1053×1057 respectively.53 A date in the mid-1050s would also be consistent with German influence following the mission of Bishop Ealdred to the imperial court in 1054–5. Although this was unsuccessful in its immediate aim of securing the return of Edward the Exile to England, it may have helped to strengthen relations with Germany, and may also have provided a variety of inspirations for Ealdred, who has also been credited with the inclusion of German rites in Harold’s coronation.54 This episode may also have Archibald, ‘Coins’, 324; Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 308–9. Licence, Edward, 143, 169. 49 Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 308–9, 316. 50 R. H. M. Dolley and F. Elmore Jones, ‘A New Suggestion Concerning the So-Called “Martlets” in the “Arms of St Edward”’, in Anglo-Saxon Coins: Studies Presented to F. M. Stenton on the Occasion of His 80th Birthday, 17 May 1960, ed. R. H. M. Dolley (London, 1960), 136–68; Talvio, ‘Design’, 497; M. M. Archibald, ‘Anglo-Saxon Coinage’, in The Golden Age of Anglo-Saxon Art, 966–1066, ed. J. Backhouse, D. H. Turner and L. Webster (London, 1984), 170–91 at 140; Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 115–16; R. Naismith, Medieval European Coinage 8: Britain and Ireland, c. 400–1066 (Cambridge, 2017), 274–5; Licence, Edward, 169. The type is ultimately derived from a solidus of Justin II (Archibald, ‘Anglo-Saxon Coinage’, 185), but has parallels in Ottonian and Salian manuscript art as well as in German seals. 51 Metcalf, Atlas, 158–60; Williams, A Hoard of “Expanding Cross” Pennies. 52 Licence, Edward, 177–87. 53 F. E. Harmer, Anglo-Saxon Writs (Manchester, 1952), 104. 54 Mason, House of Godwine, 137. 47 48



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led to Germans such as Theoderic seeking new patronage in England. The attribution of agency in this re-coinage either to Theoderic or to Ealdred may seem to conflict with the notion of Edith’s involvement, but this is not necessarily the case. Theoderic, as discussed, seems to have had links with Edith’s household even after the Conquest, and Pauline Stafford has made the point that even if Theoderic was responsible for creating the design, he is unlikely to have been given a free hand to do so, and that Edith is a more likely influence.55 Ealdred also had close links with the house of Godwine, and arguably particularly close links with Edith,56 so there is no reason why they, and indeed Edward, should not have shared ideas. However, the case for Edith’s involvement in the coinage at this point rests primarily on her recorded engagement with the king’s public image, as discussed above (in which the description also sounds more typical of a German emperor than an Anglo-Saxon king), together with the fact that she seems to have had an active role in supporting Edward’s kingship, together with her brothers, following Godwine’s death. The Vita comments that she had always given excellent advice when the opportunity offered, and was a tower of strength and inspiration to the king.57 While the Vita undoubtedly takes a partisan view of Edith’s influence, her importance in the royal court is supported by her recorded presence alongside Edward on several formal occasions, and also by the fact that at this time and later she regularly witnessed royal charters as the first name after that of the king.58 Edith’s involvement in coin design in Edward’s name in the mid-1050s onwards is admittedly conjectural, and is not, in any case, essential to the arguments for her minting in Harold’s name in late 1066. What is clear is that she was an established figure of power and influence, and that she undoubtedly had access to craftsmen with the necessary skills to create the dies from which the Wilton dies were produced, whether or not those individuals were also the regular royal die-cutters. Striking the coins is a relatively straightforward mechanical task, which could be shared by a number of individuals of limited skill. The cutting of a large number of literate dies in a short time required professional skill, and the fact that some of the additional dies at Wilton appear to correlate with the main official styles while others do not may mean that more than one person was involved, so the fact that Edith can be linked to three goldsmiths in or after 1066 is surely significant, while the fact that two of these attended Edith at Wilton itself in 1072 provides an even closer association between Edith, Wilton and the requisite skills for large-scale minting. If Edith is the most likely figure of influence to have ordered a large programme of minting in Harold’s name in October–November 1066, it is still necessary to consider the context in which she did so. On a purely practical level, she may have been influenced by Wilton’s location far from areas under William’s immediate control, as he initially focused on securing the south-east before encircling London and enforcing the submission both of London and of Edgar the Ætheling and his supporters.59 However, this ignores the larger questions of why Edith should wish to issue coins in Harold’s name, and in what capacity she might have done so. At different points in her life, Edith’s power and influence had derived from three different roles, as the daughter of Godwine, the sister of Harold and Tostig, and the wife/widow of Edward. The first of those roles, although it had resulted in

55 56 57 58 59

Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 115–16. Mason, House of Godwine, 57, 92; Licence, Edward, 196. Vita Eadwardi, 80–1; Mason, House of Godwine, 133. Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 261–2, 266–7. D. Bates, William the Conqueror (New Haven and London, 2016), 247–51.

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her becoming Edward’s queen, had largely ceased with Godwine’s death in 1052. However, it is easy to forget, given the Vita’s portrayal of her as a suitable wife and queen for the saintly Edward, that she had grown up in the awareness of her father’s power and strategies. Godwine appears in various sources to be able, but also ambitious, acquisitive and ruthless in the pursuit of his ambitions. The same is arguably true in his three eldest sons, and also in Edith. Her forced acquisitions from the Church have already been noted, while she was also believed to be responsible for the murder of the Northumbrian nobleman Gospatric on behalf of her brother Tostig.60 Whether or not this was true, it was at least considered plausible, and by implication not out of character. Furthermore, whatever feelings she may have had for Edgar the Ætheling or the sons of her brother Harold, and whatever her initial strategies after Hastings (see below), she did not hesitate to sacrifice their interests in favour of her own when she submitted to William’s messengers at Winchester, probably in November 1066. She was also apparently content, having guided the writing of much of the Vita to emphasize the importance of the house of Godwine, to change the emphasis to promoting Edward’s saintly legacy and her own role in relation to that, at the expense of other members of her family. Both in her ambition and in her ruthlessness to those who stood in its way, she was very much Godwine’s daughter. Other than that, the roles that mattered in 1066 were those of Edward’s widow and Harold’s sister, and between them these offered a number of options to secure her position. The simplest of these, and the one which she eventually followed, was to endorse the legitimacy of William’s claim as a trade-off for keeping her own lands and wealth. For William, whose claim was based on a supposed promise of the throne by Edward, the support of Edward’s widow was of considerable significance, both as a positive verification of his legitimacy, and because her potential support was thereby removed from any of his rivals. Edith’s submission at Winchester also brought with it control of the town, and presumably of the royal treasury, and in return Edith was apparently permitted to retain whatever property she still held at this point.61 Although it is possible that Edith’s minting at Wilton was intended from the outset to strengthen her bargaining position in this arrangement, it seems unlikely, although it is conceivable that she was supported at Winchester by paid troops until her submission. However, if she was already at Winchester and in control of the town and the treasury throughout the period after Hastings, Winchester would have been a more obvious place to carry out an extensive minting, with a larger pool of moneyers and access to the royal treasure. The fact that there is no subsequent reference to the recovery of treasure from Edith, as had been the case with Emma both in 1036 and 1043, suggests that she left the treasury at Winchester intact. If nothing else, the unusual minting at Wilton suggests that Edith’s survival strategy between Hastings and her submission at Winchester may have been more complex than historians, informed both by the Carmen de Hastingae Proelio and by hindsight, have tended to assume. Having said that, we have no surviving textual evidence which provides a clear and unequivocal account of Edith’s position (or positions) during that period, and any attempt to interpret her motivation must necessarily be somewhat speculative. Her dual roles as Edward’s widow and Harold’s sister offer a range of potential options whereby her status could have been used to strengthen the legitimacy of various rival claimants. Such options include Mason, House of Godwine, 185–6; Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 270–2. Carmen, 36–9; F. Barlow, The Godwins: The Rise and Fall of a Noble Dynasty (London, 2002), 114–5; Stafford, Queen Emma and Queen Edith, 275; Mason, House of Godwine, 184–6.

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her own remarriage, or regency for younger members either of the old West Saxon royal house or the house of Godwine. However, the plausibility of any such options must be tested by detailed examination of the historical sources and such examination falls beyond the scope of this essay. An initial examination of the Chew Valley hoard tends to reinforce, rather than challenge, a number of points previously made about the coinage of Harold II by various scholars. The substantial expansion of the corpus unsurprisingly reveals additional mints and moneyers, and this in turn strengthens both Pagan’s view of an essentially national coinage, but with some stylistic variation, and Dolley’s observation of considerable continuity in minting practice and personnel across the Conquest. A notable exception to this latter point was the mint of Wilton, and the presence of previously unrecorded Wilton dies in the hoard suggests that the atypically large-scale minting at Wilton noted by Pagan was happening on an even greater scale than previously suggested. At the same time, the presence of this anomalous Wilton coinage in a second major hoard from William’s reign, together with its absence from any of the hoards from Harold’s own reign, reinforces the argument that this exceptional minting at Wilton may have been posthumous. However, a more comprehensive study is still required before the full significance of the hoard can be understood, including both the detailed numismatic analysis of all Harold’s coinage, not just the hoard, and a parallel text-based study of the historical context in which the coins in his name were minted. Table 2 Mints and moneyers of Harold’s PAX type represented in the Chew Valley hoard Mint

Moneyers (number of coins per moneyer)

Total

Harold II PAX type, standard issue Bath

Osmær (17)

17

Bridport

Hwateman (1)

1

Bristol

Leofwine (9)

9

Canterbury

Ælfwine (7), Eadweard (13), Eadwine (13)

33

Chichester

Ælfwine (168), Godwine (75), Uncertain (1)

244

Derby

Froma (1)

1

Dorchester

Blaceman (1)

1

Dover

Ceolwi (1), Cinstan (1), Manwine (2)

4

Dover?

Uncertain (1)

1

Exeter

Brihtwine (1)

1

Gloucester

Ægelric (1), Selcwyn (2), Silac (1)

4

Guildford

Leofwold (21)

21

Hastings

Dunning (2), Theodred (1)

3

Hereford

Edric (1)

1

Ilchester

Æglwine (4)

4

Ipswich

Ælfwine (2)

2

Lewes

Godwine (14), Leofward (3), Oswald (5)

22

Lincoln

Ælgæt (1), Manna (2)

3

58

Gareth Williams

Mint

Moneyers (number of coins per moneyer)

Total

Lincoln?

Manna (5)

5

London

Ælfwine (2), Aldgar (25), Eadward (1), Eadwine (15), Godric (15), Leofsig (55), Swetman (102), Wulfgar (18), Wulfward (195), uncertain (1)

429

Maldon

Godwine (1)

1

Malmesbury

Brihtwine (2)

2

Northampton

Leofstan (8)

8

Norwich

Cinric (1), Godwine (1)

2

Oxford

Ælfman (1), Ælfwig (1), Ælfwine (1), Brihtwold (8), Heregod (2), Wulfwig (2)

15

Salisbury

Sæbode (3)

3

Shaftesbury

Ælfnoth (1)

1

Southwark

Brumman (1), Osmund (9)

10

Steyning

Deorman (96)

96

Thetford

Godric (2), Godwine (1)

3

Wallingford

Brand (11), Brihtmær (1)

12

Wareham

Sideman (3)

3

Wilton

Æltfwold (80), Centwine (28), Winus (15)

123

Winchester

Ælfwine or Leofwine (1), Anderboda (26), Leofwold (3)

30

Worcester

Leofric (2), Lifinc (1)

3

York

Uncertain

1

Uncertain

? (13)

13

Sub-total

1132

Harold II PAX type without sceptre Bath

Brungar (44)

44

Bristol

Ceorl (14)

14

Colchester

Goldman (1)

1

Dover

Ceolwig (3), Cinstan (1), Wulfward (14)

18

Hereford

Ælwig (1), Egstan? (1)

2

Ilchester

Ægelwine (3), Ælfnoth (2), Leofwine (3)

8

Norwich

Manna (2)

2

Shaftesbury

Ælgelwine (3), Ælfnoth (2), Leofwine (3)

8

Steyning

Ægelwine (1)

1

Cricklade?

Leofred? (1)

1

OVND

Godric (1)

1

SVNI

Godric (1)

1

Sub-total

101



59

The Coinage of Harold II Mint

Moneyers (number of coins per moneyer)

Total

Harold II PAX type, variety with beaded inner circle on obverse Dover

Manwine (2)

Sub-total

2 2

Harold II PAX type, variety with no sceptre and solid inner circle on obverse London?

Godric (1)

1

Dover

Ceolwig (2)

2

Sub-total

3

Grand total

1239

The Marjorie Chibnall Essay Prize

CHANGE AND CONTINUITY: MULTIPLE LORDSHIP IN POST-CONQUEST ENGLAND Hannah Boston The Norman Conquest has long been seen as a watershed moment in the history of lordship in England.1 It is generally accepted that individuals in pre-Conquest England could have separate soke, personal and tenurial lords.2 This framework operated under the auspices of the king, who granted bookland or soke (i.e. judicial) rights to favoured landholders, and enacted laws to regulate seigneurial behaviour. Under the influence of the Conquest and the Norman ideas that came with it, a new, condensed form of lordship emerged after 1066 that vested the personal, tenurial, and judicial roles in a single lord.3 This, in turn, is taken to have precipitated a shift to a ‘feudal’ social structure, in which a sole lord might exercise control over his men with relatively little interference from other lords or the king.4 Lesser landholders, English survivors and French alike, were now connected to a sole lord through his honour. Only with the supposed decay of this system in the later twelfth century, it is thought, did lesser landholders begin to break away from the oversight of a single lord.5 This essay contends that the shift from royally supervised to ‘feudal’ lordship at the Conquest has been overstated. Part of the apparent contrast between preand post-Conquest conditions derives from a contrast in the sources. Much of the material used by historians as evidence for pre-Conquest lordship was produced in a royal context. The law-codes, although problematic in transmission and produced with the involvement of lay lords, at least purport to be royal decrees.6 Domesday Book, while again compiled with the collaboration landholders, some of whom pursued their own agendas, is set up as a view of England from the royal court. But after the Conquest, even allowing for Domesday Book and some miscellaneous royal material, our picture becomes heavily reliant on charters. These tend to give a limited view, and generally one focused on the lands and business of a particular lord. Non-diplomatic texts of this period similarly tend to originate outside royal circles: notably, the Leges Henrici Primi present a view of a regional juridical and seigneurial landscape.7 With this break in the material, it is perhaps inevitable

My grateful thanks to George Garnett and Tom Lambert for their comments on earlier versions of this research, to Alice Taylor and the anonymous reviewers, and to Richard Purkiss and Stephen Church for their assistance in editing. Any errors which remain are of course my own. 2 F. W. Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond: Three Essays in the Early History of England (Cambridge, 1895), 67; S. Baxter, The Earls of Mercia: Lordship and Power in Late Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford, 2007), 211–13. 3 J. C. Holt, ‘Colonial England’, in Colonial England, 1066–1215 (London, 1997), 1–24 at 4. 4 F. M. Stenton, The First Century of English Feudalism, 1066–1166, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1961). 5 D. Crouch and D. Carpenter, ‘Bastard Feudalism Revised’, P & P 131 (1991), 165–89 esp. 185–6. 6 L. Roach, Kingship and Consent in Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford, 2013), 104–12. 7 Leges Henrici Primi [hereafter LHP], ed. L. J. Downer (Oxford, 1972). 1

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that lordship should look ‘royal’ before the Conquest and ‘feudal’ after it, but the impression demands closer scrutiny than it has received. Although the Conquest saw some changes in outward seigneurial structures and forms, the socio-political position of lesser landholders and the scope of their relationship with their lords had essential continuities either side of 1066. The continuities in lordship over the Conquest are thrown into particularly clear relief when we address the often-overlooked practice of multiple lordship, that is, owing allegiance to, and/or holding land from, more than one lord simultaneously. Although the Conquest saw some changes in outward seigneurial structures and forms, I shall argue that the socio-political position of lesser landholders and their relationship with their lords in some ways remained consistent. Before as well as after the Conquest, we can recognize the presence of multiple lordship; the potential for flexibility and diversity in lordship relationships; the scope for lesser landholders to build their own networks of lordship and properties; and the interaction between lordship and geography. The early origins of multiple lordship also highlight flaws in an essentially feudal model of post-Conquest England. Relationships between men and lords here were more diverse, complex and balanced in power than has previously been recognized. Multiple lordship has long been sidelined in the historiography of central medieval Europe. A view particularly associated with the work of Marc Bloch holds that the practice represented an exception to conventional ‘feudal’ forms, or a sign that such forms were in decline.8 Bloch also introduced a whiff of moral disapproval to the practice of men having more than one lord, which has lingered through subsequent writing.9 As a result instances of multiple lordship have often been overlooked in England as much as elsewhere and the practice is generally considered to be relatively unusual. In a separate, statistical case study of multiple lordship in the North Midland counties of Leicestershire, Derbyshire and Staffordshire, c. 1066–c. 1216, I have shown that many tenants had more than one lord.10 This area was selected for its relative lack of prominence: it is outside the usual royal circuit, has no great abbeys and is far from London, all of which might be expected to distort conventional structures. A brief overview of these findings will act as a starting point for the analysis which follows. The case study focuses on 194 lesser landholding families from the region described above, whose identities and family trees were established from charters and administrative records. They were divided into four categories: those who definitely held land from more than one lord during this period; those who are highly likely to have done so but for whom definite evidence is missing; those who held of one lord only; and those for whom no lord can be identified (Table 1). The categorization was deliberately conservative, and where there was any doubt about the presence of multiple tenancy, individuals were placed in the lower, ‘possible multiple’ category. We can see that by c. 1216, 33 per cent of the 194 families had more than one lord. Across the long twelfth century, moreover, the incidence of multiple lordship among the families in the survey holds steady at around one third (Table 2)

M. Bloch, La Société féodale, 2 vols (Paris, 1939), i. 325–36. For example, J.-F. Lemarignier, ‘Political and Monastic Structures in France at the End of the Tenth and the Beginning of the Eleventh Century’, in Lordship and Community in Medieval Europe, Selected Readings, ed. F. L. Cheyette (London, 1968), 100–27 at 101; F.-L. Ganshof, Feudalism, trans. P. Grierson, 3rd edn (London, 1964). 10 H. Boston, ‘Multiple Lordship in Twelfth-Century England: A Quantitative Study’, Journal of Medieval History 47 (forthcoming, May 2021). 8

9



Multiple Lordship in Post-Conquest England

63

Table 1 Lordship pattern of 194 families by c. 1216, broken down by category Category

Number

Percentage of total

Clear multiple

64

33%

Possible multiple

35

18%

Single

53

27%

No pattern

42

22%

Table 2 Instances of clear multiple tenancy, by date Date

Number of identifiable multiple tenancies (cumulative)

Total number of families visible (cumulative)

Percentage of visible families who are clear multiple tenants

1100

3

6

50%

1135

20

62

32%

1154

26

84

31%

1166

34

99

34%

1200

47

169

28%

1216

64

194

33%

These figures show, therefore, that a fairly constant proportion of the knightly class were bound to more than one lord, and that this proportion remained largely stable throughout the period. The 1100 figure is probably the least accurate of these as it is based on Domesday Book’s patchy recording of subtenants. Nevertheless, the evidence shows that a significant percentage of identifiable lesser landholders had already acquired multiple lords. One of these early multiple tenants was one Nigel de Stafford (c. 1040–1115),11 seemingly a younger son of the de Toeni family. After receiving a very small tenancy-in-chief from the king after the Conquest, Nigel appears to have set to work to gain a compact body of contiguous lands from neighbouring lords.12 By 1086 he had filled the gaps between his lands with tenancies from Henry de Ferrers and Burton-upon-Trent Abbey, and by the early twelfth century had also acquired a neighbouring tenancy from the newly created earl of Chester.13 In addition to this cluster of holdings, Nigel also received lands from the bishop of Chester around 20 miles to the west of what would become the family’s caput at Gresley. In Domesday Book Nigel held in five places directly of the bishop,14 and held Hixon of one Picot who himself held it from the bishop.15 Nigel and his son William (active c. 1115×1120 to c. 1150s×early 1160s) maintained connections to all these lords through the twelfth century. The relationship seems to have varied, however, depending on a Dating from F. Madan, The Gresleys of Drakelowe (Oxford, 1899), 18. GDB i. fol. 278. This was worth £6 according to the Domesday valuit. 13 GDB i. fols 231v, 233, 233v, 274. 14 GDB i. fol. 247. 15 Ibid. Hixon adjoined the manor of Drointon, and so we may have here another instance of subinfeudation as a means of building up coherent landed holdings. 11

12

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Hannah Boston

lord’s proximity to the Stafford/Gresleys’ central bloc. Nigel and William commonly appear in charters with the Ferrers lords and Burton Abbey, less frequently with the earls of Chester, and almost never with the bishops of Chester. Nor was the practice of holding from multiple lords limited to the new settlers: English survivors, too, had multiple tenancies by 1086.16 It is clear that in the first settlers and survivors after 1066 were individuals who soon began to deliberately build their own networks of tenancy and lordship. Indeed, this practice appears to have been widespread. Richard Mortimer’s study of the honour of Clare shows that the three greatest tenants of this honour were holding lands of other lords by the time of Domesday, and that they maintained these tenancies into the twelfth century.17 By 1086, Regenbald, chancellor successively to Edward the Confessor, Harold, and William, held land in seven counties from four lords. His main tenancy was held from the king (including, appropriately enough, land at Bray in Berkshire), but he also held land from Abbot Reynold of Coutances,18 St Peter’s of Westminster19 and Ernulf de Hesdin.20 In Yorkshire we find another survivor, Beornwulf, who by 1086 held most of his land from Count Alan.21 By 1086, Beornwulf had also acquired land from William de Percy in Markenfield and ‘Aismunderby’, both also in Yorkshire.22 In Domesday Lincolnshire, Fredegis held land of Colgrim of Eweby.23 Fredegis’s holdings also spread into Nottinghamshire, where he held of Count Alan at Sibthorpe, with nearby land at Radcliffe, Rempstone and Costock held of William Peverel.24 Nor was this pattern restricted to the lesser landholders: many tenants-in-chief also acquired lands from their neighbours. The Holme Lacy chirograph of 1085 allows us to push the practice back before Domesday Book. Bishop Robert Losinga of Hereford granted to Roger de Lacy land which his father Walter had previously held on a life lease.25 Both the de Lacys were also tenants-in-chief. There is also at least one multiple tenant among the witnesses: Herman de Dreux, the man (homo) of Roger de Lacy, was also a tenant-in-chief in his own right.26 Multiple lordship therefore played a significant part in seigneurial structure and local society in post-Conquest England, and one that has been significantly overlooked in historiography. But how should this affect our understanding of the changing nature of lordship around the Conquest? What does it mean for England’s place in the wider trends of European lordship? And what implications does multiple lordship have for historical models of the period? There are four implications of the rapid development of multiple lordship in post-Conquest England that will be discussed below. First, it will be argued that multiple lordship was common in central medieval societies, and that its early appearance in England after 1066 is thus an important link that situates England within the wider European context. Second, multiple lordship brought with it the See Boston, ‘Multiple Lordship in Twelfth-Century England’. R. Mortimer, ‘Land and Service: The Tenants of the Honour of Clare’, ANS III (1981), 119–41 at 194–5. 18 Leckhampstead, Frilford, Tubney (Berks.), GDB i. fol. 58v. The identification of the following individuals is drawn from the PASE Domesday database. 19 Elmstone (Gloucs.), GDB i. fol. 166. 20 Upton Scudamore (Wilts.), GDB i. fol. 70. 21 GDB i. fol. 311v. 22 GDB i. fol. 322. 23 Houghton (Lincs.), GDB i. fol. 370. 24 Sibthorpe, (Notts.), GDB i. fol. 282v; Radcliffe on Trent, Tythby (Notts.), GDB i. fol. 288. 25 V. H. Galbraith, ‘An Episcopal Land-Grant Charter of 1085’, EHR 44 (1929), 353–72; G. Garnett, Conquered England: Kingship, Succession, and Tenure 1066–1166 (Oxford, 2007), 94–5. 26 Garnett, Conquered England, 95. 16 17



Multiple Lordship in Post-Conquest England

65

need for flexibility in seigneurial relationships, and the need for diverse forms of lordship. Third, this flexibility allowed men and lords on both sides of the Conquest to take initiative in forging their own lordship relationships and networks. Even in post-Conquest England, lordship was not necessarily something imposed by all-powerful lords from the top downwards. Fourth and finally, the appearance of multiple lordship attests to the continuing importance of locality in shaping lordship, although the nature of the ‘local’ shifted with changing judicial and social conditions. Drawn together, these implications invite us to look again at the present model of the honour and its trajectory through the century or so after the Conquest. To grasp the continuity of multiple lordship as a practice before and after 1066, it will be necessary to address briefly pre-Conquest England and Normandy. As mentioned above, a widely accepted model of Anglo-Saxon lordship sees there as being three forms of lordship: personal (or commendatory), tenurial (arising from leased land, or lænland), and judicial (soke). Our picture of landholding is more exiguous, but it may be that in pre-Conquest England all land was held either as bookland (bocland) or as folkland (folcland).27 The former was land given by royal charter, which the king had freed from most customary dues, and which could be given or sold as the holder wished.28 Arrangements about folkland were rarely recorded in writing so its nature is obscure, but it appears to have been land subject to customary laws of inheritance. A family’s customary claims over its folkland seem to have been strong: according to a late ninth-century will, only the king could overrule them.29 As family land it was inherited, and Cnut’s laws suggest that inherited land was primarily to be split between the eldest sons.30 Over time, royal grants of bookland and subsequent disposal – and disposal within a family, marriage and partible inheritance of folkland – helped to create a fragmentary patchwork of landholdings in England by 1066.31 This patchwork helped to drive multiple lordship in late Anglo-Saxon England, and, as will be discussed below, to establish multiple lordship after the Conquest. It was possible to have multiple lords of all three types.32 Royal grants of soke could theoretically lead to individuals with more than one sokelord. This seems to have been relatively uncommon, however. Domesday Book gives us an instance from Mellis (Suffolk), where Wulfwin and the king each had half of the soke.33 Due to lack of evidence, soke lordship will be left to one side in the discussion below. Much as after the Conquest, it seems to have been possible for men to lease lands from more than one lord.34 One Cypping was recorded as holding manors from King Edward in Hampshire, but also had neighbouring properties from Earl Harold, and some on lease from the bishop and church of Winchester.35 In Essex, Siward held Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 244–58; R. Faith, The English Peasantry and the Growth of Lordship (Leicester, 1999), 89; P. Wormald, ‘On þa wæpnedhealfe: Kingship and Royal Property from Æthelwulf to Edward the Elder’, in Edward the Elder, 899–924, ed. N. J. Higham and D. H. Hill (London, 2001), 264–79 at 264–8. 28 E. John, Land Tenure in Early England (Leicester, 1960), 24–63; A. Williams, ‘Wills in Anglo-Saxon England’, Foundations: Journal of the Foundation for Medieval Genealogy 9 (2017), 3–20 at 6–8. 29 S1508. See also Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond 245–6. 30 Williams, ‘Wills in Anglo-Saxon England’, 6–8. 31 R. Lennard, Rural England, 1066–1135 (Oxford, 1959), 1–3. 32 N. Karn, Kings, Lords and Courts in Anglo-Norman England (Woodbridge, 2020), 35. 33 GDB ii. fol. 323v. As with splitting of personal commendation (see below p. 66), this may have implied a split in revenues. 34 Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 106–7. 35 GDB i. fols 46v, 47. These entries are close together in Domesday Book, and as he allowed them to stand we may imagine that the scribe did not see a problem with these multiple tenancies. 27

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lands from the abbeys of Barking and Ely.36 Clearly, men had been taking advantage of the flexibility in being able to take lænland from different lords as a means of expanding their landed holdings. There is also clear evidence for individuals being bound to more than one personal lord.37 A well-known writ granted by Edward the Confessor gave Ælfric Modercope leave to ‘bow’ before the abbots of Bury and Ely.38 It has been suggested that royal permission was a usual requirement in such cases,39 but evidence from Domesday shows that splitting of commendation was taking place at a level which must have been beneath the king’s notice. Some very minor individuals are recorded as being as ‘half-commended’ to two lords, and occasional instances appear of individuals whose commendation was split into smaller fractions.40 In Hartismere hundred in Suffolk, one Ælfric had had one-sixth of his commendation owed to Eadric of Laxfield, and five-sixths to Aki, the antecessor of Robert Blunt.41 While some of these split commendations may have been accidents of inheritance, others such as Modercope’s seem to have been deliberate.42 Multiple lordship in Anglo-Saxon England is further complicated when we look more closely at the theoretical boundaries between the commendatory and tenurial lords. The commendatory lord has been assumed by Ann Williams and Stephen Baxter to be analogous with the hlaford of the lawcodes.43 Taking evidence from lawcodes and Domesday Book as referring to a coherent system, it is argued that men and women alike could ‘commend’ themselves to a lord, binding themselves with an oath of loyalty and a duty to do certain services and pay certain revenues, in exchange for the lord’s support. In Domesday Book, even minor freemen could be bound to great landholders and earls, and the patterns of their commendation often resist clear interpretation. As a result, it is suggested that even minor freemen were able to exercise some degree of choice about to whom they gave their commendation. Since a commendatus could place their lands under the ‘commended’ lord’s protection, these patterns thus came to be recorded in Domesday Book as information relevant for the Norman settlement.44 Baxter has argued that the oath contained in Swerian formed the commendatory bond, that a man should ‘never, willingly and intentionally, in word or deed, do anything that is hateful [to N]; on condition that he keep me as I shall deserve, and carry out all that was our agreement, when I subjected myself to him and chose his favour’.45 The purpose of Swerian GDB ii. fols 18v, 19. S. Baxter, ‘Lordship and Justice in Anglo-Saxon England: The Judicial Functions of Soke and Commendation Revisited’, in Early Medieval Studies in Memory of Patrick Wormald, ed. S. Baxter, D. Pelteret and C. Karkov (London, 2009), 383–419 at 409 n. 39. 38 S1081 (1051×1052 or 1053×1057); Harmer, AS Writs, no. 21; see also no. 22 and 149–50, 443. Modercope clearly had some important connection to the two abbeys, since both were left lands in his will (S1082) (1051×1052 or 1053×1057) and 1490 (1042×1043). In the customs of Norwich, it is recorded that one of the burgesses non posset recedere nec homagium facere without permission of King Edward (GDB ii. fol. 116) which suggests some restriction on taking on additional lords. Since this is one man out of 1,320 burgesses recorded there, however, he seems to have been an unusual case. 39 Harmer, AS Writs, 149–50. 40 GDB ii. fols 182v, 249v, 309; R. Welldon Finn, Domesday Book: A Guide (Chichester, 1973), 42; A. Williams, ‘Little Domesday and the English: The Hundred of Colneis in Suffolk’, in Domesday Book, ed. E. Hallam and D. Bates (Stroud, 2001), 103–20 at 114. 41 GDB ii fol. 309; see also GDB ii fols 376v, 182v and 187v; D. Roffe, The Inquest and the Book (Oxford, 2000) 29 n. 53. 42 Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 74. 43 A. Williams, The English and the Norman Conquest (Woodbridge, 1995), 73–4. 44 Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 69–73. 45 Baxter, Earls of Mercia, 205; Gesetze, ed. Liebermann, i. 396–7. 36 37



Multiple Lordship in Post-Conquest England

67

is unknown, but the oath shows the presence of an ideological connection between swearing allegiance and fulfilling an agreed service. It is not certain, however, that the respective role of lords was ever so clear-cut as the lawcodes or Domesday would have us believe, or that lordship remained sufficiently stable through the eleventh century to allow such a neat system.46 Leasehold, for instance, could be granted without apparent personal or tenurial dependence.47 But in some cases, the lessor seems to have tried to claim some degree of allegiance from the lessee.48 In the mid-tenth century, the Worcester leases, the best-known example of lænland, show that various services and renders, possibly including military service, were required in return for the lease. These also show that the lessees were required to ‘always be submissive and obedient and acknowledge the lordship of whoever is bishop (archiductor) at the time’.49 While this latter statement may have been primarily introduced to ensure that the required service was done, in practice it must have moved the relationship between lessor and lessee to something that leaned towards allegiance: namely protecting the lord’s interests, obeying his commands and acknowledging a hierarchy. Once such controls had been exerted over a tenant, later lessors are unlikely to have left such powers unclaimed. It is perhaps this kind of relationship that underlies the post-Conquest statements in Domesday Book and elsewhere that such and such a man acquired a lease with the permission of his commended lord. In Hertfordshire, Ælfric Black held land in Datchworth TRE, from the abbot of Westminster, and the hundred reported that he could not alienate it from the church. The entry then adds the curious statement that ‘in respect of other lands he was Archbishop Stigand’s man’.50 His relationship to Westminster seems to be that of a leasehold, but some assumption is being made that his other lands were bound up with some element of personal service. More strikingly, in the post-Conquest history of Abingdon Abbey, Thorkell is recorded as having done homage to the abbot for a lease of lands with the witness and consent of Earl Harold.51 At first sight the reference to homage looks suspiciously post-Conquest, and the term does not appear in Anglo-Saxon sources.52 The anachronistic term may simply be, however, a relabelling of a personal bond as homage, rather than an entire ‘feudal’ recasting of the bond by a post-Conquest scribe. If these suggestions are correct, then the patterns of allegiance in late Anglo-Saxon England that the post-Conquest world inherited were particularly plural and complex. Similarly, it seems likely that multiple tenancy was known in France from before 1066. References to multiple commendation first begin to appear in Carolingian capitularies from the early ninth century,53 and the first named instance dates to On this point see also R. Faith, The Moral Economy of the Countryside: Anglo-Saxon to AngloNorman England (Cambridge, 2020), 177. 47 S1539. 48 See Baxter, Earls of Mercia, 255–6, who argued that ‘dependent tenures […] created moral and social obligations manifest in the expectation and performance of service’. 49 S1368 (964). See also S1297–1375 and S1392–7. 50 GDB i. fol. 133; Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 74. 51 J. Hudson, ‘Imposing Feudalism on Anglo-Saxon England: Norman and Angevin Presentation of Pre-Conquest Lordship and Landholding’, in Feudalism, New Landscapes of Debate, ed. S. Bagge, M. H. Gelting and T. Lindkvist (Turnhout, 2011), 115–34 at 122–3. 52 Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 69. 53 Ganshof, Feudalism, 68–9; Capitulare missorum in Theodonis villa datum (805), in A. Boretius, Capitularia regum Francorum, 2 vols (Hanover, 1881), i. 124, c. 9; P. Roth, Feudalität und Untertanenverband (Weimar, 1863), 203; both cited by F. L. Ganshof, ‘Depuis quand a-t-on pu, en France, être vassal de plusieurs seigneurs?’, Mélanges Paul Fournier (Paris, 1929), 262–3; Lemarignier, ‘Political and Monastic Structures’, 108–9. 46

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895. The practice of multiple lordship appears to have continued over subsequent centuries, and by the eleventh century it is possible to show that there was a high proportion of individuals on French lands with some form of connection to two or more lords.55 As part of the post-Carolingian world, Normandy similarly seems to have had widespread multiple lordship. Some of these relationships seem to have trundled on without significant difficulties. The Goz family, by the mid-eleventh century, had patrimonial land at Toutainville; held land of Duke William, notably at SaintSever on the border of the Bessin and the Avranchin; and held other land around the Bessin and at Creully as military fiefs from Hamon aux Dents and his son Richard.56 Multiple lordship is most visible, however, on the borders of Normandy, where it could cause problems for the men who held from two or more lords who were in conflict with one another. Orderic Vitalis, writing in the first decades of the twelfth century, records the difficulties that the Giroie family encountered from finding themselves caught between the dukes of Normandy, the Bellêmes, who held lands across the Norman border, and Geoffrey de Mayenne, a castellan whose main interests lay in Maine.57 The Giroie appear to have owed a duty of military and political support to each.58 It is likely, moreover, that multiple lordship was becoming increasingly common in Normandy. Land and lordship were becoming increasingly welded together with the erosion of allodial land.59 Similarly, the increasing heritability of benefices gave more scope for acquiring lords through accidents of inheritance and dower.60 At the Conquest, the Anglo-Saxon and Norman ideas of lordship came into collision with one another and with the circumstances of the Norman settlement. Following the Conquest, William claimed to have taken over England as a bequest from Edward the Confessor. As a result, those who had supported Harold and fought against William at Hastings were traitors and deserved to be treated as such.61 Whether or not this was an argument that impressed all the English,62 it seems to have been sufficient justification for widespread confiscation of English lands and their grant to William’s followers, or regrant to their previous holders once the latter had sworn allegiance and paid a heavy fee. The different forms of lordship and tenure were rapidly compressed from a system with up to three types of lord, each performing a different sort of function, down to a largely ‘multipurpose’ lord who had personal, tenurial and judicial rights over his men, and upon whom men were 54

Ganshof, ‘Depuis quand’, 267–9; Bloch, Société féodale, i. 329. G. Duby, La Société aux XIe et XIe siècles dans la region Mâconnais (Paris, 1953), 193. On the situation in the German Empire see Lemarignier, ‘Political and Monastic Structures’, 108–9; W. Sauer (ed.), Ältesten Lehnsbücher des Herrschaft Bolanden (Wiesbaden, 1882); S. Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals: The Medieval Evidence Reinterpreted (Oxford, 1994), 447. 56 Musset, ‘Naissance de la Normandie’, in Documents de l’histoire de la Normandie, publiés sous la direction de Michel de Boüard, ed. E. Privat (Toulouse, 1972), 59–98 at 96; Musset, ‘L’Aristocratie Normande au XIe siècle’, in La Noblesse au Moyen Age, ed. P. Contamine (Paris, 1976), 71–96 at 79. 57 J.-M. Maillefer, ‘Une famille aristocratique aux confins de la Normandie: Les Géré au XIe siècle’, Cahier des Annales de Normandie. Autour du pouvoir ducal normand, Xe–XIIe siècles 17 (1985), 175–206 at 183, 198. 58 Orderic, ii. 26–9 (III 27–8). 59 E. Z. Tabuteau, Transfers of Property in Eleventh-Century Norman Law (Chapel Hill, NC, 1988), 95–112. 60 For more on multiple lordship in Normandy see H. Boston, ‘Multiple Allegiance and Its Impact: England and Normandy, 1066–c. 1204’, Haskins Society Journal 32 (2021, forthcoming). 61 Ermenfrid of Sion’s Penitential Ordinance (English Historical Documents ii, no. 81); Poitiers, c. 46, pp. 76–9; GND vii 13 (31), pp. 160–1; Garnett, Conquered England, 5–9. 62 Eadmer, HN, ed. M. Rule, RS 81 (London, 1884), 7–8 (fols 8–10). 54 55



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dependent for their grant of land. Some exclusively personal lordship was also maintained, but increasingly this seems to have become an early stage in the lifecycle of a knight, a stepping stone to receiving his inheritance or a new grant. Where there had been previously a tangle of booked, inherited and leased land, there was now to be primarily that held from a lord. The lines of lordship had been redrawn. Nevertheless, ideas of multiple lordship seem to have survived, to judge from the willingness of lords to accept tenants with other allegiances, and the eagerness of minor landholders to seek out additional lords. But nor is it very surprising that this pattern did emerge. There was, after all, no reason why it would not, or why post-Conquest England should be exceptional within Europe in this way. It is unrealistic to assume that the Norman settlement was capable of, or interested in, tying men to single lords. To some extent the endurance of multiple lordship, moreover, helped to temper the impact of change by preserving continuities below the tenantsin-chief. Occasionally, direct continuities in multiple lordship relationships are apparent between pre-Conquest Normandy and post-Conquest England. The subtenants Richard fitzTurold, Reginald de Valle Torta and Oliver all held from Baldwin de Meulles in Devon and in Lower Normandy. All of them also held lands from, and were indeed more closely associated with, Baldwin’s neighbours (in both Devon and Normandy), Robert of Mortain and Theobald fitzBerner.64 Here, it is possible that Norman multiple tenancies were being replicated in England, which might suggest that members of a lord’s retinue could exploit pre-existing bonds in order to increase their holdings. Our information from Little Domesday is generally too vague to determine whether those recorded as having had split commendation TRE maintained a relationship with their lords’ successors. In order for this to have happened, an English survivor would have had to be exceptionally lucky, or exceptionally useful, for several of his new lords to accept him as a tenant. There may be instances of this among the lowly anonymous tenants in Domesday, but no definite example has yet come to light. Occasionally, surviving English landholders may have acquired several lords above them as lands were divided by incoming Normans. The preservation of multiple lordship in post-Conquest England brought with it a continuity of the possibility of fluidity and range in lordship relationships. As mentioned above, Anglo-Saxon England saw considerable diversity in lordship roles. Multiple lordship in Normandy must have required a recognition that individuals could have relationships of varying closeness with their lords. Allegiance may have been able to encompass a range of relationships. Nigel and William de Gresley had relationships of varying closeness with their tenurial lords, seemingly dependent on their proximity or perhaps their focus on Gresley and its surrounds: the bishops of Chester, 20 miles to the west of Gresley, were of less immediate interest than neighbouring lords whom they served and attended on regularly. There is also the intriguing possibility that some Anglo-Saxon seigneurial practice could have been preserved within multiple lordship. The term ‘liege lordship’ is apparently a Norman import, and first appears in England in the 1090s in connection with struggles over investiture.65 It was a means of untangling potential clashes of service that a man might owe to his plural lords by designating one lord as 63

Ibid., 4. This was a complex process; see e.g. Baxter, Earls of Mercia, 281–93. K. Davies, ‘Winning the West: The Creation of Lower Normandy, c. 889–1087’, unpublished DPhil thesis (University of Oxford, 2016), 260 n. 359. 65 Regesta i, no. 337; The Registrum Antiquissimum of the Cathedral Church of Lincoln, ed. C. W. Foster and K. Major, 10 vols (Lincoln Record Society, 1931–73), i. 14 (p. 17). 63

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‘liege’ who should receive priority of service. Around 1115, it made its way into the customary treatise, the Leges Henrici Primi. According to one clause: If [a man] has done homage to many lords and is seized and impleaded by any one of them, the lord whose residens and liege man he is may rightly stand pledge for him in respect of any other lords; this ought not to be denied to the lord who would be entitled to the manbot and to whom the man himself has adhered more closely.66

This shows a striking parallel to the role of the hlaford in II Edmund, I and VIII Æthelred and I Cnut, who is able to receive the manbot if his man is killed.67 While there are questions about the accuracy of the Leges Henrici Primi as a guide to contemporary practice, given its large inclusion of obsolete lawcodes,68 this entry does not have an exact parallel in any extant Anglo-Saxon lawcode.69 As with other references to multiple lordship in this text, this seems to be a post-Conquest clause and is likely to be a reflection of contemporary thought. While no other evidence has yet come to light on whether this was adhered to in practice, its appearance suggests that at least one element of late Anglo-Saxon seigneurial custom may have been grafted onto emerging structures. The flexibility and diversity of lordship roles gave similar opportunities to those on either side of the Conquest to forge their own lordship relationships and networks. In Normandy, families such as the Giroie and the Goz acquired more lands through their multiple connections than they would have been able to acquire with one. In the borderlands in particular, where lands appear to have been more fragmented than in Norman heartlands, minor landholders could acquire lands and even castles from multiple lords.70 In Anglo-Saxon England, if Domesday’s records on lordship are to be trusted,71 even relatively minor landholders could be bound to great magnates72 and, as discussed above, some individuals may have had some choice over to whom they commended themselves.73 Certainly, we see instances where husbands and wives are recorded as commended to different lords,74 or vills where almost every occupant seem to have had a different lord.75 Stephen Baxter has argued that the networks of commendation in Anglo-Saxon England were mutually beneficial: A man who was unswervingly loyal to the earl of Mercia but who had no influence in his local community was of limited value to the earl: altogether more valuable were LHP, 43, 6a, ed. Downer, 152–3. II Edmund 7, 7.3; I Æthelred 1.10; VIII Æthelred 3, the latter repeated in I Cnut 2.5. 68 N. Karn, ‘Rethinking the Leges Henrici Primi’, in English Law before Magna Carta: Felix Liebermann and ‘Die Gesetzse der Angelsachsen’, ed. S. Jurasinski, L. Oliver and A. Rabin (Leiden, 2010), 199–220 at 199; J. Hudson, Formation of the English Common Law, 2nd edn (Abingdon, 2017), 15. 69 LHP, 43,6; 43,6a; 55,2; 55,3b; 61,6b; 82,5, ed. Downer, 152–3, 172–5, 194–5, 256–7. 70 D. Power, The Norman Frontier in the Twelfth and Early Thirteenth Centuries (Cambridge, 2004), 267. 71 See, for instance, the debate about the utility of the commendatio tantum formula in Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 171; Baxter, Earls of Mercia, 220–5; Baxter, ‘Lordship and Justice’, 389–98; J. Hudson, Oxford History of the Laws of England (Oxford, 2012), 222; P. Sawyer, ‘1066–1086: A Tenurial Revolution?’, in Domesday Book: A Reassessment, ed. P. Sawyer (London, 1985), 71–85 at 76–80; cf. Garnett, Conquered England, 27–8. 72 J. Campbell, ‘The Late Anglo-Saxon State: A Maximum View’, in J. Campbell, The Anglo-Saxon State (London, 2000), 18; Baxter, Earls of Mercia, passim., esp. 61–74, 211–13. 73 Baxter, Earls of Mercia, 206. 74 GDB ii. fol. 309. Alwine was commended to Eadric of Laxfield, and his wife to the abbot of Bury St Edmunds. 75 Orwell (Cambs.) contained six sokemen TRE. Of these, two were bound to Edith the Fair, one to Archbishop Stigand, one to the son of Robert Wimarc, one to the king, and one to Earl Ælfgar (Inquisitio Comitatus Cantabrigiensis, ed. N. E. S. A. Hamilton (London, 1876), 77, discussed in Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond, 63. See also GDB i, fols 193v, 194v, 196). 66 67



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men whose primary loyalty lay with the earl, but who also enjoyed connections with other lords and other networks of power. For these reasons, the bond of commendation was not necessarily diminished if the man held land from another lord; in some respects, such arrangements could strengthen that bond.76

A lord could thus benefit from having a commendatus with strong connections with other lords and networks of power.77 Equally, being able to acquire lands from multiple lords would also give ambitious individuals more scope in acquiring resources and influence. Similarly, the ability to take on multiple lords and the concurrent flexibility of the lordship bond in post-Conquest England could benefit both lords and men. Like their social predecessors before 1066, the lesser landholders in post-Conquest England could construct their own networks of lordship, build their own portfolios of land, and thus continue to exercise ambitions and perhaps some element of choice in their seigneurial relationships. While multiple commendation before 1066 and lordship after it may sometimes have been a structural accident, many instances seem to have been deliberate.78 The Gresleys certainly seem to have been the ones driving the acquisition of lands and creation of new allegiances in the years after 1066. Nor was such behaviour limited to the invading newcomers. Although some English survivors became tenurially depressed, those who survived as lesser landholders also appear to have been building their own networks.79 Lesser landholders on both sides of the Conquest therefore had considerable tenurial and political opportunities. Although a newly powerful form of lordship that combined personal, tenurial and judicial elements developed after 1066, the emergence of multiple lordship helped to temper the power that such lords could exercise over their men. So much for men, but did the position of women subtenants differ? As already noted, it is clear that women could commend themselves to lords in late Anglo-Saxon England. Post-Conquest female subtenants are few and far between in Domesday Book, but many female tenants-in-chief, like their male counterparts, held subtenancies from other lords by 1086. Nevertheless, women landholders began to lose ground after the Conquest. Binding together the different requirements of service under the new framework of lordship may have placed women, who could not do military service, at a disadvantage in terms of what they could offer lords in return for land. A century later, we may see the echo of this idea in Glanvill’s statement that women could only do the lesser fidelitas, rather than full homage.80 With the newly strengthened lordship, too, came feudal incidents such as wardship, which placed women and their lands under control until marriage.81 It was only as a higher-ranking wife, or as a widow, that secular post-Conquest women could begin to control their lands and had potential to interact with other lords in their own right.82

Baxter, Earls of Mercia, 257. Ibid., 255–7. 78 Parage may have been one of the ‘accidental’ factors. One Wulfsige and his two brothers each held one third of a man’s commendation (GDB ii. fol. 333v). The bridle-thief Leofric, mentioned above, had three lords who were brothers who seem to have been rather over-enthusiastic in their protection of him (S883, cited Baxter, ‘Lordship and Justice’, 407–8). 79 The Rydeware Cartulary, London, BL, Egerton MS 3041, fols 30v, 36v; GDB i fol. 248. 80 The Treatise on the Laws and Customs of England commonly called Glanvill, IX. 1, ed. G. D. G. Hall (London, 1965), 103. 81 J. C. Holt, ‘Feudal Society and the Family in Early Medieval England, IV: The Heiress and the Alien’, TRHS 35 (1985), 1–28 at 2. 82 Ibid., 247–8. 76 77

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Another influence on the shaping of lordship networks on both sides of the Conquest was the impact of local political geography. In Domesday Book, the commended lords’ networks seem to have been bounded by the hundred. Richard Abels has traced the good records for Domesday Bedfordshire to show how pre-Conquest men could build up considerable local followings.83 These networks are thought to have been driven by the judicial dimension of the hundred. A lord who could pack the court with his own supporters would quickly attract other locals who were looking for protection.84 In post-Conquest England, locality remained important, but the kind of locality changed. As lords were now theoretically the source of tenure in England, and as hundredal courts may have declined as honorial courts developed and drew in business, the important locality seems to have become one’s neighbours.85 In essence, this moved the English situation closer to that of pre-Conquest Normandy. One of the consistent triggers for taking additional lords both in Normandy and in post-Conquest England seems to have been the number of neighbouring lords which a man had: in effect, how many local borders he had to negotiate.86 In England, this appears to have been a major pragmatic element driving the rapid spread of multiple lordship. This process is likely to have been catalysed by the circumstances of the Norman settlement. According to Domesday Book, many new Norman landholders had been designated one or several antecessores from whom they ‘inherited’ their lands. George Garnett has argued that the antecessorial holdings claimed in Domesday Book provide an inaccurate guide to the true patterns of landholding in the late Anglo-Saxon period, and are skewed to reflect post-Conquest needs.87 For our purposes here the strict accuracy or otherwise of these antecessorial patterns is immaterial: what is key is that even in falsified or garbled form, the patterns of Anglo-Saxon landholdings were reused, and thus created scatters of lands for the new tenants. William’s antecessorial policy created a patchwork of tenures which set up ideal conditions for men to come to these kinds of ‘over the fence’ arrangements.88 Entering into a seigneurial relationship with a nearby lord could offer opportunities for direct and convenient acquisition of nearby lands. It could also be a useful safeguard against a powerful neighbour who might otherwise make a nuisance of himself in encroaching on one’s lands or rights.89 Such acquisitions did not necessarily take account of shire or hundredal borders. In the case of the Gresleys, the lands they acquired from various lords lay across three counties in an area where Leicestershire, Derbyshire and Staffordshire meet. Their tenancy-in-chief at Gresley lay in Repton wapentake in Derbyshire; but their holdings at Donisthorpe and Oakthorpe were in Goscote wapentake in Leicestershire, and Stapenhill in Offlow hundred in Staffordshire.

R. Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-Seeking and the Norman Settlement of the South-East Midlands’, ANS 19 (1997), 19–50 at 29–32; Williams, ‘Little Domesday and the English’, 114–16. 84 Baxter, Earls of Mercia, 168–80, esp. 176. 85 Karn, Kings, Lords and Courts, 101–26. 86 See Lennard, Rural England, 56–62, esp. 58–9 for a vivid description of the tenurial scatter in Oxfordshire. 87 Garnett, Conquered England, 27 and n. 206; 28–9. For the debate on antecessorial grants see Sawyer, ‘A Tenurial Revolution?’, 76–8; R. Fleming, Kings and Lords in Conquest England (Cambridge, 1991), 112–25. 88 On the idea of ‘a world of neighbours’, see Lennard, Rural England, 21, 61–2. 89 Fleming, Kings and Lords, 133.

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The post-Conquest world, when viewed from the perspective of multiple lordship, thus highlights a number of flaws in the present view of lesser landholders and the honour. This view is derived largely from Sir Frank Stenton’s model of the honour, which has been one of the dominant themes shaping our understanding of post-Conquest England. The present consensus runs something like this. In the aftermath of the Conquest, William granted out lands to his followers and, at some point, imposed an agreed quota of knights that each should provide when required. These tenants-in-chief in turn granted lands to their own followers, lending the seigneurial retinue a topographical reality, and one that became fossilized as subsequent generations gained their ancestors’ lands. Each honour operated like a ‘feudal state in miniature’, where the major tenants, those bound solely to the lord, acted as ‘honorial barons’ in providing support and counsel.90 The honorial system inevitably declined, however, through the twelfth century. Within a few generations ‘the honor would become a fossilized shell of a community of interest long departed’.91 This caused men to increasingly look outside the honour to other lords, and particularly so when the impact of Henry II’s legal reforms fatally undermined a lord’s ability to control tenure in his own honour.92 As the honour broke down into the thirteenth century, local ties became increasingly important and a self-conscious group of ‘county gentry’ began to emerge.93 This model is still essentially feudal, and ties into wider perceptions that multiple lordship indicated the decline of seigneurial structures. However, the underlying framework has increasingly become concealed. In recent years, the ‘feudal’ part of the ‘feudal honour’ has been dropped as part of a wider shift away from discussing feudalism, particularly following Susan Reynolds’s Fiefs and Vassals.94 Yet the essential framework of the honour has remained the same. Consequently, it has been largely assumed that multiple lordship was unusual, that its appearance is a sign of the breakdown of a socio-political system of lordship, and that multiple tenants were in any case marginal to their lords’ honours and interests. As the above has argued, these assumptions are open to re-evaluation. The early appearance of multiple lordship demonstrates that it was an integral part of the honour and the wider society, and not in itself a sign of instability or decline. While the ‘feudal state in miniature’ idea is one that has been used to sum up a closed image of the honour, the reality was more subtle: as with the full-scale states at this time, individuals could hold tenancies across different polities. Although there may have been instances where a weakening honour haemorrhaged tenants seeking reward and connection to other lords, this does not seem to be a major factor in encouraging multiple lordship; or rather, if it is, it is one that is taking place with startling consistency over a 150-year period. Nor does a man having ties to multiple lords seem to have affected his moral standing: if we move into the twelfth century, where our evidence is rather better, we can see that the lord’s inner circle, Stenton’s honorial barons, could be multiple tenants. An entire honour could be left in the hands of a multiple tenant during the lord’s absence if the individual

Stenton, First Century, 51. D. Crouch, ‘From Stenton to McFarlane: Models of Societies of the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, TRHS 6th ser., 5 (1995), 179–200 at 198. 92 S. F. C. Milsom, The Legal Framework of English Feudalism (Cambridge, 1976), 154–86, esp. 183–6. 93 P. Coss, Lordship, Knighthood, and Locality: A Study in English Society c. 1180–c. 1280 (Cambridge, 1991), 5–6; P. Coss, ‘Bastard Feudalism Revised’, P & P 125 (1989), 27–64; D. Crouch and D. Carpenter, ‘Bastard Feudalism Revised’, P & P 131 (1991), 165–89. 94 Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals. 90 91

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was particularly skilled. While the gradual ossification and decline of the honour is undeniable, this is not something to be laid at the door of multiple lordship. The Conquest seems to mark a moment when society shifted decisively from being centred on freemen to being centred on lords and honours. It has long been taken as a moment which heralded the rise of the great barons, newly strengthened with the consolidation of lordship powers in themselves, with newly assertive behaviour, and less fettered control over their own men. The rapid appearance of multiple lordship shows not just the continuity of ideas of lordship, but of how lordship must have been experienced by lesser landholders. The scope for diversity of lordship connections was maintained; although we see a concentration of lordship functions, it did not create a seigneurial monolith. Some multiple lordship connections were directly imported into post-Conquest England; other practices may have been influenced by pre-Conquest ideas. This diversity of lordship on either side of the Conquest meant that there was continuity in the ability of minor landholders to forge their own seigneurial relationships, and seemingly to make choices – although women may have begun to lose out in the new post-Conquest world. Such choices could be shaped by locality before and after the Conquest, in England as in Normandy, although the frame of the relevant locality shifted. This perspective on lordship around the Conquest illuminates the flaws in the honorial model. The twelfth century began with lordship that was plural, flexible and geographically rooted. 95

G. Wrottesley and I. H. Jeayes, ‘The Rydeware Chartulary, from the Original in the Possession of Sir Robert Gresley, Bart., of Drakelowe’, Collections for a History of Staffordshire XVI (1895), 257–302 at 238. 95

The Marjorie Chibnall Essay Prize Proxima Accessit

‘FITTING THE MISSING TILE’: UNIVERSAL CHRONICLE-WRITING AND THE CONSTRUCTION OF THE GALFRIDIAN PAST IN THE CONTINUATIO URSICAMPINA Gabriele Passabì The appearance of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae (HRB) in the late 1130s presented a new stimulus to twelfth-century historical thought. As pointed out by Neil Wright and Sjoerd Levelt, the HRB not only provided a revised version of the British past but also subverted the political narrative of authoritative histories such as Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica.1 For this reason, the HRB gave room for ambiguities and, occasionally, it generated open opposition.2 Nonetheless, between the twelfth and the thirteenth centuries the HRB was extensively used in both Latin and vernacular historiography, and found in Normandy a precocious hub of interest and circulation.3 Robert of Torigni (1110–1186), at that time still a monk at the abbey of Le Bec, provides the earliest attestation of the HRB as he showed a copy of it to Henry of Huntingdon (1088–1157) in 1139 when the English historian stopped at the Norman abbey while on his way to Rome with Archbishop Theobald of Canterbury (1090–1161).4 Jennifer Ferrall and Victoria Flood have shown that, by R. W. Leckie, The Passage of Dominion: Geoffrey of Monmouth and the Periodization of Insular History in the Twelfth Century (Toronto, 1981), 42; Geoffrey of Monmouth, The History of the Kings of Britain, ed. and trans. M. D. Reeve and N. Wright (Woodbridge, 2007) [henceforth referred to as HRB]; see also N. Wright, ‘Geoffrey of Monmouth and Bede’, Arthurian Literature 6 (1986), 39–44; S. Levelt, ‘Citation and Misappropriation in Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae and the Anglo-Latin Historiographical Tradition’, in Citation, Intertextuality and Memory in the Middle Ages and Renaissance, 2: Cross-Disciplinary Perspectives on Medieval Culture, ed. G. di Bacco and Y. Plumley (Liverpool, 2013), 141. 2 William of Newburgh voiced his suspicions towards the HRB. See William of Newburgh, Historia rerum Anglicarum, ed. R. Howlett, RS 82, (London, 1884–5), 3; on Gerald of Wales and his ambiguous approach to the HRB, see J. Crick, ‘The British Past and the Welsh Future: Gerald of Wales, Geoffrey of Monmouth and Arthur of Britain’, Celtica 23 (1999), 60–75. 3 D. Dumville, ‘An Early Text of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae and the Circulation of some Latin Histories in Twelfth-Century Normandy’, Arthurian Literature 4 (1985), 1–36; see also N. Wright, The Historia Regum Britanniae of Geoffrey of Monmouth; I Bern, Burgerbibliothek, MS 568 (Cambridge, 1990), xxxvii–xxxviii; E. van Houts, ‘Normandy’s View of the Anglo-Saxon Past’, in The Long Twelfth-Century View of the Anglo-Saxon Past, ed. M. Brett, and D. A Woodman (London, 2015), 132–7. 4 Huntingdon, 558–9; N. Wright, ‘The Place of Henry of Huntington’s Epistola ad Warinum in the Text-History of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia regum Britanniae: A Preliminary Investigation’, in France and the British Isles in the Middle Ages and Renaissance: Essays in Memory of Ruth Morgan, ed. G. Jondorf and D. N. Dumville (Woodbridge, 1991), 72; O. Szerwiniack, ‘L’Epistola ad Warinum d’Henri de Huntingdon, première adaptation latine de l’Histora regum Britanniae’, in L’Historia regum Britanniae et les ‘Bruts’ en Europe, 1: Traductions, adaptations, réappropriations, XIIe–XVIe siècle, ed. H. Tétrel and G. Veysseyre (Paris, 2015), 42; Benjamin Pohl has recently argued that Robert did not receive a manuscript copy of Henry’s Historia Anglorum at Le Bec on this occasion but later in c. 1147–49. See Pohl, ‘When Did Robert of Torigni First Receive Henry of Huntingdon’s Historia Anglorum and Why 1

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going beyond its breeding ground of traditional ‘pan-British’ political resurgence,5 the HRB found its political addressee in the contemporary Anglo-Norman elite: Geoffrey of Monmouth presented a revisionist reconstruction of the British past providing a unitary interpretation of the past and present of Britain under AngloNorman hegemony.6 As argued by David Bates, King Arthur became a Norman and a cross-Channel hero for he stimulated an awareness among the Norman audience on both sides of the Channel of sharing a common, albeit remote, historical past.7 However, the impact of the HRB on twelfth-century universal chronicle-writing in the Anglo-Norman world has received little attention. A significant case for analysis is provided by the so-called Continuatio Ursicampina, a twelfth-century anonymous continuation of the universal chronicle of Sigebert of Gembloux (1030–1112) produced at Ourscamp, a Cistercian abbey in the Noyonnais.8 The Ourscamp chronicler not only continued Sigebert’s chronicle up to 1155 but also interpolated many excerpts extracted from the HRB.9 According to Robert Fletcher, the Continuatio Ursicampina engendered a sceptical approach to the narrative of the HRB since Geoffrey’s account openly contradicted Sigebert of Gembloux.10 More recently, Jaakko Tahkokallio urged a more cautious assessment of the Continuatio Ursicampina. Although on occasion the Ourscamp chronicler openly questioned the reliability of the HRB, he meant the criticisms towards the Galfridian account as methodological caveats which did not discredit the majority of the work.11 Following Tahkokallio’s reassessment of the Continuatio Ursicampina, I will contend that the Ourscamp chronicler actively approached both the HRB and the Sigebertian tradition of universal chronicle-writing with a political purpose. By closely analysing the only surviving manuscript of the Continuatio Ursicampina, namely Dijon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 561, I will attempt to reconstruct the Does it Matter?’, HSJ 26 (2015), 145–67; For a full account of Robert of Torigni’s life and works, see Torigni, ed. Bisson, i, xxvi–lvii; B. Pohl, ‘Robert of Torigni and Le Bec: The Man and the Myth’, in A Companion to the Abbey of Le Bec in the Central Middle Ages (11th–13th centuries), ed. B. Pohl and L. L. Gathagan (Leiden, 2017), 94–124. 5 J. Gillingham, ‘The Context and Purposes of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain’, in The English in the Twelfth Century: Imperialism, National Identity and Political Values, ed. J. Gillingham (Woodbridge, 2000), 19–39. For Geoffrey’s Breton association, see J. S. P. Tatlock, Legendary History: Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History and Its Early Vernacular Versions (New York, 1974), 399–402; see also M. Aurell, ‘Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae and the Twelfth Century Renaissance’, HSJ 18 (2006), 1–18. 6 J. Farrell, ‘History, Prophecy and the Arthur of the Normans: The Question of Audience and Motivation behind Geoffrey of Monmouth’s Historia Regum Britanniae’, ANS 37 (2015), 99–114; V. Flood, Prophecy, Politics and Place in Medieval England: From Geoffrey of Monmouth to Thomas of Erceldoune (Cambridge, 2016), 41–3. 7 D. Bates, The Normans and Empire (Oxford, 2013), 154. 8 M. Chazan, L’Empire et l’histoire universelle de Sigebert de Gembloux à Jean de Saint-Victor (XIIe– XIVe siècle) (Paris, 1999), 326–7; Sigebert of Gembloux, Chronographia sive Chronica, ed. L. C. Bethmann, MGH SS 6 (Hanover, 1844), 292 [henceforth referred to as Chronographia]; Auctarium Mortui Maris, ed. L. Petrz, MGH SS 6 (Hanover, 1884), 463–9; Auctarium Ursicampinum, ed. L. Pertz, MGH SS 6 (Hanover, 1884), 469–73. 9 The text of the Continuatio Ursicampina was scarcely edited in the sixteenth century. The only full edition is Sigeberti Gemblacensis cenobitae chronicon ab anno 381 ad 1113, cum insertionibus ex historia Galfridi & additionibus Roberti abbatis Montis centu & tres sequentes annos complectentibus (Paris: H. Stephanus, 1513); see J. Tahkokallio, ‘French Chronicles and the Credibility of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s History of the Kings of Britain, c. 1150–1225’, in L’Historia regum Britannie et les ‘Bruts en Europe’, 1: Traductions, adaptations, réappropriations (XIIe–XVIe siècle), ed. H. Tétrel and G. Veysseyre (Paris, 2015), 53–67. 10 R. H. Fletcher, The Arthurian Material in the Chronicles, especially those of Great Britain and France (Boston, 1906), 170–2. 11 Tahkokallio, ‘French Chronicles’, 60.



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context in which the abbey of Ourscamp received Sigebert’s chronicle and carried out its interpolation with the HRB. I will first argue that this project occurred at a time when Ourscamp was close to the Anglo-Norman political sphere. Although Ourscamp was not territorially in Normandy and it enjoyed Capetian connections since its foundation, it was part of the Norman textual community since it received Sigebert’s chronicle from its Norman daughter-house, the abbey of Mortemer.12 The proximity of the abbey of Ourscamp to the Anglo-Norman political network encouraged the interpolation of Sigebert’s chronicle with the HRB, which was available at Ourscamp at the same time. In the light of this argument, I will examine the interpolations found in the Dijon manuscript as revealing a complex textual project which was grounded in a political understanding of the chronological totality enshrined by the Eusebius-Jeromian and Sigebertian traditions. By interpolating the universal chronicle with the British past, the Continuatio Ursicampina legitimized the dynastic continuity connecting Brutus, the mythical founder of the British kingdom, with the Anglo-Saxon and the contemporary Anglo-Norman and Angevin kings. Despite the contradictions and the caveats, the Ourscamp chronicler accepted the flexibility of Geoffrey’s work and attempted to frame it chronologically and historically within the Eusebius-Jeromian and Sigebertian series temporum. This approach to the Galfridian past was a historiographical – and political – compromise which, by reconstructing the continuity between the Galfridian past and the ‘historical’ Anglo-Norman past, ultimately aimed to interpret British dynastic history to legitimize Norman hegemony. When Did Ourscamp Receive the Chronicle of Sigebert of Gembloux, and Why Does It Matter? The Continuatio Ursicampina has survived only in Dijon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 561, a manuscript redacted at the end of the twelfth century at the abbey of Cîteaux.13 According to Ludwig Bethmann, Dijon 561 is the apograph of its exemplar, which was first produced at the abbey of Ourscamp.14 Due to the loss of this exemplar, it is difficult to establish exactly when a continuation of Sigebert’s chronicle was produced at Ourscamp and who promoted its interpolation with the HRB. What can be established with a degree of certainty is that, as shown by Bethmann and followed by the later commentators, the exemplar used at Ourscamp for the update and continuation of Sigebert’s chronicle came from the Norman abbey of Mortemer.15 Both the Mortemer manuscript, which is now Paris, BnF, MS lat. 4863, and Dijon 561 contain not only the collection of chronicles from Eusebius of Caesarea (263–339) to Sigebert of Gembloux but also the same interpolations, such as, for instance, the abridgement of Hugh of Saint-Victor’s

12 Chronographia, 292; Chazan, L’Empire et l’histoire universelle, 326–7; On Latin textual communities, see T. Webber, ‘Textual Communities (Latin)’, in A Social History of England 900–1200, ed. J. Crick and E. van Houts (Cambridge, 2011), 330–40; B. Stock, The Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries (Princeton, 1983), 90–1. 13 Catalogue général des manuscrits des bibliothèques publiques de France, vol. V: Dijon, ed. M. A. Molinier et al. (Paris, 1889), 137–9. 14 Chronographia, 282, 292. 15 Chronographia, 282; Chazan, L’Empire et l’histoire universelle, 326–7; Tahkokallio, ‘French Chroniclers’, 57; see also Auctarium Mortui Maris, 463.

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tract De Tribus Maximis Circumstantiis16 and passages concerning the foundation of the Cistercian order.17 In Dijon 561 Sigebert’s chronicle is carried on until the year 1155 and it is drawn by the same calligraphic hand throughout the manuscript.18 However, starting from the entry for the year 1112, the reading of the two manuscripts diverges. Differently from the Mortemer manuscript, Dijon 561 contains the continuation of Sigebert’s chronicle written by Anselm of Gembloux (d. 1136) and the so-called Continuatio Praemonstratensis up to 1155.19 Nonetheless, both Peigné-Delacourt and, more recently, Tahkokallio agree in thinking that the Continuatio Ursicampina was written at Ourscamp not long after 1155.20 The Mortemer manuscript, which was the exemplar for at least the first part of the lost Ourscamp manuscript, can be securely dated after 1155. The bulk of the manuscript was written by the same calligraphic hand until the entry for the year 1155;21 various hands later interpolated the work of the first scribe and continued the series temporum up to 1235.22 Since the exemplar of the Ourscamp manuscript had been redacted at Mortemer by 1155, the monks of Ourscamp must have received it only when the first Mortemer scribe completed his work sometime after 1155. It thus follows that the Continuatio Ursicampina too had been written at Ourscamp throughout the second half of the twelfth century, with only 1155 as a firm terminus post quem. The relationship of the manuscripts is as follows: Paris, BNF, MS lat. 4863 (saec. XII2 Mortemer, Normandy – 1155×1186) ↓ Lost Ourscamp manuscript (saec. XII2 Ourscamp, Picardy – p.a. 1155) ↓ Dijon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 561 (saec. XIIex Cîteaux)

Because of the loss of the Ourscamp exemplar, we can only tentatively establish who first promoted the copy of Sigebert’s chronicle and its interpolation with the Galfridian material. Nonetheless, some suggestions can be made, and they point towards the direction of either Abbot Gilbert (abbot 1143/7–1163) or Abbot Stephen I (abbot 1164–7). Peigné-Delacourt first argued that the Continuatio Ursicampina

MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 5v; MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fol. 3v; For an edition of Hugh of Saint-Victor’s treatise, see W. M. Green, ‘Hugo of St. Victor: De Tribus Maximis Circumstantiis Gestorum’, Speculum 18:4 (1943), 484–93. 17 In both manuscripts the entry is preceded by the rubric ‘Cistercensis ordo incipitur’. See MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fol. 96r–v; MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 144r–v. 18 The script shows some of the scribal peculiarities that Ernst Crous and Jachin Kirchner defined as Cistercian script (Zierstenzienserschrift), which further substantiates the origin from Cîteaux. P. Cherubini and G. Pretesi, Paleografia Latina: l’avventura grafica del mondo occidentale (Città del Vaticano, 2010), 425; E. Crous and J. Kirchner, Die gotische Schiftarten (Braunschweig, 1970), t. 8 and 11. 19 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 150r; Chazan, L’Empire et l’histoire universelle, 325–6; Continuatio Praemonstratensis, ed. G. H. Pertz, MGH SS 6 (Hanover, 1844), 447–56. The Mortemer manuscript contains only the first entries of Anselm’s chronicle,which, after 1114, is followed by an anonymous continuation up to 1234. MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fols 98r–100v. 20 Auctarium Ursicampinum, 473; Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp (Amiens, 1876), 139; Auctarium Ursicampinum, 469; Tahkokallio, ‘French Chronicles’, 57. 21 Chronographia, 292; MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fols 1v–98v. 22 MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fols 99r–100v; Auctarium Mortui Maris, 463; Chazan, L’Empire et l’histoire universelle, 326. 16



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was composed under the abbacy of the Englishman Gilbert.23 Gilbert was a close friend and supporter of Thomas Becket (1119–1170), whom he later met at Cîteaux in 1165 just a year after Henry II (1133–1189) had exiled the archbishop.24 During this time Ourscamp’s political ties connected the abbey more with the papal and Capetian network than the Angevin one. During the Becket dispute the abbey aligned with Pope Alexander III (1100/5–1181) and the French king Louis VII (1120–1180) in supporting Becket.25 Nonetheless, Peigné-Delacourt’s argument is founded exclusively on the chronological coincidence between Gilbert’s abbacy and the scholar’s early dating of the Continuatio Ursicampina.26 As shown above, the reception at Ourscamp of the chronicles of Eusebius-Jerome and Sigebert was determined by a connection with the abbey of Mortemer and, as a result, with the Anglo-Norman world. Because of its strategic position in the Norman Vexin,27 Mortemer had enjoyed Norman ducal patronage since its foundation in 1134 at the hand of Henry I (1068–1135).28 The connection between the two communities was strengthened when Mortemer converted to the Cistercian order and became the daughter-house of Ourscamp.29 The association between Abbot Gilbert and the appearance of Sigebert’s chronicle at Ourscamp, albeit chronologically reasonable, cannot be conclusively proved. Were the terminus of 1155 not to be taken too strictly, Gilbert’s successor Stephen might also be a candidate for the sponsorship of Sigebert’s chronicle at Ourscamp. Stephen had been prior of Ourscamp before becoming abbot of Mortemer in 1154 until c. 1164.30 During his abbacy, Stephen harnessed the generosity of prominent members of the Anglo-Norman elite, who funded a lavish building program at Mortemer. Empress Matilda sponsored the building of two guest houses and her son Henry completed the building of a large nave for the abbatial church, spending more than £1,000.31 Abbot Stephen established close connections with the Anglo-Angevin circles of power in Normandy, especially with Matilda’s. In 1150 he was involved in the foundation of the abbey of Valasse, Mortemer’s daughter-house, which had been primarily sponsored by the empress.32 In 1164 Stephen returned to Ourscamp, where he was abbot for a few years before retiring again at the Norman abbey, where he Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, 139; Auctarium Ursicampinum, 469. 24 Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, 135; see also A. Dimier and E. Manning, Dictionnaire des auteurs Cisterciennes (Rochefort, 1975), 290–1. 25 Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, 140. By the 1180s Herbert of Bosham, close friend and supporter of Thomas Becket, found refuge at Ourscamp. See D. L. Goodwin, ‘Herbert of Bosham and the Horizon of the Twelfth-Century Exegesis’, Traditio 58 (2003), 171. 26 Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, 135: ‘Il avait été composé vers l’an 1156, et par conséquent pendant que Gilbert y était abbé’. 27 J. A. Green, ‘Lords of the Norman Vexin’, in War and Government in the Middle Ages: Essays in Honour of J. O. Prestwich, ed. J. Gillingham and J. C. Holt (Woodbridge, 1984), 46–63; D. Power, The Norman Frontier in the Twelfth and Early Thirteenth Centuries (Cambridge, 2004), 214–15, 366–87. 28 Regesta, vol. II, n. 1903, 289; cf. the cartulary of Mortemer in MS Paris BnF Lat. 18369, fol. 1r. 29 Cartulaire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, ed. M. Peigné-Delacourt (Amiens, 1865), n. 121, 82; Bouvet, ‘Le Récit de la Fondation de Mortemer’, Collectanea Ordinis Cisterciensium Reformatorum 22 (1960), 154–5; Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, 127. 30 Auctarium Mortui Maris, 465; Bouet, ‘Le Récit de la fondation de Mortemer’, 159–60; Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, 139. 31 Bouvet, ‘Le Récit de la fondation de Mortemer’, 159; see also L. Grant, ‘The Architecture of the Early Savignacs and Cistercians in Normandy’, ANS 10 (1987), 113–14. 32 Chronicon Valassense Truncatum, ed. F. Somménil (Rouen, 1868), iii–iv, 12–13, 19–21; Bouet, ‘Le Récit de la fondation de Mortemer’, 159; Grant, ‘The Architecture of the Early Savignacs’, 125–6; M. Chibnall, The Empress Matilda: Queen Consort, Queen Mother and Lady of the English (Oxford, 1993), 183–7. 23

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died in 1167. Significantly, the cartulary of Mortemer explains that Stephen held the abbatial regency at Ourscamp for only a short time because he ‘did not receive among his compatriots the same favour he had received among the Normans’.34 Because of his connection with Mortemer, it is likely that Abbot Stephen brought the Mortemer-edited version of Sigebert’s chronicle to Ourscamp when he returned to cover the abbatial charge. It was not uncommon for newly appointed abbots to enrich the library of their new institution with the books they had accessed in the old.35 For instance, Robert of Torigni brought the Le Bec copy of the chronicles of Eusebius-Jerome and Sigebert of Gembloux at Mont-Saint-Michel after his abbatial election in 1154.36 Despite the papal and Capetian political allegiance of the abbey of Ourscamp during the Becket dispute, the closeness of Abbot Stephen to the Anglo-Norman network would substantiate the pro-Norman political interest of the Continuatio Ursicampina, redacted at a moment when the political implications of the HRB were tolerated if not actively promoted at Ourscamp. 33

The Continuatio Ursicampina and Universal Chronicle-Writing The Eusebius-Jeromian tradition, as continued by Sigebert of Gembloux, had an extraordinary success during the twelfth century and it constituted a new paradigm for the reckoning of time.37 In Normandy, Torigni’s Chronography was the bestknown continuation of the Eusebius-Jeromian and Sigebertian tradition, which he interpolated with the account concerning the Anglo-Saxon and Anglo-Norman kings of England.38 The recognition of universality bestowed upon Sigebert’s chronicle was based upon criteria of auctoritas, which hinged upon both the historical value of Sigebert’s continuation and the exactness of its computus as a science that allowed a rational investigation of the divine plan. Adapting the chronographic structure first elaborated by Eusebius of Caesarea,39 Sigebert had set a new framework for his chronicle, using new ruling dynasties as chronological references, to sketch the chronological and political horizon of Europe after the fall of the Roman Empire.40 As in the Mortemer manuscript, Dijon 561 and presumably its Ourscamp exemplar 33 Stephen was succeeded in 1167 by Abbot Eudes (d. 1170). Peigné-Delacourt, Histoire de l’Abbaye de Notre Dame d’Ourscamp, 139–40. 34 Bouvet, ‘Le Récit de la fondation de Mortemer’, 159. 35 P. Bourgain, ‘The Circulation of Texts in Manuscript Culture’, in The Medieval Manuscript Book: Cultural Apporaches, ed. M. Johnston and M. Van Dussen (Cambridge, 2015), 145–6. 36 This manuscript is now MS Avranches BM 159. Torigni, ed. Bisson, i, xxxi–xxxii, lxi–lxiv; See also B. Pohl, ‘Abbas qui et scriptor? The Handwriting of Robert of Torigni and His Scribal Activity as Abbot of Mont-Saint-Michel (1154–1186)’, Traditio 69 (2014), 20. 37 Chazan, L’Empire et l’histoire universelle, 164–73, 311–402; H. W. Goetz, ‘The Concept of Time in the Historiography of the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, in Medieval Concepts of the Past, ed. G. Althoff, J. Fried and P. J. Geary (Cambridge, 2003), 151; A.-D. von den Brincken, Studien zur lateinischen Weltchronistick bis in das Zeitalter Otto von Freising (Dusseldorf, 1957), 66; R. W. Burgess and M. Kulikowski, Mosaics Of Time: The Latin Chronicle Traditions from the First Century BC to the Sixth Century AD. 1: A Historical Introduction to the Chronicle Genre from Its Origins to the High Middle Ages (Turnhout, 2012), 266–7. 38 Torigni, ed. Bisson, i, xlix–liii; D. Bates, ‘Robert of Torigni and the Historia Anglorum’, in The English and Their Legacy, 900–1200: Essays in Honour of Ann Williams, ed. D. Roffe (Woodbridge, 2012), 175–84. 39 On the tradition of universal chronicle-writing, see B. Croke, ‘The Origins of the Christian World Chronicle’, in History and Historians in Late Antiquity, ed. B. Croke (Sydney, 1983), 116–41; H. Inglebert, Le Monde, l’histoire (Paris, 2014), 220–385; M. I. Allen, ‘Universal History 300–1000: Origins and Western Developments’, in Historiography in the Middle Ages, ed. D. M. Deliyannis (Leiden, 2003), 17–42. 40 Chronographia, 300–2; see also Chazan, L’Empire et l’histoire universelle, 148–51.



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reported the chronicles of Eusebius-Jerome and Sigebert in a textual and graphic continuity. The scribe of Dijon 561 arranged the text of the chronicles in two columns signalling on the top of each the anni domini and the regnal years of the late-antique and medieval dynasties reckoned by Eusebius-Jerome and Sigebert.41 The transition from one chronicle to the other occurs within the same folio and is emphasized only by rubrics.42 The only exception is for the beginning of Sigebert’s chronicle, which is highlighted by a particularly lavish arrangement of the page.43 The graphic layout of these authoritative chronicles, representing the contemporalitas regnorum, came to be understood as a textual and ideological matrix through which the reckoning of time, the record of events, and the succession of royal and imperial powers were understood as the unfolding of the divine will in the saeculum.44 This interpretation of chronological totality was upheld by the author of the Continuatio Ursicampina, who shared the eschatological concerns received from the Mortemer manuscript. As mentioned above, Dijon 561 reports extracts from Hugh of Saint-Victor’s De Tribus Maximis Circumstantiis, including a diagram which graphically explained the allegorical coincidence between the ages of the world with the days of Creation.45 In conjunction with the diagram, the Ourscamp chronicler supplied a succinct chronological discussion concerning the duration of the first two ages as theorized by Hugh of Saint-Victor.46 At the end of each chronology, as starting ab initio and summarizing the biblical genealogies of Genesis, he included rubrics which signalled the end of each age and reckoned its duration.47 These extracts provided a chronological complement to the mainly secular series temporum devised by Eusebius, Jerome and Sigebert of Gembloux. The inclusion of biblical chronologies according to the succession of the ages filled the gap of the Ourscamp liber chronicorum which, standing only with Eusebius and his successors, lacked the chronological reckoning since the Creation. The Ourscamp chronicler did not consider these chronological and eschatological calculations only as an introductory remark to the manuscript. Rather, he interpreted them as a defining feature of his chronographic endeavour. In the entry for the 201st olympiad (2040th year since Abraham), Eusebius had set the beginning of Christ’s public life, which in the Mortemer manuscript is pointed out only by the rubric ‘Iesus Christus filius dei’.48 The Ourscamp chronicler, instead, decided to change the phrasing of the rubric by synchronizing the beginning of Christ’s preaching with the beginning of the sixth age.49 It appears that Hugh of Saint-Victor’s reckoning of time did not merely represent an introduction to Eusebius’s chronicle, but rather constituted a fundamental element for the chronology of the Continuatio MS Dijon BM 561, fols 41r–43v, 66r–70v. MS Dijon BM 561, fols 52v, 56r. 43 MS Dijon BM 561, fols 59v–63v. 44 A.-D. von den Brincken, ‘Contemporalitas Regnorum: Beobachtungen zum Versuch des Sigebert von Gembloux, die Chronik des Hieronymus fortzusetzen’, in Historiographia Medievalis: Studien zur Geschichtsschreibung und Quellenkunde des Mittelalters, Festschrift fur Franz-Josef Schmale zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. D. Berg and H.-W. Goetz (Darmstadt, 1988), 199–211; Goetz, ‘The Concept of Time’, 151–3; Allen, ‘Universal History’, 18. 45 The diagram is introduced by the rubric ‘hugonis Parisiensis de sancto victore chronica’. See MS Dijon BM 561 fol. 5v. 46 MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fol. 3v; cf. MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 6r. 47 MS Dijon BM 561 fol. 6r: Explicit etas p(ri)ma (con)tinens annos mdclvi. Incipit (secund)a; See also the following rubric: Explicit etas s(e)c(un)da continens annor(um) ccxcii; cf. MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fol. 3v. 48 MS Paris BnF Lat. 4863, fol. 33v. 49 The revised rubric accompanied the text which followed the reading of the Mortemer exemplar. See MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 42r: Sextas etas incipit. Ih(esu)s (Christus) filius dei. 41

42

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Ursicampina. On the one hand, the Ourscamp chronicler reconciled, through the contemporary auctoritas of Hugh of Saint-Victor, the Eusebius-Jeromian tradition of chronicle-writing with the Bedan one as starting from Creation.50 On the other, he made clear the relevance of a computistic and eschatological understanding as the key to interpreting the whole corpus of chronicles. The Interpolation of the Continuatio Ursicampina In the light of this argument, we can now analyse the insertion of the HRB into the Continuatio Ursicampina from a fresh angle. The process of interpolation reflected more closely a re-elaboration of the British past within the longue durée of universal history. Despite its early success in Normandy, the HRB was considered a questionable source to use in historical enquiry. For instance, Robert of Torigni himself did not reject engagement with the Galfridian past in his Chronography but he employed a more cautious strategy. Robert did not interpolate Sigebert’s text with the HRB, but he supplied the Galfridian past by attaching Henry of Huntingdon’s letter to Warin after the prologue to his continuation.51 The Ourscamp chronicler was therefore aware that the textual interpolation of Galfridian material implied the inclusion of contradictory narratives into a carefully designed chronographic framework. Nonetheless, the methodological caveats, along with the occasional scepticism, should not overshadow the intellectual complexity of the project.52 The first interpolation extracted from the HRB appears in the prologue of Sigebert’s chronicle: here a rewritten paragraph de regno Brittonum replaces the original text with a summary of the early narrative of the HRB. The Ourscamp chronicler summarized Books I and II of the HRB, providing a brief and effective overview of Brutus’s peregrinations in Greece and Mauritania before his settlement in Albion.53 After having provided the background for the mythical origins of the British crown,54 the prologue concludes with a concise anticipation of the main events following the succession of the early kings, from Vortigern and the arrival of the Saxons in Britain, to Arthur – rex invictus et magnificus – to whom five kings succeeded before the rise of the Anglo-Saxon dynasty.55 Sigebert’s original prologue was rather succinct in comparison, as it only mentioned how the Britons had settled in Britain since the time of Julius Caesar.56 Only when approaching the end of the prologue does the Continuatio Ursicampina follow Sigebert’s chronicle more closely. The Ourscamp chronicler resumed Sigebert’s text adding only a reference to Adamic chronology which shows more markedly his attention to chronological completeness.57 Since he largely replaced Sigebert’s prologue with a thorough See Bede, Chronica maiora, ed. T. Mommsen, MGH Auct. Ant. 13 (Berlin, 1888), 247–327; Inglebert, Le Monde, l’histoire, 422; H. W. Goetz, ‘Historiographisches Zeitbewußtsein im frühen Mittelalter: zum Umgang mit der Zeit in der Geschichtsschreibung’, in Vorstellungsgeschichte: Gesammelte Schriften zu Wahrnehmungen, Deutungen und Vorstellungen im Mittelalter, ed. H.-W. Goetz et al. (Bochum, 2007), 477–95. 51 Torigni, ed. Bisson, i, 8–35; Wright, ‘The Place of Henry of Huntington’s Epistola ad Warinum’, 71–113; Bates, ‘Robert of Torigni and the Historia Anglorum’, 177; Tahkokallio, ‘French Chronicles’, 61–2. 52 Tahkokallio, ‘French Chroniclers’, 60. 53 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 61r; HRB, I, 26–7. 54 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 61r; HRB, II, 30–1, IV, 88–9. 55 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 61v. 56 Chronographia, 300. 57 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 63v: Secundum int(er)prete(m) t(u)n(c) qui hebraica(m) seq(ui)tur veritatem computantur ab Adam usq(ue) ad hoc tempus anni 3331.

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summary of the HRB, it appears that the Ourscamp chronicler not only had access to a copy of the HRB, but also understood his systematic inclusion of the Galfridian past as a major contribution. In fact, the rewriting of the British past shown in the prologue represents a good preview of the approach to textual interpolation that the author of the Continuatio Ursicampina would employ throughout the chronicle. The Ourscamp chronicler was aware of the methodological problems posed by the HRB and the necessarily reconstructive character of the process of interpolation. At the beginning of Sigebert’s text the Ourscamp chronicler included a column purposefully drawn on the left-hand margin of the folio which clarifies his approach: ‘Many of the things that have been inserted in this chronicle are not known in other sources, especially concerning the deeds and the kings of the British which we excerpted from their history that had been translated from British into Latin.’58 This remark can be understood both as a methodological caveat and as a declaration of belief in the authenticity of the HRB.59 Nonetheless, by exposing this judgement at the very beginning of his continuation, the Ourscamp chronicler revealed his awareness of the historiographical rationale underlying the endeavour of chronicle-writing. He made clear to the reader the methodological implications of interpolating an authoritative chronicle with the HRB, a history whose account had not been confirmed by other historians and which had a questionable source that only Geoffrey of Monmouth had accessed.60 The HRB was indeed a tricky source: not only did it propose an alternative narrative for the British past, it also contradicted the account provided by Sigebert of Gembloux. In the entry for the year 414 (recte 410), following the mention of the sack of Rome, the chronicler added a notandum commenting on the rise of tyranny in Britain with Gratian and in France with Constantine III and Constans.61 Yet this account contradicted the narrative of the HRB, according to which Gratian, Constantine and Constans were British kings.62 In this instance, the Ourscamp chronicler tried to rationalize the contradiction by shifting attention towards the confusion caused by the names of the kings, who all were considered tyrants by the contemporaries for their attempt to subdue the Roman Empire.63 The mediation between the auctoritas of Sigebert of Gembloux and the Galfridian material becomes even more problematic when the Ourscamp chronicler faced the most mirabilis part of the HRB: the Arthurian account.64 In the entry for the year 470 the Continuatio Ursicampina reported the entry concerning Riothinum, a British king who, according to Sigebert, came to the aid of the Romans in defending Gaul.65 Following this passage, the Ourscamp chronicler added a long MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 64r: Nota in his chronicis multa posita e(ss)e que in aliis n(on) habentur, maxime de regibus et gestis britonum que excerpsimus ex historia illorum que de britannico in latinu(m) sermone(m) nup(er) translata e(st). 59 Tahkokallio, ‘French Chroniclers’, 57. 60 HRB, II, 208. 61 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 69v; Chronographia, 306. 62 HRB, VI, 110. 63 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 69v: Notandum v(ero) q(uo)d tre p(ri)mi reges q(ui)dem Britannie fuer(un) t sibi succedentes Gratianus videlicet Constantinus et Constans s(ed) ideo tyranni ut arbitror appellantur, quia Romano Imperio subiectione(m) [minime] exhibebant v(e)l quia ipsum imp(er)ium invadere nitebantur. 64 On the concept of mirabilis, see J.-R. Valette, ‘Merveille et merveilleux: des sollicitations mythiques à l’approche socio-historique. Retour sur quarante ans d’études littéraires’, in Aspetti del meraviglioso nelle letterature medievali: Medioevo latino, romanzo, germanico e celtico, ed. F. E. Consolino, F. Marzella and L. Spetia (Turnhout, 2016), 117–35. 65 Chronographia, 311, s.a. 470. 58

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note in which he openly questioned the truthfulness of the HRB.66 According to Tahkokallio, the chronicler distanced himself from the Arthurian narrative which made him hesitant to judge Geoffrey’s account.67 However, on a closer inspection, it seems that the main preoccupation – and difficulty – of the chronicler was to insert the correct information in the entry for the correct year: I indeed think that there is great disagreement among historians on various things, not only in the reckoning of the years but also in the deeds and the names of the people, so that what one did, it is stated that another did it or said it, and what happened in one year it is reported that happened in another year.68

With this passage, which is clearly reminiscent of Hugh of Saint-Victor’s historical methodology as laid out in De Tribus Maximis Circumstantiis,69 the Ourscamp chronicler shows that the contradiction between Geoffrey’s work and Sigebert’s chronicle emerges in the impossibility of cross-referencing the HRB account with other sources because of its contradictory narrative and chronology. The main complications of the HRB are more urgently found in the practicalities of interpolating the barely datable account of the HRB within a chronographic structure that required year-by-year precision. In the entry for 491 the Ourscamp chronicler explicitly expressed this very contradiction by presenting two conflicting accounts for the same entry. The chronicler highlighted the contrast between Sigebert’s account, which signalled the translatio imperii from the British to the English,70 and the account of the HRB, which conflictingly reported Arthur as king of Britain until 542.71 However, the Ourscamp chronicler decided to follow Sigebert in the royal succession by reporting in rubrics the names of the kings Aelle and Ceawlin as reges Anglorum.72 This ambiguous transition represents a statement of auctoritas by the chronicler, who in this case decided to maintain Sigebert’s English royal succession while allowing the reader to make up his own mind about the truthfulness of the HRB. Yet, the Ourscamp chronicler not only continued interpolating Sigebert’s chronicle with the HRB, but also kept the nomenclature reges Brittonum in the chronographic structure of the manuscript. Only in the entry for the year 498 did the style reges Anglorum finally replace reges Brittonum in the chronographic column as an identification of the English kings.73 The criticism of the Ourscamp chronicler was thus the result of the contrast between the complex textual program of annalistic interpolation and the fluid historical reliability of the HRB. Despite the historical contradictions, he went through a MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 78v. Tahkokallio, ‘French Chroniclers’, 58–9. 68 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 78v: ‘Multa(m) eni(m) int(er) historicos varia re considero diu(er)sitate(m), n(on) solu(m) in annis, s(ed) et(iam) in gestis atq(ue) nominib(us) p(er)sonaru(m), ut q(uo)d iste fecerit, alius fecisse u(el) dixisse asseratur, et q(uo)d hoc anno euenerit, in alio anno euenisse dicat(ur)’. 69 Green, ‘Hugo of St. Victor: De Tribus Maximis Circumstantiis Gestorum’, 491; see also F. van Liere, ‘Omnia Disce: Hugh of St. Victor on History, the Arts, and Exegesis’, Florilegium 30 (2013), 191–210. 70 Chronographia, 313. 71 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 81r: Hoc loco q(ui)dam ponunt inicium regni angloru(m) s(ed) in hac re multu(m) dissonant historiae cum s(e)c(un)d(u)m p(re)fatum libellu(m) de regib(us) britonu(m) ad huc regnare Arturus totius Britanniae monarchia(m) tenens usque ad d(omi)nice incarnationis annum 542 q(ua)n(do) ultimu(m) ei bellu(m) fuit contra Mordredu(m) nepote(m) suum ubi et letaliter vuln(er)atus fuisse d(icitu)r. Lectoris itaq(ue) iudicio ista relinq(ue)ntes regni anglor(um) ordine(m) prosequem(ur). 72 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 81r; MS Paris, BnF Lat. 4863, fol. 87r. 73 Throughout the chronicle it is reported simply a capital B to indicate the column of the reges Brittonum which eventually is replaced by a capital A for the reges Anglorum. See MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 82r. 66 67



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thorough process of interpolation which showed his engagement in reconstructing the dynastic continuity of the English kings, past and present. The Ourscamp chronicler opportunely summarized the lengthy narratives of the HRB to portion them across the Sigebertian series temporum. For instance, the entry for the year 436 reported the marriage between the British king Vortigern and Hengist’s sister, who by virtue of marriage obtained Kent.74 The Ourscamp chronicler managed to condense in the same entry the account concerning the British resistance to Saxon interference and Vortimer’s rebellion against the Saxons.75 Moreover, the entries concerning Uther Pendragon are offered a significantly larger space in comparison with the previous entries. In the entry for the year 466 the Ourscamp chronicler described the battle between Uther and the two Saxon leaders Octa and Eosa. Here the chronicler not only emphasized Uther’s heroic courage by reporting how the king gained victory against the Saxons despite being sick, but he also stressed the king’s leadership by including, for the first time in the chronicle, Uther’s speech before the battle.76 Despite the chronicler’s suspension of judgement regarding the Arthurian material,77 King Arthur was central in the textual project of the Continuatio Ursicampina. In various entries the Ourscamp chronicler reported information emphasizing Arthur’s prowess. For instance, in the entry for the year 470, along with the succession to his father Uther, the chronicler reported Arthur’s decision to cut the trees that provided shelter to the Saxons at Lincoln and the following battle in Somerset where the king, armed with his golden dragon-shaped helm, his spear Ron, and the famous Excalibur, managed to kill more than four hundred enemies.78 Interestingly, the Ourscamp chronicler did not report the specificities concerning these episodes, such as the location where the battles took place (Lincoln–Kaerluidcoit), nor mentioned the names of Arthur’s Saxon enemies (Colgrimus and his brother Baldulfus).79 By blurring the ‘historical’ details the Ourscamp chronicler not only contradicted his self-proclaimed goal of historical accuracy but also suggested his approach to the Arthurian myth. The author of the Continuatio Ursicampina is more interested in idealizing Arthur as a warrior-king, rather than reporting in full the ‘historical’ Arthur of the HRB. This same approach is shown also in the later entries summarizing the expansion of Arthur’s ‘empire’ with the conquest of Ireland, Iceland and the Orkney Islands.80 The entry for the year 482 condenses not only Arthur’s submission of the kings of Norway and Denmark but also his campaign in Gaul against the Roman tribune Frollo, whom Arthur eventually defeated, thus adding Gaul (i.e. France) to his dominions.81 While keeping a methodological distance from the HRB, the Ourscamp chronicler tried to synchronize Frollo’s defeat and the Arthurian conquest of Gaul as occurring at the time of Emperor Leo II (467–474).82 Despite the caveats, MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 72v. HRB, VI, 130–4. 76 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 78r; HRB, VIII, 190–1. 77 Arthur’s deeds are defined ‘fabulous’. See MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 78v: Mortuo i(gitur) Uther Pendragon rege sublimatus e(st) in regno filius eiusArturus cuius mirabiles actus et lingue p(er)sonant popular(um) licet plura e(ss)e fabilosa videatur. 78 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 78v; HRB, VIII, 192–3; on the tactical cutting of trees, see HRB, VIII, 196–7; on the battle of Somerset, see HRB, VIII, 198–9. 79 HRB, IX, 196–8. 80 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 79r; HRB, IX, 204–5. 81 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 80r; HRB, IX, 206–8. 82 This account is interpolated in the entry for the ninth year of Emperor Zeno (474–491), Leo’s successor. See MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 80r: Porro historiam illius dicit hoc factum fuisse sub leone imp(er) atore et quenda(m) Follone(m) tunc tribunu(m) galliaru(m) cum Arturo singulare certament habuisse. 74 75

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the synchronization of this entry with the rest of Sigebert’s chronology legitimized the historicity of the Galfridian past and set Arthurian history within the framework of universal history. More importantly, it established an image of King Arthur as a conqueror, the head of a vast empire that threatened even Rome.83 The scientific requirements of computus contrasted with the fantastic Galfridian narrativity. The Ourscamp chronicler did nothing to hide such contrast and, apparently, put up an attitude of detachment from his contradictory source. Nonetheless, the painstaking interpolation of the Galfridian account into Sigebert’s chronicle reveals more the chronicler’s relentless dedication to the endeavour rather than the extent of his scepticism. Despite the factual and chronological contradictions of the HRB, the Ourscamp chronicler went through a process of textual reconstruction of the universal past, which aimed to ideologically reconstruct the continuity of the British kings along the series temporum of the Eusebius-Jeromian and Sigebertian chronicles. Thus, the impact of the Galfridian past on the writing of Sigebert’s chronicle should not be dismissed too readily. Through the interpolations, the Ourscamp chronicler embedded into his continuatio the political message of the HRB, which not only reconstructed the history of Britain as a unitary kingdom with a mythical origin, but also legitimized the contemporary Anglo-Norman hegemony in the line of succession. Nowhere is this more clear than where the Ourscamp chronicler introduces the Prophetiae Merlini. Geoffrey of Monmouth had conceived Merlin’s prophecies as an independent text that only at a later stage was included within the narrative of the HRB.84 In the entry for the year 445 the Ourscamp chronicler dramatically shortened – and simplified – the prophecies by concisely reporting the omen of the two fighting dragons, the red and the white, as representing the British and the Saxons.85 He agreed with Merlin’s prediction of a momentary crisis in British rulership under Vortigern and then its full recovery and triumph under Uther Pendragon and Arthur.86 However, in the Continuatio Ursicampina Merlin’s prophecies are unambiguous. They foretold that Arthur, the boar of Cornwall, ‘would come in the aid of the Church, would subject to him the western isles, would conquer the French provinces, would present himself to the dreadful Roman army and would have a mysterious end’.87 Moreover, the Ourscamp chronicler ventured a personal interpretation of the triumph of the red dragon. According to the chronicler, the prophecy outlined, in figura, the providential triumph of the Normans: ‘England, along with many territories that we can hardly image until they will appear, shall be Hic pacto cui victoria p(er)veniret victoqu(ue) illo Follone ceterisq(ue) ducib(us) galliaru(m) subactis Parisius curiam Arturu(m) tenuisse statu(m)q(ue) regni pace et lege confirmasse virisq(ue) nobilib(us) p(ro)vinciaru(m) dignitate delegasse et ita p(os)t nove(m) annos in Britannia(m) redisse. 83 Bates, The Normans and Empire, 181–2. 84 The Prophetiae open book VI and are introduced by their own prologue. See HRB, Prophetiae, 142–3; Flood, Prophecy, Politics and Place, 19–22; J. Crick, Geoffrey of Monmouth III. A Summary Catalogue of the Manuscripts (Cambridge, 1989), 330–2; see also J. Crick, ‘Geoffrey and the Prophetic Tradition’, in The Arthur of Medieval Latin Literature: The Development and Dissemination of the Arthurian Legend in Medieval Latin, ed. S. Echard (Cardiff, 2011), 67–82; C. D. Eckhardt, ‘The Prophetiae Merlini of Geoffrey of Monmouth: Latin Manuscript Copies’, Manuscripta 26 (1982), 167–76. 85 HRB, VI, 138–40. 86 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 74r; HRB, VI, 144–5: Sub lacu duo latere dracones quorum unus rubeus pop(u) lum Brittonum alter v(ero) album gente(m) Saxonum designaret et quis in confictu suo alteri p(re)valeret. Predixit Aureliu(m) Ambrosiu(m) devicto Hengisto et combusto Wortigerno regnaturum fratremq(ue) ei(us) Uther Pendragon in regno ei successurum et utrunque veneno p(er)iturum. 87 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 74r; HRB, VI, 144–5: Arturu(m) v(ero) que apru(m) Cornubie vocat p(ro) phetavit q(uo)d eccl(esi)e d(e)i succurreret q(uo)d insulas occid(en)tales sibi subiugaret, q(uo)d gallicana provincias possideret, q(uo)d romano exercitui terribile se exhiberet et q(uo)d exitum dubium haberet.



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ruled under the domination of the Normans.’88 To further legitimize the authenticity of the prophecies, he even compared Merlin, in his capacity as prophet, with famous classical and biblical examples of non-Christian prophesying: the Sybils and the biblical non-Israelite prophet Balaam.89 The traditional (scholarly) interpretation of Merlin’s prophecies hinged on British political resurgence related to the Welsh recovery of Ceredigion between 1136 and 1137.90 However, more recently Victoria Flood has argued that the prophecies, albeit founded upon Welsh prophetic tradition, aimed at representing a pro-Norman historical perspective in the development of British history.91 Merlin’s prophecies not only foretold of Normandy as head of a vast constellation of dominions, which included England, but also conceded ground for the interpretation of Norman history in continuity with the glorious British past reported in the HRB. They thus reflected an openly pro-Norman interpretation of history to appeal to the contemporary Anglo-Norman elites.92 The interpretation of the prophecies voiced by the Ourscamp chronicler further supports this view. By including Merlin’s prophecies and purposefully stressing the prefiguration of Norman greatness, the Ourscamp chronicler overtly showed his Anglo-Norman political angle. However doubtful, Geoffrey’s work recounted prophetically the tale of Norman greatness and its hegemony over England. This interpretation thus informed the whole Continuatio Ursicampina and it provided the main political stimulus for interpolating Sigebert’s chronicle with the HRB. Conclusion Robert of Torigni was not the only chronicler to have pursued reconciliation between Sigebert’s universal chronicle and the HRB. As we have seen, the Continuatio Ursicampina enshrined a sophisticated textual project which attempted to frame the British past within the Eusebius-Jeromian and Sigebertian traditions of universal chronicle-writing. Although it would be speculative to attempt to establish who promoted the copying and interpolation of Sigebert’s chronicle at Ourscamp, it is possible that this endeavour occurred after 1155, when the abbey of Ourscamp established a closer, albeit short-lived, connection with the Anglo-Norman political sphere through Abbot Stephen. At this juncture a political reading of the HRB might have been tolerated, even actively encouraged, at Ourscamp. The practicalities of the Sigebertian time-reckoning revealed the weaknesses of Galfridian chronology and the questionable reliability of the account. Nonetheless, the critical approach of the Ourscamp chronicler makes the historical revision even more telling of its political implications. The chronicler tried to negotiate the disputed Galfridian past with the Eusebius-Sigebertian construction of time and history. In a sense, he tried to fit the ‘missing tile’ of the British past within the chronological and historical mosaic of the Eusebius-Jeromian and Sigebertian chronicles. In so MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 74r: P(ro)phetavit et(iam) q(uo)d sub normannorum d(omi)nio redigenda e(sse)t Anglia et alia plurima que vix intelligi possunt donec apparere incipiant. 89 MS Dijon BM 561, fol. 74r: Solet eni(m) sp(iritu)s d(e)i p(er) quos voluerit mysteria sua loqui sicut p(er) sybillam sicut p(er) Balaam ceterosq(ue) huiusmodi. 90 Gillingham, ‘Context and Purposes’, 33–4, 38; on the Norman losses in Wales, see R. R. Davies, The Age of Conquest: Wales 1063–1415 (Oxford, 1987), 45–6. 91 Flood, Prophecy, Politics and Place, 38; Farrell, ‘History, Prophecy and the Arthur of the Normans’, 111–12. 92 Farrell, ‘History, Prophecy and the Arthur of the Normans’, 99–114. 88

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doing, the Ourscamp chronicler legitimized the apparently undisrupted succession between the Galfridian kings and the contemporary English kings while actively fostering the narrative of Norman hegemony in his reconstruction of the British and English dynastic past.

‘AUDI ISRAEL’: APOSTOLIC AUTHORITY IN THE CORONATION OF MATHILDA OF FLANDERS Laura L. Gathagan Mathilda of Flanders’s coronation and anointing on the feast of Pentecost, 11 May, 1068 at Westminster was unlike any other seen in England before and included innovative triumphalist elements confected solely for her.1 It was also the first time (as far as we know) that the ritual was performed for a queen who was noticeably pregnant. Mathilda was carrying her last child, the future Henry I, as she became a divinely ordained ruler through anointing and coronation.2 Not only was Mathilda the originator of Norman queenship on Pentecost in 1068, she embodied the new Norman royal dynasty highlighted by the contours of her own form. Acknowledging my debt to the work of Johanna Dale, I consider two important elements of Mathilda’s royal inauguration: the date that she chose for her rite and the personnel who might have had a hand in crafting it.3 The day of Pentecost was one of the highest holy days of the year, second only to Easter in importance in the liturgical calendar. The year 1068 signalled a permanent end to the honeymoon period – if there indeed was one – between the tattered remains of the English aristocracy and the new Norman administration.4 One fundamental assumption underpins my analysis: that Mathilda of Flanders, duchess of Normandy and first Norman queen of England, had a say in her own coronation rite. I do not maintain that Mathilda planned her liturgy alone any more than William the Conqueror did his. The ministers and officials who served them both brought enormous expertise to this ceremony. I will argue, in fact, that the nascent Norman royal court was unusually well served by a talented group of liturgists. It would have been absurd, however, to ignore the expertise the Norman queen had in such abundance at her command. But there is not direct evidence about the authors of Mathilda’s coronation. In any mystery, the foundational question must always be cui bono? Who benefits? The key beneficiary of Mathilda’s coronation was undeniably the queen herself. Secondarily, it also served William and the entire Anglo-Norman administration at the head of which they both stood. Failing any evidence to the contrary, then, I propose that Mathilda made choices about her own royal inauguration. The key to our understanding of her role is that she had a free hand in choosing the day on which her liturgy occurred. The opportunity to freely choose the day of a royal inauguration was not always available; the death of a royal predecessor or anxiety

My grateful thanks to Charles Insley, who read an early version of this essay, and to Stephen Church for his care in shepherding it to completion. 2 C. Warren Hollister, Henry I (New Haven, CT, 2001), 31. 3 Johanna Dale, Inauguration and Liturgical Kingship in the Long Twelfth Century: Male and Female Accession Rituals in England, France and the Empire (York, 2019), especially 105–29. 4 Ann Williams, The English and the Norman Conquest (Woodbridge, 1995), 23. 1

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about succession meant some inauguration rites were scheduled within significant time constraints. In Mathilda’s case, however, there were no such restrictions.5 The choice to have her rite performed on Pentecost ensured two mass services; the festival of Pentecost had an evening vigil attached, just as Easter did, in the liturgical calendar. As a result, Mathilda’s inauguration day expanded into a two-day event with associated readings and prayers that visiting courtiers and dignitaries would be expected to attend. The resonance of Pentecost for Mathilda’s coronation was deeper, moreover, than an opportunity to lengthen and enlarge the event. The mass for the feast of Pentecost commemorates the reception of the Holy Spirit by Christ’s disciples. According to scripture, as Christ’s followers gathered in an upper room to celebrate the Jewish observance of the holiday, tongues of flame anointed their heads. This was the Holy Spirit, believed to be the representative of the Trinity that abided within believers, guiding their thoughts and actions into alignment with Christ’s perfection. As the Holy Spirit descended, the apostles miraculously spoke in all the dialects of the Jewish people present, and could be understood by everyone assembled. The passage used for the Pentecost mass was Acts 2, verses 6–11: And when the days of the Pentecost were accomplished, they were all together in one place. And suddenly there came a sound from heaven, as of a mighty wind coming: and it filled the whole house where they were sitting. And there appeared to them parted tongues, as it were of fire: and it sat upon every one of them. And they were all filled with the Holy Ghost: and they began to speak with divers tongues, according as the Holy Ghost gave them to speak. Now there were dwelling at Jerusalem, Jews, devout men, out of every nation under heaven. And when this was noised abroad, the multitude came together, and were confounded in mind, because that every man heard them speak in his own tongue. And they were all amazed, and wondered, saying: Behold, are not all these that speak Galilean? And how have we heard, every man our own tongue wherein we were born? Parthians and Medes and Elamites and inhabitants of Mesopotamia, Judea, and Cappadocia, Pontus and Asia, Phrygia and Pamphylia, Egypt and the parts of Libya about Cyrene, and strangers of Rome, Jews also, and proselytes, Cretes, and Arabians: we have heard them speak in our own tongues the wonderful works of God.6

The tongues of fire anointing the disciples’ heads in scripture were a direct parallel to Mathilda’s anointing, which would have happened just before the mass commenced. It was a short step indeed to move from Mathilda, anointed by God as his queenly representative on earth, to the anointing by the Holy Spirit of all English Christians, subject to her. ‘The unity of the Holy Spirit’ was a key element in the prayers for the day. In this context, that unity seemed to reference obedience to her rule.7 5 Later queens also chose their inauguration days with care. Edith/Mathilda of Scotland, Mathilda of Flanders’s daughter-in-law, was crowned on 11 November 1100, the feast day of St Martin, or Martinmas, an important observance in Scotland. This reference to her royal Scottish background was certainly a conscious one and highlighted her heritage as the grand-daughter of Edmund Ironside. The Empress Matilda, Mathilda of Flanders’s grand-daughter, was consecrated on Monday 25 July 1110, the feast of St James. A relic of the hand of St James was held at the royal chapel where the Empress was crowned, making the choice a fitting one for her rite. Chibnall suggests this was the reason she took the relic with her when she returned to England. Marjorie Chibnall, The Empress Matilda: Queen Consort, Queen Mother and Lady of the English (Oxford, 1993), 24–5. Karl Leyser, ‘Frederick Barbarossa, Henry II and the Hand of St James’, EHR 90, no. 356 (Jul. 1975), 481–506. For more on Edith/Matilda, see Lois Huneycutt, Matilda of Scotland: A Study in Medieval Queenship (Woodbridge, 2003), 31 and 35. 6 Acts 2:6–11 (Douay-Rheims Bible). 7 King Edgar received his ‘imperial’ ‘second’ coronation in 973 at Pentecost at Bath. Both location and occasion were significant in symbolizing a new unity of the British Isles under Edgar’s leadership; Ann Williams, ‘Edgar [called Edgar Pacificus] (943/4–975), king of England’, ODNB. Retrieved 5 Jan. 2021.



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There was a rich English exegetical tradition about Pentecost already in place when Mathilda stepped onto English soil. An important part of that tradition – coming down from Gregory the Great through English intellectual giants like Bede to Ælfric – linked Pentecost with the Old Testament passage on the Tower of Babel. The scriptural passage these early churchmen used is found in Genesis 11, verses 1–9: And the earth was of one tongue, and of the same speech. And when they removed from the east, they found a plain in the land of Sennaar, and dwelt in it. And each one said to his neighbour: Come let us make brick, and bake them with fire. And they had brick instead of stones, and slime instead of mortar: and they said: Come, let us make a city and a tower, the top whereof may reach to heaven; and let us make our name famous before we be scattered abroad into all lands. And the Lord came down to see the city and the tower, which the children of Adam were building. And he said: Behold, it is one people, and all have one tongue: and they have begun to do this, neither will they leave off from their designs, till they accomplish them in deed. Come ye, therefore, let us go down, and there confound their tongue, that they may not understand one another’s speech. And so the Lord scattered them from that place into all lands, and they ceased to build the city. And therefore, the name thereof was called Babel, because there the language of the whole earth was confounded: and from thence the Lord scattered them abroad upon the face of all countries.8

For the English exegetes, both Pentecost and the Tower of Babel were stories about linguistic variety but they were used in opposition to each other. The arrogance of the Old Testament Jews in building a tower to reach the heavens resulted in the confusion of many tongues – God’s judgement on their conceit. This ancient sin was answered by the New Testament miracle of Pentecost, in which the Holy Spirit allowed the Jews to once again experience the unity of one language. Gregory the Great drew connections between the Pentecost miracle and the forming of the apostolic church. The immediate after-effect of the Pentecost miracle, in the Acts passage, was the baptism of three thousand converts and the beginnings of a cohesive body of the faithful. The three thousand were the foundation of ‘Christendom’, the new world Church. The original mission to convert the ‘Angles’ by Pope Gregory in the early seventh century, moreover, was seen as a direct result of Pentecost. Bede’s commentary on Genesis in the eighth century made this link. For Bede, the two stories were the focus of an allegorical lesson – an almost Augustinian contrast – between an earthly (sinful) city of Babel, built with the bricks of ignorance, and the (holy) City of God, built from Christ’s own body. Bede highlighted the linguistic elements of the miracle in his hymn to the Holy Day of Pentecost, in which all the churches of the world sing in one language. Bede was widely read in the AngloNorman court. Bede’s Historia Ecclesiastica was brought in, opened and used as evidence in the primacy debate between Canterbury and York, a Church council over which Mathilda herself presided.9 Ælfric ‘the Grammarian’, writing in the late tenth century, took up the thread in his exegesis of Pentecost; the apostle’s miracle of languages as the restoration of unity lost at the Tower of Babel. He insisted that the apostles had been able to speak in all languages of the world, including those, like English, that would occur in the future. For Ælfric the original pre-Babel language was Hebrew, and English had its roots in this ancient Judaic tongue.

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Genesis 11:1–9 (DRB). Letters of Lanfranc, 48–56.

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Mathilda and her ministers knew the Pentecost miracle of languages would have deep resonance with the gathered crowd, and that they could build on it. The Norman French and Anglo-Saxon tongues became, in this reading, united by the Holy Spirit. While the two peoples may have been foreign to each other, they both communicated with the godhead through the Holy Ghost’s guidance. The Genesis Tower of Babel passage used in conjunction with Acts created a layered message. First, the original unity of God’s people, disrupted by their own ambition. Then, like so many medieval links between the Old and New Testament, Christ’s coming – and the Holy Spirit’s anointing – healed that ancient rupture. The unification of a people whose sin of ambition, under the ‘old law’, had led God to separate them was now accomplished through the ‘new law’ of Christ. They once spoke as one people but their arrogance had led God to scatter them. Now, however, under Christ, they were reconnected. Their reformation under the Holy Spirit made an old wrong right again and fulfilled their original destiny as a unified people. For the assembly listening to the mass, the past and present would concertina together easily. The ancient Jews were conflated with the English. This was another link familiar to the English that Mathilda and her ecclesiastical courtiers could exploit: the English as God’s new chosen people and England as the ‘new Jerusalem’. The parallels between them were used in Bede, Wulfstan and Aelfric. Each of these English theological titans had likened the English to the Jewish people. The English used the Old Testament as a ‘veiled way of talking about their own situation’, especially in terms of warfare, royal rule and politics.10 Tracing out the theological sinews linking the English with the Jews in the Old Testament also left space for the Normans to adopt the role of the apostles, uniting a people divided by their own godlessness. The metaphor needed little calibration to cast the newly formed polity of the Anglo-Normans, imposed on the English people, as the unity pre-figured by the apostles in the New Testament. It was a theme the English would have recognized. Their resistance to the new Anglo-Norman order could be parlayed into the stiff-necked arrogance featured in Old Testament Babel. The imposition of unity upon them could have apostolic significance. As Gregory the Great used Pentecost as the prime mover in his missionary activity to the ‘Angles’, so the Normans could cast themselves into the role of missionaries to the heathen, fallen English Church. The papal legates sent to England after the Conquest asserted as much.11 According to their apologists, Pope Alexander had laid the reform of English churches at the door of the new Norman administration. The final act of Pentecost, the conversion of three thousand and the formation of a new church, also needed very little adjustment to fit the Norman narrative of reform. The English were the Jews of Babel. The Normans were their apostolic unifiers with freshly anointed Mathilda at their head. But the analogy of Babel was not the most inflammatory scripture used at that Pentecost celebration. The text chosen for the Pentecost vigil mass the night before

Malcolm Godden, ‘Biblical Literature: The Old Testament’, in The Cambridge Companion to Old English Literature ed. Malcolm Godden and Michael Lapidge (Cambridge, 1991), 225. 11 Ermenfrid, Peter and John came to England with the task of reforming the English clergy. Norman apologists’ claims about the papal pallium granted to William are questionable. William of Poitiers is the only source that mentions the papal banner (Poitiers, 104–5). As it was written by William’s chaplain, the Gesta Guillelmi has long been considered an attempt to legitimize Norman claims to England and the violence resulting from the Conquest. David Bates, ‘The Conqueror’s Earliest Historians and the Writing of His Biography’, in Writing Medieval Biography, 750–1250: Essays in Honour of Frank Barlow, ed. David Bates, Julia Crick and Sarah Hamilton (Woodbridge, 2006), 129–41. See now Daniel Armstrong, ‘The Norman Conquest of England, the Papacy, and the Papal Banner’ HSJ 32 (2021). 10



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Mathilda’s rite, Baruch 3:9, may have been the spark that lit rebellion among the last vestige of the English aristocracy in England. Baruch 3:9 was an apocryphal ancient scripture that perhaps seemed an odd choice for Pentecost in the Middle Ages. The feast of Passover, however, in the Jewish tradition at the time of the apostles centred around the fragmentation of Babel lived out across the ancient world: the Jewish Diaspora. Thus, the reading for the vigil of Pentecost was distinctly elegiac in character. The vigil mass would have been attended by the court and the visiting dignitaries present for Mathilda’s rite. Thus, the English aristocracy, their supporters and churchmen would have heard the special liturgy for the night. The passage from Baruch 3 bears quoting in full to appreciate its resonance with the plight of the gathered English: Hear, O Israel, the commandments of life; give ear, that thou mayest learn wisdom, how happened it, O Israel. That thou art in thy enemy’s hand, Thou art grown old in a strange country, thou art defiled with the dead: thou art counted with them that go down into hell. Thou hast forsaken the fountain of wisdom: for if thou had walked in the way of God, thou had surely dwelt in peace forever. Learn where is wisdom, where is strength, where is understanding: that thou mayest know also where is length of days and life, where is the light of the eyes, and peace. Who hath found out her place? And who hath gone in to her treasures? Where are the princes of the nations, and they that rule over the beasts, that are upon the earth? That take their pastime with the birds of the air, that hoard up silver and gold, wherein men trust, and there is no end of their getting? Who work in silver and are solicitous, and their works are unsearchable. They are cut off, and are gone down to hell, and others are risen up in their place. Young men have seen the light, and dwelt upon the earth: but the way of knowledge they have not known, nor have they understood the paths thereof, neither have their children received it, it is far from their face. It hath not been heard in the land of Canaan, neither hath it been seen in Theman. The children of Agar also, that search after the wisdom that is of the earth, the merchants of Merrha, and of Theman, and the tellers of fables, and searchers of prudence and understanding: but the way of wisdom they have not known, neither have they remembered her paths. O Israel, how great is the house of God, and how vast is the place of his possession. It is great, and has no end: it is high and immense. There were the giants, those renowned men, that were from the beginning, of great stature, expert in war. The Lord chose not them, neither did they find the way of knowledge: therefore did they perish. And because they had not wisdom, they perished through their folly. Who hath gone up into heaven, and taken her, and brought her down from the clouds? Who hath passed over the sea, and found her, and brought her for pure gold? There is none that is able to know her ways, nor that can search out her paths. But he that knows all things, knows her, and has found her out with his understanding: he that prepared the earth for ever more, and filled it with cattle and four-footed beasts: he that sends forth light, and it goes and has called it, and it obeyed him with trembling. And the stars have given light in their watches, and rejoiced: they were called, and they said: Here we are. And with cheerfulness they have shined forth to him that made them. This is our God, and there shall no other be accounted of in comparison to him. He found out all the way of knowledge, and gave it to Jacob, his servant, and to Israel, his beloved. Afterwards he was seen upon earth, and conversed with men.12

The passage describes a lost kingdom, a vanished aristocracy who ‘perished through their own folly’. Here we see a culture of artistic refinement and wealth, talented in working silver and gold. Princes who ‘took their pastimes’ with falcons are now cut off and ‘others are risen in their place’. There are story-tellers who wove fables in the air. Famous warriors of ancient heritage and renown, ‘expert in war’, 12

Baruch 3:9 ‘Audi Israel’ (DRB).

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have been passed over by God. Baruch 3:9 even references a gold-bearer who passes over the sea to find ‘her’: Israel, God’s chosen. Parallels to the lost English world are undeniable. Writers and intellectuals had long established connections between the English and the Jewish people and it is impossible to avoid the correspondence between them in these verses. There is no evidence for which specific mass book was used for Mathilda’s Pentecost rite but all extant possibilities – the Missal of Robert of Jumièges, the Leofric Missal, the ‘de officialis’ of John of Avranches and the Sarum Missal – contain the readings quoted above. The review of the possible mass books for her service also uncovers a startling pattern: of the four possibilities listed above, three of the compilers had close links to Mathilda herself. Bishop Leofric was present at her inauguration and signed the bilingual royal diploma that celebrated it. John of Avranches was archbishop of Rouen during Mathilda’s reign and was one of her most able lieutenants; he himself accepted her daughter Cecelia’s final vows as a nun.13 The Sarum Missal was crafted sometime in the late eleventh century, ostensibly by the Norman Archbishop Osmund of Salisbury, who came over with William during the Conquest. Osmund was made chancellor of London before being chosen as bishop of Salisbury, or Sarum, and was famous for his compositions of musical chant. Of all the mass books that might have been used at her liturgy, only the Missal of Robert of Jumièges was not compiled by a member of Mathilda’s court. The missal was an important source assembled in the early tenth century, but it was held in the library at Jumièges, a Benedictine abbey under Mathilda’s protection as duchess and to which she was a benefactor. Thus, the sinews that bind Mathilda to the authors of these mass books at the very least ensure she was aware of the readings for Pentecost and endorsed their use in her liturgy. In what was probably the most important sacred rite of her life, Mathilda chose to echo two related claims: the vigil mass recalled without question the lost cause of the English world; the Sunday Pentecost mass the next morning presented what she saw as the appropriate answer to their suffering – the unity of Pentecost under her rule. From a lost culture, ‘gone down into hell’, the English could be revived by the Normans and experience the unity of the Holy Spirit. Under Norman leadership, figured as apostolic in the readings of the Sunday mass, the two cultures could be rejoined. Babel reversed; a lost unity restored by God’s divine plan. The apostolic actors were, of course, the Normans, and they were embodied by a pregnant Mathilda, heavy with a Norman royal daughter or son within her. The scripture chosen for the mass at Pentecost had ancient roots and continued to be utilized in services long after Mathilda and the Normans no longer ruled England, in fact, up until the Reformation. But while Mathilda and her liturgists were not the originators of the mass, the use of Pentecost as the day of her inauguration was laden with meaning. It was open to an interpretation that could not be lost on the Norman and English participants in her rite. Even if the English nobles in attendance were unskilled Latinists, their bishops and archbishops were certainly not. If there had been any question about the meaning of Baruch 3 on Saturday night, the English churchmen on hand for the Pentecost celebration would easily have been able to translate. The pointed references to a lost culture, the diaspora of a fallen people, struck at the heart of the English plight. By Sunday morning, undoubtedly, For John’s role in Mathilda’s government, see David Bates, ‘The Origins of Justiciarship’, ANS 4 (1981), 1–12. For his participation in Cecelia’s final vows, see Laura L. Gathagan, ‘“You conquer countless enemies, even as a maiden”: The Conqueror’s Daughter and Dynastic Rule at Holy Trinity, Caen’, History 102, no. 353 (2017), 739–932. 13



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the meaning of Baruch 3 would have been known by all. The participation of those English nobles still surviving under the new Norman regime was compulsory. As the scripture readings were recited over them, it is easy to imagine their sorrow, resentment, even rage. The imposition of God-given rule explicit in Mathilda’s rite apparently did little to quell the resentment of its English observers. Mathilda’s liturgy, moreover, may have enraged the English nobles trying to hold on to what remained of their world. In fact, mere weeks after her elaborate rite uprisings sparked into flame across the Normans’ new kingdom. According to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, Edgar the Ætheling, his mother and sisters left Westminster after the ceremony and went directly to Scotland to gather troops for a revolt.14 At the same moment, Earl Edwin of Mercia and Earl Morcar of Northumbria chose this opportunity to rebel.15 Edwin and Morcar had maintained their earldoms after the invasion and had travelled to Normandy with William after his coronation in 1066. Until the summer of 1068, they had kept their heads above water and successfully integrated into the Norman court. Edgar the Ætheling’s movements and Edwin and Morcar’s rebellion have long been considered unrelated. Indeed, the contemporary sources that describe Edwin and Morcar’s defection neglect to mention the Ætheling’s journey to Scotland.16 They were not working together as part of a coordinated attack on Norman authority. Thus, two disparate English rebellions broke out directly after Mathilda’s royal inauguration. All three of these English nobles had retained their lands and high positions and were, up until May 1068, cooperating with the new Norman administration. The period between December 1066 and Mathilda’s royal rite in 1068 was surprisingly tranquil in England. There is debate about the early part of Norman rule in England. Did the beginning of William’s reign see an ‘early mildness’, or was the Normans’ style of rule over their new subjects brutal from the start?17 Historians on either side of this debate agree that after May 1068, something important shifted for the English nobility.18 Whatever cooperation might have been hoped for before Mathilda’s anointing and coronation, whatever hopes for English and Norman amity, were torn apart within weeks of her ceremony. The uprisings of 1068–9 came hard on the heels of Mathilda’s royal inauguration. The unusual pageantry of her rite, its surgical use of scriptural discourse aimed at the English nobility, her claims to the crown of England Deo gratia, even her pregnancy; any of these prods alone might have enraged the attendant English. Mathilda’s pregnant body, I maintain, complicated an already multivalent ceremony designed with care to underscore the English’s helplessness, Mathilda’s legitimacy and the inevitability of Norman rule. But was Mathilda’s pregnancy visible at her coronation? The record of Henry’s exact birth date is unknown. Contemporary sources are difficult to pin down. Orderic states that Henry was born ‘within the year’ of Mathilda’s coronation.19 The Winchester Annals claim an even earlier

ASC, 1068, D and E. Orderic, ii, 214–21. 16 David Bates, William the Conqueror (New Haven and London, 2016), 295. 17 Ann Williams, The English and the Norman Conquest (Woodbridge, 1995), 23, as opposed to Bates, William the Conqueror, 260. 18 Williams, The English, 23–4; Bates, William the Conqueror, 260–1; Pierre Bouet, ‘Is the Bayeux Tapestry Pro-English?’, in The Bayeux Tapestry: Embroidering the Facts of History, ed. Pierre Bouet, Brian Levy and François Neveux (Caen, 2014), 197–215 at 214. 19 Orderic, iv, 214–15. 14 15

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date, stating that Henry was born ‘not too many days later’.20 The annalist was writing in the thirteenth century, many years after the events. But perhaps the memory of Henry’s impending birth at Mathilda’s royal rite – carried down over a hundred years – is evidence that it was notable. Modern historians have concurred, placing Henry’s birth about four months after her coronation.21 The terminus point for Henry’s conception, at least, is relatively clear. After his triumphal return to Normandy post-Conquest in March 1067, William and Mathilda once again separated. William sailed to England on 6 December 1067 or, more precisely, the night before. Orderic reports that William left on the night of 5 December to travel to Arques at the mouth of the Dives, leaving the duchy ‘in the hands of his wife’.22 He and Mathilda would not see each other again until she sailed to England before her coronation rite. Thus Mathilda must have been at least five months pregnant at her royal inauguration, if Henry was conceived the very evening of William’s departure. She was possibly further along.23 Modern medicine provides us with good evidence that her pregnancy would have been visible. Mathilda was ‘grand multiparous’ in obstetric terms, that is, she had more than seven children. Henry was probably her ninth child or perhaps her tenth.24 Women who experience grand multiparity show signs of pregnancy much more quickly and dramatically than primiparous women. This is because the effect of grand multiparity is reduced muscle function. The pelvic floor muscle function of multiparous women is reduced in comparison to nulliparous or primiparous women with regard to electrical activity and muscle strength. As a consequence, Mathilda would have shown her pregnancy from an early stage and by five months into gestation her profile would have been unmistakable. Mathilda’s shape illustrated the future for all the attendees at her royal inauguration; the sight of her, receiving the crown of England, and the sound of the laudes shout, echoing around her, occasioned both elation and despair. The Winchester annals reported that Henry I was born just a few days after Mathilda’s coronation. ‘1068: Matilda is consecrated this year in London by Aldred archbishop of York and not too many days later her son, Henry, was brought into the light’ (‘MLXVIII: Hoc anno Matildis consecrata est apud Londoniam ab Aldredo Eboracensi archiepiscopo, et post non multos dies Henricum filium suum in lucem protulit’). Annales monasterii de Wintona, Winchester Annals, ed. H. R. Luard, RS 36 (London, 1865), 27. 21 Hollister theorized that Henry would have been born by early September 1068 at the latest. Hollister, Henry I, 31. 22 Orderic, iv, 214–15. 23 Mathilda probably stepped back from public life before Henry’s birth, a common practice, but the timing of this tradition varied. An absence of six weeks before the birth of a child was typical by the twelfth century but could have been in force in the eleventh. If so, this narrows the window of Mathilda’s pregnancy further. If Mathilda withdrew from public view, even immediately after her coronation, that would place Henry’s birth between mid-June and early September 1068, given the six-week period of preparation. Post-partum purification traditions, if she practised them in line with twelfth-century practice, would also keep Mathilda out of the public eye for two months after being delivered of Henry. An early September birth as an end date for his appearance aligns with charter evidence; Mathilda was back in Normandy, signing in favour of Troarn Abbey, probably between 1 November and 25 December 1068 (Regesta: William I, no. 280, 838–43). My thanks to Stephen Church for his help in working this out. For similar calculations regarding King John’s birth, see S. D. Church, ‘The Date and Place of King John’s Birth together with a Codicil on His Name’, Notes & Queries 67.3 (2020), 315–23. For post-partum purification rituals more broadly, see Becky R. Lee, ‘Men’s Recollections of a Women’s Rite: Medieval English Men’s Recollections Regarding the Rite of the Purification of Women after Childbirth’, Gender and History 14 (2002), 224–41. 24 The number and identity of Mathilda’s children remains a question. Orderic lists them in two different places in his history and produces two sets of children. There were certainly four boys – Robert, Richard, William and Henry – and at least five girls – Adelida, Cecelia, Constance, Mathilda and Adela. A tenth child, Agatha, is mentioned only by Orderic. Orderic, ii, 104–5 and 224–5. 20



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Mathilda and her liturgists may have intended the Saturday night vigil message of English hopelessness to resolve in the Sunday morning message of concord. Great pains were taken to connect the Pentecost message of unity in the gospels with eleventh-century Anglo-Norman attempts at hegemony. But this was harmony on Norman terms. Despite a nod to Pentecost unity, the overwhelming communication of Mathilda’s rite was not amity with the English but dominance over them. The two-day festal affair of her liturgy invoked the English diaspora and seemed to revel in it. As a result, I argue, the effect of Mathilda’s royal inauguration was not unity but discord. In rapid succession, two sets of English aristocrats took up arms. First Edwin and Morcar – joined by the Welsh king, Bleddyn ap Cynfyn – staged significant military operations against the Normans. Then Edgar the Ætheling agitated against Mathilda and William in the north with the backing of King Malcolm of Scotland. These were the first English rebellions that the new king and queen faced, but further revolts were coming. The massive rebellion of 1070–1, that featured the invasion by Svein of Norway, was arguably already in the planning stages as William marched to quell the initial backlash against Norman rule. The rebels were pardoned in each case. They sued for peace, made oaths of loyalty, and were allowed to maintain their properties. But the revolts resulted in a new wave of Norman castle building in England at these sensitive sites on the border with Wales and in the north at York.25 The revolts touched off after Mathilda’s inauguration resulted in further domination of the landscape in these trouble spots. Trusted Normans were installed at these pressure points. As William travelled south via Lincoln, through Huntingdon and down to Cambridge, he initiated castle construction throughout, even though these places were untouched by rebellion. The creation of castles ran in parallel with a tightening of administrative control. Lordships and honours were shifted away from the remaining English into the hands of loyal Normans. The result of 1068 can be seen in the creation of what David Bates calls ‘imperial’ lordships, not only in York but also further south in Chester, Shrewsbury and even places in Sussex, all held by Normans and William’s other French followers.26 Their creation dates to the period immediately after Edwin, Morcar and the Ætheling were subdued and gave hostages.27 Norman castles built and lordships created as a consequence of their revolt strained existing racial tensions between the English and their new overlords. And in the next round of revolts, the English would not be forgiven so easily. It seems highly unlikely that rebellion was the response Mathilda had imagined when she chose the day of her royal inauguration. Yet, a few pieces of suggestive evidence serve to show the selection of Pentecost for Mathilda’s coronation was indeed an informed one – and likely her own. The death of a royal predecessor or anxiety about succession meant most inauguration rites were scheduled within significant time constraints. The timing of William the Conqueror’s inauguration, for example, allowed him little choice. According to the contemporary sources, he tried to delay his inauguration so as to prevent its appearing too hasty.28 He protested that Mathilda should be crowned next to him, indicating his awareness of her as a legitimizing force and perhaps his familiarity with joint coronations in the Ottonian style. Despite his discomfort, his royal inauguration was held on Christmas Day 1066, only about two months after the battle of Hastings. 25 26 27 28

Bates, William the Conqueror, 296. Bates, William the Conqueror, 297. Bates, William the Conqueror, 299. Poitiers, 148–9. Orderic, ii, 182–5.

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Mathilda and her court, however, had the luxury of time. In the two years that passed between William’s rite and Mathilda’s there was ample opportunity to plan the perfect liturgical moment. As Dale has shown, the day chosen for a royal inauguration was a crucial concern: ‘Church feasts were not just days with a festal character on which important royal acts took place, they were bearers of specific content that was made visible in the liturgy and enveloped the event with the feasts’ meaning.’29 The church calendar could be exploited to underscore and deepen the meaning of a royal rite. The scripture readings and prayers that followed a royal rite would be familiar to the attendant crowd and, as in Mathilda’s ceremony, carried their own discrete meanings. I argue that she chose a day that would send an unmistakable message to her English subjects. There are a few disparate pieces of evidence that together support my theory that Mathilda was deeply familiar with the Pentecost coronation liturgy and the uses to which it might be put. Mathilda had a template of a Pentecost coronation close at hand. Her first cousin, Philip I of France, was crowned on Pentecost just nine years earlier in 1059. Her attendance at his ritual would not be surprising, though we have no solid evidence for it. Her relationship with Philip was close: her mother, Adela, was Philip’s aunt; and her father, Baldwin of Flanders, would be Philip’s guardian – along with Anne of Kiev, Philip’s mother – when he came to the throne of France as a young boy.30 Mathilda and Philip acted together sometime after his coronation when they oversaw the relic translation of the Holy Shroud at Saint-Corneille-de-Compiègne. Once owned by Charlemagne, the relic was encased in an ivory reliquary that Mathilda commissioned. The reliquary was ‘ornamented wondrously with gold, gems and precious stones’.31 Philip seems to have remembered this important day, years after Mathilda’s death, with great affection.32 No other member of Mathilda’s family or Philip’s is mentioned in this act, which may suggest that, to the two of them, this translation was a particularly meaningful, personal, undertaking. Their mutual endeavour argues for Mathilda’s familiarity with Philip and perhaps a shared liturgical sensibility. Another close tie is found through the courtly, warlike and slightly grandiose Gervais de-Chateau-du-Loire, archbishop of Le Mans. Gervais’s active political life put him on the wrong side of powerful people such as Geoffrey Martel, count of Anjou. As a result, he was exiled from his see. He arrived as a guest at Mathilda and William’s court in Normandy sometime between 1051 and 1052. His move to Dale, Inauguration, 143. For Philip’s minority, see Emily Joan Ward, ‘Anne of Kiev (c. 1024–c. 1075) and a Reassessment of Maternal Power in the Minority Kingship of Philip I of France’, Historical Research 89, no. 245 (Aug. 2016), 435–53. 31 ‘At the instigation of God’s divine mercy and with prayerful supplication of the brothers of the Church of Corneille and, especially, at the most frequent demand of the most Christian Mathilda, the queen of the English, it seemed good to us that the relics of the Lord and Saviour, which the Emperor Charles, a most Christian man, and magnificent ruler of the entire world had with utmost devotion preserved, that the aforesaid queen of the English put in a venerable vessel, formed from an ivory, ornamented wondrously with gold, gems, and precious stones, be translated to the church at Compiègne and placed there.’ Like her cousin Philip, Mathilda could trace her ancestry directly to Charlemagne. The charter describing the translation parallels Charlemagne with Mathilda, calling her ‘xpistianissime Mathildis’ and Charlemagne ‘Karolus, vir xpistianissimus’. Recueil des actes de Philippe Ier, Roi de France, ed. M. Prou (Paris, 1908), 319. 32 The translation of the shroud is referenced in a 1092 charter in which Philip, in memory of the event, decrees that the feast of the translation will be celebrated on the fourth Sunday of 5 Lent, and gives to the brothers and treasurer of the Saint-Corneille church in Compiègne the rights and justice of a market for three days for ‘our ancestors and successors, for the salvation of my soul and of Emperor Charles, and the good of her (Mathilda’s) soul.’ Prou, Recueil, 318–21. 29 30



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Normandy dates from about the time of Mathilda’s marriage, though the precise date of her union to William has been difficult to ascertain.33 Until 1055 Gervais was a presence – and there is good evidence that he was an active one – at the Norman court.34 Gervais ascended to the archbishopric of Reims in 1055 and held it until his death in 1067. Most notably for the purposes of this study, Gervais planned and paid for Philip I’s royal inauguration at the cathedral of Reims on Pentecost 1059.35 Details of his relationship to Mathilda are not conclusive but there is ample evidence that after leaving Normandy Gervais developed close ties to Mathilda’s parents. Gervais penned a sermon on St Donatian, whose relics were held in Bruges, at the request of Baldwin and Adela of Flanders sometime between 1061 and 1065.36 In the letter that accompanied it, Gervais heaped praise on the comital family of Flanders and mentioned Mathilda, their ‘noble child’, specifically.37 Gervais’s extended stay at Mathilda and William’s court enhanced his relationship to Mathilda’s natal family. Mathilda’s mother became one of his most generous patrons. Adela’s patronage and that of her husband was especially valuable because Gervais’s identity as an outsider complicated his position at Reims. His relationship with both the cathedral community and local aristocrats around Reims was often fraught. As a consequence, Gervais’s association with Adela and Baldwin, and the support he received from them, were particularly beneficial.38 Moving back further in time, Anne of Kiev – Philip’s mother and Mathilda’s aunt – was married and crowned on Pentecost: 19 May 1051. Mathilda’s family certainly would have been present for her coronation and marriage, though Mathilda herself might already have been in Normandy. In fact, the date of Anne and Henry’s marriage reveals that there may have been an element of competition with her Capetian kin. Henry’s marriage to Anne of Kiev has been considered a ‘symmetrical response’ to Mathilda and William’s marriage.39 The Council of Reims in 1049 forbade Mathilda and William’s marriage. The council was significant for a few reasons and bears examination in light of these two royal couples. It saw an unusually large contingent of Norman bishops, likely because it took up the question of the Norman–Flemish marriage alliance. Yet the council was completely neglected by Capetian churchmen. Historians have supposed that Henry’s diplomatic mission to Novgorod to arrange his marriage to Anne of Kiev was the reason.40 Thus Henry’s pursuit of a Kievan Rus bride coincided with the proposed marital connection It is even possible that Gervais was a member of Mathilda’s entourage as she travelled from Eu to Rouen in 1052. 34 Gervais appears in two charters in favour of the abbey of Marmoutier. Recueil des actes des ducs de Normandie, ed. Marie Faroux (Caen, 1961), no. 137 (pp. 312–14) and no. 165 (pp. 355–7). 35 Ward, ‘Anne of Kiev’, 437. 36 Ex miraculis s. Donatiani brugensibus, ed. O. Holder-Egger, MGH SS (Hanover, 1888), 854–6. See John Ott, Bishops, Authority and Community in Northwestern Europe, c. 1050–1150 (Cambridge, 2015), 159–96. Gervais seems to have made up his tale on Donatian out of whole cloth. Ott calls the sermon ‘pure craft’, 186. 37 Ott, Bishops, 188. 38 For Gervais’ career and his rather flamboyant personality, see Ott, Bishops, 162–3. 39 Michel Bur, ‘Leon IX et la France (1026–1054)’, in Léon IX et son temps: Actes du colloque international organisé par l’Institut d’Histoire Médiévale de l’Université Marc-Bloch, Strasbourg-Eguisheim, 20–22 June 2002, ed. G. Bischoff and B. Tock (Turnhout, 2007), 233–57 at 247. 40 Alexander Musin ‘La formation de la politique matrimoniale et la diaspora normande en Europe au Xie siecle: l’exemple d’Anne de Kiev’, in 911–2011, penser les mondes normands medievaux: actes du colloque international de Caen et Cerisy (29 septembre-2 octobre 2011), ed. David Bates and Pierre Boudin (Caen, 2016), 177–205. My thanks to Dr. Emily Joan Ward, who alerted me to this important analysis. 33

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between Flanders and Normandy. Alexander Musin has theorized that Henry’s reach toward Rus for Anne can be explained in the context of escalating tensions with Normandy.41 Anne’s sister Olga was married to Harald Hardrada. The result of Henry’s marital connection to Rus, then, was an important Norwegian kinship tie through the two royal Kievan sisters. In the face of the dangerous alliance between Flanders and Normandy, Henry’s marriage to Anne gave him an equivalent coalition that featured Rus and Norway. While the former link might not have gained Henry an active partner in Northern European politics, the connection to Harald Hardrada – from Henry’s perspective in 1049 – helped balance the ledger. The competition between the Norman and Capetian dynasties surely ran both ways. A Pentecost royal inauguration allowed Mathilda and William to ‘keep up with the neighbours’. The breakdown of the relationship between the French throne and Normandy can be traced to this early period, though open conflict did not arise until 1051 when Henry threw his support behind Geoffrey Martel of Maine, their old mutual enemy. Henry’s attempt to trim Normandy’s sails may have been a direct response to his niece Mathilda becoming its duchess in about 1051. The pieces of evidence which support Mathilda as the prime mover of her own rite seem to fit together. First, she had close connections to the Capetian royal court and was aware of the coronation rites of Philip, Anne and Henry. Add to this Gervais’s early relationship with Mathilda, his substantive role in Philip’s royal inauguration and his close ties to the comital family of Flanders. Lastly, there was a possibility of competition between the new Capetian royal house and the new Norman royal dynasty. Each of these distinct elements alone might not go far enough to maintain this argument but together they reinforce the idea that Mathilda was familiar with Pentecost royal inaugurations and deliberately chose one for herself. Planning for Mathilda’s event, or perhaps even its dress rehearsal, may have taken place at William’s triumphal entry into Normandy in 1067 after the conquest. The Easter festal court at Fécamp that year celebrated victory over England and the new position of the now-royal Norman ducal family. An impressive array of aristocrats and courtiers was in attendance for that holiday, including the widowed dowager queen of France, Anne of Kiev, with her new husband, Raoul de Crépy, count of Valois. The Easter court of 1067 would have been the ideal moment to flesh out Mathilda’s rite scheduled for the next spring. All the stakeholders would have been present at the Easter court of 1067, including a bevy of famous liturgists. Osmund of Sées, who would be bishop of Salisbury or Sarum, was famous for his liturgical music and credited with compiling the Sarum Rite. The turbulent John of Avranches wrote the influential Norman treatise on liturgical practice, De officiis ecclesiasticis.42 He created new processional liturgies that helped reorder the relationship between the ecclesiastical players in Avranches.43 Later, as bishop of Rouen, he showed his interest in liturgical spectacle again when he recorded and preserved the Palm Sunday procession. He would bestow the veil on Mathilda’s daughter, Cecelia, on her completion of her vows in 1077. Ealdred of York, who had crowned William and would crown Mathilda, has been considered the mastermind behind her ritual. But Ermenfrid of Sion, who had occasionally acted as a papal legate to Normandy, was possibly present at court over the Easter of 1067.44 His Musin ‘La formation de la politique matrimoniale’, 193. Originally viewed as having little effect outside the confines of Normandy, scholars have shown that John’s liturgical work had a wide reach. R. Allen, ‘“A Proud and Headstrong Man”: John of Ivry, Bishop of Avranches and Archbishop of Rouen, 1060–79’, Historical Research 83 (2010), 189–227. 43 Allen, ‘“Proud and Headstrong Man”’, 198. 44 H. E. J. Cowdrey ‘The Anglo-Norman Laudes Regiae’, Viator 12 (1981), 39–78 at 59. 41

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imperial background and experience, not to mention his familiarity with Norman and English politics, would have made him a helpful guide for Mathilda’s liturgical extravaganza.45 Lastly, of course, Lanfranc of Bec and Caen, who would be archbishop of Canterbury three years later, was also in attendance at the festal court. His encyclopaedic knowledge of liturgical practice is evidenced by his letters to John of Avranches. The two exchanged correspondence on the fine points of vesting procedure before and after the mass, as Lanfranc admitted that he had pontificals from all over the world at his elbow.46 Thus, the Easter festal court of 1067 was an opportunity for Mathilda and William to publicly celebrate their new status and try on their identity as a royal dynasty, albeit carefully, in the safe confines of the Norman court. With so many brilliant liturgists present to assist them, it was the ideal moment for bold innovations in ritual. The most important of these was a ducal laudes – an imperial acclamation – used as an ‘adventus’ or formal entry ceremonial for William.47 The laudes regiae was regularly used at Ottonian imperial courts and also featured at the coronation of Philip I of France.48 The Normans seem to have embraced this liturgical form and made it their own.49 The laudes’ traditional structure took the form of a chanted invocation to Christ and his heavenly saints to support an earthly ruler. The celebrants leading the liturgy performed a call and response in which each earthly person in a hierarchical list was paired with a chosen set of heavenly saints based somewhat loosely on the litany of saints from the liturgical calendar. After the celebrant names each saint, the cantor responds tu illum aduiva (‘sustain him’). The ordered back and forth is heightened with the repeated refrain Christus vincit, Christus regnat, Christus Imperat: Christ has conquered, Christ reigns, Christ is Lord over all. The saints could be changed out easily to fit a particular occasion. At Philip’s coronation, for instance, the pope was paired with the apostles Peter, Paul and Andrew. Philip and his father Henry were paired with Mary and two archangels – Gabriel and Michael. The lay magnates of the realm were supported by peerlessly Frankish saints; St Denis of Paris, St Martin of Tours and St Remigius of Reims. William’s ducal adventus performed at Fécamp during Easter 1067 followed the same basic form.50 The pope was once again paired with the apostles (this time Peter, Paul and John), while King Henry of France was again matched with archangels: Gabriel, Michael and Raphael. Victorious Duke William was aided by warrior saints: Maurice, Sebastian and Adrian. The laudes regiae was crafted anew for

Ermenfrid acted as a papal legate to Normandy at least twice. Cowdrey theorizes that Ermenfrid’s Penitential Ordinance may have been drawn up and presented at the festal Easter court of 1067. H. E. J. Cowdrey, ‘Bishop Ermenfrid of Sion and the Penitential Ordinance following the Battle of Hastings’, JEH 10:2 (1969), 225–42. 46 John wrote to Lanfranc describing a dedication of a church in which the bishop wore his chasuble at the very beginning of the ceremony, instead of donning it only at the moment the Mass began. Lanfranc considered this ‘extraordinary’ and responded, shocked: ‘I cannot remember ever having seen anything like that.’ Letters of Lanfranc, 85. 47 H. E. J. Cowdrey ‘Anglo-Norman Laudes’, 39–78. 48 BnF MS Lat 9449, fols 36v–47r. Printed in Cowdrey, ‘Anglo-Norman Laudes’, 75–6; Reprinted in Laura L. Gathagan, ‘Trappings of Power: The Coronation of Mathilda of Flanders’, HSJ 13 (1999), 21–39 at 34–8. 49 For the unique laudes used for Mathilda’s coronation, see Gathagan, ‘Trappings’, 21–39. Her laudes was probably originally preserved at Westminster but is now held at the British Library in BL MS Cotton Vitellius E. XII, fol. 160v. 50 William’s ducal acclamation at Easter 1067 was not, of course, a laudes regiae, as he would not properly be acclaimed as king in France. 45

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Mathilda’s coronation in 1068, used once and then never again.51 It would echo the triumphal coronation laudes of imperial Ottonians but pushed the form even further. Mathilda’s coronation laudes placed her as equal in status to William, a feature found in the imperial laudes of Emperor Henry III and Empress Kunigunde but not in any Frankish version of the laudes.52 The designation ‘serenissimo’ is used for William and ‘serenissime’ for Mathilda, another imperial marker. Her laudes added more drama, more chant and, notably, a higher grade of saintly intercessor than any laudes regiae before or after. William had three traditional kingly intercessors – Mary, Michael, Raphael – who aligned almost perfectly with Capetian tradition. But Mathilda had four intercessors and they were all apostles: John, Peter, Paul and Andrew. Her apostolic authority, already indicated in the Pentecost mass, was underscored by the use of apostles as her intercessors. I have argued elsewhere that the substitution of four male apostles – instead of typical female martyrs like Perpetua and Felicitas – reveals her intent to rule vigorously as an active participant in Norman power.53 It is also noteworthy that Mathilda’s apostolic intercessors were typically reserved for the pope in the form of most laudes regiae.54 Another striking difference between all other extant laudes and Mathilda’s version is the transformation of the assembly into active participants in the rite. Unlike other laudes, Mathilda’s liturgy compels the attendant crowd to contribute to the call and response. Not the cantor, but the congregation was to respond with the invocation ‘sustain her’. H. E. J. Cowdrey theorized, in his foundational analysis of Anglo-Norman laudes, that this remarkable change in her rite drew ‘the assembled populus at Westminster into the eulogy of its rulers’.55 I would argue that it more accurately dragged the populus into compliance with her authority. Her laudes did not reflect on the generations of early English rulers in a nostalgic embrace of their glorious past. It called down heaven’s host to aid Mathilda in her rule over a conquered people. And, according to Kantorowicz’s classic study, it was constitutive in character.56 The laudes response represented the assent of the ruled to the legitimacy of their ruler. The collective choral answer of Mathilda’s new subjects, imposed through her laudes on the assembly at Westminster, was the final submission in a two-day forced march of Norman coercion. The argument presented here suggests that the English response to Mathilda’s laudes – and her royal inauguration more broadly – serves as a reminder that high-stakes rituals could result in moments of reckoning. The traditional view of ritual as static, concrete and resistant to change has been challenged by historians who have examined the manuscript sources of ordines, monastic customaries and missals.57 Once considered fixed and immobile, liturgical practice has proven to be highly localized, endlessly revised and reflective of a distinct set of motiva-

E. Kantorowicz, Laudes Regiae: A Study in Liturgical Acclamations and Medieval Ruler Worship (Berkeley, CA, 1946), 65. 52 Cowdrey, ‘Anglo-Norman Laudes’, 58. 53 Gathagan, ‘Trappings’, 38–9. 54 The intercessors granted to Pope Alexander II in Mathilda’s laudes were all three members of the Trinity. 55 Cowdrey, ‘Anglo Norman Laudes’, 53. 56 Kantorowicz, Laudes Regiae, 65. 57 A good introduction to the topic is Understanding Medieval Liturgy: Essays in Interpretation, ed. Helen Gittos and Sarah Hamilton (Farnham, 2016). Important works also include Helen Gittos, Liturgy Architecture and Sacred Spaces in Anglo-Saxon England (Cambridge, 2013); Richard Pfaff, The Liturgy in Medieval England (Cambridge, 2009); Louis Hamilton, A Sacred City: Consecrating Churches and Reforming Society in Eleventh-Century Italy (Manchester, 2010). 51



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tions and needs; some communal, some individual. The reception of ritual by an assembled crowd was impossible to predict. As Philippe Buc famously noted, ritual carried great risks.59 The attendees of Mathilda of Flanders’s royal inauguration regularly experienced ritual through attendance at the Eucharist, a miracle of perception and ingestion, within the confines of a place understood to have been made sacred by chants and invocations. The solemnity of the Eucharist, even if not always perfectly explained to all observers, offered a model for the freighting of words and gestures with meaning that was linked to miraculous transformation. Regular liturgical moments like the mass were also coercive. They imposed a unity where there might have been underlying division and even malice. Penitentials – handbooks of penance guidelines – reflect the reality that medieval congregants did not follow the rules.60 Ecclesiastical authorities could not control the reception of a ritual performance, even one as familiar as the mass. With this in mind, one can imagine a heightened disconnect between the intention of a ritual and its perception in the so-called ‘occasional rites’ such as Mathilda’s royal inauguration. Like the celebration of the mass, her rite was performative and coercive. Its intent, moreover, was to proclaim the authority of a foreign power. It was not neutral or ambiguous. Mathilda’s royal inauguration was meant to elevate her to divine status and legitimize her rule. Her rite centred on the inevitability of the Norman victory over the English, now subject to her. Her pregnant body – probably visible to all – referenced the future of a new Norman dynasty. The scripture verses read over the throng at Mathilda’s rite gave her authority an apostolic flavour that was reinforced by the bespoke laudes crafted for her. The attendant subjects were compelled to shout their support and acclaim her, referencing again the apostles’ special relationship to her rule. The crafting of her ritual was masterful and undoubtedly utilized some of the most celebrated liturgical scholars of her day: Osmund of Salisbury, John of Avranches, Ealdred of York, perhaps Emenfrid of Sion and most certainly Lanfranc. Yet with all their care and attention, Mathilda and her ministers, in the interpretation offered here, overset the delicate balance of England in 1068. The gauzy filaments of uneasy concord that strained to hold the English and Normans together, if indeed they were not already in tatters, were shredded after her royal inauguration on Pentecost Sunday. Her liturgy cast the Anglo-Saxon defeat and diaspora as divinely ordained: the precursor to English renewal and reform under Norman rule. It placed her at the head of the English as their queen, Deo gratia. In these final strategies, Mathilda’s royal inauguration was perhaps too successful. 58

Helen Gittos, ‘Researching the History of Rites’, in Understanding Medieval Liturgy, 20. Philippe Buc, The Dangers of Ritual: Between Early Medieval Texts and Social Scientific Theory (Princeton, 2001), 8. 60 Pierre J. Payer, Sex and the Penitentials: The Development of a Sexual Code, 550–1150 (Toronto, 1984). 58

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BETWEEN THE RIBBLE AND THE MERSEY: LANCASHIRE BEFORE LANCASHIRE AND THE IRISH SEA ZONE Charles Insley In the alternative reality where 2020 was not dominated by a global pandemic, the paper that forms the basis for this essay would have been presented in the Historic Reading Room of the John Rylands Library in Manchester. Prior to the creation of the metropolitan county of Greater Manchester in 1974, Manchester was in the historic county of Lancashire; 2020 would therefore have been the first time that the Battle Conference for Anglo-Norman Studies had taken place in Lancashire (or its historic footprint). A paper focused on the history of Lancashire during the tenth century seemed, in this context, entirely appropriate. It is also true that while we think of Manchester as very much a modern industrial city – the cradle of the Industrial Revolution, even – the modern city has ancient origins. There was a Roman castrum in Mamucium, the remains of which lie in the modern Manchester suburb of Castlefield, and the Anglo-Saxon settlement that followed even warranted a mention in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, in an entry which will be discussed below.1 This research that underpins this essay also forms part of a larger project looking at political and cultural interaction on the eastern seaboard of the Irish Sea between the mid-ninth and mid-tenth centuries, in particular the northern part of the AngloWelsh frontier (the modern counties of Cheshire and Flint) and west Lancashire/ Merseyside. The following discussion will suggest that these were highly liminal spaces and that control of this area (roughly coterminous with modern west Lancashire and Merseyside) and contestation of that control were central issues for the way in which politics in the Irish Sea zone was configured in the early tenth century. In particular, this essay will offer some reframing of the way in which the fortification programme carried out in northern Mercia by Æthelflæd, ‘Domina Merciorum’, and, following her death, her brother Edward the Elder is understood by historians. The period covered by the following discussion, from the late ninth century through to the mid-tenth century, was also one of exceptional political and cultural fluidity in the Irish Sea region. It is, of course, instinctive to all historians to see their particular corner of the discipline as the most exciting/interesting/fundamental, but this period, which saw extensive Scandinavian activity in the Irish Sea, including significant settlement on both the eastern and western seaboards, was more compelling than most. It was a period when what became in the twelfth century the county of Lancashire first emerged, dimly, into the historical record.2 What follows is an attempt to place this Lancashire-before-Lancashire into some sort of wider Irish Sea context, as a space which, in particular between around 910 and 924, was the focus of intense interaction between the major players in the politics of the Irish Sea. For Roman Manchester, see S. Bryant, M. Morris and J. S. F. Walker, Roman Manchester: A Frontier Settlement (Manchester, 1986). 2 D. Kenyon, The Origins of Lancashire (Manchester, 1991), 139–78; see also J. E. Tait, Medieval Manchester and the Beginnings of Lancashire (Manchester, 1904). 1

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Historically, what became Lancashire had been part of the kingdom of Northumbria, although popular perception tends to imagine Northumbria as something that largely happened east of the Pennines. In a political sense, there is some of truth in this characterization; the political heartland of the Northumbrian kingdom, as it existed between the seventh and the tenth centuries, lay between York and the river Wear.3 It is striking, for instance, that even in recent scholarship on Northumbria, Northumbria west-of-the-Pennines receives relatively little attention.4 Like many early medieval polities, Northumbria was an ‘extensively’ ruled kingdom, by which is meant a polity that was geographically very large, but structurally very shallow, with few in the way of mechanisms of government and lordship outside its dynastic and political core, and where power beyond this core zone, if it existed at all, was something negotiated between king and local/regional power groups.5 How far the societies which lived in the modern north-western counties of England (Lancashire, Westmorland and Cumberland) ever felt themselves to be Northumbrian is very unclear, but what seems more clear is that the Scandinavian attacks on Northumbria in the second half of the ninth century meant that Northumbrian rule west of the Pennines was more or less abandoned.6 However, that the west was still seen by some contemporaries as part of Northumbria is made clear by an entry in the AngloSaxon Chronicle for the year 919: King Edward ordered an army ‘from the people of Mercia to occupy Manchester, in Northumbria (on Norþhymbrum), to repair it and man its walls’.7 For the compiler of this entry of the Chronicle, the river Mersey was still an important frontier marker: south of it lay the kingdom of the Mercians, north of it Northumbria.8 It is also highly significant, as Dodgson, Higham and Edmonds have pointed out, that the Old English form of the river Mersey’s name, Mærse is derived from (ge)mære + ēa, ‘the river at the border’.9 The fluctuating nature of this frontier in the early tenth century will be addressed below. The descriptive and locative term ‘Between the Ribble and the Mersey’ needs some explanation. The administrative geography for much of the territory we think of as England, in terms of shires and hundreds/wapentakes, was largely in place by the 1020s at the latest.10 However, this imposition of administrative structure

D. Rollason, Northumbria, 500–1100: Creation and Destruction of a Kingdom (Cambridge, 2003), 45–53; F. Edmonds, Gaelic Influence in the Northumbrian Kingdom: The Golden Age and the Viking Age (Woodbridge, 2019), 12–13. 4 See, for example, Rollason, Northumbria – although Rollason (p. 52) does allow for an early heartland around Carlisle; an exception to this oversight is Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, which has extensive discussion of western Northumbria; see also N. J. Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse, 893–926’, in Viking Treasure from the North West: The Cuerdale Hoard in Its Context, ed. J. Graham Campbell (Liverpool, 1992), 21–30 at 21–3, 27. 5 For a discussion of ‘extensive’ as opposed to intensive rule see especially G. Molyneux, ‘Why Were some Tenth-Century English Kings Presented as Rulers of Britain?’, TRHS, 6th ser. 21 (2011), 59–91 at 81; G. Molyneux, The Formation of the English Kingdom in the Tenth Century (Oxford, 2015), 195–9. 6 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 58–60. 7 ASC, A, s.a. 922 [919]. 8 For a discussion of where the Northumbrian/Mercian frontier lay in the west see N. J. Higham, ‘Northumbria’s Southern Frontier: A Review’, Early Medieval Europe 14 (2006), 391–418 at 412–14. 9 J. McN. Dodgson, The Place-Names of Cheshire I (Cambridge, 1970), 31–2; Higham, ‘Northumbria’s Southern Frontier’, 414; Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 83. 10 G. Molyneaux, Formation of the English Kingdom in the Tenth Century (Oxford, 2015), 116–201; C. Insley, ‘The Atlantic Archipelago’, in Debating Medieval Europe: The Early Middle Ages, c. 450–c. 1050, ed. S. Mossman (Manchester, 2020), 226–63 at 231–2; D. Roffe, ‘The Origins of Derbyshire’, Derbyshire Archaeological Journal 106 (1986), 102–22; L. Marten, ‘The Shiring of East Anglia: An Alternative Hypothesis’, Historical Research 81 (2008), 1–27. 3



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was not true for the north-west, with separate counties of Lancashire, Westmorland and Cumberland not appearing until the second half of the twelfth century.11 Much, but not all, of the modern county of Lancashire was dealt with in Domesday Book in two discrete sections. Modern west and south Lancashire (including Greater Manchester) was called ‘Inter Ripam et Mersham’ (Between the Ribble and the Mersey) and included the hundreds of West Derby, Blackburn, Newton, Leyland, Warrington and Salford (Fig. 1). It was described alongside, but separate from, the county of Cheshire as part of circuit five of the survey on fol. 269v of Great Domesday, while Lancashire north of the Ribble, including the large hundred of Amounderness, was included as part of the West Riding of Yorkshire in circuit six; given that both lay within the former Northumbrian kingdom, this structure is perhaps unsurprising.12 In that respect, the detachment of west and south Lancashire from circuit six and its incorporation into circuit five, along with Cheshire and the other western Mercian counties of Gloucestershire, Herefordshire, Worcester and Shropshire, requires more comment.13 Domesday Book does not, however, provide the first occurrence of the name ‘Between the Ribble and the Mersey’. The same block of land appears some eighty years earlier in the will of the prominent Mercian thegn Wulfric Spott, where the land ‘Betwux Ribbel and Mærse’ and ‘on Wirhalum’ (in Wirral) was bequeathed to his brother, the Northumbrian ealdorman Ælfhelm, and Ælfhelm’s son Wulfheah.14 Wulfric died at some point between 1004 and 1008, so we can be clear that by the end of the tenth century, at the latest, this area had a clear ‘shape’, and that it was defined in terms of its limits – between two rivers and its main axes of communication. I will return to this distinctive nomenclature later in this discussion. The presence of Wirral and Inter Ripam et Mersham in Wulfric’s will implies that both blocks of land were private, personal possessions, since landed property in wills is generally regarded as heritable and fully alienable land, rather than land that was kept within the kin group. A significant number of Wulfric’s holdings on either side of the Pennines were located along major frontier lines. As well as Wirral and south Lancashire in the west, Wulfric also held Conisborough and Doncaster, major centres along the Don valley in the liminal space between north-eastern Mercia and Northumbria, and a string of estates in north Derbyshire along the line of the Icknield Way.15 I have argued elsewhere that these estates, although they look like private property, were in some senses precarial – in effect, they were held by Wulfric’s family as royal agents.16 It seems likely that the fact that parts or all of these frontier estates were either in royal hands in 1066, or in the possession of the family of Earl Ælfgar of Mercia, is significant.17 Inter Ripam et Mersham was in the hands of King Edward, while Earl Edwin held land in Wirral; Earl Harold

Kenyon, Origins of Lancashire, 152–72; C. Phythian-Adams, Land of the Cumbrians: A Study in British Provincial Origins A. D. 400–1120 (Aldershot, 1996), 165–71. 12 GDB, 269b, 301b; for a discussion of Amounderness in Domesday Book see Kenyon, Origins of Lancashire, 144–6. 13 Below, 117–18. 14 S1536; Anglo-Saxon Charters II: The Charters of Burton Abbey, ed. P. H. Sawyer, (Oxford, 1979), xxvii. 15 S1536. 16 C. Insley, ‘The Family of Wulfric Spott: An Anglo-Saxon Marcher Dynasty’, in The English and Their Legacy, 900–1200: Essays in Honour of Ann Williams, ed. D. Roffe (Woodbridge, 2012), 114–28 at 123–7. 17 Ibid., 126. 11

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Fig. 1. Inter Ripam et Mersham. Domesday Hundreds and Hundredal Centres. held Conisborough and his brother Earl Tostig held Doncaster.18 I have also argued that Wulfric’s family were likely to have acquired these estates earlier rather than later in the tenth century, and suggested that the likeliest initial beneficiary was Wulfric’s father, the Mercian thegn Wulfsige ‘the Black’ (‘prenomine Maurus’),

GDB, 262b, 269b, 307b, 321b; presumably following Tostig’s exile in 1065, his brother took possession of his holdings, including Doncaster. 18



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active between the late 930s and the 960s. The likeliest date for these grants would seem to be either in the late 930s, following the northern invasion of southumbrian England that culminated in the battle of Brunanburh in 937, or after the loss of northern Mercia to the Hiberno-Norse kings of Northumbria and Dublin in 940 and its recovery by the English in 943. 19

The Irish Sea Context Further discussion of Betwux Ribbel and Mærse will follow later in this essay, but I also want to briefly outline the wider Irish Sea context of the north-west in the late ninth and early tenth century. In terms of geography, the modern counties of Cheshire and Lancashire occupied a pivotal place in the shaping of communications routes and political geography in the early tenth century.20 Cheshire acts as the link between the English midlands and the Irish Sea, in effect squeezed in between the uplands of Clwydian range in north-east Wales and the English Peak District, while south and west Lancashire control two of the main access routes across the Pennines into eastern Northumbria, along the Mersey and Ribble valleys.21 The strategic importance of this geographical reality will, it is hoped, become clear in what follows. The period from the 870s through to the 920s saw rapid fluctuations in the pattern of political relationships that articulated around Cheshire and Lancashire. The rulers of the Mercians seem to have exercised some sort of hegemony over north-western Wales since the early ninth century.22 However, the serious defeats inflicted on the Mercians by the Vikings in the 870s seem to have brought this period of domination to an end, and allowed space for the rulers of the north-western Welsh kingdom of Gwynedd to assert themselves.23 This dynasty, known conventionally as the Merfynion, were the descendants of Merfyn ap Gwriad, or Merfyn Frych (‘the freckled’), and seem to have had their origins on Man. It is even possible that they continued to have some sort of lordship on Man until the early tenth century; Clare Downham suggests that Man may have passed out of Britonnic control as late as the second decade of the century.24 Viking aggression in North Wales seems to have prompted a short-lived flight by Merfyn’s son Rhodri to Dublin in 877; on his return a year later he and his son Gwriad were killed in battle against the Mercians.25 This event seems to have prompted two things: first, the Merfynion in return inflicted a major defeat on the Mercians in 881, which in the Welsh sources was explicitly described as the ‘avenging of Rhodri’;26 second, the Merfynion then allied themselves to a new power group in the Irish Sea, the Viking dynasty that had controlled Northumbria intermittently since the late 860s.27

Insley, ‘Family of Wulfric Spott’, 125. D. Griffiths, ‘The North-West Frontier’, in Edward the Elder 899–924, ed. N. J. Higham and D. Hill (London, 2001), 167–87 at 167. 21 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 74, 82–6. 22 T. M. Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons 350–1064 (Oxford, 2013), 424–8. 23 Ibid., 491–3; A. Burghart, ‘The Mercian Polity, 716–924’, unpublished PhD thesis (King’s College, London, 2007), 307–9. 24 Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 467–79; C. Downham, Viking Kings of Britain and Ireland: The Dynasty of Ívarr to A. D. 1014 (Edinburgh, 2007), 181–2. 25 Annales Cambriae, A. D. 682–954: Texts A–C in Parallel, ed. D. Dumville (Cambridge, 2002), s.a. 878. 26 Annales Cambriae, s.a. 881. 27 Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 492–3. 19

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This Northumbrian–Merfynion alignment seems not to have lasted – according Bishop Asser the Welsh ‘got no benefit, but a good deal of misfortune’ from it.28 From the early 890s we can see the ruler of the Mercians, by this point a man called Æthelred, married to Alfred the Great’s daughter Æthelflæd, working in concert with the king of Gwynedd, Rhodri’s son Anarawd. In 893 and 894, Æthelred led a major campaign, including men described in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as norðwealcynnes (North Welshmen), against a Viking force operating in Shropshire and Cheshire.29 This Viking force ultimately seized Chester (of which more anon), from which they could not be dislodged, before, according to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, moving into Wales from the Wirral, then turning back and heading across Northumbria, ‘where the English could not follow them’.30 This last detail is interesting. Why could the English not follow them? The suggestion offered here is that the Vikings crossed into Lancashire, and either followed the line of the Mersey up into Longdendale and across the Pennines via the Snake Pass, or further north, up the Ribble Valley and either across from Lonsdale into Wharfedale, or perhaps more likely along the Roman road that passed through the Aire Gap, and that at this point, south-western Northumbria was somewhere that the Mercians could not or would not go.31 If Cheshire and south Lancashire were therefore one focal point for the articulation of relationships on the eastern seaboard of the Irish Sea, then the city of Chester itself was absolutely central to this connection between the two. In regard to Chester, it is the supposed ‘refoundation’ or ‘restoration’ of the town by Æthelred and Æthelflæd recorded in the block of annals copied into the B and C versions of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, known as the Mercian Register, in 907 that attracts most attention.32 It is clear, though, that Chester was a functioning urban centre before this date. Although the well-known entry in the common stock of the AngloSaxon Chronicle for 893, which described it as a ‘deserted city in Wirral’, implies dereliction, it seems unlikely that it had genuinely been abandoned.33 There was clearly enough in the way of walls and other infrastructure for the Viking force that had taken it in 893 to be able to withstand some sort of Anglo-Welsh siege, before departing for Northumbria.34 The account implies that that the town had sufficient in the way of walls to withstand what seems to have been a significant AngloWelsh force and, as Michael Dolley suggested, the town was sufficiently inhabited and commercially active to have a functioning mint in c. 890.35 Nonetheless, this evidence should not understate the importance of the early tenth-century refoundation, which seems to have involved significant building works, with what appear Asser’s Life of King Alfred; together with the Annals of St Neots, ed. W. H. Stevenson (Oxford, 1904), ch. 80, 66–7; Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 493. 29 ASC, A, s.a. 893, 894; Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 495. 30 ASC, A, s.a. 894. 31 Downham, Viking Kings, 89, 212; Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 21, 24. 32 For the ‘Mercian Register’ see P. Stafford, ‘“The Annals of Æthelflæd”: Annals, History and Politics in Early Tenth-Century England’, in Myth, Rulership, Church and Charters: Essays in Honour of Nicholas Brooks, ed. J. Barrow and A. Wareham (Aldershot, 2008), 101–16; P. Stafford, After Alfred: AngloSaxon Chronicles and Chroniclers, 900–1150 (Oxford, 2020), 64–6. 33 ASC, A, s.a. 893; A. T. Thacker, ‘Early Medieval Chester, 400–1230’, in VCH Cheshire, vol. 5 part 1, ed. A. T. Thacker and C. P. Lewis (Woodbridge, 2003), 16–33 at 16–17. 34 ASC, A, s.a. 893. 35 Thacker, ‘Early Medieval Chester’, 17; C. Blunt, B. H. I. H. Stewart and C. S. S. Lyon, Coinage in Tenth-Century England: From Edward the Elder to Edgar’s Reform (Oxford, 1989), 21; R. H. M. Dolley, ‘The Mint of Chester (part 1): Edward the Elder to Eadgar’, Journal of the Cheshire Archaeological Society 42 (1955), 1–20 at 1–7. 28



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to be further walls built north of the river Dee and beyond the existing Roman fortifications.36 This work may have been prompted by the attack, recorded in the Fragmentary Annals of Ireland, of the Hiberno-Scandinavian leader Ingimund on the city in around 905.37 Although the Fragmentary Annals – a seventeenth-century transcript of a fourteenth-century set of annals – are the only witness to the attack on Chester, the event is not in itself implausible; the same figure appears in the Annales Cambriae launching an attack on Maes Osfeilion (possibly the modern site of Llanfaes) on Môn before being repulsed.38 The rebuilding of Chester also fits into a pattern of rebuilding and rededication across western Mercia undertaken by Æthelred and (primarily) Æthelflæd. This activity included the translation of relics and probably significant religious patronage in what seems to have been an attempt to create a new Mercian spiritual landscape, as well as a northwards and westwards reorientation of the kingdom’s political centre of gravity away from the upper Trent valley.39 Most famously, Oswald’s relics were translated from Bardney to Gloucester, while the relics and cult of St Werburgh were translated to Chester from Hanbury.40 The cult of St Bertelin/Beorhthelm was the focus of the rebuilding of Stafford in 913 and probably the new burh at Runcorn established by Æthelflæd in 915.41 It is clear, though, that above all else Chester functioned not just as the nodal point in a network of burhs along the northern frontier of Mercia, but as a major economic centre, with a diverse urban population.42 In particular, the Chester mint was almost certainly the most important in Mercia for much of the tenth century.43 By the death of Æthelflæd in 918, there seem to have been eighteen moneyers working in Chester (although some also seem to have been shared with the Stafford mint), and by the reign of Æthelstan there seem to have been twenty-five. The names of the moneyers are also extremely revealing, while bearing in mind all the usual caveats about inferring identity from personal names. The name of one moneyer, Irfara, seems to have been a Norse byname or nickname indicating someone who had travelled in Ireland, and a man with an Irish name, Mael Domen, minted coin in Chester during Æthelstan’s reign.44 Other moneyers had Norse and English names, as well as names of Thacker, ‘Early Medieval Chester’, 17. Fragmentary Annals of Ireland, ed. and trans. J. N. Radner (Dublin, 1978), 168–73, s.a. 905. 38 The core of the Fragmentary annals seems to be an eleventh-century chronicle from Osraige (Fragmentary Annals, ed. Radner, xix–xxxiv). For a discussion of ‘Ingimund’s Invasion’ and the Fragmentary Annals of Ireland, see F. T. Wainwright, ‘Ingimund’s Invasion’, EHR 63 (1948), 145–69, repr. in Scandinavian England: Collected Papers by F. T. Wainwright, ed. H. P. R. Finberg (Chichester, 1975), 131–61; Downham, Viking Kings, 27, 83–4; Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 496–502; Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 54; F. Edmonds, ‘History and Names’, in The Huxley Viking Hoard: Scandinavian Settlement in the North West, ed. J. Graham-Campbell and R. Philpott (Liverpool, 2009), 3–12 at 6; Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 24; Griffiths, ‘North-West Frontier’, 179; M. Redknap, ‘Silver and Commerce in Viking-Age North Wales’, in The Huxley Hoard, ed. Graham-Campbell and Philpott, 29–41 at 34. 39 C. Insley, ‘Collapse, Rreconfiguration or Renegotiation? The Strange End of the Mercian Kingdom, 850–924’, Reti Medievali Revista 17.2 (2016), 231–49 at 238–9. 40 ASC, C (Mercian Register), s.a. 909; Thacker, ‘Early Medieval Chester’, 19. 41 For Werbergh and the translation from Hanbury see A. T. Thacker, ‘Chester and Gloucester: Early Ecclesiastical Organization in Two Mercian burhs’, Northern History 18 (1982), 199–211 at 203, 209–10; for the cult of Bertelin/Beorhthelm at Runcorn see N. J. Higham, The Origins of Cheshire (Manchester, 1993), 111, 115; and A. T. Thacker, ‘Kings, Saints and Monasteries in Pre-Viking Mercia’, Midland History 10 (1985), 1–25 at 19. 42 Thacker, ‘Early Medieval Chester’, 19–22. 43 Ibid., 19–22; Dolley, ‘The Mint at Chester’, 1–7; Blunt, Stewart and Lyon, Coinage in Tenth-Century England, 21. 44 Thacker, ‘Early Medieval Chester’, 20–1. 36 37

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continental German origin. The importance of Irish trade to Chester is attested not just by the town’s moneyers, or by the material culture that appears to have been traded in the city, but also by its location. The seaway along the North Wales coast was extremely important and, as Fiona Edmonds has suggested, the presence of Irish saints’ cults such as that of St Cóemgen at Maen Achwyfan in north-east Wales is also testimony to the movement of belief, as well as of people and goods, along the North Wales littoral, as are the significant coastal trading settlements at Llanbedrgoch on Môn and Meols on Wirral.46 It is also noteworthy in this context that most of the Norse place- or topographical names in North Wales (not an area extensively, or indeed at all, settled by the Norse) are of coastal sites that may well have served as navigation points for the journey from Dublin, with the Great Orme near Llandudno being perhaps the best example.47 Alan Thacker also notes that the apparent output of the Chester mint in the early tenth century seems to have exceeded the likely output of the silver mines in North Wales, and suggests that the silver requirement for Chester came from a variety of sources – tribute, possibly, but also trade.48 As the number of significant silver finds along the routes from the Irish Sea to York suggests – most notably the Cuerdale Hoard, but also more recent discoveries at Silverdale, also on the Ribble, Huxley in Cheshire and in the Vale of York – silver was not necessarily in short supply. Chester in the early tenth century, then, was one of the major, if not the major, nodal points on the trade and communications routes on the eastern side of the Irish Sea, connecting western Northumbria, Mercia, North Wales and the eastern Irish Seaboard. It is also likely that Chester also had a much more local hinterland in north-east Wales: the later Domesday hundreds of Atiscros and Exestan and the district of Englefield/Tegeingl, as well as Wirral.49 Englefield was an area of mixed English and Welsh settlement (and probably some Hiberno-Scandinavian), probably under Mercian control from the mid-eighth to the later tenth century. The layering of identities here – certainly as far as can be glimpsed in Domesday Book – was complex.50 Despite Chester’s importance for the Mercian polity in the early tenth century, and perhaps because of it, the settlement was also the focus of rebellion in 924.51 Although the Chester rebellion is little mentioned in the sources (much the fullest account of it comes in William of Malmesbury’s Deeds of the Kings of the English of c. 1130, with all the problems that text brings in its wake), it was clearly a major crisis. William of Malmesbury records that the men of Chester, along with the Britons – presumably the Welsh of north and/or north-east Wales – rebelled against 45

45

Ibid. Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 143; Downham, Viking Kings, 208–9; D. Griffiths, Vikings of the Irish Sea (Stroud, 2010), 54–5, 111–15; D. Griffiths, ‘Maen Achwyfan and the Context of Viking Settlement in North-East Wales’, Arch. Camb. 155 (2006), 143–62; D. Griffiths, ‘The Early Medieval Period’, in Meols: The Archaeology of the North Wirral Coast, ed. D. Griffiths, R. A. Philpott and G. Egan (Oxford, 2007), 399–406 at 402–3; M. Redknap, ‘Viking-Age Settlement in Wales and the Evidence from Llanbedrgoch’, in Land, Sea and Home: Settlement in the Viking Period, ed. J. Hines, A. Lane and M. Redknap (Leeds, 2004), 139–75; Redknap, ‘Silver and Commerce’, 36–40. 47 G. Fellows-Jensen, ‘Scandinavian Place-Names of the Irish Sea Province’, in Viking Treasure from the North West: The Cuerdale Hoard in Its Context, ed. J. Graham Campbell (Liverpool, 1992), 31–42 at 31; Griffiths, Vikings of the Irish Sea, 18. 48 Thacker, ‘Early Medieval Chester’, 19. 49 GDB, 268b–269a. 50 C. P. Lewis, ‘Welsh Territories and Welsh Identities in Late Anglo-Saxon England’, in Britons in Anglo-Saxon England, ed. N. J. Higham (Woodbridge, 2007), 131–43 at 137–8. 51 Malmesbury, Gesta regum, ii, 133. 46



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King Edward the Elder and that Edward had to come north to put the rising down.52 Edward died a few days later, at Farndon (‘æt Fearndune’) on the edge of Delamere Forest, and it is possible, if completely unprovable, that he was mortally wounded in putting down the rebellion.53 Quite what lay behind this rebellion is obscure, but it seems very likely that the aggressive assertion of southern English royal power into the north-west of England and north-east Wales played a part. In 919, Edward had taken the submission of the Merfynion kings who had previously submitted to his sister (Idwal ap Anarawd and Hywel and Clydog ap Cadell), and in 921 had built a burh at Cledemuthun (‘Clwyd Mouth’), almost certainly at or very near Rhuddlan.54 This burh may also have been the site of the battle at Dinas Newydd (‘the New Fort’) recorded in the Annales Cambriae, although who the participants in that battle were is unclear.55 It may have been between the English and the northern Welsh, but equally it may also have involved Hiberno-Scandinavians either from Dublin or from Wirral. Western Northumbria The focus of this essay now returns to Inter Ripam et Mersham. One of the most important, but least studied, effects of the arrival and campaigns of the ‘Great Army’ in Northumbria in the late ninth century was the apparent collapse of any kind of structured Northumbrian royal power west of the Pennines, in the modern counties of Lancashire, Westmorland and Cumberland.56 This collapse is a process which can only really be inferred, on a quantum level, from the movement of other particles. That conditions in the west had worsened significantly is suggested by the flight of a number of elite refugees across the Pennines. According to the Historia de Sancto Cuthberto, Tilred, abbot of Heversham in Westmorland, fled his church to the safety of the Cuthbertine community at Norham-on-Tweed ‘in the time of King Edward’, while one Alfred son of Brihtwulf also fled east ‘over the mountains’ and sought the protection of St Cuthbert and bishop Cutheard (c. 904–18).57 Western Northumbria is extremely poorly attested in the documentary record – a ‘chronicle blind-spot’, as Alex Woolf terms it – and not very well represented in terms of material culture, at least until the tenth century.58 It is also clear, however, that Northumbria had a very important Irish Sea dimension in the early Middle Ages, as the significant presence of Northumbrian stycca coins in the archaeological record of the northwest England and the North Wales littoral in the eighth and ninth centuries attests.59 Nonetheless, it is clear that the rapid retreat of any sort of royal control west of the Pennines created space for other groups and polities to operate. Fiona Edmonds has demonstrated very clearly that the early tenth century saw a significant expansion of 52

Ibid. ASC, A, s.a. 924; for the importance of Farndon, see Griffiths, ‘North-West Frontier’, 183. 54 ASC, A, s.a. 919; ASC, C (Mercian Register), s.a. 921; Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 498–500; Insley, ‘Collapse, Reconfiguration or Renegotiation?’, 242–3. 55 Annales Cambriae, s.a. 921; Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 498–9; F. T. Wainwright, ‘Cledemutha’, EHR 65 (1950), 202–12; D. Griffiths, ‘The North-West Mercian Burhs: A Reappraisal’, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History 8 (1995), 75–86; Griffiths, ‘The North-West Frontier’, 171–4. 56 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 51–2. 57 Historia de Sancto Cuthberto, ed. and trans. T. Johnson-South (Cambridge, 2002), chs 21–2; 58–61; Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 108; A. Woolf, From Pictland to Alba 789–1070 (Edinburgh, 2007), 132; T. Clarkson, Strathclyde and the Anglo-Saxons in the Viking Age (Edinburgh, 2014), 67. 58 Woolf, From Pictland to Alba, 132. 59 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 87; Griffiths, Vikings of the Irish Sea, 109–11. 53

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the kingdom of Strathclyde – until the late ninth century a polity with its heartland in the upper Clyde valley – into what is now the far north-west of England.60 It is also worth remembering that when Æthelstan met the rulers of northern Britain in 927, clearly in the context of meetings on political frontiers, he did so at Eamont, near Penrith. Indeed, as Edmonds argues, this geographical shift of the Strathclyde kingdom southwards also seems to have occasioned a change in nomenclature; from the second quarter of the tenth century, the polity seems to have been known as the ‘kingdom of the Cumbrians’.61 Further south, the modern county of Lancashire seems also to have become a more contested space. Again, the detail is almost impossible to establish, but something of an overall picture can be dimly made out, drawn from archaeology, place-names and some limited textual evidence. The presence of Norse-derived place-names in west Lancashire and Wirral is well known and was first discussed in any detail by Frederick Wainwright, but what they actually mean in terms of Scandinavian, or more realistically Hiberno-Scandinavian, influence and settlement is much less clear.62 The views of Wainwright about large-scale Hiberno-Norse settlement as a direct result of the failed attempt on Chester and an inferred plantation by Æthelflæd and Æthelred of Vikings in south-western Northumbria are now generally regarded as overstating the case, and it does seem that both in Wirral and west Lancashire most of the pre-Domesday place-names derived wholly or partially from Old Norse were attached not to major centres, but to relatively minor settlements.63 The current consensus, as far as such a thing exists, is that while there may have been some Hiberno-Norse migration into the north-west in the aftermath of the expulsion of ‘foreigners’ from Dublin in 902, it was rather smaller in scale than Wainwright suggested. The migration may well have been largely an elite take-over, and probably took place over a much longer period, with settlers arriving from a variety of intermediate destinations, including the Isle of Man.64 The distinctive tenurial landscape of West Derby hundred recorded in Domesday Book, with its myriad small-scale landholders, was not created in one go.65 Moreover it seems clear that place-name elements derived from Old Norse toponyms or personal names were being used in the coinage of place-names in Lancashire, Westmorland and Cumbria well into the twelfth century.66 Less than half of the partially or wholly 60 F. Edmonds, ‘The Emergence and Transformation of Medieval Cumbria’, Scottish Historical Review 93 (2014), 195–216 at 205–6; F. Edmonds, ‘The Expansion of the Kingdom of Strathclyde’, EME 23 (2015), 43–66 at 44–55; F. Edmonds, ‘Carham: The Western Perspective’, in The Battle of Carham: A Thousand Years On, ed. N. McGuigan and A. Woolf (Edinburgh, 2018), 79–94 at 84–90. 61 Edmonds, ‘The Emergence’, 205–6; Clarkson, Strathclyde and the Anglo-Saxons, 63–70; for an alternative view see C. Phythian-Adams, Land of the Cumbrians: A Study in British Provincial Origins, AD 400–1200 (Aldershot, 1996), 109–14. 62 F. T. Wainwright, ‘The Scandinavians in Lancashire’, Transactions of the Lancashire and Cheshire Antiquarian Society 58 (1946), 71–116, repr. in Wainwright, Scandinavian England, 181–227. 63 Kenyon, Origins of Lancashire, 127–9. 64 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 53–6; Kenyon, Origins of Lancashire, 130; Downham, Viking Kings, 85; N. J. Higham, A Frontier Landscape: The North-West in the Middle Ages (Bollington, 2004), 32; N. J. Higham, ‘Viking-Age Settlement in the North-Western Countryside: Lifting the Veil?’, in Land, Sea and Home: Proceedings of a Conference on Viking-Period Settlement, at Cardiff, July 2001, ed. J. Hines, A. Lane and M. Redknap, Society for Medieval Archaeology Monograph 20 (Leeds, 2004), 297–312. For the possible connections of Manx place-names to those of Wirral and south-west Lancashire, see G. Fellows-Jensen, ‘Scandinavian Settlement in the Isle of Man and North-West England: The Place-Name Evidence’, in The Viking Age in the Isle of Man, ed. C. Fell et al. (London, 1983), 37–52; for a cautionary note see Griffiths, Vikings of the Irish Sea, 48–51. 65 Higham, A Frontier Landscape, 36–41. 66 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 161–9.



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Old Norse-derived place-names in West Lancashire relate to settlements recorded in Domesday. This does not necessarily mean that these settlements did not exist in 1086, for Domesday’s recording of information in Lancashire is much sparser and more laconic than the neighbouring Cheshire entries, but is likely that some, at least, of the these settlements were formed or named only in the later eleventh or early twelfth centuries.67 The place-names themselves do shed some light on a rather more complex set of processes. There is certainly good evidence of an important Irish element in whatever was going on in Wirral/West Lancashire.68 Other than names which directly indicate Irish (or, by inference, Hibernicized Norse) inhabitants (for instance, Ireby names), the presence of what appear to be -ærgi names, derived from the Old Irish word for a shieling (airge), especially in the Ribble valley (for instance Goosnargh and Grimsargh; see Fig. 2), might indicate the presence of Norse speakers who had been exposed to or interacted with Gaelic speech communities.69 The first element of Goosnargh might suggests Gaelic connections as well; Ekwall suggested that it might be derived from the Irish name Gusan.70 What may be a Gaelic personal name element highlights the cultural complexity of north-western England in this period. Although the -ærgi names might indicate settlement from Ireland, it is perhaps over simplistic to assume that such settlers came straight across the Irish Sea.71 In the far north-west of England, settlement from the Hibernicized Norse communities in the Isles/Hebrides, Man and possibly Galloway is just as likely.72 Indeed, it is possible to overstate the Old Irish/Gaelic speech-pattern influence on north-west England. As Alison Grant has noted, a distinctive feature of Old Norse name-formation which has been affected by exposure to Celtic speech patterns are what are called inversion-compounds, where a compound place-name in Old Norse and/or Old English follows the Old Irish speech pattern of generic-specific rather than the specific-generic normal in Old English and Old Norse coinage.73 These, Grant has argued, were coined by Gaelic speakers using Norse as a second language, and are a feature of Old Norse place-names in south-west Scotland.74 Inversion compounds are much less common in north-west England, and there are none in Lancashire south of the Ribble.75 Kirksanton in Millom – in Domesday part of Earl Tostig’s great estate at Hougun – is an example in point.76 It is an inversion compound – one of the few in north Lancashire, and commemorates an Irish saint – Santán – who seems to have enjoyed popularity in See R. Watson, ‘Viking Age Amounderness: A Reconsideration’, in Place-Names, Language and the Anglo-Saxon Landscape, ed. N. J. Higham and M. J. Ryan (Woodbridge, 2011), 125–41 at 136–7 for the argument, contra Fellows-Jensen (G. Fellows-Jensen, Scandinavian Settlement Names in the North-West (Copenhagen, 1985), 328–36), that Old Norse remained part of the matrix of name-formation in the northwest into the twelfth century. 68 Edmonds, ‘History and Names’, 9–10; see also Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 166–7. 69 M. Higham, ‘Scandinavian Settlements in North-West England, with a Special Study of Ireby Names’, in Scandinavian Settlement in Northern Britain, ed. B. Crawford (London, 1995), 195–205; M. Higham, ‘The “Erg” Place-Names of Northern England’, Journal of the English Place-Name Society 10 (1977–8), 7–17; G. Fellows-Jensen, ‘Common Gaelic áirge, Old Scandinavian ǽrgi or erg?’, Nomina 4 (1980), 67–94. 70 E. Ekwall, Place-Names of Lancashire (London, 1922), 149. 71 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 162–8. 72 Ibid., 167–8. 73 A. Grant, ‘A New Approach to the Inversion Compounds of North-West England’, Nomina 25 (2002), 65–90. 74 Ibid., 77–81. 75 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 169. 76 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 139–40. 67

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Fig. 2. Inter Ripam et Mersham. Roman roads and places mentioned in the text. Man and possibly Leinster.77 However, in Domesday Book, Kirksanton is rendered as Santa cherche, that is, the normal specific-generic formulation one would expect of an Old English or Old Norse dithematic place-name.78 By 1152 the order had been reversed, being rendered as Kirkesantan.79 How are we to regard this change

Ibid.; the route of Santán’s cult is unclear, but it is possible it arrived in the north-west from Leinster via Dublin and was then taken to Man. 78 GDB, 301v. 79 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 139. 77



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of name? Does this represent the particularities of the scribe recording this circuit for the inquest, or does it represent the inversion of the place-name after 1086 – in other words, representing, as Edmonds suggests, continued interaction between Norse and Gaelic speakers into the twelfth century?80 The latter proposition seems rather more probable. The presence of -by names, generally not a major feature of Norse-derived placenames in either Ireland or south-west Scotland, in west Lancashire and Wirral also suggests more complex sets of influences, given the almost complete lack of such elements in the small number of Norse place-names in Ireland.81 In this respect, the Isle of Man, as Gillian Fellows-Jensen and others have shown, offers the closest parallels, and we should not discount the possible movement of people and influence into Lancashire across the Peak District and the southern Pennines from the eastern Danelaw.82 The processes of Hiberno-Norse settlement in the north-west are also likely to be more complex than simply land-take.83 Purchase is at least as likely a mechanism as more forceful means, and in the case of Copeland in western Cumbria (ON kaupland or ‘bought-land’), the element of purchase is explicit.84 It is not impossible that Amounderness, Lancashire north of the Ribble, was also acquired through purchase and it is tempting and possibly even right to identify the eponymous Agmundr with the Agmund Hold recorded in the A manuscript of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle as having been killed in the great battle against the West Saxons and Mercians at Tettenhall (Staffordshire) in 910.85 The charter that records the grant of Amounderness to St Peter’s, York, states that King Æthelstan had purchased the land with his own money ‘from the yoke of hateful servitude’, presumably a reference to the possible paganism of its earlier lords.86 The texture of political control in west Lancashire in particular, during the first two decades of the tenth century, is also very unclear. The general assumption is that this was an area largely outside the control of larger polities until, perhaps, the 920s. This is probably the safest assumption, reinforced by the building by the Mercians of a series of fortified central places along the line of the Mersey at Thelwall, Runcorn and Manchester between 915 and 919.87 Nick Higham makes the proposition that west Lancashire had fallen under Edward the Elder’s lordship by 920, suggesting that this was the point at which this part of Northumbria was brought under the ecclesiastical jurisdiction of the Mercian bishopric of Lichfield.88 This reorganization of ecclesiastical geography might also explain why this part 80

Ibid. G. Fellows-Jensen, ‘Vikings in the British Isles: The Place-Name Evidence, Acta Archaeologica 71 (2000), 135–46; Fellows-Jensen, ‘Scandinavian Place-Names of the Irish Sea Province’, 36. 82 Fellows-Jensen, ‘Scandinavian Place-Names of the Irish Sea Province’, 36; Higham, ‘Viking-Age Settlement’, 299–300; S. M. Lewis, ‘Vikings on the Ribble: Their Origin and Longphuirt’, Northern History 53 (2016), 8–25 at 12–13, 15. 83 Griffiths, Vikings of the Irish Sea, 48–71. 84 Ibid., 52; Fellows-Jensen, Scandinavian Settlement Names, 417; J. Quanrud, ‘Taking Sides: NorthWest England Vikings at the Battle of Tettenhall, AD 910’, in In Search of Vikings: Interdisciplinary Approaches to the Scandinavian Heritage of North-West England, ed. D. Griffiths, S. Harding and E. Royles (London, 2014), 72–93 at 88–9. 85 Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 55; Quanrud, ‘Taking Sides’, 82; Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 24. 86 S407: ‘Sine iugo exose seruitutis’; Anglo-Saxon Charters 16: Charters of Northern Houses, ed. D. A. Woodman (Oxford, 2012), no. 1, 86–97. 87 ASC, C (Mercian Register), s.a. 915, 919; see below. 88 Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 28; Higham, ‘Northumbria’s Southern Frontier’, 412–16. 81

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of Lancashire was, administratively speaking, seen as an adjunct to Cheshire in 1086, whereas the area north of the Ribble, a large slice of which belonged to the archbishop of York after 934, was an adjunct to Yorkshire.89 Higham also suggests that a further burh was planted by Edward at Penwortham, on the south bank of the Ribble overlooking Preston; this burh functioned as a major manorial centre by the time of Domesday Book, although the hundredal centre was a few miles away at Leyland.90 Although the archaeological evidence, such as it is at Penwortham, might support the building of a small burh there, its absence from the list of burhs built either by Æthelflæd or Edward needs some explanation.91 Nonetheless, given that the block of territory which forms the focus of this discussion (‘Between Ribble and Mersey’) was defined by its riverine limits, some sort of fortification at its northern border seems inherently likely, especially if, as Higham and Lewis suggest, the lower Ribble had been used by Hiberno-Norse armies a few years earlier.92 The site of such a base is unknown, but Lewis suggests either Penwortham itself or Becconsall/Hesketh Bank, a few miles to the south, as possibilities.93 This evidence would all indicate that the Mercians/southern English took control of west Lancashire in around 920. However, it is not impossible that the Mercians had some sort of control over west Lancashire earlier. John Quanrud has argued recently that the ‘northern’ army comprehensively defeated by the West Saxons and Mercians in 910 at Tettenhall (Staffordshire) had its base not in eastern Northumbria or York, as is generally assumed, but in the north-west.94 This might also provide the context for the Agmund of Amounderness to be the same Agmund killed at Tettenhall, although there is, perhaps, an inherent circularity in this argument. While the evidence for this suggestion is ambiguous, it is worth noting that the account in Æthelweard’s Chronicon of the battle and the events leading up to it could be read as implying that Æthelred had some sort of authority north of the Mersey; Æthelweard describes Æthelred as having authority over the Mercian and Northumbrian areas.95 The presence of mixed coin and hacksilver hoards in the Ribble valley (Cuerdale, Silverdale) might also suggest west Lancashire’s being the focus for a Hiberno-Scandinavian army in the decade after the expulsion of the ‘foreigners’ from Dublin recorded in the Annals of Ulster for 902.96 It seems very unlikely that Æthelred really did exercise authority over what tends to be thought of as Northumbria, that is, the area east of the Pennines, but it should not be forgotten that in the early tenth century, the area to the west of the Pennines was also generally regarded as Northumbria.97 If the Mercians did exercise some sort of authority north of the Mersey before 920, it was likely to have been ephemeral. The building of the burhs at Chirbury, Eddisbury (almost certainly the Eddisbury in mid-Cheshire, rather than east Cheshire) and Runcorn in 915, all to the south of the Mersey, suggests a defensive Kenyon, Origins of Lancashire, 114. N. J. Higham, ‘The Cheshire Burhs and the Mercian frontier to 924’, Transactions of the Lancashire & Cheshire Antiquarian Society 85 (1989), 193–222 at 213–14; Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 28; Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 57. 91 Higham, ‘The Cheshire Burhs’, 212–14. 92 Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 27; Edmonds, ‘History and Names’, 6; Lewis, ‘Vikings on the Ribble’, 18–25. 93 Lewis, ‘Vikings on the Ribble, 23–5. 94 Quanrud, ‘Taking Sides’, 88–9. 95 Ibid., 78–9; The Chronicle of Æthelweard, ed. A. Campbell (Oxford, 1962), 52. 96 The Annals of Ulster (to A. D. 1131), ed. and trans. S. macAirt and G. macNiocaill (Dublin, 1983), s.a. 902; Edmonds, Gaelic Influence, 53–4. 97 Above, {000}. 89

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frontier. Two subsequent burhs, at Thelwall and Manchester, were built in 919.99 These tend to be treated together with the earlier ones, but it is possible to see them as reflecting strategic priorities that had changed since 915. Significantly, one was on the northern bank of the Mersey near the confluence of the Mersey and the Irwell, and it may be that control of one of the main routes across the Pennines (via Longdendale), rather than simply defending north-western Mercia, lay behind their building or, in Manchester’s case, rebuilding. In turn, the seizure of York in 919 by Rægnald, grandson of Ivarr, whose brother Sihtric had apparently taken control of Dublin in 917, might have prompted Edward to push English lordship well to the north of the Mersey as a means of disrupting communications between the Dubliners and the new rulers of York.100 98

Political Dynamics in the Irish Sea The aggressive assertion of Hiberno-Norse power into the eastern seaboard of the Irish Sea zone between 915 and 919 forms the final part of this discussion: the shifting political landscape of the Irish Sea. The displacement, even if temporary, of Hiberno-Scandinavian elite groups from Dublin in around 902 almost certainly meant that existing configurations of political power in north-west England and North Wales became much more contested, especially in western Northumbria, which seems, as we have seen, to have moved out of any kind of higher-level political control in the last decade or so of the ninth century. If the account in the Annales Cambriae of the attempted descent by Ingimund on Môn can be taken seriously, then it suggests that Man and Môn may have been the first targets for displaced groups. The attempt on Môn seems to have been short-lived, but Man may have been the focus for more concerted action; the Annals of Ulster record a major naval battle off Man in 914 between the forces of Barðr son of Óttar and Rægnald grandson of Imhair, or Ívarr.101 The Cuerdale hoard is also very likely to be indicative of the activities of some sort of Hiberno-Scandinavian group in west Lancashire and the Ribble valley; indeed, Higham suggests that the Ribble valley may have provided a base for the forces associated with Rægnald, grandson of Ívarr, before the capture of Man by Rægnald hinted at in the Annals of Ulster account.102 This event may well have been the catalyst for the building of northern Mercian burhs in the following year. Indeed, the period 914–919/20 seems almost kaleidoscopic in terms of the speed with which the political shape of and alignments within the Irish Sea zone changed. Anarawd ap Rhodri, who had ruled Gwynedd – and perhaps much of Wales, if we can take the hyperbolic rex Brittonum of the Annales Cambriae at all seriously – died in 916, which led, as I have suggested elsewhere, to a more aggressive assertion of Mercian hegemony in Wales by Æthelflæd.103 The seizure of Dublin from ASC, C (Mercian Register), s.a. 915; Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 27; Higham, ‘The Cheshire Burhs’. 99 ASC, A, s.a. 922 [919]; David Griffiths notes that the site of the burh at Thelwall has never been identified and posits a possible confusion with Warrington, on the north bank of the Mersey more or less opposite Thelwall, which has a definite pre-Conquest origin and was the centre of one of the West Lancashire hundreds in Domesday Book (Griffiths, ‘The North-West Frontier’, 177). 100 ASC, D, s.a. 923 [919]; Annals of Ulster, s.a. 917; Downham, Viking Kings, 32, 91–3; Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 27–9. 101 Annals of Ulster, s.a. 914. 102 Higham, ‘Northumbria, Mercia and the Irish Sea Norse’, 27–9; Higham (29), refers to the Ribble as ‘the jugular vein of Norse power in Northern Britain’. 103 Annales Cambriae, s.a. 916: ‘Anaraut, rex Britonum, obiit’; Insley, ‘Collapse, Reconfiguration or Renegotiation’, 239–41. 98

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the control of Niall Glúndubh a year later, in 917, by the grandsons of Ívarr tends to be paired with the taking of York by the same family two years later in 919. However, the intervening period saw major developments which, perhaps, should change how we see or link these two events. These developments were the death of the Mercian ruler Æthelflæd in the summer of 918, and the assertion of West Saxon power into this northern part of the Irish Sea zone with the submission of the Merfynion kings to Æthelflæd’s brother Edward, probably in 919.104 On her death, Æthelflæd was undoubtedly one of the most important political figures in northern Britain. The eastern Danelaw centres of Derby and Leicester appear to have fallen to Mercian lordship in 917 and early 918, while the block of annals copied into the B and C manuscripts of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and conventionally known as the Mercian Register suggest that Æthelflæd had secured the submission of York (and perhaps, by implication, southern Northumbria) in early 918.105 Although Anarawd ap Rhodri had been succeeded as ruler of Gwynedd by his son Idwal, it is perhaps unlikely that this early in his rule Idwal would have been able to assert himself in the relationship with the Mercians. So, it seems likely that on her death Æthelflæd held lordship, however loosely defined, over a polity that stretched over much of Wales, midland England, southern Northumbria and possibly the southern part of western Northumbria; a polity, in other words, stretching right across mainland Britain. Æthelflæd’s death, therefore, was a very significant event, reflected in the fact that it is one of the relatively few English royal deaths that get a mention in both the Annales Cambriae and the various sets of Irish Annals, which do not, for instance, mention the death of her supposedly more important brother Edward in 924.106 It is clear that her death stopped the submission of York; the wording of the entry in the Mercian Register suggests that while the men of York had agreed to submit to Æthelflæd, the submission itself had not in fact gone ahead. It may also have temporarily weakened English overlordship over the northern Welsh. Disentangling the sequence of events that followed Æthelflæd’s death is tricky; the A version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle suggests that Edward immediately secured the submission of the Merfynion, but Thomas Charles-Edwards suggests that this did not happen until 919, which seems rather more plausible.107 Something that attracts virtually no comment is that – again if the Mercian Register is to be believed – Æthelflæd seems to have been followed as domina Merciorum by her daughter Ælfwynn, and that Ælfwynn’s rule seems to have lasted around six months before she was, in the words of the Mercian Register, ‘deprived of lawful authority’ before Christmas by her uncle and taken into Wessex.108 This seems to have happened in the closing weeks of 918. Why did Edward wait six months to depose his niece, when he could perhaps have done so in the immediate aftermath of her mother’s death? What had changed? The precise chronology is very hard to disentangle, but it is possible to suggest that the deposition of Ælfwynn may have been related to the activities of the grandsons of Ívarr. The collapse of the submission agreement between the men of York and the Mercians perhaps created the space for Rægnald to take York in 919.109 The year 919 also seems to have seen Edward move to reassert Mercian lordship over the Merfynion kings, a move compounded by the building in 921 of the new fort at Cledemuthan. This fort may have been the location for the battle recorded in 104 105 106 107 108 109

ASC, C (Mercian Register), s.a. 918; ASC, A, s.a. 921 [919]. ASC, C (Mercian Register), s.a. 917, 918. Annals of Ulster, s.a. 918; Annales Cambriae, s.a. 918. Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 499. ASC, C (Mercian Register), s.a. 918. ASC, D, s.a. 923 [919]; Downham, Viking Kings, 95.



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the same year in Annales Cambriae at Dinas Newydd, and although it tends to be assumed that this is a battle between the Mercians and the northern Welsh, Thomas Charles-Edwards has suggested that it may have been a battle between the Mercians and Welsh in alliance against the Hiberno-Scandinavians.110 Given the other indications of fluctuating patterns of power around the eastern seaboard of the Irish Sea, Charles-Edwards’s suggestion is perhaps to be preferred. The same sense of rapidly shifting power structures comes with the building of the final two Mercian burhs in 919: Thelwall and Manchester. These tend to be seen as part of the same programme of burh building as Runcorn, Eddisbury and Chirbury four years or so earlier, but the imperatives behind the burhs of 919 may have been different from the earlier ones. These later burhs were on either side of the Mersey (and if Higham is right, a putative burh at Penwortham overlooking the lower Ribble valley should be added to the equation) and seem to be more about the control of key communication axes than a defensive frontier.111 Whether these burhs were an attempt to shut the stable door before the horse bolted, so to speak, or after, is less clear. This impression of a significant and rapid deterioration of the political situation in western Northumbria is also confirmed by flights of Abbot Tilred and Alfred son of Brihtwulf from ‘the pirates’, already noted above.112 These episodes are undated, although overwhelmingly likely to be prior to 919; given the preceding discussion, it seems very likely that both Tilred’s and Alfred’s trans-Pennine flights happened between c. 914 and 919. Several contemporary and later sources from across the northern Insular world also describe a battle on the Tyne between the Scots and Northumbrians on one hand and Rægnald, ‘king of the dark foreigners’, on the other, which took place near Corbridge, almost certainly in 919.113 Indeed, 919 might be seen as something of an annus mirabilis for the grandsons of Ívarr; the same year saw the death in battle at Islandbridge, near Dublin, of the Uí Néill king Niall Glúndubh at the hands of Rægnald’s brother Sihtric, as well as Rægnald’s seizure of York.114 It is these events that might provide the wider context for Edward’s coup in Mercia and the assertion of southern English/Mercian lordship in south-west Northumbria that followed. Conclusion The impression that emerges from this discussion is that the years between 917 and 919 were at the crux of a major shift in the power politics of the Irish Sea and that control of the land between the Ribble and the Mersey was seen as absolutely critical, in particular, because it facilitated control of two of the major routes across south-western Northumbria and across the Pennines. The fact that both Wirral and Inter Ripam et Mersham were, by the end of the tenth century, in the hands of a Mercian family of major significance, and in royal hands by the time of the Norman Conquest, perhaps bears out just how important they were. Indeed, the established Charles-Edwards, Wales and the Britons, 503. Higham, ‘The Cheshire Burhs’, 212–14. 112 Above, n. 57; Historia de Sancto Cuthberto, ed. Johnson-South, chs 21–2, 58–61. 113 Ibid., chs 22, 24, 60–3; Annals of Ulster, s.a. 918; A later text known conventionally as the ‘Chronicle of the Kings of Alba’ also describes a battle at Tinemore between Causantin mac Aed, king of Alba, and Rægnald in the eighteenth year of Causantin’s rule, i.e. 918: B. T. Hudson, ed. and trans., ‘The Scottish Chronicle’, Scottish Historical Review 77 (1998), 129–61 at 150, 157; Downham, Viking Kings, 91–3; Woolf, From Pictland to Alba, 128, 142–4. 114 Annals of Ulster, s.a. 918. 110 111

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nomenclature of the area, which highlighted its location between two rivers, emphasizes how important these two major communication routes were and how much they determined the character of the area. Denise Kenyon makes the interesting observation that the events of the late ninth and tenth centuries may have changed the territorial pattern of west Lancashire towards a focus on communications and their control, with the building of burhs on river lines and straddling Roman roads, but away from what had been older estate centres.115 The Domesday evidence for the west Lancashire hundreds suggests a landscape of small settlements, small-scale landlords and a rather unproductive area economically speaking; in Stephen Lewis’s words, ‘an impoverished moss-land’ that ‘did not offer the Northmen of the Irish Sea any sites worth raiding’.116 Its importance in this period, therefore, was much more related to its strategic location rather than any intrinsic economic value. I hope the forgoing discussion has shown that, although Lancashire is often seen as peripheral to early medieval English history, it was in fact central to the way power was negotiated and articulated around the Irish Sea during what we might want to call the ‘Viking Age’. In this respect, Lancashire is a victim of two historiographical tendencies: first, the tendency to focus on national histories, rather than the histories of connected zones of encounter like the Irish Sea; and, within that, the very English tendency to see everything through the prism of the county as a unit of organization. What the tenth and eleventh centuries suggests is that it is vital to see Lancashire as part of an Irish Sea cultural zone stretching through south-west Scotland, north-west England, the Isle of Man and North Wales. Its history makes a lot more sense when seen through this lens.

115 116

Kenyon, Origins of Lancashire, 115–18. Lewis, ‘Vikings on the Ribble’, 20.

THE HELMET AND THE CROWN: THE BAYEUX TAPESTRY, BISHOP ODO AND WILLIAM THE CONQUEROR Christopher Norton Who commissioned the Bayeux Tapestry? And where was it intended to be displayed? These questions are fundamental to any historical interpretation of the tapestry. The traditional view is that it was commissioned by Bishop Odo (1049– 1097) for his cathedral at Bayeux, where it is first documented in an inventory of 1476. An alternative hypothesis is that he ordered it for the great hall of one of his castles or palaces, either in Normandy or in England. In recent years, the net has been cast much wider. Various possible locations have been suggested, both ecclesiastical and secular, and a number of patrons have been proposed. These include Archbishop Stigand; Archbishop Lanfranc; Abbot Scolland and/or the monks of St Augustine’s Abbey, Canterbury; Count Eustace of Boulogne; King Edward’s widow, Queen Edith; and Adela of Blois. None of these has found widespread acceptance.1 In a recent article, I presented new evidence to show, not merely that the tapestry was intended for Bayeux Cathedral, but that it was designed to hang in a specific position in the nave. In the present paper I shall explore some of the implications of this proposition for our understanding of the patronage, function and message of the tapestry.2 The Bayeux Cathedral Tapestry Bayeux Cathedral has an unusually complex architectural history, the earlier phases of which have still not been fully elucidated. Little survives of the eleventh-century cathedral, which was begun before 1050 and consecrated in 1077 (Fig. 1). The crypt can still be seen, east of the crossing, and the two massive western towers still stand, S. A. Brown, The Bayeux Tapestry – Bayeux, Médiathèque Municipale: MS I – A Sourcebook (Turnhout, 2013), gives an annotated bibliography of over one thousand items, prefaced by a very useful état de la question. Subsequent publications are listed in X. Barral i Altet, En souvenir du roi Guillaume: la broderie de Bayeux (Paris, 2016), 523–32. The most useful illustrated editions are D. M. Wilson, The Bayeux Tapestry (London, 1985); L. Musset, La Tapisserie de Bayeux, new edn (Paris, 2002); M. K. Foys, The Bayeux Tapestry Digital Edition, CD-ROM, Scholarly Digital Editions 2003; and now X. Barral i Altet and D. Bates, La Tapisserie de Bayeux (Paris, 2020). The pull-out reproduction at approximately 1:7 scale published by the city of Bayeux is also very useful. Valuable collections of essays include The Bayeux Tapestry: A Comprehensive Survey, ed. F. Stenton (London, 1957); The Study of the Bayeux Tapestry, ed. R. Gameson (Woodbridge, 1997); La tapisserie de Bayeux: l’art de broder l’histoire, ed. P. Bouet, B. Levy and F. Neveux, Actes du colloque de Cerisy-la-Salle 1999 (Caen, 2004), also published in English as The Bayeux Tapestry: Embroidering the Facts of History (Caen, 2004); King Harold II and the Bayeux Tapestry, ed. G. R. Owen-Crocker (Woodbridge, 2005); The Bayeux Tapestry: New Interpretations, ed. M. K. Foys, K. E. Overbey and D. Terkla (Woodbridge, 2009); The Bayeux Tapestry: New Approaches – Proceedings of a Conference at the British Museum, ed. M. J. Lewis, G. R. Owen-Crocker and D. Terkla (Oxford, 2011). In what follows, bibliographical references are kept to a minimum. 2 C. Norton, ‘Viewing the Bayeux Tapestry, Now and Then’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association 172 (2019), 52–89. The following section is based on my earlier article, where full references are given. 1

Fig. 1 Reconstructed plan of Bayeux Cathedral in the late eleventh century, with the position of the tapestry shown in blue. Drawing by Stuart Harrison.



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incorporated into the reconfigured Gothic west end. In addition, significant elements of the eleventh-century crossing piers were recorded during major restoration in the 1850s, together with the remains of the easternmost pier of both the north and south arcades of the nave. Fortunately, enough is known to reconstruct the essential features of the nave, in both plan and elevation. The two western towers were originally joined not just by the original eleventh-century façade wall, but by a second north–south wall on the line of the east faces of the towers. The space thus created between the towers formed a vaulted atrium with a first-floor chapel above. Within the atrium, a substantial flight of steps led down from street level to the floor of the nave, which would have been accessed by means of a central doorway through the east wall of the atrium. The change of level within the atrium resulted from the fact that the ground drops away sharply from west to east beneath the cathedral. Another consequence of the marked difference of levels was that there were no openings between the ground-floor chambers at the base of the towers and the nave aisles. In fact, the two-towered west front was conceived and constructed as an essentially distinct part of the building, separate from the nave. The nave was of six bays with a three-storey elevation of fairly standard Norman design (Fig. 2). For reasons that have yet to be fully explained, the plan was somewhat irregular. The axis of the nave was at a slight angle to the west front and to the crossing, and the bays were of different widths (Table 1). Table 1 Bay widths in the eleventh-century nave of Bayeux Cathedral North Side

East

South Side

5.01 m

Bay 1

4.99 m

Choir Screen 6.27 m

Bay 2

6.94 m

6.88 m

Bay 3

7.07 m

5.62 m

Bay 4

5.77 m

5.73 m

Bay 5

5. 79 m

5.57 m

Bay 6

5.60 m

West

As well as the western entrance from the atrium, there was an important external doorway in the third bay from the east on the south side, leading to the cemetery; and there were two other doorways in the second and sixth bays on the north side which opened onto the cloister. The nave was about 36 m (118′) long, too long (as has often been noted) for any obvious fit with the tapestry. However, the crucial point is that the structural nave was not the same as the liturgical nave. The choir screen would have been placed between the first pair of piers west of the crossing, as was commonly the case in major churches at the time. It was only later on that it was moved underneath the western arch of the crossing. There would have been a central doorway into the choir surmounted by a large crucifix, above which hung an enormous and extremely elaborate chandelier (known as the great corona) which was given by Bishop Odo. The choir stalls would have occupied the bay west of the crossing and part of the crossing itself. Beyond them, steps beneath the eastern crossing arch would have led up to the presbytery, which was raised above the crypt. The change of level was obscured by later medieval alterations. The liturgical nave

Fig. 2 Reconstructed elevation of the north side of the crossing of Bayeux Cathedral in the late eleventh century, with the nave elevation to the left and the presbytery elevation raised above the crypt to the right. Drawing by Stuart Harrison. was therefore only five bays long, not six, with its visual and liturgical focus centred on the choir screen. The length of the tapestry is not easy to determine accurately. Its size and shape make it difficult to measure, and few people have ever attempted to do so. The literature, furthermore, is plagued with erroneous measurements, and there are only two reliable sets of figures for the tapestry as a whole and its constituent parts.3 Both are cited here, since they differ slightly, though the differences are insignificant given the size of the tapestry. In its present, incomplete state its length has been measured as 68.45 m or 68.58 m (224′ 7″ or 225′). The end is missing. It is generally assumed that several scenes have been lost, culminating in William the Conqueror’s coronaFor the reliable figures, see Simone Bertrand, La Tapisserie de Bayeux et la manière de vivre au XIe siècle (La Pierre-qui-vire, 1966); Isabelle Bédat and Béatrice Girault-Kurtzeman, ‘The Technical Study of the Bayeux Embroidery’, in The Bayeux Tapestry: Embroidering the Facts of History, ed. Bouet, pp. 83–110. 3

Table 2 Physical structure of the Bayeux Tapestry; the two dimensions given for the different pieces of linen are taken from the two most reliable measurements

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tion at Westminster Abbey. The tapestry is made up of nine pieces of linen joined end-to-end. The eight complete pieces vary in length from 2.80 m (9′ 2″) to 13.75 m or 13.90 m (45′ 1″ or 45′ 7″) (Table 2). On closer inspection, the puzzling variation in sizes can be seen to conform to a pattern. Analysis both of the physical structure of the tapestry and of its design indicates that it was conceived in two halves. The end of the first half corresponds to the end of Piece III, and the length of the first half (i.e. Pieces I–III) is 35.75 m or 35.79 m (117′ 3″ or 117′ 5″). This can be compared with the dimensions of the liturgical nave of the eleventh-century cathedral. From the middle of the first pier west of the crossing on the south side (i.e. from the south end of the choir screen) to the south-west corner of the nave was an estimated 31.17 m (102′ 3″). Adding half the width of the nave, to the centre of the western entrance from the atrium, viz 4.63 m (15′ 2″), gives a total of 35.80 m (117′ 5″). The correspondence with the first half of the tapestry is exact. From that point, the second half of the tapestry would have continued round as far as the north end of the choir screen at the first pier of the north arcade west of the crossing. It can therefore be calculated that about 3.00 m (9′ 10″) is missing from the end of the tapestry.5 The original length of the tapestry would therefore have been about twice the length of Pieces I–III, that is to say, 71.50 m or 71.58 m (234′ 7″ or 234′ 10″).6 It now becomes apparent that the tapestry’s narrative has been arranged to fit the south, west and north sides of the nave (Fig. 3). The long south side unfolds the background to the invasion. It starts with Harold’s departure from the enthroned, elderly King Edward, and it concludes with the image of Harold perched precariously on the throne (Fig. 4). The transitional scene of the boat conveying news back to William leads to the short section across the west wall. This starts with William, on receipt of the news, giving orders for the invasion, and it concludes with the landing at Pevensey (Fig. 5). William’s crossing of the Channel thus corresponds to the viewer’s crossing from one side of the cathedral to the other. The north side contains the complete sequence of events from William’s landing in England to the death of Harold and the presumed lost scenes of William’s coronation (Fig. 6). Thus William as king of England at the north end of the choir screen would have faced King Edward on his throne at the south end. The tripartite structure of the narrative could hardly be simpler or more effectively orchestrated to fit the space. Furthermore, the designer has used the architecture to structure the narrative within each of the three sides of the nave and to emphasize certain important scenes. On the short, west side, for instance, he has placed the commanding image of William leading his troops onto the ships to begin the invasion over the central doorway, where it would have been seen by everyone leaving the cathedral at the west end (Fig. 7). On the two longer sides, the relationship to the architecture is more subtle. The viewer following the story around the building would have been 4

At the beginning, the initial vertical border is heavily restored on a piece of original linen which is physically detached from the rest of the tapestry. However, I see no reason to suppose that anything significant has been lost at the start, as some have suggested. 5 Or perhaps slightly less, since the five western bays of the north nave arcade are approximately 1.1m (3′ 7″) shorter than their equivalents on the south side, because of the irregularity in the plan (see Table 1). 6 In my previous article, I suggested that the pieces of linen which make up the tapestry could have been derived from lengths of cloth of double the width, which had been cut in half lengthwise. Professor Gail Owen-Crocker has informed me that unpublished evidence recorded during the 1982–3 redisplay of the tapestry relating to the few surviving sections of the original selvages casts doubt on this conclusion. The point is of importance for understanding the manufacture of the tapestry, but it does not affect my conclusions about the relationship of the tapestry to the nave of Bayeux Cathedral. 4

Fig. 3 The layout of the Bayeux Tapestry as originally displayed in the nave of the cathedral. The numbers refer to the traditional numbering of the scenes.

Fig. 4 Bays 2 and 6 of the tapestry as originally displayed on the south side of the nave. Detail of the Bayeux Tapestry – eleventh century – with special permission from the City of Bayeux.

Fig. 6 (left) Bays 6 and 2 (reconstructed) of the tapestry as originally displayed on the north side of the nave. Detail of the Bayeux Tapestry – eleventh century – with special permission from the City of Bayeux.

Fig. 5 (above) The north–south section of the tapestry as originally displayed across the west wall of the nave. Detail of the Bayeux Tapestry – eleventh century – with special permission from the City of Bayeux.

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Fig. 7 The junction of pieces III and IV of the Bayeux Tapestry, marking the original centre of the tapestry. Detail of the Bayeux Tapestry – eleventh century – with special permission from the City of Bayeux. aware of the rhythm of the nave arcades, and the designer has used the position of the piers to divide up the narrative and provide a visual structure. At various points, a tree or a building marks the position of a pier, and the figures to either side are organized symmetrically around it. Thus, Guy of Ponthieu and his knights riding to the viewer’s left at the end of Bay 2 on the south side are mirrored by a similar group riding to the right at the start of Bay 3, the two groups being separated by a tree. Sometimes, a sequence of scenes which make up a longer episode within the story fill a single bay. For instance, the important sequence of Harold’s return to England, the death of King Edward, and Harold’s accession to the throne, corresponds to the westernmost bay of the south arcade (Fig. 4). These and other compositional devices are not used rigidly, but in a fluid and imaginative way to provide structure and rhythm to the long, continuous friezes along the north and south sides of the nave. There are also visual and thematic correspondences and contrasts between some of the scenes which face each other across the two long sides of the building, as we shall see shortly. These add to the vitality and interest of the whole. The intelligence and verve of the designer shine through. And there is one other important consequence of these observations. Because the widths of the individual bays on either side of the nave vary to a quite unusual degree – by as much as 1.5 m (4′ 11″) (see Table 1) – these carefully calculated correspondences would not work if the tapestry was hung in any other position. For instance, it could not have been intended to be hung the other way round, starting at the west end of the north arcade, running across the choir screen, and back along the south arcade. This also effectively rules out the possibility that it might have been designed for another building of similar dimensions. The uniquely varied dimensions of the nave arcades of Bayeux would



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not have been repeated anywhere else. The tapestry must have been designed for this precise location. The reconstruction drawings (Fig. 8) show how the tapestry might have been hung on the piers of the nave. Very likely, it was displayed only at certain times in the year. This was commonly the case with ecclesiastical hangings, and this would explain why the colours are still so fresh. It is hard to believe that they would have been so well preserved if the tapestry had been exposed to the light for decades or even centuries on end. The 1476 cathedral inventory records that it was hung round the nave on the Feast of the Relics (1 July) and during its octave. Several sources attest to the fact that three centuries later it was still being displayed for two or three weeks each year around the Feast of the Relics, or in liturgical terms, in the period between the Feast of St John the Baptist (24 June) and the Feast of the Dedication (14 July). Bayeux Cathedral was known for its liturgical continuity and conservatism, and it could well be that this practice went right back to the eleventh century, even though the physical context changed over time. From the twelfth century onwards there were several major phases of rebuilding, which altered both the physical structure and the liturgical spaces. The atrium and the first-floor chapel between the towers were removed, allowing the central vessel of the nave to run through to the façade wall, and the choir screen was moved eastwards beneath the western arch of the crossing. But the tapestry could have carried on being used in much the same way. The nave would have been open to all comers, unlike the liturgical choir and the presbytery, which were reserved for the clergy and important visitors. On major feast days, including the Feast of the Relics and the Feast of the Dedication, people from across the diocese would have come to take part in processions and other ceremonies. But

Fig. 8 Reconstruction views of the nave of Bayeux Cathedral in the eleventh century, looking west from the north end of the choir screen, showing how the tapestry might have been hung at different heights. Drawing by Stuart Harrison.



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the nave was also in daily use as the site of the parochial altar of Saint Saviour, which was located close to the image of the Saviour on the cross above the entrance to the choir. The door in the south nave wall would also have been used regularly to provide access to the parochial cemetery on the south side of the nave. Thus the tapestry would have been well known not just to the resident clergy, but also to the people of Bayeux and the soldiers and officials based at the ducal castle. It would have been seen by parishioners from around the diocese, by passing merchants and tradespeople, and by visiting magnates and dignitaries. But very few Anglo-Saxons would ever have set eyes on it. Bishop Odo A Bayeux Cathedral provenance simplifies the discussion of patronage. The majority of the names that have been proposed as possible patrons can be ruled out, insofar as their candidacies depend on a belief that the tapestry was made for some other location. We come back inevitably to Bishop Odo. He must have been involved; but the nature of his involvement requires further scrutiny. The commissioning of a large, complex and iconographically unique work of art for such an important location would have been a complicated process.7 It may be that Bishop Odo himself conceived of the idea, decided on the tapestry’s location and function within the cathedral, drew up a brief for the subject matter, chose the designer, supervised the design process and the writing of the text, decided on the materials and oversaw manufacture, and paid for it himself. This presupposes not only that he was sufficiently interested in such matters, but also that he could afford to devote time and energy to them. More likely much of the practical business would have been delegated to members of his household or the cathedral community. The project could have originated there; or it could have been conceived and paid for by an outside donor. In that case there would have had to have been negotiations on many aspects of the commission so as to achieve an outcome which was acceptable to all parties. At a minimum, Odo as bishop might have done no more than approve and accept a donation on behalf of the cathedral. In the absence of documentation, the mechanics of the process will ever elude us, but the broad intentions behind the commission can be deduced from the tapestry itself. It has been suggested that the tapestry was a gift to the cathedral from Count Eustace of Boulogne. Eustace fought at Hastings, and is given a prominent role in the Carmen de Hastingae Proelio written by his kinsman Guy, bishop of Amiens. Within a year, however, he joined a rebellion against William and Odo, and attacked Dover Castle. Although ultimately reconciled with William, he was out of favour until the mid-1070s. Eustace, it has been claimed, commissioned the tapestry for Bayeux Cathedral as part of the process of reconciliation. Apart from any historical objections, this hypothesis depends on a reconstruction of a lacuna in the text of the tapestry. This occurs in a famous scene which depicts William in the thick of battle raising his helmet to show that he is still alive. On his right is a knight who points directly at William’s head and holds a lance with a banner which extends into the upper border. At the top is a fragmentary text which reads E…TIVS (Fig. 9). In 1821 Charles Stothard proposed the reading Eustatius. This has been widely accepted ever since, though it is only recently that the argument has been extended

For a discussion of the tapestry’s patronage, see E. C. Pastan and S. D. White, with K. Gilbert, The Bayeux Tapestry and Its Contexts – A Reassessment (Woodbridge, 2014), 59–81. 7

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Fig. 9 Drawing of the incomplete text next to the raised banner on the Bayeux Tapestry, showing its present state (above) and a possible reconstruction (below). Drawing by the author. to the point where Eustace becomes the patron. Much therefore hangs on the reconstruction of the text.8 Stothard recorded that above the banner: a part of the tapestry has been torn away, and only the two last letters VS of an inscription apparently remaining. On carefully examining the torn and ragged edges which had been doubled under and sewed down, I discovered three other letters, the first of the inscription an E, and TI, preceding VS, a space remaining in the middle but for four letters, the number being confirmed by the alternations of green and buff in the colours of the letters remaining. I therefore conjecture that the letters as they now stand may be read Eustatius, and that the person bearing the standard beneath is intended for Eustace, earl of Boulogne, who I believe was a principal commander in the army of William.9

8 A. Bridgeford, ‘Was Count Eustace II of Boulogne the Patron of the Bayeux Tapestry?’, JMH 25 (1999), 155–85; A. Bridgeford, 1066 – The Hidden History of the Bayeux Tapestry (London, 2004), passim. See also S. A. Brown, ‘The Bayeux Tapestry: Why Eustace, Odo and William’, ANS 12 (1990), 7–28. 9 C. Stothard, ‘Some Observations on the Bayeux Tapestry’, Archaeologia, 19 (1821), 184–91, reprinted in Study of the Bayeux Tapestry, ed. Gameson, 1–6 (quotation on p. 2); discussed in D. Hill, ‘La Tapisserie de Bayeux: la reconstitution d’un texte’, in Tapisserie de Bayeux, ed. Bouet et al., 383–402 at 398–9 and figs 3 and 5.



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A telling observation has recently been made by David Spear. He points out that Eustace’s name is never spelt Eustatius in the eleventh-century sources, the usual spelling being Eustachius. This effectively rules out Eustace. Spear however goes on to question Stothard’s evidence as to the lettering. He claims that only the letters VS can be considered reliable, and proposes instead the reading ROTBERTVS, for Robert of Mortain. The embroidery of the lettering was redone during the major mid-nineteenth-century restoration, which replaced many of the missing threads. In their present state, the letters are the same as recorded by Stothard, though they no longer exhibit the colour alternation. Stothard was able to examine the tapestry minutely, and his observations concerning the needle-holes and the original embroidered threads are generally considered reliable. The folds mentioned by him can still be seen, and the letter I is clearly visible in the 1720s drawing by Benoît, as is part of the initial letter identified by Stothard as an E. There are no needle-holes in the linen between the T and the I which would justify turning the former into an R. Likewise, there are no needle-holes between the I and the V to indicate a missing cross-bar of an original letter T. Unless physical evidence is produced to contradict Stothard’s observations, his reading of the letters must be accepted.10 How then might we reconstruct the text? It is not at all certain that the letters belong to a name. There is room for four wide letters or six narrow ones. Five would not fit the colour alternation noted by Stothard; but four letters and a gap would, if there were more than one word. A single line of text would leave a large gap underneath and there may have been a second line in the missing section of linen. There would be space there for four or possibly five letters. There are only three other places where text is placed in the upper border. In two of them, the words are arranged in two lines. They all form sentences: in no case is there a simple name or label in the upper border. So the missing text could have had more than one word spread over two lines. One suggestion might be E[T NVN]TIVS [SVVS], forming a continuation of the sentence HIC EST DVX WILEȽ which frames William’s head. The word NVNTIVS is used three times earlier on for the messengers sent between Guy of Ponthieu and William, and it is attested in a battlefield context in other sources. By raising his banner high above the fray, the knight is sending a message to those further afield, who would not have been able to see William’s face, that William is still alive. Giving the knight a name would distract from his purpose. His role, on the tapestry as on the battlefield, is to draw attention not to himself, but to William.11 Whatever reading of the text is preferred, a speculative reconstruction of a name unsupported by any other internal evidence within the tapestry is not a sound basis for a hypothesis concerning patronage. It has often been said, more or less emphatically, that the tapestry accords a particularly prominent role to Odo and his associates; that it represents his view of events; that it was commissioned by or for him.12 These Odonian hypotheses need D. S. Spear, ‘Robert of Mortain and the Bayeux Tapestry’, in The Bayeux Tapestry, ed. Lewis et al., 75–80; the alternative reading TVRSTINVS is also incompatible with Stothard’s evidence. W. Grape, The Bayeux Tapestry – Monument to a Norman Triumph (Munich, 1994), 23–4 and n. 9, suggests Laurentius or Florentius, which, apart from changing the initial E, are ruled out by Stothard’s observation on colour alternation. 11 Oxford Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources, s.v. nuntius. On banners, see R. Jones, ‘“What Banner [is] Thine?”: The Banner as a Symbol of Identification, Status and Authority on the Battlefield’, HSJ 15 (2004), 101–9. 12 At the Cerisy-la-Salle conference in 1999, all the participants agreed that the tapestry had been commissioned by Odo (Tapisserie de Bayeux, ed. Bouet et al., 406 and several papers in that volume). 10

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to be examined not just in the light of the scenes on the tapestry, but also in respect of what is left out. Designing a narrative cycle, particularly one with entirely new subject matter like the Bayeux Tapestry, involves a process of omission as well as compilation; and the artistic intentions of the designer need to be reconciled with the concerns of the patron. In the absence of any visual comparanda, it is instructive to compare the narrative of the tapestry with the Gesta Guillelmi of William of Poitiers. This is the closest of the written sources to the tapestry, and was written by a man who, as a senior member of the Norman ecclesiastical hierarchy, archdeacon of Lisieux, chaplain to William the Conqueror and, apparently, a canon of Bayeux, must have known Bishop Odo.13 Comparing the choice of scenes and the different emphases in the two works helps lay bare some of the underlying assumptions and priorities which they bring to the story. Odo is named on the tapestry only twice. No other Norman is named more than once, apart from the Conqueror himself. On the other hand, Duke Conan of Brittany is also named twice, King Edward four times, Count Guy of Ponthieu five times, while Harold is named twenty-one times. Odo also makes one or two unnamed appearances; but the three episodes in which he appears are only a tiny percentage of the whole. He does not appear at all on the long, south side of the tapestry, though Bayeux does. At the end of Harold’s time in France he is given arms by William, taken to Bayeux, and swears an oath to William. He then sets sail back to England. Bayeux is depicted in much the same way as Dol, Rennes and Dinant, as a motteand-bailey castle or fortified town: as a seat of power rather than the seat of a bishop. The tapestry implies that the oath-taking ceremony took place at Bayeux, though several of the written sources (including William of Poitiers) place it elsewhere. The relics on which Harold swears his oath are not explicitly identified, but the implication is that they are the relics of St Ravenius and St Rasiphus, two extremely obscure but conveniently English saints who were the cathedral’s principal relics. They were housed by the high altar, and their reliquaries would be taken out and processed around the cathedral or further afield on special occasions.14 The tapestry actually shows a portable reliquary on a processional bier. Odo provided a magnificent new golden shrine for the relics, though whether this already existed at the time of Harold’s visit is not known. As guardians of the relics, the cathedral clergy would have organized their procession and supervised their use. They would also have been witnesses to the oath. Yet neither Odo nor any other clergy are shown. Nor is the location of the ceremony made clear, even assuming it to be somewhere in Bayeux. Apart from an altar, the building is not represented. It could have been the cathedral, or another church, or the chapel in the ducal castle. The latter would be consistent with the presence of two guards, who are the sole onlookers. In fact, the precise location is of little significance. The real focus of the scene (as indicated by the guards) is the power relationship between Harold and William. The Bayeux episode makes an interesting contrast with the scenes just a little bit further along the tapestry at Westminster. There is a large-scale image of Westminster Abbey, and the clergy are much in evidence at Edward’s death-bed, at his burial, and at Harold’s coronation. Westminster, of course, was central to the story as the seat of royal For a sustained critique of the Odonian hypothesis, see Pastan and White, Bayeux Tapestry, 64–72 and passim. 13 Poitiers, xv–xvii, 68–79, 100–53 and 164–7. Individual mentions are not referenced in what follows. 14 On the relics, see F. Neveux, ‘Les Reliques de la cathédrale de Bayeux’, in Les Saints dans la Normandie médiévale, ed. P. Bouet and F. Neveux (Caen, 2000), 109–33; K. E. Overbey, ‘Taking Place: Reliquaries and Territorial Authority in the Bayeux Embroidery’, in Bayeux Tapestry, ed. Foyes et al., 36–50; and Norton, ‘Viewing the Bayeux Tapestry’, 80 and n. 36.



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power in England. The abbey was both Edward’s place of burial and the coronation church, and the clergy were key players in the succession. Westminster and its clergy represented the legitimacy and sacrality of the English crown. No doubt they reappeared at the end of the tapestry, at the diagonally opposite corner of the nave, legitimizing symbols of William’s assumption of the crown of England. By comparison, the Bayeux clergy were merely playing supporting roles at a minor location. In artistic terms, the Westminster scenes show how easily the Bayeux episode could have been expanded to highlight the roles of the cathedral, the clergy, and no doubt Odo himself. But it was not. The emphasis was elsewhere. Odo first appears, it seems, just after the viewer has turned the corner onto the west wall. This is indeed the turning-point of the entire narrative, the moment when William makes up his mind to invade England. Seated in the middle in vigorous contrapposto, William points with his left hand back to the messenger on his right who is bringing him the news of Harold’s accession, while he turns his head in the other direction towards a tonsured figure seated behind him to his left. The cleric faces towards William, his right hand held open to receive William’s order, his left hand pointing in a gesture of command to transmit the order to the shipwright who stands behind him. The shipwright in turn points to the next scene. The gestures and postures of the figures are a classic example of the compositional devices which the designer uses to animate an essentially static scene and link it dramatically to the adjacent scenes on either side. William is the dominant figure. The seated cleric is not labelled but can plausibly be identified as Odo. He contributed 100 ships to William’s invasion fleet, around one tenth of the total. This could have been made explicit on the tapestry, for instance by showing him at the shipyard, inspecting the work, rather as patrons are often shown in medieval art visiting building sites. But the invasion was William’s, as the text makes perfectly clear, and Odo’s first appearance – if indeed it is he – is not allowed to overshadow the significance of the scene for William. There was another opportunity for featuring Odo just after the shipbuilding scenes. Before crossing the Channel, the invasion fleet was held up at Saint-Valérysur-Somme by contrary winds. It was late in the season, morale suffered, discipline became lax, and some of the knights abandoned the expedition. It was a dangerous moment. William of Poitiers records how a religious ceremony was organized, relics were brought out in procession by the clergy, and prayers were offered for a change of wind. The wind did change, morale was restored, and the invasion began. The designer could easily have included a procession of the Norman clergy headed by Odo, who would then have occupied a central position above the west doorway, next to William the Conqueror. This would have made an unmissable statement of the importance of the Norman church to the invasion and the role of Bishop Odo himself. But the episode was omitted, and the focus is solely on the commanding figure of the Conqueror, leading his men onto the ships (Fig. 7). Odo is named for the first time in the westernmost bay on the north side, soon after the arrival of the expedition in England. Labelled ODO EPS, he sits in a hall or pavilion next to William, with Robert of Mortain seated opposite. This completes the banqueting sequence, which includes the scene of an unnamed bishop blessing the food and drink (Fig. 10). This scene has attracted a great deal of attention on account of its supposed connection with the image of the Last Supper in the Gospels of St Augustine, which belonged to St Augustine’s Abbey at Canterbury.15 In context, 15 See, e.g., Pastan and White, Bayeux Tapestry, 126–53. Grape, Bayeux Tapestry, 44–54, and Barral i Altet, En souvenir du roi, 361–7, rightly caution against the over-hasty assumption that the tapestry was

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Fig. 10 The banqueting sequence from Bay 6 of the north side of the Bayeux Tapestry. Detail of the Bayeux Tapestry – eleventh century – with special permission from the City of Bayeux. however, it is only one element of the sequence, which shows all ranks of the expeditionary force coming together for a feast before the battle. The camp servants and common soldiers are shown serving the feast. The knights are eating off their mighty battle shields. The barons and senior officials are seated at table, where a bearded man rudely stretches his elbow in front of his neighbour. To complete the sequence, William and his two brothers sit in state apart from the rest of the company. It may be that the unnamed bishop giving the blessing is intended for Geoffrey of Coutances, the other Norman bishop who sailed with William, who is thus subtly placed below Odo in the social hierarchy. Or it could be Odo, giving the blessing before taking his place next to William. Either way, it is the last of these scenes which is the most important, because it shows the first formal appearance of the new regime on English soil. It is positioned opposite the scene of Harold’s coronation (Figs 4 and 6). The two rival regimes face each other across the width of the building, and the tripartite composition of the two scenes emphasizes the connection. On the one side Harold is enthroned between the English nobility and Archbishop Stigand; on the other William is flanked by Bishop Odo and Robert of Mortain. William’s halfbrothers are therefore not shown merely in a personal capacity. They represent the Norman barons and the princes of the Norman church who supported the Conqueror. The scene is therefore also an anticipation of the end of the tapestry, where the old regime was replaced by the new. As events move swiftly on to the battle, the tapestry passes over another easy opportunity for highlighting the contribution of Odo and the Norman church to the success of the expedition. Before battle commenced, according to William of Poitmade at Canterbury.



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iers, the Conqueror attended mass celebrated by Bishop Odo and Bishop Geoffrey of Coutances, accompanied by monks and numerous priests. During the mass, which William followed with great devotion, he hung round his own neck some of the relics on which Harold had sworn his oath. Here was a visually compelling scene ideally suited to focusing attention on the church of Bayeux and its bishop. It could have been positioned across the nave from the episode at Bayeux and Harold’s oath-taking. This would be a particularly striking omission had the tapestry been primarily conceived as a moral or didactic tale concerning the fate which attends oathbreakers, as has sometimes been suggested. Odo’s second named appearance is the famous episode where he gallops across the battlefield brandishing his baculum. He is at the rear of a mêlée of knights in the thick of battle around William, who lifts his helmet to show that rumours of his death are not true, while William’s attendant knight conveys the news with his uplifted banner. Odo charges forwards as a knight who has shouldered his lance rides past him in the opposite direction in retreat. The incident of the helmet is described by William of Poitiers, though without mentioning Odo. This scene, which is placed opposite the south nave doorway, has been seen by many as the strongest evidence that the tapestry was commissioned by Odo, or at least represents an Odonian version of events. But there was nothing unusual about bishops, clergy and monks accompanying armies on campaign; indeed, they would often have been expected to come out with relics and banners of the saints in order to demonstrate ecclesiastical support and divine approbation. They might even lead complements of troops.16 In modern terms, their role was to boost morale and provide assurance of the justice of the cause for which the men were fighting. The text on the tapestry shows Odo in precisely this role: HIC ODO EPS BACVLV TENENS CONFORTAT PVEROS. The baculum in Odo’s hand is to be interpreted not as a club, but as a staff of office serving to indicate his status.17 He wears a helmet, but he is not armed like a knight. His outer garment is carefully differentiated by the embroiderers from the mail worn by all the other knights in the battle. The scene is consistent with William of Poitiers’ statement that: Odo never took up arms, and never wished to do so; nevertheless, he was greatly feared by men-at-arms. For when need arose he helped in war by his most practical counsels, as far as his religion allowed. He was singularly and most steadfastly loyal to the king, his uterine brother, whom he cherished with so great a love that he would not willingly be separated from him even on the battlefield.

It may be that William of Poitiers protests too much; it may be that Odo pushed the role of a bishop at a battle to the limit of what was expected, or even beyond. Indeed, it is possible to discern a certain uneasiness in the text of the tapestry at this point. The words CONFORTAT PVEROS are squeezed most uncomfortably into the spaces above the head and beneath the horse of one of the knights, in a manner which is not paralleled elsewhere. It is as if the designer was at pains to include the words BACVLVM TENENS, not merely to identify Bishop Odo, but to forestall any misunderstanding on the part of the viewer that Odo had actually wielded arms See R. Gameson, ‘The Origin, Art and Message of the Bayeux Tapestry’, in Study of the Bayeux Tapestry, ed. Gameson, 157–211 at 178–81. See also R. Sharpe, ‘Banners of the Northern Saints’, in Saints of North-East England 600–1500, ed. M. Coombe, A. Mouron and C. Whitehead (Turnhout, 2017), 245–303 for other examples of clerics accompanying or even leading forces into battle, and the banner of St Michael from Mont-Saint-Michel taken to Hastings by Robert of Mortain. 17 On the baculum, S. L. Keefer, ‘Body Language: A Graphic Commentary on the Horses of the Bayeux Tapestry’, in King Harold II, ed. Owen-Crocker, 93–108 at 105–7. 16

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at Hastings. But there would be nothing improper about him intervening in person at a critical juncture to urge on the boys. So Odo is the most prominent Norman on the tapestry after the Conqueror; but it is important not to exaggerate his importance. He is named only twice, and is by no means a ubiquitous presence. A number of obvious opportunities to include him and other Norman clergy have been missed. This is in striking contrast to the strong ecclesiastical emphasis in William of Poitiers, who loses no opportunity to highlight the role of the Church and the Conqueror’s respect for it. The episodes where Odo appears are important moments in the story, but they are only a tiny part of the tapestry. On each occasion, Odo appears in the company of the Conqueror, but he does not overshadow him. If the tapestry was intended to glorify or flatter Odo, or was conceived by him as a piece of self-promotion, it makes a very poor job of it. What then of Wadard and Vital, the two knights associated with Odo who are depicted on the tapestry? The fact that they are named once again makes an interesting contrast with William of Poitiers, who (in conventional style) names William’s allies and the leading barons who fought at Hastings, but not the junior officers. Wadard is shown shortly after the arrival at Hastings supervising the provisioning of the army (Fig. 6), while Vital is the scout who warns William of the approach of Harold’s army. Turold, one of the members of the embassy to Guy of Ponthieu in the first section of the tapestry, has also been cited in the same connection. But Turold was a common name, and there is no reason to suppose that the Turold who was connected with Odo is the same as the one on the tapestry.18 Wadard and Vital are both listed in Domesday Book holding lands from Odo. Wadard (a rare name) held estates from Odo to the value of £143 6s 8d in seven different counties, but mostly in Kent, Oxfordshire and Lincolnshire. Vital had properties in Kent and Essex valued at £38 6s 6d; but only one fifth of these were held from Odo. The rest were held from Haimo the Sheriff; the abbot of St Augustine’s, Canterbury; and (almost half of the total) the archbishop of Canterbury. His association with Odo was not particularly close. Vital was involved in the cross-Channel shipping business, and is documented transporting Caen stone for the Conqueror’s palace at Westminster and for St Augustine’s Abbey. This kind of expertise would have been valuable for William when planning his invasion; but it is not for this that Vital is singled out on the tapestry. Odo had numerous tenants, so why are these two named? Their post-Conquest associations with Odo in England do not explain it. Rather, it is their military contributions to the invasion, as depicted on the tapestry, which explain their subsequent advancement in England. Efficient logistics and reliable supplies are essential to an army on the move, particularly in a foreign land. Hungry troops do not make good fighters, and can rapidly descend into an undisciplined rabble. William the Conqueror’s sensitivity to such matters is attested by William of Poitiers both in his account of the Breton campaign and in the run-up to the invasion of England. When the invasion force was held up in Normandy, he made sure that they were well supplied, and forbad any plundering. When some of them deserted at Saint-Valéry-sur-Somme, he increased the daily rations. William understood that an army marches on its stomach. The tapestry illustrates these same concerns, but on the other side of the Channel. At one level, the scenes of provisionment at the start of the north side (Fig. 6) provide H. Tsurushima, ‘Hic est miles: Some Images of Three Knights, Turold, Wadard and Vital’, in Bayeux Tapestry, ed. Lewis et al., 81–91. Compare also T. A. Heslop, ‘Regarding the Spectators of the Bayeux Tapestry: Bishop Odo and His Circle’, Art History 32 (2009), 223–49; and Pastan and White, Bayeux Tapestry, 82–104. 18



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a lighter interlude before the fighting begins. At another level, they make a very serious point. Thanks to Wadard’s efficiency, the morale-boosting banquet could go ahead, and the army could face battle well-fed and in good heart. Wadard’s role, though unglamorous, was vital. Vital’s role was no less important, and much more dramatic. According to William of Poitiers, Harold was planning to fall on William’s army in a sudden night attack, but was spotted by scouts. William immediately ordered his men to prepare for battle, thereby avoiding a potential disaster. William of Poitiers does not name the scouts; only the tapestry gives Vital’s name. In short, it was their military service to William which merited Wadard’s and Vital’s inclusion on the tapestry. And much the same probably applies to Turold. As a member of the embassy to Guy of Ponthieu, he must have been known to William, and he presumably earned his place on the tapestry for service to the Conqueror. William the Conqueror The tapestry is often said to depict the Norman Conquest or (as seen from the other side of the Channel) la conquête de l’Angleterre. But this is too abstract a formulation, too imprecise and too impersonal. The visual narrative with its extremely simple Latin text does not deal in historical abstractions or ideas. It is a story in pictures, and it covers both more and less than the conquest of England. The south side includes scenes of only tangential relevance to that theme; while the battle of Hastings and William’s coronation were only stages (albeit crucial ones) in a wider process of conquest. The tapestry neither explains William’s claim to the throne, nor attempts to justify it. It merely assumes it, and unfolds its story by means of a series of concrete episodes focusing on the actions of a small number of protagonists. It would be closer to the mark to say that the tapestry depicts the story of How Duke William became King of England. The main sections are book-ended with images of the king. At the start, Edward the Confessor, wearing his crown, secure on his throne, but with not long to live. At the end of the south side, Harold, newly crowned but unstable on the throne. The westernmost bay on the north side shows us the rival claimant, William, sitting in state in the country whose crown he has come to claim. The conclusion no doubt showed William wearing the crown of England. The theme of the crown is reinforced by the proximity of Odo’s great corona hanging above the choir screen. The story is presented as a contest between two rivals arranged in a tripartite structure which could hardly be simpler. The south side of the nave focuses on the actions of the English claimant, Harold, both before and after the death of King Edward. At the start of the west wall, William seizes the initiative by ordering the invasion. And the north side shows him pursuing his campaign in England to its successful conclusion. Within this basic framework, the three sides are developed differently. The narrative drive of the west and north walls is straightforward and clear, but the long south side is more complicated and merits closer attention. The south side starts and ends with Harold in England, taking his leave of King Edward at the start and taking Edward’s place at the end (Fig. 4). In between is the long sequence of his time in France. Almost immediately things start to go wrong for him: he is seized by Guy of Ponthieu and taken to Beaurain. At this point messengers arrive with orders from William. William’s hold over Guy dated back a decade. He had captured Guy at the Battle of Mortemer in 1054 and had held him captive for two years, at Bayeux. From the time of his release in 1056, Guy was effectively William’s vassal. He was not in a position to ignore him. William’s entrance onto

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the stage is emphasized in various ways. It is placed in the centre of the third bay from the east. This is the widest bay of the nave, in front of the ceremonial doorway which leads to the south side of the cathedral and the cemetery. The text which frames William’s first appearance is subtly emphasized by an initial cross – † HIC VENIT NVNTIVS AD WILGELMVM DVCEM – a feature which recurs only once, at the point over the west doorway where William leads his troops onto the ships (Fig. 7). Seated in a position of authority with his sword of state in his hand, William is no mere passive recipient of news. He sends his messengers with instructions to Guy. The messengers gallop off to the left, and to the left again are shown delivering the message to Guy. This reversal of the normal left-to-right progression of the narrative is a visual device which the designer employs to arrest the viewer’s attention and emphasize the importance of William’s intervention. William controls the narrative and sends it into reverse.19 The repeated words NVNTII WILLELMI both announce his intervention to Guy within the story, and presage his entry onto the scene for the viewer: they are the equivalent of a fanfare announcing his arrival. The consequence of his intervention then drives the narrative onwards to the right: Guy hands Harold to William, who takes him to Normandy. Thus, from the moment of his first entry into the story, William takes control of events. The Guy of Ponthieu episode concludes at the third pier west of the crossing. The next two bays are largely taken up with William’s Breton campaign. Harold is shown rescuing some soldiers from the quicksands at the border with Brittany, but it is William and his soldiers who do the fighting. The tapestry demonstrates his ability to move his troops across the border at will, to besiege enemy strongholds, and penetrate deep into enemy territory. Harold is not mentioned again until the end of the campaign, in the three scenes where he is given arms, is taken to Bayeux – a deliberate echo of William’s treatment of Guy of Ponthieu? – and swears his oath to William. The purpose of these three scenes, as noted above, is to show the nature of the relationship between the two men at the end of Harold’s time in France: one of dominance and subordination. The Breton campaign is only marginally relevant to the conquest of England, and from an English perspective its development at such length on the tapestry is puzzling.20 But it is not out of place in a story about William’s rivalry with Harold for the crown of England designed to be seen at Bayeux. The Breton border is only a short distance from Bayeux, and many visitors to the cathedral would have known about the Breton campaign. Some of the men in William’s invasion force would have taken part in the Breton campaign; some of them would probably have seen Harold at the time; some might even have witnessed the incident in the quicksand. The point of its inclusion in the tapestry may have been to contrast the Harold who provided useful service to William on the campaign with the Harold who subsequently took the crown of England in William’s despite. In any case, the broader function of the Guy of Ponthieu and Breton episodes depicted in the central bays of the south side is to demonstrate the military power and the political influence which enabled William to impose his will on his neighbours, and which would take him to the throne of England. They serve as a warning of the fate which awaits those who oppose him. And they anticipate events on the other side of the Channel. This is reinforced for the viewer by thematic correspondences across the nave of the catheOn the technique of narrative reversal, see Norton, ‘Viewing the Bayeux Tapestry’, 75–6. G. Beech, Was the Bayeux Tapestry Made in France? The Case for Saint-Florent of Saumur (New York, 2005), discusses the Breton campaign, albeit in the context of an unconvincing hypothesis on its origin. 19

20



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dral. The Breton military campaign is placed opposite the battle scenes at Hastings, for which they were a preparation; and Harold’s seizure by Guy of Ponthieu on his first arrival in France is immediately opposite Harold’s death at Hastings, his initial loss of freedom foreshadowing the ultimate loss of his crown and his life. Harold failed to learn the lesson in realpolitik that William had given him in France, and paid for it with his life. Harold returns to England, and the last bay on the south side depicts the succession to the throne of England (Fig. 4). Half of the bay is devoted to King Edward, his death and burial: it is the end of one era and the start of another. Here again the designer uses the device of a reversal in the flow of the narrative in order to focus the viewer’s attention on the king’s death. The unique double-decker death-bed scene leads, in one direction, to Edward’s funeral at Westminster and, in the other, to Harold’s coronation. Harold’s time as king occupies only half a bay; and things start going wrong for him straight away. The battle of Stamford Bridge is simply ignored, for the opposite reason to that which led to the inclusion of the Breton campaign. As seen from Normandy, it was a distant event in which the Normans played no part; and it did not belong to William’s own story. Instead, the tapestry focuses on the comet. This shows that the proper order of things has been disrupted, and Harold wobbles on his throne before the threat of an invasion. Defying William, it is implied, is defying the will of God. This message is subtly reinforced by the setting. The nave of the cathedral, as we have seen, was dominated by the image of the crucified Saviour above the choir screen. Thus symbolically, as Harold travels from left to right along the tapestry, he moves progressively further away from the Saviour. In the end, he sits on his throne at the most distant point from the divine presence, awaiting his fate. From the start of the west wall, William is visibly in control; and the thrust of the narrative is much simpler. William occupies the central position in the whole tapestry, as he embarks for England (Fig. 7); and the north side is unambiguously his story (Fig. 6). As he and his army move inexorably towards his victory at Hastings and his coronation at Westminster, the symbolism is reversed: William moves ever closer to the image of the Saviour, until he is seated on his throne on the right hand of God. So the tapestry can best be understood not as the story of the Norman Conquest told from either a broadly Norman or specifically Odonian perspective, nor as a didactic story of the fate of oathbreakers – though it contains elements of all three. Rather, it is the story of how William became king of England by overcoming his rival Harold, designed to be seen by a wide variety of visitors to the nave of Bayeux Cathedral. The most obvious and straightforward conclusion is that the tapestry was a gift to the cathedral from the Conqueror.21 It must have been commissioned in consultation with Odo, who was of course himself one of the principal beneficiaries of William’s triumph; and the context in which it was created can be glimpsed from occasional hints in the written sources. These give substance to the common supposition that the tapestry would have been displayed at the dedication of the cathedral on 14 July 1077.

It comes as something of a shock to discover that, in all the voluminous literature on the tapestry over the last two centuries, scarcely ever has it been proposed that it was commissioned by William. The possibility has seldom even been discussed, and no serious arguments have been put forward against it, so far as I am aware. See Brown, Bayeux Tapestry, lxxvi–lxxviii, and the comments of Beech, Was the Bayeux Tapestry Made in France?, xi–xii, 33–6 and 99–102, esp. 100. 21

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The 1476 cathedral inventory, which is the first document to mention the tapestry, lists two other gifts explicitly connected with the Conqueror. The first is a pair of magnificent cloaks adorned with hundreds of gems which William and Mathilda had worn at their wedding. The wedding did not take place at Bayeux, but one of their daughters was buried there in about 1073, and it is possible that this was the occasion for the gift.22 The second is a gilt-bronze helmet which had belonged to William. To judge from the materials, this must have been a ceremonial helmet rather than a piece of battlefield armour. The cathedral Customary, which was composed by Raoul Langevin in 1269 using earlier sources, records that William laid the helmet with a gilded crown on the high altar of the cathedral as a sign of a gift of land in the forest of Elle which he made at the dedication of the cathedral in 1077.23 Dedication ceremonies were a traditional occasion for the giving of gifts and endowments, which would cement the relationship between donor and recipient and be witnessed by the congregation. The ceremony on 14 July was attended by probably the most illustrious gathering ever assembled in the cathedral. Those present included William and Mathilda, their sons Robert and William Rufus, the archbishops of Rouen, Canterbury and York, Bishops Odo and Geoffrey of Coutances, and several Norman barons. No doubt there were many more whose names are not recorded.24 In short, the cream of the Norman establishment from both sides of the Channel was present. Coming from the guest of honour, William’s gifts would have attracted particular attention. The gift of a crown belongs to a tradition of royal gifts of crowns and other regalia to specially favoured churches.25 But the combination of a crown and a helmet points to a specific meaning: it symbolizes the crown of England, which William had won on the battlefield at Hastings. The helmet, indeed, calls to mind the celebrated incident when William arrested a potential rout by raising his helmet to show that he was still alive – the incident depicted on the tapestry as witnessed by Bishop Odo. The helmet and the crown in fact encapsulate the theme of the story which is set out at length on the tapestry. The gifts at the high altar and the tapestry therefore complemented each other. In the nave, the tapestry was a public display and memorial of the events which culminated in William’s victory and coronation.26 In the more sacred part of the building, the helmet and the crown were a symbolic thank-offering to God for his success. The placing of the helmet and the crown on On Agatha, see D. C. Douglas, William the Conqueror (London, 1964), 393–5; and D. Bates, William the Conqueror (New Haven and London, 2016), p. 331. 23 The Inventory is printed in E. Deslandes, ‘Le Trésor de l’église Notre-Dame de Bayeux’, Bulletin archéologique du comité des travaux historiques et scientifiques (1896), 340–450, and reprinted as a separate volume (Paris, 1898); see nos. 110 (helmet) (Item, le bacinet du duc Guillaume, de cuivre doré), 128 and 129 (cloaks), and 262 (tapestry). Nos. 111–12, two unicorn horns, have been claimed also as gifts of William the Conqueror, but there is no medieval evidence for this. The Customary is printed in U. Chevalier, Ordinaire et coutumier de l’église cathédrale de Bayeux (XIIIe siècle) (Paris, 1902), see xxi n. 2 and 418: Et est sciendum quod in Dedicatione ecclesie Baiocensis dedit eamdem forestam [de Ala] illustris rex Anglorum Guillelmus… et in signum donationis ipsius posuit cassidem suam eneam super majus altare ecclesie cum corona deaurata, que adhuc custodiuntur in ecclesia in testimonium predictorum. The crown had seemingly disappeared by the time of the 1476 inventory. See also E. Deslandes, Etude sur l’église de Bayeux – Antiquité de son cérémonial – son chapitre – disposition du choeur de la cathédrale (Caen, 1917), passim. 24 J.-M. Bouvris, ‘La Dédicace de l’église cathédrale Notre-Dame de Bayeux (14 juillet 1077)’, Société des Sciences, Art et Belles-Lettres de Bayeux, 28 (1982), 3–16; Norton, ‘Viewing the Bayeux Tapestry’, 81–2. 25 See for instance B. English, ‘Le Couronnement d’Harold dans la tapisserie de Bayeux’, in Tapisserie de Bayeux, ed. Bouet et al., 347–81 at 359–65 and 374 n. 89. 26 Barral i Altet, En souvenir du roi, 376–85, emphasizes the commemorative aspect of the tapestry; but this does not mean that it must have been a posthumous commission. 22



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the newly dedicated high altar associated them with the relics there, the relics on which Harold had sworn his oath and for which Odo provided a magnificent new shrine. These various meanings were realized and demonstrated to the community at large at the ceremony of dedication. On that day, Odo and William collaborated on a public display of common purpose. In choreographing the event, Odo no doubt gave pride of place to the Conqueror and his gifts.

KNIGHTING IN THE TWELFTH AND THIRTEENTH CENTURIES Max Lieberman Knighting is a ritual dedicated to creating knights.1 The concept, therefore, might adequately describe very different sets of physical gestures and spoken words, dedicated to creating different kinds of knights – conceivably, one society’s knighting ritual might not be recognized as such by members of another society. When we as historians seek to decide if a form of knighting existed at a given time and in a given place, we need to keep an open mind. We also inevitably face all the questions connected with ritual on the one hand and with knighthood on the other (including, in the first case, whether participants’ understanding of a given act differed from that of observers, including the authors of our sources, and in the second, whether knighthood was understood as a kind of order, with its own rite of initiation and code of behaviour). Moreover, when we discuss knighting we need a way to select evidence systematically: in principle, all surviving sources that have something to reveal about ritual, about coming of age, and about social status are relevant. It is therefore advisable to proceed step by step. The following checklist is intended for comparing possible records of knighting, in order to judge if they do indeed, collectively, indicate that knighting was practised at the time and in the place on which those records shed light. The checklist consists of two groups of questions: one group on form, the other on function. It is intended to be practical rather than exhaustive: 1. Form (what was done). Can we identify a practice that seems elaborate, formal and recognizable enough to qualify, potentially, as a ‘ritual’? Focus on visible, audible and tactile features, especially: a) times, places b) gestures, words, objects deployed (especially, of course, deliveries of arms) c) participants (status, age, gender, lay or cleric) d) number of candidates (i.e. single individuals or groups) 2. Function (why was it done). Did the act create ‘knights’? If so, in what sense, and how consistently? a) Were there different kinds of knightings, for different kinds of knights? Did the act involve a declaration of majority (here called ‘basic knighting’)? Was it understood as a rite of initiation into a kind of order (here called ‘developed knighting’)? Did it involve ennoblement? b) How strong was the link between a given act and the creation of ‘knights’? Was the same set of physical gestures and words also deployed with a different symbolic function? Was it possible, necessary or sufficient to be knighted in order to be considered a knight?

A ritual, rather than a ceremony, according to a distinction adopted here, because it aims to change a situation, rather than represent and reinforce one. 1

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This list draws on and engages with work that has recently been done on ritual, particularly on homage, and of course on the vast body of work that has already been devoted to the knighting ritual, or ‘dubbing ceremony’.2 If the checklist starts from first principles, it does so in order to show that the topic of knighting always raises all the questions listed above. This means that while knighting is central to the debates about knighthood and chivalry, it is a subject in its own right. It also means that even less can be known with certainty about knighting than is often appreciated, given the number of questions it raises on the one hand and the laconic nature of our records on the other.3 With that caveat out of the way, in what follows, I summarize what I have written elsewhere on knighting in the late eleventh century, before applying the above checklist to evidence from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. (Note that since the list is intended for use in comparing records of possible knightings, it also lends itself to discussing change and continuity over time.) The focus will mainly be on England, but we conclude with a brief comparison with the Empire. Comparing possible instances of knighting from Normandy, France, England and Flanders in the late eleventh century suggests that, by then, it was possible to be knighted in the ‘basic’ and perhaps even ‘developed’ sense suggested above: that is, there was a formal, constitutive act by which young men were declared to be knights and thereby to be of age (to have completed their training and be able to fight and inherit), and perhaps even to have entered into a kind of order. This ritual was probably still restricted to courts. It was linked to the invention of the tournament; to the higher demands placed on skills in fighting on horseback; to knights seeking reputations as knights, competing and being judged as knights, no longer only by loyal service to a lord or as a lord. As the Bayeux Tapestry suggests, however, a formal person-to-person delivery of arms did not necessarily signify this. It also seems improbable that it was necessary, let alone sufficient, to be knighted in order to be considered a knight. Rather, there were the milites accincti, the ones who had been girded, or armed (most probably at court), and then there was the rest of the knights.4 It should be noted that the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’s record of William the Conqueror ‘dubbing’ the future Henry I in 1086 is central to this view of knightings at the time.5 Even if it was possible to be knighted in the late eleventh century, it ought not to be assumed that this remained the case thereafter. To proceed step by step, according to our checklist: can we identify, in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, a practice that seems elaborate, formal and recognizable enough to qualify, potentially, as a ‘ritual’? If we accept that the future Henry I was indeed knighted in 1086, according 2 See the literature cited by M. Lieberman, ‘A New Approach to the Knighting Ritual’, Speculum 90 (2015), 391–423, esp. at 392, n. 4; and more recently, R. W. Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry (Cambridge, 2016); D. Barthélemy, ‘La Société de l’an mil dans le royaume capétien: essai historiographique’, Revue historique 681 (2017), 93–140, esp. 122–7 on the efflorence chevaleresque, which he dates to the second half of the eleventh century; E. J. Ward, ‘Child Kingship and Notions of (Im)maturity in North-Western Europe, 1050–1262’, ANS 40 (2018), 197–211; R. W. Jones and P. Coss (eds), A Companion to Chivalry (Woodbridge, 2019), esp. ch. 1: P. Coss, ‘The Origins and Diffusion of Chivalry’; D. Crouch, The Chivalric Turn: Conduct and Hegemony in Europe before 1300 (Oxford, 2019), esp. 266–72. 3 For a similar note of caution, see Crouch, Chivalric Turn, 268. 4 Lieberman, ‘New Approach’; and my ‘Noble Ideals in the Norman/Plantagenet and Welf Dynastic Narratives’, in Staufen and Plantagenets – Two Empires in Comparison, ed. Alheydis Plassmann and Dominik Büschken (Göttingen, 2018), 229–69. 5 William the Conqueror ‘travelled so that at Whitsun he was at Westminster, and there he dubbade his son Henry (as) a ridere’, ASC 1085 [1086]. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. A Collaborative Edition, vol. 7, MS. E, ed. S. Irvine (Cambridge, 2004), 94.



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to the form of knighting which existed then, it makes sense to start by focusing on people like him. The following discussion therefore begins by surveying the evidence for possible knightings of William the Conqueror’s male descendants in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. To keep the sample manageable, we begin with prominent male descendants of William I, over seven generations, mainly from the agnatic line (see Table 1 at the end of the essay).6 There are several indications that a number of these were involved in acts comparable to Henry I’s ‘dubbing’ in 1086. That is to say, several of these men are said to have received, at a fairly young age, a gift of arms personally bestowed by an older man, often in a courtly setting, sometimes on a feast day. Several are said to have been ‘made’ milites or chevaliers, to have been ‘given arms’ or ‘dubbed’.7 They are shown in Table 1, along with some of the Conqueror’s male descendants for whom no knightings, arms deliveries or rites of passage to adulthood seem to be recorded. Several of these occasions are recorded in more than one source; in those cases, only the closest contemporary notices are included in the table and the following discussion. Contradictory statements of fact – such as who gave arms to whom, or when and where – are comparatively rare (the future Henry I is one such case, as are Henry the Young King and Arthur of Brittany). Moreover, it does seem probable that these occasions all consisted in personally given gifts of arms – almost always by laymen. But further details are scarce. Belting with a sword is often mentioned, and so are gifts in addition to arms, especially of robes. The History of William Marshal, an invaluable source for the history of chivalry, records that the Marshal kissed Henry the Young King before girding him with the sword.8 Henry III, who according to the same source was made a chevalier in 1216, as a nine-year-old, before being crowned, was dressed in his ‘child-sized royal robes’ before being belted with a sword.9 The apparent knighting of Edward of Caernarvon (the future That is, in order to keep the survey manageable, lines beginning with William’s female descendants have been excluded, except where those lines included kings of England. 7 For Henry II, Richard, John and Arthur of Brittany, see below. Henry the Young King: History of William Marshal, ed. A. J. Holden, S. Gregory and D. Crouch (London, 2002–6) [henceforth HWM], ll. 2072, 2092. The nine-year old Henry III is said to have been ‘a fine little knight’ in HWM, l. 15324 (see note after next; compare William Marshal’s own apparent dubbing, HWM, ll. 815–26). Edward I: Annals of Winchester, in Annales Monastici, ed. H. R. Luard, RS 36, 5 vols (London, 1864–9), 94. Edward II: Annals of Worcester, in Annales Monastici, iv, 558: ‘accepit dominus Edwardus filius regis Angliae cingulum militiae a patre suo’; Adae Murimuth continuatio chronicarum: Robertus de Avesbury de gestis mirabilibus regis Edwardi tertii, ed. E. M. Thompson, RS 93 (London, 1889), 9: ‘rex Edwardus fecit filium suum Edwardum, dictum de Carnervan, militem’; Pierre de Langtoft. Le règne d’Édouard Ier, ed. J. C. Thiolier (Créteil, 1989), 422 (doner les armes, adubber; compare ibid., 358, doner les armes). For a previous discussion of these acts, see D’A. J. D. Boulton, ‘Classic Knighthood as Nobiliary Dignity: The Knighting of Counts and Kings’ Sons in England, 1066–1272’, in Medieval Knighthood V: Papers from the Sixth Strawberry Hill Conference, 1994, ed. S. Church and R. Harvey (Woodbridge, 1995), 41–100. 8 HWM, ll. 2071–2106. 9 HWM, ll. 15322–4: ‘E il li ourent tote veie / Vestuz ses petiz dras realz; / Chivalier fu petiz e bealz.’ Cf. also Histoire des ducs de Normandie et des rois d’Angleterre, ed. F. Michel (Paris, 1840), 181, according to which Henry III ‘fu fais chevaliers’, though the source does not say by whom. The author of this source, the Anonymous of Béthune, is well informed about the English court (cf. John Gillingham, ‘The Anonymous of Béthune, King John and Magna Carta’, in Magna Carta and the England of King John, ed. Janet S. Loengard (Woodbridge, 2010), 27–44). Note, however, that Henry III’s dubbing is not mentioned in the two descriptions of his Gloucester coronation in Roger of Wendover, or in Matthew Paris’s Chronica majora; see Rogeri de Wendover liber qui dicitur flores historiarum, ed. H. G. Hewlett, RS 84, 3 vols (London, 1886–9), ii, 197–8; Matthaei Parisiensis chronica majora, ed. H. R. Luard, RS 57, 7 vols (London, 1872–83), iii, 1. Nor does Henry’s dubbing appear on p. 178 of the index to the Annales Monastici (nor, e.g., in the Chronicle of Thomas Wykes, in Annales Monastici, iv, 6–319 at 60). Cf. also HWM, iii, 165, comment on l. 15320; and Ward, ‘Child Kingship’, 208 n. 73. 6

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Edward II) in 1306 was only one of the features – albeit the central one – of the Feast of the Swan, itself perhaps the most striking testament to Edward I’s fascination with chivalric fashion.10 According to one source, Edward of Caernarfon accepted the cingulum militiae together with around 300 other bachelors.11 The actual number of new knights would appear to have been 282 (Prince Edward included), for documents from the royal wardrobe accounts have survived naming the young men to whom the king supplied new robes on this occasion (and recording how much he spent on this act of patronage).12 Different gifts and other gestures may have occurred long before they are first mentioned in a surviving source. Moreover, the acts under consideration were rare occasions, though our sources almost certainly do not record all that took place. Therefore, even seven generations yield a relatively small sample. Yet it does seem that although the delivery of arms to male descendants of William the Conqueror was partly shaped by traditions, considerable flexibility was allowed in performing it. Take the simple issue of who should be involved. Here the language of the Gesta Stephani is particularly revealing: the future Henry II is advised to seek militaris honoris insignia ‘from his father, or else from the king of Scots, his intimate and special friend’.13 In the History of William the Marshal there is a debate about who should make the boy Henry III a chevalier.14 This was in exceptional circumstances: the boy’s royal father was dead. But contradictions between individual sources about the identity of the ‘dubbers’ (as in the case of Henry I in 1086 and Henry the Young King in 1170 or 1173) are further evidence of the lack of clearly established customs in this regard. Nor does there appear to have been a definite age at which a prince should receive arms. The age of fifteen is not uncommon, recalling its significance in medieval law codes in connection with majority.15 Yet, the honorand’s age is rarely stated in the brief notices considered here, and this is likely to suggest that it was not considered important, rather than that it did not need mentioning: within the sample, it may have varied between nine (Henry III, 1216) and twenty-three (William, son of Stephen, 1158). Such flexibility even within a small selection means that we ought to be wary of discerning patterns. There is some evidence for continuity, however. Date and place, or occasion, were by no means set in stone. But throughout the period, liturgical feast days and royal palaces and courts were favoured. Further, most of the grantors of arms belonged to the generation senior to the recipients. The high status of these grantors is another pervasive feature. If Lanfranc, archbishop of Canterbury, did give arms to two of the Conqueror’s sons who later became kings (William Rufus and Henry I), it would be a dramatic confirmation of the high honour associated with such acts by the early twelfth century at the latest – indeed this would be true even if the reports of William of Malmesbury and of Orderic are mistaken. Later, indeed, the male members of the Norman and Plantagenet dynasties may well have expected to receive arms from their father, or certainly from a king. That English kings – and lords in general – at least bore financial responsibility for the knighting of their eldest son is suggested by the ‘feudal aid’ (auxilium) which they were allowed to levy from their ‘men’ for that purpose, according to the treatise of the laws C. Bullock-Davies, Menestrellorum Multitudo: Minstrels at a Royal Feast (Cardiff, 1978). Cf. Annals of Worcester, 558. 12 TNA E 101/362/20 and E 101/369/4; Bullock-Davies, Menestrellorum Multitudo, 185–8. 13 Gesta Stephani, ed. and trans. K. R. Potter, with an introduction and notes by R. H. C. Davis (Oxford, 1976), 214. 14 HWM, ll. 15306–21. 15 Cf. Ward, ‘Child Kingship’, 202–3. 10 11



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and customs of England attributed to Glanvill (1180s). Moreover, in a remarkable passage, the author of the History of William the Marshal felt a need to ‘reveal / to men of understanding / how and why it was’ that Henry the Young King ‘was king first and knight later’, and gives as the reason that Henry II, the Young King’s father, ‘sought to advance his son, / to increase his store and raise him / to a pinnacle of honour and power, / and so he wanted the king of France / to be the first to gird on his sword / and dub him a knight.’17 The passage provides one indication that dubbing normally preceded coronation; it also shows the prestige associated with being made a chevalier by a king. Certainly, as in the eleventh century,18 similar acts appear to have established links between dynasties – although the geographical reach of those links was almost certainly greater in the thirteenth century, by when a fifteen-year-old son of an English king could be despatched to Castile to receive his arms from the local monarch. True, the History of William the Marshal provides two possible exceptions, since it claims that the Marshal ‘made knights’ both Henry the Young King and the future Henry III.19 While there is doubt about whether this source can be trusted, with respect to both instances,20 the text further confirms that arms deliveries involving princes bestowed honour and esteem on all involved. Were there single candidates or groups of them? The introduction of mass knightings – such as that of the future Edward II in 1306 – has long been seen as a significant development in the history of chivalry.21 However, it is far from clear when princes began receiving arms in company; they may have been honoured in comparable ways long before the idea of a chivalric ‘brotherhood in arms’ began being trumpeted in courtly literature. Both of the famous detailed descriptions of apparent knightings which were penned in the later twelfth century mention groups, rather than single candidates. According to John of Marmoutier, Geoffrey ‘the Fair’, the future count of Anjou, ‘took up militia’ at Rouen, at Whitsun 1128, from Henry I of England, ‘together with his coevals’.22 Benoît, in his French rendering of the deeds of the dukes of Normandy, tells us that Richard I (d. 996) was made a chevalier by Hugh the Great (d. 956) in the company of twenty ‘squires’.23 It ought also to be noted that Geffrei Gaimar has William Rufus (d. 1100) ‘dub’ Walter Giffard 16

The Treatise on the Laws and Customs of the Realm of England Commonly Called Glanvill, ed. and trans. G. D. G. Hall (Oxford, 1965, repr. 2002), 112, where the relevant occasion is referred to as ‘miles fiat’. 17 HWM, ll. 2112–22: ‘Si deit bien estre mostré / A alcun de dreite reison, / Coment e par quele achaison / Il fu reis einz que chevalers, / E gel dirrei volunters: / Li peres le volt essacier / E amender e sorhalcier / En grant enor e en puissance, / Si volt bien que li reis de France / L’en ceinsist l’espee al premier / E qu’il le feïst chevalier.’ See ibid., 109 for the translation. 18 Lieberman, ‘New Approach’, 405. 19 HWM, ll. 15306–32; 15375–9; 15417–26. Cf. esp. l. 15320: ‘S’avra deus reis faiz chevaliers.’ HWM also notes that this was a great honour for the Marshal, although not as great as having made possible Henry III’s coronation. 20 For comments on young Henry’s possible knighting see D. Crouch, William Marshal: Knighthood, War and Chivalry 1147–1219, 2nd edn (Harlow, 2002), 46, n. 13; HWM, iii, 69–70, 165; M. Strickland, Henry the Young King (New Haven, CT, 2016), 82–4 and 154–5; Ward, ‘Child Kingship’, 208–9. On Henry III, see n. 9. 21 W. Erben, ‘Schwertleite und Ritterschlag. Beiträge zu einer Rechtsgeschichte der Waffen’, Zeitschrift für historische Waffenkunde 8 (1919), 105–67, esp. 147–64, where the origin of the simplified Ritterschlag as opposed to the older and more elaborate Schwertleite is seen as arising from the practical need to dub an increasing number of candidates for knighthood, sometimes on the battlefield rather than at court. 22 John of Marmoutier, ‘Historia Gaufredi ducis Normannorum et comitis Andegavorum’, in Chroniques des comtes d’Anjou et des seigneurs d’Amboise, ed. L. Halphen and R. Poupardin (Paris, 1913), 172–231 at 177–80. 23 Benoît, Chronique des ducs de Normandie, ed. C. Fahlin, 2 vols (Uppsala, 1951), i, 577: ‘danzeus’; cf. Le Roman de Rou de Wace, ed. A. J. Holden, 3 vols (Paris, 1970–3), i, 118. 16

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the Poitevin together with a kinsman and thirty ‘vallez’.24 Nor are such possible company knightings recorded only in sources written long after the events they describe. The Gesta Stephani says that in 1149 the future Henry II of England, having decided to seek militaris honoris insignia from David of Scotland, took with him the ‘sons of some men of birth, so that they might be honoured by militaria arma together with him’.25 Gervase of Canterbury says that Henry was ‘girded with the militare balteum together with several of his contemporaries’.26 The mass dubbing of 1306 in honour of the future Edward II was no doubt unprecedented in its scale and elaboration.27 Also, the surviving evidence suggests that company knightings were introduced to England by the Angevins – if taken at face value. But, the fact that no earlier such events are recorded is inconclusive. There need never have been an obstacle to the male descendants of kings receiving arms together with others. Indeed, the more firmly a ritual is associated with specific dates, such as liturgical feast days, the fewer opportunities there are to participate in it. This may well have made it more likely that candidates were grouped.28 The argument from silence cannot simply be ignored. The young men in our sample may even normally have received arms in the company of those with whom they had grown up at court, as primi inter pares, no doubt, but in a scene demonstrating fellowship in arms. This may already have been true when the future Henry I was ‘dubbed’ in 1086. Thus, the evidence suggests that several of the male descendants of William the Conqueror took part in acts comparable to Henry I’s knighting in 1086, and even that all expected to do so – even if there was an element of ‘anything goes’ when it came to the details. In other words, the evidence suggests that there was, throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, a single, recognizable and recognized form of arms delivery: a potential ritual. Moving on to the next set of questions about knightings, how far, and in what sense, did the occasions just surveyed create ‘knights’? To begin with our Latin sources, our sample illustrates very well the variety of ways in which these texts describe possible knightings. Some authors fairly consistently preferred certain Geffrei Gaimar, Estoire des Engleis/History of the English, ed. and trans. I. Short (Oxford, 2009), ll. 6077–6110. 25 Gesta Stephani, 214–17. 26 Gervasii Cantuarensis Opera Historica, ed. W. Stubbs, RS 93, 2 vols (London, 1879–80), i, 140–1: ‘militari quoque balteo cum nonnullis coaetaneis suis in sacra solempnitate Pentecostes accinctus est’. Note that in the same passage, Henry’s rival, Eustace of Boulogne, son of King Stephen, is just said to have been ‘miles factus’. See also the following cases: Richard of Cornwall: Roger of Wendover, ii, 283; Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, iii, 92; Matthaei Parisiensis historia Anglorum sive historia minor, ed. F. Madden, RS 44, 3 vols (London, 1886–9), ii, 269; his son, Edmund of Almain, second earl of Cornwall: Annals of Osney, in Annales Monastici, iv, 1–352 at 251, 252–3; Annals of Worcester, 461; Annals of Winchester, 111–12; Annals of Waverley, in Annales Monastici, ii, 127–411 at 378. In 1254, the future Edward I of England was ‘made a miles with many others’, by Alfonso X, king of Castile, according to Annals of Winchester, 94. 27 Although later, in 1346, Edward the Black Prince was made a miles by his father, Edward III, at sixteen, on campaign in Normandy, together with William Montagu, Roger Mortimer VI ‘and various other noblemen of the English realm who were his equals in age and his companions’. The Prince proceeded to adorn (insignire) several others ‘militari ordine’. Cf. Adae Murimuth continuatio chronicarum, 199. 28 Several later medieval company knightings at Whitsun and Christmas are recorded, some of them involving descendants of kings. Besides the 1306 ceremony involving Edward I and the future Edward II, see: Annals of Dunstable, in Annales Monastici iii, 1–420 at 157 (1241, at Whitsun, Louis IX of France gives his brother Alphonse, the county of Poitiou, making him a miles together with 100 others); Annales Austriae, Continuatio Florianensis, ed. W. Wattenbach, MGH SS 9 (Hannover, 1851), 747–53 at 749 (1291, Christmas Day, Vienna: the son of the Habsburg king, Rudolf I, Albrecht, duke of Austria – the future King Albrecht I of Germany – girded with the cingulo militari together with 700 ‘barons’ ‘ut dicitur’). 24



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expressions; others used synonyms; of some, both is true. Henry of Huntingdon was fond of expressions emphasizing accession to a man’s estate, or rather a man’s arms: uirilibus induit armis (his rendering of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’s ‘dubbade to ridere’), uirilia tradidit arma, uirilia sumpserat arma.29 William of Malmesbury, by contrast, vacillates between militiae insignia accipere, miles facere and arma sumere.30 Orderic’s description of Henry I’s dubbing is exceptionally elaborate: ‘Hunc Lanfrancus Dorobernensis archiepiscopus dum iuuenile robur attingere uidit, ad arma pro defensione regni sustulit, eumque lorica induit, et galeam capiti eius imposuit; eique ut regis filio et in regni stemmate nato militiae cingulum in nomine domini cinxit.’31 Orderic seems to record several comparable acts,32 but only in one of these cases is a male descendant of the Conqueror the recipient of arms: Stephen of Blois, Orderic says, ‘ab avunculo rege arma militiae accepit’.33 Robert of Torigni (d. 1186) used armis militaribus decorare as well as militaribus armis accingere.34 Although Ralph de Diceto (d. 1199/1200) wrote that John was militaribus armis accinctus by his father Henry II in 1185,35 both he and Roger of Wendover (d. 1236) generally opted for variations on donare cingulo militari.36 Matthew Paris (d. 1259) did so too;37 but he also used that phrase synonymously with a noun, tirocinium, and with miles factus;38 and fit miles was for him the equivalent of militaribus armis accinctus.39 Some of our thirteenth-century monastic chronicles use a variety of phrases, possibly because they were the work of different compilers;40 others display more consistency.41

29 Huntingdon, 402, 754 (future Henry I; future Henry II, by David of Scotland, 1149; Eustace, son of Stephen of Blois, 1149). 30 Malmesbury, Gesta regum, 426–7 (future William the Conqueror, by Henry I of France), 542–3 (William Rufus, by Lanfranc), 710 (future Henry I). 31 Orderic, iv, 120–1: Chibnall’s translation reads: ‘When [Henry] attained manhood Lanfranc, archbishop of Canterbury, presented him for knighthood for the defence of the kingdom, invested him with the hauberk, placed the helmet on his head and girded him with the belt of knighthood in the name of the Lord as a king’s son born in the purple.’ For discussion see Lieberman, ‘New Approach’, 404. Jean Flori, L’Essor de la chevalerie. XIe–XIIe siècles (Geneva, 1986), 59–60, 371, observes that Orderic’s language here is similar to Anglo-Saxon liturgy for royal benedictions (the pontifical of Egbert, archbishop of York, d. 766). Certainly, in choosing his words, Orderic must have been influenced by the consideration that Henry had, at the time, by the early 1130s, been king of England for more than thirty years. 32 Cf. Crouch, Chivalric Turn, 269–70, referring to them as ‘acts of adoubement’. 33 Orderic, vi, 42 (Stephen, by Henry I). 34 Torigni, ed. Howlett, i, 159–60 (future Henry II, by David of Scotland, 1149); ibid., i, 160 (Geoffrey, son of the Empress, by Theobald II, count of Blois, 1151; though this is an error for William, son of the Empress, according to Boulton, ‘Classic Knighthood’, 68, 76); for the second expression, Torigni, ed. Howlett, i, 196 (William, son of Stephen, by Henry II, 1158). 35 Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, in Radulfi de Diceto decani Lundoniensis opera historica, ed. W. Stubbs, RS 68, 2 vols (London, 1876), ii, 34. 36 Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines historiarum, i, 291 (future Henry II, by David of Scotland, 1149; Ralph de Diceto starts his Ymagines historiarum with this event); 426 (Geoffrey of Brittany, by Henry II, 1178); Roger of Wendover, ii, 283 (Richard of Cornwall, by Henry III of England, 1225). 37 Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, ii, 19 (Henry I); 301 (Geoffrey, by Henry II, 1178); 456 (Arthur, duke of Brittany, by Philip II Augustus of France, 1199); iii, 92 (Richard, earl of Cornwall, by Henry III, 1225); v, 397, 449–50 (future Edward I, by Alphonso X of Castile, 1254); Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, i, 401 (Geoffrey); ii, 269 (Richard, earl of Cornwall); ii, 82 (Arthur); iii, 144–5; 336 (future Edward I). 38 Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, v, 640–1, 653 (Henry of Almain, by Richard, earl of Cornwall, 1257). John of Marmoutier (cf. n. 22) had also used tirocinium, also alongside other, periphrastic expressions. 39 Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, i, 433–4 (John, by Henry II, 1185). 40 For example, Annals of Worcester, 373 (armis honorare – Henry I), 471 (baltheo militari cingere – Edward I), 558 (cingulum militiae accipere – Edward II). 41 For example, Annals of Waverley, 195, 378 (miles facere – Henry I, Edmund of Almain); Annals of Winchester, 34, 94, 111–12 (miles facere – Henry I, Edward I, Edmund of Almain).

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This variety has of course been demonstrated by many studies of knighting. How its significance is assessed depends on how certain we are that different words mean different things. We might conclude either that throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, different perceptions of ritual arms deliveries, indeed different rituals, co-existed; or that the function of such deliveries was, from the later eleventh century onwards, well established but variously described; or that their function changed, more or less significantly, while they continued being referred to by the same range of expressions; or that there was confusion as to the symbolism of arms deliveries – in which case, indeed, their claim to being rituals at all might be disputed, despite the evidence for certain regularities surveyed above. These uncertainties are inescapable. The case for the existence of a ritual dedicated to creating knights, within our sample, throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, rests on the following considerations. First, there is no evidence of an orderly and complete transition from one form of words to another (for example, from one emphasizing manhood to one emphasizing knighthood), and even if there had been, this might have been explained by a change in literary fashion rather than in ritual symbolism or practice. Second, much of the variety between our Latin sources seems to be due to the fact that notices of arms deliveries tend to be short, which reduced the need for stylistic variation within a given text. Authors referring to the same occasion more than once soon reached for alternatives. Indeed, deliveries of arms clearly were festive occasions which sometimes inspired rhetorical celebration. John of Marmoutier’s famous text, cited above, shows that different words did not necessarily mean different things, by the later 1170s.42 Our sample yields a case from around 1150 in which it is particularly clear that the same author might refer to the same occasion in different ways. The Gesta Stephani employs no fewer than four different expressions to describe what appears to be the knighting of the future Henry II in 1149.43 Thus, Henry first ‘received advice from his adherents to obtain’ militaris honoris insignia ‘from his father, or else from the King of Scots, his intimate and special friend’. Henry then decided to make haste for Scotland, ‘taking with him Roger Earl of Hereford, and the sons of some men of birth, so that they might be honoured by militaria arma together with him’. Next, David ‘most generously bestowed on him’ gloriosa militaris honorificentiae insignia. Finally, the subsequent passage begins by referring to Henry as ‘the newly made miles’.44 This strongly suggests that a single author might describe the same arms delivery with different words. Although the authorship of the Gesta Stephani remains unclear,45 this is by far the simplest explanation for the variety of expressions here.46 Roger of Howden, too, deserves particular attention, given that he composed a narrative of the period between 1169 and 1192 known as the Gesta, writing shortly Above, n. 22. On the date of this part of the Gesta Stephani, see Gransden, Historical Writing, 188–9; E. King, ‘The Gesta Stephani’, in Writing Medieval Biography: Essays in Honour of Frank Barlow, ed. D. Bates, J. Crick and S. Hamilton (Woodbridge, 2006), 195–206. 44 Gesta Stephani, 214–16: ‘a suae partis fautoribus consilium accepit, quatinus aut a patre suo aut certe a rege Scotio, familiari sibi et praecipuo amico, militaris honoris insignia susciperet … Assumpto igitur comite Herefordiae Rogerio in comitatum, sed et nobilium quorundam filiis, ut militaribus secum armis honorarentur … gloriosa militaris honorificentiae insignia largissime commisit … Henricus quoque iam nouus miles’. The translations are based on Potter’s. 45 Cf. R. Bartlett, England under the Norman and Angevin Kings, 1075–1225 (Oxford, 2000), 99; King, ‘Gesta Stephani’. 46 The Gesta Stephani also describes the girding with the militiae cingulum of Eustace by his father Stephen, king of England, as having preceded his investiture with the county of Boulogne (an event dating to 1147): ibid., 208. 42 43



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after events, and then, after 1192, revised that narrative and extended it to 1201, in his second major work, the Chronica.47 At first sight, we might be tempted to conclude that Roger chose more clearly ‘chivalric’ words in the 1190s than he had done before: in his first narrative, the Gesta, Roger used the expression honorare armis militaribus to describe the possible knighting of both the future Richard I (in 1173) and of John (in 1185),48 while in his later text he opted for miles facere in both cases.49 He also used miles facere in the Chronica when writing about Richard and John’s brother Geoffrey, and his son Arthur (who according to Roger were milites facti in 1178 and 1199, respectively).50 Yet, Roger already used miles facere in his earlier work, the Gesta, when writing about Geoffrey in 1178.51 His revisions in the Chronica almost certainly indicate not that he changed his mind about what these formal acts signified, but rather that he was striving to express himself more consistently. Miles facere occurs at least thrice more in the Chronica (though it is true that Roger chose armis militaribus honorare to describe the future Henry I’s ‘dubbing’ in 1086).52 In general, in both his historiographical works, Roger shows a close interest in formal acts and rituals, noting, for instance, that both Geoffrey and John were invested with the ‘sword of the duchy of Normandy’;53 in the Chronica, he also took the opportunity to carefully tidy up his account of Richard I’s coronation.54 An effort to state consistently when milites were ‘made’ fits with this. Yet, it is also important that in both works, in describing Geoffrey’s possible knighting, Roger uses miles facere synonymously with other expressions: first arma militaria suscipere,55 later susceptio militaris officii56 – no doubt, again, to avoid repeating the same phrase within the same passage. Roger of Howden’s choice of words, then, points in the same direction as the Gesta Stephani: the variety in our Latin sources need not mean that confusion reigned, throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, as to the intended meaning of formal arms deliveries to the male descendants

Most recently, J. Gillingham, ‘Writing the Biography of Roger of Howden, King’s Clerk and Chronicler’, in Writing Medieval Biography: Essays in Honour of Frank Barlow, ed. D. Bates, J. Crick and S. Hamilton (Woodbridge, 2006), 207–20; M. Staunton, The Historians of Angevin England (Oxford, 2017), ch. 3. Roger of Howden also extended the chronological scope of his later work back to 732. Therefore, he only records possible knightings which took place earlier than 1169 in his Chronica. 48 Howden, Gesta, i, 63 (future Richard I, by Louis VII, 1173), and 336 (John, by Henry II, 1185). 49 Howden, Chronica, ii, 55 and 303. 50 Ibid., ii, 166 (Geoffrey, by Henry II, 1178); ibid., iv, 94 (Arthur of Brittany, by Philip Augustus, 1199). Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, ii, 456, and Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, ii, 82, adopt the same date for Arthur’s possible knighting, but it should be noted that Arthur would only have been twelve years old at the time. Rigord says that Philip made Arthur a miles in 1202, when Arthur would have been fifteen: Œuvres de Rigord et de Guillaume le Breton, historiens de Philippe-Auguste, ed. H. F. Delaborde, 2 vols (Paris, 1882–5), i, 152 (in his record for the year 1199, Rigord only mentions that Arthur, together with his mother, performed homage and fealty to Philip: ibid., i, 145). The Histoire des ducs de Normandie et des rois d’Angleterre, ed. Michel, 91–2, says that Philip made Arthur a chevalier in the summer when the Fourth Crusade departed (‘fist li rois Phelippes chevalier Artu, le conte de Bretaigne’). Roger of Howden’s Chronica, as noted, ends in 1201. 51 Howden, Gesta, i, 207. 52 Howden, Chronica, i, 210–11 (future Henry II, by David of Scotland, 1149); i, 216–17 (Malcolm IV of Scotland, by Henry II, 1158–1159); ii, 4 (David, future earl of Huntingdon and lord of Garioch, by Henry II, 1170); contrast ibid., i, 139 (armis militaribus honorare to refer to the future Henry I’s ‘dubbing’ in 1086 by William the Conqueror). 53 Howden, Gesta, ii, 73 and Chronica, iii, 3 for Geoffrey in 1189; Chronica, iv, 87, for John in 1199. It is true, however, that Roger does not record young Henry’s possible knighting in 1170, as noted by Strickland, Henry the Young King, 83–4. 54 Staunton, Historians of Angevin England, 62–3. 55 Howden, Gesta, i, 207. 56 Howden, Chronica, ii, 166. 47

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of William the Conqueror – different authors may simply have chosen to emphasize different elements of that meaning, for different reasons. In determining what that meaning was, it is important also to consider sources written in languages other than Latin. Probably most and perhaps all of the Latin phrases surveyed above must represent attempts to translate from the vernaculars, especially from Old French and its dialects.57 Considerably more Old French sources have survived from the later twelfth century on, and by then the phrases estre chevalier (to be or become a knight), faire chevalier (to make a knight) and ceindre l’espee (to gird with the sword) were used interchangeably and so routinely as to suggest that they were long-established.58 Throughout the period under consideration, miles was probably used as the Latin rendering of chevalier; similarly, the phrases involving the cingulum or balteum militiae were probably meant to translate ceindre l’espee. This probably helps explain why, even after a noun, tirocinium came to be used to refer to knighting, Latin texts continued to use the older expressions as well (which would also mean that, in this case, the invention of a noun to refer to a ritual did not indicate that it had become more recognizable).59 Throughout our period, it seems, belting the sword was the form, making a knight at least one of the functions, of these acts. It is true that the earliest surviving evidence in French that kings of England and their sons were ‘made’ chevaliers seems to come from the History of William the Marshal. Henry the Young King, according to this text, was urged by his retainers to become a chevalier by ‘girding the sword’, as this would be beneficial to the morale and honour of his entire household (maisnie).60 The Young King then indeed received the ‘honour’ of being girded with the sword by the Marshal. Yet these vernacular concepts of honour and martial ability, too, are paralleled in Latin phrases of the twelfth century (such as those of the Gesta Stephani), and indeed in eleventh-century documents like Guy of Ponthieu’s 1098 letter to Lambert, bishop of Arras.61 Being made a chevalier for an author writing in the 1220s had the same connotations of martial ability and honour as becoming a new miles did for one writing in the 1150s; indeed, there are echoes here of the references to courtly arming found in the eleventh century. As for the question of the existence of knighting in our basic and developed sense (rituals dedicated to creating knights in the sense of adult warriors or as members of a kind of order, with its own code of conduct), within our sample there is fairly clear evidence for the former, throughout our period, but little for the latter. That is to say, the sources describing arms deliveries to male descendants of William the Conqueror make no mention of ‘promotion’ or ‘ordination’ to militia or chevalerie. True, even this may be a trick of our sources. Chevalerie in the sense of a quasiorder does appear in at least one Old French source connected to Henry II’s court; and Orderic could already use militia in senses best translated as ‘knighthood’ or

Just as the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle’s ‘dubbade to ridere’ probably does too: Lieberman, ‘New Approach’, 405–7. 58 Cf. Max Lieberman, ‘Knighthood and Chivalry in the Histories of the Norman Dukes: Dudo and Benoît’, ANS 32 (2010), 129–83. 59 For tirocinium, see above, p. 157. 60 HWM, ll. 2071–8. 61 Cited in Lieberman, ‘New Approach’, 403; contrast e.g. Crouch, Chivalric Turn, 268, where Guy’s expression ordinare et promovere ad militiam is translated as ‘to admit to the condition’ rather than the ‘order’ of a ‘knight’. 57



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‘chivalry’. The cingulum militiae may have signified knighting in our developed sense from at least the late eleventh century onwards.63 Far more clearly, by formally receiving arms, the male descendants of William the Conqueror entered into the company of adult males of high social standing. As noted, in the History of William the Marshal the idea that young Henry should have been crowned before he was knighted called for an explanation.64 More broadly, in our sample there are no recorded cases of brothers of different ages being knighted together. It is true they received arms at a range of ages, as noted, but rarely if ever were the candidates so young or so old as to suggest that the acts in question were not declarations of majority. Within our sample, the nine-year-old future Henry III is the clearest exception in this respect, and his knighting occurred after his father’s death – if indeed it did occur.65 Another exception, Arthur, made a miles at twelve years of age according to Roger of Howden,66 was even born after his father had died.67 These orphaned outliers illustrate a wider truth. The explanation for the wide age range of candidates need not have been that the link between becoming a knight and coming of age was tenuous for them: quite the contrary. Because that link was implicit, politics – intra- and indeed inter-dynastic politics – determined the exact age at which the male scions of the Norman and Angevin dynasties were knighted. The point could be elaborated at some length. Another outlier in our sample, William of Blois, was girded with militaria arma by Henry II in 1158, according to Robert of Torigni, when he would have been around twenty-three. If this is true, it would be a remarkably early case of a knighting within the same generation. Moreover, it would suggest (but not prove) that William had not been knighted by his father, King Stephen, not even when he married the heiress Isabel de Warenne and was granted the comitatus of Norfolk (albeit with reservations). Perhaps his knighting was further delayed by the position accorded him in the Treaty of Winchester (1153), which granted him the right to hold of Duke Henry (the future Henry II of England) the lands which his father Stephen had held before he became king, as well as those lands which he acquired by marrying the daughter of the earl of Warenne.68 For this, in 1153, William did liege homage to Duke Henry – he also 62

Orderic, iv, 36–7: ‘Nobilis atheleta Buamunde, militia Thessalo Achilli seu francigenae Rollando equiparande, uiuisne an detineris pernicie?’ Chibnall’s translation reads: ‘O Bohemond, noble champion, comparable in the art of war to Achilles the Greek or Roland the Frank, are you alive or treacherously slain?’ Yet, since the passage shows that Orderic knew of the Chanson de Roland and expected his audience to do so too, it is entirely defensible to claim that he rendered chevalerie into Latin as militia; and even that he had in mind not a generic ‘art of war’ but standards specific to knights. To me, it seems doubtful that his concepts of miles and militia changed much over his working life. See, for instance, Orderic, ii, 110, 122, 140, 154–5, 166, 214, 230–1, 282–3, 358–9; iii, 22, 28–9, 86, 132, 198, 216, 218, 246, 254; iv, 16, 22, 40, 48, 72, 100–1, 110–11, 124, 140, 144–6, 178–9, 212–15, 216, 280, 298, 302–3, 320, 336, 338–40; v, 32, 38, 54, 68, 122, 124, 134, 238, 200–1, 214–15, 238–9, 242, 244–5, 342, 364, 368; vi, 80–4, 102–4, 150–1, 158, 200–1, 206, 210, 218, 220, 230–4, 246, 260, 328–30, 332–3, 350, 352, 358–9, 364, 374–5, 378, 402, 458, 462–6, 470–2, 492, 512, 514, 516, 520, 522–4 and 534. 63 Contrast Crouch, Chivalric Turn, 268. It is too definitive, in my view, to state that there is no evidence before the mid-twelfth century for a ‘self-conscious rationale’ defining what chevalerie was. See, indeed, the less definitive statement ibid., 271. 64 Above, p. 155. 65 Above, n. 9. 66 Above, n. 50. 67 It is worth recalling that William the Conqueror himself may have been knighted as an orphan – see Lieberman, ‘New Approach’. 68 English Historical Documents, vol. II: 1042–1189, ed. D. C. Douglas and G. W. Greenaway, 2nd edn (London and New York, 1981), ii, no. 22; J. H. Round, Studies in Peerage and Family History (London, 1907), 147–80; J. C. Holt, ‘1153: The Treaty of Westminster’, in J. H. Round, Colonial England, 1066–1215 (London, 1997), 271–90. 62

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gave sureties. Perhaps, in his case, being knighted was a means to demonstrate that he was in the king’s favour – but given his age at the time, it could still have been linked to his majority as well. Certainly, it must have been well understood that for the male scions of the Angevin dynasty, knighting bestowed a symbolic majority, rather than real independence. It is even possible that young Henry was knighted twice, first in 1170 by his father and then, in 1173, by the Marshal.69 The first instance is attested by Canterbury sources, according to which the Young King received the cingulum militie from his father.70 The second case is only noted by the Marshal’s biographer, which might give one pause, as noted.71 But, it may be that double knightings could be conducted if the audiences were different enough: a comparable case of the late twelfth century is provided by Conrad, one of Frederick Barbarossa’s younger sons, who was apparently knighted by Alphonso VIII, king of Castile and León, in 1188, at Carrión de los Condes, and then again, in 1192, at Worms, by someone else.72 This evidence is also relevant to the case of Arthur, duke of Brittany, for whose possible knighting well-informed chroniclers record two different dates, as noted.73 The explanation for this may be, quite plausibly, that in the years of feverish diplomatic and military manoeuvring which followed Richard the Lionheart’s sudden death, Philip Augustus knighted Arthur twice, to wit, on both of the occasions when he took Arthur’s homage for Continental lands – first in 1199, probably somewhat prematurely, when Arthur was only twelve, then again when he had reached the age of fifteen. It certainly seems clear that possible knightings might occur at various stages in the early careers of royal sons. Take Henry II’s sons. When they began their rebellion against their father in 1173, the Young King was eighteen, Richard sixteen, and Geoffrey fifteen. Young Henry had been crowned and probably knighted three years earlier, and perhaps was knighted again before rebelling, as noted. Richard had been installed as duke in June 1172; he was made a miles, not by his father but by Louis VII, in 1173. By then, all three brothers had already done homage (or been asked to do so – as had their six-year old brother John). For Roger of Howden, it was unremarkable that Geoffrey was already ‘count of Brittany’ (comes Britannie) when Henry II made him a miles.74 John attacked Richard’s duchy of Aquitaine in 1184, with Henry II’s encouragement, though he seems not to have been knighted until As suggested by HWM, comment on l. 2091, and Strickland, Henry the Young King, 84. Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, ed. J. C. Robertson and J. B. Sheppard, RS 67, 7 vols (London, 1875–85), vii (Epistolae), no. 476, recte 676 (316); The Historical Works of Gervase of Canterbury, ed. W. Stubbs, RS, 2 vols (London, 1879–80), i, 219–20; ii, 79. Note also PR 18 Henry II, 1171–2, 144–5, which records expenses for young Henry’s coronation, and also for a riding robe ‘Et Item pro Roba Regis fil’ R’ ad equitand’’. 71 Above, nn. 20 and 53. 72 Cartulario de San Pedro de Arlanza, antiglio monasterio benedictino, ed. L. Serrano (Madrid, 1925), no. 125, 231; Collección diplomatica de San Salvador de Oña (822–1284), ed. J. del Alamo, 2 vols (Madrid, 1950), no. 286, i, 344; Magni Reicherspergensis chronicon, MGH SS 17, 519. See B. P. Martín, ‘Investidura de armas de los reyes españoles en los siglos XII y XIII’, Gladius, special volume, Acts of the National Symposium on ‘Las armas en la historia (siglos X–XIV)’ (1988), 153–92, esp. 166. For the view that the first occasion was Conrad’s Ritterschlag and the second his Schwertleite, see H. Schwarzmaier, ‘Konrad von Rothenburg, Herzog von Schwaben. Ein biographischer Versuch’, Württembergisch Franken 86 (2002), 13–36 at 26–7 and 29. 73 Cf. above, nn. 37 and 50: 1199, according to Roger of Howden and Matthew Paris; 1202, according to Rigord and the Histoire des ducs de Normandie et des rois d’Angleterre. 74 In 1178: Howden, Chronica, ii, 166. For Geoffrey’s rule in Brittany see J. Everard, Brittany and the Angevins: Province and Empire, 1158–1203 (Cambridge, 2000), ch. 4, according to which Geoffrey exercised no authority in Brittany until 1181. 69 70



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the following year. That act seems to have preceded John’s expedition to Ireland. From this perspective, Henry III’s knighting at the age of nine would appear as the most extreme case of a ritual act that always needed to be stage-managed, because it was paradoxically both flexible and indispensable. Thus, the evidence suggests that throughout the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the men of the Norman and Plantagenet royal family were ritually made knights, albeit at various ages, and that this was linked, symbolically, to their coming of age, and perhaps, though less clearly, also to entry into a kind of order. In other words, the simplest and therefore best explanation for variety among possible knightings in our sample is not that there was more than one ritual, or different interpretations of the same ritual, or that one ritual changed into another, but that a single ritual with a well-recognized double function (declaring knighthood and declaring majority) was variously described. As noted, the Conqueror’s male descendants may have been knighted in the company of other men, throughout our period. There also seem to have been comparable arming rituals besides those considered so far. No doubt these were rarely quite as splendid – but they are certainly relevant to the issue of how the possible knightings of kings’ sons and their close kinsmen were perceived. We may note at the outset that even if the sample is widened, there is no evidence for an orderly change in the language of our sources, from one accepted form of words to another. Nearly the same variety of phrases occurs not just across the generations but also outside the sample restricted to William the Conqueror’s direct male descendants. Only a few examples will be given here. The Conqueror himself, according to Orderic, girded Robert de Bellême with the cingulum militiae at the siege of Fresnay in 1073.75 Orderic also twice has William vent his anger over the fact that his son Robert rebelled together with tirones whom he, William, had raised at court and to whom he had given arms (militaribus armis decorare; arma dare).76 The future David I of Scotland, having been ‘in constant attendance at the court of his brother-in-law [Henry I], grew up among the boys of the royal household, and earned the close friendship of a wise and powerful king’. He then received preclara militiae arma ‘from the king’s hand’, probably in 1111×1113, ‘and after being loaded with gifts sat at his side among the greatest magnates.’77 Henry I also ‘raised and gave arms and honour’ to Brian, the (probably illegitimate) son of Alan Fergant, the duke of Brittany, a fact recorded in a letter addressed in Brian’s name to Henry of Blois, Henry I’s nephew.78 Gilbert Foliot was to remind Brian that Henry had ‘supported him since he was a boy, taught him as a young man, granted him the militie cingulum, and furnished him with gifts and honours’.79 Expenses incurred by King John in making knights appear to be entered in the pipe rolls.80 By the 1220s, the History of William the Marshal, as noted above, uses faire chevalier and ceindre l’espee, apparently synonymously, to refer to the probable knightings Orderic, ii, 306: ‘In primis Fredernaicum castrum cum phalange sua obsedit, ibique Rodberto de Belesmia cingulum militiae praecinxit.’ 76 Orderic, iii, 110–12; iv, 40. Orderic also says that before 1066, Duke William had made Robert de Grandmesnil a miles: Orderic, ii, 40: ‘Deinde ab eodem duce decenter est armis adornatus, et miles effectus pluribus exeniis nobiliter honoratus’. 77 Orderic, iv, 274: ‘ab illo preclara militiae arma recepit’. 78 H. W. C. Davis, ‘Henry of Blois and Brian fitz-Count’, EHR 25 (1910), 302–3 (dated to 1142). 79 The Letters and Charters of Gilbert Foliot, ed. Dom Adrian Morey and C. N. L. Brooke (Cambridge, 1967), 61, no. 26: ‘Non est tibi elapsum a memoria quod te promouit a puero, quod iuuenem educauit, et donatum militie cingulo, donis et honoribus ampliauit.’ 80 PR 6 John, 1204, 120; PR 11 John, 1209, 10; cf. also Rotuli litterarum clausarum in turri Londinensi asservati, 1204–27, ed. T. D. Hardy, 2 vols (London, 1833–44), 3a (1204). 75

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of Henry the Young King and the future Henry III; the same source describes in the same way the probable knighting of the Marshal at the hands of William de Tancarville, chamberlain of Normandy, at Drincourt, in 1173.81 Henry III is said to have granted the cingulum militiae on numerous occasions, for example, to Peter of Savoy at Westminster in 1241 and to Roger Mortimer III, the lord of Wigmore, at Winchester in 1253.82 The linguistic argument suggesting that constitutive knighting existed throughout our period also suggests that it was not restricted to the direct male descendants of William the Conqueror, and further, that throughout our period such acts were not performed only by the kings of England. In the twelfth century, away from court, it may still not have been necessary to have participated in any kind of occasion, let alone one which would have been considered formal or solemn, in order to be described as a miles.83 Later on, it may be that ‘ordinary’ or ‘county’ knights normally underwent a simple rite of passage.84 Moreover, in the latter part of Henry II’s reign, ‘civilian’ duties in the royal administration, such as jury-duty, were delegated to county milites, which made it more important to know who was and who was not a knight;85 this can only have increased the importance of ritual acts conferring that status, and helped make it necessary to be knighted in order to be considered a knight. Words for men who were not yet knights, such as Gaimar’s vallez noted above, point in the same direction.86 At the same time, the imposition of ‘civilian’ duties also, of course, tended to dilute the purely military character of knighthood. Indeed, by 1193, Nigel, a Benedictine monk of Canterbury, even commented on the ‘Holy Mary’s knights’ of his day, who were so called because they lacked skill and practice in arms.87 This suggests that a dubbing ritual may even, at least sometimes, have been thought sufficient to be accepted as a knight. That said, it seems plausible that one could also still be so accepted simply by completing the necessary training. In the twelfth century, different kinds of constitutive knighting may have coexisted. In his Journey through Wales, written in the HWM, ll. 815–22: ‘Li Chambrelens fu a Drincort / Ou molt out tenu riche cort. / La fu Guilleaume chevaliers, / Li Mareschals, qui volentiers / Prist l’onor que Dex li out feite; / Lonc tens en out eü sofraite. / Li Chamberlens li ceinst l’espee / Dunt pus dona meinte colee’ (translated ibid., 43: ‘The Chamberlain was at Drincourt, / where there was a great court gathering. / There William the Marshal was dubbed / a knight, and he willingly / accepted the honour accorded him by God, / which he had been so long waiting for.’) Note that no colée is mentioned in the descriptions of the two princes’ ‘knightings’: ibid., ll. 2071–2106; ll. 15306–32; 15375–9; 15417–26. 82 Peter of Savoy: Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, ii, 445; Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, iv, 85–6 (‘with fifteen other distinguished youths’ – cum quindecim aliis praeclaris juvenibus); Roger Mortimer III: Annals of Tewkesbury, in Annales Monastici, i, 153. On Peter of Savoy’s knighting cf. J. Dunbabin, ‘From Clerk to Knight: Changing Orders’, in The Ideals and Practice of Medieval Knighthood, II, ed. C. Harper-Bill and R. Harvey (Woodbridge, 1988), 26–39 at 32. Note also the evidence on distraint of knighthood below, pp. 168–71; and Henry III’s gifts in 1234 to defray the costs of ‘feasts of knighthood’ (‘contra festum militie’), Close R., 1231–4, 210–11, 440 (twice). 83 See above, pp. 151–2. 84 As suggested by M. R. Powicke, Military Obligation in Medieval England: A Study in Liberty and Duty (Oxford, 1962), 70. 85 Bartlett, England, 215; this trend continued into the thirteenth century: K. Faulkner, ‘The Transformation of Knighthood in Early Thirteenth-Century England’, EHR 111 (1996), 1–23. 86 Gaimar, cited above, pp. 155–6. See also Benoît’s danzeus (cited above, n. 23), and his vaslez and bachelers (Lieberman, ‘Knighthood and Chivalry’, 68–70); and Gerald’s armigeri. 87 Nigellus de Longchamp dit Wireker, Tractatus contra curiales et officiales clericos, ed. A. Boutemy (Paris, 1959), i, 204. On ‘honorific knights’, cf. Peter Coss, Lordship, Knighthood and Locality: A Study in English Society, c. 1180–1280 (Cambridge, 1991), 213; cf. also Michael Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066–1307 (London, 1987), 177; A. G. Rigg, ‘Canterbury, Nigel of [Nigel Wireker or Whiteacre] (c. 1135–1198?), writer and Benedictine monk’, ODNB. 81



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later twelfth century, Gerald of Wales relates an anecdote about his grandfather, Gerald of Windsor, constable of the royal castle of Pembroke. According to this account, while defending this castle against the Welsh, Gerald found that fifteen of his knights had fled by boat, and ‘gave their squires their lord’s arms and fees, and decorated them with the militare cingulum there and then’.88 It might be argued that Gerald’s tale, even if true, was remembered precisely because it reflected exceptional circumstances, what might happen in a beleaguered Anglo-Norman outpost in south-west Wales in around 1100. But his story would suggest that even once an act of some kind came to be considered necessary to being considered a knight, men may sometimes have been knighted in an impromptu fashion, by simple gestures (certainly not necessarily by the king, who may have been unable or too unconcerned to exert control over deliveries of arms within his realm). It also suggests that the ‘decoration’ of armigeri as milites was, at least sometimes, understood as a promotion in social status rather than a rite of passage to adulthood (at least by the time Gerald wrote). And yet, it seems clear that arms deliveries were also linked to reaching majority, to coming of age, even when they involved men not descended from the Conqueror. The age range of non-royal ‘dubbed’ men suggests this, of course, even when kings of England appear to have knighted young men from other dynasties, where possible knightings therefore fulfilled additional ‘diplomatic’ purposes, besides creating knights and declaring majority (after all, such purposes, as has been seen, were sometimes served by the knightings of royal sons too).89 Furthermore, outside the diplomatic arena, being or becoming a miles was, at the beginning of our period, inextricably linked to the end of wardship. This is strikingly true of a unique document surviving from the reign of Henry I: the pipe roll of 1130.90 In this annual financial account rendered by the sheriffs at Henry I’s exchequer, there are no fewer than four instances to illustrate how closely ‘becoming a miles’ was perceived to mark the end of wardship. In Norfolk, one William ‘de Hoctona’ paid the Crown £60 to have the custody of the son of Geoffrey de Faverches ‘until that son could become a miles’. Similarly, in Lincolnshire, Baldwin of Driby paid 140 marks of silver for the wardship of the son of Ralph of Driby ‘until such time as he could be a miles’. In one of the northern counties, Adam ‘Tisun’ fined 15 marks of silver not to have to answer pleas regarding his land ‘until the son of Nigel d’Aubigni be a miles’. And there is a Lincolnshire parallel to this arrangement as well: Roger ‘de Lacell’ offered 100 shillings not to have to answer pleas ‘until Robert Marmion be a miles’.91 Whether a knighting ritual is envisaged in the earliest surviving pipe roll is open to question. However, it does point to yet another topic that is bound up with the history of possible knightings in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries: wardship and proofs of age. According to Glanvill, minor heirs of milites (or to knight’s fees) should remain in their lords’ custody until they reached the age of twenty-one.92 The same treatise also envisages proofs of age Gerald of Wales, Itinerarium Kambrie (The Journey through Wales), in Giraldi Cambrensis opera, ed. J. S. Brewer, J. F. Dimock and G. F. Warner, RS 21, 8 vols (London, 1861–91), vi, 1–152, 90 (i, 12). 89 For ‘chivalric’ customs and Anglo-Welsh diplomacy, cf. M. Lieberman, ‘L’Introduction des mœurs chevaleresques au Pays de Galles’, Cahiers de civilisation médiévale 56 (2013), 137–49. 90 As noted most recently by Crouch, Chivalric Turn, 269. 91 The Pipe Roll of 31 Henry I, ed. J. Hunter (London, 1833; repr. 1929), 94, 119, 24, 117. 92 Glanvill, 82: ‘Si uero constet eos esse minores, tunc tenentur heredes ipsi esse sub custodia dominorum suorum donec plenam etatem si fuerint heredes de feodo militari, quod sit post uicesimum et unum annum completum si fuerit heres et filius militis uel per feodum militare tenentis’. ‘When, however, heirs are clearly minors, then, if they are heirs of a military fee, they are kept in the wardship of their lords 88

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in cases of doubtful majority. Therefore, one further complication of our subject is that there existed at least two ways in which the descendants of knights could come to be considered knights and/or reach adulthood, either by reaching the age of twenty-one, or by being ‘made knights’.94 The little-noticed case of the Norfolk widow Avelina de Ria (Evelyne of Ryes) and her son points more clearly to the equivalence between legal majority and ‘being made’ a miles than does the pipe roll of 1130. In 1168, Avelina was fined no less than £200 ‘because she had her son, who was the king’s ward, made a miles’.95 This further suggests that constitutive knighting in our ‘basic’ sense, in which becoming a knight meant reaching adulthood, was not performed only by the king;96 indeed, it suggests that it may have been common, perhaps routine, in England throughout the twelfth century, even if it co-existed with other kinds of knighting. All these points are relevant to another extraordinary document of the twelfth century, the Rotuli de dominabus et pueris et puellis, twelve small parchment rolls recording, for twelve English counties in 1185, which ladies and girls were in the king’s gift and which boys were in his wardship.97 Preserving the testimony of the hundredal courts, they show, if anything, an even more precise concern with the Crown’s rights than do the sources so far surveyed, since they contain no fewer 93

until they are of full age, that is, until twenty-one in the case of the son and heir of a knight or tenant of a military fee’. On wardship see further ibid., 186–7. 93 Glanvill, 82–3. 94 This topic has not been central to scholarship on wardship in high medieval Normandy and England, much of which has concentrated on why wardship was there awarded to the lords rather than the families of wards. For a brief survey of the historiography, cf. N. J. Menuge, Medieval English Wardship in Romance and Law (Cambridge, 2001). Wardship is another topic not well served by our sources: note the comments on the lack of evidence for the ‘feudal incidents’ of wardship and marriage in Charters of the Honour of Mowbray, 1107–1191, ed. D. Greenway (London, 1972), xxxviii–ix; and D. Crouch, The Beaumont Twins: The Roots and Branches of Power in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, 1986), 193. For the indeterminate evidence from early Normandy cf. D. Bates, Normandy before 1066 (London, 1982), 127. For wardship in England cf. also S. Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals: The Medieval Evidence Reconsidered (Oxford, 1994), relevant index entries on 544; F. Pollock and F. W. Maitland, The History of English Law before the Time of Edward I, 2nd edn, 2 vols (Cambridge, 1898, repr. 2010), esp. i, 337–48; and John Hudson, The Oxford History of the Laws of England: 871–1216 (Oxford, 2012), esp. 452–4 and 806–11. 95 PR 16 Henry II, 1169–70, 8: ‘q[uia] fec[it] fi[ieri] fil[ium] suum Mil[item] q[ui] erat in custodia Regis.’ This was evidently a heavy penalty for Evelyne. The pipe rolls indicate that for the rest of her life she gradually but only partly paid down her debt to the Crown. After nineteen years her son Hubert became liable for the remainder, presumably because she had died. At that time, in 1179, the debt stood at ‘£100 112s’, or £105 12s, of which Hubert paid down £9, leaving an outstanding amount of £96 12s: PR 25 Henry II, 1178–9, 3. Hubert still owed £30 10s in 1187 × 1188, at which time the pipe rolls record that he had died and his land was in the king’s custody: PR 34 Henry II, 1187–8, 55 (the intervening pipe rolls give further details). It seems that Richard I, in the first year of his reign, granted the land to Robert de Tresgoz, no doubt the cross-Channel administrator of that name (bailli in the Cotentin, sheriff of Wiltshire and constable of Salisbury castle in 1190–1, later married to the heiress of Ewyas Harold: cf. R. V. Turner and R. Heiser, The Reign of Richard the Lionheart: Ruler of the Angevin Empire, 1189–99 (Harlow, 2000), 34). Robert was pardoned the remainder of Evelyne’s debt to the Crown: PR 2 Richard I, 1189–90, 93. (Oddly, this entry begins ‘Hubertus de Ria r[eddit] c[ompotum] de’, ‘Hubert of Ryes renders an account for’, even though PR 34 Henry II notes Hubert’s death. This must have been intended for ease of reference). 96 The pipe rolls do not mention who knighted Evelyne’s son – but it seems almost certain that it was not the king. It is difficult to see how a fine could have been justified if it had been, even by an exchequer that was increasingly seeking to exploit royal prerogatives for financial gain. On the trend towards a more exploitative government see J. C. Holt, Magna Carta, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 1992). 97 Widows, Heirs and Heiresses in the Late Twelfth Century: The ‘Rotuli de Dominabus et Pueris et Puellis’, ed. and trans. J. Walmsley (Tempe, AZ, 2006). Not all the original rolls have survived, but the counties covered form a contiguous territory in eastern England, between the Thames and the Humber. Norfolk is included, but the de Ryes family is not mentioned.



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than 228 entries noting the names, age and holdings of widows, heirs and heiresses. The Rotuli have recently attracted attention for their value as a source for the women of the twelfth-century English aristocracy; a full study of what they tell us about male wards is still lacking.98 Pending such a study, it must be noted here that, as Round noted in his edition (first published in 1913), the Rotuli are relevant to ‘the practice of taking up knighthood’,99 and indeed precisely to how that practice related to status and to coming of age. They suggest considerable diversity and flexibility. In general, exact numerical ages are provided for male heirs under twenty-one;100 and to say that a man is a miles is, in this source, the normal way of saying that he is of age. Alice widow of Fulk de Lisures is recorded as having ‘two sons who are knights, and two others, six married daughters, and three daughters yet to be married’.101 Yet, it also seems that while being a miles was shorthand for being an adult male, it was also a distinct concept. Robert, son of Aubrey and Mabel Picot, is once recorded as being ‘a knight’ and once as ‘of age, and a knight’, while other entries record that he himself,102 and also his lands in Quy (one knight’s fee held of the king and one of the bishop of Ely) were still in the wardship of Ranulf Glanvill.103 Several men over twenty-one of unspecified status are mentioned, one a leper in the king’s wardship,104 another who had been granted his lands by the king, apparently without becoming a knight.105 The expression infra etatem is used twice,106 but never nondum miles nor any other ‘knightly’ Latin phrase expressing minority. Interestingly, the son of Robert the chamberlain is said to be ‘of age’, his mother to have ‘one knight’s fee’, and he himself to be in possession of his land.107 Most strikingly, however, being descended from milites appears as a status, alongside being descended from ‘barons’, that could be held and presumably transmitted by women.108 Normally, being a knight meant being an adult male. But men could also inherit lands, perhaps including knights’ fees, pass the age of twenty-one and/or come of age, apparently without being knighted; and they could be knights but remain in wardship. The impression gained from the Rotuli is that at a certain social and geographical distance from the royal court, concepts and practices regarding the interaction of knightly status, majority and ritual might vary from hundred to hundred.

S. Johns, Noblewomen, Aristocracy and Power in the Twelfth-Century Anglo-Norman Realm (Manchester, 2003), 189, n. 15. 99 Rotuli de dominabus et pueris et puellis de xii comitatibus (1185), ed. J. H. Round (London, 1913), xxv. 100 Widows, Heirs and Heiresses, ed. Walmsley, passim. The courts took considerable care in committing themselves to judgments of age. The jurors of a Lincolnshire wapentake declined to offer an opinion on the ages of the daughters of the deceased Matthew de Nevill ‘because they were overseas’ (ibid., 2). On the other hand, Robert, son of Osbert ‘Silvanus’ was found to be precisely eleven and a half years old (ibid., 22). 101 Ibid., 38: ‘habet .ij. filios milites et .ij. alios et .vj. filias maritatas et .iij. filias maritandas’. For further instances see ibid., 44 ‘heres ejus est miles’, 46 ‘habet duos filios milites’, 50 ‘filium militem heredem habet’, 76 ‘ambo sunt milites … [… habet] .ii. filios milites’, 114 ‘habet .ij. filios milites’ and next note. 102 Ibid., 124. 103 Ibid., 124 ‘primogenitus est miles’ and 128: ‘Robertus Picot habet etatem, et est miles’. There are two references to ‘enfeoffed knights’ (milites fefati), ibid., 84, 130 as well as several to knights’ fees and service (see ibid., index entries). 104 Ibid., 78. 105 For men over twenty-one not called milites see ibid., 60, 64 (twice, one twenty-two-year-old who had been granted his lands), 70, 78 (twice, one leper). 106 Ibid., 94 (for both cases). 107 Ibid., 122: ‘primogenitus est de etate, et ipsa habet feodum unius militis, et filius habet terram suam.’ 108 Ibid., 80: ‘nata de militibus … nati de militibus … nata de militibus et baronibus’. 98

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It is quite possible that even in the thirteenth century, it was not, at first, necessary to undergo a ritual in order to be considered a knight. On the other hand, a concern with pinning down knightly status is evident from the case of Roger ‘Capellanus’ of Bishop’s Stortford (Hertfordshire), arrested in 1210 ‘because he made himself out to be sometimes a knight and sometimes a priest’;109 or in the delay in legal proceedings caused in the same year when jurors appointed by the sheriff of Nottingham were found not to be knights.110 One hint that this was understood to be a ritually bestowed status dates to 1225, when an appeal was made to a finding by ‘twelve law-worthy knights girded with the sword’.111 Furthermore, as noted above, from the 1220s, miles begins to be used far more frequently to designate witnesses to charters.112 On the other hand, as noted elsewhere, according to Rodney Hilton, even by the 1240s we can be only ‘fairly’ certain that miles was used consistently and exclusively in charter witness lists to refer to dubbed knights.113 From 1224, too, the Crown began to issue kingdom-wide commands obliging men to become milites (the practice known today as distraint of knighthood). One motivation for this was, or soon became, financial (from 1230 at the latest, it was possible to pay a fine to avoid taking up knighthood, at least temporarily).114 Yet, Henry III’s efforts to distrain knights do seem to yield some information about the practice of knighting during his reign.115 In May 1245, tenants-in-chief were ordered to Westminster by the following Whitsun (4 June) in order to ‘receive arms’ from the king (parati ad recipiendum tunc a nobis arma). Those who held at least £20 worth of land or a knight’s fee from another lord were also to be there ‘ready to receive arms from whomever they should wish’.116 In 1260, the sheriffs of the English kingdom received writs ordering them to distrain all those who held of the king in chief, and who had not yet been ‘knighted’, to come to Westminster on St Edward’s Day in order to receive their arma militaria from the king himself. By contrast, those holding lands worth £30 or more and who ‘were not milites’ should ‘have themselves made milites by that time or earlier’, no matter of whom they held their lands.117 Thus, for the purposes of distraint, at least, there seems to have been, during Henry III’s reign, an expectation that the king should personally knight all those who held their estates of him directly, that is to say, the tenants-in-chief. Moreover, it should be noted that Henry III did not claim a monopoly on knighting. Thus, he did not offer to dub those whom he obliged to become milites but who did not hold any estates directly of him. There is also evidence for further diversification: the possible knighting of John of Gaddesden, by Henry III, in 1245 (together with other instances) shows that clerics Curia Regis Rolls (CRR), vi, 146: ‘captus fuit eo quod quandoque fecit se militem et quandoque presbiterum’. 110 CRR, ix, 298–9. 111 CRR, xii, 65: ‘recognitum fuit per xij. legales milites gladio cinctos’. This was said to have taken place in John’s reign. 112 D. F. Fleming, ‘Milites as Attestors to Charters in England, 1101–1300’, Albion 22 (1990), 185–98. 113 Lieberman, ‘New Approach’, 415. 114 M. R. Powicke, ‘Distraint of Knighthood and Military Obligation under Henry III’, Speculum 25 (1950), 457–70 at 465; cf. S. L. Waugh, ‘Reluctant Knights and Jurors: Respites, Exemptions and Public Obligations in the Reign of Henry III’, Speculum 58 (1983), 937–86, esp. 948–51. The earliest writ of distraint explicitly to offer the alternative of payments for respite is that of 1252: Close R., 1251–3, 430–1: order to distrain those not yet knighted (‘qui … milites non sunt’) holding 20 librates of land or a whole knight’s fee worth £20 annually to present themselves before the king at Whitsun ‘parati ad capiendum arma militaria vel ad finem nobiscum faciendum pro respectu habendo de milicia sua’. Contrast the writs of 1256: Close R. 1254–6, 293, 418. Cf. also Powicke, Military Obligation, 79. 115 Powicke, Military Obligation, 80. 116 Close R., 1242–7, 354: ‘parati ad recipiendum arma de quibuscumque voluerint’. 117 Close R., 1259–61, 171. 109



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might ‘leave orders’ by being made knights. By the thirteenth century a ritual had more clearly become a sufficient reason for being considered a knight. By now, at the latest, too, it seems likely that person-to-person arms deliveries must almost always have been understood to create knights. A related development of the thirteenth century concerns the link between knighting and legal majority. At the beginning of that century, we still hear of cases similar to that of Evelyne of Ryes and her son. Thus in 1204 the bishop of Lincoln sued one Richard Silvanus in the king’s court for having himself made a miles while he was under age ‘in order to deprive the bishop of his custody’.119 In 1210, moreover, Walter de Haule was arrested and incarcerated in the Tower of London, on the charges of marrying his sister to William of Bodiam and making him a miles while he was under age, even though William held of the king.120 Thus, the issue of young men escaping from wardship by seeking knighthood was at that time not restricted to tenants-in-chief. Indeed an attempt was made to resolve it in the re-issue of Magna Carta granted by Henry III’s minority government in 1216. The third clause of that text reads: 118

But if someone’s heir shall be under age, his lord shall not have custody of him nor of his land before he has accepted his homage; but, after he has such an heir in custody, once that heir is of age, that is, twenty-one years old, that heir shall have his land without relief and without fine; such that, if he is made a knight while under age, nevertheless the land shall remain in the custody of his lords until the aforesaid time.121

This clause may have evoked Henry III’s recent knighting as a nine-year-old (if that took place).122 It certainly sheds light on the interaction of ritual, majority and social status, since it demonstrates that wardship was not, in 1216, justified by reference to tenure-based military service as a knight. So long as the proceeds from wardship just covered the expenses incurred by it, including funding the military service due the king from the ward’s estate, the guardian should, in principle, have been indifferent to the age at which a ward became a knight. In this scenario, once a ward had completed his military training and was able to perform the service as a cavalryman which was due from his estate, the guardian no longer needed to be compensated. Yet, according to the 1216 version (and subsequent re-issues) of Magna Carta, whether or not one could come into one’s inheritance was not a matter of knighthood but of numerical age, in line with Glanvill. In stating that one might be made a miles before inheriting, the 1216 re-issue of Magna Carta shows that one rationale for an implicit link between becoming a knight and coming of age was at least disputed. The 1216 clause fits well with a situation in which knighting had become sufficient to be considered a knight.

CRR, vi, 146: Roger ‘le Chaplain’ of Bishops Stortford, Herts, was arrested in 1211 ‘for pretending sometimes he was a knight, and sometimes a priest.’ Cf. further Dunbabin, ‘From Clerk to Knight’. 119 CRR, iii, 143: ‘ipse fecit se fieri militem dum fuit infra etatem ea occasione ut auferet ei custodiam suam etc.’ 120 CRR, vi, 54. 121 The Statutes of the Realm, vol. i (London, 1810, repr. 1963), 14 (section ‘Charters of Liberties’): ‘Si autem heres alicujus talium fuerit infra etatem Dominus ejus non habeat custodiam ejus nec terre sue antequam homagium ejus ceperit, et postquam talis heres fuerit in custodia cum ad etatem pervenerit, scilicet viginti unius anni habeat hereditatem suam sine relevio et sine fine. Ita tamen quod si ipse dum infra etatem fuerit fiat miles, nichilominus terra remaneat in custodia Domini sui usque ad terminum predictum.’ The re-issues of Magna Carta retained the clause: ibid., 17 (1217 re-issue); 22 (1225 re-issue); 28 (1227 confirmation); 29 (1252 re-issue); 33 (1297 inspeximus) 38 (1300 inspeximus); and 44 (1301 confirmation). Translation of identical 1225 version from Holt, Magna Carta, 502. 122 As noted by Ward, ‘Child Kingship’, 210. Cf. n. 9 above. 118

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The re-issues of Magna Carta decreed that knighting no longer entailed coming into one’s inheritance; they do not say explicitly whether the reverse was true, whether in order to inherit one needed to be dubbed. Further evidence that the link between knighthood and legal majority was weakening is, of course, provided by distraint of knighthood, though, as it were, in the opposite sense. Distraint of knighthood stipulated that men were to take up knighthood after they had inherited their estates. Already in 1208–10, King John ordered a holder of half a knight’s fee in the bishopric of Durham, which was then in royal hands, to ‘come and become a miles’.123 The first general distraint of knighthood, that of 16 November 1224, specified that every layman ‘of full age’ who held one or more knights’ fees should be made a miles by the Sunday following Easter 1225.124 It is interesting to note the redundancy here. Taken literally, the writ allows for the legally absurd situation in which a man might hold one or more knights’ fees, but not yet be of full age. (Although later there were cases of lands’ being granted to minors in circuitous ways).125 It would seem that this oversight was corrected as experimentation with distraint of knighthood continued. Subsequent general distraints, like that of 1232, omit the reference to majority.126 Nevertheless, distraint of knighthood meant that rituals were performed which were aimed purely at creating knights – not at declaring majority. Thus, the re-issues of Magna Carta differ from distraint of knighthood with regard to the link, or rather, the lack of a link, between knighthood and majority. They envisage dubbed knights who had not yet inherited, not men who had already inherited being dubbed – that is, knighthood before inheritance rather than afterwards. Therefore, the Great Charter was, if anything, a response to an increase in demand for dubbing; and, as noted, it shows little concern for tenure-based military service. It offered the possibility of taking up knighthood before the age of twenty-one, but did not specify how this would affect the performance of any such service. Distraint was the reverse on both counts. It implicitly allowed for taking up knighthood even after twenty-one, but aimed at enforcing military service due from knights’ fees – at least ostensibly. Of course, it could be argued that Magna Carta removed one important benefit of seeking knighthood: the possibility of bringing majority and inheritance forward, of ending a male heir’s wardship before he reached twenty-one. It seems conceivable, therefore, that this contributed to the reduction in the number of dubbed knights which distraint apparently was designed to remedy. Yet, it is perhaps more likely that the legal implications of dubbing were at best of sporadic Liber Feodorum: The Book of Fees commonly called Testa de Nevill, 3 vols (London, 1920–31), i, 27: ‘Veniat et fiat miles’. 124 Rot. litt. claus., 69b: ‘De militibus faciendis. Rex Vic’ Norf’ et Suff’ sal’t. Precipim’ tibi quod sine dil[at]ione clamari facias per totam Bailliam tuam quod unusquisque laicus plene etatis qui feodum unius militis vel plus tenet in Baillia tua et miles non est; quod arma capiat et se militem fieri faciat citra clausum Pascha anno ixo. sicut feodum vel feoda sua q’ tenet diligit. T. ut supra ap Westm. xvj. die Nov’. Eodem modo scribitur omnibus Vicecomitibus.’ Cf. Powicke, Military Obligation, 71–2. 125 S. L. Waugh, The Lordship of England: Royal Wardships and Marriages in English Society and Politics, 1217–1327 (Princeton, 1988), 236. 126 Close R., 1231–4, 152 (1232): ‘Mandatum est vicecomiti Kancie quod per totam ballivam suam sine dilatione clamari faciat quod omnes illi de comitatu suo, qui feodum j. militis integrum vel plus de rege tenent in capite et milites non sunt, arma capiant et se milites fieri faciant citra Natale Domini anno etc. xvij.; alioquin ab eo die distringas eos per terras et catalla sua quod id sine dilatione faciant. Teste rege apud Lamb’, xvj. die Septembris.’ ‘The sheriff of Kent is ordered to have proclaimed throughout his bailey that all those in his shire holding a whole knight’s fee or more in chief of the king and who are not knights, should take arms and have themselves made knights before Christmas this the 17th year [of our reign]; or else distrain them from that day by their lands and chattles to do so without delay. Witnessed by the king at Lambeth, 16 September.’ 123



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concern. It only applied to orphans: in practice, most men did not inherit upon dubbing anyway since their fathers were still alive.127 Henry de Bracton’s great thirteenth-century discussion of the common law of England mentions dubbing rituals in the context neither of legal majority nor of proofs of age.128 It is also telling that knighting was mentioned in evidence for proofs of age only four times in Edward I’s reign and never in Edward II’s.129 Further evidence for the breaking of the link between knighthood and majority comes from the later thirteenth century, and concerns men of widely disparate social status. According to the Tewkesbury annals, Richard de Clare, heir to the greatest non-royal estate in England,130 having reached his ‘legitimate age’ in 1243, hoped to be granted seisin of his lands remotely, rather than through any kind of ritual. To that end, he sent messengers to Henry III, who was then engaged on his disastrous campaign in Poitou. The king refused, but does not seem to have insisted on dubbing his ward: the annals do not say that he knighted Richard de Clare later that year, on 15 October, when he finally did grant him seisin. Indeed, according to Matthew Paris, Clare was not girded with the balteum militare for almost another two years, not until Whitsun (4 June) 1245.131 Our final example of a ‘pure’ knighting, designed to create a knight regardless of legal majority, is a famous one: in 1272, one Ingram of Oldcotes made over landed possessions in Nottinghamshire and Yorkshire to Roger d’Arcy on the condition that Roger should knight him, and also provide food and clothing for him, an esquire and two grooms, as well as three horses for his use, for the rest of Ingram’s life.132 We might conclude this last section of our discussion by noting that it corroborates the previous ones. The factors leading to a diversification of knighting in the later twelfth and thirteenth centuries – especially legal and administrative innovation and financial considerations – were largely irrelevant to the prominent male descendants of William the Conqueror. This provides one further argument for thinking that for them, the significance of ‘knighting’ would have remained stable throughout the period considered here. A set of interrelated questions calls for a set of interrelated answers. First and foremost, it seems that throughout the period considered, there was a ritual dedicated to creating knights. Both the future Henry I in 1086 and the future Edward II in 1306 participated in constitutive knightings, both considered themselves and were considered to be knights because they had been knighted. Further, it seems that for the male descendants of William the Conqueror considered above, the symbolic link between being identified as knights and attaining majority persisted, although of course the actual degree of their independence from their fathers (or in Henry III’s case, from the members of his minority governments) depended on Cf. G. Duby, ‘Youth in Aristocratic Society’, in G. Duby, Chivalrous Society, trans. C. Postan (London, 1977), ch. 7; G. Duby, ‘Les “Jeunes” dans la société aristocratique dans la France du NordOuest au XIIe siècle’, in G. Duby, Hommes et structures du Moyen Âge. Recueil d’articles (Paris, 1984), 213–25. 128 Bracton de legibus et consuetudinibus Angliae/ Bracton on the Laws and Customs of England, ed. G. E. Woodbine, trans. S. E. Thorne, 4 vols (Cambridge, MA, 1968), ii, 250–4; iv, 320–3. Published online at http://hlsl5.law.harvard.edu/bracton/. 129 J. Bedell, ‘Memory and Proof of Age in England 1272–1327’, P & P 162 (1999), 3–27 at 17. 130 M. Altschul, A Baronial Family in Medieval England: The Clares, 1217–1314 (Baltimore, 1965), 66–7; Annals of Tewkesbury, in Annales Monastici, i, 41–180, 511–16 at 130–1. 131 Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, iv, 418; Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, ii, 502. 132 P. A. Brand (ed.), ‘Oldcotes v. d’Arcy’, in Medieval Legal Records Edited in Memory of C. A. F. Meekings, ed. R. F. Hunnisett and J. B. Post (London, 1978; repr. 1980), 63–133. 127

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other factors. It is also possible that all these men were knighted in our ‘developed’ sense of entry into knighthood understood as a kind of order, perhaps even with its own code of behaviour. These results specifically about knighting are relevant to the wider debates about knighthood and chivalry. In brief, they are far more compatible with a ‘chivalric transformation’ or ‘efflorescence’ in the later eleventh century133 than with a ‘fusion of the knighthood and nobility’ in the later twelfth, resulting from a ‘rise of the knights’ – because, with due caution, they indicate that the sons of kings were identified as knights throughout the period. The evidence discussed here does not suggest that there was a transition, between the later eleventh century and the thirteenth, from a delivery of arms purely dedicated to declaring that a young man had come of age, to another, knightly, ritual. Rather, the most prominent change seems to have been that while the link between becoming a knight and coming of age was still implicit earlier in the twelfth century, both at court and elsewhere, a ‘pure’ form of knighting, which was not also a declaration of majority, came to be practised as well, mainly away from court. It also seems that occasionally, knighting could confer a promotion in social status; that during the twelfth century, knighting became necessary to be considered a knight; that person-to-person deliveries of arms (almost) always came to signify the creation of knights;134 and finally, that knighting even became sufficient to be considered a knight. The extent to which courtly and non-courtly forms of knighting influenced each other is impossible to assess with certainty. But, it makes sense to assume there was influence in both directions. Knighting probably was originally a courtly custom which spread by imitation to wider knightly society. On the other hand, by the 1220s, it was at least possible to claim that a royal boy of nine had been knighted, and this may have been partly because, in the counties, knighting had more generally come to be sufficient to be recognized as a knight. Later, the evidence for distraint of knighthood shows that ‘pure’ knighting also occurred at Henry III’s court. Our discussion of the Normans and the Angevins, and of the comparatively well-documented case of England in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, provides a framework for comparison with other dynasties and with continental Europe, particularly since possible notices of knightings everywhere tend to be brief, and often in Latin. For instance, in 1184, Friedrich Barbarossa appears to have knighted two of his sons together at a court-day at Aachen. This event was recorded in a variety of Latin phrases by different annalists and chroniclers, only some of whom used miles and related words to do so.135 In light of what was said about such phrases above, a case can therefore be made that here, too, different words need not have meant different things, that these Latin notices were attempts at translating contemporary, vernacular German terms for knighting, rather than that the act recalled a centuries-old custom of arms deliveries (Waffenreichung) to some contemporary observers and authors, but not to others.136 If in Old French ceindre Cf. D. Barthélemy, ‘The Chivalric Transformation and the Origins of Tournament as seen through Norman Chroniclers’, HSJ 20 (2009), 141–60; D. Barthélemy, The Serf, the Knight and the Historian, trans. G. R. Edwards (Ithaca, NY, and London, 2009); Barthélemy, ‘La Société de l’an mil’. Note the other recent contributions to these debates cited above, n. 2. 134 One exception was certainly the investiture with the ‘sword of the duchy of Normandy’ mentioned by Roger of Howden (above, n. 159). 135 For example, Annales Aquenses, ed. G. Waitz, MGH SS 24 (Hanover, 1879), 39; cf. E. Orth, ‘Formen und Funktionen der höfischen Rittererhebung’, in Curialitas. Studien zu Grundfragen der höfisch-ritterlichen Kultur, ed. J. Fleckenstein (Göttingen, 1990), 128–70. 136 Contrast Orth, ‘Formen und Funktionen’, 131–5. 133



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l’espee referred to the form, estre chevalier and faire chevalier to the function, of knighting, a parallel case could perhaps be made for the Middle High German expressions ‘leading the sword’ and ‘becoming a knight’ (or indeed, ‘to strike a man a knight’).137 A comparison with the Norman and Angevin dynasties also highlights the potential significance of two princes’ being knighted together, even though they were not the same age. This suggests that for the Staufen dynasty, the link between coming of age and becoming a knight was not as implicit as it was for the contemporary Angevins, that even at court, what we have called ‘pure’ knighting was the norm. Did the custom of knighting spread to the Empire in its ‘pure’ form? In other respects, evidence from the Empire mirrors (and to some extent confirms) our observations on England. In both cases, it makes sense to distinguish the courtly knighting of young magnates from the knighting of men of lesser status and financial means, who were not as geographically mobile and who lacked access to inter-dynastic networks. On one hand, as noted above, a possible parallel between the Angevin and Staufen dynasties lends credence to the notion that Henry the Young King was knighted twice.138 On the other, in the Empire, the ministeriales provide a further example of a group for whom, by the later twelfth century, knighting had become necessary to be considered a knight.139 Both in England and in the Empire, by that time, there were apparently different kinds of constitutive knighting, designed to create different kinds of knights.140 Future studies could (re)consider how far knighting also became sufficient to be considered a knight, in the Empire and elsewhere; where and when ‘basic’, ‘developed’ and ‘pure’ forms of knighting occurred; to what extent arms deliveries fulfilled functions besides creating knights; and indeed, put to other uses the set of questions about knighting proposed in this essay.

Cf. ‘dô wart er ( s. Martin ) des betwungen, daʒ er muose swertleiten unde rîter muose werden’, from Priester Konrads Predigtbuch, entry ‘swërt – leiten’ in www.woerterbuchnetz.de/NLexer?lemma=swertleiten, accessed 19 Oct. 2020; E. Massmann, Schwertleite und Ritterschlag. Dargestellt auf Grund der mittelhochdeutschen literarischen Quellen (Hamburg, 1932). 138 Above, {000}. 139 Orth, ‘Formen und Funktionen’, 167. 140 Compare the remarks on this flexibility in the concluding paragraph of Orth, ‘Formen und Funktionen’, 168 (for the Empire), and in D. Barthélemy, La Chevalerie: de la Germanie antique à la France du xiie siècle, rev. and augm. edn (Paris, 2012), 305 (for France). 137

Brothers and half-brothers (if any)

Number of generation: Father/Mother: Recipient of arms Date of knighting, age Arms giver (Source or sources) ? no known evidence

Key:

William by Henry I, k. of France (W. of Poitiers, Malmesbury, G. regum)

Henry I 1086, Westminster, at c. 17 or 18 by William I (ASC) by Lanfranc (Orderic)

William Rufus 1077 (c.), at c. 17 by Lanfranc (Malmesbury, Gesta regum)

Richard d. sed nondum militiae cingulum acceperat (Orderic)

? Robert Curthose

1. William

Theobald II, count of Blois, ?1107

William of Blois

Adela, d. of the Conqueror:

and c. 20 other illegitimate sons

William Aetheling d. adolescens fere xvii annorum … adolescentulus

Son by Edith/Mathilda (d. in infancy)

Richard (illeg.) egregius miles by 1119 (Orderic)

Robert, earl of Gloucester (illeg.) egregius miles by 1119 (Orderic)

Henry I:

William Clito 1116, at 13×14 by Baldwin VII, count of Flanders (Hermann of Tournai)

William d. 1110s, militia laudabilis (Orderic)

Richard d. 1100, a tiro (Orderic)

2. Robert Curthose:

Table 1 Possible knightings of William the Conqueror and his male descendants over seven generations (selection)

?Baldwin

William 1158, Carlisle, at c. 23 Henry II (Robert of Torigni)

Eustace 1147×1149, at c. 18×20 by Stephen (Huntingdon, Gesta Stephani)

Stephen:

?William

Geoffrey of Anjou, count of Nantes 1151, at 17 by Theobald II, count of Blois (Robert of Torigni)

Henry II 1149, Carlisle, at 16 by David I, k. of Scots (Huntingdon, Gesta Stephani, et al.)

3. Empress Matilda:

John 1185, at 17 by Henry II (Roger of Howden, Ralph de Diceto)

Geoffrey 1178, Woodstock, at 19 by Henry II (Roger of Howden, Ralph de Diceto)

Richard I 1173, at 15 by Louis VII, k. of France (Roger of Howden)

1173, at 17×18 by William the Marshal (HWM)

Henry the Young King 1170, at 15 by Henry II (Gervase of Canterbury, Becket Materials)

William, d. in infancy

4. Henry II:

Richard, earl of Cornwall 1225, at 16 by Henry III (Roger of Wendover, Matthew Paris)

Henry III 1216, at 9 by William the Marshal (HWM) no dubber identified (Anonymous of Béthune, Histoire des ducs de Normandie)

John:

Arthur, duke of Brittany 1199, at 12 by Philip II ‘Augustus’, k. of France (Roger of Howden, Matthew Paris) 1202, at 15 by Philip II ‘Augustus’, k. of France (Rigord)

Geoffrey:

Philip, illeg. given lordship of Cognac

Richard I:

William, d. in infancy

5. Young Henry:

Edmund of Almain 1272, at 22 by Henry III (various Annales Monastici)

Richard, d. in infancy

Nicholas, d. in infancy

Henry of Almain 1257, Aachen, at 21 by Richard, earl of Cornwall (Matthew Paris)

John (d. in infancy)

Richard, earl of Cornwall:

poss. 4 younger brothers, d. in infancy

?Edmund, earl of Lancaster and Leicester

Edward I 1254, Burgos, at 15 by Alfonso X, k. of Castile (Matthew Paris et al.)

6. Henry III:

Henry of Blois, bishop of Winchester

Stephen Probably 1106×1113, at c. 14–21 by Henry I (Orderic)

?Edmund, first earl of Kent

Thomas, earl of Norfolk 1319, Newcastle, at 19 by Edward II (Annales Paulini)

Edward II 1306, at 22 by Edward I (Adam Murimuth et al.)

Alfonso, d. at 10

Henry, d. at 7

John, d. at 5

7. Edward:

ENQUÊTE, EXACTION AND EXCOMMUNICATION: EXPERIENCING POWER IN WESTERN FRANCE, c. 1190–1245 Richard E. Barton Of the many components of the so-called ‘legal revolution of the twelfth century’, one of the most important was the development of new legal procedures centred around the concept and practice of inquiry (Latin: inquisitio).1 The rapid and widespread dissemination of these practices, both in canon and civil law, led to the emergence of a new genre of documentary record known as the inquest, or enquête.2 This essay maintains that records of late twelfth- and thirteenth-century ecclesiastical enquêtes offer substantial value to the study of subjects other than law and administration, and in particular to the analysis of politics and power. Rather than assessing the enquêtes existentially as elements in a history of legal thought, or of administrative procedure, or of proto-modern rationality, that is, as examples of abstracted principles divorced from the exigencies of medieval life, this study embraces the enquêtes as documents of practice, as records – imperfect as they may be – of how medieval men and women interacted with each other. When read for what they say, and not for what legal historians want to see them as representing, it becomes apparent that the enquêtes represent an under-utilized source base for the analysis of a wide variety of topics of interest to scholars of the central Middle Ages. Enquêtes prove to be ripe for studies of orality, memory, the urban patriciate, urban–ecclesiastical relations, gender norms, moneylending, and much more.3 Using two enquêtes conducted in north-western France between 1190 and 1240, the current study analyses what sources of this type reveal about power and the practice of lordship. It argues several interrelated points. First, the enquêtes underscore the point that the compulsory transfer of goods from the weak to the powerful remained, in the thirteenth century, a central element in the practical exercise of power, lordship and government. Such transfers, often represented as the seizure of goods described variously as costuma, taille, nanna and preda, were understood by the powerful to reflect a core, even defining, right of lordship; they were, in a word, central components of the exercise of power, components whose basic legitimacy remained unquestioned. The customary seizure of goods (and sometimes of persons) by the powerful was, moreover, a right practised by all lords, ecclesiastical and My thanks to Stephen Church and the virtual audience for Battle 2020. My ideas have been sharpened by much discussion with Stephen D. White and Tracey Billado. For the phrase ‘legal revolution of the twelfth century’, see Paul Hyams, ‘The Legal Revolution and the Discourse of Dispute in the Twelfth Century’, in The Cambridge Companion to Medieval English Culture, ed. Andrew Galloway (Cambridge, 2011), 43–65. 2 I mostly prefer the use of the French enquête in what follows, largely so as to avoid confusion with later medieval English coroners’ inquests. 3 For gender and memory, see Richard E. Barton, ‘Remembering Female Lordship: The Case of Berengaria, Lord of Le Mans (1204–1230)’, in Gender, Memory and Documentary Culture c. 900–1300, ed. Laura Gathagan and Charles Insley (Woodbridge, forthcoming). For moneylending, Sharon Farmer, The Silk Industries of Medieval Paris (Philadelphia, 2017), 143; I am grateful to Sharon Farmer for this reference. 1

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secular, royal and seigneurial, grand and petty. While the seizure of goods fulfilled obvious economic functions, by directing wealth into the coffers of the powerful, such transfers also served symbolic functions, for they had a lot to do, as Gadi Algazi has noted of seigneurial feuds for a later period, with ‘the honour of their [the nobles’] estate, and thus with the structure of society’.4 Indeed, domination, as expressed in the forcible transfer of goods, services and persons, clearly served to accentuate the vast gulf that existed between the seigneurial class, on the one hand, and the townsmen and peasants, on the other. If the extraction of wealth by the powerful was an obvious and longstanding custom, dating back to antiquity, it is also worth noting that such seizures could also be represented as punitive: that is, in addition to regularly taking goods designated as customs, lords could and did seize similar types of goods as punishment for the actual or the imagined infringement or avoidance of seigneurial rights. By describing in careful detail, in the voices of participants, contested acts of seizure, the enquêtes underline the ubiquity of seigneurial domination and, therefore, both the economic and symbolic functions of such domination. The second point this essay makes is that, because it is sometimes difficult to distinguish purely customary exactions (i.e., taxes) taken by secular lords from punitive seizures, since the goods seized in both cases were largely the same, it is worth considering how these punitive sanctions might be juxtaposed with, or compared with, the penalties imposed in the enquêtes by ecclesiastical lords. Ecclesiastical enquêtes frequently describe the punitive use of excommunication and interdict by ecclesiastical entities, particularly those cathedral chapters that had won the right to impose spiritual sanctions in their own right. And while excommunication and interdict were clearly spiritual sanctions, whose primary effect was to deprive the recipient(s) from access to the sacraments and other church functions, scholars have noted how, in the years after 1200, the procedure of excommunication came to deviate from its theological origins, resulting in excommunication and interdict emerging as fully adversarial procedures used by ecclesiastical courts to punish, primarily, contumacy.5 Although ecclesiastical corporations also employed baillis and the other tools of secular lordship to maintain their seigneurial rights in the properties they held, the frequency of the imposition of excommunication, at least as expressed in several enquêtes, must be seen as more than a purely spiritual sanction. Such excommunications, and the rarer interdicts, also represented claims to power in local conflicts, with the ecclesiastical corporation using the sanction to defend its rights and punish those who infringed them. What is more, the enquêtes reveal that the lay tenants of such corporations fully understood this principle, as tenants regularly sought sentences of excommunication against their enemies for non-spiritual, ‘secular’, offences, in the same ways that legal persons in England might seek writs in the royal court to halt the actions of their local enemies. Of course, the boundary between spiritual and material offence had long been blurry, with excommunication justified as a penalty for those who infringed upon the legitimate property of the Church.6 So, whatever important theoretical distinctions might have existed between excommunication and the customary seizure of mateGadi Algazi, ‘The Social Use of Private War: Some Late Medieval Views Reviewed’, Tel Aviver Jahrbuch für deutsche Geschichte 22 (1993), 253–73 at 272. 5 Elisabeth Vodola, Excommunication in the Middle Ages (Berkeley, CA, 1986), 35–43. 6 Kathleen G. Cushing, Papacy and Law in the Gregorian Revolution: The Canonistic Work of Anselm of Lucca (Oxford, 1998), 137–8. Significantly, as early as the 1080s Anselm of Lucca included a titulus in his collection of canons that read ‘That those who take or alienate the goods of the church should be excommunicated, along with those who consent to it’; ibid., 180. 4



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rial goods, it is clear that both the churchmen who imposed excommunication in the early thirteenth century, and their tenants who eagerly sought it as a means of punishing their enemies, understood excommunication and interdict to constitute, in practice, an important tool in the exercise of lordship. Read as such, the long procession of excommunications described in several of the enquêtes must be understood as comparable to the extraction of resources more familiar to the practice of secular lordship. As Marie Dejoux has stated, ‘enquêtes are everywhere in the Middle Ages.’7 They are easy to spot via the Latin terms that describe them – inquisitio (inquiry, inquest, investigation) and inquirere (to inquire). At its core, and in all of the contexts in which it appears, inquisitio describes an effort to discover truth through the investigation or interrogation of witnesses.8 Such efforts were, of course, not new to the twelfth century; inquisitio had been present in Roman law, as well as in Carolingian capitularies and other early medieval contexts.9 In these pre-twelfth-century contexts, inquisitio typically referred to one of several sorts of investigations, whether it be an estate survey (the Carolingian polyptiques, or Domesday Book),10 an investigation into the extent of royal or seigneurial rights (e.g., the Carolingian capitularies, or the Norman Consuetudines et iusticie),11 or even an investigation into the correctness of a judicial decision.12 The course of the twelfth century saw the generalisation and, to a degree, the systematisation of these investigative impulses, as well as their extension to other domains.13 After 1190, for instance, Philip Augustus came to make regular use of inquests as ‘a permanent feature’ of his judicial administration, and, indeed, Philip’s registers came to embrace a distinct category labelled as inquisitiones.14 These inquests saw the king or his agent gathering a number of reliable persons who would be asked to swear to tell the truth and who were then asked a series of questions. Similar procedures were employed outside the royal context, as inquests held in the Toulousain c. 1157, in Brittany in 1211/1213, and in the county of Champagne in 1224 reveal.15 In the second half of the thirteenth century, so-called ‘administrative enquêtes’ operated by kings and other Marie Dejoux, ‘Gouverner par l’enquête en France, de Philippe Auguste aux derniers Capétiens’, French Historical Studies 37 (2014), 271–302 at 271. 8 Élisabeth Lalou, ‘L’Enquête au Moyen Âge’, Revue historique 657 (2011), 145–54 at 146; Dejoux, ‘Gouverner par l’enquête’, 271. 9 Robert Besnier, ‘“Inquisitiones” et “recognitiones”: le nouveau système des preuves à l’époque des Coutumiers normands’, Revue historique de droit français et étranger 27 (1950), 183–212 at 185–90; Bruno Lemesle, ‘Premiers Jalons et mise en place d’une procédure d’enquête dans la région angevine (XIe–XIIIe siècle)’, in La Preuve en justice de l’antiquité à nos jours, ed. Bruno Lemesle (Rennes, 2003), 69–93; and Bruno Lemesle, ‘L’Enquête contre les épreuves. Les Enquêtes dans la région angevine (XIIe– début XIIIe siècle)’, in L’Enquête au Moyen Âge, ed. Claude Gauvard (Rome, 2008), 41–73 at 43–4. 10 Numerous lesser-known estates surveys were conducted throughout the period 900–1200, e.g., Henri Navel, ‘L’Enquête de 1133 sur les fiefs de l’évêché de Bayeux’, Bulletin de la société de antiquaires de Normandie 42 (1934), 5–80. 11 For inquisitio in the capitularies, see Lemesle, ‘Premiers Jalons’. For the Consuetudines et justicie (1091), see Charles Homer Haskins, Norman Institutions (Cambridge, MA, 1918), 277–84; and Mark Hagger, Norman Rule in Normandy, 911–1144 (Woodbridge, 2017), 441. For oral testimony offered in disputes, see, e.g., Cartularium monasterii beatae Mariae caritatis Andegavensis, ed. Paul Marchegay (Angers, 1854), no. 247 (c. 1110). 12 For example, RADN, no. 159 (1063). 13 For ‘generalisation’, Dejoux, ‘Gouverner par l’enquête’, 272–3. 14 John Baldwin, The Government of Philip Augustus: Foundations of French Royal Power in the Middle Ages (Berkeley, CA, 1986), 141–4; Les Registres de Philippe Auguste, ed. John W. Baldwin, vol. 1 (Paris, 1992), 35–180. 15 Layettes du trésor des chartes, 2 vols, ed. A. Teulet (Paris, 1863–6), vol. 1, nos. 148 and 1061, and vol. 2, no. 1648. 7

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territorial princes expanded the scope of the earlier inquests into massive enterprises designed either to acquire information on the rights of the sovereign or to catalogue the misdeeds of the sovereign’s agents.16 Inquisitio also came increasingly to dominate ecclesiastical judicial procedures. While numerous examples of ecclesiastical judges making use of inquisitio can be identified in the twelfth century,17 the pontificate of Innocent III marked a true watershed. In the decree Qualiter et Quando no. 2, issued at the Fourth Lateran Council, Innocent ushered in a new procedure for the hearing of ecclesiastical cases; the new procedure, inquisitio, replaced the older form of accusatio.18 The essence of the change was that instead of relying on an accuser to bring charges (and his/her own evidence) against an opponent, the inquisitorial procedure relied on the judge to make the charge, conduct the prosecution, and locate suitable evidence (typically in the form of depositions of witnesses). Although it is clear that Innocent had not intended this procedure to be applied solely or even specially to the prosecution of heresy, thirteenth-century investigations into heresy came to use the procedure of inquisitio and, at least in English, the name of the procedure came thus to be associated primarily and misleadingly with heresy proceedings.19 This essay focuses on two enquêtes produced fifty years apart, each in the context of a sharp dispute concerning the extent of a suite of rights claimed by a cathedral chapter. While classification of inquests by modern scholarship has proven slippery,20 it is clear that the two – one held in Chartres in 1194 and the other in Le Mans in 1245 – share several important features. Both were the product of disputes. In Chartres, the issue was whether or not the agents of the count of Blois could impose exactions, and especially the taille, on residents of Chartres who had been taken into

Jean Glénisson, ‘Les Enquêtes administratives en Europe occidentale aux XIIIe et XIVe siècles’, in Histoire comparée de l’administration (IVe–XVIIIe siècles), ed. Werner Paravicini and Karl Ferdinand Werner (Munich, 1980), 17–25; Marie Dejoux, Les Enquêtes de Saint Louis. Gouverner et sauver son âme (Paris, 2014); and Robert Bartlett, ‘The Impact of Royal Government in the French Ardennes: The Evidence of the 1247 enquête’, Journal of Medieval History 7 (1981), 83–96. 17 For example, Harald Müller, Päpstliche Delegationsgerichtsbarkeit in der Normandie (12. und frühes 13. Jahrhundert), 2 vols (Bonn, 1997), ii, no. 63. 18 Henry Ansgar Kelly, ‘The Fourth Lateran Ordo of Inquisition Adapted to the Prosecution of Heresy’, in A Companion to Heresy Inquisitions, ed. Donald S. Prudlo (Leiden, 2019), 75–107 at 75–9. Dejoux, Les Enquêtes de Saint Louis, 66, observes that, in practice, accusatio and inquisitio merged rather than one succeeding the other. 19 Edward Peters, Inquisition (Berkeley, CA, 1989); H. A. Kelly, ‘Inquisition and the Prosecution of Heresy: Misconceptions and Abuses’, Church History 58 (1989), 439–51; Lalou, ‘L’Enquête au Moyen Âge’, 146–7. 20 Traditionally, inquests were understood primarily as forms of proof, and were divided into ‘administrative’ and ‘canonical’ (or ‘roman-canonical’) types: Marguerite Boulet-Sautel, ‘Aperçus sur la système des preuves dans la France coutumière du Moyen Age’, in La Preuve. Deuxième partie: moyen âge et temps modernes, Recueils de la société Jean Bodin 17 (Paris, 1965), 278–325 at 303–25. Recent scholarship has focused almost exclusively on the ‘administrative’ type: see L’Enquête au Moyen Âge, ed. Gauvard; Quand gouverner c’est enquêter: les pratiques politiques de l’enquête princière (Occident, XIIIe–XIVe siècles), ed. Thierry Pécout (Paris, 2010); Dejoux, Les Enquêtes de Saint Louis; and Glénisson, ‘Les Enquêtes administratives’. In several works Dejoux has complicated the traditional interpretation of ‘administrative inquests’, even suggesting renaming them ‘enquêtes générales’: e.g., Marie Dejoux, ‘Mener une enquête générale, pratiques et méthodes: l’exemple de la tournée ordonnée par Louis IX en Languedoc à l’hiver 1247–1248’, in Quand gouverner c’est enquêter, ed. Pécout, 134. John Baldwin also proposed an alternative division, between ‘Norman’ and ‘canonical’ enquêtes (Baldwin, The Government, 142), but the ‘Norman’ designation has largely been rejected: Lalou, ‘L’Enquête au Moyen Âge’, 147; Dejoux, Les Enquêtes de Saint Louis, 68 n. 4. Forcadet distinguishes ‘enquêteurs judiciaires’ from ‘enquêteurs administratifs (or réparateurs)’: Pierre-Anne Forcadet, ‘Les Premiers Juges de la cour du roi au XIIIe siècle’, Revue historique de droit français et étranger 94 (2016), 189–273 at 195–6. 16



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‘domestic service’ by any member of the cathedral chapter. In Le Mans, where the canons of the cathedral chapter of Saint-Julien had in recent memory acquired the power, independent of the bishop, to impose any and all spiritual sanctions on all those who transgressed its property or rights, at issue was the chapter’s ability to compel the monks of the suburban monastery of Saint-Pierre de la Couture to attend liturgical and funeral ceremonies in the cathedral, and to apply appropriate censure if they failed to do so.22 In both cases, since one or more of the complainants were ecclesiastics, the dispute was taken up by Church courts, with the ecclesiastical judges-delegate in each case ruling that proof by inquisitio was appropriate; as such both should be understood as ‘ecclesiastical’ or ‘canonical’ enquêtes. In both cases, the judges ordered each side to produce and depose witnesses, whose written testimonies would be considered by the judge(s). Finally, as will become clear shortly, the depositions in both cases focused heavily upon acts of lordship, particularly the seizure of goods from persons connected to one of the litigants. The two enquêtes differed in important ways. Notably, only the Chartres dispute was settled through normal canon law procedures; despite their prodigious efforts at deposition-taking, the parties in the Le Mans dispute settled out of court before the judge could render a decision.23 Furthermore, although the depositions of both parties survive in the Chartres case, only those collected by the cathedral chapter survive for the Le Mans case, even though there is reason to believe that the monks recorded depositions that are now lost.24 The quantity of witnesses collected in each dispute is also distinctive. In the Chartres case, thirteen witnesses were deposed on the side of the countess; aside from the initial statement offered by Countess Alix’s powerful in-laws, the queen-mother Adela of Blois and the archbishop of Reims, William ‘of the White Hands’, the remainder of her depositions occupy only two pages in the printed edition. Of the eleven lesser figures, six were knights and the rest laymen of middling and lesser status; only one of the eleven offers a substantive testimony, while the rest are represented primarily with the terse phrase, ‘he said the same as [the previous witness]’.25 The forty-five testimonies on behalf of the cathedral chapter of Chartres, occupying more than eleven pages in the edition, are more substantial. Many offer detailed accounts of their own experiences, or otherwise provide second-hand testimony concerning the specific actions of the comital agents. More than thirty of the forty-five were clerks, with almost all of them being canons of the chapter; the remainder seem to have been bourgeois from Chartres. 21

Cartulaire de Notre-Dame de Chartres, ed. E. de Lépinois and L. Merlet, 3 vols (Chartres, 1862–5), nos. 120–1 and 123 [hereafter NDC]. Countess Alix of Blois, daughter of King Louis VII and widow of Count Theobald V, represented the comital interests in this case: for Alix, see Michelle Armstrong-Partida, ‘Mothers and Daughters as Lords: The Countesses of Blois and Chartres’, Medieval Prosopography 26 (2005), 77–107 at 81–9. 22 Enquête de 1245 relative aux droits du chapitre Saint-Julien du Mans, ed. Julien Chappée, Ambroise Ledru and L.-J. Denis (Paris, 1922), 1, dated February 1245 (o.s.). The grant of the power of ecclesiastical sanction by Bishop Hamelin to the chapter had been made in 1200: Chartularium insignis ecclesiae Cenomanensis quod dicitur Liber Albus capituli, ed. R. Lottin (Le Mans, 1869), nos. 201–6 [hereafter Liber Albus]. 23 NDC, no. 123 (28 Feb. 1194, o.s.); Cartulaire des abbayes de Saint-Pierre de la Couture et SaintPierre de Solesmes, ed. les Bénédictins de Solesmes (Le Mans, 1881), no. 338 (18 Feb. 1246, o.s.) [hereafter SPC]. 24 SPC, no. 338. It is ironic that the only extant copy of the cathedral chapter’s depositions is preserved in a manuscript copied for Gaignières from the archives of the monastery of La Couture: see BnF MS latin 17123, 275–484. It is even more ironic that the editors of the 1922 edition provide an incorrect shelf mark for this sole copy: see Enquête de 1245, clv. 25 NDC, no. 121, pp. 229–30 (idem dixit quod …). 21

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A striking difference, however, is found with the Le Mans enquête. The canons of Saint-Julien collected depositions from more than one hundred witnesses and recorded them in astonishing detail. Indeed, the record occupies more than two hundred pages in the modern edition, with individual depositions occupying as many as twenty-eight pages. The status of the witnesses varied: some were high clergy, including the dean of the chapter, two archdeacons, and other senior canons; others were simple canons, affiliate clerks, and even parish priests; many others were lay citizens of the city, including numerous officials engaged in enforcing secular lordship; a few, even, were women. The detail provided by many of the depositions is truly extraordinary, offering insight into the liturgy, judicial proceedings, the use and interpretation of charters and documents, and the relationship between secular and ecclesiastical lordships in and around Le Mans. Even though the putative point of the enquête was to provide evidence for the ability of the chapter to compel the monks of La Couture to attend liturgical and funeral ceremonies in the cathedral, the procurators used the opportunity to assemble a comprehensive list of cases in which the chapter had exercised ecclesiastical censure over the past forty years, regardless of whether the objects of censure were monks or laymen. The depositions thus record numerous episodes of conflict between the chapter and various secular authorities; these accounts describe not merely the causes of the conflict, but also the chapter’s procedure for handling perceived intransigence (typically through excommunication). Given the highly unusual quantity and depth of the testimonies recorded in this enquête, it is all the more remarkable that the Le Mans enquête has been almost completely ignored by scholars. Both enquêtes are replete with examples of complaints about unjust lordship as expressed in the form of the seizure of men and goods. In Chartres, the witnesses offering testimony for the canons complained with one voice about one particular category of lordly seizure, the taille. In support of their contention that any inhabitant of the town of Chartres who entered the service of any member of the chapter was by custom ‘free and immune from all exaction and taille of the countess or count of Blois’,26 the canons’ witnesses recounted a long list of cases in which agents of the countess had suddenly and wrongly seized taille from men who ought to have been exempt: two such cases involved Foucher, son of Philippe, who was in the service of the canon Alcherius, and Sevin, servant of Goslin the deacon.27 Some depositions offered more detail concerning the goods that the comital agents had seized as taille.28 For instance, the agents seized the cloak of a certain Nicolas, servant of the clerk Albert de Galardon; they seized stones that the potter, Herbert, had assembled for the construction of his dwelling, and used them to strengthen the city walls; they seized the bedclothes of Hervé the Breton, servant of Master Hervé the subdean; they seized the staff of Nicolas de Beauvais; and they broke into the strongbox of Geoffrey Salvus, servant of the dean of the chapter, taking the coins he had stored there.29 The enquête also reveals that the count’s agents imprisoned men on account of the taille: such was the case with Raoul de Valle, Foucher son of Philippe, Guillaume the carpenter, Guillaume Mago, and two other unnamed

NDC, no. 121, p. 231: liberi erunt et immunes ab omni exactione et tallia comitisse Blesensis sive comitis. 27 NDC, no. 121, pp. 232–3 (Sevin) and 236 (Foucher). 28 André Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes (XIe–XIIIe siècles) (Paris, 1973), 297, mentions ‘la brutalité des procédés’ employed by the comital agents. 29 NDC, no. 121, pp. 235–6 (cloak); 241–2 (building stones); 242 (bedclothes); 239 (staff); and 239 (strongbox and coins). 26



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servants. This list must be considered as only the tip of the proverbial iceberg, as it reflects only those seizures which were inflicted against the men of the chapter and which the chapter had successfully overturned through legal action.31 The seizures were carried out by the prévôt (prepositus) of Chartres and his men on behalf of the count. While prévôts had their origin in the eleventh century as domanial administrators, by the early twelfth century it was customary in the west of France for counts to entrust prévôts with the administration of important towns.32 The enquête names several prévôts, including the current one, Gilo Colrouge,33 and several who had been active between 1150 and 1190.34 None of the prévôts known before 1250 were castellan lords in their own right, but rather they were administrators who owed their status to the continued good will of the count, and to their successful prosecution of the count’s rights. The prévôt Clement, for instance, was the son of a toll-collector, while prior to assuming his role as the prévôt of the countess, Gilo Colrouge had been an agent of one of the chapter’s estate managers.35 Supporting the prévôts were an unknown number of agents who were responsible for the actual work of seizing goods and accosting and sometimes imprisoning persons.36 While the enquête does not describe this process in detail, it is easy to draw inferences concerning the tactics used by the prévôt and his men: the comital ministers seem to have broken into the dwellings of their targets in order to threaten them and take goods, and/or to have accosted them physically, whether on the street or in their houses. The seizure of the bedclothes from Hervé the Breton’s house and the smashing open of Geoffroy Salvus’ strongbox speak to their confrontational tactics.37 Although it is not clear that these agents inflicted physical harm on Geoffroy, Hervé or members of their households, the likelihood that seizures such as these were accompanied by threats, intimidation, beating and house-breaking remains strong. Certainly, the chapter and its carefully chosen witnesses understood the actions of seizure to represent a kind of violence, even if what they meant by ‘violent’ may have had as much to do with the chapter’s belief in the actions’ illegitimacy as with the nature of the actions themselves.38 Beyond the simple fact that the prévôt and his men regularly seized goods from inhabitants of Chartres, these incidents have much to reveal about lordship prac30

NDC, no. 121, pp. 233–4 and 240 (Raoul), 241 (Foucher), 240 (Guillaume carpenter and Guillaume Mago), and 234 (the servants). For imprisonment of tenants in 1247, Bartlett, ‘Impact of Royal Government’, 88. 31 In every case cited above, the chapter responded to the injury by conducting legal proceedings of an unspecified nature against the count and his agent; this led to the return of goods, the release of prisoners, or the payment of compensation. See, e.g., NDC, no. 121, pp. 231, 233. In a few cases, the chapter resorted to interdict in order to effect restitution: ibid., 231, 241. 32 Richard Barton, ‘Between the King and the Dominus: The Seneschals of Plantagenet Maine and Anjou’, in La Seigneurie dans l’espace Plantagenêt (c. 1150–c. 1250), ed. M. Aurel and F. Boutoulle (Bordeaux, 2009), 139–62 at 141–2. 33 NDC, no. 121, pp. 238–9 (Gilonem Colli-Rubei, modo prepositum comitisse). For Gilo and the family Colrouge, one of the rising bourgeois families in Chartres, Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes, 235, 242, 498, and 502. 34 NDC, no. 121, pp. 231 (Vincent), 232 (Robert Terree), 238 (Geoffroy), and 240 (Clement). Geoffroy the prévôt is probably the same person as ‘Godefridus Roissole’: ibid., 238. Of these men, Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes, 501–3, was only aware of Clement. 35 On Clement, Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes, 501 and n. 164. For Gilo, NDC, no. 121, p. 239. 36 NDC, no. 121, pp. 237–8 (ministri) and 238–9 (justiciarii). 37 For comparable tactics described in a later era as ‘distraint’ or ‘predation’, Daniel Lord Smail, ‘Violence and Predation in Late Medieval Mediterranean Europe’, Comparative Studies in Society and History 54 (2012), 7–34 at 13. 38 NDC, no. 121, pp. 238 (postea imposita mihi tallia et mea violenter ablata); 241 (violenter captus est); 241 (propria ejus violenter ablata); 242 (mittente manum violentam). 30

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tices. First, it is significant that the exactions described in the enquête are universally named as ‘taille’: goods were seized ‘on account of taille’, persons were understood to be subject to the taille (or not), and the act of imposing taille could be expressed as a verb.39 The taille, of course, would have a long history in France as a direct tax, but in the twelfth century it was still of relatively recent origin and, more importantly, it was still an arbitrary exaction, one that was not fixed to geography (like tolls), activity (like many commercial taxes), or events (as with aides demanded on symbolic occasions).40 While taille would acquire more regularity, at the time of the enquête its distinguishing feature was, as Barthélemy has noted, that it was irregularly demanded, not requested.41 Given the subjectivity with which it was imposed, the taille must be understood primarily as a symbolic imposition, one designed to reinforce principles of domination. Indeed, its economic value seems, in the twelfth century, to have been marginal.42 While one entry in the enquête notes an impressively high sum taken for taille (40 livres),43 in practice the taille seems to have involved items of symbolic rather than monetary value. Neither Hervé the Breton’s bedclothes nor Nicolas de Beauvais’ staff, for instance, can have been worth much money, as is suggested by the fact that the prévôt’s ministers did not care enough about the former to take them indoors out of the elements after seizing them.44 The enquête thus represents taille as an arbitrary exaction, one taken in a variety of forms in a humiliating manner designed to reinforce the symbolic domination of the count over his subjects. A second pattern revealed by the Chartres enquête concerns the fluidity of individual identity, particularly when it came to acknowledging lordship. Almost all the cases described by the Chartres depositions involve men who had shifted their seigneurial or legal status: where they had formerly been ‘under the hand of the count’, and thus liable to taille, they had transferred themselves into the service of the chapter and were thus now exempt from taille.45 The process by which such transfers occurred is not described, but from the quantity of such cases, it seems to have involved merely the word given by member of the chapter that a particular person had ‘entered his service’. What that service constituted, moreover, is also unclear. Many of the men in question were bourgeois, either merchants or artisans,46 and so were clearly not servile in the agrarian sense. It seems unlikely, moreover, that such men ceased to function in their previous occupations. When someone like Morel the cooper, who had once been subject to the taille and other customs of the count, ‘transferred into the service of Goslin, then archdeacon and later bishop of NDC, no. 121, pp. 238–9 (propter talliam); 238 (talliabiles comiti); 240 (prius talliabilem comiti … talliatum et captum cum suis); and 240 (sub manu comitis talliatus fuit). 40 For taille in the Chartrain, Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes, 297–8. Studies of neighbouring regions affirm the arbitrary, irregular nature of the taille: Dominique Barthélemy, La Société dans le comté de Vendôme de l’an mil aux XIVe siècle (Paris, 1993), 738–40; Bruno Lemesle, La Société aristocratique dans le Haut-Maine (XIe–XIIe siècles) (Rennes, 1999), 173–4. See also Bartlett, ‘Impact of Royal Government’, 87. 41 Barthélemy, La Société dans le comté de Vendôme, 739. 42 Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes, 298. 43 NDC, no. 121, p. 240. 44 NDC, no. 121, p. 242. After the chapter successfully forced the prévôt’s men to admit their wrong, it emerged that the agents had left the linens outside, where they had been ruined by exposure. 45 For example, NDC, no. 121, p. 231: qui de burgensia ad servicium Yvonis, Carnotensis decani transierunt et immunes fuerunt. 46 For the transfer from burgensia into the service of a canon: NDC, no. 121, pp. 231–4; and Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes, 481–93. Many of those named in the inquest can be traced to nascent bourgeois families (e.g., the Colrouge), or have names derived from districts in Chartres (Beauvais, Sub-Ulmo), or have identifiable urban occupations (potter, cooper, wool merchant). 39



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Chartres’, he presumably continued to work as a cooper (just as his wife continued to spin and sell cloth).47 The enquête strongly implies that the chapter’s ‘service’ may have simply involved the chapter claiming jurisdiction over the so-called servant, and not a change in occupation or function. That impression is enhanced by the several cases of men who fulfilled the function of prévôt or other administrator for both the secular and ecclesiastical authorities. Gilo Colrouge, for example, had been one of the agents of the chapter’s provosts for Fontenay-sur-Eure before he became the prévôt of Chartres for the countess.48 It was the same with Vincent, a townsman who had previously been the count’s prévôt, and thus liable to taille himself; when he transferred himself into the service of two successive bishops of Chartres, he became immune.49 The sense that ‘service’ to the chapter constituted more of a shift in jurisdictional status than functional status is echoed by the very nature of the dispute that prompted the enquête: the countess, and her prévôt, were clearly concerned about the drain on their position in Chartres by the flow of persons into the service of the chapter, and elected to use a dispute over the status of such persons as a precedent for reasserting comital rights.50 Indeed, one of the witnesses noted indignantly that ‘no servant of the clergy had ever been compelled to leave ecclesiastical service in order to return to the hand of the count’,51 except the five whose status had sparked the current dispute. If that were true, the steady loss of those subject to the taille stood as a drain on comital revenues but also as a blow to comital authority. The fungibility of jurisdictional status is significant, however, particularly in the context of explaining how and why acts of seizure took place. On the one hand, the frequent cases of unjust seizure of taille by comital agents might be explained simply as cases of mistaken identity. Given the number of persons entering and leaving ecclesiastical service, it is at least possible that the prévôt and his agents were hard pressed to keep accurate track of who was taillabilis and who was not. The case of Bretel de Beauvais might suggest this: Bretel was in the service of the cantor Amaury for a long time, and therefore immune from taille; when Amaury died, Bretel ‘returned to burgensia and was subject to taille’. Feeling oppressed by this new state, he entered the service of the subdean, Gilbert, and once again became free and immune from taille.52 It is easy to suppose that hard-working comital agents might have had difficulty remembering Bretel’s status when it came time to impose taille. Yet the evidence can also be read in an alternate, and more convincing, way. Chartres was not a particularly large place, and the men whose status changed were not day-labourers or rural villeins. They were prominent members of the administrative, mercantile or artisanal classes, whose status should have been clear to their neighbours and to the lords of the region. The fact that ministri, prévôts, and voyers could and did switch back and forth between jurisdictions,53 moreover, suggests that NDC, no. 121, pp. 237–8. See above, n. 35. 49 NDC, no. 121, p. 231. For the immunity of two servientes of ecclesiastical prévôts, ibid., 238, 240. 50 NDC, no. 120. The depositions confirm this point without naming the men: ibid., no. 121, pp. 229 and 232. 51 NDC, no. 121, p. 242. 52 NDC, no. 121, p. 234. 53 For instance, the voyer Germond transferred into the service of Robert, dean and future bishop of Chartres: NDC, no. 121, pp. 238 and 240. In the Chartrain, unlike in Le Mans, voyers were a class of mostly rural seigneurial agents, whose status had declined over the twelfth century: see Chédeville, Chartres et ses campagnes, 303; Barthélemy, La Société dans le comté de Vendôme, 277, 584; Louis Halphen, ‘Prévôts et voyers du XIe siècle, région angevine’, Le Moyen Age 15 (1902), 297–325; Claire Lamy, ‘Un 47 48

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the men charged with collecting taille would have been fully aware of the regularity with which jurisdictions could change. Given that Gilo Colrouge had once worked as an agent for an ecclesiastical prévôt, was it likely that he, now prévôt of Chartres in charge of collecting taille, could be unaware of comparable shifts in status? At the very least, had he or the comital agents cared enough to ensure that they only imposed taille on the correct persons, their awareness of the transfers in jurisdiction should have caused them to inquire carefully into an individual’s status before seizing taille. The rash of petty seizures (cloaks, staves, building stones, bedclothes) suggests, therefore, that the prévôt, or at least his agents, did not care to inquire into the legal status of those whom they wished to subject to taille. Instead of seeing the seizures as honest mistakes or accidents, we must take them in the same spirit that the canons did, as attempts to undermine ecclesiastical jurisdiction, to punish the behaviour of those bourgeois seeking to avoid taille by securing ecclesiastical immunity, and to generally and symbolically reinforce the seigneurial domination of the count over the town. Despite its broader focus, the Le Mans enquête reveals similar practices of lordship. Because the canons’ goal in assembling their mass of depositions was to prove their right to impose spiritual sanctions, and because the sparks for almost all such sanctions were conflicts of seigneurial jurisdiction spawned by the disputed seizure of goods or persons, the enquête presents a seemingly endless litany of episodes of seigneurial exaction. Many of the incidents simply describe the seizure of unspecified goods for poorly articulated reasons: for instance, the knight Herbert de Sougéle-Ganelon, seized unspecified plunder (pignora) from the men of the chapter in the wood of Hellou; Erembourg la Seuriesse complained that two knights had seized goods (res) from her daughter; and Alberic ‘the Bachelor’ complained that Foulques de Nemore had seized goods (res) from him for failure to perform service.54 In other cases, the seizures were justified by reference to a specific customary exaction. Seigneurial agents sometimes cited taille as a reason for their actions: such was the case with Guillaume de Fougère, a royal bailli acting in the name of the seneschal of Anjou, when he imposed taille on various men and had his sergeant seize their goods; or with Nicolas son of Juhel, one of Queen Berengaria’s voyers in Le Mans, who seized goods as taille in la Rebourserie; or with Geoffroy Payen, a royal bailli, who assessed taille within the city of Le Mans.55 Many other cases of seizure were linked to costuma, the tax on sales of goods. For example, Matthieu de Baugé, one of the queen’s sergeants, posted himself outside the cloister of the cathedral and seized costuma from those coming to the summer market in order to sell cloth, thread and other goods; Jean carpenter complained that the baillis of le Grand-Lucé seized goods from him as costuma on wine he had bought; Garin Beifsoleil, another voyer of Le Mans, entered the house of Thomas the bell-ringer and seized money from him as costuma for a horse that Thomas had purchased; the prévôt of Loué, Gervais Houdebert, seized the goods (res) of a widow named Hamelina for costuma; and Julien Laurent and other voyers of the queen took money

aspect de la seigneurie châtelaine: le droit de vicaria de la seigneurie de Rochecorbon en Touraine au XIe siècle’, in Les Pouvoirs locaux dans la France du centre et de l’ouest (VIIIe–XIe siècles), ed. Dominique Barthélemy and Olivier Bruand (Rennes, 2005), 193–214. 54 Enquête de 1245, 4–5, 98, 108 (Herbert); 194 (Erembourg); 209 (Alberic). 55 Ibid., 45–6, 60, 116, 130, 132, 135, 138, 204, 207, and 214 (Guillaume de Fougère); 57 (Nicolas Juhel); 79 (Geoffroy Payen). For other cases of wrongful taille, ibid., 88, 100, 134, 178–9, and 186; 131; and 179–80. For a lord imposing taille on his tenant, who then imposed it on his own sub-tenants, see Cartulaire du prieuré de Saint-Hippolyte de Vivoin, ed. L.-J. Denis (Paris, 1894), 131–2.



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as costuma for the sale of animals. Other incidents were linked to any number of other traditional exactions, such as pedagium, the toll on the passage of persons or animals, or pannage, the exaction taken from the foraging of pigs.57 In most cases what was seized was described either with the basic term for ‘goods’ (res) or with a more technical term used to describe things seized, whether as dues or as plunder. Nanna, which typically referred to goods taken in kind to fulfil any number of claimed seigneurial rights or services, and which consequently has been understood by modern historians as evidence of distraint of goods,58 was common, and can be seen in the actions of the voyers of the monks of La Couture, the voyers of the monks of Evron, the voyers of Queen Berengaria, the bailli or provost of Vallon-sur-Gée, and the bailli of le Grand-Lucé.59 We have already seen pignora, another conceptually blurry term that might refer to revenue, pledges or plunder, being seized by Herbert de Sougé. But other examples exist: the knight Hugues de Grateil was excommunicated by the chapter for failure to produce pignora from a certain tithe owned by the chapter; Hamelina the widow understood the money extorted from her for pedagium to constitute a pignus; and Jean carpenter attested that the chapter had won through ecclesiastical justice the release of many pignora that had been taken wrongfully.60 The semantic haziness that accompanies terms like nanna and pignora – do they constitute taxes taken de jure, or plunder taken de facto? – is not limited to modern scholars, for the depositions reflect similar confusion. In the important case of André, who had been targeted by the agents of Queen Berengaria, witnesses variously recalled the exactions as either taille or costuma.61 Some of the confusion in this case might be attributed to lapses in memory, since the episode had occurred some forty years in the past, but it reminds us that in practice, the differences in the names applied to exactions might be irrelevant. No matter how a lord justified the seizure – as taille or costuma, as nanna or pignora – the victim experienced it as a forcible exaction. A few cases also describe specific items taken for these exactions. Sometimes coins were taken, or at least losses taken from victims were expressed in terms of money: Hamelina the widow, in describing how Gervais Houdebert stopped her carts and demanded pedagium, calculated the pignus he had taken at 6d; Garin Beifsoleil seized 3d in costuma from Thomas the bell-ringer; and the powerful baron Guy de Laval seized an unspecified number of denarii from the chapter’s messengers travelling through his lordship.62 But the depositions also describe the seizure of goods in kind. The lord of Montmirail, for instance, caused straw (paleas) to be seized from peasants near Courgenard; the chapter considered this seizure to constitute plunder (preda).63 Other items seized include loaves of bread, measures of wine, a horse, timber, cattle and an oak sapling.64 56

56 Enquête de 1245, 35 and 56 (Matthieu); 230 (Jean); 8 and 99 (Garin); 207 and 208 (Hamelina); and 39, 78, 86, 109, 115, 119, 137, 160, 188, 201, and 207 (Julien). 57 Ibid., 209 and 230 (pedagium); 229 (pannage). 58 Charles du Fresne du Cange et al., Glossarium mediae et infimae Latinitatis, ed. L. Favre, 10 vols (Niort, 1883–7), sub ‘namium’; and Edwin Hall and James Ross Sweeney, ‘The “Licentia de Nam” of the Abbess of Montivilliers and the Origins of the Port of Harfleur’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research 52 (1979), 1–8 at 2–4. 59 Enquête de 1245, 6, 7, 46, 48, 57, 121, 230. For another account of the seizure of nanna, see SPC, nos. 305–12. 60 Enquête de 1245, 50, 65 and 221 (Hugues de Grateil), 208 (Hamelina), and 230 (Jean carpenter). 61 Ibid., 32 (taille ) and 120 (costuma). 62 Ibid., 8. 76, and 208. 63 Ibid., 12, 64–5, 89, 161. For seizure of preda, see also: SPC, no. 224 (1211). 64 Enquête de 1245, 36 (bread), 37 (bread), 123 and 193 (wine), 135 (horse), timber (194), 229 (cattle), and an oak sapling (107).

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The depositions also describe actions taken by seigneurial agents against persons instead of goods. Thus the knight Robert Sorel imprisoned various men of the chapter living at Saint-Germain-de-Coudre; the voyer Garin Beifsoleil imprisoned a man named Le Miroerer; the agents of Jeanne, lord of Sablé, arrested and imprisoned two brothers in a judicial dispute; and the bailli of Le Mans seized and imprisoned Michel the butcher for unspecified reasons.65 The most notorious case of imprisonment, however, concerned the seizure of two men of the chapter, André and Foulques Benoît, by the agents of Queen Berengaria. The queen’s men had seized André’s cloth (panni) for taille, despite his claims to be immune as a man of the chapter. The following year, the queen’s voyers again demanded taille, and André and Foulques were imprisoned in the tower of Le Mans for refusal to deliver it. When the queen declined to release the men until taille had been rendered, the chapter excommunicated her agents and laid an interdict on the town.66 Lords and seigneurial agents also resorted to beating men, although the circumstances behind the beatings are often obscure. For instance, the knight Guillaume de Théligny had a certain Guillaume, son-in-law of the mayor of la Cordelière, beaten; Matthieu de Haies had Matthieu the salt-maker beaten; and Raoul, the priest of le Grand-Oisseau, complained that three men from neighbouring Loré laid violent hands on him and beat him.67 It is not clear from the laconic depositions that the violence was necessarily the product of seigneurial exactions, although the vague mention of a dispute over water rights suggests it in the case of Guillaume de Théligny. Yet the likelihood remains strong that beatings were connected to power relationships, as the case of Garin de Rouillon suggests. As a squire, Garin had beaten Geoffroy de Lestore; then, as a knight, he beat Robert David on one occasion, and Herbert de Montreuil on another.68 When summoned and confronted by the chapter, Garin promised never to beat a man of the chapter again; the point seems to have been that Garin employed physical threats and corporal punishment as a regular form of correction, and that he had, in these cases, merely neglected to learn that the objects of his actions were not subject to his corrective power. A final example concerns the knight Guillaume Coisnon, who assaulted the archdeacon of Sablé and his party for the sake of a woman, thereby inflicting injuries on all the clergy and badly wounding a clerk and a monk in the process.69 While Guillaume Coisnon could have no seigneurial jurisdiction over an archdeacon, and while the exact circumstances of his relationship with the woman that lay at the heart of his assault remain obscure,70 the point remains that Guillaume was willing to use his power to threaten and corporally abuse those who crossed him. As in the episodes found in the Chartres enquête, it is possible from this litany of seizure of goods and persons to infer how these practices worked. The voyers knew to cluster in areas of traffic, where they could accost those traveling to and within Le Mans in order to impose their demands. Such was the case with the widow Hamelina and her carts; the voyer Gervais Houdebert had placed himself alongside the road in a strategic location from which to arrest traffic in order to demand

Ibid., 10–11 (Robert Sorel); 44 (le Miroerer); 210 and 211 (the Girais brothers); and 229 (Michel the butcher). 66 Ibid., 32–4, 56, and 77–8. 67 Ibid., 163 (Guillaume), 89 and 163 (Matthieu the salt-maker), and 219 (Raoul the priest). 68 Ibid., 198 and 199 (Geoffroy Lestore), 198 and 199 (Robert David), and 199 (Herbert de Montreuil). 69 Ibid., 13 and 171. 70 For the oblique reference to the cause of this affray, Cartulaire de l’évêché du Mans (936–1790), ed. A. Bertrand de Broussillon (Le Mans, 1900), no. 343. 65



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pedagium. Although Hamelina had presumably informed Gervais of her immune status as a woman of the chapter, Gervais forcibly took 6d from her. Other voyers, including Matthieu of Baugé and Eudes Venlin, stationed themselves by the cloister of Saint-Julien in order to stop and shake down those coming to sell their goods at the market held there by the chapter; Eudes, moreover, seems even to have entered the market in order to effect his claims.72 Here, too, the voyers were not ignorant of the possibility of individual immunities, nor of the fact that the chapter claimed immunity for the entire cloister market regardless of the status of those attending it. Yet they continued over many years to intimidate attendees and to forcibly seize goods and coin from those who were unwilling to protest. The case of the powerful lord Raoul of Fougères’ seizures in Asnières offers the most detailed description of how seigneurial exaction in the countryside might be practised. Claiming rights over the men of Asnières, Raoul sent his sergeants to the villa, where they seized goods (res) and piled them in a central location. Raoul deputed his sergeant, Hilaire, to remain in Asnières and guard the goods, presumably so as to ensure, in a fine bit of taunting, that the men of Asnières could see but not use those goods. Even after his lord had abandoned his claims, Hilaire ignored the canons’ demand to abandon his post; only a sentence of excommunication induced him to give up the plunder, and the chapter’s subsequent efforts to make him pay for the damages proved fruitless.73 Here is a perfect example of what is understood in English contexts as distraint: a lord (Raoul) believed that he was being deprived of rightful service from the men of Asnières, so he sent in a team of sergeants, plundered the goods of the villagers, and placed them under armed guard, presumably until they agreed to perform the service he required. Not merely did Raoul’s actions cause economic distress, they served both as a stark threat to the men of Asnières and as a harsh reminder of the power of secular lordship. The rich depositions taken at Le Mans offer substantial evidence concerning both the breadth of exaction in the region around Le Mans and the identity of the agents who enforced it. As the list of episodes presented in the previous paragraphs show, the essential point was that every lord, lay or secular, employed agents to impose seigneurial exactions both on their own people and on those traveling through the region. In Le Mans proper, agents named as voyers, sergeants or knights reported to Queen Berengaria;74 after her death in 1230, a royal bailli supported by numerous voyers took over these functions.75 Beyond the urban districts, though, the enquête presents evidence of the exactions of seigneurial agents throughout the region: these include the voyers of the castellan lords of Outillé, of Sillé, of Montmirail, of Coulans, of Beaumont, of Sablé, and of the seneschal of Anjou,76 as well as the voyers of the suburban monasteries of La Couture and of Evron and of the convent of Le Pré.77 Lordship was everywhere, and all these lords, from the 71

Enquête de 1245, 208. Ibid., 35 and 36. 73 Ibid., 45. 74 For Berengaria’s agents, ibid., 32 (the miles, Martin, and his sergeant, Luc); 35 (Matthieu de Baugé, sergeant); 36 (Eudes Venlin); 36, 58, 77, 86–7 (Paulin Botier, miles); 39, 57 (Nicolas Juhel, voyer); 39, 56 (Jean Berart, voyer); 39, 59 (Julien Laurent); 56, 193 (Guy de Sablé, voyer); and 106 (Jean Pinel, seneschal of Le Mans). See also Barton, ‘Remembering Female Lordship’, forthcoming. 75 Pierre le Ber was the royal bailli in the early 1230s, while Geoffroy Payen is found in this role by c. 1240 (Enquête de 1245, 7, 43, 61; 11, 46, 63, 79). 76 Enquête de 1245, 230 (Outillé); 9, 65, 79 (Sillé); 64, 90 (Montmirail); 10, 42, 58 (Coulans); 5, 42, 79, 98 (Beaumont); 209–11 (Sablé); 12 (seneschal of Anjou). 77 Ibid., 6, 46, 48, 79 (La Couture); 7 (Evron); 38 (Le Pré). 71

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nationally known to the local, employed agents, whose task it was to seize goods and bodies. Competition for goods on the part of these voyers must have been fierce. Two patterns can be identified about the identity of the agents who seized goods on the part of their lords. First, the enquête makes it clear that some of these agents became well known to the chapter, as they were routinely and frequently cited, warned and/or excommunicated for their actions. One of the voyers working for the secular lord of Le Mans, a certain Herbert Berart, drily noted in his deposition that he and his fellow voyer, Guy de Sablé, had been summoned and admonished more times over twenty years than he could remember, and that they had been excommunicated at least once.78 Likewise, the priest of Courgenard noted that he had caused the voyers of Montmirail to be summoned at least ten times in the past twenty years, and that they had been excommunicated on many occasions.79 Michel the butcher, who lived in the chapter’s villa of Parigné-l’évêque, attested that ‘many times’ he saw the voyers of Le Mans seize nanna for pannage, both from Michel and other men; when pressed for dates, he said he had experienced it many times over the past four years, but added that ‘he heard it commonly said that this practice had been going on for forty years or more’.80 The relentless rhythm of such episodes is also hinted at by the comments of the clerical advocate, Master Nicolas, who estimated that he had appeared as advocate for the chapter in more than 1,500 cases over twenty years; in those cases, he saw the dean and chapter exercising jurisdiction by sentencing, excommunicating, and imposing sentences; sometimes on their own behalf, sometimes on behalf of their men; sometimes over debts, sometimes over possession, sometimes over violent acts, [and] injuries; as much against men of the city as against men of the diocese, sometimes against voyers and their sergeants, sometimes against the baillis of the king, and many others.81

Even if Nicolas’ figures are exaggerated, and even though it is clear that not all these cases concerned exaction, the point remains: potential seizure by seigneurial agents was a starkly regular aspect of life. The second pattern suggested by the enquête concerns the social status of the men who imposed exactions. While all were described as agents of more powerful entities (the count, the king, an abbey, a castellan lord, etc.), most, at least most of those voyers operating in Le Mans and its suburbs, seem to have been men of property and standing. Almost all the voyers can be identified, and the identifications demonstrate that they owned houses and other property in the city and that their kinsmen often formed a part of the ecclesiastical establishment. The voyers were not, then, simple thugs with clubs, unconnected to the broader social, economic and religious fabric of the region. For example, Herbert Berart, who operated as voyer around 1238, owned a stone house in the city.82 His kinsmen, Renaut and Jean, were included in 1203 in a list of the burgenses of Le Mans;83 Renaut can be shown to have possessed a wine press and other valuable fiscal rights,84 while Jean Berart also served as a voyer in Le Mans and owned lands that produced a respectable income.85 Another Berart was a clerk who left a bequest of urban real estate to the chapter in

78 79 80 81 82 83 84 85

Ibid., 133. Ibid., 161–2. Ibid., 229: vidit pluries capi nanna. Ibid., 125–6. Ibid., 133. Cartulaire du prieuré de Saint-Hippolyte de Vivoin, 159 (1246). Cartulaire de Saint-Victeur au Mans, ed. A. Bertrand de Broussillon (Paris, 1895), no. 36 (1203). Ibid., no. 30 (1200). Enquête de 1245, 39, 56; SPC, 243.



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1239. Guy de Sablé worked as a voyer with both Herbert Berart and Jean Berart. He, too, had been listed as one of the bourgeois of Le Mans in 1203, and is found owning property in and around the city.87 Guy was almost certainly related to the many other men carrying the same surname who were active in urban and ecclesiastical affairs between 1190 and 1250: Michel de Sablé, the canon of the cathedral chapter; the brothers Jean and Geoffroy de Sablé, the latter of whom served as voyer after Guy’s death; and the brothers Simon and Nivelon de Sablé, who owned vineyards and a wine press.88 Paulin Botier, the knight whose exactions on behalf of Queen Berengaria led to the second interdict of Le Mans in c. 1220, also fought in the Albigensian Crusade, is named as a burgensis of Le Mans, attested numerous charters, and owned both land and fiscal rights in the Quinte; it is likely that a Guillaume Botier, knight, appearing in 1276 is his descendant.89 Finally, the voyer Pierre Boju is also described as a landed ‘citizen’ of Le Mans; the Bouju family would remain influential in Maine for centuries.90 The implications of this status are important. First, it is likely that many of these propertied citizens of Le Mans actively wished to serve as voyer because such work was potentially lucrative. Indeed, it seems likely that the vicarial duties could be sold as a farm or assigned as a fief by the lord. Such is the case with the knight Paulin Botier, who is said to have been ‘enfeoffed with the taking of measures of wine in the queen’s lands’.91 Second, because so many of the voyers were influential middle-rank men from Le Mans – knights, bourgeois or both – it is impossible to imagine that they were ignorant of the social and tenurial dynamics of the region. Their kinsmen and neighbours were clergy, who loudly proclaimed their immunities, and at least some of their victims were equally well-known men of property. Indeed, André de la Chapelle-Saint-Aubin, whose harsh treatment at the hands of the queen’s voyers occasioned the first interdict in Le Mans, was no peasant. He attested charters of the seneschals of Maine and Anjou alongside men like Paulin Botier, and in 1203 was listed alongside the future voyers Jean Berart, Guy de Sablé and Paulin Botier as one of the burgenses of Le Mans.92 It would have been impossible for the voyers to not have been aware of André’s status. Indeed, it is likely that his status – as a prominent cloth merchant93 – was precisely why the queen’s voyers subjected him to taille and costuma. Such behaviour was thus based not on ignorance of André’s status, but rather on knowledge of it; it reflected a tactic of intimidation and the voyers’ confidence in the superior power of lordship. The Le Mans enquête thus highlighted the ubiquity of predatory lordship, with networks of royal, comital, seigneurial and ecclesiastical agents competing in order 86

Liber Albus, no. 243 (1239). Enquête de 1245, 56; Cartulaire de Saint-Victeur, no. 36; SPC, no. 295, and 244 and 247. 88 Michel de Sablé: Liber Albus, 40, 48; Cartulaire de Saint-Victeur, nos. 38 and 42. Geoffroy de Sablé, voyer, and his brother Jean, called ‘civis’: Enquête de 1245, 134–6; Liber Albus, no. 266. Simon and Nivelon de Sablé: Liber Albus, no. 266. 89 For Paulin, SPC, no. 237, and 218 and 248; Cartulaire de Saint-Victeur, no. 36; Liber Albus, nos. 57 and 415. 90 Pierre Boju: Enquête de 1245, 130–2; Liber Albus, no. 243, 323, and 350; Cartulaire de Vivoin, 175. For the prominence of the Bouju in later centuries, see André Joubert, ‘Les Bouju, seigneurs du fief de Chauderue aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles’, Revue historique et archéologique du Maine 25 (1889), 230–9. 91 Enquête de 1245, 36: Polinus Boutier, miles, serviens feodatus ad ponendas mensuras vini in terra regine. This sense is reinforced by the case of Julien Laurent, who is said to have held ‘a certain bailliage’ in the town of Le Mans (ibid., 39). 92 SPC, no. 237; Cartulaire de Saint-Victeur, no. 36; Liber controversiarum Sancti Vincentii Cenomannensis, ou seconde cartulaire de l’abbaye de Saint-Vincent du Mans, ed. A. Chédeville (Paris, 1968), no. 321. 93 The voyers had seized cloth from André: Enquête de 1245, 32. 86 87

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to subject persons – many already known to them – to humiliating and costly seizures. The enquête, of course, represents the church as the sole bastion of justice against such unwarranted and violent actions.94 But there is ample reason to question this representation. First, ecclesiastical institutions employed vicarial agents with as much frequency and vigour as did secular ones; the mention of the predations of the cathedral chapter’s monastic rivals in the enquête makes this clear.95 It can hardly be doubted that the chapter employed its own seigneurial agents to extract customary dues from the tenants of its properties. Second, it should be recalled that the secular church already possessed an institutional hierarchy responsible for collecting ecclesiastical revenues, and there is ample evidence, both in Maine and elsewhere, that this hierarchy – largely archdeacons, rural deans and their men – collected customary ecclesiastical dues with exacting rigour. The hatred with which archdeacons, for example, were frequently met is well known.96 In Le Mans, after all, it had not been many years prior to the enquête that men answering to one of the chapter’s archdeacons had beaten a woman to death.97 The enquête hints, moreover, at the potential harshness of ecclesiastical exaction in two cases involving violence threatened or inflicted on archdeacons.98 While neither of these episodes is necessarily linked to the imposition of taille, costuma or the like, both suggest that the hand of ecclesiastical power could weigh just as heavily as that of the secular authorities. But the main reason to reconsider ecclesiastical protestations of victimization is because the canons’ rhetoric frequently masks their own use of forceful compulsion in the form of excommunication and interdict.99 Despite obvious differences in the origin and intellectual justification between seigneurial exactions and spiritual sanctions, the two practices functioned in largely similar ways, at least insofar as the enquêtes represent them. First, excommunication in Le Mans was not an unusual or rare practice to be employed only in times of extremity or the absence of other forms of judicial compulsion, nor was it used only against symbolically chosen or representative targets.100 On the contrary, it was ubiquitous. The canons deployed excommunication on a regular basis against any and every type of malefactor.101 Excommunication in the enquêtes, and particularly in the Le Mans enquête, was not limited to traditional categories of offence such as violence, heresy or sexual impropriety, but instead was imposed with numbing regularity against every sort of tenurial, fiscal and seigneurial offence.102 In fact, it was imposed or threatened against every single one of the cases of seizure described above. In a real sense, the For the chapter’s occasional representation of seigneurial activity as ‘violence’, ibid., 37, 99, 125, 126. See above, n. 77. 96 Stephen Marritt, ‘“All This I Say against the Rage of Archdeacons against My Poor Fellow Citizens”: Archdeacons’ Authority and Identity in Twelfth-Century England’, History 102 (2017), 914–32. 97 Giovanni Domenico Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova, et amplissima collectio, vol. 22 (Venice, 1778), col. 451 (1186). 98 See above, n. 69; and Enquête de 1245, 215. On the role of archdeacons in excommunicating those who injured the chapter, ibid., 58. 99 For interdict, NDC, no. 121, pp. 231, 241, 242; Enquête de 1245, 32–5, 39–41. For interdict on the lands of seigneurial opponents: ibid., 9. 100 For the procedure of excommunication, see, e.g., ibid., 45, 57–58. 101 The chapter claimed jurisdiction ‘[over] every type of malefactor, lay and cleric, secular and regular, men and women, and over all types of injury in the broader sense of the word, namely, by “injury” [meaning] that which is not done by right; and over every contract, all delicts, all bad deeds [maleficia], and over all cases, except cases of matrimony’ (ibid., 4). 102 This pattern contrasts with Véronique Beaulande, Le Malheur d’être exclu? Excommunication, réconciliation et société à la fin du Moyen Âge (Paris, 2006), esp. 77–89, who found that offences against property and fiscal rights were not regularly punished by excommunication in the fourteenth century. 94 95



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canons used excommunication as a spiritual weapon to enforce behaviour, and they used it against every rank in society, from great territorial lords like Guy de Laval and Raoul de Fougères, to local castellans like Herbert de Sougé and Guillaume de Coulans, to urban baillis and voyers like Nicolas Juhel and Pierre le Ber, to churchmen like Bloelin, the prior of Sougé, and to ordinary people like the foresters Geoffroy Malvoisin and Rossel, and the townswomen Clémence la Thelochée and Scholastica.103 Many of these individuals were excommunicated numerous times: Eudes Venlin, for instance, had been excommunicated many times for the same offence, as had the voyer Matthieu de Baugé.104 Those laymen living under the jurisdiction of the chapter also recognized excommunication as a tool with which to achieve their own ends against their enemies. The language used by several depositions, in which the witness states that he/she ‘caused N to be excommunicated’, makes this clear. Thus Hamelina the widow noted that she caused Foulques de Nemore to be excommunicated for a debt he owed to her; Guy the baker caused Rotarius de Viré and Herbert le Roer (separately) to be excommunicated; Philippe Susanna had Garin Piaut excommunicated; and Jean de la Tusière had the knight Hamelin de Neuvillette excommunicated for seizing his cattle.105 Although the depositions are laconic about the actual steps taken by such witnesses, they all make it clear that the canons’ tenants initiated actions which they knew – or hoped – would result in the excommunication of their opponents. Their action in procuring excommunication thus is directly comparable to the seizures themselves. In both types of practice, the initiator aimed to compel action through the imposition of force. Just as seigneurial agents aimed to compel service and to reinforce seigneurial authority by taking nanna, preda, customs or bodies, so too did the canons, and their tenants, hope to compel action by threatening or imposing excommunication. Both practices, moreover, could and did feature corporal punishment. Alongside the imprisonments and beatings inflicted by seigneurial agents which were listed above must be juxtaposed the regular beatings inflicted by the clergy on excommunicates seeking absolution.106 While it is customary to imagine that such beatings were primarily symbolic, the humiliation that accompanied even symbolic beating – sometimes with the victim’s own sword – served to reinforce the breadth and depth of the chapter’s authority as effectively as actual blows might have. Both practices also led to financial gains. If it is clear that seigneurial agents could use exactions as a means of financial gain (even if in many cases, as with taille, such gain was subsidiary to the more symbolic elements of exaction), the same was true with excommunication. Not only might excommunication secure the return of seized goods, absolution from excommunication almost always required payment of a fine. Indeed, as Eudes the archdeacon attested, ‘the custom of the church is that the archdeacons of Le Mans should execute the mandates and sentences of the chapter, each in his own archdeaconry; and on account of this, they receive the fines, which, in the end, they hand over to the chapter.’107 Examples of the payment of fines beyond the value of any seized goods appear Enquête de 1245, 29–30, 50, 55 (Guy de Laval); 11 (Raoul de Fougères); 98 (Herbert de Sougé); 42, 58 (Guillaume de Coulans); 39, 57 (Nicolas Juhel); 7, 43, 44, 62 (Pierre le Ber); 80, 97 (Bloelin); 194 (Geoffroy Malvoisin and Rossel); 90 (Clémence); 188 (Scholastica). 104 Ibid., 36 (Eudes); 56 (Matthieu). See Liber Albus, no. 77, 40 (c. 1200–1202), for a man excommunicated many times over a tithe. 105 Enquête de 1245, 208 (Hamelina); 209, 210 (Guy); 228 (Garin); 229 (Jean). 106 For beating as a component of absolution, ibid., 7, 11, 30. 107 Ibid., 77, also 58. Prior to the diocesan reorganization of 1230, however, it was the archpriests who received fines: ibid., 98. 103

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regularly throughout the enquête.108 While it would be inappropriate to suggest that ecclesiastical sanction was motivated solely or even primarily by venal motives, it is hard to escape the sense that many residents of Maine experienced excommunication as part of a process of vengeance, in which perceived wrongs were satisfied through compulsion, humiliation and financial penalty. Even if none of the cathedral dignitaries would have admitted to such a logic, the testimony of people like the widow Hamelina suggests that many others would have embraced it. Hamelina, after describing four specific instances in which she had cited opponents before the chapter, noted with apparent pride that she had ‘caused many other persons to be cited to the chapter at her instigation over diverse dates and many occasions (which she does not recall), but over a thirty-year span’.109 In Hamelina’s view, excommunication differed little in practice from the activities of seigneurial voyers: both were means of expressing power through forcible compulsion. As the evidence presented here from the enquêtes of Chartres and Le Mans demonstrates, canonical or ecclesiastical enquêtes, which have hitherto been acknowledged by scholars primarily as existential evidence of changes in legal procedure, deserve closer study for what they reveal about medieval social and political practice. While the methodological issues concerning first-person testimonies transcribed and translated into the legal Latin of an enquête must not be ignored,110 the depositions nevertheless offer a unique window on to elements of practice. This is particularly true with regard to the remarkable Le Mans enquête, whose depth and variety present snapshots of the experiences and mentalities of individuals of varied status. Still, as has been suggested in this essay, both the enquêtes offer insight into a particular element of the practice of power in early thirteenth-century France, namely the seizure of goods (and sometimes persons). These enquêtes present a steady stream of persons in Chartres and Le Mans who were accosted, threatened and stripped of valuables by agents who justified their actions with recourse to traditional seigneurial exactions such as taille and costuma. There are five specific conclusions concerning the acts of seizure depicted in the enquêtes. First, the enquêtes demonstrate that western French towns and their banlieues were thickly covered by overlapping networks of prévôts, baillis, voyers, ministri and sergeants deployed by lords both secular and ecclesiastical in order to collect a variety of dues. Although couched in the language of custom, as part of a normalizing process by which plunder came to be legitimized as tax, the actions of these networks of sergeants were regularly directed against persons who ought to have been immune from them and were thus regularly experienced in arbitrary, irregular, non-customary ways. Second, the regularity of the seizures, with some agents targeting the same persons multiple times over many years, and the relatively meagre value of the goods taken in most cases, suggests at once the voracity of the agents, whose own income may have depended on applying their writs broadly or even unjustly, and the primarily symbolic meaning attached to the act of seizing goods. Consider that the second interdict in Le Mans was occasioned by the collection of a mere 5d in taille, for which Queen Berengaria allowed the city to languish

Ibid., 9 and 213 (Guillaume de Sillé), 11 (Raoul de Fougères), 13 (Guillaume Coisnon), 43 (Raoul de Beaumont), 46 and 219 (Robert Sorel), 79 (Geoffroy de Miré), 98 (Herbert de Sougé), 133 (Herbert Berart), 199 (Garin de Rouillon). For a sparrowhawk paid as part of absolution: ibid., 58, 77, 86. 109 Ibid., 208–9. 110 Leonard Boyle, ‘Montaillou Revisited: Mentalité and Methodology’, in Pathways to Medieval Peasants, ed. J. A. Raftis (Toronto, 1981), 119–40 at 120–3. 108



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under interdict for eighteen months. She, like other lords, clearly viewed the right to impose exactions as a critical element of political and social domination, one that extended far beyond whatever fiscal benefits they brought. Third, the level of prosopographical detail offered by the enquêtes dispels the illusion that the agents imposing exactions were simply ignorant thugs preying on persons unknown to them; in both cities, it is clear that those seizing goods, as well as those whose goods were being seized, were typically men of property who were well acquainted with each other. This sort of familiarity only reinforces the sense that the seizure of goods reflected a game of politics and domination, in which agents of certain authorities attempted to subject others to the symbolic and literal power of their masters. Fourth, despite routinely making rhetorical claims against seizures made by political rivals, neither enquête ever condemned seizure as a basic practice of lordship. In other words, while the enquêtes sought to rhetorically legitimize their own seizures as ‘custom’ and delegitimize the seizures of rivals as ‘preda’, the fundamental act of seizing goods from subject persons remained unchallenged. To exact goods remained a fundamental and enduring component of the exercise of power. Finally, while the enquêtes, as products of ecclesiastical processes, tended to focus on the excesses of secular authorities, it is clear both from the regularity with which excommunication was applied to tenurial offences and from the common belief that excommunication marked a kind of punitive vengeance to be sought and applied to enemies, that excommunication should be understood as another tool of lordship, one analogous in certain ways to the seizure of goods. The enquêtes reveal that the chapters of Le Mans and Chartres regularly used spiritual sanction to compel behaviour, just as all lords both secular and ecclesiastical compelled service or payment through the imposition of exactions. Seen in this light, the enquêtes can be read as tales of competing lordships, in which one authority wielded excommunication to counter the other’s exactions, while both served to express and extend the wielder’s symbolic and literal authority. If these observations on their own reveal much about the extension of seigneurial domination over medieval society, the enquêtes also raise questions about at least two broader historiographical frameworks within which French society around the year 1200 has been interpreted. The first concerns the temptation by scholars, particularly legal scholars, to render social practice anodyne through abstraction and routinization. For instance, in English legal scholarship, distraint has often been represented in abstract terms as a judicial process; in Milsom’s famous example of Ralph and Thomas, distraint is presented both in hypothetical terms and as a product of rational judicial action.112 Aside from Bartlett and Jolliffe, few scholars have focused on the arbitrariness and subjectivity with which ‘distraint’ might have been imposed, or on the effects that distraint might have had on the persons who were actually distrained.113 Certainly many if not most of the incidents of seizure described in the two enquêtes strongly resemble actions of distraint, at least in their motivation and execution;114 indeed, the seizures of goods clearly represented 111

Enquête de 1245, 109. S. F. C. Milsom, The Legal Framework of English Feudalism (Cambridge, 1976), 8–9; Sir Frederick Pollock and Frederic William Maitland, The History of English Law, ed. S. F. C. Milsom, 2 vols (Cambridge, 1968), 1:353, 2:575–6. For a more nuanced view, John Hudson, Land, Law and Lordship in Anglo-Norman England (Oxford, 1994), 22–42. 113 Bartlett, ‘Impact of Royal Government’, 88–90; J. E. A. Jolliffe, Angevin Kingship, 2nd edn (London, 1963), 50–3. 114 See the case of Foulques de Nemore, who had seized goods from Alberic ‘for failure of service’ (pro defectu servicii), even though Alberic denied owing it: Enquête de 1245, 209. See also the case of Richard 111

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arbitrary attempts to enforce service, whether personal or fiscal, claimed from the persons targeted by the exactor. Use of terms such as ‘distraint’ thus serves largely to sanitize or render anodyne a regular practice based ultimately in coercive power and expressed either by threat or by the physical removal of goods or persons.115 It is no wonder that one of the few to explain ‘distraint’ as a ‘violent and arbitrary intrusion’ into the lives of those it targeted was also studying an enquête, for enquêtes can and do relate the experience of seizure, that is, of distraint, in more visceral ways than can prescriptive texts or abstract analyses.116 As presented here, the evidence from the enquêtes thus invites scholars to complement analyses of legal procedure and development with the lived experience of seigneurial domination. The second historiographical question raised by the enquêtes concerns the progressive scholarly narrative of administrative kingship and state formation that still dominates analyses of twelfth- and thirteenth-century politics. This narrative, by which ‘government’ progressively neutered lordship over the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, remains a powerful one.117 In focusing on undeniable developments in administration and bureaucracy, however, it is possible both to lose sight of the similarity with which emerging states and lords operated and to ignore evidence that coercion and compulsion were exercised by royal as well as seigneurial figures. In other words, royal power, at least in Capetian western France in the period 1190–1250, operated in ways that were indistinguishable from those of the lords who were supposedly subject to it.118 In addition, if the evidence of vicarial activity undertaken in the enquêtes by both royal and seigneurial authorities is taken into account, it becomes difficult to see either as ‘accountable’. Instead, the imposition of exaction by royal baillis like Pierre le Ber or Geoffroy Payen, or of comital baillis like Gilo Colrouge or Julien Laurent, was equally arbitrary and equally transgressive of ‘custom’ as was that imposed by the great lords of the countryside, men like Guy de Laval, Raoul de Fougères or Raoul de Beaumont. Only by having recourse to texts devoted to practice, therefore, can the ubiquitous nature of seigneurial exaction, regardless of whether it was exercised by royal or seigneurial agents, be highlighted. In this sense, the enquêtes offer a unique reflection on the process of state formation, or perhaps on the self-justifying rhetoric produced by nascent states, since they illuminate more clearly the degree to which the power exercised by all those entities exercising authority in the central Middle Ages – ecclesiastical, royal, princely or seigneurial – could be experienced as ‘high-handed, arbitrary, tenacious, and violent’.119

de Moire, who ‘violently’ seized preda from John Cherel only to settle the dispute by granting the 2s 8d owed by John as service to a monastery: SPC, no. 224. 115 C.f. the case where the king’s agent distrained Robert de Dangeul in respect of house and lands for failure to produce his brother in court: Liber controversiarum, no. 352. 116 Bartlett, ‘Impact of Royal Government’, 90. 117 For example, Thomas Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth Century: Power, Lordship, and the Origins of European Government (Princeton, 2009); C. Warren Hollister and John W. Baldwin, ‘The Rise of Administrative Kingship: Henry I and Philip Augustus’, AHR 83 (1978), 867–905. 118 Bartlett, ‘Impact of Royal Government’, 95. 119 Ibid.

CONTENTS OF PREVIOUS VOLUMES For details of all previous volumes please go to www.boydellandbrewer.com. An asterisk after a title indicates the R. Allen Brown Memorial Lecture. Volume 38 (2016) John Hudson, From the Articles of the Barons to Magna Carta* Anna Sapir Abulafia, Jews in the Glosses of a Late Twelfth-Century AngloNorman Gratian Manuscript (Cambridge, Gonville and Caius College, MS 283/676) Casey Beaumont, Monastic Autonomy, Episcopal Authority and the Norman Conquest: The Records of Barking Abbey Giles E. M. Gasper, Economy Distorted, Economy Restored: Order, Economy and Salvation in Anglo-Norman Monastic Writing Kate Hammond, Monastic Patronage and Family Disputes in Eleventh- and Early Twelfth-Century Normandy Alan V. Murray, Constance, Princess of Antioch (1130–1164): Ancestry, Marriages and Family Jean-François Nieus, Early Aristocratic Seals: An Anglo-Norman Success Story Jonathan Paletta, English Towns and Urban Society after the Norman Conquest Susan Raich, Wreck of the Sea in Law and Practice in Eleventh- and Twelfth-Century England Miri Rubin, Social Life and Religious Culture in Twelfth-Century Norwich and Norfolk Luigi Russo, Bad Crusaders? The Normans of Southern Italy and the Crusading Movement in the Twelfth Century Hugh M. Thomas, Turold, Wadard and Vitalis: Why Are They on the Bayeux Tapestry? Volume 39 (2017) Christopher Clark, Why Do Battles Matter? Julie Barrau, From Conquest to Commonwealth: Cross-Channel Circulation of Biblical Culture in the Anglo-Norman World Laura Cleaver, Documentation, Forgery and the Making of the Chronicle of Battle Abbey (British Library, MS Cotton Domitian A II) F. P. C. de Jong, Rival Schoolmasters in Early Eleventh-Century Rouen with Special Reference to the Poetry of Warner of Rouen (fl. 996–1027) Brian Golding, Remembering the Battle of Hastings: Memorialization, le Souvenir Normand, and the Entente Cordiale Simon Keynes, Earl Harold and the Foundation of Waltham Holy Cross (1062) Tom Licence, Edward the Confessor and the Succession Question: A Fresh Look at the Sources Brigitte Meijns, England and Flanders around 1066: The Cult of the English Saints Oswald and Lewinna in the Comital Abbey of Bergues

Thomas O’Donnell, The Carmen de Hastingae Proelio: Politics and the Poetics of 1067 Alheydis Plassmann, England and Germany: Two Perspectives Élisabeth Ridel, Les Préparatifs nautiques de la Conquête: Un héritage viking? Les mots ont la parole … Christopher Whittick, Battle Abbey and the Vellomaniacs – Locating the Monastic Archive Ann Williams, Of Danes and Thegns and Domesday Book: Scandinavian Settlement in Eleventh-Century Berkshire Volume 40 (2018) Nicholas Vincent, English Kingship: The View from Paris, 1066–1204* (2017) C. P. Lewis, Audacity and Ambition in Early Norman England and the Big Stuff of the Conquest* (2016) Mathieu Arnoux, Ressources et croissance dans le monde anglo-normand: Sources et hypothèses James Barnaby, Becket vult: The Appropriation of St Thomas Becket’s Image during the Canterbury Dispute, 1184–1200 Dominique Barthélemy, La Bataille de Bouvines reconsiderée Scott G. Bruce, Abbot Peter the Venerable’s Two Missions to England (1130 and 1155/1156) Francis Gingras, La production manuscrite anglo-normande et la Bible d’Herman de Valenciennes: Usage et réception d’un livre vernaculaire (XIIe–XIVe siècles) Frédérique Lachaud, Ralph Niger and the Books of Kings Anne E. Lester, From Captivity to Liberation: The Ideology and Practice of Franchise in Crusading France Amy Livingstone, ‘Daughter of Fulk, Glory of Brittany’: Countess Ermengarde of Brittany (c. 1070–1147) Fanny Madeline, The Idea of ‘Empire’ as Hegemonic Power under the Norman and Plantagenet Kings (1066–1204) Emily Joan Ward, Child Kingship and Notions of (Im)maturity in North-Western Europe, 1050–1262 Thomas N. Bisson Note: A Micro-Economy of Salvation: Further Thoughts on the ‘Annuary’ of Robert of Torigni Volume 41 (2019) Sally Harvey, Horses, Knights and Tactics* (2018) Sabina Flanagan, Baldwin of Forde, Bartholomew of Exeter and the Authorship of the Liber de sectis hereticorum et orthodox fidei dogmata Hazel Freestone, Evidence of the Ordinary: Wives and Children of the Clergy in Normandy and England, 1050–1150 Tom Lambert, Anthropology, Feud, and De obsessione Dunelmi Aleksandra McClain and Naomi Sykes, New Archaeologies of the Norman Conquest Nicholas L. Paul, An Angevin Imperial Context for the Amboise-Anjou Narrative Programme Charlotte Pickard, The Noble Leper: Responses to Leprosy in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries

David Pratt, Royal Taxation and Written Record in Eleventh-Century England and Ninth-Century West Francia Richard Purkiss, Early Royal Rights in the Liberty of St Edmund David Roffe, Castle Construction, Conquest and Compensation Lucia Sinisi, Four Scenes from the Chanson de Roland on the Façade of Barletta Cathedral (Southern Italy) Linda M. A. Stone, ‘The Jews Are Our Donkeys’: Anti-Jewish Polemic in Twelfth-Century French Vernacular Exegesis Volume 42 (2020) Catherine Cubitt, Reassessing the Reign of King Æthelred the Unready* (2019) Ann Williams, The Art of Memory: The Posthumous Reputation of King Harold II Godwineson Emma Cavell, Women, Memory and the Genesis of a Priory in Norman Monmouth John Gillingham, The Sins of a Historian: Eadmer of Canterbury, Historia Novorum in Anglia, Books I–IV Mark Hagger, Angevin Rule in the West of Normandy, 1154–86: The View from Mont-Saint-Michel Fraser McNair, ‘A girly man like you can’t rule us real men any longer’: Sex, Violence and Masculinity in Dudo of Saint-Quentin’s Historia Normannorum Charles C. Rozier, Compiling Chronicles in Anglo-Norman Durham, c. 1100–30 Nicolas Ruffini-Ronzani, The Counts of Louvain and the Anglo-Norman World, c. 1100–c. 1215 Danica Summerlin, England, Normandy and the Ecclesiastical ‘New Law’ in the Later Twelfth Century