Anglo-Norman Studies XLV: Proceedings of the Battle Conference 2022 (Anglo-Norman Studies, 45) 1783277513, 9781783277513

Table of contents :
Front cover
Contents
List of Illustrations
Editor’s Preface
List of Abbreviations
William Of Malmesbury, The Gesta Stephani, And The Idea of Successful and Good Rule in the Twelfth Century
The Spaces of Exile in the Gesta Herewardi and Fouke le Fitz Waryn
Empty Honorifics: Elites, Titles, and the Economy of Esteem in the Tenth Century
The Sheriffs of Edward the Confessor
Seals, Coins, and the Exchange of Imagination and Images
Matilda in the Empire, 1110-25
Communications and Power: Ottonian Women
A Reluctant Historian and his Craft: The Scribal Work of Andreas of Marchiennes Reconsidered
Community Building as a Vector of Social and Religious Change in The Life of John of Gorze (973/74-84)
The Moneyers and Domesday Book

Citation preview

ANGLO-NORMAN STUDIES XLV PROCEEDINGS OF THE BATTLE CONFERENCE 2022

This year’s volume is made up of articles that were presented at the conference in Bonn, held under the auspices of the University. In this volume, Alheydis Plassmann, the Allen Brown Memorial lecturer, analyses how two contemporary commentators reported the events of their day, the contest between two grandchildren of William the Conqueror as they struggled for supremacy in England and Normandy during the 1140s. The Marjorie Chibnall Essay prize winner, Laura Bailey, examines the geographical spaces occupied by the exile in the Gesta Herewardi and Fouke le Fitz Waryn. Andrea Stieldorf compares the seals and the coins of Germany/Lotharingia in the tenth, eleventh, and twelfth centuries with those made in England, exploring the ideas embedded in the iconography of the two connected visual sources. Domesday Book forms the focus of two important new studies, one by Rory Naismith looking at the moneyers to be found in Domesday, adding substantially to the information gained on this important group of artisans, and one by Chelsea Shields-Más on the sheriffs of Edward the Confessor, giving us new insights into the key officials in the royal administration. Elisabeth van Houts examines the life of Empress Matilda before she returned to her father’s court in 1125 throwing new light on Matilda’s ‘German’ years, while Laura Wangerin looks at how tenth-century Ottonian women used communication to further their political goals. Steven Vanderputten takes the challenge of thinking about religious change at the turn of the Millennium through the lens of the Life of John, Abbot of Gorze Abbey, by John of Saint-Arnoul. Benjamin Pohl looks at the role of the abbot in prompting monk-historians to embark on their historiographical tasks through the work of one individual chronicler, Andreas of Marchiennes, responsible for writing, at his abbot’s behest, the Chronicon Marchianense. And Megan Welton explores the implications of honorific titles through an examination of the title dux as it was attached to two tenth-century women rulers. The volume offers a wide range of insightful essays which add considerably to our understanding of the central middle ages. 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 Laura Cleaver (School of Advanced Study, University of London) 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 XLV PROCEEDINGS OF THE BATTLE CONFERENCE 2022

Edited by S. D. Church

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Editor and Contributors 2022, 2023 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 2023 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge ISBN 978–1–78327–751–3 hardback ISBN 978–1–80543–097–1 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

This volume is dedicated to the memory of Alheydis Plassmann (1969–2022)

CONTENTS LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS EDITOR’S PREFACE LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS William of Malmesbury, the Gesta Stephani, and the Idea of Successful and Good Rule in the Twelfth Century (The Allen Brown Memorial Lecture) † Alheydis Plassmann

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The Spaces of Exile in the Gesta Herewardi and Fouke le fitz Waryn (The Marjorie Chibnall Essay Prize, 2022) Laura Bailey

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Empty Honorifics: Elites, Titles, and the Economy of Esteem in the Tenth Century (The Des Seal Memorial Lecture) Megan Welton

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The Sheriffs of Edward the Confessor Chelsea Shields-Más

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Seals, Coins, and the Exchange of Imagination and Images Andrea Stieldorf

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Matilda in the Empire, 1110–25 Elisabeth van Houts

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Communications and Power: Ottonian Women Laura Wangerin

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A Reluctant Historian and his Craft: The Scribal Work of Andreas of Marchiennes Reconsidered Benjamin Pohl

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Community Building as a Vector of Social and Religious Change in the Life of John of Gorze (973/74–84) Steven Vanderputten

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The Moneyers and Domesday Book (The Christine Mahany Memorial Lecture) 181 Rory Naismith

ILLUSTRATIONS Andrea Stieldorf, ‘Seals, Coins, and the Exchange of Imagination and Images’ Fig. 1. Seal of Bruno of Cologne, Toni Diederich, Zur Bedeutung des Siegelwesens in Köln und im Rheinland, Zehnte Sigurd GrevenVorlesung (Köln, 2006), fig. 4.

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Fig. 2. Seal of Frederick I of Cologne, Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen – Abteilung Rheinland – AA 0147 Bonn, St. Cassius, Urkunden Nr. 2, Siegel.

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Fig. 3. Seal of Arnold II of Cologne, Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen – Abteilung Rheinland – AA 0504 Siegburg, Urkunden Nr. 48, Siegel. 91 Laura Wangerin, ‘Communications and Power: Ottonian Women’ Genealogical Table of the Ottonians

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Benjamin Pohl, ‘A Reluctant Historian and his Craft: The Scribal Work of Andreas of Marchiennes Reconsidered’ Fig. 1. Samples from Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850.

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Fig. 2. Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850, ff. 104v–105r. Reproduced with permission.

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Fig. 3. Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850, f. 106r. Reproduced with permission.

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Fig. 4. Arras, Bibliothèque municipale, MS 364 (453), f. 4v (detail). Reproduced with permission.

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Fig. 5. Arras, Bibliothèque municipale, MS 364 (453), f. 28v (detail). Reproduced with permission.

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Fig. 6. Samples of the Chronicon’s Scribe B and the Historia’s Scribe 2.

158

Illustrations

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Rory Naismith, ‘The Moneyers and Domesday Book’ Map 1. Mint-places referred to in Domesday Book.

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Map 2. All mint-places active in England (and latterly Wales) between the early 970s and 1100.

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Fig. 1. Distribution of wealth among probable and plausible moneyers recorded in Domesday.

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The editor, contributors, and publisher are grateful to all the institutions and persons listed 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.

Alheydis Plassmann, 10 August 1969 to 28 November 2022. Copyright: SFB 1167, University of Bonn

EDITOR’S PREFACE We came to Bonn in the summer of 2022 at the instigation of Alheydis Plassmann to be hosted by Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität. The conference was, however, denied her physical presence by her ill health. At short notice and at some considerable cost to themselves, Alheydis’s treasured colleagues, Prof. Dr. Andrea Stieldorf and Prof. Dr. Michael Rohrschneider, both of the Institut für Geschichtswissenschaft, stepped into her place to host us. With their student helpers and the hospitality of the university and of the Katholische Hochschulgemeinde they put on an extraordinary conference. The details of our visit had been impeccably planned by Alheydis and were adroitly put into effect by them both. Andrea and Michael gently guided me through the organisational detail of the conference. I am indebted to them and I am grateful to Alheydis that she made it possible for Michael, Andrea, and I to become firm friends (she knew that we would). Remarkably, too, with Michael taking the lead, the Bonn team managed to make it possible for people unable to come to the conference in person to join us via the medium of Zoom. Marie Ontiveros was my constant support on the administrative side of things, and here I would like to formally acknowledge my thanks to her. Alheydis also acquired funding for the conference from the Transdisciplinary Research Area ‘Present Pasts’ at the University of Bonn which eased the return of the conference from the virtual sphere to the physical world. I am grateful to Prof. Dr. Matthias Becher of the Department of History and to Prof. Dr. Karoline Noack of the Department for Anthropology of the Americas for their support. Dr. Hanna Jacobs expertly guided us around St Gereon’s Basilica, Cologne, and Schwarzrheindorf Church, Bonn; and Prof. Dr. Harald Wolter-von dem Knesebeck explained to us the intricacies of the Bonner Munster. I would like to express my thanks to them both for their generosity in sharing their knowledge with us. It is a source of some solace that Alheydis was able both to write her Allen Brown Memorial lecture and to participate in parts of the conference via Zoom. She also lived long enough to complete her article for publication. After a quiet and undisturbed night, Alheydis Plassmann passed away very peacefully on the morning of 28 November 2022. For many years, Alheydis was a key member of the Battle Conference on AngloNorman Studies. She attended the conference regularly and she was a much-loved part of its community, showing an intense interest in the work of all who wished to undertake research in medieval history. One of my former students, who was then in the early stages of her PhD, remembers vividly meeting Alheydis at a conference and being struck by the warmth of Alheydis’s interest in her work. It was John Gillingham, a former director of this conference, who had seen the wisdom of enfolding Alheydis into the British academic community; he appreciated greatly her scholarly qualities as well as her kindness and straightforwardness. Alheydis was not just kind and attentive to others, however, she was also extremely sharp and intelligent, qualities which she used to great effect all her life. One colleague, who taught Alheydis Welsh at Aberystwyth in the 1990s, was prompted by her death to remark that, even after thirty years of separation, hers was ‘a mind that it is not easy to forget’. I, too, was often on the receiving end of Alheydis’s acute observations on my own work which I always found penetrating even if I (occasionally and always to

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Editor’s Preface

my later regret) foolishly ignored them. People wanted to be with Alheydis because she was clever, delightful, fun, generous, kind, and so very open and welcoming, to young and old alike. Alheydis was a scholar’s scholar. I was proud to call her my friend; I was supremely fortunate that she called me her friend, too. Stephen Church

ABBREVIATIONS AD AmHR ANS ASC

ASC, trans. ASE BAR BIHR BL BM BNJ BnF Carmen CBA CCCM CCSL CSEL C&S DD Dugdale, Monasticon Eadmer, HN EEA EHR EME EMC

Archives départementales American Historical Review Anglo-Norman Studies 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. C. Plummer, 2 vols (Oxford, 1892–9) The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, trans. and ed. M. J. Swanton (London, 1996) Anglo-Saxon England British Archaeological Reports Bulletin of the Institute of Historical Research London, British Library Bibliothèque municipale British Numismatic Journal Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France The Carmen de Hastingae Proelio of Guy, Bishop of Amiens, ed. and trans. F. Barlow (Oxford, 1999) Council for British Archaeology Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis Corpus Christianorum Series Latina Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum Councils & Synods, with Other Documents Relating to The English Church Diplomata (in MGH) W. Dugdale, Monasticon Anglicanum, ed. H. Ellis and B. Bandinel, 6 vols, new edn (London, 1817–30) Eadmer, Historia novorum in Anglia, in Eadmeri Historia novorum in Anglia, et Opuscula duo; De Vita Sancti Anselmi et quibusdam miraculis ejus, ed. M. Rule, RS 81 (London, 1884) English Episcopal Acta English Historical Review Early Medieval Europe The Corpus of Early Medieval Coin Finds

xiv Abbreviations English Lawsuits Freeman, Norman GDB

Gesetze GND Harmer, AS Writs Howden, Chronica Howden, Gesta HSJ Huntingdon IE JEH JL JMH John of Worcester KBR KCD LCL

English Lawsuits from William I to Richard I, ed. R. C. van Caenegem, 2 vols, Selden Society, 106–7 (London, 1990–1) E. A. Freeman, The History of the Norman Conquest of England, its Causes and its Results, 6 vols (1st edn, Oxford, 1867–79; rev. edn, New York, 1873–6) 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. A. Williams and R. W. H. Erskine, Alecto Historical Editions (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. J. Morris and others, 34 vols (London: Phillimore, 1974–86) Die Gesetze der Angelsachsen, ed. F. Liebermann, 3 vols (Halle, 1903–16) The Gesta Normannorum ducum of William of Jumièges, Orderic Vitalis, and Robert of Torigni, ed. and trans. E. M. C. van Houts, 2 vols (Oxford, 1992–5) F. E. Harmer, Anglo-Saxon Writs, 2nd edn (Stamford, 1989) Chronica Rogeri de Houedene, ed. W. Stubbs, 4 vols, RS 51 (London, 1868–71) Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi [now attributed to Roger of Howden], ed. W. Stubbs, 2 vols, RS 49 (London, 1867) Haskins Society Journal Henry, Archdeacon of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum: The History of the English People, ed. and trans. D. Greenway (Oxford, 1996) Inquisitio Eliensis, in Inquisitio Comitatus Cantabrigiensis [and] Inquisitio Eliensis, ed. N. E. S. A. Hamilton (London, 1876) Journal of Ecclesiastical History Regesta pontificum romanorum ab condita ecclesia ad annum post Christum natum MCXCVIII, ed. P. Jaffé, W. Wattenbach, S. Loewenfeld, and others, 2 vols (Leipzig, 1885–8) Journal of Medieval History The Chronicle of John of Worcester, ed. R. R. Darlington and P. McGurk, 2 vols (Oxford, 1995–8) The National Library of Belgium Codex Diplomaticus Aevi Saxonici, ed. J. M. Kemble, 6 vols (London, 1839–48), cited by charter number Loeb Classical Library

Abbreviations LDB

Letters of Lanfranc Malmesbury, Gesta pontificum Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Malmesbury, Historia novella MGH ODNB OED OMT Orderic PAS PASE PL Poitiers PR

Proc. Brit. Acad. RADN

xv

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. A. Williams and R. W. H. Erskine, Alecto Historical Editions (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. J. Morris and others, 34 vols (London: Phillimore, 1974–86) The Letters of Lanfranc, Archbishop of Canterbury, ed. and trans. H. Clover and M. 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) William of Malmesbury, Gesta Regum Anglorum: The History of the English Kings, ed. and trans. R. A. B. Mynors, M. Winterbottom, and R. M. Thomson, 2 vols (Oxford, 1998–9) William of Malmesbury, Historia novella: The Contemporary History, ed. E. King, trans. K. R. Potter (Oxford, 1998) Monumenta Germaniae Historica Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, usually cited from online edn (http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/), with article number and date accessed Oxford English Dictionary Oxford Medieval Texts The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis, ed. and trans. M. Chibnall, 6 vols (Oxford, 1969–80) Portable Antiquities Scheme Prosopography of Anglo-Saxon England Patrologia cursus completus, series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, 221 vols (Paris, 1844–65) The Gesta Guillelmi of William of Poitiers, ed. and trans. R. H. C. Davis and M. Chibnall (Oxford, 1998) The Great Roll of the Pipe for [regnal year, king], Pipe Roll Society; except for 2–4 Henry II, ed. J. Hunter (London, 1844); 1 Richard I, ed. J. Hunter (London, 1844); 26 Henry III, ed. H. L. Cannon (London, 1918) Proceedings of the British Academy Recueil des actes des ducs de Normandie de 911 à 1066, ed. M. Fauroux, Mémoires de la Société des Antiquaires de Normandie 36 (Caen, 1961)

xvi Abbreviations Regesta

Regesta: William I Robertson, AS Charters RS

Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum, 1066–1154, 3 vols (I, ed. H. W. C. Davis (Oxford, 1913); II, ed. C. Johnson and H. A. Cronne (Oxford, 1956); III, ed. H. A. Cronne and R. H. C. Davis (Oxford 1968)) Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum: The Acta of William I (1066–1087), ed. D. Bates (Oxford, 1998) A. J. Robertson, Anglo-Saxon Charters (Cambridge, 1939)

Rolls Series (Chronicles and Memorials of Great Britain and Ireland during the Middle Ages, Published under the Direction of the Master of the Rolls) S P. H. Sawyer, Anglo-Saxon Charters: an Annotated List and Bibliography (London, 1968), and with a revised and updated version largely edited by S. E. Kelly, available at http://www.esawyer. org.uk/ SS Scriptores (in Folio) [in MGH] s. a. sub anno, annis (‘under the year, years’) s. v. sub verbo, verbis (‘under the word, words’) Tabularia Tabularia: Sources écrites de la Normandie medieval [online journal: www.unicaen.fr/mrsh/craham/revue/tabularia/] Telma Chartes originales antérieures à 1121 conservées en France, ed. C. Giraud, J.-B. Renault, and B.-M. Tock (Nancy: Centre de Médiévistique Jean Schneider, 2010); éds électronique: Orléans: Institut de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes, 2010, http:// www.cn-telma.fr/originaux/. Date de mise à jour: Première version, 10 juin, 2010 Torigni ed. Chronique de Robert de Torigni: Abbé du Mont-Saint-Michel, Delisle ed. L. Delisle, 2 vols (Rouen, 1872–3) Torigni ed. Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II, and Richard I, Howlett ed. R. Howlett, 4 vols, Rolls Series (London, 1884–9), vol. iv Torigni ed. The Chronography of Robert of Torigni, ed. T. N. Bisson, 2 Bisson vols (Oxford, 2020) TRE tempore regis Eadwardi (‘in King Edward’s time’) TRHS Transactions of the Royal Historical Society TRW tempore regis Willelmi (‘in King William’s time’) VCH The Victoria History of the Counties of England [with county name], in progress Vita Eadwardi The Life of King Edward who Rests at Westminter, Attributed to a Monk of Saint-Bertin, ed. and trans. F. Barlow, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1992) VJ John of Saint-Arnoul, Vita Johannis Gorziensi

Abbreviations Wace, trans. Burgess Whitelock, AS Wills x

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 form 1066×1087 indicates an uncertain date within the range

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The Allen Brown Memorial Lecture, 2022

WILLIAM OF MALMESBURY, THE GESTA STEPHANI, AND THE IDEA OF SUCCESSFUL AND GOOD RULE IN THE TWELFTH CENTURY Alheydis Plassmann Medieval historians who wrote about their own time faced a task that was considerably more difficult than those who sought to explore the more distant past. With the benefit of hindsight, it was relatively easy to write a coherent tale framed by the conditions that, to the medieval mind, drove historical events. Writing about events closer to one’s own time was not only dangerous, because important contemporaries might be offended, but it was also more hazardous to one’s reputation, since an analysis of the order and causality of events had to be provided before the outcome was entirely clear.1 Yet in the 1140s, two contemporary commentators did attempt to make sense of the events that they themselves witnessed and did so in real time. It is with these two commentators, William of Malmesbury2 and the anonymous author of the Gesta Stephani,3 that this article is concerned, as they discussed the ups and downs of the civil war between two pretenders for the throne, King Stephen and Empress Matilda. Both authors wrestled with the problems inherent in composing a contemporary account that they nevertheless wished to turn into a cohesive and persuasive narrative. William of Malmesbury wrote his Historia Novella at the end of a long life of literary output and seems to have been inspired to write his last work by witnessing the extraordinary events which were unfolding before his eyes.4 The anonymous writer of the Gesta Stephani was also inspired by contemporary 1

In general, on the use of the past, see the thorough studies by H.-W. Goetz, ‘Die Gegenwart der Vergangenheit im früh- und hochmittelalterlichen Geschichtsbewußtsein’, Historische Zeitschrift 255 (1992), pp. 61–97; H.-W. Goetz, Geschichtsschreibung und Geschichtsbewußtsein im hohen Mittelalter (Berlin, 1999). See also the collected volumes: M. Brett and D. A. Woodman, ed., The Long Twelfth-Century View of the Anglo-Saxon Past (Farnham, 2015); E. Winkler and C. P. Lewis, ed., Rewriting History in the Central Middle Ages, 900–1300 (Turnhout, 2022). 2 It is almost impossible to compile an exhaustive list of literature on William of Malmesbury: I note here the volume edited by R. Thomson, E. Dolmans, and E. A. Winkler, Discovering William of Malmesbury (Woodbridge, 2017) and the monograph by S. O. Sønnesyn, William of Malmesbury and the Ethics of History (Woodbridge, 2012) as the newest. 3 On the Gesta see, in addition to the literature in n. 2 above, B. Weiler, ‘William of Malmesbury, King Henry I and the Gesta Regum Anglorum’, ANS 31 (2009), pp. 157–76. 4 On William’s Historia Novella in particular, see B. Weiler, ‘Royal justice and royal virtue in William of Malmesbury’s Historia Novella and Walter Map’s De nugis curialium’, Virtue and Ethics in the Twelfth Century, ed. I. P. Bejcuy and R. Newhauser (Leiden and Boston, 2005), pp. 317–39; L. M. Ruch, ‘William of Malmesbury’, Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle 2: J–Z, ed. G. Dunphy (Leiden and Boston, 2010), p. 1511.

2

Alheydis Plassmann

events to set down his account of matters. He seems to have been close to Stephen, possibly a member of his inner circle, perhaps even a Londoner;5 while William of Malmesbury was a supporter of the other side in the civil war, that of the Angevin party led by Empress Matilda and her half-brother Robert earl of Gloucester. I will proceed in the following way. Firstly, I want to begin by giving a rough outline of William of Malmesbury’s ideas of good and successful rule as they are expressed in the most famous of his earlier works, the Gesta Regum Anglorum, completed about fifteen years before he picked up his pen again to write the Historia Novella. Secondly, I will move onto William’s Historia Novella to look at how his ideas as expressed in his Gesta Regum played out when William was confronted with the reality of contemporary events whose outcome was still unknown to him. Thirdly, I want to take a closer look at the Gesta Stephani and the anonymous author’s underlying ideas of good and successful rulership. For this, I want to sift through his Gesta and differentiate between events that the author took care to explain on the one hand and, on the other, events that do not fall into historiographical tropes – these might be understood as subtle criticisms of the king and his advisors, or as passages which hint at the fact that royal advisors bear the true responsibility for the kingdom’s dismal state. Lastly, I want to look at how the anonymous author of the Gesta tried to conclude his tale, for unlike William of Malmesbury, who probably died in 1142, the anonymous author lived to see the eventual outcome of the events that he was trying to explain to his audience. In William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum, William takes his reader first into the distant past, beginning with the arrival of the English in Britain before bringing his story up to the reign of Henry I in book five. William could therefore arrange his narrative around the deeds of kings in line with ideas and norms of his own choosing. In his Gesta Regum, William developed ideas of rulership which were much more sophisticated than those often found in other chronicles.6 For most medieval historians, the correlation between successful rulership and the king in question was relatively straightforward: a morally good king, who upheld law and order and who enjoyed God’s favour, was guaranteed a peaceful and prosperous reign. If events proved otherwise, several explanations were ready to hand. Firstly, the king might be morally corrupt; secondly, God might have decided to test the king only to reward him afterwards – the biblical Job being the obvious exemplar for this tale; thirdly, the king was not to blame, but his people needed to be punished for their sins, or, finally, king and people were to blame and deserved punishment equally.7 5

On the Gesta, see E. J. King, ‘The Gesta Stephani’, Writing Medieval Biography, 750–1250: Essays in Honour of Professor Frank Barlow, ed. D. Bates, J. Crick, and S. L. Hamilton (Woodbridge, 2006), pp. 195–206; W. Smith, ‘Gesta Stephani’, Encyclopedia of the Medieval Chronicle 1: A–I, pp. 700–1. 6 See Sønnesyn, Ethics; A. Plassmann, ‘Bedingungen und Strukturen von Machtausübung bei Wilhelm von Malmesbury und Heinrich von Huntingdon’, Macht und Spiegel der Macht – Herrschaft in Europa im 12. und 13. Jahrhundert vor dem Hintergrund der Chronistik, ed. N. Kersken and G. Vercamer (Wiesbaden, 2013), pp. 145–71; A. Plassmann, ‘Aethelred the Unready and Edward the Confessor in William of Malmesbury and Henry of Huntingdon. Two Sides of the Same Coin’, Rewriting History in the Central Middle Ages, 900–1300, pp. 243–68. 7 Even in histories that sported that clear-cut approach there was usually a distinction between guilt and responsibility. See E. A. Winkler, Royal Responsibility in Anglo-Norman



The Idea of Successful and Good Rule in the Twelfth Century

3

William of Malmesbury was of course aware of these patterns and it was not as if he did not use them when he saw fit. Morally corrupt men and women were punished by God’s intervention, and God punished peoples as well as individuals: Eadwig, who ruled less than four years from 955 to 959, at his coronation meal, withdrew into his bedroom to have some fun with his mistress. Dunstan, the future archbishop of Canterbury, had to drag the king out of bed to perform his royal duties. That such a king, utterly lacking in self-restraint and obstinate in the face of the advice of his clergy, would prove to be an utter disaster – both for himself and the kingdom – hardly needed any further explanation.8 And yet, William was aware of something that I would like to call ‘historical conditions at a given time’. In some cases, for example, the odds were simply set against a king – and even if he was a morally virtuous individual, such odds might prove to be insurmountable.9 Two of William’s kings were at least to some extent excused the disasters that befell them and their people because they lived through difficult times: Æthelred the Unready, 978–1016, and Henry IV of Germany, 1084–1105.10 About Æthelred William mused: But I have devoted much thought to this, and it seems to me extraordinary that a man who was, as we learn from our forebears, neither a great fool nor excessively cowardly should pass his life in the dismal twilight of so many calamities. If anyone were to ask me the reason for this, I should not find it easy to answer, unless it was the disloyalty of his chief nobles, arising from the pride of the king himself.11

And about Henry IV of Germany he stated: Henry was neither uneducated nor idle, he became by some freak of fortune a general target, so much so that whoever took up arms against him thought himself to be serving the cause of religion.12

William certainly did not believe that Æthelred or Henry IV acted as morally upstanding individuals or as effective kings, but he nonetheless allowed for the fact that both were plagued by an unenviable historical context beyond their own direct personal responsibilities. The fact that both were raised to the throne as minors diverted some of the responsibility to the broader political context and to their princely and noble colleagues who had failed to support and advise their king sufficiently, being guided instead by their own self-interest. The king, in other words, was not responsible alone for the condition of his realm in his own time. This was Historical Writing (Oxford, 2017), pp. 48–95. 8 Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, II, 147, pp. 236–8. 9 See Plassmann, ‘Bedingungen und Strukturen’, pp. 148–50. 10 See Plassmann, ‘Aethelred the Unready’. 11 Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, I, p. 276 (ii. 165): ‘Veruntamen multa michi cogitanti mirum uidetur cur homo (ut a maioribus accepimus) neque multum fatuus neque nimis ignauus in tam tristi pallore tot calamitatum uitam consumpserit. Cuius rei causam si quis me interroget, non facile respondeam, nisi ducum defectionem ex superbia regis prodeuntem’. 12 Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, III, 288, p. 520: ‘Erat is neque ineruditus neque ignauus, sed fato quodam ab omnibus ita impetitus ut rem religionis tractare sibi uideretur quisquis in illum arma produceret’. See also A. Plassmann, ‘German Emperors as exemplary rulers in William of Malmesbury and Otto of Freising’, Discovering William of Malmesbury, pp. 139–52.

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highlighted by William of Malmesbury when he put prophetic words into Archbishop Dunstan of Canterbury’s mouth about Æthelred’s reign: Thus saith the Lord God: the sin of your shameful mother and the sin of the men who shared in her wicked plot shall not be blotted out except by the shedding of much blood of your miserable subjects, and there shall come upon the people of England such evils as they have not suffered from the time when they came to England until then.13

In a very different fashion, a king might himself be morally virtuous but nonetheless face difficulties due to the broader political context. Edward the Confessor was – according to William – almost a saint, yet his rule was troubled because he had only enjoyed feeble support in the beginning. It was only by looking in hindsight at the Confessor’s rule that William of Malmesbury could see how everything fell into place: the king was a good person supported by the nobles who were prepared to do the dirty work necessary for him: The simplicity of his character made him hardly fit to govern, but he was devoted to God and therefore guided by Him. Thus during this reign there was no civil strife that was not soon suppressed, no foreign war; at home and abroad all was peace and quiet, a result all the more surprising in that he was so gentle, and could not bring himself to utter a harsh word against even the lowest of mankind […]. At the same time he was idolized by his court, and much feared by foreign princes; it was God who protected his singleness of heart and thus, though never angry he could still inspire respect. Yet, idle or innocent though he might appear, he had ministers who could second his efforts to rise higher in the world.14

It almost seems as if the king could only be a morally good person if his nobles were prepared to shoulder the sins that are necessary for the execution of political power. The most interesting case was of course the morally neutral or even questionable ruler who, despite this, proved to be a successful king and brought peace to the realm. King Edgar, who ruled as king of the English between 959 and 975, was such a figure for William of Malmesbury. In the long run Edgar’s lapses – if I may call them that in an understated fashion – were of no consequence for the actual success, effectiveness, and later popularity of his rule: ‘Those were happy times, when we had a bishop who did as he said and a king who listened intently to the bishop’s

13

Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, II, 164, p. 268: ‘Haec dicit Dominus Deus: non delebitur peccatum ignomiosae matris tuae et peccatum uirorum qui interfuerunt consilio illius nequam, nisi multo sanguine miserorum prouintialium; et uenient super gentem Anglorum mala qualia non passa est ex quo Angliam uenit usque ad tempus illud’. 14 Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, II, 196, p. 348: ‘[…] uir propter morum simplicitatem parum imperio idoneus, sed Deo deuotus ideoque ab eo directus. Denique eo regnante nullus tumultus domesticus qui non cito comprimeretur, nullum bellum forinsecus, omnia domi forisque quieta, omnia tranquilla; quod eo magis stupendum, quia ita se mansuete ageret ut nec uiles homunculus uerbo ledere nosset […]. Erat interea eius apud domesticos reuerentia uehemens, apud exteros metus ingens; fouebat profecto eius simplicitatem Deus, ut posset timeri qui nesciret irasci. Sed quanuis uel deses uel simplex putaretur, habebat comites qui eum ex humili in altum conantem erigerent […]’.



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words’.15 For the good of the realm, it was simply – and perhaps surprisingly – not considered quite so important in that context that Edgar had himself committed murder and both abducted and raped a nun.16 William was also quite open about his doubts concerning the moral virtues of the Conqueror. Yet, for William, there could also be no doubt that England benefitted from his rule and that for him the conditions of ruling were ideal. He ruled with a firm hand, but he was also surrounded by nobles, especially bishops, who advised him and guided him towards the right decisions. It is telling that the relationship between William the Conqueror and Archbishop Lanfranc of Canterbury was fashioned after the precedent of Edgar and Dunstan of Canterbury.17 Henry I was also set up by William to fit into this tradition. Just like his father, he was not necessarily portrayed as a virtuous individual, but his rule was successful because he listened to good advice and had a good relationship with Anselm of Canterbury.18 While the Gesta Regum gives us a coherent idea of how a king could rule successfully in a manner that ensured peace and co-operation with his bishops and his nobles, we may wonder how such ideas were applied to the events described in the Historia Novella, a contemporary history, when William of Malmesbury moved from being a historian to a commentator on the affairs of his own time. We can see in this latter text how William wrestled with his idea of the conditions of good and successful rule as he watched events unfold without the benefit of knowing how matters would be resolved. In order to try to understand what he was witnessing, and perhaps predict what might be the outcome, he applied to the Historia Novella some of the lessons that he had learned in writing the Gesta Regum. That Stephen was not the rightful ruler in William’s eyes was just one problem of many that all together unbalanced the kingdom and led to civil war. The bishops did not fulfil their task of giving selfless advice. William suspected that Bishop Roger of Salisbury, who claimed that Henry I himself had invalidated the oath to Matilda when he married her to Geoffrey of Anjou, was a bare-faced liar;19 and he was suspicious about William of Corbeil, archbishop of Canterbury, and his role in Stephen’s accession.20 This was a far cry from the beneficial teamwork of the kings and the archbishops of Canterbury which William had established as historical precedents for successful rulership in the Gesta Regum. One of the main problems William 15

Malmesbury, Gesta Pontificum, I, 18, 6, p. 36: ‘Felitia tunc fuere tempora, habentia presulem qui nichil infra dictum faceret, regem qui sedulus edictis presulis intenderet’. This also plays into the very important role of bishops as advisors. See below, n. 5353. 16 Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, II, 157, p. 258. On the abduction of a nun that was forgiven after seven years of penance see Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, II, 158, p. 258 and Commentary, p. 138. 17 Malmesbury, Gesta Pontificum, I, 42, 6, β, pp. 90–6. See also Plassmann, ‘Bedingungen und Strukturen’, p. 165. 18 On the good relationship between King and Archbishop see Plassmann, ‘Bedingungen und Strukturen’, pp. 161–4. According to Malmesbury, Gesta Pontificum, I, p. 188 (i. 63.1) (only in version β) Henry I’s rule deteriorated after Anselm’s death. 19 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 3, p. 10. 20 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 15, p. 28: William of Canterbury was apart from Roger of Salisbury, whose doubtful allegiance and truthfulness William of Malmesbury had already covered, and Henry of Winchester, Stephen’s brother the only bishop who was present at the coronation. His participation – according to the hint at the end of cap. 14 (p. 28) – was due to the promises Stephen had made on behalf of the church.

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of Malmesbury identified in his Historia Novella was the failure of the bishops. These men did not fulfil their duty of providing selfless advice to the king. Even though William thought that Stephen was unjustified in his attack on Bishop Roger of Salisbury in 1139, for example, because the bishop should have been tried before a church court, he nevertheless conceded that Roger was guilty and deserved to be punished. William unmasked as a flimsy pretence Stephen’s argument that he had arrested Roger of Salisbury as his vassal and not as a bishop.21 And there can be no doubt that William condemned Stephen for the act of arresting Roger while at court. However, he could not help but wonder if both sides might have been in the wrong. The king was not the only person to blame, because the decision to persecute Roger was made by Stephen’s advisors, too. William’s opinion on Henry of Blois, Stephen’s brother, bishop of Winchester and papal legate, was equally ambiguous. On the one hand he applauded Henry for advising Stephen on his accession to the throne to make a solemn promise to uphold the liberties of the church.22 William was also on Henry’s side when the latter stood up to his brother and insisted on a trial according to canon law for Bishop Roger of Salisbury.23 He praised Henry for his speech in 1141 on behalf of the empress, a speech that convinced many to name her ‘Lady of the English’.24 On the other hand, William also judged Henry’s fickleness to be a crucial factor in the continuation and changing fortunes of the civil war. It was the withdrawal of Henry of Winchester’s support in 1141 which proved to be the beginning of Empress Matilda’s fall, cementing her failure to gain the throne.25 Of all the nobles in England only Robert of Gloucester was depicted as consistently giving good advice. William plainly states that everything would have gone better if Robert of Gloucester had been in charge: ‘It is well established that, if the other members of his party had trusted his restraint and wisdom, they would not afterwards have endured such a turn of ill-fortune’.26 There was a fundamental flaw in the kingdom during the anarchy because there were not enough nobles capable of giving good and selfless advice, and Robert stood out as an exception in this regard. Perhaps even more decisively, there were not enough bishops who gave good advice, either. King Stephen brought his problems upon himself when he decided to ignore good advice and to listen to bad counsel, but the sources of such bad counsel, honestly given or otherwise, were themselves as much to blame. The responsibility for a smooth-running kingdom was shared amongst many, and in William’s eyes the tragedy of contemporary history was that there were not enough people who fulfilled their duties as they should in order for the kingdom to be ruled successfully.27

21

Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 27, p. 56; and cap. 28, pp. 56 ff. Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 14, p. 28. On Henry of Blois and the many facets of his life see W. Kynan-Wilson and J. Munns, ed., Henry of Blois. New Interpretations (Woodbridge, 2021). 23 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 24, pp. 48–50. 24 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 45, p. 88; cap. 47, p. 92. 25 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 53, p. 98: ‘Nec multis post diebus surrexit simultas inter egatum et imperatricem, quem casum uere possum dicere fomitem omnium malorum rursum in Anglia fuisse’. 26 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 52, p. 96. 27 The abysmal situation in England is lamented in Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 36, p. 72. 22



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In the last chapters of the Historia Novella, William tried to summarize the events of the civil war up to 1142 and to give a coherent tale that focused on Robert of Gloucester, justifying his deeds. It was almost as if William wanted to prove that whatever went wrong in the anarchy, Robert, at least, was not to blame.28 This last section of the Historia Novella fits in with the idea of good and successful rule that we find in the Gesta Regum, and it shows that it was easier for William to arrange a narrative in hindsight into a coherent tale about the conditions and rules of good and successful rule. In the time of Stephen and Matilda nothing was as it should be. The king was not a rightful ruler, the bishops looked after their own interests, and the nobles who tried to do what was right were the exception and not the rule. William’s understanding of how a kingdom should be run is repeated in his contemporary history, but only in a negative way. William did not have a satisfactory explanation for this. While William could easily explain why Stephen had failed and had been placed in the hands of his enemies in February 1141, he was at a loss when it came to explaining the change of fortunes that put Robert of Gloucester in captivity six months later, resulting in a prisoner exchange and the release of Stephen in November 1141 which turned the tables again. All the analytical tools that gave William the insight to explain political failure had not prepared him for explaining the inexplicable, namely, that Stephen had been reinstated and that the Angevin party must start all over again. At the beginning of the Gesta Stephani, the author seems to have a clear-cut idea of how the transition from King Henry I to King Stephen took place and, more importantly, how that event should be interpreted.29 Henry was described as a king who upheld the peace and whose reign had been prosperous. After his death, the land descended into chaos and the order of the realm became unbalanced, not only in terms of law and public order, but in the realm of nature itself: the unnatural state of the realm was visible.30 A remedy was found when Stephen, not the designated heir, but nevertheless a favourite of Henry I, crossed the channel and was elected king by an assembly of the most important barons in the realm. To complete this promising set of portents, Stephen promised to be a good ruler and to respect the liberties of the church.31 His auspicious beginning was symbolized by his journey through his new kingdom and Stephen’s readiness to be a generous ruler and to spend money for peace.32 This was a scenario which we encounter in many variants of English historiography of the twelfth century, including in William of Malmesbury’s texts: a new king is crowned, a new hope dawns, the troubles of the recent

28

Malmesbury, Historia Novella, cap. 56 ff. and 60, pp. 104–9 and pp. 112 ff., especially p. 112. 29 On the first chapter of the Gesta Stephani see also B. Weiler, Paths to Kingship in Medieval Latin Europe (c. 950–1200) (Cambridge, 2021), pp. 245 ff. 30 K. R. Potter and R. H. C. Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani (Oxford, 1976), cap. 1, pp. 2–5. On this connection between the situation of nature, things supernatural, and the state of the realm see also M. Staunton, The Historians of Angevin England (Oxford, 2017), pp. 240–5 (on the case of Ralph of Coggeshall). 31 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 2, p. 6. 32 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 7, p. 14. Stephen got the money when he took hold of Henry I’s treasury as told in cap. 4 (pp. 8 ff.). Apparently spending money can be bad as well. The author of the Gesta criticises Matilda for spending her father’s money on her campaign! (cap. 22, pp. 46 ff.).

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chaotic past can be overcome.33 We may assume that the author of the Gesta had come across this trope when reading other historians. Strictly speaking we do not know which other historians the anonymous author of the Gesta had read, but even if he had only a limited reading experience, he would have known how to write correctly about such matters. In addition, this was a king-centred understanding, a perspective that was broadened later in the anonymous author’s text. Such a positive account of the start of Stephen’s reign in the Gesta Stephani has provided one of the reasons for assuming that the author was firmly in Stephen’s camp. Even if the Gesta Stephani does not always concentrate on Stephen, it seems obvious that the author takes his side, even if the initial lustre was later somewhat dulled. Yet was it really the case that the anonymous author was an uncritical supporter of King Stephen? The portrayal of Stephen is not without contradictions. Several appear even within the first few chapters: if Henry I’s rule was supposedly the epitome of peace, how did the situation in England deteriorate so quickly? Only three weeks passed, after all, between Henry I’s death and Stephen’s coronation. That seems hardly enough time for utter chaos to descend. If Henry I was such a great ruler, why did Stephen even need to promise to do better? And if Henry I was a good king, why did the council of London criticize his management of the church?34 The anonymous author of the Gesta was more confident in identifying God’s influence on the events of his time than was William of Malmesbury, and he was not shy about skipping ahead to the outcome of his narrative to enlighten his readers about the swift influence of God’s judgement. Quite often he introduces a person, draws attention to their bad character, and promises his readers that he will go into detail about God’s punishment at the appropriate time.35 The people who get a just punishment are not always necessarily members of the empress’s party, but they do make up the majority. In sixteen instances the author promises his readers a gruesome end for the villain in question, and in eleven instances these sinners, who destroyed churches or committed other nefarious deeds, were followers of the

33

One of the best examples is the transition from William II to Henry I. Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, IV, 333, pp. 573–5; Huntingdon, VII, c. 22, pp. 448 f.; see also, Plassmann, ‘Sudden Death’, pp. 101–5. 34 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 13, p. 26: On the transition of Henry I to Stephen as an election see Weiler, Paths to Kingship, pp. 227–58; A. Plassmann, ‘[…] et claues thesaurorum nactus est, quibus fretus totam Angliam animo subiecit suo […] Herrschaftsnachfolge in England zwischen Erbschaft, Wahl und Aneignung (1066–1216)’, Die Thronfolge im europäischen Vergleich, ed. M. Becher, Vorträge und Forschungen 84 (Ostfildern, 2017), pp. 193–229; A. Plassmann and D. Büschken, ‘Stephen of Blois. Legitimizing Succession, Identity and Inheritance’, Norm, Normabweichung und Praxis des Herrschaftsübergangs in transkultureller Perspektive, ed. T. Trausch (Göttingen, 2019), pp. 401–30. 35 Examples from Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani: Miles of Gloucester (cap. 9, pp. 16–19 and cap. 12, pp. 22–5); unnamed followers of Henry I (cap. 12, pp. 22–5); Robert of Brampton (cap. 14, pp. 28–31); Geoffrey Talbot (cap. 27, pp. 56–9); William de Mohun (cap. 37, pp. 80–3); bishop of Ely (cap. 47, pp. 98–101); Reginald of Cornwall (cap. 48, pp. 100–3); Robert fitz Hubert (cap. 51 and 52, pp. 102–9); Hugh Poor (cap. 57, pp. 114–17); unnamed followers of the empress who destroyed churches (cap. 74, pp. 146–9); Fitz Hildebrand (cap. 77, pp. 150–3); Miles of Gloucester (cap. 80, pp. 158–61); Geoffrey of Mandeville (cap. 83 and 84, pp. 164–7); unnamed Flemish mercenaries (cap. 96, pp. 188–91); Walter de Pinkney (cap. 111, pp. 212–15).



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empress.36 The allegiance of the others was not quite so clear, but they were not necessarily friends of Stephen. Only in one case was the person whose death was painted as divine judgement one of Stephen’s party.37 Not all opposition to Stephen was vilified though, and the author of the Gesta also makes clear the flaws of his king and the king’s party. In this the author mostly sides with the church. Reading the Gesta, one finds that there was no surer way to call down God’s wrath than to attack or burn a church or even misuse it as a castle. Whatever the party, an attack on churches was always wrong. Nevertheless, it was mostly the Angevin party that was responsible for these and criticised for it, with one very notable exception (which I will address later). The author proves to be more subtle, however, than merely announcing God’s punishment, offering instead a foreshadowing which is found in his account of the role of the Londoners in Stephen’s election.38 The importance attached by the author to their involvement makes more sense given the role these citizens would also later play in driving Matilda from Westminster almost on the eve of her coronation.39 Up until the end of 1141 and Stephen’s release from captivity, the author of the Gesta writes with hindsight and manages to give a coherent narrative of the events that mostly fits into the standard narrative techniques which I mentioned earlier. After a promising beginning to his rule, Stephen made a mistake when he decided to attack Roger, bishop of Salisbury and his nephews. According to the Gesta, the attack on the bishop was justifiable. Roger was by no means an innocent bishop being pursued by an evil king. First, Roger had been placed in his bishopric by Henry I, who, according to the council of London held in April 1136, was a notorious abuser of power and despoiler of Church property.40 Second, Roger was secretly preparing to aid Empress Matilda in her attempt to dethrone Stephen. And yet, the method by which Stephen took Bishop Roger down was, in the view of our anonymous author, highly questionable because Stephen sidestepped canon law, sentencing Roger on the basis of his status as a magnate of the king.41 Unflatteringly to Stephen, the anonymous author of the Gesta compared Stephen in his attack on Bishop Roger to King Saul of the Old Testament. Our author was not uncritical of his subject. Thus even if Stephen proved to be an instrument of God in his punishment of Bishop Roger, the anonymous author of the Gesta Stephani thought that King Stephen should have used means sanctioned by ecclesiastical practice, such as invoking a regular church council, to punish Roger for his treasonous plans. Significantly, while the anonymous author of the Gesta shared these doubts about Stephen’s treatment of Roger of Salisbury with William of Malmesbury, he added to the weight of his story the influence of bad advisors who led Stephen astray.42 The author of the Gesta claimed that King Stephen himself identified this as his ‘sin’ explicitly, when he was captured at Lincoln in 1141:

36

Among the people who are punished by God only William of Canterbury, the bishop of Ely, Robert fitz Hubert, and Walter de Pinkney are not identified with the empress’s party. 37 Hugh Poor: Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 57, pp. 114–17. 38 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 2, p. 6; cap. 4, p. 12. 39 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 61, p. 124. 40 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 13, p. 26. 41 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 34–6, pp. 72–81. 42 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 34, p. 74.

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Alheydis Plassmann When at length they disarmed [Stephen] he kept on crying out, in a humbled voice of complaint, that this mark of ignominy had indeed come upon him because God avenged his injuries.43

This framing of Stephen’s capture as a punishment for his sins against the Church also explains the inconsistency I have already addressed: despite the fact that he praised Henry I’s rule at the beginning of the Gesta as peaceful and prosperous, a state of affairs which could only be continued by Stephen, the anonymous author writes later that Henry I had neglected the affairs and the liberty of the Church. Indeed, one of the most important acts Stephen did when raised to the throne was his solemn promise to do better than his uncle in that regard. However, then he did not, misled again by his advisors, and then he was punished for it. Thus, the anonymous author of the Gesta identified Stephen’s misuse of his royal power and the breaking of his promise as the cause for the turn of his fortune: Matilda’s invasion and his later capture were God’s punishments for Stephen’s misdeeds.44 On the other hand, it was not only Stephen who was to blame. Part of the blame had to be laid at the people’s door, who were then punished for their sins.45 This would of course also easily fit a narrative where Stephen was not the hero but the villain. With the benefit of hindsight, the author of the Gesta knew that Stephen would eventually be freed again and that his rival’s bid for the crown would come to nothing. The ready explanation for this turn of events was relatively easy for our author to identify. First, Matilda had to be painted in an even darker light. While Stephen made mistakes, Matilda had a character that made her unfit to rule, Stephen might be punished, but Matilda would be punished yet more severely. What was a sign of extreme haughtiness and insolence, when the King of Scotland and the Bishop of Winchester and her brother the Earl of Gloucester, the chief men of the whole kingdom whom she was then taking round with her as a permanent retinue, came before her with bended knee to make some request, she did not rise respectfully, as she should have, when they bowed before her, or agree to what they asked, but repeatedly sent them away with contumely, rebuffing them by an arrogant answer and refusing to hearken to their words; and by this time she no longer relied on their advice, as she should have, and had promised them, but arranged everything as she herself thought fit and according to her own arbitrary will.46 43

Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 55, p. 112: ‘cumque eium tandem exarmassent, humiliter et querulose saepius inclamantem, hanc sibi improperii notam, offensarum suarum uindice Deo, accidisse’. 44 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 39, p. 84: here the anonymous author explains how Stephen has sinned as is made clear especially by the hint at kings David and Saul. 45 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 40, pp. 84–6 stresses the sins of the English people as a reason for God’s wrath. 46 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 59, p. 120: ‘quodque plurimi fuerat supercilia et arrogantiae indicium, cum rex Scotiae et episcopus Wintoniae et frater illius comes Glaorniae, quos totius regni primos continuos tunc comites secum ductabat, pro quolibet supplicaturi, poplitibus ante ipsam flexis accesserrant, non ipsis ante se inclinantibus reuerenter ut decuit assurger, nec in postulatis assentiri, sed inexauditos quamsaepe, tumidaque responsione obbluccatos a se inhonore dimittere; iamiamque non illorum consiliis, ut decebat et ut eis promiserat, innit, sed suo quaeque prouisu, suae et dispositionis praesumptu, cunta ordinare’.



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There are, of course, more comments of this kind, and a huge part of the rant against Matilda was taken straight from the ‘misogynists’s handbook’.47 However the main point here was that Matilda was painted as unwilling even to listen to advice, good or bad, and made a public show of her refusal to do so, a clear sign of a person who had the potential to become a tyrant. The juxtaposition of a mere temporary lapse of judgement on Stephen’s part set against the vice and habitual disrespect exhibited by Matilda provided a clear sign to readers of the text that Stephen’s eventual liberation (which the anonymous author of the Gesta knew was coming) was the truly desirable outcome. Second, there was the handy trope of disaster and misfortune sent by God as a salutary test, not intended to destroy the subject of the trial, but to educate him and provide impetus for moral improvement. Thus, the king’s capture could be painted in a positive light: as something that was beneficial for king and realm in the long run. It is telling that in the context of his capture, Stephen was compared with King David, the biblical king who famously sinned, but then atoned for his sins.48 This was the outward explanation that the anonymous author of the Gesta chose, and one we can see at multiple points up to 1141. Stephen’s promising beginning, his sin against the Church’s liberties, his punishment and testing by God, and his release as an improved king were set alongside a simultaneous rejection of the inappropriate rulership provided by Empress Matilda. Stephen’s period in captivity when Matilda could have seized the throne, indeed should have seized the throne, had shown how the empress – no matter her rights in the matter – was simply not up to the job of being a ruler. How many aces could one player hold and still lose the game? The first book of the Gesta Stephani ends on a happy note: Then, when the king was restored a superb and magnificent procession of barons went to meet him and accompanied him as an escort, and tenderness, wondrously intermingled with joy, heightened the festal celebrations of all […].49

Our author stops here in late 1141 with Stephen restored to his throne, not picking up his tale again until almost a year later when, in Autumn 1142, Stephen was besieging Oxford where the empress had established herself. It was an event which questioned the neat explanations he had given so far. Given how the author had painted Matilda, the outcome should have been clear: a reformed King Stephen who had passed God’s test and who diligently oversaw the siege should have been able to capture the empress. Instead after a three-month siege of the castle, when the empress escaped the trap under cover of night and across a frozen landscape, we can almost see the author of the Gesta throw up his hands in desperation: I do not know whether it was to heighten the greatness of her fame in time to come, or by God’s judgement to increase more vehemently the disturbance of

47

On misogyny visible in the criticism of Matilda see C. Hanley, Matilda. Empress, Queen, Warrior (New Haven and London, 2019), pp. 154 ff. 48 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 56, pp. 114 ff. 49 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 68, pp. 136 ff.: ‘Reddito itaque rege, splendida et gloriosa occurentium baronum et congredientium fuit eum comitata procession, mireque pietas intermixta cum gaudio festiuum cunctis tripudium augebat […]’.

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Alheydis Plassmann the kingdom, but never have I read of another woman so luckily rescued from so many mortal foes and from the threat of dangers so great […].50

The anonymous author openly admits that he had no ready explanation for Matilda’s escape other than that so clearly miraculous an event had to have had God’s sanction. The ‘why’ was something that he did not seem capable of answering. He fell back on the explanation that it cannot have been Stephen’s failure (who was after all newly purged from sin) or Matilda’s merit, but some unknown sin of the people who were to be punished with continuous warfare. Matilda’s escape from Oxford at Christmas 1142 was a turning point in the Gesta. The text which covers the period 1143 to 1147 has fewer ready explanations for people dying because of God’s punishment,51 and the author becomes more of a commentator than an analyst, even up to a point where he remarks on the tediousness of the constant sieges, captures and re-captures of castles.52 There are parts of the Gesta that do not exactly fit into a coherent narrative: sections where the straightforward tale the author presents to us was undercut by events that do not fit and that are not often explained by the author. It is hardly feasible that he was unaware that his narrative was inconsistent or raised uncomfortable questions in these cases. Of course, it would be too much to ask of any author to be coherent at all times, but his inconsistencies occur a little too often to be coincidence. Perhaps not commenting on these fractures was the author’s method of brushing over the fact that not all events could be fitted into the framework he had prepared, but it may also have been due to the fact that he did not have any historiographical explanation to hand that fitted his own ideas. Nevertheless, he obviously wanted to inform his readers, and it was interesting that we see the author’s idea on how king and nobles should work together in these instances. As was quite often the case, the king was not alone in making a wrong decision, but rather followed poor advice. To blame the king’s advisors was of course a popular trope to deflect the blame that could be laid on the king, but it was also a statement on the situation in the kingdom. The king had a duty to listen to advice and the nobles at his court had a duty to give good advice. The main responsibility belonged to the king, but nevertheless the advisors are not absolved from their responsibility, especially bishops, who are doubly responsible – as nobles and as spiritual leaders.53 50

Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 72, pp. 144 ff.: ‘Nescio autem utrum ad gloriae ipsius cumulum in futurum dilatandum, uel ad regni inquietudinem ex Dei iudicio enixius exaggerandam, sed nunquam aliam de tot sui capitis hostibus, de tantis eminentibus sibi periculis tam fortunate surreptam legimus feminam’. 51 Only six cases happen after 1142: unnamed followers of the empress who destroyed churches (Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 74, pp. 146–9); Fitz Hildebrand (cap. 77, pp. 150–3); Miles of Gloucester (cap. 80, pp. 158–61); Geoffrey of Mandeville (cap. 83 and 84, pp. 164–7); unnamed Flemish mercenaries (cap. 96, pp. 188–91); Walter de Pinkney (cap. 111, pp. 212–15). 52 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 86, p. 170. 53 On advisors see D. Büschken and A. Plassmann, ed., Die Figur des Ratgebers in transkultureller Perspektive (Göttingen, 2020). On the popular theme of blaming advisors especially the wives see M. Becher, ‘Luxuria, libido und adulterium. Kritik am Herrscher und seiner Gemahlin im Spiegel der zeitgenössischen Historiographie (6. bis 11. Jahrhundert)’, Heinrich IV, ed. G. Althoff (Ostfildern, 2009), pp. 41–72. On the role of bishops as advisors see A. Plassmann, ‘Wie ermahnt man einen König? Bischöfe als Ratgeber des Königs im 11. und 12. Jahrhundert in England und im römisch-deutschen Reich’, Figur des Ratgebers, pp. 79–98;



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The author of the Gesta rarely blames bad advice explicitly for particular events – one notable exception being the persecution of Bishop Roger of Salisbury – but in some cases the framing of the advice clearly shows it had been unwise and the king had been mistaken to take it. The most interesting examples are connected with Henry, bishop of Winchester, Stephen’s brother, appointed papal legate in 1139 and a powerful churchman in his own right, whose opinion carried much weight and who seemed to switch sides twice in the conflict between Stephen and Matilda. The Gesta calls him ‘a man of inexpressible eloquence as well as wonderful wisdom’54 – a description that notably lacks the traditional episcopal virtues. Henry presided over the church council that reprimanded Stephen for his treatment of Roger of Salisbury, an action that the anonymous author of the Gesta explicitly approves.55 Yet, not all of Henry’s advice proved to be useful. In late September 1139, Matilda finally crossed the channel to join forces with her half-brother Robert of Gloucester and was sheltered at Arundel, her stepmother’s castle in Southern England. Stephen surprised her there and Matilda’s bid for the crown might have been stopped before the first blow had been struck. Henry of Winchester, however, advised that Stephen provide her with a safe conduct to join her brother, arguing that it was better to have all their enemies in one place.56 In hindsight this was a bad idea, though there was a historical precedent for the tactic when, at the beginning of his reign, Henry I contained the opposition against his rule in one place. Now, the anonymous author of the Gesta Stephani does not explicitly tell us that this was bad advice. However, it is telling, that he starts the very next chapter: At that time there was a certain Brian fitz Count, a man of distinguished birth and splendid position, who was extremely delighted at their arrival and after strengthening an impregnable castle that he had at Wallingford rebelled against the king with spirit and great resolution, assisted by a very large body of soldiers.57

This statement makes it obvious that following Henry’s advice had not resulted in the desired effects. Stephen’s enemies were not confined to just one stronghold. On the contrary, elsewhere in the country Matilda’s party revolted against Stephen, Brian – one of the few men of Matilda’s party who is painted as a virtuous nobleman – being only the first.58 This framing of events can hardly be read as anything else

R. Kemp, ‘The unjust king and the neglectful bishop: addressing injustice in twelfth-century England and Germany’, Addressing Injustice, ed. C. Mews and K. Neal (in preparation); and R. Kemp, ‘Images of kingship in bishops’ vitae and gesta: England and Germany in the long 12th century’, unpublished PhD thesis (Aberystwyth, 2019). 54 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 3, p. 8. 55 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 36, pp. 78–81. The Gesta’s statement that King Stephen on that occasion was not only reprimanded for his treatment of Roger, but that he also promised to improve in the future cannot be reconciled with the account in the Historia Novella. 56 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 51, p. 86. 57 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 42, p. 90: ‘Fuit eat tempestate Brienus filius Comitis uir genere clarus et dignitate magnificus, qui de illorum aduentu eximie laetificatus, firmato inexpugnabili, quod penes Walengefordiam habuerat, castello, cum militum ingentissima copia aduersus regem uiue et constantissime rebellauit’. 58 On Brian see Hanley, Matilda, pp. 53 f.; E. King, King Stephen (New Haven, 2010), pp. 119 ff.

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but subtle criticism of Bishop Henry’s advice. This was not the only time that the author of the Gesta framed advice as bad or at least counter-productive. Ranulf of Chester, a key figure in the civil war, had decided to be reconciled with Stephen after he had been on the empress’s side.59 As he had trouble on the Welsh border, he travelled to Stephen’s court and asked the king for help. Stephen’s advisors – who remain unnamed – sowed doubt into the king’s mind about Ranulf’s honesty. They suspected a trap. Their advice was to demand surety from Ranulf and only send the help after the earl had agreed to give hostages. Ranulf refused. We will probably never know if the suspicions against Ranulf’s fidelity were correct or if he was just indignant about the demands. The situation, however, escalated quickly and ended with Ranulf being detained at the king’s court. His men demanded Ranulf’s release – among other things with the threat of military action. After Ranulf’s men gave hostages, the earl was set free, and subsequently waged a long and bitter war against the king.60 In his long account (four pages in the Oxford Medieval Texts edition), the anonymous author of the Gesta did not even blame Ranulf for turning against the king. The author clearly believed that Ranulf did intend to trap the king, but that the advice which the king received and the actions of the king’s men in detaining Earl Ranulf only served to exacerbate Stephen’s problems, not solve them. It was the advice on which the Gesta’s author was concentrating, not the act of rebellion by Earl Ranulf. In other cases, it is not entirely clear whether the advice is painted as bad. During the siege of Exeter, Henry of Winchester advises his brother to exploit the lack of water in the castle to force its surrender, but others convince the king of the advantages of royal clemency.61 This could be another case where Henry of Winchester does not fulfil his duty to admonish the king about royal virtues. Perhaps we should not be surprised that the author of the Gesta was circumspect in his criticism of the advice that Stephen received even when that advice was poor. The reason for the author’s caution might have been to do with the immediate political circumstances with which he was confronted, but it is more likely that he was working with a trope which saw the taking of advice as a regal quality, the sort of thing which good rulers did. Only tyrannical rulers, of which Empress Matilda was likely to be one, refused any advice whatsoever, whether good or bad, and it was this refusal which led to her expulsion on the eve of her installation. Perhaps our anonymous author was reluctant to tell his audience explicitly that in some cases it was better if the king did not listen to his advisors. In regard to advisors and advice the author of the Gesta subtly and implicitly tells us that the situation under Stephen was not ideal. Bad advice was given and it was the bad advice and the king’s willingness to take it which was at the heart of Stephen’s most persistent problems. King Stephen was, therefore, a great man brought low by those who should have been his trusty companions in the business of ruling the kingdom. At some point the author of the Gesta Stephani must have realised that his analysis of the events of the anarchy up to Stephen’s release in November 1141 was flawed. The expected revival of royal power just did not happen. It was still a continuous back and forth. It is perhaps why the text between 1142 and 1147 lacks the coherence of the earlier chapters. After 1147, the coherence returns, as the author, 59

On Ranulf and his motivations see Hanley, Matilda, pp. 131–5, and King, King Stephen, pp. 223–8. 60 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 100–4, pp. 193–201. 61 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 19 and 20, pp. 38–43.



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writing with hindsight in or shortly after 1154, saw how his narrative might return to its coherent arc, culminating in the accession of Henry of Anjou, Matilda’s son and heir, as Stephen’s successor. Now the author could apply a different interpretation of the remainder of Stephen’s rule. In chapter 107, he tells his readers about the arrival of Henry of Anjou, the future Henry II, and from that moment onward Henry was called the ‘lawful heir’,62 an unambiguous position he achieved only in 1153, and the last chapters of the Gesta Stephani are framed around Henry’s triumph and the reassertion of order and peace in England. According to the Gesta, in the beginning, Henry had the wrong kind of followers during his campaign in 1147, disloyal and selfish individuals who only looked after their own interests and left the young man stranded in England without money.63 Henry saw no other option but to approach Stephen in his predicament. Stephen provided him with money, allowing him to leave for Normandy. The author of the Gesta vehemently defended Stephen’s decision which went against all the advice he received: And though the king was blamed by some for acting not only unwisely, but even childishly, in giving money and so much support to one to whom he should have been implacably hostile, I think that what he did was more profound and more prudent, because the more kindly and humanely a man behaves to an enemy the feebler he makes him and the more he weakens him, and so he would not do evil to those who, in the Psalmist’s words were rewarding evil unto him […].64

The author of the Gesta does not cite the benefit of hindsight, though, and neither Henry’s eventual ascent to the throne nor God’s help are mentioned – both possible interpretations. Instead, he attested to the fact that Stephen had done the morally right thing, a moral category usually only evoked when he talks about the damnability of attacking churches or clerics. It is telling that this morally good act was the only time the author of the Gesta shows us Stephen explicitly going against advice. It was probably no surprise that Henry returned to England as soon as he had rallied new troops in Normandy, not even to Stephen. And the civil war might have dragged on but for the concerted efforts of all involved – as the anonymous author of the Gesta tells us at the end. Before the settlement between Henry and Stephen, the young man proved his fitness to become king. When some of his mercenaries began to plunder churches, he immediately sent them away, proving that this kind of dreadful collateral damage of the anarchy would come to an end under his rule.65 Finally, the ideal situation that we find at the beginning of the Gesta, a consensus of the magnates of the realm, was within reach again. As the author of the Gesta states:

62

Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 107, p. 204 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 107 and 108, pp. 204–9. 64 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 108, p. 206: ‘Et quidem licet rex a quibusdam in hoc notaretur, quod non solum imprudenter immo et pueriliter egisset, qui eum, quem maxime persequi debebat, data pecunia tantopere fulciebat, ego altius eum et consultius fecisse sentio: quia quanto benignius quis et humanius se erga aduersarium continet, tanto eum et debiliorem reddit et amplius infirmat; ideoque secundum Psalmistam, nolui etribuentibus sibi mala inferre, sed ut Apostolus praecipit, sic in bonum malum deuinvere, quatinus per bonum aduersario bene impensum carbones compunctionis et correctionis in mente illis ingereret’. 65 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 118, p. 232. 63

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Alheydis Plassmann Wherefore the leading men of each army, and those of deeper judgement, were greatly grieved and shrank, on both sides, from a conflict that was not merely between fellow countrymen but meant the desolation of the whole kingdom, thinking it wise to raze to the ground the castle that was the seed-bed of war and then, making a truce between the two parties, to join all together for the establishment of peace.66

It is telling that Stephen in these last chapters is depicted as the enemy of this agreement. He wanted to continue the fight against his Angevin rival,67 and his actions are described in the same tone as the villains who had harassed the English people in the first book of the Gesta and this was hardly meant positively. It was only after getting good advice from his brother Henry, bishop of Winchester, of all people, that he gave in and agreed to a settlement.68 On a smaller scale the author of the Gesta repeats the story of Stephen for Henry. He was the obvious heir, made early mistakes, suffered setbacks, proved himself to be capable of change, was willing to make peace and was finally rewarded by the full enjoyment of his hereditary rights. The collaboration and consent of the magnates played a crucial role in making his opponent see the way forward for the good of the realm. This scenario only fits with the other parts of the Gesta if we assume that either the author’s goal to write a royalist history changed – which was of course possible – or that it was always more about giving an analysis of how the kingdom could function in a way that was beneficial to all. In that regard, the two parts of the Gesta do not differ that much, and the principal premise for success was not that difficult. The king had to adhere to certain rules (especially in regard to the Church), barons and bishops had to give him sound advice that was not self-serving, and the king should listen to them, even if he sometimes used good judgment to reject that advice. If we picture William of Malmesbury surviving until 1154 instead of dying in 1142 and writing an account of the events that led to the agreement which eventually brought Henry of Anjou to the throne, I think it perfectly feasible that his general outline would have been quite similar to what we have access to in the last chapters of the Gesta. William of Malmesbury might have written in even better Latin, he might have stressed Stephen’s stubbornness more often, and he certainly would have found a way to include praise for Robert of Gloucester, but a young Henry of Anjou, son of Empress Matilda, learning the craft of ruling, the nobles coming to their senses after decades of civil war, and the happy ending with king and nobles acting in consent, would have been the same. Regardless of the political factions involved, ideas about how the kingdom should be run are remarkably similar in the two texts that have been the focus of this essay, William of Malmesbury’s Historia Novella and the anonymous Gesta Stephani. The clerical backgrounds of both our authors had a role in determining how they saw the right ordering of the kingdom, but I think there was more to it than that. The similarity in approach to explaining the woes of Stephen’s reign by both William of Malmesbury and the anonymous 66

Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 120, p. 238: ‘Unde primi utriusque exercitus consultuque quique profundiores vehementer compuncti, bellum quod non solum ciuile esset sed et totius regnis exterminium committere alterutrum exhorruerunt, consultius iudicantes castellum ipsum quod erat belli seminarium solotenus diruere, sicque datis ex utraque parte indutiis ad pacem confirmandam unanimiter conspirare’. 67 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 114, pp. 218–21. 68 Potter and Davis, ed., Gesta Stephani, cap. 120, p. 240.



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author shows that they shared ideas about how a kingdom could be run well. The king at the centre had a key function, but he was not the only one responsible for successful rule. Bishops and nobles had active roles to play, too, and this meant that a general assembly of barons and their participation in the ruling of the realm had a legitimizing function that worked in addition to the king’s legitimacy. It was an idea that was accepted by both parties in the anarchy, and that could – if we believe the anonymous author of the Gesta Stephani – even prove to be stronger than the will of the king.

The Marjorie Chibnall Essay Prize 2022

THE SPACES OF EXILE IN THE GESTA HEREWARDI AND FOUKE LE FITZ WARYN Laura Bailey The Gesta Herewardi and Fouke le Fitz Waryn are frequently mentioned in the same breath by historians and literary scholars due to their similarities. Both texts are based on the lives of real historical figures, Fulk III and Hereward the Wake, who each spent time in opposition to their king; both texts offer accounts of the exile of the dispossessed protagonists; both texts blend their historical narratives with fantastic episodes, featuring motifs that echo French romance and Scandinavian literary traditions. Yet despite their parallels, the Gesta Herewardi (henceforth the Gesta) and Fouke le Fitz Waryn (henceforth Fouke) were composed in very different times and spaces: the Latin Gesta is thought to have been written in Ely between 1109 and 1131, and the original French verse text of Fouke in the Shropshire area during the second half of the thirteenth century.1 The Gesta and Fouke are, therefore, ideally placed for comparison, offering an insight into how similar subject matters might be treated differently as a result of the socio-political and geographical circumstances in which they were written. The two texts have generated similar types of scholarship, including attempts to identify historical material in the text,2 studies of ethnicity and the nation,3 and explorations of youth and development.4 Scholars have tended to discuss the Gesta and Fouke in the context of outlawry, emphasising their generic similarities or discussing their place in the development of the Robin Hood character.5 In this article, I consider the texts outside of this 1

E. van Houts, ‘Hereward and Flanders’, ASE 28 (1999), p. 202; G. S. Burgess, Two Medieval Outlaws: Eustace the Monk and Fouke Fitz Waryn (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 127–9. 2 For example: van Houts, ‘Hereward and Flanders’, pp. 201–23; P. Dalton, ‘The Outlaw Hereward “the Wake”: His Companions and Enemies’, Outlaws in Medieval and Early Modern England: Crime, Government and Society, c. 1066–c. 1600, ed. J. C. Appleby and P. Dalton (Farnham, 2009), pp. 7–36; S. Painter, ‘The Sources of Fouke Fitz Warin’, Modern Language Notes 50:1 (1935), pp. 13–15. 3 For example: H. Thomas, ‘The Gesta Herwardi, the English and Their Conquerors’, ANS 21 (1999), pp. 212–32. 4 For example: J. Huntington, ‘“The Quality of His Virtus Proved Him a Perfect Man”: Hereward “the Wake” and the Representation of Lay Masculinity’, Religious Men and Masculine Identity in the Middle Ages, ed. P. H. Cullum and K. J. Lewis (Woodbridge, 2013), pp. 77–93; T. Jones, ‘Fighting Men, Fighting Monsters: Outlawry, Masculinity, and Identity in the Gesta Herewardi’, Marvels, Monsters, and Miracles: Studies in the Medieval and Early Modern Imaginations, ed. T. Jones and D. Springer (Kalamazoo, 2002), pp. 187–206. 5 See, for example, M. Keen, The Outlaws of Medieval Legend (London, 1961), pp. 9–38; S. Knight, Robin Hood: A Complete Study of the English Outlaw (Oxford, 1994), p. 39; R. Pensom, ‘Inside and Outside: Fact and Fiction in “Fouke Le Fitz Waryn”’, Medium Ævum

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teleologically-­minded outlawry framework, shifting the focus onto the representation of exile and the geographical spaces in which it takes place. Exile, a state of absence from one’s home or country, can be discussed in multiple contexts in the Middle Ages.6 During the eleventh and twelfth centuries, political exile in the Anglo-Norman world was predominantly a temporary form of banishment, designed to allow a period of appeasement and reflection for the parties involved.7 Sovereigns used exile to punish their subjects for crimes such as murder or treason. Exile could be a voluntary choice, a preventative measure taken to avoid facing the anger and punitive measures of the sovereign. Yet exile was also a symbolic state that might describe the emotional hardship felt by an individual when obliged or voluntarily choosing to leave their home and family, whether for marriage, education, or work. The motif of exile also had a potent place in literary tradition throughout the Middle Ages.8 Indeed, exile-and-return is a theme frequently identified in insular romance texts, distinct from the chivalric quests of their continental counterparts.9 The two texts considered here, however, are remarkable in the fact that their narratives are based upon the real historical exile of the protagonists, corroborated by documentary sources. Yet despite their historical basis, the texts provide elaborated accounts in which a deliberately framed exile is transformed into a period of challenges that serve to prove the protagonist’s courage and skill. The geographical settings of these episodes are therefore intentional authorial choices, particularly important given the centrality of geography to the concept of exile, which necessitates the transition from one geography (home) to another (the land of exile). In this essay, I consider the representation of exile and its geographical settings. The framing of exile, either as punishment for confrontational behaviour or as a result of failed lordship, is shown to be integral to how exile functions within the developing narrative. Central to this is the movement between geographical spaces and what these spaces evoked for contemporary audiences. By interrogating the relationship between contemporary knowledge and perceptions of geographical spaces, and their 63:1 (1994), p. 53; T. Ohlgren, Medieval Outlaws: Twelve Tales in Modern English Translation, rev. edn (Indiana, 2005), p. xv. 6 For an examination of the multiple contexts and understandings of exile, see L. Napran and E. van Houts, ed., Exile in the Middle Ages: Selected Proceedings from the International Medieval Congress, University of Leeds, 8–11 July 2002 (Turnhout, 2004). 7 For this and the below, see E. van Houts, ‘L’exil Dans l’espace Anglo-Normand’, La Normandie et l’Angleterre Au Moyen Age. Colloque de Cerisy-La-Salle (4–7 Octobre 2001), ed. P. Bouet and V. Gazeau (Caen, 2003), pp. 118–21. 8 See, for example, R. Hexter, ‘Ovid and the Medieval Exilic Imaginary’, Writing Exile: The Discourse of Displacement in Greco-Roman Antiquity and Beyond, ed. J. Gaertner (Boston, 2006), pp. 209–36; S. Hanaphy, ‘Ovidian Exile in the Letters of Peter of Blois (ca. 1135–1212)’, Viator 40:1 (2009), pp. 93–106. 9 For an overview of the exile-and-return cluster of insular texts, see R. Field, ‘The King Over the Water: Exile-and-Return Revisited’, Cultural Encounters in the Romance of Medieval England, ed. C. Saunders (Cambridge, 2005), pp. 41–53. See also D. Speed, ‘The Construction of the Nation in Medieval English Romance’, Readings in Medieval English Romance, ed. C. M. Meale (Cambridge, 1994), p. 146; L. Worth, ‘“Exile-and-Return” in Medieval Vernacular Texts of England and Spain c. 1170–1250’, unpublished DPhil thesis (University of Oxford, 2015). On the insular hero, see L. Ashe, ‘“Exile‐and‐return” and English Law: The Anglo‐ Saxon Inheritance of Insular Romance’, Literature Compass 3:3 (2006), pp. 300–17.



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representation in the texts, I explore why particular locations resonated as spaces for exile and what this can tell us about the social and political contexts in which the texts were written. The texts The Latin Gesta Herewardi survives in one thirteenth-century manuscript containing a collection of Peterborough Abbey charters and legal documents, known as the Register of Robert of Swaffham (Cambridge University Library, Peterborough, Chapter Library I, ff. 320r–339r).10 It is thought to have been written by Richard, a monk of Ely, sometime between 1109 and 1131, drawing upon a now lost Old English life of Hereward supplemented with oral recollections from Hereward’s companions.11 The Gesta centres around the life of Hereward, from his youth until his eventual reconciliation with William the Conqueror. The historical figure of Hereward appears briefly in the D version of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle and in Domesday Book, as well as in a number of twelfth-century historical works.12 His legendary reputation was likely established, however, by the trio of texts the Gesta Herewardi, Gaimar’s Estoire des Engleis, and the Liber Eliensis.13 Although elements of the Gesta are corroborated by other historical sources, the first section of Hereward’s exile, which describes his adventures in Northumbria, Cornwall, and Ireland, does not appear elsewhere. This section has considerable overlaps with Old French romance literature such as Roman de Horn and the Tristan legend, whilst elements of these passages have also been likened to Old Norse and Icelandic sagas.14 It seems likely, therefore, that these episodes are fictional.15 Indeed, the twelfth-century Liber Eliensis, which was composed by a monk of Ely and appears to draw upon a version 10

A. Meneghetti, ed. and trans., De Gestis Herwardi: Le Gesta Di Ervardo (Pisa, 2013), p. 66; M. Swanton, ed., Three Lives of the Last Englishmen (New York, 1984), p. xxv. For a description of the MS, see T. Hardy and C. Martin, ed., Lestorie Des Engles Solum La Translacion Maistre Geoffrei Gaimar: Volume 1: Text (Cambridge, 2012), pp. xlvii–liii; J. Martin, The Cartularies and Registers of Peterborough Abbey (Northampton, 1978), pp. 7–12. 11 The compiler of the Liber Eliensis mentions a book about Hereward, compiled by the venerable brother Richard. This book is assumed to be the Gesta Herewardi, and the author Richard of Ely. See van Houts, ‘Hereward and Flanders’, pp. 202–3; Meneghetti, De Gestis Herwardi, pp. 52–61. 12 For an overview of these references, see Dalton, ‘Outlaw Hereward’, pp. 8–9. 13 See Dalton, ‘Outlaw Hereward’, pp. 10–13. 14 See Meneghetti, ed., De Gestis Herwardi, pp. 23–33; J. Weiss, ‘Thomas and the Earl: Literary and Historical Contexts for the Romance of Horn’, Tradition and Transformation in Medieval Romance, ed. R. Field (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 1–13; Jones, ‘Fighting Men’, pp. 187–206. We might suggest that the Gesta contains proto-romance material, raising interesting questions about shifting registers. 15 Here I use the term ‘fictional’ to indicate that these passages do not appear to be based upon historically documented events, but have instead been imaginatively conceived by the author. Whether this term had meaning for a medieval audience can be questioned given the interplay between ‘history’ and ‘fiction’ in medieval texts. On this subject, see for example L. Ashe, ‘William Marshal, Lancelot, and Arthur: Chivalry and Kingship’, ANS 30 (2008), pp. 19–40; E. Kennedy, ‘The Knight as Reader of Arthurian Romance’, Culture and the King: The Social Implications of the Arthurian Legend, ed. M. B. Shichtman and J. P. Carley (Albany, NY, 1994), pp. 70–90.

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of the Gesta as source material, suggests that the Gesta contains ‘things which are beyond belief’.16 This raises the question of why these apparently fictional adventure episodes are added, and why the author chose to use the settings of Northumbria, Cornwall, and Ireland. Fouke, like the Gesta, centres around an exiled protagonist who is deprived of his inheritance and who spends time in opposition to King John. Fouke, however, was composed over a century later than the Gesta and is written in the French of England rather than Latin. The manuscript tradition of Fouke is complex. Surviving only in an early fourteenth-century prose reworking (BL, Royal MS 12 C XII),17 Fouke is thought to have been originally composed in verse during the latter half of the thirteenth century.18 Small portions of the original verse text are preserved in the later prose version.19 In addition, there survives a sixteenth-century synopsis by the English antiquarian John Leland of a lost English verse romance version of Fouke. Leland continues the English work, which ends incomplete, by summarising a French verse version of the romance, which appears to be the same version drawn upon by the prose remanieur in the fourteenth century.20 Fouke is set in the Welsh Marches and based upon the historical figure of Fulk III, who spent nearly three years in rebellion against King John after being deprived of the inheritance of Whittington in Shropshire.21 Whilst the opening section of the text contains a fairly accurate description of historic landholding in the Marches embedded in local geography, Fouke’s exile designates a shift in both setting and genre as he experiences fantastic adventures in foreign lands.22 The following questions again arise: why does the author add these fantastic adventures, and why do they take place in spaces like Iberia and Barbary? The framing of exile In both texts, the protagonists face exile as a result of political banishment, the consequence of conflict with their lord. However, these relationships and conflicts are distinct in each text, establishing two different framings of exile that are instrumental to how exile functions within the narratives. The Gesta introduces Hereward as the son of Leofric of Bourne, nephew of Earl Ralph the Staller, and Eadgyth, the great-great-niece of Duke Oslac.23 Both Joanna Huntington and Timothy Jones

16

J. Fairweather, trans., Liber Eliensis. A History of the Isle of Ely, from the Seventh century to the Twelfth (Woodbridge, 2005), p. 222. 17 E. J. Hathaway et al., ed., Fouke Le Fitz Waryn (Oxford, 1975), p. xxxvii. 18 Hathaway et al., ed., Fouke Le Fitz Waryn, p. xxi. 19 Hathaway et al., ed., Fouke Le Fitz Waryn, pp. xix–xxi. 20 Hathaway et al., ed., Fouke Le Fitz Waryn, pp. xxi–xxvi. 21 For an overview of documentary references to the Fitz Warin family, see J. Meisel, Barons of the Welsh Frontier: The Corbet, Pantulf and Fitz Warin Families, 1066–1272 (Lincoln, NE, 1980), pp. 34–6. 22 Roger Pensom suggests that the structure of Fouke can be divided into three concentric circles (the Marches, the forest, and foreign wanderings), each demarcating a clear shift in style and subject matter: Pensom, ‘Inside and Outside’, pp. 53–60. 23 Although a Leofric does appear in Domesday as a predecessor of Oger the Breton, it is not possible to verify his connection to Hereward. Hereward’s parentage is perhaps a deliberate attempt to create a more exalted lineage for the protagonist. D. Roffe, ‘Hereward the Wake



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note the text’s unusual interest in Hereward’s youth and maturation.24 Unlike in Gaimar’s Estoire des Engleis, where Hereward is presented from the outset as, in Huntington’s words, a ‘fully-formed and fully effective man’, the Gesta provides a lengthy introduction to Hereward’s qualities as a youth and to his adventures before his defence of Ely.25 Jones suggests that this interest in Hereward’s youth can be compared to Old Norse and Icelandic outlaw narrative traditions, whilst we might also draw parallels with the quests of later romance tradition.26 From his youth, Hereward is strong, bold, agile, and courageous, as well as being remarkably liberal with his own and his father’s possessions. However, these positive characteristics are often taken to excess. The text describes how Hereward provokes fights, creating conflict throughout the local community and causing a rift between his parents and their neighbours. As a result, Hereward is sent away by his father Leofric, yet continues to give away his father’s possessions to his own supporters as well as taking provisions from his father’s estates. Jones emphasises the generational nature of Hereward’s exile, suggesting that the conflict is located within a familial rather than social or political relationship. Lacking the material resources to support a band of men, Hereward must ‘usurp the economic power of his father in order to define himself as mature and masculine’.27 The conflict does not, however, remain within the family. Hereward’s behaviour causes tension within the local community and affects resource distribution. Hereward’s father requests that Hereward be banished, telling King Edward of Hereward’s actions against both his parents and the local inhabitants (I, p. 80).28 At the age of eighteen, Hereward gains the name of exile (Exul) and leaves home as a result of his confrontational behaviour.29 The text clearly establishes Hereward’s character flaws; he is unable to restrain himself and acts with little thought of the social consequences. In Fouke, exile is more clearly the result of a failure of lordship; King John, rather than Fouke, is in the wrong. Fouke is exiled from his lands in Shropshire as a result of John’s refusal to uphold his inheritance of Whittington. The text sets up a close relationship between Fouke II and King Henry II, describing how the young Fouke was brought up with King Henry’s sons. On one occasion, John and Fouke were playing chess together, but John struck Fouke with the chessboard. Fouke retaliated by kicking John in the chest, who hit his head and fainted. After regaining consciousness, John complained to his father who, instead of punishing Fouke, had John beaten. According to the Anglo-Norman Text Society edition, ‘the high position of Fouke II at Henry II’s court is a flight of fancy’, and the chess episode is likely borrowed from Les Quatre Fils Aymon.30 Janet Meisel similarly and the Barony of Bourne: A Reassessment of a Fenland Legend’, Lincolnshire History and Archaeology 29 (1994), p. 8. 24 See Huntington, ‘“The Quality of His Virtus”’, p. 85; and Jones, ‘Fighting Men’, p. 185. 25 Huntington, ‘“The Quality of His Virtus”’, pp. 84–5. 26 Jones, ‘Fighting Men’, pp. 186–7. 27 Jones, ‘Fighting Men’, pp. 188–90. 28 Throughout this article, references to the Latin text are from Meneghetti, ed., De Gestis Herwardi; English translations are provided from Swanton, ed., Three Lives of the Last Englishmen. 29 For the purposes of this study, I treat outlawry and exile as comparable. Elisabeth van Houts notes the difficulties in distinguishing outlawry and exile in an English context: van Houts, ‘L’exil Dans l’espace Anglo-Normand’, pp. 118–19. 30 Hathaway et al., ed., Fouke Le Fitz Waryn, pp. 83–4.

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notes that although Fulk I was a trusted and valued servant of Henry II (receiving gifts, having debts pardoned, and responsible for provisioning Dover Castle), Fulk II had a much more distant relationship with the king, and there is no evidence of his presence at court except in connection with lawsuits.31 Indeed, John himself was absent from court in his early childhood, sent to the monastery of Fontevraud, and he later joined the household of Ranulf de Glanville to complete his education.32 It is therefore unlikely that this episode has a historical basis. Nevertheless, the text attributes John’s refusal to confirm Fouke’s inheritance to this personal grudge. Despite his knowledge of Fouke’s rightful claim to Whittington, he chooses to confirm the grant to Morys, the son of Roger de Powys. In response, Fouke renounces the lordship of King John, emphasising John’s failure to uphold his rights and respect common law. After renouncing John’s lordship, Fouke and his brothers arm themselves and flee but are pursued by twenty-five knights sent by the king to kill them. Fouke and his companions defeat the knights and leave for Brittany. King John, in the meantime, seizes Fouke’s lands in England and inflicts ‘grant damage’ (p. 25, line 21) on his entire family.33 This seizure of lands seems to be in line with the surviving documentary evidence, which records that by 9 April 1201, Fouke’s lands in Shropshire were in the hands of the crown.34 Here begins Fouke’s period of outlawry, characterised by its forest settings and folkloric motifs.35 Although little direct evidence survives of the historical Fulk’s activities, there exist a number of references to his rebellion against King John. Roger of Howden states that John left Hubert de Burgh and one hundred knights to guard the Welsh March when he departed for Normandy in June 1201, most likely as a response to Fulk’s rebellion.36 In an episode echoed by Fouke Fitz Waryn, William of Newburgh’s Historia rerum anglicarum describes how Fouke and his companions were besieged in Stanley Abbey by men belonging to the sheriff of Wiltshire.37 We can also find references to Fulk’s companions. Eustace de Kivilly was pardoned by King John in April 1202 for his actions whilst associated with Fulk, whilst the Shropshire Assize Role of 1203 refers to Gilbert de Duure, another associate of Fulk who was outlawed and accused of stealing hounds.38 The geographical spaces of exile As we have seen, the banishment faced by Hereward and Fouke appears to be corroborated by documentary evidence. Yet these historical bones are fleshed out by the authors through a fictional framing that establishes the protagonist and the 31

Meisel, Barons of the Welsh Frontier, p. 35. S. Church, King John: England, Magna Carta and the Making of a Tyrant (Basingstoke and Oxford, 2015), pp. 4–12. 33 ‘great damage’ (p. 152). Throughout this article, references to the French text are from Hathaway et al., ed., Fouke Le Fitz Waryn; English translations are provided from Burgess, Two Medieval Outlaws. 34 Burgess, Two Medieval Outlaws, p. 100. 35 This is Roger Pensom’s middle shell in his schema of the text. See Pensom, ‘Inside and Outside’, pp. 54–5. 36 Meisel, Barons of the Welsh Frontier, p. 38; Burgess, Two Medieval Outlaws, p. 100. 37 Burgess, Two Medieval Outlaws, p. 100. 38 Meisel, Barons of the Welsh Frontier, p. 38. 32



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tensions at the heart of the text. Whilst Hereward’s behaviour serves as the catalyst for his exile, it is the failure of King John’s lordship that forces Fouke to leave. These themes are developed and amplified as the protagonists’ fictional adventures in exile unfold. The notion of geography, and movement between different geographical spaces, is central to these developing narratives: the protagonist must travel elsewhere both as a result of exile and in order to experience adventure. In this section, I consider the choices of exilic setting and how these are represented within the two texts. As shown below, the degree of localisation shifts as the protagonists are distanced from their homelands. The authors of Fouke and the Gesta provide far more detailed descriptions of their local territories than of the spaces of exile, indicating their differing levels of geographical familiarity. The vague evocations of exilic spaces suggest the ability of these settings to conjure images of the unknown, where challenges and adventures might take place. There are also clear differences between the spaces of exile in the Gesta and Fouke, suggesting a changing imagining of exilic space that reflects developing knowledge and perceptions of geography. By exploring the representation of the geographical settings of exile, we can consider how they function within the narrative and how they resonated for contemporary audiences. Exile in Britain When Hereward is outlawed, he is invited to the household of his godfather, Gilbert of Gent, in Northumbria. The historical Gilbert was a younger son of Ralph of Aalst or Alost, and Gisela, daughter of Frederick of Luxembourg, and a first cousin once removed of Matilda of Flanders, the wife of William the Conqueror.39 He received large grants of land in England following the Conquest, and married the daughter of one of William the Conqueror’s magnates, Hugh II of Montfort-sur-Risle. Paul Dalton points to the proximity of some of Gilbert’s English estates to Bourne and Hereward’s lands, as well as Hereward’s links to Flanders, to suggest a link between Hereward and Gilbert.40 Indeed, we should be open to the possibility that Gilbert was present in England prior to the Conquest. It is possible that younger sons of Flemish aristocratic families gained a foothold in England prior to the Conquest, either by assisting the English king or by lending support to the Flemish monasteries of Saint-Riquier or St Peter’s, both of which held lands in England.41 Even if Gilbert did not hold land in Northumbria prior to the Conquest, the chronological error may perhaps not be a problem for a twelfth-century audience who associated Gilbert with the extensive post-Conquest landholdings recorded in Domesday. This included land as far north as Yorkshire, which may explain a link between Gilbert and Northumbria.42 This Yorkshire connection was maintained with Gilbert’s son Walter, who continued to hold lands in Yorkshire and founded the Augustinian Bridlington Priory around 1113.43

39

For this and the below, see van Houts, ‘Hereward and Flanders’, p. 216. Dalton, ‘Outlaw Hereward’, pp. 16–17. 41 See Appendix 2 in E. van Houts and R. Love, ed., The Warenne (Hyde) Chronicle (Oxford, 2013), p. 106. 42 ‘Gilbert 23’, PASE, http://www.pase.ac.uk (accessed 24 September 2021). 43 P. Dalton, ‘Gant, Gilbert de, Earl of Lincoln (c. 1123–1155/6), Magnate’, ODNB (2008); W. Farrer, ed., ‘Gant Fee’, Early Yorkshire Charters: Being a Collection of Documents Anterior to the Thirteenth Century, 3 vols (Cambridge, 2013), II, pp. 427–504. 40

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Hereward’s exile to his godfather’s household in Northumbria therefore offers a plausible – if perhaps fictional – scenario, both in terms of Gilbert’s connection to Northumbria and Hereward’s choice of location. When forced to leave their native soil, exiles from England tended to travel to neighbouring lands, such as Scotland and Wales, with others finding refuge in Ireland and Flanders.44 It made sense to travel to a place in which one might already have connections and that was close enough to keep watch on the situation in one’s homeland. In Hereward’s case, Northumbria provides both a fairly close location and one that offered a support network in the form of his godfather, Gilbert of Gent. An area repeatedly subject to incursions from the king of the Scots as well as the ‘harrying of the North’, Northumbria perhaps also evoked a sense of danger and the unknown to contemporary audiences, making it a perfect location for Hereward to encounter challenges.45 It is here that Hereward defeats a monstrous bear, demonstrating his military ability and protecting the women of Gilbert’s household. Notably, the text gives no description of Hereward’s journey to Northumbria, nor any references to place names or landscapes; the focus remains on Hereward and his actions. Hereward is forced to flee Northumbria and travels to Cornwall, before leaving in secret for Ireland. Again, the text provides no description of the journeys to Cornwall and Ireland, nor any sense of their geography or place names. Rather than being inscribed into the local landscape, Hereward’s challenges here evoke Scandinavian and romance literary traditions: Hereward defeats the wicked Ulcus Ferreus in Cornwall, the berserk-like suitor to the daughter of the prince,46 before later disguising himself in a scene that directly parallels the Roman de Horn.47 The lack of geographical specificity is notable when Hereward assists the king of Ireland in subduing any opposition, with the text using generalised terms such as ‘in circuito’ (IV, p. 88)48 and ‘omnem locum et terram regi adversariam’ (IV, p. 88),49 rather than localised place names. Although the text mentions the Duke of Munster and gives an impression of political instability, the author does not appear to be aware that Ireland was divided into multiple kingdoms. Ireland’s place in the narrative does not appear to be founded upon personal familiarity, but instead offers a plausible setting for military activity through which Hereward develops his leadership skills and gains a reputation for his military prowess. The circumstances of exile and the necessity of serving another lord thus provide the opportunity for Hereward to develop his leadership skills, which are again demonstrated in Flanders and come to fruition in his resistance against Norman oppressors in England. If we compare these episodes with those in Flanders and Ely, we notice a clear contrast in the degree of geographic detail and localisation. When Hereward leaves Ireland, the text provides the first reference to his journey, noting that Hereward was driven by ‘tempestate ventorum’ (VI, p. 96)50 to Orkney and then carried 44

van Houts, ‘L’exil Dans l’espace Anglo-Normand’, p. 119. For an overview of the history of Northumbria in the tenth and eleventh centuries, see W. Aird, ‘Northumbria’, A Companion to the Early Middle Ages: Britain and Ireland, c. 500–c. 1100, ed. P. Stafford (Chichester, 2009), pp. 303–21. 46 Jones notes the similarities between this episode and the berserk suitors in medieval Scandinavian literature: Jones, ‘Fighting Men’, pp. 194–6. 47 For the links between the two texts, see below and Weiss, ‘Thomas and the Earl’, pp. 9–13. 48 ‘in the neighbourhood’ (p. 51). 49 ‘the entire area around about that was opposed to the king’ (p. 51). 50 ‘tempestuous winds’ (p. 54). 45



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‘per turbinem’ (VI, p. 96)51 to Flanders, where he assists the count of Flanders in an expedition to Scaldemariland. These references to meteorological conditions perhaps reflect a knowledge of seafaring around the British Isles. Elisabeth van Houts has convincingly argued for the historical veracity of the Flanders sections of the text, citing, for example, a parallel account of the expedition to Scaldemariland that can be found in the Vita S. Willibrordi.52 Alberto Meneghetti suggests that the author of the Gesta had access to Flemish texts, which provided the precise chronology of events of the Scaldemariland episode.53 Even if Hereward himself was not involved, it appears that a historical event lies behind this section of the narrative, thus ending Hereward’s fictional adventures. Unsurprisingly, once Hereward reaches Flanders, there is a clear increase in the use of place names. The text makes reference to St Bertin and St Omer, locations with strong ties to England in the mid-eleventh century,54 as well to St Valery-sur-Somme and Frisia. Flanders was a principal trading partner for the export of goods such as wool and grain, and the abbey of Ely and its dependants itself had large numbers of sheep – around 14,400 by 1086.55 Flanders was also a place of refuge for exiles from England during the eleventh-century struggles for the English kingship.56 This sense of geographical localisation increases further when Hereward returns to England and takes on the role of defender of Ely. The text tells the story of how one of Hereward’s men got the name of ‘The Heron’ during an incident at Wroxham Bridge (pontem de Wrokesham, XX, p. 124), as well as making reference to places such as Aldreth (Alrehethe, XXVI, p. 146), Cottenham (Cotingelade, XXVI, p. 146), Bottisham (Angerhale, XXVII, p. 150), and Witchford (Wycheforde, XXVII, p. 152). In addition to references to specific local place names, the text also demonstrates a knowledge of the geographical features of Ely and the surrounding marshy area.57 For example, the text describes how the king ‘omnem suum ad Alrehede ammonui ex(er)citum, minus aquis et palude precingitur: tamen latitude ibi iiiior stadiorum extenditur’ (XXII, p. 130).58 The specificity of this passage, including units of measurements, suggests a detailed knowledge of the local geography. Deda’s description of the Isle of Ely reads almost like a tourist brochure, praising not only Hereward

51

‘by a hurricane’ (p. 54). See van Houts, ‘Hereward and Flanders’, pp. 201–23. 53 Meneghetti, ed., De Gestis Herwardi, p. 43. 54 van Houts, ‘Hereward and Flanders’, p. 213. 55 E. Oksanen, ‘Economic Relations Between East Anglia and Flanders in the Anglo-Norman Period’, East Anglia and Its North Sea World in the Middle Ages, ed. D. Bates and R. Liddiard (Woodbridge, 2013), p. 180. 56 P. Grierson, ‘The Relations between England and Flanders before the Norman Conquest’, TRHS 23 (1941), pp. 95–6. 57 References to the marshy fenlands might recall another representation of the fens, as the home of Grendel in Beowulf. In the Gesta Herewardi, however, this inaccessible landscape is transformed into a strategically beneficial and productive space for the Isle of Ely. For an interesting examination of the fen landscape, see C. Abram, ‘At Home in the Fens with the Grendelkin’, Dating Beowulf: Studies in Intimacy, ed. D. Remein and E. Weaver (Manchester, 2019), pp. 120–44. 58 ‘moved his whole army to Aldreth where the surrounding water and swamp was narrower, the breadth there extending only four furlongs’ (p. 69). 52

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and his men, but also the abundance of wildlife and resources (XXIII, p. 138).59 His praise of Ely does not seem out of place amongst other literary representations of local landscapes produced by monastic houses during the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, which ‘celebrate their sites as island loci amoeni set in watery, wilderness contexts’.60 We might suggest that this forms part of a self-conscious project to defend the rights and increase the status of Ely under its first bishop, Hervey (1109–31), who also instigated the translation from Old English to Latin of Bishop Aethelwold’s book of grants to Ely.61 The Gesta emphasises the qualities of the local landscape at the same time as offering a legendary defence of Ely’s rights through the character of Hereward. There is a clear difference between the descriptions of geography in Northumbria, Cornwall, and Ireland, and those in Flanders and Ely. The Flanders and Ely episodes demonstrate a familiarity with the geographical spaces in which they take place, likely owing to the personal knowledge of Richard of Ely and that contained in his source material. On the other hand, the episodes in Northumbria, Cornwall, and Ireland receive little geographical description or use of place names, suggesting a lack of first-hand knowledge. This shift in geographical specificity is paralleled by a generic shift towards romance and epic. It therefore seems likely that these episodes were additions to an existing Life of Hereward, perhaps the Old English Life mentioned by Richard of Ely – certainly possible considering his process of composition, which involved the compilation of information from both a damaged manuscript containing an Old English life of Hereward and from the oral recollections of two of Hereward’s companions.62 Of course, the survival of only one manuscript copy makes it difficult to say for certain when these additions were made. So where did these episodes come from? Judith Weiss has suggested that the episodes in Cornwall and Ireland are rooted in a pre-existing Horn ‘kernel’ story, written at the end of the eleventh or early twelfth century and ‘influenced by the stories of the numerous English, Welsh and Norman dissidents who, deprived of power in Britain, travelled to Ireland looking for help’.63 This seems plausible, although it does not account for the episode in Northumbria. I suggest that the Northumbria episode, with its degree of credibility, was perhaps added by Richard in order to successfully integrate the ‘kernel’ Horn story within the Hereward narrative.

59

For Hugh Thomas, Deda’s praise of Hereward and his followers functions as part of the wider project of the text, defending English military prowess against charges of inferiority. By emphasising the success and nobility of Hereward and his men, as well as ridiculing the Norman invaders, the text represents the English as cultural equals to the new regime. See Thomas, ‘The Gesta Herwardi’, pp. 213–32. 60 C. Clarke, Literary Landscapes and the Idea of England, 700–1400 (Cambridge, 2006), p. 68. 61 E. van Houts, ‘Historical Writing’, A Companion to the Anglo-Norman World, ed. C. Harper-Bill and E. van Houts (Woodbridge, 2003), p. 110. In this context, the survival of the Gesta alongside documents such as royal charters and grants to the abbey in the Register of Robert of Swaffham is significant and requires a closer examination. 62 This is described in the prologue to the text. 63 Weiss, ‘Thomas and the Earl’, p. 8.



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Exile beyond the sea In Fouke¸ there is a similar distinction between the geographically detailed settings in the Welsh Marches and those further afield. The opening section of the text is replete with references to landscape and geography, offering a territorialised vision of landscape.64 The text describes how the landscape is divided into holdings, which are themselves frequently defined by physical geographical features. Rivers feature as boundary points, marking the extent of a grant of land. For example, Henry I’s grant to Joce is bounded by the River Corve (p. 4, lines 5–7), whilst William Peverel’s grant of Morlas extends as far as the River Ceiriog (p. 8, lines 5–6). The landscape is inscribed with physical markers of Marcher lordship, such as castles, towers, and bridges. The geographical detail in this first section of the text provides a background for Fouke’s claims to Whittington. However, as we have seen, King John fails to uphold Fouke’s claims to Whittington and Fouke, after renouncing John’s lordship, is forced to flee. At first, Fouke and his men remain close to England and, like Hereward, often travel to places where Fouke already has connections. This perhaps reflects the realities of the historical exile of Fulk III, to which, as noted earlier, we have some documentary references. The editors of Fouke note the dense concentration of toponyms from north Shropshire and Powys, demonstrating the author’s familiarity with the geographical space of the Welsh Marches.65 This section of the text is also characterised by movement, emphasising Fouke’s mastery and manipulation of the landscape. Fouke rarely uses roads, instead drawing upon the boundary spaces of forests and water to travel easily through Britain.66 Throughout this period, the text emphasises Fouke’s sense of morality.67 Fouke ensures that his actions harm only the king,68 and directly upholds justice by killing the brigand Peter de Brubille, who had been assuming Fouke’s identity and robbing people in the March of Scotland. By contrast, King John is characterised by his lack of conscience and predatory sexual behaviour,69 a characterisation echoed by the posthumous accounts of Roger of Wendover and Matthew Paris, which vehemently denounce King John’s behaviour. In Paris’s mid-thirteenth-century Chronica Majora, a messenger to the emir of Morocco describes John as ‘a tyrant rather than a king, a destroyer rather than a governor […] he had violated the daughters and sisters of his nobles’.70 Even before John’s death, a significant proportion of the population certainly saw John’s reign as a misrule by 1212, characterised by persistent taxation and the spiritual privation of the interdict – all in an unsuccessful attempt to recover his lands on the Continent.71 64

This is discussed in more depth in my forthcoming PhD thesis at the University of Cambridge. 65 Hathaway et al., ed., Fouke Le Fitz Waryn, pp. xxx–xxxi. 66 See E. Dolmans, ‘Locating the Border: Britain and the Welsh Marches in Fouke Le Fitz Waryn’, New Medieval Literatures 16 (2016), pp. 128–30. 67 This aligns with Laura Ashe’s model of exile-and-return, in which ‘it is the world around the protagonist that must be corrected, and the potential exists for the hero himself to be represented in a state of unchanging perfection’: Ashe, ‘“Exile‐and‐return” and English Law’, p. 142. 68 This is explicitly stated in the text (p. 27, lines 26–7 and p. 30, lines 29–31). 69 Pensom, ‘Inside and Outside’, p. 55. 70 Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, ed. H. R. Luard, RS, 7 vols (London, 1872–83), II, pp. 559–64, quoted in Church, King John, p. xxv. 71 Church, King John, pp. 206–7.

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Fouke also spends time tourneying in France where he receives an offer of lands from King Philip Augustus, before sailing along the English coast until the wind drives them to a strange island off Orkney. There does not appear to be any documentary record of Fouke’s adventures abroad, and the fantastical themes suggest that it is a fictional addition to the text. Fouke’s adventures abroad are characterised by a loss of control of direction; it is the wind and weather that dictate where Fouke travels. Fouke’s journeys take him beyond the frontiers of the British Isles to lands such as Norway and Denmark, encountering strange beasts and severe weather conditions. The references to place names and ocean voyages emphasise the extent of Fouke’s travels and his physical separation from his homeland. Ireland features briefly in this ‘commonplace romance listing of countries on the northern periphery’, and Keith Busby suggests that it remains ‘a land of marvels and monsters’.72 However, by emphasising the removal of poisonous beasts from Ireland by St Patrick, I argue that the text instead breaks down the association of Ireland with the marvellous. Fouke must go elsewhere to find dangerous beasts and adventure. A storm carries Fouke’s ship to Carthage in the kingdom of Iberia, presumably Cartagena in Spain, rather than ancient Carthage of North Africa.73 Fouke’s adventures here, including the defeat of a dragon, again reinforce the idea of Fouke as the heroic upholder of justice, serving as a ‘metaphorical restatement of the central value system of the text’.74 A further element is added to this schema when Fouke is carried by the wind to Barbary, in North Africa. The king of Barbary is seeking to marry the daughter of the duke of Carthage, but her refusal has led to war. Fouke agrees to undertake single combat on condition that the king converts to Christianity.75 The fight ensues until Fouke discovers that he is fighting his own brother, at which point the battle is abandoned, the king and his household are baptised, and the king marries the maiden. Fouke here serves as the upholder of Christian morality, made possible through his journey to a distant land with associations of religious difference. The physical distance of these settings from Fouke’s lands, in addition to the descriptions of travel, contrast with Hereward’s exile in the Gesta. Whilst Hereward remains within the British archipelago until his arrival in Flanders, Fouke travels further afield. The imagined space of exile has changed, shifting from the frontiers of England to Iberia and North Africa. How can we explain these divergences in the representation of exilic spaces? On one level, the need for Fouke to leave Britain may be a practical reflection of increased royal control; it would simply not be realistic for him to remain in Ireland or Cornwall without facing challenge from the king. At a deeper level, this signals a shift in the imagination. Spaces within the British Isles, such as Ireland, were too close, too well-known, and too connected to provide an adequate sense of the adventurous unknown. Anglo-Norman settlement from the 1170s created closer links between Ireland and the elite in England, 72

K. Busby, French in Medieval Ireland, Ireland in Medieval French: The Paradox of Two Worlds (Turnhout, 2017), p. 318. 73 Burgess, Two Medieval Outlaws, p. 117. 74 Pensom, ‘Inside and Outside’, p. 58. 75 The motif of religious conversion features frequently in chansons de geste, although it is often the female Saracen princess who converts to Christianity. For the motif of the Saracen princess and its heterogeneous representations, see S. Kinoshita, ‘The Politics of Courtly Love’, in her Medieval Boundaries: Rethinking Difference in Old French Literature (Philadelphia, 2006), pp. 46–73.



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whilst the writings of authors such as Gerald of Wales spread knowledge about the landscapes and peoples of Ireland and Wales. Catherine Rooney’s study of the numerous manuscripts of the works of Gerald of Wales demonstrates their popularity.76 The thirteenth-century romance Les Merveilles de Rigomer demonstrates specific knowledge of medieval Ireland, its geography, and its communities.77 In these texts, Ireland undoubtedly retains associations with marvels – yet there is also an awareness of the real Ireland, its geography, and its politics.78 Spaces in Britain that had previously been on the frontiers of the Anglo-Norman empire now held a different place in the mental world of the elite; greater adventure was to be found elsewhere. In Fouke this ‘elsewhere’ is Iberia and North Africa. Why, therefore, were these spaces chosen? Authorial knowledge of Iberia, although limited to a simplified vision of landholding from a single ruler, was perhaps gained through trading links. The Iberian peninsula, the setting for Fouke’s defeat of the dragon, served as ‘a gateway between Christian and Muslim worlds’, a strategically important location in Mediterranean trade networks due to its position on both Christian and Muslim shipping routes.79 Although there is a lack of evidence for the eleventh century, a growth of documentation in the twelfth century demonstrates trade between Muslim Spain and Europe, and Italy in particular. There are also mentions of boats travelling to Muslim Spain from Arles and Montpellier.80 Commercial links between Iberia and England are less clear, although the Mabinogion makes reference to cordovan leather shoes, suggesting that knowledge of goods from Iberia reached as far as Wales.81 Indeed, I propose that the text includes a piece of specific geographical knowledge. The ‘grant mont en la mer’ (p. 46, line 22),82 home to the dragon, could be identified as the Isla Grosa, a volcanic island located off the coast of La Manga near Cartagena. An islet close to Isla Grosa, known as El Farallón, was the site of numerous shipwrecks, finds from which are currently displayed in the National Museum of Underwater Archaeology in Cartagena. Stories about this navigational hazard and the Isla Grosa perhaps spread amongst sailors and merchants, eventually reaching the author of Fouke. Although speculative, this offers a way of thinking about how geographical knowledge was shared. Aside from exchange through commercial routes, interest in Iberia also reflects religious and political developments, which directly placed Anglo-Norman crusaders in the Iberian world. Crusaders from Scotland and England participated in the conquest of Lisbon (1147),83 whilst a number of crusaders from the British Isles

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C. Rooney, ‘The Manuscripts of the Works of Gerald of Wales’, unpublished PhD thesis (University of Cambridge, 2005), pp. 115–61. 77 Busby, French in Medieval Ireland, pp. 276–86. 78 K. Busby, ‘Merlin, Barnagoys, l’Irlande, et Les Débuts Du Monde Arthurien’, Jeunesse et genèse du royaume arthurien: les suites romanesques du Merlin en prose, ed. N. Koble and P. Moran (Orléans, 2007), p. 145. For a detailed exploration of the ‘Two Irelands’, see Busby, French in Medieval Ireland, pp. 265–328. 79 O. R. Constable, Trade and Traders in Muslim Spain: The Commercial Realignment of the Iberian Peninsula, 900–1500 (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 1–3, 16. 80 Constable, Trade, pp. 42–4. 81 Constable, Trade, p. 218. 82 ‘great mountain at sea’ (p. 170). 83 M. Bennett, ‘Military Aspects of the Conquest of Lisbon, 1147’, The Second Crusade: Scope and Consequences, ed. J. Phillips and M. Hoch (Manchester, 2001), p. 73.

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appear to have settled in Tortosa following the 1148 siege.84 Although the Second Crusade is unlikely to have directly influenced the writing of Fouke at least a century later, it does provide a context for Anglo-Norman knowledge of Iberia. Fouke’s defeat of the dragon could speculatively be interpreted as a symbolic representation of the Christianisation of Muslim Spain.85 Indeed, the thirteenth century saw further Christian expansion into Muslim Spain, reducing Muslim control to the kingdom of Granada, in vassalage to Castile.86 This included the capture of Cartagena in 1245 by a Castilian fleet and army, led by the infante Alfonso, son of King Ferdinand III of Castile.87 Notably, Alfonso’s half-sister Eleanor of Castile was married to the future Edward I of England in 1254, which created a direct link between the two geographical spaces and provided a conduit for political and cultural exchange.88 The inclusion of Iberia as a setting in Fouke likely indicates its contemporary prominence in the mental world of the elite, perhaps resulting from the direct influence of Eleanor of Castile. Fouke’s later adventures in Tunis, ‘e[n] la terre de Barbarie’ (p. 53, lines 19–20),89 also reflect a broadening awareness of spaces beyond Britain and Europe. Tunis was an important centre of power of the Almohad Empire and then the Hafsid caliphs, the ‘Axis of the Middle Sea’, which had resisted invasion from Italians and Normans during the twelfth century.90 Tunis was also an important hub for trade across the Mediterranean and welcomed Christian merchants from southern Europe,91 as well as a failed crusade by Louis IX of France in 1270.92 The fictional Fouke succeeds where historical attempts have failed and persuades the king of Barbary to convert to Christianity. Whether this passage is a deliberate comment on political events is unclear, particularly given the uncertain dating of the original 84

N. Jaspert, ‘Capta Est Dertosa, Clavis Christianorum: Tortosa and the Crusades’, The Second Crusade: Scope and Consequences, p. 98; L. Villegas Aristizabal, ‘Anglo-Norman Intervention in the Conquest and Settlement of Tortosa, 1148–1180’, Crusades 8 (2009), pp. 69–80. 85 The dragon frequently signifies the Devil in biblical and bestiary tradition, and the slaying of a dragon could serve as an allegorical depiction of the Devil overcome. The legend of Saint George, for example, includes similar elements to Fouke le Fitz Waryn, including the rescue of the king’s daughter and the conversion of pagan peoples. See T. Honegger, Introducing the Medieval Dragon (Cardiff, 2019), pp. 37–47. 86 J. F. O’Callaghan, Reconquest and Crusade in Medieval Spain (Philadelphia, 2003), pp. 21–2, 99; H. Salvador Martínez, Alfonso X, the Learned: A Biography, trans. O. Cisneros (Leiden and Boston, 2010), pp. 88–94. 87 S. Martínez, Alfonso X, the Learned, p. 91. 88 See discussion in R. Walker, ‘Leonor of England and Eleanor of Castile: Anglo-Iberian Marriage and Cultural Exchange in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries’, England and Iberia in the Middle Ages, 12th–15th Century: Cultural, Literary, and Political Exchanges, ed. M. Bullón-Fernández (New York, 2007), pp. 67–87; J. C. Parsons, ‘Of Queens, Courts, and Books: Reflections on the Literary Patronage of Thirteenth-Century Plantagenet Queens’, The Cultural Patronage of Medieval Women, ed. J. McCash (Athens, GA, 1996), pp. 175–201. 89 ‘in the land of Barbary’ (p. 176). 90 A. J. Fromherz, The Near West: Medieval North Africa, Latin Europe and the Mediterranean in the Second Axial Age (Edinburgh, 2016), pp. 109–10. 91 R. Oliver and A. Atmore, Medieval Africa, 1250–1800 (Cambridge, 2001), p. 35. 92 M. Lower, The Tunis Crusade of 1270: A Mediterranean History (Oxford, 2018), pp. 106–7.



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text and the knowledge that would be required from both the author of Fouke and its intended audience. What the passages in Iberia and Tunis do suggest, however, is an interest in geographical spaces beyond Britain and an understanding of their potential as spaces for adventure and profit. References to conversion indicate an awareness of political and religious tensions, whilst the possible reference to Isla Grosa hints at specific geographical knowledge gained through mercantile travel. Further research might allow us to uncover more explicit connections between the author and audience of Fouke, and its settings in Iberia and North Africa. Conclusion The Gesta Herewardi and Fouke le Fitz Waryn offer similar narratives of political exile, based upon real historical events. However, exile functions very differently in each text. In the Gesta, we witness Hereward’s development into a competent and admired leader, with the requisite skills and experience to defend Ely, whilst Fouke’s adventures abroad serve rather to emphasise the shortcomings of King John in contrast to Fouke’s heroism and justice. The narrative role of exile in both texts is, I argue, tied up with how the geographical settings existed in the mental world of the author and contemporary audience. In both texts, there is a clear contrast between the closely localised settings of Shropshire and Ely, and the vague geographical descriptions of exile settings. In Fouke, the territorialised vision of the March serves to emphasise Fouke’s inheritance claims and the landholding rights of the Marcher lords, whilst the deliberately constructed image of Ely in the Gesta can be viewed as part of a broader attempt to assert the rights and status of the possessions of the monks of Ely that had so recently been turned into a monastic cathedral. In both texts, close localisation is also indicative of the geographical centring of the text and its place of composition, demonstrating the author’s and audience’s familiarity with the local area. The spaces of exile, by contrast, lack detailed description and represent the unknown. However, despite their similarities, the Gesta and Fouke offer very different visions of exilic space. In the Gesta, Hereward’s adventures take place in Ireland and Cornwall, possibly drawing upon an existing ‘kernel’ story of Horn and integrated into the Hereward narrative through an episode in Northumbria. These settings must have been plausible for the author and contemporary audience, but also offered a sense of adventure and the unknown. If we fast forward to Fouke, it is clear that the mental world has changed. In the thirteenth century, it seems that settings within Britain no longer provided the adventure and threat required by the protagonist of a text such as Fouke, owing to the expansion of Anglo-Norman settlement and the circulation of texts such as Gerald of Wales’s Topographica Hibernica. To evoke a sense of the unknown, Fouke’s adventures must take place beyond Britain, in settings that demonstrate contemporary interests and contacts on the frontiers of Europe. We might ask whether this reflects a broader phenomenon. Do we see a faltering of literary interest in Arthurian material and the ‘Matter of Britain’, and a turn towards themes and settings further afield? Does this coincide with the rise of travel writing and ethnography? What might this tell us about how people thought about the world around them? Further study of literary representations of geography, landscape, and setting will offer insight into these questions.

The Des Seal Memorial Lecture

EMPTY HONORIFICS: ELITES, TITLES, AND THE ECONOMY OF ESTEEM IN THE TENTH CENTURY Megan Welton The epithet in solo nomine (in name only) was designed to crack smooth veneers. Late antique and early medieval theologians attached this label to purported members of their Christian community, whom the disapproving authors deemed deficient.1 In the ninth and tenth centuries, political commentators, including the Astronomer and Liudprand of Cremona, scolded Emperor Louis the Pious and King Lothar of Italy with just this epithet, castigating them as consecrated rulers who could not uphold the political values associated with their nomen.2 This sharp turn of phrase drew attention not only to the individual ruler’s perceived failure, but also to the constant challenge that faced early medieval leaders across Christendom who sought to adapt to the fluid expectations embedded in their titles. This essay examines the intersection between titles, on the one hand, and the expectations of the wider political community, on the other. It does so by offering a focused examination of the title dux as it was attached to two tenth-century women, Beatrix of Upper Lotharingia and Judith of Bavaria. Scholars have often classified the ascription of this title to these women as a rare instance of the manifestation of ‘masculine’ power by early medieval women.3 As such, historians have often 1

For example, Augustine of Hippo, De catechizandis rudibus, 14.21, CCSL 46, ed. E. van den Houts et al. (Turnhout, 1969), p. 145: ‘Quatenus quem imbuimus moneamus, ut caueat imitationem eorum qui non ispa veritate, sed solo nomine christiani sunt’; Caesarius of Arles, Sermones, 157.6, CCSL 104, ed. G. Morin (Turnhout, 1953), p. 664: ‘Nemo se decipiat, fratres carissimi, nemo se falsa spe circumveniat: christiani nominis non facit sola dignitas christianum. Nihil prodest quod aliquis christianus vocatur ex nomine, si hoc non ostendit in opere’. 2 Astronomer, Vita Hludowici imperatoris, c. 45, MGH SS rer. Germ. 64, ed. E. Tremp (Hanover, 1995), p. 460: ‘in talibus ergo consistens, solo nomine imperator aestatem transegit’; Liudprand, Antapodosis, VI.2, CCM 156, ed. P. Chiesa (Turnhout, 1998), p. 146: ‘Is enim Italicis omnibus principabatur virtute, rex vero Lotharius solo nomine’. 3 See, for instance, W. Graf Rüdt von Collenberg, ‘Zum Auftreten weiblicher Titulaturen im VIII., IX., und X. Jahrhundert’, Genealogica und Heraldica, 10. Internationaler Kongress für genealogische und heraldische Wissenschaften, Wien 14–19 Sept. 1970 1 (Vienna, 1972), pp. 265–72; P. Stafford, ‘Emma: The Powers of a Queen in the Eleventh Century,’ Queens and Queenship in Medieval Europe: Proceedings of a Conference Held at King’s College London April 1995, ed. A. J. Duggan (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 3–26 at pp. 9–10; A. Fößel, Die Königin im mittelalterlichen Reich (Stuttgart, 2000), p. 56; S. MacLean, Ottonian Queenship (Oxford, 2017), p. 178; L. Leleu, ‘Virile Women and Effeminate Men: Gendered Judgements and the Exercise of Power in the Ottonian Empire c. 1000 CE’, The Palgrave Handbook of Masculinity and Political Culture in Europe, ed. C. Fletcher et al. (London, 2018), pp. 85–105 at p. 103 n. 70.

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analysed the degree to which Judith’s or Beatrix’s power did or did not match the masculine norm and the extent to which they did or did not occupy a reified officium. This essay queries these established readings. In order to do so, it first introduces the philosophical framework of the ‘economy of esteem’, as conceptualized by Geoffrey Brennen and Philip Pettit, with its important emphasis on virtue and the feedback loop required for political systems to function.4 It then examines the lexical quality of the term dux as a communal noun, building upon recent philological examinations of the variety and fluidity of gender in classical and medieval Latin. This concentration on dux casts doubt on scholarly claims of the ascription of ‘masculine’ titles to female political leaders as a sign of increased political power in the tenth century. The essay then examines the metaphorical and historical usage of dux as applied to female rulers from the fifth to the tenth century. Close attention to the semantic history of this term will set the stage for the central examination of two case studies of the mixed usage applied to these two tenth-century leaders, Beatrix of Upper Lotharingia and Judith of Bavaria. Instead of taking a biographical or prosopographical approach, the focus remains on the diplomas and letters that inscribe the term dux. These sources and their survival to the present day reveal, sometimes in spite of themselves, the instability of esteem and the political ramifications of virtue in the Ottonian empire and beyond. In the hands of your servants: the economies of esteem in tenth-century politics The distinction of a title did not guarantee an early medieval magnate’s future reputation or their ability to govern. Instead, several tenth-century authors averred that such reputation relied on two interrelated factors: the person’s performance of virtuous deeds (along with the avoidance of vice) and, equally as important, the recognition and approval of their surrounding magnates and wider populace. This feedback loop finds eloquent expression in the works of the tenth-century Bishop Rather of Verona.5 In his Praeloquia, Rather spent significant energies outlining the duties and responsibilities of the king (and, in a shorter brief, of the queen), particularly in relation to their foundational responsibility to rule in accordance with the four-horse chariot of classical virtues: prudence, justice, courage, and temperance. ‘Practice these therefore’, Rather exhorted, ‘be trained in them, be glorified by them’.6 Without the constant performance of these virtues, Rather warned, ‘there are certain features of the rank without which the dignity of the position cannot hold up in reality, even though the title (nomen) is there in some form’.7 Several chapters later, Rather indicated how rulers rely on others to reinforce their own positions: 4

G. Brennan and P. Pettit, The Economy of Esteem: An Essay on Civil and Political Society (Oxford, 2004). 5 I. van Renswoude, ‘The Sincerity of Fiction: Rather and the Quest for Self-Knowledge’, Ego Trouble: Authors and Their Identities in the Early Middle Ages, ed. R. Corradini, M. Gillis, R. McKitterick, and I. van Renswoude (Vienna, 2010), pp. 227–42; E. Roberts, ‘Bishops on the Move: Rather of Verona, Pseudo-Isidore, and Episcopal Translation’, The Medieval Low Countries 6 (2019), pp. 117–38. 6 Rather of Verona, Praeloquia, III.2, CCCM 46, ed. P. Reid (Turnhout, 1976), p. 78: ‘His ergo utere, his exercere, his exornare’; Rather of Verona, Complete Works of Rather of Verona, trans. and ed. P. L. D. Reid (Binghamton, 1991), p. 95. 7 Rather of Verona, Praeloquia, III.2, p. 78: ‘Sunt quaedam regalis ordinis insignis, quibus sine, etsi nomen utcunque, re tamen vera certe non potest consistere dignitas tanta’; trans.



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For you become ‘honoured’ by the attention of others, being in yourself subject to the same human conditions as they are. For as you well know, the capacity for power rests not in yourself, but in the hands of your servants, thus those who you frighten you fear the more yourself.8

Honos drew the ruler and the ruled into a complex nexus, which, as Rather pointed out, bound the capacity to rule by implicating the actions of the ruler with the esteem bestowed by their followers. This circle of honos can be analysed in terms of ‘the economy of esteem’. Economies, in Geoffrey Brennan and Philip Pettit’s view, function as systems of allocation, particularly of scarce resources. In political societies, such economies are composed of individual agents, whose actions ‘give rise to aggregate patterns that feed back in turn into the things that determine what individual agents do; they feed back, for example into the determination of people’s opportunities and expectations’.9 This allocation of feedback creates either esteem – i.e. the positive asset of approbation – or disesteem – i.e. the negative liability of disapprobation.10 Central to this system, for Brennan and Petit, is virtue. Esteem, they argue, can only ‘rule people’s lives’ as long as they believe in the possibility of virtuous action and, crucially, only if there are ‘at least some individuals who offer persuasive examples of virtue’.11 Brennan and Pettit’s economy of esteem provides language to describe crucial features of tenth-century politics: the centrality of virtuous action in the political realm, the aggregative nature of praise or condemnation, and the instable cycle of the feedback loop between the ruler and the ruled. Virtue, as a lived and experienced ideal, needed to be present in the minds and in the lives of those who inhabited the political sphere in order for them to both emulate and, ultimately, to judge the actions of those around them. Indeed, by the turn of the tenth century, Regino of Prüm complained that the root problem plaguing the divided empire was not a lack of virtuous principes, but a superfluity of them.12 In the economy of esteem, individual magnates must rise above their peers through the performance of virtue to distinguish themselves and receive positive feedback in the form of honos in order to propel them towards exerting influence in the immediate future. This investigation into a single honorific, dux, illustrates the manifold manner in which such titles could not only be claimed or ascribed to one political subject, but instrumentalized and weaponized by their allies and opponents through any given Reid, Complete Works, p. 95. Rather of Verona, Praeloquia, IV.29, p. 136: ‘honorus enim aliorum redderis obsequiis, qui ex te ejusdem es conditionis. Ut enim potens esse possis, non in te, sed in servientium manibus situm veracissime noveris: unde et quos terres, ipse plus metuis’; trans. Reid, Complete Works, p. 150. 9 Brennan and Pettit, Economy of Esteem, p. 2. 10 Brennan and Pettit, Economy of Esteem, p. 3. 11 Brennan and Pettit, Economy of Esteem, p. 7. 12 Regino of Prüm, Chronicon, a. 888, MGH Script. rer. Germ. 50, ed. F. Kurze (Hanover, 1890), p. 129. For the broader context see J. L. Nelson, ‘Peers in the Early Middle Ages’, Law, Laity and Solidarities: Essays in Honour of Susan Reynolds, ed. P. Stafford, J. L. Nelson, and J. Martindale (Manchester, 2001), pp. 27–46 at p. 44; S. Airlie, ‘“Sad Stories of the Death of Kings”: Narrative Patterns and Structures of Authority in Regino of Prüm’s Chronicle’, Narrative and History in the Early Medieval West, ed. E. M. Tyler and R. Balzaretti (Turnhout, 2006), pp. 105–31.

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leader’s political career. Such terms signified political command, yet they could constrain and cause critique of their actions. A significant component of this potential for praise or condemnation was grounded in the lexical quality of the term dux itself, particularly in its grammatical application to men and women alike. Ambiguous ascriptions: the gender of dux The following inquiry into the classical, late antique, and early medieval grammatical and semantic usage of dux takes an approach different to that which many historians have employed when examining terminology associated with Herzogtümer. Indeed, such scholars have centred in on legal codes and political texts, such as the Lex Baiwariorum or Carolingian capitularies, in order to investigate the transition from an imperial Roman commander to their early medieval successors.13 As such, their questions surrounding dux have often concentrated on the performance of a military commander’s duties, the extent of their territories and political reach, their position within the political hierarchy, and how closely or not they echoed classical conceptions of the dux. For Lotharingia in particular, a further concentration has been laid upon the extent to which the title dux corresponded to an officium or more simply designated royal or imperial favour.14 These inquiries have significant import, yet eclipse the multivalent nature of this term at its core, its metaphorical implications, and its lineage as an appellative noun utilized to denote women who led. Gender (genus) as a lexical feature of classical and medieval Latin had a complex and often elusive relationship to the political, social, and poetic expressions of biological distinctions (often classified as sexus) in classical and medieval societies. Although classical and medieval grammarians denoted four or more genders, the concentration in medieval and modern conceptions of gender largely rested on a binary: masculine and feminine. Scholars have increasingly called attention in recent years both to the complicated nature of this binary in semantics as well as in lived experiences.15 Furthermore, they have concentrated on the fluid nature of 13

Recent important studies, with relevant bibliography, include S. Esders, ‘Spätantike und frühmittelalterliche Dukate. Überlegungen zum Problem historischer Kontinuität und Diskontinuität’, Die Anfänge Bayerns. Von Raetien und Noricum zur frühmittelalterlichen Baiovaria, ed. H. Fehr and I. Heitmeier (St Ottilien, 2014), pp. 425–62; M. Zerjadtke, Das Amt ‘Dux’, Spätantike und frühem Mittelalter. Der ‘ducatus’ im Spannungsfeld zwischen römischem Einfluss und eigener Entwicklung (Berlin, 2019). 14 H.-W. Goetz, Dux und Ducatus: Begriffs- und verfassungsgeschichtliche Untersuchungen zur Entstehung der sogenannten jüngeren Stammesherzogtums an der Wende vom 9. zum 10. Jahrhundert (Bochum, 1977); R. Barth, Der Herzog im Lotharingien im 10. Jahrhundert (Sigmaringen, 1990); J. Schneider, Auf der Suche nach dem verlorenen Reich: Lotharingien im 9. und 10. Jahrhundert (Cologne, 2010); S. MacLean, ‘Shadow Kingdom: Lotharingia and the Frankish World, c. 850–c. 1050’, History Compass 11 (2013), pp. 443–57. 15 J. Vaahtera, ‘On Grammatical Gender in Ancient Linguistics – The Order of Genders’, Arctos 42 (2008), pp. 247–66. For the ancient conflation of these two categories, see J. Vaahtera, ‘Observations on Genus Nominum in the Roman Grammarians’, Arctos 34 (2000), pp. 233–52; A. Corbeill, Sexing the World: Grammatical Gender and Biological Sex in Ancient Rome (New Haven, 2015), pp. 13–16; S. Parsons and D. Townsend, ‘Gender’, The Oxford Handbook of Medieval Latin Literature, ed. R. Hexter and D. Townsend (Oxford, 2012), pp. 423–46.



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ascription and discussions of the gender of nouns in the Roman and post-Roman worlds. James Adams, for instance, in his wide-reaching work, Social Variation and the Latin Language, not only decried the lack of systematic studies into this topic, but also elegantly summarized the current status quo. While the modern grammatical tradition has often depicted gender within Latin as relatively fixed, Adams argued that ‘in reality it was quite variable, not only in the early period but also in Classical Latin’.16 The noun at the very core of this study – namely, dux – presents significant insights into this complexity and fluidity at a grammatical level. According to the famous sixth-century grammarian from North Africa, Priscian, dux was strictly speaking not a masculine noun.17 It instead fell into the fourth category of gender, that was those nouns that were common (commune).18 Unlike neuter, which denoted nouns that were neither masculine nor feminine, common nouns referred to both masculine and feminine gender.19 As with some other nouns ending in -x such as coniunx, Priscian singled out dux as an example of those appellative nouns that are also ‘common nouns referring to both sexes [that] are common to both genders’.20 A termination in -x, of course, did not automatically designate a common noun. In the same passage, Priscian went on to clarify that there are nouns ending in -x that did refer exclusively to women and men, such as rex (king) or paelex (mistress or concubine).21 Priscian occupied a preeminent position as an authority on the study of grammar in the Middle Ages, as his hundreds of extant manuscripts attest.22 Over sixty manuscripts from the ninth and tenth centuries have survived, several of which contain 16

J. Adams, Social Variation ad the Latin Language (Cambridge, 2013), p. 384. See also R. Renehan, ‘On Gender Switching as a Literary Device in Latin Poetry’, Style and Tradition: Studies in Honor of Wendell Clausen, ed. P. Knox and C. Foss (Stuttgart, 1998), pp. 212–29 at pp. 213–14. 17 Priscian, ‘Institutiones grammaticae’, Grammatici Latini ex recensione Henrici Keilii, ed. M. Hertz, 7 vols (Leipzig, 1855), V.39, II, p. 166. 18 Priscian, ‘Institutiones grammaticae’, V.39, II, p. 166: ‘Breviter quoque de generibus inxterminantium sic possumus dicere, quod inxdesinentia adiectiva communia sunt trium generum, ut “hic” et “haec” et “hoc audax”, “artifex”, “felix”, “velox”, appellativa vero ad utrumque sexum hominum pertinentia communia utriusque, ut “hic” et “haec coniunx, dux”’. Priscian also used dux as an important exception to those masculine and feminine nouns ending in dux (such as rex and lux), noting ‘excipitur unum commune “hic” et “haec dux”’ (Priscian, ‘Institutiones grammaticae’, V.36, II, p. 164). 19 Vaahtera, ‘On Grammatical Gender’, p. 236. 20 Priscian, ‘Institutiones grammaticae’, V.39, II, p. 166: ‘appellativa vero ad utrumque sexum hominum pertinentia communia utriusque’. 21 Priscian, ‘Institutiones grammaticae’, V.39, II, p. 166: ‘[…] quae autem ad solos mares pertinent, masculina, et quae ad feminas, feminina, ut “hic rex”, “haec paelex”’. 22 According to Margaret Gibson’s handlist of medieval manuscripts of Priscian’s Institutiones grammaticae, sixty-four manuscripts date to the eighth, ninth, and tenth centuries, of which sixteen contained complete transmissions (M. Gibson, ‘Priscian, “Institutiones grammaticae”: A Handlist of Manuscripts’, Scriptorium 26 (1972), pp. 105–24). For an overview of Priscian and early medieval engagement with his work, see A. Luhtala, ‘Syntax and Dialectic in Carolingian Commentaries on Priscian’s Institutiones grammaticae’, Historiographia linguistica 20 (1993), pp. 145–91. More generally, see R. Copeland and I. Sluiter, ‘Priscian, Institutiones grammaticae and Institutio de Nomine Pronomine Verbo, ca. 520’, Medieval

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extensive interlinear and marginal glosses. In the margins of one ninth-century manuscript, for instance, the glossator reiterated the distinction between some nouns which reflect natural gender, such as rex or regina, ‘but dux is a common [noun] and pertains to both sexes and does not having another ending in the feminine’.23 Over the centuries Priscian’s words became incorporated into new compositions on grammar, with the example of dux as a common noun finding its way into the works of the Ars grammatica of both Alcuin of York and pseudo-Clemens Scottus.24 By the early eleventh century, medieval scholars had created new arrangements – often labelled excerptiones – of Priscian’s sixteen volume work. Indeed, in the late tenth-century Excerptiones de Prisciano, associated with Bishop Aelfric of Eynsham, Priscian’s passage delineating the appellative noun of dux as a common noun was repeated and reinscribed.25 Dux, at times, was selected by Roman historians, poets, and orators to underscore the virtue or vice of a woman who led others. Two interrelated examples from Livy’s Ab urbe condita and Virgil’s Aeneid illustrate the frequent semantic association between dux, virtuous action, and the feedback loop of political esteem. While these classical authors had a relatively limited readership in the early Middle Ages, manuscript evidence has survived to suggest that Livy and Virgil were known to Judith’s and Beatrix’s epistolary correspondents, Rather of Verona and Gerbert of Reims. Indeed, an early significant manuscript of Livy’s Ab urbe condita has broadly been accepted as produced under the auspices of Rather of Verona in the mid-tenth century.26 Likewise, Gerbert famously explicated Virgil and other classical authors

Grammar and Rhetoric: Language Arts and Literary Theory, AD 300–1475, ed. R. Copeland and I. Sluiter (Oxford, 2012), pp. 167–89. 23 ‘ad utru[m]q[ue] sexum pertinet sed tamen masculinum . e[st] . hic rex . nam femina[m] . in a fecit regina . Dux autem commune . e[st] . quia et ad utrumq[ue] sexum p[er]tinet . et non habet alium t[er]minatione[m] in feminino’ (BnF, MS lat. 7505, f. 59r (s.ix2/2)). 24 Alcuin, Ars grammatica, PL 101, col. 866: ‘Item appellativa ad utrumque sexum hominum pertinentia communia sunt, ut hic et haec conjux, dux’; Ps-Clemens Scottus, ‘Ars Grammatica’, Clementis qui dicitur Ars grammatica: A Critical Edition, ed. A. M. Puckett, unpublished PhD thesis (University of California, 1978), p. 182: ‘In ux masculina Graeca, ut “hic Pollux Uolux”; feminina Latina, ut “haec lux nux frux”; duorum generum communia, ut “hic et haec dux” […]’. It is important to note, however, that not every early medieval grammarian classified dux as a common noun. Indeed, the anonymous author of the Ars Bernensis (Bern, Burgerbiblithek, MS Cod. 123, ff. 78v–117r (s.ix/x) classified dux as a masculine noun: ‘In ux quot genera inueniuntur? Tria, masculina, ut hic Pollux Pollucis, quod proprium est, (et appellatiuum,) ut hic dux ducis; feminina, ut haec nux nucis, lux lucis, crux crucis; commune duorum generum, ut hic et haec frux’ (Ars Bernensis, f. 107r, and in Grammatica Latini ex recensione Heinrici Keilii Supplementum: Anecdota Helvetica, ed. H. Hagen (Leipzig, 1870), p. 119). 25 See D. W. Porter, ed., Excerptiones de Prisciano: The Source for Ælfric’s Latin-Old English Grammar (Cambridge, 2002); see also Alcuin: Excerptiones super Priscianum, ed. L. Holtz and A. Grondeux (Turnhout, 2020). 26 Florence, Biblioteca Medicea Laurenziana, MS Plut. 63.19. A digitized version can be seen here: http://mss.bmlonline.it/s.aspx?Id=AWOIt5ljI1A4r7GxMMXZ&c=T.%20Livius#/oro/69 (accessed 1 February 2023). See G. Billanovich, ‘Dal Livio di Raterio al Livio del Petrarca’, Italia medioevale e umanistica 2 (1959), pp. 103–33; and G. Billanovich, La tradizione del testo di Livio e le origini dell’umanesimo, 2 vols (Padua, 1981), I, pp. 241–66.



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to his young students of rhetoric at Reims.27 Furthermore, an eleventh-century manuscript transmitting Virgil’s Epitomae, Aeneid, and other texts culminated in a distich at the end of the manuscript which, though faded, still proclaims, ‘This book repeats the praises of Gerbert throughout the world, which he himself presented to our library’.28 The first exemplum stemmed from the second book of Livy’s Ab urbe condita.29 In the midst of his narration of an ongoing war between Rome and the Etruscan town of Clusium c. 500 BCE, Livy related the remarkable escape of a band of hostages, who had been offered as part of a peace treaty between a newly republican Rome and the Etruscan city of Clusium ruled by Porsenna.30 Inspired by the brave example of Gaius Mucius Scaevola’s failed attempt to assassinate Porsenna and subsequent incineration of his right hand, Cloelia became a dux agminis virginum, a general in command of a band of young girls, who led the evasion of their guards and the treacherous swim across the Tiber as Cloelia and her troops dodged the enemies’ javelins.31 The short passage surrounding this event aptly demonstrated how virtuous action fuelled the economy of esteem, and how important the feedback loop was to this process. First Cloelia was inspired by the young Republic’s high esteem of Mucius Scaevola’s virtus, and the performance of virtue in general. After Scaevola was rewarded with land for his valour, ‘consequently, with virtus held in such esteem, women too were incited to public honors’.32 After she led her legion across the Tiber into the safety of their families’ embrace, Porsenna was initially enraged, but, as Livy stated, ‘his anger turning to wonder, he said that it was a deed surpassing the likes of Cocles and Mucius’.33 A new peace agreement was arranged, in which Cloelia and the young girls were sent back as hostages once more. Upon her return, the king praised Cloelia, and allowed her to choose amongst the hostages who could be under her own control and consequently earn their freedom.34 After she decreed that those hostages who had not reached puberty should be released, Cloelia earned 27

O. G. Darlington, ‘Gerbert, The Teacher’, AmHR 52 (1947), pp. 456–76; J. Lake, ‘Gerbert of Aurillac and the Study of Rhetoric in Tenth-Century Reims’, Journal of Medieval Latin 23 (2013), pp. 49–85. 28 For Gerbert’s ‘colophon’, see BnF, MS lat. 7930, f. 208v. A digitized version can be seen here: https://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b10545282z/f406.item# (accessed 1 February 2023). For the translation of the colophon and wider context of this manuscript, see C. Villa, ‘Terence’s Audience and Readership in the Ninth to Eleventh Centuries’, Terence between Late Antiquity and the Age of Printing: Illustration, Commentary and Performance, ed. A. J. Turner and G. Torello-Hill (Leiden, 2015), pp. 237–50 at pp. 245–6. 29 For Cloelia as an exemplum in Roman historiography, see M. B. Roller, Models from the Past in Roman Culture: A World of Exempla (Cambridge, 2018), pp. 66–94. 30 Livy, Ab urbe condita, 2.13.4–11. 31 Livy, Ab urbe condita, 2.13.6. 32 Livy, Ab urbe condita, 2.13.6: ‘ergo ita honorata virtute, feminae quoque ad publica decora excitatae’ (and ed. and trans. Roller, Models, pp. 67–8). 33 Livy, Ab urbe condita, 2.13.7–8: ‘quod ubi regi nuntiatum est, primo incensus ira […] deinde in admirationem versus, supra Coclites Muciosque dicere id facinus esse’ (and ed. and trans. Roller, Models, p. 68). 34 Livy, Ab urbe condita, 2.13.9: ‘apud regem Etruscum non tuta solum sed honorata etiam virtus fuit, laudatamque virginem parte obsidum se donare dixit; ipsa quos vellet legeret’ (and ed. and trans. Roller, Models, p. 68).

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herself even more praise, for even ‘in the hostages’ own collective view [this] was commendable, that the age that was most at risk of violation be freed from the enemy first and foremost’.35 Cloelia’s honour and esteem reached far beyond her captors’ camp, as ‘the Romans rewarded this novel virtus in a woman with a novel form of honour (honoris), an equestrian statue; at the top of the Sacred Way was placed a virgo sitting upon a horse’.36 The Senate’s public esteem in response to Mucius Scaevola’s exhibition of virtus inspired Cloelia. Cloelia’s fortitude in turn inspired a legion of young women as well as a foreign king towards virtuous action. Finally, the Senate rewarded Cloelia’s novam virtutem with the public honour of a statue in a prominent position in the centre of Rome. This aggregative circle of virtuous performance and public esteem could have faltered at any stage along the way, yet Cloelia navigated the treacherous waters of public esteem and received the esteem of her fellow citizens. In turn, the material edification of her honos enshrined served to inspire future generations towards virtus. The potent image of Cloelia escaping her captors and braving the Tiber was echoed in the works of later Romans, including in that of Virgil. Cloelia shone brightly on the famous Shield of Aeneas in the Aeneid, gleaming in ekphrastic prose as angering a tyrannical Porsenna who dared to oppress Rome as she ‘broke her bonds and swam the river’.37 For the medieval world, however, a better-known maxim centred on a female dux lay in Book I of Virgil’s Aeneid. Virgil augmented the distinction between Dido’s virtue and her brother Pygmalion’s vice through his choice of this charged political term. As Venus appeared to Aeneas, she narrated the woeful backstory of Dido, the audience’s first introduction to this pivotal character.38 Venus’s story stretched back to Dido’s days in her native Tyre, when she was happily married to the Lord Sychaeus in the days of her father.39 However, as soon as her brother Pygmalion gained the throne, a figure who was ‘monstrous in crime above all others’, her fortune changed.40 Pygmalion ordered the murder of Sicherius in secret, a deed which was only revealed to Dido by his ghost.41 Sychaeus’s ghost

35

Livy, Ab urbe condita, 2.13.10: ‘et consensu obsidum ipsorum probabile erat eam aetatem potissimum liberari ab hoste quae maxime opportuna iniuriae esset’ (and ed. and trans. Roller, Models, p. 68). 36 Livy, Ab urbe condita, 2.13.11: ‘pace redintegrata Romani novam in femina virtutem novo genere honoris, statua equestri, donavere; in summa Sacra via fuit posita virgo insidens equo’ (and ed. and trans. Roller, Models, p. 68). 37 Virgil, Aeneid, VIII.646–51, LCL 64, ed. and trans. H. R. Fairclough and G. P. Goold (Cambridge, 1918), pp. 104–5: ‘nec non Tarquinium eiectum Porsenna iubebat / accipere ingentique urbem obsidione premebat; / Aeneadae in ferrum pro libertate ruebant. / illum indignanti similem similemque minanti / aspiceres, pontem auderet quia vellere Cocles / et fluvium vinclis innaret Cloelia ruptis’. For a recent analysis of how the memory of Cloelia mutates over time in Roman historiography, and particularly in Virgil, see S. Casali, ‘Porsenna, Horatius Cyclops, and Cloelia (Virgil, Aeneid 8.649–51)’, The Classical Quarterly 70 (2020), pp. 724–33, esp. pp. 730–2. 38 Virgil, Aeneid, I.310 ff., p. 284. LCL 63, ed. and trans. H.R. Fairclough and G.P. Goold (Cambridge, 1916). 39 Virgil, Aeneid, I.344–6, p. 286. 40 Virgil, Aeneid, I.347, p. 286: ‘scelere ante alios immanior omnis’. 41 Virgil, Aeneid, I.353, p. 286.



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bid Dido to flee, along with a great deal of Pygmalion’s hidden treasure.42 Therefore, so Venus related, Moved by this, Dido made ready her flight and her company. Then all assemble who felt towards the tyrant relentless hatred or keen fear; ships, which by chance were ready, they seize and load with gold; the wealth of grasping Pygmalion is borne overseas; the woman was the dux of this deed.43

In these lines, Virgil cast Dido and Pygmalion in opposition, as the wronged widow suffering under the tyrant king. Dido’s virtuous actions, however, reframed her role: after learning the real cause of her husband’s demise, she quickly marshalled close allies, who were equally appalled by their tyrannical ruler, gained economic securities, harnessed an unknown number of ships, and lead her gathered allies to another shore. The phrase dux femina took on varied gendered and political connotations in the imperial Roman and late antique world: Seneca inserted malorum between dux and femina in a speech of Hippolytus to cast all women as the root of evil, while Jerome employed the original Virgilian phrase to castigate unworthy men who had failed in their oaths of chastity and to encourage them to follow their fellow chaste women as they led the way in this specific virtue.44 According to the eleventh-century Fundatio monasterii Brunwilarensis, this very line was selected to adorn the grave of the Pfalzgräfin Mathilda, the daughter of Otto II and wife of Ezzo of Lotharingia, as it first praised the noble line of Mathilda through a line of imperial Ottos who subdued Rome, and then Mathilda herself, ‘the builder of this house, the woman [who] was the leader of this deed’.45 Such manifold appropriations each utilized the term dux to highlight the virtuous or vicious actions of their subjects, thereby eliciting the esteem or ‘dis-esteem’ of their imaginary followers and, by extension, the text’s audience. From dux to duces: Judith of Bavaria and Beatrix of Lotharingia in context In order to move from grammatical theory and the classical past to tenth-century praxis, the subsequent sections focus on the charters and letters pertaining to two tenth-century figures: Judith of Bavaria and Beatrix of Lotharingia. Both born to noble families, Judith of Bavaria had the somewhat unusual role of ruling as duchess

42

Virgil, Aeneid, I.357–9, p. 286. Virgil, Aeneid, I.360–4, p. 286: ‘his commota fugam Dido sociosque parabat. / conveniunt quibus aut odium crudele tyranni / aut metus acer erat; navis, quae forte paratae, / corripiunt onerantque auro; portantur avari / Pygmalionis opes pelago; dux femina facti’. 44 Seneca, Phaedra, 559, LCL 62, ed. J. G. Fitch (Cambridge, 2002), p. 462; Jerome, Ad Rusticum de paenitentia (Ep. 122), 4.3, CSEL 56, ed. I. Hilberg (Leipzig, 1918), p. 70; Jerome employed this Virgilian turn of phrase in at least two more letters: Jerome, Ad Pammachius (Ep. 66), CSEL 54, ed. I. Hilberg (Leipzig, 1910), p. 650 and Jerome, Ad Julianum (Ep. 118), CSEL 54, ed. I. Hilberg (Leipzig, 1910), p. 445. 45 G. Waitz, ed., Brunwilarensis monasterii fundatorum actus, 16, MGH SS 14 (Hanover, 1883), p. 135: ‘Haec huius tecti structrix, dux femina facti’. 43

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in the same region into which she was born.46 Judith’s father was the Duke Arnulf of Bavaria, providing a claim for her royal husband, Henry the Younger, the second son of the first Ottonian couple, King Henry I and Queen Mathilda. Upon the death of her cousin Berthold, Henry the Younger and Judith became the duke and duchess of Bavaria in 947. According to Widukind, such an arrangement came about as a result of three factors: first, Queen Mathilda’s ‘urging and intercession’ with her son King Otto I to make peace with his brother Henry, ‘now worn down by his many misfortunes’; second, the death of the previous duke Berthold; finally, Judith herself not only had a strong familial tie to Bavaria, but was also ‘distinguished by her beauty, and exceptional for her intelligence (prudentia)’.47 Her key virtue of prudentia would be sorely needed, as the early 950s saw significant changes. Their son, Henry, was born in 951, and the following year, Otto I bestowed the marchio of Verona and Aquileia onto his brother, in addition to his ducatus in Bavaria and Carinthia.48 Duke Henry I died only four years later, after which Judith assumed control until their son grew into adulthood. In contrast, Beatrix governed as dux in a distant court. Beatrix was born into one of the most powerful and well-connected late Carolingian families as she counted as her parents the powerful Duke Hugh of France and Duchess Hedwig. As such, Beatrix was also the niece, through her mother’s side, to Queen Gerberga of France, and Otto I, the king of Saxony and future emperor, as well as Duke Henry I and Judith of Bavaria. Beatrix entered onto the public stage with her marriage to Frederic, the second duke of Bar, in 954.49 In 959, another uncle of Beatrix’s, the archbishop and Duke Brun of Cologne, created the ducatus of Upper Lotharingia, to which Frederic and Beatrix were appointed as duke and duchess.50 Upon Frederic’s death in 978, Beatrix retained control, since, like Judith, she was the mother to an underage son, Theoderic. Significant parallels appear when examining the political trajectory of the two duces in question. Both Judith and Beatrix instrumentalized close familial ties with the imperial Ottonian family, and most especially with the empresses Adelheid and Theophanu, in the extant diplomatic record.51 Both duchesses held their duchies 46

For prosopographical studies, see A. Schmid, ‘Herzogin Judith von Bayern (nach 985)’, Beiträge zur Geschichte des Bistums Regensburg 43 (2009), pp. 19–32; A. Schmid, ‘Herzogin Judith von Bayern’, Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte 76 (2013), pp. 389–406. 47 Widukind of Corvey, Rerum gestarum Saxonicarum, II.36, MGH SS rer. Germ. 60, ed. P. Hirsch (Hanover, 1935), p. 95: ‘Feminae egregiae formae mirabilisque prudentiae’. 48 Adalbert of Magdeburg, Continuatio regionis, a. 952, MGH SS rer. Germ. 50, ed. F. Kurze (Hanover, 1890), p. 166; R. Deutinger and J. Dendorfer, ‘Von den Liutpoldingern zu den Welfen’, Das alte Bayern. Von der Vorgeschichte bis zum Hochmittelalter, ed. A. Schmid (Munich, 2017), pp. 262–417 (at p. 275); K. Brunner, Herzogtümer und Marken. Vom Ungarnsturm bis ins 12. Jahrhündert (Österreichische Geschichte 907–1156) (Vienna, 1994), pp. 68 ff.; H. Krahwinkler, ‘Karantanien und Bayern im Frühmittelalter: Politik und Missionierung’, Innichen im Früh- und Hochmittelalter. Historische und kunsthistorische Aspekte. San Candido dall’alto Medioevo al Duecento. Aspetti di storia e storia dell’arte, ed. G. Pfeifer (Innsbruck, 2019), pp. 187–204 (at p. 202). 49 Flodoard, Annales, a. 954, Les Annales de Flodoard, ed. P. Lauer (Paris, 1905), p. 139. 50 Flodoard, Annales, a. 959, pp. 146–7. 51 In the extant diplomatic record, Judith interceded with Empress Adelheid in five charters: MGH DD O[tto] I, ed. T. Sickel (Hanover, 1879–84), nos 431, 432, 433, pp. 584–6 and, MGH DD O[tto] II, ed. T. Sickel (Hanover, 1893), nos 40, 41, pp. 50–1, while Beatrix interceded



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for over a decade. Both women were described as dux and ductrix in tenth- and early eleventh-century texts, and ducissa in later works.52 Indeed, the hagiographic memoria of Judith and Beatrix in later centuries cast both women as the impetus behind the translation of relics, with Judith bearing her divine corpora from Jerusalem, ‘in the habit of kings’.53 Interestingly, significant evidence survives suggesting that descendants of both women also employed the title dux: Judith’s daughter, Hadwig of Swabia, a famously erudite scholar, was described in contemporary diplomatic and narrative sources as dux, while Beatrix’s more distant descendant, the eleventh-century Beatrix of Tuscany, styled herself as dux et comitissa in her letters.54 Instead of continuing in this biographical vein, the following pages isolate individual charters and letters in their immediate and archival contexts. Both genres are simultaneously deeply formulaic and highly rhetorical in nature; they must both conform to written and visual norms, yet they can also carefully manipulate these very same norms in order to persuade their audience of a new path forward. On the whole, one might distinguish charters and letters in their desired effect upon their audience: in addition to their legal function, tenth-century charters often acted as an idealized projection of how the political sphere should be ordered; tenth-century letters, on the other hand, often have at their heart a plea for their recipients to change that same sphere in some small or great manner. In short, charters project; letters plead. As such, my central concern for the term dux in such contemporary documents functions as both a projection of the honos Judith and Beatrix embodied at specific moments and an indication of how others hoped they would instrumentalize that honos for other ends. Illustrious and venerable: dux in imperial charters During their tenures as dux, Judith and Beatrice both received benefices and interceded in diplomas and private charters.55 However, only two diplomas remain extant with Empress Theophanu in one charter (MGH DD O[tto] III, ed. T. Sickel (Hanover, 1893), no. 2, pp. 395–6). 52 In addition to the charters noted above and the letters discussed below, see B. Krusch and W. Levison, ed., Vita Erhardi episcopi Bavarici (De miraculis sancti Erhardi), II.4, MGH SS rer. Merov. 6 (Hanover, 1913), p. 19; F. Baumann, ed., Necrologium monasterii inferioris Ratisbonensis, MGH Necr. 3 (Berlin, 1905), p. 280; O. Holder-Egger, ed., Fundatio ecclesiae s. Maximi Barrensis, MGH SS 15.2 (Hanover, 1888), p. 981; Wideric, Vita Gerardi episcopi Tullensis, c. 21 MGH SS 4, ed. G. Waitz (Hanover, 1841), p. 503; Richer of Sens, Gesta Senoniensis ecclesiae, c. 15, MGH SS 25, ed. G. Waitz (Hanover, 1880), pp. 276–7. An interesting exception is the early eleventh-century vita of Beatrix’s son, Bishop Adalbero of Metz, written by Abbot Constantinus of Saint Symphorian, in which Beatrix has no title, other than pacis propagatrix. In an early eleventh-century manuscript located to St Symphorian Abbey, Beatrix’s nomen has been underlined on three separate folios (BnF, MS lat. 5294, ff. 69r–70r); Constantinus of Saint Symphorian, Vita Adalberonis II, c. 3, MGH SS 4, ed. G. Waitz (Hanover, 1841), p. 660. 53 Krusch and Levison, ed., Vita Erhardi, p. 19: ‘uti reges solet’. 54 MGH DD O[tto] III no. 63, p. 469; Beatrice and Matilda of Tuscany, Ep. 18, Die Urkunden und Briefe der Markgräfin Mathilde von Tuszien, ed. E. Goez and W. Goez (Hanover, 1998), p. 78. 55 In addition to the diplomas noted above, see Wideric, Vita Gerardi episcopi Tullensis, c. 21, p. 503; J. Widemann, Die Traditionen des Hochstifts Regensburg und des Klosters S.

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that describe each person as dux. These two documents provide significant insight into how their titles of dux functioned within the economy of esteem to result in the production of these benefices for their fideles as well as in the broader publicization of their effectual leadership as duces. On 3 April 965 at Ingelheim, Emperor Otto I granted a certain Negomir properties in Wirtschach, near Klagenfurt, which lay in the comitatus of Count Hartwig, through the intercession of the dux Judith and the entreaty of Bishop Abraham of Freising.56 The first important matter to note is that this charter has survived in its original form, replete with its chrismon, litterae elongata in the first line, imperial monogram and seal, and Rekognitionszeichen. The scribe’s stylus did not slip; a clear and confident ducis domineque Iudite occupies the centre of the second line of this document.57 In the text itself, Judith interceded for a vassal of one of her closest allies, Bishop Abraham of Freising, who himself was assigned a slightly cooler set of signifiers as ‘our dear enough bishop’.58 The wider context of this diploma is significant. The Ottonian court had just made its way back from Otto’s second Italian expedition, during which the imperial couple had been anointed emperor and empress. The Ottonians had crossed the Alps only a few months before, stopping first at Reichenau and Worms to grant charters for Einsiedeln and Reichenau abbeys. In addition to this significant shift in Ottonian politics, the location of the charter broadcast signals as well. These charters were issued at Ingelheim, a place deeply rooted in Ottonian memoria as a palatio first built by Charlemagne himself, which, as archaeological reports have shown, was augmented during the Ottonian period.59 Ingelheim served as a spatial linchpin, as it drew together the imbedded and architectural memories of a Carolingian imperial past with the present arrival of a new imperial Ottonian court. Returning to the written record, no diplomatic or narrative evidence exists to suggest that Judith travelled south with the Ottonian court during Otto I’s and Adelheid’s three-year Italian expedition. As such, this weeks-long assembly in Ingelheim might have functioned as the first time in years that Judith and her Bavarian fideles met with their imperially anointed rulers. The Ottonian court resided in Ingelheim for at least a few weeks, as Adalbert of Magdeburg claims that the Ottonians spent Easter (which was 26 March) in Ingelheim, ‘which they celebrated with great joy’.60 During these weeks which lasted until at least 5 April, three charters were negotiated and produced that granted lands to Otto I’s foundation at St Maurice in MagdeEmmeram (Munich, 1943), nos 195, 196. 56 MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 279, pp. 395–6. 57 The scribe did, however, seem to add one flourish too many beside Otto’s monogram (‘Otto pigissimi imperatoris’) MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 279, p. 396. A colour facsimile of this original charter can be found in W. Landi, Otto Rubeus fundator. Eine historische-diplomatische Untersuchung zu den karolingischen und ottonischen Privilegien für das Kloster Innichen (769–992) (Innsbruck, 2016), Tafel V. 58 MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 279, p. 396: ‘et oratu nobis satis cari episcopi Abrahe’. 59 P. Classen, ‘Die Geschichte der Königspfalz Ingelheim bis zur Verpfändung an Kurpfalz 1375’, Ingelheim am Rhein: Forschungen und Studien zur Geschichte Ingelheims, ed. J. Autenrieth (Ingelheim, 1964), pp. 87–146 (at pp. 105–16); W. Sage, ‘Zur archäologischen und baugeschichtlichen Erforschung der Ingelheimer Pfalz’, Ingelheim am Rhein: Forschungen und Studien zur Geschichte Ingelheims, ed. J. Autenrieth (Ingelheim, 1964), pp. 65–86; A. Ball, Der Sakralbau der Kaiserpfalz zu Ingelheim: Ort mittelalterlicher Reichsgeschicte (Ingelheim, 2004), pp. 14–24. 60 Adalbert of Magdeburg, Continuato Regionis, s. a. 965, p. 627.



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burg (for which Archbishop Willigis of Mainz interceded) and confirmed Carolingian privileges for Saint Maximin Abbey in Trier (for which Empress Adelheid interceded), in addition to the benefice for Negomir.61 At this significant place and political juncture, Judith’s close relationship with Bishop Abraham of Freising was broadcast with their joint intercession. The reinterpreted memory of their close ties would be written down decades after Judith’s death when Thietmar of Merseburg composed his Chronicon.62 Yet, in this charter, in the precise diplomatic moment of 965, Judith employed her esteem as dux and a beloved domina to aid Abraham and his vassal, as they successfully sought together to negotiate the production of a charter. Similar dynamics in the production of esteem were at play almost twenty years later at a grand conventus in Verona, when Beatrix intervened for Bishop Notker of Liège, alongside Bishop Theoderic of Metz.63 As in Ingelheim, the setting and timing were important. By June of 983, the Ottonians were in dire straits. News had spread throughout the empire of the Ottonian emperor’s disastrous defeat at Cotrone against the Byzantines the year before. As such, Thietmar of Merseberg claimed that all the principes of the imperial realm ‘sadly gathered and, together, sent a messenger to the emperor with a letter that conveyed their humble desire to see him again’.64 In response, Emperor Otto II summoned together these leading magnates for every principatus in his remit to an assembly ‘at which many pressing matters would be discussed’.65 Magnates from Saxony, Bavaria, and the Italian cities, as well as magnates from the west Carolingian kingdom and the Lotharingian ducatus, all gathered together in May to discuss significant imperial matters, not in the least the election of Otto II’s heir, the three-year-old child Otto III, to the imperial throne. In the midst of such dynastic decisions, scribes produced over twenty extant diplomas. These charters – which have survived both in their original forms in some cases, as well as in later cartularies for others – ranged from the conclusion of lengthy treaties with the doge and citizens of Venice to the foundation of new monastic houses north of the Alps, to confirmation grants for more established foundations, such as Saint Emmeram in Regensburg and Peterlingen in Upper Burgundy.66 The majority of these diplomas involved one or more intercessors offering their advice and submitting their requests either in person or through legates sent to the conventus from afar, thereby establishing or confirming both the broader consensus and support for the beneficiaries, but also the esteemed position of the intercessors themselves.67 It was within this collective context that Beatrix herself interceded

61

MGH DD O[tto] I, nos 278, 280, pp. 394–7. Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, II.41, MGH SS rer. Germ. N.S. 9, ed. R. Holtzmann (Berlin, 1935), pp. 90–1. 63 MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365. 64 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, III.24, p. 129: ‘[…] conveniunt dolentes et, ut eum sibi liceret videre, per epistolae portitorem unanimi supplicacione poscebant’; trans. D. Warner, Ottonian Germany: The Chronicon of Thietmar of Merseburg (Manchester, 2001), p. 146. 65 Thietmar of Merseburg, Chronicon, III.24, p. 129: ‘[…] ut hic multa necessaria tractarentur’; trans. Warner, Ottonian Germany, p. 146. 66 MGH DD O[tto] II, nos 291–313, pp. 343–70. 67 On the importance of the intercessor in ninth- and tenth-century politics, see S. Gilsdorf, The Favor of Friends: Intercession and Aristocratic Politics in Carolingian and Ottonian Europe (Leiden, 2014). 62

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for Bishop Notker of Liège on 15 June 983 in Verona.68 Through an unknown route, Beatrix travelled to Verona to attend this major conventus, where she would not only witness the imperial election of Otto III and varied negotiations that would ripple far beyond Verona itself, but also confirm her own position and abilities to elicit at least one imperial diploma for her own fidelis. The diploma in question bestowed upon Bishop Notker the rights to the market tithes in Visé, a benefice that was brought to the attention of the emperor through ‘just petition’ of two of Otto II’s relatives: Bishop Theoderic of Metz and the ‘illustrious dux’ Beatrix.69 Before investigating the intricacies of this diploma further, consideration must be paid to its complex transmission history from the tenth century to the modern era, particularly as the word choice of dux plays a central role in this particular diploma. Unlike several other diplomas issued in Verona, this diploma does not remain extant in its original form, nor even in a later cartulary. Instead, the surviving transcription of this diploma has only survived in the first volume of the Benedictine Edmond Martène’s extensive publication, the Veterum scriptorum et monumentorum historicorum, dogmaticorum, moralium amplissima collectio published in 1724.70 Martène’s only resource for the transcription of this charter was the papers of his letter correspondent, Baron de Crassier.71 De Crassier was an avid antiquarian, who resided in Liège in the early part of the eighteenth century and often sifted through monastic archives nearby and elsewhere for manuscripts associated with the late tenth-century Bishop Notker of Liège.72 According to a letter from the baron to the Benedictine that survived in a letter collection of several eighteenth-century Benedictines, de Crassier found this charter in its original form in the archives of Saint John the Evangelist Church in Liège, which had been founded by Notker, c. 980, and subsequently survived as the bishop’s final resting place.73 It seems that no other scholar from de Crassier’s time onward has laid eyes on this diploma, and so the original quality of this diploma cannot be verified or queried. Following this imperial diploma’s possible deposit in Liège, early twentieth-century historians noted that two later copies of this diploma were preserved in the first folios of a sixteenth-century cartulary, Magnus Liber Ruber Chartarum I, and its later copy, Magnus Liber Ruber Chartarum II. However, these cartularies where either completely destroyed in 1944 (as in the case of MLRC I), or survive in fragmentary form with charters only from 1107 onwards (in the case of MLRC II).74 This tragic history of manuscripts found and ultimately lost has not led modern scholars to doubt the grant, or its wording, to date. However, the fact that the diploma only survives in a later copy prevents close examination of the physical object of the 68

MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365. MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365: ‘quia nostram adierunt serenitatem venerabilis scilicet Mettensium episcopus Theodericus noster consanguineus et illustris dux Beatrix nostra consobrina’. 70 E. Martène, Veterum scriptorum et monumentorum historicorum, dogmaticorum, moralium amplissima collectio, 9 vols (Paris, 1724), I, pp. 331–2. 71 ‘Ex schedis Cl. V. baronis de Crassier’. Martène, Veterum scriptorum, p. 332. 72 For more on Baron de Crassier and his family, see J. Rouhart-Chabot, Inventaire des archives de la famille de Crassier et de ses alliés (Brussels, 1960). 73 See BnF, MS fr. 25537, f. 186v; L. Halkin, ed., Correspondance de dom Edmond Martène avec le baron G. de Crassier (Brussels, 1898), p. 92. 74 See L. Lahaye, Inventaire analytique des chartes de la Collégiale de Saint-Jean l’Évangéliste à Liége, 2 vols (Brussels, 1921), I, pp. 59–88. 69



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charter, which would enable us to note any significant deviations from the visual formulae and signifiers imbedded on the sheaf of parchment itself and any later notations made by subsequent generations. With these caveats in mind, the language of the diploma itself contains several illuminating features. First, the imperial scribe situated the intercessors – that is Bishop Theoderic and Beatrix – first with their titles: venerabilis Mettensium episcopus and illustris dux, respectively, and then, after their listed names, with the additional signifier of their close familial relationship to the emperor as consanguineus (kinsman) and consobrina (cousin, or more generally, relation).75 Together this venerable bishop and illustrious dux approached Otto II on behalf of Notker for the concession of the market tithes in the villa of Visé, ‘which we had once granted to our aforesaid neptis’.76 This diploma therefore claimed that at some time in the past, Otto II had previously granted Beatrix control over Visé’s market tithes.77 The scribe then continued on to state that Otto II granted Notker these market tithes, in light of the ‘just petition’ of Theoderic and Beatrix.78 The goods taxed at this market are then listed, including ‘animals of every kind’, as well as clothes, iron, and other metals that derived from ships or other modes of transport.79 At this later point, the scribe reiterated once more that ‘the aforementioned dux had held [these taxes] from our treasury’.80 They also subsequently added that Beatrix ‘had pleaded for the bishops, and had held judicial power by our permission or from the iure praedii in the district of count L’.81 Even though this charter has not survived in its original form, it is perhaps these specificities concerning Visé’s market tolls that has led scholars to categorize the production of this charter as one composed outside of the imperial chancery, with David Bachrach recently claiming that this charter must have been composed by a scribe working for Beatrix herself.82 As dux, Beatrix controlled certain benefices and their revenues, for which she could then directly intercede with the emperor and his court at an important and well-attended conventus to secure the transfer of these rights to a third party. She worked with the imperial court both as Otto II’s kinswoman – which was situated in corresponding language as Theoderic of Metz’s relationship – and as a distinguished leader of Upper Lotharingia. Her intercession with another member of her realm functioned both to secure Notker his benefice, and also to broadcast publicly this ability to the many other magnates gathered to witness the production of this charter. 75

MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365. MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365: ‘quod etiam dictae nepti nostrae ad tempus concesseramus’. 77 For an alternate reading that argues that the revenues of the market were granted to Theoderic, and not Beatrix, see D. Bachrach, ‘The Benefices of Counts and the Fate of the Comital Office in Carolingian East Francia and Ottonian Germany’, Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte: Germanistische Abteilung 136 (2019), pp. 1–50 (at p. 42 and n. 171). 78 MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365. 79 MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365: ‘ex coemptione animalium vel ex omni genere’. 80 MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365: ‘quod iam dicta dux de camera nostra tenuerat […]’. 81 MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365: ‘[…] et episcopo placitaverat et quod quaelibet iudiciaria potestas nostro permissu vel districto comitis L. de iure praedii possidebat’. 82 Bachrach, ‘The Benefices of Counts’, p. 42. In his notes to his edition of this charter, Theodor von Sickel argued that it was crafted outside of the imperial chancery, but did not postulate further (MGH DD O[tto] II, no. 308, p. 365). 76

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The immediate political and longer-term archival contexts between these two diplomas differ significantly. From the level of detail in the 983 charter, scholars can glean much more about Beatrix’s involvement than Judith’s, as the scribe detailed not only Beatrix’s kinship and ducal position within the Ottonian political order, but also her control over market tithes and her significant efforts to convey them to a third party. The possibility of an external scribe from outside the imperial chancery could also explain the almost entirely unique ascription of illustris to describe dux Beatrix in the corpus of Ottonian diplomas. On the other hand, the adjective attached to describe Judith as dux, namely dilecta, was attached in its masculine form dux in at least ten other charters.83 Perhaps significantly, five of these ten diplomas corresponded to the intercession of a previous duke of Bavaria, Berthold.84 Furthermore, the nachleben of these women’s relationships with their co-intercessors could not differ more starkly: while Thietmar claimed that in the years after Duke Henry I’s death, Judith favoured Abraham above others so greatly that she was ‘ripped by the malevolent teeth of public opinion’, epistolary evidence suggests that Theoderic of Metz probably fell far from Beatrice’s favour before his death in 984.85 Before we move on, however, one significant comparison can be made: both charters were produced at a public assembly. Indeed, both diplomas were issued in significant locations – one in Ingelheim, one in Verona – during assemblies that produced series of other diplomas. As such, the appellation of dux attached to Judith and Beatrix would have reverberated in the ears not only of the sitting emperor and empress, but with extended members of the Ottonian court. If charters did not only constitute a legal agreement, but also an attempt to project political ideas, dux then features not as these women’s achievement of a masculine ideal, but as a signifier that broadcast Judith and Beatrice as beloved and illustrious leaders to the broader Ottonian court. Excellentiam acuminis: epistolary pleas addressed to Judith and Beatrix These two charters presented a finished product in which Judith and Beatrix as favoured duces of the Ottonian empire accomplished the smooth transition of economic resources and legal rights from one party to another. Several letters from the epistolary collections of Rather of Verona and Gerbert of Reims, however, expose the immense political struggles that lay behind this smooth veneer and reveal the messy, unstable process of governance. The letters in question were sent in media res of two crises: one deeply personal with transalpine implications, the other dynastic and involving almost every major political magnate across several late tenth-century kingdoms. These letters, more pointedly, demonstrate how central 83

MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 30 (29 May, 940), p. 116; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 33 (12 July 940), p. 119; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 49 (22 September 942), p. 133; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 67 (4 June 943), p. 147; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 71 (17 December 945), p. 151; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 76 (9 May 946), p. 156; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 78 (21 June 946), p. 157; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 93 (4 August 947), p. 175; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 105 (1 October 948), p. 189; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 116 (1 January 950), p. 198. The final charter described the recently deceased Duke Herman’s last wishes. 84 MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 30; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 33; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 49; MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 67; DD O[tto] I, no. 78. 85 Thietmar of Merseberg, Chronicon, II.41, p. 90: ‘invido vulgari dente admodum inculpabilis’; trans. Warner, Ottonian Germany, p. 122.



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the economy of esteem was in such political manoeuvrings, and how the title of dux itself could be instrumentalized to effect change. It must be noted here that both Rather and Gerbert knew first-hand how elusive and changeable titles could be, as both of them at multiple junctures battled to regain lost positions as abbots and bishops.86 Rather of Verona, in particular, reflected the deep anxiety and frustration over losing one’s title in his compositions. Throughout his career, he was appointed, and subsequently exiled, from his episcopal cathedra in Verona no less than three times.87 In the first instance, Rather had backed the wrong royal contender, as he and several other Italian magnates had supported Duke Arnulf of Bavaria – the very same ducal father of Judith – in his bid to seize the marchio of Verona in the early 930s.88 After he was captured by the ultimately triumphant Hugh, formerly duke of Provence and subsequently king of Italy, Rather found himself on trial and exiled, during which he composed his famous treatise, Praeoloquia.89 However, the subsequent analysis concentrates on his third contest for the episcopal throne in 961, when his letters and a sermon explicitly noted both the assistance proffered by the dux domina, and also, in a characteristically sardonic tone, the central position of esteem in the reciprocal relationship between secular leaders and their religious fideles. Rather described his past woes in a Ciceronian aside in his sermon known as the Itinerarium, addressed to his Veronese clergy in 966.90 After rhetorically inquiring in the voice of his clergy why one should be concerned with canon law, Rather sharply reminded his audience that he will ‘leave out the fact that I have been three times exiled contrary to the canons, a thousand times wronged, my bishops illegally taken away from me, and then brought back to it again’.91 After remarking once more that he will leave to one side how his fellow brethren – either by ignorance or by instigation – permitted Rather to be ‘ejected, abused, robbed, given into

86

On Rather and his troubles, see n. 4 above. On Gerbert, see P. Racine, ‘Les Ottoniens et le monastѐre de Bobbio’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien 36 (2002), pp. 271–84; J. Lisson, ‘“The King and the Bishops Have Much To Offer”: Episcopal Appointments and the Legitimacy Conflict Over the Archiepiscopal See of Reims (989–999)’, Early Medieval Europe 28 (2020), pp. 592–626. 87 In addition to the literature cited in n. 4 above, see V. Cavallari, Raterio e Verona (Verona, 1967); A. Vogel, Ratherius von Verona und das zehnte Jahrhundert (Jena, 1854); F. Weigle, Die Briefe des Bischofs Ratherius von Verona (Weimar, 1949); P. L. Reid, Tenth-Century Latinity: Rather of Verona (Malibu, 1981); E. Kurdziel, ‘La vie est un sport de combat. L’agon dans l’œuvre de Rathier de Vérone (v. 889–974)’, Agôn: La Compétition, Ve-XIIe siècle, ed. F. Bougard, R. Le Jan, and T. Lienhard (Turnhout, 2012), pp. 311–32; J. Wassenaar, ‘Bishops, Canon Law, and the Politics of Belonging in Post-Carolingian Italy, c. 930–c. 960’, Using and Not Using the Past after the Carolingian Empire. c. 900–c. 1050, ed. S. Greer, A. Hicklin, and S. Esders (London, 2020), pp. 221–40. 88 Liudprand, Antapodosis, III.49, p. 100. 89 G. Vignodelli, ‘Il problema della regalità nei Praeloquia di Raterio di Verona’, ‘C’era una volta un re …’. Aspetti e momenti della regalità. Da un seminario del dottorato in Storia medievale (Bologna, 17–18 dicembre 2003) (Bologna, 2005), pp. 59–74. 90 Rather of Verona, Itinerarium, CCCM 46, ed. P. Reid (Turnhout, 1976), pp. 22–33. 91 Rather, Itinerarium, c. 4, p. 26: ‘Omittam quippe ter me contra canones exulatum milies iniuriatum, episcopium mihi illegaliter ademptum, alium super me adultere a ductum, receptum’.

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custody’, Rather underscored the validity of his episcopacy.92 Rather affirmed before the collected clergy that ‘once more by the Creator’s mercy, by the most pious emperor’s clemency, with the help of the most eminent dux (excellentissimae dux), I was rescued and brought back’.93 A fragmentary letter further illustrates how Rather pointedly instrumentalized the support of Judith as dux. The only manuscript in which this letter has been transmitted – now housed in Munich’s Bayerische Staatsbibliothek – is a mid-tenth century collection of Rather of Verona’s letters, sermons, and other works, in addition to notitiae in Rather’s own hand.94 In this form, the letter began on the first folio with Rather lamenting his sorry state: ‘I learned long ago to suffer poverty. I admit that daily bread is not lacking to me, since God mercifully nourishes me according as He pleases but not as my voracity demands, nor do I lack clothing fit for my lowliness’.95 Admitting that his basic needs were met, Rather then asserted that all he desired was for ‘those whom the dux domina instructed to help me, at least not harm me’.96 After praying for the peace to devote himself to the divine and an entreaty for his unnamed enemies to cease their false accusations, Rather reminded his recipient of a previous promise for a gift horse. After a series of requests in regard to this generous gift, Rather concluded that he will ‘readily take whatever kind you give me; only see, as is right, that you do not break your promised word – that I will not have’.97 Within this letter, Judith as the dux domina loomed large: her past commands were recalled not only to shore up Rather’s impoverished state, but also perhaps more importantly to remind the epistle’s recipient of the broader consequences for not following his or her promise. Ducal dictates, however, were like the titles themselves: they could be contested, challenged, or simply deemed irrelevant. In his letter known as the Qualitatis coniectura cuiusdam (‘Examination of the character of a certain person’), Rather confronted growing critiques of his person and his episcopacy that had been brought to the Ottonian court by situating himself in his opponent’s own mindset.98 Rather, so he claimed, was forced to answer the subsequent criticisms from an isolated perspective. As such, Rather created the imaginative device of anticipating his critics 92

Rather, Itinerarium, c. 4, p. 26: ‘pulsum, injuratum, exspoliatum, custodies mancipatum’. Rather, Itinerarium, c. 4, p. 26: ‘misericordia iterum Creatoris, clementia piisimi imperatoris, subventu excellentissimae ducis ereptum’. 94 Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, MS Clm. 6340, f. 1r. Rather’s note: Rather of Verona, Ep. 23, MGH Brief d. dt. Kaiserzeit 1, ed. F. Weigle (Weimar, 1949), p. 119 n. f.: ‘Vicia si quaedam in hoc inveneris lector libello, scribtori quam dictatori imputandum noveris dico’. 95 Rather of Verona, Ep. 23, p. 118: ‘[…] didicerim iam olim penuriam pati. Vi[ctu]m mihi non deesse profiteor cotidianum, Deo, prout illi utique placet, non ut edacitas mea expostulat, me clementer alente, vestitum meae vilitati nec congruum’; trans. Reid, Complete Works, p. 423. 96 Rather of Verona, Ep. 23, pp. 118–19: ‘Unde nil aliud rogito modo, nisi tantum ut, quibus dux domina precepit, quo me adiuvarent, iuberet […]’; trans. Reid, Complete Works, p. 423. 97 Rather of Verona, Ep. 23, p. 119: ‘In quo tamen cum nil minus quam inpactionem diligam pedum, qualemcumque dederitis me recipere noveritis fore paratum, vos tantum, ut decet, vestrum non infametis, quod nolo, promissum’; trans. Reid, Complete Works, p. 423. 98 Rather of Verona, Qualitatis coniectura cuisdam, CCCM 46, ed. P. Reid (Turnhout, 1976), pp. 117–32; D. Cervato, ‘La figura e l’opera di Raterio secondo la Qualitatis coniuctura’, Atti e memorie dell’Accademia di agricoltura, scienze e lettere di Verona: Anno Accademico 1984–1985, vol. 161, ed. C. Vanzetti (Verona, 1987), pp. 345–98. 93



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by voicing their false tattle first: ‘I will myself provide material for my critics for what they are bent on doing, and will combine true with false and moot with certain, collecting here all the idle slanders that I can, enough to satisfy you all; forestalling and anticipating what you do say or what you can say about me’.99 In the subsequent chapters filled with prospective censure, Rather inverted the virtuous order of the tenth-century political sphere, at times in direct contravention to his normative framework set out in his Praeloquia. Most piercingly, his critic claimed that Rather fervently sought virtue in himself and others not for virtue’s sake, but instead for the vainglory that accompanied virtuous action. In his assertion that ‘nobility depends on one’s own abilities and actions’ and not their noble birth, the imaginary opponent claims that Rather was in fact ‘trying to buy the honour which he thus pretends to eschew. He grasps for the show alone, it is evident; true glory he exchanges for vainglory’.100 Therefore, any exhibition or appearance of virtue must indeed have signified hypocrisy, not true goodness. In his critic’s view, such hypocrisy extended unto Rather’s responsibilities as a bishop and his political relationships. After rhetorically inquiring how such a vainglorious man could fulfil the duties of a bishop, the imaginary opponent proclaimed that Rather ‘does not serve the emperor, nor the dux’.101 Indeed, according to his harsh critic, Rather had no interactions with the leaders of the real world, as ‘he does not use their hospitality, makes light of their discussions; he never invites any of them to his own table. He does no favors to any of them and seeks no favors in return; he always goes back home empty-handed’.102 Isolating himself in his superiority, Rather’s critic highlighted the importance of the esteem exchanged between one’s leader and oneself: by avoiding basic pleasantries and, by extension, the opportunity to voice one’s admiration for their rule, the reciprocal relationship between ruler and ruled broke down, leaving Rather himself without any favours to dispense, and vulnerable to critique from multiple parties. Whereas Rather reflected how Judith’s position as dux could, and should, serve his own personal ends, Gerbert of Reims’s letters sought to weaponize Beatrix as a commander to serve a more universal political purpose. Gerbert collected, edited, and perhaps revised his letters at the end of his remarkable life as a monk, scholar, erstwhile bishop, and eventually pope.103 His letter collection provides invaluable 99

Rather of Verona, Qualitatis coniectura cuiusdam, 1, p. 117: ‘Cavillatoribus igitur materiem est ad id, instant cui agendo, ipse uti ministrem, falsa veris, opinabilia certis atque conjungam, rumusculos hic congerens pro valentia vestros, quo vos utique exaciem cunctos, quae dicatis, quaeve de me quali quoque sensu dicere valeatis, per quamdam praeveniens anticipationem huiuscemodi […]’; trans. Reid Complete Works, p. 427. 100 Rather of Verona, Qualitatis coniectura cuiusdam, 3, p. 119: ‘Fugere sic quem se simulat, tali forsitan modo mercari conatur honorem; ostentationem solummodo, ut cernitur, captat: veram gloriam vana commutat’; trans. Rather of Verona, Complete Works, p. 429. 101 Rather of Verona, Qualitatis coniectura cuiusdam, 5, p. 121: ‘Quid tali igitur, inquiunt, episcopatus? Imperatori non servit, duci nequaquam […]’; trans. Rather of Verona, Complete Works, p. 430. 102 Rather of Verona, Qualitatis coniectura cuiusdam, 5, p. 121: ‘Cum primoribus nihil actitat regni, hospitia illorum non adit, colloquia parvipendet; ad suum eorum nullum invitat. Nulli illorum quidquam largitur, vel ab eo petit’; trans. Rather of Verona, Complete Works, p. 430. 103 F. Weigle, ‘Studien zu Überlieferung der Briefsammlung Gerberts von Reims’, Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 10 (1953), pp. 19–70; M. Uhlirz, Untersuchungen über Inhalt und Datiering der Briefe Gerberts von Aurillac, Papst Sylvester II (Göttingen, 1957);

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insights into the complex negotiations, ever-shifting alliances, and persuasive techniques employed to work towards political ends. They do, however, present their own issues. Gerbert rarely dated his letters, and at times omitted the recipient from his salutatio, perhaps suggesting that he imagined his collection to instruct future generations in the art of epistolary construction, similar to formularies.104 Furthermore, letters functioned like early medieval diplomas in their formulaic nature, and, like charters, their transmission histories preclude any simple reading of these texts. The public nature of letters in the Middle Ages adds a further dimension to their complexity, as medieval writers and recipients could often expect their epistolary exchanges to be read aloud, shared, or sent to another party. This public dimension, however, augments our present understanding of how esteem was not only echoed in its feedback loop, but also instrumentalized and manipulated when writing to an ally, and could even have been weaponized against one’s opponents. One colourful letter exchange between Bishop Theoderic of Metz and Duke Charles of Lower Lotharingia vividly painted the public nature of esteem, and its weaponization. In the earliest manuscript, at least, the highly rhetorical nature of this letter exchange was apparent from the start. The scribe labelled Theoderic’s opening missive as a controversia, a formal exercise in classical rhetoric in which the advanced student would argue for an imaginary prosecution or defence in a charged legal case with the intent to practise forensic oratory.105 At least one late tenth-century manuscript produced at Echternach Abbey incorporated these letters under consideration in a manuscript compendium replete with edifying texts on classical, late antique, and Carolingian rhetoric and dialectic.106 This letter exchange brimmed with pointed barbs tinged with classical allusions that endeavoured to critique each other’s lack of virtue. In doing so, these two letters evoked the fragile framework that constituted the hierarchy of esteem throughout Christendom, including Upper Lotharingia. The first letter was written in the hand of Theoderic, ‘the servant of the servants of God, lover of the emperors and the most watchful protector of their children’, to his nephew by blood, Charles, ‘but the most shameless violator of fidelity (fides)’.107 The subsequent missive then sought to prove Theoderic’s condemnation of Charles’ lack of fides, a foundational virtue for any leader. He accused Charles of breaking pledges made before church altars, storming cities that belonged to his own brother, King Lothar of France, slandering Emma, his imperial sister and Francia’s P. Riché, ‘Nouvelles recherches sur les lettres de Gerbert d’Aurillac’, Comptes rendus des séances de l’Académie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 131 (1987), pp. 575–85. 104 Such a suggestion is supported by the title inscribed onto the early eleventh-century manuscript of Gerbert’s letters: INCIPIT EXEMPLAR EPISTOLARUM GIRBERTI PAPE QUAS AD DIVERSOS COMPOSUIT (Leiden, Universitätsbibliothek, MS VLQ 54, f. 52v). For the possibility that Stabilis, a close associate of Gerbert, compiled this particular manuscript at Saint-Mesmin Abbey, Micy, see K. F. Werner, ‘Zur Überlieferung der Briefe Gerberts von Aurillac’, Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 17 (1961), pp. 91–144. 105 Gerbert of Reims, Controversia Deoderici Episcopi Mettensis in Karolum (Ep. 31), Gerbert Aurillac: Correspondance, ed. P. Riché and J. P. Callu, 2 vols (Paris, 2008), I, pp. 67–72. 106 BnF, MS lat. 11127, f. 62r. 107 Gerbert of Reims, Controversia Deoderici Episcopi Mettensis in Karolum (Ep. 31), p. 66: ‘servus servorum Dei, imperatorum amator prolisque tutissimus tutor Karolo sanguine nepoti, sed fidei inpudentissimo violatori’; trans. H. Lattin, The Letters of Gerbert with His Papal Privileges as Sylvester II (New York, 1961), p. 76.



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consors regni, as well as multiple clerics.108 Finally, Theoderic concluded his list of Charles’s vicious acts with an account not of what he has done, but what Theoderic claimed to know Charles wanted to do: As you are hiding away in a little corner of the kingdom of Lorraine and are boasting with groundless arrogance that you will rule the whole, remember what is held and possessed, with God as the Giver, by our cousin, a woman better than you a man, with her son of noble character; by the vicars of the apostles, shepherds of the sheepfold of the Holy Church by whom you with the tooth of a dog attempt to gnaw at night and day; and by other princes besides who owe you no allegiance.109

Theoderic painted a critical picture that both chastised Charles and illuminated the complex political eschatology that underpinned Beatrice as the leader of the Lotharingians. First, it must be noted that here, Theoderic formulated a gendered attack, as Beatrice’s stature as a woman was weaponized against Charles, for Beatrice ‘as a woman is better than you, a man’.110 Second, and perhaps more tellingly, Theoderic outlined the hierarchical framework upon which Beatrice’s claims to rule were based: her young son of excellent character, the bishops and clergy of the Church, as well as the other principes of Lotharingia. Finally, these two aspects were placed in sharper relief by what Theoderic did not write, namely the word dux. Even though Charles had assumed the title and control of the ducatus of Lower Lotharingia in 977, Theoderic perhaps pointedly at no point referred to him by this esteemed title, and instead cast him as a politically inept exile. According to Gerbert’s exemplar epistolarum, Charles charged Gerbert himself to reply to Theoderic’s aggressive missive.111 Charles, via the hand of Gerbert, endeavoured to refute each and every accusation laid upon Charles’s honos, beginning with a tit-for-tat salutatio, proclaiming that Theoderic himself was in fact the ‘archetype of hypocrites, faithless murderer of emperors and their offspring, and in general, an enemy to the res publica’.112 The opening lines of the body of the letter made clear that Charles dismissed Theoderic’s letter as the ‘caprice of a tyrant rather than the judgment of a priest’.113 Such a casting of Theoderic’s authority directly challenged not only his mental faculties and assessments, but his ability to lead a cleric in

108

Gerbert of Reims, Controversia Deoderici Episcopi Mettensis in Karolum (Ep. 31), p. 68. Gerbert of Reims, Controversia Deoderici Episcopi Mettensis in Karolum (Ep. 31), p. 70: ‘Brevi tu Lothariensium regni angulo latitans vanissimoque supercilio te toto praeesse jactitans, quid neptis utriusque nostrum femina tete viro melior cum nobilis indolis filio, quid apostolorum vicarii sancte aecclesie ovilis pastores, quod tu canino dente noctu et interdiu rodere conaris, quid alii praeterea principes, qui nichil tuo juri debent […]’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 77. 110 Gerbert of Reims, Controversia Deoderici Episcopi Mettensis in Karolum (Ep. 31), p. 70: ‘femina tete viro melior’. 111 BnF, MS lat. 11127, f. 62v: GERBERTUS EX P[ER]SONA KARO- / LI. 112 Gerbert of Reims, Gerbertus ex persona Karoli (Ep. 32), p. 72: ‘ipochritarum ideae, imperatorum infidissimo prolisque parricidae, ac in commune hosti r[ei] p[ublicae]’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 79. 113 Gerbert of Reims, Gerbertus ex persona Karoli (Ep. 32), p. 74: ‘[…] quod petulantia magis tyranni quam juditium protulit sacerdotis’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 79. 109

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any capacity, for a tyrant according to classical and contemporary authorities was someone who abused their authority and had largely succumbed to vice.114 In the subsequent sentences, Charles set out his own case for Theoderic’s own crimes, so that ‘grown stout, fat and huge, as you rave that I have, by this pressure of my weight I will deflate you, who are blown up with arrogance like an empty bag, as I hasten some advice to you’.115 Charles initiated Theoderic’s deflation by rhetorically inquiring, ‘why do you call our attention to the domina dux Beatrice, her son, and the nobles of the kingdom?’116 It was Theoderic, the corpulent Charles decried, who had broken his trust with these esteemed magnates. Instead, everyone – from the principes of Gaul, the reges of Francia, and the Lotharingians, ‘devoted to fides’ – had sided with Charles.117 All these figures were united by their concern for the young Otto III, for ‘they do not desire to snatch away his kingdom as you do, nor set up a coruler’, namely Duke Henry II of Bavaria.118 In amongst their rhetorical bluster, these letters illustrated the elusive, effervescent nature of esteem and the mercurial nature of tenth-century regal and regnal politics. Both parties staked out their positions of admonitory advice against the other party through overt admonishments for their lack of fides. Invective against such an essential virtue in the exercise of political authority cast each party’s past actions as damaging to their own well-being and as a threat to the wider political order. As such, they carefully described the structure of this order as requiring consensus both on the virtuous worth of individual rulers – including Beatrix – but also on the recta via for all the collective members of Lotharingia, East Francia, and the Ottonian realm, lest they collectively start down the path to ruin. The role of one individual, indeed one dux, within this broader structure finds clarification in the next letter in Gerbert’s exemplaria, namely his own purgatio addressed to Bishop Theoderic of Metz.119 A purgatio, according to Cicero’s De inventione, corresponded to the admission of committing a deed in court, but the intent or guilt is denied.120 Correspondingly, Gerbert used this rhetorical form to excuse his own hand in composing Duke Charles of Lower Lotharingia’s response to Theoderic’s controversia. Furthermore, Gerbert attempted to convince Theoderic to support the Ottonians as headed by the empresses Theophanu and Adelheid. In order to do so, Gerbert employed the metaphorical resonance of the term dux itself, first by asking Theoderic to bring forward his generositas, magnanimitas and

114

S. Shimahara, ‘Evil Lords and the Devil: Tyrants and Tyranny in Carolingian Texts’, Evil Lords: Theories and Representations of Tyranny from Antiquity to the Renaissance, ed. N. Panou and H. Schadee (Oxford, 2018), pp. 119–36. 115 Gerbert of Reims, Gerbertus ex persona Karoli (Ep. 32), p. 74: ‘[…] consilii quoque mei nonnulla praemittam, ut, qui velut inanis uter spiritu intumuisti, meo, ut tu desipis, incrassati, inpinguati, dilatati pressus pondere detumescas’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 79. 116 Gerbert of Reims, Gerbertus ex persona Karoli (Ep. 32), p. 74: ‘Cur dominam ducem Beatricem cum filio regnique primatibus nobis praetendis?’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 80. 117 Gerbert of Reims, Gerbertus ex persona Karoli (Ep. 32), p. 74. 118 Gerbert of Reims, Gerbertus ex persona Karoli (Ep. 32), p. 74: ‘His est cure filius C[aesare], hi nec regnum querunt eripere ut tu nec conregnantem instituere’. 119 Gerbert of Reims, Purgatio G. ob controversiam a se descriptam (Ep. 33), Gerbert d’Aurillac Correspondance, ed. Riché and Callu, pp. 80–3. 120 Cicero, De inventione, II.94, LCL 386, ed. H. M. Hubbell (Cambridge, 1949), p. 260.



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prudentia ‘like three powerful legions’.121 By doing so, Theoderic must therefore ‘place excellence (divinitas) as dux of these lest we who have though your good fortune our glory, henceforth be rendered inglorious by losing the ornament of the empire’.122 Here again, dux was situated in a commanding capacity, harnessing the three virtues of nobility, generosity, and wisdom for the greater good of Theoderic himself, and ultimately for the wider empire. Three letters in Gerbert’s exemplaria were addressed to the domina dux herself. Each letter’s primary recipient was dux Beatrice, with the first two letters written in the name of Bishop Adalbero of Reims and the final letter sent in the name of Gerbert himself, based on context. These three letters were strung together in Gerbert’s letter collection, leading scholars to generally date them to the middle of June or July 985.123 Callu and Riché classified all of these letters as part of the secret or confidential epistolary dossier of twenty-eight missives within Gerbert’s letter collection, based on two divergent manuscript traditions.124 As much as they might have been intended to convey covert messages, these letters endeavoured to capitalize upon Beatrice’s political judgement and renowned esteem. Taken together, the letters steadily impressed upon their reader an increased appreciation of the sender for the recipient, as she successfully harnessed the economy of esteem towards her, and her correspondents’, own ends. In the first letter, Archbishop Adalbero obliquely referred to a previous personal meeting between the two magnates, as well as a steady correspondence through a spoken messenger.125 Adept and eloquent messengers in medieval epistolary exchanges were crucial emissaries that travelled with written missives, as Gerbert’s letter to a certain domina Imiza of the Ottonian court made clear. Gerbert showered Imiza with a litany of virtues, including firm fides, long-lasting constantia, and an encompassing prudentia, before requesting that she herself both combine his letters with hers as she travelled to converse with the pope, while asking Imiza to address Empress Theophanu with assurances that the Frankish kings Lothar and Louis remained loyal to herself and Otto III.126 This aside on the domina Imiza serves to inform precisely how the economy of esteem functioned: enlisting the advocacy of a valued, virtuous magnate to enlist support for your cause, thereby reinforcing the original parties’ own esteem and ability to conduct further advocacy and governance. This encomiastic description also serves to illuminate the intricacies of Adalbero’s request, namely that Beatrice 121

Gerbert of Reims, Purgatio G. ob controversiam a se descriptam (Ep. 33), p. 80: ‘tamquam tres fortissimas legiones’. 122 Gerbert of Reims, Purgatio G. ob controversiam a se descriptam (Ep. 33), p. 80: ‘Ducem his Divinitatem praeficite, ne, qui felicitatem vestram gloriam existimavimus nostram, si decus imperii amittimus, proinde inglorii reddamur’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 82. 123 Gerbert d’Aurillac Correspondance, ed. Riché and Callu: ‘Beatrici duci ex persona Adalberonis’ (Ep. 61), pp. 154–6; ‘Eidem’, pp. 156–8; ‘Eidem duci Beatrici’ (Ep. 63), pp. 158–60. 124 See P. Riché, ‘Nouvelles recherches’, pp. 580 ff.; Gerbert d’Aurillac Correspondance, p. xxii; see also, M. Cousin, ‘Un réseau épistolaire dans la tourmente des intrigues politiques: Gerbert d’Aurillac et ses correspondants au cœur de la lutte pour le pouvoir entre Ottoniens, Carolingiens et Capétiens (984–989)’, Le Moyen Age 2, 126 (2020), pp. 273–86. 125 Gerbert d’Aurillac Correspondance, ed. Riché and Callu: ‘Beatrici duci ex persona Adalberonis’ (Ep. 61), pp. 154–6. 126 Gerbert d’Aurillac Correspondance, ed. Riché and Callu: ‘Domnae Imizae G[erbertus]’ (Ep. 22), p. 44.

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should ‘consider our business yours’.127 In particular, Adalbero entreated Beatrice to represent Adalbero as replete with a ‘steadfast mind and constant fidelity’ to Duke Hugh.128 In both these sentences, Adalbero employed the imperative indicative, commanding Beatrice to act. However, the next line made clear the circular nature of such forceful requests, as he assured Beatrice that ‘what we are demanding of you, furthermore, we shall return in the form of service to you’.129 Consequently, Adalbero endeavoured to ensure that if Beatrice secured the esteem of Duke Hugh, a major magnate in both his own realm of Francia at this time as well as a significant figure across continental Europe, Adalbero will in turn ensure that Beatrice’s own virtues will be esteemed by those in Adalbero’s circles. In the second letter, Adalbero opened his missive by offering heartfelt congratulations to Beatrice. Such glad tidings were, according to this letter, ‘certainly well deserved because affairs are happening according to your wish’.130 This frustratingly oblique reference to ‘affairs’ (rebus) leaves much to the imagination, yet Adalbero continued onto further praise Beatrice for her ability to gather and ‘frequently gain information unknown to us’.131 The connection between these two skills for Beatrice as the Lotharingian dux and as a prominent figure in the dynastic context of the mid-980s was crucial: her ability to mould events was directly linked to her ability to know, discern, and distribute political information to the right parties. As such, the heart of the letter took on additional import, as Adalbero inquired about significant changes in attendance to the upcoming colloquium dominarum.132 This particular colloquium has puzzled tenth-century scholars, as the only reference in contemporary sources to this assembly was contained within Gerbert’s letters. Scholars have postulated two possibilities. Gerd Althoff, for instance, has suggested that this colloquium might have encompassed many, if not all, of the important female rulers across the Continent, including the Ottonian empresses Adelheid and Theophanu, Abbess Mathilda of Quedlinburg, Abbess Gerberga of Gandersheim, Duchess Gisela of Bavaria, in addition to the Frankish queen, Emma II, Queen Mathilda of Burgundy, Duchess Adelheid (Hugh Capet’s wife), and Beatrice herself.133 Such a convocation has come to symbolize the epitome of so-called ‘female power’ in the late tenth century, with a wide ranging political network of ruling women across the political and religious spectrum. However, other scholars have postulated that instead of a mass gathering of dominae, Adalbero’s letter instead referred to an upcoming meeting of the imperial dominae, namely simply Adelheid, Theophanu, and Mathilda, at Frankfurt in late June during which Henry the Quarrelsome made his final submission to the imperial empresses in front of the entire court. This latter possibility would entail a further meeting of the imperial dominae at Metz, as 127

Gerbert d’Aurillac Correspondance, ed. Riché and Callu: ‘Beatrici duci ex persona Adalberonis’ (Ep. 61), p. 154: ‘Nostra negotia vestra putate’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 109. 128 ‘Beatrici duci ex persona Adalberonis’ (Ep. 61), p. 154: ‘[…] de nostra mente pura, fide constanti absque.’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 109. 129 ‘Beatrici duci ex persona Adalberonis’ (Ep. 61), pp. 154–6: ‘Denique quod a vobis exigimus, suo tempore vestro obsequio impendemus’. 130 ‘Eidem’ (Ep. 62), pp. 156–8: ‘Rebus vobis ad votum cedentibus non immerito congratulamur’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 110. 131 ‘Eidem’ (Ep. 62), p. 156: ‘quia ignorata frequenter per vos addiscimus’. 132 ‘Eidem’ (Ep. 62), p. 156: ‘Sed quae res institutum colloquium dominarum sic commutavit, ut solus dux veniat Henricus?’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 110. 133 G. Althoff, Otto III, trans. P. G. Jestice (University Park, 2003), pp. 44–6.



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Gerbert later wrote to Bishop Notker of Liège, inquiring about another colloquium dominarum to be held in the heart of Beatrice’s ducatus in that episcopal civitas.134 In either case, Beatrice marshalled the organization of these major political events to the point that other magnates sought Beatrice’s insider knowledge. Indeed, Adalbero continued onto to query whether Duke Henry the Quarrelsome was indeed planning to attend the colloquium alone, and if so, what precisely was the reason for this deviation.135 Furthermore, Adalbero asked ‘whether this results from someone’s treachery and what leaders (principium) are about to come thither’.136 Whether a large assembly of the Ottonian court centred on the dominae imperiales or instead a grand gathering of continental ruling women, Beatrice was known to have the vital knowledge that directly impinged on the direction of political affairs. This successful marshalling of affairs and magnates found concrete expression in the final letter addressed to Beatrice. In this final letter, Gerbert professed his admiration for Beatrice’s ‘perfection of acumen’.137 Beatrice’s excellentiam acuminis itself resulted in ‘peace among leaders having been made steadfast, the res publica having been arranged well, and altered entirely for the better through you’.138 Beatrice, according to Gerbert’s praise, had perfected her own judgement; she had mastered her own ability to discern the right way forward. Consequently, the dux could then persuade, convince, and arrange the other principes in her orbit towards a more stable res publica, both perhaps in her own ducatus and in kingdoms stretching beyond. Even at this height of her own ducal discernment, Gerbert entreated Beatrice to look into a further matter concerning Archbishop Egbert of Trier’s deferment of the consecration of another Adalbero as bishop of Verdun. Such a delay, so Gerbert claims, could pose a threat to Beatrice, and so Gerbert entreated the dux to ‘keep your prudentia alert and inquire whither these important matters are tending; and consider whether you can trust Duke Henry to keep faith with you’.139 Such an entreaty served to remind Beatrice, her court, and later audiences that one’s excellentia acuminis can become deadened remarkably quickly; the economy of esteem can run out in a remarkably short period of time. Conclusions To modify its opening maxim, this article has presented findings in solo nomine, in regard to one noun only: dux. The central focus on the nature of the noun itself and its mutable metaphorical, historical, and political connotations has required sifting through several centuries and surviving manuscripts, while also engaging with the disciplines of grammar, narrative history, law, and epistolary culture. In doing so, it has endeavoured to recast the central questions that have rooted the study of dux as applied to tenth-century women, particularly in the assertation that this term consti134

MacLean, Ottonian Queenship, pp. 171–2. ‘Eidem’ (Ep. 62), p. 158: ‘[…] si novistis, orantibus nobis plena fide perorabitis’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 110. 136 ‘Eidem’ (Ep. 62), p. 158: ‘Id an dolo alterius partis agatur et qui principum eo venturi sunt’; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 110. 137 ‘Eidem duci Beatrici’ (Ep. 63), p. 158; trans. Lattin, Letters, p. 111. 138 ‘Eidem duci Beatrici’ (Ep. 63), p. 158: ‘Excellentiam acuminis vestri videor videre: pace inter principes stabilita, r[e] p[ublica] bene disposita ac per vos in melius commutata’. 139 ‘Eidem duci Beatrici’ (Ep. 63), p. 160: ‘Invigilet ergo vestra prudentia et, quo se tantarum rerum pondera vergant, perquirite et, an dux Henricus fidem vobis servaturus sit, providete’. 135

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tuted the recognition of their ‘masculine’ power. The study of two duces, furthermore, has pointed to the broader instability of intitulature in the tenth century. Elite titles represented at most a carefully staged snapshot in time, not an ultimate judgment. In the economy of esteem, there were many different currencies, into which nomina factored as only one token of praise or condemnation. Dukes, and their fellow contemporary leaders, had to fight constantly to acquire and maintain their treasured nomen, by exhibiting virtus and marshalling their followers, if not onto the field of war, then into the arena of governance. In doing so, Judith and Beatrix reaffirmed past ascriptions of ruling titles to female leaders, worked to inscribe their own nomina in the historical record, and offered models for rulers to come.

THE SHERIFFS OF EDWARD THE CONFESSOR1 Chelsea Shields-Más Well then, the county of Cambridge had fallen by chance to the lot of Picot, a Norman by race, a Gaetulian by temperament. A starving lion, a footloose wolf, a deceitful fox, a muddy swine, an impudent dog – in the end he obtained the food which he had long hankered after and, as if the whole county was one carcass, he claimed it all for himself, took possession of the whole of it and, like an insatiable monster bent on transferring the whole of it to his belly, did not allow anyone to be a sharer of his portion – not God, not an angel, none of the saints, not – and this is what I am leading up to – the most holy and famous Æthelthryth, who up till then had owned a great many properties – land or vills – in that same county, by the gift and grant of prominent people of former times.2

The monastic compiler of the Liber Eliensis, writing in the late twelfth century, offers a vivid impression of the unpleasant nature and conduct of the sheriff. Indeed, most have heard of the medieval sheriff: the pre-modern period was apparently riddled with unsavoury, grasping, malicious thugs perpetually seeking to deprive unjustly the public of their money, land, and sometimes even their freedom. One could go so far as to say that the ‘poster boy’ for the poor character of the medieval sheriff is the bullying, greedy sheriff of Nottingham, immortalized in various retellings of the Robin Hood legend. But how much does this figure resemble the agents who operated in Edward the Confessor’s England? What do we know of the men and the office in the eleventh century, closer to the origins of the role? This article aims to provide a clearer picture of the Confessor’s sheriffs and their activities. It has been well-established – by Ann Williams, Judith Green, Tom Lambert, Richard Abels, and George Molyneaux3 – that sheriffs were an important cog in the machinery of the eleventh-century English administration. The emergence of this official, beginning in the late tenth century, significantly impacted the exercise and reach of royal power. But what do we know of the men who operated in the office of sheriff in the last decades of the pre-Conquest period? An examination of 1

I am grateful for the generous assistance and feedback from Ann Williams, Charlie Rozier, and Simon Keynes in the preparation of this article. 2 J. Fairweather, trans., Liber Eliensis. A History of the Isle of Ely, from the Seventh century to the Twelfth (Woodbridge, 2005), p. 250; E. O. Blake, ed., Liber Eliensis (London, 1962), p. 211: ‘Huic igitur Picoto, est tandem leo famelicus, lupus oberrans, vulpis subdola, sus lutulenta, canis impudens, cibum quem diu optaverat et, tanquam totus comitatus unum esset cadaver, totum sibi vendicat, totum occupant et, tanquam totum in ventrem suum insatiabili belua transmissura, non admittit consortem in partem suam, non Deum, non angelum, non sanctorum quemlibet, non denique sanctissimam illam et nominatissimam Æðeldreðam, que terras plurimas seu villas donatione et concessione anteriorum principum in ipso comitatu eatenus possederat’. 3 For references, see the notes below.

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these individuals in the period 1042×1066 will contribute to our understanding of the development of English government in the decades before the Conquest, as well as what changed (and its significance) after 1066. The scirgerefa The scirgerefa (‘shire-reeve’), or pre-Conquest sheriff, was the king’s reeve in charge of the shire. This office included administering the king’s estates as well as collecting the king’s portion of the profits of justice in the shire and hundred courts.4 Sheriffs’ duties also encompassed raising (and sometimes leading) military forces in times of unrest, a role in policing the localities, and, likely, carrying out executions.5 That the sheriff could and sometimes did assume the duties of the earls is apparent in the manner in which some of the sheriffs in the tenth and eleventh centuries assumed responsibilities of earls who were captured or killed.6 Significantly, III Æthelred 1.1 stipulates that a breach of the peace established by either the ealdorman or the king’s reeve in the Court of the Five Boroughs was liable for the same compensation – 1,200 [sic] of silver.7 Here, the reeve and the ealdorman were endowed with equal power. The inclusion of both the presiding earl and the sheriff of the shire in the king’s writs of the eleventh century indicates that both were instrumental in the administration of the shire.8 The sheriffs were to some degree accustomed to handling the responsibilities, duties, and functions of the ealdormen and earls in late tenth- and eleventh-century England. Although the earls were the more prominent and powerful entities, the sheriffs had authority and power in their own right and were perhaps not to be dismissed lightly from the local stage. The appearance of shire-reeves in pre-Conquest England cannot be neatly pinned down. Part of the challenge is that the shiring of England was not a uniform or straightforward process. Arguably, territorial divisions, and their associated judicial, administrative and economic roles were evident in the landscape before they appeared in sources.9 David Roffe argues that there was no single or systematic origin for the emergence of shires in England, although the shires did generally share common characteristics.10 As with East Anglia, Lincolnshire saw its establishment 4

A. Williams, The World Before Domesday. The English Aristocracy, 900–1066 (London, 2008), p. 57; and A. Williams, Kingship and Government in Pre-Conquest England, c. 500–1066 (Basingstoke, 1999), p. 109. 5 T. Lambert, Law & Order in Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford, 2017), pp. 252, 276, and 331; and G. Molyneaux, The Formation of the English Kingdom in the Tenth Century (Oxford, 2015), p. 180; W. A. Morris, The Medieval English Sheriff to 1300 (Manchester, 1927), p. 28. See also: 4 Æthelstan 7 and 6 Æthelstan 8, 8.2–4. Gesetze, ed. Liebermann, p. 172 and The Laws of the Earliest English Kings, ed. F. L. Attenborough (Cambridge, 1922), pp. 150–1. 6 S. Baxter, The Earls of Mercia. Lordship and Power in Late Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford, 2007), p. 12. 7 III Æthelred 1.1; Gesetze, ed. Liebermann, p. 228; and The Laws of the Kings of England from Edmund to Henry I, ed. A. J. Robertson (Cambridge, 1925), p. 65. 8 R. Sharpe, ‘The Use of Writs in the Eleventh Century’, ASE 32 (2003), p. 249. 9 S. Bassett, ‘The Administrative Landscape of the Diocese of Worcester in the Tenth Century’, St Oswald of Worcester. Life and Influence, ed. N. Brooks and C. Cubitt (London and New York, 1996), pp. 157–8. 10 D. Roffe, ‘Hundreds and Wapentakes’, The Lincolnshire Domesday, ed. A. Williams and G. H. Martin (London, 1992), p. 32.



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as a shire a little later than the rest of England, with the first reference to Lincolnshire as a distinct entity in the 1016 entry of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle.11 Although Derbyshire was shired around the mid-tenth century, the details surrounding its administrative structure are unclear and need to be reconstructed from Domesday Book and later twelfth- through fourteenth-century evidence.12 Northumbria was not considered part of the West Saxon kingdom until after 954, and even then it was only nominally subject to its power, with the West Saxon kings struggling to exercise influence over the region.13 William Kapelle observes that Northumbria had never been assessed in terms of carucates or hides and was not part of pre-Conquest England’s fiscal system.14 In the pre-Conquest period Northumbria did not possess reeves who acted in the capacity of royal administrators, as was the case elsewhere in England, nor was the region assessed or taxed in the same way as the rest of England. Kapelle asserts that before William I arrived, there were no royal mints or burhs in Northumbria, nor does it appear that the king held any demesne lands there before the 1090s.15 The administrative framework that overlay much of the rest of England had therefore never been established in Northumbria before 1066.16 This was a region governed by the power of the House of Bamburgh north of the Tyne, with the area between the Tyne and Tees belonging to the community of St Cuthbert according to the Historia de Sancto Cuthberto and Symeon of Durham’s Libellus de exordio.17 Terminology The term scirgerefa does not emerge until the second quarter of the eleventh century, when three different men bearing the title appear in the diplomatic: Bryning and Ulfcytel in Herefordshire, and Leofcild in Essex.18 The term ‘shire-man’ (scirigmannes/scirigman/scyresman/sciresman/scirman), however, occurs a little earlier, suggesting the emergence of the shire-reeve could be dated to the end of the tenth century. The two earliest references to ‘shire-man’ are highlighted by Judith Green, 11

Roffe, ‘Hundreds and Wapentakes’, p. 32; ASC C (D, E), s. a. 1016. D. Roffe, ‘The Origins of Derbyshire’, The Derbyshire Archaeological Journal 106 (1986), p. 103. 13 W. Kapelle, The Norman Conquest of the North. The Region and its Transformation, 1000–1135 (Chapel Hill, 1979), pp. 10, 13. 14 Kapelle, Conquest of the North, p. 97. What taxes the north did pay were much lighter there than elsewhere in England (p. 97). 15 Kapelle, Conquest of the North, p. 13. Kapelle also remarks upon the absence of royal charters or writs in connection with Northumbria (p. 13). 16 Northumbria was not divided into shires until after 1066 and East Anglia was arguably not integrated politically with the West Saxon kingdom until the later tenth century, with hundreds appearing around 970 (L. Marten, ‘The Shiring of East Anglia: an Alternative Hypothesis’, Historical Research 81 (2008), pp. 5, 9). 17 ‘Historia de Sancto Cuthberto’, Symeonis monachi Opera Omnia, ed. T. Arnold, 2 vols (London, 1882–5), I, pp. 196–214; and ‘Libellus de exordio atque procursu istius hoc est Dunelmensis ecclesie’, Symeonis monachi Opera Omnia, I, pp. 3–169; W. Aird, Saint Cuthbert and the Normans. The Church of Durham, 1071–1153 (Woodbridge, 1998), pp. 48–9. 18 J. Green, English Sheriffs to 1154 (London, 1990), p. 9; Bryning, S 1462 (1016×1035, Hereford); Ulfcytel, S 1469 (1043×1046, Hereford) and Leofcild, S 1530 (1042×1043, Christ Church Canterbury). 12

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who notes that they were shire-reeves/sheriffs: Wulfsige the priest,19 denoted as scirigmannes and scirigman in S 1458 (c. 995) and Leofric, labelled scyresman and sciresman in S 1456 (995×1005).20 A third man, Æthelwine, described as scirman, appears in S 985 (1017×1020), in a writ of Cnut confirming privileges of Christ Church.21 Æthelwine also appears in the witness list of S 1461 (1016×1020) as scirgerefa.22 These men can reasonably be labelled ‘sheriffs’ as they appear both acting on behalf of royal interests and participating in shire meetings.23 Judith Green sees the development and emergence of sheriffs as a slow process, connected with increasing royal influence and control in the localities.24 The reign of Æthelred II was a tumultuous time in which reliable, powerful royal agents would have been important, particularly in terms of the ability to raise the heregeld and men for militias.25 Tom Lambert suggests that the first appearance of the heregeld in 1012 roughly coincided with the period in which sheriffs begin to become more visible – and he does not see this as a coincidence.26 Arguing that scirgerefan had military retainers, Lambert makes the point that these officials would have had the wherewithal to enforce the law – and the payment of fines – in the localities.27 Not only would these officials have wielded more influence, they would have by

19

A. Williams comments on the tenth- and eleventh-century anxieties surrounding appropriate clerical behaviour, an issue which flares up in particular in the writings of Ælfric and Wulfstan. In his First Old English Letter for Wulfstan, Ælfric forbids priests to be reeves; in this context, it is interesting that Wulfsige is the only attested reeve who was also a priest (Williams, The World Before Domesday, p. 56; and Williams, Kingship and Government, p. 109). The relevant part of Ælfric’s letter is: ‘Ne mot nan preost beon mangere oþþe gerefa, ne drincan æt wynhuse, ne druncengeorne beon […] ne mot he wæpnu werian ne to gefeohte faran […]’; ‘No priest may be a trader or a reeve, or drink at a winehouse, or be a drunkard, […] he may not bear weapons nor go into battle […]’ (C&S, I, i, p. 296). See also: V. Thompson, Death and Dying in Later Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2004), p. 185. 20 Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 9, 50; see also Molyneaux, Formation of the English Kingdom, pp. 179–82; and Lambert, Law & Order, p. 251. 21 N. P. Brooks and S. E. Kelly, ed., Charters of Christ Church Canterbury (Oxford, 2013), no. 145, pp. 1058–62; and F. E. Harmer, Anglo-Saxon Writs (Manchester, 1952), no. 26, pp. 181–2. 22 Brooks and Kelly, Charters of Christ Church Canterbury, no. 149, pp. 1070–3; D. Whitelock, ed., English Historical Documents, Volume I. c. 500–1042 (London, 1955), no. 129, p. 548. 23 Molyneaux, Formation of the English Kingdom, p. 180; and Lambert, Law & Order, p. 251. 24 Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 9–10. See also Williams, Kingship and Government, pp. 109–10. 25 Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 9–10; and Lambert, Law & Order, pp. 252–3. 26 Lambert, Law & Order, p. 276. 27 Lambert, Law & Order, pp. 275, 293, and 335. In considering the increased number of horses and stud farms bequeathed in tenth- and eleventh-century wills, Williams suggests that this may be a reflection of an increasing need at this time for a bodyguard: thus, men would have ridden in their lord’s mounted entourage (Williams, World Before Domesday, pp. 71–2). In this context, it should not be surprising that shire-reeves/sheriffs appear to have had mounted retinues themselves, particularly as they were acting as the king’s arm in their shires.



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extension lent that influence to the reeves working under them.28 This would have facilitated the exercise of royal power at the local level. Famously, James Campbell saw the reeve as ‘the ultimate link in the chain which led from the king to a village […]’.29 Doubtless there were periodic disruptions, caused by ambitious or greedy reeves, local power dynamics and other external factors. However the over-arching sentiment remains: these administrators, functioning at various levels of the Old English state, were an important element in its successful operation. Edward the Confessor was a king who had spent much of his life in exile,30 and whose wealth and estates in England were often exceeded by those of his earls – especially those of the powerful Godwine family.31 Royal officials, such as reeves and sheriffs, in theory acting as the king’s men, would have represented the king and helped to maintain a balance of power. In this context, it should perhaps be unsurprising that the reign of Edward the Confessor saw increased use of the writ-charter, the quintessential document of the relationship between the king and his county officers.32 In the pre-Conquest period, writs were generally addressed to the shire court: specifically, the bishop, the ealdorman of the shire, and the thegns.33 After the Conquest, with William I’s tendency to not replace earls, the sheriff of the shire was usually signalled as prominent in the address of writs.34 From his study of address clauses, Richard Sharpe shows that royal writs from their incarnation before the Conquest through to the reign of Henry I point toward ‘a well-organized system of communication’.35 These documents were addressed to and delivered by officials of the shire court with the intention that the royal instructions therein would be carried out. These instructions often entailed the protection of certain rights and privileges or upholding grants of land. The sheriff was a frequent addressee in the pre-Conquest writ-charter, with the Confessor’s sheriffs appearing twenty-five times in these documents. These men, operating in the localities – likely with some measure of military muscle – would have been well-placed to ensure the proceedings of the shire court were enforced. Domesday Book and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle make it clear that the post-Conquest sheriff could have a military role in some shires, with sheriffs able to raise small militias, as in Herefordshire and Shropshire.36 This activity often appears to have been carried out in concert with other officials, such as ealdormen or even bishops. The pre-Conquest sheriff’s ability to exercise military force became important in the shires along the Welsh border. Eadwine, brother of Earl Leofric 28

Lambert, Law & Order, pp. 288, 335. J. Campbell, ‘Some Agents and Agencies of the Late Anglo-Saxon State’, The AngloSaxon State, ed. J. Campbell (London, 2000), p. 207. 30 S. Keynes, ‘Edward the Ætheling (c. 1005–16)’, Edward the Confessor. The Man and the Legend, ed. R. Mortimer (Woodbridge, 2009), p. 41. 31 R. Fleming, ‘The Domesday Estates of the King and the Godwines’, Speculum 58, no. 4 (1983), pp. 991, 994, and 1007. 32 Sharpe, ‘The use of writs’, pp. 251–3. 33 R. Sharpe, ‘Address and Delivery in Anglo-Norman Royal Charters’, Charters and Charter Scholarship in Britain and Ireland, ed. M. T. Flanagan and J. A. Green (London, 2005), p. 33. 34 Sharpe, ‘Address and Delivery’, pp. 33–4. 35 Sharpe, ‘Address and Delivery’, p. 45. 36 GDB, fols. 179r and 252r. Domesday also tells us that Ælfric the sheriff of Huntington was killed in the Battle of Hastings (GDB, fol. 208r). 29

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of Mercia, was killed in battle on the Shropshire border with Wales in 1039.37 Stephen Baxter has suggested that Eadwine may have been at the battle in his capacity as sheriff of Shropshire.38 This area witnessed much unrest in the 1050s: the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle reports that in July 1050 Aldred, bishop of Worcester, gathered a force and tried, unsuccessfully, to repel the Welsh, and in 1052 the Welsh king Griffith ap Llewelyn ravaged Herefordshire, killing many Englishmen.39 The Welsh continued their depredations across the border in 1053, killing ‘a great number of Englishmen of the patrols near Westbury’.40 In 1056 the Chronicle records that Ælfnoð scirgerefa was killed while campaigning against Griffith ap Llewelyn alongside Bishop Leofgar of Hereford ‘and many good men with them’.41 Osbern, sheriff of Herefordshire 1061×1068, is described in Domesday as holding eleven manors in the Welsh March which did not pay tax – presumably these were attached to his shrieval office, to help support any military endeavours.42 This apparent focus in Herefordshire and Shropshire on the sheriff’s military role may suggest that these royal officials were regarded as part of an English defensive and administrative strategy along a challenging border. The deployment of sheriffs into a difficult hinterland was a strategy that would later be taken up by the Normans as they sought to consolidate their grip on Northumbria in the later eleventh century.43 Out of the thirty-four shires in eleventh-century England, twenty-one have evidence of sheriffs attached to them before 1066. The remaining thirteen attained a sheriff between the years 1066–1100.44 With the exception of Kent, which saw its first sheriff, Wulfsige, c. 995, the pre-Conquest shires did not have sheriffs installed until roughly the second quarter of the eleventh century through to 1066.45 By the eleventh century, we have evidence of agents in the localities who could affect the balance of power in the king’s favour. It is possible that the relative paucity of references to sheriffs in pre-Conquest documents is a reflection of their only moderate prominence in this period. It would not be until the reign of William the

37

Baxter, Earls of Mercia, pp. 31–2. Baxter, Earls of Mercia, p. 32. 39 ASC D, s. a. 1050, 1052; and J. Green, Forging the Kingdom. Power in English Society 973–1189 (Cambridge, 2017), pp. 38–40. 40 ASC C, s. a. 1053. 41 ASC C, s. a. 1056. The D version has ‘and many other good men’. 42 GDB, fol. 186v. Richard Sharpe makes a case for extending Osbern’s tenure in office from 1061×1065 to 1061×1068, based on the man’s appearance in S 1102. Sharpe argues that the Latin translation of the lost Old English original was completed by a very early post-Conquest date, and still lists Osbern in the sheriff’s place (Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, History 101 (2016), pp. 488–9). 43 For more on this, see C. Shields-Más and C. C. Rozier, ‘The Northern Limits of Norman Power: Border Policies in Northumbria, c.1050–1100’, Borders and the Norman World, ed. D. Armstrong et al., forthcoming. 44 Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 9–10. 45 Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 25, 26, 28, 29, 37, 39, 42, 44, 45, 50, 56, 60, 73, 75, 76, and 87. Suffolk may have acquired a sheriff (Leofstan) 940×970, but the only evidence for this is a late eleventh-century miracle story: Leofstan, the evil sheriff of Suffolk (vicecomes), violated the sanctuary of St Edmund and was subsequently punished by the saint (Memorials of St. Edmund’s Abbey, I, pp. 30–2). 38



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Conqueror that the sheriff (vicecomes) would emerge as the pre-eminent authority in England’s localities.46 The Confessor’s men While evidence for the sheriffs of Edward the Confessor is certainly thinner on the ground than the material available for their post-Conquest counterparts, it is still possible to gain some insight into these men and their office. This picture was not necessarily uniform across England, with sheriffs’ activities and scope of action varying to some extent between shires. However, some broader points emerge from this study. Firstly, it is clear from Domesday Book and the charter evidence that sheriffs did in some cases hold more than one shire concurrently.47 Godric is an interesting case. He appears to have been sheriff of three shires, Bedfordshire, Berkshire, and possibly Buckinghamshire, from the 1050s until 1066. The bulk of the evidence pertains to his tenure in Berkshire, where he held a number of estates on royal manors. This offers further insight into sheriffs’ roles and how they might have supported themselves while in office. Godric held estates on the king’s land in Berkshire, which included lands he ‘held for a lodging’ and lands which were ‘claimed for the king’s work’.48 These entries suggest that the sheriff was provided with some land as part of the shrieval office – presumably to support himself and his activities on the king’s behalf. Sheriffs in Cambridgeshire, Dorset, Gloucestershire, Hampshire, Herefordshire, Huntingdonshire, Kent, Oxfordshire, and Wiltshire are all described in Domesday as holding land on royal estates, suggesting not just land for their own maintenance, but also a potential base of operations, seated in a royal estate. This would certainly help to vest the man’s interests in the area, as well as to ensure the maintenance of an ‘official’ presence and the king’s arm in the localities. In the case of Æthelwine, two of his estates on royal land were situated close to the Welsh border and were held TRW by royal officials: his land at Murrells End was held in 1086 by the subtenant Nigel the Physician, and his land at Upton St Leonards was also close to the Welsh border and held in 1086 by the subtenant Humphrey the Chamberlain, who was Chamberlain to Queen Matilda and possibly sheriff of Norfolk, 1087–1100.49 These landholding patterns lend further weight to the conclusion that sheriffs were at least in part compensated for their work with grants of lœnland.50 Despite the apparent perks of his office, Godric is described as establishing a pasture in a royal estate for his own horses and appropriating three hides 46

For more on this, see: J. Green, ‘The Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, ANS 5 (1983), pp. 129–45; and Sharpe, ‘Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, pp. 485–94. 47 Godric held Bedfordshire, Berkshire, and possibly Buckinghamshire; Æthelwine held Gloucestershire and Oxfordshire; Toli held Norfolk and Suffolk; and Edwin may have held Oxford and Warwickshire. 48 GDB, fols. 57v, 58r, and 60v. 49 GDB, fol. 162v: K. S. B. Keats-Rohan, Domesday People. A Prosopography of Persons Occurring in English Documents 1066–1166. I. Domesday Book (Woodbridge, 1999), pp. 274, 303. 50 For more on the concept of ‘ministerial land’ for royal officials, see S. Baxter and J. Blair, ‘Land Tenure and Royal Patronage in the Early English Kingdom: A Model and a Case Study’, ANS 28 (2005), pp. 19–46. There are also two examples of sheriffs holding a messuage in a town, with one of these, a messuage in Huntingdon, granted by the king to the sheriff’s wife and sons after his death (GDB, fol. 203r).

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and one virgate from another.51 This rapacious behaviour could certainly explain why Godric does not appear as sheriff after 1066. The example of Godric is interesting for several reasons: sheriffs’ authority could apparently extend over more than one shire, sheriffs were at least in some cases compensated through grants of ‘ministerial’ lœnland on royal estates and they were expected to manage royal estates. Early English sheriffs, too, were not immune to the predatory behaviour that tenth- and eleventh-century homilists bemoaned in reeves and which later sources would highlight in their Norman counterparts. Godric is of interest for a final reason: the evidence pertaining to his office in Bedfordshire suggests that in some cases a sheriff might have a wicgerefa (‘wic’ or town reeve) working alongside them. The evidence for London and Middlesex lends support to this view.52 S 1235 (1053×1066) records a land grant made to St Albans by Oswulf and his wife Æthelgyth and is extant in Old English and Latin versions. Julia Crick contends that the Old English version ‘offers a more detailed account of the transaction and must be treated as primary’.53 The witness list included several powerful secular men: Bondi the Staller, Burhred, a thegn from the East Midlands who held land in Bedfordshire, Buckinghamshire, and Northamptonshire, as well as Godric, sheriff of Bedfordshire and Ælfstan, wicgerefa (possibly the town reeve of Bedford, the major town in the shire). Both Godric and Ælfstan have previously been identified as sheriffs. However, in the printed sources, there is a slight discrepancy in the rendering of their titles, with the two men rendered as scirgerefa in Charters of St Albans, while ‘A lost cartulary of St Albans Abbey’ has Godric scirgerefa and Ælfstan wicgerefa.54 Based on a reading of the manuscript, there is a slight distinction between the two, with the text reading, Godric scirgerefa and Ælfstan wicgerefa.55 The text of the Latin version, with its differing titles of Godric tribunus and Ælfstan vicecomes, also suggests that the men were meant to be described differently. While Latin-English glosses could be (and often were) imperfect renderings of the original meaning of a term, David Porter argues that it is clear that these nonetheless reflect deliberate linguistic choices, which sometimes fell victim to an imperfect understanding of the original Latin.56 In deploying tribunus and vicecomes, the translator who produced the Latin version of S 1235 clearly meant to differentiate between the offices held by Godric and Ælfstan. Relationships with and connections to royal agents could also be desirable. In her study of the family of Æthelwine, sheriff of Warwickshire under Edward the Confessor, Ann Williams examined how the family of a royal official and their lands

51

GDB, fols. 57v and 60v. Green, English Sheriffs, p. 56; S 1131, S 1149 and S 1150. 53 J. Crick, ed., Charters of St Albans (Oxford, 2007), p. 223. This text is printed in Charters of St Albans: no. 17 and 17A. See also S. Keynes, ‘A Lost Cartulary of St Albans Abbey’, ASE 22 (1993), p. 266. 54 Crick, ed., Charters of St Albans, p. 221; and Keynes, ‘A Lost Cartulary’, p. 266. 55 Brussels, KBR, MS 7963–73, f. 163 (with the very kind assistance of Ann Williams and Simon Keynes. I should like to thank Brussels KBR for generously providing access to the MS). 56 D. W. Porter, ‘The Legal Terminology in AS glosses’, The Languages of the Law in Early Medieval England. Essays in Memory of Lisi Oliver, ed. S. Jurasinski and A. Rabin (Leuven, 2019), pp. 216–19. 52



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fared through the Conquest.57 This study involved identifying and attempting to trace the family’s landholdings from Edward the Confessor’s reign through to after the Conquest; various political connections have emerged as a result. Tracking the movements and tenures of land within this family has revealed a connection between Æthelwine the sheriff’s family and the earls of Mercia. Before the Conquest, Æthelwine held some seventy hides across four shires, and while his TRW holding – one quarter hide in Huntingdonshire – seems miniscule by comparison, Williams has shown that much of Æthelwine’s land went to his son, Thorkil. Williams has demonstrated that this was the result of carefully deployed family strategy, bolstered by the family’s relationship with the earls of Mercia. For their part, earls (and ecclesiastical officials) might also have sought to forge relationships with royal agents, such as sheriffs, possibly to elevate their own position in the localities as well as sway their allegiance away from the king. Five of the sheriffs in the period 1042×1066 emerge as having connections with ecclesiastical or lay elites: Godric, sheriff of Berkshire, Cyneweard of Worcestershire, Ælfric of Huntingdonshire, Osweard of Kent, and the aforementioned Æthelwine of Gloucestershire and Warwickshire. All these men except Æthelwine held land from the church, with Cyneweard also sharing familial ties with Archbishop Wulfstan of York. Baxter has suggested that relationships like these in the localities ultimately facilitated easier exercise of royal power by fostering cooperation among local elites and royal agents.58 This not only enhances our picture of the functioning of the Old English state, but it also allows us a glimpse of the social networks and connections of agents of that state on the eve of the Conquest. Æthelwine was one of four men out of twenty-three English sheriffs to emerge from the troubled times of 1066 with some lands in hand. These four were Æthelwine, Ælwig, Northmann, and Osweard, all of whom appear in post-Conquest England with land, though Northmann and Osweard were reduced to being subtenants and Æthelwine’s personal holding was quite small. Tofi, sheriff of Somerset, appears to have emerged with his office intact but he was not denoted as holding land TRW. Ælfwig appears to have been made sheriff in 1066, though whether this was before or after the Conquest is unclear. TRE Ælfwig did not appear to have any lands. TRW he held just over four hides in Oxfordshire and was apparently at that point sheriff there. To this group must be appended Edward of Salisbury, an Englishman who had been a prominent thegn under the Confessor and wealthy in his own right.59 By 1086 he had inherited his mother’s lands and gained the office of Sheriff of Wiltshire, which he occupied 1070×1087.60 Edward was the wealthiest Englishman in the Conqueror’s England as well as the richest tenant-in-chief in Wiltshire in 1086.61 1066 appears to have been a watershed moment for the English sheriff: circumstances in the period 1066–1100 were markedly different, and the office experienced

57

A. Williams, ‘A Vice-Comital Family in Pre-Conquest Warwickshire’, ANS 11 (1989), pp. 279–95 (esp. pp. 290–1). 58 Baxter, Earls of Mercia, pp. 249–50. 59 A. Williams, The English and the Norman Conquest (Woodbridge, 1995), pp. 105–6. 60 Keats-Rohan, Domesday People, p. 187. 61 Williams, The English and the Norman Conquest, pp. 105–6; Keats-Rohan, Domesday People, pp. 186–7.

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some changes.62 Pre-Conquest sheriffs were the king’s men, responsible to and dependent upon him for their power and position. Indeed, Richard Abels made the point that the late pre-Conquest scirgerefa had checks on his power that the AngloNorman sheriff did not: in addition to tighter royal control, these men had to contend with a powerful earl,63 and indeed also the bishop, who before the Conquest had a seat of authority in the county court. The reeve (and ultimately, the sheriff) was envisaged in tenth- and eleventh-century England as an official very much under the king’s power, and subject to royal authority in a way the tenth-century ealdorman and the later Anglo-Norman sheriff was not. An example of this particular subjectivity can be seen in Cnut’s Proclamation of 1020: And likewise I enjoin upon all my reeves, under pain of forfeiting my friendship and all that they possess and their own lives, to govern my people justly everywhere, and to pronounce just judgments with the cognisance of the bishops of the dioceses, and to inflict such mitigated penalties as the bishop may approve and the man himself may be able to bear.64

While Cnut’s proclamation was intended first and foremost to assure the English of just governance and the continuation of the good laws of the past, it also serves to highlight the reeve as a royal agent at the king’s disposal, and through whom the king’s duties to the English people could in part be discharged. The king literally appears to have had the power of life or death over his reeves, which would have made them a valuable administrative tool indeed. However, during the period 1066–1100, the office of sheriff witnessed a dramatic shift in its power and influence, with the Norman sheriff emerging as the preeminent authority in the localities. The unique circumstances in the aftermath of the Conquest contributed to these changes.65 The office of the sheriff did not undergo so much a transformation in the latter half of the eleventh century as a shift in its power and influence. By the twelfth century, the sheriff was firmly positioned as the king’s chief financial officer in the shires, managing his royal estates, organising the collection and payment of rents from those estates and the boroughs in the shire, and receiving a portion of the revenue arising from the hundred and shire courts.66 Before the Conquest, the most powerful men in the localities were the ealdormen and in some cases, the stallers,67 and bishops. However, after 1066 not every shire had an earl, bishops had been

62

For a more comprehensive picture, see: Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, pp. 128–45; Green, English Sheriffs; R. Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-Seeking and the Norman Settlement of the South-East Midlands’, ANS 19 (1997), pp. 19–50; Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, pp, 485–94; and Morris, The Medieval English Sheriff to 1300, chapters II and III. 63 Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-Seeking’, p. 36. 64 Laws of the Kings of England, ed. Robertson, p. 143; Liebermann, ed., Gesetze, p. 274: ‘7 eac ic beode eallum minum gerefum, be minum freondscype 7 be eallum þam þe hi agon 7 be heora agenum life, þæt hy æghwær min folc rihtlice healdan 7 rihte domas deman be ðære scira biscopa gewitnesse 7 swylce mildheortnesse þæron don, swylce þære scire biscope riht þince 7 se man acuman mæge’. 65 Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-Seeking’, p. 40. 66 Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 10–11. 67 K. Mack, ‘The Stallers: Administrative Innovation in the Reign of Edward the Confessor’, JMH 12 (1986), pp. 123–34.



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removed from the county courts, and the sheriff was left preeminent in his shire.68 Richard Sharpe stressed that the place of the earl in many shires in post-Conquest England was in reality occupied by the sheriff.69 This meant that in many cases the representative of royal authority was also the leading secular figure in the shire. There were some counties – Shropshire and Cheshire, for example – in which the earls controlled the sheriff, but it appears that generally sheriffs were under royal authority.70 It has been argued that the English sheriffs were not necessarily immediately replaced following 1066, and that sheriffs’ tenure in office could vary widely.71 However, I contend that in fact the opposite was the case: only two pre-Conquest sheriffs remained in a shrieval post after 1066. The immediate aftermath of the Conquest saw six Englishmen in the office of sheriff: Ælfwig in Oxfordshire, Tofi in Somerset, Turchil in Staffordshire, Swawold in Oxfordshire, Edmund in Hertfordshire, and Mærleswein in Lincolnshire; though only Ælfwig and Tofi can be clearly attested as holding office under Edward the Confessor – the other men appear to have been appointed at some point after Edward’s death. After the rebellions of 1069–71, this number had dwindled to one.72 The last English sheriff appears to have been Earnwig, sheriff of Nottinghamshire, in office 1075–93, preceded by Normans in the post from 1066.73 The existence of an Englishman in the powerful office of sheriff at a relatively late date can perhaps be flagged as an indication that English administrators were valued for their knowledge of the Old English state.74 The reeves who worked in the localities appear to have fared better than their more powerful counterparts: many more middling royal officials managed to retain their positions after 1066. The significant shift in the position and influence of the sheriff came during a period when William faced numerous and varied threats to his rule in England. The years 1067–80 saw resistance and rebellion against Norman rule in the north and in the midlands. In the face of unrest, William stationed sheriffs as the main secular power in the localities.75 That these men were predominately Norman speaks volumes about William’s mindset: in light of repeated English insurrection, William needed access to reliable, powerful royal agents in the localities. It seems that William left many English reeves in their positions, likely viewing these middling men as less of an essential part of the administrative process who were too reliant on royal patronage to be a threat. Domesday Book demonstrates that by 1086 the sheriffs had men working under them in the localities, and that in many cases 68

Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 11–12. Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, p. 486. In some cases sheriffs could hold more than one county, at the same time, or in succession (Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, p. 134). 70 Green, English Sheriffs, p. 12; and Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, p. 489. 71 Green, English Sheriffs, p. 13. For example, in some cases sheriffs were followed in their office by their sons, though this does not seem to be the typical practice. 72 Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, p. 131. 73 Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, pp. 491–2; Green, English Sheriffs, p. 67; and Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, p. 131. 74 Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, p. 132. Alternatively, David Roffe suggests that there may have been a purge of the remaining English sheriffs in 1086, which would explain Green’s difficulty in identifying sheriffs in that period, in her English Sheriffs (Roffe, Decoding Domesday (Woodbridge, 2007), p. 69 n. 35). 75 Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 11–12. 69

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these men were reeves. These officials, with their generally lower-profile positions and, to some extent, limited power were arguably ultimately more useful to the Normans than the English sheriffs, who would have been more difficult to control. That this was the case is borne out by the evidence: English survivors among the reeves were more numerous than the sheriffs by far. It has been widely attested that the largest group of documented post-Conquest English survivors were administrative agents and officials.76 The knowledge and experience of these men would have enabled the Normans to navigate the complexities of English administration and land tenure – a skill of particular importance in light of William the Conqueror’s apparently fruitless toils to learn English: according to the chronicler Orderic Vitalis, ‘He struggled to learn some of the English language, so that he could understand the pleas of the conquered people without an interpreter’.77 As the Normans sought to employ English law and customs to enable their ‘succession’ to the land, the work of these middling men would have been a critical aspect of this enterprise. Ann Williams and David Roffe argue that not only did some of these men survive beyond 1086 – with some even doing well out of the Conquest – but in some cases their descendants also managed to weather the Norman regime.78 Alternatively, Hugh Thomas calls for a less positive picture, claiming only around 1,000 Englishmen survived the Conquest to collectively hold a very small proportion of the available wealth. Although there was variation between counties, Thomas sketches a picture wherein, according to Domesday, about 5 per cent of England’s population held around 6 per cent of the wealth, and of this, a sizable portion of that wealth (one fifth) was held by the four wealthiest Englishmen: Edward of Salisbury, Thorkel of Warwick, Colswein of Lincoln, and a northerner, Gospatric. This leaves the majority of English landholders in 1086 ranked as relatively poor, especially when compared with the holdings of the new Norman magnates. Thomas argues that a portion of the English survivors were men whose fortunes were made in the aftermath of conquest, and this would have also served the function of giving English landholders a vested interest in the new Norman regime. Thus, those who acquitted themselves well within William’s administration would be permitted to retain their land, or, if they had previously been subject to confiscation, allowed to gain new holdings.79 Overall, Thomas paints a generally negative picture of the English in Domesday Book: they 76

D. Roffe, ‘Hidden Lives: English Lords in Post-Conquest Lincolnshire and Beyond’, The English and Their Legacy, ed. Roffe (Woodbridge, 2012), p. 205; H. Thomas, ‘The Significance and Fate of the Native English Landholders of 1086’, EHR 118 (2003), pp. 303–33; Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-seeking’, p. 32; Williams, The English and the Norman Conquest, pp. 11, 84–5, 96–9; R. Fleming, Domesday Book and the Law. Society and Legal Custom in Early Medieval England (Cambridge, 2003), p. 46; and Campbell, ‘Some Agents’, pp. 217–18. The work of the sheriffs was arguably instrumental in enabling the sweeping changes in English land tenure taking place between the Conquest and the production of Domesday Book (Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-Seeking’, p. 33). 77 Orderic, II, iv, pp. 256–7: ‘Anglicam locutionem plerunque sategit ediscere, ut sine interprete querelam subiectæ gentis posset intelligere […]’ (p. 256). See also S. Baxter, ‘The Making of Domesday Book and the Languages of Lordship in Conquered England’, Conceptualizing Multilingualism in England, c. 800–c. 1250, ed. E. Tyler (Turnhout, 2011), p. 275. 78 Williams, The English and the Norman Conquest, pp. 106–7, 118–19, and 122–5. See also Roffe, ‘Hidden Lives’, pp. 206–11. 79 Thomas, ‘Significance and Fate’, pp. 306–19.



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were poor, relatively few in number, and a mixed bag of survivors and men whose fortunes and careers were made by the Conquest. According to Roffe, Thomas’s is an unnecessarily bleak picture. His view is that Domesday Book underrepresents the English and that many more Englishmen survived and held land than Thomas allows for.80 Reeves would have been exactly the type of middling men and administrative agents who should embody this type of ‘useful’ survivor. Recent work by Baxter and Lewis lends support to Thomas’s view: they stipulate that ‘Conquest and colonization destroyed the upper ranks of English landed society, so that by 1086 only about eight per cent of the kingdom’s landed wealth remained in native hands’.81 Many of the remaining English who held land did so on a relatively small scale as the wealth gap widened.82 Although the men who filled the ranks of William the Conqueror’s sheriffs appear to have had a variety of different backgrounds, a number of them had in some way benefitted from the Conquest, with some holding vast estates.83 There was a significant difference between the pre- and post-Conquest sheriffs in terms of the size and value of their landholdings.84 The twenty-four pre-Conquest sheriffs surveyed for this study appear to have been generally modest landholders and from middling backgrounds: many of these men are absent from the sources, save where they appear carrying out the duties of their office. Some exceptions include Osweard of Norton, Æthelwine of Warwickshire and, most notably, Robert fitzWymarc, sheriff of Essex, who was a staller and kinsman of King Edward, and Mærleswein, sheriff of Lincolnshire, though it is unclear whether Mærleswein became sheriff before the Conquest. Both men possessed wealth on a scale alien to their pre-Conquest fellows, holding around 200 hides each, numbers closer to those of the Anglo-Norman sheriffs. It is important to note, however, that the landholdings and wealth of the post-Conquest sheriffs are much easier to identify than those of their pre-Conquest counterparts.85 The difference in pre- and post-Conquest wealth may, in part, reflect the tendency of some sheriffs to have sticky fingers, particularly when it came to the land of the church. Various sources from the period are replete with complaints against the avarice of sheriffs and reeves (often towards the church), echoing similar sentiments asserted in late pre-Conquest England. In particular, the names of three especially egregious offenders surfaced often: Picot of Cambridge, Eustace of Huntingdon, and Urse d’Abetot of Worcestershire.86 These men were seen to have been particularly rapacious against the church, with Picot garnering rather a lot of attention in the Liber Eliensis as a result, as we saw earlier.87 In addition to increased power and influence, the Norman sheriff brought with him an additional change: a shift in vocabulary. After the arrival of the Normans, sheriffs were denoted by the Latin term vicecomes (vice-earl) as opposed to the 80

Roffe, ‘Hidden Lives’, pp. 206, 215. Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, p. 402. 82 Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, p. 402. 83 Green, English Sheriffs, p. 16; and Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, pp. 138–9. 84 Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-Seeking’, p. 35. 85 My thanks to Ann Williams for this important reminder. 86 Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-Seeking’, p. 33; Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, p. 144; Roffe, Decoding Domesday, p. 69. 87 Blake, ed., Liber Eliensis, pp. 84–91, 93–4, 100, 107–8, and 111; Fairweather, trans., Liber Eliensis, pp. 107–14, 116–17, 122, 131–2, and 134. 81

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Old English scirgerefa.88 Sharpe suggests that reeves, too, saw a change in terminology, from the Latin præpositus or præfectus in common use to minister.89 While caution must always be used in dealing with terminology, arguably præpositus/ præfectus did in fact remain in use after 1066 to denote ‘reeve’. The Domesday evidence lends support to this notion with its continued use of these terms – as distinctive from minister – in the late 1080s. Sharpe comments on the difficulty in discerning the sheriff in the pre- and post-Conquest sources, citing the use of the terms præpositus and præfectus in S 883 (995) and Goscelin’s Vita S. Eadgythae (c. 1058xc. 1107) to refer to sheriffs.90 Instead, arguably, these men, ‘Aþeluuig meus praepositus in Bucingaham’ in S 883 and ‘Wiltoniensis praefectus Ailuuinus’ in the Vita S. Eadgythae were the king’s reeve in Buckingham and the reeve of Wilton. The De Miraculis Sancti Eadmundi, written down in the late eleventh century, also features an official whose title was translated as ‘sheriff’: in this case the Latin used was vicecomes. The deployment of this particular, distinctive Latin term which had come into use with the Conquest signals that this figure was to be regarded as a sheriff as opposed to a reeve. An examination of terms employed to denote ‘reeve’ has revealed that particular, specific vocabulary was very deliberately used throughout the tenth and eleventh centuries, making it unlikely that either Æthelwig or Ælfwine were sheriffs, but rather were reeves instead. In Normandy, the vicomte was generally an administrator, and typically the officer of the duke. These men rarely had military commands or the charge of castles, although, as Mark Hagger observes, there were exceptions. Because these officials were typically the duke’s men, and could therefore represent him, they wielded a degree of influence and gained social standing. This meant that the office was an appealing one – sought after, in Hagger’s view, by men ranging from middling to aristocratic status, and in some cases these offices became hereditary.91 The vicecomes in Norman England, especially the sheriffs under William the Conqueror, represent an office at the pinnacle of its influence and power. These men were the key agents of the king in the localities, in some cases in charge of the new castles that began to dot the English landscape as lasting reminders of Norman hegemony.92 It is likely that these men also played an amplified, more central role in the lives of those living in their localities, through their work in the hundred and shire courts.93 Despite similarities in function, the post-Conquest sheriffs enjoyed greater power, wealth, and importance than their late pre-Conquest counterparts. This significant shift in the position and influence of the sheriff came during a period when King William faced numerous and varied threats to his rule in England. In the face of unrest, William reduced the number of earls in England, leaving sheriffs as the main secular power in the localities.94 That these men were predominately Norman speaks volumes about William’s mindset: in light of English insurrection, William needed access to reliable, powerful royal agents. At the same time, it seems that William left many English officials in their positions, likely viewing these middling men as less of a threat. The value of the administrative knowledge 88 89 90 91 92 93 94

Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, p. 485. Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, p. 486. Sharpe, ‘The Earliest Norman Sheriffs’, p. 487. M. Hagger, Norman Rule in Normandy, 911–1144 (Woodbridge, 2017), pp. 549–50, 552. Green, ‘Sheriffs of William the Conqueror’, p. 129. Abels, ‘Sheriffs, Lord-seeking’, pp. 31–2. Green, English Sheriffs, pp. 11–12.



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and experience of these officials becomes evident when in the aftermath – and as a direct result – of the rebellions, William sought to undertake the Domesday Inquest. The aim of this study was to survey the sheriffs of Edward the Confessor, in the hopes of learning something more about the lives and family connections of these men. What has instead emerged is a broader picture: it is clear that not every shire had a sheriff before 1066 – this was a slowly evolving process that the Norman rulers would complete by the end of the eleventh century. While some reeves and other minor officials retained their positions throughout the localities across the Conquest, only a handful of English sheriffs managed to do so, lending support to the argument that much of the upper echelons of English society were swept away in the Conquest, and that it was those of ‘middling’ ranks that survived. Although royal service was, both before and after the Conquest, a potential route to increased wealth and status, the men who served as Edward the Confessor’s sheriffs were predominately of moderate to lesser means and do not generally appear to have derived from prominent families. These men were locally but not necessarily nationally significant figures. This work has shown that the Confessor’s men were, as a group, humbler souls than those who filled their boots after the Conquest.

SEALS, COINS, AND THE EXCHANGE OF IMAGINATION AND IMAGES Andrea Stieldorf The mutual influences and exchanges between England and the Continent – and England and Germany in particular – have been a subject of research for many years, especially since Levison’s ground-breaking 1946 study on England and the Continent in the eighth century.1 There are also some interesting studies covering the later Anglo-Saxon and the early Anglo-Norman periods.2 In 2012, Andreas Bihrer argued that Anglo-German relations were both less intense and less continuous than had previously been assumed. He believed that connections between the two were occasional, consisting of random exchanges of texts, objects, ideas, and the like, rather regular and coherent.3 Bihrer did not include coins and seals in his analysis, but, without giving too much away, I can say that my ideas do not entirely correspond with his. In this essay I am going to examine the question of whether or not there were exchanges of images and imaginations – meaning visual elements and concepts as well as ideas – between England and Germany as can be seen in seals and coins from Lotharingia between the tenth and the early twelfth century.4 For pragmatic reasons, I will mostly stick to seals and coins and consult other visual media only occasionally. Coins I start by looking at the chances of either English coins becoming known in Lotharingia on the one hand and Lotharingian – or German coins in general – becoming known in England on the other. It is important to note that the chances of German or Lotharingian coins reaching England were a lot slimmer than those of English coins getting to Lotharingia or Germany. The paucity of German examples of coins found in an English context is due to concerted efforts on the part of the English kings to

1

W. Levison, England and the Continent in the 8th Century (Oxford, 1946); see also J. E. Story, Carolingian Connections. Anglo-Saxon England and Carolingian Francia c. 750–870 (Aldershot, 2003). 2 A. Bihrer, Begegnungen zwischen dem ostfränkisch-deutschen Reich und England (850– 1100). Kontakte – Konstellationen – Funktionalisierungen (Ostfildern, 2012), pp. 13–26, referring to previous research; M. F. Gi, Episcopal Culture in Late Anglo Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2007), who even stresses the importance of German influence as more relevant than the Norman one. 3 Bihrer, Begegnungen. 4 J. Schneider, Auf der Suche nach dem verlorenen Reich. Lotharingien im 9. und 10. Jahrhundert (Cologne, 2010).

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keep foreign money out of their realm.5 Even those coins which did reach England and survived the smelting process were often overstruck with an English type.6 It might therefore seem to have been difficult for the designs of German and Lotharingian coins to have any impact on English coinage.7 As far as the circulation of English coins in Lotharingia and Germany is concerned, we know that a lot of English coins reached the Continent. However, the impact on Lotharingia, with the exception of Frisia as its northernmost region, has been regarded as negligible by modern commentators.8 Kenneth Jonsson suggested that the ‘long experience of coinage and coin circulation areas [which] had no doubt been established at an early period […] meant that foreign coins had little chance of entering circulation’ in the Rhine area.9 Yet, as he himself notices, the Rhine area in particular and perhaps other parts of Lotharingia as well can be seen as a transit zone for English coins to Scandinavia.10 When studying the various degrees to which German and English coins influenced each other’s designs, there is another factor to keep in mind: since the tenth century, English coinage had been dominated by the crowned royal bust, facing or profiled, sometimes with the king depicted holding a sceptre in his right hand.11 The consistency of English coin design is in keeping with the English monetary system where the moneyers were under contract with the Crown and therefore also controlled by it. The royal bust seems to have been a form of authentication for their minting,12 as Gareth Williams put it: ‘The coinage provided a rightly controlled visible and (for the literate) legible expression of the king’s identity, while the uniformity of the coinage across the kingdom was also a visible reminder of royal authority’.13 5

M. Blackburn, ‘Mints, Burhs and the Grately Code’, The Defense of Wessex. The Burghal Hidage and Anglo-Saxon Fortifications, ed. D. Hill and A. R. Rumble (Manchester, 1996), pp. 160–75 at pp. 167–72; R. Naismith, ‘Prelude to Reform. Tenth-Century English Coinage in Perspective’, Early Medieval Monetary History. Studies in Memory of Mark Blackburn, ed. R. Naismith, M. Allen, and E. Screen (Farnham, 2014), pp. 39–83 at pp. 56 ff. 6 C. E. Blunt, ‘A Penny of the English King Athelstan overstruck on a Cologne Denier’, Lagom. Festschrift für Peter Berghaus zum 60. Geburtstag am 20. November 1979, ed. T. Fischer and P. Ilisch (Münster, 1981), pp. 119–21. 7 M. M. Archibald, ‘The German Connection. German Influences on the later Anglo-Saxon and Norman Coinages in their English Context (10th and 11th Centuries)’, Fundamenta Historiae. Geschichte im Spiegel der Numismatik und ihrer Nachbarwissenschaften. Festschrift für Niklot Klüssendorf zum 60. Geburtstag am 10. Februar 2004, ed. R. Cunz (Hanover, 2004), pp. 131–50. 8 S. Suchodolski, ‘Imitation of coinage of Æthelraed in Central Europe’, Hikuin 11 (1985), pp. 157–68. 9 K. Jonsson, ‘The Routes of Importation of German and English Coins to the Northern Lands in the Viking Age’, Fernhandel und Geldwirtschaft. Beiträge zum deutschen Münzwesen in sächsischer und salischer Zeit, ed. Bernd Kluge (Sigmaringen, 1993), pp. 205–32 at p. 223. 10 Jonsson, ‘Routes of Importation’, pp. 217–29; Bernd Kluge, ‘Umrisse der deutschen Münzgeschichte in ottonischer und salischer Zeit’, Fernhandel und Geldwirtschaft, pp. 1–16. 11 R. Kelleher, A History of Medieval Coinage in England. Illustrated by coins in the Fitzwilliam Museum (Cambridge, 2022), pp. 48–70. 12 J. D. Brand, The English Coinage 1180–1247. Money, Mints and Exchanges, 2nd edn (Kent, 1994), pp. 6–48. With exception of some coins in the Anarchy: G. C. Boon, Coins of the Anarchy 1135–54 (Cardiff, 1988), pp. 10, 21, 28 f. 13 G. Williams, ‘Monetary Contacts between England and Normandy, c. 973–1130. A Numismatic Perspective’, Circulations monétaires et réseaux d’échanges en Normandie et dans



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The German monetary system, on the other hand, varied significantly from the English system: the king initially enjoyed a relatively strong position especially in Lotharingian coin production,14 but starting in the middle of the tenth century, the archbishops of Cologne and Trier started minting their own coins as well, followed first by other bishops and then by some dukes and counts, sometimes sharing a mint with the king, but nonetheless issuing their own specie with their own name and/ or their own image.15 This process by which potentates other than the king, both ecclesiastical and secular, began to mint their own coins happened elsewhere and resulted in the circulation of these coins becoming more and more restricted to their own regions.16 We can also observe a sort of coherence among the coins with the king’s image produced in various mints within a certain region, not only regarding the weight of the coins, but also their imagery: we might describe this phenomenon as ‘Herrscherbildregionen’, meaning regions in which a special type of royal image is predominant.17 Due to the large number of authorities issuing coins, there is a wide range of images to be found on German coins, especially on those from the eleventh and twelfth centuries. However, as interesting as all these coins with their great variety of images are,18 for the purposes of this paper I will focus on the royal coinage, in particular those royal coins bearing the image of the king. Comparing English and German coins and the influence they had on each other, we can observe that in spite of the low number of coins from Germany and Lotharingia circulating in England, there are some visual elements which may have found their way from these onto the coins of English kings. Starting with the obverse, the first of these elements we examine is the crown. In her 1993 paper on German influences on Anglo-Saxon and Norman coinage, Marion Archibald mentions a type of globule-topped crown which features on some of King Æthelstan’s coins as a single line with, rising from it, ‘three tall linear stalks each topped by a single globule’.19 However there are no ‘German’ coins and only a small number of Italian royal seals le Nord-Ouest européen, Antiquité-Moyen Âge, ed. J. Chameroy and P.-M. Guihard (Caen, 2012), pp. 173–84 at p. 177. 14 P. Grierson, Münzen des Mittelalters (München, 1976), pp. 73 f., 87, 94. 15 W. Hävernick, Die Münzen von Köln. Vom Beginn der Prägung bis 1304 (Köln, 1935), pp. 3 f., 27 ff., 56–63; R. Weiller, Die Münzen von Trier. Erster Teil. Erster Abschnitt: Beschreibung der Münzen 6. Jahrhundert – 1307 (Düsseldorf, 1988), pp. 74–8. 16 N. Kamp, Moneta regis. Königliche Münzstätten und königliche Münzpolitik in der Stauferzeit, MGH Schriften 55 (Hanover, 2006), pp. 4–27; S. Steinbach, Das Geld der Nonnen und Mönche. Münzrecht, Münzprägung und Geldumlauf der ostfränkisch-deutschen Klöster in ottonisch-salischer Zeit (ca. 911–1125) (Berlin, 2007). 17 P. Ilisch, ‘German Viking-Age Coinage and the North’, Viking-Age Coinage in the Northern Lands. The Sixth Oxford Symposium on Coinage and Monetary History, ed. M. A. S. Blackburn and D. M. Metcalf (Oxford, 1981), pp. 129–46 at pp. 130 ff.; M. A. S. Blackburn, ‘Coin Circulation during the Early Middle Ages. The Evidence of Single Finds’, Fernhandel und Geldwirtschaft, pp. 37–54; M. Stimpert, Die Münzen der römischdeutschen Kaiser und Könige (936–1125) (forthcoming) who describes the regional circulation of coins in Germany. 18 A. Stieldorf, ‘Das Bild des Königs. Siegel und Münzen der Staufer und Anjou-Plantagenet im Vergleich’, Staufen and Plantagenets. Two Empires in Comparison, ed. A. Plassmann and D. Büschken (Göttingen, 2018), pp. 197–227. 19 Archibald, ‘German Connection’, pp. 131 f. with fig. 2: Crowned Bust Type, c. 933–939; P. Berghaus, ‘Die Darstellung der Deutschen Kaiser und Könige im Münzbild’, Percy Ernst

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which feature a similar crown – namely those of Hugo of Italy and that depicting Hugo together with his son Lothar.20 However, the adoption of this pictorial motif seems rather to have been due to the lasting effects of the connections between the English kings and the Carolingians;21 Archibald on the other hand sees it in the context of the increasing relations between England and the Ottonian Reich in the 930s.22 The coins struck in the Ottonian Empire mostly followed the Carolingian tradition of showing a church of some kind on the obverse and a cross on the reverse, while the effigy of the Ottonian king only featured on a few coins. Such coin designs only became more common in the period around 1000; after tentative beginnings under Otto III, the coins of Henry II in particular reflect the growing importance of the royal image on coins.23 Ancient Roman and contemporary Byzantine coins seem to have had a marked influence on Ottonian coinage, but it is worth considering the possibility that Anglo-Saxon coins might also have had an impact, as they had started featuring the royal image more frequently from the time of Æthelstan. Moreover, due to the strong ties between Æthelstan and Germany, it seems possible that his choosing the profile bust may have inspired its use on German coins. There are only a very small number of coins featuring the king’s image known to us which were struck during the reign of Otto I. Interestingly, these coins were not issued by Otto himself but by the bishops of Strasburg.24 The first coins with Otto’s image were struck in the name of bishop Uto IV (950–65). Their inscription is of particular interest, as it does not simply refer to the king as otto rex, as was usually the case, but as otto magnus or otto rex pacificus – the peace-bringer. The effigy shows the king’s profiled bust with a military cloak similar to the Roman paludamentum visible at the shoulders. The crown is not globule-topped like the one on Æthelstan’s coins or a lily-topped crown.25 Instead, the coin shows a sort of ‘Strahlenkrone’ (radiate crown), which is a sight we are very familiar with from the coins of Roman emperors. The obverses of these coins bear the name of the bishop in question, voto, or that of the bishopric and mint, argentina. Considering both sides of these coins, we see a bishop showing off his close association with the king in order to emphasise his strong political position, thereby justifying issuing coins with his own name on them – a phenomenon that had only just begun to emerge. What is striking is how closely the Strasburg coins followed the example of the coins of Roman emperors, down to the military cloak, which is recognisable by the clasp at the shoulders, and of course, the ‘Strahlenkrone’. We come across this kind of crown on the pre-reform coins of King Edgar as well, where it has wreath ties

Schramm, Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit 751–1190, ed. F. Mütherich, new edn (München, 1983), pp. 88–113. 20 Schramm, Bilder, p. 329 fig. 72, 73, p. 330 fig. 7a and b. 21 Story, Carolingian Connections, pp. 14–18, 23 ff., 188–95, 243–55 on the numismatic connections between England and Francia. 22 Archibald, ‘German Connections’, p. 133. 23 Grierson, Münzen, pp. 87 f.; Kluge, ‘Umrisse’, pp. 6 f. 24 Schramm, Bilder, pp. 73, 188, fig. 334; Stieldorf, ‘Die Rückkehr des Königs. Zur Funktion des Herrscherbildes auf Münzen’, Archiv für Diplomatik 64 (2018), pp. 27–59. 25 Grierson, Münzen, p. 74; B. Kluge, Deutsche Münzgeschichte von der späten Karolingerzeit bis zum Ende der Salier (ca. 900–1125) (Sigmaringen, 1991), pp. 136 f. n. 37.



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added to it.26 Thus, in this case it seems possible that German coins may indeed have had some influence on English coins, directly or by stimulating the renewed imitation of Roman imperial coins. Edward the Confessor and his successors continued to use some of the crowns depicted on their coins in the style of the Salian kings and emperors: this act of copying is particularly interesting as Henry III implemented a coinage reform in the second half of the 1040s, following his imperial coronation in Rome. The traces of this reform can most clearly be observed in Saxonia and Lotharingia. It is characterised by the use of a specific royal image, depicting a facing bust of the king. Certain types of crowns are characteristic of some of the mints and their respective areas of influence: Herrscherbildregionen. In Goslar, Saxonia, we have a ‘Giebelkrone’ (crown with a gable-like upper part) with accentuated pendilia at its sides, while the coins from Dortmund and Duisburg (Western parts of Saxonia and Lotharingia) feature a ‘Doppelbügelkrone’ (crown with two crossing arches).27 These kinds of crowns were imitated in the design of the Facing Small Cross Type of Edward the Confessor, which showed him in full face, similar to the design of the Salian reform coins.28 We also find the ‘Doppelbügelkrone’ on the Bonnet Type coins of William I, which were minted between 1068 and the early 1070s. To my mind, the ‘Doppelbügelkrone’ was the basis for the more exaggerated crown shapes of the Canopy type, the Two Sceptres type, and the Two Stars Type issued by William I.29 When it comes to the Helmet type of King Æthelred, issued between 1003 and 1009, it is difficult to say if this influenced the similar coins of Henry II of Germany or if it was the other way round.30 Marion Archibald linked the introduction of the helmet on Æthelred’s coins to the Scandinavian incursions with which the AngloSaxon king was confronted and to his order in 1008 CE that a helmet and byrnie be provided from every eight hides. Some contemporary coins issued in the name of King Henry II in Bavaria also depict the German king with some kind of helmet or helmet crown.31 To my mind, all these types do not only imitate certain variants of Roman types, but rather try to adapt them. The English coinage modified and further developed the Helmet type, for example with the Pointed Helmet type of King Cnut.32 It was Cnut who introduced a new kind of crown on the first coins he 26

Archibald, ‘German Connections’, p. 134 fig. 3; B. Kluge, State Museum Berlin Coin Cabinet. Anglo-Saxon, Anglo-Norman, and Hiberno Norse Coins (Oxford, 1987), n. 192. 27 Kluge, ‘Umrisse’, pp. 8 f. with n. 33; P. Berghaus, ‘Duisburger Münzen’, Duisburg im Mittelalter. Begleitschrift zur Ausstellung 4. September bis 27. November 1983, ed. J. Milz and G. Krause (Duisburg, 1983), pp. 89–113 at pp. 94 ff. 28 Tuukka Talvio, ‘The Designs of Edward the Confessor’s Coins’, Studies in Late AngloSaxon Coinage. In Memory of Bror Emil Hildebrand, ed. K. Jonsson (Stockholm, 1990), pp. 487–99. 29 Archibald, ‘German Connections’, pp. 143 f.; Kelleher, History, pp. 51 ff. 30 Archibald, ‘German Connection’, pp. 135 f.; C. E. Blunt, ‘The Coinage of Aethelstan. King of England 924–939’, British Numismatic Journal 41 (1972), pp. 35–160 at pp. 48, 129 f. 31 Schramm, Bilder, p. 213 n. 120/11. 32 Archibald, ‘German Connections’, pp. 136 ff.; Pointed Helmet Type: G. Galster, Royal Collection of Coins and Medals, National Museum Copenhagen 3.A. Anglo-Saxon Coins, Cnut mints Axbridge-Lymne (Oxford, 1970), pl. 2 nn. 34–7, 40, 41, 48, 49, 54, 56. On the coinage of Cnut see K. Jonsson, ‘The Coinage of Cnut’, The Reign of Cnut. King of England, Denmark and Norway, ed. A. R. Rumble (London, 1994), pp. 192–230 at pp. 199 ff. with fig. 11.3. 1–3.

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issued in England, namely an open lily crown, which he is depicted wearing in the New Minster Liber Vitae as well.33 I would agree with Archibald’s suggestion that the helmet crown and the lily crown refer to different, but equally necessary aspects of kingship: the successful warrior king on the one hand and the king deriving his right to rule directly from the will of God on the other. In Germany, the shape of the crown was not used to denote these different aspects of kingship. Instead, a type of closed – imperial? – crown shape was developed, which was prevalent on German coins since the rule of Conrad II and also featured on coins struck in Lotharingian mints.34 These crown shapes were adopted on English coins as well, for example on some coins issued by Edward the Confessor.35 The sceptre is an example of a visual element which seems to have found its way onto English and German coins almost simultaneously. The first instance of a German coin featuring a sceptre is one issued in the name of Otto III in an unknown mint, followed by some coins issued by Henry II, before the sceptre finally became an established element of royal coin imagery during the reign of Henry III.36 However, the sceptre had been part of German imperial and royal seal imagery since the first imperial seal of Otto I. This may not have been the case in England, since there are no known seals of Anglo-Saxon kings surviving from before the reign of Edward the Confessor.37 We can therefore assume that the coins and seals of the Ottonian rulers influenced the design of the English royal coins. It is often not possible to recognise the top of the sceptre on the few coins of the German kings and emperors depicting one, so it is difficult to compare the different types. A Duisburg coin issued by Henry IV shows him holding a globe-topped sceptre.38 English coins showing a sceptre feature a type with three globules, for example Æthelred (978–1016) and Cnut, or a lily (Cnut), or even a cross (Edward the Confessor).39 Owing to the low number of German coins where we can clearly identify the type of sceptre being depicted, I am hesitant to draw any definitive conclusions. However, as the lily-topped sceptre featured on the coins of English kings since Cnut and went on to replace the globe-topped sceptre on the German coins in the mid-eleventh century,40 we can perhaps attribute this to the influence of the English coins. 33

Archibald, ‘German Connections’, pp. 136 f. n. 7 (Quatrefoil type 1018–24) = B. Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters 1. Handbuch und Thesaurus Nummorum Medii Aevi (Berlin, 2007), pp. 422 f. n. 1143; Galster, Royal Collection, pl. 1 n. 1, 7, 19. 34 Berghaus, ‘Darstellung’, pp. 141 ff. 35 Archibald, ‘German Connections’, pp. 140 f. 36 Berghaus, ‘Darstellung’, pp. 141–4; Schramm, Bilder, pp. 201, 351 fig. 103, n. 11 (Otto III, Lower Lotharingia, lily?), p. 213 fig. 120 n. 7 (Henry II, Mainz, globule-topped?); Kluge, Münzgeschichte, pp. 172 f. n. 145; Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, pp. 422 f. n. 1136 (Æthelred II, Second Hand 985–91, globule topped?); n. 1137 (Æthelred II, Benediction Hand, 991, lily-topped?), n. 1138 (Æthelred II, Crux, 991–7, lily-topped = three globules?), n. 1144 (Cnut, Pointed Helmet 1023–9). 37 E. A. New, Seals and Sealing Practices (London, 2010), p. 33 with n. 5. 38 Kluge, Münzgeschichte, pp. 180 f. n. 169; Celles: ibid., pp. 182–93 n. 179. 39 Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, pp. 422–5 n. 1136 (Second Hand 985–91), n. 1138 (Crux c. 991–7); Cnut n. 1144 (Pointed Helmet c. 1023–9), pp. 424 f. n. 1148 (Harthacnut, Arm and Sceptre c. 1040–2), Edward the Confessor n. 1149 (Pacxs c. 1042–4); n. 1145, Harold n. 1147; n. 1153 (Pointed Helmet c. 1053–6). 40 Berghaus, ‘Darstellung’, p. 144.



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The image of the facing bust mentioned before is another aspect of the royal image on English coins which may have been influenced by the design of German coins. The profiled bust, the typical design on the coins of Roman emperors, was the predominant type of royal imagery in the tenth century, both on Anglo-Saxon coins and on the few Ottonian coins bearing the royal effigy and for Carolingian and early royal Ottonian seals. After his coronation as emperor in 962, Otto I replaced the image of the profiled bust with that of a facing one. In his important study on royal seals, Hagen Keller showed that this change was not arbitrary, but rather mirrored a change in the Ottonian ‘Herrschaftsauffassung’ – the concept of rulership. The newly crowned emperor aimed at visually asserting his superior legitimacy and power over the mighty secular princes, especially the dukes, as well as the bishops in his empire.41 Yet it was only several generations later that the facing image found its way onto German royal coins. It can therefore hardly be seen as a coincidence that it was Henry II in Bavaria and Conrad II in Lotharingia, two rulers who strove to strengthen their grasp on the realm, who started using the full face image on their coins as well, with the facing bust gaining more importance in the reform of Henry III.42 Thus it seems that the use of the facing bust on the coins of William the Conqueror and his successors may be attributed to the example of these Lotharingian coins.43 Another image which finds its way onto German and English royal coins is that of the king enthroned, although it is first found on the third imperial seal of Otto III, the design of which was then adapted by his successors. The first known German coins showing the king enthroned were struck during the reign of Henry III in the mint of Celles, in Lower Lotharingia.44 As Henry III died in 1056, his coins probably predated Edward’s Sovereign Martlet Type, which was struck between 1056 and 1059.45 Edward also used the motif of the king enthroned on his seal, clearly basing the design on the seals of the Ottonian and Salian rulers as well as, of course, on Byzantine iconography. Brigitte Bedos-Rezak analyses the seal and the Sovereign Type coins in the context of a ‘laicizing tendency of the Anglo-Saxon monarchy […] signalling the regality of the king parallel, and no 41

H. Keller, ‘Ottonische Herrschersiegel. Beobachtungen und Fragen zu Gestalt und Aussage und zur Funktion im historischen Kontext’, Ottonische Königsherrschaft. Organisation und Legitimation königlicher Macht, ed. H. Keller (Darmstadt, 2002), pp. 131–66, 275–97. 42 Kluge, Deutsche Münzgeschichte, pp. 148 f. n. 73 (Henry II, Mainz), pp. 150 f. n. 82, (Henry II, Straßburg), pp. 154 f. nn. 91–3 (all Conrad II, Duisburg), pp. 158 f. n. 103 (Conrad II, Deventer), n. 104 (Conrad II, Tiel), pp. 160 f. n. 109 (Conrad II, Mainz); Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, pp. 316 f. n. 300 (Henry II, Straßburg), n. 302 (Conrad II, Duisburg). And especially for Duisburg: Berghaus, Duisburger Münzen, pp. 89–113. 43 M. Blackburn, ‘Coinage and Currency under Henry I. A Review’, ANS 13 (1990), pp. 49–81. 44 Schramm, Bilder, p. 231, p. 402 fig. 154 n. 31 a = Kluge, Deutsche Münzgeschichte, pp. 168 f. n. 138 (Celles). Henry V: Schramm, Bilder, p. 239, p. 420 fig. 171 nn. 1a, 1b, 1c (Duisburg), p. 241, p. 423 fig. 171 n. 30 = Kluge, Deutsche Münzgeschichte, pp. 184 f. n. 181 (Dortmund). 45 B. M. Bedos-Rezak, ‘The King Enthroned. A New Theme in Anglo-Saxon Royal Iconography. The Seal of Edward the Confessor and its Political Implications’, Form and Order in Medieval France, ed. B. M. Bedos-Rezak (Aldershot, 1993), pp. 53–88 at pp. 65 f.; T. Talvio, ‘The Stylistic Structure of Edward the Confessor’s Coinage’, Early Medieval Monetary History, pp. 173–86 at pp. 181 f. (Souvereign/Eagle).

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longer merely subservient, to that of Christ’.46 The fact that the new image may have found its way onto English seals and coins simultaneously is of particular interest: it proves that the mutual influence that English and German coins had on each other is not the only factor which needs to be considered, but that intermediality also played a very significant role, though that is not an aspect of coinage which I can discuss here. It is interesting, however, that William the Conqueror and his successors did not imitate Edward’s Sovereign type showing the king enthroned:47 although the Norman and Angevin kings would go on to include this image in their seals, they did not use it for their coins.48 We will return to this observation later in this article. We can observe the mutual influences of German and English kings on the reverse side as well, as with the motif of the ‘right hand of God’, the Dextera Dei coins. Two coins issued by Ætheldred II (978–1016) are of particular interest in this regard: the First Hand Type minted between 979 and 985,49 and the Second Hand Type, c. 985–91,50 because their reverses deviate from the usual cross design and show the Dextera Dei instead. This motif cannot be found on German royal coins until after the coronation of Henry II as emperor in 1014, when a coin type bearing this image was produced in the Frisian, and thus Lotharingian, mint of Deventer.51 There are even some coins of William’s where the reverses bear a striking resemblance to those of some Duisburg coins issued by Henry IV. This is particularly true of the PAXS Type of the later 1080s which features four circles. In Duisburg, these serve to encompass the eight letters of the name DIVSBVRG, while on William’s coin, they are filled with crosses and some floral elements.52 There is even a double inscription on the aptly named Double Inscription type issued by Henry I which was certainly inspired by the coins of Bishop Adalbero III of Metz (1047–72); in this case the English royal coin may have been influenced by a Lotharingian episcopal coin.53 Although the English kings were largely successful in preventing the use of foreign coins as currency on English soil, there were numerous ways for the design of German coins, among them those struck in Lotharingian mints, to become known in England. The coins reached England in the pockets of Germans travelling to the kingdom, who showed them around, were forced to exchange them for sterling and occasionally lost them – there are some known examples of foreign coins turning up as single finds. In addition, of course, English men and women in turn 46

Bedos-Rezak, ‘The King Enthroned’, p. 62. L. Jones, ‘From Anglorum Basileus to Norman Saint. The Transformation of Edward the Confessor’, HSJ 12 (2002), pp. 99–120 at pp. 100–6; Talvio, ‘Designs’, p. 492 fig. 17; Talvio, ‘Stylistic Structure’, p. 182 fig. 8.7.a. 48 The Norman coins never showed the duke’s image (N. J. Mayhew, Coinage in France from the Dark Ages to Napoleon (London, 1988), pp. 19–58). 49 Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, pp. 422 f. n. 1135. 50 Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, pp. 422 f. n. 1136. 51 Kluge, Münzgeschichte, pp. 144 f. n. 65. It is new on Anglo-Saxon coins as well, as early Anglo-Saxon coins sometimes show a hand, but not the Dextera Dei, see A. Gannon, The Iconography of Early Anglo-Saxon Coinage. Sixth to Eigth Centuries (Oxford, 2003), pp. 63 ff. 52 Kelleher, ‘History’, p. 53 fig. 22. For the Duisburg coins of Henry IV: Berghaus, Duisburger Münzen, pp. 101–7. 53 Archibald, ‘German Connections’, pp. 144 f. with fig. 26, 27. 47



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travelled to the Continent and became familiar with the coinage used there. We also know of German moneyers and goldsmiths working in England, even at the royal court.54 It must have been these numerous points of contact which led to German coins becoming known in England and to German coins, and Lotharingian ones in particular, influencing the design of English coins. With the different forms of crowns, the sceptre, the facing bust, and the king enthroned and various reverse images, it seems the German and Lotharingian influence may have been more substantial and more continuous than the English influence with helmet crown, lily-topped sceptre and Dextera Dei. Seals There are some studies which have analysed the ways in which the double-sided seal of Edward the Confessor and its imagery were influenced by Byzantine coins and bullae. However they also point out the clearly discernible influence of the Salian royal seals: Edward’s seal depicts the king enthroned on both sides of his seal, with a crown resembling the type worn by the Salian emperors on their seals. He is holding the regalia in his hands and his cape, like that of the German rulers, is fastened at the right shoulder.55 Given that Edward evidently followed the examples of the Salian kings and of the Byzantine emperors, there is clear evidence of an imitatio imperii or, more precisely, of two empires, Roman and Byzantine.56 The same cannot necessarily be said of an imitatio Lotharingiae: while we have established that there are clear indications of some Lotharingian coins having had a special influence on English coinage, there is no evidence of a comparable Lotharingian connection with regard to royal seals. The seals of Edward’s successors bear a marked resemblance to his, but feature different types of crowns and sceptres. William the Conqueror only used one side of his seal to depict the image of the king enthroned, while introducing the image of a mounted warrior bearing a sword and banner to the other. There is reasonable doubt as to the connection between Normandy and the image of the mounted warrior.57 Of course I would like to be able to argue that the image of the king enthroned found its way onto the English royal seals from Lotharingia, but, as Jean-François Nieus has shown, it was the strong connections between England, Normandy, and Flanders that were responsible for the interchange of ideas concerning images on seals.58

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Archibald, ‘German Connections’, pp. 140, 146; V. Smart, ‘Economic Migrants? Continental Moneyers’ Names on the Tenth-Century English Coinage?’, NOMINA. Journal of the Society for Name Studies in Britain and Ireland 32 (2009), pp. 113–56. 55 B. English, ‘The Coronation of Harold in the Bayeux Tapestry’, The Bayeux Tapestry. Embroidering the Facts of History, ed. P. Bouet (Caen, 2004), pp. 347–82 at p. 373. 56 Bedos-Rezak, ‘The King Enthroned’, pp. 53–88; R. Mortimer, ‘Introduction: Edward the Confessor. The Man and the Legend’, Edward the Confessor. The Man and the Legend, ed. R. Mortimer (Woodbridge, 2009), pp. 1–40 at pp. 22–32. 57 Regesta: William I, pp. 11–22, 104 f.; M. Fauroux, Recueil des actes des ducs de Normandie de 915 à 1066 (Caen, 1961), pp. 45 ff. 58 J.-F. Nieus, ‘Early Aristocratic Seals. An Anglo-Norman Success Story’, ANS 38 (2016), pp. 97–124.

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I will leave royalty aside now and turn to the bishops. In Germany, after some isolated earlier examples, in the tenth century, bishops started to seal charters issued in their name on a more regular basis. This is especially true of some of the bishops in Saxonia59 and Lotharingia, particularly the archbishops of Cologne (Wichfried (924–53), Brun (953–63) – the brother of the king and, later on, Emperor Otto I – Gero, and Everger) and of Trier, Henry (956–64) and his successor Egbert (977– ‍93),60 as well as of Bishop Notker of Lüttich61 and bishops Balduin and Ansfried of Utrecht (between 994 and 1008).62 Starting with Brun of Cologne as an early and typical example, his seal shows a bust of the archbishop, who is wearing liturgical vestments. Of these, the Y-shaped pallium is especially easy to recognise. It is embroidered with crosses above the chasuble and is clearly meant to demonstrate his rank as an archbishop and his personal association with the pope who had conferred the pallium on him. The image includes another insignia: Brun is holding an apparently closed (Gospel) book in his left hand, to which he seems to be pointing with his right hand. He is not wearing a mitre, but a tonsure seems to be implied. Following a symbolic invocation of God in the form of a cross, the inscription goes on to give Brun’s name and title without including the name of his episcopal see: + BRVNO ARC(HI)EPISCOPUS. Most German bishops who used seals in the tenth and eleventh centuries based theirs on this example. Major changes were the introduction of the gesture of benediction and the crosier to the image. Furthermore, there is an increasing tendency in the eleventh century to show not only the bust of the bishop, but also to include his body from the waist up. Additionally, the inscriptions go on to include the phrase Dei Gratia as a token of the bishop’s princely rank – which was especially important in Germany – as well as the name of the episcopal see in question. In the 1090s, the seals of German bishops underwent a significant change when the image of the bishop enthroned was introduced, an iconographic typology which was by that point well established on royal seals. As Manfred Groten has shown, the reasons for the emergence of this new iconography were twofold: on the one hand, it was a result of the changes brought about by the events of the so-called ‘Investiture Contest’. On the other, it reflected the increasing necessity for bishops

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I. Guerreau, Klerikersiegel der Diözesen Halberstadt, Hildesheim, Paderborn und Verden im Mittelalter (um 1000–1500) (Hanover, 2013), pp. 68–74. 60 Rheinische Siegel 1. Die Siegel der Erzbischöfe von Köln (948–1795), ed. W. Ewald (Bonn, 1906), pl. 1 nn. 2–4; Rheinische Siegel 2. Die Siegel der Erzbischöfe von Trier (956–1795), ed. W. Ewald (Bonn, 1910), pl. 1 n. 2, n. 4; T. Diederich, ‘Sancta Colonia – Sancta Coloniensis Religio. Zur “Botschaft” der Bleibullen Erzbischof Pilgrims von Köln (1021–1036)’, Rheinische Vierteljahrsblätter 75 (2011), pp. 1–49; J. Oepen, ‘“Pastoralis cura impulsus”. Erzbischof Wichfried von Köln’, Christen, Priester, Förderer der Wissenschaften. Die Kölner Erzbischöfe des Mittelalters als Geistliche und Gelehrte in ihrer Zeit, Symposion der Erzbischöflichen Diözesan- und Dombibliothek und des Historischen Archiv des Erzbistums Köln 18. Oktober 2013, ed. H. Finger, J. Oepen, and S. Pätzold (Köln, 2014), pp. 34–46, at pp. 40 f. 61 B. M. Bedos-Rezak, ‘The Bishop Makes an Impression. Seals, Authority and Episcopal Identity’, The Bishop. Power and Piety at the First Millennium, ed. S. Gilsdorf (Münster, 2004), pp. 137–54 at p. 143 with fig. 21. 62 R.-H. Bautier, ‘Apparition, diffusion et évolution typologique du sceau épiscopal au Moyen Âge’, Die Diplomatik der Bischofsurkunde vor 1250, ed. C. Haidacher and W. Köfler (Innsbruck, 1995), pp. 225–41 at p. 228.

Fig. 1: Seal of Bruno of Cologne, Toni Diederich, Zur Bedeutung des Siegelwesens in Köln und im Rheinland, Zehnte Sigurd Greven-Vorlesung (Köln, 2006), fig. 4.

Fig. 2: Seal of Frederick I of Cologne, Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen – Abteilung Rheinland – AA 0147 Bonn, St. Cassius, Urkunden Nr. 2, Siegel.

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exercising secular rule in the gradually emerging episcopal territories.63 Frederick I of Cologne used a traditional episcopal seal at first, but started using a new seal in 1105 or 1106.64 On this new seal, he was depicted sitting on a stone bench, wearing liturgical garments with the pallium denoting his rank as archbishop. He holds his pastoral staff in his right hand and an open book in his left. The inscription is: FRITHERICVS D(E)I GR(ATI)A COLONIENSIS ARCHIEP(IS)C(OPVS). The resemblance of this image to that of the king enthroned is striking and represents of the claim to the temporalities of his office. This claim to secular authority is particularly pronounced in cases such as that of Frederick I of Cologne, where the bishop is depicted sitting on a stone bench similar to the thrones visible on royal seals, rather than on the faldistorium, or portable folding chair, more commonly used on bishops’ seals. As with other bishops from around 1100 who opted for a seal depicting themselves on a throne, this change of design also reflects the concurrent changes to the ways in which Frederick exercised his episcopal office, as he stepped back from the extensive duties of imperial service and went on to focus more on the spiritual as well as the secular tasks within the archbishopric and archiepiscopal territory (Erzstift). And once again, it was bishops from Lotharingia and Saxony who, having been the first to start using their own seals in the first place, introduced the new image of the bishop enthroned to their seals. One observation which has so far been entirely disregarded by German studies on episcopal seals is the fact that the first seals showing the bishop enthroned are actually from post-Conquest England. Before 1066, there is no evidence of English bishops having used seals to authenticate their charters.65 And we can observe influences not only concerning the images, but the materiality as well. While German kings and bishops attached their seals directly to the face of the charter until the mid-twelfth century, English kings and bishops used pendent seals which were attached to a tongue or a tag of parchment or to a cord of some kind. Interestingly, there are very few English bishops whose charters include clauses of corroboration mentioning the bishop’s seal as a means of authentication – unlike in German episcopal charters, where this was regularly the case. It is worth mentioning, however, that one of the English bishops who did include such a clause in his charters was Osbern of Exeter, since Exeter is known to have had strong relations with Lotharingia, perhaps this similarity should not come as a surprise.66 Generally speaking, the image of the standing bishop seems to have been far more prevalent on English episcopal seals than that of the bishop enthroned. However, when English bishops first started using seals, some of them chose the image of the bishop enthroned for their design.67 Among these are Wulfstan of

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M. Groten, ‘Das Aufkommen der bischöflichen Thronsiegel im deutschen Reich’, Historisches Jahrbuch 100 (1980), pp. 163–97. 64 Rheinische Siegel, I, pl. 7 n. 3 (bust), pl. 9 n. 4 (enthroned). 65 W. H. St John Hope, ‘The Seals of English Bishops’, Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries 2 (1885–7), pp. 271–306; P. Hoskin, ‘Administration and Identity. Episcopal Seals in England from the Eleventh to the Thirteenth Century’, A Companion to Seals in the Middle Ages, ed. L. J. Whatley (Leiden, 2019), pp. 195–219 at pp. 199–203. 66 Hoskin, ‘Administration’, pp. 197 f. 67 E. A. New, ‘Episcopal Embodiment. The Tombs and Seals of Bishops in Medieval England and Wales’, The Prelate in England and Europe 1300–1560, ed. M. Heale (York, 2014), pp. 191–214.



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Worcester (1062–95)68 and Peter of Chester (1075–‍85),69 whose seals were in use before the first known instances of the image of the bishop enthroned being used in Germany.70 Wulfstan is depicted wearing liturgical garments, holding the crosier in his left hand, while his right is not doing anything in particular. Peter is holding the pastoral staff in his right hand, which is also raised in a gesture of benediction, and a book in the left. He is wearing a chasuble and probably a round piece of headgear. It is remarkable, therefore, that two of the earliest seals featuring the image of the bishop enthroned are actually from England and predate the better known and more comprehensively researched German seals of the same type, despite the fact that the majority of English episcopal seals show a full-length, standing figure of the bishop. Did the iconography of the bishop enthroned carry the same meaning in England as it did in Germany? There was a tradition of depicting this image in other media, for example in Exultet rolls. It is important to note, though, that, in these contexts, the image is meant to present the bishop as the head of his clergy and to accentuate his spiritual authority.71 I would argue that those English seals featuring the image of the bishop enthroned, of which there are few and which stem from the early days of episcopal seal usage in England, were probably following this tradition. As English bishops, with the exception of Durham,72 did not rule a secular territory the way their German colleagues did, it seems unlikely that their seals were meant to evoke the concept of territorial rule conveyed by the German episcopal seals. Nevertheless, the image might still have been transferred from England to Germany – albeit with a different meaning.73 However, the image of the bishop enthroned is not the only visual element which appears on the seals of English bishops before those of their German colleagues; this is also true for the mitre. The mitre, which gained significance as an episcopal insignia from the eleventh century onwards, was primarily meant to represent the liturgical aspects of the episcopal office. Initially, it was conferred upon specific 68

T. A. Heslop, ‘Seals’, English Romanesque Art 1066–1200, ed. G. Zarnecki (London, 1984), pp. 298–319 at p. 307 n. 340; Hoskin, ‘Administration’, pp. 200 f.; T. A. Heslop, ‘English Seals from the Ninth Century to 1100’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association 133 (1980), pp. 1–16 at pp. 12 f., pl. IIB; T. A. Heslop, ‘Twelfth Century Forgeries as Evidence for Earlier Seals’, St. Dunstan. His Life, Times and Cult, ed. N. Ramsey, M. Sparks, and T. Tatton-Brown (Woodbridge, 1992), pp. 299–310 at p. 305; Mary G. Cheney et al., ed., English Episcopal Acta 33. Worcester 1062–1185 (Oxford, 2007), pp. lxx–lxxi, pp. 10 ff. n. 10. It seems the seal has been attached to this forgery dated 1092 but fabricated in the mid-twelfth century, but Heslop considers the seal a genuine one. Legend: […] ENSIS EPI+ […]. On relations between Cologne and Worcester see E. Mason, St. Wulfstan of Worcester c. 1008–1095 (Oxford, 1990), pp. 61, 70. 69 J. Cherry, ‘The Lead Seal Matrix of Peter, Bishop of Chester’, Antiquaries Journal 65 (1985), pp. 472 f. and pl. CVI b. 70 Alexander of Lincoln (1123–48): W. De Gray Birch, ed., Catalogue of Seals in the Department of Manuscripts in the British Museum, 6 vols (London, 1887–1900), [VOL], n. 1687, Simon of Worcester (1125–50): Birch, ed., Catalogue, [VOL], n. 2273. 71 E. Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop in the Middle Ages’, The Bishop Reformed. Studies on Episcopal Power and Culture in the Central Middle Ages, ed. J. S. Ott and A. Trumbore Jones (Aldershot, 2007), pp. 86–91 at p. 89. 72 C. H. Hunter Blair, ‘Medieval Seals of the Bishops of Durham’, Archaeologia 72 (1922), pp. 1–24. 73 Bihrer, Begegnungen.

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bishops by the pope as a sign of particular distinction and therefore served as a symbol of each bishop’s close association with Rome. Its general use was established around 1100. The twelfth century then saw a discussion as to the symbolic meaning of the mitre. Among the explanations proposed during the course of this debate was that of the mitre as a symbol of Christ, but references were also made to the high priests of the Old Testament.74 Moreover, the shape of the mitre also changed during this time: the form with two shields (cornua) worn parallel to the forehead emerged; these ‘horns’ were seen as embodiments of the Old and New Testaments – perhaps the mitre was perceived to refer to the teaching authority of the (arch)bishop. The first English bishop to include the mitre on his seal of dignity was Ralph d’Escures, archbishop of Canterbury (1114–22). He is depicted as a standing figure wearing liturgical garments, among them the pallium. His right hand is raised in the gesture of blessing, while the left hand is holding the crosier. The figure is surrounded by an inscription which follows the German formulary established in the eleventh century: +RADULFUS DEI GRATIA CANTUARIENSIS ARCHIEP(ISCOPU)S.75 Arnold of Wied, archbishop of Cologne (1151–6), whose see is known to have had strong relations with England,76 was among the first to include the mitre in the design of his seal. This is particularly interesting, as his seal depicts him as a standing figure, which was not in keeping with the new tradition of German episcopal seal imagery.77 As far as the other insignia are concerned, Arnold followed the example of his predecessors: the figure is holding the crosier in its right hand and a book in its left; the book is open and has the words PAX VOBIS written across it. His successors went back to using the image of the bishop enthroned, although they did, of course, retain the mitre as a fixed element of their seal imagery.78 However, only Arnold used the image of the standing figure, while also being the first bishop of his see to introduce the mitre to the seal design. His colleague in Trier, Meginher (1127–30), used two seals, both of which depict him enthroned and wearing a mitre.79 The case of Trier is an interesting one, as Archbishop Eberhard of Trier was granted the right to wear the mitre by Pope Leo IX in 1051 – and because, in spite of this, neither he nor his successors chose to include the mitre in the design of their seals 74

A. Schmidt, ‘Die Mitra. Ein Insigne im Spannungsfeld von Materialität, liturgischer Praxis und gelehrtem Diskurs’, Visuelle Kultur und politischer Wandel. Der südliche Bodenseeraum im Spätmittelalter zwischen Habsburg, Reich und Eidgenossenschaft, ed. E. Jezler-Hübner (Konstanz, 2015), pp. 102–15; Guerreau, Klerikersiegel, pp. 248–52. 75 Heslop, ‘Seals’, p. 307 n. 342; Hoskin, ‘Administration’, p. 201; New, ‘Seals and Sealing Practice’, p. 59 mentions the use of the pallium only for Canterbury; M. Brett and J. A. Gribbin, ed., English Episcopal Acta 28: Canterbury 1070–1136 (Oxford, 2004), pp. ixiv–ilv, pp. 39 f. n. 36 (plate III). 76 On the relations between Cologne and England: P. J. Huffmann, Family, Commerce and Religion in London and Cologne. Anglo-German Emigrants, c. 1000–1300 (Cambridge, 1998). 77 Rheinische Siegel, I, pl. 10 n. 3. 78 A. Stieldorf, ‘Mitra, Thron und Krummstab. Siegel und Münzen als Quellen für Herrschaftsvorstellungen der Kölner Erzbischöfe des Hoch- und Spätmittelalters’, Herrschaftsnorm und Herrschaftspraxis im Kurfürstentum Köln im Mittelalter und in der Frühen Neuzeit, ed. A. Plassmann, A. Stieldorf, and M. Rohrschneider (Göttingen, 2021), pp. 209–41 at pp. 218 ff. 79 Rheinische Siegel, II, pl. 5 n. 4 and n. 5.



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Fig. 3: Seal of Arnold II of Cologne, Landesarchiv Nordrhein-Westfalen – Abteilung Rheinland – AA 0504 Siegburg, Urkunden Nr. 48, Siegel. until Meginher almost 80 years later. Thus it was not necessarily the effective privilege which prompted the bishops to use the mitre on their seals, but some kind of fashion, and in Arnold’s case we may assume he followed the English example.80 One thing that all episcopal seals have in common is that both image and inscription were closely connected to the bishop and his authority. Both in England and in Germany, seals represented individuals whose names were given in the inscription. The best way to identify the owner of a seal therefore is to read the inscription. The agency of this individual, be they male or female, was, however, defined by their office or rank. The seal design was used to reflect this office or rank, which is why the iconographic elements employed are usually very archetypal.81 However the images used on German episcopal seals evoke different associations compared to those evoked by the seals of English bishops: the English version depicting the bishop as a full-length standing figure is possibly meant to allude more to the liturgical function of the bishop and therefore to the core of the episcopal office. In contrast, the German version showing the image of the bishop enthroned presents him as the head of his diocese and ruler of a secular territory. This is easily explained, as the exercise of secular rule was not really an issue for English bishops, but constituted

80

Guerreau, Klerikersiegel, pp. 248 f. B. M. Bedos-Rezak, ‘In Search of a Semiotic Paradigm. The Matter of Sealing in Medieval Thought’, Good Impressions. Image and Authority in Medieval Seals, ed. N. Adams, J. Cherry, and J. Robinson (London, 2008), pp. 1–7. 81

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an important part of the episcopal office in Germany.82 Furthermore, the fact that the image of the bishop enthroned was used in England before being taken up on German episcopal seals can be seen as an indication that just because an image was adopted, this does not have to mean that the original underlying concept was also adopted. To my mind, the differences regarding how and to what extent the functions of an office or the office itself were visually represented on seals (and coins) in different regions are of great interest. As I have argued elsewhere, a similar phenomenon can also be observed when looking at royal seals and coins. While the English kings since William the Conqueror used the image of the king enthroned as well as that of the king as a mounted warrior, the latter is not to be found on the seals of the German kings, who seemed to avoid it.83 The image of the mounted warrior is meant to provide a visual representation of the king’s ability to defend his rule and realm and also serves to depict him as a miles christianus and as a member of chivalrous society; this refers to an important function of kingship – or secular rulership in general. This meaning also underlay the seals of the German princes showing the mounted warrior. Moreover, even the image of the king enthroned did not carry quite the same meaning on English royal seals as it did on their German counterparts: whereas in England, the sovereign was depicted holding a sword, symbolising the king’s jurisdiction, this function of kingship was omitted on German royal seals, where the sword did not feature at all.84 The sword was used from the thirteenth century on, with the introduction of a Royal Court of Justice, whose seal depicted the king enthroned, later in half figure, holding the sword. However, these seals referred to a specific function of kingship only in a specific context. Generally, the seals of German rulers placed much greater emphasis on kingship being an office bestowed by God than those of the English kings. This was made evident by the way in which the insignia were presented, but also by the fact that the insignia in question seem to have been chosen because of how strongly they were associated with the grace of God. Therefore, these seals refer more to the office itself than to the functions the office-holder had to fulfil. Keeping these thoughts in mind, I will return to the coins and include them in my concluding considerations. As we have seen, there are a number of instances where English seals and coins on the one hand and German, specifically Lotharingian, ones on the other influenced each other’s designs. These influences can be observed from the tenth century until the beginning of the twelfth century. Especially when it comes to the coins, this mutual exchange seems to have been a more or less continuous phenomenon – or at least one that occurred fairly regularly. This is not in keeping with Bihrer’s hypothesis that there were only occasional instances of discernible influence between England and Germany and that these hardly ever occurred before the eleventh century. This statement, therefore, needs to be modified, at least as far as coins are concerned. It should be noted, though, that this phenomenon of regu82

Palazzo, ‘The Image of the Bishop’, pp. 86–91. E. Gönner, ‘Reitersiegel in Südwestdeutschland’, Aus südwestdeutscher Geschichte. Festschrift für Hans-Martin Maurer, dem Archivar und Historiker zum 65. Geburtstag, ed. W. Schmierer et al. (Stuttgart, 1994), pp. 151–67 at pp. 152 ff. 84 J. J. G. Alexander, ‘Henry III (1215–1272)’, Age of Chivalry. Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1240, ed. J. J. G. Alexander and P. Binski (London, 1987), pp. 310–33 at pp. 313 ff. with figs 264–74. 83



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larly occurring exchange is most likely due to the specific nature of coins and the way they were used, since this is what made it possible for English coins to reach Germany – and vice versa. There is, however, one aspect that I would like to emphasise and that Bihrer only hinted at because he did not include visual sources in his study.85 Bihrer suggests that it was possible for the underlying meaning of certain images to change when they were adopted in a different region – and this is indeed something we have been able to establish in the case of seals. This leads me to the question of whether we can expect to observe something similar with regard to coins. As we have seen, there are numerous instances of visual elements being imitated. The analysis of the depiction of the throne on bishop’s seals has already shown that the adoption of pictorial elements did not necessarily also mean the adoption of the underlying concepts. I assumed something similar for the depiction of the throne and especially for the insignia on the ruler’s seals and coins. However, especially with the insignia and comparable pictorial elements, the interpretation of transfers is difficult. If we are being honest, we simply have no way of knowing whether the concepts conveyed through use of, say, the radiate crown were the same in England as they were in Germany. In her forthcoming doctoral dissertation dealing with the seals of the German kings and emperors, Mareikje Mariak has clearly shown that any attempts to try and associate specific meanings with various types of crowns and sceptres are doomed to fail. I would therefore argue that, while there was definitely an exchange of images between England and Germany and Lotharingia, the same cannot necessarily be said about the underlying concepts conveyed by them.

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MATILDA IN THE EMPIRE, 1110–251 Elisabeth van Houts In May 1134, Empress Matilda, countess of Anjou, spent some time with her father Henry I, king of England and duke of Normandy, in Rouen.2 She was pregnant with her second child and as the childbirth approached she fell perilously ill. She gave birth to her son at Notre Dame-du-Pré, a priory of the monks of Bec, where she convalesced, having almost lost her life. During her stay, the historian Robert of Torigni (prior of Bec and later abbot of Mont-Saint-Michel, best known for his World chronicle, a continuation of the work of Sigebert of Gembloux) was amongst the monks who provided spiritual care.3 Robert’s earlier work is pertinent to this article. In the late 1130s, within a few years of Empress Matilda’s almost fatal illness, he revised the Gesta Normannorum ducum, the deeds of the dukes of the Normans, originally written by William of Jumièges for William the Conqueror, and added a biography of Henry I.4 In it Robert included Matilda’s reminiscences about her early life in the empire to which she owed her epithet ‘empress’. Matilda’s semi-autobiography, embedded in the history of the Norman dukes, is of crucial importance for any reconstruction of her early life. Although it is very well known, there are aspects of Matilda’s own story as recorded by Robert of Torigni that have either been under-represented or entirely overlooked. Modern scholarship has painted Matilda as a capable and intelligent woman frustrated by circumstances and gendered prejudice who failed in her bid for the English throne due to her arrogance and impetuosity. This is the picture we find in the most recent biography, written by Marjorie Chibnall who herself followed the German late nineteenth-century biography of Oskar Rössler.5 Numerous historians 1

The research for this article formed part of the Leverhulme supported project ‘The Literary Heritage of Anglo-Dutch Relations, 1050–1600’, a collaboration between the universities of Bristol and Cambridge. I am much indebted to my colleagues Ad Putter, Sjoerd Levelt, and Moreed Arbabzadah. During the research for this paper, and after the delivery of my lecture, I have received generous advice on specific points from David Bates, Stephen Church, George Garnett, Graham Loud, Gerhard Lubich, Gabriele Passabi, Daniel Power, Andrea Stieldorf, and Vedran Sulovsky. George Garnett, Benjamin Pohl, and Emily Ward read through a full text and I am most grateful for their comments which were invaluable. 2 Robert of Torigni, GND, viii, c. 27 (II, p. 245); Torigni, ed. Bisson, s. a. 1134, I, pp. 102–3; M. Chibnall, The Empress Matilda: Queen consort, Queen Mother and Lady of the English (Oxford, 1992), pp. 60–1. 3 Torigni, ed. Bisson; B. Pohl, ‘Robert of Torigni and Le Bec: The Man and the Myth’, A Companion to the Abbey of Le Bec in the Central Middle Ages (11th–13th Centuries), ed. B. Pohl and L. L. Gathagan (Leiden-Boston, 2018), pp. 94–124. 4 GND, Introduction, I, pp. lxxvii–xci (for date, see pp. lxxix–lxxx). 5 O. Rössler, Kaiserin Matihilde und der Zeitalter der Anarchie in England (Berlin, 1897).

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have analysed her life, not least the modern biographers of King Stephen: R. H. C. Davis, David Crouch, Edmund King, and Carl Watkins.6 None of them has paid much attention to Matilda’s early career in Germany. During the last twenty years, however, in Germany Amalia Fössel and Claudia Zey have thrown new light on Matilda, not so much as a result of new source material, but because of comparative research on German queens-consort.7 Both medievalists have stressed the fact that Matilda was unusual in three important aspects. First like the Ottonian queens of the tenth century, but unlike the Salian queens of the eleventh century, Matilda acted as regent and envoy for her husband Henry V during his lifetime, twice as judge in northern Italy in 1117 and 1118, and in 1119 she was left there with the army when Henry had to settle affairs in Saxony.8 She acted as her husband’s envoy to England in 1122, and was regent again in 1124 in Lotharingia. The couple had no surviving children even though Henry had an illegitimate daughter, Bertha, and Matilda lost a child by Henry (almost certainly a son) shortly after his birth.9 On his deathbed in May 1125 Henry handed the regalia to Matilda.10 In short Henry V admired and trusted his wife. Second, Matilda was also unique in that she was the first German queen consort to have her own seal, a subject to which I shall return.11 Third, in the feverish contemporary atmosphere of imperial-papal politics of the Investiture Conflict, hardly a bad word is said about the young queen, an important point to bear in mind given some of the poisoned pens directed at her two decades later in England. The questions that concern me here is how did Matilda remember her time in the empire? And how should we view her reminiscences in hindsight knowing the rest of her story as the only English royal daughter who by a whisker failed to become a crowned queen in her own right before the Tudor period?

6

R. H. C. Davis, King Stephen, 3rd edn (London and New York, 1990); D. Crouch, The Reign of King Stephen 1135–1154 (Harlow, 2000); E. King, King Stephen (London, 2012); C. Watkins, Stephen: The Reign of Anarchy (London, 2015). 7 A. Fössel, Die Königin im mittelalterlichen Reich (Stuttgart, 2000), pp. 105–8, 138–42, 159–61, 343–6; and A. Fössel, ‘Mathilde von England’, Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters (Regensburg, 2011), pp. 161–80; C. Zey, ‘Frauen und Töchter der salischen Herrscher. Zum Wandel salischer Heiratspolitik in der Krise’, Die Salier, das Reich und der Niederrhein, ed. Tilman Struve (Cologne, 2008), pp. 47–98; and C. Zey, ‘Imperatrix, si venerit Romam … Zu den Krönungen von Kaiserinnen im Mittelalter’, Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 60 (2004), pp. 3–51 at pp. 32–4. 8 For Matilda as regent, see below; E. J. Ward has warned against underestimating the early Salian queens’ power and regencies, see her ‘Diplomatic women: Mothers, sons and Preparation for Rule in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien 55 (2021), pp. 399–429 at pp. 410–15 (for Agnes and Henry IV). 9 There is reliable evidence that Matilda had given birth to a child who did not live long: Herman of Tournai, ‘Liber de restauratione monasterii sancti Martini Tornacensis’, ed. G. Waitz, MGH SS 14 (Hannover, 1883), p. 282: ‘sed uno filio ex ea genito celeri morte preventus eam viduam reliquit’ (‘but he [Henry V] having born one son by her who died quickly left her a widow’ [my revised translation]). See also L. H. Nelson, trans., The Restoration of the Monastery of Saint Martin of Tournai (Washington DC, 1996), p. 33. Note that Zey (‘Frauen und Töchter’, pp. 90–3) argues that Henry V’s illegitimate daughter Bertha was in fact Matilda’s daughter. 10 See below, p. 114. 11 See below, pp. 112–13.



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My essay will be structured for the most part around her ‘autobiographical’ passages in the Gesta Normannorum ducum recorded by Robert of Torigni a decade after her return from Germany. As I pointed out before, they are based on conversations with Robert in the mid-1130s after she had married the count of Anjou, by whom she had two sons, and was about to take up her father’s inheritance. The passages are biased in her favour with some of the detail throwing remarkable light on how she viewed herself. They tell us firstly about her betrothal to Henry V of Germany and coronation, secondly about her education under the guidance of Bruno archbishop of Trier between the ages of eight and twelve when she married, thirdly about her crown wearing(s) in Rome, and lastly about the death of her husband in May 1125 and her return to the Anglo-Norman world. Betrothal and Coronation According to Robert of Torigni: As a girl of not more than five years old she was sought in marriage by Henry the fifth to be king and the fourth august emperor of the Romans and the Germans who having won her hand welcomed her, escorted by famous men, bishops and counts acting as envoys, laden with innumerable presents from both her parents, to his realm where at Utrecht the following Easter they were betrothed.12

Matilda was ‘barely five’ when negotiations started. This would be in 1106 or 1107 as she was born in February 1102.13 The most likely period for Henry V to approach Henry I for Matilda’s hand would have been after his father’s death on 7 August 1106 when he could present himself as a legitimate king with a future.14 There is every reason to believe that the negotiations predated the battle of Tinchebray on 28 September 1106, since Henry V’s letter to Queen Matilda thanking her for her intercession with her husband complained also about ‘your count’, likely to have been Robert Curthose, who had offended ‘not only us but also you and your husband as he had tried to impede our envoys whom we had sent to both of you’.15 The marriage agreement was concluded in Westminster at Whitsun, 24 May 1109.16 12

Robert of Torigni, GND, viii, c. 11 (II, pp. 216–19): ‘Hanc autem uirginem uix quinquennem Henricus quintus rex et quartus imperator Romanorum et Alemannorum augustus in coniugem requisiuit, et adquisitam per claros uiros, episcopos et comites internuntios cum ineffabili munificentia utriusque parentis in suum regnum recepit et receptam solemniter in proximo Pascha apud Vlterius Traiectum desponsauit’. 13 Robert of Torigni, GND, viii, c. 11 (II, pp. 218–19): ‘uirginem uix quinquennem’; for her date of birth around 7 February 1102, see Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 9. 14 I. S. Robinson, Henry IV of Germany, 1056–1106 (Cambridge, 1999), p. 343 or conceivably as early as January 1106 the day of his investiture, Robinson, Henry IV of Germany, p. 337. 15 K. Nass, ed., Codex Udalrici, MGH Die Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit 10, 2 vols (Wiesbaden, 2017), II, no. 280, pp. 477–8: ‘Sentiat comes tuus N., non solum nos sed etiam te et dominum tuum offendisse; qui nuntios nostros impedire ausus est quos misimus vobis utrisque’. If the ‘comes tuus N.’, as has been suggested by Lois Huneycutt and followed by Nass, was Robert Curthose, duke of Normandy, the date has to be before the battle of Tinchebrai, see L. L. Huneycutt, Matilda of Scotland: A Study in Medieval Queenship (Woodbridge, 2003), p. 85. Nass notes the premature address of Henry V as emperor. 16 ASC ‘E’ and Huntingdon, VII, c. 27, pp. 456–7.

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Although royal and elite marriages were often arranged when the children were at a very young age, Matilda was exceptionally young to be sent abroad. The fact that contemporaries specifically mentioned her tender age also suggests that leaving home for a foreign country was uncommon.17 First of all, on 17 October 1109, on the occasion of the creation of the bishopric of Ely, the seven-year-old girl was presented at court in Nottingham as ‘the [future] bride of the emperor’.18 This was five months before she left England. In February of the following year, 1110, before Lent, she travelled from Dover to Wissant. The annalist of St Peter at Ghent called her ‘very young’ (admodum parvulum).19 His quote is especially interesting because Flanders took pride in the empress at this stage. Petrus Pictor, a canon-poet from Saint-Omer but writing from outside Flanders around the time of Matilda’s betrothal, reminded his local audience that she was the granddaughter of their compatriot Matilda (of Flanders, d. 1083), queen of the English.20 The poet puts Matilda in the company of other Flemish women who became queens.21 These two testimonies from Flanders about Matilda’s betrothal reflect Flemish joy and amazement in late February 1110 to see the little girl and her entourage plus immense treasure arrive at Wissant.22

17

The age range was ten to twelve, see F. Harris-Stoerz, ‘Young Women in France and England 1050–1300’, Journal of Women’s History 12 (2001), pp. 22–46 at pp. 25–6 and 42 n. 69 and n. 72; examples of girls at younger ages date from later times. 18 Nottingham 17 October 1109, Regesta, II, no. 919, original charter Cartae Harl. 43 C 11, which lists Matilda as ‘Mathildis sponsa regis Romanorum’ after her father and mother and before the bishops; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 16; J. Green, Henry I. King of England and duke of Normandy (Cambridge, 2006), p. 121. 19 P. Grierson, ed., ‘The Annals of St Peter’, Les Annales de Sint-Pierre de Gand et de SaintAmand (Brussels, 1937), p. 35: ‘Heynricus quartus regis Francorum [sic] filiam Mathildem, admodum parvulum, in matrimonium sortitur’ (‘Henry I of the Franks [sic] handed over his very young daughter Matilda in marriage’). 20 L. van Acker, ed., Petri Pictoris Carmina, nec non Petri de sancto Audomaro librum de coloribus faciendis, CCCM 25 (Turnholt, 1972), pp. 55–8, no. IV, lines 7–13: ‘Flandria, Francorum regi Bertam sociasti, / Nec minus Anglorum regem Mathilde beasti. / Flandria, regali de stirpe tua generator / 10 / Hec, cui sponsali nexu Cesar sociatur. / Flandria, reginam Danis cum laude dedisti, / Hanc ipsam dominam post Apulie statuisti’ (‘Flanders you associated with Berta queen of the French, no less Flanders you adored Matilda the queen of the English of royal origin / the mother of the betrothed to the emperor / Flanders gave praise to the queen of the Danes who thereafter became lady of the Apulia’); for the date see, p. viii and for Peter’s exile from Flanders, see line 39: ‘Dante, favente Deo, patriam repetam genitiuam’ (‘Pray, with God’s favour, for a return to my native country’). 21 Bertha of Frisia, wife of King Philip I of France; Adela, daughter of Count Robert the Frisian (1071–93) who was queen of Denmark before in 1085/6 returning to Flanders and then c. 1090 married Duke Roger Borsa of Apulia (1085–1111). See also below p. 103 on Donizo’s praise poem for Matilda at Canozza in 1116. 22 Matilda crossed from Dover to Wissant, see Simeon of Durham, ‘Historia regum, continuatio’, Symeonis Dunelmensis Opera et Collectanea, ed. H. Hinde (Durham, 1868), I, p. 106: ‘Anno MCX Rex Anglorum, Henricus, filiam suam Henrico imperatori in conjugem dedit et misit eam a Dovere usque ad Witsand in initio Quadragesima quod fuit iiij idus Aprilis’. The date given for Quadragesima here is 10 April, which is actually Easter in 1110; Quadragesima fell on 27 February.



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As Robert of Torigni reminds us, processions of elite brides on their way to their husbands were lavish affairs. Matilda would have been protected by a substantial household cavalry that not only was meant to shield her but also protect the many gifts and riches given to her by her father and mother, and also her dowry, which was spread out over numerous carts.23 The group would have secured permission from Count Robert II to travel through Flanders, probably as early as Christmas 1109 when the Flemish count’s son Baldwin ‘puer’ (later Baldwin VII, 1111–19) visited the Christmas court of Henry V at Bamberg.24 From Wissant and St Omer the group travelled through Brabant where Godfrey the Bearded, count of Louvain-Brabant (1095–1139) and duke of Lower Lotharingia (1106–39), ruled imperial territory.25 Orderic Vitalis and Robert of Torigni give us some of the names of the German envoys who came in May 1109 to England and then again in February 1110 to accompany her to Germany. Burchard, a household clerk of Henry V, later bishop of Cambrai (c. 1114–30), escorted her to her future husband at Liège.26 Amongst Burchard’s retinue was his chaplain Hugo, later abbot of Premontré (1126–64).27 The empress likely made her acquaintance at this time with her knight Drogo, who knew St Norbert at the imperial court.28 Also amongst the large throng of Normans 23

Royal caravans on occasions such as these usually comprised several hundred people including a sizable contingent of household knights as well an assortment of servants, see B. Weiler, Paths to Kingship in Medieval Europe c. 950–1200 (Cambridge, 2021), pp. 268–9; for travel arrangements, see M. Vale, The Princely Court. Medieval Courts and Culture in North-West Europe (Oxford, 2001), pp. 137–52 at p. 144 with examples of the number of carts necessary to transport the royals’ goods such as bed, furnishings, and clothing. 24 Grierson, ed., The Annals of St Peter’s Gent, p. 35: ‘Balduinus puer a patre Rotberto ad curiam Bavenberg mittitur’. See also F.-J. Schmale and I. Schmale-Ott, ed. and trans., ‘The Imperial Chronicle’, Frutolfs und Ekkehards Chroniken und die anonyme Kaiserchronik (Darmstadt, 1972), pp. 298–9; and English translation in T. J. H. McCarthy, ed. and annot., Chronicles of the Investiture Contest. Frutolf of Michelsberg and his Continuators (Manchester, 2014), pp. 210–11. 25 Although we do not have descriptions of bridal processions in our period there are some for the Burgundian period with a famous one being that of Margaret of York, newly-wed wife of Charles the Bold travelling from Damme to Bruges, see A. Brown and G. Small, trans., Court and Civic society in the Burgundian Low Countries c. 1420–1530 (Manchester, 2007), no. 2, pp. 59–63 (Margaret’s procession from Damme to Bruges in July 1468). 26 Orderic, VI, pp. 168–9; K. Leyser, ‘England and the Empire in the Early Twelfth Century’, Medieval Germany and Its Neighbours 900–1250 (London, 1982), pp. 191–213 at p. 193; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 16. 27 Chibnall (Empress Matilda, pp. 49 and 180) places him as Burchard’s chaplain in the embassy to England in 1109; he was born c. 1093 in Fosses (Belgium) and entered the service of Burchard, bishop of Cambrai. He died in 1164. For Hugh, clerk of Bishop Burchard of Cambrai, leaving this employment upon meeting with Norbert of Xanten in Valenciennes in 1119, see R. Wilmans, ed., ‘Vita Norberti archiepiscopi Magdeburgensis’, c. 6, MGH SS 12, pp. 663–706 at p. 675 (‘Iste quem vides in curia regis mecum pariter nutritus est’) (‘He [Norbert], whom you [Hugh] see, was educated with me [Burchard] at the royal court’); T. J. Antry and C. Neel, trans., ‘Life A of Norbert’, c. 6, Norbert and Early Norbertine Spirituality (New York, 2007), pp. 131–2. 28 In 1136 Drogo, knight of Matilda, decided to found a monastery, Notre Dame de Silly, of the order of Premontré, having received agreement from Abbot Hugh, the same man as Hugh chaplain of Burchard of Cambrai (Chibnall, The Empress Matilda, p. 180), quoting a resumé

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were Roger fitz Richard of Clare and Henry, archdeacon of Winchester, later bishop of Verdun.29 No woman is mentioned. At Liège, Matilda was welcomed by Henry V and at his court she performed her first act as intercessor for Duke Godfrey the Bearded.30 From Liège the royal procession followed the River Meuse via Maastricht and then north to Utrecht where the formal betrothal took place at Easter, 10 April 1110.31 Although we do not have charter material from this time, it is generally agreed that the dower assigned to her consisted of extensive lands in the bishopric of Utrecht; lands to which I will return later. The itinerary then turned back south to Mainz where on the 25 July, St James’s Day, Frederick, archbishop of Cologne, crowned Matilda as queen.32 It was on the occasion of her royal coronation that Matilda had to be lifted in the arms of Bruno of Trier to be anointed.33 As Johanna Dale has pointed out, it was the German custom that royal brides were crowned queen before the formal marriage, not only as an assurance that coronation would given in T. Stapleton, ed., Magni Rotuli Scaccarii, Normanniae sub Regibus Angliae, 2 vols (London, 1840–4), I, pp. lxxxviii–xc. The details come from the thirteenth-century cartulary of Notre Dame de Silly, now BnF MS lat. 11059, that contains information about the foundation of the abbey, see N. Vincent, ed., The Letters and Charters of Henry II, 6 vols (Oxford, 2020), IV, nos 2494–6, pp. 599–603. 29 Orderic, VI, pp. 168–9 (‘alliique plures ex Normannis’); Huntingdon, p. 456; Leyser, ‘England and the empire’, pp. 194–5; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 16; Zey, ‘Frauen und Töchtern’, pp. 84–5. Roger Bienfaite took part in the battle of Brémule on 20 August 1119, see Orderic, VI, pp. 234–5 and Robert of Torigni, GND, II, pp. 228–9 as claimant to Brionne and pp. 270–1 (died childless with Bienfaite and Orbec going to his nephew Gilbert, son of Gilbert). If indeed Roger was the younger son after Gilbert it makes sense that Orderic suggests that he hoped for preferment in Germany. 30 For the court in Liège, see P. Scheffer-Boichorst, ed., Annales Patherbrunnenses eine verlörene Quellenschrift des zwölften Jahrhunderts (Innsbrück, 1870), p. 122: ‘Ibi apud Leodium domnus rex Anglici regis filiam, honorifice ut regem decet, sponsam suscepit Godefridus dux Lotharingiae gratiam regis ob novae interventum reginae proteruit’ (‘There at Liège the lord king accepted the daughter of the king of England as his betrothed, honourably as befitted a king; Godfrey duke of [Lower] Lotharingia, thanks to the intervention of the new queen, was restored to the king’s favour’). The Annals of Paderborn have not survived but have been reconstructed on the basis of derivative annals; for the latest assessment of this very important source, see K. Nass, Die Reichschronik des Annalista Saxo und die sächsische Geschichtsschreibung im 12. Jahrhunderts, MGH Schriften 41 (Hanover, 1996), pp. 209–26; and K. Nass, ed., ‘Annalista Saxo, Reichschronik’, MGH SS 37 (Hannover, 2006), pp. ix–x; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 23. 31 Scheffer-Boichorst, ed., Annales Patherbrunnenses, p. 122: ‘Rex festum paschae apud Traiectum peragit […]. Ibi rex sponsam suam regio more dotavit’ (‘The king celebrated the festival of Easter at Utrecht and there in royal manner assigned dower to his bride’). 32 Scheffer-Boichorst, ed., Annales Patherbrunnenses, p. 122: ‘Haec eadem in festo sancti Iacobi apostoli in reginam Magontiae ab archiepisopo Fritherico Coloniae consecratur’; Robert of Torigni, GND, II, p. 218: ‘Desponsatam uero archiepiscopus Coloniensis in festiuitate sancti Iacobi Maguntie in reginam consecrauit, ceteris coepiscopis assistentibus et precipue archiepiscopo Treverensi, qui eam, dum consecraretur, inter sua brachia reverenter tenuit’ (‘After the betrothal she was crowned on St James’ Day at Mainz by the archbishop of Cologne assisted by his bishops, especially the bishop of Trier, who reverently held her in his arms while she was consecrated’). 33 Robert of Torigni, GND, II, pp. 218–19.



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take place but also as a liturgical phenomenon that before she joined in matrimony to the king she was deemed worthy of the union.34 Matilda’s first story as told to Robert of Torigni is substantially confirmed by other sources, though she herself is unique in saying that she was barely five when negotiations started. What is missing from this story is any sense of the emotional impact of her farewell to her parents – there is nothing like the tears shed by Orderic Vitalis and by his father and brothers when he was sent as an oblate overseas at the age of ten.35 Education and marriage The second story about Matilda’s residency at Trier and her education there is unique. Robert of Torigni noted that: After she was crowned queen, he [Bishop Bruno] commanded that she should be carefully educated until the appropriate time for the marriage and that she should learn the language and to behave according to the customs of the Germans.36

Robert placed the teaching of German in Trier, though sending a little girl of eight to a foreign country without any knowledge of its language seems unbelievable. Her native tongues were French and Old English. Perhaps already from the first moments of the negotiations in 1106, rather than from 1109 when the marriage treaty was sealed in May at his Whitsun court (24 May), language tuition may have begun.37 This would have given her about three years in which to grapple with the grammar and vocabulary. A native speaker may have been found in England or, conversely, the German envoys may have brought someone along for this task from Germany. As to which ‘German’ she learned, we must guess it to have been Middle High German, perhaps Middle Franconian, the language of Upper Lotharingia and central-to-south Germany.38 There existed glossaries and notebooks with single

34

J. Dale, Inauguration and Liturgical Kingship in the Long Twelfth Century. Male and Female Accession Rituals in England, France and the Empire (York, 2019), pp. 115–16. 35 Orderic, VI, pp. 552–3. 36 Robert of Torigni, GND, II, pp. 218–19: ‘Deinde consecratam reginam usque ad tempestiuum tempus nuptiarum studiose nutriri precepit, in quo nutrimento et linguam addisceret et se secundum Teutonicos mores componeret’. For the uniqueness of the information on queenly education, see Zey, ‘Frauen und Töchtern’, pp. 93–7 at p. 96. 37 ASC ‘E’ king held Whitsun court at Westminster: ‘there the contracts were completed and the oaths sworn for the marriage of his daughter to the emperor’; Huntingdon, VII, c. 27, pp. 456–7 adding that the envoys were of massive physique and magnificent apparel (‘mole corporis et cultuum splendoribus excellentes’). 38 B. Murdoch, ‘Old High German and continental Old Low German’, The Camden House History of German Literature, Vol. 1 Early Germanic Literature and Culture, ed. B. Murdoch and M. Read (Woodbridge, 2004), pp. 235–61 at pp. 247–9; C. J. Wells, German: A linguistic History to 1945 (Oxford, 1985), pp. 33–4 on the shift from Old High German to Middle High German between 1050 to 1100/50; for Dutch as a form of Old High German, see R. Willemyns, Dutch. Biography of a Language (Oxford, 2013), pp. 26–47. For linguistic interaction between English, Dutch, and German speaking people in the Low Countries, see my forthcoming ‘The serf from Sint Truiden, his English wife and their Bilingual Sons: Non-elite Anglo-Dutch relations in their Literary Context c. 1000–c. 1200’, The Literature and History of Anglo-

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phrases, such as the late ninth-century so-called ‘Paris talks’ (Pariser Gespräche).39 This is a collection of German phrases with Latin equivalents for elite men on journeys. It exists in a later copy by a scribe who was French speaking. There are useful words for weapons, drink, and beds, including if the bed comes with a woman; clearly not really a booklet for a girl about to get married. Amongst her German escorts was, from Utrecht onwards, Bruno of Trier (1102–24), who had been appointed by Henry V to educate her in Trier. According to Abbot Suger of Saint-Denis, Bruno was a francophone, so could converse with her in one of her own languages.40 As could the bilingual (French and Dutch) counts Eustache III of Boulogne (c. 1089–1125) and Robert II of Flanders (1093–1111), who were present at the Easter Court in Utrecht in 1110.41 If these men had brought their wives, Matilda would have met her maternal aunt Mary of Boulogne (d. 1115), a native English speaker, as well as the francophone Countess Clemence (of Burgundy).42 During her four years in Trier, between her arrival in Germany in 1110 and her marriage in 1114, Matilda resided in the shadow of the impressive Roman arch (the Porta Nigra).43 In view of any potential responsibilities as regent for her future children, apart from French and German, her knowledge of Latin was kept up. Given that her mother Queen Edith/Matilda was an accomplished Latinist my assumption is that, from a young age, Empress Matilda had been taught Latin too.44 Little boys educated for the priesthood learned Latin prayers from the age of five.45 This was the age that her parents were negotiating her marriage into the empire. Linguistic, including Latin, skills were a prerequisite for a future queen, which at Trier Matilda kept up. One Latin text in Trier stands out, the Carmen de Hastingae Proelio (The Song of the Battle of Hastings), written about her grandfather William’s famous victory by Bishop Guy of Amiens in 1067. The only two manuscripts now known Dutch relations, Medieval to Modern, ed. E. van Houts, M. Arbabzadah, S. Levelt, and Ad Putter (forthcoming). 39 W. Haubrichs and M. Pfister, ed., “In Francia fui”. Studien zu den romanisch-germanischen Interferenzen und zur Grundsprache der althochdeutschen ‘Pariser (altdeutschen) Gespräche’ nebst einer Edition des Textes (Mainz, 1989). 40 For Bruno’s origin, see G. Waitz, ed., Gesta Treverorum, Continuatio, MGH SS 8 (Hanover, 1848), p. 192: ‘Franco natione’ – his father was Arnoldus and his mother Adeleyda; Suger, Vie de Louis VI le Gros, c. 10, ed. H. Waquet, Les classiques de l’histoire de France, 2nd edn (Paris, 1964), pp. 56–7: ‘vir elegans et iocundus, eloquentie et sapientie copiosus gallicano coturno exercitatus’. 41 Grierson, ed., The Annals of St Peter, p. 35. 42 For Mary of Boulogne, see Huneycutt, Matilda of Scotland, pp. 18, 58, and 90; for Clemence, see K. S. Nicholas, ‘Countesses as rulers in Flanders’, Aristocratic Women in Medieval France, ed. T. Evergates (Philadelphia, 1999), pp. 111–37 at pp. 117–20. 43 Trier has a tradition of interest in its imperial Roman past, for example the inventio of saint consul Palmatius and six other Roman citizens in 1072. In 1127 saint Matthias the apostle was discovered, and at St Eucharius the monks tied their history to Empress Helena. For Trier’s historiography, see H. Thomas, Studien zur Trierer Geschichtsschreibung des 11. Jahrhunderts insbesondere zu den Gesta Trevorum (Bonn, 1968). I am most grateful to Vedran Sulovsky for this information. 44 For Edith-Matilda as an accomplished Latinist, see E. M. Tyler, England in Europe. English royal women and Literary Patronage, c. 1000–c. 1150 (Toronto, 2017), pp. 307–18. 45 J. Barrow, The Clergy in the Medieval World. Secular Clerics, Their Families and Careers in North-Western Europe, c. 800–c. 1200 (Cambridge, 2015), pp. 217–27.



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were copied at St Eucharius monastery at Trier. Brussels KBR MS 10615-729, ff. 227vb–230vb and Brussels KBR MS 9799-9809, f. 142vb (lines 1–22 only).46 The former, most complete manuscript, is the oldest surviving copy and dates from the second or third decade of the twelfth century, probably later than 1118, c. 1125–c. 1135.47 There is no other material evidence for this poem from Norman or English libraries, except in so far that in Normandy William of Poitiers used it and Orderic Vitalis knew of its existence.48 The older of the two manuscripts from Trier contains a large variety of prose and poetry texts relating to the Investiture Conflict and for that reason could be considered as a ‘handbook’ for monarchs and consorts on the relationship between ruler and church. Other evidence of Matilda’s Latin skills are praise poems written for her, such as the one by Donizo celebrating her entry in Canossa in 1116.49 Among the Latin chronicles dedicated to her are Hugh of Fleury’s Historia Modernorum Regum, probably dating from around 1115, the anonymous Imperial Chronicle dedicated formally to Henry V on the occasion of their marriage in 1114 but with Matilda’s name highlighted in silver in the dedication copy, Cambridge Corpus Christi College MS 373, and in 1126 William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum.50 In later life she understood Latin administrative sources such as the Constitutions of Clarendon when read out to her.51 The important point to take away from the discussion of Matilda’s education is that she emerged from it truly multilingual, knowing English, French, German, Latin, and probably Italian (see below) as well, a political tool that throughout her life she exploited to the full.

46

Carmen, pp. xix–xxi. The most detailed description of the manuscripts can be found in L. J. Engels, ‘Once more the Carmen de Hastingae Proelio’, ANS 2 (1979), pp. 3–18 at pp. 14–18 based on my own research in Brussels as a graduate student in 1982; for recent work on the Carmen, see T. O’Donnell, ‘The Carmen de Hastingae Proelio and the Poetics of 1067’, ANS 39 (2016), pp. 151–66. 47 Carmen, p. xix. 48 Carmen, pp. xx–xxi. 49 For Donizo, De adventu imperatoris et reginae, ed. L. Bethmann, MGH SS 12 (Hannover, 1856), p. 409, a poem tucked at the end of the Donizo’s Life of Matilda of Tuscany, where the young queen is compared to her namesake the recently deceased duchess (d. 1115); Chibnall, Empress Matilda, pp. 30–1. 50 For the dating of Hugh of Fleury’s chronicle, see P. Bauduin, ‘Hugues de Fleury et l’histoire normande’, Normandy and its Neighbours, 900–1250. Essays for David Bates, ed. D. Crouch and K. Thompson (Turnhout, 2011), pp. 157–74; for the Imperial Chronicle, see J. Dale, ‘The Provenance of Cambridge, Corpus Christi College MS 373’, Transactions of the Cambridge Bibliographical Society 14 (2010), pp. 33–50; and J. Dale, ‘Imperial Self-Representation and the Manipulation of History in Twelfth-Century Germany: Cambridge, Corpus Christ College MS 373’, German History 29 (2011), pp. 557–83; for William of Malmesbury’s Gesta Regum Anglorum, see J. Tahkokallio, The Anglo-Norman Historical Canon, Publishing and Manuscript Culture (Cambridge, 2019), pp. 18–23 at p. 21. 51 E. van Houts, ‘Latin and French as Languages of the Past in Normandy During the Reign of Henry II: Robert of Torigni, Stephen of Rouen and Wace’, Writers of the Reign of Henry II. Twelve Essays, ed. R. Kennedy and S. Meecham-Jones (New York and Basingstoke, 2006), pp. 53–77 at pp. 68–9; and E. van Houts, ‘The Abbess, the Empress and the “Constitutions of Clarendon”’, English Legal History and its Sources. Essays in Honour of Sir John Baker, ed. D. Ibbetson, N. Jones, and N. Ramsay (Cambridge, 2019), pp. 247–64 at pp. 255–60.

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Robert of Torigni’s passage quoted above about coronation in 1110 and Matilda’s four-year residence at Trier for her education focussed on her change of identity from an English princess into a German queen. It is surprising that Robert did not mention the actual wedding day on 7 January 1114, an omission perhaps due to the significance Matilda attached to her betrothal and coronation rather than the formal wedding. The latter was elaborately described in the anonymous Imperial Chronicle she had brought back with her from Germany.52 In Germany the wedding day was not forgotten as Ekkehard of Aura, using the Imperial Chronicle, gave pride of place to it in his work.53 In turn the Annalista Saxo, writing 1148×1152 copied this description and by adding the name Agnes (‘vel Agnes’) to that of Matilda he implied that on the occasion of her wedding Matilda took the name Agnes.54 Italy and ‘imperial’ coronation Having been formally married in January 1114 just before her twelfth birthday, Matilda spent the years between 1116 and 1119 in northern Italy, mostly in the company of her husband. The purpose of the expedition was twofold. Henry wished to take into his possession the imperial lands left to him by Matilda, duchess of Tuscany, who had died on 24 July 1115.55 The other reason was to have his wife Matilda crowned as empress. He himself had been crowned emperor during an earlier Italian expedition in 1111.56 Although those who surrounded her would have been members of the German court, Matilda would have been expected to intercede with her husband in his capacity as king of northern Italy for elite people living in Italian speaking parts. Most conversations would have taken place in Latin while those with people of lower status would almost certainly have been in Italian.57 More importantly, uniquely for a Salian queen consort, twice in 1117 and 1118, Matilda stood in for her

52

Schmale and Schmale-Ott, ed., ‘Anonymous Imperial Chronicle’, pp. 262–5; trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 217. 53 Schmale and Schmale-Ott, ed., ‘Anonymous Imperial Chronicle’, pp. 311–12; trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 245. 54 Nass, ed., ‘Annalista Saxo, Reichschronik’, s. a. 1114, p. 549; for name changes of brides moving to a new linguistic zone, see E. van Houts, ‘Changes of Aristocratic Identity: Remarriage and Remembrance in Europe, 900–1200’, Memory and Commemoration in Medieval Culture, ed. E. Brenner, M. Cohen, and M. Franklin-Brown (Farnham, 2013), pp. 221–42 at pp. 223–4. 55 Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, pp. 314–15: ‘Interea directa ab Italia nuncii obitum illius inclie Mathildis nunciant eiusque prediorum terras amplissimas hereditario iure possidendas cesarem invitant’ (‘Meanwhile messengers direct from Italy announced the death of the renowned Matilda and invited the emperor to take possession of her vast estates and lands by hereditary right’; trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 247). 56 Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, pp. 304–5; trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 240; for the political turmoil surrounding the coronation of Henry V by Pope Pascal II in 1111, see C. Zey, Der Investiturstreit (Munich, 2017), pp. 91–7. 57 For Matilda’s intercessions in Italy, see M. Thiel and A. Gwalik, ed., Die Urkunden Heinrichs V und der Königin Mathilde (MGH Diplomata regum et imperatorum, 7, Vorab-Edition), Henry V nos 137 and 296 (while still in Germany), 155, 183, 186, 202, 211, and 296. There is only one charter of Matilda alone for an Italian beneficiary: Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Matilda no. 2.



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husband and acted as judge.58 She presided over the court, heard the arguments, and issued verdicts which she then had recorded in writing. Matilda’s actions as regent for her husband are reflected in the two Latin court documents with her designation as ‘domina’ preceding her title Matilda ‘regina’, in other words there was no doubt that she acted as lord. The significance of Matilda’s use of this title should not be underestimated, especially not given her use of this designation at other moments in her life, as I shall discuss below. In Italy she was crowned, but the nature of her coronation has been much debated. Robert of Torigni included Matilda’s story about her imperial crown-wearings in Rome embedded in other contexts not as an item in itself. It occurs in an account of how, during her difficult childbirth in 1134, her father initially refused her request that in the case of her death she should be buried at Bec. In contrast, he preferred her to be buried in the Norman family mausoleum, namely Rouen cathedral: At first Henry refused, saying that it was inappropriate for his daughter, an empress who more than once had worn the imperial crown while being led by the hands of the pope through the city of Romulus, the capital of the world.59

The passage with what one suspects was considered very important information is oddly ‘hidden’ in Robert’s narrative. The truth of Matilda’s coronation explains why. When Henry V and Matilda arrived at Rome in 1117 for Matilda to be crowned, the eighty-year-old Pope Pascal II left the city in great haste, leaving as papal legate Archbishop Mauritius of Braga.60 After the sudden death of Pope Pascal in the following year, 1118, the Romans elected John of Gaeta, imperial chancellor in Italy, as Gelasius II, who initially had the support of Emperor Henry V. The emperor then changed his mind and, having bribed the Romans, elected Mauritius of Braga, as Pope Gregory VIII, designated as an anti-pope by later judgment.61 Important for our story is that at Whitsun 1117, Archbishop Mauritius of Braga had crowned Henry V and Matilda at St Peter’s Church in his capacity as papal legate.62 In her comparative 58

Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Matilda no. 1 (Carpineto, 20 September 1117), Matilda no. 3 (Castrocaro, November 1118); for commentary, see Chibnall, Empress Matilda, pp. 33–4; Fössel, Die Königin, pp. 107 and 159–61; and Zey, ‘Frauen und Töchtern’, pp. 87–8. 59 Robert of Torigni, GND, viii, c. 28 (II, pp. 246–7): ‘Quod cum rex primo abnueret, dicens non esse dignum, ut filia sua imperatrix augusta que semel et iterum in urbe Romulea, quae caput est mundi, per manus summi pontificis imperiali diademate processerat insignita, in aliquo monasterio licet percelebri et religione et fama sepeliretur’. Note that Robert of Torigni omitted any reference to an imperial coronation in his Chronographia. 60 For the turmoil in Rome, see C. Wickham, Medieval Rome. Stability and Crisis of a City, 900–1150 (Oxford, 2015), pp. 326–8. 61 Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, p. 338; ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 264; for commentary, see Zey, ‘Imperatrix’, pp. 32–3. 62 G. Pertz, ed., ‘Annales Romani’, MGH SS 5, p. 477; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, pp. 32–3; Zey, ‘Imperatrix’, pp. 32–3, who surveys the historiography and on p. 33 n. 98 points to Chibnall’s scepticism with as main reason indeed that before 1125 Matilda was referred to as ‘regina’ in charters and on her seal, but also to Fössel’s willingness to entertain the idea of a proper coronation as empress on the grounds that after 1125 she called herself consistently empress.

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study of imperial coronations of German queens, Claudia Zey has pointed out that several German queens, including Henry IV’s wife Bertha and Frederick Barbarossa’s wife Beatrix, were crowned by schismatic popes (though never a papal legate) and the legality of these coronations were debated by contemporaries.63 In a time of anti-kings and anti-popes and infrequent journeys of kings and queens to Rome, coronation by popes considered schismatic was almost inevitable. Nevertheless, as Zey has pointed out, even the most optimistic interpretation of what happened in Rome at Whitsun 1117 can place a papal coronation of Matilda, potentially as empress, there only anachronistically. In none of the charters of her husband or herself is she anything other than queen of the Romans (‘regina Romanorum’), an indication that, as far as the imperial chancellery was concerned, she was only a queen. What we do not know is the extent to which others outside chancellery, and perhaps the court itself, referred to Matilda as empress purely on the grounds of her marriage to an emperor. The lack of any documentary record of Matilda as empress before her return to her father in 1125 suggests strongly that she was never a formally crowned empress.64 But did Robert or indeed Matilda lie? Robert of Torigni’s reference to Matilda’s coronation is embedded in a story about a row Matilda had with her father; perhaps we should see it, therefore, as Robert drawing a veil over the bold truth of the matter: that coronation by an archbishop who only later became a pope, and a schismatic one at that, was at most a dubious one. Nevertheless, one can see how Matilda later could have truthfully claimed that she had worn an imperial crown in Rome and had walked the streets of Rome at the side of Gregory VIII, the former archbishop of Braga. Factually true, these stories gave a misleading impression that she was crowned empress in Rome by a legitimate pope. Before I go on, I should explain that, as far as we know, Matilda only ever referred to herself as empress after her return to her father late in 1125 and that the first documentary, as opposed to literary, reference to her as ‘imperatrix’ dates from a note preceding her signature in a charter of her father from 1129 at Rouen.65 As we know, she kept the title empress for the rest of her life. My interpretation is that in the Anglo-Norman world, as widow of the German emperor, Matilda used the highest title of empress, a custom entirely in line with that of other elite married 63

Zey, ‘Imperatrix’, p. 34. But note that contemporary chroniclers occasionally referred to her as empress, see Scheffer-Boichorst, ed., ‘Annales Patherbrunnenses’, s. a. 1123, p. 144: ‘Godebaldus Traiectensis epsicopus gratiam imperatoris per interventum imperatricis, assistentibus principibus, obtinens’; see also K. Leyser, ‘The Anglo-Norman Succession 1120–1125’, ANS 13 (1990), pp. 225–42 at p. 237. 65 Regesta, II, no. 1581; see also M. Chibnall, ‘The Charters of the Empress Matilda’, in her Piety, Power and History in Medieval England and Normandy (Aldershot, 2000), no. 13 [revised and enlarged version in Law and Government in Medieval England and Normandy. Essays in Honour of Sir James Holt, ed. G. Garnett and J. Hudson (Cambridge, 1994)], pp. 276–98 at p. 277: ‘Ego Matildis imperatrix concede donum quod rex Anglorum pater meus dedit and concedit’ (‘I Empress Matilda concede the gift that the king of the English, my father, has given and conceded’). The 1126–8 gift of income from land at Eastrop to Tiron (Regesta, III, no. 898, p. 327; see also Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 70) has to be set aside as the oldest evidence for Matilda’s use of ‘imperatrix’ in a charter, now that Kathleen Thompson (The Monks of Tiron. A Monastic Community and Religious Reform in the Twelfth century (Cambridge, 2015), p. 79) has pointed out that this charter is a quasi-original. It is based on a probably genuine act but the palaeography dates from many decades later. 64



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widows.66 I now turn to Matilda’s fourth and final autobiographical passage which will keep us occupied for most of the final part of my essay. Final years in the Empire 1122–5 In a passage describing Matilda’s movements after her husband’s death in May 1125 Robert noted: eminent princes of the Roman court, well aware of her intelligence and charming character, had expressed their wish, while her husband was still alive [my emphasis], that she should rule over them in every way and for this reason followed her to her father’s court making this petition. The king, however, was strongly opposed to their wish for he wanted her to succeed him […].67

Robert repeated this assertion that some Germans wished to retain her as their ‘lady’ (domina) in his Chronographia written from the late 1140s onwards.68 I note that Thomas Bisson in his recent edition of this text interprets ‘domina’ in the context of lordship and translates it as ‘lord’. Now, compare Robert of Torigni’s statements with William of Malmesbury’s Historia Novella, which was written in c. 1140–1 when Matilda was in England fighting against her cousin Stephen:69 The empress, they say, was reluctant to return because she had grown accustomed to the lands into which she was married, and had many possessions in them. At any rate there is no doubt that some princes of the Lombards and Lotharingians came to England more than once in the following years to ask for her as their lady (domina); but they gained nothing by their efforts, the king being minded to establish peace between himself and the count of Anjou by his daughter’s marriage.

This passage has been interpreted not as evidence for Matilda’s lordship or rulership but simply as evidence for marriage alliances.70 The reference to Matilda as ‘domina’ by both Robert of Torigni and William of Malmesbury, who use the vocabulary of lordship, is significant. We may also remember that before 1125, the only time that Matilda was presented as ‘domina’ was in the courts of northern Italy in 1117 and 66

van Houts, ‘Changes of Aristocratic Identity’, pp. 223–4. Robert of Torigni, GND, viii, c. 25 (II, pp. 240–1): ‘[…] potentissimus rex Anglorum Henricus filiam suam predictam imperatricem missis proceribus cum magno honore fecit reduci in Angliam licet excellentissimi principes curiae Romane, experti prudentiam ipsius et morum venustatem uiuente imperatore coniuge suo, eam omnimodis sibi imperare obtarent et hac de causa ipsam prosecute sint usque ad curiam sui patris, id ipsum rogaturi. Quibus petitioni cum rex minime adquiesceret […]’. 68 Torigni, ed. Bisson, s. a. 1126, I, pp. 84–5: ‘Quam [sc. Matilda] cum vellent in patria illa animo libenti retinere dominam, noluit [sc. Henry]’ (‘When they wished to keep her in that land as their lord he refused’); Orderic noted her wish to return to her native country despite the fact that abroad she was much loved (Orderic, V, pp. 200–1). 69 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, pp. 4–5: ‘Inuita ut aiunt imperatrix rediit, quod dotalibus regionibus consueta esset, ut multas ibidem possessions haberet. Constat certe aliquos Lotharingorum et Lombardorum principes succedentibus annis plus quam semel Angliam uenise, ut eam sibi dominam requirerent, sed fructu laborum caruisee, cogitante rege ut filiae conubio inter se et Andegauensem comitem pacem componeret’. 70 Chibnall, Empress Matilda, pp. 43–4. 67

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1118, where she acted as judge and regent in the absence of her husband.71 The word ‘domina’ is a crucial one. The plan that Matilda might have stayed in Germany and acted as some sort of regent during her husband’s illness, negotiated with the seriously ill king during his life, recorded by Robert and implied by William, monks favourable to her, and no doubt informed by her, has been mostly ignored by all serious scholars.72 Yet, it is worth pausing and to reflect on the statements. From the moment Henry V and Matilda realised that their childlessness might indeed be permanent, the lack of an heir to continue the Salian dynasty would have worried them and their German allies deeply. When planning started for Henry’s declining health and immanent death without an heir is unknown, but what is known is that Henry V’s death in 1125 did not come as a surprise; the emperor had been in ill health, perhaps suffering from testicular cancer, for a long time. There was even a view that he had actively concealed the seriousness of his illness.73 The combination of the king’s ill health and childlessness makes it conceivable that the couple might have come up with a plan. After consultation with some of their closest allies, they might have envisaged some form of regency followed by a remarriage for Matilda with one of Henry’s kinsmen, to continue the Salian line.74 The early 1120s might well have seen the start of preparations for this eventuality, namely that on her husband’s death she would remarry one of his nephews to continue the Salian dynasty. Two candidates were possible: Henry’s nephews, sons of his sister Judith. 71

See above pp. 104–5. The exception is F. Geldner, ‘Kaiserin Mathilde, die deutsche Königswahl von 1125 und das Gegenkönigtum Konrads III’, Zeitschrift für bayerische Landesgeschichte 40 (1977), pp. 3–22. This is very much a study written from the perspective of Conrad as suitor especially in the run up to his campaign to be crowned anti-king, rather than from the perspective of Matilda and Henry V. Geldner’s suggestions were rejected by U. Schmidt, Königswahl und Thronfolge im 12. Jahrhundert (Cologne and Vienna, 1987), pp. 34–59. Schmidt’s main argument against a potential marriage between Conrad and Matilda was his mistaken belief that Conrad was married. Chibnall followed Schmidt in his rejection of Geldner’s thesis. However, the existence of an early marriage of Conrad has been conclusively rejected by W. Zeigler, König Konrad II (1138–1152). Hof, Urkunde und Politik (Cologne and Weimar, 2008), p. 643 and n. 5265. 73 Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, pp. 374–5: s. a. 1125 ‘[…] egritudine, quam iam diu celaverat’ (‘an illness, which he had long kept hidden’; ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 284); for the suggestion of a cancer, see Leyser, ‘The Anglo-Norman Succession’, p. 240. 74 This has been suggested before by Geldner, ‘Kaiserin Mathilde’ but with the initiative lying with Henry and Conrad, not with Matilda. There is no evidence from German sources on Matilda’s alleged regency. We may note that in the famous letter of German princes to Otto of Bamberg, inviting him to attend the Mainz Hoftag on 24 August 1125 (Nass, ed., Codex Udalrici, II, no. 348, pp. 601–2), both Fredrick of Swabia and his father-in-law Henry the Black of Bavaria were amongst the authors alongside the count Palatine Godfrey of Calw and Berengar of Schulzbach; Weiler erroneously counts Lothar (later Lothar III) amongst the group of princes, see Weiler, Paths to Kingship, p. 265. What happened at Mainz is recounted in the so-called Narratio de electione Lotharii Saxonicae ducis in regem Romanorum (ed. W. Wattenbach, MGH 12 (Hanover 1856), pp. 510–12; trans. G. Loud, private communication) written a generation later around 1160 (Weiler, Paths to Kingship, p. 267 n. 33), where Henry the Black, duke of Bavaria, changed his mind and instead of backing his son-in-law Frederick of Swabia voted for Lothar (Narratio, p. 511). 72



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The eldest, Frederick of Swabia, had already married Judith of Bavaria in 1119–21, but his younger brother Godfrey of Franconia was still unmarried.75 In the early 1120s, both Frederick and Conrad, as grandchildren of Henry IV in the female line, were eminently acceptable candidates for the German throne.76 In 1125, as we shall see, Frederick was seen as the front runner for the crown, but he was rejected in favour of Lothar of Supplinburg, duke of Saxony. Two years into Lothar’s kingship, Conrad was elected as anti-king but defeated. However, after Lothar’s death in 1138, this same Conrad became King Conrad III. When therefore in the early 1120s plans were laid for Matilda’s potentially new position in Germany as regent followed by a remarriage to a Salian relative, she would have needed her father’s permission. This is where the intriguing and authentic testimony of the Annals of Waverley comes in. Originating in a now lost set of annals from Winchester, the annals of Waverley record how, at some stage in the spring of 1122, probably from Utrecht (see below), Matilda wrote to her father announcing that she wished to visit him, a visit expected in the second half of May: Henry I […] spent Whitsun (14 May) at Windsor where he was for two days, from there he went to Westminster for a whole week and then he moved to Canterbury and visited Kent in general. And there he awaited his daughter, the queen of Germany, who had sent word to him that she wanted to come to England. But she was prevented by the count of Flanders – so men said – who forbade her to go through his land.77

Matilda’s visit never happened. The standard explanation for her planned visit is that of Karl Leyser as set out in 1990.78 He saw it as the start of a campaign by Henry V and Matilda to present themselves as potential successors in England. A word on the English succession is needed here. In 1120, Henry I’s only legitimate son William Aetheling drowned in the White Ship disaster. Within a few months, in February 1121, Henry I remarried to Adeliza of Louvain, daughter of Godfrey duke of Lower Lotharingia, but the marriage was childless. Leyser argued that the German couple spent the last three years of Henry V’s life positioning themselves so that Utrecht might become a springboard for ‘operation England’ preparing the route for Matilda’s eventual inheritance. In the spring of 1122, Matilda was sent to England to negotiate with her father about her and her husband’s plans with regard to England. The problem with Leyser’s argument is that, in 1122, Adeliza had only been married to King Henry I for just over one year and it seems to me extremely

75

See above n. 72. For a brief outline of the early Staufen dynastic history, see J. B. Freed, Frederick Barbarossa. The Prince and the Myth (New Haven and London, 2016), pp. 1–13. 77 H. R. Luard, ed., ‘Annales monasterii de Waverleia’, Annales Monastici, RS, 5 vols (London, 1864–9), II, p. 218: ‘Anno vigesimo secondo regis Henrici. Rex fuit […] ad Pentencosten ad Windeshores duobus diebus, et inde ivit apud Westmonasterium, et fuit ibi tota hebdomada illa, et post ivit ad Cantuariam, et per totam Cent. Et ibi expectabat filiam suam reginam Alemanniae, quae mandaverat illi se velle venire in Angliam; sed disturbata fuit, quod venire non potuit – sicut homines aiebant – per consulem Flandriae, qui prohibuit ille transitum per terram suam’; trans. Leyser, ‘The Anglo-Norman Succession’, p. 234; Matilda’s now lost letter features as Matilda no. 4* in Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V; see also Green, Henry I, p. 175. 78 Leyser, ‘The Anglo-Norman Succession’, passim. 76

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unlikely that into their second year of marriage the English royal couple had given up hope of offspring. Equally Matilda and Henry V, as a childless couple themselves, must have known that. Leyser’s interpretation can no longer stand. What, in 1122, was at the forefront of Matilda’s mind was not her father’s succession, but her husband’s. She had been at Henry V’s side for most of his reign, she had acted as his regent, and in 1122 she was meant to act as his envoy negotiating her father’s permission to remain in Germany to deal with any eventuality given her husband’s ill health, their childlessness, and a potential remarriage. The imperial couple’s frequent visits to Utrecht during the last three years of Henry V’s reign were significant, as Leyser rightly pointed out, but this was not with a view to England but with a view of internal German politics.79 Matilda was on her own in Utrecht in March 1122, then her husband joined her in May–June 1122, the couple came again in early August 1123, while for his expedition against Holland in 1124 (leaving behind his wife as regent in Lotharingia) Henry would have found it hard to avoid Utrecht, and then both returned, this time for his death in May 1125.80 Utrecht was a bishop’s city and important trading centre with tolls, not far from Tiel, which was the main imperial toll on the Waal, a tributary of the Rhine. Though to what extent Utrecht was seen as an alternative to a Flemish harbour is unclear.81 79

This does not mean that there was no contact between the royal court of Henry V and England. As Leyser has pointed out, in early March 1123 Henry V acted as intercessor with Pope Calixtus II to give Archbishop William of Canterbury his pallium, see Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Henry V no. 251; see also Simeon of Durham, ‘Historia continuatio’, p. 272; Hugh the Chanter, The History of the Church of York 1066–1127, ed. and trans. C. Johnson, rev. M. Brett, C. N. L. Brooke, and M. Winterbottom (Oxford, 1990), pp. 190–1 and Leyser, ‘England and the Empire’, pp. 211–12. In 1124 there was also contact between the two courts in view of the aborted invasion of France by Henry V, allegedly on the advice of Henry I, leading to a gathering of the French royal army led by King Louis VI. 80 Matilda was in Utrecht when on 14 March 1122 she granted land to the recent foundation of Oostbroek (Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Matilda no. 5). The charter is known from a late twelfth-century cartulary of the bishops of Utrecht and its authenticity has never been doubted. For Henry’s (and Matilda’s) presence there around Whitsun, see Henry V nos 236 and 238 both originals, still preserved, in Utrecht (see below n. 81); the visit is also described for the political upheaval surrounding it and the imprisonment of Bishop Godebald in Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, erroneously listed under 1123, p. 361; and ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 277 and n. 115. For the August 1123 visit, see Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Henry V no. 261. The 1124 visit to Utrecht is conjectural but since in the spring Henry prepared his expedition against Countess Petronille/Gertrude of Holland it would have been difficult to avoid the episcopal city; at that time he left Matilda as regent in Lotharingia, see Ekkehard, ‘Chronicon IV’, ed. Schmale and Schmale Ott, s. a. 1124, pp. 364–7; and ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, pp. 279–80. For Henry V’s death in Utrecht on 23 May 1125 see below. 81 For Tiel as imperial toll, see J. de Sturler, Les relations politiques et les échanges commerciaux entre le duché de Brabant et l’angleterre au Moyen Age. L’étape des laines anglaises en Brabant et des origins du développement du port d’Anvers (Paris, 1936), pp. 135–40; Alpertus van Metz, ‘?Miracula s. Waldburgae Tielensia’, ed. O. Holder-Egger, MGH SS XV, 2 vols (Hanover, 1887–8), II, c. 2, pp. 764–6; Alpertus Mettensis, De diversitate temporum et fragmentum de Deoderico primo episcopo Mettensi, ed. H. van Rij and A. S. Abulafia (Amsterdam, 1980), II, c. 20, pp. 80–1.



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The couple’s interest in Utrecht was inspired not so much because of their English interests but because of imperial politics. Utrecht was where Matilda held her dower lands and where she needed the support from Bishop Godebald (1114–27) crucial for her in case of a regency and/or remarriage. Godebald’s relations with Henry V were difficult for two reasons. The first was economic in that the bishop was initially reluctant to allow greater freedom of action to the merchants of Utrecht (and north of it, of Muiden, which provided access to the Zuiderzee) who eventually pushed for liberties which they received due to imperial backing. The process can be followed in two original charters dating from 1122 whereby Henry V confirmed the charter of Godebald containing the liberties conceded to the Utrecht merchants under pressure from himself.82 The charters were probably issued shortly after a violent altercation in Utrecht during the emperor’s and his wife’s stay at Whitsun when as part of the disagreement Henry V incarcerated Godebald.83 The bishop was released almost immediately due to the intervention of the archbishop of Cologne. Whether Matilda intervened too on this occasion is unknown, but she certainly mediated a second reconciliation of Godebald with Henry V one year later in 1123.84 A second reason for Matilda to keep bishop Godebald on her side was his sympathy for the Reform movement. He was supportive of the new Norbertiner Order, a monastic movement close to Matilda’s heart, judging by his grant to a new foundation in Zeeland, and Matilda’s own grant at Oostbroek for a foundation by several laymen that grew into a Benedictine monastery earlier in the year. One might also speculate to what extent Matilda wished to keep the bishop on her and her husband’s side in the summer of 1122 as part of the negotiations that were underway which would lead on 23 September to the Concordat of Worms between Henry V and Pope Calixtus II, at which Bishop Godebald was present.85 The evidence of Matilda’s involvement in 82

Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Henry V no. 236 issued at Utrecht on 26 May, and no. 238 issued at Utrecht on 2 June. No. 238 is a twin copy of one issued by Bishop Godebald on the same day to the same group of inhabitants of Utrecht and Muiden, also an original. For a historical analysis and context as well as an edition of both original charters, see K. van Vliet, ‘Utrecht, Muiden en omgeving. Oude privileges opnieuw bezien’, Jaarboek Oud Utrecht (1995), pp. 5–52 (editions on pp. 35–40) and K. van Vliet, ‘De stad van de bishop (circa 925–1122)’ and ‘De stad van de burgers (1122–1304)’, “Een paradijs vol weelde”. Geschiedenis van de stad Utrecht, ed. A. Pietersma et al. (Utrecht, 2000), pp. 45–72 and 73–111. 83 Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, p. 361; and ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 277 and n. 115 where both editors and translator explain the erroneous dating to 1123 of this incident. 84 Scheffer-Boichorst, ed., Annales Patherbrunnenses, s. a. 1124 [probably for 1123], p. 144; and Nass, ed., ‘Annalista Saxo, Reichschronik’, s. a. 1123, p. 578. At issue was the imperial siege of Bishop Godebald’s castle Schuilenburg in part of his lands called the Oversticht. The castle was razed as precondition of the reconciliation between emperor and bishop. 85 The intention for a reconciliation between king and pope was agreed at the Hoftag in Würzburg in October 1121 (Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Henry V no. 230); a papal delegation arrived in Germany in the summer of 1122 with the agreement set out in two letters one from Henry V to Pope Calixtus II and one from Calixtus II to Henry V, Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum, ed. L. Weiland, MGH Const. 1 (Hanover, 1893), nos 107 and 108, pp. 159–61 (for Godebald’s presence see p. 160). For an earlier version of Henry V’s letter, from Echternach, probably originating from Archbishop Bruno of Trier, who was close to the papal camp, see M. Thiel, ‘Ein Entwurf zum wormser Konkordat (Thiel D

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Utrecht with Bishop Godebald can be interpreted, I suggest, as part of the plan that the couple had for her greater involvement in government. It is in this context that we have to take account of a diplomatic innovation in Germany, the appearance of the queen consort’s seal. The queenly seal, we may remember, was unprecedented in the empire. The only evidence for Matilda’s seal in the empire comes from two of her five charters in favour of ecclesiastical institutions in Utrecht, drawn up by Philip the Chancellor, who from 1122 combined the roles of German and Italian chancellor.86 The seal itself has not survived and evidence for it exists in two refences in the episcopal cartulary of Utrecht dating to the late twelfth century.87 The first grant was for St Lawrence Abbey at Oostbroek near Utrecht, dated to 14 March 1122: ‘I have ordered this charter to be committed to writing and [to be] marked with our seal’.88 The Oostbroek estates were almost certainly her dower lands. The second grant concerns St Martin Cathedral at Utrecht in May 1125 issued at Wageningen, three days after her husband’s death, with a gift and stipulations for his commemoration: ‘And in order that this tradition sealed with our authority remains, we order that this page be signed with [our] own hand and reinforced with our own seal’.89 The references to her own seal are unique, clearly circumscribed and precisely located in the area of her dower. The consensus thus far is, as recently reaffirmed by Mariah Cooper, that Matilda introduced the queen’s seal from England, where her mother Edith/Matilda of Scotland and, potentially her grandmother Matilda of Flanders, had seals as royal consorts.90 This proposition is 240)’, Studien zu den Urkunden Heinrichs V, ed. M. Hartmann et al. (Wiesbaden, 2017), pp. 103–9; for a commentary, see Zey, Der Investiturstreit, pp. 100–8. 86 For Philip, see Friedrich Hausmann, Reichskanzlei und Hofkapelle unter Heinrich V und Konrad III, Schriften der MGH Deutsches Institut für Erforschung des Mittelalters 14 (Stuttgart, 1965), pp. 6, 49–50 without reference to queen Matilda’s seal. 87 A. Stieldorf, ‘Die Siegel der Herrscherinnen. Siegelführung und Siegelbild der “deutschen” Kaiserinnen und Königinnen’, Rheinische Vierteljahrblätter 64 (2000), pp. 1–44 at p. 15 n. 67 and p. 33; and in no. 3 Stieldorf notes that Matilda’s seal to her two earliest charters (linked to her northern Italian court cases in 1117 and 1118) has not survived. Dale, Inauguration, pp. 211–12, 242, and 249 follows Stieldorf’s interpretation. For a correction of this supposition, see below n. 95. 88 Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Matilda no. 5; Oorkondenboek van het Sticht Utrecht, I, no. 302, pp. 277–8: ‘cartam hanc inde conscribi et sigillo nostro insigniri iussimus’. 89 Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Matilda no. 6; Oorkondenboek van het Sticht Utrecht, I, no. 318, pp. 291–2: ‘Ut autem hec traditio nostre auctoritatis rata permaneat, hanc paginam inde conscriptam manu propria roborante sigillo nostro insigniri jussimus’. 90 M. Cooper, ‘A Female King or a Good Wife and a Great Mother? Seals, Coins and the epitaphic legacy of the Empress Matilda’, HSJ 32 (2020), pp. 149–61 at pp. 153–4 for the suggestion that the round shape of Empress Matilda’s seal was inspired by her father’s round seal. Note Stieldorf’s scepticism that Matilda’s seal was made after an English example, see Stieldorf, ‘Die Siegel der Herrscherinnen’, p. 15 n. 67; for older literature, see Chibnall, Empress Matilda, pp. 103–4 and pl. 4 and 5; for Matilda of Scotland’s seal, see Huneycutt, Matilda of Scotland, pp. 88–9. For Matilda of Flanders’ seal, see D. Bates, ‘The Representation of Queens and Queenship in Anglo-Norman Royal Charters’, Frankland. The Franks and the World of the Early Middle Ages. Essays in Honour of Dame Jinty Nelson, ed. P. Fouracre and D. Ganz (Manchester, 2008), pp. 285–303 at pp. 286–7. For a discussion of Queen Matilda of Flanders’s writ in Regesta: William I, no. 289, p. 869 (for Wells Cathedral 1072–83).



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incorrect. The reference to her own seal is important: Empress Matilda was the first German queen consort who is known to have had her own seal.91 The shape of her German seal, round, contrasts the vesica shape of her mother’s (Edith/Matilda) and stepmother’s (Adeliza of Louvain) who are depicted standing full length.92 Matilda’s round seal partners that of her husband Henry V with imagery of both sitting enthroned, the common imperial position of the ruler. For Matilda to be depicted like this confirmed her status as, on occasion, sharing in her husband’s power, albeit with the legend ‘regina Romanorum’.93 This ‘imperial’ seal she brought back with her on her return to England. The impetus of the use of a consort’s seal came from Henry and Matilda, and was probably inspired from Lower Lotharingia where Beatrice, regent of Tuscany, had married Godfrey of Louvain, duke of Lower Lotharingia, as her second husband, who gave her a seal matrix. This in turn was also used by her daughter Countess Matilda of Tuscany (d. 1115). Two of the mid-eleventh-century ducal seals are now lost.94 It has remained unnoticed that Empress Matilda’s seal appeared in 1122 just when – in my reconstruction – the couple began to lay plans for what might happen in the case of Henry V’s incapacity and death.95 In the absence of any heir, they created a role for Matilda. We might wonder to what extent Philip the Chancellor was instrumental in the practical aspects. In the absence of a queen-consort’s chancery, the queen was dependent on the personnel of her husband’s chancery. Philip, as imperial chancellor (for Italy), appeared in Matilda’s entourage in November 1118 at Castrocaro when she sat in judgment, at Utrecht for the charters of 13 March 1122 (with chancellor Philip acting for Adelbert of Mainz as arch chancellor), and then on 26 May 1125. Significantly, in March 1122, he was with Matilda in Utrecht, while Bruno acted as imperial chancellor (for Adelbert of Mainz) at Henry V’s court at Aachen. It was not until 11 November 1122 that Philip replaced Bruno as imperial chancellor. It seems therefore that if the queen was away from her husband on business, one of his chancellors would be assigned to her, and that such collaboration between queen and chancellor could lead to a subsequent promotion. In the three years that followed, Matilda acted as Henry’s regent once 91

Chibnall, Empress Matilda, pp. 103–4 and pl. 4 and 5; Fössel, Die Königin, p. 87 n. 447; Zey, ‘Frauen und Töchtern’, p. 87. There is an image of Matilda’s seal, based on a nineteenth-century ‘Gipsabdruck’ now in Berlin of unknown origin, in Die Siegel der deutschen Kaiser und Könige von 751 bis 1806, ed. O. Posse, 5 vols, (Dresden 1909–13), I, Tafel 19, no. 14, and V, p. 24. No seal of Matilda has survived in Germany or Italy; it is conceivable, though unprovable, that the ‘Gipsabdruck’ of Matilda’s seal in Berlin is of one of Matilda’s seals preserved in Britain. 92 The Anglo-Norman precocity in developing the iconography of aristocratic seals is discussed by J.-F. Nieus, ‘Early Aristocratic Seals: an Anglo-Norman Success Story’, ANS 38 (2015), pp. 97–123. 93 For the significance of the enthroned position, see Stieldorf, ‘Die Siegel der Herrscherinnen’, pp. 14–15 and 26; see also Andrea Stieldorf, ‘Seals, coins, and the exchange of imagination and ideas’, ANS 45 (2023), 77–93. 94 Die Urkunden und Briefe der Markgräfin Mathilde von Tuszien, ed. E. Goez and W. Goez, MGH Laienfürsten-und Dynastenurkunden der Kaiserzeit 2 (Hannover and Leipzig, 1998), pp. 13, 54 and image 15 (after p. 4); see also Nieus, ‘Early Aristocratic seals’, p. 100. 95 Stieldorf, ‘Die Siegel der Herrscherinnen’, p. 15 n. 67 keeps open the possibility that Matilda’s northern Italian charters for 1117 and 1118 may have been sealed. An inspection of Matthias Thiel’s unpublished edition of Matilda’s Italian charters reveals that the documents show no sign of sealing. I am most grateful to Gerhard Lubich for this information.

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more in 1124, when he left her in charge in Lotharingia while he went on expedition against the countess of Holland.96 As Henry V’s charters show, after her return from Italy in 1119, Matilda was often at his side and he acted six times on her advice.97 Unfortunately, however, the carefully prepared plans came to nothing. Henry V died in Utrecht on 23 May 1125 with his wife Matilda and his sister’s son Frederick of Staufen, duke of Swabia, and other nobles at his bedside. Frederick’s brother, Conrad, perhaps intended as the new spouse for Matilda, had gone on a penitential pilgrimage to the Holy Land in 1124 and had not yet returned.98 Both Orderic Vitalis, writing in Normandy in the early 1130s, and Otto of Freising in the 1150s reported that on his deathbed the emperor gave the regalia to Matilda.99 Contemporaneously, in Germany, Ekkehard of Aura, in the fourth recension of his Chronicle, specified that on Henry’s deathbed: the emperor gave, as far as he could, advice on the state of the realm and entrusted his possessions and the queen to Frederick, as if his heir, and he ordered that the crown and other regalia be kept in the heavily fortified castle called Trifels until the assembly of the princes could meet.100

96

Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, s. a. 1124, pp. 364–5; ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, pp. 279–80. For Gertrude/ Petronella, countess of Holland (d. 1144), sister of Lothar of Saxony, later Lothar III, see E. H. P. Cordfunke, ‘Petronilla van Saksen’, Digitaal Vrouwenlexicon van Nederland, http:// resources.huijgens.knaw.nl/vrouwenlexicon/data/petronillavansaksen (accessed 3 February 2023). 97 Thiel and Gwalik, ed., Urkunden Heinrichs V, Henry V nos 223 (November 1119), 225 (May 1120), 232 (October 1121xFebruary/March 1122), 266 (May 1124), 273 (January 1125), and 279 (May 1125). 98 Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, s. a. 1124, pp. 364–5; ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 279. Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 41 argues against the theory of a second marriage for Matilda with Conrad on the grounds that knowing he was seriously ill the emperor would not have allowed Conrad to go on pilgrimage. 99 Orderic, VI, pp. 360–1; Otto of Freising, Gesta Frederici I imperatoris, I, c. 16, ed. G. Waitz and B. de Simson, MGH SS in usum scholarum 46 (Hannover, 1912), p. 30: ‘At imperatrix Mathildis, Heinrici regis Anglorum filia, regalia in potestate sua habebat’; The Deeds of Frederick Barbarossa, trans. R. Emery (New York, 1953), p. 47. In 1024 the childless Henry II on his deathbed had handed over the regalia to his wife Richildis, see Wipo, Gesta Chuonradi II imperatoris, c. 2, ed. H. Bresslau, MGH SS rer. Ger. 61 (Hanover and Leipzig, 1915), p. 19; trans. T. E. Mommsen and K. F. Morrison, Imperial Lives and Letters of the Eleventh Century (New York and London, 1962), p. 65; see also Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 40; and Fössel, Die Königin, pp. 340–1. 100 Ekkehard of Aura, ‘Chronicon IV’, pp. 374–5: ‘Heinricus imperator […] superatus ad extrema cepit propinquare vocatisque qui secum errant, id est regina Mahtilde coniuge sua, consobrino quoque suo Friderico duce Suevie ceterisque primatibus, prout potuit, de regni statu consilium dedit, proprietates suas atque reginam eiusdem Friderici utpote heredis sui fidei commisit, coronam ceteraque regalia usque ad conventum principum conservanda in castello firmissimo quod Trifels dicitur reponi disposuit […]’; ‘The 1125 Continuation of Frutolf’s Chronicle (1117–25)’, trans. McCarthy, Chronicles, p. 285; for a discussion, see Freed, Frederick Barbarossa, p. 12.



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This statement is not incompatible with the reports of Orderic and Otto. At some stage, however, probably sometime in the summer, Matilda was summoned by Archbishop Albert of Mainz, who was by all accounts in charge of the election of Henry V’s successor. He was no friend of Henry V, who had held him incarcerated for a number of years before the two were reconciled. Upon his release, Adalbert had fostered good relations with the duke of Saxony, Lothar of Supplinburg.101 According to Otto of Freising, the archbishop ‘by false promises induced her to hand [the regalia] over to him’.102 Without the regalia, in the absence of Conrad, and with the election set for the end of August, Matilda lost all hope of any sort of regency or indeed marriage with a Salian prince.103 As part of her hand-over of the regalia to Archbishop Adalbert of Mainz, Matilda negotiated hard for compensation for the loss of any regency and, once departed, her dower income. Laden with treasures, including the so-called Imperial Chronicle with the famous image of her wedding banquet, several crowns (including, significantly, the one with which her late husband had been crowned) as well as many more treasures, including jewels and imperial vestments, she returned to Normandy.104 That she also took with her the relic of the hand of St James, kept in the royal treasury at Trifels, elicited the only negative contemporary comment about her. The annalist of Dissenboden wrote twenty years later that ‘by doing this she did irreparable damage to the kingdom of the Franks’.105 There is more. According to Otto of Freising writing in the 1150s, around this time in the early 1120s, the rumour circulated in Germany that ‘on the advice of his son-in-law [recte: father-in-law]’ Henry V had in mind to impose ‘a general royal tax over the whole kingdom’ along an English model.106 Could this have been an advance notice that should Henry die and his wife remarry one of the princes a general tax by way of her dowry would be levied? The scenario of Matilda’s regency or remarriage, that as we know remained unrealised, reveals in my interpretation Matilda’s wish to stay in Germany. What is striking about Matilda’s final years in Germany is the discrepancy between the German and Anglo-Norman sources. The former depict her as executing her husband’s wishes and being tricked into handing over the royal insignia to the archbishop of Mainz, while the latter, Robert of Torigni, and William of Malmes101

Freed, Frederick Barbarossa, pp. 29–33. Otto of Freising, Gesta Frederici, I, c. 16, p. 16: ‘Quam [sc. Matilda] predictus Albertus Maguntinae aecclesiae archiepiscopus ad se vocavit falsisque promissionibus as sibi tradenda regalia induxit’; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 41. 103 Fössel, Die Königin, pp. 344–6 argues that reconstruction of Matilda’s role in 1125 has to remain speculative due to lack of sources; she also rejects the suggestions from Geldner (above n. 72) pointing out that Schmidt, Könungswahl, had them compellingly rejected (p. 345 n. 160). 104 For the royal coronation crown in Germany, see the Appendix below, pp. 118–19. 105 G. Waitz, ed., ‘Annals of Dissenboden’, MGH SS 17 (Hanover, 1861), p. 23: ‘per quod irreparabile dampnum regno Francorum intulit’; for commentary, see K. Leyser, ‘Frederick Barbarossa, Henry II and the Hand of St James’, Medieval Germany and its Neighbours, 900–1250 (London, 1982), p. 205. 106 Otto of Freising, Chronicle, VII, c. 15, ed. and trans. Schmidt and Lammers, pp. 526–7: ‘consilio generi [sic “son in law”] sui regis Anglorum’, ‘totum regnum vectigale facere volens’; Leyser, ‘Frederick Barbarossa’, p. 205; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 79; Leyser, ‘The Anglo-Norman Succession’, pp. 239–40. 102

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bury, represent Matilda’s version of events, namely the German princes’ wishes for her. Both versions represent her as immensely capable, but the German view acknowledged her as consors, a role that ended with the death of her husband. Matilda’s version did not consider that moment as the end. We may speculate that Conrad’s election as anti-king in 1127 provides a crumb of corroborative evidence for Matilda’s own testimony that as late as that year some princes may still have held out hope of restoring the Salian line potentially with her input. In this context it is worth pointing out that for that year Anglo-Norman chroniclers describe delays in Matilda leaving England to be married to Geoffrey of Anjou.107 She may still have held out hope for a return to Germany. There seems to me to be no doubt that Matilda’s version of events, as reported by Robert of Torigni and William of Malmesbury, shows that there was a plan for her to stay on in some capacity in order to save the Salian dynasty from dying out and preventing the rule of a non-Salian. It is equally striking that so few modern historians have taken note of, let alone evaluated, Matilda’s own recollections, biased as they naturally are, towards her time in Germany. By way of conclusion we now turn to the questions as to what Matilda’s experience in Germany meant for her later career as countess of Anjou and aspiring queen regnant in England. As I have set out it is my view that not until her return to Normandy in late 1125 did Matilda become a realistic candidate as her father’s successor in England and Normandy. It is conceivable that Matilda may have proposed a role for herself in the succession of England should her father remain without a legitimate son. Not until after eighteen months in her father’s presence was Matilda proposed by him as his heir and successor, albeit on condition that no male heir would be born in the meantime.108 The conditionality is an important qualification rightly stressed by George Garnett in Conquered England (2007) and surprisingly omitted by Bjorn Weiler in his recent Paths to Kingship (2021).109 The conditional designation was accepted by the Anglo-Norman nobility who all swore an oath of allegiance to the empress but did not do homage. The oath was repeated in September 1131 by which time she had been married to Count Geoffrey of Anjou for three years without children.110 That she was a woman was not, it seems, an obstacle.111 Matilda’s conditional designation as heir and successor in England was not a plan that appeared out of nowhere, it was in one way or another anticipated by Matilda’s discussions with her late husband and sympathetic German nobles in the empire about her role there. The fact that William of Malmesbury singled out Lombardy and Lotharingia as regions sympathetic to her as ‘domina’ might indicate that these were the very regions that had experienced female rulership of Beatrix and Matilda, the mother as regent and the daughter as heiress of Tuscany. In this context 107

ASC ‘E’, s. a. 1127 refers to Matilda as ‘Aethelic’. ASC ‘E’, s. a. 1126; John of Worcester, III, pp. 166–7 and 176–81 (wrongly dated to 1128); Huntingdon, pp. 476–8; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, pp. 51–2. 109 G. Garnett, Conquered England. Kingship, Succession, and Tenure 1066–1166 (Oxford, 2007), pp. 208–10; Weiler, Paths to Kingship, pp. 151–3. 110 Malmesbury, Historia Novella, pp. 18–21; Huntingdon, pp. 486–7; and Regesta, II, no. 1715; Chibnall, Empress Matilda, p. 59. 111 Though note that Garnett (Conquered England, pp. 210–11) draws attention to the distinction between the nobility swearing an oath to Matilda in 1127 and 1131, but not doing homage on either occasion because she was a woman. He adds though that Matilda’s case was exceptional as in due course in 1139 in England homage was done. 108



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it is significant that both Robert of Torigni and William of Malmesbury stress the concept of maternal female inheritance, from mother Edith/Matilda to daughter Empress Matilda. In his interpolation of the Gesta Normannorum ducum, Robert stressed the fact that both Matildas shared the same name and the same character and he described Empress Matilda’s three sons by Count Geoffrey as ‘the legitimate heirs to England’ not only through their maternal grandfather, Henry I, but also through their maternal grandmother, Edith/Matilda.112 This mother-daughter bond is also emphasized by William of Malmesbury in his dedicatory letter of the Gesta Regum Anglorum to Empress Matilda written after her arrival in England in 1126 in which he praised her ‘as most excellent “domina”’ because ‘it seemed to us right and proper that you as empress should rule where your mother to whom we were rightly devoted ruled as famous queen’.113 The address of the daughter as ‘domina’ and as ‘imperatrix’ combined with the verb ‘dominare’ for both mother and daughter is particularly striking for their early date. Recently Jaakko Tahkokallio expanded on the dating of the letter and narrowed it to late in the second half of 1126 on the grounds that King David of Scotland was staying in England and might have been approached by the Malmesbury monk to pass on a copy of the Gesta Regum to his niece Empress Matilda just back in England.114 Female inheritance, female consortship, and female rule were ideas expressed by contemporary historians in Normandy and England. They were not invented by them. They were the product of negotiations between Henry V and his wife Matilda and the German princes, and between Henry I and his daughter Matilda and the Anglo-Norman nobility. The fact that petitions reached the king of England from the Continent from Lotharingian and Lombard princes to have Matilda back as their ‘domina’ would have helped to cement her reputation as ruler and so to persuade Henry that Matilda would be a realistic alternative as heir to the legitimate son he had lost in 1120 and the baby son by his second wife that had them all waiting. However, in December 1135 history repeated itself. When Henry I died suddenly in Normandy, and Matilda was pregnant with her third child in Anjou, her cousin Stephen, who since 1125 was count of Boulogne by right of his wife, crossed to England and was crowned king. He had ignored the oath he had sworn to Matilda, and was guilty of perjury. Unlike in 1125 when the archbishop of Mainz spoilt Matilda’s chance as ‘domina’, this time she fought back. While in 1125 she had been a childless widow, in 1135 she had a husband and sons and was determined to regain her inheritance. What her time in Germany had shown her was that even if there was a newly elected and crowned king, a losing candidate could retaliate. They would not find it impossible to gather around them a faction of disaffected nobles and bishops who could be persuaded to elect and crown them in an effort to eliminate the opponent. And that was precisely what Matilda set out to achieve in England. Matilda’s recollections of her days in Germany were recorded by her father’s biographer, Robert of Torigni, who had little way of verifying her version of events. The devil’s advocate might argue that when he wrote down her story in the years 112

Robert of Torigni, GND, viii, c. 11 (II, pp. 216–18): ‘matrem sicuti nominee ita honestate representem’, and VIII, c. 25 (II, pp. 240–1): ‘heredes legitimos Anglici principatus, non solum ex parte Henrici regis, aui sui, verum etiam ex parte secunde Mathildis regine, auie ipsorum’. 113 Malmesbury, Gesta Regum, II, 6–7: ‘quia satis deceret uos imperatricem dominari ubi mater uestra merito ueneranda insignis regina dominabatur’. 114 Tahkokallio, The Anglo-Norman Historical Canon, pp. 18–23 at p. 21.

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between 1135 and 1139, Matilda – in the midst of preparing her military challenge to King Stephen – needed all testimonies to her fitness as ruler not only as ‘domina’ but as ‘regina’. One could argue that in Normandy Robert simply obliged in his Gesta Normannorum ducum. This is more difficult to argue for his Chronographia, all of which versions, including the one he wrote as abbot of Mont-St-Michel, repeated Matilda’s version of events. In England, William of Malmesbury independently – that is independently of Robert of Torigni not of Matilda – recorded the story of the Lombard and Lotharingian princes in their quest for her lordship. I think we have to take Matilda’s autobiographical account seriously as a reflection of her self-confidence and belief in her capacity as a ruler as well as testimony that she was able to convince her father and the Anglo-Norman nobility of her potential not only as his heir but also as his successor. Appendix: The golden crowns of Matilda’s German treasure Matilda’s treasure which she brought back from Germany is known from a libellus preserved in Rome Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Reg. lat. 3081, a fifteenth-century paper copy of a now lost twelfth-century manuscript from Bec. The libellus was edited as an appendix to ‘The Draco Normannicus of Etienne de Rouen’, Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard, ed. R. Howlett, 4 vols (London, 1884–9), I, pp. 758–60 and xci–xcix, and in A. Porée, Histoire de l’abbaye du Bec, 2 vols (Evreux, 1901), I, pp. 650–1. The libellus contains a description of two golden crowns, of which the first is the most important because the two editions show one crucial difference. Karl Leyser (‘Frederick Barbarossa, Henry II and the Hand of St James’, Medieval Germany and its Neighbours, 900–1250 (London, 1982), pp. 215–40 at p. 224) and Marjorie Chibnall (Empress Matilda, p. 189) used the text as printed by Howlett: Corona […], qua filius imperatricis, Henricus rex, postea coronatus exititit, tanti ponderis ut duabus virgis argenteis hinc inde sustentetur, cum imperator vel rex ex ea coronatur […] (The crown […] with which the son of the empress, King Henry [II], was later crowned was so heavy that it had to be supported by two silver rods when the emperor or king was crowned with it […])

Intriguingly, the text printed by Porée reads ‘imperatoris’ (‘of the emperor’) instead of ‘imperatricis’ (‘of the empress’); my translation leads to the interpretation that the people mentioned are different: ‘The crown […] with which the son of the emperor [Henry IV], King Henry [V], was later crowned was so heavy that it had to be supported by two silver rods when the emperor or king was crowned with it’. Surely, Porée’s ‘imperatoris’ version with its German setting is the correct one, because only this version makes sense of the phrase ‘when the emperor or king was crowned’. The reference to an emperor or king would not make sense in an English context where there was no emperor. What we have here, I suggest, is the text of a label attached to the object for identification, based on Empress Matilda’s information given to the monks of Bec. The description of the first crown is followed by one of a second golden crown, which is said to have been ‘smaller and worn by the emperor at major feasts’ (‘Item alia parva corona aurea, qua imperator in majoribus sollemnitatis utebatur’). My interpretation would be that Empress Matilda brought back two golden crowns used by the German kings-emperors, the larger, heavier,



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and more splendid one would have been used for royal coronations, while the other smaller one had been for festive crown-wearings. On the basis of the ‘imperatoris’ version we cannot conclude, as Leyser and Chibnall did, that Henry II was crowned with a German royal crown. Whether we should interpret the description of Richard I’s coronation crown in 1189 by Roger of Howden, as Leyser does on pp. 224–5, as referring to this German royal coronation crown due to Richard’s heavy crown having had to be supported by two noble men remains a conjecture. See Chronica magistri Rogerii de Hovedene, ed. William Stubbs, 4 vols, RS (London, 1868–71), III, p. 11: ‘coronam […] quam duo comites sustinebant propter ponderositatem ipsius’ (‘two earls sustained the crown due to its weight’). For a recent study of some objects of the list of treasure brought back by Empress Matilda, see Nicolas Hatot, ‘Augusta Matilda and the Valasse Reliquary Cross: Translatio crucis from the Holy Roman Empire to the Plantagenet Realm’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association, 172 (2019), pp. 95–129; on the later politics surrounding the relic of the hand of St James, see Leyser’s article already cited.

r. = ruled Emp. = Emperor m. = married d. = died

d. 999 Abbess of Quedlinburg

Mathilda

d. 968 Archbishop of Mainz

William

d. 938

Thankmar

Otto II

m. Adelheid (3) d. 999

—

m. Edith (2) d. 946

—

Slavic consort (1)

—

d. 973 r. 936-973 Emp. from 962

Otto I

Adelheid

Hadwig

m. Judith

d. 1039 Abbess of Gandersheim

Sophia

—

m. Gisela

—

Henry (the Wrangler)

d. 1025 m. Ezzo, Count-Palatine of the Rhine

Mathilda

Brun

d. 1002 r. 983-1002 Emp. from 996

Otto III

m. Cunigunde d. 1033

—

d. 1024 r. 1002-1024 Emp. From 1014

Henry II

d. 965 Archbishop of Cologne Duke of Lotharingia

d. 995 Duke of Bavaria

d. 955 Duke of Bavaria

m. Mathilda (2)

Henry

A Basic Genealogy of The Ottonian Dynasty

d. 957 Duke of Swabia

Liudolf

d. after 958 m. Duke Hugh (The Great) of France

d. 936 r. 919-936

d. 953 m. Duke Conrad of Lotharingia

Liutgard

d. 969 m. Duke Giselbert of Lotharingia (1) m. Louis IV of France (2)

Gerberga

d. 1045 Abbess of Quedlinburg and Gandersheim

m. Theophanu d. 991

—

d. 983 r. 973-983 Co-King from 961 Co-Emp. from 967

m. Hatheburg (1)

Henry I (The Fowler)

COMMUNICATIONS AND POWER: OTTONIAN WOMEN Laura Wangerin The Ottonians, the tenth-century dynasty that ruled East Francia, had strong women supporting their kings and emperors, their dukes and bishops. These women commanded the support of the great lords of the realm, governed abbeys, ruled as regents, and were largely responsible for dynastic continuity, often outliving their husbands, brothers, and sons by decades.1 This article will explore some of the dynamics of communications and power with respect to Ottonian women – both the means of political communication that Ottonian women had at their disposal and were able to exploit for their own goals and purposes, and the elements of their culture that communicated to others that they had been vested with power and authority. Some means were part of the official personae and functions of the royal women, such as diplomata that were produced by the royal chancery and might include transactions such as the conferral of immunities, foundations, and benefices. However there were also other ways by which they influenced events in their tumultuous political world. These women demonstrated the ability to intelligently use the resources at their disposal to exert pressure on specific people, to accomplish political goals, and to manipulate events to their advantage. It is the ability to engage in this kind of manoeuvring that is perhaps implied when contemporary writers such as Widukind of Corvey describe ‘the strength of the singularly prudent queen’ Adelheid, wife of Otto I,2 and speak of Henry of Bavaria’s wife Judith as ‘a woman distinguished by her beauty, and exceptional for her intelligence’.3 Adalbert of Magdeburg credits Adelheid with escaping captivity ‘by her own cleverness’.4 1

K. Leyser noted that ‘in the tenth and early eleventh centuries, it would be difficult and rather purblind not to notice the surprising number of matrons who outlived their husbands, sometimes by several decades and sometimes more than one, their brothers, and even their sons’ (Rule and Conflict in an Early Medieval Society: Ottonian Saxony (Bloomington, 1979), pp. 52–5). 2 Widukind of Corvey, Deeds of the Saxons, ed. and trans. B. S. Bachrach and D. Bachrach (Washington DC, 2014), p. 103; Widukind of Corvey, ‘Res Gestae Saxonicae’, 3.7, Widukindi monachi Corbiensis rerum gestarum Saxonicarum libri tres, ed. P. Hirsch and H.-E. Lohmann, after G. Waitz and K. A. Kehr, MGH SRG 60 (Hanover, 1935), p. 108: ‘Veritus autem singularis prudentiae reginae virtutem’. 3 Widukind, Deeds, p. 92; Widukind, ‘Res Gestae’, 2.36, p. 95: ‘erat autem ipse dominus Heinricus copulatus matrimonio filiae ducis Arnulfi, feminae egregiae formae mirabilisque prudentiae’. 4 S. MacLean, History and Politics in Late Carolingian and Ottonian Europe: The Chronicle of Regino of Prüm and Adalbert of Magdeburg (Manchester, 2009), pp. 251–2; see also, Adalbert of Magdeburg, ‘Continuatio Reginonis’, Reginonis abbatis Prumiensis Chronicon cum continuatione Treverensi, ed. F. Kurze, MGH SRG 50 (Hanover, 1890), p. 165: ‘sua ipsius prudentia a custodia est deo propitio liberata’, s. a. 951.

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Thietmar of Merseburg qualifies his observation that Theophanu, wife of Otto II, was ‘of the fragile sex’ by clarifying that she ‘terrified and conquered rebels’ during her regency of Otto III, which she oversaw with ‘manly watchfulness’.5 These words of admiration about women in the Ottonian orbit reflect the respect that they commanded, and hint at their capabilities and talents in engaging in the complex political landscape they inhabited.6 The title of this piece, ‘Communications and Power’, is borrowed from the title of a two-volume collection of essays by Karl Leyser, one of which deals with the Carolingians and Ottonians.7 The relationship between these ideas – communication and power – may at first seem self-evident, but Leyser’s title gestures to, and indeed demands, a more nuanced understanding of the interplay between communication and power in the medieval world. ‘Power’ is a problematic term, but I suggest that ‘power should be understood as encompassing the related ideas of networked social relationships, the ability to govern or direct behaviours, and the ability to do so indirectly as well as directly’.8 This seems like a fitting definition to begin to explore the ways in which Ottonian women communicated their authority and wielded their power. The world of the Ottonians was violent and their claim to the throne was repeatedly challenged over successive generations of kings. Hereditary kingship was not yet normalized in East Francia when Henry I became king by acclamation in 919. The succession of his son, grandson, and great-grandson were all challenged by rebellious and ambitious magnates, including family members. Yet Ottonian rulers, faced with the unique and multi-faceted challenges of their political environment, were able to successfully claim authority over a far-flung empire and assert their dynastic legitimacy and royal authority. I have argued elsewhere that Ottonian rulers created a political matrix in which they could govern effectively.9 Through the delegation of power and authority, this matrix was characterized by a decentralized organizational strategy which provided a flexible and adaptive administrative capacity 5

D. Warner, Ottonian Germany: The Chronicon of Thietmar of Merseburg (Manchester, 2001), p. 158; Thietmar of Merseburg, Thietmari Merseburgensis Episcopi Chronicon, ed. R. Holtzmann, MGH SRG 9 (Berlin, 1935), IV.10, p. 143: ‘quamvis sexu fragilis, modeste tamen fiducie […] regnumque filii sui custodia virili servabat […] terrens et superans erectos’. 6 Ottonian women are enjoying a heyday of sorts in scholarship. Three books dealing with Ottonian queenship have come out in quick succession in recent years: P. Nash, Empress Adelheid and Countess Mathilda: Medieval Female Rulership and the Foundations of European Society (Basingstoke, 2017); S. MacLean, Ottonian Queenship (Oxford, 2017); and P. Jestice, Imperial Ladies of the Ottonian Dynasty: Women and Rule in Tenth-Century Germany (Basingstoke, 2018). I think that it is important to mention that this represents an Anglophone renaissance of interest – Ottonian women, particularly Empresses Adelheid and Theophanu, have enjoyed periodic resurgences of popularity in German scholarship. 7 K. Leyser, Communications and Power in Medieval Europe: The Carolingian and Ottonian Centuries and Communications and Power: The Gregorian Revolution and Beyond, ed. T. Reuter (London, 1994). While published posthumously, the title for this collection was chosen by Leyser. In his introduction to The Carolingian and Ottonian Centuries, Reuter notes that before his death, Leyser had been working on a collection of his articles under the title ‘Communications and Power: The European Experience, 900–1200’ (p. vii). 8 L. Wangerin, Kingship and Justice in the Ottonian Empire (Ann Arbor, 2019), p. 10. 9 Wangerin, Kingship and Justice; L. Wangerin, ‘Octopuses and Ottonians: Biological Systems as Models for Decentralized Medieval Government’, Annalen des Naturhistorischen Museums in Wien, Serie A 120 (2018), pp. 31–50.



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throughout their empire. The delegation of authority among secular and ecclesiastical magnates and the active utilization of communication networks throughout their empire provided specific advantages in addressing both internal and external threats to their realm.10 Moreover, perhaps their willingness to delegate authority among their magnates contributed to their eagerness to include royal women among those in whom they invested and promoted as among the most powerful actors in their empire. The success of the Ottonians rested on communication and interaction between the court and their ecclesiastical and secular lords.11 The networks of royal monasteries and abbeys, the appointments and offices granted to their magnates, and the jurisdictional authority which ecclesiastical and secular lords held over the lands they governed – all of these were important ways that the Ottonian kings delegated authority, and which contributed to their successful tenure as rulers over the vast expanse of the empire.12 Among the most important of these great men for effective communications throughout the empire were the bishops. The importance of ecclesiastical institutions as part of the governing apparatus in the Ottonian Empire has long been recognized, even if much about the administrative structures of their government is still unknown.13 The Ottonian emphasis on placing family and allies within this network was a purposeful way to exploit its potential. These astute rulers did their best to manipulate and take advantage of the possibilities that the episcopacy afforded. And the web of the episcopacy provided Ottonian women, and queens in particular, with the means to extend their reach and exert their influence. In Ottonian Germany, ecclesiastical jurisdictions were important components of the system of royal governance.14 Bishops in the Ottonian Empire were the ecclesiastical counterparts of the great magnates, and like secular lords they had great autonomy over the governance of their own jurisdictions. They also shared many of the same responsibilities, such as providing military service and hosting the king and his entourage on his itinerary throughout the empire.15 The importance of ecclesiastical lords and institutions to the crown, ensuring that its government reached all its subjects throughout its far-flung empire, should not be understated. The donations of land and privileges (such as tolls, markets, and 10

Wangerin, ‘Octopuses and Ottonians’, p. 42. David Bachrach, especially, has argued that there was greater organisation and communication between the Ottonian kings and their magnates than they have generally been credited with (‘Inquisitio as a Tool of Royal Governance under the Carolingian and Ottonian Kings’, Zeitschrift der Savigny‐Stiftung für Rechtsgeschichte 133 (2016), pp. 66–7). 12 L. Wangerin, ‘The Governance of Ottonian Germany in Historiographical Perspective’, History Compass 15.1 (2017), p. 5. 13 See, for example, J. Bernhardt, Itinerant Kingship and Royal Monasteries in Early Medieval Germany c. 936–1075 (Cambridge, 1993), as well as the debates about a Reichskirchensystem, discussed in n. 14 below. 14 My use of the terms ‘system’ and ‘network’ is not intended to imply any consciously applied formal structure of government. That the royal abbeys, monasteries, and bishoprics were essential tools of imperial government is well accepted; whether they formed a Reichskirchensystem, a cohesive and deliberate policy of government, is still debated. For a summary of the historiography of the Reichskirchensystem see Wangerin, ‘Ottonian Governance’, p. 5. While the debates regarding it are polarizing (it did exist, or it did not), my own position is that the reality was probably somewhere in between. See Wangerin, Kingship and Justice, p. 60. 15 Wangerin, Kingship and Justice, p. 13. 11

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mints) endowed bishops with substantial revenues and powers. The delegation of broad jurisdictional authority to bishops gave them the power to dispense secular justice as well as enforce religious law. Thus, the ecclesiastical and royal spheres of influence were tightly entwined.16 We also have the figure of the courtier ecclesiast and bishop, furthering the image of the Ottonian bishop as a great lord or magnate. Clerical elites – usually talented noblemen – were ubiquitous at the Ottonian court.17 Placed in positions in the chapel or chancery, these men were often promoted to a bishopric or an abbatial position, such as Liudprand of Cremona, who served at the court of Otto I and eventually was made bishop of Cremona. These capellani, who Timothy Reuter called ‘clerical vassals of the king’,18 performed a variety of functions in addition to clerical and ecclesiastical duties, such as acting as emissaries on missions outside of the court, mediating between disputing parties, participating in the royal iter as part of the king’s entourage, and serving as principals in local assemblies.19 We get a sense that these courtier-bishops did indeed act like great lords from Rather of Verona, an Ottonian bishop who castigated his fellow bishops (and other ecclesiasts) for doing just that – dressing in sumptuous clothes, hunting and gaming, and generally participating in the same kinds of pastimes as secular lords.20 Rather also took them to task for not being more vocal when royal or imperial jurisdictional authority was imposed on the episcopacy: in Book III of the Praeloquia one of his complaints was that he was not supported by his fellow bishops when he was unjustly imprisoned.21 This tension between secular and ecclesiastical authority is evident throughout Rather’s writings. Thietmar of Merseburg, writing in the early eleventh century during the reign of Henry II, threaded this needle carefully. He tried very hard not to offend Henry II by his presentation of events, while at the same time being anxious about imperial meddling in episcopal affairs.22 His Chronicon also showed the very secular duties that were expected of him, such as maintaining forts or supervising garrisons, which he reported without any indication that these duties are contrary to his office or calling.23 They were simply what Ottonian ecclesiastical leaders did. 16

Wangerin, Kingship and Justice, p. 58. Wangerin, Kingship and Justice, p. 18. 18 T. Reuter, ‘The “Imperial Church System” of the Ottonian and Salian Rulers: A Reconsideration’, Medieval Polities and Modern Mentalities, ed. J. Nelson (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 330–1. 19 Wangerin, Kingship and Justice, p. 18. 20 Rather of Verona, ‘Praeloquia’, The Complete Works of Rather of Verona, trans. and ed. P. L. D. Reid (Binghamton, 1991), Book V, pp. 155–81. 21 Rather of Verona, ‘Praeloquia’, III.24, pp. 113–17. 22 Thietmar did not dispute that kings had the right to make episcopal appointments, but this did not lessen his concern about imperial meddling in ecclesiastical affairs. He devotes significant portions of the Chronicon to describing the circumstances surrounding episcopal and abbatial appointments. 23 Thietmar, Chronicon, VII.53 and VI.59, pp. 464, 347. Gerbert of Aurillac also makes reference to military duty, wondering when he will lead an army into Italy or assemble more troops in Germany against the French: ‘nec satis sciam, utrum exercitum ante autumnum in Italiam deducam, an in Germania demoremur, ut quamplurimas copias contra Ludivicum regem Francorum, nisi quieverit, comparemus’ (‘and I do not quite know whether I shall lead an army into Italy before the autumn, or whether we shall tarry in Germany, in order 17



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The network of bishops was like a web, reaching across the empire, and the Ottonian installation of their own family as bishops in sees that were important, or problematic, or both, gave them access to that network.24 Brun, the brother of Otto I who held the ecclesiastical office of archbishop of Cologne and the secular office of duke of Lotharingia, had also been Otto I’s chancellor at court. James Forse has systematically analysed the influence of Brun on the episcopal network of Ottonian Germany; not including Brun himself, the pontificates of forty-seven bishops and archbishops coincided with his career. Forty-five of those can be connected somehow with Brun, whether through kinship and family, patronage, tutelage, or his activities as chancellor, archbishop, or duke.25 Forse notes that ‘Virtually every bishop installed after his elevation to the archbishopric of Cologne in 953 was his protégé and student. Those who had received appointments as bishops before that date were all close associates’.26 Of course, the students of Brun’s students would have created at least a few successive generations of bishops indirectly influenced by him. It suggests that there might have been a fraternal episcopal mentality in Ottonian Germany, when essentially all the episcopacy shared some sort of commonality of training and purpose and a personal connection to Brun. Mapping the appointments of these men shows just how thoroughly their appointments blanketed the realm. When taking into account this prosopological assessment of Ottonian bishops, and noting that abbots seemed to be frequently placed out of the Ottonian court chancery as well, it suggests tight control was exercised over the men chosen to fill episcopal and abbatial positions. If we take into consideration the fact that the Ottonians were also busy installing their daughters as abbesses in important foundations such as Quedlinburg and Gandersheim, we can see that this creates a remarkable network of political, familial, and ecclesiastical influence. It also created an equally remarkable network of communication opportunities, one that Ottonian women were able to exploit as one way of exerting their influence and maintaining power.27 During Brun’s tenure as archbishop of Cologne (953–65), we see his sister Gerberga using this network of family and kinship ties to help her manoeuvre in West Frankish politics. Gerberga was married first to Giselbert, duke of Lotharingia, and then to King Louis IV. Simon MacLean argues persuasively that after the death of Giselbert, Gerberga herself negotiated her second marriage, as opposed to the

to prepare as many forces as possible against Louis, king of the Franks, unless he becomes quiet’), MGH BDKz 2, Ep. 91, pp. 119–220. 24 Brun, of course, is one example, given that the archbishopric of Cologne was in Lotharingia, a problematic territory. Otto’s illegitimate son William, Brun’s nephew, was the archbishop of Mainz, in Franconia, a territory Otto I had suppressed as a duchy and brought under royal jurisdiction (Bernhardt, Itinerant Kingship, p. 20). Outside of these immediate members of the royal family, J. H. Forse, ‘Bruno of Cologne and the Networking of the Episcopate in Tenth-Century Germany’, German History 9:3 (1991), identifies five other men who were blood relatives in his list of bishops influenced by Brun (pp. 275–8). 25 Forse, ‘Bruno of Cologne’, p. 267. 26 Forse, ‘Bruno of Cologne’, p. 268. 27 Out of curiosity, I counted the index entries for bishops in Jestice, Imperial Ladies. Out of 328 total entries in the index, forty-four are named bishops (a bit more than 13 per cent). Since the index is not only proper names of people and places, but also includes general terms and concepts, it seems an interesting anecdotal indicator for the episcopacy’s proximity to Ottonian queens.

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traditional assumption that it was brokered by her brother, Otto I.28 The contemporary chronicler Flodoard of Reims describes Gerberga as a competent queen, able to defend the castrum of Laon during the year her husband was being held captive by Count Theobald of Tours: [King Louis] had been able to obtain his freedom [after being held in custody for a year by Hugh the Great] only by giving up the castrum of Laon, which Queen Gerberga had held, along with her fideles gathered from all her royal residences, when Hugh [the Great] was seizing the fortification.29

It is worth noting that Flodoard suggests Gerberga had her own retinue of supporters, ‘fidelibus suis’; perhaps they were fideles of both her and Louis, but it is equally possible that they owed their allegiance to her. We must also remember that this is family politics: the wife of Hugh the Great was Gerberga’s sister Hadwig. Gerberga also demonstrates a willingness to exploit her other family connections to manipulate situations in which she and her husband were involved. After Louis was released and Laon was surrendered to Count Theobald, she appealed to her brother Otto for assistance; he arrived with ‘a very large army from all of his kingdoms’ (maximum colligens ex omnibus regnis suis exercitum), and after deciding that Laon was too well fortified, he and Louis attacked Reims instead: [Arch]bishop Hugh saw that he could not break the siege or resist such an immense army and took counsel with some magnates who seemed to be his friends […]. They advised him to go out with his men and surrender the city because the kings had decided to expel him completely, and if the city should be taken by storm, they would not be able to intercede with the king to prevent his eyes from being torn out. This advice was received and shared with others, and, on the third day of the siege, [Arch]bishop Hugh left the city with almost all of the soldiers who had been with him. Thus the kings [Louis and Otto] entered the city with the bishops and the magnates and they had Lord [Arch]bishop Artoldus, who had been ejected a little earlier, reinstalled.30

28

MacLean, Ottonian Queenship, pp. 53–4. The Annals of Flodoard of Reims, 919–966, trans. and ed. S. Fanning and B. S. Bachrach (Toronto, 2008 [2004]), p. 48; Flodoard of Reims, Annales, ed. G. H. Pertz, MGH SS 3 (Hanover, 1839), s. a. 948 (but the passage refers to events in 946), p. 396: ‘postea vero eiectus sit a praefato Hugone, et dolis appetitus ac comprehensus, per annum integrum sub custodia fuerit ab eo detentus, nec aliter eius absolutio potuerit obtineri, nisi Laudunum castrum, quod solum tunc regina Gerberga cum fidelibus suis ex omnibus suis regiis sedibus retinebat, Hugone illud occupant, dimitteret’. 30 Annals of Flodoard of Reims, p. 45; Flodoard, Annales, s. a. 946, p. 393: ‘Videns autem praesul Hugo, obsidionem se tolerare non posse, neque tantae resistere multitudini, locutus est cum quibusdam principibus qui videbantur sibi esse amici […]. Qui tale consilium dederunt ei, ut egrederetur cum suis et relinqueret urbem, quia id dispositum a regibus erat, ut omnimodus expelleretur, neque intervenire possent apud reges pro ipso, quin eruerentur ei oculi, si urbem vi capi contigisset. Quo consilio percepto ac suis intimato, post tertiam obsidionis diem cum pene conctis qui secum tunc aderant militibus egressus est. Sique reges cum episcopis et princibus ingredientes urbem, domnum Artoldum praesulem, qui dudum fuerat eiectus, iterum intronizari fecerunt’. 29



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We ought to take into account, too, that this was also an episcopal dispute, involving an ousted archbishop, and take note of the threat of what royal justice could look like when dealing with the episcopacy. Queen Gerberga was then left in charge of Reims while Louis and Otto went off to attack the lands of Hugh the Great. Flodoard’s account of Gerberga’s activities show her to be an active participant in the political milieu she was navigating. He reports that: ‘At the beginning of the year 953, the prince Hugh the Great sent legates to King Louis to confirm the peace and concord between them and asking for a meeting with Queen Gerberga. This was done and she returned to Reims, honoured by gifts from him’.31 Now, Hugh’s request for an interview with Gerberga (not with her husband, the king) may have had the motive of placating her family – again, his wife Hadwig was the sister of Gerberga and Otto I, but this also speaks to where Hugh may have felt the political power lay. After Louis died and their son Lothar became king, Flodoard reports a much more active involvement of Ottonian family members in West Frankish politics, not least of which was likely due to Brun, ‘the bishop who had become a duke’ (ex praesulae ducem)32 getting drawn into wars with various Lotharingian factions. Gerberga and Brun, if Flodoard is to be believed, had fairly regular in-person meetings, often with her son King Lothar and sister Hadwig, sometimes with her brother Otto. MacLean has observed that Gerberga’s unique position in navigating her three families, her natal family and those of her two husbands, provided opportunities that she could exploit, that ‘her position in between dynasties was what made possible her cross-frontier activities’.33 It was the active network of communication, whether through force, legations, or family gatherings to resolve political squabbles, that provided Gerberga with the means to exercise power. That a member of her family was a powerful bishop within her sphere of influence in Lotharingia could only have helped. Epistolary evidence also gestures to the interactions of Ottonian queens within these episcopal networks, as well as their use of the networks for their own political advantage. Letters to and from Empress Adelheid, Otto I’s second wife and grandmother to Otto III, give us some idea about the kinds of communications with bishops and ecclesiasts that were essential for keeping the wheels of government in motion. These include a letter from Adelheid to Abbot Gozpert of Tegernsee in 995, alerting him that since the bishop of Würzburg, who was supposed to host the next stop on the royal itinerary, would be absent when she and her entourage arrived, the abbot would need to make the necessary arrangements: Since the breadth of divine power subjected to us, as it deigned, the rule of so many kingdoms, merciful, it reconciled to us many and powerful friends everywhere, whom we sometimes care for in absence, now administer by our presence. For which we came to the bishop of Augsburg a short time ago, and we have almost completed the stated time to remain with him. When the time is over and we return to the fatherland of Saxony, the direction of our journey will bring us to your Würzburg on the ides of August. Therefore, since we remember that our

31

Annals of Flodoard of Reims, p. 57; Flodoard, Annales, s. a. 953, p. 401: ‘Anno 963 incipiente, Hungo princeps legatos mittit ad regem Ludowicum pro pace ac concordia inter ipsos firmanda, petens ut regina Gerberga suum petat colloquium; quod et fecit, muneribusque ab eodem honorata Remos rediit’. 32 Annals of Flodoard of Reims, p. 62; Flodoard, Annales, s. a. 957, p. 404. 33 MacLean, Ottonian Queenship, p. 94.

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great friend the bishop will not be at home, our people advised that it would be circumspect to send a messenger so that you could order a place to be prepared for us to stay, food provided for the carts and horses, and tribute for us and our companions.34

This short passage tells us a few things about the nature of power wielded by Adelheid. In 995, Otto III would still have been a young king, but no longer subject to a regency.35 His grandmother and aunt were no longer accompanying him on his travels.36 Yet it speaks to an understanding of the continuing necessity of the iter as a way of asserting imperial authority, noting that regions are ‘administered by our presence’ (modo namque nobis ministratur a presentibus). The reliance on bishops for itinerary stops most certainly was not just for a place to sleep and eat, but no doubt also provided an opportunity to see and hear first-hand about the administration of local rule, their problems and opportunities, from the administrators themselves. Certainly bishops travelled to the imperial court and conveyed important updates there as well, but the itinerary and the physical presence of the ruler was also an act of assertion about imperial prerogative and authority. That Adelheid, no longer regent, assumed that her presence still conveyed that weight of imperial authority speaks to the power of Ottonian queens. The importance of having trusted agents with ‘boots on the ground’ throughout the empire to alert rulers of threats is shown in a letter from the bishop of Augsburg. While the exact date of the letter is unknown (probably sometime between 989–96), it is a short missive: To Adelaide, glorious empress, Liutold, raised with divine help to the honour of pontifex, devoted prayers with service. Desiring peace of worthy quiet for the church of God committed to us, as it is fitting, when we began to establish the monastery of St Magnus, a messenger of Count Sicco came to us suddenly and reported that Sicco had barely returned in flight from that region. For Hugo, with the bond of faithful peace disrupted everywhere, wishing wickedly to renew the gods of war, permitted no men devoted to your authority and will to leave

34

Epistolae: Medieval Women’s Latin Letters, ‘A Letter from Adelaide of Burgundy, Ottonian Empress (995)’, https://epistolae.ctl.columbia.edu/letter/53.html (accessed 3 February 2023); K. Strecker, ed., Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung, MGH Epp. Sel. 3 (Berlin, 1925), Ep. 16, p. 16: ‘Quia latitudo divinae potestatis subiecit nobis, quae ipsa est dignata, quam plurima regnorum imperia, multos et clemens ubique potentes placavit amicos, quos colimus interdum absentes, modo namque nobis ministratur a presentibus, huius rei occasione antistitem Vindelicensis Augustae dudum adiveramus, aput quem manendi cursus statuti temporis iam pene perfecteramus et evolutis dierum spatiis revisentes patriam Saxoniae habitationis directione nostri itineris adducimur vestrae Herbipolensi die quo idus numeratur mensis Augusti. Quocirca quia amicissimum nostrum episcopum domi non esse recordati sumus, cautum fore nostri sunt consiliati, si nuntium premitteremus, ut nobis previderi iubeatis hospitia ad manendum, pabula curruum et equorum ante temus adquirantur, stipendia nobis nosque concomitantibus prevideantur’. 35 G. Althoff, Otto III, trans. P. G. Jestice (University Park, PA, 2003), p. 54. 36 J. F. Böhmer and M. Uhlirz, ‘Regesta Imperii’, II:3: Die Regesten des Kaiserreiches unter Otto III, pp. 601 ff.



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unharmed. You must examine this in every way to see what kind of help can be given in strife of this kind.37

The reliance of Count Sicco on the bishop to communicate the eruption of hostilities against men loyal to the empress again points to their importance as conduits of political information, as well as their importance as regional supporters spread throughout the empire. When Emma, queen of the Franks and the daughter of Adelheid and her first husband Lothair II of Italy, was imprisoned after the death of her husband, King Lothar (the son of Gerberga and Louis IV mentioned above), she wrote several letters to her mother and Theophanu between 986–8, begging for help against accusations that she had committed adultery with the Archbishop of Laon. While it appears that Theophanu may have attempted some sort of diplomatic effort on her behalf, she seems to have had no help from her mother. Emma finally resorted to Archbishop Adalbero of Reims to plea on her behalf: The anguish that afflicts my lady H[Emma], the torment that oppresses her, her letter to Th[eophanu, empress] testifies. We have sent you a copy of it so that you know what has happened, how nothing is of any use, and so that you might investigate the cause of the deceit, if it is deceit. Certainly, it is manifest that you have so far been an illustrious ruling lady and mother of kings; in our dangers, when they come, we believe you wish to help us, not to mention your once-beloved daughter. Either your power is taken away or it is not; not to help a daughter in her sorrow is monstrous. We urge you to explore with Charles [of Lower Lorraine] through worthy legates whether he wishes to give her back to you or commit her in care. It seems that he continues to hold her with an obstinate spirit lest he seem to have begun without cause.38

37

Epistolae, ‘A letter from Liutold, bishop of Augsburg (989–96)’, https://epistolae.ctl. columbia.edu/letter/61.html (accessed 3 February 2023); MGH Epp. Sel. 3, Ep. 99, p. 103: ‘Adalheidae imperatrici gloriosae Liutoldus divino iuvamine pontificatus honore sublimatus preces iugiter cum famulatu devotas. Pacem digne quietis aecclesiae Die nobis commisae cupientes, ut decet, stabilire monasterium sancti Magni cum fuimus ingressi, nuntius comitis Sicconis redeuntis de Italia occurrit nobis inprovise, qui fatebatur ipsum Sicconem vix fuga revulsum fuisse de illa regione. Nam Hugo vinculo fidae pacis undique disrupto belligerationis inique stimulos renovare volens nullos vestrae ditionis viros voluntatisque devotos suo libitu permittit inde inlesos discedere. Hoc vobis omnimodis est trutinandum, qualiter istius modi discordiis sit subveniendum’. 38 Epistolae, ‘A Letter from Adalbero, archbishop of Reims (988)’, https://epistolae.ctl. columbia.edu/letter/60.html (accessed 3 February 2023); F. Weigle, ed., Die Briefe der Deutschen Kaiserzeit II, MGH BDKz 2 (Weimar, 1966), Ep. 128, pp. 155–6: ‘Quibus angustiis domina [mea] H[emma] afficiatur quantoque prematur angore, testis est ipsius epistoa ad [dominam] Th. [imperatricem] iamdudum directa. Cuius exemplar vobis misimus, ut et, quid actum sit, sciretis et, quam nichil sibi profuerit, et ut causam doli investigetis, si tamen dolus est. Certe clarissimam dominam ac matrem regnorum vos hactenus fuisse manifestum est, nostrisque periculis, si qua ingruent, credidimus velle succurrere, nedum filiae quondam dilectae. Sive potestas erepta est, sive non est: filiae non subvenire in mesticia est. Ortamur tamen vos explorare apud Ka. per valentes legatos, utrum velit eam vobis reddere aut creditam commandare. Videtur quippe idea illam sic obstinato animo retinere, ne videatur sine causa caepisse’.

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The Charles here is Emma’s brother-in-law, who had first levelled the accusation of infidelity against Emma a decade earlier; Archbishop Adalbero had presided at the council that exonerated Emma and the bishop of Laon. Charles never renounced his claim, and went into exile at the court of his cousin, Otto II, who was Adelheid’s son and Emma’s half-brother. Emma, getting no immediate help from her mother, resorted to the archbishop to try to persuade Adelheid to intervene on her behalf. She must have felt that the weight of his office might sway her. Additionally, it was written by Adalbero of Reims, the same archbishop who had presided over the proceedings that found Emma not guilty of adultery, perhaps a not-sosubtle hint that if the reason Adelheid was withholding assistance was because she suspected the rumours might be true, the claims had been investigated and found to be groundless. Accusations of adultery aimed at powerful women in the Middle Ages were, of course, nothing new. We see that not just Emma, but also Theophanu, and Judith, the wife of Duke Henry I of Bavaria, were also accused of adulterous relationships with ecclesiasts that circulated within their orbit. Theophanu was posthumously accused of having had an adulterous relationship with John Philagathos, bishop of Piacenza (and later, briefly, antipope John XVI), a man whose career she had been instrumental in promoting and who acted as her personal advisor and confidante.39 Judith was accused of having had a sexual relationship with Bishop Abraham of Freising. After the death of Duke Henry, Thietmar of Merseburg reports: Thereafter Judith lived chastely in widowhood but because she esteemed Bishop Abraham of Freising above all others, and despite her innocence, she was ripped by the malevolent teeth of public opinion. After migrating from this light, she was exonerated in the following way, by the same bishop, who was singing the mass on the day of her burial. Before communion, he turned toward the people and described her merits to bystanders, saying ‘If she ever committed the offence for which she has been defamed, may the omnipotent Father bring me to judgement and due condemnation by the remedy of the body and blood of his Son, but may her soul enjoy perpetual salvation’. Then, with innocence of mind and body, he took the unique remedy of all faithful people. The people believed, albeit too late, and with their unjust criticism had actually helped her even though they wanted to cause harm.40

There is a dramatic, performative element to this description. Bishop Abraham initiated and performed a trial by Eucharist upon himself at her funeral mass, and passed, proving there had been no illicit affair between him and Judith. Again, an accusation of adultery was a common way to denigrate women, and their men – but 39

K. Ciggaar, ‘Theophano, an Empress Reconsidered’, The Empress Theophano: Byzantium and the West at the Turn of the First Millennium, ed. A. Davids (Cambridge, 2002), p. 56. 40 Warner, Ottonian Germany, p. 122; Thietmar, Chronicon, II. 41, p. 90: ‘Haec in viduitate sua continenter vivens cum Habraham, Frisingensem episcopum, pre caeteris diligeret, invido vulgari dente admodum inculpabilis dilaniebatur. Quae cum de hac luce migraret, in die depositionis suae ab eodem antistite missam cantante sic expurgatur. Ante communionem is versus ad populum, quae merita eius fuerint, circumstantibus indixit: “Hoc”, inquiens, “delictum, quo diffamata fuit, si corporis et sanguinis salutare remedium mihi provenire ad iudicium et ad debitam dampnationem animaeque eius ad perpetuam salvationem”. Et tunc cum mentis ac corporis innocentia sumpsit unicum cunctis fidelibus remedium. Credidit populus, quamvis sero, et cum detraccione iniusta plus ei profuit, cum nocere studuerit’.



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that three powerful women connected to the Ottonians were accused of affairs with bishops perhaps speaks to the close proximity of these women to the network of high-ranking ecclesiasts, and to the working relationships and trusted friendships that developed between them. That these rumours might appear credible to those who were spreading them speaks to the concerns mentioned above that Rather of Verona voiced about the behaviour of courtier bishops, sexual impropriety being one of them. The episcopal networks of Ottonian Germany proved crucial for Empresses Adelheid and Theophanu during the succession crisis of Otto III. One of the strategies employed by Otto I, and then by Otto II, was to have their designated successors elected by the nobility and crowned as co-kings, in an effort to try to ensure dynastic continuity. Thus three-year-old Otto III had been elected king in June of 983 in Verona and was crowned at Aachen on Christmas Day. However his father had died suddenly on 7 December in Rome.41 Theophanu, after dealing with funeral affairs in Rome, went to the imperial palace at Pavia where Adelheide (Otto III’s grandmother, her mother-in-law) was residing. Gerbert of Aurillac, an abbot installed by Otto II, was also in the Pavian household when the alarming news arrived. Duke Henry of Bavaria (the Wrangler), who had been imprisoned at Utrecht because of a rebellion against Otto II, had been freed upon the death of Otto II and took custody of the young king. He then proceeded to press his own claims to the throne among the German nobility, trying to recruit as many of the nobles and bishops as he could to his side. It was Gerbert who Adelheid and Theophanu sent north with the task of keeping the bishops and essential magnates faithful to Otto III. It was his efforts that ensured that when Theophanu arrived in Germany in May, she had enough supporters among the archiepiscopacy, the episcopacy, and the nobility that she could demand that her son be returned to her and assume his regency with their support.42 In Gerbert’s efforts to muster support for Theophanu, he also visited two imprisoned magnates, Godfrey of Verdun and Siegfried of Luxemburg, who had fought alongside Otto II against Lothar of France (Gerberga and Louis IV’s son). He sent Theophanu a report of his visit: Not without purpose did the Divinity oppose my desire to go to you according to your command. For, on March 31st, while speaking with the captive counts Godfrey and his uncle Siegfried, in the midst of the troops of the enemy I was found to be the only one of your followers to whom they could with confidence commit their opinions concerning the condition of your empire. And so, in accordance with what I learned from them I wrote letters to their wives, children and friends, urging them to persist in their fidelity to you, to be frightened by no invasion of the enemy, and, with their example in mind, if fortune would have it so, to elect exile because of maintaining fidelity to you rather than to hold the ground of their fatherland with perfidy.43 41

Althoff, Otto III, pp. 29–30. H. P. Lattin, ed. and trans., The Letters of Gerbert, with His Papal Privileges as Sylvester II (New York, 1961), pp. 7–8 n. 60. 43 Lattin, ed. and trans., Letters of Gerbert, no. 59, p. 98; Weigle, ed., Die Briefe, Ep. 52, pp. 81–2: ‘Cupienti mihi vos adire secundum imperium vestrum non frustra renisa est divinitas. Nam II kal. apr. captos comites allocutus, Godefridum patrumque eius Sigefridum, inter hostium cumeos solus repertus sum vestrarum partium, cui fidenter de statu imperii vestri suas sententias concrederent. Scripsi itaque exhortatorias epistolas secundum intellectum

42

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The inclusion of wives here as important supporters was not just lip service; Gerbert’s letter to Matilda of Saxony, the wife of Godfrey of Verdun, contains encouraging words from her husband, an exhortation to stay loyal to Theophanu and Otto III, and encourages her to manage the defence of their properties: Let my lady Mathilda cease all complaining: your very illustrious husband Godfrey, outstanding among those of his rank, and formidable to the victors themselves, advises this. Make your mind joyful because a sorrowful spirit dries up the bones [Prov. 17:22] and confuses the judgement. You with your sons preserve an unstained fidelity to Lady Theophanu, ever august empress, and to her ever august son; make no agreement with the enemy, the French; repulse the kings of the French; so keep and so defend all the forts that the latter may not think you have abandoned any part of your followers in these forts, neither because of the hope of freeing your husband, indeed, nor because of the fear of his death or that of your son Frederick. These words that I have faithfully conveyed to you he entrusted to my confidence near the river Marne on March 31st.44

In addition to implying that, like Queen Gerberga, noblewomen were expected to fill similar leadership roles in defending fortifications and ruling in their husbands’ absences, the letter to Matilda suggests that noblewomen were part of these episcopal communications networks. The ladies of the court seem to have been engaged in them as well. In January or February of 984, right at the beginning of the succession crisis, Gerbert sent a letter to the Lady Imiza at the Ottonian court. In addition to strategizing her promised help in sending missives and messengers to the pope on his behalf, he includes important information for the empress: Approach my Lady Theophanu in my name to inform her that the king of the French is well disposed towards her son [Otto III], and that she should attempt nothing but the destruction of Henry’s tyrannical scheme, for he desires to make himself king under the pretext of guardianship.45

Not only were noble women trusted emissaries to convey important information – here information of the utmost importance and sensitivity, concerning the attempted coup against the child-king Otto III – they were using, and being used by, bishops

eorum coniugibus, liberis, amicis, ut in fide vestra perstent, nullo hostium incursu terreantur eorumque exemplo, si fortuna tulerit, exilium potius eligant pro fide vobis servanda quam patriae solum sum perfida’. 44 Lattin, ed., Letters of Gerbert, no. 57, p. 97; Weigle, ed., Die Briefe, Ep. 50, pp. 79–80: ‘Deponat domina mea Mathildis omnem querimoniam. Clarissimus vester coniunx Godefridus inter pares paraecipuus ac ipsis vistoribus formidabilis hoc praecipit. Exhilarate mentem, quia spiritus tristis exsiccat ossa, consilia turbat. Domnae Theophanae imperatrici semper augustae ac filio eius semper augusto cum filiis vestris fidem purissimam servate, pactum cum Francis hostibus nullum facite, Francorum reges aversamini, castra omnia sic tenete, sic defendite, ut nullam in his habeant partem aversari vestri, scilicet neque pro spe liberationis mariti neque pro terrore peremptionis eius aut filii Friderici. Haec II kal. apr. ad flumen Matronam meae fidei commisit, quae vobis plena fide retuli’. 45 Lattin, ed., Letters of Gerbert, no. 30, pp. 67–8; Weigle, ed., Die Briefe, Ep. 22, pp. 44–5: ‘Dominam meam Theuphanu imperatricem meo nomine convenite. Reges Francorum filio suo favere dicite nichilque aliud coniari nisi tyrannide Heinrici velle regem se facere volentis sub nomine advocationis destruere’.



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as a line of communication. In a letter written by Gerbert to the pope a few months before his missive to Imiza, he suggested that since his position in Italy had deteriorated to the point where he was unable to visit the pope in person for advice, the Lady Imiza be used as an intermediary to exchange information between them.46 Gerbert’s appeal in his letter to her, expressing appreciation for her unwavering support and asking her to intervene with the pope on his behalf, suggests the influence that even a lady of the court was able to exert. While we have no way of knowing who exactly Imiza was, and thus perhaps her ability to influence the pope may have been due to personal or familial connections, the fact that she was entrusted with sensitive information for Empress Theophanu hints that the ladies of the Ottonian court were an integral component of these lines of communication as well. The expectation of reciprocity as part of the arrangement between service from bishops and abbots and personal or institutional patronage was an important part of these relationships. Numerous letters attest that Gerbert wanted to be a German bishop and felt he should have been rewarded for his service during the succession crisis; even though he was still abbot of Bobbio, he reminds people over and over (including the empresses) that he remains loyal to them and to Otto III, and would respond immediately and enthusiastically if he were to receive a royal command to come to Germany.47 As he did eventually become Pope Sylvester II with the support of Otto III, his persistence and loyalty paid off in the end. Reliable networks of communication, especially through these ecclesiastical networks, were a way for Ottonian queens to receive intelligence and act on it where and when they needed to. Yet in considering communications and power we might also reflect about ways that power was communicated – that is, how the authority of these women was advertised, an authority that was respected by their magnates and ensured that their efforts to deploy power were effective. The East Frankish nobility consented to be ruled, either voluntarily or by force and coercion; hereditary dynasties were not yet the norm in East Francia; reminders of authority through other means (such as the periodic imposition of the royal household as they itinerated through their realm, noted above) were important ways of communicating power. One of the methods of communicating the authority of the Ottonian queens, as well as the imperial dignity of other family members, may have been through their inclusion in large numbers of royal charters. That this seems to have been a development that occurred under Otto I and was perpetuated by his successors is suggested by the numbers. Matilda, the wife of Henry I, is named in seven charters out of the forty-three extant from his reign, and then in another eighteen under her son Otto I (out of more than four hundred). Otto’s first wife, Edith, appears in sixteen, and his second wife, Adelheid, in one hundred and six. Nearly all of the mentions, for all of these women, are as petitioners or intervenors, although a few are included for the ‘remedy of their souls’.48 Adelheid is equally prominent in the charters of Otto II and Otto III, often named in conjunction with Theophanu, and often with Otto I beatae memoriae (of blessed memory).49 Theophanu, despite Otto 46

Weigle, ed., Die Briefe, Ep. 14, p. 36. Weigle, ed., Die Briefe, Ep. 21, 37, 45, 72, 91, 117, 118. 48 MGH DD O[tto] I, ed. T. Sickel (Hanover, 1879–84), no. 222, p. 306, is one such example: ‘remedioque animae nostrae dilectaeque nostrae coniuigis Adalheidae’. 49 Examples of Adelheide being named along with Theophanu: MGH DD O[tto] II, ed. T. Sickel (Hanover, 1893), nos 53, 82, 131, 299, 306, 307, pp. 63–4, 98, 148, 351–2, 363, 364. Examples of her being mentioned along with Otto I after he is deceased: MGH DD O[tto] II, 47

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II’s premature death after only a decade as sole ruler, is named in more than seventy of his charters. While it is perhaps not surprising that, despite her own early death in 991, during her six years as regent she was named in nearly sixty of Otto III’s diplomas, she also issued two in her own name: Theophanu divina gratia imperatrix augusta and Theophanius gratia divina imperator augustus.50 Ottonian women are also connected in these charters to other family members, perhaps providing an indication of who was in attendance at court on a given day. Sometimes they are mentioned as having a special interest in an immunity or a gift, as the founder or benefactor of the recipient. Gerd Althoff has noted the high level of involvement of the magnates in governance during the regency of Otto III, at a magnitude that suggests to him that Theophanu was not ruling independently but was continuing to navigate amongst the nobility for consensus even after the succession had been resolved in her son’s favour.51 Bishops were certainly among these magnates. However, we also see a number of magnates and bishops in the charters issued by the Ottos that name Adelheid, suggesting that perhaps the active diplomacy that accompanied the issuance of these documents included more direct involvement of imperial women in these negotiations.52 It is equally intriguing that many of the charters list multiple members of the royal family.53 The persistent invocation of the Ottonian women in these charters as intervenors and petitioners, as advisors, and in named relationships with other members of the royal blood, served as a public and pointed reminder to recipients of gifts, privileges, immunities, and estates, that they owed their good fortune not just to the king or emperor whose mark authenticated the charter, but also to the queens and empresses, mothers, grandmothers, and sisters whose names appeared within and whose political engagement facilitated it. The power and authority of Ottonian women was also communicated through artistic representation, although these audiences would no doubt have been much more limited than those who would have been exposed to the promulgation of diplomas by the court. In the reign of Otto II we have the appearance of ivories nos 29, 30, 31, 53, 61, 72, 109, 305, pp. 38–42, 63–4, 71, 88–9, 123, 361–2. Charters 29, 30, and 31 were issued at the beginning of June in 973, the month after Otto I had died. The mention of his father, as well as of the still-living Empress Adelheid, no doubt served as a reminder of the legitimacy of Otto II’s succession and affirmed the continued authority of his mother. 50 MGH DD Theophanu, Diplomatum Regum et Imperatorum Germaniae, v. 2: Ottonis II. et III. Diplomata (Hanover, 1888), nos 1–2, pp. 876–7. 51 Althoff, Otto III, p. 41. 52 See M. Welton and S. Greer, ‘Establishing Just Rule: The Diplomatic Negotiations of the Dominae Imperiales in the Ottonian Succession Crisis of 983–985’, Frühmittlelalterlich Studien 55:1 (2021), pp. 315–42 for an example of the diplomatic involvement of imperial women in the production of two charters after the death of Otto II. 53 For example, in MGH DD O[tto] I, no. 232, p. 318, a donation charter issued in 961, part of the promulgation reads: ‘Noverint omnes fideles dei presentes scilicet et futuri, qualiter nos pro remedio animae beatae memoriae domni patris nostri Heinrici regis et pro incolomitate domnae matris nostrae Mathildae reginae nec non pro statu et incolomitate regni nostri nostrique dilectaeque coniugis nostrae Adelheidis reginae nostrique dilecti filii Ottonis iam primo anno regis, instinctu et monitu Willihelmi sanctae Mogontinae sedis venerabilis archiepiscopi’. Otto I invokes his parents, his wife, his son Otto II who was now co-king, and his son William, archbishop of Mainz, as advising the transaction. DD O[tto] I, nos 281, 292, 312, 317, 325, pp. 397–8, 409, 426–7, 431, 439–40 provide other examples of multiple family members in different combinations being named in diplomata.



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depicting both him and Theophanu on equal planes in equal size,54 and Thietmar of Merseburg reports an illumination that is not extant, but that we can imagine had a similar layout: the gift of a book to Magdeburg by Otto II ‘which included splendid portraits, in gold, of himself and the Empress Theophanu’.55 This is a trend that continued during the reign of Henry II in pictorial representations where both he and Cunegund are portrayed.56 These images suggest powerful royal couples, evoking ideas of a partnership marriage and suggesting that the queen as well as the king was invested with authority from God. Another aspect of the communication of power and authority was more overtly performative.57 While he was not dealing with the Ottonians, Geoffrey Koziol started the debate in favour of using public political ritual behaviours to understand the medieval past.58 However Gerd Althoff was the first to suggest that this new approach to understanding rituals described in texts could provide insights into the ubiquitous conflicts described in the medieval German Reich and that the behaviours and gestures described were an important means of communication in conflict resolution in the public arenas of politics and feud.59 The descriptions of publicly performed rituals – and even more importantly, the rituals that are subverted – that involve Ottonian women give us an idea of how these narratives describe often multi-layered levels of communication about relationships, authority, favour, and status. Perhaps the best examples of this may be found in descriptions of Sophia of Gandersheim’s consecration ceremonies, and in the feast at Werla after the death of Otto III. One example of how public rituals (and the way they were reported) could communicate authority and status is illustrated by the veiling ceremony of eleven-year-old Sophia, daughter of Otto II and Theophanu, at Gandersheim. According to Thankmar in the Vita Bernwardi, she refused to allow Bishop Osdag of Hildesheim to consecrate her as canoness, insisting that an archbishop, Willigis of Mainz, must perform the ceremony instead.60 Sarah Greer has suggested that Theophanu tried to use this event as an opportunity to reward Willigis for his support during the attempted coup of Otto III’s uncle, Henry the Wrangler, upon the death of Otto II.61 54

‘Otto II and Theophanu Crowned by Christ’, c. 982–3, Paris, Musée de Cluny; ‘Ivory Plaque with Family of Emperor Otto’, c. 965/83, Collections of the Castello Sforzesco, Milan. 55 Warner, Ottonian Germany, p. 127; Thietmar, Chronicon, III.1, p. 96: ‘Insuper licentiam archiepiscopum eligendi confratribus Deo Magadaburg famulantibus precepto inperiali presente archiepiscopo dedit Aethelberto et cum uno libro, qui hodie ibidem est, in quo sua inperatricisque Theuphanu imago auro splendet formata, munus affirmavit’. 56 For example, the dedication page of the Pericope Book of Henry II, ‘Henry II and Cunigund Presented to Christ’, Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 4452, f. 2r. 57 Regarding the performative nature of the granting of diplomas, see Welton and Greer, ‘Establishing Just Rule’, pp. 340–2. 58 G. Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor: Ritual and Political Order in Early Medieval France (Ithaca, 1992). 59 G. Althoff, Spielregeln der Politik im Mittelalter. Kommunikation in Frieden und Fehde (Darmstadt, 2014 [1997]). 60 Thankmar, Vita Bernwardi Episcopi Hildesheimensis 13, ed. G. H. Pertz, MGH SS 4 (Hanover, 1841), p. 764; S. L. Greer, ‘Gandersheim and Quedlinburg, c. 852–1024: The Development of Royal Female Monasteries in Saxony’, unpublished PhD thesis (University of St Andrews, 2017), p. 101. 61 Greer, ‘Gandersheim and Quedlinburg’, p. 111.

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Willigis had been one of the bishops who supported the young Otto’s claim to the throne.62 However Osdag refused to cede, and the ceremony erupted into a shouting match; each thought they had the right of precedence at Gandersheim, and neither was prepared to cede. Ultimately, the bishops veiled her together.63 That such a fiasco was ostensibly triggered (according to the sources) by the pride of an eleven-year-old girl also speaks volumes to the perceived ability of even a very young Ottonian woman to use her status to influence and manipulate her world. Sophia’s later consecration as abbess of Gandersheim after the death of Otto III was equally laden with meaning, if significantly less dramatic, as King Henry II, son of the Wrangler, used the event as an opportunity to reward Willigis of Mainz for his support. Sophia’s consecration as abbess occurred at the same time that Cunegund, Henry II’s wife, was consecrated as queen. Simon MacLean has observed that this event served as a public opportunity for Henry to ‘proclaim his Ottonian credentials’, but more importantly for our purposes here, MacLean notes that staging a dual ceremony publicly emphasized the similarities of female leadership in the offices of abbess and queen, and that this regnal authority of Cunegund was re-emphasized in texts that were produced throughout the first years of her reign.64 It would also have augmented the abbatial authority of Sophia. Sophia also features in another example of rituals as political communication, the subverted feast at Werla. It is perhaps not surprising that descriptions of meals and banquets feature so prominently in the narrative sources we have for the Ottonians. The feast, as a political tool, was where rulers and great men publicly and ritually celebrated alliances and friendships, engaged in gift exchanges, and demonstrated their power and legitimacy.65 As centres for ritual behaviour, feasts also were points where a disruption of that ritual space could symbolize much more than just bad manners.66 It is probably a surprise to no one that the descriptions of good feasting, while interesting, are not nearly as engaging and entertaining as the descriptions of bad feasting. In its ritual and performative aspects, the disruption of the ritual of a feast or the use of or co-option of a feast for nefarious purposes are rife in these texts. Feasts not only were important in creating consensus and unity, but they also 62

T. Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages: 800–1056 (London, 1991), p. 185. Thankmar, Vita Bernwardi, p. 764. 64 MacLean, Ottonian Queenship, p. 195. 65 Reuter has referred to the tenth and eleventh centuries as ‘the age of the convivium, the ritual banquet’ (Germany in the Early Middle Ages, p. 228). ‘Virtually all important events were marked by feasts’, Gerd Althoff has also remarked on the importance of communal eating and drinking, noting that ‘This ritual not only played a role in the formation of groups, it also brought about peace between groups and, by its repetition, strengthened communal and group consciousness’ (Family, Friends, and Followers: Political and Social Bonds in Early Medieval Europe (Cambridge, 2004), p. 152). ‘Almost every bond involving people or groups in this period seems to have been concluded at a celebration or banquet’ – such was the importance of ritual feasts in establishing and maintaining alliances (p. 153). 66 Lars Hermanson points out that ‘feasts were often used as ritual displays of hierarchies that regulated relationships between power holders’ (‘Introduction’, Rituals, Perforamatives and Political Order in Northern Europe, c. 650–1350, ed. W. Jezierski, L. Hermanson, H. J. Orning, and T. Småberg (Turnhout, 2015), p. 8); Vidar Palsson succinctly sums up the symbolic importance of the feast: ‘it is fundamentally a language of power’ (‘Power and Political Communication. Feasting and Gift Giving in Medieval Iceland’, unpublished PhD thesis (University of California, 2010), p. 44). 63



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provided opportunities to try to subvert or upend the established political order.67 This is precisely the way Margrave Ekkehard, a magnate who had been particularly close to Otto III, used a meal after Otto’s death to try to assert his claim to the succession. Also putting forth a claim to the throne was Henry of Bavaria, the son of Henry the Wrangler, as the closest blood relative to Otto III (he was his uncle). The nobility was fiercely divided between the two parties, but Ekkehard especially had earned the enmity of many of these magnates, who agreed there would be no election and no further discussion of the matter until a meeting could be held at Werla with Adelheid and Sophia, Otto II’s daughters and Otto III’s sisters, who were now the leading representatives of the royal family. As Thietmar relates: in the evening, when benches decorated with hangings and a table filled with various dishes had been prepared in the palace for [Adelheid and Sophia], Ekkehard commandeered it and dined with [his supporters …] Ekkehard’s actions greatly agitated the two sisters, who were already sorrowful, and many others who were present. Likewise, the long-concealed animosity towards the margrave was renewed and, alas, would quickly find an end. For then, seeing that everything had turned out differently from what was expected, he thought it wiser to resort to the western regions where he could speak to Duke Herman and other leading men regarding the realm and its welfare. The next day, he bade farewell to his friends, carefully noted his enemies, and accompanied Bishop Bernward to Hildesheim where he was received as king and treated with honour.68

Thietmar suggests that Ekkehard had expected quite a different outcome, perhaps that his actions in seizing the royal feast would lead to him being acclaimed as king, or at least gaining supporters for that claim. Yet while he was acclaimed as king when he arrived at Hildesheim, his aspirations ultimately met a grim end. Again according to Thietmar, a little after the insult he inflicted by seizing the table of Adelheid and Sophia: [Though he had been warned of a possible ambush by Duke Henry’s supporters,] [Ekkehard] ate and bedded down with a few companions in a wooden sleeping chamber. After the exhausted men fell asleep, the hostile band attacked […] 67

Hermanson, ‘Introduction’, p. 6; Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages, p. 228. William Ian Miller observes that ‘Feasts [in sagas] were the occasion for insult and slighted sensibility […] no less than for conviviality and for renewing and reaffirming bonds of blood and alliance’ (Bloodtaking and Peacemaking: Feud, Law, and Society in Saga Iceland (Chicago, 1997), p. 80). 68 Warner, Ottonian Germany, notes that: ‘The absence of a male heir made the princesses the most visible representatives of the Liudolfing/Ottonian house’ (p. 208 n. 18); Thietmar, Chronicon, V.4, p. 225: ‘Vespere autem iam facto, cum prefatis domnis auleis in magna domo sedilia ornata et mensa variis esset cibis referta, Ekkihardus eandem preoccupans cum Arnulfo episcopo et Bernhardo duce ibi epulatur. Ante ruinam enim exaltabitur cor et ante gloriam humiliabitur. Quod mentem sororum prius tristem ceterosque complures, qui interfuere, multum commovit; renovaturque in eum odium diu celatum, sed cito, prochdolor! finiendum. Nam cum predictus marchio omnia aliter, quam sperabat, ibi provenire conspexisset, optimum ratu duxit, occiduas regiones invisere et Heremannum ducem cum ceteris optimatibus de rei publice et sui commoditate alloqueretur. Salutatis itaque postera die suis familiaribus et inimicis caute notatis, cum Bernwardo antistite Hildinesheim venit, ubi ut rex suscipitur honorificeque habetur’.

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the excited clamour caused the count to quickly rise from his bed [… when his companions were killed,] Ekkehard […] fought alone. With a strongly thrown javelin, Siegfried hit him in the neck and forced him to the ground. As soon as they realized that Ekkehard had fallen, all eagerly attacked, cutting off his head and, even more wretched, plundering his corpse.69 I cannot truly explain what persuaded them to undertake such a shameful deed. Some say that Henry [wanted revenge for a past insult]. Others say, as I have already suggested, that they did this because of the insult inflicted on the sisters at Werla whom they were glad to serve. Thus, the plot was undertaken in response to the meal and to threats publicly uttered by Ekkehard.70

The decorated table, the variety of dishes, and the intention for the ladies to eat with their supporters, gestures to the authority that they now held. The symbolic nature of its being seized as a declaration of intent and eligibility for the throne shows that Ekkehard recognized the table as emblematic of their authority, and was making a bid to usurp it. However, as he learned, bad feasting has its just desserts.71 Feasting by Ottonian kings was an important public, highly visual way to communicate their authority and legitimacy, as well as to bestow favour among their magnates, and contemporary chroniclers seized upon this trope as a way to emphasize legitimate and proper kings from pretenders or poor examples of kingship. The subtle (or not so subtle) descriptions of bad feasts contrasted with the magnificent, orderly, ritual meals hosted by legitimate kings. Thus, this feast, though disrupted by Ekkehard, is essentially Thietmar’s way of signalling to the reader who the legitimate authorities in the Ottonian Empire now were: Otto III’s sisters. Ceremonies staged by and for Ottonian queens, as well as textual and artistic representations, provided ways of publicly communicating alliances and claims to authority. It was the network of the episcopacy, their ubiquitous presence throughout the empire and within the imperial court, that served as one of the tools these women were able to utilize to help them attain their personal and political goals. These were by no means the only ways that communication of their power and authority was achieved. However, by the definition we employed at the beginning of this essay, these women 69

Warner, Ottonian Germany, pp. 209–10; Thietmar, Chronicon, V.6, p. 227: ‘[…] et facto vespere comedit et in lignea caminata cum paucis dormitum ivit. Ceteri vero quamplurimi in proximo solario quiescebant. Quos cum sopor oppido lassatos gravaret, inimica manus incautos opprimens invasit ipsumque immensis clamoribus excitatvit et a lecto celeriter surgere compulit […] solus tum repugnat Ekkihardus, vit domi milicieque laudabilis; cui Sigefridus hasta fortiter emissa nodum cervicis infregit terramque obpetere compulit. Quo casu perspecto protinus, alacriter omnes irruunt, caput amputant et, quod miserum est, funus predantur’. 70 Warner, Ottonian Germany, p. 210; Thietmar, Chronicon, V.7, p. 228: ‘Quae vero sit causa, quae hos ad tale facinus perpetrandum persuaserit, veraciter explicare nequeo. Quidam dicunt, Heinricum instinctu predicto comitis ab imperatore flagellis cesum haec sepius in eum meditatum fuisse. Alii autumant, sicut predixi, in Werlu ob contumeliam consororibus illatam, quia isti libenter his serviebant, ac per convivia minasque ab ipso sibi manifestatas haec eos incepisse’. 71 For a nuanced consideration of the place of this ruined feast in the succession crisis, see S. Greer, ‘The Disastrous Feast at Werla: Political Relationships and Insult in the Succession Contest of 1002’, German History 37:1 (2018), pp. 1–16.



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had power. They were able to effect change in the political situations in which they found themselves, for better or worse. They fully understood the resources at their disposal, for both symbolic and direct communication of their authority, and were able to use those resources strategically. The network of the episcopacy allowed them a conduit for direct communication and a means to deploy their influence remotely, proving an important resource in promoting and achieving political goals. The symbolic representation of their authority in documents, art, and public ritual further reinforced the spectre of their authority.

A RELUCTANT HISTORIAN AND HIS CRAFT: THE SCRIBAL WORK OF ANDREAS OF MARCHIENNES RECONSIDERED1 Benjamin Pohl As the author of a recent study on historical writing in the tenth century reminds us, ‘medieval historiography was heavily influenced by the expectations of patrons and audiences who were well informed about both distant and recent history’, meaning that its ‘authors could not simply write whatever they pleased’.2 These cautionary words ring just as true in the context of the Anglo-Norman world, and nowhere more so than in monastic milieux of historiographical production and publication.3 As I demonstrate at greater length elsewhere, historical writing in medieval monasteries depended fundamentally – and in various ways – on the authorisation, support, and provision of resources (human and material) of the monastic superior, usually the abbot or abbess.4 The need for reminders like the one quoted above is shown by the pervasiveness in Anglo-Norman scholarship of views such as that expressed by Marjorie Chibnall in respect of Saint-Évroult’s famous monk-chronicler, Orderic Vitalis, whose magnum opus – the Historia ecclesiastica penned over nearly thirty years 1

The research for this article was generously funded by a British Academy Mid-Career Fellowship ‘History for the Community: Monk-Historians and Communal Heritage’ (2019–21). 2 E. Roberts, Flodoard of Rheims and the Writing of History in the Tenth Century (Cambridge, 2019), p. 23. 3 In line with current interdisciplinary research, I am using the term ‘publication’ as a shorthand that encompasses the various processes involved in the preparation, promulgation, and dissemination of texts in the manuscript culture(s) of the medieval Latin West, including the Anglo-Norman world; see J. Tahkokallio, The Anglo-Norman Historical Canon Publishing and Manuscript Culture (Cambridge, 2019); L. Tether, Publishing the Grail in Medieval and Renaissance France (Cambridge, 2017); previously R. Sharpe, ‘Anselm as Author: Publishing in the Late Eleventh Century’, Journal of Medieval Latin 19 (2009), pp. 1–87; A. I. Doyle, ‘Publication by Members of the Religious Orders’, Book Production and Publishing in Britain, 1375–1475, ed. J. Griffiths and D. Pearsall (Cambridge, 2007), pp. 109–23. Also cf. the various outputs generated by the ERC-funded (2017–22) research project Medieval Publishing from c. 1000–1500 at the University of Helsinki led by Samu Niskanen, https://www.helsinki.fi/en/researchgroups/medieval-publishing (accessed 3 February 2023). C. De Hamel, The Posthumous Papers of the Manuscripts Club (London, 2022), p. 11 refers to medieval monasteries as ‘the earliest publishing houses’ at a time when ‘[t]here was no method of professional publication in the eleventh century’ (p. 36). 4 B. Pohl, Abbatial Authority and the Writing of History in the Middle Ages (Oxford, forthcoming).

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(c. 1114–41) – she and others have treated as the product of the author’s own initiative and life-long passion for historical study with little concern for his abbatial patrons and enablers.5 Chibnall’s claim that ‘once Abbot Warin had given Orderic his head[,] there was no holding him’ in his historiographical pursuits is incompatible with the fact that as a Benedictine monk, who from the age of ten (the age of his profession) was no longer master of his own time, resources, or free will, Orderic’s ability to write history relied on the continuous endorsement and authorisation of no fewer than four abbots, first Roger (1091–1122) and then his successors, Warin (1123–37), Richard (1137–40), and Ranulf (1140–before 1159).6 In a similar vein, Antonia Gransden opined that William of Malmesbury ‘started to write history from personal choice’,7 whilst the editors of a recently published volume on William and his works assure us that this was a ‘self-prescribed task’, and that England’s most famous monk-historian after Bede – and his self-styled successor – ‘would surely have considered himself as writing for anyone who wanted to know’.8 However insatiable William’s thirst for historical knowledge may have been, as a monk he, just like Orderic, was not in a position to accept historiographical commissions without prior authorisation from his institutional superior(s). Simply put, the inclination to write history does not equal the licence to do so, least of all within the internal hierarchy of monastic communities where individuals are not in control of their own labour but subjected to a chain of command that prohibits notions of individualism and self-determination in favour of received authority and obedience.9 5

On the chronology of the work’s composition, see the helpful timeline in C. C. Rozier et al., ed., Orderic Vitalis: Life, Works and Interpretations (Woodbridge, 2016), p. xiv. Also cf. Orderic, I, pp. 45–8. Mention of Orderic’s abbatial patrons is made in passing by H. Wolter, Ordericus Vitalis: Ein Beitrag zur kluniazensischen Geschichtsschreibung (Wiesbaden, 1955), pp. 106–8, as well as by A. Gransden, ‘Prologues in the Historiography of Twelfth-Century England’, England in the Twelfth Century, ed. D. Williams (Woodbridge, 1990), pp. 55–81, repr. in A. Gransden, ed., Legends, Traditions and History in Medieval England (London, 1992), pp. 125–51 (at pp. 131–2). 6 Quote from M. Chibnall, The World of Orderic Vitalis: Norman Monks and Norman Knights (Woodbridge, 2001), p. 40. Orderic recalls his age (‘decennis’) when arriving at Saint-Évroult and professing himself to Abbot Roger in Orderic, III, pp. 6–7. In the prologue, Orderic twice refers to himself as having begun the project at Roger’s command (‘iubente Rogerio abbate’; ‘abbatis […] precepto’) before presenting the first draft to Warin (Orderic, I, pp. 130–3: ‘tibique pater Guarine […] exhibeo’). Having spent three years in retirement due to his deteriorating health, Roger died in January 1126, meaning that patronage of Orderic’s work was assumed by Warin c. 1123×1126 before being passed on to his successors. On these abbots and their tenures, see V. Gazeau, Normannia monastica (Xe–XIIe siècle), 2 vols (Caen, 2007), II, pp. 281–7. 7 A. Gransden, Historical Writing in England, 2 vols (London, 1974–82), I, pp. 166–7. 8 E. A. Winkler and E. Dolmans, ‘Discovering William of Malmesbury: The Man and His Works’, Discovering William of Malmesbury, ed. R. M. Thomson et al. (Woodbridge, 2019), pp. 1–11 (at pp. 7–8). 9 Though William, unlike Orderic, does not indebt himself explicitly to his abbots in the prefaces of his works, there is compelling evidence to suggest that they played a crucial role in their production and publication that effectively equates to patronage; see the discussion in Pohl, Abbatial Authority. William’s reliance on the authority and support of Malmesbury’s abbots has also been observed by R. M. Thomson, ‘Malmesbury, William of’, ODNB (2004), https://doi.org/10.1093/ref:odnb/29461 (accessed 3 February 2023), who points out that ‘this



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Some may object here by pointing out that both Orderic and William were cantors – William certainly, and Orderic with some probability – and as such would have had control over the monastic library and scriptorium to an extent that Margot Fassler in an oft-quoted essay described as ‘absolute’,10 to the exclusion even of the abbot. As observed elsewhere, though, this notion of absolute control and autonomy – and, by extension, the idea of so-called ‘cantor-historians’ – is problematic, especially since Fassler’s pathbreaking study and many of the studies it has inspired (few of which, however, tend to acknowledge the preliminary nature of her conclusions) take their cues primarily from the evidence of normative sources such as monastic rules and customaries.11 As others have pointed out, the issue with these kinds of sources is that they are usually prescriptive, rather than descriptive, meaning that they rarely if ever depict everyday realities and should be understood as ‘inspirational’, to borrow Isabelle Cochelin’s expression, or even aspirational in nature.12 If we look beyond these texts and turn directly, where the manuscript tradition permits, to the codicological and palaeographical evidence, we may see different stories emerge. One such story is the subject of this essay. In 1199, the Benedictine community of Marchiennes (dép. Nord, cant. Sin-leNoble) received an outsider called Simon as its new head of house (1199–early 1201). The details of Simon’s monastic career are obscure, but it is possible that he came to Marchiennes following an earlier abbatial appointment somewhere else.13 Previous [William’s] historical activity must have necessitated some relaxation of the Benedictine rule’, a relaxation that could only have been authorised by his abbot(s). 10 M. E. Fassler, ‘The Office of the Cantor in Early Western Monastic Rules and Customaries: A Preliminary Investigation’, Early Music History 5 (1985), pp. 29–51 (at p. 50). On William and Orderic as cantors, see P. A. Hayward, ‘William of Malmesbury as a Cantor-Historian’, Medieval Cantors and Their Craft: Music, Liturgy and the Shaping of History, 800–1500, ed. M. E. Fassler et al. (York, 2017), pp. 222–39; C. C. Rozier, ‘Orderic Vitalis as Librarian and Cantor of Saint-Evroul’, Orderic Vitalis: Life, Works and Interpretations, pp. 61–77. 11 See forthcoming discussion in Pohl, Abbatial Authority. Studies that have helped nuance and revise our understanding of the cantor’s role include R. Sharpe, ‘The Medieval Librarian’, The Cambridge History of Libraries in Britain and Ireland, Vol. 1: To 1640, ed. T. Webber and E. Leedham-Green (Cambridge, 2006), pp. 218–41; T. Webber, ‘Cantor, Sacrist or Prior? The Provision of Books in Anglo-Norman England’, Medieval Cantors and Their Craft, pp. 172–89. 12 See I. Cochelin, ‘Customaries as Inspirational Sources’, Consuetudines et Regulae: Sources for Monastic Life in the Middle Ages and the Early Modern Period, ed. C. M. Malone and C. Maines (Turnhout, 2014), pp. 27–72. Also cf. K. Pansters, ‘Medieval Rules and Customaries Reconsidered’, A Companion to Medieval Rules and Customaries, ed. K. Pansters (Leiden, 2020), pp. 1–36; A. Diem and P. Rousseau, ‘Monastic Rules (Fourth to Ninth Century)’, The Cambridge History of Medieval Monasticism in the Latin West, ed. A. I. Beach and I. Cochelin, 2 vols (Cambridge, 2020), I, pp. 162–94, who conclude that ‘[n]orms never depict life’ (p. 191). 13 C.-A. Fromentin, Essai historique sur l’abbaye de Saint-Silvin d’Auchy-les-Moines (Arras, 1876), pp. 62–4 thought that Simon had been abbot of Auchy-les-Moines from 1190–8, and so did A. de Cardevacque, Histoire de l’abbaye d’Auchy-les-Moines (Arras, 1875), pp. 61 and 250. The dates of this abbacy have recently been revised to 1188–99 by J.-P. Gerzaguet, L’abbaye de Marchiennes, milieu VII–début XIIIe siècle (Turnhout, 2022), p. 387. By contrast, A.-J.-G. Le Glay, Cameracum Christianum: Histoire ecclésiastique du diocèse de Cambrai (Lille, 1849), p. 208 placed Simon at Saint-Médard de Soissons without mentioning an abba-

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experience in governing a monastic community would chime well with the fact that Simon upon his arrival lost no time in asserting his leadership and, like the proverbial new broom, exercised his abbatial auctoritas to demand sweeping changes, one of which concerned the community’s historiographical activity and track record: When one day during Lent after the mealtime reading the Lord Abbot Simon, the twenty-first abbot of this church of Marchiennes, had a conversation with certain brothers about the necessary things, he casually enquired whether we had a gesta or written catalogue of the abbots of this monastery. One [monk] responded to him that this did not exist in writing, but that he himself knew by some means or other – by heart, from the reports of the old [monks], or from certain chronicles and histories – about the original construction of the church, the arrival of the blessed Rictrude, the nuns’ government, the burning of the monastery and the slaughter of its inhabitants by the Normans, [who] then [were] pagans, the eviction of the nuns, and the reinstatement of the monks. When [t]he [monk] had spoken for some time, the lord abbot in a gentle voice replied to him who had spoken thus that it would have been more beneficial to the sons of this church if he had put these things in writing instead of compiling the deeds of kings and the wars of emperors in chronicles. The same father kept asking for this to be done from dawn to dusk. Many amongst our brothers had come together and requested this same thing before, not urgently, but cautiously, still [t]he [monk] had been sluggish in the execution of the work. Following the venerable abbot’s command, we will therefore speak, albeit in crude language, about the state of our church, though we shall also weave in something about the reigns of kings and write a few things about the lives of our principal saints. If anyone were to seize this rustic little work with a sceptical look or ridicule it, the author of this composition will pay little mind to this, for neither does he aim for praise nor worry about criticism, nor does he seek profit. What we write here we have assembled, first and foremost, from annals and chronicles, as well as from the deeds of saints and the acts of Cambrai’s bishops. Finally, we have observed [some things] with our own eyes. And so, what the shrewdness of the venerable father has ordered must now be fulfilled by the obedience of the humble monk assisted by the favour of the Holy Spirit.14

Thus reads the full preface of the Chronicon Marchianense commissioned by Abbot Simon shortly after his arrival at Marchiennes that survives in a single manuscript (Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850 (subsequently MS Douai 850)). Before we can turn to the manuscript itself to analyse its palaeographical/codicological features, we must first unpack and contextualise the important information provided in this preface. Simon’s appointment did not mark the first time that an external authority was brought in to reform the community in the five and a half centuries since its foundation by Count Adalbert I of Ostrevent, a Frankish aristocrat who sponsored St

tial appointment. He is almost certainly not identical with Simon, abbot of Anchin (1174– 1201); J.-P. Gerzaguet, L’abbaye d’Anchin de sa foundation (1079) au XIVe siècle: Essor, vie et rayonnement d’une grande communauté bénédictine (Lille, 1997), pp. 31–2. 14 My translation, which is based on Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850, ff. 104v–105r and the Latin edition in S. Vanderputten, ‘Compilation et réinvention a la fin du douzieme siècle: André de Marchiennes, le Chronicon Marchianense et l’histoire primitive d’une abbaye bénédictine (édition et critique des sources)’, Sacris erudiri 42 (2003), pp. 403–36 (at p. 413).



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Amand and a group of insular missionaries who lived by the Rule of St Columba.15 Following Adalbert’s assassination in 652, his widow, Rictrude, developed Marchiennes into a home for both religious men and women – a phenomenon traditionally known as a ‘double monastery’ – and installed herself as its abbess (?–687/8) before being succeeded by her eldest daughter, Clotsinda (687/8–703).16 Having thrived under these powerful abbesses whose wide-ranging connections secured it the patronage of the Frankish nobility and even royalty, the community subsequently fell victim to Scandinavian raiders in the 880s. The damage was extensive and, according to Hucbald of St Amand, resulted in the nigh-complete destruction of the monastery’s moderate-sized demesne, which Steven Vanderputten has calculated at c. 4,200ha, as well as of its domestic library and archives.17 Recovery was slow and piecemeal, and for the next century or so Marchiennes remained, to quote Karine Ugé, ‘a low-profile community […] living in the shadow of Saint-Amand’.18 This, then, was the status quo in c. 1024, when the monastic community, which at that point housed few (if any) men, was reformed and replaced with a male congregation under the leadership of Leduin, the recently appointed abbot of SaintVaast (1024–33) who succeeded the last female superior of Marchiennes, Judith (c. 975–88/1024).19 Like Simon at the turn of the thirteenth century, Leduin in the early eleventh century adopted an uncompromising stance towards some of the community’s existing customs and lifestyles, and later chroniclers would seek to justify his invasive reforms by polemically blaming the community’s decline on the alleged secular inclinations of its nuns and abbesses, thereby fuelling a gendered discourse of monastic identity politics that has been dubbed ‘hagiographic warfare’.20 These internal polemics notwithstanding, the next hundred or so years marked a spell of relative stability and prosperity under the auspices of Saint-Vaast, the recruiting ground for no fewer than five abbots between 1024 and 1090.21 It was not until the early twelfth century that the next major crisis manifested itself under Abbot Fulcard (1103–15), who over the course of his tenure sold or alienated many of the community’s properties and was ultimately forced to resign, leading one twelfth-century critic to compare his reckless abbatial regime to a pigsty (‘stabula

15

The fullest account of the community’s foundation and early history is now Gerzaguet, Marchiennes, pp. 49–159. See previously K. Ugé, Creating the Monastic Past in Medieval Flanders (York, 2005), pp. 98–115. 16 Gerzaguet, Marchiennes, pp. 49–84. Ugé, Past, p. 108 suggests that Marchiennes might already have operated as a de facto ‘double monastery’ under its first abbot, Jona(tu)s (c. 640–90). The term ‘double monastery’ has attracted increasing criticism in recent scholarship; see A. I. Beach, ‘The Double Monastery as a Historiographical Problem (Fourth to Twelfth Century)’, The Cambridge History of Medieval Monasticism in the Latin West, ed. A. I. Beach and I. Cochelin, 2 vols (Cambridge, 2020), I, pp. 561–78. 17 See Ugé, Past, p. 99 n. 10; S. Vanderputten, Dark Age Nunneries: The Ambiguous Identity of Female Monasticism, 800–1050 (Ithaca, NY, 2018), p. 217 n. 101. 18 Ugé, Past, p. 97. 19 Gerzaguet, Marchiennes, pp. 85–119 and 380–1; S. Vanderputten, Monastic Reform as Process: Realities and Representations in Medieval Flanders, 900–1100 (Ithaca, NY, 2013), p. 194. 20 Vanderputten, Reform, p. 142. 21 See Gerzaguet, Marchiennes, p. 382; Ugé, Past, pp. 113 and 130–6; by contrast, Vanderputten, Reform, pp. 194–5 does not associate Abbot Poppo (1048) with Saint-Vaast.

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porcorum’).22 As with the aftermath of the ninth-century raids, the road to recovery and restoration under Fulcard’s successors was a gradual process, the reconstruction of which has challenged modern and medieval historians alike and need not concern us any further here. As this brief recapitulation of Marchiennes’s history c. 640–1199 makes clear, the community placed under Simon’s abbatial leadership had seen its fair share of conflicts and controversies over the centuries. As an outsider, Simon probably knew relatively little about this long and troublesome history, which explains why upon his arrival he requested to see a written account of it, presumably so he could learn about/from the deeds of his predecessors. When told, much to his dismay, that no such thing existed in writing, and that written records about Marchiennes’s previous abbots and their deeds were few and far between, he used his abbatial authority to commission just such a work from the monks that combined the historiographical traditions (or ‘genres’) of gesta abbatum and historiae fundationum.23 The result – though, as we shall see below, not quite the one Simon had expected – was the Chronicon Marchianense. Its preface leaves no doubt that the intellectual architect and driving force behind the composition was Simon, rather than the author who, judging from his own words, had been rather disinclined to take on the project, but eventually succumbed to the authority of his new abbot. This author, who does not disclose his identity, is widely held to have been a monk of Marchiennes named Andreas who after many years of service had risen to the rank of prior.24 His appointment as Simon’s chosen (if reluctant) historian was no accident. Likely born in the first quarter of the twelfth century, Andreas at the time of Simon’s historiographical commission was amongst the community’s oldest and most senior members, enabling him to boast that he had witnessed first-hand and knew by heart (‘cordetenus scire’) much of its recent history. Moreover, his senior administrative appointment as prior meant he would have had privileged access to the various ‘cronicae ac historiae’ in the monastery’s library and key historical documents in its archives – the very sources that Vanderputten, Ernst Sackur, and Karl Ferdinand Werner have shown to have informed the Chronicon’s narrative of the community’s foundation and early history.25 Chief amongst these was the Poleticum Marceniensis coenobii, a ‘cartulary-chronicle’ (for want of a better term) written

22

‘De patrocinio sancti Rictrudis’, edited in Acta Sanctorum Maii III [= AASS XVI] (Paris, 1866), pp. 139–53 (at p. 149); S. Vanderputten, ‘Fulcard’s Pigsty: Cluniac Reformers, Dispute Settlement and the Lower Aristocracy in Early-Twelfth-Century Flanders’, Viator 38 (2007), pp. 91–115. 23 On these two traditions/genres, see principally M. Sot, Gesta episcoporum, gesta abbatum (Turnhout, 1981); J. Kastner, Historiae fundationum monasteriorum: Frühformen monastischer Institutionsgeschichtsschreibung im Mittelalter (Munich, 1974). 24 See K. F. Werner, ‘Andreas von Marchiennes und die Geschichtsschreibung von Anchin und Marchiennes in der zweiten Hälfte des 12. Jahrhunderts’, Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 9 (1952), pp. 402–63 (at pp. 406–7); E. Sackur, ‘Reise nach Nord-Frankreich im Frühjahr 1889’, Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 15 (1890), pp. 437–73 (at p. 453). 25 See Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, pp. 408–11; Werner, ‘Andreas’, pp. 459–63; Sackur, ‘Reise’, pp. 454–69. For the abbey’s charters, see J.-P. Gerzaguet, ed., Les chartes de l’abbaye d’Anchin (1079–1201) (Turnhout, 2005).



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by an anonymous monk of Marchiennes in the first quarter of the twelfth century.26 Like the Chronicon, the Poleticum was produced at the command and authorisation of the community’s then abbot, Amandus (1116–36), Fulcard’s successor.27 Its preface recalls that the monks had suggested to Amandus that he commission a narrative account of the monastery’s status and possessions, which he did by virtue of his abbatial authority (‘secundum abbatis imperium’) by appointing a suitable monk-chronicler and giving him licence to write, just as Simon did with Andreas some seventy-odd years later.28 Whoever the author of the Poleticum was, he almost certainly would have been long dead by the time Simon arrived at Marchiennes, making Andreas the obvious – and possibly the sole – qualified candidate for the Chronicon’s composition. Besides the fact that his eminent age and experience made him one of the main carriers and guardians of the community’s trans-generational memory, Andreas also seems to have enjoyed a reputation as something of a ‘go-to historian’ whose services were requested not just by his own abbots, but also by their peers at other religious institutions.29 A seasoned writer of historical prose, his existing oeuvre included an account of the life and miracles of St Rictrude and – his pièce de resistance – the Historia succincta de gestis et successione regum Francorum, a colossal history of the Frankish kings written for Bishop Peter of Arras around 1196, just three years before Simon’s abbatial appointment.30 Indeed, there can be little doubt that when Simon specified to Andreas that he did not want him to write yet another account of princely deeds such as those he had set down in chronicles before, but rather an account of the monastery’s own history for the benefit of its monks (‘magis hec eum scribere debuisse ad utilitatem filiorum huius ecclesie, quam gesta regum et bella imperatorum in chronicis componere’), he was referring to the Historia succincta.31 More specifically still, and again judging from the Chronicon’s own preface, Simon stipulated that the domestic chronicle he commissioned from Andreas had to cover the monastery’s first foundation (‘prima constructio ecclesie’), the rule 26

B. Delmaire, ed., L’histoire-polyptyque de l’Abbaye de Marchiennes (1116–1121): Étude critique et édition (Louvain-la-Neuve, 1985). No fewer than thirteen of the Chronicon’s twenty-one chapters show direct borrowings or verbatim quotes from the Poleticum, and even the prefatory humility topos that has Andreas deny all concern for the work’s reception and apologetically beg the reader’s forgiveness for his crude writing style is lifted word-for-word from the Poleticum’s preface; MS Douai 850, ff. 104v–105r; Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, pp. 406–7. 27 On Amandus, see Gerzaguet, Marchiennes, pp. 383–4. 28 Delmaire, ed., L’histoire-polyptyque, p. 65: ‘Fratrum Marceniensis coenobii congruum visum est ut suggerent abbati quatinus de positione loci, de constitutione abbatie et de his que ad eam pertinere videntur […] iuberet conscribi’. 29 Andreas’s external patrons included the abbots of Anchin and the bishops of Arras; see Werner, ‘Andreas’, pp. 455–9; L. Jiroušková, Der heilige Wikingerkönig Olav Haraldson und sein hagiographisches Dossier: Text und Kontext der ‘Passio Olavi’ (mit kritischer Edition), 2 vols (Leiden, 2014), I, pp. 313–16. 30 R. de Beauchamps, ed., Historiae Franco-Merovingicae synopsis seu historia succincta de gestis et successione regum Francorum (Douai, 1633), pp. 561–883; a critical edition is being prepared by Jeff Ryder at Wesleyan University. On the Vita et miracula sanctae Rictrudis, see K. Ugé, ‘The Legend of Saint Rictrude: Formation and Transformations (Tenth–Twelfth Century)’, ANS 23 (2001), pp. 281–97. Andreas’s supposed authorship of the Genealogiae Aquicinctianae and the Continuatio Aquicinctina Sigeberti Gemblacensis remains contested. 31 MS Douai 850, f. 105r; Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, p. 413; see my translation above.

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of the nuns (‘regimen sanctimonialium’) after the arrival of Rictrude (‘adventus Rictrudis’), the monastery’s destruction by the Northmen (‘conbustio monasterii a Northmannis’), the expulsion of the nuns (‘eiectio sanctimonialium’) followed by the restoration of the monks (‘monachorum restitutio’), and – perhaps most importantly – a catalogue of Simon’s abbatial predecessors and their deeds (‘abbatum huius monasterii gesta vel […] cathalogum’).32 These things, and nothing else, were what Simon asked to be codified in a radical departure from Andreas’s previous historiographical endeavours, which had focussed routinely on political, dynastic, and legal – in a word: secular – history. That Simon considered this assignment a matter of priority and urgency is shown by, on the one hand, the Chronicon’s statement that he kept ‘nagging’ the reluctant author by repeating his instructions day in and day out (‘[h]oc vespere, hoc mane facto idem pater secunda repetiit’), and, on the other, the fact that, as we will see now, he expedited the codification process by assigning Andreas (a) scribal assistant(s). This brings us to the evidence of MS Douai 850, the Chronicon’s sole surviving manuscript. Unpacking the information provided in its preface (ff. 104v–105r) has revealed the abbot’s instrumental role as an instigator, facilitator, and intellectual architect of domestic historiographical activity. It has also exposed the operational dynamics of the hierarchical patron-author relationship between the abbot and the monk-historian who, by his own account, had been unwilling to take on the task – previous requests by his peers notwithstanding (‘[m]ulti ex fratribus nostris iam ante idipsum petierant’) – but in the end had to bow to his superior’s authority. It was not until Simon forced Andreas’s hand by invoking his abbatial auctoritas and formally commanding the work from him (‘secundum abbatis venerabilis imperium’) that he finally caved in and applied his craft to furnish the community with a long-overdue record of its history that in MS Douai 850 is sandwiched between, on one side, the miracles of Rictrude (ff. 39v–87r) and the Life of Abbot Jona(tu)s (ff. 88v–100v), and, on the other, the Poleticum (ff. 120v–142v) copied alongside various shorter works.33 Measuring c. 23×c. 16cm, the composite codex is of modest but adequate format, with 142 folia bound into seventeen quires and some added single sheets. Most of the ruling has been executed with a lead point as may be expected from a manuscript whose constituent parts date predominantly between the mid-twelfth and the first quarter of the thirteenth century, except for the three quires containing the Poleticum, which are from the early-to-mid-twelfth century (likely the second quarter) and have been ruled, again not atypically, with a dry point. The quires preceding the Chronicon in the book’s present arrangement were copied during the second half of the twelfth century (likely the third quarter) and likewise ruled in lead. We no longer know exactly when these quires and the narratives they contain were first combined in a single codex, though some annotations that run across textual and codicological junctures suggests that this was almost certainly the case by the later Middle Ages. 32

MS Douai 850, f. 105r; Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, p. 413; see my translation above. A description of the manuscript is provided in Delmaire, ed., L’histoire-polyptyque, pp. 3–9, and a selection of its contents is printed in Sackur, ‘Reise’, pp. 455–73. Neither is free of errors, however, which is why I am very grateful to Jean Vilbas at the Bibliothèque Marceline in Douai and Dominique Stutzmann at the IHRT-CNRS in Paris for kindly furnishing me with reproductions at a time when personal travel was impossible due to the COVID 19 pandemic. Cf. Catalogue général des manuscrits des bibliothèques publiques de France: Départements, 52 vols (Paris, 1886–1960), VI, pp. 596–8. 33



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Whilst a holistic palaeographical and codicological analysis of MS Douai 850 and its constituent parts remains a desideratum, our main interest here lies with the pages that contain the Chronicon (ff. 104v–119v). As others have noted, these pages are the work of several hands (certainly two, perhaps even three) that almost certainly belong to multiple individuals, but no detailed discussion or identification has been attempted to date.34 Revisiting the evidence with a fresh and fuller consideration of these hands, their distinct characteristics, the relationships and hierarchies between them, and, crucially, the scribal profiles – and indeed the possible identities – of the individuals to which they belong offers an original contribution to knowledge and a critical corrective to previous scholarship.35 The hand that copied most of the Chronicon (the main scribe, hereafter ‘Scribe A’) exhibits a confident ductus and regular rhythm, and its penmanship throughout the manuscript is distinguished by a consistent aspect and equilibrium indicative of a well-developed sense of decorum, qualities that were likely gained through extensive calligraphic training and practice (Fig. 1a). The second hand featuring in the main text alongside that of Scribe A (hereafter ‘Scribe B’) lacks this sense of confidence, consistency, and control, and unlike the former it rarely writes substantial sections of text but only intervenes sporadically to add to and/or correct Scribe A’s work (Fig. 1b).36 Scribe B’s first intervention just a few lines into the preface (f. 104v, line 5) are the words ‘de rebus necessariis habe(ret)’ inserted over an erasure, followed by his re-appearance nine lines further down the same page to write the preface’s second half (‘eiectione et monachorum […] adiuvante gratia’; f. 104v, line 14–f. 105r, line 8), again over an erasure (Fig. 2). The next two chapters (ff. 105r–106r) are the work of Scribe A, though Scribe B makes one brief appearance to correct Clothar II’s regnal year to ‘xxiiiio’ (f. 106r, line 12) before re-writing the last two and a half lines of the second chapter (‘idem beatus Amandus […] Adalbaldi alodio’; f. 106r, lines 14–16), once again over an erasure (Fig. 3). The next fifteen chapters are penned completely by Scribe A (f. 106r, line 18–f. 116r, line 22), with Scribe B only resurfacing a quarter into chapter eighteen (f. 116v, line 4). Scribe B then inserts two ‘handlists’, one of saints venerated in the age of Rictrude (ff. 117r–118r), and the other of the popes from Boniface IV (608–15) to Sergius I (687–701) alongside Kings Clothar II (613– 29) to Theoderic I[II] (675–9) (f. 118r).37 Scribe B’s final scribal contributions are the beginning (f. 118v, lines 2–16) and end (f. 119r, lines 12–22) of chapter twenty followed by the entirety of chapter twenty-one (f. 119r, line 23–f. 119v, line 26), the Chronicon’s concluding chapter and the end of the quire.38 34

Delmaire, ed., L’histoire-polyptyque, p. 7; Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, p. 412 and passim. My own identification/delineation of these hands sometimes differs from Vanderputten’s. 35 The following discussion draws on established terminology in the field of medieval palaeography; a helpful glossary to guide non-specialist readers is provided by M. B. Parkes, Their Hands Before Our Eyes: A Closer Look at Scribes – The Lyell Lectures Delivered in the University of Oxford 1999 (Aldershot, 2008), pp. 149–55. 36 The hands found in the margins are of a much later date and therefore of little interest here. 37 Note that the ordinal number given to Theoderic in MS Douai 850, f. 118r is ‘I’, though given the preceding dynastic sequence there can be little doubt that this was in fact meant to be Theoderic III; Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, p. 432 mistakenly transcribes ‘Theodericus V’. 38 It is not altogether impossible that the text originally continued on a subsequent but now-lost quire, though there is no codicological evidence to corroborate this; cf. Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, p. 411.

Fig. 1: Samples from Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850.

Fig. 2: Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850, ff. 104v–105r. Reproduced with permission.

Fig. 3: Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 850, f. 106r. Reproduced with permission.



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What we have here is a division of labour between a team of two scribes writing in tandem, each with his own strictly defined duties and responsibilities. What is more, we appear to be dealing with a ‘work-in-progress’, with Scribe A only copying those chapters and/or sections of the Chronicon whose composition was complete and required no more work or substantial changes, possibly directly from the author’s drafts. His task was a routine one without decision-making power that involved no textual authority or editorial responsibility.39 Meanwhile, Scribe B concentrated on sections that were still in the process of composition or nearing completion, at the same time as interfering sporadically yet authoritatively with the work of Scribe A to make corrections, complete unfinished chapters, and link textual junctures. Scribe B primarily devoted his attention to the beginning (that is, the preface) and end of the Chronicon – sections that, as Richard Southern has noted, were usually composed last by medieval authors shortly before their work’s publication or presentation to a patron, an observation to which I return below 40 – the aforementioned ‘handlists’ of saints, popes, and princes, and the odd addition or amendment of personal names, place names, and chronological dates mentioned in the text. Distinguished less by scribal proficiency and calligraphic finesse than by historical knowledge and textual authority, Scribe B’s distinct profile and his superior location within the scribal hierarchy of the workforce that produced the Chronicon in MS Douai 850 resembles that of an editor-in-chief, supervisor, and indeed author, a combination that points strongly to one person and one person alone: Andreas. Supporting this hypothetical identification is the fact that the hands of Scribe A and Scribe B both exhibit palaeographical features that are in keeping with trends and developments of the later twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, suggesting that the Chronicon in MS Douai 850 was copied close to, if not contemporaneously with, its accepted date of composition in 1199–1201 (= Simon’s abbacy).41 Add to this the work-in-progress character of the codified text observed above, and there is every reason to propose that Scribe B is indeed none other than Andreas, and that the manuscript – or rather the quires containing the Chronicon that are now part of the composite codex but may once have formed an independent codicological unit – represent(s) his authorial working copy and partial autograph. To corroborate this identification further, we need to turn to the earliest manuscript witness of Andreas’s magnum opus, the Historia succincta (Arras, Bibliothèque municipale, MS 364 (453), subsequently MS Arras 364). In what remains the most extensive 39

Scribe A thus fulfils few (if any) of the criteria that scholars have observed in medieval scribes who took on editorial – and in some cases even authorial – responsibilities; see E. Kennedy, ‘The Scribe as Editor’, Mélanges de langue et de littérature du Moyen Age et de la Renaissance offerts à Jean Frappier, 2 vols (Paris, 1970), I, pp. 523–31; C. Milward, ‘The Medieval Scribe as Editor: The Case of La Estorie del Evangelie’, Manuscripta 41 (1997), pp. 155–70; J. J. Duggan, ‘Turoldus, Scribe or Author? Evidence from the Corpus of Chansons de Geste’, ‘Moult a sans et vallour’: Studies in Medieval French Literature in Honor of William W. Kibler, ed. M. L. Wright et al. (Amsterdam, 2012), pp. 135–44; A. K. Conti, ‘Scribes as Authors, Transmission as Composition: Towards a Science of Copying’, Modes of Authorship in the Middle Ages, ed. I. B. Budal and S. Rankovic (Toronto, 2012), pp. 267–88. 40 R. Southern, St Anselm: A Portrait in a Landscape (Cambridge, 1990), p. 415. 41 Note, for example, the degree of angularity, the upright nature of minuscule a and d, the feet on minims (including letters with multiple minims such as minuscule m), the forked and/or cambered ascenders on miniscule d, b, and h, and the fusion between neighbouring rounded letters.

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discussion of this manuscript published to date, Werner in 1952 dubbed it not an autograph as such, but an Arbeitsexemplar co-produced by a team of three scribes under Andreas’s supervision but, according to Werner, without his first-hand scribal contribution.42 Before we can discuss these hands and compare them to those in MS Douai 850, we must address the fact that Werner not only excluded Andreas from the scribes of MS Arras 364, but actually identified Andreas’s hand – or rather, what he believed to be Andreas’s hand – in no fewer than three other manuscripts from Marchiennes’s twelfth-century library: a copy of St Augustine’s commentary on St Paul’s Epistles dated 1153 (Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 347, subsequently MS Douai 347), a two-volume copy of the Pseudo-Isidorian Decretals dated (by Werner) to the 1160s (after 1159) (Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 582, subsequently MS Douai 582), and Andreas’s own Vita et miracula sancti Rictrudis copied alongside various other saints’ lives in a codex dating from the second half (likely the final quarter) of the twelfth century (Douai, Bibliothèque Marceline Desbordes-Valmore, MS 846, subsequently MS Douai 846), which Werner considered an autograph.43 The problem with Werner’s identification is that it rests on foundations which do not withstand critical scrutiny and, once compromised, soon cause his case to collapse like a house of cards. To begin with, not only does none of the hands in MSS Douai 347, 582, and 846 reappear in MS Douai 850 – an observation that, in and of itself, would not automatically dismantle Werner’s argument, though it does weaken it considerably – but the three also do not in fact match each other. Whilst the main hand(s) of MSS Douai 582 (both tomes) and 846 may just about be considered to belong to a single scribe writing some years apart, the hand of MS Douai 437 is so markedly different in appearance from either of them as well as from those in MS Douai 850 – its aspect is generally much rounder and less upright, the curvature on letters like minuscule a, e, o, and round d much more pronounced, and the level of horizontal compression on the page much lower – as to make their attribution to a single (let alone the same) individual virtually impossible, especially considering that MSS Douai 347 and 582 are held to have been penned within a decade or less of each other. Werner did not address these differences, instead pointing to the noticeable similarities (‘auffallende Gemeinsamkeiten’) between these manuscripts’ respective initials (‘schöne Initialen’) and multi-coloured litterae notabiliores (‘[d]ie großen und schöne Majuskeln, die an Anfang und Ende von Prologen, Büchern, Kapitelverzeichnissen stehen […] mit ihren alternierend grünen und roten Zeilen’), both of which, however, are highly unlikely to have been executed by the texts’ copyists – least of all the many intricate figurative miniatures and floral/ arabesque patterns in the initials of MSS Douai 347 and 582 – and, as admitted by Werner, are more likely to reflect the specialist work of an illuminator (‘ein Spezialist, ein pictor’) than that of Andreas.44 The reason why he nevertheless confidently attributed MS Douai 347 – and, by association, MSS Douai 582 and 846 – to 42

Werner, ‘Andreas’, pp. 455–9: ‘Sie [MS Arras 364] ist nicht ein Autograph im wörtlichen Sinne, aber das Exemplar, das unter der Aufsicht des s von mehreren Schreibern verfertigt wurde’ (p. 457); also cf. Catalogue général, IV, p. 148. 43 See Werner, ‘Andreas’, pp. 406, 421–2, and 460, with three photographic plates (n. p.); also cf. Catalogue général, VI, pp. 182–3, 362, and 591–3. 44 Werner, ‘Andreas’, p. 244 n. 98, who further admitted to having found the scripts of the main text in MSS Douai 347, 582, and 846 difficult to compare (‘Die Minuskelschrift der drei Hss. läßt sich schwer vergleichen’) without drawing the obvious conclusions from this



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Andreas is that this manuscript has a colophon stating that it was made in 1153 under Abbot Hugh by a local monk named Andreas (‘Anno Domini mo co l iiio, temporibus domini Hugonis abbatis, scriptum est liber iste ab Andrea monachus istius ecclesie’; f. 185v).45 As noted by George Despy in a review of Werner’s work published in 1955, however, there is no compelling reason to conclude, as Werner did, that this copyist Andreas must have been the author of the Historia succincta and Chronicon produced about half a century later, given that Andreas was, by any standards, a relatively common name amongst professed monks in that region and at that time.46 Added to the palaeographical discrepancies pointed out above, Despy’s compelling criticism must cast serious doubts on Werner’s identification. A more fruitful comparison – providing the final nail in the coffin of Werner’s case – is to be made between the hands in MS Douai 850 and those in MS Arras 364. Unlike the hands in MSS Douai 347, 582, and 846, all of which belong to skilled but non-interventionist copyists whose profiles and responsibilities in the production of these codices are routine ones with limited or no autonomous agency similar to (but not identical with) the Chronicon’s Scribe A, those in MS Arras 364 reveal a rather more diverse and hierarchical division of labour akin to the one established above for MS Douai 850, though the resemblance between these two workforces so far has eluded scholars’ attention. Just as with MS Douai 850, there is one scribe in MS Arras 364 (labelled ‘Scribe 3’ by Werner) who codified most of the text by single-handedly copying the Historia’s third (and longest) book (ff. 35r–56v) whilst his teammates (Werner’s ‘Scribe 1’ and ‘Scribe 2’) took turns to commit books one and two to parchment (ff. 1v–34v) simultaneously and collaboratively.47 As shown by Werner, the sections penned by Scribe 3 that fill the second half of the book and deal with the history of France since Charles the Bald were actually the first to be copied with no signs of correction or revision, whereas those co-written by Scribes 1 and 2 were still very much works-in-progress when they were copied into the book’s preceding quires.48 What Werner failed to notice, meanwhile, but what is absolutely crucial to our understanding of these scribes’ profiles and their possible identities, is that though Scribes 1 and 2 swapped back and forth regularly throughout these early sections – indicating that they, like Scribes A and B in MS Douai 850, were working in tandem and perhaps even side-by-side in a shared workspace – their respective tasks were neither identical nor interchangeable, as each of them operated in a different and distinct capacity.

observation. For examples of these miniatures, see MS Douai 347, ff. 2r and 95v; MS Douai 582, ff. 4v, 5r, 7v, 10v, 25r, and 32r. 45 Werner, ‘Andreas’, p. 406 n. 20, with reference to Catalogue général, VI, pp. 182–3. 46 See G. Despy, ‘Review of Karl F. Werner, “Andreas von Marchiennes und die Geschichtsschreibung von Anchin und Marchiennes in der zweiten Hälfte des 12. Jahrhunderts”’, Scriptorium 9 (1955), pp. 156–8 (at p. 157). 47 Werner, ‘Andreas’, p. 457. I am adopting these labels here for ease of reference. 48 See Werner, ‘Andreas’, p. 458: ‘Andreas schrieb zuerst die französische Geschichte seit Karl dem Kahlen […]. Dann began er die Zusammenstellung der früheren fränkischen Geschichte […]. Der uns erhaltene Codex zeigt noch die Kompilation jener Texte bis zur Regierung Karls des Kahlen. Von da ab konnte dann ein anderer Schreiber den schon vorher gesammelten Stoff in einem Zuge in den gleichen Codex schreiben und das Kapitelverzeichnis zu Buch II nachtragen. Die Redaktion des ersten Teils und die Abschrift des zweiten waren im Jahre 1196 beendet’.

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Fig. 4: Arras, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 364 (453), f. 4v (detail). Reproduced with permission. Like Scribe 3, Scribe 1 carried out routine copying tasks with no real autonomy or textual authority, very similar indeed to Scribe A’s contribution to MS Douai 850. By contrast, Scribe 2 fulfilled a more specialised role comparable to the Chronicon’s Scribe B, with responsibilities and decision-making powers that placed him above Scribes 1 and 3 in the operational hierarchy of their scribal workforce. Scribe 2’s responsibilities included setting examples for and, if required, making corrections to his teammates’ work, typically at points that correspond to textual or codicological junctures. These handovers frequently occur at the opening and/or end of a section (MS Arras 364, ff. 4v, 7v–8r, 18v, and 22v), with Scribe 2 writing no more than a handful of lines before Scribes 1 and 3 take over in more regular and confidently executed scripts than his (Fig. 4). Scribe 2 took care manu propria of the Historia’s preface (f. 1v), the list of chapter headings (ff. 2r–v), plus chapters one (f. 2v), two (ff. 2v–3r), four (ff. 3v–4r), five (f. 4r, line 18–f. 4v, line 4), ten (f. 8r), twenty-two (ff. 21v–22r), and twenty-four (f. 22v), and he contributed to chapters three (f. 3r, line 25–f. 3v, line 8), six (f. 4v, lines 4–10), nine (f. 7r, lines 21–9; f. 7v, line 7–f. 8r, line 11), twenty-one (f. 21v, lines 1–10), twenty-three (f. 22v, lines 8–16), and twenty-five (f. 22v, line 29), as well as to the ‘Genealogia Merovingorum’ by supplying the successions from Marcomer (†after 392) to King Clovis I (†511) (f. 28v, lines 8–12) (Fig. 5). This genealogy offers an intriguing parallel with the handlist of Frankish monarchs inserted into MS Douai 850 by Scribe B (see above). Just like the Chronicon’s Scribe B, Scribe 2 exhibits a pronounced interest in Frankish/French dynastic history, and his role and modus operandi in codifying the Historia in MS Arras



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Fig. 5: Arras, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 364 (453), f. 28v (detail). Reproduced with permission. 364 are, overall, more indicative of an individual ‘running the show’ with textual authority than of a copyist or amanuensis routinely following someone else’s lead. That these parallels between the profiles and working methods of the Chronicon’s Scribe B (MS Douai 850) and the Historia’s Scribe 2 (MS Arras 364) are no mere coincidence is demonstrated by the fact that their hands are a close-to-perfect palaeographical match, close enough in any case to substantiate an identification when combined with the evidence presented above. Some occasional – and indeed predictable – variation in the configuration of certain letter forms notwithstanding, the principal similarities between their respective personal idioms and graphic ideas are so strong and consistent as to leave little doubt that these hands belong to a single individual (Fig. 6). Minuscule g is a perfect case in point, as the differences in the traces resulting in the final stroke of the lower lobe are minimised by the identical execution of other essential and auxiliary elements such as the dog-legged ‘step’ in the approach stroke of the lower lobe and the barbed hook on the transitional stroke at the top of the upper lobe that finishes the letter and connects it with the next.49 These minor differences pale into insignificance in comparison with the remarkable similarities between the traces that shape the appearance of other letters such as miniscule e with a sharp diagonal stroke at a 45° angle, minuscule x with an exaggerated hairline stroke from top right to bottom left that extends far under the preceding letter(s), the abbreviation for ‘-orum’ with three successive curves that together resemble ↄↄↄ, the last of which again extends far under the preceding letter(s), and the configuration of the ampersand & with an open-top lobe and a c-shaped bottom-right compartment that resembles a claw or fanged mouth. What is more, the fact that similar (if not higher) degrees of variation can be found within samples of both these hands in their respective host manuscripts should remind us that the repertoires of medieval scribes habitually included more than one shape or version of a given letter that could be used interchangeably – either deliberately or 49

I once more refer non-specialist readers to the glossary of technical terminology in Parkes, Hands, pp. 149–55.

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Fig. 6: Samples of the Chronicon’s Scribe B and the Historia’s Scribe 2. subconsciously – during a single writing campaign or even on the self-same page (again, minuscule g tends to provide a useful benchmark for this).50 Indeed, case studies such as that of Scribe B/2 show the methodological limitations of close-up letter-form comparisons – often viewed as the palaeographer’s ‘bread and butter’ – without contextualisation by means of what we may call ‘scribal profiling’.51 50

Two particularly instructive examples of this variety of scribal repertoires from the eleventh/twelfth centuries are provided by the continuations of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s Chronicon and the autographs of Hugh of Flavigny; see T. J. McCarthy, The Continuations of Frutolf of Michelsberg’s Chronicle (Wiesbaden, 2018), pp. 81–121, with numerous photographic reproductions; M. Lawo, Studien zu Hugo von Flavigny (Hanover, 2010), pp. 41–92, again with photographic reproductions. 51 For examples of scribal profiling, see 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), pp. 45–86; B. Pohl, ‘Who Wrote Paris, BnF, Latin 2342? The Identity of the Anonymus Beccensis Revisited’, France et Angleterre: Manuscrits médiévaux entre 700 et 1200, ed. C. Denoël and F. Siri (Turnhout, 2020), pp. 153–89; I. J. Marcus, ‘Whose Letters Are They Anyway? Addressing the Issue of Scribal Writing in Bess of Hardwick’s Early Modern English Letters’, Reading the Page: Verbal and Visual Communication in Early English Texts, ed. M. Peikola et al. (Turnhout, 2017), pp. 219–50; now also cf. W. Haverals and M. Kestemont, ‘From Exemplar to Copy: the Scribal Appropriation of a Hadewijch Manuscript Computationally Explored’, Journal of Data Mining and Digital Humanities (2022), https:// arxiv.org/abs/2210.14061 (accessed 3 February 2023).



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Distinguished by its principal position in the hierarchies of scribes in MS Douai 850 and MS Arras 364, and characterised by textual authority and an almost pedantic attention to chronographical and prosopographical detail, the scribal profile I have established here for Scribe B/2 is indicative of an individual with eminent historical knowledge and experience as a historiographer, not at all dissimilar to the profiles established elsewhere for monastic historians Robert of Torigni, Guibert of Nogent, and Ademar of Chabannes.52 Following the death of the Poleticum’s anonymous author at some point in the early-to-mid twelfth century, it seems extremely unlikely that the monastic community of Marchiennes would have housed more than one individual who fitted Scribe B/2’s specific profile at the point when the Historia and Chronicon were first codified in these two manuscripts in the short span of just five years (c. 1196×1201), making it virtually impossible to escape the conclusion that Scribe B/2 was in fact none other than their author and the monastery’s then prior, Andreas. Though Andreas was a consummate and sophisticated (if sometimes reluctant) historian, the same cannot be said of his scribal proficiency. As we saw above, the confidence (and perhaps competence) of his penmanship often trails behind that of the copyists working under his supervision. This may have had to do with a lack of training and/or opportunity to practise calligraphy by putting pen to parchment other than to produce administrative records and utilitarian documents that fell under the umbrella term of ‘pragmatic literacy’, especially following Andreas’s appointment as prior.53 Again, the near-contemporary case of abbot-historian Robert of Torigni provides a helpful parallel.54 Alternatively, or perhaps in addition, the somewhat irregular and at times less-than-steady appearance of Andreas’s handwriting – more noticeable in the Chronicon in MS Douai 850 than in the Historia in MS Arras 364 – may well have been due to a physical impairment or age-related deterioration of his fine motor skills. As we will recall, Andreas was amongst the abbey’s oldest and longest-serving inhabitants when Simon ordered him to write the Chronicon, and according to fellow chronicler William of Andres he lived past the age of eighty (‘octogenarius et amplius existens’), putting him firmly in his seventies at the time.55 Upon closer inspection, his hand bears characteristic hallmarks of an ageing scribe, 52

See Pohl, ‘Abbas’, passim; on Guibert, see M.-C. Garand, Guibert de Nogent et ses secretaires (Turnhout, 1995); M.-C. Garand, ‘Le scriptorium de Guibert de Nogent’, Scriptorium 31 (1977), pp. 3–29; on Ademar, see A. van Els, A Man and His Manuscripts: The Notebooks of Ademar of Chabannes (989–1034) (Turnhout, 2020). 53 B. Pohl, ‘Robert of Torigni’s “Pragmatic Literacy”: Some Theoretical Considerations’, Tabularia (2022), pp. 1–29, https://journals.openedition.org/tabularia/5576 (accessed 3 February 2023); principally K. Schreiner, ‘Verschriftlichung als Faktor monastischer Reform: Funktionen von Schriftlichkeit im Ordenswesen des hohen und späten Mittelalters’, Pragmatische Schriftlichkeit im Mittelalter: Erscheinungsformen und Entwicklungsstufen, ed. Hagen Keller et al. (Munich, 1992), pp. 37–75; P. Bertrand, Documenting the Everyday in Medieval Europe: The Social Dimensions of a Writing Revolution, 1250–1350 (Turnhout, 2019); R. H. Britnell, ed., Pragmatic Literacy, East and West, 1200–1330 (Woodbridge, 1997). 54 Pohl, ‘Abbas’, passim; see also B. Pohl, ‘Robert of Torigni and Le Bec: The Man and the Myth’, 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), pp. 94–124. 55 Andreas is widely held to have died not long after the Chronicon’s completion; ‘Chronicon Andrense’, ed. J. Heller, Annales aevi Suevici: Supplementa tomorum XVI et XVII [= MGH SS XXIV] (Hanover, 1879), pp. 684–773 (at p. 690); English translation in L. Shopkow,

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some of which – including a slight but noticeable tremor – seem to have intensified even during the few years that separated the Historia’s codification from that of the Chronicon.56 Andreas’s advanced age and possible impediment might further help explain why he was disinclined to step outside his historiographical comfort zone – epitomised by the Historia and its focus on secular/dynastic history – to comply with the commission of his abbot. An old dog unwilling to be taught new tricks, least of all by a new master who was a perfect stranger to him, Andreas thus reduced his engagement to the bare minimum. Whilst Andreas may have been able to persist in his disinclination for some time by hiding the Chronicon’s drafts from the eyes of his abbatial patron in the way some monk-historians did, albeit with varying levels of success (we only have to think of Eadmer of Canterbury, who defied Anselm’s command to destroy all drafts of the Historia novorum/Vita Anselmi by making copies that he continued in secret),57 his bluff would have been called, and his disobedience exposed, the moment he first presented the completed work codified in MS Douai 850 to Abbot Simon. What the commissioning abbot would have discovered – and presumably did discover – when presented with the fruits of Andreas’s labour was that the reluctant historian had interpreted the assignment creatively. Despite Simon’s explicit instructions to the contrary, Andreas had incorporated a fair amount of secular history throughout the narrative, rather than focussing exclusively on the abbey’s domestic history and the memorable deeds of its abbots. Digressing repeatedly and unapologetically into the subjects that Simon had ordered Andreas to avoid at all costs, the Chronicon as it survives today fails spectacularly to provide anything even remotely resembling the ‘abbatum gesta vel cathalogum’ that, as we saw, had been at the very heart of the abbatial commission. It is difficult to imagine how Andreas could have realistically expected to get away with delivering a work that so noticeably missed the mark, especially since Simon had spared neither effort nor expense to enable the project and facilitate its timely completion by making available precious writing time to Andreas and even allocating him a scribal workforce who likewise must have been exempted from some regular duties around the monastery to assist with the work’s codification. In the hierarchy of this workforce, Andreas occupied the position of ‘top dog’ that granted him control and authority over the work of his scribal collaborators. In the hierarchy of his monastery, by contrast, Andreas was subject to the overarching authority and control of Abbot Simon and his predecessors – an authority that was absolute and second to none, and one that according to the Rule of St Benedict demanded obedience without question or delay (‘oboedientia sine mora’) from the monks, including the prior, who is cautioned not to think for one second that he is

trans., William of Andres: The Chronicle of Andres (Washington DC, 2017), pp. 37–8; an age-related impairment is also considered by Delmaire, ed., L’Histoire-polyptyque, p. 7. 56 I would like to thank Julia Crick, Samu Niskanen, Jesse Keskiaho, and David Ganz for their helpful and encouraging comments regarding this somewhat impressionistic suggestion. 57 R. W. Southern, ed. and trans., Eadmeri monachi Cantuariensis vita sancti Anselmi archiepiscopi Cantuariensis – The Life of St Anselm, Archbishop of Canterbury by Eadmer (Oxford, 1972), pp. 150–1; for discussion, see B. Pohl, ‘The (Un)Making of a History Book: Revisiting the Earliest Manuscripts of Eadmer of Canterbury’s Historia novorum in Anglia’, The Library 20 (2019), pp. 340–70; further examples of disobedient monk-historians are discussed in Pohl, Abbatial Authority.



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released from the power of his abbot (‘exutum eum esse a potestate abbatis sui’).58 We can see concrete traces of this power play in the final lines of the Chronicon’s preface. Here, the previous use of the third person (MS Douai 850, f. 104v, lines 1–14) gives way to the first person (f. 104v, line 14–f. 105r, line 8) at the exact point that the hand changes from that of Scribe A to that which – as I hope to have demonstrated – belongs to Andreas himself. As mentioned earlier, these twenty-one lines are written over an erasure, and the reason why Andreas removed the text previously penned by his copyist can, I contend, be gauged from the words which he put in its place: styling himself as a humble monk (‘monachus humilis’) who obeys his abbot’s command (‘secundum abbatis venerabilis imperium’), Andreas claims to deliver precisely what the sagacious superior had ordered (‘quod venerabilis patris iniungit sagacitas’).59 Considering how far Andreas had strayed from his assignment and how deficient a text he had produced as a result, this claim on the surface seems disingenuous at best. Or perhaps the headstrong historian suddenly got cold feet when putting the finishing touches to the manuscript before presenting it to his abbatial patron: to appeal to Simon’s forgiveness for having taken such liberties with the commission, Andreas may have attempted some last-minute damage control by adding words of humility written in his own voice – and, as we now know, his own hand. As scholars of the Middle Ages, it can be tempting to focus on – and, to a degree, identify with – the historians whose works we study and teach, and whose craft we admire. As this re-examination and reconsideration of Andreas of Marchiennes and his scribal work has shown, however, we must resist the temptation of turning them into larger-than-life figures by attributing to them degrees of authority and authorial individuality that they did not (and could not) possess within monastic milieux of historiographical production. Even celebrated ‘luminaries’ like Orderic Vitalis and William of Malmesbury could not have written their histories without licence or authorisation by their institutional superiors. At the same time, the case of Andreas and Simon may serve as a reminder that abbatial authority, whilst absolute and undisputable in theory, could in practice be challenged and subverted, even if the culprits did not get away with – and, in Andreas’s case, had to atone for – their disobedience. Going beyond the comparison of script samples and letter forms, the use of scribal profiling showcased here enriches and nuances our understanding of the key practices and personalities involved in the writing of history in medieval monasteries.

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The Rule of St Benedict, ed. and trans. B. L. Venarde (Cambridge, MA, 2011), pp. 38–41 (= Cap. V.1) and 210–11 (= Cap. LXV.5); G. Constable, ‘The Authority of Superiors in Religious Communities’, La notion d’autorité au Moyen Âge: Islam, Byzance, Occident, ed. G. Makdisi et al. (Paris, 1982), pp. 189–210; A. de Vogüé, Community and Abbot in the Rule of Saint Benedict (Kalamazoo, MI, 1979). 59 MS Douai 850, ff. 104v–105r; Vanderputten, ‘Compilation’, p. 413; see my translation above.

COMMUNITY BUILDING AS A VECTOR OF SOCIAL AND RELIGIOUS CHANGE IN THE LIFE OF JOHN OF GORZE (973/74–84)1 Steven Vanderputten, Ghent University Over the last two decades, scholars have made a great deal of progress in trying to understand how tenth- and eleventh-century authors represented intentional change in religious settings. Their nineteenth- and twentieth-century predecessors saw no issue with referring to such changes as ‘reforms’, and even today the term remains firmly embedded in the discourse of specialist publications. However, recent studies have argued that its current use reflects a semantic shift that took place in the 1600s. As such, it implies a programmatic logic, forward-looking dynamic, and ideological cohesiveness, all three of which are features that sit uncomfortably with the ‘messy’ reality that emerges from the primary evidence. Not only that, but the early modern conceptualization of reform is a mismatch with the way in which high medieval people perceived religious change, what they expected from it, and how they wrote about it.2 In response to this greater semantic awareness, specialists have become a great deal more focused on answering questions about the literary traditions and ideological trends that inspired the language of restoration and renewal in tenth- and eleventh-century sources. The narrative tropes used in these sources to describe reallife processes of spiritual and institutional change have likewise been subject to a new scrutiny. The same is true of the degree to which this language and these tropes accurately captured these complex and incremental phenomena.3 1

This paper was written in the context of the research project ‘The Quest for Otherness. Uncovering Narratives of Religious Distinction in the Long Tenth Century’, which is sponsored by the Research Foundation-Flanders (FWO, G000820N). I wish to thank Melissa Provijn for her comments on the draft version. 2 J. Barrow, ‘Ideas and Applications of Reform’, The Cambridge History of Christianity, vol. 3. Early Medieval Christianities, c. 600–c. 1100, ed. T. Noble and J. Smith (Cambridge, 2008), pp. 345–62; J. Barrow, ‘Developing Definitions of Reform in the Church in the Ninth and Tenth Centuries’, Italy and Early Medieval Europe. Papers for Chris Wickham, ed. R. Balzaretti, J. Barrow, and P. Skinner (Oxford, 2018), pp. 501–11; L. Morelle, ‘Les mots de la “réforme” dans les sources diplomatiques du XIe siècle. Un premier bilan’, Autour de Lanfranc (1010–2010). Réforme et réformateurs dans l’Europe du Nord-Ouest (XIe–XIIe siècles), ed. J. Barrow, F. Delivré, and V. Gazeau (Caen, 2015), pp. 33–56; and N. Perreaux, ‘Après la Chute, reformer le monde. Réflexions sur la sémantique du lexique dit “réformateur”’, Reformatio? Les mots pour la réforme à la fin du moyen âge, ed. M. Dejoux (Paris, 2023), pp. 29–73. 3 Due to space constraints I am unable to submit a representative selection of relevant studies. However, as an alternative, see the synthetic discussions in the forthcoming volume S. Vanderputten, ed., Rethinking Reform in the Latin West, 10th to Early 12th Century (Leiden, forthcoming).

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Among a large number of publications that address these issues, one of the latest and most intriguing is a monograph by the German scholar Stephan Bruhn. Analysing literary sources from tenth- and early eleventh-century England, he notes that authors relied on a concept of religious change that was neither programmatic nor ideological, but social. Their argument centred on the existence of what Bruhn calls ‘communities of value’ (Wertegemeinschaften), heterogeneous cohorts of people who shared the same ethical values and interest in religious change, but who neither necessarily agreed on a course of action, nor always had a precise view of long-term outcomes.4 When it comes to applying his analysis to the Continent, however, Bruhn has expressed reservations. In his view, specific contextual factors and literary traditions in England created the conditions for authors to write about religious change in this manner. True as this may be, to not take up the implied challenge would be an opportunity missed. In addition to the fact that such an investigation might lead to radically new interpretations of works of literature that have been a staple of discussions about tenth- and early eleventh-century ‘reform’ for centuries, it might also open the door to a new way of looking at real-life dynamics that drove spiritual and institutional change in this period. In order to demonstrate both of these points, this paper will consider a key literary witness to religious change in the former middle kingdom of Lotharingia, namely the Life of Lord John, Abbot of Gorze Abbey by John of Saint-Arnoul 973/74–84 (hereafter cited as Life).5 Scholars used to interpret this text as an account of the 934 ‘restoration’ of Gorze Abbey as a Benedictine institution and of its subsequent emergence as one of the principal regional centres (alongside Saint-Evre in Toul and Sankt Maximin in Trier) from which ideals and modalities of institutional and spiritual change were disseminated.6 However since the 1990s this institutional interpretation has gradually eroded, due to the fact that studies have thoroughly

4

S. Bruhn, Reformer als Wertegemeinschaften. Zur diskursiven Formierung einer sozialen Gruppe im spätangelsächsischen England (ca. 850–1050) (Ostfildern, 2022), pp. 57–66 and 539–45. 5 John of Saint-Arnoul, Vita Johannis Gorziensis, ed. and trans. P. C. Jacobsen, Die Geschichte vom Leben des Johannes, Abt des Klosters Gorze (Wiesbaden, 2016) (hereafter VJ for the Latin text and Jacobsen, Die Geschichte for the introduction). On this remarkable narrative see among many other commentaries those by M. Goullet, ‘Les saints du diocèse de Metz’, Miracles, vies et réécritures dans l’Occident médiéval, ed. M. Goullet and M. Heinzelmann (Ostfildern, 2006), pp. 149–317 at 267–71; and G. Philippart and A. Wagner, ‘Hagiographie Lorraine (950–1130). Les diocèses de Metz, Toul et Verdun’, Hagiographies. Histoire internationale de la littérature hagiographique latine et vernaculaire en Occident des origines à 1550, 4, ed. G. Philippart (Turnhout, 2006), pp. 583–742 at pp. 601–8. One of the very few relevant discussions of the text in English is that by P. C. Wormald, ‘Æthelwold and his Continental Counterparts: Contact, Comparison, Contrast’, Bishop Aethelwold: His Career and Influence, ed. B. A. E. Yorke (Woodbridge, 1988), pp. 13–42. 6 See the synthetic discussion in E. Hochholzer, ‘Die Lothringische (“Gorzer”) Reform’, Die Reformverbände und Kongregationen der Benediktiner im Deutschen Sprachraum, ed. U. Faust and F. Quarthal (St Ottilien, 1999), pp. 43–87 at pp. 55–67. On the 934 reform of Gorze Abbey, see in the first instance M. Parisse, ‘Restaurer un monastère au Xe siècle. L’exemple de Gorze’, Vita religiosa im Mittelalter. Festschrift für Kaspar Elm zum 70. Geburtstag, ed. S. Haarländer, F. J. Felten, and N. Jaspert (Berlin, 1999), pp. 55–78.



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nuanced the narrative’s account of Gorze’s resurrection and subsequent influence.7 The interpretation that is now preferred gives centre stage to the recounted quest of John (c. 905–74) and his associates to establish the most perfect form of religious communal life. Earlier parts of the narrative explain how these individuals had felt dissatisfied with the options that existed in institutional settings; how their response had been to experiment with different community models along with men and women who lived as ascetic wanderers, hermits, urban anchorites, household ascetics, and cloistered religious; and finally how they had moved from one such experiment to another until Bishop Adalbero of Metz (929–62) pressed them to enter the monastic life at Gorze. The latter sections of the Life are mostly about the struggle the members of the newly established group of monks faced when they tried to establish a sense of community amongst themselves. The Life’s depiction of these quests and struggles reminds us of tenth- and early eleventh-century English testimonies, which feature a similar focus on religious change as the result of various experiments in community-building. Yet to this, John’s vita adds a dimension that sets it apart from Bruhn’s literary texts, in that it highlights the role of political, social, ideological, and even personal conflict in the rise, development, and disintegration of these communities.8 This tension between conflict-driven processes of community-building and unbuilding is central to the author’s argument, as is the role of such processes as a vector of both social and religious change.9 In what follows I will investigate that tension and the way in which it is addressed in the narrative, by looking at instances of community un/building in three sections of the text, contextualizing them, and finally also confronting them with historical episodes that the author left unmentioned. In doing so I hope to contribute to a new reading of this keystone account of social and religious change in tenth-century Lotharingia that is no longer burdened by problematic notions of reform. At the same time, this essay issues a warning about the need to consider genre and authorial intentions, and how these factors can distort our understanding of real-life religious change and its underlying social processes. Despite claims about the Life’s reliable nature as a historical document,10 there is substantial evidence that the author drastically intervened in the written memory of community un/building processes in order to project a meritocratic vision of John’s social and spiritual ascent, and of Gorze as a beacon of Benedictine renewal.

7

M. Margue, ‘Lotharingien als Reformraum (10. bis Anfang des 12. Jahrhunderts). Einige einleitende Bemerkungen zum Gebrauch räumlicher und religiöser Kategorien’, Lotharingien und das Papsttum im Früh- und Hochmittelalter: Wechselwirkungen im Grenzraum zwischen Germania und Gallia, ed. K. Herbers and H. Müller (Berlin, 2017), pp. 22–33. 8 Observations on the shifting composition and scope of lay communities on either side of the year 900 lend credence to this account of community dynamics; O. G. Oexle, ‘Individuen und Gruppen in der lothringischen Gesellschaft des 10. Jahrhunderts’, L’abbaye de Gorze au Xe siècle, ed. M. Parisse and O. G. Oexle (Nancy, 1993), pp. 105–39. 9 The Life’s argument brings to mind Walter Pohl’s statement that historical communities tend to ‘privileg(e) certain types of conflict over others’ and rely on conflict to learn and develop; ‘The Construction of Communities and the Persistence of Paradox: an Introduction’, The Construction of Communities in the Early Middle Ages, ed. R. Corradini, M. Diesenberger, and H. Reimitz (Leiden, 2003), pp. 1–15 at p. 6. 10 Goullet, ‘Les saints’, pp. 267–71; Jacobsen, Die Geschichte, pp. 81–105.

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Biographical arguments and formative communities Exactly in what circumstances the Life originated is unknown. Scholars have established that it was part of a wave of literary activity in the 970s and 980s that celebrated the memory of major figures of Gorze’s past.11 Moreover, we can tell from circumstantial evidence that the text originated in a context of growing concerns over Gorze’s future. The tenures of John’s successors Odalbert (974–82) and Immo (982–1015) saw a downturn in the abbey’s influence (among other things, its monks were no longer recruited as abbots of other institutions) and were marked by a fractious relationship with Bishop Theoderic of Metz (965–84).12 That being said, students of this literary production have been unable to tell if it was the result of a coordinated action by Gorze’s leadership.13 Nor have they been able to find out to what extent the contents and argument of the individual narratives derived from earlier literary activity at the abbey.14 Similarly, they are in the dark about why it fell to an ex-monk of Gorze and abbot of the urban monastery of Saint-Arnoul in Metz named John (reigned c. 960–84) to write John of Gorze’s biography, except for the fact that he was one of the man’s close associates towards the end of the latter’s life. Related to these questions is that of how John of Gorze’s legacy and the Life itself were perceived by medieval audiences. In the only extant copy (which is believed to be a faithful version of the biographer’s autograph manuscript and originated from the abbey of Saint-Arnoul),15 the narrative cuts off mid-sentence in a passage about John’s 952–3 embassy to Caliph Abd-al-Rahman III in Cordoba, sent on the orders of Emperor Otto I: presumably the author died while still working on the text.16 For reasons that elude us, no one at Saint-Arnoul or at Gorze subsequently completed the narrative with a description of the last two decades of John’s life, including his tenure as abbot between 967/8 and his death on 7 March 974. Nor does a copy of the text feature in Gorze’s mid-eleventh-century library catalogue or in any later booklists from the abbey.17 Some elements that explain the Life’s lack of appeal to medieval audiences can be inferred from the text itself.18 To begin with, the structure is unusual. According 11

Philippart and Wagner, ‘Hagiographie Lorraine’, pp. 615–19, 609–15, 623–4, 633–4; and M. Goullet, M. Parisse, and A. Wagner, Sources hagiographiques de l’histoire de Gorze, Xe siècle. Vie de saint Chrodegang, Panégyrique et Miracles de saint Gorgon (Paris, 2010), pp. 27–33, 122–5, 288–95. 12 A. Wagner, Gorze au XIe siècle. Contribution à l’histoire du monachisme bénédictin dans l’Empire (Turnhout, 1997), pp. 37, 40–2; Goullet, ‘Les saints’, p. 264; J. Nightingale, Monasteries and Patrons in the Gorze Reform. Lotharingia c. 850–1000 (Oxford, 2007), p. 71. 13 Goullet, Parisse, and Wagner, Sources hagiographiques, pp. 125–7. 14 Goullet, ‘Les saints’, pp. 264–6, 269; Philippart and Wagner, ‘Hagiographie Lorraine’, p. 601. 15 BnF, MS lat. 13766, ff. 49v–96v; P. C. Jacobsen, ‘Die Vita des Johannes von Gorze und ihr literarisches Umfeld. Studien zur Gorzer und Metzer Hagiographie des 10. Jahrhunderts’, L’abbaye de Gorze au Xe siècle, ed. Parisse and Oexle, pp. 25–50 at pp. 25–31; Jacobsen, Die Geschichte, pp. 105–15. 16 For example, N. D. Levin, ‘Empire and Caliphate in the Life of John of Gorze’, Medieval Sicily, al-Andalus, and the Maghrib: Writing in Times of Turmoil, ed. C. L. Symes and N. Carpentieri (Leeds, 2020), pp. 39–58. 17 Wagner, Gorze, pp. 101–90. 18 M. Parisse, La vie de Jean, abbé de Gorze (Paris, 1999), p. 19.



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to John of Saint-Arnoul’s own testimony, he initially planned to write a conventional abbot’s biography in three parts, covering the subject’s youth, early adulthood, and conversion; his life as a monk; and his time as abbot up to and including his death. In the first stage (which began shortly before the subject’s death and lasted until 977–9) he wrote the first of those three parts in forty-five chapters, but abandoned the project because he was dissatisfied with his work. When Bishop Theoderic of Metz (with the assistance of Bishop Poppo of Utrecht) managed to get him back to writing shortly afterwards, the biographer radically dispensed with the narrative’s original chronological approach. The second part consists of moral portraits of more than a dozen Gorze monks (in chapters 47–61), another one of John himself (72–94), a description of his activities in his capacity as manager of Gorze’s estate (95–114), and finally the description of his above-mentioned embassy to Cordoba.19 How this drastic change in compositional approach would have affected the structure and argument of the planned but never-written third part is unknown. So too is the answer to the question of whether or not the author was planning eventually to rewrite either or both of the first two parts with a view to turning them into a more cohesive whole. Even with critical editions and translations at their disposal, modern readers have struggled to see what the author’s intentions were at the time of his death, let alone imagine what the finished Life would have looked like. There is no reason to think that contemporary and later medieval audiences were any less puzzled. A second reason why there is so little evidence of the narrative’s impact is the unusual way in which it depicts its main subject. Giulia Barone has noted that the Life presents a view of tenth-century Christian sainthood made not of grand gestures and miracles but of ‘quotidian perfection’, and has drawn comparisons with the better-known lives of Gerald of Aurillac, Archbishop Bruno of Cologne, and Wenceslas of Bohemia.20 However, Guy Philippart and Anne Wagner have nuanced this assessment, saying that even though John of Saint-Arnoul expresses his awe of John’s achievement as a religious virtuoso and a monastic estate manager, his portrayal of John is definitely not that of a saint.21 Unusually for the time, the biographer does not shy away from repeatedly drawing his readers’ attention to the man’s comparatively humble origins as the son of well-off farmers, the darker side of his personality (in particular his stubbornness), and his numerous personality clashes with his peers and superiors. In addition, the writer paints a picture of John as a religious virtuoso who always kept his inner feelings to himself and whose real goals in life (be they spiritual or other) were obscure to even his closest associates.22 Finally, John is also depicted as an energetic social climber, who in his ascent relied on a carefully managed set of connections with powerful lay and clerical allies, his reputation as a skilled estate manager, and a life-long habit of assiduous learning. The Life notes that this attitude and the rewards it brought him irked some of his 19

Parisse, ‘Restaurer un monastère’, pp. 56–7. G. Barone, ‘Jean de Gorze, moine de la réforme et saint original’, Religion et culture autour de l’an mil. Royaume capétien et Lotharingie, ed. D. Iogna-Prat and J.-C. Picard (Paris, 1990), pp. 31–8; G. Barone, ‘Une hagiographie sans miracles. Observations en marge de quelques vies du Xe siècle’, Les fonctions des saints dans le monde occidental (IIIe–XIIIe siècle) (Rome, 1991), pp. 435–6 at pp. 441–2. 21 Philippart and Wagner, ‘Hagiographie Lorraine’, pp. 604–8. 22 B. P. McGuire, Friendship and Community. The Monastic Experience, 350–1250, 2nd edn (Ithaca, NY, 2010), pp. 156–7, 159. 20

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monastic peers, who (depending on their own previous status) either accused him of being an opportunist or treated him as a parvenu.23 Alongside the narrative’s local scope, unfinished nature, and odd structure, this out-of-the ordinary biographical argument explains why the Life was not an obvious addition to religious libraries in either Lotharingia or elsewhere. However despite this obscurity in the Middle Ages, John of Saint-Arnoul’s account deserves its reputation with modern scholars as one of the most remarkable narratives to survive from tenth-century Lotharingia. Its depiction of John as an individual of modest origins who carved his own path yet at the same time was the product of his involvement in a range of secular and religious communities turns it into a rare literary counter-argument against accounts of that period as an era of social immobility and of top-down reforms. However the biographer’s focus on John’s singularity is one reason why our understanding remains incomplete of how these communities and their development – in other words, their building and unbuilding – drove social and religious change on an individual and a collective level. Another reason is that John of Saint-Arnoul drastically intervened in the memory of key episodes of community un/building in order to present a very specific reading of his hero’s legacy as a self-made spiritual leader and monastic administrator, and that of Gorze Abbey as a beacon of Benedictine renewal. Fortunately, due to the unfinished nature of the work it remains fairly easy to spot several such interventions. The first place where we can see him editing aspects of such information out of John of Gorze’s life is in a passage at the very beginning of the main text. It opens with a brief statement that John was born in a village named Vandières, to a wealthy farmer of moderate social origins (a status that the author intriguingly refers to as mediocritas) and his much younger wife (whom he states belonged to a ‘freer’ section of society). Then it goes on to talk about the boy’s early education, which is the first of many passages that lack key information. Having been taught to write ‘close to his father’, at some point in the years 917–19 John was sent as a teenager to the town of Metz to pursue his education, but his father disapproved and soon called him back to Vandières.24 Following his return, John was sent to be educated at the abbey of Saint-Mihiel (in the diocese of Verdun), where he was taught by a master named Hildebold. As a former disciple of Remigius of Auxerre, Hildebold came from an intellectual milieu of some renown, and the abbey itself had the distinction of being the former institution of the prominent Carolingian thinker Smaragdus. Despite these auspicious circumstances, the boy’s education at the abbey was an outright failure. In later life John reportedly admitted that he remembered nothing of what he had been taught there.25 Much is left unsaid in this passage: why exactly Metz was picked as John’s initial destination, who hosted him there, why his father called him back, and why he was subsequently sent to Saint-Mihiel? It is possible that the author’s knowledge of this period was poor: after all, these events had taken place more than half a century before he started working on the Life. However a closer look at the text reveals the absence of a narrative logic that must have been intentional. Indeed, it appears that the author was trying to get his readers to think that the events of his hero’s life at this stage (when he was not yet in control of his own destiny) had been without consequences later on. Yet in reality, quite the reverse was true. Peppered 23 24 25

See below, nn. 73–7. VJ, pp. 174, 176. VJ, pp. 176, 178.



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throughout the text are clues that John’s parents had intended to introduce him to the entourage (in other words, a secular community) of a clerical or lay lord, but that political circumstances had forced them to change their approach mid-way through. If we begin our investigation in Metz, Anne Wagner has found that aside from the cathedral, the town at the time featured no other religious institution that could have provided John with an intellectual education. This brings its lord, Wigeric (then newly installed as the bishop of Metz (917–27)), into view as the teenager’s host there.26 However John of Saint-Arnoul would have been keen to avoid mentioning any connection between his hero and Wigeric, for at least two reasons. One has to do with the fact that Wigeric stood for a way of handling Church property that went counter to John’s later views as provost of Gorze. Prior to becoming bishop, Wigeric had been lay abbot of Gorze, and following his enthronement he had distributed properties owned by religious institutions (possibly including Gorze) to his lay allies in exchange for their support.27 It stands to reason that the biographer or his source would not have liked his readers to know that the two men had somehow been associated in the 910s–20s. Another reason for not mentioning Wigeric’s role as the boy’s host in Metz would have been that the bishop was a political rival of Count Ricuin of Verdun (d. 923), with whom John and his relatives were closely involved. At the time, Ricuin held the title of lay abbot of the Metz female abbey of Saint-Pierreaux-Nonnains and in that role also acted as the incumbent lay lord of its estate of Vandières, John’s home village.28 When Ricuin married Cunegonde, the widow of Bishop Wigeric’s relative Wigeric of Bidgau (the count palatine of Lotharingia, d. 916/19), this triggered significant aristocratic strife, due to the fact that the children from Cunegonde’s first marriage (in particular, the future Bishop Adalbero) and their allies feared that it would negatively affect their situation.29 The risk of alienating the lord of his village, the general context of political instability at Metz, and a series of Magyar raids (some of which directly affected the town of Metz) were all factors that likely led John’s father to recall him to Vandières, hastily aborting an attempt to build a secular community around his son.30 Surely it was no coincidence that John’s next destination, Saint-Mihiel, brought him close to the count of Verdun, who happened to be that institution’s lay lord.31 Whatever educational end point John’s parents may have had in mind, they clearly intended that their oldest son forge a link with Vandières’s lay lord. As the next series of events would show, that strategy paid off. When John’s father died not long after the lad’s arrival at Saint-Mihiel and his mother remarried, the teenager became manager of his father’s estate and ‘custodian of his brothers and the household’s entire famil-

26

A. Wagner, ‘La vie culturelle à Gorze au Xe siècle d’après la Vita Johannis Gorziensis et le catalogue de la bibliothèque de Gorze’, L’abbaye de Gorze au Xe siècle, ed. Parisse and Oexle, pp. 213–31 at p. 214. 27 A. Hari, ‘Ecrire l’histoire des évêques de Metz au Moyen Age: les Gesta episcoporum de la fin du VIIIe à la fin du XIVe siècle’, unpublished PhD thesis (Université Paul VerlaineMetz, 2009–10), pp. 146–7. 28 G. Blennemann, Die Metzer Benediktinerinnen im Mittelalter. Studien zu den Handlungs­ spielräumen geistlicher Frauen (Husum, 2011), pp. 68–9. 29 Nightingale, Monasteries, pp. 73–5. 30 VJ, p. 176. 31 A. Gillen, Saint-Mihiel im hohen und späten Mittelalter. Studien zu Abtei, Stadt und Landesherrschaft im Westen des Reiches (Trier, 2003), p. 62 n. 121.

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ia’.32 This point marked the end of his education at Saint-Mihiel and the beginning of a close political association with Ricuin, serving in the count’s ‘household’ for a number of years. In return for his service, he received the church of Vandières as a benefice, which belonged to the estate of Saint-Pierre-aux-Nonnains.33 Although this connection with Ricuin was clearly engineered by John’s relatives while he was still a boy, John’s biographer declined to mention this fact. Instead he set John’s social ascent as a young adult in a meritocratic light, informing his readers that John’s personal qualities allowed him to establish additional connections – in other words, build community – with lay and clerical lords in the region. Thus he became part of the circle (frequentia) of Bishop Dado of Verdun (880–923) and that of a nobleman named Warnerius from the adjoining diocese of Toul. Warnerius entrusted him with the stewardship of the church of St Laurent in the village of Fontenoy-surMoselle. The Life states that John’s virtue and lively spirit made him an attractive ally for Dado and that his talents as an estate manager found similar favour with Warnerius.34 Unfortunately the narrative’s argument at this point shifts away from John’s early involvement in these secular communities, for this leaves us in the dark about how he subsequently coped with their collapse, as one after the other of these communities were unbuilt by conflict and circumstances. In 923 Ricuin was murdered by Adalbero’s ally, Count Boso.35 The same year, Dado of Verdun passed away. And the Toul nobleman, Warnerius, disappears from the Life just as abruptly as he had first appeared. While the rest of the narrative focusses entirely on John’s religious quest, it is quite obvious that he would have had no choice but to look for other patrons, among other things to protect his relatives’ interests. One of these individuals has been tentatively identified by John Nightingale as Count Adalbert of Metz, who became the beneficiary of parts of Gorze’s estate in the late 920s or early 930s.36 The absence in the text of a putative connection with Adalbert or any other secular lord draws our attention to yet another of the narrative’s glaring omissions, which is that John also sought and found a connection with a new clerical lord. Indeed, judging by a number of clues in the Life he must also have entered the clergy (and thus also joined a secular community that was centred on one of the region’s bishops) around the time he reached adulthood. Indicating this new status, the biographer mentions that John took up office as the hebdomadarius (a function that was exclusively assigned to ordained clerics) of the women religious at Saint-Pierre-auxNonnains in Metz.37 Another clue is in the biographer’s mention that all the adults who entered the abbey in early 934 did so in priests’ clothing.38 Presumably this means that John had initially obtained a lower ordination in the mid-920s (possibly from Bishop Wigeric of Metz or from the latter’s colleague Dado of Verdun) and only became a priest after a number of years.

32

VJ, p. 178: ‘fratrum totiusque familiae domesticae curator’. VJ, p. 180. 34 VJ, p. 182. 35 M. Parisse, ‘L’abbaye de Gorze dans le contexte politique et religieux lorrain à l’époque de Jean de Vandières (900–974)’, L’abbaye de Gorze, ed. Parisse and Oexle, pp. 51–90 at pp. 53–8. 36 Nightingale, Monasteries, p. 95. 37 VJ, p. 192. 38 VJ, p. 252. 33



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The fact that neither these nor any other identity-shaping connections with lay and clerical lords from after c. 924 are mentioned in the Life indicates two things. For one, we can easily see how it would have been awkward for John of Saint-Arnoul to suggest that John had been involved with individuals who (as he saw it) had contributed to the alleged downfall of Gorze Abbey and that of other religious houses in the early tenth century. Adalbert was related by marriage to the Wigeric family, and in the late 910s probably received from Bishop Wigeric of Metz the lay abbacy of Gorze and several of its properties as a benefice.39 We already saw that before him, Wigeric himself, both before and after becoming the bishop of Metz, had been closely involved in Gorze Abbey. As to the second point, we can tell how important was the biographer’s desire to paint a literary portrait of John as a man who in the mid-920s unburdened himself from all his former connections to secular communities and to clerical and lay lords in order to embark on a decade-long journey of spiritual discovery and religious community-building. Evidently this urge to present the late abbot of Gorze as a self-made man came at the price of presenting to his readers a drastically truncated memory of the historical John. A society of secret solitaries Just as abruptly as John’s secular connections fade into the background of the Life, an informal community of urban ascetics in Metz and Toul comes into view.40 In the previous section the author had already made some allusions to that upcoming shift in focus. The passage about John’s stewardship of the church of Fontenoy-surMoselle tells us about John’s nascent interest in ascetic lifestyles and his inclination to explore these in the company of others. He is described as personally financing divine service at the church, appointing a foreign cleric (peregrinus) there, and bringing in a woman from Warnerius’s gynaeceum (a term used in sources from the period to designate a rural textile workshop for unfree women) to serve as an anchoress.41 Also referred to are John’s encounters with a cathedral cleric from Toul named Berner, who taught him the elements of grammar and Bible study.42 However these individual connections and one-on-one encounters apparently did not satisfy him. On moving to Metz (where he owned a house) John allied himself with clerics whose private conduct revealed an active interest in ascetic pursuits yet who also occupied key positions in cathedral centres, boasted specific managerial, intellectual, or artistic skills, or were in some or other way (not in the least through their aristocratic origins) advantageously connected.43 Commuting back and forth between the region’s major episcopal centres of Metz, Toul, and Verdun, John lodged for up to a month at a time with ‘people of good reputation’, participating as if he were a disciple in their mode of life.44 39

Hari, Ecrire l’histoire des évêques de Metz, p. 146 and M. Gaillard, D’une réforme à l’autre (816–934): les communautés religieuses en Lorraine à l’époque carolingienne (Paris, 2006), pp. 256, 258. 40 VJ, p. 204. 41 VJ, pp. 184, 186. 42 VJ, pp. 182, 184. 43 M. Parisse, ‘La culture au service de la réforme monastique. Les clercs Toulois et l’abbaye de Gorze au Xe siècle’, Lotharingia. Archives lorraines d’archéologie, d’art et d’histoire 7 (1997), pp. 27–37. 44 VJ, p. 192.

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In a series of individual portraits, the Life’s author describes the membership of this Bruhnian ‘community of value’ as being determined by two things. One was a shared interest in pursuing a learned, elitist, and above all discreet mode of Christian self-abnegation. The other was the fact that the members combined their spiritual quest without giving up on their other social and institutional roles. The narrative singles out three men whose influence on John was particularly strong. The first is the above-mentioned Berner, whom the biographer praises for his learning and his steadfastness in practicing strict chastity (which went so far that he refused to be seated where he had previously seen a woman sit), piety, and soberness in dress and food. Furthermore, Berner did these things without looking impoverished or unkempt.45 The narrative’s second focus is Humbert, a priest of relatively modest origins who at the time lived as an urban recluse at Verdun and briefly hosted John, persuading him, among other things, to do penance and abstain from eating meat. Humbert awoke in John a love of fasting, which lasted his entire life.46 The third man is Einold, the archdeacon of Toul, whom John met through Humbert. In contrast with his fellow canons, Einold (who lived in a cell near the cathedral clerics’ enclosure) observed stability, did not own anything except for a simple shirt, books, and his clerical ornaments, practiced rigorous fasting, and lived on gifts from his bishop and other pious individuals. Assisted only by a servant in his cell and by an unfree cleric (clientulus) while saying mass, he practiced a quasi-eremitical lifestyle within the institutional setting of his cathedral chapter.47 Besides these three men the Life mentions Rotland, the head of the singing school of Metz cathedral, who lived in a chapel on the upper level and spent his days and nights praying, singing psalms, and holding masses, and Bernarcer his assistant, a scribe, singer, and computist. Warimbert practiced a similar lifestyle to Rotland, but at the urban church of St Salvator, and Angelramnus was an archdeacon and primicerius of the cathedral of Toul and later of Metz. Also present in the text are Blidulph, an archdeacon of Metz; Odilo, a primicerius of Verdun; and Isaac and Odilbert, canons at Verdun Cathedral. Living near the centres where these men carried out their duties were Salecho, who was a cleric at Saint-Martin-outre-Moselle in Metz, and Randinc, a canon at Saint-Symphorien in the same town.48 John’s ascetic education involved a succession of master-disciple relationships in which he each time learned to understand the advantages and disadvantages of a specific ascetic lifestyle by actively taking part in it. While this meant that some individuals with whom he interacted subsequently faded from his social circle, for most of those who are cited in the Life the bond was apparently strong enough to survive his shifting preferences. Although John of Saint-Arnoul insists on the informal nature of this community of value, he intriguingly uses the expression ‘society of secret solitaries’ to describe it.49 His word choice reminds us of the societates of clerics that are occasionally mentioned in episcopal and conciliar decrees from the early ninth century onwards, where the term is used to describe different forms of association between (mostly lower-ranking) priests. In one of these, the clerics met on a regular basis (in some 45

VJ, p. 190. VJ, pp. 202, 204. 47 VJ, pp. 218, 220, 222. 48 VJ, pp. 200, 202, 228, 278, 280, 282, 304, 306, 310, 312. 49 VJ, p. 190: ‘in solitario comitatu secreto’. The Life interchangeably uses the terms conventio and societas; VJ, pp. 224, 226, 270, 272. 46



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cases monthly) to dine together on important feast days, pray together, converse over current affairs and exchange information, and provide mutual support in case of illness or death.50 The informal nature of societates, their emphasis on discretion, on provision of mutual aid, on information exchange, and on celebrating a shared spirituality may well have been an inspiration to John and his peers.51 In fact, there is no reason to believe that such informal societates were not still operative in 920s Metz, Toul, and Verdun, and that John at one point was introduced to them by his connections there. That being said, the biographer also makes a point of telling his readers that the society of solitaries was not one that exclusively consisted of clerics, which brings us back to Bruhn’s observation that ‘communities of value’ were diverse, not just in social and functional, but also in gendered terms. To make his point, John’s biographer refers to a young woman religious named Geisa at the abbey of Saint-Pierre-aux-Nonnains, who together with her aunt practiced a penitential lifestyle that made a deep impression on John, who visited them as their hebdomadarius. Significantly, the passage establishes a link between the learned culture of John’s clerical associates and that of the Saint-Pierre-aux-Nonnains’s women, when it mentions that the asceticism of these women was grounded in intensive study of the abbey’s book collection.52 The author’s explicit reference to John’s connection with the two cloistered women stands in stark contrast with the absence of any mention of interactions with any of the region’s male monastics. Some specialists have tried to explain this absence by speculating that he wrote the narrative (which we already saw was dedicated to Bishop Theoderic of Metz) strictly with a clerical audience in mind. It is true that the Gorze monks and their associates in the 970s–80s actively relied on their literary production to sustain the abbey’s influence on the region’s clergy (many prominent members had been educated there) and possibly even to promote change in that cohort’s behaviour.53 While this may well be a relevant explanation for the Life’s focus at this stage on clerics, we must also consider two additional motives. One relates to the author’s claim that all male monastic houses in the area had turned into places of dissolute morals, which we already saw is a bold claim that is difficult to substantiate on the basis of the available evidence but that served the purpose of representing Gorze’s ‘resurrection’ as a triumphant new beginning for male monasticism.54 A second motive is his already cited strategy of avoiding any suggestion that prior to Adalbero’s intervention at Gorze in 934 and John’s subsequent transition to the monastic life, John had been personally involved with one or several of the region’s monasteries, their members, and their stakeholders. Here again we can plausibly suspect that the biographer deliberately refrained from cluttering the narrative with information that would have compromised his literary vision of John as someone whose post-conversion attitudes as a monk and a provost at Gorze were consistent and seamless with his earlier ones.

50

S. Patzold, Presbyter. Moral, Mobilität und die Kirchenorganisation im Karolingerreich (Stuttgart, 2020), pp. 433–51. 51 VJ, pp. 190, 192, 224, 226. 52 VJ, pp. 192, 194, 196. 53 For instance, in the late 970s or 980s an anonymous author from Gorze redacted a Life of Bishop Chrodegang of Metz; Philippart and Wagner, ‘Hagiographie Lorraine’, pp. 609, 615–16. 54 VJ, p. 230.

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Whatever the true scope of the community of value in which John was involved in real life, evidently it was too nebulous (in the sense of too informal and insufficiently asking a permanent commitment by its participants) to meet his expectations.55 Accordingly he embarked on a series of experiments in un/building virtuoso communities. A plan to become part of a small settlement of urban anchorites near the church of Saint-Salvator in Metz was quickly abandoned due to the distractions of urban life. Another idea of his to join a hermit named Lambert in the wooded Argonne region, together with Humbert and Andreas (a Britto and former associate of Bishop Dado of Verdun), likewise came to nothing. The biographer states that although John tried valiantly to emulate Lambert’s example, he and his two companions grew impatient with Lambert’s extreme and outright repulsive behaviours.56 At Humbert’s advice John then embarked on an episode of ascetic peregrination to Italy, which according to his biographer turned into a fact-finding mission about religious community life. John of Saint-Arnoul subtly informs his readers that this too was a communal endeavour, by noting that John mobilized his circle of secret solitaries to take a part in his spiritual quest. As his travel companions he took along the above-mentioned Bernacer (who himself was a follower of the recluse Warimbert) and a group of unnamed companions.57 Among other things, the Life reports that John studied the observance of the monks of Monte Cassino (who at the time were living in Capua) and found that they retained at least ‘some elements of […] the fundamentals of holy observance’.58 Yet on returning to Metz he was none the wiser about what path to follow. At a loss about how to proceed, John took to practicing an ascetic lifestyle within the privacy of his own home, incorporating a routine of incessant prayer, auto-flagellation, and fasting that (the biographer states) was hard to distinguish from that of a monk. To this the biographer adds that John’s quasi-monastic lifestyle was discreet to the point that even those who lived under the same roof hardly took notice of it.59 That latter comment is frustrating because of the lack of detail it provides about what John’s household asceticism entailed and who were its unwitting spectators. Nevertheless it is significant, for it implies that throughout this phase of intense experimentation with ascetic lifestyles and religious community-building, John remained committed to his other duties as head of his family’s household and presumably also as a cleric. A second reason for its significance is that it suggests that John was able to pursue his religious goals in a secular community setting where the other members (in this case those who lived at his urban home) did not participate in his ascetic lifestyle. A final reason why the comment about John’s return to the privacy of his urban home in Metz merits our attention is that it functions as an elegant segue to the biographer’s account of how John covertly relaunched his community-building project as a joint venture with Einold, whose profile as an educated, discreet, and (on account of his role as archdeacon at Toul cathedral) active ascetic was a good fit with John’s ideal. On hearing about the Metz society of solitaries from John, the narrative continues, Einold travelled to Metz where he met Salecho, Randinc, Bernacer, and the two ascetic women whom John had encountered at Saint-Pierre-aux-Nonnains. These 55

VJ, p. 264. VJ, pp. 202, 204, 206, 208. 57 VJ, pp. 208, 210. 58 VJ, p. 212: ‘sancti propositi vestigia, que ubi nonnulla supererant’. 59 VJ, pp. 214, 216: ‘vita eius, qui a monachi instituto differet, haud facile quisquem discerneret’. 56



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encounters (which took place outside Metz’s southern city gate in loco secretioris usu, ‘in a place far removed’) were frequent and presumably covered a wide range of topics.60 However, eventually they centred on finding a place where the clerics could ‘live together after having vowed to a communal life’.61 The next part of the narrative is dedicated to how they ended up extricating themselves from their previous roles (as cathedral clerics, parish priests, and so on) and building a Benedictine community at Gorze. However here again we shall see that the biographer’s account is highly elliptical. Un/building Gorze Abbey John of Saint-Arnoul’s account of how the group became involved in Gorze Abbey and subsequently built community there is hard to disentangle. In his version of events John tried to persuade his fellow solitaries to relocate to the remote rural parts of Benevento, an area he had visited during his time in Italy and which he described to them as removed from urban society and set between vineyards and fertile farmland. However, instead the group sent Bernacer (whom we saw was a member of Metz’s cathedral chapter) to Bishop Adalbero’s counsellor Lantbert to signal their availability to establish a new community in that area. Adalbero arranged for another group member, Randinc, to tell Einold to ask Adalbero himself to be released from his obligation to observe Chrodegang’s rule for canons and to seek permission to instead become a monk. For his part, Bernacer received instructions to inform Einold to secretly ask the bishop for Gorze as the location for the new religious community, after which Adalbero made all the necessary arrangements.62 In early 934, Einold, John, Salecho, Randinc, Bernacer, and two boys named Theuthinc (a servant of Einold’s) and Theuther (a cousin of Randinc) then entered Gorze to form the core of the new community. Adalbero granted them permission to elect an abbot, adopt the Rule of St Benedict, and take the monastic habit. Not long afterwards he welcomed the group’s abbot-elect Einold at the cathedral in Metz, obtained from him an oral and a written promise to maintain the Rule, and vested him with the monastic cowl: after that the six other converts made their monastic vows. In a final stage, Adalbero turned his attention to a handful of individuals who had entered Gorze Abbey prior to his intervention and had been allowed to stay on afterwards, albeit only as novices. He made them adopt a communal lifestyle and accept Einold as their new leader.63 On presenting this version of events, the biographer implies that the group of secret solitaries (or at least part thereof) became involved in Adalbero’s intervention at Gorze by chance. However, his account of how John had described the Benevento region to his peers strikingly mirrors the abbey’s rural environment, which suggests that they were actually discussing the possibility of setting up a new community much closer to home. Moreover, the transition from that passage to the next is abrupt to the point that it is clear that here again, the author chose to withhold information. Several of the clerics in John’s circle held key positions in Adalbero’s cathedral chapter and therefore also in the administration of the diocese, which must have made it difficult for them to keep their plans to renege on their former 60 61 62 63

VJ, VJ, VJ, VJ,

pp. 224, 226, 228, 230. p. 230: ‘in quibus communem vitam professi pariter habitare possent’. pp. 232, 234, 236, 238. pp. 250, 252.

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responsibilities as secular clerics (and by doing so also unbuild various communities in which they were implicated) a secret. Conversely, any keen observer of contemporary politics in the Metz area would also have known that Gorze was very much in the bishop’s thoughts at this stage. From his election in 929, Adalbero had struggled in several ways. For a start, he had not succeeded in gaining the upper hand over his aristocratic rival Count Adalbert and his former ally Boso (with whom he fell out in 931). Nor had he improved his financial situation, or established himself as an authoritative Church leader. An intervention to ‘restore’ and ‘renew’ Gorze Abbey presented itself as an ideal way to achieve all these aims, even though the politically delicate nature of such an intervention compelled him to do so with utter discretion. It stands to reason that behind the biographer’s tale of an unforeseen meeting of minds between Adalbero and the secret solitaries there lurked a complex story of how the prelate had carefully planned his intervention at Gorze and sent out recruiters to find the right people to staff the abbey, and how John, Einold, and a handful of Metz clerics were solicited to submit their candidacy. Attentive late tenth-century readers of the Life would surely have suspected all these things too. However John’s biographer was not interested in telling that story. Instead, he was out to craft a narrative of Gorze’s rebirth as a virtuoso community from the perspective of the secret solitaries, and to give them most of the credit for it. The biographer’s account of community-building at the newly ‘reformed’ abbey is likewise elliptical. He describes how the original group of seven new members rapidly expanded and significantly diversified to include monks and former hermits. One of those ‘second-wave’ entrants was Adalbero’s uncle Frederic, a former monk of Saint-Hubert in Ardennes, who was made Einold’s provost and took control of the abbey’s estate. Another high-ranking individual was Odilo, the former estate manager of the bishop of Verdun.64 Yet another was Andreas, a former hermit from Brittany whom Bishop Dado of Verdun had put in charge of an eremitical settlement several decades earlier.65 Also mentioned are John’s associate Humbert, the hermit from Toul, and a child named Milo that he had brought along.66 All these individuals are mentioned in a charter from 935, which allows us to put an approximate chronology to this quick expansion.67 Subsequent growth was steady, and based on the biographer’s account and on charter evidence Michel Parisse has estimated that by the early 960s about two dozen monks lived at Gorze.68 Yet in the Life this information is imparted mainly in the form of a series of moral portraits of monks, which offer us mere glimpses of how an actual community of Benedictine monks was constituted. Among a range of things that the text fails to mention is who in the earliest stage of the community’s existence actually taught this heterogeneous cohort of clerics, hermits, laymen, and young boys how to be a monk.69 Just as John is portrayed in the Life as a man who carved his own path, the newly established community of Gorze thus emerges from the narrative as a spiritual success story that it owed strictly to itself. 64

VJ, pp. 276, 278. VJ, pp. 204, 206, 208. 66 VJ, p. 266. 67 A. D’Herbomez, Cartulaire de l’abbaye de Gorze. Ms. 826 de la Bibliothèque de Metz (Paris, 1898–9), (hereafter Cartulaire) no. 93, p. 174. 68 Parisse, ‘Restaurer un monastère’, pp. 58–60. 69 Presumably the monks who had entered Gorze prior to the reform did not play any role in this, since they were all made novices; VJ, pp. 242, 246. 65



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An explanation for the absence of references to how the community members learned to be monks is provided in the numerous references throughout the text to the learnedness of key participants.70 However even if Einold and his associates had deep theoretical knowledge of monasticism’s normative and literary traditions, they would still have found it exceedingly difficult to establish concrete liturgical and other routines, let alone a shared sense of identity, without any outside help. Furthermore, given that bringing in one or several monks from another institution was a common approach at the time when so-called reform agents were trying to change an abbey’s spirituality and governance, it is hard to believe that there were no such individuals brought to Gorze. Because the text gives a fair amount of detail about the members’ practice and especially their liturgical routines, Anselme Davril was able to establish that the observance of the Gorze monks as described in the Life strongly resembles that which we find in the oldest customary of Fleury (which dates from the early eleventh century but describes practices from the 980s–90s), and suggests a kinship between the experience of monastic life in the two places. Davril tried to explain this kinship by suggesting that the monks of Gorze were initially trained in the monastic life by monks from the abbey of Saint-Evre in Toul, where Abbot Archembald of Fleury had previously intervened on behalf of Bishop Gozelin of Toul.71 We must also consider that it is far from certain that the break with ‘pre-reform’ experiences and practices at Gorze was truly as radical as the biographer suggests. With the possible exception of a poorly documented phase in 922–34, Gorze Abbey in the later ninth and early tenth centuries was staffed by a sizeable community of (on average thirty) monks, who performed their prayer duties and liturgical routines, maintained a steady recruitment rhythm, and were to a greater or lesser extent organized in accordance with the Carolingian interpretation of the Rule of St Benedict.72 Presumably the author’s silence on all these crucial points was meant to imply not only that Gorze’s new observance was entirely home-grown but that it also marked a fundamental departure from previous local experiences of the religious community life. Just as notable as this omission of information about how the Gorze monks learned to be monks is the fact that the Life hardly spends any time explaining how Abbot Einold and his associates created a meaningful community. However it does tell us that because this new community consisted in large part of adult converts, these people brought with them deeply rooted notions about who they were and how they related to others. A first anecdote worth mentioning is about Angelramnus, a primicerius of Toul and later Metz, who entered the convent shortly after the first group. Despite giving all his possessions to the abbey, he insisted on boasting about his noble origins and demanding these be recognized, until Abbot Einold reprimanded him. Angelramnus then suffered a mental breakdown, after which he took to a life of strict abnegation inside a small hut next to Bishop Chrodegang’s grave in the abbatial church. He also downgraded his rank in the community’s pecking order by taking a seat in the back of the choir, a place that (the Life states) was reserved for the very lowest in rank.73 70

Wagner, ‘La vie culturelle’; Jacobsen, Die Geschichte, pp. 72–81. A. Davril, ‘Points de contact entre la “Vita Iohannis Gorziensis” et les “Consuetudines Floriacenses Antiquiores”’, L’abbaye de Gorze au Xe siècle, ed. Parisse and Oexle, pp. 183–92. 72 Nightingale, Monasteries, pp. 59–64; Gaillard, D’une réforme à l’autre, pp. 208–11. 73 VJ, pp. 282, 294. 71

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A second anecdote is about John himself and how the transfer of social inequalities from the secular world into the cloister compromised the internal harmony of the monastic community. We read that monks of lower origins accused John of being an opportunist and a social climber. On entering the monastic life, John had given all his wealth to the abbey, but had also brought with him his two brothers, his widowed mother, and several members of his extended household (familia). His brothers ended up entering the monastic life, while his mother and a number of servants were housed in the outer parts of the monastic compound, where they served the monks by producing textiles.74 John’s critics are quoted as saying, ‘Through a ruse you have brought what is yours to this place, so that you may own it freely here and can even take better care of it here than you in your home. Look, you have turned this monks’ cloister into a poor women’s house’.75 John of Saint-Arnoul brings no closure to the story, except to say that he bore these accusations without anger and in silence. The other anecdote about John alleges that his mediocritas (literally his ‘middling status’) triggered a response from those whose status in the world was higher. Despite John’s lack of ‘nobility of the flesh’ (nobilitas carnis), Einold initially made him responsible for managing the abbey’s estate on account of his personal talents in that field.76 However as soon as the original group of seven was expanded with new recruits, John’s status changed dramatically. Adalbero’s uncle Frederic became the abbey’s provost and John (whom Frederic openly treated as someone of lower rank) became his assistant.77 Over the course of the next decade John was given a range of roles to play at the monastery that seemingly belied his status as co-founder of the renewed Gorze community. These included that of kitchen aid, gardener, cellarer, vestiarius (responsible of the monks’ clothing), circuitor (night guard and organizer of the day order), porter, and dean: several of these roles, the text notes, were below John’s rank.78 The idea of Gorze Abbey as a meritocratic utopia where adult converts could be given roles strictly on the basis of their talents and their zeal for learning had turned out to be an illusion, so the biographer clearly lets his readers understand. Post-934 the abbey of Gorze thus emerges from the Life as a moral arena in which its principal protagonists are challenged to display their mastery of the virtues of humility and patience as part of an effort to avoid a catastrophic process of community unbuilding. This challenge, it argues, emerged in light of social tensions that continuously put the monastic community at risk of splintering into elite, middling, and lower-class cohorts. However the text actually does more than this. It plausibly suggests that Einold relied on the virtues of humility and patience specifically to build community, by harnessing the social ambitions and nurturing the talents of the abbey’s diverse crowd of adult converts, particularly of those individuals whose talents were obvious but whose ascent to leading positions was compromised by their pre-conversion background. John, we already saw, was one such figure. Although he clearly had the talent and the ambition to be the abbey’s estate manager and temporarily took up that role in 934, it took a decade and a half before 74

VJ, pp. 256, 258. VJ, pp. 322, 324: ‘Tua huc subdolus contraxisti, ut liberius ea hic possideres et melius quam domi sufficeres hic procurares. Ecce egeneceum claustrum monachorum fecisti’. 76 VJ, p. 254. 77 VJ, pp. 256, 318, 320. 78 VJ, pp. 314, 316, 318, 324, 326; and Cartulaire, no. 100, p. 186. 75



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he was formally appointed as the abbey’s provost.79 First impressions suggest that Einold decided to test John’s patience and humility by giving him a series of lowly roles in the cloister. Yet if we take a closer look at some of the other duties John performed post-935, it becomes plausible that Einold put him through a cursus honorum of major supporting and managerial roles in anticipation of attaining the stressful and high-stakes position of provost. The functions of vestiarius, circuitor, and porter, in particular, were crucial to the internal management of convent life and the monitoring of the monks’ interactions with the outside world. Another likely reason for putting John’s ascent on hold was that Einold realized that the office of provost required its holder to be particularly resilient and perhaps a little more mature than John had been on entering the monastic life. From the onset, Bishop Adalbero despite his role as the abbey’s ‘restorer’ had been a formidable adversary, especially when it came to matters touching on the integrity of the abbey’s estate and the restitution of alienated properties.80 Presumably there was also the problem that the bishop was ill-disposed towards John on account of the latter’s association with Ricuin and (possibly) Adalbert.81 One effect of bringing humility and patience centre stage in his governance approach – whether or not Einold was aware of this – was to eventually advantage the community’s lesser-ranked and junior members. The advancement of some high-status individuals early on – Gorze becoming a mere station towards a career in another of Lotharingia’s monasteries – in time cleared the path for others. By the middle of the 940s, Salecho, Frederic, Odilo, and Humbert were gone, having been recruited to become abbot at (respectively) Saint-Martin-outre-Moselle, Saint-Hubert, Stavelot-Malmédy, and Saint-Evre in Toul.82 Three further Gorze monks who had left were Heribert, whom Adalbero of Metz made abbot of Saint-Arnoul in 942; Ansteus, who succeeded Heribert in 944; and Erluin, who became abbot of Gembloux and Soignies.83 About five years later Andreas left for Rome, where he had been called by the pope to direct (along with a monk of Luxeuil) an intervention at the abbey of San Paolo fuori le Mura.84 This exodus of high-status individuals gave lower ranked monks, including John himself, the opportunity to gradually work their way up the ranks and gain crucial experience in the process. It is unfortunate that, due to the Life’s abrupt ending, we do not know how this strategy played out in the second half of Einold’s tenure, and under what circumstances John abandoned his coveted post as provost in the early part of the 950s to go on a diplomatic mission for the emperor. Had he been able to finish his biog79

Cartulaire, no. 105, p. 193. E. Boshof, ‘Kloster und Bischof in Lotharingen’, Monastische Reformen im 9. und 10. Jahrhundert, ed. R. Kottje and H. Maurer (Sigmaringen, 1989), pp. 197–245, at 219–21; Nightingale, Monasteries, pp. 78–82, 85, 93. Barely one year after entering Gorze the monks threatened to relocate to the abbey of Sankt Maximin in Trier; VJ, pp. 378, 380; P. C. Jacobsen, Miracula s. Gorgonii. Studien und Texte zur Gorgonius-Verehrung im 10. Jahrhundert (Hanover, 2009), p. 116. 81 VJ, pp. 373–84. 82 VJ, pp. 272, 276, 278; Wagner, Gorze, p. 32. 83 M. Müller, Am Schnittpunkt von Stadt und Land. Die Benediktinerabtei St. Arnulf zu Metz im hohen und späten Mittelalter (Trier, 1993), p. 17; Wagner, Gorze, p. 32. 84 VJ, p. 274; G. Barone, ‘Gorze e Cluny a Roma’, Retour aux sources: textes, études et documents d’histoire médiévale offerts à Michel Parisse, ed. S. Gouguenheim (Paris, 2004), pp. 583–90. 80

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raphy, John of Saint-Arnoul would probably have made his account of those years just as selective and just as profoundly biased as the text that currently survives. Conclusions John of Saint-Arnoul’s Life of John of Gorze emerges from the analysis in this paper as a carefully crafted portrait of John and the early ‘reformed’ abbey of Gorze for an audience living in the 970s–80s, at a point in time when living memories of the man and his social and religious milieus were beginning to fade. The unusual discourse of this biography, its elliptical argument, and its unfinished state all limit our ability as modern observers to understand what end the author had in mind. Yet paradoxically, these same features also allow us to see where he intervened in the biographical memory of John and the institutional memory of the abbey, and to rely on contextual evidence to speculate as to why. In the first part of the text, which deals with John’s life prior to monasticism, the author did his best to represent him as a free agent who autonomously chose the secular and religious communities he engaged with and depended on his own preferences and ambitions to trade one for the other. In the second part, which covers John’s post-conversion years until the early 950s, his aim was to celebrate Gorze’s post-934 triumph as a self-made community of virtuoso ascetics and at the same time also to highlight the social tensions that brought that community to the brink of collapsing. As such the Life gives centre stage to processes of community un/building, which makes it a testimony of first importance for scholars’ ongoing efforts to formulate an alternative account of tenth-century social and religious change. However its significance in that respect must also be nuanced, as the author’s drastic interventions in real-life memories yielded an account of those processes that was both biased and highly selective. Exactly how representative this literary approach was in the decades on either side of the year 1000 remains to be understood. Further case studies will help us to understand whether authors typically described and explained religious change in this way in Lotharingia and other parts of the Latin West, including in England.

The Christine Mahany Memorial Lecture

THE MONEYERS AND DOMESDAY BOOK

1

Rory Naismith Domesday Book presents the digested results of a systematic survey of landholding in England, probably conceived at the end of 1085 and carried to fruition over the next year or so. To show legitimate succession of tenure, it also incorporates information about holdings at the end of the reign of Edward the Confessor (1042–66).2 The Domesday project is one of the most ambitious governmental undertakings of the Middle Ages, and its contents provide a solid bedrock on which to base studies of many aspects of eleventh-century England. However this information represents the product of a precise set of inquiries focused strongly on rural property and its value, which translated into its fiscal liability: the survey is structured by shire, and within each shire by the lands of each of the ‘tenants in chief’ of 1086 (i.e. those who held land direct from the king), usually organized by hundred. Other aspects of contemporary society impinged on the survey but were of tangential interest and so were treated inconsistently, and generally much less fully. Towns fell into this category, as did details of the monetary system.3 The presence of moneyers or minting was noted among the customs of twenty-nine locations, ten in connection with conditions under Edward, fourteen in 1086 and five in both (Map 1).4 Actual coins show that this record is only partial: about three times that many locations had been named on coins in the decades before and after the Norman Conquest. Most 1

I am grateful to Stephen Church for allowing me to speak at relatively short notice in what proved to be a highly stimulating and enjoyable event. I am also thankful to all those present, whose questions and subsequent discussion provided much food for thought; other comments on a written draft came from Martin Allen and Hugh Pagan. The work behind this paper was supported by the Arts and Humanities Research Council grant ‘Foundations of Gold and Silver’ (AH/S005498/1). 2 The survey and its background are the subject of a whole sub-field of scholarship. Major studies with guidance on the earlier literature include S. Baxter, ‘The Domesday Controversy: a Review and a New Interpretation’, HSJ 29 (2017), pp. 225–93; S. Baxter, ‘How and Why was Domesday Made?’, EHR 135 (2020), pp. 1085–131; D. Roffe, Domesday: the Inquest and the Book (Oxford, 2000); D. Roffe, Decoding Domesday (Woodbridge, 2007); S. Harvey, Domesday: Book of Judgement (Oxford, 2014). 3 S. Reynolds, ‘Towns in Domesday Book’, 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), pp. 295–309; Roffe, Decoding Domesday, pp. 109–43; J. Munby, ‘The Domesday Boroughs Revisited’, ANS 33 (2011), pp. 127–49; H. C. Darby, Domesday England (Cambridge, 1977), pp. 289–320. 4 Darby, Domesday England, pp. 319–20 and 371; P. Grierson, ‘Domesday Book, the Geld de Moneta and Monetagium: a Forgotten Minting Reform’, BNJ 55 (1985), pp. 84–94 at pp. 85–7.

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Map 1: Mint-places referred to in Domesday Book.

but not all of the mint-places were among the 112 locations described as towns in Domesday Book (Map 2).5 Moreover, even where the Domesday survey does refer to minting or moneyers, it usually gives just a terse statement about how much

5

Darby, Domesday England, p. 297. There are also numerous unidentified mint-places: R. Naismith, Medieval European Coinage, with a Catalogue of the Coins in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge. 8: Britain and Ireland c. 400–1066 (Cambridge, 2017), pp. 346–51.



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Map 2: All mint-places active in England (and latterly Wales) between the early 970s and 1100. income was produced for the king.6 Only in one case (Oxford) is a moneyer named as such, and then only in his capacity as a landholder within the town.7 6

Moneyers in 1066 typically owed one mark a year, and a pound for new dies at each recoinage (with some variation), while those of 1086 owed the equivalent of about £5 each per annum, now sometimes referred to as monetagium: Grierson, ‘Domesday Book’, 87–91; Harvey, Domesday, pp. 147–9. 7 GDB, f. 154a, referring to Suetman monetarius.

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Even this information is valuable given how little is known about the monetary system beyond the coins themselves. Yet Domesday Book has the potential to make a second, indirect, contribution to knowledge of the coinage. It names thousands of individuals who held property in England, running the gamut from the king, major aristocrats and leading ecclesiastics down to very small-scale landholders, many of whom must reflect better-to-do members of the peasantry.8 Most are described only by name, with no overt indication of office, status or occupation. In principle, they could include moneyers.9 Moneyers were individuals charged with responsibility for the manufacture and exchange of coin. Every coin carried the name of the moneyer and (after the 970s) the location where he was based. Moneyers constituted an integral feature of the English minting system, which was predicated on obtaining currency from a known individual who could be tracked down and held liable for defective coin, should the need arise. The mint-name on coins served only as a means to help identify the location of the relevant moneyer. Overall, more than two thousand moneyers are named on English coins of the late tenth and eleventh centuries, at about 121 locations.10 With precious few exceptions, these moneyers were male.11 Their issues can be assigned to successive kings and to a relative chronology within each reign, as coins were subject to recoinage or type-change on a frequent basis.12 However, evidence for the highly regular pattern of recoinages advocated by Michael Dolley is limited, and the specific dates he assigned to individual issues are

8

R. Faith, The English Peasantry and the Growth of Lordship (London, 1997), pp. 201–23; S. Baxter and C. P. Lewis, ‘Domesday Book and the transformation of English landed society, 1066–86’, ASE 46 (2017), pp. 343–403, esp. pp. 358–9. 9 On occupational and other bynames in this period, see G. Tengvik, Old English Bynames (Uppsala, 1938); and O. von Feilitzen, ‘The Personal Names and Bynames of the Winton Domesday’, Winchester in the Early Middle Ages: an Edition and Discussion of the Winton Domesday, ed. M. Biddle (Oxford, 1976), pp. 143–229. 10 Beginning with the reform of Edgar’s coinage, late in his reign. Totals are based on K. Jonsson and G. van der Meer, ‘Mints and Moneyers c. 973–1066’, Studies in Late AngloSaxon Coinage in Memory of Bror Emil Hildebrand, ed. K. Jonsson (Stockholm, 1990), pp. 47–136; and M. R. Allen, ‘The Mints and Moneyers of England and Wales, 1066–1158’, BNJ 82 (2012), pp. 54–120 at p. 65. For mint-places see Naismith, Medieval European Coinage, pp. 337–51; and Allen, ‘Mints and Moneyers’, pp. 63–5. This total includes at least four mintplaces established in Wales after 1066. 11 One or possibly two female names are recorded, though it is entirely possible that women played important roles behind the scenes: E. Screen, ‘Female moneyers revisited: gender and coin production in late Anglo-Saxon England’, Interpreting Early Medieval Coinage: Studies in Memory of Stewart Lyon, ed. M. Allen, R. Naismith, and H. Pagan (London, 2022), pp. 149–58. 12 There is much to commend the idea that old types were not demonetised, but rather that the current type was required for certain payments to royal officials. It consequently enjoyed preferential treatment in circulation, alongside a layer of older coin only sometimes included in hoards. See P. Grierson, ‘Numismatics and the Historian’, Numismatic Chronicle, 7th series, 2 (1962), pp. i–xiv at pp. ix–xiii; I. Stewart, ‘Coinage and Recoinage after Edgar’s Reform’, Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage, ed. Jonsson, pp. 455–85, at 463–8; Allen, ‘Mints and Moneyers of England and Wales’, p. 38; H. O. Fairbairn, ‘The Nature and Limits of the Money Economy in Late Anglo-Saxon and Early Norman England’, unpublished PhD thesis (University of London, 2013), pp. 321–9.



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no longer generally accepted.13 Approximate dates along the lines of ‘early 1050s’ or ‘mid-/late 1070s’ are now seen as preferable.14 The monetary system that developed in late tenth- and eleventh-century England thus combined robust centralisation with deep local roots, and one of the key questions that might be answered with Domesday is just what form those roots took, for the vast majority of moneyers are known only from their coins. Almost nothing is known about their station in society. Working just from the coins, moreover, poses a risk of circularity: because moneyers are known from pieces of money naming (usually) towns, it is tempting to reduce their status to these essentials, and picture them as a commercial, urban clique. This assumption can be challenged by comparing the complement of moneyers with landholders in Domesday, to see how much overlap there might be between the two. There is every reason to expect some degree of crossover. Moneyers and Domesday landholders were active at the same time and in the same general area. The little information that does survive about moneyers suggests people of some standing.15 If moneyers do occur among Domesday landholders, they might be seen as part of landholding society, with tenurial and social connections in the countryside and with aristocratic networks of lordship, extending out into the hinterland of the towns where they minted. If not, the inference could be drawn that they operated on a separate and more modest level, not of course completely outside wider hierarchies, but less embedded in power structures based on rural landholding. In practice, comparison with Domesday suggests that there was no single profile for the moneyers, and that some may have conformed to both these models, as well as to others. Problems and possibilities with the underlying material Although important observations on the possible occurrence of moneyers in Domesday Book have been made since Sir Francis Hill’s study of medieval Lincoln in the 1940s,16 two major difficulties until recently impeded research on the issue. One relates to the coinage itself, and the absence of a reliable, comprehensive guide to the moneyers who worked in England between the 970s and 1100. However between the 1980s and 2010s, a full and generally reliable record of known moneyers was achieved for the whole period.17 There remain areas where the surviving corpus 13

Stewart, ‘Coinage and Recoinage’, pp. 471–9; R. Naismith, ‘The Coinage of Æthelred II: a New Evaluation’, English Studies 97 (2016), pp. 117–39 at pp. 125–32. 14 M. R. Allen, ‘Coinage and Currency under William I and William II’, Early Medieval Monetary History: Studies in Memory of Mark Blackburn, ed. R. Naismith, M. Allen, and E. Screen (Farnham, 2014), pp. 85–112, at 90–4; Naismith, Medieval European Coinage, pp. 221–35. 15 Naismith, Medieval European Coinage, pp. 240–3. 16 J. W. F. Hill, Medieval Lincoln (Cambridge, 1948), p. 40. Major recent studies of the topic include H. Tsurushima, ‘The Moneyers of Kent in the Long Eleventh Century’, The English and their Legacy 900–1200: Essays in Honour of Ann Williams, ed. D. Roffe (Woodbridge, 2012), pp. 33–60; and especially D. Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners in Government? Domesday Moneyers’, Studies in Western History 269 (2020), pp. 1–17, which undertakes a similar exercise to the present study. 17 The single most helpful source for the period down to 1066 is Jonsson and van der Meer, ‘Mints and Moneyers’. For Edward the Confessor’s reign see also A. Freeman, The Moneyer and the Mint in the Reign of Edward the Confessor, 1042–1066 (Oxford, 1985); and for

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is deficient, though these are now more readily identifiable. New coins frequently come to light that add a new type to the output of a known moneyer, or more rarely reveal a completely new moneyer or mint-place; one recent find has produced the first known example of a recognisable street name on a coin.18 There are also some difficulties of attribution arising from incomplete or ambiguous inscriptions, or poor early records. Furthermore, the possibility exists that moneyers with an extremely long period of activity (sometimes more than fifty years) actually represent two or more individuals with the same name.19 On the whole, though, the body of moneyers has been closely studied, and it is possible to arrive at a good appraisal of their number and distribution. The second difficulty relates to the information in Domesday Book. Its mass of data – some 29,000 pieces of property held by people bearing about 1,800 different names20 – was for a long time an impassable obstacle to large-scale prosopographical research. There was no way to be confident whether all the individuals with common names like Godric or Leofwine represented separate landholders, or the same person mentioned many times. The PASE Domesday database achieved a breakthrough by applying rigorous, systematic principles to arrive at more or less probable identifications within this mass: starting from landholders of the same

Winchester, Y. Harvey et al., ‘Catalogue and Die-Analysis of the Winchester Mint-Signed Coins’, The Winchester Mint and Coins and Related Finds from the Excavations of 1961–71, ed. M. Biddle (Oxford, 2012), pp. 86–577. On the Pacx and Expanding Cross types, see H. Pagan, ‘The Pacx type of Edward the Confessor’, BNJ 81 (2011), pp. 9–106; and H. Pagan, ‘Mints and moneyers of the Expanding Cross type of Edward the Confessor’, British Numismatic Society research blog, 27 March 2021, https://britnumsoc.blog/2021/03/27/mints-andmoneyers-of-the-expanding-cross-type-of-edward-the-confessor-hugh-pagan/ (accessed 5 June 2021). For the period after 1066, see M. R. Allen, ‘The Mints and Moneyers of England and Wales, 1066–1158: Addenda and Corrigenda’, BNJ 86 (2016), pp. 164–90; M. R. Allen, ‘Mints and Moneyers, 1066–1135’, Interpreting Early Medieval Coinage: Studies in Honour of Stewart Lyon, ed. M. R. Allen, H. Pagan, and R. Naismith (London, 2022), pp. 159–201; and M. R. Allen, ‘Mints and Moneyers’ (2012). Select additional coins from EMC and PAS have also been taken into consideration. 18 R. Ambrose and R. Naismith, ‘“Eadwold on Eastcheap, London”: a Street-Name on a Late Anglo-Saxon Penny’, BNJ 90 (2020), pp. 202–9. 19 The chance of there being multiple moneyers in the same mint-place with the same name increases significantly among those with the most popular names of the period (e.g. Ælfric, Godwine, Leofwine, Wulfwine), and one recent study of English naming practices has shown a rise in popularity of common names over the eleventh century (J. Chetwood, ‘Re-Evaluating English Personal Naming on the Eve of the Conquest’, EME 26 (2018), pp. 518–47). There may well have been members of the same family who worked as moneyers (e.g. J. Piercy, The Moneyers of England, 973–1086: Labour Organisation in Late Anglo-Saxon and Early Anglo-Norman English Mints (Oxford, 2019), pp. 40–4), but they are less likely to have held the same full name: alliteration and variation were more common ways of indicating familial ties, and when names were repeated, it was generally across three generations (i.e. children being named after grandparents): H. B. Woolf, The Old Germanic Principles of Name-Giving (Baltimore, 1939), esp. pp. 254–9. One of the few known cases of probable father and son moneyers, Wælhrafn and Agemund at Lincoln, displays none of these naming patterns. 20 Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, p. 346.



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name, other criteria were compared, such as who the lord (if any) was in the time of King Edward, or who held the land in 1086, on the understanding that blocks of land held together in 1066 tended to be held together twenty years later. For the first time, it was possible to gain a general sense of the wealth of individual landholders, and of how many there probably were.21 The following study generally accepts the identifications arrived at in PASE Domesday.22 Comparing Domesday and the moneyers: methodology Advances in the accessibility and reliability of underlying databases nonetheless leave delicate questions about how the moneyers and the Domesday landholders might be matched up. The core problem is how to negotiate a sliding scale of probability, and the approach adopted here takes account of multiple possible identifications where applicable, and allows for differing levels of confidence. Full results are presented in the appendices. The criteria used to identify potential matches between moneyers and landholders are as follows: • They must possess the same name. There is some room for debate on this point, as the Domesday scribes did not always reproduce names using the same orthographic norms as contemporary die-cutters.23 Both also sometimes contain errors or ambiguities. Nonetheless, in most cases it is possible to determine with a high degree of confidence which names correspond. Partially legible coin inscriptions have been excluded. • The Domesday individual must have held land within twenty miles of the place where the moneyer worked (usually a town). This distance is chosen to represent the upper limit of a day’s journey. Those who held land within thirty miles are also noted but as less likely possibilities. It is possible that even quite minor landholders could possess much more scattered property. A twelfth-century document from Westminster incorporates information about grants to the abbey by citizens of London under Edward and William, some of whom owned land as far afield as Hampshire and Wiltshire; had these individuals been moneyers in London but recorded in Domesday only as landholders in those shires, there would have been no way to connect them.24 The upshot is that identifications based on the location of land in relation to mint21

The strategy used in PASE Domesday set the bar high for determining that two landholders by the same name represent the same individual. ‘False positives’ are therefore highly unlikely, but the possibility exists of ‘false negatives’, in which the same landholder is identified as two or more distinct individuals. 22 David Roffe has also constructed a personal database around similar principles. 23 O. von Feilitzen, The Pre-Conquest Personal Names of Domesday Book (Uppsala, 1937), pp. 36–7 discusses the relationship of the two. For general guidance on moneyers’ names, see V. Smart, Cumulative Index of Volumes 1–20, Sylloge of Coins of the British Isles 28 (London, 1981) and Cumulative Index of Volumes 21–40, Sylloge of Coins of the British Isles 41 (Oxford, 1992). Note that different systems of orthography prevail in modern scholarship for representation of moneyers’ names before and after 1066: earlier names tend to be given in a normalized Old English form, while those from after are more often recorded with the most common form (or forms) seen on the coins. 24 This information comes from Regesta: William I, no. 290. The document is a forgery that purports to be a confirmation by William I of Westminster’s possessions, but it summarises

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places should be taken as minimal estimates, missing a possible level of more widespread landholding. On the whole, however, a more local distribution of property within one or two shires seems to have been common except among landowners of considerable stature.25 • The Domesday individual must have held land in the same period as the moneyer. Domesday Book gives information about landholdings at two (sometimes three) dates: in the time of King Edward (tempore regis Eaduuardi, TRE) or, as some versions of the survey put it more specifically, on 4/5 January 1066, ‘the day King Edward was alive and dead’;26 ‘now’ (modo), meaning the time of the survey and writing up of its results in (probably) 1086;27 and occasionally when the land was acquired by its current holder at an unspecified point in the intervening period.28 Because of the consolidation of property into a smaller number of hands by 1086, largely those of the high aristocracy, there are significantly more landholders and potential moneyers named for 1066 than in the later year. The profiles of landholding society in the two periods are therefore very different. To reflect this, the corpus of moneyers has been broken down into two roughly equal chronological sections: an earlier tranche includes 729 moneyers working between Edward’s first coinage in 1042 and the third type of William I, tentatively dated to the early 1070s;29 and a later one that includes 410 moneyers working between William’s fourth coin type and the death of William II in 1100. About 121 moneyers continued from the earlier period into the later.30 The appendices to this study note instances of moneyers who probably worked in both periods; they also record moneyers active in one period who find a match with Domesday landholders in the ‘wrong’ corresponding period (e.g. a moneyer active only in the earlier phase but whose name matches that of a landholder only recorded for 1086). Again, these are normally treated as possible but unlikely matches. • Finally, certain figures in Domesday Book are excluded from consideration: the king, the earls, bishops, and abbots. There is no evidence that men of this standing would have operated as moneyers (and, as will be seen, it is also doubtful whether even the wealthier thegns did so). Mints and moneyers from regions outside the remit of Domesday (including the far north of England and most of Wales) have not been considered; nor have coins of uncertain a number of small grants by cives Lundonienses in the time of Edward and William that are more credible. 25 Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, pp. 356–7. 26 This formulation (ea die qua rex Eduuardus fuit uiuus et mortuus) is encountered many times in Exon Domesday (Exeter, Cathedral Library, MS 3500), now most accessible at https://www.exondomesday.ac.uk/ (accessed 3 February 2023). Most sources give 5 January as the date for his death, though some (including the Vita Ædwardi regis) give 4 January; Frank Barlow (Edward the Confessor, 2nd edn (New Haven, 1997), p. 250) suggested this meant some point in the night of 4/5 January. 27 On the compilation process, see now Baxter, ‘How and Why’. 28 Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 3. 29 The dates of William I’s types remain provisional; those given here derive from Allen, ‘Coinage and Currency’, pp. 91–2. 30 There are somewhat more cases where the same name occurs in both phases, but with a long enough gap in between (taken here as three types or more) that they are unlikely to represent the same individual.



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attribution. A small number of moneyers placed bynames on their coins; these have generally been omitted, as Veronica Smart’s detailed study has already established that none overlap with bynames in Domesday (where they are, in any case, recorded only intermittently).31 Three levels of confidence have been identified in these matches of moneyers and Domesday landholders. Probable matches are those for which a generally persuasive case can be made, meaning that they not only fit all the criteria above and apply to just one moneyer and one Domesday individual, but that there is no substantive point against the identification, and often there is some other piece of contextual evidence that commends the fit. There are a few special cases that are deficient in one or two respects but so compelling in others, such as an extremely rare name, that they are also considered probable. 122 moneyers can be matched with 123 Domesday landholders on this basis, including a few cases of the same Domesday individual being associated with multiple moneyers, or a single moneyer being associated with multiple PASE Domesday landholders (but with a good chance that all represent the same person). Plausible matches also fit all the criteria above, but have more limited contextual backing, or it is impossible to determine which among several plausible PASE matches is the correct one (and there are no strong grounds for thinking that they all represent one person). 184 moneyers find plausible matches in Domesday, among 438 Domesday individuals, meaning that on average there are more than two plausible matches per moneyer. Finally, possible matches are more tentative. The landholder’s known property might lie further away from the mint-place, or they might be active in a different period to the moneyer’s known activity. 153 moneyers present possible matches with 196 Domesday individuals – with the caveat that these matches have only been noted where there are no probable or plausible cases: sometimes there are other ‘possible’ matches in addition to ‘plausible’ ones. Details of all probable, plausible, and possible matches are laid out in Appendix 1 and Appendix 2, for moneyers associated with 1066 and 1086 respectively, while Appendix 3 offers more detailed discussion of each of the ‘probable’ cases. Each appendix also includes selected references to other possible documentary attestations of these moneyers, in sources including Winton Domesday and charters. The moneyers in Domesday: wealth and status It is in the nature of Domesday Book that its information about the potential moneyers who appear in its pages concerns land-based wealth: where they held property, how much, and what it was worth. The first of these points is fixed by the parameters of the present study to within twenty miles of a mint-town (or twenty to thirty with a lower degree of confidence). Moneyers who held land far away from the place where they made coin will not be detectable using the methodology employed here, and indeed it is difficult to see how they might be identified at all, unless they have an exceptionally rare name, or if the same Norman successor took over the land of several potential moneyers.32

31

V. Smart, ‘Osulf Thein and Others: Double Moneyer’s Names on the Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage’, Studies in Late Anglo-Saxon Coinage, ed. Jonsson, pp. 435–53; see also Tengvik, Old English Bynames. 32 An approach used productively in Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’.

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Potential moneyers held highly varied amounts of land. Domesday figures with ‘probable’ or ‘plausible’ matches to moneyers have here been divided into three broad bands of wealth (Fig. 3). At the top end are those with an income from land of £50 a year or more. This is a very small group, and includes only three of the probable moneyers. A slightly larger number of plausible Domesday landholders lie in this bracket (and include some extremely wealthy individuals, like Beorhtric son of Ælfgar at Exeter or Ulf Fenisc at Lincoln, with an income of £637 and nearly £460 respectively), though usually with other, smaller scale possibilities for the same moneyer. It is unlikely that men of this stature – who must have been leading figures within at least one shire and often several – served as moneyers, at least when they had reached a peak of prosperity and power. There are rather more potential moneyers in an intermediary group with incomes of between £5 and £50. This includes thirty-seven of the probable moneyers (30 per cent), and a further eightythree plausible moneyers (19 per cent). But the largest group consisted of those with the lowest wealth, below £5, which accounted for eighty-one probable moneyers (67 per cent) and 324 plausible moneyers (74 per cent). An appreciable number of both probable and plausible moneyers actually had no recorded income: these were most often urban tenants, such as those recorded in large numbers at Colchester.33 Figure 1 represents these major divisions across the probable and plausible moneyers. This distribution of wealth suggests two things about the moneyers. The first is that they were a highly diverse body. Some, in the wealthy and middling groups, held relatively valuable and extensive property, with sake and soke: a prestigious form of landholding that entitled the bearer to certain customs held over from largescale estates of earlier times, such as from fines.34 Secondly, the moneyers should not be thought of as operating in separate urban and rural spheres. Both were highly porous, urban wealth being fed by rural production, some of it guided by seigneurial action or elite demand, and then often channelled back into the countryside through the purchase or improvement of land, or expenditure on peasant produce.35 Moneyers might represent thegns or other important figures in local society whose whole life had been spent moving back and forth between town and country, with different kinds of property or interest to take care of in each. To be a moneyer sometimes meant sitting down with hammer and furnace, but not always; it also meant being the one who presided over and underwrote the process, and who brokered deals with patrons in need of new coin. Even potential moneyers of lesser resources could have worked in this way, if on a smaller scale and with less in the way of staff and support,36 for holders of even small amounts of land recorded in Domesday would still have represented people of substance in

33

For which, see p. 261. Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, pp. 1, 3, and 9. On the nature of sake and soke, see S. Baxter, The Earls of Mercia: Lordship and Power in Late Anglo-Saxon England (Oxford, 2007), pp. 210–12; N. Karn, Kings, Lords and Courts in Anglo-Norman England (Woodbridge, 2020), pp. 62–70. 35 R. Fleming, ‘Rural Elites and Urban Communities in Late-Saxon England’, Past and Present 141 (1993), pp. 3–37; see also R. Naismith, ‘The Ely Memoranda and the Economy of the Late Anglo-Saxon Fenland’, ASE 45 (2017), pp. 333–77, esp. pp. 351 and 358–9. 36 For the employees (suboperarii) of moneyers, see IV Æthelred 9.1 (A. J. Robertson, ed. and trans., The Laws of the Kings of England from Edmund to Henry I (Cambridge, 1925), pp. 76–7). 34



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Fig. 1: Distribution of wealth among probable and plausible moneyers recorded in Domesday. the context of their own village or hundred, with ties to locally influential thegns or churches. How moneyers fitted into the human landscape of the eleventh century in practice is difficult to grasp, yet key to understanding the monetary system. The organisation of coin production at this time placed the initiative in the hands of patrons, who would arrange the exchange or production of coin on a personal basis with the moneyers. That means the real business of minting was inextricably woven into social networks. A single prominent patron, or a small group of associated patrons, most likely lurks behind the work of most moneyers. A small number of moneyers are known from Domesday and other sources to have had a more formal relationship of this kind with a bishop, abbot, or layman.37 Other potential moneyers identified with the criteria used here can be seen from Domesday to have been immersed in networks of lordship and land tenure. These, and any other ties that linked moneyers to well-resourced patrons, surely represented the foundation of demand for minting, be it in response to recoinages, to fulfil fiscal obligations, or to meet private needs.38 From this basis moneyers could facilitate wider access to fresh coin, including to other friends, family, and dependants of the same lord, sideways to the moneyer’s own family or peers, or downwards to a moneyer’s men and tenants.39 Understood in these terms, minting could be compatible with relatively elevated rank or status. Thus Earnwig ‘of Tarrington’, one of the probable moneyers based in Hereford in 1066, was a thegn (tain[us]) who held one of his properties at Ashperton, Herefordshire, of Earl Harold, while on this land there were two bordars, four male 37

See below, n. 63. For more discussion of the many and complex reasons why coins were made at this time, see R. Naismith, Making Money in the Early Middle Ages (Princeton, 2023), chapters 3–4. 39 For general discussion see Baxter, Earls of Mercia, esp. pp. 204–25; Karn, Lords and Courts, esp. pp. 28–50. 38

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slaves, and two female slaves. Theoretically Earnwig could have minted for Earl Harold if and when he had need, or for other men and agents of him in the vicinity, of whom there were many. He could, alternatively, have done so for the tenants of Ashperton, and potentially their neighbours, though the earl and his circle very probably provided the backbone of demand. Interests and involvements along such lines might explain the appearance of the same moneyer at multiple mint-places, as they moved to negotiate the social, economic, and fiscal dimensions of their extended network.40 Travel within a region – to attend meetings, oversee property, undertake obligations for lords, and generally hobnob with patrons or peers – was a constant of life in Anglo-Saxon and Norman England, especially for those with any degree of land and power.41 In Lantfred’s Translatio et miracula S. Swithuni, written in the late tenth century, an unnamed but wealthy and generous Winchester moneyer took in a severely disabled visitor to the city, and asked his guest to accompany him whenever he travelled ‘for a feast’ (ad conuiuium), sometimes near but sometimes so far that the pair had to ride on horseback.42 Most of this business took place in settlements now categorised as towns, and minting was often associated with the regulation of towns and markets.43 That is not necessarily to say that minting and towns were all driven by a commercial logic. These areas could have been treated together because they involved acts of exchange that hinged on openness and control, between people with very varied levels of trust and familiarity. Some minting doubtless was commercial, in that it related to the business of merchants. That would have been especially the case in major centres of long-distance trade like London or York. Indeed, there is no need to imagine a break between ‘social’ and ‘market’ minting: commerce of any substance and regularity may well have been closer to the network model described above, founded on bonds between clients and patrons who knew each other, than to an open and anonymous market of the form familiar in modern societies.44 Retail trade developed too, at least as economic complexity and layers of demand 40

As in the case of Hunwine in the southwest during the decades around 1000: M. Blackburn, ‘The Mint of Watchet’, BNJ 44 (1974), pp. 13–38 at pp. 19–22. Another likely possibility is Widia (quite probably also identical with Godwine Widia), active at London, Steyning, and Winchester between about the 1020s and 1050s: V. J. Smart, ‘Moneyers of the Late AngloSaxon Coinage 1016–1042’, unpublished PhD thesis (University of Nottingham, 1981), p. 26. 41 A. Reynolds and A. Langlands, ‘Travel as Communication: a Consideration of Overland Journeys in Anglo-Saxon England’, World Archaeology 43 (2011), pp. 410–27; see also A. Williams, The World before Domesday: the English Aristocracy 900–1066 (London, 2008), pp. 39–61 for numerous examples of thegns moving within both regional and national landscapes. 42 Lantfred, ‘Translatio et miracula s. Swithuni’, c. 2, The Cult of St Swithun, ed. and trans. M. Lapidge (Oxford, 2003), pp. 266–7. 43 For towns, trade, and minting in (for example) the laws of Æthelstan (924–39), see P. Wormald, The Making of English Law: King Alfred to the Twelfth Century. Volume I: Legislation and its Limits (Oxford, 1999), pp. 290–305. On the vexed question of urban status in the age of Domesday, see S. Reynolds, ‘Towns in Domesday Book’, 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), pp. 295–309. 44 Although on a later period, the point is well made in M. C. Howell, Commerce before Capitalism in Europe, 1300–1600 (Cambridge, 2010), pp. 8–13.



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increased in the eleventh century, and it did sometimes pit stranger against stranger in the marketplace, if still within a framework that was far from capitalistic in approach.45 Yet although people did increasingly use coin in such settings, minting demanded a more personalised interaction founded on trust and reputation on both sides. Most moneyers probably did not function like eleventh-century retail banks or cash machines that anyone could walk up to and call on – and if they did, those moneyers probably had to impose a poorer rate of exchange on them, to compensate for the added level of risk. Towns, and the small number of other places not identified as towns that served as mint-places (such as Blythburgh in Suffolk),46 need to be seen in this context as places not just for buying and selling, but where people in the surrounding territory came together to do public business of various kinds; as a law-code of Æthelstan put it, those ‘who belong to London’ mattered more as a group than those who actually dwelt in London.47 There is no need to assume that moneyers – even moneyers who held property in a town – were permanent residents. Indeed, minting was not necessarily a long-term or continuous activity. Appendix 3 is rich in moneyers who worked briefly or intermittently, if surviving coins are any guide. One very likely occurrence of a moneyer in Domesday Book is Beorn: a moneyer at Wareham in Dorset and a modest landholder in 1066 at Knowle in the shadow of Corfe Castle, some four miles away from the mint-town. On present evidence, Beorn is known as a moneyer in just one issue late in the reign of Edward the Confessor. He represents a figure who was probably not primarily a moneyer and operated in this capacity for only a brief period: it is conceivable, if in no way provable, that his contribution to minting was driven by a specific, one-off set of circumstances. Staying in Dorset, another highly probable moneyer who appears in Domesday is Hwætman, who held land both under Edward and William. The name is extremely rare, and unlikely to represent two or more individuals. Hwætman apparently issued coins at both Bridport and Dorchester, with a flurry of activity in the period from about 1040 to the early 1050s, then a break until Harold II’s brief reign in 1066, and a further break until William I type 5, around 1080, but in no subsequent types, even though he was still there in 1086. It is possible that more of his coins will appear to plug some of these gaps, but on the face of it Hwætman represents a moneyer with a punctuated, on-off pattern of work. Many moneyers might only have minted coins at an early 45

Again, most of the relevant scholarship concerns later periods, but the general arguments still hold: J. Davis, Medieval Market Morality: Life, Law and Ethics in the English Marketplace, 1200–1500 (Cambridge, 2011), esp. pp. 19–31. A good illustration of the threatening, tense situations that could arise in a market setting comes in the significantly elaborated Old English version of the Latin legend of the Seven Sleepers of Ephesus: see discussion in C. Cubitt, ‘“As the Lawbook Teaches”: Reeves, Lawbooks and Urban Life in the Anonymous Old English Legend of the Seven Sleepers’, EHR 124 (2009), pp. 1021–49, esp. pp. 1024–31. 46 LDB, ff. 312a–b. For discussion, see T. Lambert, ‘Jurisdiction as Property in England, 900–1100’, Legalism: Property and Ownership, ed. G. Kantor, T. Lambert, and H. Skoda (Oxford, 2017), pp. 115–47, at 141–2. Blythburgh is a special case, in that it was a royal estate and jurisdictional centre that maintained prerogatives in certain contexts (including minting) that would normally be expected to pertain to the nearby town of Dunwich: the relevant passage of LDB is framed as explaining these peculiarities. No coins have ever been identified as having been minted at Blythburgh. 47 Þe to Lundenbyrig hyrað. VI Æthelstan prologue (The Laws of the Earliest English Kings, ed. and trans. F. L. Attenborough (Cambridge, 1922), pp. 156–7).

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stage in their career. The Domesday discussion of the city of Lincoln includes a list of the twelve lawmen of 1066, among whom was one Wælhræfn. This, again, is an extremely rare name, and there is a high chance that the lawman was identical with a moneyer of the same name who had minted coins in Lincoln at the beginning of Edward’s reign more than twenty years earlier, but not in the subsequent two decades. He was also the father of another moneyer of 1066 and later: Agemund. At Cambridge, Godlamb is known as a moneyer in the early to mid-1060s, while a landholder by that highly unusual name, on the outskirts of Cambridge, is recorded in Domesday Book in relation to 1086.48 It is possible that these represent different individuals by the same name, perhaps from the same extended family, but it is more economical to assume that individuals might work as a moneyer briefly or sporadically, alongside other roles and offices. These ‘one-type’ or ‘intermittent’ moneyers can be set alongside what Anthony Freeman called ‘established’ moneyers, who worked in multiple consecutive types, usually over a longer period.49 Moneyers of this kind appear to have had a more sustained involvement with minting, and tended to work on a larger scale even within types.50 That might reflect a more commercialised approach to minting based to a greater extent on horizontal connections with urban peers, or even (especially in bigger towns) ‘walk-in’ business generated by the vagaries of the marketplace. However it probably also meant that anchors of stable, predictable custom mattered all the more. It might be suspected that figures of this kind had fewer, or at least smaller, interests outside their mint-place and would therefore fall into the lower bracket of wealth. The potential moneyers in Domesday Book offer partial support for this hypothesis. The majority of poorer moneyers (under £5 income a year in Domesday) were ‘established’ moneyers (62 per cent), whereas the majority of wealthier moneyers (over £5 a year) were ‘intermittent’ moneyers (60 per cent).51 Poor moneyers were hence somewhat likelier to work longer, as well as more consistently and intensively. Moneyers in this group may have devoted more of their time to minting, and depended on it for more or all of their livelihood: ‘professional’ moneyers, who might be referred to as moneyers in other contexts, suggesting this was seen as their primary and distinctive role.52 Conversely, wealthier or ‘gentlemen’ 48

In 1066 the relevant half hide at Trumpington had been held by an unnamed sokeman of Earl Waltheof, while in 1086 Godlamb (Gollam) was a subtenant of Countess Judith. Godlamb could have been the sokeman who held from Earl Waltheof, though continuity of subtenants was usually made explicit. 49 Freeman, Moneyer and the Mint, pp. 40–6. 50 Freeman, Moneyer and the Mint, p. 41. 51 ‘Established’ is here taken to mean moneyers active continuously in the period in question, for at least three coin types and with no gap of more than one type. ‘Intermittent’ moneyers are those active in fewer issues and/or with multiple, longer gaps in activity. These classifications are liable to change as new finds reveal further types for known moneyers. 52 For example (from a slightly later date), Turstan the moneyer (monitarius) of Stamford, who was entered as such along with his wife and son in the Thorney Liber Vitae (BL, Additional MS 40,000: L. Rollason, ed., The Thorney Liber Vitae: London, British Library, Additional MS 40,000, ff. 1–12r. Edition, Facsimile and Study (Woodbridge, 2015), pp. 270–1). However, there could be other reasons why some moneyers are identified as such and others not. M. Biddle and D. Keene, ‘Winchester in the eleventh and twelfth centuries’, Winchester in the Early Middle Ages, ed. Biddle, pp. 241–448 at pp. 401–3 note that only five Winchester moneyers are identified as monetarius or cangeor in the TRE section of Winton Domesday,



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moneyers on the whole produced coins more occasionally, and in response to sociallyor hierarchically-generated needs, meaning that they did not depend as much on a consistent flow of demand. These figures were not always thought of primarily as moneyers, and may have served many other roles. Winton Domesday describes one probable moneyer as a priest.53 Several other priests occur in Appendix 1 and 2, and there is no reason why a priest could not also act as a moneyer: late Anglo-Saxon regulations for priestly behaviour anticipated their working as merchants and reeves, and positively encouraged them to pursue a craft.54 Other probable moneyers in London and Winton Domesday were goldsmiths.55 The handling of precious metals presented obvious overlap with the responsibilities of a moneyer, and could well have been the principal role of ‘established’ as well as ‘intermittent’ moneyers. Some, such as Odo/Otto and Theoderic, were in 1086 significant landholders in their own right, as royal ministri.56 Others were much humbler: one goldsmith mentioned in the will of Æthelgifu (956×1002) was unfree, and only manumitted on the death of the testatrix,57 and several others were referred to as ‘my goldsmith’ or the goldsmith of so and so,58 implying formal or informal dependent status. It should be stressed that this binary between ‘professional’ and ‘gentlemen’ moneyers does not account for every case, and should not be overdrawn. There were several ‘single-type’ moneyers of lesser wealth, and ‘established’ ones among those with greater resources. Long-term and substantial minting was not incompatible with wealth and status. In Normandy, in the years before the Conquest, Ranulf the moneyer was closely involved with the duke, and his son and grandsons were important aristocratic landholders.59 In England, the family of Deorman in London included several moneyers who were wealthy and important.60 Figures of this stature but that several more are probably in the text in other capacities. No compelling explanation can be offered for this, but one possibility is that the five were only described as moneyers because they did not hold land of the king, and so had to be singled out in this way. 53 Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, p. 404, referring to Lewinus presbiter. 54 Pace Nightingale, ‘Some London Moneyers’, p. 35. See J. Blair, The Church in AngloSaxon Society (Oxford, 2005), pp. 491–2, though acknowledging that concerns with priests fulfilling these roles stem from Carolingian source material. 55 Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, p. 404, referring to Brithmarus aurifaber. For the London moneyer, see E. Ekwall, Early London Personal Names (Lund, 1947), p. 5 (an Algarus aurifaber in a document of 1102). Note also PASE Leofwine 227 the goldsmith, who is one plausible candidate for a moneyer at Wallingford under Edward. For wider discussion, see C. R. Dodwell, Anglo-Saxon Art: a New Perspective (Manchester, 1982), pp. 74–5, 77–8, and 229. 56 PASE Oda 19 the goldsmith; Theodric 6 the goldsmith. See Nightingale, ‘Some London Moneyers’, pp. 40–1. 57 S 1497 (J. C. Crick, ed., Charters of St Albans (Oxford, 2007), no. 7). As noted by Dodwell (Anglo-Saxon Art, pp. 75–6), however, Mann already had his own cnapa or serving boy, so belonged to a higher category of slave. 58 For example, A. J. Robertson, ed. and trans., Anglo-Saxon Charters, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 1956), no. 71; Thorney Liber Vitae, f. 4r (ed. Rollason, pp. 34 and 99, with discussion of date on pp. 269–70). 59 L. Musset, ‘A-t-il existé en Normandie au XIe siècle une aristocratie d’argent? Une enquête sommaire sur l’argent comme moyen d’ascension sociale’, Annales de Normandie 9 (1959), pp. 285–99 at pp. 292–4. 60 P. Nightingale, ‘Some London moneyers, and reflections on the organization of English mints in the eleventh and twelfth centuries’, Numismatic Chronicle 142 (1982), pp. 34–50.

196

Rory Naismith

are unlikely to have offered their minting services to allcomers; rather, they and other relatively wealthy ‘established’ moneyers could have simply been good at playing the interpersonal games that brought the worthies of eleventh-century England and their silver to them. The result would have been a richer, more select clientele, developed in symbiosis with landed acquisitions and other privileges or powers. Another significant caveat to this assessment of moneyers and their wealth is what Domesday Book does not cover. Most towns are known in very little detail, and if moneyers held property in towns, it would simply go unrecorded. Moneyers known only from small pieces of land in the vicinity of mint-towns hence appear, on present evidence, to be peasant farmers – but more extensive urban records might show that these lands were held alongside houses or tenements in the town, and that moneyers were actively engaged in buying and leasing out small parcels of rural property. Equally, of course, such records might reveal other potential moneyers at work in the town who are unrecorded as rural landholders. Colchester and Winton Domesday both show that when fuller information is available about the urban population, many more potential moneyers appear. If similar records were available from all towns, the landscape of minting might look much more urban and much more thickly populated, and deciding whether moneyers, townsmen, and minor nearby landholders are all one and the same would be a whole new challenge. The number of moneyers appearing in Domesday, and the levels of wealth they held, should hence be taken as minimal estimates: many moneyers would be rather richer than they currently seem. There are also important lacunae in Domesday Book’s coverage of the countryside. Whole constituencies of locally important people are covered only partially or not at all. Tenants of subtenants (i.e. sub-subtenants) are generally not recorded, for the survey’s interest lay in higher levels of landholding at only a few steps removed from the king. Other groups like reeves or estate managers might have been significant, respected individuals within their communities, and potentially acted as moneyers, but because they did not derive their wealth or status from their own property, they might not appear in Domesday at all, or only in a capacity that significantly underplays their status.61 It is worth stressing at this point that the majority of moneyers are not mentioned at all by Domesday. Of 729 moneyers active between 1042 and the early 1070s, 407 (56 per cent) find no probable, plausible, or possible match in Domesday Book, and the figure is even higher among the 410 moneyers active between the early 1070s and 1100: 259, or 63 per cent, find no match. Nothing more can be said of these unevidenced moneyers. Some among the early cohort could have died before 1066, and some of their later counterparts might have come and gone between 1066 and 1086, or only reached maturity after 1086. Yet this cannot account for all of them, or even the majority. The unrecorded moneyers are a large enough constituency that, in principle, everything written here about moneyers who are possibly recorded could be badly unrepresentative. A few observations can nonetheless be made. It is reasonable to presume that for a person to become a moneyer they needed to be worthy of trust and respect within their community, which suggests a degree of significance, even if that did not always translate to property holding. In this respect the moneyers can be set alongside the Domesday jurors who provided information for the great survey of 1086. They are named only in two satellite texts, Inquisitio comitatus Cantabrigiensis and Inquisitio Eliensis, relating to Cambridgeshire and Hertford61

Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, pp. 366–7.



The Moneyers and Domesday Book

197

shire, where the names of eight men (four French and four English) are given at the beginning of each hundred return. It is clear that these were the individuals best qualified by status to speak on behalf of their community. However, only 29 per cent of them (46 out of 158) are named as Domesday landholders, and the large majority of those come from the French rather than the English jurors.62 Here was another group of considerable local standing that makes only a small footprint in the Domesday survey. The moneyers were thus far from exceptional, and many of them (in both town and country) could easily be passed over despite prominence in their own immediate circle. Conclusion The view of moneyers presented by Domesday Book is inevitably limited, grounded as it is in a few bare names, locations, and numbers. Most moneyers cannot be traced in its pages, even though they must have been active contemporaneously with those who are mentioned. Only about a third of moneyers named on coins in the period from 1042 to the early 1070s find plausible or probable matches in Domesday; the proportion of moneyers who issued coins between the early 1070s and 1100 with a match in Domesday is significantly lower, about a fifth. Even so, when the coins and Domesday are set side by side, and compared with other contemporary materials, a whole world emerges from behind the curtain of anonymity. Moneyers were respected members of local or regional society, their status based on the interplay of town and country, and on webs of lordship, kinship, and other kinds of association. They varied considerably in status and wealth. Some would have devoted most of their time and energy to minting, and to cultivating relationships based directly on minting. For others, making coins was just one aspect of what they did, and often quite a small one that followed from other interests or responsibilities. It is better to think of moneyers not just as commercialised professionals, but as thegns, artisans, priests, and potentially slaves, as well as prosperous peasants: people who, while not individually wealthy or influential, collectively wielded considerable resources, and had a substantial degree of autonomy that could be magnified by taking on roles such as minting.63 The process of making coins thus lay at the intersection of economic, social, and governmental spheres, and also constituted a crucial point of contact between local and central circuits of power. Some moneyers owed profits of minting to a secular or ecclesiastical lord,64 but most owed them to the king. That this was the usual arrangement is implied in the phrasing of a writ of King Edward granting a moneyer to the abbot of Bury in 1065×1066: the abbot is ‘to have [the moneyer] with the same freedom from restriction as I have my own anywhere in any of my towns, where I have them more freely 62

C. P. Lewis, ‘The Domesday Jurors’, HSJ 5 (1993), pp. 17–44 at p. 24. Only two of the jurors may be possible matches for moneyers; neither is otherwise recorded in Domesday Book. 63 Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, pp. 349–60. 64 The archbishops of Canterbury and York, the bishops of Bath and Wells, Durham, East Anglia, and Hereford, and the abbots of Bury and (possibly) St Augustine’s Canterbury all enjoyed the profits of at least one moneyer before 1100: M. R. Allen, Mints and Money in Medieval England (Cambridge, 2012), pp. 9–12. Only one moneyer is recorded for a secular lord, in Stamford, because rights over the moneyer were granted to Peterborough Abbey in the time of Cnut: S. E. Kelly, ed., Charters of Peterborough Abbey (Oxford, 2009), no. 31 (xi).

198

Rory Naismith

than anywhere else’.65 There may have been other organisational differences based on moneyers’ relationship with the town in which they were based.66 However all of this relates to a formal kind of relationship between the moneyer and the king or occasionally another lord. Other considerations and connections were just as important. Most moneyers in practice would have had patrons behind them; sometimes peers, but more often figures of greater stature. These associations can sometimes be conjectured from the ties of lordship expressed in Domesday. If such entanglements did play a large part in shaping the work of moneyers, then England may have been less dissimilar from its mainland European neighbours than it superficially seems. The former Carolingian lands at this time, especially West and East Francia (moving towards entities that might be called France and Germany), had numerous mints where the local authority behind production was much more overt. In East Francia rights over minting would often even be spelt out in a diploma.67 Superficially, this looks like a world where regional elites had a much tighter grip on minting at the expense of the king or emperor – which makes England’s monetary infrastructure (and, by proxy, much of its administration) appear impressively centralised by comparison. What really made the difference in England was a strong bond between royal government and grass-roots involvement in administration, with a less direct yet still important role for the elites in between.68 The coinage thus reflects different configurations of major power blocs in local and central authority. In England, this basic structure was nothing new. Moneyers had been in a direct relationship with the king since at least the mid-eighth century.69 The tenth and eleventh centuries, especially the period after about 970, saw this system expand significantly. Many of the kingdom’s smaller mint-places appeared at this time; so too did a dramatically expanded body of moneyers, who came and went so fast at certain times – above all in the period of frenetic mint activity between about 990 and 1040 – that they cannot have been drawn from constituencies characterised by long-established technical expertise or involvement in minting.70 Moneyers are therefore likely to have entered into that role in response to pressure exerted via networks of hierarchical or horizontal obligation. By the time of Edward the Confessor and William I, the foundations had been laid for a highly distinctive

65

S 1085 (F. E. Harmer, ed. and trans., Anglo-Saxon Writs (Manchester, 1952), no. 25): ‘[…] al swa freolice on ealle þing to habben, al swa me mine on hande stonden ower on enig minre burge alre freolukeost’. 66 Nightingale, ‘Some London Moneyers’, pp. 44–6 posited that there was a difference between royal moneyers who paid profits to the king directly, and others who farmed their office individually, collectively, or with the rest of their borough. This might explain why only a minority of mint-places – those that were farmed out – are recorded in Domesday, with surprisingly diverse arrangements, especially for 1086. However, this could also be a result of the different Domesday circuits and their idiosyncrasies in recording town customs (Munby, ‘Domesday Boroughs’). 67 B. Kluge, Deutsche Münzgeschichte von der späten Karolingerzeit biz zum Ende der Salier (ca. 900 bis 1125) (Sigmaringen, 1991), pp. 101–4. 68 These points are developed further in Naismith, Making Money, chapter 9. 69 R. Naismith, ‘Kings, Crisis and Coinage Reforms in the Mid-Eighth Century’, EME 20 (2012), pp. 291–332. 70 R. Naismith, ‘London and its Mint c. 880–1066: a Preliminary Survey’, BNJ 83 (2013), pp. 44–74 at pp. 56–62.



199

The Moneyers and Domesday Book

and responsive system that married firm central direction with deep local roots, in a mutually beneficial coalition. Appendix 1: Moneyers active 1042–early 1070s and possible representation among Domesday landholders ‘in the time of King Edward’ (tempore regis Eduuardi) Notes by column on Appendices 1 and 2: Moneyer: for moneyers active under Harold II and before, names are presented in normalized late West Saxon form; for William I and II, names follow the inscriptional form(s) preferred in modern scholarship. > after a name in Appendix 1 indicates a moneyer who probably continued into the next period; > before a moneyer’s name in Appendix 2 indicates the corresponding moneyer. Domesday match: names here refer to the numeration and designation in PASE Domesday. * indicates a ‘probable’ match. ? indicates a dubious match. [ ] indicates a match from the wrong period (i.e. a match for a late moneyer only known among 1066 landholders, or vice versa). Annual income: measured metrically, in pounds (i.e. 0.75 means 15s), following PASE Domesday, based on income TRE/1066 (Appendix 1) and TRW/1086 (Appendix 2) from land held by the individual in question. In some instance no TRE income is specified, in which case it is assumed it was the same as the sum recorded TRW. Many of these figures are reached by dividing the revenue that was due from a piece of land with several interested parties, on the assumption that each would get an even share. Other comments: records other possible documentary attestations of the moneyer, or other discussion in published literature. Annual income

Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Aylesbury

Leofwine

Leofwine 207 ‘of Nuneham’

28.75

Leofwine 255 ‘of Dadford’

1.5

Leofwine 252 ‘of Hillesden’

1.5

Leofwine 251 ‘of Helsthorpe’

1

Leofwine 208 Cafa

Barnstaple

1.5

Wulfræd

?Wulfræd 50 ‘of Horsenden’

1

Ælfric

Ælfric 282 ‘of Pilland’

0.5

Ælfric 281 ‘of Buscombe’

0.13

Ælfric 284 ‘of Smytham’

0.25

Ælfric 299 ‘of Loosedon’

0.5

Other comments

200 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Leofwine>

Bath

Æthelmær

Domesday match Ælfric 274 ‘of Ashway’

1

Ælfric 311 ‘of Worlington’

0.13

Leofwine 243 ‘of Knowstone’

0.5

?Leofwine 244 ‘of West Putford’

0.25

Æthelmær 39 ‘of Ham’ Æthelmær 41 ‘of Combe Sydenham’

Brungar Erlewin Godric

Bedford

Annual income

16 0.75

Godric 198 ‘of Leonard Stanley’

4

Godric 145 ‘of Heytesbury’

4

Osmær>

-

Wædel Æthelman

-

Godric

?Godric 203 the priest

1

?Godric 202 ‘of Hemingford Abbots’

0.5

Godwine

Leofthegn Sibrand>

1

Godwine 295 son of Leofwine

5

*Saiet 3 ‘of Hanefelde’

Sweta

-

Ulfcetel

0.5

-

Sigegod/ Sægod> Swetric

Attests charters as PASE Osmær 4 (?); Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8.

Godwine 297 ‘of Beeston’

Godwine 431 ‘of Shelton’ Leofing

Other comments

0.25



201

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Wulfmær

Wulfmær 53 ‘of Eaton Socon’

Annual income 98.54

Wulfmær 71 the priest

1.8

Wulfmær 77 burgess of Bedford

0.05

Wulfmær 76 of Sutton

0.5

Wulfwig

-

Wulfwine

Wulfwine 63 ‘of Cople’

Bedwyn

Cild

Berkeley

Edgar

-

Bridport

Hwætman

*Hwætmann 3 ‘of Wey’

1.5

Bristol

Ælfric

Ælfric 278 ‘of Moreton’

3.25

Ælfric 63 Cild

64.14

Ælfweard Ælfwine Æthelstan

0.12

-

Ceorl>

Carl 2 ‘of Norton Bavant’

Godman

-

Godwine

?Godwine ‘of Portbury’

16.5

Leofwine>

Leofwine 260 ‘of Didmarton’

1.5

Smeawine

Smeawine 3 ‘of Standerwick’

3.5

Wulfwine Bruton

Godric

Buckingham

Æthelstan

-

Leofwine

Leofwine 208 Cafa

Other comments

153.95

1.5

Leofwine 207 ‘of Nuneham’

28.75

Leofwine 251 ‘of Helsthorpe’

1

Leofwine 255 ‘of Dadford’

1.5

Leofwine 253 ‘of Ravenstone’

6

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, pp. 9–10.

202 Mint-place

Bury St Edmunds

Cambridge

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Goding

Domesday match

Annual income

Leofwine 254 brother of Alsige

0.5

Goding 26 ‘the reeve’

1

Goding 24 ‘of Quidenham’

0.75

Morkar

?Morcar 9 man of Eadric of Laxfield

0.4

Ælfwig

-

Ælfwine

Ælfwine 185 ‘of Melbourn’

0.86

Alwine 153 the blond

0.86

Alwine 151 maim-cock the beadle

0.5

Beorhtric Eadstan

-

Eadweard

*Edward 60 ‘of Arrington’

3.14

Godlamm

[*Godlamb 1 ‘of Grantchester’]

1

Godric

?Godric 148 the deacon

3.99

?Godric 150 the hawker

0.5

Godsunu

-

Godwine

Godwine 283 Cild

28.25

Godwine 282 ‘of Stetchworth’

0.5

Godwine 284 Wombstring

Sækollr

Other comments

2

Godwine 285 ‘of Linacre’

0.31

Godwine 286 ‘of Babraham’

0

Godwine 282 the priest

0.5

Godwine 289 ‘of Guilden Morden’

0.36

Godwine 290 ‘of Oakington’

5

-

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9.



203

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Canterbury

Annual income

Moneyer

Domesday match

Wigbeorn

-

Wulfwig

*Wulfwig 29 ‘of Swaffham Bulbeck’

Wulfwine

Wulfwine 69 the meadmaker

2

Wulfwine 121 ‘of Bradley’

0.34

Wulfwine 132 ‘of Bradley’

0.3

Alfred 134 ‘of Pising’

0.83

Ælfræd

1.06

Alfred 132 Bigga

25

Ælfric

?Ælfric 219 ‘of Ryarsh’

16

Ælfweard

-

Ælfwine Æthelræd

Æthelræd 72 ‘of Stelling’

6

Æthelræd 73 ‘of Leueberge’

0.3

*Brunman

Brunman the sheriff

Eadmær

-

Eadric

*Eadric 49 ‘of Elham’

112.99

Eadweard

Edward 81 ‘of Stone’

17

Edward 80 Snoch Eadwine

?Edwin 59 ‘of St Margaret’s at Cliffe’

Gildewin

-

Godsunu Ketil

0

1.05 8

Leofstan

?Leofstan 82 ‘of Pising’

0.83

Leofwine

?Leofwine 217 ‘of Charlton’

6.08

Manna>

-

Rodkarl

Other comments

Tsurushima, ‘Moneyers’, pp. 35–8.

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 6; Tsurushima, ‘Moneyers’, pp. 44–5.

204 Mint-place

Chester

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Sigeræd

*Sigeræd 3 ‘of Chilham’

Windæg>

-

Wulfgeat

*Wulfgeat 34 ‘of Witchling’

Wulfræd>

-

Wulfwine

?Wulfwine 107 ‘of North Witham’

Ælfgar

-

Ælfsige> Ælfweard Æthelwine Bruning Dunning

*Dunning 8 ‘of Mercia’

Dunstan

-

Ealhsige

*Alsige 19 ‘of Leftwich’

Fargrimr

-

Grim

*Grim 35 ‘of Cheshire’

Huscarl

-

Kolbrandr Kolthegn Krokr

Annual income 82.95

9

6

11.91

0.4

0.95

Leofnoth

*Leofnoth 39 ‘of Caldy’

Leofwig

-

Leofwine

Leofwine 287 ‘of Wisterson’

0.2

Leofwine 288 ‘of Frith’

0.18

Leofwine 290 ‘of Overleigh’

0.65

Leofwine 291 ‘of Wimboldsley’

0

Ordric Snell Sprot

-

8.85

Other comments Tsurushima, ‘Moneyers’, pp. 35–8, 46.



205

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Sunolf

-

Svartkollr Throndr Wigal Wulfric

Chichester

Ælfwine Brunman>

Colchester

Wulfric 203 ‘of Peckforton’

0.4

Wulfric 207 ‘of Puddington’

2.5

-

Godwine

*Godwine 204 ‘of Lavant’

27.31

Leofwine

Leofwine 225 ‘of Sompting’

65.5

Leofwine 230 the interpreter

0.5

Wulfric

Wulfric 75 Cepe

99.62

Ælfwine

-

Beorhtric

[Beorhtric 98 burgess of Colchester]

Brunhyse

-

Deorman Godwine

Cricklade

Annual income

0

Godwine 423 the priest ‘of Derleigh’

0.5

Godwine 355 ‘of Chamberlains Hall’

42

Goldman

[Goldmann 2 burgess of Colchester]

0

Goldstan

[Goldstan 8 burgess of Colchester]

0

Leofweard

-

Stanmær

?Stanmær 4 ‘of Kirton’

Wulfwig

Wulfwig 32 ‘of Tendring’

1

?Wulfwig 48 ‘of Burstall’

0

Wulfwine

[Wulfwine 87–99 burgess of Colchester]

0

Ælfwine

-

Æthelwine

0.08

Other comments

206 Mint-place Derby

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Leofræd>

-

Blacman Froma> Godric

Dorchester

Dover

Annual income

Godric 158 ‘of Handley’

1.75

Godric 160 ‘of Dalbury’

7.25

Godric 159 ‘of Risley’

0.53

Kolbeinn

-

Leofwine

Leofwine 296 ‘son of Alwine’

0

Leofwine 295 ‘of Risley’

0.53

Leofwine 247 Cild

125.09

Svartlingr

-

Wulfheah

?Wulfheah 32 ‘of Plumtree’

Wynric Blæcman

-

Godwine

Godwine 220 the reeve

0.63

Godwine 215 ‘of Cerne’

6.25

Godwine 216 ‘of Winterborne’

2.65

Godwine 218 ‘of Dudsbury’

1

Hwætman

*Hwætmann 3 ‘of Wey’

1.5

Oter> Boga

-

Brunman>

?Brunman the sheriff

Ceolwig

-

Cynestan Eadsige

3.6

0

Eadwine

?Edwin 59 ‘of St Margarate’s at Cliffe’

8

Godwine

?Godwine 197 ‘of Chillenden’

0.5

Leofwine

Leofwine 217 ‘of Charlton’

6.08

Other comments



207

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match Leofwine 218 ‘of Monks Horton’

Manwine> Wulfweard Wynstan Droitwich

Exeter

Godric

Annual income 2

Godric 274 ‘of Hagley’

3

Godric 275 ‘of Alton’

2

Godric 276 ‘of Stockton on Teme’

5

Heathuwulf

-

Wulfwine

*Wulfwine 17 reeve of Earl Leofric

56.03

Ælfric

Ælfric 286 ‘of Polsloe’

0.25

Ælfric 305 ‘the pig’

2.25

Ælfwine> Æthelwig Beorhtric

Beorhtric 93 ‘of Poltimore’

0.5

Beorhtric 36 son of Ælfgar

637

Beorhtric 83 ‘of Bratton Clovelly’

17.5

Brihtwine

*Beorhtwine 43 ‘of Newton’

0.12

Dodda

*Doda 7 ‘of Hittisleigh’

4.35

Eadmær

Eadmær 34 ‘of Hill’

0.34

Eadmær 26 ‘of Shillingford Abbots’

3

Eadmær 32 ‘of Essebeare’

2.15

Eadmær 28 ‘of Awliscombe’

2

Eadsige 39 ‘of Kingsford’

0.13

Eadsige 40 ‘of Yowlestone’

0.06

Eadwig

*Eadwig 57 ‘of Kentisbeare’

0.25

Goda

Goda 51 ‘of Washfield’

0.3

Eadsige

Other comments

Attests charters as PASE Dodda 5 (?).

208 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match Goda 50 ‘of Lower Creedy’

Godwine

Hunwine Leofing

Annual income

Other comments

0.5

Godwine 247 ‘of Leigh’

2

Godwine 244 ‘of Smallcombe’

0.25

Godwine 237 ‘of Sidbury’

3

-

Leofwine

?Leofwine 244 ‘of West Putford’

0.25

Sæweard>

Sæweard 11 ‘of Lympstone’

10.5

Siward 17 ‘of Hemington’

59.4

Sæwine

*Sæwine 38 ‘of Devon’

21.87

Sæwulf

Sæwulf 13 ‘of Stockton English’

0.75

Sæwulf 8 ‘of Mowlish’

0.57

Sweoting

-

Viking

*Viking 2 ‘of Awliscombe’

7.75

Wulfmær

Wulfmær 65 ‘the Chubby’

2.75

C. P. Lewis, ‘Danish Landowners in Wessex in 1066’, Danes in Wessex: the Scandinavian Impact on Southern England, c. 800–c. 1100, ed. R. Lavelle and S. Roffey (Oxford, 2016), pp. 172–211 at p. 192; attests S 1474 (M. A. O’Donovan, ed., Charters of Sherborne (Oxford, 1988), no. 17) and D. A. E. Pelteret, Catalogue of English PostConquest Vernacular Documents (Woodbridge, 1990), no. 138.



209

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Wulfnoth

Domesday match

Annual income

Wulfmær 69 ‘of Washford Pyne’

0.63

Wulfnoth 85 ‘of Melbury’

1.75

Wulfnoth 81 ‘of Exe’

14

Wulfwine>

?Wulfwine 134 ‘of Sutton’

0.5

Frome

Beorhtwine

Gloucester

Ælfsige

-

Æthelric

Eadwig

Æthelric 142 ‘of Oldbury’

0.5

?Æthelric 143 ‘of Whittington’

4.5

Eadwig 64 ‘of Lower Hampen’

9

Eadwig 63 the radknight

1.9

Eadwig 76 ‘of Wormington’

5

Eadwulf

?Eadwulf 62 ‘of Bickerton’

Beorhtnoth

-

Godric

Godric 199 ‘of Haresfield’

2.5

3

Godric 278 Cloch

0.9

Godric 279 ‘of Pirton’

8.38

Godric 194 ‘of Ampney’

14

Godric 196 ‘of Watton’

3.5

Godric 197 ‘of Mitcheldean’

0.55

Godric 198 ‘of Leonard Stanley’ Godric 200 ‘of Postlip’

4 5

Godwine

?Godwine 277 ‘of Redmarley’

3.79

Leofnoth

*Leofnoth 43 ‘of Wootton Bassett’

50.27

Leofwine

Leofwine 342 the radknight

1.96

Other comments

210 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match Leofwine 262 ‘of Elkstone’

Ordric

*Ordric 24 ‘of Leckhampton’

Seolhwine>

-

Sigelac

Guildford

0.8

[Wulfgeat 48 ‘of Eldersfield’]

1.97

Wulfric

?Wulfric 161 the radman

1.61

Wulfweard

Wulfweard 59 ‘of Salperton’

66

Wulfweard 58 ‘of Netheridge’

0

Ælfric 228 ‘of East Moseley’

5.33

Ælfric 226 ‘of Wotton’

1.6

Ælfric

Godwine Leofweald Brid Dunning> Kolsveinn

-

Leofwine

?Leofwine 221 ‘of Alfriston’

Theodræd

-

Wulfric Hereford

8

Wulfgeat>

Blacaman

Hastings

Annual income

Ælfwig Æthelric> Æthelstan Ægelwine/ Æthelwine> Beorhtric>

Beorhtric 71 ‘of Newton Valence’

Eadric

Eadric 179 ‘of Hampton’ Eadric 48 ‘the wild’

0.63

88.33 1 118.41

Eadwig>

*Eadwig 66 Cild

21.1

Earnwig

Earnwig 14 ‘of Chadnor’

3.7

Other comments



211

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Hertford

Moneyer

Domesday match

Annual income

Earnwig 15 ‘of Tarrington’

5.22

Leofnoth

*Leofnoth 44 ‘of Rochford’

7.7

Ordric

*Ordric 25 ‘of Grendon’

Rædwulf Wulfsige

-

Wulfwig

*Wulfwig 33 Cild

8.7

Wulfwine

*Wulfwine 101 man of Earl Harold

1.1

Ælfwine

Ælfwine 184 ‘of Gotton’

26.32

Alwine 25 Horne

72.1

Alwine 107 ‘of Great Offley’

0.33

Alwine 108 ‘of Pelham’

2

Alwine 109 the huntsman

0.5

Alwine 111 ‘of Hertingfordbury’

10

Alwine 112 ‘of Cassio’

1

Alwine 113 ‘of Rodhanger’ Alwine 114 Dode Alwine 115 ‘of Woolwicks’ Deorsige Godman Godwine

0

2.2 2 1.36

Godwine 254 ‘of Wain’

1.5

Godwine 257 ‘of Watton’

1

Godwine 430 ‘of Woolwicks’

1

Godwine 258 ‘of Sele’

1.5

Goldwine

-

Sæmær

Sæmær 4 ‘of Boxbury’

0.5

Sæmær 6 the priest

7.1

Other comments

212 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Theodræd

-

Vilgrip/ Wilgrip

Annual income

Wihtræd

-

Wulfric

Wulfric 150 ‘of Little Berkhamsted’

1

Wulfric 149 ‘of Hainstone’

4

Sæman

-

Horndon on the Hill

Duding

?Duding 4 ‘of Stepney’

Huntingdon

Ælfwine

-

Godric>

Godric 202 ‘of Hemingford Abbots’

0.5

Godric 203 the priest

1

Godwine>

?Godwine 432 ‘of Weston’

Leofric

*Leofric 167 ‘of Orton Waterville’

Leofwine

*Leofwine 268 ‘of Winwick’

Thorgrim

-

Ulfcetel Wulfstan Wulfwig Wulfwine

Hythe

Ælfwine Goldwine Guthræd Leofwine

Ilchester

2.38 1 0.67

Wulfwine 104 ‘of Hail Weston’

3

Wulfwine 69 the meadmaker

2

Leofwine 218 ‘of Monks Horton’

2

Leofwine 217 ‘of Charlton’

6.08

Dunbeard

-

Godric

Godric 223 ‘of Alford’

Æthelwine>

0.75

10.5

Other comments



213

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Osweard Wixie> Ipswich

Ælfwine Æthelbeorht/ Ægelbriht> Æthelwine/ Ægelwine>

Beorhtric

Domesday match

Annual income

Godric 224 ‘of Littleton’

0.67

Godric 225 ‘of Hiscombe’

0.23

Æthelwine 132 ‘of Hemingstone’

0.01

Alwine 238 ‘of Hemingstone’

0.2

Alwine 251 ‘of Hasketon’

0.5

Alwine 267 ‘of Great Bealings’

0.2

Alwine 264 ‘of Woodbridge’

0.1

Alwine 266 ‘of Ashbocking’

0.1

Alwine 263 ‘of Coddenham’

0

Alwine 256 ‘of Olden’

0

Alwine 262 ‘of Stonham Aspal’

2

Alwine 261 ‘of Alfildestuna’

0.2

Alwine 279 ‘of Toft’

0.17

Alwine 249 ‘of Leofstanestuna’

0.01

Alwine 248 ‘of Plumgeard’

0.03

Beorhtric 121 man of Abbot Wulfric

0.1

Beorhtric 122 man of Northmann the sheriff

0.29

Bruning

-

Brunman

*Brunmann 6 ‘of Burgh’

Eadwig

Eadwig 73 ‘of Raydon’

0.27 1.5

Other comments

214 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match Eadwig 74 ‘of Tunstall’

Annual income 0.02

Leofing

-

Leofstan>

Leofstan 95 ‘of Blakenham’

2

Leofstan 86 ‘of Walton’

0.14

Leofstan 92 ‘of Boynton’

0.5

Leofstan 90 ‘of Helmingham’

0.7

Leofweald

*Leofweald 24 ‘of Akenham’

0.2

Wulfsige

*Wulfsige 121 ‘of Mutford’

13.55

Wulfwine>

Wulfwine 116 ‘of Somersham’

1

Wulfwine 117 ‘of Grundisburgh’

0.03

Wulfwine 61 antecessor of Aubrey de Vere

184.52

Langport

Æthelwine

-

Leicester

Æthelric

Æthelric 133 ‘son of Mærgeat’

62.7

Alric 80 ‘of Churchover’

0.25

Blacman

-

Eadwine

Edwin 110 Alfrith

Æthelwine Authulfr

Edwin 111 ‘of Wymeswold’

2.5 0

Frithegist>

-

Godric>

*Godric 210 ‘of Great Dalby’

6.95

Leofric

Leofric 179 ‘of Plotelei’

0.5

Leofric 177 son of Leofwine

20

Sæwine

-

Other comments



215

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Wineræd

-

Wulfnoth

*Wulfnoth 96 ‘of Somerby’

Wulfric

-

Wulfwine Lewes

Ælfsige Deoring Eadweard Eadwig

0.5

Eadwine

*Edwin 61 ‘of West Dean’

1.5

Godric

*Godric 385 ‘of East Chiltington’

1.4

Godwine

*Godwine 203 ‘of Tilton’

Leofman

-

Leofnoth

Leofnoth 49 ‘of Bullington’

11.7

Leofweard

Leofweard 12 ‘of Willingdon’

0.5

Leofwine

Leofwine 221 ‘of Alfriston’

0.63

Northmann

?Northmann 3 ‘of Mereworth’

88.44

Osmund

-

Osweald> Wineræd> Wulfwine Lincoln

Annual income

Ælfgeat

15.35

Ælfmær

*Almær 162 ‘of South Willingham’

11.3

Ælfnoth

Alnoth 65 ‘of Ingham’

0.5

Alnoth 69 ‘of Burton’

0

Alnoth 64 ‘of Cammeringham’

3.34

Alnoth 67 ‘of Belton’

3.5

Alnoth 61 ‘of Scotter’

13.87

Alnoth 79 ‘of Hemswell’

1

Other comments

216 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Ælfwine

-

Æthelmær

Annual income

Agmundr

*Agemund 7 the lawman

16.49

Ásfrith

Osfrith 40 ‘of Boothby’

0.8

Asfrith 4 ‘of Linwood’

6.1

Asleikr

*Aslak 4 ‘of Wittingham by Stow’

3

Authbjorn

-

Authgrimr

Outgrim 1 ‘of Withcall’

2

?Outgrim 2 ‘of Clifton’

2

Auti

-

Beorhtric

*Beorhtric 103 lawman

Bruning

-

‘Cillin’ Eadmund Eadric

Eadric 266 ‘of Hemingby’

3

Eadric 268 ‘of Tealby’

3

Gillacrist

-

Godric

Godric 233 ‘son of Eadgifu’, lawman

0.75

Godric 236 ‘of Ranby’

2.5

Godric 234 ‘son of Garwine’

0.7

Guthfrith

*Guthfrith 9 ‘of Radby’ and lawman

1.5

Kolgrimr

Colgrim 11 ‘of Ewerby’

6.1

‘Konli’

-

Leofwine

Leofwine 304 the priest, lawman

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 10.

0

Gife/Give

Leofnoth

Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, pp. 359–60.

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8.

-

Geirfinnr

Other comments

Probable female moneyer.

0

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8.



217

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match Leofwine 308 burgess of Lincoln

Manna Osberan

Annual income 0

-

Siferth>

?Sigefrith 38 ‘of Hagingworth Mumby’

1.7

Siward>

Siward 77 ‘of Cammeringham’

0.5

Siward 81 the priest

0.2

Siward 90 father of Aki

25.75

Siward 76 ‘of Owmby-by-Spital’

0.4

Siward 40 ‘of Welton le Wold’ Sumarlithr

5

?Summerled 4 ‘of Ingham’

1.84

?Summerled 6 ‘of South Cadeby’

2.5

Svafi

-

Svertingr

Swarting 5 son of Grimbald, lawman

0

Swarting 4 son of Harthacnut, lawman

0

Thorgrim

-

Thorketill

Thorkil 65 ‘of Rothwell’

0.3

Thorkil 36 ‘of Egmanton’

5.5

Ulfbjorn

-

Ulfr

Ulf 39 Fenisc

459.78

Ulf 73 son of Swartbrand, lawman

0

Ulf 69 ‘of Nocton’

8

Vilgrip/ Wilgrip

-

Wælhrafn

*Walraven 6 ‘lawman of Lincoln’

Wineman

-

Wulfgar

*Wulfgar 81 ‘of Hibaldstow’

4

1

Other comments

218 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Wulfmær

Wulfmær 94 ‘of Sturton by Stow’

Wulfric

Wulfsige

London

Ælfgar

Annual income 1.8

Wulfmær 96 ‘of Tattershall Thorpe’

4

Wulfric 214 ‘of Coddington’

2

Wulfric 223 the wild

1.5

Wulfsige 107 Cild

31.18

Wulfsige 113 ‘of Rauceby’

3.06

Ælfgar 112 ‘of Islington’

0.5

Ælfgar 111 ‘of Little Stanmore’

10

Ælfgeat

-

Ælfnoth

[Ælfnoth ‘of London’]

Ælfræd

-

Ælfric

Ælfric 227 ‘of Tatsfield’

1.5

Ælfric 228 ‘of East Molesey’

5.33

Ælfric 403 ‘of Notley’

0.2

Ælfsige

-

Ælfstan

-

Ælfweald

Other comments

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9.

Possibly the sheriff by this name under Edward the Confessor (Ekwall, Early London, p. 7; N. L. Brooke and G. Keir, London 800–1216: the Shaping of a City (London, 1975), p. 372). 2

Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290; cf. Ekwall, Early London, p. 8.

Brooke and Keir, London, p. 372 (portreeve 1050s–60s). Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Alfuuoldus cognomine Cockesfot/ Alwoldus de porta Sancti Botulphi).



219

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Ælfweard

-

Ælfwig

-

Ælfwine>

Æthelman

-

Æthelric/ Ægelric>

?Æthelric 158 ‘of Kelvedon Hatch’

Æthelsige

-

Æthelgar

Æthelweard/ Ægelword Æthelwig Æthelwine>

71

Annual income

Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Ælfuuardus cognomento grossus). Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Ælfuuinus […] Faremanni filius).71

2

*Beorhtmær 63 ‘of West Bedfont’

Beorhtræd

-

Beorhtric>

*Beorhtric 124 ‘of Mitcham’

Ældrich Godricessune in charter of 1084 (Ekwall, Early London, p. 16). Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Ægeluuardus filius Wlgari).

-

Beorhtmær

Other comments

Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Ægeluuinus filius Brihtmæri); S 1234 (N. P. Brooks and S. E. Kelly, ed., Charters of Christ Church, Canterbury (Oxford, 2013), no. 183). 3

2.6

Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Ægeluuinus filius Brihtmæri); S 1234 (Brooks and Kelly, ed., Charters of Christ Church, no. 183). Ekwall, Early London, p. 20.

Farman was a rare name, but there was a London moneyer named Farman in Jewel Cross, struck in the later 1030s.

220 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Annual income

Beorhtsige

?Beorhtsige 23 Cild

192.4

Beorhtwine

-

Blacsunu> Bruna Brungar Bruning

*Bruning 23 ‘of Lullingstone’

Brunman

-

Burgræd Cynemær

3

Ekwall, Early London, p. 22.

Ekwall, Early London, p. 25.

Deorman

[Deorman 9 ‘of London’]

20

Deoring

*Deoring 5 ‘of Chaldon’

5

Dudding

*Doding 4 ‘of Stepney’

0.33

Eadgar

-

Eadmund

[Edmund 59 son of Algot]

Eadræd

-

Eadric>

?Eadric 267 ‘of Limpwella’

Eadsige

-

Eadweald

?Eadweald 20 ‘of Chadwell’

Eadweard

-

Eadwig

-

Eadwine?>

Edwin 92 ‘of Tollington’ Edwin 60 ‘of Upper Hardres’

Eadwulf Ealdgar> Eastmund Eawig Godhere Goding>

7.5

0.5

2 Ekwall, Early London, pp. 30–1. 2 13.25

?Goding 23 ‘of Windridge’

Other comments

2.5



221

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Godman

Godman 7 ‘of Aveley’

Godric>

Annual income 0

?Godman 8 ‘of Chadwell’

0.1

?Godric 138 ‘of Ortone’

2

?Godric 349 son of Carl

13

Godwig

-

Godwine>

Godwine 252 ‘of Stepney’

5

Godwine 253 Alfit

3

Leofing

-

Leofnoth

-

Leofræd

*Leofræd 2 ‘of East Ham’

10

Leofric

Leofric 134 ‘of North Cray’

7.3

Golda Goldsige Goldwine Korf

Leofric 146 ‘of Greenford’ Leofsige

-

Leofstan

Leofstan 80 ‘the reeve’

Leofweald

-

Leofwig Leofwine Ordlaf Osmund

?Osmund 42 ‘of Eaton’

Sibode

-

Other comments

Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Goduuinus cognomento Great syd).

Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (clericus Livingus). PASE Leofred 3.

1 Ekwall, Early London, p. 52. 47.77

47

Ekwall, Early London, p. 53; Brooke and Keir, London, p. 372 (portreeve 1050s–60s).

222 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Sibwine

-

Sigeræd

*Sigeræd 6 canon of St Paul’s

Spræcling

-

Swetman Theodræd Thor Thorfrithr Uhtræd Wihtræd Wulfgar

Annual income 11.33

A portreeve of London was named Wulfgar in 1042×1044 (S 1103 (S. E. Kelly, ed., Charters of St Paul’s, London (Oxford, 2004), no. 32)); Ekwall, Early London, p. 68; Brooke and Keir, London, p. 371; Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Ægeluuardus filius Wlgari).

Wulfnoth

?Wulfnoth 75 ‘of Tinton’

45.13

Wulfræd

*Wulfræd 54 ‘of Hawley’

0.5

Wulfric

Wulfric 233 ‘of Loughton’

0.5

Wulfric 227 ‘of Horndon on the Hill’ Wulfsige

Other comments

Ekwall, Early London, p. 71.

3

Wulfsige 98 son of Manni

1.75

Wulfsige 117 ‘of Aveley’

0.5

Wulfweard

?Wulfweard 79 ‘of Chelsham’

7.5

Wulfwig

-

Wulfwine>

Wulfwine 130 ‘of Upminster’

2

Regesta: William I, ed. Bates, no. 290 (Wlsius cognomento Lickestoppe).



223

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match Wulfwine 81 ‘of Theydon’

0.8 0.42

Lydford

Ælfric

Ælfric 290 ‘of Mary Tavy’

Maldon

Ceolnoth

-

Godric

Godric 179 ‘Poinc’

Godwine

Malmesbury

Northampton

5.5

Godwine 355 ‘of Chamberlains Hall’

42

-

Cild

Milborne Port Swetric Newport Pagnell

Godwine 357 ‘of Wormingford’

Beorhtwi(ne)>

Huna Marlborough

2.5

*Leofsunu 13 ‘of Mose’

Ealdwine

Sæman Sigeræd

*Sigeræd 4 ‘son of Ælfgifu’, king’s thegn

Sigeweard

-

Ælfwine Ceolwine Leofric

10.65

Godric 181 ‘of Moulsham’

Leofsunu>

Ealdwig

Annual income

19.11

24.4

Leofric 158 ‘of Weston Favell’

7.1

Leofric 243 ‘of Staverton’

0.8

Leofric 244 ‘of Sulby’

6.2

Leofric 161 ‘of Moreton Pinkney’

14

Leofric 177 son of Leofwine

20

Leofric 246 ‘of Maidwell’

0.2

Leofric 247 ‘of Welton’

0.4

Other comments

224 Mint-place

Norwich

Rory Naismith Annual income

Moneyer

Domesday match

Leofstan

?Leofstan 84 ‘of Evenley’

3

Leofwine

Leofwine 270 ‘of Brockhall’

1

Leofwine 271 ‘of Tiffield’

0.2

Sæwine>

*Sæwine 30 ‘of Braunston’

1

Swetman

-

Wulfnoth

Wulfnoth 95 ‘of Hinwick’

Wulfwig

Coenric

-

Eadwine

Edwin 130 ‘of Melton’

16

Edwin 131 ‘of Stokesby’

5.1

Ælfwine Coenhelm

1

Godfrith/ Goefurth

-

Godman

?Godmann 16 ‘of Oakley’

0.6

Godwine

Godwine 381 ‘of Swanton Morley’

27.52

Godwine 373 ‘of Surlingham’

0.5

Gowine 185 Haldein

1

Howorth>

[Howard 3 de Vernon]

1.4

Hringwulf

*Hringwulf 9–11

2.2

Leofweald

*Leofweald 25 ‘of Wreningham’

3.8

Leofwig

-

Leofwine

?Leofwine 316 ‘of Deopham’

Manna

?Manna 9 ‘of Snoring’

1.95

Osmund

Osmund 62 ‘of Hilborough’

6.7

Osmund 61 ‘of Kirby Cain’

0.75

Price

-

6

Other comments



225

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Nottingham

Domesday match

Thorfrithr

-

Thorgrimr>

?Thorgrim 3 ‘of Wiveton’

Thorsteinn

-

Wulfsige

*Wulfsige 121 ‘of Mutford’

15.7

Wulfstan

?Wulfstan 106 ‘of Gresham’

4.2

Arngrimr

[Arngrim 12 ‘of Elston’]

2.75

Blacman

-

Ealhmund Forni> Healfdene

*Healfdene 17 ‘of Toton’

Leofsige

-

Manna> Sægrim Snoter Wulfnoth Oxford

Annual income

Moneyer

Ælfwig> Æthelric

?Æthelric 134 ‘of South Denchworth’ [Æthelric 166 ‘of Oxford’]

Æthelwig> Æthelwine

2

5.5

3.5 0

-

Beorhtræd>

[Beorhtræd 7 moneyer at Oxford]

Beorhtweald

-

Eadwig

[Eadwig 51 ‘of Wallingford’]

0

Eadwine

?Edwin 95 ‘of North Stoke’

13

?Edwin 96 ‘of Alwoldesberie’

3

Godric

0.07

Godric 214 ‘of Islip’

3.5

Godric 213 ‘of Heythrop’

8.5

Other comments

226 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Domesday match

Godwine>

?Godwine 207 ‘of Drayton’

8.5

Healfdene

?Healfdene 2 ‘of Lambley’

39.1

Heregod>

-

Man

Pershore

Petherton

Reading

Rochester

72

Annual income

Moneyer

Swetman>

[Swetmann 9 moneyer at Oxford]

0.17

Wulfwig>

[Wulfwig 50 the fisherman]

0.13

Wulfric

Wulfric 160 ‘of Huddington’

1.5

Wulfric 161 ‘the radman’

1.19

Beorhtric 108 ‘of Curry Malet’

8.13

Beorhtric 110 ‘of Pignes’

2

Beorhtric

Beorhtric

Beorhtric 36 son of Ælfgar

75.81

?Beorhtric 71 ‘of Newton Valence’

96.13

?Beorhtric 37 man of Queen Edith

94.55

Korf

-

Eadwine

*Edwin 60 ‘of Upper Hardres’

Godwine

Godwine 191 ‘of Tottington’

0.5

Godwine 193 ‘of Wrotham Heath’

1

Other comments

Discussion on PASE Swetmann 9.

Held under abbot of Westminster, who was also dominant landholder in Pershore.

13.25

Leofstan

?Leofstan 80 the reeve

47.77

Leofwine [Horne]72

Leofwine 337 ‘of Siffleton’

1

Leofwine 219 ‘of Frinsted’

1

Unusually, this moneyer sometimes used what appears to be a byname or family name, Horne, which suggests he may have been a kinsman of Alwin Horne (PASE Alwin 25), who held extensive lands between Kent and Hertfordshire in 1066: Tsurushima, ‘Moneyers’, p. 45.



227

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Domesday match

Wulfric

Wulfric 129 ‘of Allington’

10

Wulfric 227 ‘of Horndon on the Hill’

3

Romney

Wulfmær>

Salisbury

Ælfweald Godric>

Godwine

Leofstan Safara Sigeboda Wineman Wynstan Sandwich

Shaftesbury

Godric

Godric 142 ‘of Fisherton Anger’

3

Godric 143 ‘of West Dean’

3

Godwine 169 ‘of Worthy’

48.18

Godwine 208 ‘of Clyffe Pypard’

4.5

Godwine 212 ‘of Winterbourne’

1.5

-

Leofwine

?Leofwine 217 ‘of Charlton’

Ælfnoth Æthelwine

-

Godric

Godric 378 ‘of Todber’

Ælfweard

Godric 380 the huntsman Wuducoc Wulfric Shrewsbury

Annual income

Moneyer

Ælfgeat

6.08

10.37 0.5

Ælfgeat 28 ‘of Slackbury’

0.2

Ælfgeat 30 ‘of Hatton’

0

Ælfheah

*Ælfheah 71 ‘of Lee’

0.22

Æthelric>

-

Earnwig>

Earnwig 23 ‘of Pontesbury’

14

Other comments

228 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Domesday match

Godsbrand>

-

Godwine

Godwine 422 ‘of Bitterley’

5.2

Godwine 419 ‘of Uppington’

1.2

Leofstan

-

Leofwine

Leofwine 39 ‘of Wem’ Leofwine 247 Cild

Wuduman

-

Wulfgeat

Wulfgeat 57 ‘of Acton Round’ Wulfgeat 58 ‘of Wollaston’

Southwark

Annual income

Moneyer

0.3 125.09 4 0.1

Wulfgeat 59 ‘of Aston’

1.3

Wulfgeat 60 ‘of Faintree’

0.2

Wulfgeat 61 ‘of Preston Brockhurst’

0.3

Wulfgeat 62 ‘of Cherrington’

3.2

Wulfgeat 64 ‘of Pulverbatch’

3

Wulfgeat 65 ‘of Poynton’

0.6

Wulfmær>

Wulfmær 85 ‘of Harley’

0.26

Ælfric

?Ælfric 319 Cachepol

0.67

Ælfwine

-

Brunman Brunræd Burgræd Godman Godric

*Godric 349 son of Carl

13

Leofræd

*Leofræd 2 ‘of East Ham’

10

Leofwine>

-

Osmund> Swetman

Other comments



229

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Stafford

Domesday match

Wulfwine

?Wulfwine 123 ‘of Byfleet’

Ælfric

Ælfric 373 ‘of Cooksland’

0.15

Ælfric 380 ‘of Woodcote’

1.55

Coling

?Colling 5 ‘of Hatton’

0.67

Godwine

Godwine 314 ‘of Shenston’

12.85

Godwine 301 ‘of Marston’

0.2

Godwine 432 ‘of Weston’

2.38

Godwine 412 ‘of Pendeford’

0.88

Osmund Wulfnoth Stamford

Annual income

Moneyer

Ælfheah Ælfwine Arnfrithr Arngrimr Baldwin Brinit Brunwine Diric Eadwine Fargrimr Godric Godwine

5

Godwine 334 son of Ælfhere Godwine 291 ‘of Orton Waterville’

84.4 2

Harcin

-

Leofric

Leofric 203 ‘of Rutland’

2

Leofric 209 ‘of Creeton’

1.5

Leofwine 305 ‘of Stamford’

0

Leofwine>

Other comments

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8.

230 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match Leofwine 307 ‘of Bourne’

Manewine Osweard Svart Svartkollr Thorstein Vilgrip Wulfric

Steyning

Sudbury Tamworth

Taunton

Thetford

Wulfric 167 ‘of Little Weldon’

0.5

Wulfric 226 ‘of Bourne’

0.5

-

Wulfwine

*Wulfwine 73 ‘of Gunby’

Deorman> Wulfgeat

-

Wulfric

?Wulfric 75 Cepe

Brunman

-

Folcwin Æthelwine

3.5

-

Wulfweard

Freothuwine

Annual income

0

99.63

Bruning>

*Bruning 27 ‘of Harborough’

1.25

Coling>

?Colling 5 ‘of Hatton’

0.67

Beorhtric>

Beorhtric 110 ‘of Pignes’

Boga Gillacrist

-

Ælfric

Ælfric 428 ‘of Ashill’

Ælfwine Æthelsige

2

2.5

Ælfric 418 ‘of Little Ellingham’

4

Ælfric 429 ‘of Shropham’

1.5

-

Other comments



231

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Æthelwine

Æthelwine 129 ‘of Thetford’

Atsurr/Azur Blachere Blacsunu Brunstan Cenric> Eadric

Annual income 3

Alwine 236 ‘of Tottington’

3.5

Alwine 221 ‘of Hingham’

1

Eadric 221 ‘of Palgrave’ Eadric 113 ‘of Laxfield’

0.5 193.8

Eastmund

-

Folcard

*Fulcard 2 ‘of Mellis’

0.76

Goda

?Goda 62 ‘of Ulverston’

2.2

Godleof

-

Godric>

Godric 359 ‘of Bradenham’

Godwig

-

Godwine>

Godwine 368 ‘of Pickenham South’

1.5

Godwine 355 ‘of Chamberlains Hall’

42

Eadwig

1

Leofræd

-

Leofric

Leofric 259 ‘of Tuddenham’

2

Leofric 214 ‘of Thorndon’

4.83

Leofwine

Leofwine 313 Croc Leofwine 316 ‘of Deopham’

Manna Osbearn/ Esbearn> Sægrim

-

15 4.31

Other comments

232 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Stanheard

[Stanheard 6 the man of Roger Bigod]

Sumarlithr

-

Thorfrithr Thorgautr Tidræd

Wallingford

Wulfwig

*Wulfwig 47 the knight

Ælfwig

-

Æthelwig Beorhtmær Beorhtric

5.58

4

Beorhtric 37 man of Queen Edith

124.06

Beorhtric 71 ‘of Newton Valence’

96.13

Beorhtwine

*Beorhtwine 38 ‘of Leckhampstead’

6.25

Brandr> Burhwine

-

Eadweard

Edward 65 ‘of Sutton’

18.75

Leofwine

Leofwine 227 the goldsmith

2.17

Leofwine 228 ‘of Bucklebury’

4

Leofwine 231 ‘of Childrey’

1.5

Svartlingr>

[Swartling 2 king’s thegn]

2.5

Æthelric/ Ægelric>

*Æthelric 135 ‘of Bardolfeston’

7

Beorn

*Beorn 13 ‘of Knowle’

2

Sidumann>

Brunwine

Wareham

Annual income

Warminster

Wulfstan

Warwick

Æthelstan

-

Leofing>

Leofing 87 ‘of Offord’

Theodric

[Theodric 6 the goldsmith]

Wulfric

0.5 35.03

Other comments



233

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Domesday match

Thorketill>

Thorkil 3 ‘of Warwick’

2

Thorkil 82 Battock

3

Wulfwine>

Wulfwine 17 reeve of Earl Leofric Wulfwine 126 the monk

Wilton

Annual income

Moneyer

Ælfstan

?Ælfstan 69 ‘of Boscombe’

Ælfweald

-

Ælfweard Ælfwine Beorhtsige Centwine Godric>

1.5 288.19

3

Godric 143 ‘of West Dean’

3

-

Leofing

*Leofing 88 ‘of Standlynch’

Leofwine

-

Owi>

56.03

Godric 142 ‘of Fisherton Anger’

Hereræd

Sæwine>

*Sæwine 24 ‘of Hurstbourne Priors’

Safara->

Other comments

1

19.18

Winchcombe

Goldwine>

Winchester

Ælfstan

-

Ælfwine>

-

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 11.

Æthelstan

-

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 154.

Æthelwine

-

Swetric Thorketill Wine Wineman

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 154.

234 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Anderboda>

-

Beorhtmær

?Beorhtmær 39 ‘of Cosham’

Beorhtweald

-

Brand Eadric

Eadric 66 sheriff of Wiltshire

Annual income

Other comments Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 29, 212.

4

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 166, 217.

15.5

Eadric 128 ‘of Blunsdon’

6

Eadwine

?Edwin 54 the huntsman

0.9

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 66.

Freothumund

-

Godman

*Godmann 9 ‘of Allington’

15.22

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 107.

Godnoth

-

Godric

Godric 133 Malf

29.89

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 128 (?).

Godwine>

Godwine 169 ‘of Worthy’

48.18

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 15 and 171 (?).

Ifing

-

Kollr

?Cola 23 ‘of Sutton Veny’

5.25

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 206 (?).

Leodmær

-

Leofing>

*Leofing 78 ‘of Exton’

Leofstan

-

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 218, 223 (?).

Leofweald>

-

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 168, 209 (?).

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 57. 2

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 68, 125, 248 (?).



235

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Leofwine

Leofwine 202 ‘of Chilton Candover’

Sæweard

-

Sæwine

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 107, 223, 257.

?Sæwine 24 ‘of Hurstbourne Priors’

19.18

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 175, 217.

Siweard>

*Siward 7 the hunter

0.66

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 264.

Spræcling

-

Wynstan Ælfgeard> Ælfwine Æthelric

Æthelwine Baldric Eadwine Eastmær> Garwulf>

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 16, 175.

Æthelric 145 ‘of Cofton Hackett’

0.6

Æthelric 63 ‘of Lower Wolverton’

5.2

Æthelric 143 ‘of Whittington’

4.5

-

Godwine

Godwine 277 ‘of Redmarley’

Leofric>

Leofric 163 ‘of Bentley’

1.5

Leofric 245 ‘of Besford’

0.75

Leofstan Ræfwine> Viking Wulfwig York

Other comments

12.33

Widia

Worcester

Annual income

Ælfhere Ælfwine

-

3.79

See Appendix 2.

236 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Agin

-

Aleifr> Arngrimr

Arnketill

Arngrim 17 ‘of Painsthorpe’

1

Arngrim 16 ‘of Huntington’

1.5

Arnkil 11 ‘of York’

0

Arnkil 12 ‘of Overton’

0.5

Arnkil 41 son of Wulfstan

4.13

Arnkil 27 ‘of Thornton’

0.5

Arnkil 24 ‘of Hackforth’

16.3

Arnkil 29 ‘of Leathley’ Authgrimr>

-

Authulfr

Othulf 16 ‘of York’

Authbjorn>

Othulf 14 ‘of Eddlethorpe’

Beorn Eltan Grimwulf Gunnulf Hrafn

Annual income

Other comments

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8; witness to York inquest of c. 1080 (M. H. Peacock, ‘An English Document of about 1080’, Yorkshire Archaeological Journal 18 (1905), pp. 412–16 (?)). Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8. Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 6.

5 Witness to York inquest of c. 1080 (Peacock, ‘An English Document of about 1080’). 0 0.5

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 6; witness to York inquest of c. 1080 (Peacock, ‘An English Document of about 1080’).

0.8

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 10.

*Raven 9 ‘of Great Ouseburn’



237

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Annual income

Moneyer

Domesday match

Hrossketill

*Roskil 3 ‘of Kirklington’

Hrothulf/ Harthulf?>

?Heardwulf 3 ‘of Burnsall’

Ioketill Ioli

-

Ketil

Ketil 24 ‘of Shadwell’

2.37

Ketil 25 ‘of Bentham’

0 1.7

Ketil 29 ‘of Kirk Ella’

5.5

Ketil 30 ‘of Hopperton’

0.5

Ketil 31 ‘of Acaster Selby’

0.6

Kollr

-

Leofing

*Leofing 90 ‘of York’

Leofnoth

-

Leysingr>

*Leysingr 2 ‘of Faceby’

Manna

-

Odin Sæfugol Skuli Snæbjorn

*Snæbiorn 2 ‘of Studley Royal’

Styrkollr

-

Sutari Svart Svartkollr

0

Ketil 27 ‘of Almondbury’

Ketil 32 ‘of Appletreewick’

Leofwine

4.95

Svartkollr 4 ‘of Askham Richard’

Other comments Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 10. Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8; witness to York inquest of c. 1080 (Peacock, ‘An English Document of about 1080’).

0

0

3.2

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 10.

0.5

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8.

2

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 10.

238 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match Svartkollr 2 ‘of Sproxton’

Annual income 0.2

Swein

-

Thorgrim

*Thorgrim 2 ‘of Allerton Mauleverer’

0.3

Thorr>

Thor 14 ‘of Thorpe Arch’

1.7

Ulfketill

Unnulfr Vetrfugl Wulfgar

Thor 13 ‘of Brompton on Swale’

33.15

Ulfkil 31 ‘of Acomb’

0.2

Ulfkil 27 ‘of Elvington’

2.5

Ulfkil 32 ‘of Allerton’

0.5

Ulfkil 26 ‘of Askwith’

0.5

Ulfkil 23 ‘of Kiddal and Parlington’

2.5

-

Other comments

Witness to York inquest of c. 1080 (Peacock, ‘An English Document of about 1080’).



239

The Moneyers and Domesday Book

Appendix 2: Moneyers early 1070s–1100 and possible representation among Domesday landholders ‘now’ (modo)/‘in the time of King William’ (tempore regis Willelmi), 1086 Annual income

Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Barnstaple

Leofwine

[Leofwine 244 ‘of West Putford’]

0.25

Seword

[Siward 17 ‘of Hemington’]

59.4

Barnstaple/ Bath

Godesbrand

-

Bath

Ægelmær

[Æthelmær 39 ‘of Ham’]

>Osmær

-

Godric

[Godric 202 ‘of Hemingford Abbots’]

0.5

Lifwi(ne)

[?Leofwine 247 Cild]

125.09

Neigel

*Nigel 10 du Vast

22.65

>Sægod/ Sigod

*Sægeat 3 ‘of Hanefelde’

0.25

>Sibrand

-

Ælfric

*Ælfric 256 ‘of Winterborne’

12.75

Brihtwine

*Beorhtwine 37 ‘of Melbury’

21.72

Godwine

?Godwine 221 ‘of Corscombe’

1

>Hwateman

[*Hwætmann 3 ‘of Wey’]

1.5

Barcwit

-

Brihtword

*Beorhtweald 23 ‘of Writhlington’

Brunstan

-

>Ceorl

[Carl 2 ‘of Norton Bavant’]

Colblac

-

>Leofwine

Leofwine 238 ‘of Shuttington’

Snedi/Sindi

-

Bedford

Bridport

Bristol

Other comments

16

4

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9.

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8.

153.95

1

Swein Cambridge

Æthelmær

-

Possible Domesday juror (Lewis, ‘Domesday Jurors’, p. 42).

240 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Domesday match

Frise

Æthelric

-

Aldræd

[Ealdræd 77 Bot]

3.5

Ælfræd

*Alfred 133 ‘of Folkestone’

2.57

Agemund

-

Brihtwold

-

Burnoth

[Burgnoth 7 ‘of Ernulfitone’]

Eadwine

*Edwin 59 ‘of St Margaret at Cliffe’

Godric

-

Ulfcetel Wigbeorn Canterbury

>Manna Simær >Windeg Wulfbold >Wulfred Wulfric

?Wulfric 127 ‘of Guston’

Wulfwine

-

Wulfwold Chester

>Ælfsi Ælfwine Lifing Lifnoth Lifwine Othwthen Sunulf

Chichester

Annual income

Moneyer

>Brunman Edwine

Godwine

Witness to charter of 1111 (Tsurushima, ‘Moneyers’, p. 39). 4.01 3

1

[Edwin 62 ‘of Buddington’]

1.5

[Edwin 63 ‘of Washington’]

0.5

-

Other comments



241

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Annual income

Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Colchester

Ælfric

*Ælfric 218 burgess of Colchester

0

Ælfsi

*Alsige 6 burgess of Colchester

0

Ælfwine

*Alwine 24 burgess of Colchester

Deorman

*Deorman 11 burgess of Colchester

Goldhafoc Goldman

*Goldman 2 burgess of Colchester

0

Goldstan

*Goldstan 8 burgess of Colchester

0

Wulfric

*Wulfric burgess of Colchester

0

Wulfweard

*Wulfweard 55 burgess of Colchester

0

Wulfwine

*Wulfwine 88–99 burgess of Colchester

0

Ælfwine

-

Siwegen

Cricklade

Edoluf (Æthelwulf?) >Leofræd Wulfstan Derby

Dorchester

>Froma Godwine

?Godwine 324 the priest

Leofwine Ælfgeat

-

Godwine

Godwine 220 the reeve

Lifric

-

>Oter Siw(e)gen Dover

-

>Brunman Cinstan Edword Godwine Goldwine

0

0.62

Other comments

242 Mint-place

Exeter

Gloucester

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Lifric

-

Lifwine

[Leofwine 217 ‘of Charlton’]

>Manwine

-

>Ælfwine

[Beorhtwine 43 ‘of Newton’]

0.12

Edwine

*Edwin 89 ‘of Butterleigh’

1.05

Lifwine

-

Sæmær

[Sæmær 3 ‘of Cheriton’]

2.25

>Sæword

[Siward 17 ‘of Hemington’]

59.4

[Sæweard 11 ‘of Lympstone’]

10.5

Sæwine

-

>Wulfwine

[Wulfwine 134 ‘of Sutton’]

Brihtnoth

-

Godwine Leofwine Sæwold Sewine

[Sæwine 31 ‘of Dumbleton’]

>Silæcwine

-

>Wulfgeat

*Wulfgeat 48 ‘of Eldersfield’

Ælfric

-

Seric Hastings

Cipincc Deorman >Dunning Eadwine Godric Sperling

Hereford

6.08

Brihtwine

Edwold

Guildford

Annual income

>Ægelric

0.5

1

1.97

Other comments



243

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

>Ægelwine

-

Ælfwi Æstan

Hertford

Annual income

>Brihtric

[Beorhtric 71 ‘of Newton Valence’]

88.33

>Eadwi

[Eadwig 66 Cild]

21.1

Godric

Godric 204 ‘of Mansell Lacy’

1.1

Godric 209 Mappesone

2

Hethewi

-

Lifwine

*Leofwine 265 the interpreter

1.4

Leostan

[Leofstan 81 ‘of Linton’]

0.2

Ordwi

-

Ælfgar Ælfric

Possible Domesday juror (Lewis, ‘Domesday Jurors’, p. 41).

Sæman Lifwine Siwat/ Siwatoe Thedric Ælfric Ælfwine Ælfwine

Huntingdon

>Godric

>Godwine

[Godric 202 ‘of Hemingford Abbots’]

0.5

[Godric 203 the priest]

1

[Godwine 432 ‘of Weston’]

Siwat/ Siwatoe Hythe

Eadred

Ilchester

>Ægelwine Ælfword Lifwine >Wixie

-

Other comments

2.38

244

Rory Naismith Annual income

Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Ipswich

>Ægelbriht

-

Ægelric

[Æthelric 160 ‘of Burgh’]

6.76

>Ægelwine

[Æthelwine 132 ‘of Hemingstone’]

0.01

Ælfric

Ælfric 486 son of Rolf

0.27

Ælfric 487 priest ‘of Westerfield’

0.15

Ælfric 488 ‘of Claydon’

0.34

Ælfwine Elfstan Godric

Godric 347 ‘of Ipswich’

0

Godric 342 ‘of Claydon’

0.14

>Leofstan

?Leofstan 79 the priest

0.09

Leofwine

Leofwine 341 ‘of Claydon’

0.07

Leofwine 327 ‘of Olden’

0.03

Mantan

-

Swein

Swein 9 ‘of Essex’

Wulfric

>Wulfwine

Wulfword

491.11

[Swein 54 ‘of Burgate’]

0.11

[Swein 14 Swart]

54.5

Wulfric 280 ‘of Claydon’

0.07

Wulfric 281 ‘of Thurleston’

0.03

Wulfric 278 ‘of Westerfield’

0.02

Wulfwine 112 the priest

0.07

Wulfwine 131 freeman

0.07

[Wulfweard 41 ‘of Falkenham’]

0.15

[Wulfweard 75 ‘of Blakenham’]

0.7

[Wulfweard 74 ‘of Stonham’]

0.5

Other comments



245

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Launceston

Ægelmær

-

Godric Leicester

Ægelwine Ælfsi >Frithegist >Godric

Godric 211 ‘of Houghton on the Hill’ Godric 212 ‘of Loughborough’

Lewes

Lifinc

-

Sewine

[Sæwine 29 king’s thegn]

Ælfric

-

Ælfwine

1 2.75

3.79

Brihtmær

*Beorhtmær 55 ‘of Ovingdean’

1

Edwine

[Edwin 61 ‘of West Dean’]

1.5

>Oswold

-

>Winered Lincoln

Annual income

Ælfnoth

Ascitl Folcard Lefwine Seirman

Ælfnoth 69 ‘of Lincoln’

0.25

Alnoth 81 ‘of Kelby’

6

[Eskil 25 ‘of Kexby’]

2

[Eskil 26 ‘of Saxby’]

2

-

>Siferth/ Sigeferth

[Sigefrith 38 ‘of Hagingworth Mumby’]

1.7

>Siward/ Sigiwerth

Siward 81 the priest

1.76

Thorstan

-

Ulf

[Ulf 39 Fenisc] [Ulf 73 son of Swartbrand, lawman]

Unce Unspac

-

459.78 0

Other comments

246 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

Wihtric

-

Wul(f)stan Wulbert Wulfsige Wulfwine London

Annual income

>Ægelric

[Æthelric 158 ‘of Kelvedon Hatch’]

>Ægelwine/ Æthelwine

-

Ægelword

-

Ælfgar

[Ælfgar 112 ‘of Islington’]

0.5

Ælfræd

*Alfred 111 nephew of Wigot

2.5

>Ælfwine

-

Æscil Æwi >Aldgar/ E(a) ldgar

2 See Appendix 1.

Ba(r)t/But

-

Blacsunu

-

Bricmar/ Brihtmar

[Beorhtmær 63 ‘of West Bedfont’]

3

>Brihtric

[Beorhtric 124 ‘of Mitcham’]

2.6

Brihtwine Bruning

-

Colswegen

-

Edred

-

>Eadric

*Eadric 126 ‘of Kingston upon Thames’

Aldred

Other comments

Possibly Algarus aurifaber in a charter of 1102, and/ or son of Deorman canon of St Paul’s (Ekwall, Early London, p. 5).

Ekwall, Early London, p. 23.

Ekwall, Early London, p. 20. Ekwall, Early London, p. 22. Ekwall, Early London, p. 79.

0.4



247

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

>Eadwine

[Edwin 92 ‘of Tollington’] [Edwin 60 ‘of Upper Hardres’]

Annual income 2 13.25

Edward

Edward 26 ‘of Salisbury’

Estmær

-

>Goding

[Goding 23 ‘of Windridge’]

2.5

>Godric

[Godric 138 ‘of Ortone’]

2

[Godric 349 son of Carl]

13

[Godwine 252 ‘of Stepney’]

5

[Godwine 253 Alfit]

3

>Godwine

Lifsei/ Leofsige

-

Lifwine

-

Manic/ Manning Ordgar

*Ordgar 27 ‘of Chingford’

Sibode

-

Smeawine Thidric

Theodric 6 the goldsmith

Uhtred

-

Wul(f)gar

Other comments

582.22

Ekwall, Early London, pp. 30–1, possibly an aurifaber.

Ekwall, Early London, p. 42.

3.5

35.03

Wul(f)noth

[Wulfnoth 75 ‘of Tinton’]

Wulfric

-

Wul(f)stan

[Wulfstan 109 ‘of Woldingham’]

4

Wulfweard

*Wulfweard 91 ‘of Wadsworth’

2

Ekwall, Early London, p. 66 (doubtfully).

45.13 Ekwall, Early London, p. 71, noting a sheriff by this name 1094×1097.

248 Mint-place

Maldon

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

>Wulfwine

?Wulfwine 123 ‘of Byfleet’

Ælfwine

-

Ælfword

*Edward 77 ‘of Beaumont’

8

>Leofsunu

*Leofsunu 13 ‘of Mose’

0.2

Wulfwine Brihtwine Godsbrand >Brihtwine Seword

0

Siward 53 ‘of Somerford’

2

Siward 54 ‘of Chedglow’

0.5

Marlborough

Cild

-

Northampton

Godwine

Godwine 438 the priest

Norwich

4.56

Edword

*Leofsunu 17, burgess of Colchester Malmesbury

Annual income

1.56

Godwine 300 ‘of Barford’

0

Godwine 309 ‘of Slawston’

0.4

Godwine 307 priest ‘of Peatling Magna’

0

>Sæwine

[Sæwine 30 ‘of Braunston’]

1

Ægelf(e)rth

-

Æg(e)lric Ælfric

*Ælfric 421 ‘of Fundenhall’

Breisel

-

Edwold Godefurth

2

Godric

?Godric 103 the steward

281.74

Godwine

Godwine 364 burgess of Norwich

0

Godwine 185 Haldein

8.23

Other comments



249

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

>How(i)orth

*Howard 3 de Vernon

Inhuhe

-

Lifnoth

Nottingham

Oxford

Annual income 1.4

Lifwold

[Leofweald 25 ‘of Wreningham’]

Oter

-

>Thurgrim

[Thorgrim 3 ‘of Wiveton’]

Toufie

*Tovi 8 ‘of Holkham’

14.48

Ulfcitel

*Ulfkil 55 ‘of Framingham’

9.69

Atsere

[Azur 20 ‘of Barnstone’]

0.5

[Azur 21 ‘of Kinoulton’]

0.5

>Forna

-

Haldene

*Healfdene 2 ‘of Lambley’

>Manna

-

Wulfric

[Wulfric 217 ‘of Flawborough’]

>Ægelwi

-

>Ælfwi(n)e

Other comments

3.8

2

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9.

10.26

1

>Brihtred

*Beorhtræd 7 moneyer of Oxford

0.07

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 5.

Drman

*Deorman 11 moneyer of Oxford

0.07

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 5.

>Godwine

Godwine 272 ‘of Oxford’ Godwine 273 ‘of Brize Norton’

>Heregod

-

Iglnoth

[Æthelnoth 69 Cild]

0 0.5

340.52

Man >Swetman

*Swetmann 9 moneyer of Oxford

0.17

>Wulfwi

Wulfwig 50 the fisherman

0.13

Wulfwig 28 ‘of East Hanney’

2.1

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, pp. 2–3.

250

Rory Naismith

Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Pevensey

Ælfheh

[Ælfheah 76 ‘of Langney’]

Rhuddlan

Ælfwine

-

Hrveov Rochester

Ælfstan Guthred Lifstan Lifwine Horn Wulfwine

Romney

Ælmær Coc Gold Winedei >Wulfmær Wulfnoth

Salisbury

Sandwich

Annual income 0.42

Eadword

Edward 26 ‘of Salisbury’

Osbern/ Esbern

Osbern 26 the priest

>Godric

*Godric 146 ‘of Cholderton’

Godwine

[Godwine 209 ‘of Deptford’]

0.5

[Godwine 208 ‘of Clyffe Pypard’]

4.5

[Godwine 212 ‘of Winterbourne’]

1.5

[Godwine 169 ‘of Worthy’]

48.18

Safara

-

Adalbot

Æthelweald 8 ‘of Deal’

Ælfheh

-

Alfgar Ælfget Godwine Wulfword

[Wulfweard 17 ‘the White’]

582.22 4.5 2

3

223.27

Other comments



251

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Shaftesbury

Alnoth

[Alnoth 84 ‘of Blackford’]

Baldewine

Baldwin 8 the sheriff

Cinihtwine

-

Godesbrand Osmund Swgen Wulfgeard Shrewsbury

>Æglric >Earnwig

*Earnwig 23 ‘of Pontesbury’

>Godesbrand

-

Hathebrand Segrim

Annual income 4 393.91

6.6

>Wulfmær

[Wulfmær 85 ‘of Harley’]

0.26

Wulfic

[Wulfric 184 ‘of Great Wytheford’]

0.2

[Wulfric 185 ‘of Easthope’]

0.4

[Wulfric 186 ‘of Wollaston’]

0.3

[Wulfric 187 ‘of Cherrington’]

0.2

[Wulfric 188 ‘of Woodcote’]

0.8

[Wulfric 189 ‘of Aston’]

0.2

[Wulfric 190 ‘of Wall Town’]

0

[Wulfric 191 ‘of Peplow’]

1.15

[Wulfric 192 ‘of Tyrley’]

0.4

[Wulfric 193 ‘of Norton’]

1.5

[Wulfric 194 ‘of Upper Ledwyche’]

1.6

[Wulfric 195 ‘of Sleap’]

0.2

Other comments

252 Mint-place

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match [Wulfric 196 ‘of Pitchford’]

0.1

[Wulfric 198 ‘of Withington’]

0.4

[Wulfric 199 ‘of Eyton’]

0

[Wulfric 200 ‘of Neen Savage’] Southwark

Aldoulf Aldred Alfgar

10

[Alfgar 112 ‘of Islington’]

0.5

Edward

Edward 26 ‘of Salisbury’

582.22

Godric

-

Lifword >Osmund

[Osmund 42 ‘of Eaton’]

Sæwine

-

Sprot Wulfgar Ælfnoth Godric

*Godric 268 ‘of Ranton’

Godwine

-

Wulfnoth Stamford

0.8

[Alfgar 111 ‘of Little Stanmore’]

>Leofwine

Stafford

Annual income

Arcil Arntl Brunstan Diric Godelef >Leofwine

[Leofwine 305 ‘of Stamford’]

Manewine

-

Sewi

47

1

0

Other comments



253

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Steyning

Moneyer

Domesday match

Thurstan

-

Wulfword

-

>Deorman Lifsi Thurbern

Annual income

Appears in the Thorney Liber vitae (The Thorney Liber Vitae: London, British Library, Additional MS 40,000, fols 1–12r, ed. L. Rollason (Woodbridge, 2015), pp. 270–1).

Sudbury

Wulfric

Tamworth

>Bruning

Bruning 27 ‘of Harborough’

0.25

>Coling

[Colling 5 ‘of Hatton’]

0.67

Hireworth

*Howard 4 ‘of Peatling’

2.25

Ælfwine

-

>Brihtric

*Beorhtric 113 ‘of Tuxwell’, king’s thegn

Ælfric

-

Taunton

Thetford

Ælfwine Blagsune Brihtnoth Bundi

[Bondi 12 ‘of Rushford’]

Burhard

*Burgheard 12 ‘of Bardwell’

>Cenric

Godelef

-

Godinc

[Goding 26 the reeve]

Godræd

-

>Godric

?Godric 103 the steward

>Esbearn Folcard Goda

Other comments

0.62

2 5.5

1 281.74

254 Mint-place

Totnes

Rory Naismith Moneyer

Domesday match

>Godwine

-

Neigel

[Nigel 33 man of Robert fitzCorbucion]

Stanheard

Stanheard 6 man of Roger Bigod

Duninc

-

Etmær Twynham/ Christchurch

Coleman

Wallingford

Ægelwine Ælfwine >Brand Colbern/ Colbran

Wareham

?Swartling 2 king’s thegn

Wideman

-

5.58

2.5

[Beorn 13 ‘of Knowle’]

Godwine

Godwine 220 the reeve

0.62

Godwine 219 the huntsman

1.25

>Sideman Warwick

6

Bern/Bran

Sideloc Ælric

Other comments

-

>Sweartling

>Ægelric

Annual income

2

?Ælfric 151 ‘of Barcheston’

2

?Ælfric 371 ‘of Bubbenhall’

2.5

Goldinc

-

Lifric

[Leofric 180 ‘of Wormleighton’]

>Luffinc

Leofing 87 ‘of Offord’

Sperhafuc Thidred

-

>Thurkil

Thorkil 3 ‘of Warwick’

2 0.5

128.87

A. Williams, ‘A Vice-Comital Family in Pre-Conquest Warwickshire’, ANS 11 (1989), pp. 279–95.



255

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

>Wulfwine

[Wulfwine 17 reeve of Earl Leofric]

Watchet

Sigoulf

Wilton

Ælfwine

-

>Godric

*Godric 146 ‘of Cholderton’

>Owi

-

>Sæwine

Sæwine 24 ‘of Hurstbourne Priors’

>Safare

>Ælfwine

-

Æstan

-

>Anderboda Brunic

-

Edwine

Edwin 55 the priest

Godnoth

-

>Godwine

[Godwine 169 ‘of Worthy’]

>Lifinc

Leofing 78 ‘of Exton’

>Leofwold

-

Sæwine

?Sæwine 24 ‘of Hurstbourne Priors’

>Siweard

Siward 7 the huntsman

Spræclinc

-

Winchcombe

>Goldwine

Winchester

Aldwine

Wimund

Annual income

Other comments

56.03

2

0.38

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 168, 221, 257 (?). Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, p. 150 (?).

0.25

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 252, 258.

48.18

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 10, 172, 228, 238.

2 0.38 1 Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, no. I, pp. 7, 22, 41, 62, 65.

256

Rory Naismith Annual income

Mint-place

Moneyer

Domesday match

Worcester

>Ælfgeard

-

Althurolf

[Thorulf 9 ‘of Sheriff Hutton’]

Balderic

>Gar(e)ulf

-

>Leofric

Leofric 162 radman

Heathewulf

-

Tenant of royal land in Worcester, 1090s (Symons, ‘Worcester Mint’, pp. 567–9).

>Ræfwine

-

Tenant of monks in 1090s (Symons, ‘Worcester Mint’, pp. 566–7).

Sewine

[Sæwine 34 ‘of Laughern’]

>Aleigf/ Aleiof

-

Althurolf

-

>Eastmer Edwine

York

Other comments Married Mathilda cameraria (1045×1075) (T. Hearne, ed., Hemingi chartularium ecclesiae Wigorniensis, 2 vols (Oxford, 1723) I, pp. 253–4).

0.17

1

0.35

Tenant of royal land in Worcester, 1090s (D. J. Symons, ‘The Moneyers of the Worcester Mint, 1066–1158: Some Thoughts and Comments’, Coinage and History in the North Sea World, c. AD 500–1250: Studies in Honour of Marion Archibald, ed. B. Cook and G. Williams (Leiden, 2006), pp. 545–88 at pp. 559–60).



257

The Moneyers and Domesday Book Mint-place

Annual income

Moneyer

Domesday match

>Harthulf/ Hrthoulf

?Heardwulf 3 ‘of Burnsall’

3.5

>Læsing/ Leigsing

[Leysingr 2 ‘of Faceby’]

3.2

>Outhbeorn

-

>Outhgrim

-

>Thor(r)

[Thor 14 ‘of Thorpe Arch’] [Thor 13 ‘of Brompton on Swale’]

Other comments Witness to York inquest of c. 1080 (Peacock, ‘An English Document of about 1080’).

Witness to York inquest of c. 1080 (Peacock, ‘An English Document of about 1080’). 1.7 33.15

258

Rory Naismith

Appendix 3: Discussion of Probable Moneyers in Domesday Book The individuals discussed below are those marked with a * in appendices 1 and 2. Bedford, Nigel: recorded as a moneyer in William II type 1 only, probably in the early 1090s. The only figure by this name recorded by Domesday in the vicinity of Bedford was Nigel du Vast, who in 1086 held six properties in Bedfordshire as a subtenant, and one more as tenant-in-chief; altogether these properties were rated at about thirty-five hides and worth £22 13s per annum. Bedford, Sægod/Sigod: recorded as a moneyer in William I types 2–5 and William II types 1–3, from the late 1060s to the 1090s. In 1066 and 1086 Domesday, Saiet ‘of Hanefelde’ had one virgate in Bedfordshire bringing in 5s a year; he was one of only two individuals by this name recorded in the survey, the other being in Oxfordshire. Bridport, Ælfric: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 8 only, probably from the late 1080s. Though quite common in Domesday generally, this name occurred only once in Dorset. Ælfric ‘of Winterborne’ in 1066 had been a considerable landholder in the shire, with nineteen properties rated at over forty-three hides and bringing in a little more than £32; in 1086 he was of somewhat reduced though still substantial wealth, with seven properties held as tenant-in-chief, plus one more held by a tenant, which amounted to a little over 13½ hides and brought in revenue of £10 15s. Bridport, Beorhtwine: recorded as a moneyer in William I types 7 and 8, in the mid-/late 1080s. This rare name occurs only once in the vicinity of Bridport: Beorhtwine ‘of Melbury’ held thirteen properties in Dorset in 1066 (of more than 21½ hides, worth £16 7s), while in 1086 he had ten properties as tenant-in-chief and two more held as subtenant (altogether rated at nearly twenty-four hides, with income of £22 7s 5d), with another property let to a tenant.73 Bridport and Dorchester, Hwætman: recorded as a moneyer at Bridport in Jewel Cross, Arm and Sceptre, Small Flan, Harold II, and William I type 5, running from the 1030s to about 1080. Issues from Dorchester by Hwætman begin at the same time but end earlier, and include Jewel Cross, Fleur de Lys, Trefoil-Quadrilateral, and Expanding Cross. An individual of this name occurs in Domesday for 1066 in Dorset, with a property of 2½ hides on the river Wey that brought in 30s. This is an exceptionally rare name, otherwise unknown in the corpus of moneyers and only for a couple of others in Domesday (in Herefordshire and Middlesex), and a connection between the two has elsewhere been recognized as highly probable.74 Bristol, Beorhtweard: recorded as a moneyer between William I type 6 and William II type 3, from about early 1080s to the mid-1090s. This was a rare name in Domesday, and one of its holders (Beorhtweald ‘of Writhlington’; Brictoward in the text) held land within a short distance of Bristol, in the form of a single substantial property (six hides, worth £5).75

73

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9. Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, pp. 9–10; PASE, https://domesday.pase.ac.uk/Domesday?op=5&personkey=40141 (accessed 3 February 2023). 75 Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 8. 74



The Moneyers and Domesday Book

259

Bristol, Smeawine: recorded as a moneyer only in Edward the Confessor’s Trefoil-Quadrilateral type, probably of the later 1040s. An individual of this name held two properties in Somerset in 1066 amounting to two hides, worth £3 10s. The name is a rare one, occurring only three times in Domesday, and was held by one other moneyer of earlier date. Cambridge, Edward: recorded as a moneyer in Pointed Helmet, Hammer Cross, and Facing Bust, in the 1050s and 1060s. A figure with this name (‘of Arrington’) held a hide of land west of Cambridge in 1066; situated on an important north-south route, Ermine Street, this had a high value of £11 shared between Edward and two other landholders. Besides the king, there are relatively few Domesday landholders by this name, and this is the only one in Cambridgeshire. Cambridge, Godlamb: recorded as a moneyer late in Edward the Confessor’s reign (Facing Bust and Pyramids), in the early to mid-1060s. No other moneyer by this name is known. A single Domesday individual bears this name: a figure who in 1086 held land at Grantchester, very near Cambridge, worth £1. In this instance the moneyer’s activity falls in the period preceding his appearance in Domesday, but the coincidence of this highly unusual name at the same location constitutes a compelling case that these two individuals are one and the same.76 Cambridge, Wulfwig: recorded as a moneyer under Harold II only. An individual by this name held 1¼ hides close to Cambridge at Swaffham Bulbeck, worth £2 15s in total, of which Wulfwig had a share. This was not an uncommon name across Domesday, but was unusual in Cambridgeshire Domesday at this time. Canterbury, Alfred: recorded as a moneyer from William I type 4 to William II type 4, from about the mid-/late 1070s to the mid-/late 1090s. There had also been a moneyer by this name active in Canterbury from Last Small Cross to Hammer Cross (about 1010 to 1060), but this is likely to represent a separate individual. Though not so rare in Domesday generally, only one landholder by this name lay within the vicinity of Canterbury: Alfred ‘of Folkestone’, who held two properties totalling a little over five hides, and together worth £6. Canterbury, Brunman: recorded as a moneyer between Pacx and Small Flan, between 1042 and about 1050.77 There are several individuals called Brunman recorded as landholders in 1066, none of them within Kent. But a passage relating a dispute over tolls in Canterbury reveals that there was a praepositus (reeve) named Brunman active in Canterbury.78 Brunman allegedly began taking these illicit tolls sometime during Edward’s reign; the quarrel was settled at some point under William I, but prior to the Domesday survey. Canterbury, Eadric: recorded as a moneyer in Facing Bust only. An Eadric ‘of Elham’ in 1066 held two clusters of land, one in Kent but another in Berkshire and Wiltshire, all under the king. These amounted to 74½ hides in total, and brought in 76

Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9. P. B. Purefoy (‘The Coinage of William I in Kent’, Archaeologia Cantiana 128 (2008), pp. 59–74 at pp. 71–2) has argued that this may be the same as a moneyer Brunman at Dover in William I types 3–5, from the early 1070s to the early 1080s. 78 GDB f. 2a. 77

260

Rory Naismith

just under £113. Eadric was therefore a man of considerable means, though also the only landholder of this name in Kent. He may have been active sometime earlier: a charter of 1038×1050 includes an Eadric æt Æthelham in its witness list.79 Canterbury, Edwin (1086): recorded as a moneyer in William II types 4 and 5, and in Henry I type 1, from the mid-/late 1090s to the early 1100s; he may or may not be the same as a moneyer of this name who worked under Harold II. Again, this common name was less frequently found in Kent, and just one landholder named Edwin/Eadwine (‘of St Margaret’s at Cliffe’) can be identified. In 1086 this individual held one property rated at just under a hide, and worth £4 per annum, though in 1066 he had been rather wealthier, with four properties of more than four hides worth £8. Canterbury, Sigeræd: recorded as a moneyer in Facing Bust and Pyramids. This is a relatively unusual name in Domesday Book, and in 1066 only one instance occurred in Kent, Sigeræd ‘of Chilham’. He had ten properties across Kent, including urban holdings within Canterbury. These added up to nearly twenty-eight hides and brought in almost £84.80 Canterbury, Wulfgeat: recorded as a moneyer in Radiate/Small Cross only, in the mid-1040s. Wulfgeat was not an especially rare name in Domesday Book as a whole, though the only occurrence in Kent is Wulfgeat ‘of Wichling’, who had four hides dispersed among three estates in central Kent, bringing in £9 in total. Chester, Dunning: recorded as a moneyer in Sovereign/Eagles, Hammer Cross, and Pyramids, in the 1050s and 1060s. This is an uncommon name in Domesday, with only seven occurrences, and in the vicinity of Chester the only one is Dunning ‘of Mercia’, who held property in 1066 and (on a much smaller scale) in 1086. In the former year, he was named in connection with twenty-two properties scattered from Nottinghamshire to Shropshire, including in Cheshire; these estates were rated at over 17½ hides and brought in nearly £12 a year. Chester, Ealhsige: recorded as a moneyer between Expanding Cross and William I type 2, from about 1050 to 1070. Von Feilitzen tentatively associated this rare name (represented on the coins in various ways as alcsi, alesige, alhsi, etc.) with Domesday Alsige.81 The latter was also a rare name in Domesday, and only occurs once in the environs of Chester, for Alsige ‘of Leftwich’, who had two small properties east of Chester adding up to about ¾ of a hide, and bringing in 8s. Chester, Grim: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 2, in the late 1060s. Grim was not an especially rare name in Domesday Book, though this is the only occurrence of it in this region in 1066. Grim ‘of Cheshire’ had a share in a small property near Chester, which brought him half of the income of £1 18s (presumably 19s). Chester, Leofnoth: recorded as a moneyer over a long period, from Fleur de Lis to Pyramids (late 1030s to the 1060s) and possibly earlier: a moneyer of this name was active at Chester from Æthelred II Helmet to Cnut Pointed Helmet). Leofnoth 79 80 81

S 1400 (Brooks and Kelly, ed., Charters of Christ Church, no. 172). Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9. Von Feilitzen, Pre-Conquest Personal Names, p. 152.



The Moneyers and Domesday Book

261

was a rare name in Domesday, with under twenty occurrences, the only one in the vicinity of Chester being Leofnoth ‘of Caldy’, who in 1066 held nineteen estates in two clusters either side of the city; these were rated at more than seventeen hides in total, and brought in £8 17s. Chichester, Godwine: recorded as a moneyer in Pointed Helmet, Sovereign/Eagles, Hammer Cross, and Harold II; a moneyer by this name also appeared at Chichester later, in William I type 5 and after, though it is not clear if this is the same individual. Godwine is a very common name in Domesday, though in Sussex the overwhelming majority of land assigned to Godwine relates to Earl Godwine: smaller holders are much fewer. The only one in west Sussex is Godwine ‘of Lavant’, who in 1066 had eleven properties in the area around Chichester, some of them in what are now the outskirts of the city. These added up to forty hides and brought in more than £27. Colchester: this mint-town is unusual for the degree of detail with which its urban holdings are recorded, in the form of a long list of hundreds of names, each representing the holder of one or more houses and sometimes a few acres of land within the town.82 It is likely that this list is extracted from a more detailed survey similar to that surviving in Winton Domesday.83 However, if any additional geographical or personal information was once supplied from Colchester, it has been suppressed. Some names recur multiple times and may represent the same individual, though it is equally possible that common names were held by several inhabitants of the town. For this reason, it is not possible to be sure how many times individuals with the same names as the moneyers occur in the Domesday record for Colchester. What can be said is that figures occur with the same names as all but one of the moneyers recorded for the town in the period from the early 1070s to 1100 (Ælfric, Ælfsi(ge), Ælfwine, Deorman, Goldman, Goldstan, S(i)wegen, Wulfric, Wulfweard, Wulfwine) occur at least once among the list of urban property holders; the only one who does not (Goldhafoc) worked fairly late, in William II types 3 and 4 (probably in the 1090s), and also had the first name element as two earlier moneyers, so may have been a younger kinsman to them. Droitwich, Wulfwine: recorded as a moneyer for Harold II only. Although this was a common name in Domesday, it is rare in this western region of England. The only holder near Droitwich was Wulfwine ‘reeve of Earl Leofric’, who was a fairly substantial landholder: he held nineteen properties in Worcestershire and Shropshire, totalling over forty-eight hides and bringing in over £56. Exeter, Beorhtwine: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 1; another moneyer at Exeter by this name struck coins in William II types 1–3, but it is not clear if this represents the same individual. Beorhtwine ‘of Newton’ had a small holding of land close to Exeter, which brought in less than 3s a year.

82

LDB 104–7b. For further discussion, see N. Crummy, ‘Origins of Personal Names of Burgesses in Colchester Domesday’, Aspects of Anglo-Saxon and Norman Colchester, ed. P. Crummy (London, 1981), pp. 25–6 and 75–7; P. J. Taylor, ‘Introduction’, Little Domesday Book: Essex, ed. A. Williams and G. H. Martin (London, 2000), pp. 9–32 at pp. 13–14; Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, pp. 5–6. 83 Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’.

262

Rory Naismith

Exeter, Dodda: recorded as a moneyer in Arm and Sceptre, Pacx, and Radiate/ Small Cross, from about 1040 to the mid-1040s. A figure with this unusual name, Dodda ‘of Hittisleigh’, held seven properties west of Exeter in 1066, amounting to just over 2½ hides, bringing in £4 7s. This Dodda may also have been identical with Dodda cild, a thegn (minister) who attested various charters relating to southwest England in the reign of Edward the Confessor.84 Exeter, Eadwig: recorded as a moneyer only in Expanding Cross. This name was also rare in Domesday, with only one occurrence near Exeter: Eadwig ‘of Kentisbeare’ was a minor landholder east of Exeter, where he had a ¼ hide that brought in 5s. Exeter, Edwin: recorded as a moneyer in William II type 4 only, in the mid-/late 1090s. Though generally common, there was only one landholder named Edwin in Devon in 1086, Edwin ‘of Butterleigh’, who held two properties near Exeter totalling ¾ hide and worth £1 1s. Exeter, Sæwine (1066): recorded as a moneyer between Expanding Cross and Sovereign/Eagles, then again in Facing Bust and Pyramids, in the 1050s and 1060s. The same moneyer may have reappeared in William I types 4–8 and William II types 1–2, from about the mid-1070s to the mid-1090s, and there was also a much earlier moneyer by this name at Exeter, active from the latter part of Æthelred II’s reign to the last type of Cnut, who should be treated as a separate individual. Sæwine is not an exceptionally rare name in Domesday Book, though there are thought only to have been two examples in Devon, one of whom held lands in the far southeastern corner of the county; the other, Sæwine ‘of Devon’, held twenty-five properties across the shire (with a few in Cornwall and Somerset). The biggest cluster of these lay along the Devon-Cornwall border, though also extended to the area around Exeter, and overall added up to fourteen hides and produced income of nearly £22. Exeter, Viking: recorded as a moneyer in Hammer Cross only. An extremely rare name: only two Vikings are recorded in Domesday, one in Worcestershire, and the second, Viking ‘of Awliscombe’, very close to Exeter. The Devon Viking had eleven properties, adding up to 6¼ hides, worth £7 15s. He probably also attested at least one charter, which derives from a meeting in Exeter in 1045×1046, and a manumission of about the same period, which describes him as Viking ‘the boatswain’.85 Gloucester, Leofnoth: recorded as a moneyer from Cnut Pointed Helmet to Hammer Cross, operating between the 1030s and 1060s. Leofnoth was a rare name in Domesday, with under twenty occurrences, and only one near to Gloucester: Leofnoth ‘of Wootton Bassett’, who in 1066 held eleven properties in Gloucestershire and north Wiltshire, amounting to 57½ hides and bringing in more than £50. Gloucester, Ordric: recorded as a moneyer in Sovereign/Eagles, Hammer Cross, Harold II, and in William I types 1–2. This is a fairly uncommon name in Domesday.

84

PASE Dodda 7 (and 5?). S 1474 (M. A. O’Donovan, ed., Charters of Sherborne (Oxford, 1988), no. 17); Pelteret, Catalogue, no. 138. See discussion in Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9; Lewis, ‘Danish Landowners’, p. 192. 85



The Moneyers and Domesday Book

263

Just one individual, Ordric ‘of Leckhampton’, occurs close to Gloucester, who in 1066 held two hides that brought him 15s. Gloucester, Wulfgeat: recorded as a moneyer from Pointed Helmet to William I type 8, from the early/mid-1050s to the late 1080s. Again, there were many landholders called Wulfgeat in Domesday Book, but the name was less common in 1086 in the environs of Gloucester, where a figure by this name (Wulfgeat ‘of Eldersfield’) was subtenant to the king on a hide of land that brought in a share of income worth probably £2. Hereford, Eadwig: recorded as a moneyer in Expanding Cross, Hammer Cross, Harold II, and William I type 2, from the early 1050s to about 1070. Eadwig was an uncommon name in Domesday, and the only figure by that name in Herefordshire in 1066 was Eadwig cild, who held a total of twenty-one properties in Herefordshire, amounting to thirty-seven hides, with a revenue of £21 2s. Hereford, Leofnoth: recorded as a moneyer from Cnut Short Cross to Harold II, from about 1030 to 1066. Again, this was a rare name in Domesday, with only one occurrence in Herefordshire, Leofnoth ‘of Rochford’, who in 1066 held seven properties in Herefordshire, Shropshire, and Worcestershire. These amounted to 9¾ hides, with an overall revenue of £7 14s. Hereford, Leofwine: recorded as a moneyer in William II type 5 only, probably in the late 1090s. This common name was not well represented in western England, and in Domesday 1086 there was only one instance of it in the environs of Hereford, Leofwine ‘the interpreter’, who held a pair of properties totalling ¼ hide and worth £1 8s; in 1066 probably the same individual had held a separate pair of nearby properties. Hereford, Ordric: recorded as a moneyer from Quatrefoil to Radiate/Small Cross, from the 1010s to the 1040s. This is a fairly uncommon name in Domesday. Within the environs of Hereford, only one 1066 landholder had this name: Ordric ‘of Grendon’, who held two hides. Hereford, Wulfwig: recorded as a moneyer in Trefoil Quadrilateral only, in about the mid- to late 1040s. Wulfwig was not an unusual name in Domesday as a whole, but occurs only once among Herefordshire landholders in 1066: Wulfwig cild, whose four properties amounted to 9¼ hides and brought in £8 14s. Hereford, Wulfwine: recorded as a moneyer in Pacx, Radiate/Small Cross, and Pointed Helmet, in the 1040s and 1050s. Again, Wulfwine was a common name across Domesday England, but it occurs much more rarely in the west: only one landholder by this name has been identified in Herefordshire, Wulfwine the man of Earl Harold. Huntingdon, Leofric: recorded as a moneyer only in Hammer Cross (with another, probably separate occurrence of the same name under Cnut). Though not a rare name across England, occurrences are rarer in this region, and Leofric ‘of Orton Waterville’ is the only one within the vicinity of Huntingdon. He had a single property rated at 3¼ hides, with revenue of £1.

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Huntingdon, Leofwine: recorded as a moneyer only in Hammer Cross; another and probably separate moneyer of that name operated under Cnut. This was a very common name overall, but is found less often in the area of Huntingdon. The one holder in the vicinity is Leofwine ‘of Winwick’, who held a small property of less than a hide, which brought in £1 7s 8d (a third share of a total revenue of £4). Ipswich, Brunman: recorded as a moneyer between Sovereign/Eagles and Harold II, between the 1050s and 1066. The name Brunman appears only a few times in Domesday, and one of the landholders was Brunman ‘of Burgh’, close to Ipswich, who in 1066 held two very small pieces of land as one of several freemen; together, these were probably worth a little over 5s per annum. Ipswich, Leofweald: recorded as a moneyer between Expanding Cross and Facing Bust, in the 1050s and 1060s. Only four landholders by this name are recorded in Domesday 1066. One of them was Leofweald ‘of Akenham’, very close to Ipswich, worth 4s a year. Ipswich and Norwich, Wulfsige: recorded as a moneyer at Ipswich between Small Flan and Pointed Helmet (in the 1040s and 1050s), and at Norwich between Sovereign/Eagles and Hammer Cross (in the 1050s and 1060s); it is possible that the same moneyer simply moved from one location to the other. He may also have worked at the unidentified (but probably East Anglian) mint-place dernt/ dyr.86 Wulfsige was not an unusual name in Domesday, but in 1066 there was probably only one figure of this name in East Anglia: Wulfsige ‘of Mutford’, who had a string of nine properties up the Suffolk coast, rated at more than 13½ hides and bringing in £13 11s. He also had another eleven properties as lord, which stretched into Norfolk, close to Norwich. Leicester, Godric: recorded as a moneyer between Trefoil Quadrilateral and William I type 2, probably from the mid-1040s to the late 1060s. This is a very common name in Domesday, but PASE suggests there was only one figure by this name holding land in the area round Leicester in 1066: Godric ‘of Great Dalby’, whose eight properties amounted to more than forty-two hides, with revenue of £6 19s. Leicester, Wulfnoth: recorded as a moneyer from Æthelred II Last Small Cross to Edward the Confessor Pointed Helmet, from about 1010 to the 1050s. In 1066, a figure with this fairly unusual name (‘of Somerby’) held a single property east of Leicester, rated at more than five hides and with revenue of 10s. Lewes, Beorhtmær: recorded as a moneyer in William II types 2–5, and Henry I type 5, from about 1090 to the 1100s. This was a common name in some parts of Domesday England, but rare in Sussex, especially in 1086: just one figure by this name, Beorhtmar ‘of Ovingdean’, appeared in the shire, with lands slightly south of Lewes. In 1066 he had held three properties rated together at eight hides, and worth £4; in 1086 this had been reduced to one that he held as a subtenant, of two hides and worth £1.

86

Naismith, Medieval European Coinage, pp. 347–8.



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Lewes, Edwin (1066): recorded as a moneyer between Cnut Pointed Helmet and Sovereign/Eagles. Another, probably separate moneyer by this name appeared at Lewes in William II type 3, in the mid-1090s. Edwin/Eadwine was not a rare name in Domesday as a whole, though it was in Sussex. Only one landholder by this name is noted in the eastern part of the shire near Lewes in 1066 Domesday, Edwin ‘of West Dean’, who held one property of two hides, worth £1 10s. Lewes, Godric: recorded as a moneyer in Trefoil Quadrilateral only, in the 1040s. Again, despite being very common in general, there was apparently only one landholder named Godric in Sussex, ‘of East Chillington’, whose two properties totalling three hides, worth £1 8s, were located just a few miles from Lewes. Lewes, Godwine: recorded as a moneyer between Expanding Cross and Harold II, from the early 1050s to 1066. Again, there were a great many individuals in Domesday named Godwine, but in Sussex the vast majority of these refer to Earl Godwine – other landholders by that name are much scarcer. The only one in the vicinity of Lewes (‘of Tilton’) held land at ten locations around the town, amounting to more than twenty hides and bringing in £15 7s. Lincoln, Ælfmær: recorded as a moneyer under Harold II only. No individuals called Ælfmær are recorded in Domesday, but they are probably subsumed into those named Almær. Only one man by this name held land in Lincolnshire or in the vicinity of Lincoln: Almær ‘of South Willingham’. He held ten properties in the shire, east and west of Lincoln, amounting to more than 9½ hides and worth £11 6s, and was lord of two more. Lincoln, Agemund: recorded as a moneyer from Facing Bust to William I type 2, probably in the early to late 1060s. Agemund was named as one of twelve men holding sake and soke in 1086, probably as a lawman in succession to his father Wælhræfn (himself probably another moneyer: see below). There was also an Agemund who held land in Lincolnshire in 1066 and 1086: in the earlier year these amounted to sixteen properties and over 16 hides, with a value of £16 9s 11d; in 1086, these had been reduced just to land within Lincoln itself. It has been recognized by several other scholars that Agemund the 1086 lawman was almost certainly identical with Agemund the landholder and Agemund the moneyer.87 Lincoln, Asleikr: recorded as a moneyer in all types of Cnut and Jewel Cross, then in Expanding Cross, Hammer Cross, and Facing Bust, from the 1010s to the early 1060s, though the Edward the Confessor moneyer may be a different individual. This rare name was held by a small number of figures in Lincolnshire, though only one close to Lincoln itself: Aslak ‘of Willingham by Stow’, who in 1066 had six properties of more than 4¼ hides, bringing in £3.88 Lincoln, Beorhtric: recorded as a moneyer from Cnut Pointed Helmet to Expanding Cross, from the 1020s to the early 1050s. Beorhtric was one of the 1066 lawmen in Domesday. It is possible that he was identical with Beorhtric ‘of Kelby’, the only 87

Hill, Medieval Lincoln, p. 40; PASE; Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, pp. 359–60; Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 2. 88 Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 10, noting that the same man took over his lands as Agemund, another likely moneyer.

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other figure of that name within the environs of Lincoln, who was one of three holders of a property at that location in 1066, which would have brought an income of £1 3s 4d. Lincoln, Guthfrith: recorded as a moneyer in Pacx and Radiate/Small Cross, in the 1040s. The name as on the coins (gvðferð or similar) could be the same as Guret, one of the 1066 lawmen at Lincoln, and also Guthfrith ‘of Radby’ (Godeuert), the only landholder by this name in Domesday, who in 1066 held two properties east of Lincoln, amounting to more than a hide and bringing in £1 10s. Lincoln, Wælhrafn: recorded as a moneyer from Cnut Short Cross to Pacx, from about 1030 to the mid-1040s. Walraven was a lawman of Lincoln in 1066, and father of Agemund (see above), who was a lawman in 1086. This was a very rare name in Domesday, and there is a very good chance that this Walraven was identical with a landowner who held two pieces of land at Canwick, very near Lincoln, which were rated at over three hides and valued at £4.89 Lincoln, Wulfgar: recorded as a moneyer in Trefoil Quadrilateral, and again in Hammer Cross and Pyramids, in the later 1040s and then the 1060s. Only one landholder of this name appears in Lincolnshire or the environs (‘of Hibaldstow’), who held two properties north of Lincoln, each rated at a virgate and together giving revenue of £1. London, Alfred (1086): recorded as a moneyer in William I types 4 and 8 and William II type 1, from the early/mid-1070s to about 1090. He should probably be seen as distinct from a moneyer of that name who worked from Cnut Pointed Helmet to Hammer Cross, from the mid-1020s to the early 1060s. Though common in general, the name was rarer in the London region in 1086 Domesday, and only one individual named Alfred (nephew of Wigot) had property near the city. He held two properties in Middlesex rated at five hides and worth £2 10s. London, Beorhtmær: recorded as a moneyer from Æthelred II Last Small Cross to Trefoil Quadrilateral, and after a gap in Pointed Helmet and Sovereign Eagles, from the 1010s to the 1050s. Only one landholder by this name is recorded in Domesday Book in the London region in 1066: Beorhtmær ‘of West Bedfont’, who held one large property in Middlesex of four hides, worth £3. It is possible that Beorhtmær ‘of West Bedfont’, and/or Beorhtmær the moneyer, was identical with Brithmer at Gerschereche (‘of Gracechurch’), who gave his homstal and the eponymous church in London to Christ Church Canterbury in the period 1052×1070.90 London, Beorhtric: recorded as a moneyer in William I types 3, 5, and 7, in the 1070s and 1080s. This was a reasonably common name in Domesday, but not in the London area: hence one Beorhtric ‘of Mitcham’ stands out, with (in 1066) 5½ hides at Mitcham in Surrey that brought in a revenue of £2 5s.

89

The connection between the moneyer and the lawman has been noted in Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 5; Baxter and Lewis, ‘Domesday Book’, p. 359. 90 S 1234 (Brooks and Kelly, ed., Charters of Christ Church, no. 183). Ekwall (Early London, pp. 17–18) noted the connection with the moneyer, and also with Beorhtmær’s son Æthelwine.



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London, Bruning: recorded as a moneyer in Trefoil Quadrilateral, in the 1040s, and the same individual may have been responsible for issues between Æthelred II Last Small Cross and Jewel Cross, between the 1010s and 1030s. This was a rare name in Domesday, and the only individual to bear it in the London area was Bruning ‘of Lullingston’ in northwest Kent, who held one property rated at one hide and worth £3. London, Deoring: recorded as a moneyer in Hammer Cross, in the 1060s, with probably another moneyer of the same name in Cnut Pointed Helmet in the 1020s. This was another rare name in Domesday, with only one example near to London: Deoring ‘of Chaldon’ had two pieces of land, one each in Kent and Surrey, rated together at 3½ hides and with revenue of £5. London, Dud(d)ing: recorded as a moneyer in Jewel Cross, Pacx, Radiate/Small Cross, Small Flan, and Expanding Cross, between the 1030s and 1050s. Only three individuals of this name are recorded in Domesday. One was Doding ‘of Stepney’, a tenant of the bishop of London, holding a virgate of land worth 6s 8d (as his share of the overall revenue). London, Eadric: recorded as a moneyer in William I types 3–4 and 7–8, and in William II types 1 and 2, from about 1066 to the early 1090s. Again, many individuals held this name in Domesday overall, but in 1086 near London only one holder can be identified, known as Eadric ‘of Kingston upon Thames’, where he held ½ hide worth 8s per annum. London, Ordgar: recorded as a moneyer in William II types 3–5 and in Henry I types 1–3, from the mid-1090s to the 1100s. Just one individual with this uncommon Domesday name held property near London in 1086: Ordgar ‘of Chingford’, who as a subtenant held five hides of land worth £3 10s a year. London, Sigeræd: recorded as a moneyer in Edward the Confessor Pointed Helmet only, in the 1050s. This was another rare name in Domesday, occurring only seven times, and the only occurrence near London in 1066 was a canon of St Paul’s, who held 6½ hides in Stepney, bringing in £11 6s 8d. London, Wulfræd: recorded as a moneyer from Æthelred II Helmet to Sovereign/ Eagles, meaning between the 1000s and 1050s; this may well represent two individuals. Again, Wulfræd occurs only a few times in Domesday Book, and there is just one figure in the vicinity of London: Wulfræd ‘of Hawley’, who held two pieces of land in northwest Kent that were together worth 10s. London, Wulfweard: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 5, and in William II types 3–5, from the late 1070s to the late 1090s. Wulfweard was a common name overall, but rare in the vicinity of London, where only one occurrence can be identified in 1086: Wulweard ‘of Wadsworth’, who held one property in Middlesex rated at three hides and worth £2. London and Southwark, Leofræd: recorded as a moneyer at London intermittently between Crux and Sovereign/Eagles: a period of about sixty years (990s to 1050s), so very probably representing at least two individuals by this name. At Southwark, a moneyer by this name occurs in Crux, and then after a long gap in Expanding Cross and Pointed Helmet. Leofræd was a rare name in Domesday, but a landholder

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by this name held a substantial property at East Ham: seven hides, bringing in £10. He may have been identical with the Leofræd (Leuret) whose possessions on Westcheap passed into the hands of Waleran, son of Ranulf the moneyer, and were later (1066×1077) given to St Stephen’s at Caen.91 Maldon, Edward: recorded as a moneyer in William II type 5, in the late 1090s, though this attribution is not certain. In Domesday Book for 1086 there was only one landholder by this name within the vicinity of Maldon: Edward ‘of Beaumont’, who held one property rated at two hides and with an income of £8. Maldon, Leofsunu: recorded as a moneyer between William I type 3 and William II type 1, from about the early 1070s to about 1090. Very few individuals called Leofsunu occur in Domesday Book, and one of these (Leofsunu ‘of Mose’) was a landholder in Essex and Suffolk, who in 1066 held substantial property at six locations, rated altogether at over twelve hides and with a revenue of more than £19. He was still there in 1086, although reduced to just one virgate near Maldon producing 4s per annum. There was also a Leofsunu who held urban property in Colchester in 1086, possibly identical with Leofsunu ‘of Mose’, and given that Colchester and Maldon paid together for their minting privilege in 1086, it is also plausible that this represents the Maldon moneyer.92 Newport Pagnell (?), Sigeræd: recorded as a moneyer in Pointed Helmet, in the 1050s. The identification of this mint-place (recorded on coins as niweport or similar) is tentative: other candidates have in the past been suggested, including Newport in Essex.93 Sigeræd was a rare name in Domesday, and only one landholder by this name occurs in the area of Newport Pagnell: Sigeræd ‘son of Ælfgifu’, a king’s thegn, who in 1066 held four properties in Buckinghamshire rated at fortyfour hides and worth £24 8s; he was also lord of three other estates held by others.94 Northampton, Sæwine: recorded as a moneyer from Sovereign/Eagles to Henry I type 3, which is an extremely long time, probably about fifty years, so it is very likely this represents two or more moneyers by the same name. There was, in Domesday in 1066, one landholder with this fairly unusual name in the vicinity of Northampton: Sæwine ‘of Braunston’, who had a single virgate of land worth £1. Norwich, Ælfric: recorded as a moneyer in William II types 2, 3, and 5, from about the early 1090s to the late 1090s. Only one landholder near Norwich in Domesday for 1086 shared a name with this moneyer, Ælfric ‘of Fundenhall’. He had held property in 1066 as well as 1086, all in Fundenhall itself; the lands he held as subtenant in 1086 were rated at slightly more than two hides and rendered £3 per annum. Norwich, Howiorth: recorded as a moneyer in William II type 2 only, in the early/ mid-1090s. This was a fairly unusual name in Domesday Book, and the only occurrence near Norwich related to Howard de Vernon. In 1086 he held three properties in Suffolk (though near Norwich) rated together at more than a hide, while he had income of £1 10s. 91 92 93 94

Regesta: William I, no. 45. Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 6. Naismith, Medieval European Coinage, pp. 349–50. Roffe, ‘Unequal Partners’, p. 9.



The Moneyers and Domesday Book

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Norwich, Hringwulf: recorded as a moneyer in Quatrefoil, Cnut Pointed Helmet, Jewel Cross to Radiate/Small Cross, and finally in Edward the Confessor Pointed Helmet and Sovereign/Eagles, altogether running from the late 1010s to the 1050s. This was a very rare name, among both moneyers and Domesday landholders. PASE Domesday identifies only three holders of this name, all active in close proximity in 1066 in north Suffolk and east Norfolk. They are listed as separate figures, though the rarity of the name means there is a good chance they represent one individual. Norwich, Leofweald: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 2 only, in the late 1060s. This again was a rare Domesday name, with only four individuals thought to be identifiable, and only one in the environs of Norwich: Leofweald ‘of Wreningham’, who held two pieces of land close to the town that amounted to more than three hides and were worth £3 16s; he was also lord of one more piece of tenanted land nearby. Norwich, Tovi: recorded as a moneyer in William II type 2 only, in the early/ mid-1090s. Tovi was an uncommon name in Domesday, and only one individual with this name can be identified in the area around Norwich: Tovi ‘of Holkham’. By 1086, he had acquired twenty-one properties in Norfolk, with the main cluster very near Norwich; these added up to 9.2 hides and brought £14 8s 7d in income. Norwich, Ulfketel: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 8 only, in the mid-/late 1080s. Only one individual in Norfolk held this name in 1086: Ulfketel ‘of Framingham’. He appeared in 1066, and in 1086 was a relatively substantial landholder, with five properties as tenant-in-chief (over five hides, worth £3 16s 7d) and eighteen more as subtenant (almost 4½ hides, worth £4 18s 9d). Nottingham, Healfdene (1066): recorded as a moneyer in Pacx, Small Flan, and Expanding Cross, from about the 1040s to the early 1050s, and is very unlikely to be the Healfdene recorded in the 1090s (see below). Healfdene was a moderately common name, especially in the midlands and Yorkshire, but only one was recorded within the environs of Nottingham: Healfdene ‘of Toton’. In 1066, this individual held land at five places in Nottinghamshire and Derbyshire, rated at 4¾ hides and worth £5 10s, and was also lord of two more places in Nottinghamshire. Nottingham, Healfdene (1086): recorded as a moneyer in William II types 4–5, in the mid- to late 1090s; he was probably not the same individual as the moneyer by this name who worked under Edward the Confessor (see above), though they may have been part of the same family. In Domesday 1086, only one figure by this uncommon name held property in the Nottingham area: Healfdene ‘of Lambley’, who in 1066 already held land at six locations in the south midlands (amounting to twenty-nine hides, worth £39 2s), while in 1086 he held no fewer than eleven properties (almost twelve hides, with income of £10 5s 2d). Oxford, Beorhtræd: recorded as a moneyer in Hammer Cross, William I types 2–8 and William II types 1–2, from about 1060 to the early 1090s. A figure by this name shared a tenement in Oxford in 1086 with Deorman, another known moneyer; this property brought 16d in income split between the two. It is entirely possible that one or both owned further property in the town, which is not described in much detail. Oxford, Deorman: recorded as a moneyer in William II type 4 only, in about the mid-/late 1090s. Deorman held a joint tenement in Oxford in 1086 with Beorhtræd

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(see above); this property brought 16d in income split between the two. It is entirely possible that one or both owned further property in the town, which is not described in much detail. Oxford, Swetman: recorded as a moneyer from Expanding Cross to Hammer Cross, in William I type 8 and in William II types 2–3, from the early 1050s to the mid-1060s, and then from the mid-1080s into the 1090s. It is possible that these all represent the same long-lived individual, or else two or more moneyers named Swetman. Swetman is the only moneyer explicitly identified as such in Domesday. He held a house in Oxford that rendered the unusually large sum of 40d, and he apparently also had two houses responsible for maintenance of the city wall, which rendered 3s. Rochester, Edwin: recorded as a moneyer in Radiate/Small Cross and Trefoil Quadrilateral, then in Pointed Helmet and Sovereign/Eagles, putting him in the 1040s and 1050s. There were many Domesday landholders named Eadwine/Edwin, though only one with interests in west Kent close to Rochester: Edwin ‘of Upper Hardres’, who held four properties across Kent that were together rated at 8½ hides and worth £13 5s. Salisbury and Wilton, Godric: recorded as a moneyer at Salisbury in Sovereign/ Eagles and Hammer Cross, as well as in William I types 1, 5, and 7, and at Wilton in William I types 2–4, from about the late 1050s to the mid-1080s. Though common generally, this name was unusual in the environs of Salisbury and Wilton, and only one landholder can be identified for 1086: Godric ‘of Cholderton’, who held two properties together rated at one hide, and bringing in £2. Shrewsbury, Ælfheah: recorded as a moneyer in Arm and Sceptre, Radiate/Small Cross, Expanding Cross, and Pointed Helmet, from about 1040 to 1066. This was an unusual name overall in Domesday, and a very rare one in the west midlands. Only one Ælfheah (‘of Lee’) was noted, a little north of Shrewsbury, who held a third share of a hide worth probably 4s 4d. Shrewsbury, Earnwig: recorded as a moneyer in Sovereign/Eagles and Hammer Cross, in William I types 2, 4, 6, and 8, and in William II types 1–3, from the late 1050s to the mid-1090s. Only one landholder with this rare name occurred in 1066 Domesday near Shrewsbury: Earnwig ‘of Pontesbury’, whose seven properties added up to thirteen hides and were worth £14. Earnwig was probably still on the scene in 1086, as subtenant of two different pieces of land. Southwark, Godric: recorded as a moneyer in Facing Bust only, in the early to mid-1060s; there was another moneyer by this name at Southwark much later, in William I types 7 and 8, though this probably represents another individual. Godric was an extremely common name in Domesday Book, though there was in fact only one landholder by that name within the area of Southwark in 1086: Godric ‘son of Carl’, whose three properties in Kent and Surrey totalled ten hides and brought in £13. Stafford, Godric: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 8 and William II types 1–5, from the mid-1080s to the late 1090s. The only landholder of this name in 1086 in the vicinity of Stafford was Godric ‘of Ranton’. He held one property in 1086, and two in 1086, together rated at 3½ hides and worth £2.



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Stamford, Wulfwine: recorded as a moneyer in Pacx, Small Flan, Expanding Cross, and Pointed Helmet, from the early 1040s to mid-1050s. Although there were many landholders of this name recorded in Domesday, within the vicinity of Stamford only one occurs: Wulfwine ‘of Gunby’, who in 1066 held a hide of land; its income at this stage is not stated, but in 1086 its revenue was 6s. Tamworth, Bruning: recorded as a moneyer in Radiate/Small Cross and Trefoil Quadrilateral, then Hammer Cross, Facing Bust, and William I type 2, and then after a longer gap from William I type 8 to William II type 2; this covers a long period, from the mid-1040s to about 1090, but the name is an uncommon one. There are few landholders of this name in Domesday Book, and only one in the area surrounding Tamworth, Bruning ‘of Harborough’. In this case, the fact that he appears in both 1066 and 1086 is a point in his favour. In the earlier year he had three properties in Warwickshire, totalling 5¼ hides and worth £1 5s; in the later year he retained only one of those three (the one nearest Tamworth), of ¾ hide, worth 5s. Tamworth, Hireworth: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 4 only, in the mid-/late 1070s. Howard was a rare name in Domesday, but among the five known holders was Howard ‘of Peatling’, who in 1086 held four properties near Tamworth in Leicestershire, rated at 8½ hides and bringing in £2 5s. Taunton, Beorhtric: recorded as a moneyer from Pointed Helmet to Hammer Cross, and in Pyramids and Harold II, and then in William I types 2–4, from the early/ mid-1050s to the mid-1070s. Though common overall, this name was not so widespread in Somerset in 1086, and the only occurrence was Beorhtric ‘of Tuxwell’, a king’s thegn, who held one small property that brought income of 12s 7d. Thetford, Burgheard: recorded as a moneyer in William II types 2–4 and in Henry I types 1, 3, 11, 10, and 13–15, from about the early 1090s to at least 1125. This was a rare name in Domesday, and the only one active in 1086 was Burgheard ‘of Bardwell’, who held three properties (rated at 4¾ hides, with income of £5 10s) close to Thetford. Thetford, Fulcard: recorded as a moneyer in Hammer Cross only, in the early 1060s. Only one landholder of this name was recorded in Domesday for 1066: Fulcard ‘of Mellis’, who held three small properties in Suffolk, southeast of Thetford, that together brought in about 15s 2d. Thetford, Wulfwig: recorded as a moneyer in Hammer Cross only, in the early 1060s. This was a common name in Domesday as a whole, but less so in the area surrounding Thetford, where only one landholder is recorded: Wulfwig ‘the knight’. He held one property, rated at four hides and bringing in £4. Wallingford, Beorhtwine: recorded as a moneyer in Arm and Sceptre, Trefoil Quadrilateral, Small Flan, Pointed Helmet, and Sovereign/Eagles, from about 1040 to the later 1050s. Beorhtwine was an uncommon name in Domesday, with only one near to Wallingford: Beorhtwine ‘of Leckhampstead’, who in 1066 held one large property west of Wallingford rated at ten hides and with revenue of £6 5s. Wareham, Æthelric: recorded as a moneyer in William I type 1, and later in William I types 4–8, from about 1066 to the mid-/late 1080s. This was a fairly common name in Domesday, though rare in Dorset, and only one is known from around Wareham:

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Æthelric ‘of Bardolfeston’, whose two properties a little way west of the town were rated at eight hides in 1066, and brought in income of £7. Wareham, Beorn: recorded as a moneyer in Hammer Cross only, in the early 1060s. This was a very rare name in Domesday, especially in southern England. The only one recorded south of the Thames was Beorn ‘of Knowle’, who in 1066 had one property within five miles of Wareham that was rated at two hides and worth £2. Warwick, Leofing: recorded as a moneyer from Arm and Sceptre to Sovereign/ Eagles, then under Harold II, and then in William I types 4, 5, and 8, between about 1040 and the mid-1080s; this long timespan may suggest two individuals by the same name, though among both moneyers and Domesday landholders this is an uncommon name. There was only one known landholder by this name recorded near Warwick: Leofing ‘of Offord’, active in both 1066 and 1086. He held the same small piece of land in both years, with an income of 10s. Wilton, Leofing: recorded as a moneyer in Jewel Cross, Fleur de Lis, and then from Pacx to Trefoil Quadrilateral, from the mid-/late 1030s to the mid-1040s. This was a moderately common name in Domesday, yet with only one occurrence in the area of Wilton, Leofing ‘of Standlynch’, the holder of one property just a few miles away, near Salisbury, rated at ½ hide and worth £1. Wilton, Sæwine: recorded as a moneyer in Sovereign/Eagles and Hammer Cross, and then from William I type 1 to William II type 3, from the mid-/late 1050s to the mid-1090s. It is possible that this moneyer, or another by the same name, persisted into Henry I type 2. Sæwine was an uncommon name in Domesday, and the only one in the region around Salisbury is Sæwine ‘of Hurstbourne Priors’, who was a Hampshire landowner. In 1066 he had a considerable holding of nine properties collectively rated at 6½ hides and worth £19 3s 7d, and was still active in 1086, albeit on a much reduced basis, holding just one of his previous properties (the one closest to Wilton), with an income of 7s 5d. Winchester, Godman: recorded sporadically as a moneyer from Jewel Cross to Sovereign/Eagles, from the mid-/late 1030s to the mid-/late 1050s; there had been a moneyer by the same name in Winchester earlier, under Æthelred II, from Crux to Last Small Cross, who was probably a separate individual. Godman(n) represented an uncommon name in Domesday, with only one occurrence near Winchester: Godmann ‘of Allington’, with two properties in Hampshire (one on the mainland, one on the Isle of Wight) together rated at 3¼ hides and £15 4s 5d. This moneyer (and/or the Domesday landholder) may have been identical with an owner of urban property in Winton Domesday, and who was a tenant of another moneyer.95 Winchester, Leofing: recorded as a moneyer between Fleur de Lis and Harold II, then in William I types 1–6 and 8, and in William II types 3–5. That would in principle have him working from the late 1030s to the late 1090s: long enough to make it very plausible that a second moneyer by the same name stepped in at some point. This was an unusual name in Domesday overall. Only one figure by this name held land in the vicinity of Winchester, Leofing ‘of Exton’. In 1066 he had a respectable holding of four properties, all in Hampshire, amounting to over 3½ hides and 95

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, p. 50 (no. I, p. 107).



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bringing in an income of £5 2s 7d. In 1086 this had been reduced to just one property, Exton itself, which consisted of 2 hides with an income of £2. Leofing the moneyer and/or Leofing ‘of Exton’ may also have been identical with a landholder (Lewingus Mandingessone) named in Winton Domesday, who held three urban properties in the city in the 1050s.96 Winchester, Siweard: recorded as a moneyer in William I types 2–8, between the later 1060s and mid-/late 1080s. Siward was a common name in northern and eastern England but rather rarer in the south, and only one individual by this name occurs near Winchester, Siward ‘the hunter’, who in both 1066 and 1086 held one property of two hides worth 15s 4d. Worcester, Godwine: recorded as a moneyer in Small Flan only, in the later 1040s. Although Godwine was a very common name in Domesday Book, it is now thought that there was only one landholder by this name in Worcestershire (besides Earl Godwine) in 1066, Godwine ‘of Redmarley’, who held four hides that brought in £3 15s 10d. York, Raven: recorded as a moneyer between Radiate/Small Cross and Pointed Helmet, from the mid-1040s to the 1050s. Raven was a rare name in Domesday, with two occurrences in Yorkshire, one of them far north of York, the other very close to the city. The latter, Raven ‘of Great Ouseburn’, had in 1066 almost 2½ hides rendering 16s. York, Hrossketil/Roskil: recorded as a moneyer under Harold II only, in 1066. Just two landholders of this name occur in Domesday, and only one of those was in Yorkshire: Roskil ‘of Kirklington’, who had seven properties in Yorkshire (slightly west and north of York itself), rated at nearly twenty-six hides, and bringing an income of £4 19s. York, Leofing: recorded as a moneyer in Small Flan only, in the late 1040s. This was a moderately unusual name in Domesday, but occurred only once in Yorkshire, with Leofing ‘the priest’ who in 1066 held two messuages in York that were later taken over by the count of Mortain. York, Leysingr: recorded as a moneyer under Harold II, in William I type 2, and then in William I types 7 and 8, and in William II types 3 and 4, running from 1066 to the 1090s; a moneyer of the same unusual name also worked at York in Henry I type 1, 10, and 13–14, from about 1100 to the early 1120s. It is conceivable that this represents the same person, but doubtful after nearly sixty years. Leysingr was also a very rare name, probably held by only three individuals in Domesday. Two of these lay in Yorkshire, though one held land only far to the west of York, while the other, Leysingr ‘of Faceby’ had property near York as well as in the north of the shire, adding up to over twenty-four hides and bringing in £3 4s. York, Snæbiorn: recorded as a moneyer between Hammer Cross and Harold II, from about 1060 to 1066. This name was held by only one individual in Domesday Book: Snæbiorn ‘of Studley Royal’. His holding of land worth 10s in 1066 in fact lay more distant from York than is normally accepted for probable moneyers (22 96

Biddle and Keene, ‘Winchester’, pp. 45, 53, and 64 (no. I, 68, 125, 248).

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miles), but the occurrence of this highly unusual name among both the moneyers and the landholders is striking. York, Thorgrim: recorded as a moneyer from Cnut Short Cross to Trefoil Quadrilateral, from about 1030 to the mid-/late 1040s. This name occurs only twice in Domesday, and only one of the two figures named was in Yorkshire: Thorgrim ‘of Allerton Mauleverer’, who held a small piece of land that was worth 6s per annum. 223.