Medieval Clothing and Textiles. Volume 13 [13] 1783272155, 9781783272150

Table of contents :
Illustrations page vi
Tables ix
Contributors x
Preface xii
1. The Significance of Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry / Gale R. Owen-Crocker 1
2. How Long Is a Launce? Units of Measure for Cloth in Late Medieval Britain / Mark Chambers 31
3. Robes, Turbans, and Beards: “Ethnic Passing” in 'Decameron' 10.9 / Ana Grinberg 67
4. 'Calciamentum' Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca / Christine Meek 83
5. “Bene in ordene et bene ornata”: Eleonora d’Aragona’s Description of Her Suite of Rooms in a Roman Palace of the Late Fifteenth Century / Jane Bridgeman 107
6. The Lübeck 'Wappenröcke': Distinctive Style in Fifteenth-Century German Fabric Armor / Jessica Finley 121
Recent Books of Interest 153
Contents of Previous Volumes 163

Citation preview

Medieval Clothing…13.qxp_Layout 1 27/04/2017 10:36 Page 1

13 •

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Contents GALE R. OWEN-CROCKER

The Significance of Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry

MARK CHAMBERS How Long Is a Launce? Units of Measure for Cloth in Late Medieval Britain ANA GRINBERG Robes,Turbans, and Beards: “Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 CHRISTINE MEEK

Calciamentum: Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca

JANE BRIDGEMAN “Bene in ordene et bene ornata”: Eleonora d’Aragona’s Description of Her Suite of Rooms in a Roman Palace of the Late Fifteenth Century JESSICA FINLEY

The Lübeck Wappenröcke: Distinctive Style in FifteenthCentury German Fabric Armor

ROBIN NETHERTON is a professional editor and a researcher/lecturer on the interpretation of medieval European dress. GALE R. OWEN-CROCKER is Professor Emerita, The University of Manchester. Cover image: Pianella of Beatrice d’Este. Museo della Calzatura,Vigevano. Photo: Courtesy of MIC Museo Internazionale della Calzatura “P. Bertolini,”Vigevano.

MEDIEVAL CLOTHING AND TEXTILES

Medieval Clothing and Textiles 13

MEDIEVAL CLOTHING AND TEXTILES

Editors Netherton & Owen-Crocker

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13 •

Edited by Robin Netherton and Gale R. Owen-Crocker



Medieval Clothing and Textiles Volume 13

Medieval Clothing and Textiles ISSN 1744-5787

General Editors Robin Netherton Gale R. Owen-Crocker

St. Louis, Missouri, USA University of Manchester, England

Editorial Board John Hines Christine Meek Lisa Monnas M. A. Nordtorp-Madson Frances Pritchard Lucia Sinisi Eva Andersson Strand Monica L. Wright

Cardiff University, Wales Trinity College, Dublin, Ireland London, England University of St. Thomas, Minnesota, USA Whitworth Art Gallery, Manchester, England University of Bari, Italy Centre for Textile Research, Copenhagen, Denmark University of Louisiana at Lafayette, USA

Medieval Clothing and Textiles Volume 13

edited by

ROBIN NETHERTON and

GALE R. OWEN-CROCKER

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Contributors 2017 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 2017 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge ISBN 978-1-78327-215-0

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

Typeset by Frances Hackeson Freelance Publishing Services, Brinscall, Lancs

Contents page vi

Illustrations Tables

ix

Contributors

x

Preface

xii

1  The Significance of Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry     Gale R. Owen-Crocker

1

2  How Long Is a Launce? Units of Measure for Cloth in Late Medieval   Britain   Mark Chambers

31

3  Robes, Turbans, and Beards: “Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9   Ana Grinberg

67

4  Calciamentum: Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca   Christine Meek

83

5  “Bene in ordene et bene ornata”: Eleonora d’Aragona’s Description of       Her Suite of Rooms in a Roman Palace of the Late Fifteenth Century   Jane Bridgeman

107

6  The Lübeck Wappenröcke: Distinctive Style in Fifteenth-Century     121    German Fabric Armor    Jessica Finley Recent Books of Interest

153

Contents of Previous Volumes

163

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Illustrations Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry Fig. 1.1 Typical tunics Fig. 1.2 Arsonist wearing tunic with possible gores and stripes Fig. 1.3 Clericus with corrugated sleeves and central cloak brooch Fig. 1.4 Wading men with tucked-up tunics Fig. 1.5 Harold amid his captors, who have removed his sword belt Fig. 1.6 Harold, in flowing cloak, is offered the crown Fig. 1.7 One of Harold’s captors in long, straight, slit or trousered garment Fig. 1.8 Emissary and dwarf in slit or trousered garments Fig. 1.9 Workmen in short slit or trousered garments Fig. 1.10 Long and short slit garments Fig. 1.11 Slit garment of Longinus Fig. 1.12 William with elaborate garters and possible culottes Fig. 1.13 King Edward seated, in long robes, decked with gold Fig. 1.14 Duke William and Odo in costumes from the Hexateuch Fig. 1.15 Harold in long robe and overgown, at his coronation, with Archbishop Stigand in vestments Fig. 1.16 Guy of Ponthieu in a longish costume, with possible jester in jagged-edged garment Fig. 1.17 William on horseback with gold-adorned cloak Fig. 1.18 Harold, at the moment of his arrest, in striped skirt Fig. 1.19 Guy of Ponthieu in distinctive tunic Fig. 1.20 Bishop Odo dressed for battle Fig. 1.21 Man in distinctive garment approaching the River Cousenon Fig. 1.22 Group of Norman archers Fig. 1.23 English soldiers in typical armour Fig. 1.24 Norman soldier with additional mail protection Fig. 1.25 Ælfgyva with long sleeves Fig. 1.26 Woman with headdress tucked in and long sleeves Units of Measure for Cloth Fig. 2.1 Roll of liveries from the Royal Wardrobe, 1360–62 Fig. 2.2 Itemised list of bales of cloth attached to a petition of 1418–19

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3 3 4 4 6 6 8 8 8 9 9 10 10 12 12 14 14 17 17 17 17 20 20 20 27 27 43 47

Illustrations Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca Fig. 4.1 A shoemaker’s shop from Ambrogio Lorenzetti’s Effects of Good Government fresco, Siena Fig. 4.2 Pianella of Beatrice d’Este Fig. 4.3 Pattens and calze solate from Le Croniche di Giovanni Sercambi   Lucchese Fig. 4.4 Various types of footwear from Domenico di Bartolo’s Distribution of Alms fresco, Siena Fig. 4.5 Messenger wearing boots from Le Croniche di Giovanni Sercambi Lucchese Fig. 4.6 Pilgrims setting out for the Jubilee from Le Croniche di Giovanni Sercambi Lucchese

94 101 102 103 104 105

Fifteenth-Century Fabric Armor Fig. 6.1 Wappenrock-style garment from Jan and Hubert van Eyck, The          122 Adoration of the Mystic Lamb (Ghent Altarpiece), 1432, Ghent, Belgium Fig. 6.2 Wappenrock-style garment from sculpture of Engelbrecht and                     123 Jan IV van Nassau, ca. 1470–75, Breda, Netherlands Fig. 6.3 Garment similar to the Lübeck wappenrock from epitaph of                           124 Jörg Frawenberger von Haag zu Hohenburg, 1436, Gars, Germany Fig. 6.4 Variety of garments from a fencing manual, ca. 1450, Southern                125 Germany Fig. 6.5 Watercolor of the larger Lübeck garment, painted by Johann                         128 Phillip Bleiel in 1753 Fig. 6.6 Watercolor of the smaller Lübeck garment, painted by Johann                   129 Phillip Bleiel in 1753 Fig. 6.7 Front of the smaller Lübeck garment 130 Fig. 6.8 Back of the smaller Lübeck garment 131 Fig. 6.9 Weave of the fustian fabric 133 Fig. 6.10 Cross-section of the quilted layers 134 Fig. 6.11 Linen interlining next to the fustian exterior 135 Fig. 6.12 Longest surviving strip from the dagged skirting 136 Fig. 6.13 Fur-like treatment of the linen layers of the dagging 137 Fig. 6.14 Cross-section of the quilting on the right back 140 Fig. 6.15 Fabric usage and shapes of the pieces 140 Fig. 6.16 Diagram of the upper back 142 Fig. 6.17 Diagram of the lower back 143 Fig. 6.18 Diagram of the upper front 144 Fig. 6.19 Diagram of the lower front 146 Fig. 6.20 Proposed shape of the skirting 147 Fig. 6.21 Construction of the surface decoration on the skirting                          149 Fig. 6.22 The waist seam at the back 151 vii

Illustrations The editors, contributors and publishers 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 publishers will be pleased to add any necessary acknowledgement in subsequent editions.

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Tables Units of Measure for Cloth Table 2.1 Units of linear measure for cloth and related goods by type Table 2.2 Units of weight or capacity for cloth and related goods Table 2.3 Individual measures of furs, skins, and hides

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58 61 64

Contributors ROBIN NETHERTON (Editor) is a costume historian specializing in Western European clothing of the Middle Ages and its interpretation by artists and historians. Since 1982, she has given lectures and workshops on practical aspects of medieval dress and on costume as an approach to social history, art history, and literature. Her published articles have addressed such topics as fourteenth-century sleeve embellishments, the cut of Norman tunics, and medieval Greenlanders’ interpretation of European female fashion. A journalist by training, she also works as a professional editor. GALE R. OWEN-CROCKER (Editor) is Professor Emerita of the University of Manchester. Among her recent publications are Making Sense of the Bayeux Tapestry: Readings and Reworkings, with Anna Henderson (2016); The Bayeux Tapestry: Collected Papers (2012); articles on “Dress” (2014) and “Textiles” (2012) in Oxford Bibliographies Online: Medieval Studies, both with Elizabeth Coatsworth; The Lexis of Cloth and Clothing in Britain ca. 700–1450, a database available at http://lexisproject.arts. manchester.ac.uk; Medieval Dress and Textiles in Britain: A Multilingual Sourcebook, with Louise Sylvester and Mark Chambers (2014); Encyclopedia of Dress and Textiles in the British Isles c. 450–1450, with Elizabeth Coatsworth and Maria Hayward (2012); and six co-edited books on Anglo-Saxon culture. She was recently presented with a book of essays celebrating her career, Textiles, Text, Intertext, edited by Maren Clegg Hyer and Jill Frederick. JANE BRIDGEMAN read Italian Language and Literature at Birmingham University and History of Dress at the Courtauld Institute of Art, where she took her Ph.D. investigating “Aspects of Dress and Ceremony in Quattrocento Florence.” Her most recent publications are A Renaissance Wedding: The Celebrations at Pesaro for the Marriage of Costanzo Sforza and Camilla d’Aragona May 1475 (2013) and “A Merchant . . . in Mottelee: The Dress of Some Medieval and Early Modern Merchants Trading in Italy and Flanders,” in The Medieval Merchant: Proceedings of the 2012 Harlaxton Symposium, edited by Caroline M. Barron and Anne F. Sutton (2014). MARK CHAMBERS is Research Associate at Durham University and co-editor (with John McKinnell) of the forthcoming Records of Early English Drama volume Durham. Over the course of his career he has lectured on medieval English language and literature at Durham University, Trinity College Dublin, and the University of Birmingham, and from 2006–12 acted as Research Associate at the University of Westminster on both the Lexis of Cloth and Clothing in Britain project and the Medieval Dress and x

Contributors Textile Vocabulary in Unpublished Sources project. His publications have addressed late medieval dramatic allegory, costuming, and clothing terminology. JESSICA FINLEY is author of Medieval Wrestling: Modern Practice of a Fifteenth Century Art (2014), for which she was awarded the 2015 HEMA (Historical European Martial Arts) Scholar Award for “best researcher or interpreter.” Other publications include a paper on medieval wrestling in In the Service of Mars, a compilation focused on historical martial arts. Her research in the area of textiles has included work on sixteenth-century Irish menswear as well as fifteenth-century fabric armor. A frequent instructor at international historical martial arts conferences, she founded a school of medieval swordsmanship and martial arts near her home in North Georgia called Ritterkunst Fechtschule, and publishes a blog under that name. ANA GRINBERG is a postdoctoral fellow at East Tennessee State University. Her research centers on medieval and early modern literary depictions of contact and cultural exchange between Islam and Western Christendom, particularly on the porosity of confessional boundaries. She explored these issues in “Intimate Contacts of Charlemagne in Spain: Mainet as Portrait of an Enemy as a Young Man,” a chapter in the forthcoming collection Cross Cultural Charlemagne in the Middle Ages; a monograph in preparation about “ethnic passing” through clothing, armor, and language in medieval narratives; and several published articles on the prose versions of Fierabras. CHRISTINE MEEK retired in 2007 from her post as Associate Professor in the Department of History, Trinity College, Dublin. Her research focuses on the political, social, and economic history of the Tuscan commune of Lucca, on which she has written two books and numerous articles. Her paper in this volume is part of a study of the Lucchese economy based on the records of the Court of Merchants. Her previous articles for Medieval Clothing and Textiles, which also draw on documents from medieval Lucca, address clothing distrained for debt (volume 10) and silk design and production (volume 7).

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Preface 2016 was the 950th anniversary of the Battle of Hastings and the Norman Conquest of England, precipitating commemorations and conferences on both sides of the E ­ nglish Channel. It is fitting, therefore, that we should publish a chapter on the Bayeux Tapestry, a product of the Anglo-Norman period which depicts events leading up to the Conquest and the Battle itself. Gale R. Owen-Crocker accordingly examines “The Significance of Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry.” The Tapestry, one should not forget, is a wall hanging, a decorative furnishing fabric for a room, albeit a very large one. Furnishings are also the topic of “‘Bene in ordene et bene ornata’: Eleonora d’Aragona’s Description of Her Suite of Rooms in a Roman Palace of the Late Fifteenth Century,” Jane Bridgeman’s discussion of an aristocratic bride’s letter home in which she enumerates the splendours of the apartment prepared for her as a guest of the pope in Rome. The later medieval period saw a meteoric rise in the cloth trade, with fabrics for all levels and purposes, which was accompanied by an explosion of terminology to describe, measure, and market it. In “How Long Is a Launce? Units of Measure for Cloth in Late Medieval Britain,” Mark Chambers examines terminology for cloth and fur measures in the late medieval British Isles, demonstrating the multilingual nature of business writing of the period. Commerce and its vocabulary feature again in Christine Meek’s “Calciamentum: Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca,” a product of this author’s ongoing study of the records of this Tuscan city (see Medieval Clothing and Textiles volumes 7 and 10), which gives a vivid picture of the variety of shoes, pattens, soled hose, and other footwear briskly produced and frequently purchased in this prosperous Italian centre. Everybody needed footwear, and references to it in the city records are frequent. In contrast, Jessica Finley’s article “The Lübeck Wappenröcke: Distinctive Style in Fifteenth-Century German Fabric Armor” deals with a relatively rare item of clothing, the contemporary name of which is not known. Finley works from surviving examples and extant illustrations to establish how these defensive garments were made and assembled. As readers of this journal recognize, medieval dress was a prominent indicator of identity, including gender, rank, and ethnicity. For this reason disguise is a device beloved of late medieval authors. In “Robes, Turbans, and Beards: ‘Ethnic Passing’ in Decameron 10.9,” Ana Grinberg examines identity exchange which involves Muslim/ Christian interaction as well as disguised social status in one of Boccaccio’s stories in his Decameron. As always, we extend gratitude to our board members and the many other scholars who have generously devoted their time and expertise to review article submissions and consult with authors. xii

Preface We continue to consider for publication in this journal both independent submissions and papers read at sessions sponsored by DISTAFF (Discussion, Interpretation, and Study of Textile Arts, Fabrics, and Fashion) at the international congresses held annually in Kalamazoo, Michigan, and Leeds, England. Proposals from potential conference speakers should be sent to [email protected] (for Kalamazoo) or gale. [email protected] (for Leeds). Potential authors for Medieval Clothing and Textiles should read our author guidelines at http://www.distaff.org/MCTguidelines. pdf, and send a 300-word synopsis to Professor Gale R. Owen-Crocker, 181 Chester Road, Hazel Grove, Stockport SK7 6EN, UK; email [email protected]. Authors of larger studies interested in submitting a monograph or collaborative book manuscript for our subsidia series, Medieval and Renaissance Clothing and Textiles, should apply using the publication proposal form on the website of our publisher, Boydell & Brewer, at http://www.boydellandbrewer.com/authors_submit_proposal.asp. We encourage potential authors to discuss their ideas with the General Editors, Robin Netherton and Gale Owen-Crocker, before making a formal proposal.

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The Significance of Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry

Gale R. Owen-Crocker

Since the embroidered narrative frieze known as the Bayeux Tapestry depicts persons and events of recent history, it is often assumed that its architecture, ships, tools, furniture, and horse tack reflect contemporary eleventh-century life.1 Not surprisingly, the same assumption is often made of the dress depicted in the embroidery.2 Earlier versions of this paper have been delivered as lectures for Figments and Filaments, Kansas City (2014); Regia Anglorum, Islip (2015); Wuffing Education, Sutton Hoo (2015); and Vikings, Nottingham (2016). I am grateful for the contributions of the audiences on these occasions which have fed into the development of this material.   1 In C. R. Dodwell and Peter Clemoes, eds., The Old English Illustrated Hexateuch: British Museum Cotton Claudius B. IV, Early English Manuscripts in Facsimile 18 (Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1974), 71, C. R. Dodwell, as part of an argument for the originality of the drawings in that manuscript, stated confidently that “the Bayeux Tapestry . . . certainly gives an authoritative picture of the social life of the eleventh century,” and went on to list (at 72) specific similarities between the manuscript and the Tapestry (including furniture, tools, and the bird-scarer). Scholarly opinion, developing from Francis Wormald, “Style and Design,” in The Bayeux Tapestry: A Comprehensive Survey, ed. Sir Frank Stenton (1957; rev. ed., New York: Phaidon, 1965), 25–36, at 28–32, considers that the Tapestry designer was copying, indeed deliberately “quoting,” images in manuscripts. For the development of this idea, see Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “Reading the Bayeux Tapestry through Canterbury Eyes,” in Anglo-Saxons: Studies Presented to Cyril Roy Hart, ed. Simon Keynes and Alfred P. Smyth (Dublin: Four Courts, 2006), reprinted as chapter 4 in Gale R. Owen-Crocker, The ­Bayeux Tapestry: Collected Papers, Variorum Collected Studies Series CS1016 (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2012), 243–65 and especially note 1. For non-manuscript evidence of the authenticity of the Tapestry, see Michael John Lewis, The Archaeological Authority of the Bayeux Tapestry, British Archaeological Reports, British Series 404 (Oxford: John and Erica Hedges, 2005); Michael John Lewis, The Real World of the Bayeux Tapestry (Stroud, UK: History Press, 2008).   2 Previous publications on dress in the Bayeux Tapestry include John Nevinson, “The Costumes,” in Stenton, The Bayeux Tapestry, 70–75; Olivier Renaudeau, “The Bayeux Tapestry and Its Depiction of Costume: The Problems of Interpretation,” in The Bayeux Tapestry: Embroidering the Facts of History: Proceedings of the Cerisy Colloquium (1999), ed. Pierre Bouet, Brian Levy, and François Neveux (Caen: Presses Universitaires de Caen, 2004), 237–59; Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “The Bayeux ‘Tapestry’: Culottes, Tunics and Garters, and the Making of the Hanging,” Costume 28 (1994), 1–9, republished in Owen-Crocker, Collected Papers, chapter 11; Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “Dress and Authority in the Bayeux Tapestry,” in Aspects of Power and Authority in the Middle Ages, ed. Brenda Bolton and

Gale R. Owen-Crocker The clothing in the Tapestry is manifestly different from depictions in Anglo-Saxon art of the garments of Christ, angels, and the four Evangelists Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John, who wear classical dress consisting of tunica and pallium and are generally barefoot.3 The dress in the Tapestry looks convincingly medieval; but when it is appreciated that some scenes are copied from models in older manuscripts, recognised that there were different artists at work on different parts of the Tapestry, and understood that artwork may show things in “shorthand,” there may be reason to question its authenticity. However, dress is a tool utilised by the Tapestry designer to convey status, gender, and, sometimes, character or demeanour of a historical person. The latter is not always unambiguous for the modern audience. The Tapestry does not exhibit consistent use of colour and details of dress; nor is there consistency of hair colour and depiction of features; apart from the aged King Edward, no figure could be identified solely by appearance. However, it is important to recognise that costume is sometimes manipulated for particular effect.4 The ideas in this essay have developed over years, and many of them have appeared as details in earlier publications but have never been brought together in written form before. The result does not claim to be a description of late-eleventh-century dress using the Bayeux Tapestry to demonstrate it, though in some cases the Tapestry may indicate that “fashions” thought to be twelfth-century were already in existence in the eleventh; the essay is rather an examination of what the Bayeux Tapestry shows and a discussion of the choices made by the designer, artists, and embroiderers. ENGLISH MALE DRESS

The knee-length tunic is standard male secular dress in Anglo-Saxon manuscript art of the early eleventh century, such as the Old English illustrated Hexateuch and Christine Meek, International Medieval Research Series 14 (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 2007), 53–72, republished in Owen-Crocker, Collected Papers, chapter 12; Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “Fools in the Bayeux Tapestry,” Text 42 (2014–15), 4–11; Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “Colour and Imagination in the Bayeux Tapestry,” in Making Sense of the Bayeux Tapestry: Readings and Reworkings, ed. Anna C. Henderson with Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Studies in Design and Material Culture (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 2016), 41–53; Michael John Lewis, “Intertextuality in the Bayeux Tapestry: The Form and Function of Dress and Clothing,” in Textiles, Text, Intertext: Essays in Honour of Gale R. Owen-Crocker, ed. Maren Clegg Hyer and Jill Frederick (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2016), 69–84; Michael J. Lewis, “Ecclesiastics in the Bayeux Tapestry,” in Henderson with Owen-Crocker, Making Sense, 75–92.   3 See further, Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Dress in Anglo-Saxon England: Revised and Enlarged Edition (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2004), 324.   4 I distinguish between the designer, who developed the narrative and chose the form the images should take, and the artist(s) who drew the cartoon. The house style, dictated by the designer or some other person, was followed by all the artists to the extent that the differences between them are not well recognised by modern observers. For further details, see Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “Stylistic Variation and Roman Influence in the Bayeux Tapestry,” originally published online in The Bayeux Tapestry Revisited, ed. John Micheal Crafton, Peregrinations 2, no. 4 (2009): 51–96, and republished in Owen-Crocker, Collected Papers, chapter 5.

2

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry

Fig. 1.1 (left): Typical tunics (Scene 23). Fig. 1.2 (right): Arsonist wearing tunic with possible gores and stripes (Scene 47). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century. All Bayeux Tapestry images with special authorisation of the town of Bayeux.

calendars,5 and, indeed, in earlier Carolingian art such as the Utrecht Psalter, ca. 800,6 and there seems no reason to doubt that this represents a garment that was actually worn in early medieval Europe. However, the tunic’s depiction in the Bayeux Tapestry (fig. 1.1) differs from manuscripts in several details. In the Tapestry the bodice is quite close-fitting and is not pouched over a belt as it is in eleventh-century illustrations. The skirt is generally quite wide at the hem and, as with manuscript art, fullness in the skirts, particularly between the legs, is indicated by internal lines. John Nevinson said, “The lines and shading of the garments . . . may show the folds but give no idea of the seams or tailoring.”7 However, Olivier Renaudeau plausibly suggested that some of the contour lines represent gussets inserted to widen the garment.8 This suggestion is particularly convincing when the skirt lines mark out a distinctly triangular area at the side of the skirt, which, in the two cases of Norman arsonists at Scene 47 (figs. 1.2 and 1.26),9 is also decorated with stripes which do not appear on the rest of the garment,   5 Old English Hexateuch, London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius B.iv, available online at http:// www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=Cotton_MS_Claudius_B_IV, accessed June 20, 2016. Calendars in MSS Cotton Tiberius B.v and Cotton Julius A.vi; both illustrated in Patrick McGurk et al., eds., An Eleventh-Century Anglo-Saxon Illustrated Miscellany, Early English Manuscripts in Facsimile 21 (Copenhagen: Rosenkilde and Bagger, 1983).   6 Utrecht, Netherlands, Universiteitsbibliotheek, MS 32 (Eccl. 484, antea 280a); digital edition available online at http://www.utrechtpsalter.nl.   7 Nevinson, “The Costumes,” 70.   8 Renaudeau, “Depiction of Costume,” 239.   9 The scenes are numbered in an early modern hand on the linen strip which extends the height of the Tapestry at the top. The scene numbers are reproduced in the fold-out versions of the complete Tapestry available from the Bayeux Tapestry shop. In this article, numbers in parentheses refer to scenes.

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Gale R. Owen-Crocker

Fig. 1.3 (left): Clericus with corrugated sleeves and central cloak brooch (Scene 15). Fig. 1.4 (right): Wading men with tucked-up tunics (Scene 4). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.

a decoration confined, in the Tapestry, to these two figures. A tailoring technique employing triangular gussets or gores inserted into the side seams is evidenced from surviving twelfth-century garments, including an alb attributed to St. Thomas Becket (ca. 1118–70).10 However, gussets need not be straight-sided,11 and it is possible that some of the parallel lines on the sides of other Bayeux skirts represent inserts which narrowed sharply at the top, concealed by the belt. This might indicate an advance in tailoring from the earlier Anglo-Saxon cut-it-wide-and-cinch-it-in approach, anticipating the more fitted styles of the twelfth century. The sleeves are close-fitting, without the corrugated effect at the forearm indicating extra material which can be found in manuscripts. The only figure with that style is the unidentified Clericus who appears with the mysterious Ælfgyva (15; fig. 1.3). He has a centred cloak brooch, the first to appear in the Tapestry, though they become more common in later scenes. He might have been copied from some model which has not survived, or at least has not been identified so far. The male sleeves sometimes, but not always, end in a wrist band. They could not have fitted as tightly as this without a slit and some kind of fastening, or without the owners being stitched into their sleeves (and the stitches broken or pulled out when the garment was removed). The latter solution is

10 See Elizabeth Coatsworth and Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Clothing the Past: Surviving Garments from Early Medieval to Early Modern Western Europe (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming), chapter 4.6. 11 In describing the gores in a fifteenth-century garment from Greenland, Robin Netherton observes, “The shaping is neither precise nor geometric, but varies slightly from one piece to the next. The overall shape of each of the side panels resembles a wine bottle.” Robin Netherton, “The View from Herjolfsnes: Greenland’s Translation of the European Fitted Fashion,” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 4 (2008), 143–71, at 148.

4

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry quite possible. It was usual among the upper classes by at least the thirteenth century,12 and it reminds us that almost all the figures depicted in the Tapestry are upper-class. As the English travel about on horseback and by boat unencumbered except for the hawks and hounds which are rich men’s accessories, we have no evidence of servants carrying their spare clothes, tents, and food. We do, however, see Norman servants loading the ships, and they have the same tight sleeves. The absence of visible fasteners is perhaps artists’ shorthand. The lack of seam at the shoulder or upper arm is probably another instance of artistic convention and could remind us that the artists were not interested in conveying details of tailoring, just general appearance. The tunics have either a round or a V-shaped neck band, sometimes in a contrasting colour, sometimes rendered in the same shade as the tunic. Some of the V-shaped ones have a central line which suggests an opening that could have been laced together, but the artist does not show any means of fastening, as indeed manuscript illuminators of the tenth and eleventh centuries generally do not. The ties on a workman’s tunic in the Tiberius calendar (fol. 4r) and more elaborate ones on the V-shaped neckband of Goliath in the Tiberius Psalter (fol. 9r) are rare exceptions.13 The V-shaped neck-bands, similarly, are uncommon in manuscript art. There is no sign of underwear, either a shirt sleeve at the wrist or a frill at the hem of the tunic, unless the neck bands belong to underwear. Men who wade through water (fig. 1.4) appear to have tucked up their tunics, though it is possible that they have removed outer garments and have tucked up, or have side slits in, their shirts. Undergarments would probably have been of linen, and since white is not among the colours employed by the embroiderers, they do not have an effective way of indicating linen, other than leaving the ground fabric bare. The wading men all have coloured garments. Men wear coloured girdles or belts, with no visible sign of buckles or pendent ends. When Harold’s sword is confiscated at his arrest (8; fig. 1.5) it is attached to a buckled belt, and horse trappings are sometimes buckled, so the artist is capable of rendering buckles if desired. English men are generally depicted with coloured legs, and since bare skin is conventionally left unembroidered in the house style of the Tapestry,14 it must be assumed that they wear tight-fitting hose which could have been secured by breech girdles underneath the tunics. This is how hose were secured in the thirteenth century according to art.15 They all wear dainty ankle-high shoes, again with no sign of a fastening. This style is worn by all the figures on the Tapestry, from the king of England down to

12 See, for example, the evidence for the stitching of the cuffs of the shirt of King Louis IX of France (died 1270) in Tina Anderlini, “The Shirt Attributed to St. Louis,” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 11 (2015), 49–78, at 58 and 63, caption to fig. 3.7. 13 Owen-Crocker, Dress, 246, fig. 198, and 247, fig. 201, respectively. 14 Hands, faces, and the legs and feet of men wading through water are unembroidered. 15 For example, the Rutland Psalter (ca. 1260), London, British Library, MS Additional 62925, 5r, 42r right; http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=add_ms_62925, accessed Jan. 27, 2016.

5

Gale R. Owen-Crocker

Fig. 1.5 (left): Harold amid his captors, who have removed his buckled sword belt (Scene 8). Fig. 1.6 (right): Harold, in flowing cloak, is offered the crown (Scene 29). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.

Norman servants pulling a loaded cart (37) to armed men in the Brittany campaign and the Battle of Hastings. Many early medieval shoes survive; closed, ankle-high shoes are common archaeological finds from the ninth to the fourteenth centuries, though examination of surviving shoes shows that in practice they were closed with a flap and toggle or slit down the front and laced.16 A central line down the vamp is very often depicted in manuscript art, often shown in white against a black shoe, or as a black line against an uncoloured shoe. It may have been deemed too small and time-consuming to include such a thing on the embroidery, except once on King Edward’s foot (1; fig. 1.13). The Bayeux shoes differ from shoes in manuscript art in being coloured; thus they appear in green, yellow, and red as well as the very dark blue that is almost black, usually, but not always, contrasting with the colour of the hose. The colouring the Tapestry shows is probably not realistic; it is a result of one of the principles by which the embroiderers worked, namely of distinguishing different parts of an image by different colour as well as (sometimes) different stitch direction.17 Most archaeological finds are deep brown or black after centuries in the earth. That coloured shoes existed is entirely possible, however: In a contentious passage in his late-seventh-century De Virginitate, the Anglo-Saxon Bishop Aldhelm condemned the wearing of “galliculae rubricatis pellibus ambiuuntur,” little boots or shoes with red fur or leather round them.18 16 Lower shoes, boots, and openwork shoes also existed; Marquita Volken, Archaeological Footwear: Development of Shoe Patterns and Styles from Prehistory till the 1600’s ([Zwolle, Netherlands]: SPA Uitgevers, 2014). 17 Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “Fur, Feathers, Skin, Fibre, Wood: Representational Techniques in the Bayeux Tapestry,” in Owen-Crocker, Collected Papers, chapter 3. 18 For alternative translations of the whole passage and a discussion of the linguistic evidence, see Owen-Crocker, Dress, 134–37.

6

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry Cloaks are sometimes worn. They may be used to distinguish the more important figure of two (3, 24), or the most important men in a group (13, 14), but sometimes it seems likely that the flowing textile is simply used to fill space, as in Scene 29 (fig. 1.6) and Scene 46. In one case, colour contrast suggests the garment is lined (30), but other cloaks are simply embroidered the same colour inside and out, apart from the linear stem stitch which conveys folds and fullness. There is never any indication that cloaks are lined with fur. Most are clasped on the right shoulder with a brooch, usually round, of variable size and sometimes with a central dot indicating a jewel, sometimes not. Some brooches are coloured yellow, which might indicate that they are gold; some are the greenish colour which used to be pale blue before it deteriorated, which, as recently suggested, may represent silver when used for embroidering depictions of metalwork.19 Red or other colouring might represent enamelling, which enjoyed some popularity in southern England in the late Anglo-Saxon period. It is unlikely to represent garnet, which was very popular in the late sixth and seventh centuries but was already out of fashion by the eighth century. All the men are bareheaded, as is usual in Anglo-Saxon art, apart from Edward and Harold, who wear crowns, and some Norman archers (51; fig. 1.22) who wear pointed caps and men in mail coats who usually, but not always, wear helmets (figs. 1.23 and 1.24). “FOREIGN” DRESS

Harold’s sea journey goes disastrously wrong. The text does not indicate where he intended to go, but he lands in Ponthieu,20 where he is immediately arrested by Guy, the local count, who was notorious for taking, and torturing, captives. The foreign-ness of Harold’s captors is immediately indicated by the long loose garment of one of the riders (7), and in subsequent scenes by their hair, severely cropped at the back, and by their long, straight garments which have often been interpreted as some kind of breeches, the rigid-looking bands round the bottom of each leg contributing to this impression (fig. 1.7; see also the center figure in fig. 1.16). Both John Nevinson and Olivier Renaudeau firmly rejected the interpretation of the garment as breeches, on the grounds that bodice and lower part are always depicted of the same colour, the latter identifying these garments as “A second type of tunic . . . particularly worn by knights . . . split for ease of riding” and illustrating the point with one of William’s emissaries to Guy (10; fig. 1.8) though, curiously, asserting that the dwarf21 next to the man wears “braies” and taking no account of the workmen later in the Tapestry who wear slightly shorter, wider versions with split skirts (fig. 1.9).22 In no case is the bodice of 19 Owen-Crocker, “Colour and Imagination.” 20 A county of France, northeast of Normandy. 21 For discussion of the physical details of the dwarf and his possible role at Guy’s court, see OwenCrocker, “Fools,” 6–7. 22 Renaudeau, “Depiction of Costume,” 240; Nevinson, “The Costumes,” 73.

7

Gale R. Owen-Crocker

Left to right: Fig. 1.7: One of Harold’s captors in long, straight, slit or trousered garment (Scene 8). Fig. 1.8: One of William’s emissaries in baggier slit or trousered garment; dwarf in wide slit or trousered garment (Scene 10). Fig. 1.9: Workmen in short slit or trousered garments (Scene 35). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.

the garment a different colour from the skirt or trouser part, and if this is meant to be a one-piece garment, it would be very awkward to get into if it was indeed trousered. The common assumption has been that this was a Scandinavian garment, since the Normans were Norsemen, of Viking origin; a similar style appears in the twelfth-­ century Baldishol (Norway) Tapestry (in this case made of fur).23 However, as already noted, the Bayeux artist dresses the French of Ponthieu in this garment as well as the Normans. A likely alternative is that both the Tapestry artist and the Baldishol artist are depicting a longer version of the tunic, split at centre front and back, which can be found in both French and English manuscript art of the early twelfth century.24 These illustrations make it clear that although the garment hangs down straight, there is plenty of fullness in the skirts. In addition, the illuminated initial in Dijon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 168, fol. 4v (fig. 1.10), demonstrates that a shorter version, also split, existed contemporaneously with the long, elegant garment: An older, bearded man in a long garment slit to the thigh fights dragons while standing on the shoulders of a younger man in a knee-length split garment, which flares out to accommodate his splayed legs as he lunges forward. One difficulty in interpreting the Bayeux split garments as skirts is that the leg sections are almost always bordered either by bands in a contrasting colour, or by lines indicating self-coloured bands. If these were indeed skirts, we might expect the edging to run up the slit, as it does on a unique drawing of a split skirt on Longinus in a crucifixion miniature in London, British Library, MS Cotton Tiberius C.vi, fol. 13 (fig. 1.11). In the Bayeux Tapestry this bordering of the slit is shown only once (on one of Harold’s

23 See Eva I. Andersson, “Clothing and Textile Materials in Medieval Sweden and Norway,” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 9 (2013), 97–120, at 106–8, and, for a colour photograph, the cover image of that volume. 24 Margaret Scott, Medieval Dress and Fashion (London: British Library, 2007), 34, plate 15, and 38–39, plates 16 and 17.

8

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry

Fig. 1.10 (left): Long and short slit garments (Dijon, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 168, fol. 4v). Fig. 1.11 (right): Slit garment of Longinus (London, British Library, MS Cotton Tiberius C.vi, fol. 13). Drawings: Gale R. Owen-Crocker.

captors in Scene 8, at the left of fig. 1.5). Whether by accident or design, in other cases the rather rigid-looking bands make the Bayeux garments look trouser-like. Yet in Scene 2, when Harold and his men ride to Bosham, the garments of two of them are delineated in similar lines, indicating that their skirts are tucked round their legs. In the Bayeux Tapestry, while the first rider in Ponthieu seems to wear a loose version of the longer tunic, the depiction of William’s envoys (10; fig. 1.8) is angular, effectively conveying the aggression of the men along with the great height of one of them (his head reaches to the inscription at the top of the main register and his spear pierces the edge of the border), their extreme haircut, and their forward-thrusting heads. In the same way, the angular split garments and the heights of the men who arrest Harold (7) and the one who stands by Guy’s throne (9) imply their aggression towards Harold, who appears smaller, in the softer lines of a skirted tunic. The ­Normans on horseback escorting Harold to William’s castle (and Harold himself; 14) and later 9

Gale R. Owen-Crocker those on the Brittany campaign who are not wearing mail (16, 17) also appear to have trousered garments, but Normans on foot wear tunics (14, 17). A distinction between riding costume and non-riding dress is possible. The split tunics of workmen later in the Tapestry are more problematic, and any possibility of occupational, social, or ethnic distinction has to be ruled out. As pointed out in an essay published in 1994, figures in what appear to be culottes sometimes appear alongside figures in tunics, and the stem-stitched lines delineating folds and fullness are very similar.25 It may be that the differences between undivided skirts and divided skirts are the result of decisions made in the embroidery workshop rather than at the design stage or in the creation of the cartoon on the linen; but whether the designer intended Norman woodcutters (35), a groom (39), pillagers (41), cooks, a waiter (42), builders (45), and archers (51) to wear culottes or tunics is unknown, and the appearance of a single Englishman in the Battle of Hastings in the divided style (53) is equally puzzling. The men of Ponthieu also wear garters over hose or bare legs, which are depicted at first as horizontal bands, varying in number, round the legs. The situation is complicated by inconsistency on the part of the artist, who depicts Harold, identified as English by his moustache, on horseback, in the straighter garment which could be trousers and two garter bands (13); and one of the count’s attendants in a tunic and garterless hose though he has the foreign hairstyle (10). The foreign dress continues with the Normans who come to intimidate Guy into giving up his prisoner (also 10), after an Englishman, distinguished by his full-skirted tunic, moustache, and bobbed

Fig. 1.12 (left): William, with elaborate garters and possible culottes, his petitioner and entourage in tunics (Scene 12). Fig. 1.13 (right): King Edward seated, in long robes, decked with gold (Scene 1). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century. 25 Owen-Crocker, “Culottes, Tunics,” 9.

10

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry hair, has evidently got away from Ponthieu and petitioned Duke William of Normandy for help (12; fig. 1.12). In the same scene, the Duke himself wears elaborate garters with dangling ends, the only character in the Tapestry to do so, and what look like culottes, though his entourage wear tunics. In the scenes following Harold’s transfer to Norman custody, and consequent activities in Normandy and Brittany, perhaps embroidered by a different workshop or a different team of embroiderers,26 there is even more enthusiasm for garters, with more strands, some of them almost diagonal, looking as if they would be cross-garters if they could be seen from the front. Harold and his men wear them, with tunics, as Harold swears his oath to William (23), but not once they return to England. Apart from just one of several figures acclaiming Harold’s coronation (31), no men wear garters again, either in England or Normandy, until after the Norman invasion, where they appear intermittently on Norman soldiers but also three times on English foot soldiers, including the dying Harold in the heavily restored final part of the Tapestry. It seems that gartering was originally conceived as a mark of “foreignness,” but came to be applied, rather inconsistently, to Englishmen abroad and occasionally to Englishmen on their own soil. RULERS’ DRESS

The artist uses a convention taken from Roman coins and perpetuated on Carolingian and Ottonian portraits of monarchs that figures of authority are depicted seated, wearing long robes. The Bayeux artist places such figures within architectural settings, on benches with zoomorphic terminals, their feet raised on footstools. These conventions mean that King Edward (fig. 1.13), Duke William with his brother Odo (fig. 1.14), Harold at, and immediately after, his coronation (fig. 1.15), and Guy of Ponthieu (fig. 1.16), are immediately recognisable as the most powerful figures in their particular context. The differences between them can subtly indicate status—for example, Guy’s spindly furniture and his slightly shorter garment leave no doubt of his inferiority to King Edward, whose image has come before. Whether English kings, French counts, and Norman dukes actually wore long robes at this point in time is not certain. They may have done so for formal occasions but not for everyday. However, the Bayeux artist is doing more than representing formal dress of the late eleventh century. On at least two occasions the artist appears to have borrowed images of Old Testament figures in long garments from the Old English illustrated Hexateuch.27 It was the nature of medieval monastic education that a student would thoroughly learn a manuscript in his library, committing large parts of it to memory and using illustrations to support the process of retention.28 A scholar able to draw 26 The first seam in the linen frieze follows Scene 13, where Guy hands over Harold to William. The second length of linen continues until Scenes 27/28, Edward’s deathbed and shrouding. 27 Digitised images may be found online; see note 5 above. 28 Mary J. Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008).

11

Gale R. Owen-Crocker

Fig. 1.14 (left): Duke William seated with his brother Odo in costumes borrowed from the Hexateuch (Scene 35). Fig. 1.15 (right): Harold in long robe and overgown, at his coronation,

upon images in a manuscript for his textile design must certainly have been familiar with the text which the original images illustrated, and identifying the associated scenes may go some way to understanding why that particular image was referenced.29 The scene where William and Odo, tonsured, sit and make the decision to invade England (35; fig. 1.14), is, interestingly, taken from the scene where Lot addresses his prospective sons-in-law, the Sodomites, and urges them “Up, get you out of this place” (Gen. 19:14; fol. 31v in the Hexateuch). The slight angularity of William’s bodice is taken from the left-hand figure in the Hexateuch, and the long robes of the other are worn by Odo, who sits behind his brother, but is given height and gestures indicating that he is advising his brother to build ships. The standing figure corresponding to Lot in the source may represent the third Norman brother, Robert, or it may be the messenger from England who has brought the news that Harold has taken the throne William wants for himself. The artist may have chosen to copy this scene because of the advice it is giving, so that anyone who knew the source could mentally supply a caption—the standing figure is urging the seated figures into action—but anyone who knew that would also know the seated figures in the source were Sodomites. We have to question whether an English designer was insulting his new rulers in a subtle way that could only be appreciated by other Canterbury scholars who knew the manuscript. Another instance where the garments suggest that figures are copied from the Hexateuch is Scene 44, in which William, Odo, and Robert, named, sit together. The figures of William and Odo are this time taken from a scene where Pharaoh sits in judgement and a man is being hanged (fol. 59r). They are extracted from a larger group of men; hats and crown have been omitted.30 Interestingly, the figure of Robert

29 This argument was first developed in Owen-Crocker, “Reading the Bayeux Tapestry.” 30 Discussed in detail in Owen-Crocker, “Reading the Bayeux Tapestry,” 254.

12

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry is taken from another manuscript then in the library of St. Augustine’s Canterbury, the Utrecht Psalter (fol. 30v).31 His position parallels that of an illustration of Psalm 52, of the Fool who says in his heart “There is no God,” though strangely the Bayeux artist has re-dressed him in a short tunic.32 However, again the Norman brothers are implicitly condemned by the designer’s silent quotations. They are savage in judgement and foolishly arrogant. King Edward at the opening of the Tapestry (fig. 1.13) wears elaborate costume, which appears to be unparalleled in manuscript art or sculpture. He seems to wear one robe over another: One is tucked up over his knees, revealing elaborate strips of decoration, perhaps with gemstone or red enamel settings. In manuscript art different items of dress, one on top of another, are usually indicated by contrasting colours, but Edward’s are embroidered in the same colour, suggesting that he wears a suit of co-ordinating garments, what would, by the thirteenth century, be called a robe.33 The yellow and what was originally pale blue wool of his crown indicate that it is gold and silver. Other yellow embroidery suggests gold jewellery and ornament.34 He seems to have a torque round his neck (or a neckline embroidered in gold), and a gold belt. The front of his bodice is either decorated with embroidery, or it is open and secured over a white shirt with golden toggles. It is recorded that Edward’s wife, Queen Edith, loved to dress the king in elaborate garments decorated with gold.35 Edith was of Anglo-­ Scandinavian aristocracy: Her English father, Earl Godwin, had risen to power during the reign of the Scandinavian King Cnut; her mother was descended from Danish and Swedish royalty and was sister-in-law of Cnut. It is possible that the gold decoration at Edward’s knees, neck, chest, and belt reflects Edith’s Scandinavian taste for metal buttons and passementerie, metal wire embroidery which is well attested from the tenth-century Viking cemetery at Birka, Sweden, as well as from Viking contexts in England, Ireland, and the Isle of Man.36 The general layout of the scene and the shape of the crown derive, probably, from the Hexateuch, fol. 37r, where Abraham shakes hands with King Abimelech, the association being perhaps that the two were, briefly, brothers-in-law, as Harold is brother-in-law to King Edward; but the artist has changed the costume, and King Edward’s robes are unique. Edward’s dress in this opening scene gives a very opulent first impression of the English court, which is appropriate since the story the Tapestry tells is about rival claimants to this rich country.

31 See note 6 above. 32 First developed in Owen-Crocker, “Reading the Bayeux Tapestry,” 254–55, where the illustration to Psalm 14 in the Harley Psalter was identified as the source. In Owen-Crocker, “Fools,” the closer parallel of Psalm 52 in the Utrecht Psalter (source of the Harley Psalter) was preferred. 33 University of Manchester Lexis of Cloth and Clothing Project database, http://lexissearch.arts. manchester.ac.uk, s.v. “robe,” 1, 2a. 34 Owen-Crocker, “Colour and Imagination,” 42–47. 35 Frank Barlow, ed. and trans., The Life of King Edward Who Rests at Westminster: Attributed to a Monk of Saint-Bertin, 2nd ed., Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford: Clarendon, 1992), 22–25. 36 Elizabeth Coatsworth and Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Medieval Textiles of the British Isles, AD 450–1100: An Annotated Bibliography, BAR British Series 445 (Oxford: Archaeopress, 2007), 10.

13

Gale R. Owen-Crocker

Fig. 1.16 (left): Guy of Ponthieu seated, in a longish costume, with possible jester, in jaggededged garment, at far right (Scene 9). Fig. 1.17 (right): William on horseback with goldadorned cloak (Scene 13). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.

At the king’s second appearance (25), he has aged (his beard is grey and he holds a walking stick) and seems to have shrunk: His splayed feet and knees are replaced by a tight, contracted pose. He wears the same crown, but there is no gold on his costume. However, his long robes are embroidered dark green as before and the simpler, red embroidery at the thigh suggests that he again wears a robe of two co-ordinating garments. This time he has a blue (representing silver) belt and a full-length red cloak clasped by a large gold brooch with a red stone. The effect is still grand, but less dominant than before. The addition of the cloak perhaps suggests that the elderly king now needs extra warmth indoors, adding to the impression of his frailty. His funeral follows in the adjacent scene. Harold also wears long robes at his coronation (30; fig. 1.15)—shin-length green over ankle-length yellow—and a long, red cloak clasped by a central brooch; but the brooch is of indeterminate shape and his garments are not decorated except for narrow yellow (?gold) wristbands. Perhaps this is deliberately putting Harold’s reign into the perspective of Norman commentators. Harold is raised high on a throne, he wears what seems to be the same crown as Edward, and he holds a sceptre and orb; but the lack of personal adornment on his dress seems odd for the grandest occasion of a king’s life and may reflect the haste of the coronation and that the Normans thought little of Harold personally. He was not of King Edward’s bloodline; they considered him a usurper. In some ways the Tapestry reflects the Norman view of events.37 37 Harold is here crowned by Stigand, archbishop of Canterbury, an excommunicated cleric to whom the Normans were hostile, though the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle claims Harold was crowned by the Archbishop of York, who was perfectly legitimate. The Tapestry omits Harold’s great victory against

14

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry The seated, authority pose is adopted by Guy of Ponthieu (9; fig. 1.16), but it is, as suggested above, a smaller, weaker imitation of King Edward’s dignified pose and costume. The lines of his garments (again probably representing a short gown over a longer one, with decoration at the knees) are angular and the ensemble shows a great deal of shin, l­udicrously (to modern eyes) clad in striped socks, or garters over hose giving an effect of vivid stripes. His cloak is short, though it has a square central brooch as Edward’s will have in a future scene. Duke William, though seated, does not initially wear long robes (12, 14), perhaps suggesting he is a man of action rather than ceremony. The only feature of his costume initially marking him out as special is his elaborate garters (12; fig. 1.12). At his first meeting with Harold, William appears on horseback in a short, but elaborately decorated, cloak that identifies him to the viewer as important (13; fig. 1.17). The broad yellow border can be read as representing metallic gold embroidery or brocading, techniques that were carried out with gold thread made by spinning thin-beaten gold round a silk core. Cloak ribbons are a rare but apparently authentic detail of elite male dress: King Cnut wears such ribbons in an illumination dated to 1031,38 and a rich tenth-century male burial from Mammen, Denmark, had what may have been cloak ribbons of purple silk, decorated with gold and silver, stiffened with wool.39 Elizabeth Coatsworth has suggested that one of the embroideries preserved among the relics of St. Cuthbert (known as “Maniple II”) was originally a pair of cloak ribbons of this kind.40 Duke William is first depicted in long robes as he sits witnessing Harold’s oath (23). This is a highly significant scene, as Harold, obviously uncomfortable, is forced to swear an oath to William. William is in command of the situation and his authoritative garments proclaim it, though there is no ostentation about them. He appears to wear gown over gown, with simple decoration at the knees and a deep band edging the longer garment. He also wears a voluminous cloak, clasped at the right shoulder by an unpretentious round brooch. SPECIAL DRESS

As Harold steps ashore in Ponthieu and is arrested, the embroiderers give him a striped skirt (7, fig. 1.18). We cannot realistically suppose that he has changed his clothes since he disembarked by means of a small boat (6), when he had been standing high at the prow wearing a red tunic with a yellow border and belt, perhaps suggesting gold, a long the Vikings at the Battle of Stamfordbridge in September 1066, preferring to depict him as a perjurer who rightly met defeat at the hands of the rightful claimant at the Battle of Hastings the following month. 38 London, British Library, MS Stowe 944, 6r; http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/Viewer.aspx?ref=stowe_ ms_944_f006r. 39 Marianne Vedeler, Silk for the Vikings, Ancient Textiles Series 15 (Oxford: Oxbow, 2014), 40–1 and fig. 19. 40 Elizabeth Coatsworth, “The Embroideries from the Tomb of St. Cuthbert,” in Edward the Elder 899– 924, ed. N. J. Higham and D. H. Hill (London: Routledge, 2001), 292–306.

15

Gale R. Owen-Crocker cloak, and a very large brooch. He is now without hose and shoes, minus cloak and brooch, taken unawares, perhaps, as he wades through the water. The appearance of the skirt resembles pleats, the technique of which was known, at least in Scandinavia, by the tenth century: Viking women buried at Birka wore pleated shirts, the remains of which have survived in the oval brooches which secured their upper garments.41 Another possibility, suggested by Renaudeau, is that the striped skirt “might be an abortive attempt to indicate a richer material than that of the clothing of the men who are surrounding him: perhaps some silken garment.”42 It is certainly possible that the stripes are an attempt to convey the iridescence of (foreign) silk, but if so it is strange that this change of costume should happen now, in a scene just minutes away from Harold’s appearance in more conventional Anglo-Saxon splendour at the prow of the landing craft in the previous scene. Generally, even at his coronation, Harold’s dress is fairly plain, even though he was the richest and most powerful man in England after the king. The striped skirt serves to distinguish Harold from those of lesser importance around him, but it is likely that its striking appearance is the product of a variation in embroidery technique rather than an attempt to indicate a different kind of cloth, either silk or pleating. The embroidery of this scene differs slightly from elsewhere in the Tapestry, with parallel lines of stem stitch being used in places where laid and couched work is usually employed: the skirts of Harold’s tunic and the man to the left, behind him; the collar of the man to the right of him; belt equipment; and horse tack.43 Instead of the folds and fullness of the skirts being represented by curving stemstitched lines, they are indicated by parallel lines in contrasting colours, the man in the yellow tunic behind Harold having a single line of blue-black stem stitch, but Harold having single lines of red, separating wider stripes of green and yellow. The technique effectively conveys folds and fullness without necessarily indicating the pressing and stitching that deliberate pleating would involve. The little figure who hides behind a pillar witnessing the humiliation of Harold before Guy makes a hand gesture which was used on the Roman stage to indicate that a person was eavesdropping (9; fig. 1.16). It is perhaps this man who conveys information to one of Harold’s men, who rushes to William of Normandy for help. The eavesdropper wears a distinctive, jagged-edged costume. As suggested elsewhere, this perhaps indicates that he is an entertainer, a court Fool, called at that time in Latin joculator or mimus, at Guy’s apparently decadent court.44 Jagged costume was used by entertainers and fools long before dagging became a fashion statement, both before and after the Bayeux Tapestry’s era. 41 Inge Hägg, “Viking Women’s Dress at Birka: A Reconstruction by Archaeological Methods,” in Cloth and Clothing in Medieval Europe: Essays in Memory of Professor E. M. Carus-Wilson, ed. N. B. Harte and K. G. Ponting (London: Heinemann, 1983), 316–50. 42 Renaudeau, “Depiction of Costume,” 242. 43 Owen-Crocker, “Fur, Feathers,” 4. 44 In support of this judgement I would note that Guy also employs a dwarf, and that Harold is recorded as suggesting Guy was effeminate—he called him a semi-vir or half-man. See Owen-Crocker, “Fools,” 4–6.

16

Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry

Above, left to right: Fig. 1.18: Harold, at the moment of his arrest, in striped skirt (Scene 7). Fig. 1.19: Guy of Ponthieu in distinctive tunic (Scene 10). Below, left to right: Fig. 1.20: Bishop Odo dressed for battle (Scene 54). Fig. 1.21: Man in distinctive garment approaching the River Cousenon (Scene 16). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.

Guy himself faces William’s envoys in a most distinctive tunic (10; fig. 1.19). The body and sleeves are covered in scallop shapes and though the sleeves are coloured uniformly green, the bodice and skirt are polychrome. The only similar effects in the Tapestry are Bishop Odo’s fighting suit (54; fig. 1.20) and the garment of a man approaching the river Cousenon (16; fig. 1.21), who is generally thought to be Duke William but who, arguably, is Bishop Odo, since he wears the same sort of suit, carries a club rather than a spear, and has an odd hairstyle which might be a botched attempt 17

Gale R. Owen-Crocker at a tonsure. It is possible that these three multi-coloured garments are meant to be of leather; or fur, with small skins pieced together. The representation of vair (squirrel fur) in later manuscript illuminations bears some resemblance to the scallop shapes of Guy’s garment, though not to those of the two riders, on which the coloured segments are triangular (with a few rhomboids on the figure at Scene 16). Another suggestion, raised but rejected by Renaudeau, is that the men wear a gambeson, a padded defensive garment (similar to an aketon or pourpoint). Such garments were quilted and usually stuffed with cotton. They are not documented before the late twelfth century, and they were most popular in the thirteenth to fourteenth centuries. It is unlikely that cotton wool was available in northern Europe in the eleventh century, though cotton garments were known earlier in Italy. Cotton was not the only possible padding, however: An early mention of a pourpoint specifies that it was made of many layers of linen.45 However, we do not have evidence of quilting in the eleventh century. Another possibility is that the Bayeux Tapestry embroiderers could have been asked to construct something that represented silk, and since silks often had repeated shapes—roundels or ogees—they came up with this. Silk would perhaps suit Guy’s character as effeminate and dissipated; conversely, he carries a fierce-looking axe, and a leather tunic might reflect that aggressive aspect of his character. Another suggestion that has been made to this author is that Guy may be depicted in scale armour or lamellar armour.46 At one time some lamellae found at Birka47 were thought to be evidence that lamellar armour was used by Scandinavian Vikings, but the find is now acknowledged to have belonged to a foreign garrison, probably from Asia. Varangian armour has been suggested, but if any northwest Europeans were familiar with that, they would have been Viking soldiers, not Anglo-Saxon or Norman clerics who probably were responsible for designing the Tapestry. Another possibility is that Guy’s garment is a misunderstanding of something else, perhaps scale armour depicted on a Roman sculpture. There is scale armour on Trajan’s Column,48 which the Bayeux Tapestry certainly “quoted” indirectly elsewhere. However, none of the images acknowledged as derived from Trajan’s Column or the Marcus Aurelius Column are in proximity to this one; they concern the Norman preparations for invasion and its immediate aftermath—the pillaging, arson, and

45 Lisa Monnas, “Pourpoint,” in Encyclopedia of Dress and Textiles in the British Isles c. 450–1450, ed. Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Elizabeth Coatsworth, and Maria Hayward (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 432–34, at 432, citing a garment worn at the 1191 Siege of Acre. 46 The suggestion was made by audience members at a lecture for Regia Anglorum (Islip, 2015). Scale armour has the metal scales attached to a backing and arranged in overlapping rows. Lamellar armour has scales lashed to one another and arranged in rows. This does not require a backing. 47 Lamellae of various types found at different times. Niklas Stjerna, “Steppe Nomadic Armour from Birka,” trans. Magnus Ritzen, Fornvännen 99 (2004), http://www.wataha.com.pl/download/ lamelka_2.doc, accessed July 26, 2016. 48 “Reading Trajan’s Column,” interactive graphic, National Geographic, March 2015, http://www. nationalgeographic.com/trajan-column, accessed Dec. 28, 2016.

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Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry building scenes.49 This author has not found any figure on Trajan’s Column in scale armour posed like Guy. The Norman cavalry advance is interrupted at Scene 51 by a group of four Norman archers (fig. 1.22). One wears a mailcoat and helmet; two wear caps and tunics with what appear to be divided skirts; the fourth is bareheaded and wears what appears to be a tight-fitting top and close-fitting breeches with decorative or protective patches on them. This man wears his quiver attached to a strap round his shoulders. The mail-clad man has the quiver attached to a strap round his waist. The other two men have straps round the waist, but the upper-right figure also has a strap between the legs. The clothing of the bottom-right figure has the same lines, but they have been embroidered as part of the garment rather than in the contrasting colour of a strap. An embroiderer may have misunderstood one or other of the cartoons here. Other archers, mostly depicted in outline in the bottom border below Scenes 55 and 56, wear tunics, some with skirts slit in various ways. The second from the left may wear tight breeches with a protective patch like the archer in the main border. However, these figures are heavily restored. The only archer among the English troops (51) is a small figure in a tunic among soldiers in mailcoats. Clearly the archers do not wear anything like a uniform, but the artist may have known that the clothing of Norman archers had more freedom in the legs than normal clothing. ARMOUR50

Mail is worn by most, but not all, of the combatants in the Brittany campaign and the Battle of Hastings. The Bayeux embroiderers initially experiment with how they will represent mail, trying out tight circles, squares, and diamonds in the depiction of the Brittany campaign, the loading of the Norman ships, and the immediate aftermath of the invasion (16, 18–22, 37, 40–1), even to the extent that embroiderers apparently working from opposite sides of the cloth sometimes use different techniques (18, 41). They finally settle into a consistent representation as large circles, which is not realistic—the rings would be large enough for weapons to penetrate, but are tidier and no doubt were more economical to work (fig. 1.23). This style predominates throughout the long depiction of the Battle of Hastings, which is the culmination of the Tapestry in its present incomplete state. Even here, the embroiderers sometimes adopt other styles, presumably in order to distinguish between individual figures. For example, at Scene 51, English foot soldiers face Norman cavalry in both directions;51 kite-shaped shields cover most of the Englishmen’s bodies, and the legs protrude beneath—though 49 For the recognition of the debt to Roman sculpture, see O. K. Werkmeister, “The Political Ideology of the Bayeux Tapestry,” Studi Medievali, 3rd ser., 17 (1976): 535–95 and plates at 539; for my own development of that, see Owen-Crocker, “Stylistic Variation.” 50 Previously discussed in Gale R. Owen-Crocker, “‘Seldom . . . does the deadly spear rest for long’: Weapons and Armour,” in The Material Culture of Daily Living in the Anglo-Saxon World, ed. Maren Clegg Hyer and Gale R. Owen-Crocker (Exeter: Exeter University Press, 2011), 201–30, at 219–30. 51 The right-facing group is probably repaired.

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Gale R. Owen-Crocker

Above, left to right: Fig. 1.22: Group of Norman archers (Scene 51). Fig. 1.23: English soldiers in typical armour (Scene 52). Below, Fig. 1.24: Norman soldier with additional mail protection (Scene 49). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.

not enough legs for the number of heads and arms appearing above the shields. The embroiderers alternate legs covered with diamonds to those depicted with circles (not always assigning the leg to the correct head) fulfilling the requirement for individuality which was evidently dictated, and elsewhere is managed by differences of attitude and colour.52 The colour is predominantly that pale green which was originally light blue, 52 See Owen-Crocker, “Fur, Feathers,” 5; “Colour and Imagination,” 48.

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Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry which, I suggest, represents a steely, silver colour. Many of the other colours used at the end of the Tapestry are modern repairs, particularly a strong red. The yellow on green worn by the standard-carrying warrior at the River Cousenon in the earlier Brittany campaign (16) may represent gilded armour, which would support the contention that this, not the figure in the multi-coloured suit, is Duke William. All armour, both Norman and English, is depicted as if it was trousered, a matter that has been much discussed53 and a similar issue to the apparently trousered garments of French and Norman riders earlier in the Tapestry. There are depictions of what look like mailed trousers on standing figures that have the same ambiguity in two early-eleventh-century Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, though both drawings are probably later additions.54 It seems unlikely that soldiers would ride on horseback with mail between them and the saddle, but the seat of the garment could have been leather at that point. The mail garments being pulled off dead warriors in the lower border (57) come off over the head, all in one piece, which suggests that this armour was in the shape of a long coat, slit front and back, which enabled it to be fastened round the legs by means of ties, including the decorative bands at the bottoms of the garments. However, the only convincing depiction of a mail shirt in an eleventh-century Anglo-Saxon manuscript shows it with slits at the sides, not front and back.55 The fact remains that in the Bayeux Tapestry the inner sides of the combatants’ thighs are closely covered by mail, and the garment is never depicted as an open coat. It is not belted, though Harold’s garment evidently has a gap through which he sticks a sword; however, the sword is improbably long, so there is something wrong with the proportions of this image (21). Some Normans have an additional rectangular piece of mail at the upper chest, framed in a contrasting colour with circles at the corners and sometimes tabs hanging down which were probably used to fasten it (fig. 1.24). This could perhaps be raised to protect the neck, in function, though not in form, like the later medieval aventail, though the Tapestry never depicts it lifted. The English do not have this refinement, except Harold when he receives armour from William (21), which is presumably Norman armour. This appendage is most prominent before and after the Brittany campaign (16, 21–22), but only appears once, possibly twice, in the fighting of that episode as Norman riders attack Dinan (18–19). It appears again during preliminaries to the Battle of Hastings (40, 48–49) but disappears almost entirely once the battle proper begins (50) only occurring again on the figure who holds a standard beside William as he raises his helmet to prove he is still alive (55).56 As the detail is so localised in 53 See, for example, Sir James Mann, “Arms and Armour,” in Stenton, The Bayeux Tapestry, 56–69, at 62. 54 Old English Hexateuch, 42v, see note 5 above; and London, British Library, MS Harley 603, 73v; http://www.bl.uk/manuscripts/FullDisplay.aspx?ref=harley_ms_603, accessed July 28, 2016. 55 Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Douce 296, 40v; Owen-Crocker, Dress, 255, fig. 208. See also the discussion of Joseph’s coat in the Old English Hexateuch, 255 and 256, fig. 209. 56 For a discussion about the identification of the figure by the torn inscription in the upper border (usually as Eustace of Boulogne) see David S. Spear, “Robert of Mortain and the Bayeux Tapestry,” in The Bayeux Tapestry: New Approaches, ed. Michael J. Lewis, Gale R. Owen-Crocker, and Dan Terkla (Oxford: Oxbow, 2011), 75–80.

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Gale R. Owen-Crocker the Tapestry it could be attributed to particular artists or embroiderers. It is worn by anonymous mounted soldiers as well as associated with William, his standard bearer, and Harold, so it does not appear of be a marker of rank. It could be an indication of Norman identity, though not a consistent one. Mail protection for the lower legs is worn by a figure generally presumed to be Duke William receiving the surrendered keys to the besieged city of Dinan (20), but by no other figures in the Brittany campaign. Mailed legs appear again on a tall, standing figure coming out of Hastings, again most probably William, though the caption does not name him (47), and by two riders holding clubs beneath his name and title (49) who are informed of the Saxon army’s whereabouts (perhaps William and a close henchman, or perhaps both representing William); and another, again under the name and title, as William makes his speech to the Norman army (51). They are worn by one other rider in the same scene and by William and the standard bearer in Scene 55. They are never worn by the English. The shin mail therefore seems to be both a Norman detail and a marker of rank, since it is mostly confined to William and figures closely associated with him, apart from one other rider in Scene 51. Generally mail passes up the back of the neck and is sometimes also depicted under the chin, indicating that men of both armies wear a mail coif under the helmet. A few Normans wear mail coifs without helmets. They include two awkwardly embroidered riders overseeing the pillaging, one named as Wadard (40, 41) and one approaching the battlefield (49–50), all therefore non-combatants. Two other non-combatants riding from the ships to the pillaging scene wear mailcoats but are bare-headed (40). The English are never shown in coifs without helmets. All combatants in mailcoats wear helmets. Helmets are conical with nose protection. Their segmented construction and brow band are indicated by contrasting colours. (The colouring does not necessarily suggest that the helmets were painted, as has been suggested to the author. The embroiderers habitually show different parts of an object with different colours.) Helmets have no neck guard and are perched high on the head with no evidence for them being strapped on. This could be artists’ shorthand, though re-enactors have assured the author that helmets need to fit tightly and that chin straps could be hazardous if an enemy succeeded in knocking the helmet off the back of the head. There is no difference between the depiction of Norman and English helmets. They are unadorned. The fact that mail and helmets are so standardised in the Tapestry speaks of the revolution in military preparation that took place in the eleventh century.57 Only five English helmets survive from the seventh and eighth centuries, one of them represented by several pieces found in the Staffordshire hoard, and they are all different, all iconographic. The few finds of eleventh-century helmets (from eastern and northwest Europe as well as England and possibly France) are more standardised and resemble the helmets of the Tapestry.58 Almost all the surviving helmets are metal, as to be

57 Owen-Crocker, “Weapons and Armour,” 219. 58 Mann, “Arms and Armour,” 58 and figs. 33, 35; Owen-Crocker, “Weapons and Armour,” 225–26.

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Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry e­ xpected, and we can suppose that the Bayeux Tapestry represents all-metal helmets. The seventh-century Benty Grange helmet, however, survives as a metal framework which originally supported horn plates, so helmet segments of organic material, less durable than metal, did exist. We have the remains of only one early Anglo-Saxon mailcoat, from the seventh-century Sutton Hoo ship burial. It was composed of alternating rows of welded and riveted iron rings. There are earlier fragments from Sweden and Denmark. Their rarity as archaeological finds suggests they were unusual in the earlier medieval period. In the Tapestry, however, they are standard aristocratic equipment, as reflected in eleventh-century wills,59 though none survive. There has been speculation as to whether the mail was attached to linen or leather and whether some protective garment was worn underneath the armour. If so, the Tapestry does not show it. Soldiers appear to wear ordinary hose, sometimes gartered, and shoes, beneath their mail; and the fairly wide sleeves of the mail garment finish mid-forearm, usually revealing a tight, often cuffed, sleeve beneath. The implication is that mail was worn over ordinary clothes. The figures in the lower border whose mailcoats are being pulled off by pillagers (56–57) are depicted as naked beneath their armour, but this is hardly realistic. The figures are very small and the omission of clothing no doubt made them easier to embroider, but nakedness is used to special effect in the Tapestry (see below, p. 28). The dress of Bishop Odo at Scene 54 (fig. 1.20) must be mentioned here. It is often assumed that as an ecclesiastic Odo was forbidden to carry arms, and that this is the reason why he is not dressed like the other men on the battlefield; but he wears a helmet60 and he has rings at his head, indicating a mail coif under the helmet. In addition he has mail sleeves, tight at the wrist, protruding from the elbow-length sleeves of his multi-coloured outer garment. In this, the bishop’s dress is the reverse of that of other men, who wear mail with shorter, wider sleeves outside and the tighter, longer sleeves of what is presumably a cloth garment underneath. The veto on carrying arms did apply to priests, but not to higher clergy. There was a tradition of fighting bishops,61 and Odo is clearly in that role here.

59 Owen-Crocker, “Weapons and Armour,” 219. 60 Odo’s helmet as it now appears, with a knob on the top, is unique in the Tapestry; but the knob is evidently an addition. My thanks to Shirley Ann Brown for pointing out that it is absent from the Benoit/Montfaucon drawing of the Tapestry as it was in the early eighteenth century. 61 There is a strong tradition of the military engagement of senior clergy (abbots as well as bishops) in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Odo had repeatedly campaigned on the Continent prior to the Norman Conquest and would subsequently campaign against rebellions in England in 1069 and 1075 along with others, including Geoffrey de Montbray, bishop of Coutances, who had also accompanied the Norman army to England in 1066. Odo fought in support of Duke Robert Curthose, rebelling against King William II, in 1088, which led to his expulsion from England; Daniel M. G. Gerrard, The Church at War: The Military Activities of Bishops, Abbots and Other Clergy in England, c. 900–1200 (Abingdon, UK: Routledge, 2016), 29–43. Odo subsequently embarked on crusade, despite his age (over 60), dying in Palermo in 1097. Other notable fighting bishops include St. Ulrich, bishop of Augsburg, who famously defended Augsburg against the Magyars in the 950s, and Absalon (or Axel), bishop of Roskilde, archbishop of Lund (ca. 1128–1201).

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Gale R. Owen-Crocker The usual suggestion is that this is a leather suit; but why would anyone go to the trouble of piecing together the skins of small animals—with each seam a potential weakness—when they could have used larger skins of cattle or sheep? Some think this could be a padded and quilted garment, but, as discussed above (p. 18), we lack evidence for such a thing so early. Other suggestions might be, again, that this is a silk garment worn over armour, an equivalent of the later surcoat; or a copy of something misunderstood in Roman art; or that the embroiderers are simply making the point that this is someone important, as they seem to have done with Harold’s striped skirt (p. 16, above). It is interesting that the twelfth-century historian Wace also preserves a tradition that Odo galloped onto the battlefield carrying a baston to rally the young noblemen, with a distinctive appearance, in this case on a white horse, wearing a short mailcoat (habergol) over a white chemise.62 Wace was a prebendary and canon of Bayeux ­Cathedral, and it is possible that his poem was influenced by the Bayeux Tapestry if it was already located there in his time; however, it is also possible that Wace preserves an independent tradition. It is worth noting again that the Bayeux Tapestry embroiderers’ palette of colours did not include white thread,63 and elsewhere, such as on Stigand’s alb (30), they use colours to embroider garments that in real life would generally be white. THE DRESS OF TONSURED FIGURES64

The shaved crown of the head indicates that a man is an ecclesiastic. Tonsured figures in the Bayeux Tapestry appear both in the usual secular dress and in liturgical vestments. The tonsured Bishop Odo, as stated above, appears in long garments which are not liturgical vestments, and, when riding to battle, in a polychrome outfit. Secular dress is worn by the clericus who appears with Ælfgyva (15; fig. 1.3) and the group of men who follow King Edward’s bier (26), holding open books, four of them (all in the back row) clearly singing or chanting. The clericus and the foremost man in the funeral party wear long, full cloaks which are clasped by round brooches at the centre of the neck. While a central cloak fastening is a minority fashion in manuscript art (the right shoulder being the usual position for the brooch), it becomes quite common in the Tapestry after Scene 15, as is the long cloak worn with a short tunic. In manuscript art, a short cloak usually accompanies a short tunic. The other mourners do not wear cloaks, not even the other man in the front row who holds a curly-topped stick which possibly represents a bishop’s crozier. Their costume is surprising, on several counts. Firstly, King Edward died in early January, so the mourners 62 Roman de Rou, iii, lines 8097–8128; Wace, Le Roman de Rou, ed. A. J. Holden, 3 vols. (Paris, A. & J. Picard, 1970–73) 2:186–87. 63 With the exception of details embroidered in unbleached linen on Scene 41 only; Isabelle Bédat and Béatrice Girault-Kurtzemann, “The Technical Study of the Bayeux Tapestry,” in Bouet, Levy, and Neveux, Embroidering the Facts, 83–109, at 91 and plate 11 on p. 89. The use of undyed wool is also mentioned on p. 91, but its location in the Tapestry is not specified and it is not illustrated. 64 For detailed descriptions, see Lewis, “Ecclesiastics.”

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Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry might be expected to dress warmly; but only one wears a cloak. Secondly, since this was the funeral of a great king, the clergy might have worn copes, grand processional cloaks which were not tied to any particular office, and which great churches owned in considerable number and various colours; but perhaps the processing clergy did not change into copes until they entered St. Peter’s church (Westminster Abbey). The Tapestry predates the general adoption of the cappa clausa, a long dark cloak closed at the front, as what Maureen Miller calls “clerical street attire.”65 Liturgical dress, or a limited version of it, is confined in the Tapestry to occasions where an ecclesiastic of higher rank (priest, bishop, or archbishop) might be understood as carrying out a specific sacrament or ritual. In the lower half of Scenes 27/28, a tonsured figure wearing what is evidently a chasuble (a Mass vestment), with distinctively patterned orphreys round the neck and down the front, holds up two fingers in blessing as his other hand is stretched out prayerfully. His arms are covered in tight sleeves, probably representing an alb. He gazes at the corpse of the king, which is being shrouded by two men; he is perhaps reciting a prayer for the dead. Above, truncated because he appears behind the dying king’s bed, is a figure with a similar collar and front orphrey. It is recorded in the Life of King Edward that Archbishop Stigand was present at the deathbed. He would have administered the last rites. STIGANT ARCHIEPS (Archbishop Stigand) is named above and on either side of the head of the figure adjacent to Harold, enthroned, at his coronation (30; fig. 1.15). The ecclesiastic wears Mass vestments consisting of an alb, a chasuble—oddly short at the front but hanging well down at the back—a stole, hanging down from his shoulders on either side of his body, a maniple, carried in his left hand, and a pallium, the insignia of his office, which goes round his neck and hangs down centrally at the front. It is the shapes of the pallium and the alb which identify them, not the colours. A pallium should be white, decorated only with black crosses. It should in fact circle the shoulders rather than the neck, but the decorated strip depicted here cannot be anything else. It hangs down below the front of the chasuble, so cannot be an orphrey attached to that vestment. An alb was originally, by definition, white (Latin albus) and was normally made of linen; it was the ecclesiastical equivalent of a shirt. By the thirteenth century coloured silk albs were owned by some of the grander European churches, including Westminster Abbey.66 We do not know if they were in existence in the eleventh. Stigand’s stole and maniple do not match; it is likely that they would have done. The tenth-century stole and maniple preserved at Durham among the relics of St. Cuthbert are a matching set made under royal patronage, and matching sets are documented

65 Maureen Miller, Clothing the Clergy: Virtue and Power in Medieval Europe, c. 800–1200 (Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press, 2014), 248. 66 Lewis, “Ecclesiastics,” 75–76.

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Gale R. Owen-Crocker among the later medieval treasures of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London.67 Stigand’s stole was embroidered in pale blue (now faded to dull green) which may have been intended to suggest it was decorated with silver;68 it has red terminals. His maniple is red with terminals of red and yellow, the latter perhaps representing gold embroidery. The effect of Stigand’s costume is rich, but it seems that colour was not used realistically. His attitude (full face, in the orans position), the wide space he occupies, and the general style of his garments, quite different from those of the king on his throne and the seculars to left and right of the scene, make the figure’s role and authority instantly recognisable, even without the identifying inscription. WOMEN’S DRESS

Since there are only three clothed women in the Bayeux Tapestry, female dress has received little attention in discussions of clothing depicted in the embroidery. Women are still depicted in headdresses which cover the hair and neck completely and in the rather full, shapeless garments of the late Anglo-Saxon period; the changing headdress styles and the tight lacing and body fitting of the twelfth century have not yet begun to appear. However, two of the three figures have untypical features: Both Ælfgyva (15; fig. 1.25) and the woman leading her child from a burning building (47; fig. 1.26) have exaggerated sleeves on their outer garments, worn over close-fitting sleeves reaching to the wrist. The feature is more obvious on the fleeing woman, since her arms are extended and her cuffs are depicted in a contrasting colour. In the case of Ælfgiva, the sleeve edges, like the gold edging around the bottom of her garment, are worked in stem stitch, a contrast of texture, but not of colour, in relation to the body of her gown. Exaggerated sleeves play a part in fashionable costume for both sexes in the twelfth century, but it is not generally recognised that they seem to have been already established by the mid-eleventh century.69 The fleeing woman, uniquely, appears to have her headdress tucked into the neck of her gown, rather than hanging down over her shoulders. This image is evidently copied from Roman sculpture, how indirectly we do not know—and the artist has had to manipulate his model to make it look like an English woman.70 The gown appears to hang unbelted, whereas Ælfgiva’s has a self-coloured sash or belt.

67 For example, the 1245 inventory of St. Paul’s lists “29 vestment sets, mostly consisting of apparels, stole, maniple and amice, plus 10 other amices and two stole and maniple sets”; Medieval Dress and Textiles in Britain: A Multilingual Sourcebook, ed. Louise M. Sylvester, Mark C. Chambers, and Gale R. Owen-Crocker (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2014), 90. 68 Owen-Crocker, “Colour and Imagination,” 45–46. 69 Owen-Crocker, Dress, 215. 70 Werkmeister, “The Political Ideology,” 541, identified the model for the woman and child as a group on the Column of Marcus Aurelius, Rome, Scene XX. The sculptured woman wears a peplos, asymmetrically arranged with her right breast exposed, and pouched over a girdled waist.

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Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry

Fig. 1.25 (left): Ælfgyva with long sleeves (Scene 15). Fig. 1.26 (right): Woman, with headdress tucked in and long sleeves, fleeing with her child as arsonist sets fire to building (Scene 47). Details of the Bayeux Tapestry, eleventh century.

The dress of Queen Edith,71 weeping at the feet of her dying husband (27/28), also seems to have wide, but not exaggerated, outer sleeves over the close-fitting inner sleeves which are a typical Anglo-Saxon style. Her headdress covers her head and shoulders but is evidently quite long since it hangs loose, enabling her to weep into it. The image of a bereaved woman is conventional in Anglo-Saxon art, from the Virgin Mary weeping at the foot of the cross to other mourning women in religious art, weeping at the death of Mary herself and at the passing of generations in Old Testament narrative. The Tapestry’s portrait of Edith tells us very little about eleventh-century dress, partly because it shows the upper body only, but also since it is so heavily dependent on a model. She is to be “read” as a grieving woman, using her garment to convey her emotion. The figure is at the same time a specific English woman, the king’s wife, and also a generic image of grief, lamenting the death of a monarch and anticipating the bloodbath that will follow for his people as he dies without an heir. NAKEDNESS

It is relevant to consider the Bayeux Tapestry’s use of figures without dress. The Tapestry’s naked figures all appear in the borders: male/female couples below Scene 13 and twice above Scene 48, two naked men in sequence beneath Scenes 14/15, and two men being stripped of their mailcoats beneath Scene 57. There are further similar

71 She is not named in the Tapestry’s text, but the presence of Queen Edith at the deathbed and her position at the king’s feet are mentioned in the contemporary Life of King Edward.

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Gale R. Owen-Crocker images as Scene 57 merges into 58, but there is so much restoration at this point that one cannot be sure of the original intention. Once dismissed as gratuitous obscenity, sometimes explained as fables, the first two groups of naked figures are now generally interpreted as commentary on the images in the main register of the Tapestry. The effect of presenting figures without clothes focuses attention on the sexual organs. The naked men beneath the discussion between William and Harold and the image of Ælfgyva and the clericus are thought to indicate that the discussion concerns some marital or sexual event(s) in the life of a historical woman, though commentators have presented various different identifications and there is no agreed interpretation.72 The male and female figures, interestingly interpreted in a recent discussion as being modelled on Adam and Eve,73 are usually, today, seen as commentary on the narrative presented in the main register, with the males representing aggressive masculinity (William, the Normans) and the females, the victim (Harold, the English). Above the nude couple in Scene 13, Harold is handed over by his captor Guy into the hands of his rival William; and beneath the two couples at Scene 48 the Normans, in dense formation, ride forward to the Battle of Hastings and the Conquest of England. The soldiers stripped of their mailcoats (58) are simpler to read. Without regard for the unrealistic situation of metal rings next to the skin, or interest in their hose and shoes, the artist shows the dead as ungendered corpses, their limbs splayed out aimlessly, far from the choreographed gestures and stances of the living figures of the Tapestry. The naked, helpless bodies convey the hopelessness of the English army, and the English nation, whose king is being killed in the scene above them. This may, however, be a conception of modern times: The figures are almost entirely restored, and we cannot know how they appeared originally. CONCLUSIONS

The dress of the Bayeux Tapestry distinguishes clearly with regard to gender, and, somewhat inconsistently, ethnicity. Status on the battlefield is conveyed by those who wear armour and those who do not, though there are still debates about exactly what form that armour took. Status in other circumstances is less clearly marked, and it is surprising that Earl Harold, who was effectively the governor of England in King Edward’s later years, and second in wealth only to the king, is not more distinguished by his dress, even at his coronation. He does not wear the gold bands which were a feature of late Anglo-Saxon high-status male dress, such as those donated by B ­ yrhtnoth,

72 The main candidates up to 2005 are usefully listed by Catherine Karkov, “Gendering the Battle? Male and Female in the Bayeux Tapestry,” in King Harold II and the Bayeux Tapestry, ed. Gale R. OwenCrocker (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2005), 139–47, at 142 n. 13. 73 Christopher J. Monk, “Figuring Out Nakedness in the Borders of the Bayeux Tapestry,” in Henderson with Owen-Crocker, Making Sense, 54–74, at 59–66.

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Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry ealdorman of Wessex, who died in 991.74 The dress of his rival, Duke William, is however notable for a gold-adorned cloak and unique garters. This may reflect the fact that William was the victor in the struggle the Tapestry depicts, and that whoever commissioned the Tapestry is likely to have had Norman bias. Certain details of secular dress indicate that fashions generally attested from a little later (exaggerated sleeves for women, tunic skirts widened by gores) were already current in the eleventh century, and offer slight variations from the usual depictions in manuscript art (hidden girdles, contrasting collars). The depiction of Mass vestments in the Tapestry is either inaccurate or gives a unique perspective on liturgical dress of the eleventh century (although the absence of white embroidery thread and the use of off-white linen as background may account for some of the anomalies of colour). The lack of difference between the dress of laymen and other tonsured clerics (apart from, possibly, a preference for a centrally fastened cloak) is somewhat surprising: It presumably depicts what eleventh-century people were used to seeing. Long garments on secular males are confined to seated figures exercising authority; but the probability that certain images are “set pieces” copied from models in manuscripts which still exist not only leads us to question the authenticity of these costumes as eleventh-century dress, but also opens the way to appreciating subtexts indicating tyranny on the part of the conquerors and contempt for the new rulers on the part of the designer. It is entirely possible that other images in the Tapestry were modelled on manuscripts that no longer survive. Extant Anglo-Saxon manuscripts are only the tip of the iceberg that was late Anglo-Saxon book culture; libraries potentially contained manuscripts that were in origin variously Late Antique, Celtic, Carolingian, Ottonian, Northumbrian, Mercian, and West Saxon as well as Kentish (or were copied from originals of such widespread origins). Since the great triumphal columns in Rome provided source material, there might have been other sculptures, frescoes, mosaics, and textiles observed by travellers which also contributed to the images in our embroidery but are no longer surviving. Some of the Bayeux costumes which today are puzzling might have been inspired, and potentially mistransmitted, by such means. Guy’s polychrome tunic, Odo’s fighting suit, and Harold’s striped skirt are among these. The role of the artists who put the cartoon onto the linen (not necessarily the master designer) and the individual workshops and (teams of) embroiderers must not be forgotten. Between them, they may have confused tunic skirts and “shorts” at one point. We witness what are evidently experiments in depicting mail, before the embroidery settles down to the large circles of the mailcoats in the Battle of Hastings. In discussing Harold’s unique striped skirt we must recognise the role of a variation in technique (infilling with stem stitch) which is applied not just on that garment but on other images in that scene.

74 See Maren Clegg Hyer, “Reduce, Reuse, Recycle: Imagined and Reimagined Textiles in Anglo-Saxon England,” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 8 (2012), 49–62, especially 51–2.

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Gale R. Owen-Crocker Extra colour effects may have been deliberately used to identify key figures in crowd scenes—and Harold’s striped skirt and Odo’s fighting suit are the significant examples here—but we should not lose sight of the possibility that the Bayeux Tapestry sometimes depicts special garments that were peculiar to individuals. Among them are the jagged-edged clothing that had been peculiar to entertainers from centuries before and for centuries after; the rich and unique costume worn by King Edward in the opening scene; and that forerunner of the surcoat, perhaps fur but perhaps silk, worn not once, but, arguably, twice by Odo, bishop of Bayeux, Earl of Kent, currently the most popular candidate for the role of patron of the Tapestry.

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How Long Is a Launce? Units of Measure for Cloth in Late Medieval Britain Mark Chambers

The record book known as the Liber Custumarum—which forms a large part of the Anglo-Norman records of the London Guildhall (Munimenta Gildhallae Londoniensis)1—contains a very interesting reference from ca. 1300 to an apparent measure of cloth, seemingly in the form of a common Gallicism: Et purveu est qe nul teler ne oevre andley, porreye, ne marbruy de flur de vesz, ne vert en veyr, fors un fil et un; et ceo soit en .vi. launces, issi qe les draps de totes partz . . . soient bons et loiaux [And provision is that no weaver shall do work of andley (a type of cloth), porreye (leek-coloured cloth), nor marbruy (marbled cloth) of vetch flowers (ground with vetch blossoms), nor green en vair (perhaps a pattered green cloth—see the discussion below), except un fil et un (“thread and thread”?) and this is to be in 6 launces, so that the cloths in all parts be of good quality and genuine]2

The editors of the Anglo-Norman Dictionary3 contacted us at the Lexis of Cloth and Clothing in Britain project4 with the hope of shedding some light on this rare

A very early draft of this paper was delivered at the DISTAFF (Discussion, Interpretation, and Study of Textile Arts, Fabrics, and Fashion) session on “Researching the Lexis of Cloth and Clothing ca. 700–1450,” May 15, 2010, at the International Congress on Medieval Studies, Kalamazoo, Michigan. The author is grateful to Gale Owen-Crocker and Robin Netherton of DISTAFF for their valuable insight and suggestions.    1 H. T. Riley, ed., Munimenta Gildhallae Londoniensis: Liber Albus, Liber Custumarum, et Liber Horn, Rolls Series 12, 4 vols. (London: Longman, 1859–62).    2 Ibid., vol. 2, part 1, 125, my translation and emphasis.    3 William Rothwell et al., eds., Anglo-Norman Dictionary, online (2nd) ed. (hereafter AND2), http:// www.anglo-norman.net.    4 The Lexis of Cloth and Clothing in Britain c. 700–1450 was originally a five-year, multidisciplinary project based at the Universities of Manchester and Westminster, under the direction of chief investigator Gale Owen-Crocker (Manchester) and co-investigator Louise Sylvester (Westminster). I was full-time research assistant for three years and continued as research consultant for a further

Mark Chambers technical usage of launce as an apparent unit of measure. The term appears later in the document as well, with less semantic framing. The quest to identify and contextualise this particular usage has prompted the present study, which uses the resources of the Lexis project database to elucidate lexical items used to name some of the measures of cloth in post-Conquest British documents. It limits itself, for the most part, to the “official” languages of state and bureaucratic record keeping (Latin, Anglo-Norman, and Middle English) and draws data from the various dictionary resources and works on material culture available to the compilers of the Lexis project database. This article attempts to classify, as briefly as possible, some of the primary words for measuring cloth available in official documents from the period and sets out vocabulary by types of material measured, whether numerically prescribed (or not), and by probable source of semantic development (for example: “cloth eponyms”: broad, drap; or, more frequently, “physical object, such as body part, of determined length”: aune/ell/ulna/etc., brace/brachium, foot, launce, etc.). Displaying combined data from the project’s database, this paper investigates the Liber Custumarum’s particular use of launce alongside other notable survivals of late medieval cloth measurements. It also presents a series of tables displaying the data drawn from the database, including headwords for entries dealing with measures of cloth and fur alongside names for common types of cloth and fur measured with each. While not attempting to be comprehensive or exhaustive, I attempt to offer some new comment on the ways in which the vocabulary for measures of cloth came to be used and to demonstrate the reality of the multilingual nature of such usage. LATE MEDIEVAL MULTILINGUALISM: CONTEXT

Scholars working in the history of medieval material culture have long struggled with the truism that monolingual glossaries almost always prove insufficient.5 With regard to clothing, for example, the relevant documents for naming types, qualities, and sizes of cloth (inventories, wills, royal and household wardrobe accounts, etc.) are rarely in English and are frequently “macaronic,” in that they inevitably contain elements of various languages amongst a base language such as Latin or Anglo-French. This creates issues of assignation and codification regarding the study of the history of the language at the level of lexis, and for historical dictionaries and glossaries in particular. To give an example, the London Mercers’ accounts of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries insert Middle English lexical items with little hesitation or introduction:

three years. The project’s database (hereafter cited as LexP) has been available to the public since 2012 at lexisproject.arts.manchester.ac.uk.    5 See, for example, the comments by Mary Houston in her Medieval Costume in England and France: The 13th, 14th and 15th Centuries (1939; repr. New York: Dover, 1996), vi; by Sarah-Grace Heller in her Fashion in Medieval France (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2007), 48; and by Françoise Piponnier and Perrine Mane in their Dress in the Middle Ages, trans. Caroline Beamish (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 1997), 12.

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Units of Measure for Cloth Item, paié pur xii pater nosters bedes pur torcheholders—vi d. [Item, paid for 12 paternoster beads for torch holders—6 pence] Item, paié pur repayryng de ii vestementes, stoles et fanonis—v s. [Also, paid for the repairing of 2 vestments, stoles and fanons (maniples)—5 shillings] Item, paié pur ii newe aubis—vi s. vii d. [Also, paid for 2 new albs—6 shillings 7 pence] Item, paié a Sire William Ripyngale pur waschyng de abbis—xii d. [Also, paid to Sir William Ripyngale for the washing of albs—12 pence]6

The emphasised words in these examples are clearly “switches” into Middle English (although this modern term would imply a conscious effort which may not have occurred to the contemporary clerks).7 Other items—particularly some of the substantives—have non-language-specific grammatical markers and could be said to belong to more than one “language” (pater nosters bedes, vestementes, stoles, fanonis, etc.). In short, the language of such documents is “mixed” from a modern perspective. The same is true for items in the York Memorandum Book of ca. 1430, where Middle English items often appear in Latin contexts: ij alterclothes, ij towalia . . ., j manipulus, j frontale de whitebustion . . ., unum vestimentum de fustyan . . . (i 236) [2 altar cloths, 2 towels . . ., 1 maniple, 1 frontal of white bustian . . ., a vestment of fustian] unum lectum et unum coverlet, ij blankettes (i 78) [a bed and a coverlet, 2 blankets] unum par de lynclathes et j kerechief (i 61) [a pair of bedsheets and 1 kerchief] pro factura xij parium ocrearum in mundum, que linate fuerint, quyssheld, lased vel clasped (i 194) [for making 12 pairs of boots neatly, which have been lined, armoured, provided with laces or clasps]

or in Anglo-French:

  6 Lisa Jefferson, The Medieval Account Books of the Mercers of London: An Edition and Translation, 2 vols. (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2009), 22, my emphasis and translation.    7 For an introduction to the notion of “switching” or “code-switching” in the study of language history, see Joan Swann and Indra Sinka, “Style Shifting, Codeswitching,” in Changing English, ed. David Graddol et al. (Abing­don, UK: Routledge, 2007), 249; or Carol Myers-Scotton, Duelling Languages: Grammatical Structure in Codeswitching (Oxford: Clarendon, 1993).

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Mark Chambers Les uphaldres quels vendount drape de leyne (i 251) [The upholsterers who sell (linen) cloth].8

In fact, historical linguists have been working out the details of late medieval multilingual and macaronic business writing for many years now. Scholars of medieval British lexicology such as William Rothwell, David Trotter, Laura Wright, and others have long championed the need to reassess the multilingual nature of much non-literary medieval writing and have found various ways to examine, analyse, and explain some of its manifestations.9 LEXICOLOGY OF MEASURES FOR CLOTH AND CLOTHING

This study examines the rich and varied lexicon involving medieval measures in the cloth and clothing trade as it became regulated by crown, parliament, and local trade authorities in later medieval England. Given the multilingual nature of literacy in the period, it is crucial to appreciate the variety of languages and documents which construct that lexicon. For official measures of cloth and fur, I have drawn up a list of lemmata encompassing (at the very least) the three languages of state and bureaucratic record keeping: namely Latin, Anglo-French, and Middle English.10 The initial results appear in tables 2.1, 2.2, and 2.3. The project’s database lemma (or headword) is indicated in the left-hand column of each table and is identified with the abbreviation LexP. The items in the tables are drawn from various dictionary and lexicographical resources as well as works on material culture. They represent some of the major resources employed by the Lexis project. With regard to units of measure, these included such relevant resources as W. H. Prior’s early “Notes on the Weights and Measures of Medieval England” (1924), R. E. Zupko’s Dictionary of English Weights and Measures: From Anglo-Saxon Times to the Nineteenth Century (1968) and British Weights and Measures: A History (1977), and R. D. Connor’s The Weights and Measures of England (1987), alongside the various and numerous historical dictionaries covering the languages of the medieval British Isles.

   8 Quoted from William Rothwell, “Aspects of Lexical and Morphosyntactic Mixing in the Languages of Medieval England,” in Multilingualism in Later Medieval Britain, ed. David Trotter (Cambridge: D. S. Brewer, 2000), 217, 231, my emphasis and translation. Rothwell’s designations, such as “i 251,” given here in parentheses, refer to the volume and page number where the item may be found in the York Memorandum Book.   9 See Rothwell, “Aspects,” 213–32; David Trotter, “Bridging the Gap: The (Socio)linguistic Evidence of Some Medieval English Bridge Accounts,” in The Anglo-Norman Language and Its Contexts, ed. Richard Ingham (York, UK: York Medieval Press, 2010), 52–62; Trotter, Multilingualism, 1–5 (introduction); and Laura Wright, “Bills, Accounts, Inventories: Everyday Trilingual Activities in the Business World of Later Medieval England,” in Trotter, Multilingualism, 149–56. Also cf. Mark Chambers and Louise Sylvester, “From Apareil to Warderobe: Some Observations on Anglo-French in the Middle English Lexis of Cloth and Clothing,” in Ingham, Anglo-Norman Language, 63–73.  10 I have included Old Scots as well, treating it as a species, or at least a close relation, of Middle English.

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Units of Measure for Cloth The list given here is illustrative, rather than comprehensive. The tables are specifically concerned with entries whose lemmata contain the following criteria: 1 They are attested in a post-Conquest British text before the sixteenth century (in line with the Lexis project’s specification). 2 They are attested in documents or contexts which would suggest, semantically, that they represent a standard or accepted measure: In other words, they clearly indicate an agreed unit or quantity—even if unspecified—and they typically appear in a will, statute, petition or similar legal document; a reckoning, wardrobe, or other account, etc. Obviously this is a fairly subjective area with regard to passing references in literature, but for its purposes this study has generally followed the chief historical dictionaries’ definition in assigning some form of standardisation. 3 The attestations’ standardised or accepted measure relates, specifically, to the cloth, wool, or fur trade. Table 2.1 represents measures of length, breadth, and area for cloth. In the column to the right of LexP’s lemmata are relevant lemmata from the various dictionaries, followed in the third and fourth columns by the names of specific textiles or substances measured and by accompanying notes on each item. There are a few terms listed below the table which are other obvious standard measures for length not attested in the historical dictionaries in any contexts dealing with the cloth trade: for example, foot, from Old English, and its Anglo-Latinate equivalent pes or Anglo-Norman pé—as well as items like perch and rod—all measures for land (among other things) that were, at various times, interchangeable. This latter group are standard measures that were almost certainly used for cloth at one time or another but that are not attested as such in the Lexis project database or in any of the resources on which it has drawn. DELINEATING BOUNDARIES

The collection of a lexicon of vocabulary for measuring in late medieval British use is quite a sizeable undertaking, and a consideration of texts solely in English would prove grossly insufficient for the period. Moreover, the drawing of other boundaries is clearly a difficult issue. The realities of medieval European trade routes, across the Mediterranean region and across the Channel and particularly between areas such as Norfolk and the Low Countries, can easily confound notions of geographic or linguistic homogeneity. One can see this phenomenon in a lexical item such as stick (stikke, stike, stek, etc., shown in table 2.1), a term borrowed directly from Old Dutch and the Low Countries. The accounts of Sir John Howard for 1466 call for “3 stykkes and halffe of

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Mark Chambers blak chamelet,”11 costing 4 shillings per stick. The text later specifies bedding of length and breadth of three “Flemish” sticks.12 Also in a contemporary fifteenth-century statute, a stick is referred to as “the Flemish ell,” equalling three-quarters of the English yard.13 The use of the term stick as a measure for cloth is a relatively late borrowing from Flemish trade. Just like the words for cloth, fur, and other traded commodities, the words for measuring those commodities were often passed from community to community—from language to language, as it were. This is a difficulty with which many clothing historians are forced to deal. Elspeth Veale, for example, has written extensively on the late medieval European fur trade. Her work The English Fur Trade in the Later Middle Ages provides a robust, if now rather antiquated, glossary of fur-trading terminology.14 Veale gathered her terms from several sources, including Du Cange’s Glossarium15 and Hall and Nicholas’s study of terms for measure,16 alongside the published records of the Hanseatic merchants. This is certainly very helpful when considering the history of material culture in this context: The Hanseatic merchants, at times, held a virtual monopoly on the medieval fur trade with the British Isles.17 David Trotter has investigated some of the language of trade between Britain and the Continent and in the Mediterranean region, and in his work on aspects of European language contact he notes the presence of what we might now call “mixed-language” accounts throughout later medieval Europe, including England, Gascony, Flanders, and Italy, as well as from various levels of non-literary, written documentation.18 For example, in the nominally Italian “Gallerani accounts,” written for the Gallerani merchants in their London branch, not only does Trotter find a number of lexical items of British origin—with regard to the cloth trade, there are examples such as locchi from lock (a lock of wool) and faldhengo (or falding)—but he also finds numerous Gallicisms dealing with clothing, such as calcier (a shoemaker or cobbler), custuriere (a tailor or  11 T. H. Turner, Manners and Household Expenses of England in the Thirteenth and Fifteenth Centuries (London: W. Nicol, 1841), 1:366.  12 Ibid.  13 H. Hall and F. J. Nicholas, eds., “Select Tracts and Table Books Relating to English Weights and Measures, 1100–1742,” Camden Miscellany 15, Royal Historical Society ser. 3, vol. 41 (1929): 15.  14 Elspeth M. Veale, The English Fur Trade in the Later Middle Ages (Oxford: Clarendon, 1966), 215–29. Whilst Veale’s multilingual glossary is elucidating and remains useful, it was produced before the publication of a number of important historical dictionaries and lexicographical resources such as the Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources (see note 45), the Middle English Dictionary (see note 72), and more recent editions of the Oxford English Dictionary (see note 21).  15 Charles Du Fresne Du Cange et al., eds., Glossarium Mediae et Infimae Latinitatis, 7 vols. (Paris: Firmin Didot, 1840–1850).  16 See note 13.  17 For a general history of the Hanse in England, see Terence Henry Lloyd, England and the German Hanse, 1157–1611: A Study of Their Trade and Commercial Diplomacy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991).  18 David Trotter, “Italian Merchants in London and Paris: Evidence of Language Contact in the Gallerani Accounts,” in Le Changement Linguistique en Français: Aspects Socio-historiques: Études en Hommage au Professeur R. Anthony Lodge, ed. Timothy Pooley and Dominique Lagorgette (Chambéry, France: Presses Universitaires de Savoie, 2011), 209–26.

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Units of Measure for Cloth seamster), and tappeciere (a tapestry maker).19 Documents such as the Gallerani accounts frequently contain such vocabulary, in this case of ostensibly British or French origin in an Italian document written in London for the insular market. This raises issues of classification, not least for lexicographers: How does one decide to which “language” such lexical items belong, and in which languages’ dictionaries should they be placed? It also prompts one to consider what such language use has to say about the wider material culture of the period and, specifically, the highly developed, pan-European trade in cloth and clothing. Such issues lend credence to the argument that it is natural to begin a study of late medieval English clothing and fashion with an eye towards Paris and the near Continent. In the work of scholars of material culture, such as Stella Mary Newton’s seminal Fashion in the Age of the Black Prince or much of Sarah-Grace Heller’s recent work,20 it is immediately apparent that words for cloth and clothing frequently crossed linguistic boundaries, just as the commodities themselves crossed geographic and political boundaries between the Continent and the British Isles. Studies of the wider cloth and clothing trade such as these suggest that any holistic, diachronic investigation into medieval technical language must be multilingual, given the nature of the documents in which such evidence survives. The present study focuses in particular on attestations from documents produced in the British Isles in the variously employed medieval languages in an effort to provide a more robust picture of the region at the latter end of the medieval period. One should keep in mind, however, that the uses of a medieval technical term should also be contextualised within the wider European trading community. GENERAL TERMS FOR LINEAR MEASURE: INCHES, FEET, AND YARDS

Before looking at specialised terms for cloth and fur measure, it is helpful to set out the general terms for linear measurement during the medieval period, all of which are still in use today. For centuries, inches, feet, and yards have been used as linear measures across the English-speaking world, registered at times as imperial measures and frequently applied to the cloth and clothing trade. Inch is a term with Old English roots and ultimately derived from Latin uncia (or “twelfth-part”), which was typically measured by the breadth of the thumb at the base of the nail;21 we frequently find inch in documents glossing Latin pollex (or thumb) and digitus.22 The foot seems to have become a standard unit of measure by the late twelfth century, although it was used in land measurements from considerably earlier. The  19 Ibid.  20 Stella Mary Newton, Fashion in the Age of the Black Prince: A Study of the Years 1340–1365 (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 1980); Heller, Fashion in Medieval France.  21 Oxford English Dictionary, online ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000-; hereafter OED), http://www.oed.com, s.v. “inch, n.1.”. Ounce is similarly derived from Latin uncia but became applied to measures of mass or volume.  22 Ibid.

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Mark Chambers Lexis project has not found any specific medieval attestations of foot used as a measure for cloth, nor is it attested as a cloth measure in any of the historical dictionaries dealing with the languages of medieval Britain. It seems likely that there were cloth measures based on feet before the modern era, but no specific attestations have been identified in the present study. Whilst the term yard derives from Old English gyrd, in his study The Weights and Measures of England, Connor relates that “there is no evidence for the general use of a unit of three feet in Saxon times despite assertions to the contrary.”23 In the early twelfth century, William of Malmesbury gives us the legendary origin of the yard as being the length of the arm of Henry I, from tip of the nose to the tips of the fingers, although the true origin is obscure.24 The thirteenth-century “Statute for Measuring Land” sets out definite measures: 3 barleycorns to the inch, 12 inches to the foot, 3 feet to the yard, 5½ yards to the perch.25 Of these measures, the dictionaries and resources consulted for the present study only include attestations dealing with measures of cloth in inches and yards. Other frequent measures for cloth include Latin ulna / Anglo-French aune (discussed below), as well as Late Latin virga, from whence Anglo-Norman verge and Modern English verge (see table 2.1). OFFICIAL MEASURES OF LENGTH OR WIDTH OF CLOTH

Standardisation of cloth measures was of crucial importance to the textile trade as well as to the tax takings of royal, regional, and civic bodies. As with early official measures for land (discussed briefly below), cloth measures were codified by various kings and governing bodies. Not only does the particular multilingual situation amongst the literate classes of the period create challenges for lexicological analysis, regional variation and changes over time complicate matters even further. The cloth ell, for example (discussed below) showed particular variation. Despite such challenges, it is evident that standardisation of cloth measures was important, as demonstrated by the fact that much of the medieval terminology for units of measure of length, width, or area survives into Modern English (see table 2.1).  23 R. D. Connor, The Weights and Measures of England (London: HMSO, 1987), 81. For etymological background, see OED, s.v. “yard, n.2.” The Dictionary of Old English notes the use of gyrd and variants as a unit of measure for land or distance in Old English. Dictionary of Old English: A to G, ed. Angus Cameron et al., online ed. (Toronto: Dictionary of Old English Project, 2007­–; hereafter DOE), http://tapor.library.utoronto.ca/doe, s.v. “gyrd.”  24 “Mercatorum falsam ulnam castigavit; brachii sui mensura adhibita, omnibusque per Angliam proposita” [The measure of his own arm was applied to correct the false ell (or possibly “yard”) of the traders and enjoined on all throughout England]. William Stubbs, ed., Willelmi Malmesbiriensis Monachi de Gestis Regum Anglorum (London: Longman, 1887), vol. 2, book 5, p. 489; J. A. Giles, ed. and trans., William of Malmesbury’s Chronicle of the Kings of England: From the Earliest Period to the Reign of King Stephen (London: Henry G. Bohn, 1847), 445.  25 A. Luders, et al., eds., Statutes of the Realm (London: Record Commiss., 1810–28; hereafter SR), 1:206–7.

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Units of Measure for Cloth In pre-Conquest Britain, land was typically measured by rod, furlong, and acre, while smaller things such as cloth had their own, separate units of measure.26 The earliest clear reference to a national standard dates from Edgar’s reign (959–75) and states that “there shall be one system of measurement, and one standard of weights, such as is in use in London, and in Winchester.”27 Likewise, in the early eleventh century, Cnut decreed that “measures and weights shall be diligently corrected, and an end put to all unjust practices.”28 At the Conquest, William seems to have simply endorsed the decrees of his pre-Conquest predecessors, without specifying standard terms or measures. Elizabeth Coatsworth notes that a manuscript—the somewhat anachronistically titled Willelmi Articuli Retractati, currently housed in Manchester’s John Ryland’s Library—states “throughout the realm they shall have weights and measures which are stamped and thoroughly reliable in accordance with the decrees of our worthy predecessors.”29 The first, named, state-delineated measures in England after the Conquest occurred during Richard I’s reign. Richard issued a proclamation in 1188, recorded in the Chronica Johannis de Oxenedes, which reads: “All just trade and commerce throughout the kingdom shall be founded in one weight and measure.”30 This was followed by Richard’s Assize of Measure, issued at Westminster in 1196, which spells out a uniform system of measurements to be used across the kingdom: “It is ordained that woollen cloth, wherever made, shall be made of the same width, that is to say, of two ulnas within the selvages, and of the same integrity in the middle and on the sides. Also that this ulna shall be used throughout the kingdom, and of the same quality, and the ulna shall be of iron.”31 The gist of this assize was restated in a statute of 25 Edward I (1297).32 In his work on official weights and measures, Connor points out a number of references to an official iron yard of a standardized size that was prescribed for measure throughout the realm. Perhaps more controversially, he points out that the Latin ulna described in the 1196 assize has been erroneously transcribed as an ell. He

 26 Connor, Weights and Measures, 81–82.  27 “& gange án gemet & an gewihte, swilce man on Lundenbirig & on Wintaceastre healed.” A. J. Robertson, ed. and trans., The Laws of the Kings of England from Edmund to Henry I, 2 vols. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1925), 1:28 (III Edgar, cap. 8).  28 “Geméta 7 gewihta rihte man georne 7 ælces unrihtes [heonan forð] geswíce,” cited and trans. in Robertson, Laws, 1:178 (II Cnut, cap. 9); also see Elizabeth Coatsworth, “Cloth: Dimensions and Weights,” in Encyclopedia of Dress and Textiles in the British Isles c. 450–1450, ed. Gale R. OwenCrocker, Elizabeth Coatsworth, and Maria Hayward (Leiden: Brill, 2012), 130–32.   29 Manchester, John Rylands Library, codex no. 155, fol. 51; cited in Coatsworth, “Cloth: Dimensions and Weights,” 131.  30 “Omnia commercia rerum venalium per totum regnum constituta sunt unius ponderis et mensuræ.” Henry Ellis, ed., Chronica Johannis de Oxenedes, Rolls Series 13 (London: Longman, 1859), 72, my translation.  31 “Constitutum est ut lanei panni, ubicunque fiant, fiant de eadem latitudine, scilicet, de duabus ulnis infra lisuras, et ejusdem bonitatis in medio et in lateribus. Eadem etiam ulna sit in toto regno, et ejusdem quantitatis, et ulna sit ferrea.” William Stubbs, ed., Chronica Magistri Rogeri de Houedene, 4 vols., Rolls Series 51 (London: Longman, 1868–71), 4:33–34, my translation.  32 SR, 1:117.

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Mark Chambers argues, quite convincingly, that the iron ulna was in fact a yard of approximately three feet, or thirty-six inches.33 While etymologically the English ell is cognate with Latin ulna, it seems clear that most medieval uses of ulna likely refer to a yard rather than a modern English ell of forty-five inches. The cloth ell seems to have been a separate development. But the fact that cloth is the only commodity for which linear measure is specified indicates the importance of the cloth trade for medieval England. Certainly Luders (et al.) translates Latin ulna as “yard,” and the weight of evidence seems to recommend this translation for this period.34 Connor also traces one of the major issues that arose from Richard’s assize: its ruling that all cloths should be two ulnis in breadth (“de duabus ulnis infra lisuras”). Apparently this meant that cloth would need to be woven on a double loom or “broadloom,” presumably with two persons working the shuttle.35 This issue occurs repeatedly in subsequent legislation: John’s Magna Carta repeats the decree in 1215, specifying a uniform breadth for three types of cloth: dyed cloths, russets, and habergets: “una latitudo pannorum tinctorum et russettorum et halbergettorum, sc. ij ulne infra listas” (one length of cloth of colour, of russet, and of haberget, equalling 2 ulne between the lists).36 This apparently caused much unrest amongst weavers, because for most workshops it required the simultaneous efforts of two weavers working at the loom to produce this sort of broadcloth,37 not to mention the further outlay required for equipment. This resulted in a great deal of subsequent petitioning and legislation during the century that followed. Respite finally came in 1328 in the form of the Statute of Northampton. This law narrowed the width of both ray (striped) cloth and coloured cloth to six quarters, or only 1.5 ells (or else yards—see the discussion of quarter below).38 But the statute

 33 Connor, Weights and Measures, 83–85 and 90–91. Much of the detail which follows is drawn from Connor.  34 SR, 1:117.  35 The broadloom was “a horizontal treadle loom at which two men sat side by side”; Gale R. OwenCrocker, “Looms,” in Owen-Crocker, Coatsworth, and Hayward, Encyclopedia, 346.  36 Magna Carta, in William Stubbs, ed., Select Charters and Other Illustrations of English Constitutional History from the Earliest Times to the Reign of Edward the First, 9th ed. (Oxford: Clarendon, 1913), cap. 35. An Anglo-French version specifies “une teise (ed. leise) de dras teinz e de rosez e de habergiez, çe est deus aunes dedenz listes” [(there shall be) one length/measure of cloth of colour, of russet, and of haberget, namely two ells/yards within the selvages], J. C. Holt, ed., “A Vernacular French Text of Magna Carta, 1215,” English Historical Review 89 (1974), 360, item 35, my translation. Russet was undyed cloth woven from naturally coloured wool, often associated with a brown or grey color. Halbergettorum/habergiez probably referred to a patterned or meshed cloth, perhaps originally resembling the mailed hauberk (AND2, s.v. “haubergié”). See Mark Chambers and Elizabeth Coatsworth, “Haberget,” in Owen-Crocker, Coatsworth, and Hayward, Encyclopedia, 260; Eleanora Carus-Wilson, “Haberget: A Medieval Textile Conundrum,” Medieval Archaeology 13 (1969), 148– 66; and Penelope Walton, “Textiles,” in English Medieval Industries: Craftsmen, Techniques, Products, ed. John Blair and Nigel Ramsay (London: Hambledon Press, 1991), 319–54, at 388–41.  37 Connor, Weights and Measures, 91.  38 SR, 1:260.

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Units of Measure for Cloth did not last. A statute nine years later repealed the Statute of Northampton and its prescribed size for cloth making.39 Just a few years later, in 1351, Edward III’s government had the Statute of Northampton reinstated: [. . .] et alii panni viliores et minoris precii sint latitudinis septem quarteriorum secundum assisam antiquam usitatam; et quilibet pannus de partibus transmarinis, qui sit de duabus sedibus, sit longitudinis viginti et sex ulnarum, et latitudinis sex quarteriorum infra listas. [. . . and other cloths which are cheaper and of a lesser price shall be of 7 quarters width according to the assize used in earlier times; and each cloth from overseas which shall be of two seats (sic), shall be 26 ells (sic; yards?) in length and 6 quarters in width within the selvages.]40

This was followed by several more years of back-and-forthing, until in 1390 Richard II repealed the earlier statutes, allowing clothmakers to make cloth de tiel longure et laeure come luy plerra, paiant l’aunage, subside, et autres devoirs; c’estassavoir, de chescun piece de drape solonc l’afferant; nient contresteant ascun estatut, ordinance, proclamation, restreint, ou defense fait a contraire. [of such a length and width as he chooses, paying ulnage, subsidies, and other dues; namely, on each piece of cloth proportionately; notwithstanding any statute, ordinance, proclamation, restraint, or prohibition made to the contrary.]41

However, the early modern era would see a return to legislation of measure, and the issue of royally mandated measures for cloth carried on through the early modern period as far as George III’s reign.42 I have included the text of the 1351 reinstatement of the statute above in order to draw attention to an obscure but apparently significant phrase in the Latin act: de duabus sedibus. It is clear that “two seats” here had an agreed meaning to be applied to imported foreign cloth. There is nothing in the resulting Anglo-Norman statute (SR 1:314) that helps to define sed/es in the text of the original Latin act. Given the specification of a quantity—in this case, two—the term sed/es should be examined as, potentially, a previously unidentified unit of measure. In an entry from the Patent Rolls for June 10, 1272, we find similar wording and measures, including the reference to foreign cloth “of two seats.” Writing from Westminster to the stewards of Boston fair, the king names three men (Poncius de Mora,  39 Domestic cloths could be “auxi longs & auxi courtz come homme voudra” [as long and as short as a man will], while imported cloth was prohibited; SR, 1:280, my expansion in italics.  40 Mark Ormrod, ed. and trans., “Edward III, Parliament of February 1351,” item 49 (membrane 3, dorse), in The Parliament Rolls of Medieval England, online ed. (Leicester: Scholarly Digital Editions, 2005; hereafter PROME), http://www.sd-editions.com/PROME.  41 G. Martin, ed. and trans., “Richard II, Parliament of January 1394,” item 41, in PROME; G. Martin, ed., “Richard II, Parliament of January 1390,” item 49, in PROME; the original petition in G. Martin, ed., “Richard II, Parliament of October 1383,” item 32, in PROME; also SR, 2:64 (13 Ric.2 stat.1 c.10), and 2:88 (17 Ric.2 c.2).  42 The later history is detailed in Connor, Weights and Measures, 92–94.

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Mark Chambers Richard de Ewell, and William de Arundel) who are to act as alnagers, or officials who were licensed to measure, regulate, and tax the cloth being sold. The men are directed to inspect foreign cloth “de duabus sedibus”: [. . .] potestatem inquirend’ hujusmod’ pannis, viz. qui sint recte latitudinis et longitudinis et qui non, et ad omnes pannos de partibus transmarinis laneis qui sint de duabus sedibus et non longitudinis viginti et sex ulnarum et latitudinis sex quarteriorum infra listas [. . .] [(they shall) enquire touching such cloths to wit, which are of the right measure and which not, and to (take into the king’s hand) all cloths of wool of parts beyond seas which are de duabus sedibus and are not of the length of 26 ells (sic) and the breadth of 6 quarters between the lists . . . ]43

This is followed closely by a reference in the Close Rolls of 1278 which uses the exact wording that would appear later in the Statute of Northampton: quilibet pannus de partibus transmarinis qui sit de duabus sedibus sit longitudinis viginti & sex ulnarum & latitudinis sex quartiorum infra listas [every cloth from parts beyond the sea that is of two sedibus shall be of the length of twenty-six ells (sic), and of the breadth of six quarters between the lists]44

In the late 1270s, then, imported cloth of two sedes would seem to be in measures of roughly 26 by 1½ ells (or yards, according to Connor), and this was recorded in the parliamentary Statute of Northampton of 1328 and in its subsequent reinstatement of 1351. Yet, because the same passage also specifies required length and width—indicating that these could vary from one cloth to the next—it does not appear that the phrase de duabus sedibus was sufficient, in itself, to denote a measurement, and must instead define another characteristic of the cloth. It is perhaps conjectural, but the Latin term sedes seems to reflect the fact that it would have taken two workers, seated side by side at a broadloom, to produce cloth of this width.45 Thus it is most likely that the phrase de duabus sedes appears in legislation dealing with the cloth trade in the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries as a descriptor of a category of broadcloth, rather than as a measurable unit such as ulna or quarter. Much of this regulating, of course, was related directly to money, and it is possible to make some generalisations: A law of 1353, for instance, prescribes that the alnager is to receive a half penny for sealing each full piece of cloth. Royal duty was imposed  43 Patent Rolls, London, National Archives, MS C 66/90 m. 11d.; translation from Calendar of the Patent Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office: Henry III, 1216–1272, 6 vols. (London: HMSO, 1909–13), 6:702 (memb. 11d, 56 Henry III). I am grateful to Mark Thakkar of the Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources for drawing my attention to this and the following reference.  44 Close Rolls, London, National Archives, MS C 54/95 m. 7d., my transcription; I have used italics to expand abbreviations and contractions in the manuscript, and the translation is from H. C. Maxwell Lyte, ed., Calendar of the Close Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office: Edward I, 1272–1307, 5 vols. (London: HMSO, 1900–8), 1:502.  45 This is certainly how the choice of term was interpreted in the Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources, ed. R. E. Latham, D. R. Howlett et al., 17 fascicules, British Academy Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975–2013; hereafter DMLBS), s.v. “sedes.”

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Units of Measure for Cloth amounting to 4 to 6 pence for a full cloth and much less for half cloths. However, if the cloth was not of the correct size, the piece was forfeit to the king.46 So in the 1350s, it was in the clothmaker’s and the alnager’s—as well as the Crown’s—best interests to ensure the standards were met. THE ULNA, THE ELL, AND THE QUARTER

Arguably the most important Medieval Latin term for measures of cloth is the ulna. It appears in all of the medieval legislation on cloth measures discussed above, and it is ubiquitous in medieval accounts and rolls of livery. In fact, abbreviated forms of ulna appear frequently in these records; the accounts and rolls of the Royal Wardrobe are replete with them. The numerous and repeated appearances of such shortened forms thus prompts us to consider the issue of abbreviation and suspension whilst examining the use of particular terms for measures of cloth.

Fig. 2.1: Detail from a roll of liveries covering Jan. 25, 1360, to Jan. 25, 1362, by John de Neubury, keeper of the Great Wardrobe, showing typical abbreviations for uln[ae] (lines 1, 2, and 8), ventr[is] (lines 3–6), and best[is] (line 7). London, National Archives, MS E 101/393/15, memb. 1. Photo: Mark Chambers, by permission of the National Archives.

 46 SR, 1:330–1.

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Mark Chambers For example, in the detail of John de Neubury’s roll of liveries for 1361–62 shown in figure 2.1, the last line records four ulnae and a quarter of narrow gold ribbon (rubant aur’ strict’). The plural of Latin ulna here is represented by the abbreviation vln with a horizontal suspension mark crossing the l and above the n. Similarly, the term quarter, representing a quarter of an ulna, is abbreviated qart’. Moreover, these couple of examples are far from isolated: Abbreviated forms for common cloth measures pervade just about every manuscript of the Wardrobe accounts, rolls of livery, and rotulorum pannorum (rolls of [purchases of] cloth).47 We might consider the medieval abbreviation and suspension system as a sort of extra-linguistic shorthand employed by the clerks of the Wardrobe, the Chancery, and other areas in the domain of law and record keeping, with the result that their writings evade or disguise any strict language designation. This reinforces the necessity to be “multilingual” in our approach to the lexis of medieval metrology, reflecting the everyday, written working environment of many of the scribes who wrote such documents. Again, describing such documents as simply “Latin” is insufficient. More important to the current study, however, is the prevalence of the terms ulna and quarter in documents dealing with the medieval cloth trade. Ulna, of course, is a Classical Latin term for the forearm, which came to be used as a unit of measure before the medieval period.48 The current Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources provides an entry for a Medieval Latin form alna, attested as early as ca. 1180, which it suggests is derived from Old French aune, itself from Frankish alina.49 We have already encountered the Anglo-French equivalent of the term in the vernacular version of the Magna Carta cited in footnote 38 above (“deus aunes dedenz listes”), and aune is in turn related to a host of other terms crucial to the medieval cloth trade sharing the same or similar etymons (such as Anglo-French auner, English aulner, alnage, alnager, etc.). As discussed above, it is difficult to be certain how to translate Medieval Latin ulna as it appears in many texts, and its relationship to vernacular equivalents such as aune, elne, ulne, etc. is far from straightforward. In the London Merchant Taylors’ accounts for the twelfth year of Henry IV’s reign (1410–11), for example, we find an entry apparently mixing forms: “Item pur xlv ulnes de toille, l’aune viij d.—xxx s.” [Also, for 45 ulnes of linen, each aune 8d.—30 shillings.]50 Why the scribe uses multiple forms of the term in the same line is unclear, but we may assume he was less concerned with monolingual integrity than he was with getting the sums right: In this case, we know that the Merchant Taylors paid 8 pence for each “ell” (ulne/aune) of linen cloth, the measure of which was obvious both to the clerk recording the account and to his  47 Wright, in particular, has made some headway in describing and codifying this particular linguistic phenomenon. See her “Bills, Accounts, Inventories,” 149ff.  48 OED, s.v. “ulna.”  49 DMLBS, s.v. “alna.” Its earliest attestation is taken from Thomas Madox’s edition Formulare Anglicanum: Or, A Collection of Ancient Charters and Instruments of Divers Kinds . . . (London, 1702), xv: “pro . . . vj alnis de blancheto” (my emphasis). The use of this term is discussed further below.  50 From the accounts of the Merchant Taylors’ Company, London, for 2 Henry IV, transcribed by Lisa Jefferson, cited in AND2, s.v. “aune1”; my translation.

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Units of Measure for Cloth intended auditors. The Lexis project database includes forms such as these alongside equivalents drawn from the various languages in use across the medieval period, allowing for comparison that would otherwise take painstaking research through the various monolingual resources. This brings us to the ell. In modern perception and usage, it is often assumed to be one of the most important units of linear measure for cloth in the later medieval period. The ell ranged variously in length, being 45 inches in later English measure, 37.2 inches in Scotland, and 27 inches in Flanders, but with a great deal of local variation.51 Many authorities record that the so-called “natural” ell was measured by holding the edge of the cloth in the left hand at the left side of the chest and extending the right arm out.52 However—as we have discussed—precise measures for the ell before the fourteenth century can be difficult to determine with any certainty given the ambiguity in the Latin. Etymologically, the term ell as associated with linear measure stems from Old English and is loosely cognate with Latin ulna.53 By the fourteenth century it was standardised to five quarters, and by the sixteenth was clearly distinguished from the yard, but it does not seem to have been issued as a standard measure by the Exchequer until Elizabeth I’s reign. Apparently it was Elizabeth’s government that completed the dominance of the forty-five-inch ell in the cloth and clothing trade with a new set of standards issued in 1588.54 As mentioned above, there is also a Flemish ell referred to in British texts, which is only three-quarters of the English yard,55 giving a common ratio of five Flemish to three English at the end of the period. Connor argues that it was Richard’s original order of two yards’ width for the measure of woven cloth that caused the rise of the ell, and that the ell was some sort of pragmatic, unauthorised industry measure.56 A related and also important cloth measure, the quarter, referred to a quarter of either a yard or an ell, depending on context. It appears frequently in legal prescriptions and proscriptions. In much of the period, cloth was prescribed to be sold at a width of five or six quarters, with exceptions made in certain circumstances.57 The assize of November 1373 specifies that ray cloth be sold at a measure of five quarters in width, and coloured cloth be sold at six quarters.58 In the roll of Parliament for July 1433, a Middle English passage specifies, “Clothe of colour should conteigne in length 28 yerdes, measured by the crest [. . .] and in breadth 6 quarters,”59 upholding previous restatements of Henry IV’s reign.  51 LexP, s.v. “ell.”  52 Connor, Weights and Measures, 83.  53 OED, s.v. “ell, n.1,” and “ulna, n.”  54 Connor, Weights and Measures, 35, 83, 239.  55 Hall and Nicholas, “Select Tracts,” 15.  56 Ibid., 95.  57 In about 1279, for example, Edward I’s government made an exception for the merchants of Douai for the fairs of St. Ives and Boston; Paul Brand, ed., “Edward I, C49 File 1,” in PROME.   58 Mark Ormrod, ed., “Edward III, Parliament of November 1373,” item 15, in PROME.  59 Anne Currey, ed., “Henry VI, Parliament of July 1423,” item 1005, in PROME.

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Mark Chambers OTHER CLOTH MEASURES: BOLT, BRACE, CHEF, FATHOM, NAIL

Other notable terms for measuring cloth include the bolt (Latin bolta) which was used to measure all kinds of cloth and particularly worsteds; by the early modern period it was described variously as equalling thirty yards, twenty-eight ells, or forty feet. In a fourteenth-century statute, a measure known as the brace was used to measure lengths of champagne (cloth manufactured, sold in, or associated with the Champagne region).60 The brace was roughly an arm’s length, equivalent to the traditional ell, and it was locally standardised. Anglo-French chef appears in the Assize of Weights and Measures of 1302–3, where it specifies that a chef of sindon contains either ten ells or ten yards (and note its Latin equivalent caput). The Anglo-Norman Dictionary glosses chef with “bolt,” confusing the issue even further.61 Continuing the use of anatomical terms for linear measures, the fathom, directly from Old English, was popularly believed to equal the length of both arms outstretched. It is rarely attested in a cloth and clothing context in later medieval documents, although it is mentioned in reference to measuring cord, rope, twine, etc. The nail appears frequently measuring lengths of cloth, including silk and worsted. Zupko suggests that this—as a measurement of length for cloth—was originally based on the body measurement, referring either to the distance from the end of the thumb nail to the joint at the base of the thumb, or to the last two joints of the middle finger, and equal to half a finger or one-eighth a cubit.62 All in all, linear measures are most frequently derived from terms associated with the human anatomy, including the aune/ell/ulna/etc., brace, foot, inch, nail, pes, pé, and many others. NON-LINEAR MEDIEVAL MEASURES FOR CLOTH

In the present study, it is important to distinguish terms for standard measures of items that are not lengths of cloth but show other denominations of measure, such as weight or grouping/gathering. Whilst there is little scope to discuss terms for measures of weight used in the cloth and clothing trade in the present article, I have included them in table 2.2 for reference. For ways in which we might begin to contextualise the use of very common terms for grouping/gathering in late medieval documents, a couple of examples will have to suffice. In a petition from 1402, a number of gentlemen from Plymouth petitioned the Council for the return of a cargo of cloth and other goods previously held in their

 60 Anne Currey, ed., “Henry VI, Parliament of October 1423,” item 1005, in PROME. For details on the use of the term champagne for cloth, see LexP, s.v. “champagne.”  61 AND2, s.v. “chef.”  62 Ronald Edward Zupko, A Dictionary of English Weights and Measures: From Anglo-Saxon Times to the Nineteenth Century (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1968), 109.

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Units of Measure for Cloth

Fig. 2.2: An itemised list of bales of cloth attached to a petition of 1418–19, which includes measures in “pieces” (pec’; all lines); “dozens” (dusseyns, line 1; duoden’, line 3; duod’, line 6); and “yards” (virg’, lines 1, 2, 4, 5). London, National Archives, MS SC 8/302/15059. Photo: The National Archives, by permission.

possession.63 The petitioners claimed that, in an apparent act of piracy at sea, they had “liberated” the said goods from a group of Spaniards who were armed against them.64 Amongst the booty they took were thirteen bales of cloth, one bale of bankers (or bench-covers), cushions, and bogee noir (black budge-fur). Bale, of course, was a ubiquitous term for bundled or gathered items in medieval trade and shipping. To what extent one may consider a bale a standard unit of measure varies with context, but semantically it shows signs of standardisation in the surviving accounts from this period. In another petition—this one on behalf of Venetian merchants residing in London, ca. 1418–19—the contents of six bales of cloth are detailed on a schedule appended to the petition (fig. 2.2).65 In the petition, the Venetian merchants seek legal redress from the king because, they claim, they had already paid custom on the goods to the city of London but were being charged by the customs officials a second time. If the petition is to be believed, it would seem the customs officials were engaging in a bit of sharp practice. The attached schedule lists bales containing pieces (written pec’)66 of a cloth called Gildeford: “xxvj pec’ de Gildeford, xvj pec’ de Gildeford,” etc.).67  63 London, National Archives, MS SC 8/217/10803. The petition manuscripts (London, National Archives [formerly PRO] MSS SC) have recently been digitised and are available to view online through the National Archives’ catalogue; see http://discovery.nationalarchives.gov.uk/browse/r/h/ C13526 for details.  64 “[ils] ore tard pristrent de guerre [lacuna] des certeines gentz d’espaigne encontre eux armez & arraiez faire de guerre” [of late they took by force . . . from certain men of Spain who were armed and arrayed to fight against them], line 2, my transcription and translation; italics indicate presumed readings.  65 London, National Archives, MS SC 8/302/15058 (the petition) and MS SC 8/302/15059 (the appended schedule). Translations from this document are mine.  66 Cf. Medieval Latin pecia, pecium (itself likely a semantic borrowing from the vernacular).  67 It could be that the place-name reference “pec’ de Gildeford” here was intended to be used attributively (pieces of Guildford [cloth]). However, the cloth of Essex listed below it is specified as pannus: “strict’ pann’ dessex’” (narrow cloth of Essex). In this case, the former would seem to be a textile name familiar enough not to require the designation pann’ de (cloth of). Yet cloth named “Guildford” is not attested elsewhere, and this petition would seem to be its sole attestation.

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Mark Chambers A piece in this context clearly represents a length or portion of cloth, and there are different measures specified for each piece, including: j pec’ de Gildeford cont’ xxxviij virg’ [1 piece of Guildford comprising 38 verges] xxvi pec’ de Gildeford cont’ ixC xxviii virg’ [26 pieces of Guildford comprising 928 verges (an average of 35.69 verges each)] xvj pec’ del Gildeford cont’ vCxl virg’ [16 pieces of Guildford comprising 540 verges (an average of 33.75 verges each)] xxiij pec’ de Gildeford cont vijClxxx virg’ [23 pieces of Guildford comprising 780 verges (an average of 33.91 verges each)] Ciij pec’ strict’ pann’ dessex cont’ Cx duod’ [103 pieces of straight cloth of Essex comprising 105 duodecim (dozens)]

Based on these examples, one piece here ranges between just under thirty-four and thirty-eight virg’ (verges, possibly equivalent to yards68) in length. The historical dictionaries suggest localised standards for Latin pecia, but its particular denominations vary with quality, material, and location.69 In the schedule, it is clear that pec’ is used non-specifically and that virg’ and dusseyns or duod’ (dozens) are the standard units of measure used to calculate the contents of each bale. MEASURES FOR FUR IN MIXED-LANGUAGE ACCOUNTS

Alongside cloth we should also consider standard and unspecified measures for fur (see table 2.3).70 Fur, of course, was a ubiquitous but also precious and meticulously calculated commodity in later medieval official accounts.

 68 Lisa Monnas, “Silk Cloths Purchased for the Great Wardrobe of the Kings of England, 1325–1462,” Textile History 20, no. 2 (1989), 304–5 n. 4; she makes reference to Zupko’s Dictionary. For a full account of the use of this term, see LexP, s.v. “verge,” and Elizabeth Coatsworth, “Verge,” in OwenCrocker, Coatsworth, and Hayward, Encyclopedia, 613.  69 Elizabeth Coatsworth posits that the piece was “a measure of fabric varying in length according to material [.  .  .  .] Its length was measured by the yard or the ell, and its breadth by the quarter (of a yard), i.e. 9 inches. There were standard measures supported by legislation, but there were many exceptions as dimensions could vary according to the quality of the fabric, its construction, its monetary value, and its place of origin or manufacture.” Coatsworth, “Piece,” in Owen-Crocker, Coatsworth, and Hayward, Encyclopedia, 417.  70 By “fur” in the context of this study, I mean the skins or pelts of animals with the short, fine, thickly grown hair attached, used for making clothing or soft furnishings. The standard general introduction to the medieval fur trade in medieval Britain remains Veale’s English Fur Trade in the Later Middle Ages.

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Units of Measure for Cloth Most frequently, measures for fur are denominated through a metonymic or synecdochic association. For example, the term beast (or Latin bestia), often abbreviated, appears frequently in record-keeping documents, usually demarcating an individual fur or animal skin as commodity. In the initial entry of a subsidiary wardrobe document from years 34–35 of Edward III’s reign, we find a reference to twenty-six “beasts of ermine” used to line a roba (suit) of Easter garments for the king (see fig. 2.1, line 6).71 Similarly, the accounts of Henry, Earl of Derby (later King Henry IV), contain entries such as that referring to twenty-three beasts used to trim a pair of pinsons or slippers for the earl: “Pro furracione j pair pynsons, et pro xxiij bestes pro complemento eorundem . . . le beste ad iiij s.” [For lining 1 pair of slippers, and for 23 beasts to complement the same . . . each beast costing 4 shillings.]72 Any standardisation here is obvious through metonymy: One bestia equals the skin or fur of one animal. However, although beast or bestia is frequently used in this way in medieval accounting, it is not attested with the sense of a specified unit of fur in the Oxford English Dictionary, and it appears in the Middle English Dictionary only in Latin accounts.73 This raises the question of language assignation in a document such as the Earl of Derby’s accounts. It is interesting to see the use of the French definite article before the noun beast: le beste. As language historians such as Richard Ingham, David Trotter, Laura Wright, and others have shown, this French remnant is common in accounts where Latin is the matrix language.74 With regard to the use of the French definite article in fifteenth-century wills, Wright notes that [i]t looks as though la entered in the semantic field of weights and measures [. . .] not only does la modify weights and measures only [in the Will of Thomas Colred, 1425], but it has caused łƀ, vłn, virg’ to be the only Latin words to be modified by le.75

This is a modification of David Trotter’s original observation that such definite articles are simply a means of signalling a switch to the vernacular in Latin documents (that le and la were generally used to mark a kind of code-switch). Wright’s evidence suggests that these articles have further grammatical constraints when used with units of weight or measure: la is only used to signal units of measure in her fifteenth-century evidence,

 71 London, National Archives, MS E 101/393/15, memb. 1. This suit of garments is discussed in Newton, Black Prince, 65. The majority of Royal Wardrobe accounts and subsidiary documents are held in the National Archives, with (formerly PRO) MSS E 101 representing the largest grouping of these manuscripts.  72 Lucy Toulmin Smith, ed., Expeditions to Prussia and the Holy Land Made by Henry Earl of Derby (Afterwards King Henry IV) in the Years 1390–1 and 1392–3: Being the Accounts Kept by His Treasurer During Two Years, Camden Society, n.s. 52 (1894), p. 91, lines 14–15; my translation.  73 Middle English Dictionary, online ed. (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan Press, 2001; hereafter MED), http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med, s.v. “best(e, n.”  74 For recent discussions of this phenomenon, see David Trotter, “Death, Taxes and Property: Some Code-Switching Evidence from Dover, Southampton, and York,” and Laura Wright, “On Variation in Medieval Mixed-Language Business Writing,” both in Code-Switching in Early English, ed. Herbert Schendl and Laura Wright (Berlin: De Gruyter Mouton, 2011), 155–89 and 191–218, respectively.  75 Wright, “On Variation,” 402.

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Mark Chambers whereas le is reserved exclusively for “pound” (lb. or libr-a), “ell” (uln-a) and “yard” (virg-a). This prompts one to consider whether the uses of the apparently vernacular term best’ in the wardrobe account and le beste in the Earl of Derby’s account are in fact vernacular code-switches. The use of the definite article in the second example would certainly seem to suggest so. But it may even be misleading to assign a particular language to such items. In light of evidence such as that provided by Wright and in documents examined by the Medieval Dress and Textile Vocabulary in Unpublished Sources project, it becomes even clearer that we cannot always speak of late medieval units of weight or measure as belonging to a specific “language” in the modern sense.76 Instead, they were employed across matrix languages depending on their semantic rather than formal relevance. In a related phenomenon, individual entries from the accounts of the Royal Wardrobe which represent measures of cloth or fur contain frequent uses of Latin abbreviations and suspensions that serve to muddy the waters even further. In the roll of liveries kept by John de Neubury for 1361–62 (fig. 2.1), for example, there are itemisations of garments made with vent’ or ventres (bellies) of fur, referring to a cut taken from the belly fur of an individual animal (such as a squirrel or ermine). In accounts such as these, the Latin abbreviation subsumes or impedes any strict sense of language classification.77 The standard of the measure here is obviously the fur of one animal, and this designation would be understood by seller, buyer, and (presumably) the clerk drawing up the accounts along with the Wardrobe master. Individual measures of fur or hides are frequently named through metonymy: In addition to the belly (venter) and the animal itself (beast, etc.), we see uses of the back (dorsum or dos; ridge) or the skin or fleece (skin; fleece) as a count noun.78 As discussed in the previous section, many shorter units of measure (particularly linear  76 Building on some of the work of the Lexis of Cloth and Clothing project, the Medieval Dress and Textile Vocabulary in Unpublished Sources project, based at the universities of Westminster and Manchester, has examined many of the unpublished sources of cloth and clothing vocabulary. The project was supported by the Leverhulme Trust, and its chief investigator was Louise Sylvester (Westminster) and co-investigator Gale Owen-Crocker (Manchester), with me serving as research assistant. We produced a multilingual anthology of medieval texts which contain significant evidence of cloth and clothing terminology: Medieval Dress and Textiles in Britain: A Multilingual Sourcebook, ed. L. M. Sylvester, M. C. Chambers, and G. R. Owen-Crocker, Medieval and Renaissance Clothing and Textiles (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2014).  77 For more on this phenomenon, see Mark Chambers and Louise Sylvester, “Multilingualism in the Vocabulary of Dress and Textiles in Late Medieval Britain: Some Issues for Historical Lexicology,” in English Historical Linguistics 2010: Selected Papers from the Sixteenth International Conference on English Historical Linguistics (ICEHL 16), ed. Irén Hegedus and Alexandra Fodor (Amsterdam: John Benjamins, 2012): 313—326; see also Wright, “Bills, Accounts, Inventories,” 149–56.  78 There are numerous references to the names of body parts used for pieces of fur through metonymy, as in the will of Thomas Tvoky (1418): “a gowne of blew worsted furred wit þrotes and polles of Martrons” [a blue worsted gown trimmed with fur from the throats and heads of martens], from Frederick Furnivall, ed., The Fifty Earliest English Wills in the Court of Probate, London: A.D. 1387– 1439, Early English Text Society, ori. ser. 78 (1882; repr., London: Oxford University Press, 1964), 36, my translation. However, such references to þrotes and polles do not appear to be used as units of measure; see MED, s.v. “throte, n.”; “polle, n.”

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Units of Measure for Cloth measure) are often attributed to lengths based on human anatomy (notably the ell or ulna—originally associated with the arm79—the foot, the palm, and so forth). With regard to the vocabulary used, measuring can be a very anatomical business. MIDDLE ENGLISH CURIOSITIES: THE GAWAIN POET, LINGUISTIC ­BORROWINGS, AND “WINGS” OF CLOTH

Of course, from a lexicological standpoint, it is the odd curiosity or hapax legomenon that piques the most interest. Particularly in the realm of historical metrology, where the accurate definition of a text’s use of a particular term of measure could have ramifications for legal, cultural, and economic history—not to mention knock-on effects for the accurate interpretation of literary and other contemporary texts—it is crucial to consult a range of relevant multilingual resources when attempting to place such usages within their particular historical contexts. To put it simply, the solution to interpreting an odd word in an ostensibly monolingual text is often to be found in one of the other languages active in the language community which produced it. This has proven an overriding feature of many of the Lexis project’s findings. To give one passing but infamous example, note the profusion of unique past participles used as adjectives to describe Morgan le Fay in the second passage of Sir Gawain and the Green Knight: Þat oþer wyth a gorger watȝ gered ouer þe syre, Chymbled ouer hir blake chyn with chalkquyte vayles, Hir frount folden in sylk, enfoubled ayquere, Toreted and treleted with tryfleȝ aboute [The other (lady) was clothed about the neck with a wimple, swathed over her swarthy chin with veils white as chalk, her forehead entirely muffled up, enfolded in silk, edged with embroidery and latticed about with ornaments]80

According to the Middle English Dictionary and the Oxford English Dictionary, the apparently unique past participles chimbled, enfoubled, toreted, and treleted are attested in these senses in English only in this poem: chimbled = “wrapped up”; enfoublen = “to cover or veil”; toret[ed] = “edged, ornamented; ?veiled”; treleted = “latticed, interlaced, meshed.”81 Each of them, then, is a possible hapax legomenon in Middle English, representing a kind of affected “technolect” employed by the courtly Sir Gawain poet. However, a comparison with some of the other languages at work in the period helps to contextualise some of these odd terms. Enfoubled, for example, is clearly an  79 Compare the common Germanic/English compound elbow.  80 Sir Gawain and the Green Knight, ed. and trans. W. R. J. Barron, rev. ed. (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1998), 82–83, lines 957–60, my emphasis.  81 MED, s.v. “chimbled, ppl.”; “enfoublen, v.”; “toret, adj.”; “treleted, ppl.” Also compare the corresponding entries in OED and the fuller entries in LexP.

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Mark Chambers anglicization derived from Anglo-French and Old French afubler—“to dress, to dress up”—with some specificity of meaning, a term which is attested in a number of Anglo-French texts from the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, and most often as a past participle.82 Likewise treleted is probably related to Middle French treillette (a small trellis, serving as an enclosure), attested in French texts from the early fifteenth century and acknowledged by the Middle English Dictionary’s etymological note.83 These curiosities have been discussed elsewhere,84 so I will not press the point further. However, it is clear that a multilingual approach to medieval technical vocabulary—such as that used in the cloth and clothing trade—can prove elucidating; and the same can often prove true for late medieval cloth metrology. For example, in a set of churchwardens’ accounts from 1448 for the village of ­Yatton, in Somerset, there is an odd reference to what looks as if it could be a measure for cloth. In fifteenth-century Middle English, the clerk composing the accounts records a payment: “For costage of to wyng of ray selk for the hy auter, xvij d.” (apparently, “For the cost of two wings of ray silk for the high altar, 17 pence”).85 Ray (striped) silk fabric, purchased for the altar cloth, causes little uncertainty; but what are the two “wyngs”? Under its entry for the noun “wing(e),” the Middle English Dictionary offers this sole attestation for sense 9 and defines it as “a unit of measurement for cloth; ?= eln(e n.(2).” Not only does this suggest that Middle English wyng in this text is a recognised cloth measure, but it further equates it with the cloth ell (Middle English elne; see the entry for ell in table 2.1), albeit with some uncertainty. In this reading, then, the parish of Yatton apparently paid 8½ pence for each ‘wyng’ of silk fabric to decorate the church’s high altar. Whilst this provides us with a price, the reference does not offer an exact measure. But a casual look at the evidence from other related late medieval languages suggests other possible readings. Rather than being a specific measure, it could be that by “wyng” our churchwarden’s accountant intended something like “a lateral part or appendage” to the altar cloth, or “one of a pair of lateral [. . .] pieces”—or matching sides—of the altar cloth.86 The Dictionnaire du Moyen Français provides a precedent for this understanding in its entry for Old/Middle French aile (“wing”). It defines one of the senses for this term as “éléments latéraux de différentes choses” [lateral items of different things], including, “tentures qui abritent les côtés d’un autel,” or “hangings which enclose the sides of an altar.”87 For this particular sense, the Dictionnaire provides a sole attestation from an account of 1371: “pour les nueves éles du grant autel, qui  82 LexP, s.v. “afubler.”  83 “Petit treillis, grille qui sert de cloture,” Dictionnaire du Moyen Français (1330–1500), online ed. (Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique, 2007; hereafter DMF), http://www.atilf.fr/dmf, s.v. “treillette, subst. fèm.,”; my translation. Also cf. MED, s.v. “treleted, ppl.”  84 See the discussion in Sylvester, Chambers, and Owen-Crocker, Sourcebook, 262.  85 Edmund Hobhouse, ed., Church-wardens’ Accounts of Croscombe, Pilton, Patton, Tintinhull, Morebath, and St. Michael’s, Bath, Ranging from A.D. 1349 to 1560, Somerset Record Society 4 (London: Somerset Record Society, 1890), 90.  86 OED, s.v. “wing,” senses 7 and 8.  87 DMF, s.v. “aile, subst. fém.,” sense A.2f.

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Units of Measure for Cloth sont de bleu samin et bordées des 3 lés d’un drap d’or et de soie” [for new “wings” for the high altar, of blue samite, bordered on three sides with cloth of gold and of silk].88 Here the new “wings” are clearly lateral appendages rather than measures of cloth. However, this evidence is scant and is Continental, and does not explain why the later Middle English account specifies two (to) “wings” of silk fabric. If a pair of lateral side hangings were intended, as in the French account, there would be little reason to specify their number. Moreover, there is evidence from a British Latin text that may suggest a standardised measure was intended. In a writ from Richard II to the customs officers of Bristol, dated May 4, 1383, a number of items are listed as being shipped to the pope on the king’s behalf which were to be free from customs duty. The list of items includes: unam peciam panni, blueti coloris, continentem Quinque Alas : & unam aliam Peciam, de mixto, continentem Septem Alas : & unam aliam Peciam, de Panno mixto, continentum Novem Alas : & unam Peciam de Blanketo, continentum Sex alas [. . .]89

The Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources suggests translating the Latin ala as “wings,” thus: one piece of cloth of blue, containing five “wings”; and another piece of mixed-coloured cloth, containing seven “wings”; and another piece of mixed-coloured cloth, containing nine “wings,” and a piece of blanket, containing six “wings” . . .90

However, whilst it might be tempting to follow the suggestion of “wings” here as a translation for this apparent measure of cloth, it seems more likely, in the context of the references, that ala might actually be a corruption or variant form related to alna. The variant form alna appears in Latin texts from the twelfth century onwards alongside the more usual form ulna (“yard” or “ell”)91—from whence, of course, derives Modern English ell.92 This does not help solve the issue of Middle English “wings” of silk fabric in the Yatton churchwarden’s accounts from the following century, but it does open the possibility, at least, of some confusion in translation. Again, the Lexis project database permits us to consider some of this multilingual evidence more readily, allowing us to begin to investigate possible connections between the many languages used in the cloth and clothing culture of medieval Britain.

 88 Ibid.  89 From the Close Rolls of 1382, transcribed in Foedera: Conventions, Literæ, et Cujuscunque Generis Acta Publica . . ., ed. Thomas Rymer, 2nd ed., 20 vols. (London: J. Tonson, 1727), 7:356a.  90 My translation; see DMLBS, s.v. “ala.”  91 DMLBS, s.v. “alna”; compare Old English eln, Middle English elne, etc. DOE, s.v. “eln”; MED, s.v. “elne.”  92 This is how the term has been translated in H. C. Maxwell Lyte, ed., “Close Rolls, Richard II: May 1382,” in Calendar of Close Rolls, Richard II: Volume 2, 1381–1385 (London: HMSO, 1920), 53–68; online version at https://www.british-history.ac.uk/cal-close-rolls/ric2/vol2/pp53–68, accessed Feb. 7, 2015.

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Mark Chambers AN ANGLO-FRENCH CURIOSITY: REFERENCE TO “LAUNCES” IN THE LIBER CUSTUMARUM

Another instance of the use of a term for a measure of cloth which has come to light through the course of the Lexis project involves an Anglo-French document of Edward I’s reign. As mentioned in the opening of this article, the long-running Latin and A ­ nglo-French records of the London Guildhall (the Munimenta Gildhallae Londoniensis) contain the Guildhall’s book of customs and ordinances known as the Liber Custumarum.93 In its entries for year 28 of Edward I’s reign (1299–1300) the Liber lists several ordinances passed by the Weavers, apparently in an effort at quality control following a dispute that had broken out with the Burellers, or cloth finishers, over things like monopolisation and product quality. The Weavers’ ordinances include provisions for the organisation of the industry, such as rules for membership, timing and process for regular meetings, officers, times and allotments of work, and the ownership of looms following a member’s death. They also contain those provisions for the quality and measure of different types of cloth we mentioned in the introduction: XVII. Et purveu est qe nul teler ne oevre andley, porreye, ne marbruy de flur de vesz, ne vert en veyr, fors un fil et un; et ceo soit en .vi. launces, issi qe les draps de totes partz . . . soient bons et loiaux; [XVII. And provision is that no weaver shall do work of andley (a type of cloth), porreye (leek-coloured cloth), nor marbruy (marbled cloth)94 of vetch flowers (ground with vetch blossoms), nor green en vair (perhaps a patterned green cloth),95 except un fil et un (“thread and thread”?)96 and this is to be in 6 launces, so that the cloths in all parts be of good quality and genuine.] XXII. Et touz estraunge reies, et hawes, et porreies, de vi launces, soyent del poys de x livres au meyns. [XXII. And all foreign reies (rays, striped cloth), hawes (blue cloth),97 and porreies, of 6 launces, shall be at least ten pounds in weight.] XXIII. Et qe chescun drap soit de la leour de vi quarters de une aune dedens la liste. [XXIII. And that each cloth shall be in breadth six quarters of an ell within the list (or selvages).]98

 93 See note 1.  94 Cf. DMLBS, s.v. “mebretus.”  95 Cf. W. Rothwell et al., eds., Anglo-Norman Dictionary (London: Modern Humanities Research Association, 1977–92; hereafter AND1), s.v. “vair, n.1”: “bright, gleaming, shining”; “bright, sparkling”; “of grey and white squirrel fur” (perhaps green upon a pattern resembling the fur vair, as in later heraldic uses); “mottled, blotched,” etc.  96 Perhaps a kind of tabby weave?  97 Cf. Anglo-Saxon hǽwen, blue; hawes, hawthorn berries.  98 Riley, Munimenta Gildhallae Londoniensis, vol. 2, part 1, 125–26, my translation and emphasis.

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Units of Measure for Cloth There are a lot of special vocabulary items here, particularly in the context of British usage: andley, a style or type of cloth apparently associated with the town of Andely in France; porreye, which is probably derived from the Anglo-Norman word for leek (poree, poré, etc., equivalent to Modern French poireau) and probably refers to a leek-coloured cloth, probably silk.99 The permitted type of cloth—un fil et un—is prescribed to be in measures of six launces. The reference to launce clearly refers to a measure of cloth, here of six quarters in breadth, six of which ideally added up to at least ten pounds. Why the weight of the cloth is stipulated is unclear. The provisions are very descriptive, but one would be hard pressed to find anything approximating this particular usage in any of the British historical dictionaries. While insular attestations are elusive, here again it proves advantageous to look to the Continental evidence. Frédérique Godefroy’s monumental Dictionnaire de l’Ancienne Langue Française contains an entry for a metonymic use for lance referring to a measure of land (“mesure de terre”), with attestations from the 1260s and 70s.100 Likewise, the Dictionnaire du Moyen Français provides attestations showing lance used as a measure of length from around 1350 onward; it offers this definition: “mesure de longueur équivalant à celle d’une lance” [a measure of length equivalent to that of one lance].101 Like those in Godefroy, the citations provided by Dictionnaire du Moyen Français refer to measure of land, as well as architectural measures. In his encyclopaedia of French weights and measures before the Revolution, Zupko defines lance as a measure for land and offers supportive attestations.102 Sadly no definitive measure for the lance is offered in any of these sources. The Latin form lancea is attested with similar senses on the Continent, but evidently not in reference to measures for cloth,103 and it is unattested signifying a measure in Anglo-Latin. It would appear that the Anglo-French Liber Custumarum contains the sole known use of lance as a measure for cloth from British, French, and Latin records, although we must allow that the vast majority of non-literary medieval manuscripts remain unpublished and largely unassessed. As for the question of its length, we might assume somewhere in the region of nine to twelve feet, the range of measurements to be expected for lances in the twelfth century, themselves not yet standardised. We may find a clearer picture by comparing the various geographical and architectural uses from the Continental evidence, but this would remain conjectural with regard to a lexicographic exercise such as the Lexis project. The length of a lance of cloth most likely equated to the length of a lance the weapon, longer than an ell or even a fathom, but shorter than a bolt. Further specificity remains elusive. We must hope that

 99 LexP, s.v. “poree.” Also see MED, s.v. “poreei, n.”; AND1, s.v. “poree.” 100 Frédéric Godefroy, Dictionnaire de l’Ancienne Langue Française, 10 vols. (Paris: F. Vieweg and E. Bouillon, 1888), s.v. “lance 1.” 101 DMF, s.v. “lance 1, subst. fém.,” sense B.2. 102 Ronald Edward Zupko, French Weights and Measures Before the Revolution: A Dictionary of Provincial and Local Units (Bloomington, IN: Indiana University Press, 1978), 94. 103 Du Cange, Glossarium, s.v. “lancea.”

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Mark Chambers evidence drawn from the unpublished manuscripts will, in time, give some measure of the measure. CONCLUSION

These few examples have only skimmed the surface of medieval British metrology for the clothing trade, but they illustrate some of the more important uses of official terminology for cloth and fur measures in medieval British texts. In particular, the use of Latin sedes (sedibus) in legislation of 1272, 1278, and 1351, as well as the unique use of Anglo-French launces in the Liber Custumarum in entries for 1300, are clearly references to accepted, agreed-upon properties of cloth, and as such they deserve closer attention from historical dictionaries, studies on medieval measures, and examinations of the medieval cloth trade. The odd occurrence of Middle English wyng in the 1448 churchwarden’s account may indeed turn out to be a unit of cloth measure, possibly even based on a mistranslation of a term in use in the multilingual context of the later medieval period. It is hoped that the discussion above, and the data gathered in the accompanying tables, will encourage further work into multilingual medieval metrology, lexicology, and study of material culture. A particularly fruitful area for broader study will be the thousands of manuscripts from the later medieval period that have, so far, gone relatively unnoticed because they exist only in manuscript form or have only recently become available through digital technology. The Medieval Dress and Textile Vocabulary in Unpublished Sources project, for example, has examined various types of official documents, including medieval petitions to king and parliament as well as unpublished Royal Wardrobe accounts. These documents provide extremely important but often overlooked evidence of how measures were codified in the lexis, with numerous in situ citations offering vivid examples of use and context. By considering a non-literary corpus of previously unpublished manuscripts dealing with cloth and clothing in the medieval period alongside existing data drawn from historical dictionaries and other lexicological studies, we may begin to establish a greater understanding of the semantic field of medieval cloth and clothing, and by extension, a greater understanding of language in medieval material culture—such as that involved in the naming of medieval weights and measures.

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Units of Measure for Cloth Tables 2.1–2.3: Measures of cloth and related goods Note: These tables present entries for measures of cloth, fur, and similar goods in the LexP database as of January 31, 2017. Table 1 contains the lemmata or headwords signifying linear or flat measures in the left-hand column, followed by the lemmata drawn from various historical dictionaries in the column to the right, then the type of goods measured in the next column, and finally accompanying notes in the righthand column. Table 2 contains the LexP lemmata for units of measure used for weight or capacity of wool, fur, hemp, etc. in the left-hand column, lemmata drawn from the various historical dictionaries in the middle column, and accompanying notes in the right-hand column. Table 3 repeats the process for lemmata representing units of fur, skins, or hides used in the cloth and clothing trade. The data in the tables are comprehensive only inasmuch as they represent all of the data collected in the LexP database. It is hoped that they might provide an initiating resource for further studies of medieval cloth and clothing metrology. The following abbreviations for dictionary and lexicographical resources are used in the tables: AND1 Anglo-Norman Dictionary, 1st ed., ed. W. Rothwell, L. W. Stone et al., MHRA pub. no. 8– (London: Modern Humanities Research Association and Anglo-Norman Text Society, 1977–92). AND2 Anglo-Norman Dictionary, online (2nd) ed., ed. D. Trotter et al. (Aberystwyth, UK: Anglo-Norman On-Line Hub), http://www. anglo-norman.net. B-T An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary: Based on the Manuscript Collections of the Late Joseph Bosworth, ed. T. N. Toller and J. Bosworth (London: Oxford University Press, 1882–1921). DMF Dictionnaire du Moyen Français, online ed. (Paris: Centre National de la Recherche Scientifique), http://www.atilf.fr/dmf. DMLBS Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British Sources, ed. R. E. Latham, D. R. Howlett et al., 17 fascicules, British Academy Series (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1975–2013). DOE Dictionary of Old English, online ed., ed. A. Cameron et al. (Toronto: Dictionary of Old English Project), http://tapor.library.utoronto.ca/doe. DOST Dictionary of the Older Scottish Tongue, ed. W. A. Craigie et al. (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1931–). Godefroy Dictionnaire de l’Ancienne Langue Française, ed. F. Godefroy, 10 vols. (Paris: F. Vieweg and E. Bouillon, 1888). Latham Revised Medieval Latin Word-List from British and Irish Sources, 2nd ed. with supplement, ed. R. E. Latham (1980; repr., Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2004). LexP Lexis of Cloth and Clothing Project database, ed. G. Owen-Crocker, L. Sylvester et al. (University of Manchester), http://lexisproject.arts. manchester.ac.uk. 57

Mark Chambers MED OED2 OED3

Middle English Dictionary, online ed., ed. Francis McSparran et al. (Ann Arbor, MI: University of Michigan), http://quod.lib.umich.edu/m/med. Oxford English Dictionary, 2nd ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1989), available online at http://www.oed.com. Oxford English Dictionary, online (3rd) ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press), http://www.oed.com.

Table 2.1: Units of linear measure for cloth and related goods by type LexP lemmata

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

“Stuff ” measured (cloth, fur, etc.)—from LexP data

Notes

ala

ala (DMLBS)

unam peciam panni . . . aliam peciam de mixto, etc.

from the Close Rolls of 1382;a cf. alna (ulna) and wing

berda

berda (DMLBS)

cannabis (canvas)

“in portagio . . . j bard’ can[abi],” from an account of the Royal Wardrobe from 1307b

bolt

bolta (DMLBS) bolt (MED) bolte (AND2) bolt (DOST) bolt (OED2, n.1)

worsteds (single, double, etc.), kanas (canvas), sackcloth, aylesham, card, fustian

of various measures; by the Early Modern period variously equated with 30 yards, 28 ells, or 40 feet

brace

bracchium (DMLBS) brace, bras (AND2) brace, brache (MED) brase (DOST) brace (OED2, n2.2)

cloth, pannus linei, cannabis, champayn, etc., cheyne de ferro

arm’s length, probably (like some uses of ell), the length of both arms outstretched

broad

brod (MED) brode (AND2) broad (OED2, a.1c)

cloth, drap, itself (blew brodis)

used for woollen cloth of a double standard width (as opposed to straight cloth)

broadcloth

brod-cloth (MED) broadcloth (OED2)

cloth (various)

same as broad, above

cane

canna (DMLBS) cane (MED) cane (OED2, n.1)

caneuas

in the late seventeenth century: “At Naples = 7 ft. 3½ in., at Toulouse 5 ft. 8⅔ in., in Provence 6 ft. 5½ in.” (OED2)

caput

caput (DMLBS)

cendal (of Lucca, of Milan, etc.), sindon, fustanei rubei (1230)

“measure of cloth” (DMLBS)—cf. next item below

58

Units of Measure for Cloth LexP lemmata (cont.)

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

“Stuff ” measured (cloth, fur, etc.)—from LexP data

Notes

chef

chef (AND2)

sandal

a chef of sindon contains 10 ells (or possibly yards)c

couple

couple (MED)

damask’

“bolt; measure of cloth” (MED)

ell

elne (MED) ell (AND2) elne (DOST) ell (OED2, n.1) see also ulna, below

cloth (various), garments (various)

arm’s length; in later uses specified as “English ell,” “Flemish ell,” etc.; measure of 45 inches in England; 37.2 inches in Scotland; 27 inches in Flanders, with much variation (OED2); cf. ulna

fathom

[fæðm] (DOE) fadme (MED) fadome (AND2) fadome (DOST) fathom (OED2)

cord, rope, etc.

allegedly from the length of both arms outstretched or approximately 6 feet;d also equated with a cubit and an ell

inch

[ynce] (DOE) inche (MED) enchia (DMLBS) inch (DOST) inch (OED2)

cloth

cf. uncia (Latham), unce (AND1)

lance

launce, lance (OED2, n.1; sole attest. from 1604) lance (AND2)

“un fil et un”; touz estraunge reies (foreign striped cloths), hawes (blue cloths), porreies (prob. leek-green cloths)e

See discussion in main article.

lea

le (MED) lea (OED2, n.4)

yarn/thread

lease

lease (OED2, n.4)

yarn/thread

nail

nail (MED) nail (DOST) nail (OED3)

cloth (various), including soie, tuella, worsted

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originally associated with the length of the middle finger from knuckle to tip, a measure of length (2¼ inches), esp. for cloth; in Early Modern use it was also equated with a weight equivalent to the clove

Mark Chambers Notes

LexP lemmata (cont.)

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

“Stuff ” measured (cloth, fur, etc.)—from LexP data

piece

pecia (DMLBS) piece (AND1) pece (MED) pece (DOST) piece (OED3)

cloth (various), hide (various), fustian, worsted, canavaz, filetum, cindon, panni, tapestria, curtin, ­blanketo, sendal rouge, etc.

plight

pleit (MED) *plight (OED3)

lawn, crymyll, coton cremyll, kerchef

unspecified measure of cloth

plodium

ploidum (DMLBS)

fustian

unspecified measure of cloth; ploid’ attested 1483—cf. French ploit

quarter

quarter (AND1) quartere (MED) quarter (DOST) quarter (OED3)

cloth (various)

9 inches (MED), or a quarter of a yard; “one fourth of an ell ([. . .] approx. 28.6 cm). Later usually one fourth of a yard” (OED3); from the fourteenth century, described as being one-fifth an ell

stick

stikke (AND1) stike (MED) stek (DOST) stick (OED2, n.3)

blak chamelet, federbed

“Flemmysche ell . . . iij qrs. of the yerd”f

straight cloth

streit cloth (MED)

cloth

refers to straight (i.e. narrow) cloth (as opposed to broadcloth; cf. broad above)

ulna

aune1 (AND2) alna (DMLBS) ulna (Latham) ulne (AND2)

cloth (various), garments (various)

cf. ell, yard

verge

virga (Latham) verge (AND1) verge (OED2, n.1)

cloth (various)

according to Zupko, synonymous with a yard, although this has been disputedg

wing

winge (MED)

ray selk (striped silk)h

“to wyng of ray selk” in the Yatton churchwarden’s accounts (see discussion in main article); cf. Latin ala?

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Units of Measure for Cloth LexP lemmata (cont.)

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

“Stuff ” measured (cloth, fur, etc.)—from LexP data

yard

[gird] (DOE) yerd (MED) yard (OED2, n.2)

cloth (various)

Notes

Other, common, pre-1450 standard measures for short lengths, not attested in contexts with cloth, clothing, or fur: fot (DOE), fot (MED), fut (DOST), foot (OED2, n.1) perche (AND1), percha, perchia (DMLBS), perche (MED), perk (DOST), perch (OED3, n.1), cf. rod? pes (DMLBS), pé (AND1); foot, measure of a foot rode (MED), roda (Latham), rode (AND2), rod (OED3, n.1), cf. perche

Table 2.2: Units of measure used for weight or capacity for cloth and related goods LexP ­lemmata

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

Notes

avoirdupois

aver de pois (AND1) avoir-de-pois (MED) avoirdupois (OED2)

“goods by weight”

bag

bagge (MED) bage (AND2) baga (DMLBS) bag (DOST) bag (OED2, sense III.6)

measuring cambre; hemp or cloth?

bale

bale (AND2) bala, ~us (DMLBS) bale (MED) bale (DOST) bale (OED2)

large bundle or pack; measuring various dry goods including hemp, fur, or wool, usually for portage

balenge

?balenge (AND2)

cf. bale; measuring cambre (unclear whether referring to hemp or cloth)

bind

binda (DMLBS) bind (DOST) bind (DOST) bind (OED2)

a measure of skins, standardized to 32 (DMLBS)

bred

bred (DOST, n.2)

used for measuring budge (lamb fur) in an Old Scots reference: “A certain quantity of the fur called ‘buge’”; 1488–1524 (DOST); cf. broad?

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Mark Chambers LexP ­lemmata (cont.)

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

Notes

clove

clou (AND1) clove (OED2, n.3) clavus (DMLBS 3rd entry, sense 5b)

“weight formerly used for wool and cheese, [. . .] equal to 7 or 8 lbs. avoirdupois” (OED2)

dicker

dacra (DMLBS) dacre (AND2) diker (MED) daker (DOST) dicker (OED2, n.1)

measure of 10 (skins or hides)

dozen

duzeine (AND2) doseine (MED) dozen (OED2) duodenus (DMLBS)

group of 12, often referring to skins or hides; although as early as the Rolls of Parliament for 1410, also used to refer to a kind of kersey or coarse woollen cloth (AND2); a measure of cloth of not less than 12 feet (MED) or 12 to 14 yardsi

fardel

fardel (AND2) fardel (MED) fardellus, ~a, ~um (DMLBS) fardel (OED2)

bundle or pack (unspecified) of cloth, wool, hides, etc.j

last

last (MED, n.2) last (AND1) last (DOST) last (OED2, n.2, from OE hlæst and ON hlass)

1. measure of hides; 200? (MED); twelve dozen? (AND1) 2. measure of wool; “prob. 20 sacks?” MED); “equivalence of the last of wool with 12 sacks seems to have led to an association of the word with the number twelve. Thus a last of hides was formerly 12 dozen (also 20 dickers of 10 hides each)” (OED2); Hall and Nicholas cite a tract from ca. 1500 which notes that “x sarplers make a laste”k

lb.

libra (DMLBS) livre (AND1) lb. (OED2)

unit of weight (a pound)

nail

nail (MED) nail (DOST) nail (OED3)

unit of weight (usually seven pounds), esp. for wooll

pack

pak (AND1) pake (MED) pacca, ~us, ~um (DMLBS) pak (DOST) pack (OED3, n.1)

pack or bundled amount of wool, furs, hides, etc.

petra

petra (DMLBS) pere (AND1)

stone weight, used to measure dry goods (wool, etc.); a stone as unit of measure (of locally specified or unspecified number of pounds)

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Units of Measure for Cloth LexP ­lemmata (cont.)

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

Notes

poise

peis (AND1) peisa, pesa, pesia (DMLBS) peis (MED) peise (OED3) Also: pois (MED) poise (OED3)

unit of weight or quantity of wool or other dry measure; a wey (AND1); cf. avoirdupois, etc.

poke

poke (AND1) poke (MED) poke (DOST) poke (OED3, n.1)

bundle (of wool, etc.), “varying according to the quality and nature of the commodity” (OED3); “half a sack” (AND1)

pondus

pondus (DMLBS)

in some instances used as a standard measure of wool, etc. (cf. wey)

pound

pound (MED) pound (DOST) pound (OED3)

standard measure of weight usually containing between 12 and 16 ounces; the term was common in Germanic languages, ultimately stemming from Latin pondus

roll

roule (AND1) roella (Latham) rolle (MED) rol (DOST) roll (OED3, n.1)

Veale notes that in Continental accounts, “beaver skins were packed in rolls, four rolls making one cargo”m

sack

sac (AND1) sak (MED) sek (DOST) sack (OED2, n.1)

of wool: 28 stone, or 350 lbs., or 30 stone/375 lbs.n

sarpler

sarpler (AND1) sarpellarium (Latham) sarplere (MED) sarplare (DOST) sarpler (OED2)

Zupko suggests the sarpler was a kind of large coarse canvas bag generally equal to 2 sacks totalling 728 pounds or 1/6 of a last; from 1208; the container or the weight of a bale of wool;o the size of a sarpler seems to have increased to 2½ sacks or more by 1435p

sort

sort2 (AND1)

measuring wool in the Rotuli ­Parliamentorumq

stone

stán (B-T) ston (MED) stan (DOST) stone (OED3)

(with ref. post-Conquest) a unit of weight, latterly “equal to 14 pounds avoirdupois (⅛ of a hundredweight, or half a ‘quarter’), but varying with different commodities from 8 to 24 pounds” (OED2); cf. petra

timber

timbre (AND1) timber (Latham) timber (MED) timber (OED2, n.2)

a timber of coney-skins and grayes consists of 40 skinsr

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Mark Chambers LexP ­lemmata (cont.)

Lemmata from ­historical dictionaries

Notes

tod

todde (MED) tod (OED2, n.2)

“for wool of 28 pounds (12.7 kg) equal to 1 /13 of a sack or 1/26 of a sarpler” with local variation (first attested ca. 1420, OED2); Prior suggests “wt. [weight] used for wool = 2 stone”s

wey

waw (MED, n.2) waie (AND1) vaga (Latham) waw (DOST) wey (OED2, sense 1b)

cf. Latin pondus; Zupko suggests: for wool, a wey was equal to 182 pounds, 14 stone of 13 lbs. each (citing Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland for ca. 1150)t

Table 2.3: Individual measures of furs, skins, and hides LexP lemmata

Lemmata from historical dictionaries

Notes

beast

bestia (DMLBS) beste (MED) beast (OED2)

Skin/hide of one animal. Note its use in the accounts for expeditions by Henry, Earl of Derby (1391): “Pro furracione j pair pynsons, et pro xxiij bestes pro complemento eorundem . . . le beste ad iiij s.”u

dorsum

dorsum (DMLBS) dos (AND2)

“Back,” fur/hide, nominally from the back of an animal.

fleece

fles (MED) fleece (OED2)

“Quantity of wool shorn from a sheep at one time” (OED2). The sole attestation pre-1600 comes from John Fortescue’s Governance of England (ca. 1460) and is noted in both the MED and OED entries: “How gret a subsidie was it, when the reaume gaff to thair kyng . . . the ixth fflese off thair wolles and also the ixth shefe off þer graynes.”v

furrure, fur (1) furrure (AND2) furrura (DMLBS) furra (DMLBS)

Range of uses, but in the current context, usually equated to the pelt or hide of one animal, or else—as in most cases of references to furrura—a collective noun indicating a number of pelts stitched together into a pane or panel; used to refer to an itemized commodity or measure only in Latin accounts (as in the Close Rolls of 1235: “j furruram de minuto vario,” DMLBS, s.v. “furrure”). Ultimately derived from Old French forrëure, fourrëure, etc., Anglo-French and Middle English furrure gave way to shortened forms (including Latin furra, Modern English fur).

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Units of Measure for Cloth LexP lemmata (cont.)

Lemmata from historical dictionaries

Notes

rig

rigge (MED) rig (OED3, n.1) ridge (OED3, n.1)

Frequently used to refer to the back (Northern variant of ridge) of an animal; Veale records rig as being used for a measure of 10 skins.w

skin

skin (MED) skin (DOST) skin (OED2)

tier

tire (AND1) tira (Latham) tire (MED) tier (OED2)

Again, not a specified measure per se, but a strip or row of fur, quantified in garments or furnishings in various accounts.x

ventre

ventre (AND1) venter (Latham)

“Belly,” equivalent of fur from the belly of one animal.

a Rymer, Foedera, 7:356a. b London, National Archives, MS E 101/368/30, memb. 6, my transcription. c Cf. “Tractatus de Ponderibus Mensuris (The Assise of Weights and Measures),” attested 1302/3, cited in Connor, Weights and Measures, 320. d Albert Way, ed., Promptorium Parvulorum (London: Sumptibus Societatis Camdenensis, 1843–65), part 3, s.v. “ulna.” e Riley, Munimenta Gildhallae Londoniensis, vol. 2, part 1, 125. f Hall and Nicholas, “Select Tracts,” 15. g Zupko, Dictionary, 428–29; for an opposing view, see Coatsworth’s entry for “verge” in ­Owen-Crocker, Coatsworth, and Hayward, Encyclopedia, 613. h Hobhouse, Church-wardens’ Accounts, 90. i W. H. Prior, “Notes on the Weights and Measures of Medieval England,” Bulletin du Cange: Archivum Latinitatis Medii Aevi 1 (1924): 166. j Ibid. k Hall and Nicholas, “Select Tracts,” 16. l Ronald Edward Zupko, British Weights and Measures: A History from Antiquity to the Seventeenth Century (Madison, WI: University of Wisconsin Press, 1977), 256. m Veale, English Fur Trade, 122. n As specified in the “Tractatus de Ponderibus Mensuris,” attested 1302/3; discussed in Connor, Weights and Measures, 320. o Zupko, Dictionary, 151. p Prior, “Notes,” 159–60. q J. Strachey et al., eds, Rotuli Parliamentorum: ut et petitiones, et placita in Parliamento, 6 vols. (London, 1783), 2:138, 279. r According to the “Tractatus de Ponderibus Mensuris,” attested 1302/3; cited in Connor, Weights and Measures, 320. s Prior, “Notes,” 170. t Zupko, Dictionary, 180; Thomas Thomson and Cosmo Innes, eds., Acts of the Parliaments of Scotland, 11 vols. (Edinburgh: Record Commission, 1814–75), 1:434–38. u Smith, Expeditions to Prussia, p. 91, lines 14–15, my emphasis. v John Fortescue, ed., The Governance of England, rev. ed. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1885), 140, my emphasis. w Veale, English Fur Trade, 222. x Ibid., 28.

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Robes, Turbans, and Beards: “Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 Ana Grinberg

One of the first literary instances of donning attire to go incognito occurs when Odysseus arrives at Ithaca and prepares, with the help of Athene, a much-awaited return to his kingdom and his wife. Upon “changing his clothing into a shabby cloak and tunic . . . a large and well-worn hide of a nimble stag,” a staff, and a knapsack, Odysseus is ready to impersonate someone he is not.1 Odysseus conceals his identity by dressing down; so to speak, the king becomes a beggar through this clothing. Here, as well as in many other narratives and chronicles, sartorial elements are useful to communicate or to hide cultural identity and social status. Since the Odyssey was written, plenty of characters have crossed over lines of specific identity categories—gender, class or social standing, ethnicity, age, among others—through the use of textiles and other adornments. Representing a different social status—rank, class, or degree—is a very common event in medieval literature.2 In Susan Crane’s words, “[p]erhaps the most obvious function of clothing is to express and enforce standards of appropriateness . . . to mark social position, age, gender, season, and even time of day.”3 But medieval literature provides numerous examples of clothing signifiers also concealing a character’s social status. This is particularly evident in chivalric romances, as Monica L. Wright explains,

An earlier version of this article was presented in May 2015 at the International Congress on Medieval Studies at Kalamazoo, Michigan. I am grateful to the anonymous reviewer and Stephen McCormick for the thoughtful commentaries on this paper. All translations are mine unless otherwise noted. All mistakes remain my own.  1 Homer, Odyssey, trans. E. V. Rieu (London: Penguin Books, 2003), 180.   2 I avoid using the term “class” as much as possible; besides being a blatant anachronism, it would misrepresent the hierarchical social structure in the Middle Ages. The hierarchical paradigm during the medieval period is that of three estates (nobility, clergy, and peasantry), though it is somewhat inaccurate. With the rise of bankers, merchants, and other guildsmen—who could be dubbed “­middle-class” or “fourth estate”—we see a new paradigm in place toward the end of twelfth century.   3 Susan Crane, The Performance of Self: Ritual, Clothing, and Identity During the Hundred Years War (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2002), 6–7.

Ana Grinberg where “characters are clearly able to disguise themselves by wearing clothes that do not associate them with their normal identities.”4 These characters hide their identity or disguise themselves to perform (in most cases) a lower-status role that provides some form of mobility: They “dress down,” though social status habitually “shines through” despite the sartorial performances.5 Nevertheless, dressing “up” or “down” can also refer to other identity markers. Gender and social position are two identity categories often displayed within medieval narratives; yet in exploring courtly performances, Crane does not consider issues of faith or ethnicity. Indeed, Crane argues for an exploration of “self-conception” of secular elites, though we can further this understanding of medieval identity if we incorporate the representation of ethnicity or religious belonging. The performativity of gender, social rank, and religious persuasion through sartorial elements in many medieval texts clearly serves to uphold the established hierarchy—what we often call status quo. Gender performance in medieval literature emphasizes the desirability of the dominant status (particularly maleness) and the privileges associated with it.6 When it comes to impersonating someone from a different social station, the use of specific textiles and styles of clothing in medieval narratives underscores nobility and lineage, or the lack thereof. The performance of rank or degree, particularly when a character “dresses down” as in the example from the Odyssey above, demonstrates that the real identity will be evident due to demeanor regardless of the disguise.7 In other words, if a character “dresses down,” he or she is not losing rank, as at the end of the narrative the real status becomes obvious.8 Ethnic,   4 Monica L. Wright, Weaving Narrative: Clothing in Twelfth-Century French Romance (University Park: Pennsylvania State University Press, 2009), 65.  5 An instance of noble identity shown regardless of ignoble attire is the eponymous hero of the late-twelfth-century romance Guillaume de Palerne, whose beauty, appearance, countenance, and behavior denote his nobility (and the rich clothing he wears as a child also functions as a means of recognition).   6 Gender cross-dressing in the Middle Ages has been studied somewhat extensively. Among these works, see Vern Bullough, “Cross Dressing and Gender Role Change in the Middle Ages,” in Handbook of Medieval Sexuality, ed. Vern L. Bullough and James A. Brundage (New York: Routledge, 1996), 223–42; Albrecht Classen, “Disguises, Gender-Bending, and Clothing Symbolism in Dietrich von der Gletze’s Der Borte,” Seminar: A Journal of Germanic Studies 45, no. 2 (May 2009): 95–110; Roberta Davidson, “Cross-Dressing in Medieval Romance,” in Textual Bodies: Changing Boundaries of Literary Representation, ed. Lori H. Lefkovitz (Albany, NY: State University of New York Press, 1997), 59–74; Erika E. Hess, “Passing for True: Gender as Performance in Le Roman de Silence and L’Enfant de Sable,” in her Literary Hybrids: Cross-dressing, Shapeshifting, and Indeterminacy in Medieval and Modern French Narrative (New York: Routledge, 2004), 38–69; Valerie R. Hotchkiss, Clothes Make the Man: Female Cross Dressing in Medieval Europe (New York: Garland, 1996); and Nicole D. Smith, “Heldris de Cornuälle: Telegraphing Morality Through Transvestism,” in her Sartorial Strategies: Outfitting Aristocrats and Fashioning Conduct in Late Medieval Literature (Notre Dame, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012), 57–94.   7 Besides Odysseus, many nobles both in literature and history have taken advantage of such a topos. See note 35, below.   8 Recent scholarship on medieval disguise and social rank includes Crane’s The Performance of Self; Morgan Dickson, “Verbal and Visual Disguise: Society and Identity in Some Twelfth-Century Texts” and Rachel Snell, “The Undercover King,” both in Medieval Insular Romance: Translation and

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“Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 cultural, or religious cross-dressing is occasionally included in medieval texts, where the performance of a different cultural and/or ethnic background is achieved with different degrees of success.9 “Ethnic passing,” then, means that a character is able to effectively represent the religious or cultural Other, at least intradiegetically. In her Passing for Spain, Barbara Fuchs refers to “ethnic passing” as a “form of transvestism that extends well beyond gender to cross ethnic, religious, and national boundaries.”10 And though Fuchs analyzes the works of Miguel de Cervantes (1547–1616), written in a much later period, her observations about the sartorial distinctions between Christianity and Islam are relevant here because the European appearance of the Moor (meaning the Iberian Muslim) “suggests the existence of whole classes of in-between subjects—Moors who can pass, assimilated captives, renegades.”11 Instead of exploring the western Mediterranean that serves as a backdrop to Cervantes’s texts, I propose to turn to the eastern part of this area using Giovanni Boccaccio’s novella 10.9 (tenth day, ninth story) from the Decameron. Such a shift of geography enables us to consider Christian and Muslim identities interacting in areas where such contacts were not part of everyday life.12 Furthermore, through this novella we can investigate the sartorial and cultural performances that define Christianity and Islam, highlighting the equivalence of these two confessional identities, and recognizing the characters as “in-between” subjects.

 9

10 11 12

Innovation, ed. Judith Weiss, Jennifer Fellows, and Morgan Dickson (Cambridge: D.S. Brewer, 2000), 41–54 and 135–54, respectively; Michel Stanesco, “Le Secret de l’Estrange Chevalier: Notes sur la Motivation Contradictoire dans le Roman Médiéval,” in The Spirit of the Court: Selected Proceedings of the Fourth Congress of the International Courtly Literature Society (Toronto 1983), ed. Glyn S. Burgess and Robert A. Taylor (Woodbridge, Suffolk: D.S. Brewer, 1985), 339–49; and Ulinka Rublack, Dressing Up: Cultural Identity in Renaissance Europe (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2010). The main scholarship touching on cultural or “racial” cross-dressing relates to drama. See, among others, Kathleen M. Ashley, “‘Strange and Exotic’: Representing the Other in Medieval and Renaissance Performance,” in East of West: Cross-Cultural Performance and the Staging of Difference, ed. Claire Sponsler and Xiaomei Chen (New York: Palgrave, 2000), 77–91; Robert L. A. Clark and Claire Sponsler, “Queer Play: The Cultural Work of Crossdressing in Medieval Drama,” New Literary History 28, no. 2 (Spring 1997): 319–44; Clark and Sponsler, “Othered Bodies: Racial Cross-Dressing in the Mistere de la Sainte Hostie and the Croxton Play of the Sacrament,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 29, no. 1 (1999): 61–87; and Monika Otter, “The Neapolitan Moresche: Impersonation and Othering,” Mediaevalia 31 (2010): 143–69. There are some studies that deal with narratives, as is the case of E. Jane Burns, “Saracen Silk and the Virgin’s ‘Chemise’: Cultural Crossings in Cloth,” Speculum 81 (2006): 365–97; Catherine M. Jones, “Identity and Disguise in a Late French Epic: Hervis de Mes,” Essays in Medieval Studies 4 (1987): 107–17; and Victoria Turner, “Performing the Self, Performing the Other: Gender and Racial Identity Construction in the Nanteuil Cycle,” Women’s History Review 22, no. 2 (2013): 182–96. Barbara Fuchs, Passing for Spain: Cervantes and the Fictions of Identity (Urbana, IL: University of Illinois Press, 2003), x. Ibid., 70. Sharon Kinoshita has studied the importance of specific locations and trade routes related to Decameron 10.9 in her “‘Noi siamo mercatanti cipriani’: How to Do Things in the Medieval Mediterranean,” in Philippe de Mézières and His Age: Piety and Politics in the Fourteenth Century, ed. Renate Blumenfeld-Kosinski and Kiril Petkov (Leiden: Brill, 2011), 41–60.

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Ana Grinberg Decameron 10.9 is the fictional story of the generosity and exchange between Sultan Saladin (loosely based on the historical Salah al-Din, sultan of Egypt and Syria) and Messer Torello di Strà, a Pavian gentleman.13 According to this novella, Torello meets and entertains Saladin in Toscana unaware of the true identity of the Sultan, who is visiting Western Europe incognito to assess his enemies’ armies. Then Torello joins a crusade and subsequently is captured in Alexandria. The Sultan recognizes the Christian who has become his falconer, and helps him return to Pavia—with the aid of magical means, i.e. a flying bed—just in time to prevent Torello’s wife, Adalieta, remarrying after supposedly becoming a widow.14 Frequently, this tale has been studied in terms of hospitality and friendship across political and religious boundaries (as in the cases of Janet Smarr, Claude Cazalé-Bérard, and Cristelle Baskins),15 or religious truth (Jim Rhodes, for instance),16 but most often it is read as a love story between Torello and Adalieta.17 What interests me in this story, instead, is the nuanced representation of identity through material, textile culture that is unique to Decameron 10.9.18 In part, these nuanced identity representations serve to criticize the attitude of 13 Salah ad-Din (or al-Din) Yūsuf ibn Ayyūb (1138–93) reigned between 1174 and 1193. As John V. Tolan shows, Saladin served as a model against which all Christians were measured due to the Sultan’s generosity and tolerance; Tolan, “Mirror of Chivalry: Salah al-Din in the Medieval European Imagination,” in Images of the Other: Europe and the Muslim World Before 1700, ed. David R. Blanks (Cairo: American University in Cairo Press, 1997), 7–38, at 7. In that article, Tolan refers to a range of medieval sources, from portrayals in Crusade chronicles to post–third Crusade narratives to epic tales, romances, and exempla. Boccaccio’s Decameron 10.9 is mentioned only in a footnote, together with other Italian tales where Saladin wears disguise to travel in Europe (31 n. 69). 14 Indeed, together with only another instance, these are the only two tales in the Decameron that have some magical content. This might indicate an Oriental-tale model, as the anonymous referee has brought to my attention, and deserves to be studied together with other medieval narratives where the “Saracens” are associated with magic, enchantments, and similar rituals. 15 See Janet Levarie Smarr, “Non-Christian People and Spaces in the Decameron,” in Approaches to Teaching Boccaccio’s Decameron, ed. James H. McGregor (New York: Modern Language Association, 2000), 31–38; Claude Cazalé-Bérard, “Jeux de Masques: Fonctions Narratives et Thématiques dans le Décaméron,” Revue des Études Italiennes, n.s. 33 (1987): 32–59; Cristelle L. Baskins, “Scenes from a Marriage: Hospitality and Commerce in Boccaccio’s Tale of Saladin and Torello,” in The Medieval Marriage Scene: Prudence, Passion, Policy, ed. Sherry Roush and Cristelle L. Baskins (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2005), 81–99. 16 Jim Rhodes, “Saladin and the Truth of Religion in Decameron I.3 and X.9,” in Through a Classical Eye: Transcultural and Transhistorical Visions in Medieval English, Italian, and Latin Literature in Honour of Winthrop Wetherbee, ed. Andrew Galloway and R. F. Yaeger (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2009), 189–205. 17 Most of the earlier scholarship on this novella deals with sources and analogues, such as Pio Rajna, “La Novella Bocaccesca del Saladino e di Messer Torello,” Romania 6 (1877): 359–68; Marcus Landau, Die Quellen des Dekameron (Stuttgart: J. Scheible, 1884); or Giuseppe Rotondi, “Nuovi Riscontri alla Novella Boccaccesca di Torello e del Saladino,” Rendiconti 2, no. 52 (1919): 473–90. 18 There are very few studies on cross-dressing and disguise in the Decameron that mention 10.9. One of the earliest is Monica Donnagio, “Il Travestimento nel ‘Decameron’: Orizzonti e Limiti di una Rigenerazione,” Studi sul Boccaccio 17 (1988): 203–14. See also Elissa Weaver, “Dietro il Vestito: La Semiotica del Vestire nel Decameron,” in La Novella Italiana: Atti del Convegno di Caprarola, 19–24 Settembre 1988 (Roma: Salerno Editrici, 1989), 701–10. Marilyn Migiel’s A Rhetoric of the Decameron (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2003) only deals with women donning male garb in her fourth chapter and does not consider the tale of Saladin and Torello.

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“Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 Christian nobles—gentlemen and kings—through the benign depiction of courteous citizens, alleged merchants, and the Muslim enemy. Though in The Decameron: Its Sources and Analogues, A. C. Lee mentions some analogues to this novella, most of these refer either to Saladin’s gracious behavior toward Christians, or to the “incident of the wife waiting for her husband’s return.”19 Lee might have not been aware of Pio Rajna’s claim of a possible source of Decameron 10.9, a miracle included in Caesarius of Heisterbach’s Dialogus Miraculorum, written around 1222.20 Despite the similarities in plot between Caesarius’s distinctio 8, chapter 59, and Boccaccio’s novella, only the latter emphasizes the function of clothing as disguise and gift giving, the mobility and role of merchants in cultural exchange, and the amicable contact between Islam and Christendom.21 One could even claim, along with David Wallace, that Boccaccio’s cultural and life experiences were essential in the writing of the Decameron, as otherwise Boccaccio would “have missed that remarkable imaginative openness to the greater Mediterranean (Greek and Arab) world, which in Naples formed part of the everyday life.”22 Boccaccio was part of the business world of merchants and moneychangers.23 This provided him with the opportunity to do some traveling and observe “life as it was beyond the [Florentine] commune, the region, beyond Italy itself, over civilized Europe, and over the eventful Mediterranean.”24 In 1327, Boccaccio moved to Naples and was exposed to a “richness and variety of social, cultural and literary influences that no other European city could rival.”25 In other words, the “cultures of commerce and exchange” in both Florence and Naples provided him with a “rich textual culture on which he could draw.”26 This cultural richness is absent in Caesarius’s piece. Decameron 10.9 is exceptional in the presentation of multiple (material and immaterial) layers that enable the “ethnic passing” of two characters—Saladin and Torello—and not only one, as in other medieval narratives. Both characters undergo 19 A. C. Lee, The Decameron: Its Sources and Analogues (1909; repr., New York: Haskell House, 1966), 343. 20 Rajna discusses some of the possible sources, focusing particularly on Caesarius’ Dialogus Miraculorum throughout “La Novella Bocaccesca.” 21 In Caesarius’s miracle, the devil is “in the form and dress of a pilgrim,” not a Christian merchant, and the knight returns as a “stranger,” not a Muslim ambassador. Caesarius of Heisterbach, “Concerning Gerard, a Knight, Whom the Devil Carried in a Moment from the Church of St. Thomas in India to His Own Country,” Internet Medieval Sourcebook, http://legacy.fordham.edu/halsall/source/talesdevil.html. 22 David Wallace, “The Making of the Decameron,” in Giovanni Boccaccio, Decameron, ed. Wallace (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 1–12, at 7. 23 Vittore Branca provides a detailed biographical sketch of the author in Branca, Boccaccio: The Man and His Works, trans. Richard Monges, ed. Dennis J. McAuliffe (New York: New York University Press, 1976). It is there that Branca mentions Boccaccio’s apprenticeship in “banking and merchandising,” and his becoming an accountant of sorts (16–19). 24 Ibid., 279. 25 Wallace, “Making,” 5. 26 Guyda Armstrong, Rhiannon Daniels, and Stephen J. Milner, “Boccaccio as Cultural Mediator,” in The Cambridge Companion to Boccaccio, ed. Armstrong, Daniels, and Milner (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2015), 3–19, at 7.

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Ana Grinberg several layered instances of “ethnic performance” but, as Marjorie Garber has it, “one kind of crossing, inevitably, crosses over another,” in this case implying the performance of ethnic/religious and social status identities.27 Thus, first we have the Muslim sultan impersonating a Christian merchant who is asked to dress as a Christian gentleman; then we have a Christian private citizen who conceals his rank and identity through anonymity, later to be richly dressed, and finally disguised as a Muslim ambassador. The complex performances of ethnic/cultural medieval identity, at least in this text, are based on certain sartorial elements—turbans, crowns, and scimitars—or appearance, specifically beards and demeanor. Yet, textiles—in this case robes, cloaks, and capes—function as a bridge instead of a barrier between Christians and Muslims, a link enabled by merchants in their travels. The stories about Saladin traveling to Europe incognito are somewhat recurrent in medieval literature from all around Europe; there is a “fioritura di leggende” [efflorescence of legends], in Vittore Branca’s words.28 In his study about the “gradual creation of the hero Saladin in the European imagination,” John V. Tolan mentions that “according to several Italian tales of the fourteenth century, Saladin came to Europe in disguise to see the preparations being made for the crusade against him,” as in Decameron 10.9.29 Yet, in some of these narratives the Sultan sometimes chooses to impersonate a minstrel;30 some other tales have him disguised as a “poor Christian pilgrim.”31 The identity chosen in Decameron 10.9 is not a pilgrim or a minstrel but, as Saladin tells Messer Torello in relation to himself and “due de’ suoi maggiori e piú savi uomini” [two of his very senior and most wise men],32 “[n]oi siamo mercatanti cipriani e di Cipri vegniamo e per nostre bisogne andiamo a Parigi” [we are Cypriot merchants, who come from Cyprus and are on the way to Paris on our business].33 In this case in particular, Saladin’s impersonation of a merchant is multilayered because his ability to pass depends on his awareness of mercantile routes, knowledge of multiple languages, and attire. These three elements work together in the construction of an alternative, believable identity. The focus of this essay, however, is only on the sartorial aspects of this narrative. Donning merchant’s robes is a common trope in the Middle Ages, as evidenced both in literary and historical sources. For instance, in the late-twelfth-century epic romance Fierabras, Richard of Normandy uses a cloak over his armor when disguising

27 Marjorie Garber, Vested Interests: Cross-Dressing and Cultural Anxiety (New York: Routledge, 1992), 28. 28 Giovanni Boccaccio, Decameron, ed. Vittore Branca (Turin: Einaudi, 2005), 1205 n. 2. I use this edition throughout this article. Following the convention, I refer to it as Dec., followed by the day number, tale number, and paragraph. 29 Tolan, “Mirror,” 10 and 31. 30 A “juglar,” as in the fiftieth exemplum of Don Juan Manuel’s Libro de los enxiemplos del Conde Lucanor e de Patronio compiled in the fourteenth century. For the manuscript, see El Conde Lucanor, Madrid, Biblioteca Nacional, MS 6376, 175v. 31 In the thirteenth-century Récits d’un Ménestres de Reims, for instance. See Tolan, “Mirror,” 27. 32 Dec. 10.9, 6. 33 Dec. 10.9, 18.

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“Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 himself as a merchant.34 On the other hand, according to Iberian chronicles, the future King Ferdinand of Aragon and his men chose to impersonate merchants and their servants for a furtive expedition in Castile.35 Rachel Snell notes that such costume provides freedom to travel while keeping the person’s respectability.36 Indeed, Richard of Normandy, King Ferdinand, and Sultan Saladin are able to travel freely without generating suspicion. Nevertheless, the first two are only crossing over the boundaries of rank: These two men are Christian nobles impersonating Christian merchants. In other words, they are “dressing down” in terms of social station, but their ethnic and religious identity remains unchanged. Saladin’s performance, instead, is far more complex: The Sultan “dresses down” while also representing a different religion/ethnicity. We have no textual description of the clothes Saladin and his counselors are wearing at the beginning of the narrative.37 Besides the utterance establishing that these men are merchants on their way to Paris because of business, Boccaccio only mentions that Saladin and his men laid aside their “arnesi da camminare” (“riding dress,” in James Rigg’s translation) once in Torello’s country house.38 Branca provides limited information about the traveling attire in brief footnotes on his edition of the Decameron, explaining that these “arnesi da camminare” are “stivali da viaggio e dagli speroni” [traveling boots and spurs].39 The only other explanation of these garments 34 Fierabras: Chanson de Geste du XIIe Siècle, ed. Marc Le Person (Paris: H. Champion, 2003), lines 4674–78. 35 The late-medieval historian Alfonso de Palencia reports in his chronicle that before the Iberian Catholic monarchs (Isabella of Castile and Ferdinand of Aragon) were married, the then-prince Ferdinand made a “surreptitious expedition to Castile” to meet his prospective spouse in October 1469; quoted in John Edwards, The Spain of the Catholic Monarchs, 1474–1520 (Oxford, UK: Blackwell, 2000), 14. In Edwards’ words, the prince and his party “masqueraded as a group of merchants with their servants. The prince, who had taken six of his own men with him, acted as one of the servants, serving meals and looking after the mules”; ibid. 36 Snell, “Undercover King,” 141. 37 There is only one Italian illustrated manuscript from the fifteenth century that contains an image of the story. Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France (henceforth BnF), MS It. 63 (first quarter of the fifteenth century, copied in Florence by Ludovico Ceffini), depicts only the wedding banquet scene (fol. 293r). To my knowledge, there are no Italian illustrated manuscripts containing the scene of the first encounter. Several French fifteenth-century manuscripts provide some illustrations of the tale, yet because these are translations (dated 1414), it is quite possible that these illustrations misrepresent Florentine fashion. BnF MS Fr. 239, 289v, shows Torello meeting Saladin and his counselors. Paris, Bibliothèque d’Arsenal, MS 5070 réserve, 379v, depicts the meal at Torello’s house and Torello in garb before being transported back to Pavia in the magic bed. BnF MS Fr. 12421, 436r, instead, represents the scene where Adalieta recognizes Torello at the wedding banquet. Some Florentine cassoni (marriage chests) illustrate scenes of this story and have been studied; see Baskins, “Scenes from a Marriage,” and Jerzy Miziołek, “Cassoni Istoriati with ‘Torello and Saladin’: Observations on the Origins of a New Genre of Trecento Art in Florence,” in Italian Panel Painting of the Duecento and Trecento, ed. Victor M. Schmidt, Studies in the History of Art 61 (Washington, DC: National Gallery of Art, 2002), 442–69. For further information about the representations of the Decameron during the Middle Ages, see Vittore Branca, Boccaccio Visualizzato: Narrare per Parole e per Immagini fra Medioevo e Rinascimento, 3 vols. (Turin: G. Einaudi, 1999). 38 Dec. 10.9, 25; Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron, trans. James M. Rigg (London: Henry F. Bumpus, 1906), 2:374. 39 Decameron, ed. Branca, 1209 n. 8.

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Ana Grinberg appears in Raffaello Fornaciari’s very dated edition, where he explains that the attire includes “i palandrani e gli stivali da viaggio” [traveling cloaks and boots].40 The lack of detail most likely means that Boccaccio expected his readers or listeners to be acquainted with these garments.41 Although writing in the sixteenth century, Florentine historian Benedetto Varchi is helpful to our reading of Saladin’s ethnic performance, as he makes a distinction between those who ride and those who travel. The former wear “cappa o gabbano o di panno o di rascia, secondo le stagioni” [cape or cloak, made either of wool cloth or rascia—rough woolen cloth—depending on the season]; while the latter, “chi va in viaggio” [who are traveling] wear “feltri” [felted wool].42 This distinction might imply that the Sultan’s small entourage is wearing inadequate overgarments, particularly because Torello is aware of their foreignness without even talking to them. Furthermore, the fashion and color of clothing, as Maria Giuseppina Muzzarelli notes, “allowed residents of a city and even foreigners to distinguish at first sight knights, lawyers, or doctors.”43 Saladin and his men might have been unaware of these clear distinctions, as Torello identifies them as “stranier” [strangers] when he first encounters them near Pavia.44 Saladin’s passing as a Cypriot merchant is thus a partial failure. Torello, “as soon as [he] caught sight of these men,” recognizes Saladin and his counselors as strangers.45 It is their “aspetti” [appearance] that marks them as foreigners, Torello himself explains.46 Evidently merchants were, in Kathryn Reyerson’s words, “stranger[s] even at home” who stood outside the common medieval conception of society as divided into three estates, and could be perceived as a threat to the rigorous hierarchy enforced through sumptuary laws.47 Though Torello is able to know that Saladin and his men are foreigners due to their aspect, foreignness does not seem problematic to him: he 40 Raffaello Fornaciari, ed. Novelle Scelte di Giovanni Boccaccio (Florence: G. C. Sansoni, 1904), 300 n. 14. 41 What we know about what people wore in the Italian peninsula and more precisely in Florence comes from visual representations—such as in painting and sculpture—as well as from textual sources—such as sumptuary laws, store inventories, wills, and chronicles. For current scholarship on medieval and early modern clothing and textiles in Italy, see Linda Safran, The Medieval Salento: Art and Identity in Southern Italy (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2014), and Maria Giuseppina Muzzarelli, Guardaroba Medievale: Vesti e Società dal XIII al XVI Secolo (Bologna: Il Mulino, 1999). Safran’s work is a regional study, whereas Muzzarelli’s is comparative and diachronic. 42 Benedetto Varchi, Storia Fiorentina, ed. Michele Sartorio (Milan: Borroni e Scotti, 1843), 1:403. Isabella Campagnol Fabretti mentions these feltri traveling clothes in “The Italian Renaissance,” in The Greenwood Encyclopedia of Clothing Through World History, ed. Jill Condra (Westport, CT: Greenwood Press, 2008), 2:1–60, at 42. 43 Muzzarelli, “Reconciling the Privilege of a Few with the Common Good: Sumptuary Laws in Medieval and Early Modern Europe,” Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 39, no. 3 (Fall 2009): 597–617, at 599, emphasis added. 44 Dec. 10.9, 8. 45 Giovanni Boccaccio, The Decameron, trans. G. H. McWilliam (London: Penguin Books, 1995), 765. 46 Dec. 10.9, 14. Appearance here can refer to physiognomy, dress, adornment, or hairstyle, but that is not made explicit. 47 Kathryn L. Reyerson, “The Merchants of the Mediterranean: Merchants as Strangers,” in The Stranger in Medieval Society, ed. F. R. P. Akehurst and Stephanie Cain Van D’Elden (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 1997), 1–13, at 2. See also note 2, above.

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“Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 insists on being hospitable and courteous to these outsiders. Messer Torello is able to “see through their disguise” only in terms of social station; these merchants of Cyprus are worthier than the “gentili uomini” [men of gentle birth] in “nostra contrada” [our country].48 The hospitality of Messer Torello (and the extravagant generosity of Saladin later in the text) is part of the overriding theme of the tenth day of the Decameron. Both Saladin and Torello become, in the narrative, representations of shared values despite their dissimilar cultural and confessional identities. Conversely, ethnic identity and religious difference are not perceptible in this part of Decameron 10.9 despite the impending crusade in which the Christians are about to participate. Boccaccio’s obviation of ethnic/religious difference and enhancement of the Sultan’s evident virtues are perhaps due to Saladin being “in the medieval European imagination . . . [the] epitome of chivalry, generosity, and tolerance.”49 Furthermore, in an attempt to “domesticate” the European enemy in the Third Crusade, Saladin “becomes something of an anti-clerical weapon for many authors: a non-Christian prince who through liberality, modesty, and charity outshines the petty, venal Christian priests and princes.”50 Boccaccio is among the authors who use Saladin to remark on issues among the Christian kingdoms and states, and in relation to social hierarchies. In other words, despite their differing faith and even on opposite sides of a large-scale war effort, Saladin and Torello are able to interact and to accept the other as a perfect and magnificent man due to Saladin’s successful ethnic passing (even as his disguise is less effective in terms of social position). Additionally, Saladin unintentionally performs a secondary role through further layers of clothing. This second performance, which apparently relates only to social station, becomes a confirmation that the Sultan’s religious identity is not in question. Upon their arrival in Pavia, Torello has already instructed his household to be ready to welcome the foreigners. Messer Torello’s wife prepares and presents Saladin and his counselors with “due paia di robe, l’un foderato di drappo e l’altro di vaio . . . e tre giubbe di zendado e pannilini” [two pairs of robes, one lined with wool and the other with vair . . . three sendal jackets, and underwear].51 These robes, which according to Carlo Merkel are lined with wool “probabilmente per l’estate” [probably for summer] and the others with fur “per l’inverno” [for winter], serve several functions in the narrative.52 First, these clothes add another layer to the disguises of Saladin and his counselors, as they will don them while touring the city on horseback. Second, they seem disproportionately rich for a private citizen such as Torello.53 Though citizens could be affluent in fourteenth-century Italy and merchants were trading in luxury Dec. 10.9, 18. Tolan, “Mirror,” 7. Ibid., 34. Dec. 10.9, 31. Carlo Merkel, Come Vestivano gli Uomini del “Decameron”: Saggio di Storia del Costume (Rome: n.p., 1898), 105. 53 Elissa Weaver posits that clothes in the Decameron are “segnali della condizione sociale e specialmente dei costume e del modo di vivere di chi li porta” [signals of the social condition and especially of the custom and way of life of who wears them]; “Dietro,” 705. 48 49 50 51 52

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Ana Grinberg wares, Boccaccio emphatically comments on the excessive luxury of these clothes. Signore do not wear the same attire that cittadine and mercatanti do. Elisa Weaver considers the garments presented to Saladin to be “ricchi vestiti signorili” [rich, stately clothes] that are “elementi distintivi del vivere decoroso e gentile del mercante” [distinctive elements of the decorous and refined life of the merchant].54 Nevertheless, as Merkel explains, the “giubbe di zendado” [sendal jackets] “era abito, non da mercanti, ma da signori, ed era indossata nelle occasioni solenni” [were worn by gentlemen and not by merchants, and donned only on solemn occasions].55 That is to say, the giubbe were indeed stately but not distinctive of merchants’ attire. Furthermore, “[l]a giubba, foriera del nuovo lusso, fu la prima ad essere fatta di seta e precisamente di zendado, forse perchè questo si prestava meglio all’imbottitura” [harbinger of a new luxury, the giubba was the first garment to be made of silk and precisely of sendal, perhaps because this is better suited for padding].56 Despite the fact that our narrative seems to be set in the twelfth century due to the inclusion of Saladin and the crusades, the outfits that Adalieta gives Saladin and his counselors are closer to the fashion in the time of the composition of the Decameron. These types of garments are mentioned in one of the earliest sumptuary laws in Florence, dated 1330, which effectively enforced social hierarchies, as Muzzarelli explains.57 The 1330 sumptuary regulation “vietò a questi [Florentine men] di portare ‘giubbetti di zendado o di drappo o di ciambellotto’” [forbid the Florentine men to wear “doublets or jackets made of silk, wool cloth, or camlet”].58 Boccaccio is clearly aware of these laws and customs, as he explicitly states that the presents were “non miga cittadine nè da mercatanti, ma da signore” [more suited to a prince than to any merchant or private citizen].59 Furthermore, as Saladin knows that Torello “era cittadino e non signore” [was a private citizen, not a prince] and the Sultan is impersonating a merchant, the gifts are far beyond their station, leading him to fear that Torello “had seen through their disguise.”60 Thus a closer look at Adalieta’s gifts shows that Boccaccio is responding to, even perhaps critiquing, the rigorous social hierarchy and the sumptuary laws that helped uphold it. Besides being sumptuous presents, the vestments Adalieta offers Saladin are a bridge between these two seemingly distinct men. These garments also become levelers and keepsakes in the story. Adalieta tells the visitors, “Prendete queste: io ho delle robe il mio signore vestito con voi” [Take these robes: They are like the ones in which I have arrayed my husband].61 This implies that, in wearing similar attire 54 Ibid. 55 Merkel, Come Vestivano, 22. 56 Ibid., 105. 57 Muzzarelli, “Reconciling,” 599. 58 Merkel, Come Vestivano, 106, quoting Villani, Cronica XI, cap. 151; Giovanni Villani, Nuova Cronica, ed. G. Porta (Parma: Fondazione Pietro Bembo/Guanda, 1991). About the giubbetti, see Fabretti, “The Italian Renaissance,” 2:38. 59 Dec. 10.9, 31; Decameron, trans. McWilliam, 770. 60 Decameron, trans. McWilliam, 770. 61 Dec. 10.9, 31; Decameron, trans. McWilliam, 770.

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“Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 when touring the city on horseback, Saladin is marked as somewhat of an equal to Messer Torello—both bearing the symbols of a particular rank and faith.62 However, this is not an instance of ethnic passing, as Saladin is not purposely representing someone from a different cultural background. If we go to the Italian text, there is no explicit reference to Saladin and his counselors actually wearing the newly presented garments. The text only points out that these men “vestitesi le robe loro,” literally, “got dressed with their robes.”63 The discrepancy further appears when looking at the English translations, as James M. Rigg has the sentence as “they donned their robes,” while G. Harry McWilliam has it as “they donned their new robes.”64 And yet, these clothes are the material link between Saladin and Torello, the means of recognition between the two. Upon seeing these garments in Alexandria, Torello claims that they “somiglian robe di che io già con tre mercatanti, che a casa mia capitorono, vestito ne fui” [resemble certain robes which I myself wore, and were also worn by three merchants who came to stay with me].65 In other words, textiles in Decameron 10.9 so far are not essential to ethnic and/or religious differentiation; instead they function as a common denominator among dissimilar social ranks—princes, private citizens, or merchants—and as a token for recognition. The medieval audience of the Decameron would realize, as Saladin himself notes, that “piú compiuto uomo né piú cortese né piú avveduto di costui non fu mai” [there was never a more complete, polite, or circumspect man].66 Torello’s courtesy and generosity is uncommon, and we could even claim that as a merchant, Saladin’s experience is not realistic. On the one hand, the Sultan is the recipient of this extreme 62 Monica L. Wright explains that gifts might express the lord’s largesse, be restorative, function as identificatory tokens, or be demonstrations of love; Weaving Narrative, 86–94. In the case of Decameron 10.9, gifts of clothing serve as symbols of generosity and an identificatory element. Yet, the scene where Saladin wears robes that are similar to Torello’s might also imply a domestication of the foreign threat, as the gift can become a form of livery that marks the receiver as a retainer of the person who bestows such garments. 63 Dec. 10.9, 33. 64 Decameron, trans. Rigg, 2:375; Decameron, trans. McWilliam, 771, emphasis added. 65 Dec. 10.9, 36; Decameron, trans. McWilliam, 774. 66 Dec. 10.9, 35. According to Marco Cursi, the original (and perhaps intended) audience consisted of “ricchi fiorentini que vivevano negli esclusivi ambienti della corte angioina” [rich Florentines who lived in the exclusive sphere of the Angevin court]; Cursi, Il Decameron: Scritture, Scriventi, Lettori (Rome: Viella, 2007), 26. Previously, Branca posited that the Decameron was “a work created not for the savoring of the refined men of letters but for the joy of less-cultured readers,” meaning the burgeoning middle class; The Man and His Works, 201. Cursi instead proposes that the manuscript corpus can be divided into three periods. During the “proto-diffusione” period (the time when Boccaccio was still alive), Cursi finds that the author was in the center of the earliest manuscript tradition which could imply a surveillance attempt (“La presenza di una tradizione manoscritta così strettamente orbitante intorno alla figura del Boccaccio potrebbe sottintendere anche un tentativo di sorveglianza da parte dell’autore”); Scritture, 44, emphasis in the original. But readership did change from this first period into what Cursi calls the “prima diffusione” period (1376–1425), corresponding with a “nuovo pubblico di lettori (e potenziali scriventi), costituito principalmente da laici dell’Italia comunale appartenenti al ceto mercantile, artigianale o professionale” [new readership (and perhaps writers), mainly consisting of lay communal Italians belonging to the merchant, craftsmen, or professional classes]; Scritture, 47.

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Ana Grinberg generosity; on the other, he is able to pass as a Christian (though Torello has doubts about Saladin’s identity as a merchant).67 Yet, European merchants were familiar with wearing the clothing of a different faith as a helpful device in their trade. Moreover, they were acquainted with the dangers of being robbed or taken captive in Muslim lands, as happens to Messer Torello when he goes on crusade.68 While imprisoned, Torello also disguises his identity, using the generic name “Christian,” resorting to being a falconer, and claiming to be a “povero uomo e di bassa condizione” [poor man of low estate].69 Similar to Saladin, who opts for a disguise that provides him with freedom of mobility, Torello chooses partially to conceal his identity—though in his case to avoid being ransomed. Unlike Saladin in his performance as a Christian Cypriot merchant, Torello retains his religious identity. After recognizing Messer Torello despite his going incognito, Saladin has the opportunity to fulfill his offer of “farem vedere di nostra mercatantia” [showing (him) our merchandise] in response to Torello’s earlier doubts about the merchant identity of Saladin and his counselors.70 This merchandise, as Branca notes, is “la cortesia, la mercanzia dei veri signori” [courtesy, the merchandise of true lords].71 In addition to holding a feast, the Sultan has his friend dressed in “reali vestimenti” [regal clothes], and treated as an equal—an event foreshadowed by the similar robes that Adalieta gave to Saladin in Pavia. All these, indeed, are actions that reflect true courtesy and generosity that exceeds that shown by Torello in Pavia. In commenting about S­ aladin’s “merchandise,” courtesy as Branca indicates, Boccaccio undermines those who call themselves courtly and wear rich clothing but fail to behave properly in terms of hospitality and largesse. Boccaccio does not describe Torello’s new, regal garments. Instead, he emphasizes Saladin’s generosity in terms of Torello’s social position in court—as an equal to the Sultan. Nevertheless, because many richly embroidered fabrics and outfits arrived in Europe from the East, we are to imagine Torello dressed in such style. We should note also that, despite wearing regal garments, Torello is not intentionally performing a different ethnic identity, just as Saladin was not purposely disguised while riding within Pavia. By the time he arrives in Pavia on a magical flying bed, Torello is ready for his own ethnic performance through a multilayered disguise. Firstly, he dons “una roba alla guisa saracinesca, la piú ricca e la piú bella cosa che mai fosse stata veduta per

67 As Stephen J. Milner comments, the Decameron is fundamentally ambivalent “as a work of realist fiction, hovering between the narrative poles of history and fable”; Milner, “Boccaccio’s Decameron and the Semiotics of the Everyday,” in Armstrong, Daniels, and Milner, Cambridge Companion to Boccaccio, 83–100, at 84. 68 For instance, in a treaty from 1497 containing commercial privileges, Florentine merchants “asked that they be permitted to wear the clothes of Muslims, Mamluk, and Bedouin in their journeys, so that there be no temptation to rob them” (John Wansbrough, quoted in Baskins, “Scenes from a Marriage,” 94). This request provides us with a real-life instance of “ethnic cross-dressing” among Christian merchants that would help them succeed in their business. 69 Dec. 10.9, 54; Decameron, trans. McWilliam, 774. 70 Dec. 10.9, 38. 71 Decameron, ed. Branca, 1219 n. 5.

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“Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 alcuno” [a robe in Saracen fashion, the most rich and beautiful ever seen].72 For the first time in Decameron 10.9, Boccaccio uses the term Saracen—a medieval construction of an imaginary foreigner often considered a Muslim or a pagan. Furthermore, “alla saracinesca” is a common descriptor for clothing and textiles, particularly by the fourteenth century, according to Susan Mosher Stuard.73 Secondly, Torello’s outfit is complemented with a turban, as he “in testa alla lor guisa una delle sue lunghissime bende ravolgere” [as is their style, had long bandages wrapped on his head].74 Turbans, as Joyce Kubiski explains, were a common head covering among Central Asian, Middle Eastern, and North African peoples that “was often used in western art as a sign for ‘Saracens.’”75 Furthermore, men’s turbans were among the fashions that “at times cross[ed] over from the Muslim . . . community and [were] accepted by Christians.”76 Finally, Torello’s appearance is completed with a long beard. During the Middle Ages, beards and hairstyles were frequently means to distinguish ethnic groups, due to their visibility.77 Moreover, long beards seem to have been closely related to religious denomination, as a Castilian legislation required Muslims to “wear long beards as their law commands,” while Christians had to “go about with their hair cut in a circle and parted without a forelock.”78 Torello is then using his facial hair, together with rich textiles and a turban, to go incognito when back in Pavia. All three of these elements are essential in his travestimento and enable him to have mobility in his own town.79 In the second part of Decameron 10.9, Torello’s donning rich Oriental clothing is not yet an active form of transvestism. It is not until the monks of San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro fail to recognize him, as Monica Donnagio has argued, that Torello begins his performance.80 Torello attends Adalieta’s wedding banquet dressed in the same garments in which he arrived; thus he is not recognized. Moreover, the abbot tells all the attendants that he is a “saracino mandato dal soldano al re di Francia ambasciadore” [a Saracen whom the Sultan had dispatched to the King of France as his envoy].81 In other 72 Dec. 10.9, 77. 73 See Susan Mosher Stuard, Gilding the Market: Luxury and Fashion in Fourteenth-Century Italy (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2011), especially chapter 2, “Desirable Wares.” 74 Dec. 10.9, 77. 75 Joyce Kubiski, “Orientalizing Costume in Early Fifteenth-Century French Manuscript Painting (Cité des Dames Master, Limbourg Brothers, Boucicaut Master, and Bedford Master),” Gesta 40, no. 2 (2001): 161–80, at 164. 76 Stuard, Gilding the Market, 82. 77 On hair during this period, see Robert Bartlett, “Symbolic Meanings of Hair in the Middle Ages,” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 4 (1994): 43–60, at 45; and Safran, Medieval Salento, especially 76. 78 Bartlett, “Symbolic Meanings,” 46. 79 Weaver, “Dietro,” 701 n. 1. 80 Donnagio, in “Il travestimento” (212), states that Torello “prend[e] in mano la situazione nel momento in cui, accortosi di non essere riconosciuto dai monaci di San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro (e solo in questo momento il suo ‘essere vestito da saraceno’ diventa un travestimento vera e proprio) ‘motiva’ attivamente il suo travestimento” [takes control of the situation in the moment when the realization that he is not recognized by the monks of San Pietro in Ciel d’Oro actively “motivates” his disguise (and only at this time his “being dressed as a Saracen” becomes full-fledged transvestism)]. 81 Dec. 10.9, 101; Decameron, trans. McWilliam, 781.

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Ana Grinberg words, Torello’s performance is one of both ethnicity and rank (social station). On the one hand, he is recognized and accepted as a Muslim; on the other, he is thought to be a “gran barbassoro” [great vavasour].82 Torello’s impersonation—his very intentional ethnic passing—relies then on multiple layers: “la barba grande e lo strano abito” [the long beard and his strange attire].83 The strange attire, this most beautiful and rich “Saracen” robe, could seem a “denunzia dell’immoralitá e della decadenza dei costumi lussuosi/lussuriosi del mondo ‘orientale’” [denunciation of the immorality and decadence of the luxurious and lascivious customs of the “Oriental” world] typical of later Orientalist discourse.84 But Boccaccio, particularly in this story, is not denouncing the immorality and decadence of the Orient as we have seen. To begin with, Saladin is represented as a generous and courteous prince, who treats his captives with much honor and is, in turn, worthy of a grand reception by the city of Pavia. Also, Torello is not deemed immoral while in Alexandria or once he is back in Pavia. Even in his “strange attire,” Torello is really well received in Pavia as a Saracen ambassador considering that, in Giuseppe Rotondi’s words, “in quei tempi . . . tante spose . . . trepidavano guardando verso l’oriente dove il marito combatteva contro gli infideli” [in those days . . . many wives . . . trembled looking toward the East, where their husbands were fighting against the infidels].85 And lastly, ethnic passing in both of these characters does not imply “dressing up” or “dressing down,” as in disguises involving social rank. Saladin’s identity is not bettered through his representation of a Cypriot merchant, and neither is Torello’s as ambassador. In both cases, disguising as the ethnic/religious Other enables a mobility otherwise impossible to attain, also showing that merchants and other medieval people could become “in-between” subjects, as Fuchs comments in terms of Cervantes’s works.86 And while Weaver asserts in her study of clothing in the Decameron that “la situazione è provvisoria o è criticata” [the situation is provisional or is criticized], in this novella ethnic transvestism is not criticized; it is only transitory.87 Despite his physical appearance and relationship with Saladin, Messer Torello does not “turn Turk”—as in a later period Europeans would refer to Christians who identified as Muslims and even

82 Dec. 10.9, 105; my translation. McWilliam (Decameron, 781) translates “gran barbassoro” as “panjandrum.” Panjandrum is “([a] mock title for) a mysterious (freq. imaginary) personage of great power or authority; a pompous or pretentious official; a self-important person in authority”; Oxford English Dictionary, online ed. (New York: Oxford University Press, 2000–), s.v. “panjandrum” n. Thus McWilliam’s translation implies a self-importance that I cannot find in the text. Branca notes, instead, that “gran barbassoro” means “un personaggio importante, un dignitario” [an important figure, a dignitary] without any mocking intention; Decameron, 1229 n. 6. 83 Dec. 10.9, 102. 84 Franco Cardini, “Il Decameron: ‘Alle Radici’ (o ‘nella Preistoria’) dell’Orientalismo?” Studi sul Boccaccio 39 (2011): 1–22, at 10, emphasis added. 85 Rotondi, “Nuovi Riscontri,” 481. 86 Fuchs, Passing for Spain. 87 Weaver, “Dietro,” 708.

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“Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 converted to Islam, becoming renegades.88 And the same is true in the case of Saladin, who represents the “idealization of what a virtuous non-Christian knight and king should be: tolerant, generous, wise, just, pious, powerful, free from the constraints of money and politics, free from the struggles with clergy.”89 Saladin does not convert to Christianity, even if some of the many stories circulating during the Middle Ages claimed that he had baptized himself just before dying. Saladin’s and Torello’s instances of “ethnic passing,” their ability successfully to represent someone from a different cultural and/or ethnic background and their concealment of their own identities, reveal an “essential identity” that operates beyond ethnicity, religion, or nationality, as Baskins notes.90 What Boccaccio demonstrates through the use of textiles and other cultural identity markers in Decameron 10.9 is a recognizable similitude between Christians and Muslims that enables Saladin and Torello each to pass as the Other. And, more importantly, as we have seen here, these literary representations of “ethnic passing” expose the complexity of medieval ethnic identity in relation to textiles and garments.

88 For a thorough examination of early modern English identity formation as the result of the contact with Islam, see Daniel J. Vitkus, Turning Turk: English Theater and the Multicultural Mediterranean, 1570–1630 (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2003). 89 Tolan, “Mirror,” 38. 90 In describing the representation of identity in Decameron 10.9, Baskins argues that Torello’s and Saladin’s disguises actually “reveal a deeper, essential identity, one that transcends ethnic difference or national borders”; “Scenes from a Marriage,” 94.

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Calciamentum: Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca

Christine Meek

The Tuscan city of Lucca was ruled as an independent commune in the late fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. As such it not only has its own records of political events, but also extensive holdings of customs accounts, commercial transactions, court records, and private documents. In these records footwear is both ubiquitous and elusive. Household accounts frequently mention the acquisition of shoes and to a lesser extent hose, yet in other sources in which clothing is listed, such as inventories or records of items seized as security for debt, footwear very rarely appears. Shoemakers and cobblers are among the most frequently mentioned types of artisan, but this is often in contexts that reveal little about the circumstances of their trade. There are problems too about the precise meaning of terms for footwear. The distinction between shoes and hose is less clear-cut than might be supposed; shoes could be made of cloth, and stockings might have soles.1 There are, however, a number of regulations, petitions, and contracts featuring footwear of various kinds, which convey a little more about its nature and the circumstances of its production. This article will consider what late medieval Lucchese sources can be made to reveal about footwear in the two or three decades on either side of 1400. It will proceed by discussing first demand and the acquisition of footwear, and then its manufacture and supply, particularly as shown through regulations and disputes, which can shed light on the nature of different kinds of footwear and the meaning of terms used for it.

I would like to thank Gale Owen-Crocker for suggesting the subject of this article to me.   1 Maria Giuseppina Muzzarelli, “Sumptuous Shoes: Making and Wearing in Medieval Italy,” in Shoes: A History from Sandals to Sneakers, ed. Giorgio Riello and Peter McNeil (Oxford: Berg, 2006), 50–75, at 57; Paola Venturelli, “Vigevano e la Calzatura tra il XIV e il XIX Secolo,” in Dalla Parte della Scarpa: Le Calzature e Vigevano dal 1400 al 1940 (Vigevano, Italy: Comune di Vigevano, 1992), 16– 47, at 24–26.

Christine Meek DEMAND AND THE ACQUISITION OF FOOTWEAR

Lucca unfortunately has very few of the ricordi or family memoirs which have proved so fruitful a source for fourteenth- and fifteenth-century Florence, but two, both of them relating to doctors, are preserved in the Lucchese archives in the series Spedale di San Luca. In the case of servants, it was not the practice to make payments of the agreed salary on a regular monthly basis, but rather to run an account which would record small cash payments and anything paid to third parties on the servant’s behalf, with the totals being worked out every so often. These accounts frequently included payments to shoemakers for footwear, and can provide useful information on the frequency of such purchases and the relative costs of the various items. On September 30, 1388, Bartolomeo di Mazone entered the household of the surgeon Maestro Antonio da Silico, as either a servant or an apprentice.2 He was almost certainly an adolescent. Over the next four and a half years, Maestro Antonio recorded his expenditure for Bartolomeo, and shoes figured as the most regular, though by no means the heaviest, expense. He bought Bartolomeo shoes for 7 bolognini the pair on November 15, 1388, and March 21, June 13, and October 31, 1389.3 In 1390, Bartolomeo had another pair of shoes at 7 bolognini on January 30, a pair of shoes described as heavy (“scarpe grosse”) for the same price on June 24, and further pairs for 6 bolognini each on October 9 and December 24, with also wood for clogs (“legnacci da zocholi”) at 1 bolognino on the last occasion. Expenditure on shoes continued at this kind of level in the next two years, but Maestro Antonio may have found providing Bartolomeo with four pairs of shoes per year rather onerous; on August 28, 1389, he paid 1 soldo for the repair of the shoes he had bought on June 13 (“raconciatura delle dicte scarpe”), and the wood for clogs bought on December 24, 1390, may be interpreted in the same sense. Other items of clothing were bought less frequently, but cost much more. On December 15, 1388, Maestro Antonio paid 1 florin and 22 bolognini for five braccia of medley cloth (“panno mischio”) to make Bartolomeo a tunic and a pair of hose,4 and 4 bolognini on October 31, 1389, for a red cloth hood for him, and in the next few years he had more garments at considerably greater expense. The details of Maestro Antonio’s expenditure for Bartolomeo seem to indicate that shoes needed to be replaced as regularly as four times per year, but were not very costly, while garments, even stockings, could be expected to last much longer, but were relatively expensive.

  2 Bartolomeo’s father left 2 florins with Maestro Antonio, but there is no indication of the purpose of this payment, and it was not repeated; Lucca, Archivio di Stato, Spedale di San Luca 184, unfoliated. (All documents cited in this article are preserved in the Archivio di Stato, Lucca, unless otherwise indicated.) The accounts regarding Bartolomeo come between Maestro Antonio’s general accounts for 1429 and 1430, but are bound upside down.   3 There were 36 bolognini to the florin for much of the late fourteenth and early fifteenth century. It would thus be possible to buy five pairs of shoes for slightly less than a florin.   4 A braccio was about twenty-two inches.

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca Separate accounts of Maddalena, Maestro Antonio’s married daughter, support this conclusion.5 She began her accounts of expenditure for herself and her daughter Giovanna on June 5, 1413, the only date given. It is not clear how old Giovanna was, though she was certainly quite a small child. Maddalena herself was born on April 9, 1388, and was probably married about January 1404.6 Giovanna was learning her letters; there are payments of 4 bolognini for an alphabet table for her and 10 bolognini to the prioress of San Cerbone for teaching it to her,7 so she was perhaps about six or seven. Maddalena made frequent purchases of shoes for both herself and her daughter; indeed she several times bought two pairs at once. She bought two pairs of shoes for Giovanna, one red and one black, for a total of 8 bolognini from the shoemaker Cristofano (Cristofano calzolaio), and two for herself, one black and the other “di camuscio” (of chamois) from the same supplier for a total of 12 bolognini. She also bought a pair of pattens (pianelle) from a specialist in their production, Iacobo pianellaio. These were probably for herself, since they cost 8 bolognini. She subsequently bought two more pairs of shoes, one red and one black, from Cristofano, presumably for Giovanna since they only came to 8 bolognini between them. A pair of pattens for herself cost 8 bolognini and one for Giovanna 4 bolognini, and two pairs of pattens and two pairs of clogs (soccoli) for Giovanna are recorded in the same purchase, at a total of 7 bolognini.8 She later recorded the purchase of another pair of pattens at 4 bolognini for Giovanna and a pair of closed pattens (pianelle chiuse) for herself for 9 bolognini, and later a pair of shoes for Giovanna at 4 bolognini. In three consecutive entries she listed a pair of pattens for 5 bolognini, a pair of clogs for 3 bolognini, and a pair of shoes for 4 bolognini, all for Giovanna.9 It is a pity that it is not possible to work out what period of time these purchases covered; since Giovanna had six pairs of shoes, five pairs of pattens, and three pairs of clogs, it was presumably more than one year. The next folio, which again records purchases for Giovanna, lists one pair of heavy shoes and one pair of light ones, each with pattens (“per uno paio di scarpe grosse et per i paio di soctile colle pianelle”), and one pair of heavy pattens (“per i paio di pianelle grosse”), for a total of 14 bolognini, all under January 1415, with a further pair of pattens and a pair of shoes for 9 bolognini in March, another pair of shoes for 5 bolognini on May 3, and further pairs at 4 bolognini each on June 10 and July 6, which indicates that Giovanna was getting through even more pairs of shoes than Bartolomeo had done.10 Purchases of clothing are much less frequent but cost much more, and there are quite frequent purchases of what seem to be fringes, braids,   5 These are to be found in the fifth section of Spedale di San Luca 184, which is foliated, while the rest is not. Fol. 6r, in another hand, refers to payments for Giovanna in 1415, so the accounts may cover 1414 as well as the second half of 1413.   6 Maestro Antonio is recorded as advancing money to Maddalena’s husband, Guido di ser Stefano Gaetani of Pisa, on January 16, 1404, to pay for ornaments and trimmings for his wife, perhaps in connection with their wedding.   7 Spedale di San Luca 184, 4v.   8 Ibid., 4r.   9 Ibid., 4v. 10 Ibid., 6r.

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Christine Meek and trims for garments and headdresses. The most interesting purchase, however, was a pair of dark stockings or hose with soles, which cost the large sum of 33 bolognini taking into account the amount paid for the cloth and the soling (“un paio di calse brune solate tra il panno et solatura”).11 This is the only reference in these accounts to soled hose, and the relatively high price is striking. Even if they were for Maddalena herself, as they quite likely were, they cost very much more than the 6 bolognini she was paying for shoes or the 8 or 9 bolognini for pattens. Similar information may be derived from the Memoriale of the physician Maestro Iacopo Coluccini.12 This is a collection of notes, mainly about Maestro Iacopo’s property and business affairs, covering the period from the 1370s to shortly before his death in 1417. While it is extensive, it is not by any means comprehensive, saying virtually nothing about how the household was provisioned or about the acquisition of clothing and footwear for himself and his family. Like Maestro Antonio da Silico, he employed servants with whom he ran accounts. The longest-standing was with Iacopino, who entered his service on August 2, 1383, and was still there some thirty years later.13 He was provided with a pair of shoes for 6 grossetti on October 8, 1383, and a pair of clogs for 3 grossetti on October 25.14 The next year he had had a further two pairs of shoes by August 9 and two more by October 15, then three more by May 26, 1385.15 Expenditure on footwear continued at about the same level in the next few years.16 However, after that the number of pairs of shoes Iacopino had each year increased to six in 1390 and 1391, five in 1394, and nine plus two pairs of clogs in 1395, though only four in 1392, two in 1393, and three pairs of shoes and one pair of clogs in 1396.17 It has to be remembered that the entries relate to the date of payment rather than the date on which the shoes were acquired, and in one or two cases the number of pairs is not stated and has to be estimated on the basis of the price, but nevertheless it does seem that Iacopino was getting through more pairs of shoes in the 1390s than he had earlier. There are two possible explanations for this. Other entries in the Memoriale show that Iacopino was doing a great deal of fetching and carrying, including trips between Lucca and Maestro Iacopo’s farms in the countryside, and this must have been hard on his shoes, even if he did not always make the entire journey on foot. Another explanation is that Iacopino had entered Maestro Iacopo’s service as a boy and was now growing up and wanting to cut more of a figure. The expenditure on his 11 Ibid., 4r. 12 Spedale di San Luca 180. This manuscript has been transcribed and published by Pia Pittino Calamari as “Il Memoriale di Iacopo di Coluccino Bonavia, Medico Lucchese (1373–1416),” Studi di Filologia Italiana 24 (1966): 55–428. This printed edition will be cited here. 13 Calamari, “Memoriale,” 68, Aug. 2, 1383. He is mentioned under 1411 (317). The later part of the Memoriale is more disordered, and there is no indication that Iacopino left Maestro Iacopo’s service. He may be the “Iacopo Corsini che sta meco per mio famiglio” (“Iacopo Corsini who lives with me as my servant”), whom Maestro Iacopo named as his proxy together with ser Simone Alberti, Oct. 11, 1396 (301). 14 Ibid., 68. Grossetti were worth about the same as bolognini. 15 Ibid., 98–99. 16 Ibid., 120–22, 135–36, 146–47. 17 Ibid., 149–50, 168–69, 178–80, 183–84.

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca clothing included in the same accounts provides some support for this explanation. In 1383 his shoes cost 6 grossetti, which indicates that he was not an adult, and the only clothing listed is a hand-me-down serge doublet of Maestro Iacopo’s and a hood that had belonged to Maestro Iacopo’s recently deceased wife Agata. He had more clothing over the next few years,18 but while many of these items cost much more than shoes, his purchases probably do not go beyond what was necessary as garments wore out and Iacopino perhaps grew out of them. But in the late 1380s his expenditure on dress seems to increase, at just the time he was buying more shoes, and this higher level of expenditure on clothing continued over the next two years.19 His salary is never indicated, but it seems likely that he was living beyond his means. In the account from May 1395 to November 1396, a period in which he had seven pair of shoes and one pair of clogs, he also had a new shirt and underpants chalked up to Maestro Iacopo for 15 grossetti, ready-made linen garments from Francesco Berindelli for 54 grossetti, three canne20 of beige cloth (“panno bigio”) from Paolo Turignoni for 5¼ florins, and five braccia of linen hempen cloth (“panno lino di canape”) from Francesco Berindelli for 40s. 6d., with 1 florin 8 grossetti to a tailor called Michele. The most revealing entry is, however, that of July 31, 1396: Maestro Iacopo advanced him 50 grossetti to redeem his beige overtunic from the pawnbroker, when it had been taken from the house (“che lli fue tolta di casa”), that is, presumably distrained for debt.21 Unfortunately there are no further detailed accounts with Iacopino, although there continue to be references to shoes for him among others in Maestro Iacopo’s accounts with shoemakers who rented a shop from him. The accounts for shoes for Iacopino illustrate the perhaps surprising number of pairs of shoes an active man could get through in a year, but also suggest that some of this expenditure was discretionary and associated with clothing that went beyond basic tunics and cloaks to more elaborate and lavish garments in order to cut a figure. Maestro Iacopo also ran accounts for others—servants, tenants, or relatives—on the same basis, although never in such detail or over such an extended period. He ran more regular accounts with Bartolomeo Masini of Pietrasanta, his brother-inlaw, lending him smallish sums of money, buying through him goods such as the flax produced in Pietrasanta, and apparently housing Bartolomeo’s young sons in Lucca. Maestro Iacopo accounted for cloth and tailoring costs for a tunic and overtunic for Bartolomeo’s son Antonio, and for a pair of shoes and a pair of clogs on December 29, 1386, and another pair of shoes on August 14, 1387. This is the more remarkable, since Bartolomeo Masini was himself a shoemaker. Presumably it made sense for Maestro Iacopo to acquire shoes for Antonio in Lucca rather than have them sent from ­Pietrasanta. Maestro Iacopo apparently regarded expenditure for shoes as trivial in any

18 19 20 21

Ibid., 135–36. Ibid., 146–47, 149–50, 168–69, 178–80. Canne are measures of length, with four braccia per canna. Ibid., 183–84.

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Christine Meek case, since when he and Bartolomeo did the accounts between them on September 14, 1387, he said he wouldn’t bother to include the shoes and other minor things.22 In December 1398 Bartolomeo Guidotti, who was married to the sister of Maestro Iacopo’s wife, went off to Genoa for an extended period, leaving two of his daughters, Maddalena and Ysabella, in Maestro Iacopo’s household. Maddalena died on July 4, 1400, perhaps during the major outbreak of plague that year. Up to the time of Maddalena’s death, a period of some eighteen months, Maestro Iacopo had provided eight pairs of shoes and four pairs of clogs (soccoli) for the two girls, and Ysabella subsequently had a pair of shoes on November 27, a pair of clogs on December 7, a pair of shoes described as vermilion and a pair of pattens for Easter 1401, with a further pair of vermilion shoes and a pair of black ones by August that year.23 Maestro Iacopo rarely records the purchase of footwear for himself or his family, but in 1398 he leased a shop he had recently bought to two successive shoemakers, who then supplied him with various items of footwear which were counted off the rent, and therefore carefully recorded. In August and September 1401 he had a pair of shoes for his wife for 5½ grossetti and a pair for the girl (“la fanciulla,” probably his wife’s niece Ysabella) for 4 grossetti, a pair for Iacopino for 9 grossetti, and two pairs totalling 14 grossetti for his son Nicolao, then aged about sixteen, one pair on September 3, 1401, and the other earlier. By January 18, 1402, he had had a further four pairs of shoes for Ysabella for 16 grossetti and four for Iacopino for 36 grossetti, and two pairs each for his wife and his son for 10 and 14 grossetti respectively.24 Iacopino continued to receive shoes at about the same rate in 1402, while Maestro Iacopo accounted for 9 grossetti in July for the soling of a pair of fancy hose for himself (“solatura di un paio di contige”), and 6 grossetti for the soling of another pair of hose (“uno paio d’altre calse solate”) in September. Intriguingly, he paid 6 grossetti instead of the previous 5½ for a pair of shoes for his wife, which were perhaps heavier since she was going into the country (“quando andoe in villa”) in September, and 9 grossetti for the “scarpellatura delli stivali” of his son Nicolao, who was about to return to university in Bologna at the end of that month.25 While the dates recorded are for payment rather than for the supply of these items, the account seems to indicate that these children were being provided with at least four pairs of shoes or clogs per year. The records of the Hospital of the Misericordia provide further information on the acquisition of children’s shoes, since one of its activities was to serve as a foundling hospital. Small babies were provided for by farming them out to wet nurses in the city or the countryside, for periods as long as eighteen months, so if the child survived, it would begin to need little shirts and gowns, and footwear. These were provided by

22 23 24 25

“non contando a lui le scarpe et altre cose minute,” ibid., 218–19. Ibid., 323–24. Where the price was given it was 4, 4½, or 5 grossetti, since these were children’s shoes. Ibid., 314, 319. While entered twice, these are clearly the same purchases. Ibid., 319–20. The meaning of the term scarpellatura as applied to boots is uncertain, but it may be the equivalent of scalpellatura, that is, treating them with a metal cutting tool to make them less slippery. Policarpo Petrocchi, Novo Dizionario Universale della Lingua Italiana (Milan: Fratelli Treves, 1908), s.v. “scarpellatura.”

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca the hospital, and are occasionally recorded under the accounts for that particular child.26 The hospital was, in fact, buying shoes on some scale. The shoemaker Lodovico di Cittadino was paid a total of 3 florins and 22 bolognini for twenty-two pairs of children’s shoes and nine pairs of women’s shoes he had supplied between October 15 and December 22, 1417.27 A more detailed account for 1418–19 distinguishes between different sizes of shoes according to the ages of the children. Lodovico had supplied twelve pairs of shoes for children aged eighteen months to three years old at 3 bolognini the pair. These were to be kept on hand in the hospital ready for the foster parents (doddi) at the appropriate time and age.28 On February 6 he also supplied six pairs of shoes for children aged three to three and a half at 2½ bolognini the pair, and five more pairs, two at 3½ bolognini and two at 3 bolognini, with one pair at 5 bolognini for Tomasa, who was presumably older. On April 26, he was paid a total of 13 bolognini for four pairs of shoes for small children and 5 bolognini for one pair of larger ones. Between June 18 and July 19, 1419, he supplied another eleven pairs of shoes for the hospital’s children at a total cost of 1 florin and 2 bolognini.29 Another shoemaker, Niccolo da Tizana, provided six pairs of shoes for the children, one pair for Agata (perhaps an employee of the hospital), and a pair of pattens for Madonna Isabetta, the wife of the hospital’s rector.30 Shoes were everyday items and might be mentioned casually in documents that were primarily concerned with other matters. In 1416 a would-be seducer of a married woman offered her a pair of shoes (“un paio di scharpecte”) as an inducement—not a particularly lavish offer in view of their modest price.31 In 1421 Domenico di Antonio, a Florentine who had lived in Lucca selling bread in Piazza San Michele, attempted to flee from his creditors but was stopped by the Captain of the People, who found 32 florins tied up in a piece of cloth in one of the shoes he was wearing.32 In 1427 Leonardo Augustini, a priest, accused Messer Iacobo Franchi, rector of the church of San Giusto, of throwing a wooden clog (“zocholum ligneum”) at him, hitting him on the left thigh, and then giving him a good spanking on his shoulders and backside with the other clog.33 Perhaps the most remarkable example is a code which was used for 26 Spedale di San Luca 907, 198r., Jan. 12, 1416; 190r, Oct. 14, 1418; 212r, undated. 27 Spedale di San Luca 398, 285r. The women’s shoes were probably for employees of the hospital. 28 “per averle in casa apparecchiate per li doddi di mano in mano come fa bisogno da eta et tempo,” Spedale di San Luca 399, 17r, Jan. 19, 1418. 29 Also 17 bolognini for three pairs of shoes for three women employees of the hospital, in October 1419, ibid., 17r. 30 Ibid., 20r, March 26, 1418. The total was 37 bolognini. 31 Proceedings against Lucharino Luche, a court messenger in Montecarlo, Capitano del Popolo 24, p. 13, Aug. 20, 1416. 32 “in una ex suctillaribus quas habuit in suis pedibus sutos in uno cincio vel pezzetta panni lini florenos auri triginta duos omnes auri ultra illis tres quos confessus fuit ut supra penes se habere,” Capitano del Popolo 28, 30r–31r, Sept. 3, 1421. Footwear seems to have been a recognized place for concealing money. When the Misericordia sold the shoes of pilgrims (romei), who had died in the hospital, the buyer was required on his conscience to reveal any gold or silver he found in them; Spedale di San Luca 398, 59v, Sept. 3, 1400. 33 Lucca, Archivio Storico Diocesano, Tribunale Ecclesiastico Criminale 46, 133v, Jan. 11, 1427.

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Christine Meek an agent sent out to report on troop movements. This involved pre-set phrases in the form of a long list of items, mostly clothing and household goods, each representing one of some thirty possible troop movements. These included footwear, so that, for example, up to fifty cavalry riding towards Sanminiato was a pair of pattens (“uno paio di pianello”), while if there were more than fifty, it was a pair of shoes (“uno paio di scarpe”) and more than fifty cavalry going from Lombardy to Pisa was stockings with soles (“calze solate”).34 These were presumably items so commonplace that they could easily be slipped into letters to agents or family members about minor domestic matters without arousing any suspicion that they had a meaning beyond purely private affairs. But in documents in which footwear might be expected to be mentioned more specifically, it rarely appears. Inventories were drawn up when someone died, and in the case of a wealthy individual might involve many pages detailing household goods and clothing, but they rarely include footwear. The inventory of Lazzaro di Francesco Guinigi, for example, lists five cloaks and fourteen robes of varying degrees of luxury, but the only footwear recorded is one pair of pale beige cloth hose and four pairs of black hose, three of them with soles.35 It was a common practice to apply to the courts for the movable property of a debtor to be distrained or for a person seeking a loan to offer goods as a pledge. These regularly included clothing, bedding and linen, tools and household items, but never shoes or hose except in rare cases where the debtor was himself a shoemaker and the items were distrained as part of his stock in trade.36 Similarly when thieves were prosecuted, the items they had stolen were likely to be cash or obvious valuables, clothing, household textiles, or tools, but only very exceptionally hose or footwear, as when Antonio Coluccini of Barga, a housebreaker and vagabond, twice robbed the shops of shoemakers, taking shoes that were clearly unworn.37 Since items listed in inventories or distrained could include things of little value, such as worn sheets, shabby towels, and pans with broken handles, the absence of footwear is the more remarkable and must indicate that secondhand shoes had little value and could not easily be worn by someone else.

34 Governo di Paolo Guinigi 5, 46v, undated but from the first decades of the fifteenth century. 35 “unum par caligarum de panno bigio claro,” “quatuor par caligarum nigrarum de quibus tria paria sunt solate,” Raccolte Speciali, San Frediano 252, 50v, April 1, 1400. The list of movables covers more than eight pages and includes such minor items as a pair of women’s silk gloves and a paper of pins, 50r–54r. 36 Christine Meek, “Clothing Distrained for Debt in the Court of Merchants of Lucca in the Late Fourteenth Century,” Medieval Clothing and Textiles 10 (2014), 97–128. 37 He stole “unum par suctillarum” (a pair of shoes) valued at 11 popolini from the shop rented by the cobbler (cerdo) Paolo Dominici da Castro Fiorentino and another pair valued at 7 popolini from the shop of a German cobbler called Arrigo in 1420. He also stole hose from shops on two separate occasions in 1421, and various other garments. Capitano del Popolo 28, 108r–109v, Jan. 12, 1422.

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca MANUFACTURE AND SUPPLY

With footwear such an everyday item, and with individuals on quite a modest level needing three or four pairs of shoes per year, the manufacture and trade in these items must have been an important activity involving large numbers of artisans and petty tradesmen. Shoemakers are frequently met with in Lucchese documents, even though this might be in circumstances that reveal little about them, for example when they witness documents or rent modest houses. Shoemakers were to some extent subject to the Court of Merchants and thus obliged to make annual declarations of their partners, factors, and apprentices, but they seem to have played a somewhat marginal role and did not make such declarations at all regularly.38 For some purposes they were also subject to the Curia del Fondaco, which supervised humbler tradesmen, such as those engaged in the provision trades, ironmongers, and tailors, and this provides rather more information. Those engaged in such trades were to be declared to the Fondaco by the consul of their contrata (a local administrative division within a terziere) and had to take an annual oath to ply their trade honestly and observe the regulations that applied to it. Unfortunately these oaths were recorded under the contrata in which they lived or worked, and not grouped according to their trade. This makes it more difficult to be sure how complete the declarations are, but taking the year 1412 as an example, twenty-three individuals took the oath as calzolai (shoemakers) in the Terziere of San Paolino, one of the three wards into which Lucca was divided, and twenty-two for the Terziere of San Salvatore. There were eight individuals named as planularii (that is, makers of pianelle) and ten, one of them a woman working with her husband, as stivigliarii.39 Six men are named as ciabattari and eleven as cerdones, that is, artisans who undertook rougher work, cobblers rather than shoemakers, although the distinction cannot have been rigid, since two individuals were called both calzolaio and ciabattaio or cerdone.40 These figures cannot be regarded as anything like complete. There is no entry for Terziere San Martino, the third of the Lucchese wards, though there is no reason to believe it did not have artisans engaged in shoemaking and related trades in similar numbers to the other two terzieri.41 A number of those taking the oath state that they 38 There are only scattered survivals of these declarations, forming nos. 83–87 in the series Corte de’ Mercanti (hereafter cited as CM), which have been published by Paolo Pelù, I Libri dei Mercanti Lucchesi degli Anni 1371–1372–1381–1407–1488 (Lucca: Nuova Grafica Lucchese, 1975). Only two, three, and four firms were listed for the years 1371, 1372, and 1381, respectively, and none at all for 1407. 39 This seems to mean bootmaker, though in one firm consisting of four men, they are indicated as stivillarii et blavarii (corn merchants), and one man is indicated as spetiarius (apothecary) et stivillarius; Curia del Fondaco 250, 57r, 66r. 40 Ceccho Vallis de Chiusi is called chalsorarius, Curia del Fondaco 250, 56r, and cerdo, 91r; Francesco Getti swore as calsorarius et ciabattarius, 57v. These have not been counted in the figures for either of their trades. 41 The surviving records for San Paolino and San Salvatore are somewhat confused. Although they have contemporary foliation, they have been bound into two separate volumes of the Curia del Fondaco series, and there are cross-references to folios that no longer survive. Folios 51r–69v and 85r–93v are

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Christine Meek do so on behalf of their workmen or apprentices as well as themselves, without any indication of the numbers involved. Nevertheless the records provide some useful information. If there were forty-five calzolai in the two terzieri of San Paolino and San Salvatore, there were presumably sixty-seven or more in the city as a whole. They were also widely, though not necessarily evenly, distributed throughout the city with no sign of the sort of clustering that concentrated cooks and those engaged in the provisions trade in the contrata of San Sensio or the tanners in the contrate of San Tomeo and San Giorgio.42 Shoemaking also seems to have been a city activity. Artisans and tradesmen of the suburban communes and the District of Six Miles immediately around the city were also obliged to take oaths, and these show that the craftsmen there were predominantly millers or fishermen, with a few weavers or carpenters, and the women laundresses, linen weavers, or seamstresses, with no shoemakers, except for one in the large village of Ponte San Pietro.43 These villagers must have obtained their footwear in the city. The Curia del Fondaco was also responsible for regulating the technical aspects of the trades subject to it, ensuring good workmanship and honest dealing and preventing disputes or encroachments by one category of artisans on the sphere of another. With regard to shoemaking, the Statute of the Curia del Fondaco laid down that no one was to grease any leather with tallow (sepo) or treat it with gall or use any leather treated in this way, nor to sell leather from sheepskins as cordovan leather (a high-end horse leather) or vice versa.44 Shoemakers were forbidden to have anything made of cordovan leather that had any calf or cow leather mixed with it or attached or sewn to it, although it was specified that this prohibition did not apply to reversed soles, edges, or eyelet holes.45 The relationship between shoemakers and tanners was carefully regulated in the Statute and Ordinances of the Tanners’ Guild of Lucca of June 23, 1435.46 Obviously many of the clauses were concerned with technical and disciplinary matters relating to tanning, but there were also clauses that applied specifically to shoemakers or affected them materially. Tanning was only to be done in a specific area of the city in the contrate of San Tomeo and San Giorgio, referred to as the tannery (coiaria). Shoemakers could have any leather they wanted tanned

42 43 44 45 46

to be found in Curia del Fondaco 250, but folios 70r–83r are in Curia del Fondaco 248. There are sometimes indications of errors, such as a note that someone listed in one contrata as failing to take the oath has in fact taken it in another, e.g. Curia del Fondaco 250, 60v. Curia del Fondaco 250, 56v–57r, 58v–59r. The tanners were, of course, confined by law to these areas for reasons of public hygiene. Curia del Fondaco 248, unfoliated, first section; Curia del Fondaco 250, 44v. Statuto della Curia del Fondaco, Dec. 7, 1371, in Curia del Fondaco 1, 26v–27v. “Et hec non intelligantur in suolis revertis seu orlis et orecchiellis,” Statuto della Curia del Fondaco (1371), cap. LXXXIII, Curia del Fondaco 1, 27r–27v. Statutum et Ordinamenta Artis Coriariorum Lucane civitatis, June 23, 1435, in Curia del Fondaco 1, 71r–74v. There must have been earlier statutes, but it is impossible to distinguish what was traditional and what, if anything, was new. For tanning and shoemaking in Siena, see Duccio Balestracci, “La Lavorazione e la Concia delle Pelli in Area Senese XIV–XV Secolo,” in Il Cuoio e le Pelli in Toscana: Produzione e Mercato nel Tardo Medioevo e nell’Età Moderna, ed. Sergio Gensini (Pisa: Pacini Editore, 1999), 119–40.

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca there for their trade, and could then take it to their workshops, but only to be cut and used there for shoemaking. Unlike merchants, who could take leather away from the coiaria to sell elsewhere, shoemakers were not allowed to sell it in their shops. They were specifically forbidden to dye leather black, but were apparently allowed to import certain kinds of leather for shoes, paying the appropriate gabelle or import duty. Patten makers were also permitted to import certain kinds of leather to make middle and upper soles for pianelle, if Lucchese tanners could not supply it. In this case the official of the Fondaco together with his councillors was to enquire into the facts and could give the patten makers licence to import it, if it was not available in Lucca at a reasonable price. Conversely, tanners were not allowed to practise shoemaking. One very sensitive issue was the question of closing shops on feast days. Shoemakers, like many other artisans, were required to observe Sundays, the major Christian festivals, and large numbers of saints’ days as holidays, on which they were not allowed to work or sell their wares.47 In 1412 the shoemaker Antonio Pieri presented a petition to Paolo Guinigi, at that time lord of Lucca, on behalf of the whole body of shoemakers, to the effect that this was extremely damaging to their trade and to the citizens of Lucca in general. He claimed that other artisans were very reluctant to leave their own shops on Saturdays or the vigils of feasts, and went to the shoemakers on Sundays and the feast days to collect the work they were having done, but it could not be given to them without attracting fines. He therefore asked that they should be allowed to sell and deliver goods on feast days and Sunday mornings up to the time of tierce. Paolo Guinigi agreed to this and forwarded the petition to the Official of the Fondaco with his decision.48 This petition raises a number of questions about the relationship of shoemakers with their customers. Shoes and other items of footwear could certainly be bought ready-made. Shoes are among the items recorded in the customs accounts (Gabella Maggiore) as imported into Lucca. Although mentions of footwear are not very frequent, the quantities involved could be considerable. Paolo de Uspurgh (that is, from Augsburg in Germany) imported five dozen pairs of shoes on May 20, 1409, and Matteo Andruccii two dozen on September 28 that year.49 Other mentions of shoes imported

47 Statuto della Curia del Fondaco (1371), cap. LXXXI, Curia del Fondaco 1, 26v–27r. 48 The petitioner speaks of the shoemakers as having been made subject to the Curia del Fondaco under its recent statutes. It is not clear whether Antonio Pieri was a shoemaker or a cobbler; he is referred to at different points as cerdo and calsolaio, and speaks on behalf of the calsolai as a body. The terms in which Paolo Guinigi granted the petition are quite wide. He speaks of not just artisans but numerous citizens, including merchants and artisans and also other residents, having always been accustomed to collect the work cobblers were doing for them on the mornings of feast days. Although he speaks of work being done by cerdones or cobblers, and it could be argued that the decision only applied to shoe repairs, it is unlikely that it was interpreted so narrowly in practice (“nonnulli cives lucani tam mercatores quam artifices et etiam forenses Luce residentes ex causis in petitione narratis semper consueverunt diebus festivis et maxime de mane usque ad tertias ire et mittere pro laboribus ipsorum que fieri faciunt a dictis cerdonibus”); Curia del Fondaco 1, 60v, March 10, 1412. 49 “pro dozinis 5 calcarium conductis de Lumbardia Lucam,” Gabella Maggiore 44, 81r, May 20, 1400; “pro dozinis duabus calcarium conductis de Pisis,” 146r, Sept. 28, 1409.

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Fig. 4.1: A shoemaker’s shop. Detail of Ambrogio Lorenzetti, Effects of Good Government, fresco in Sala dei Nove, Palazzo Pubblico, Siena. Photo: Public domain, via Wikimedia Commons and Google Art Project.

Christine Meek

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca involve smaller numbers, but vaguer references to “other goods” may include shoes.50 The fact that shoemakers such as Benincasa Pardelli and Iacobo Nerii had quite large numbers of shoes on hand suggests that they had shoes in stock without a specific customer in mind.51 Illustrations, such as the shoemaker’s shop in the central part of Lorenzetti’s Effects of Good Government fresco in the Palazzo Pubblico in Siena, show ready-made shoes offered for sale (fig. 4.1). On the other hand, Antonio Pieri’s petition and Paolo Guinigi’s reply makes it clear that work was commissioned on a scale that can hardly have been limited to shoe repairs. There is no way to estimate what proportion of shoes were bought ready-made and what proportion were bespoke. None of these casual references reveals very much about the nature of these artisans’ business or their relations with their customers or their suppliers. Where they can be seen in action is in the Libri de’ Sensali, or brokers’ books. The sensals or brokers were officially appointed by the Court of Merchants to act as middlemen between buyers and sellers. They had to declare details of any deals they concluded to the notary of the court in writing within a few days, and he then copied these into his registers. These declarations had to include the name of the buyer and the seller, at least some indication of the nature of the goods, the total price, and the terms for payment. Often very much more than this basic information is supplied: really detailed descriptions of the goods; unit price as well as total price; total weight, length, or size, with indications of any deductions for substandard quality, short weight, or the weight of wrappings or bindings; and any special terms, such as part exchange for other goods. This only applied to goods subject to the supervision of the Court of Merchants bought and sold wholesale in Lucca itself. Anyone who bought goods outside and then imported them would not appear in the brokers’ books, though the goods might figure in the customs accounts. There was no obligation to report deals worth less than 25 florins, although smaller transactions do appear. The council records of the Court of Merchants also contain a number of references to failure to record transactions and pay the brokers’ fees due to the court, so it is impossible to know how complete the declarations are, even for the years when they are fullest. Nevertheless the surviving brokers’ books for the years 1409, 1413, 1417, and 1423–24 do reveal some of the more modest tradesmen in action. The first surviving volume of the Libri de’ Sensali, that for 1409, records seventy-seven transactions involving the buying and selling of skins or leather. In many cases the buyers were furriers or tanners, or indeed international merchants operating on some scale, who presumably intended to sell the goods on.52 But there were 50 Pino Sandori of Lucca imported “paribus sex calcarum” from Pisa along with various other mercery items, ibid., 99r, July 1, 1400. The “certis mercibus” that Polo de Opurgh, clearly identical with Paolo de Uspurgh, brought from Germany may also have included shoes, ibid., 83r, May 23, 1400. 51 Benincasa Pardelli had twenty-two pairs of boots, sixty-two pairs of clogs, and two pairs of uppers for shoes; CM15, 145r, May 28, 1380. Iacobo Nerii had twenty-two pairs of boots for women and children; CM15, 147v, June 18, 1380. These must have been the property of these shoemakers, since they were being distrained for debt. 52 Giovanni Maggiolini and company bought nine bales of sheepskins weighing 1,859 libbre net for 164 florins on April 26, 1409, and a further nineteen bales weighing 3,480 libbre net for 278 florins on

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Christine Meek also a number of shoemakers buying on a scale that suggests that they intended to employ their purchases in their business. The role of shoemakers as purchasers on an intermediate scale can be illustrated by a series of transactions on April 16, 1409. The international merchants Baldassare Guinigi, Andrea d’Antonio and company sold two bales of cordovan leather, which they had presumably imported. The buyers were three shoemakers, Lorenzo di Manetto, Iacopo di Giovanni, and Lorenzo di Giovanni, who each purchased a third of these two bales. These three purchases are each specified to be six and two-thirds dozens, with a weight of 200 libbre, and each of the three buyers paid 24 florins.53 The modesty of the shoemakers’ operations should not be exaggerated; there were some larger purchases, such as the fifty-three Spanish skins bought by Cristofano di Ventura da Cortona for 120 florins on March 1,54 and a number of shoemakers bought leather on several different occasions.55 But despite these repeated purchases and occasional larger transactions, shoemakers were usually operating on a smaller scale than tanners or furriers. Their purchases mostly involved credit rather than cash, which was nothing unusual in itself, since credit was entirely normal in Lucchese commercial transactions, but it may be significant that they were usually given three months’ credit, whereas six months was common in the case of tanners. It is notable that a number of the shoemakers recorded in the Libro de’ Sensali for 1409 originated from outside Lucca. Names like Bartolomeo di Guido da Pisa, Cecco di Nicola da Firenze, Lorenzo di Manetto da Siena, Timo di Martino da Orvieto, Cristofano di Ventura da Cortona, Stefano di Iacobo da Viterbo, Cecco da Chiusi, and Giannino da Venezia are self-explanatory. While transfer from one Italian town to another seems to have been common, they were presumably at least semi-permanent residents in Lucca. It is occasionally stated that they lived in a particular part of Lucca, and some of them feature in subsequent volumes of the Libri de’ Sensali, though others never appear again. In contrast to the large number of transactions concerning skins and leather recorded in the Libro de’ Sensali for 1409, only twenty-seven are registered for 1413, and only eleven for 1417. There are fifteen for 1423 and fourteen for 1424. As with the volume for 1409, many of those recorded as buyers are tanners or furriers, or indeed merchants, but shoemakers do appear, in several cases buying skins jointly with a tanner, as the tanner Michele Colucci and the shoemaker Antonio Canori did on May 24, 1413, when they bought 470 libbre of Genoese sheepskins for 48 florins,56 or the tanner Gioppo Franceschi and the shoemaker Giovanni Gianotti when they bought nine dozen plus seven pieces of calfskin for 28¾ florins on August 8 the same

53 54 55 56

May 10; CM94, 80v and 81r. Prices often include fractions of florins in the form of soldi and denari a oro, money of account at 20 soldi to the florin and 12 denari to the soldo. These sums have been rounded to the nearest florin. CM94, 180r. The two bales therefore presumably consisted of twenty dozens, weighing a total of 600 libbre. CM94, 176r. Cecco di Nicola da Firenze, CM94, 81r, 84v; Lorenzo di Manetto, 173v, 189r, 196v, 198r; Antonio Canori, 180r, 181v, 193v, 199r. CM95, 105v.

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca year.57 Cooperation between tanners and shoemakers of this kind would make sense, but the cases recorded are not very numerous; more usually shoemakers, and indeed tanners, acted individually and on their own account. It is by no means easy to explain the marked decline in the number of transactions between the Libro de’ Sensali for 1409 and those for 1413, 1417, and 1423–24. Clearly the consumption of shoes in Lucca cannot have declined to this extent, nor can shoemakers have ceased to buy leather. One possibility is that transactions were taking place but were not being recorded, as complaints in the Court of Merchants suggest. The decline in the number of transactions recorded is not peculiar to deals in skins and leather, but is general to all commodities. One feature that may, however, apply particularly to shoemakers is that only transactions for a value of 25 florins or more needed to be declared. As has been indicated, transactions worth less than 25 florins were sometimes declared, but it is not unlikely that shoemakers were buying leather on a semi-retail basis, perhaps from tanners, and that they did not need to declare these purchases because they came in well under 25 florins. Maestro Iacopo Coluccini several times made loans of very modest sums to his brother-in-law Bartolomeo Masini da Pietrasanta to enable him to buy leather for his shoemaking business. He lent him 7 florins in 1380, 2 florins in 1384, and 10 florins in 1386, in each case because Bartolomeo was short of cash to pay for leather for shoes. These sums probably did not cover the entire purchase price, but the only occasion when Maestro Iacopo lent him more than 25 florins was in 1395, when he advanced him 30 florins repayable in two years’ time, “so that he could equip his workshop a bit with leather etc.” Bartolomeo Masini would not have appeared in the Libri de’ Sensali in any case, because he was presumably making these purchases in Pietrasanta, but it seems likely that with the exception of 1395 they would have been too modest to need to be declared.58 In January 1422 a decree of the Court of Merchants reduced the limit for the obligation to declare transactions from 25 florins to 10 florins,59 and a number of purchases by shoemakers for less than 25 florins do then appear: half a bale of Genoese sheepskins weighing 149 libbre for 15 florins by Antonio and Bartolomeo da Calci on January 21, 1423, and a similar purchase for 15 florins on July 5, 1423;60 a bale of sheepskins from Siena by Puccino di Puccino for 20 florins and 12 bolognini on July 17, 1424.61 However, the total number of deals recorded remains very much lower than those for 1409, and it seems distinctly possible that many purchases were small-scale and did not even reach 10 florins. Some idea of the stock a shoemaker might have can be gleaned from records of goods distrained for debts. When Biagio Lieti, a tanner, had the shoemaker Benincasa Pardelli distrained for a debt of £177 picc. (some 34 or 35 florins) plus expenses, the 57 CM95, 31v. 58 Calamari, “Memoriale,” 177–78, 201, 218, “perché potesse alquanto fornire la bocthega sua di coiame etc.,” 295. 59 CM17, 65r, Jan. 13, 1422. 60 CM97, 119v, 129r. 61 CM97, 140v, 141r.

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Christine Meek goods seized included large numbers of items connected with his trade.62 He had various skins and wood, twenty-two pairs of boots, sixty-two pairs of clogs (zoccholi), two pairs of uppers for shoes (tomaie), and 176 pairs of “formis pro aluctis.” Formis apparently indicated lasts for making shoes or in this case boots (aluctae, also spelled aluptae), and the possession of 176 pairs of them suggests that Benincasa operated on some scale. The fact that the goods seized included both boots and uppers and also clogs seems to indicate that Benincasa produced both. Indeed, the inclusion among the trade items of “unum par caligarum coloris albi concigiatarum,” that is, a pair of decorated white hose, seems to indicate that he may also have done soling for hose. It is probably significant that his creditor was a tanner.63 A few weeks later the Lucchese merchant Guaspare Schiatta had the shoemaker Iacobo Nerii distrained for the much more modest sum of 5 florins plus expenses. The goods seized were fifty-seven pairs of lasts for aluctae of various sizes (“paria LVII de formis pro aluctis inter magnas et parvas”), plus twenty-two pairs of aluctae for children and women (“paria XXII aluctarum pro pueris et pro domina”).64 Although it may reasonably be assumed that sufficient goods were seized amply to cover the debt, these seem to indicate a very modest value for boots and tools. On a humbler level, in 1377 a shoemaker in Montecarlo, in the Lucchese countryside, had seventy-two pairs of lasts for making shoes of various sizes; eight pairs of shoes, some with pointed and some with rounded toes; seventeen pairs of uppers or unfinished shoes, some red and some black; as well as two knives for shoemaking, two implements for sewing, and five for stamping or punching shoes.65 Although the shoemaker Benincasa Pardelli apparently made clogs as well as shoes, there are indications of specialisation, especially in the manufacture of pianelle. At least seven Lucchese citizens who called themselves planellario or planulario appear as witnesses to documents from 1390 to 1430, as well as three more who were immigrants to Lucca.66 One of the Lucchese patten makers, Piero di Michele, made a contract in 1409 that reveals something of his working conditions. He contracted to buy 2,000 pairs of wooden blocks suitable to be sawn into clogs with heels (“legni acti da segare a zocoli da calcagna”) from Salvadore d’Andrea da Pisa for 2¼ florins per hundred. It was specified that at the date of the contract on July 4, 1409, these wooden blocks had not yet been made and Salvadore undertook to deliver them, beginning 62 The abbreviation picc. stands for piccioli, a Lucchese silver coinage denominated in lire (here abbreviated with £), solidi, and denari. 63 CM15, 145r, May 28, 1380. All of the goods seized were in his house in the contrata of San Benedetto in Lucca. They were entrusted to Turello Bonturi, a weaver, as consul of the contrata without being removed from Benincasa’s house. 64 CM15, 147v, June 18, 1380. Again, these were entrusted to the consul of the contrata. 65 Vicaria poi Commisario di Valleariana e di Villa Basilica 39, allegato 1, 5v, published in Arti e Mestieri: Immagini e Dettagli dal Mondo del Lavoro Cittadino, exhibition catalog (Lucca: Archivio de Stato, 1996), item 1. I would like to thank Dott. Sergio Nelli of the Archivio di Stato in Lucca for drawing this document and this publication to my attention. 66 The Lucchese are Averardo di Biagio, Iacobo di Matteo, Giuliano di Biagio, Marino di Iacobo, Meo di Biagio, Piero di Michele, and Quirico di Vanni Micheli. The immigrants are Andrea di Antonio da Pisa; Antonio di Giovanni da Firenze, called Mucchietto; and Andrea di Antonio Dati da Pisa, who called himself both patten maker and clog maker (planellario and soccolario).

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Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca with 100 pairs by the end of September and the remaining 1,900 pairs pro rata each month from October until the end of the following May. If he failed to keep up these deliveries, the blocks were only to be paid for at 1½ florins per hundred, and there was also a clause that should Piero want 500 pairs of blocks of some other kind (“ad altro modo”), he could have them for 2 florins per hundred. The total value of the contract was given as 45 florins. Piero did not work alone, since he contracted on behalf of himself and his partners, but he could apparently envisage getting through 2,000 pairs of blocks for clogs in a nine-month period and coping with the arrival of 200-plus pairs per month. The extremely low value of these blocks is also notable, although by the time they had been shaped to the foot and had leather straps added and perhaps been decorated, the value would have been considerably greater.67 DIFFERENT TYPES AND STYLES OF FOOTWEAR

The most difficult question to answer is what these various types of footwear looked like, and documents can only go a certain way towards answering this question. Some variations are indicated—heavy shoes, closed shoes, red shoes, black shoes, shoes made of cowhide, sheepskin, goatskin, chamois—but all too often they are simply called shoes without any further distinction. The shoes that Maestro Iacopo Coluccini accounted for with his peasant tenants or his brother-in-law must have been very different from those he bought for the little girls living in his house or even than those of his servant Iacopino, yet they are all called scarpe.68 The documents discussed in this article rarely mention colour, except in the case of women and children. Ysabella, the niece of ­Maestro Iacopo Coluccini, had vermilion shoes bought for her on two occasions, as well as shoes specified as black,69 and Maestro Antonio da Silico’s daughter, ­Maddalena, bought two pairs of shoes, one pair red and one black, for her little daughter on each of two occasions, and two pairs for herself, one black and the other of chamois.70 Otherwise neither the colour nor the material of shoes is specified. The most reliable evidence for the various kinds of shoes, boots, and pattens comes from contemporary illustrations, which quite frequently show footwear, though care needs to be taken about dating and location, since styles changed and they varied from place to place.71 There is no indication for Lucca of any extremes of fashion. While no record of price regulation has come to light, the cost of shoes seems to have been fairly standard and to have varied primarily according to size. Men’s shoes cost more than those for boys and adolescents; women’s shoes cost still less, and those of 67 CM94, 116r, July 4, 1409. Presumably other items such as nails, leather, and glue were required for these clogs, but there are no references to purchase of such items. See Muzzarelli, “Sumptuous Shoes,” 58, fig. 2.5B. 68 Muzzarelli, “Sumptuous Shoes,” 50–51. 69 Calamari, “Memoriale,” 324. 70 Spedale di San Luca 184, 4r. 71 Muzzarelli, “Sumptuous Shoes,” 51–59, with illustrations, although some of these relate to a later period than the present article.

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Christine Meek children varied according to age and thus size and were the cheapest of all.72 References to different kinds of leather and to leather dyed black, even if shoemakers were not allowed to dye it themselves, indicates that there was some degree of variety. The clause in the Statute of the Fondaco of 1371, which, while prohibiting the mixing of different kinds of leather in general, did permit it for reversed soles, edges or hems, and eyelet holes, suggests some form of decoration as well as perhaps a hint at how they were fastened.73 Variation is even clearer in the document from Montecarlo, which was unlikely to have been in the forefront of fashion. This country shoemaker not only had seventeen pairs of uppers for shoes in red and black, and eight pairs of shoes of various sizes, pointed or not pointed, but also had five iron implements for stamping or punching shoes, as well as tools for the more obvious cutting and sewing.74 But there is no other mention of pointed toes, let alone shoes with the extremely elongated toes that are known as poulaines or krakows, though these were worn elsewhere in the late fourteenth century. In at least some cases shoes must have provided good coverage for the foot, most obviously those called closed shoes or heavy shoes. The shoes designated by the word soctulares worn by the bankrupt bread seller from Florence must have been fairly stout, since he was not only proposing to wear them to ride a horse, but had 32 florins tied up in a piece of cloth and concealed in them. The period dealt with in this article is also too early for the pianelle of exaggerated height, usually known as chopines, which are in any case particularly associated with Venice. Lucca had sumptuary laws which regulated dress in some detail, but there is no mention of footwear, except to forbid slaves to wear pianelle.75 Even in the second half of the fifteenth century the earliest indication of anything other than basic footwear is an indirect one; in 1458, in measuring the length of trains, which were regulated, the woman was to be wearing shoes or pianelle of reasonable height.76 Not until 1473 were pianelle themselves regulated, when it was prohibited to have them covered in silk or other cloth, but only in gilded leather in the old style.77 The reference to gilded leather suggests a surprising degree of decoration in preceding years, but there is no

72 For variations in price in Milan according to materials and style, as well as the age of potential wearers, see Venturelli, “Vigevano e la Calzatura,” 26; Evelyn Welch, Shopping in the Renaissance: Consumer Cultures in Italy 1400–1600 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2005), 89. 73 Statuto della Curia del Fondaco (1371), cap. LXXXIII, Curia del Fondaco 1, 27r. There is no other indication of laces, straps, or buckles that might be used to fasten footwear. 74 Vicaria poi Commissario di Valleariana e Villa Basilica 39, allegato 1, 5v; see note 65, above. 75 Consiglio Generale 8, 327–30, Nov. 28, 1382; 425–29, Jan. 13, 1383. For other cities, see Muzzarelli, “Sumptuous Shoes,” 58, 61–62. 76 “stante et eunte muliere super planellis seu calopodiis competenter altis,” sumptuary laws of Feb. 21, 1458, Curia del Fondaco 1, 86r–89r, at 87r. By March 9, 1498, measurements were to be taken without the woman wearing pianelle or zoccoli, ibid., 137r–137v. 77 “sia prohibito portare pianelle covertate di alchuna facta di drappo di seta ne doro se non doro pelle al modo antiquo,” Curia del Fondaco 1, 91r–93v. In 1458 women of the contado had been prohibited from wearing pianelle apart from plain or gilded leather, which implies that women in the city were allowed more elaborate ones, Curia del Fondaco 1, 82v, Feb. 21, 1458. For gilded pianelle in a later period and for a more elite clientele, see Michelle O’Malley, “A Pair of Little Gilded Shoes: Commission, Cost, and Meaning in Renaissance Footwear,” Renaissance Quarterly 63 (2010), 45–83.

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Fig. 4.2: Pianella of Beatrice d’Este. Museo della Calzatura, Vigevano. Photo: Courtesy of MIC Museo Internazionale della Calzatura “P. Bertolini,” Vigevano.

reason to believe that in the decades on either side of 1400 pianelle were anything other than fairly basic. There is no indication that they were made with uppers of cloth, let alone luxury silk or decorated fabrics. The only specific indication is that a pianella with which a prostitute hit a man in the brothel was made of leather.78 Occasionally shoes or pianelle were bought for particular occasions. Maestro Iacopo’s niece Ysabella received a pair of vermilion shoes and a pair of pianelle for Easter 1401, while her older sister Caterina had received a pair of new pianelle at a cost of 8 bolognini on the occasion of her wedding in 1397. Both of these may have been something a little special.79 They may perhaps have had some decoration such as the pianella still preserved in the shoe museum in Vigevano, although that was both later in date and probably intended for a lady of higher social status (fig. 4.2).80 Most pianelle in Lucca were probably intended as protection against mud and rain, since it is unlikely that shoes were normally waterproof. The records of purchases for Maddalena’s daughter Giovanna suggests that pianelle were supplied to go with particular shoes. In 1415, 14

78 “cum una planella de coriamine,” Capitano del Popolo 27, unfol., April 27, 1418. For examples of surviving pianelle and shoes, see Francis Grew and Margrethe de Neergaard, Shoes and Pattens, Medieval Finds from Excavations in London 2 (1988; repr., Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2001). 79 Calamari, “Memoriale,” 243, 324. Caterina’s pianelle are mentioned in the context of visits, feasting, and other finery. 80 Its wearer is traditionally identified as Beatrice d’Este, the wife of Lodovico il Moro of Milan; Venturelli, “Vigevano e la Calzatura,” 29. It is, perhaps, an example of closed pianelle, as mentioned by Maddalena, Maestro Antonio da Silico’s daughter.

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Fig. 4.3: Alderigo Interminelli makes a payment, at right, while Pisans in short military tunics attack Lucchese dressed in long civil robes, at left. Alderigo wears pattens, while the soldiers appear to have calze solate. Engraving from Le Croniche di Giovanni Sercambi Lucchese, ed. Salvatore Bongi, vol. 1, Fonti per la Storia d’Italia 19 (Rome: Istituto Storico Italiano, 1892), 152, based on the illustration for Cap. CLXXXIV in the original manuscript of the chronicle (Lucca, Archivio di Stato, MS 107, fol. 74r), ca. 1400.

bolognini were paid for a pair of heavy shoes, a pair of light shoes with their pianelle, and a pair of heavy pianelle.81 Another form of footwear was soled hose, such as the three pairs of black ones listed in the inventory of Lazzaro Guinigi.82 These soled hose were apparently quite common and are often depicted in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century art. The men who appear in councils and even engaged in sieges and other military activities, apparently in their stocking feet, in the illustrations to the Lucchese Chronicle of Giovanni Sercambi, were presumably wearing soled hose. These were sometimes worn with pattens, as can be seen clearly in the figure of Alderigo Interminelli in the illustration to Cap. CLXXXIV of Sercambi’s chronicle (fig. 4.3). Although the illustration is small, Alderigo Interminelli’s pattens appear to have wooden soles and must have resembled zoccoli or clogs. Zoccoli could consist of elaborately shaped soles held on the foot by a broad leather strap across the toes and instep. The most famous example is the pair in the left foreground of Jan van Eyck’s portrait of Jan Arnolfini and his wife in the National Gallery in London, but similar footwear appears in other depictions, such as Petrus Christus’s Portrait of a Male Donor in the National Gallery of Art in Washington (ca.

81 “per uno paio di scarpe grosse et per i paio di soctile colle pianelle et per i paio di pianelle grosse,” Spedale di San Luca 184, 6r. It seems justifiable to translate “colle pianelle,” literally “with the pianelle,” as “with their pianelle.” 82 “quatuor par caligarum nigrarum de quibus tria paria sunt solate,” Raccolte Speciali, San Frediano 252, 50v, 52v, April 1, 1400.

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Fig. 4.4: Various types of footwear including zoccoli. The man on the left is wearing white zoccoli; the woman at centre right is wearing red ones. The disabled man is using zoccoli-type supports for his hands. Detail of Domenico di Bartolo, Distribution of Alms, fresco in Pellegrinaio, Ospedale di Santa Maria della Scala, Siena. Photo: Combusken (2011), Creative Commons license CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons.

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Fig. 4.5: Messenger wearing boots. Engraving from Bongi, Le Croniche di Giovanni Sercambi Lucchese, 1:306, based on the illustration for Cap. CCCLXXIV in Sercambi’s Croniche di Luccha, fol. 139v.

1455, 1961.9.10) or the fresco of Distribution of Alms by Domenico di Bartolo in the Pellegrinaio of the Hospital of Santa Maria della Scala in Siena (fig. 4.4).83 There were also various kinds of boots (stivalli, aluptae/aluctae), ranging from the knee-length boots, apparently with rounded tops, worn by a messenger in one of the illustrations to Sercambi’s chronicle (fig. 4.5) to the shorter boots with pointed tops worn by pilgrims to Rome in another (fig. 4.6). These may represent the aluptae, with which a pilgrim to Compostela was to be provided under the will of Pasquina, the wife of Antonio de Macerata in July 1388.84 The basic meaning of alupta appears to be welltawed leather,85 but the term was also applied to the sort of stout, resistant footwear that pilgrims would need, even if they did not make the whole of their journey on foot. The demand for these for both sexes and for children may have been considerable, in view of the fact that Benincasa Pardelli had 176 pairs of lasts for making them, and Iacobo Nerii had fifty-seven pairs of lasts and twenty-two pairs of finished aluptae for women and children, when they were distrained for debt in 1380.86 Neither the documentation cited in this article nor the images discussed and reproduced can give a full picture of the range of footwear produced in Lucca in the late fourteenth and early fifteenth centuries, let alone its availability and consumption by various sections of society. They do, however, provide some information on the different types of footwear available, its cost both in absolute terms and relative to other articles of dress, and the circumstances of its production, importation, and 83 For these various types of footwear, see Venturelli, “Vigevano e la Calzatura,” 24–29. 84 Testamenti 2, 120r–121r, July 6, 1388. She left 3 florins for these and a cloak and a shirt, with anything left over to be given to the pilgrim in cash. 85 For this process, see O’Malley, “A Pair of Little Gilded Shoes,” 48. 86 CM15, 145r, May 28, 1380; 147v, June 18, 1380. They may perhaps have resembled the half-boots with a side toggle fastening in Muzzarelli, “Sumptuous Shoes,” 74, fig. 2.16.

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Fig. 4.6: Pilgrims setting out for the Jubilee. Engraving from Bongi, Le Croniche di Giovanni Sercambi Lucchese, 1:48, based on the illustration for Cap. CIV in Sercambi’s Croniche di Luccha, fol. 29r.

commerce. While there are always problems in relating the stipulations in documents to surviving images, depictions such as the frescoes in Santa Maria della Scala in Siena show the wide range of footwear worn by both sexes, ranging from soled hose worn with or without pattens, to open-toed shoes or sandals, short boots, and even a pair of slippers that have been taken off and pattens that a cripple uses on his hands to help him move along.

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“Bene in ordene et bene ornata”: Eleonora d’Aragona’s Description of Her Suite of Rooms in a Roman Palace of the Late Fifteenth Century Jane Bridgeman Eleonora d’Aragona (1450–93), the eldest daughter of King Ferdinand I of Naples and his first wife Isabella of Chiaromonte, was married by proxy in August 1472 to Ercole d’Este, who had just become duke of Ferrara.1 Over a decade earlier her grandfather, Alfonso V of Aragon and I of Naples (1396–1458), had agreed with Duke Francesco Sforza of Milan to marry her to one of the duke’s sons, Sforza Maria Sforza (1451–79), who was later made duke of Bari. This marriage, which was not consummated, took place in Naples in 1465. Following the death of the Duke of Milan in 1466, however, Eleonora remained in Naples pending various disagreements over the terms of her dowry between her father King Ferdinand and her brother-in-law the new duke of Milan, Gian Galeazzo Sforza. By 1471 Ferdinand managed to come to an accord with Milan: Sforza Maria Sforza was permitted to retain the duchy of Bari, and his marriage to Eleonora was officially annulled by Pope Sixtus IV. In the complicated politics of the Italian peninsula Ferdinand then sought to ally Naples with Ferrara and its new duke Ercole d’Este, a condottiere (mercenary general) with whom Eleonora must have been acquainted, since he had been a member of the Neapolitan court in the service of the king between 1445 and 1460. The marriage was therefore both socially acceptable and also a shrewd political move for both Ferrara and Naples.2 Eleonora’s marriage as a princess of Naples represented an alliance between the kingdom of Naples and the duchy of Ferrara. As a consequence, great political significance would have been placed on the type of welcome she received at Rome, Siena, and Florence, where she and her entourage stopped on the journey north to Ferrara in the late spring of 1473. Note   1 Ercole d’Este (1431–1505) inherited the duchies of Ferrara and Modena from his illegitimate halfbrother Borso (1450–71), who died without heirs. The wedding celebrations between Ercole and Eleonora took place in Ferrara on July 3, 1473, in Ferrara. They had a happy marriage and six surviving children. The two girls, Isabella and Beatrice, became respectively marchioness of Mantua and duchess of Milan. The eldest son Alfonso succeeded to the Duchy of Ferrara and Modena.   2 Pietro Messina, “Eleonora d’Aragona Duchessa di Ferrara,” in Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, vol. 42 (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1993), available online at http://www.treccani.it/ enciclopedia/eleonora-d-aragona-duchessa-di-ferrara_(Dizionario-Biografico).

Jane Bridgeman would have been taken of the reception she was accorded, as well as the quality of the accommodation, banquets, and entertainments provided for her benefit. Eleonora’s letters home during her journey contain detailed descriptions of her surroundings and a record of the dignitaries she met on what amounted to a state visit.3 This article discusses a single letter sent by Eleonora to a high-ranking member of her father’s court in Naples whom she requested to pass on her news. The recipient has not been definitively identified,4 but Clelia Falletti in 1982 plausibly suggested that it might have been Diomede Carafa I, count of Maddaloni, adviser to the king, a scholar, antiquarian, and, significantly, Eleonora’s tutor.5 The letter survives in a collection of historical materials brought together by Angelo Tummulillo (1397–1480/5), a notary and secretary of Ferdinand I.6 The letter itself was written in Neapolitan Italian with an orthography which is somewhat idiosyncratic. It was transcribed and published by Constantino Corvisieri in the late nineteenth century.7 It is republished here, together with a new translation into English, in the appendix that follows this introduction. Eleonora’s careful description of the furnishings of each room in the apartment assigned to her and her ladies is significant because of the detailed nature of her account. It was quite usual for the participants in important ceremonial events to record what they had observed in subsequent letters or diaries. An eyewitness description such as Eleonora’s of an aristocratic and extremely lavish interior of the late fifteenth century is, however, relatively rare. Her letters were expected to inform her father about every aspect of her welcome. Her description, therefore, documents Sixtus IV’s preparations and the levels of his hospitality, all intended to signify the importance of the relationship between the papacy and the kingdom of Naples. The recipient of this information, in this case the King of Naples, expected to read about the formal ceremonial of the state welcome, the level of luxury and comfort of the lodgings offered by the host, the delicacies offered at any banquet, the quality and quantity of the expected exchange of diplomatic gifts, and the pertinence of a variety of entertainments. Immense political significance was placed upon the general appropriateness of all formalities for such a visit by both the host and the guest. Indeed, Eleonora herself commented towards the end of her account, “You may, my lord Count, consequently understand from what   3 Costantino Corvisieri published Eleonora’s letters as “Il Trionfo Romano di Eleonora d’Aragona nel Giugno 1473” in Archivio della Società Romana di Storia Patria 1 (1878): 475–91, and 10 (1887): 629–87.   4 Corvisieri (“Il Trionfo,” 1:490) thought the recipient might be an unknown “Conte di Reggio.” In 1974, Alessandro Perosa suggested that the addressee (“spectabilis et magnifice comes, regie paterne consiliarie”) may have been Antonello Petrucci, count of Policastro, the king’s secretary and member of the royal council; Perosa, “Epigrammi Conviviali di Domizio Calderini,” in Studi di Filologia Umanistica, ed. Paolo Viti (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letteratura, 2000), 3:143–56, at 145.   5 Clelia Falletti, “Le Feste per Eleonora d’Aragona da Napoli a Ferrara (1473),” in Spettacoli Conviviali dall’Antichità alle Corti Italiane del’ 400: Atti del Convegno di Studio, Viterbo, 27–30 Maggio 1982 (Viterbo, Italy: Centro di Studi sul Teatro Medioevale e Rinascimentale, 1983), 269–89, at 276 n. 12.   6 Tummilillo’s chronicle survives as Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Archivio Segreto, MS Buoncompagni-Ludovisi F.7, fols. 147–52. Published by Costantino Corvisieri, ed., Notabilia Temporum di Angelo de Tummulillis da Sant’Elia (Livorno, Italy: Francesco Vigo, 1890).   7 Corvisieri, “Il Trionfo,” 10:645–7 and 654.

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Rooms in a Roman Palace is written above everything about our encounters in Rome and the affection shown towards us.”8 ARRIVAL IN ROME AND PALAZZO COLONNA

On May 24, 1473, Eleonora left Naples escorted by her husband’s brothers Alberto and Sigismondo d’Este and an entourage of around one hundred people. The first important stop was Rome, where Eleonora, as a princess of Naples and duchess of Ferrara, was to be the guest of Pope Sixtus IV (Francesco della Rovere) and his nephew Pietro Riario, cardinal San Sisto Vecchio.9 Travel overland from Naples to Rome took eleven days. Arriving at Rome on Saturday, June 5, Eleonora and her escort were greeted five kilometres outside the city by the cardinal archbishop of Naples, Oliviero Carafa,10 and the governor of Rome, Cardinal Valentino d’Ausia del Poggio.11 Inside the city walls they were joined by Eleonora’s host Pietro Riario and another of the pope’s nephews, Giuliano della Rovere, cardinal San Pietro ad Vincula.12 Before continuing her journey, Eleonora and the four cardinals then made a short visit to the Archbasilica of San Giovanni Laterano, the cathedral church of the pope (as bishop of Rome), after which the procession moved on towards Palazzo Colonna in the heart of the city. Arriving at Palazzo Colonna, Eleonora and her escort were greeted by a foretaste of the festivities to be held in her honour in the Piazza Santissimi XII Apostoli in front of the Palazzo.13 The whole square was canopied with giant Genoese sailcloth canvases held in place at roof level by a single tall central post with a fountain at its base. The portico at the front of the Palazzo had become a canopied loggia, its antique-style colonnade festively decorated with fresh foliage and flowers. In front a podium had been constructed, canopied with lengths of crimson velvet embroidered in the centre with a conspicuously large white cross, and flanked by two further velvet canopies of green and white. Its space was hung with tapestries and embellished with the armorials of Sixtus IV, Cardinal San Sisto, the King of Naples, and the Este enclosed by swags of myrtle. A dining table, seating, and a tall staged sideboard (credenzera) with eight

  8 “Porrite dunque, S. Conte, comprendere de quello che è sopradicto tucti li nostri progrexi in Roma et le caricze ne sono state facte”; Corvisieri, “Il Trionfo,” 10:654.   9 Sixtus IV (1414–84) was elected pope in 1471. Pietro Riario (1445–74), a Franciscan, was a son of the pope’s sister Bianca della Rovere and Paolo Riario. He was cardinal protector of the Basilica of San Sisto Vecchio, Rome. 10 Oliviero Carafa (1430–1511), member of a prominent Neapolitan noble family and bishop of Naples, created cardinal in 1467. He was a patron of Filippino Lippi, whom he commissioned in 1489 to decorate the Carafa Chapel, Santa Maria sopra Minerva, Rome. 11 Valentino d’Ausia del Poggio, born in Valencia, a theologian, scholar, and diplomat, appointed governor of Rome by Pope Sixtus IV in May 1473. 12 Giuliano della Rovere (1443–1513), Pietro Riario’s cousin, the future Pope Julius II. 13 The square is named after the eponymous sixth-century Church of the Santi Dodici Apostoli (Twelve Holy Apostles) adjacent to the Palazzo Colonna.

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Jane Bridgeman shelves had been prepared for the celebratory banquet to be held on the Monday.14 On the opposite side of the square was a canopied stage for dancing and various other entertainments, including theatrical performances. It too displayed the armorials of Naples, of the Duke of Ferrara, and of Cardinal San Sisto. Palazzo Colonna, the residence of Cardinal San Sisto, had several decades earlier been designated a papal residence by Pope Martin V (himself a Colonna), and it was here where Eleonora and her entourage were to stay for the next five days.15 She and her aristocratic companions were possibly lodged in a new wing being built by the cardinal, for they had been assigned a suite of rooms with a private chapel and, connected by a private internal staircase, further rooms on a floor above. The guests from Naples allotted rooms in this apartment were Eleonora and her two personal maids, Covellina and Martina; her cousin, the Duchess of Amalfi;16 and at least four trusted noblewomen closely related to the Aragonese ruling family of Naples—the Duchess of Cave, near Palestrina;17 the Countess of Altavilla;18 the Countess of Bucchianico;19 and Margherita Orsini.20 From Eleonora’s description, the apartment consisted of a string of rooms, each one of which led directly into another. This arrangement of rooms in a sequence was a novelty in the 1470s. The concept of a discrete apartment containing a number of increasingly private rooms, into which visitors were admitted according to their status and relationship to their host, had been introduced only a decade earlier.21 It was thus very likely that this apartment had been created according to the latest ideas in architectural and interior design. In 1472–73 these would have been epitomised by prototypes at the Palazzo Ducale, Urbino (1450–60), the Palazzo Venezia in Rome (ca. 1455–64), and the Villa Imperiale, Pesaro (1469–72). Of these, Palazzo Venezia was the most likely model, since it was conceived as both a grand residence for Venetian 14 It was customary to display silver on a staged sideboard at a banquet as decoration, but eight shelves implies an exceptionally large quantity. 15 Oddone Colonna (1368–1431), elected pope in 1417. 16 Maria Marzano d’Aragona, niece of Ferdinand I of Naples, created duchess of Amalfi by Ferdinand in 1461 when she married Antonio Maria Todeschini Piccolomini, a nephew of Pope Pius II and governor of the papal fortress of Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome. 17 Probably Filippa Conti, second wife and widow of Odoardo Colonna; Odoardo (d. 1462) was a nephew of Pope Martin V. Dizionario Biografico degli Italiani, vol. 27 (Rome: Istituto della Enciclopedia Italiana, 1982), s.v. “Colonna, Odoardo”; available online at http://www.treccani.it/ enciclopedia/odoardo-colonna_(Dizionario-Biografico). 18 Elisabetta Conti, wife of Francesco di Capua, seventh count of Altavilla. Aldo Pinto, Raccolta Notizie per la Storia, Arte, Architettura di Napoli e Contorni, vol. 3, Famiglie (Naples: Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico II, 2016), 530, available at the website of the Biblioteche dell’Università degli Studi di Napoli Federico II; see http://www.fedoa.unina.it/10065/1/c.Famiglie%203.pdf. 19 Caterina Orsini, wife of Mariano d’Alagna, count of Bucchianico (1425–82). Mariano was the brother of Lucrezia d’Alagna, mistress of Alfonso V of Aragon and I of Naples, and thus Eleonora’s greatuncle. 20 Possibly Margherita Orsini (1460–1521) of Gravina (Puglia) who in 1477 married a favoured courtier and condottiere of Ferdinand I, Diego di Cavaniglia, count of Montello and Troia (1453–81). 21 Peter Thornton, The Italian Renaissance Interior, 1400–1600 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1991), 300–1.

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Rooms in a Roman Palace cardinals and, slightly later, as a papal residence.22 It is certainly clear from Eleonora’s description that Cardinal San Sisto had spared no expense in the furnishing and decoration of this apartment.23 THE DESCRIPTION OF THE ROOMS

Entering the Palazzo, Eleonora described the apartment as being upstairs (probably on the first floor or above, since the ground floor would not have contained living quarters). It was entered through a medium-sized hall hung with tapestries. These very expensive furnishings, not usually manufactured in Italy at this date, were imported from Brussels in Flanders or Arras in northern France. Tapestries were far more costly than almost any other form of textile hanging. They were intended to impress, and were usually stored, being hung publicly only for very special events.24 As Pope Sixtus IV and Cardinal San Sisto were probably well aware, the Este were very fond of tapestries, and of embroidered hangings, on which they often spent very substantial sums of money.25 The next room was a small antechamber (una camerecta), after which came a dressing room (camera de paramento) with a daybed (lecto de paramento), a couch-like bed for use in the daytime. A second dressing room, also with a daybed, was entered through the first. Both these two rooms seem to have been sparsely furnished, although as will be evident later, they were hung with tapestries and the floor covered with small carpets. On the other hand, Eleonora did not describe absolutely everything in a room, unless it was of note and exceptionally luxurious. It is important, nevertheless, to note that at this date there was very little furniture in general, almost everything being kept in chests (cassoni) or boxes (coffers), and that chests-of-drawers or wardrobes for clothing or accessories did not exist. The daybed, too, was unlike a present-day upholstered chaise longue or sofa, as there was no upholstery of any sort at this date. It resembled a wooden chest with a high carved wooden backrest (a support for the back) and arms. Its lid, wide enough to sit or lie upon, could be used as a seat or as a place to take a nap or siesta, and bedding such as a mattress, coverlet, and pillows

22 Palazzo Venezia was largely built and enlarged by the Venetian Cardinal Pietro Barbo, later Pope Paul II (1464–71). 23 After Riario’s death, Palazzo Colonna was gifted by Giuliano della Rovere (when Pope Julius II) to Marcantonio I Colonna (1478–1522) on his marriage in 1506 to Julius’ niece Lucrezia Gara della Rovere (1485–1552); Annibale Ilari, Frascati tra Medioevo e Rinascimento (Rome: Edizioni di Storia e Letturatura, 1965), 70. 24 Thomas Campbell, Tapestry in the Renaissance: Art and Magnificence, exhibition catalogue (New York: Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2002), 3–11. 25 In 1463, Ercole d’Este had purchased five dark blue velvet hangings (about 25 feet long) embroidered with the story of the Romance of the Rose in silks, gold, and silver, at a cost of 9,000 ducats. This would have been equivalent to a year’s salary for a high-ranking general (condottiere). Thomas Tuohy, Herculean Ferrara: Ercole d’Este (1471–1505) and the Invention of a Ducal Capital (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1996), 220, 223.

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Jane Bridgeman could be stored inside.26 In the first dressing room the daybed had its mattress (covered in sky-blue silk) already in place; in the second, a crimson silk-covered mattress was accompanied by a tawny coverlet brocaded in gold, edged with marten fur and lined with lynx—an item seemingly more for show than use in Rome in early June.27 There were also two crimson gold-brocaded cushions. Next to this second room was a private chapel. The crimson altar cloth was brocaded in gold (panno de altare de inbroccato d’oro cremesino) and had the armorials of Eleonora’s father King Ferdinand I of Naples embroidered on cloth of gold (panno d’oro racamato).28 This would have been made as a special commission for the occasion, since Cardinal San Sisto and his uncle would have been notified well in advance of the dates of Eleonora’s journey. The armorials of Naples presented here thus would have been understood as a deliberate, and essential, display of courtesy towards an important guest on a state visit. Where the altar was placed, on a raised platform or tribune, there were eight large chairs and another one which functioned as a pulpit (et una per oratorio). The chairs were clearly very formal. They are described as being covered with violet or crimson velvet, and decorated with silver-gilt spheres and long gold fringes (frange d’oro, plural). This type of throne-like chair with a high back decorated with two silver spheres on each side is depicted in Melozzo da Forli’s 1477 fresco of Pope Sixtus IV Appointing Bartolomeo Platina as Prefect of the Vatican Library (Pinacoteca Vaticana, Rome), painted about four years after Eleonora’s visit, and also in Raphael’s portraits of Pope Julius II and his successor Leo X.29 The chair which functioned as a pulpit (oratorio) was covered with crimson velvet. It is clear all the beds and daybeds as well as the seating in the bedrooms of this apartment were furnished with the highest-quality silks. The beds were equally luxurious. Eleonora mentions only the top mattress and bolsters, which were considered as part of the bed furnishings.30 She made little mention of pillows, which would have had covers of fine linen or silk, or sheets, which may have been of silk or linen. Beds in this type of household generally had several mattresses, usually two or more, of which the topmost was most noticeable. The bedstead at this date was not sprung or upholstered, and the bottom mattress lay upon wooden boards. It was usually stuffed with straw or raw cotton (cotton wool). The other mattresses above it might be filled with flax, hemp, feathers, or, for the very wealthy, raw silk. The mattress covers were

26 Thornton, Italian Renaissance Interior, 149 n. 3. 27 These furs were habitually used for winter linings. 28 Cloth of gold is a term applied to any woven textile incorporating a great deal of gold yarn, most often on a foundation weave of silk. See Lisa Monnas, Merchants, Princes, and Painters: Silk Fabrics in Italian and Northern Paintings 1300–1550 (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2008), 299: “Gold threads are always inserted as additional pattern or brocading wefts, never as warp threads or ground wefts.” 29 Raphael, Portrait of Pope Julius II, ca. 1511–12, National Gallery, London, NG 27, and Portrait of Pope Leo X, 1518, Galleria Palatina, Florence, inv. 1912, no. 40. 30 Capezzale, “a bolster for a bed”; Queen Anna’s New World of Words or Dictionarie of the Italian and English Tongues: Collected and Newly Much Augmented by John Florio, 2nd ed. (London: Melch and Bradwood, 1611), available online at http://www.pbm.com/~lindahl/florio.

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Rooms in a Roman Palace usually made of a heavy linen or fustian (a mixed weave with a linen warp and cotton weft) or, as here, the topmost mattress could be covered in silk. The first room after leaving the chapel was evidently a bedroom for one of Eleonora’s ladies-in-waiting. The top mattress of the (low) bed, covered in sky-blue Venetian silk, had two coverlets (coperte) of white silk damask and a bedspread (una coperta de sopra, literally a top cover) of pile-on-pile brocaded crimson velvet (­broccato ­cremosino peluso).31 It is not clear if the silk velvet bedspread was brocaded with silver, silver-gilt, or gold thread, but both damask and velvet were amongst the most costly textiles available at this date, and a bedspread embellished with woven silver or gold was exceptionally sumptuous. This bed had a canopy or tester (sopra celo) and curtains (cortinayo) of white silk damask edged with gold and silver fringes (frange). The tester was probably fitted to a frame supported by each of four corner posts, while the curtains would have hung from the three side rails, entirely enclosing the bed itself. The next room contained two beds and two chairs. The larger bed was furnished with a bolster, mattress, and two quilts of green silk, and a silver-gilt brocaded bedcover (una coperta de broccato inaurato) lined with fine sables (foderata de gebellini finissimi). Its canopy (celo) and furnishings (capolecto) had fringes around them of half a palm’s length, and there were four cushions (cosscini) of brocade. The smaller of the two beds, which Eleonora referred to as a bed for resting on (lecto de reposu), was probably a daybed. Its top mattress, bolsters, and cushions were covered in sky-blue damask, and its bedcover of sky-blue velvet, lined with crimson silk, had a border of gold brocade. Leading from this room was a staircase to an upper floor, possibly a mezzanine, with a reception room and three bedrooms, each with a bed and truckle bed—a low bed with wheels stored underneath the larger one that could be easily pulled out for an extra person when required. The furnishings in these upper rooms were not quite as lavish as those below, but the mattresses were stuffed with cotton wool (pleno de bommace) and covered with silk as were the bolsters and cushions. Here Eleonora observed the sheets were of the softest and best Holland linen.32 The final room of the suite was for Eleonora’s personal use. The walls were completely hung in brocaded, white silk damask. There were two beds, one with a truckle bed. The first described was clearly exceptionally magnificent. Its two mattresses were of white damask, the bolsters and quilt of white taffeta (duy mataraczi de damaschino byanco, con capitali et coltra de taffetà byancha), being accompanied by a further, crimson, quilt brocaded with gold (coltra de inbroccato d’oro cremesino). The curtains and cap of the tent-like bed canopy or sparver (spreveri) which attached to the ceiling immediately above, were also of white damask. The cardinal’s armorials were placed over the opening to the sparver (curtains of the bed canopy). The second bed, which was equally luxurious, had the truckle-bed stored beneath. 31 Damask, a reversed satin weave in which alternating areas of weft and warp threads are grouped together producing contrasting textures of glossy and matte surface pattern. Peluso suggests a deep pile or several heights of pile. Lisa Monnas, Renaissance Velvets (London: Victoria and Albert Museum, 2012), 16–17. 32 The best-quality fine, plain-weave linen, imported from Holland.

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Jane Bridgeman Eleonora noted this room contained seating as well as two book rests or stands (­predole) covered in crimson velvet.33 These may have been of the type placed on a table or upon another flat surface or perhaps could have been lighter and folding, like a modern music stand. Examples of the former are seen in Antonello da Messina’s Virgin Annunciate and in Vittore Carpaccio’s Dream of St. Ursula.34 Folding book stands are depicted in the scene of The Annunciation as painted by both Gentile Bellini and by Vittore Carpaccio, although possibly these were a Venetian type.35 In this room in a raised withdrawing area there was also a table on which there was a mirror in a case (un scheccho chyuso ad modo de conecta) which looked like a closed icon. At this date mirrors were made of burnished steel, but they were costly items which sometimes might be set in gilded or ivory frames. Here there was also a silver urinal and a box with a closestool pan (the equivalent of a chamber pot), which was placed inside the closestool itself (the precursor of a commode).36 Eleonora noted that each room in the apartment not hung with silk was hung with tapestries and that all doors had a curtain or portière of scarlet cloth embroidered with her father’s armorials. The floors throughout were covered in rugs or small carpets. At this date this was a particularly impressive sight since, imported chiefly from Anatolia, they were costly items and usually placed on tables or used as small hangings.37 The preponderance of various types of silks (taffetas, damasks, velvets, and silver and gold brocades) mentioned in this letter as being used for wall and bed hangings, as well as the quantity of rugs used for floor coverings, is astonishing. The cost of all of these items must have been immense. Eleonora subsequently continues with details of her Sunday visit to St. Peter’s, in the company of cardinals Pietro Riario and Giuliano della Rovere, to hear a papal Mass, followed by lunch with cardinals Orsini and Carafa. In the early evening outside Palazzo Colonna there was a performance of the story of Susanna and the Elders organised by Cardinal Riario. Then on the Monday there was a banquet which lasted for six hours, during which there were songs and performances (intermezzi) of the classical stories of Perseus and Andromeda, Atalanta and Hippomenes, Bacchus and Ariadne, and, appropriately (considering her husband’s name), Hercules. After a rest, Eleonora and her ladies then paid another visit to Sixtus IV, who presented them each 33 Predola (pl. predole), an antique term for a book rest; Salvatore Battaglia, Grande Dizionario della Lingua Italiana, vol. 14 (Turin: Unione Tipografico-Editrice Torinese, 1988), s.v. “priedola.” 34 Antonello da Messina, The Virgin Annunciate, ca. 1476, Galleria Regionale della Sicilia, Palermo, inv. no. 47; Vittore Carpaccio, Legend of St. Ursula: Dream of St. Ursula, 1490–96, Galleria dell’Accademia, Venice, inv. 578-1812. 35 Gentile Bellini, The Annunciation, ca. 1465, Thyssen-Bornemisza Museum, Madrid, inv. no. 38 (1930.9); Vittore Carpaccio, Annunciation, 1504, Galleria Giorgio Franchetti alla Ca’ d’Oro, Venice, inv. cat. d.19. 36 Privies were usually located at some distance from rooms, due to their smell, hence the use of urinals and closestools. 37 Rugs: small, knotted and tufted or flat-woven textiles not sufficiently large to extend from wall to wall. Anna Contadini, “Middle Eastern Objects: Carpets,” in At Home in Renaissance Italy, ed. Marta Ajmar-Wollheim and Flora Dennis, exhibition catalogue (London: V&A Publications, 2006), 315– 19.

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Rooms in a Roman Palace with a gift. On Tuesday morning further gifts were sent by cardinals Riario, Della Rovere, and Carafa and also by the prefect of Rome, Giovanni della Rovere, Lord of Senigallia, who was another of Sixtus IV’s nephews.38 In the afternoon there was a theatrical performance of a miracle of Corpus Christi. Wednesday followed a similar pattern, with yet another visit to Sixtus IV and a performance of scenes from the life of John the Baptist after lunch. On Thursday morning Eleonora and her entourage left Rome to continue the journey to Siena, but stopped for the night at Campagnano, a small town on the Via Cassia about 30 kilometres distant. Here Eleonora wrote her letter to Naples, which she ended with some further information about the final night of her stay at Palazzo Colonna. During Eleonora’s five-day stay in these lavish surroundings, she and her high-ranking travelling companions, including the Este brothers and various Neapolitan nobles, were part of an extravagant theatre of display. Her account, in its concern for detail, is reminiscent of those written by contemporary Milanese and Venetian ambassadors when abroad.39 It illuminates the role of soft diplomacy and the propaganda value of material luxury and gift-giving in the political context of contemporary Italy. It reflects, moreover, the very evident desire of Pope Sixtus IV to honour the Neapolitan princess and in so doing also demonstrates the papacy’s goodwill towards the kingdom of Naples and the duchy of Ferrara, both of which were papal vicariates. This extraordinarily generous hospitality should be interpreted as a grand political gesture on a scale that would now be considered as of international significance.

38 Giovanni della Rovere (1457–1501), the younger brother of Giuliano della Rovere (Pope Julius II). 39 See, for instance, Paul Kendall and Vincent Ilardi, Dispatches with Related Documents of Milanese Ambassadors in France and Burgundy 1450–1483, vol. 2 (Athens, OH: Ohio University Press, 1971), 350–53, for a description of the celebrations of a banquet of the Order of the Golden Fleece in May 1461.

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Appendix 5.1 Transcription and Translation of Eleonora’s Letter from Rome

Below, in the right column, is the first English translation of a letter written by Eleonora D’Aragona, Duchess of Ferrara, on June 10, 1473. It survives in a manuscript conserved in the Vatican Library (Vatican City, Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, Archivio Segreto, MS Buoncompagni-Ludovisi F.7, fols. 147–52). The Italian text was transcribed and first published by Costantino Corvisieri in 1887.1 Corvisieri’s transcription is reproduced here in the left column; page numbers in square brackets refer to Corvisieri’s publication. [pp. 645–47] Eleonora de Aragona Ducissa Ferrarie

From Eleonora d’Aragona, Duchess of Ferrara.

Come per altra nostra site advisato del nostro intrare in Roma, al presente ne occorre dareve adviso de quanto è secuto da poy fine ad questa hora.

Since you were informed in our previous [letter] about our arrival in Rome, it is now necessary to let you know what happened next, and up until the present.

Intrata in Roma venemmo ad desmontare in Sancto Apostolo casa del Reverendissimo S. Cardinale de Sancto Sixto, quale trovammo bene in ordene et bene ornata et apparata nel modo infrascripto.

Arriving in Rome we dismounted in [Piazza] Santissimi XII Apostoli, home of his Eminence the Cardinal San Sisto, which we found well appointed, furnished and prepared as described below.

Innella piacza avante lu palaczo era un talamo longo passi cinquanta duppii et ben largo adornato de panni de racza ad torno coperto de sopra de sey pecze de panno russo verde et byanco. Ad l’on capo del talamo un catafalco ben grande et amplo coperto per terra de tappeti et panni de rili con un celo de velluto cremosino. All altro capo una credenzera de octo gradi larga de palma trenta auornata de racza de fyori; qual talamo era apparato per lo convito. Dall altro canto della placza on altro talamo bene apparecchiato per farece certe demonstrationi con arme del S.R, dello illustrissimo duca de Ferrara et dello dicto cardinale per tucto.

In the square in front of the palace was a long pavilion2 about one hundred feet in length and of a good width, hung around with tapestries and canopied with six lengths of red, green, and white cloth. At one end of the pavilion a large and wide stage,3 its floor covered in carpets and linen cloth,4 canopied in crimson velvet. At the other a staged sideboard of eight shelves thirty palms wide, decorated with a floral tapestry.5 This pavilion was prepared for the banquet.6 At the other side of the square another pavilion well prepared for particular events, was covered with the armorials of His Highness [the King of Naples], of the illustrious Duke of Ferrara, and of the said Cardinal.

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Rooms in a Roman Palace Salluta la scala trovammo una sala mediocre addobata pur de racza; dalla sala passammo per una camerecta et intrammo nella prima camera de paramento dove era un lecto de paramento de setì venetiano celestro.

[Entering the Palace and] going upstairs we found a medium-sized hall also decorated with tapestries, and from this hall we went through an antechamber into the first dressing room7 where there was a daybed of sky-blue Venetian silk.

Dallà intrammo la seconda camera de paramento dove era un lecto de paramento de setì cremosino et sopra lu lecto una coperta de broccato d’oro leonato foderata de lupi cervini con una balzana de martore ad torno larga un palmo et dui cosscini de broccato d’oro cremosino.

From there we entered the second dressing room where there was a daybed of crimson silk, and laying on the bed a tawny gold-­ brocaded coverlet, lined with lynx fur and with a wide hem of marten fur about a palm deep, and two crimson gold-brocaded cushions.

Dallì intrammo in la camera dov’è la cappella con panno de altare de inbroccato d’oro cremesino colle soe arme panno d’oro racamato; sopra la tribuna quactro segia de velluto ­cremosino, quactro de velluto violato et una per oratorio coperta tucta de velluto cremosino. Tucte le dicte sedie erano guarnute de pomi de argento inaurati et frange d’oro longhe.

From there we entered a room which was the chapel with an altar cloth of crimson gold brocade with His Highness’ armorials embroidered on cloth of gold. On the tribune were four chairs covered in crimson velvet, four others covered in violet velvet, and one for the pulpit completely covered in crimson velvet. All the chairs were decorated with silver-gilt spheres and long golden tassels.8

Dalla cappella intrammo in una altra camera dovera uno lecto basso con un mataraczo de seta celestro venitiano, duy coperte de damaschino byanco et una coperta de sopra che copre tucto lo lecto fine in terra de broccato cremosino peluso, sopra celo et cortinayo de damaschino byanco con frange d’oro et de argento men d’un palmo longe, capitali de siti celestro, quattro cosscini de broccato doro, quactro altri de velluto violato, duy altri de velluto violato, duy altri de velluto verde, duy sedie de velluto verde. Era ancora in questa camera piecata sopra la cassa una coperta de velluto violata foderata de velluto verde.

From the chapel we entered another room where there was a low bed with a mattress of Venetian sky-blue silk, two coverlets of white damask, and a crimson bedspread of pile-onpile gold-brocaded velvet9 that covered the entire bed and reached to the floor. The canopy and curtains were white damask with gold and silver fringes less than a palm in length, the bolsters of sky-blue silk. There were four clothof-gold cushions, four others of violet velvet, two further of violet velvet, two others of green velvet, and two chairs of green velvet. Also in this room was a folded coverlet of violet velvet lined with green velvet laying upon a chest.

Dallà intrammo in un altra camera dove erano duy lecti, uno grande con mataraczo et capitale de siti verde, duy coltre de siti verde, una coperta de broccato inaurato,10 con pelo ­foderata de gebellini finissimi, celo et ­capolecto de siti verde con frange ad torno longe mezo palmo, quactro cosscini de broccato inaurato. L’altro lecto de reposu con lu mataraczeto de damaschino celestro, capitali et cossini celestri, coperta de velluto celestro foderata de setì cremosino con una reversa de broccato d’oro ad torno, duy altre segie de setì verde.

From there we entered another room with two beds, a large one with a mattress and a bolster of green silk, two quilts11 of green silk, a bedspread brocaded in silver gilt lined with the finest sable, canopy and hangings of green silk edged with fringes half a palm deep, and four cushions brocaded with silver gilt. The other, a daybed, had a sky-blue silk damask mattress, bolsters and cushions of sky-blue silk, and a bedspread of sky-blue silk velvet lined in crimson silk with a border of gold brocade, two further chairs covered in green silk.

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Jane Bridgeman Dallà sì intrammo ad mano destra in un altra camera la quale era l’ultima deputata per nuy, dove erano duy lecti, uno delli quali ha duy mataraczi de damaschino byanco, con capitali et coltra de taffetà byancha, coltra de inbroccato d’oro cremosino, spreveri de damaschino byancho con lu cappello sopra, duy cossini inbroccati d’oro cremesino, la porta dello spreveri et un altra lixta in mezo ad torno de broccato byanco ben riccho et largo uno palmo et mezo, et le arme dello dicto cardinale sopra la porta. Ne l’altro lecto grande puro mataraczi et capitali de setì cremosino, coltra de taffatà byancho et socto quisto lecto è una carriola con mataraczo de setì verde, duy coltre de taffatà cremosino, et coperta de inbroccato d’oro violato, duy sedie de inbroccato d’oro cremosino con duy predole de belluto cremosino, quactro altri cossini de imbroccato d’oro, celo et capolecto de taffatà byanco foderato de boccassino con una frangia doro, cossini de damaschino byanco et altre sedie de diversi colori in quantitate. Era in questa camera una tabulecta de noce coperta de belluto cremosino con frange d’oro et seta in torno et sopra ipsa uno scheccho chyuso ad modo de conecta.

From there we entered on the right another room, the last assigned to us, where there were two beds, one of which had two mattresses of white damask, with bolsters and quilt of white taffeta, a crimson quilt brocaded in gold, a sparver12 and hood of white damask, and two crimson cushions brocaded in gold, the opening of the sparver [curtains of the bed canopy] and another band around the centre edged with a very ornate white brocade a palm and a half deep, the armorials of the said Cardinal above its opening. On the other bed, which was also large, were crimson silk mattresses and bolsters, a white taffeta quilt and beneath this bed a truckle bed with a green silk mattress, two quilts of crimson taffeta, and a violet bedspread brocaded in gold, two chairs covered in crimson silk brocaded in gold, two book-rests13 covered in crimson velvet, four more cushions brocaded in gold, the canopy and hangings of white taffeta lined with cotton cloth14 with a gold fringe, cushions of white damask and much further seating in various colours. In this room there was a walnut table covered with crimson velvet edged with fringes of gold and silk, and upon this a covered mirror which looked like an icon.15

Tucta la camera era torneyata de damaschino byancho broccato. Era ancora in quista camera uno retrecto ad modum de tribuna de altare dov’erano parecchi schecchy de odori de avolio et uno scheccho de aczaro grande quanto uno bacile de valvero, et una cassa con orinale et cantarello de argento.

The whole room was hung with brocaded white damask. Also in this room was a withdrawing area like the raised dais for an altar, where there were several mirrors in gold and ivory frames, a steel mirror16 as large as a barber’s basin, and a box with a silver urinal and closestool pan.17

Da man sinistra della camera penultima se entra per una scala et sallese de sopra dov’è una sala con tre camere, ad ciascuna delle quali è so lecto colla carriola con mataraczi capitali et cossini de setì de diversi colori, sacchoni de fustayno ad omne lecto pleni de bommace, et così li mataraczi, lenzoli de tela de lande per tucto soctilissimi.

At the left-hand side of the penultimate room a staircase led up above to a reception room and three rooms, each of which had a bed and truckle bed, with mattresses, bolsters, and cushions of variously coloured silk. The bottom mattress of each bed was covered in fustian,18 and like all the other mattresses, stuffed with cotton wool, the sheets of the very finest Holland linen.19

Tucte le dicte camere fornite de racza integramente fine alle fenestre et tapiti per terra per tucto. Ad omne porta una nantiporta de panno de grana adracamato d’oro con le soe arme multo belle.

All the said rooms were completely furnished with tapestries reaching to the windows, and the floors throughout were covered in rugs. Each door had a portière of scarlet cloth beautifully embroidered in gold with His Highness’ armorials.

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Rooms in a Roman Palace [p. 654] . . . Non lassaremo de dire che la sera denanti che ce partessemo lu dicto cardinale san Sixto mandò un sou scoderi colle chyavy delle casse che erano nelle dicte camere, e fecene mostrare octo altre coltre foderate e deffoderate.

. . . I cannot omit mention that, the evening before our departure, Cardinal San Sisto sent one of his squires, with the keys to the chests in our rooms, who showed us eight further lined and unlined quilts.

Da pò comenzò ad mostrare le turche de seta et de broccato de oro CL, et tennemo che syano vicino ad sey hore; fastidiammo et preghemmo quillo scoderi non ne mostrasse pyù, et cusì manco, ca altramente che serria adrivato ad di nanti che havessemo fornito. Et erano le broccate seta in tucta perfectione et multo dengne.

Then he started to show us 150 silk and gold-brocaded turche,20 detaining us for nearly six hours; we became weary and begged the squire not to show us more and, so, he desisted, otherwise he would have continued until the next day. And these silk brocades were absolutely perfect and of great worth.

Porrite dunque, S. Conte, comprendere de quello che è sopradicto tucti li nostri progrexi in Roma et le caricze ne sono state facte. Pregamone che de tucte date novella alla maestà del S.R allo illustrissimo del s. Duca di Calabria, alla illustrissima duchessa, al s. don Johani, allo s. don Federico, al s. Don Francisco, ad madama Biatrice, ad misser Paschale, et ad tucte quessi altri singnori et gentili homini, perchè semo certa lo haverando caro intenderlo.

You may, my lord Count, consequently understand from what is written above everything about our encounters in Rome and the affection shown towards us. I pray you give all this news to his majesty the King, to the illustrious Duke and Duchess of Calabria, to Don Giovanni, to Don Federico, to Don Francisco, to Lady Beatrice, to Messer Paschal, and to all those other lords and gentlemen, because we are sure they will be glad to know about it.21

Datum Campangnani X junii MCCCCLXXIII.

From Campagnano 10th June 1473.22

  1 Costantino Corvisieri, “Il Trionfo Romano di Eleonora d’Aragona nel Giugno 1473,” Archivio della Società Romana di Storia Patria 10 (1887): 645–7 and 654.  2 Talamo usually refers to a bridal-bed or -chamber, but a pavilion is more likely in this context. Talamo, “a fair handsome lodging”; Queen Anna’s New World of Words or Dictionarie of the Italian and English Tongues: Collected and Newly Much Augmented by John Florio, 2nd ed. (London: Melch and Bradwood, 1611), available online at http://www.pbm.com/~lindahl/florio; henceforth cited as JF.   3 A stage or platform seems appropriate here. Catafalco, “a scaffold, a stage, a hearse,” JF.  4 Panni de rili (sic) may be an incorrect transcription or printer’s error for panni lini (linen cloth).   5 For illustration of this usage, see Peter Thornton, The Italian Renaissance Interior, 1400–1600 (London: Weidenfeld and Nicolson, 1991), 103, fig. 101.   6 The banquet was to be held on Monday. Eight shelves for a display of plate (not for use during the banquet) was exceptional, as was tapestry covering for the shelves. Ibid., 207, fig. 14, and 371.  7 Camera de paramento, more literally, a preparation room.   8 Spheres, tassels, and fringing may be seen in on the chair in Melozzo da Forli’s fresco of Pope Sixtus IV Appointing Bartolomeo Platina as Prefect of the Vatican Library, 1477, Pinacoteca Vaticana, Rome, and in Raphael’s Portrait of Pope Julius II, ca. 1511–12, National Gallery, London, NG 27.   9 “Una coperta de sopra . . . de broccato cremosino peluso” suggests a long pile velvet or velvet in several heights of pile; see Lisa Monnas, Renaissance Velvets (London: Victoria and Albert Museum, 2012), 16–17. 10 “Coperta de broccato inaurato”: This refers to a bedspread brocaded with silver-gilt yarn. 11 Coltre, “a counterpoint or quilt for a bed,” JF. Quilts were laid on top of the highest mattress and under the sheet. 12 A sparver is a bed canopy which when its curtains were pulled back looked like a hovering bird-ofprey. Thornton, Italian Renaissance Interior, 124.

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Jane Bridgeman 13 See accompanying introduction at note 34. 14 Boccasino, a heavy cotton cloth. Maureen Fennell Mazzaoui, The Italian Cotton Industry in the Later Middle Ages, 1100–1600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 198 n. 8. 15 “uno scheccho chyuso ad modo de conecta” (in modern Italian: “uno specchio chiuso ad modo di icona”). In Charles Du Fresne Du Cange, Glossarium ad Scriptores Mediae at Infimae Latinitatis (1678; repr., Graz, Austria: Akademische Druck- u. Verlagsanstalt, 1954), conecta is referred to as “capsa sacrarum reliquiarum.” This is a dressing-mirror with a sliding shutter that gave it the appearance of a small picture or closed “icon.” 16 For steel mirrors, Thornton, Italian Renaissance Interior, 234. 17 Here cantarello refers to a small close-stool pan: cantharo, “also a close-stool pan,” JF. 18 There were usually two or three mattresses on a bed. Fustian is a hard-wearing fabric with a linen warp and cotton weft. Fustagno, “the stuff called fustian,” JF. 19 Tela di lande was one of the finest-quality plain linen weaves imported from Holland. 20 Una turca (plural turche) was a silk overgarment worn by both men and women. It was a narrow, ankle-length, open-sleeved gown generally worn open in front from neck to hem (similar to an ankle-length coat without buttons), but could be closed, when necessary, with decorative frogging. In the 1470s it was worn mostly by men on festive occasions. Grazietta Butazzi, “Oriente e Moda nel Rinascimento: Una Proposta di Ricerca,” Arte Tessile 2 (1991): 3–8. 21 The royal court at Naples was a youthful household. Eleonora mentions her elder brother Alfonso, Duke of Calabria, heir to the throne (age 25), and his wife Ippolita Sforza (age 23) whom he had married in 1465; her brothers, Don Federico (age 21), Don Giovanni (age 17), and Don Francisco (age 12); and her sister Beatrice (age 16). The identity of Messer Paschal is not known. 22 The castle of Campagnano (Campagnano di Roma) is about 30 kilometres northwest of Rome near Lake Bracciano and was at this date a possession of the Orsini. Eleonora stayed here before travelling on to Siena, Florence, and finally Ferrara.

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The Lübeck Wappenröcke: Distinctive Style in Fifteenth-Century German Fabric Armor Jessica Finley

In Lübeck, Germany, there are two garments, nearly identical, that represent a unique style in armor fashion found only in Germany for about fifty years in the middle of the fifteenth century. They are thickly padded, with radiating lines of quilting on the upper and lower back and a painted surface that highlights the quilting. They also have a distinctive skirting that gives the impression of fur, but is, in reality, made using a curious fabric treatment. The garments have extensive damage to the front panels as well as the skirting, but despite this, they attest to a visually striking style that can be immediately identified in contemporary statues and paintings (figs. 6.1 to 6.4). The story of these garments, held separately in the Museum Holstentor and the St. Annen Museum before their move in late 2014 to the new Europäisches Hansemuseum in Lübeck, exemplifies the compelling lore that can be attached to historical items, rightly or wrongly, and how it affects our understanding of these artifacts. With this paper I will document my findings from my examination of one of the so-called Lübeck wappenröcke. In particular, I will detail the materials used, the likely methods of construction, and the results of a chemical analysis of the black paint used to decorate the back of the garment. I hope to also shed some light upon the possible reasons for peculiarities found in the tailoring of these garments. As with any such study, more questions were raised by my examination that will need to be answered with future research. An earlier version of this paper was given in May 2014 at the International Congress on Medieval Studies at Kalamazoo, Michigan. This research could not have been possible without the generous help of Susanne Schöning, curator at the St. Annen Museum, who not only granted permission for me to examine the garment, but who also took time out of many of her days to respond to my questions and excited ruminations. Further, immeasurable thanks go to Roland Warzecha, who introduced me to the St. Annen Museum and to this garment in particular. His early photographic documentation of the garment was my initial introduction to this style, and his efforts in getting chemical testing on the garment were invaluable. My deepest thanks as well to Scarlet Abin for enabling my travel to Lübeck to study this garment; to Laura Baker-Olin, for her weaving expertise; to Roger Norling, for translating Svardstrom’s article from Swedish to English; to Christian Tobler, for helping to procure the chemical analysis of the paint and for his unflagging support; to Bob Charrette, Liz Johnson, Sean Hayes, and Marion McNealy, for encouraging this effort; and to Robin Netherton and Gale R. Owen-Crocker, for their work to bring this research to publication.

Jessica Finley

Fig. 6.1: Example of a wappenrock-style garment with a dagged skirt and sleeve. Detail of the “Knights of Christ” panel, from Jan and Hubert van Eyck, The Adoration of the Mystic Lamb (Ghent Altarpiece), 1432, St. Bavo Cathedral, Ghent, Belgium. Photo: Hugo Maertens, by permission of the Royal Museum for Fine Arts Antwerp, copyright © Lukas–Art in Flanders vzw.

FASHIONABLE FABRIC ARMOR

There is no generally accepted term that describes and applies to garments in the style of the Lübeck garments, but the museum’s catalog refers to them alternately as wappenrock or Vasa-rock (the latter literally “Vasa’s jacket,” after their connection with Sweden’s King Gustav Vasa I, about which more below). Wappenrock (pronounced VAF-en-rok) translates most often as “surcoat” in the medieval sense, and as a military uniform coat in a modern sense. While it is true that this garment was intended to be worn over some pieces of armor, it is not so much a surcoat as it is true fabric armor, designed to protect the body from weapon strikes.1 Very few examples of fabric armor survive from the late medieval period, but it is clear that this category encompasses a wide variety of garment names and construction

 1 It is unknown what this style of garment was called by those who wore it. Some possibilities include not just wappenrock (pl. wappenröcke), but also steppwams (pl. steppwämser), rüstwams (pl. rüstwämser), wams (pl. wämser), or jacke (pl. jacken).

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Fig. 6.2: Two views of a sculpture showing a wappenrock-style garment on the central kneeling figure. The garment has dagging at the hem and short “capelets” that emerge from under the shoulder armor, possibly attached to the garment. Engelbrecht and Jan IV van Nassau, Lords of Breda and the Lek, ca. 1470–75, Grote Kerk, Breda, Netherlands. Photo: Roel Renmans, 2006, by permission.

techniques. Some, known only by description, are detailed as being constructed of twenty-five to thirty layers of quilted linen, sometimes with a leather exterior.2 ­Others, such as the surviving Charles VI coat armor now at the Musée des Beaux-Arts in Chartres, France, were constructed by stretching and stitching fabric to form channels or partly flattened tubes around compressed cotton, producing both a fashionable

  2 Samuel Rush Meyrick, “Observations on the Antient Military Garments Formerly Worn in England,” Archaeologia 19 (1821): 209–40, at 226–28. Meyrick quotes the ordinance of Louis XI of France from 1450, ordering that free archers of his kingdom should be clothed in jacks made as follows: “And first there wants for those Jacks 30 or 25 cloths, and a buck-skin at least, and if they be of 30 and a buckskin they are best. Cloths, second-hand, and undone nevertheless are better and the jacks should be in four quarters, and the sleeves should be as strong as the bodies, with the exception of the leather . . .” (translation by Meyrick). Similarly, Charles John Ffoulkes refers to ten-layer jacks, jacks with horn plates, jacks with metal plates, and more; see Charles John Ffoulkes, The Armourer and His Craft from the XIth to the XVIth Century (London: Methuen, 1912), available online at the Internet Archive, https://archive.org/details/armourerhiscraft00ffouuoft.

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Fig. 6.3: A garment similar to the Lübeck wappenrock, including “furry” skirting, with sleeves showing a similar treatment. Epitaph of Jörg Frawenberger von Haag zu Hohenburg, 1436, at Gars Abbey, Bavaria, Germany. Drawing: Jessica Finley, after Jens P. Kleinau, “1436 Epitaph of Jörg Frauenberger,” Hans Talhoffer: A Historical Martial Arts Blog, April 21, 2011, https:// talhoffer.wordpress.com/2011/04/21/epitaph-of-jorg-frauenberger.

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Fig. 6.4: Illustration from a fifteenth-century combat manual showing a variety of garments, some of which appear simply decorative and others which imply fabric-covered plates. The leftmost garment appears to be padded and perhaps is related to the wappenrock, with dagging at the hem and “capelets” at the shoulders. Ars Palaestra (fencing manual), Southern Germany, ca. 1450 (New Haven, CT, Yale Center for British Art, Paul Mellon Collection, MS U860.F46 1450, fol. 40v, detail). Photo: Richard Caspole, by permission of Yale Center for British Art.

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Jessica Finley shape and an extremely protective garment.3 Garments for both men and dogs, kept in Coburg Fortress in Bavaria, were constructed by stitching hundreds of bound eyelets through two or more layers of heavy linen twill fabric.4 Yet other garments, such as brigandines and coats of plates, combine fabric and small metal plates or rings of iron in a dizzying variety of ways. For all of the diversity of these garments and their construction, they share the paired goals of creating a fashionable appearance while providing physical protection from weapons. The Lübeck style also creates a highly fashionable armored appearance for a German man in the early-to-mid-fifteenth century. The garment falls tightly down along the hips from a slightly raised waistline, located just above the navel. Radiating quilted lines rise above the waist in the back, referencing the pleating and slashing in fashionable male civilian garments that created the appearance of a small waist and broad shoulders. Careful painting accentuates this effect along the sides of the back of the garment. In art, these wappenröcke are frequently depicted as being worn with the distinctive kastenbrust (box-breast) breastplate (fig. 6.1). As the name indicates, these breastplates were formed with distinct corners and straight lines across the belly, and were limited in use to German states and for a very short period of time. These breastplates were very often attached with points (laces) to the upper body near the collarbones, which required that a stout garment be worn beneath them to which they could be pointed. A leather strap at the waist secured the breastplate around the body. Additionally, these breastplates are sometimes depicted being worn with an iron mail “apron” that falls from the breastplate only in the front. Less frequently they are shown with a plate armor fauld (a series of articulated plates attached to the breastplate) covering the front of the lower body and protecting the groin.5 The particular padding and painting scheme of the Lübeck wappenröcke, discussed in more detail below, suggests they were intended to be worn with this combination of kastenbrust and armored apron. HISTORY OF THE LÜBECK WAPPENRÖCKE

The provenance of extant medieval garments is often difficult to establish. They sometimes have legendary connections to famous names from history, and this connection

  3 Tasha D. Kelly, “The Tailoring of the Pourpoint of King Charles VI of France Revealed,” Waffen- Und Kostümkunde 55, no. 2 (2013): 153–80, at 157.   4 Marion McNealy, pers. comm., December 2013, in reference to photos available online at “Advent Day 15: Linen Armour for Man and Dog,” The Curious Frau: Early Modern German Clothing, Dec. 15, 2013, https://www.facebook.com/The-Curious-Frau-163660317125073 (accessed Dec. 15, 2013).   5 See the kneeling armed man in the right image of figure 6.2 for an apparent example of this armor and wappenrock combination, in which the breastplate is paired with a fauld rather than the mail apron. The fauld appears to attach to the garment with the use of buckles and straps. A related padded garment that is frequently depicted with a similar metal armor combination can be seen on the standing figure in the left in that figure.

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Fifteenth-Century Fabric Armor is used to justify their maintenance. This is the case with the Lübeck wappenröcke. Svante Svärdström recounted the history and lore surrounding the garments in a 1958 paper, in which he described the state of the garments in the mid-eighteenth century, their locations before and after that time, and the reasons for their subsequent damage.6 According to Svärdström, as of 1754, Jacob Silver, a native Lübecker, wrote that the garments had hung in the council chambers of the Lübeck Rathaus (town hall) since 1520. Silver gave that very specific date because legend held that these garments had been worn by the Swedish monarch Gustav Vasa I as he escaped from Denmark, through Lübeck and ultimately to Gothenburg in Sweden. This story is, of course, entirely inconsistent with the artifacts themselves, especially as there are two identically designed garments, not just one, and they are of different sizes. Silver explained this discrepancy by insisting that King Gustav did not wear just one garment, but instead layered them one on top of the other. Silver, at that time seeking a doctorate from the University at Gothenburg, sold this story, along with watercolors of the garments he had commissioned from famed portraitist Johann Phillip Bleiel in 1753 (figs. 6.5 and 6.6), maps, and statements, to the current ruler of Sweden (a descendant of King Gustav), enamoring him of the tale. Subsequently, Silver was granted his elevation, and in this way cemented the supposed connection between King Gustav and the garments. In 1754 the garments were transferred from the Rathaus to the city library to be available to the public. They were displayed together in a cabinet until 1879, when they were turned over the Society for Promotion of Public Benefit. Eventually, after passing through a number of small museums, they ended up separated in the locations at which I viewed them in 2013, the larger on public display in the Museum Holstentor and the smaller in the archives of the St. Annen Museum. By the time of their display at the city library, the tale of the much-beloved King Gustav having donated his garments to the City of Lübeck in thanks for his safe passage had spread across Sweden. Unfortunately, this led to a number of Swedish souvenir hunters coming to Lübeck to see the garments and returning home with pieces clipped from them. It is as a result of this desire to own a piece of history that the garments are in their diminished state. It is easy to vilify Silver for spreading this untrue story for his own benefit. He was financially rewarded for this falsehood, and it resulted in damage to the garments. However, Silver could not have predicted this outcome when he wrote of these childhood curiosities in his hometown, and further, it is thanks to his efforts to document these garments that we have an understanding of their original form. Also, it could be argued that it is due to the popularity of the connection with King Gustav that these garments were maintained through the centuries to today. We cannot know what exact circumstances led to these garments having hung in the council chambers of the Lübeck Rathaus for at least two centuries prior to Silver’s

  6 Svante Svärdström, “Gustav Vasas Dräkt i Lübeck: Två Livplagg Från 1400-talet,” Journal of the Royal Armory Stockholm 8, no. 2–3 (1958): 25–62.

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Jessica Finley

Fig. 6.5: Watercolor of the larger Lübeck garment, painted by Johann Phillip Bleiel in 1753 (Stockholm, Riksarkivet Marieberg, MS 195). Photo: Henrik Lithner, by permission of Riksarkivet Marieberg.

writing. Clearly, as these garments follow the armor fashion trends of the early-tomid-fifteenth century, coinciding with the height of the Hanseatic League and Lübeck’s power as a free city, the purported connection to King Gustav cannot be true. These garments cannot have been made for him, and certainly they would not have been worn one over the other. Their similarity points to the possibility that they were part of the uniform of soldiers in Lübeck during this time. Perhaps they were originally

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Fig. 6.6: Watercolor of the smaller Lübeck garment, painted by Johann Phillip Bleiel in 1753 (Stockholm, Riksarkivet Marieberg, MS 195). Interestingly, it shows some damage to a portion of the upper front panel, which indicates that the artist was attempting an accurate rendering. Photo: Henrik Lithner, by permission of Riksarkivet Marieberg.

worn by guards posted at the Rathaus to protect council meetings. For now, this is only speculation, as no records of the garments’ origins have been found.

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Fig. 6.7: The front of the smaller Lübeck garment. All diagrams and garment details that follow refer to this garment. Photos: Roland Warzecha, 2013, by permission.

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Fig. 6.8: The back of the smaller Lübeck garment. All diagrams and garment details that follow refer to this garment. Photos: Roland Warzecha, 2013, by permission.

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Jessica Finley MANUFACTURE OF THE WAPPENRÖCKE

The resemblance of the two Lübeck garments, which led to their display for centuries as a pair and indicates that they might represent a uniform, has further implications for how and by whom these garments were made. Based on evidence from other countries, it appears that skilled artisans were responsible for making specific garments for fashionable protection. In France, these artisans were members of a guild of pourpointers, “whose sole job it was to make padded, quilted garments for those who could afford them.”7 To date, I have been unable to locate an example of a similarly specialized guild in Germany. Nor do the Nürnberger Zwölfbrüderbücher reveal any conclusive visual evidence of fabric-armor production.8 While it might seem sensible to posit that tailors were responsible for the production of these garments and that no further specialization was needed, the tools and expertise required to produce such tight quilting over thick cotton padding belies this supposition. Further, the finishing work of painting the backs and producing the elaborate skirting points to a specialist shop being responsible for their creation. However, a contrary argument can be made that, indeed, it was within the purview of tailors to make such garments, judging from the wide variety of work shown in sixteenth-century Austrian tailors’ master-books; these books show not just garments for all levels of society, but also horse barding and even tents.9 Indeed, the tools used to work with the heavy canvas for tents could have been used for the quilting in these garments. Further research into this area is needed to answer questions regarding production of fabric armor in medieval Germany. THE ST. ANNEN GARMENT

In June 2013, I undertook a detailed hands-on examination of the smaller of the two Lübeck garments, at that time held in the St. Annen Museum (figs. 6.7 and 6.8). The garment is made of six panels (two in back, four in front), each of which is constructed from stacked layers of fustian, linen canvas, and raw cotton, and quilted through the entire stack using stab stitches with a heavy linen thread. It appears to   7 Tasha Kelly, “Martial Beauty: Padding and Quilting One’s Way to a Masculine Ideal in 14th Century France” (paper presentation, International Congress on Medieval Studies, Kalamazoo, MI, May 2013), available online at the author’s website, La Cotte Simple: Late Medieval Fashion Redressed, http://cottesimple.com/articles/martial-beauty (accessed Dec. 4, 2016).  8 The Hausbücher der Nürnberger Zwölfbrüderstiftungen (House Books of the Nuremberg Twelve Brothers Foundation) are five manuscripts made between 1425 and 1800 that record the beneficiaries of a charity for Nuremberg craftsmen. Often, particularly in the earlier books, the craftsman is depicted at work. These illustrations provide an invaluable resource for researchers of medieval tools and construction practices. Images from these books are viewable online at Die Hausbücher Der Nürnberger Zwölfbrüderstiftungen, a website of the Stadtbibliothek Nürnberg and the Germanisches Nationalmuseum, at http://www.nuernberger-hausbuecher.de.   9 Katherine Barich and Marion McNealy, Drei Schnittbücher: Three Austrian Master Tailor Books of the 16th Century (Middletown, DE: Nadel Und Faden Press, LLC, 2015), 326–84.

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Fifteenth-Century Fabric Armor have been constructed one panel at a time and then painted in parts, after which all panels were stitched together using whipstitches on the inside of the garment. It is closed in the front using lacing holes in parallel pairs. Decorative dagging (that is, a row of hanging strips), treated to give the appearance of fur, falls from the hemline to form the skirting. The garment has suffered a great deal of damage to the chest, stomach, and skirting, most of which are now missing. FABRICS AND FIBERS

The main quilted body of the garment is made in five layers: a brushed twill fustian exterior, a layer of heavy tabby-weave linen canvas, raw cotton, another layer of the heavy canvas, and finally another layer of the fustian as the lining fabric. In most areas of the garment, all of these layers are quilted through. In a few areas, such as the tops of the shoulders and on small areas of the hips at the sides, there is no cotton padding or quilting and only the four layers of fabric, presumably to allow for comfort and movement. It appears that the missing sections of the stomach and chest were similarly only four layers of fabric. The fustian used as the exterior and lining is woven in an irregular twill weave with a linen warp and cotton weft, and the cotton side is heavily brushed. The weave has floats that span two, three, and four warps at various intervals (fig. 6.9). It appears to be nearly identical to the fustian from a chasuble held at the Victoria and Albert

Fig. 6.9: Diagram of the weave of the fustian fabric used for the garment exterior and lining, with cotton weft threads shown in white and linen warp threads in gray. Drawing: Jessica Finley.

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Fig. 6.10: Cross-section of the quilted layers, showing the orientation of the fabrics. Drawing: Jessica Finley.

Museum.10 This weave produces a fabric that is primarily linen on one side and primarily cotton on the other, and the occasional long floats allow the cotton side of the fabric to be brushed to a luxurious thick nap while the shorter floats strengthen the fabric and minimize the stretch that might be created with a regular twill weave. The fustian is woven extremely tightly, and is relatively fine, with a thread count of 20/20 threads/centimeter (51/51 threads/inch). Each thread is of a single ply, the linen thread being Z-spun and the cotton thread being S-spun. The different sides of the fabric are used in the garment so that the smooth linen side shows as the exterior fabric and the brushed cotton side shows as the lining (fig. 6.10). Underneath the fustian, acting as an interlining and increasing the durability of the garment, are two layers of a heavy tabby-weave linen fabric made of flax or hemp. It is woven from large, single-ply, Z-spun threads at regular intervals of 8/8 or 9/9 threads/centimeter (20/20 or 22/22 threads/inch). The weave is relatively tight, with only small variations in the size of the threads. Figure 6.11 shows both the fustian and the linen together, demonstrating the differences in weave and thread size. The same fustian used for the exterior and interior of the garment provides the main support for the dagged skirting (figs. 6.12 and 6.13). It is similarly arranged, so that the smooth side is out and the brushed side is in, and it has been painted on both sides (or the highly mobile paint bled through; paint qualities are discussed below). Upon each of the strips of fustian, long, narrow strips of linen fabric, partly 10 V&A 1478-1899. Carolyn Priest-Dorman, “An Irregular Fustian Weave,” Complex Weavers’ Medieval Textiles 37 (September 2003): 1, 8.

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Fig. 6.11: A damaged area allows comparison of the heavy linen interlining (bottom) next to the fustian exterior (top), with its linen-faced side visible. Measurement strip is in millimeters. Photo: Susanne Schöning, St. Annen Museum, Lübeck, by permission.

unraveled to create a “furry” appearance, are attached with long stab stitches. This fabric appears to be woven from the same thick single-ply threads (slightly more than 1 millimeter in diameter) as the interlining, but is woven with a much heavier beating hand, resulting in a much tighter weave. This linen is also completely painted with the same paint as the fustian. The innermost layer is of cotton fibers, densely compacted so as to provide stiffness and bulk to the garment. While some cleaning of the fibers had taken place, as there was little other plant material present, the cotton appeared to have been minimally worked, as the crimp of the fibers was observed in multiple places. It may have been bowed before being used in the garment, which would allow for an even density of fiber when stuffing the fabric for quilting.11 It did not appear that the cotton had been carded or that glue or sizing of any kind was used. 11 Medieval cotton processing involved many steps between picking the bolls from the plant to spinning the fibers into thread. First, the seeds and other plant material would be removed from the cotton bolls by hand or by using a manganello (a simple ginning implement consisting of two wooden rollers with grooves that rotated against each other). Next, the cotton was often packed for shipping, which involved compressing the material dramatically to save space in shipment. After receipt of the packed cotton, workers known as beaters would hit the packed cotton with sticks to separate the fibers and to remove more of the residual plant material. Then workers known as bowers would use a specialized tool called a bow to further fluff the cotton in preparation for carding and spinning. The bow has a taut string, which is struck with a wooden mallet as the bower draws the string through a large pile of loose cotton. The resulting vibration on the string acts upon the

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Fig. 6.12: The longest surviving strip from the dagged skirting, showing the fustian base fabric and the attached linen layers. Photo: Roland Warzecha, 2013, by permission.

Jessica Finley

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Fig. 6.13: A close view of the fur-like treatment of the linen layers of the dagging. The layers are slightly separated here, showing the top side of the lowest layer of heavy linen at the bottom and the underside of the middle layer above it. Part of the fustian base is visible at the right. Photo: Susanne Schöning, St. Annen Museum, Lübeck, by permission.

It is commonly assumed that cotton would be difficult to acquire in fifteenth-century Germany, and that wool would be a more likely choice for padding fibers. However, microscopic analysis confirmed the stuffing fiber as cotton.12 In fact, cotton fiber and fabrics played a significant role in northern Germany at this time. Cotton processed and woven into fabric in Ulm and Augsburg traveled often and easily through Cologne to Lübeck and beyond in staggering quantities.13 Cotton products were not only easily acquired, but were also marketed to lower classes as a cheap alternative to linen, silk, and wool.14 Fustian fabrics, in particular, were a common product, combining the warmth provided from brushed cotton with the strength of linen. In order to compress the cotton fibers to the desired density yet still produce such perfectly straight quilting lines, the creators of these garments must have used specialized tools. As yet, no particular tool for this purpose has been definitively identified, but many known medieval tools could have been used to achieve these results. In particular, table vises with twin screws, such as those used for woodworking, could

cotton fibers, causing them to become fluffy and dramatically increase in volume. Maureen Fennell Mazzaoui, The Italian Cotton Industry in the Later Middle Ages 1100–1600 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1981), 74–77. 12 After the question arose during my visit, Susanne Schöning, curator at the St. Annen Museum, arranged for professional examination of the stuffing fibers and informed me of the results via an e-mail message on June 27, 2013. 13 Mazzaoui, Italian Cotton Industry, 150. 14 Ibid., 89.

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Jessica Finley have been used to compress the cotton for stitching and would provide a straight line along which the stitches could be laid. When compressed, the layers are quite stout and difficult to stitch through. However, during experimentation, I found that using thread, needle, and thimbles of the type used by medieval sailmakers allows for quick and precise stitching of even these thick materials. Further research is required to unquestionably place these tools in the shops of fabric armor makers. PAINT

Along the back and sides of the garment, the raised channels resulting from the quilting were painted black. Chemical testing of the paint indicated that it was made from linseed oil and carbon.15 This is consistent with known fifteenth-century fabric paint ingredients as detailed in Cennino Cennini’s manual Il Libro dell’ Arte. In a section on printing on fabric, Cennini explains that a black color can be made from lampblack (a common source of carbon) and varnish.16 Though the analysis of the paint could not determine whether the oil was raw or boiled, I suspect due to Cennini’s reference to “varnish” that boiled linseed oil was used to create the paint. In my own experiments (see below), I found that boiled oil provides for a much thicker paint that is easier to work with and dries more quickly than a paint made with raw linseed oil. The careful painting of only the raised areas highlights the fashionable lines of an otherwise utilitarian garment of simple fabric. Still, while the painting may have been purely decorative, it might also have served a functional purpose. Linseed oil forms a polymer as it cures,17 plasticizing the fabric, which is a desired trait for a garment designed to protect the wearer from weaponry. The paint provides a certain amount of stiffening to the fabric, gelling the individual fibers together and preventing the resulting product from unraveling. The areas painted are also somewhat waterproofed, but as so much of the garment is unpainted, it seems more likely that the purpose is for durability on the exposed areas most likely to be hit by a weapon. Curiously, the paint does not extend to cover the entire front of the garment. If, indeed, the purpose of the paint is the durability it brings to exposed areas of the garment, this lack would imply that these areas were covered by metal armor when worn. This configuration of metal armor being worn over fabric armor in the front of the body is consistent with German armor fashion from the mid-to-late-fifteenth century, as described earlier (figs. 6.1, 6.2, and 6.3). The lack of paint on the front thus

15 The independent laboratory Naturwissenschaftliches Labor carried out chemical testing on the paint in August 2013, in cooperation with the St. Annen Museum. I extend thanks to Roland Warzecha and Susanne Schöning for their assistance in making these arrangements. 16 “[T]emper some of that black, which is very fine, with liquid varnish; and it is a very perfect and fine black.” Cennino Cennini, The Craftsman’s Handbook: The Italian “Il Libro Dell’arte,” trans. Daniel V. Thompson, Jr. (New York: Dover, 1960), 117. 17 F. H. Rhodes and H. E. Goldsmith, “Effects of Various Carbon Pigments upon Rate of Oxidation of Linseed Oil,” Industrial and Engineering Chemistry 18, no. 6 (1926): 566–70.

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Fifteenth-Century Fabric Armor supports the hypothesis that the Lübeck garments were intended to be worn with a metal breastplate and mail apron or faulds over the garment. One immediate concern when using linseed oil, plain or boiled, on a fabric garment stuffed with cotton is that of spontaneous ignition. A frequent admonition among woodworkers, who are the most common modern users of linseed oil, is never to leave a rag soaked with linseed oil in a pile. As the oil oxidizes or cures, its temperature increases dramatically and can start a fire. It would seem, at first glance, that painting such a thick garment with the oil could create the same problem. However, the addition of carbon to the linseed oil has an interesting chemical effect on the oxidation process, dramatically slowing it down and preventing it from reaching high temperatures quickly.18 Significant experimental research I conducted into paint made from carbon and linseed oil showed that one quality of this paint is high mobility of the oil in the fabric fibers, penetrating the fabric deeply and spreading outward from the brush strokes. The carbon itself does not share the mobility of the oil, rather remaining where placed and making a crisp black line. This results in a “ring” of oil penetration outside of the painted areas. Additionally, experiments showed the penetration continues into the internal cotton stuffing, with a hardening effect upon the cotton, which would be desirable in an exposed area of a fighting garment intended as stand-alone armor. This hardening also created a stiffness similar to that observed in the original garment.19 However, the ring of oil penetration was not observed on the original fabric, which raises questions as to the proportion of oil to carbon that was used, whether the linseed oil was prepared further than boiling or in some unknown manner, or if there were another additive or preparation to the fabric that was not found in the analysis. One very simple explanation could be that during the centuries between construction and observation, the ring has faded. Another explanation could be that sizing was used along the edges of the painted areas to prevent bleeding of the oil. Further research and experimentation will be needed to answer these questions. CONSTRUCTION METHODS

Patterning and shaping on the garment is relatively simple. It is made to fit snugly, draw in the waist slightly, and have enough flare to sit out from the buttocks and hips. It was made to fit a slim man, likely around 173 centimeters (5 feet, 8 inches) in height and with a chest measurement of 92 centimeters (36 inches), a waist of 74 centimeters (29 inches) and hips of 89 centimeters (35 inches).

18 Rhodes and Goldsmith, “Carbon Pigments,” 567. 19 I was unable to make observations regarding internal penetration of the paint into the cotton stuffing in the original garment. Future investigations may yield more information to either confirm or deny this penetration on the original. If none exists, this may point to the possibility that the external fabric was painted before construction of the garment, despite the many complications such an order of construction would cause for the maker.

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Fig. 6.14: Cross-section of the quilting on the right back piece, at a level just above the waist, showing the difference in thickness from one channel to the next and the placement of the bulk toward the outside of the garment, away from the wearer’s body. Drawing: Jessica Finley.

Fig. 6.15: Fabric usage and shapes of the lining pieces (white) and exterior pieces (gray). Drawing: Jessica Finley.

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Fifteenth-Century Fabric Armor The garment does not draw fully closed at the upper chest, and it lacks sleeves, which removes a number of areas of concern when tailoring a fighting garment. Despite its unassuming nature, the garment shows artistry. The lines of quilting, though done through heavy fabrics and extremely thick and dense cotton, were executed with precision, being laid ruler-straight and in an even proportion from the center to each side. There was no significant variation observed in the stitch length across the entire garment, which measured 3 stitches per centimeter (8 stitches per inch). At damaged areas at both the hem and the upper chest, it could be observed that the quilting lines go through the cotton, not only the fabric, which clarifies the sequence in which the layers must have been assembled. That is, the fabrics were not quilted into channels and then stuffed, but rather the cotton was laid between the fabrics and compressed by the quilting. The layers were quilted with much of the bulk going to the outside, particularly on the upper back, and the inner layers being much flatter, which would have allowed the garment to fit tightly against the body on the inside, while still enabling great bulk on the exterior of the garment, presumably to provide impact protection against weaponry (fig. 6.14). Because of this, the inner and outer layers were cut to dramatically different sizes, with the outside layer taking up a great deal more fabric than the inside one (fig. 6.15). The shapes of the layers differed as well, as reflected in the observed shift in grain of the fustian on the outside. For example, as larger amounts of the exterior fabric were gathered up across the upper back to form the radial tubes, the grain on the outer layer shifted from vertical at the center back to nearly a 45-degree angle at the sides of the back. This same shift was observed on the lower back, but in the opposite direction, as would be expected.20 The upper and lower back of the garment were patterned each as a single piece, rather than the more expected construction in quarters (i.e., with a center-back seam as well as a seam at the waist). As the garment would have been subject to weapon blows, it makes sense to minimize the number of construction seams, which would be more vulnerable than uncut fabric. Running down the center back is a line of quilting stitches. On both sides of that line, just below the neckline, the cotton stuffing has settled downward, away from the stitching (fig. 6.8, top). Nowhere else is there obvious shifting of the stuffing, which suggests that the center-back stitching does not pass through the cotton, but rather connects only the fabric layers. This implies that the pieces of fabric were layered on top of each other and the center seam laid as the first step to the quilting process, though this could not be visually confirmed, as the garment is undamaged in this area. In a few areas the fustian was pieced together, but detailed examination and measurement of this piecing was not completed at this time. My impression was that the piecing was due to the pattern being wider than the original fabric in one area. This might indicate the methods by which the garment was made in other areas. 20 A similar effect was shown on the coat armor of Charles VI (Kelly, “Pourpoint of King Charles VI,” 158–59), perhaps implying that, for quilted armor, it was a common construction method to work outward toward the sides from the center back.

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Fig. 6.16: Diagram of the upper back, showing quilting lines and paint scheme. Black markings indicate surviving thread knots, possibly used to attach capelets or hanging sleeves, along the quilt line that runs within the armscye. Drawing: Jessica Finley.

More research is needed to determine if these impressions were correct and to draw further conclusions. The quilting lines are set at approximately 11 millimeters (7/16 inch) apart at the waist. On the upper back they radiate in such a way that the quilt line closest to the center starts 11 millimeters from the center back at the waist and runs to the inner edge of the shoulder; the second quilt line begins 11 millimeters farther over at the waist and runs to the outer edge of the shoulder; then the lines continue in an even manner to the sides on the upper back, at increasing angles to the center-back line (fig. 6.16).There are fourteen of these large quilted sections on the upper back: seven on each side of the center. It was difficult to measure the thickness of these quilted sections accurately. They were approximately 4 centimeters (1½ inch) thick on each side of the neck, and as they radiated to the sides, they gradually diminished in thickness to about 2 centimeters (¾ inch) at the outermost sections. To each side of these large radiating sections are seven smaller parallel quilted lines spaced at 6 millimeters (¼ inch) apart. I was unable to measure the thickness of these sections. (See figure 6.14 142

Fifteenth-Century Fabric Armor

Fig. 6.17: Diagram of the lower back, showing quilting lines and paint scheme. The center back is slit open below the small horizontal line. Side seams are left open below the horizontal lines at left and right. Drawing: Jessica Finley.

for a diagram of the differing thicknesses across the upper back of the garment.) The larger radiating sections of thick padding allow the garment to curve around the upper body, whereas the parallel quilted sections form an extremely rigid area, with no real capability for stretch or movement. These larger areas are painted in such a manner that the stitch lines are left unpainted, resulting in white “stripes” where the quilting lines are laid while the rest is black. The painting was completed with as fine a hand as the stitches were, with clean lines running neatly parallel to the seams. The parallel lines are painted entirely, which indicates that the painting was done after the pieces were complete. Just inside the armscye, on both sides of the back, a quilted line was stitched ­following a deeper curve than the armscye itself, reaching approximately 4 centimeters (1½ inch) from the edge at the widest point. The area outside of this line is not painted, as the paint just reaches it. It is hard to know for certain the purpose of this line, but I propose that it is to allow for the bending of the garment at this point, which would make it much easier and more comfortable to move the upper arm backward, such as a man might do when wielding a weapon. Without the break of this quilted line, the garment would resist bending across the padded sections. On the lower back, there are sixteen larger quilted sections, eight to each side (fig. 6.17). These are spaced at 11 millimeters (7/16 inch) at the waist, loosely aligning 143

Jessica Finley with the quilting lines of the upper back. The lower quilting lines radiate such that each section is 22 millimeters (7/8 inch) in width at the hemline. These thicker quilted sections are approximately 20 millimeters (13/16 inch) thick at the hemline. Beyond the larger section, there are again parallel quilted lines spaced at 6 millimeters (¼ inch). The lower back sections are painted in a similar manner to the upper back, leaving the quilting lines unpainted in the center sections and completely covering the parallel quilted areas. Interestingly, on the left side of the garment as worn, there is a stitching correction: At the hem, there are seven quilting lines, but the outer-left line angles inward to meet with the sixth line a little below the waist. I was unable to devote enough time to this peculiarity to determine the reason for the correction, but my impression is that the spacing of the lines became “off ” near the hem, which would have resulted in the outermost lines ending on the left side of the garment rather than terminating on the hem. This would have been noticeably irregular when compared to the right side, whereas the correction is not obvious from a distance.

Fig. 6.18: Diagram of the upper front, showing quilting lines and paint scheme. Dots indicate unpadded sections. Herringbone lines indicate missing portions, which are drawn here according to the proportions indicated in the eighteenth-century painting (fig. 6.6). Drawing: Jessica Finley.

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Fifteenth-Century Fabric Armor The chest pieces are cut simply, with the grain running vertically down the front of the garment (fig. 6.18). On each side, five parallel sections are quilted following the curve of the armscye, forming a semicircular section from the edge of the neck to the armscye. The quilting lines are set 10 millimeters (3/8 inch) apart along the collarbone, and gently widen as they curve along the chest to approximately 15 millimeters (5/8 inch) apart as they intersect the sides of the garment. The bottom of the armscye and sides of the garment are formed by radiating quilted sections, seven on each side, in similar fashion to the back. The quilting lines are set 11 millimeters (7/16 inch) apart at the waist and radiate up to 22 millimeters (7/8 inch) at the armscye. The outermost quilt line terminates before reaching the side seam, but the proportions and angles are maintained. This suggests that the same proportions could be used for a larger man’s garment while maintaining the same number of quilted sections, but more research would be needed, such as comparing the two extant garments to see if indeed these proportions are consistent. The chest and belly of the garment have been cut away, which prevents the measurement and analysis of the construction of these areas. However, we can see from Bleiel’s watercolor (fig. 6.6) that the center front likely followed a straight line along the grain from the edge of the neck to the waistline. The watercolor shows two pairs of pointing holes that would allow a cord to draw the garment closed, approximately 7 centimeters (2¾ inches) above the waistline. No further closure above the waist is depicted on the watercolors. The chest and belly appear in the watercolor to lack padding, and none was observed in the portions that remain. The majority of the upper pieces are not painted, with the exception of five of the outermost radiating sections, which are painted in a similar manner to the back, leaving the stitching unpainted. Connecting the upper front to the upper back at the shoulders are two small trapezoidal pieces, measuring 5.5 centimeters (23/16 inches) at the neck side, 3.5 centimeters (13/8 inches) at the armscye, and 9 centimeters (3½ inches) across. These pieces provide the shaping necessary for the garment to sit comfortably along the slope of the shoulders. They have no quilting or padding, which allows them easily to follow the body when compared to the quilted sections of the garment, to which the body must conform. These pieces are not painted. The lower front of the garment has radiating quilted sections arranged in a similar manner to the lower back (fig. 6.19). There are ten of these larger quilted sections on each side, unpainted and regular in shape. Again, we find that they are spaced 11 millimeters (7/16 inch) apart at the waist and 22 millimeters (7/8 inch) at the hemline. Rather than beginning at the center front, however, the centermost quilting lines begin 4 centimeters (1½ inch) away from the center front at the waist and run from there to the lower front corner at the hemline. The outer edge of the tenth section comes close to meeting the corner of the hem and side. Beyond these quilted sections, just below the waist, are two trapezoidal areas, one on each side, that are unquilted and unpadded. Each is bisected vertically, with the outermost half painted and the innermost left unpainted. Again, we cannot know for certain the purpose of these unpadded sections, but I would suggest that they were 145

Jessica Finley

Fig. 6.19: Diagram of the lower front, showing quilting lines and paint scheme. Dots indicate unpadded areas. A small portion of the center front corner on the wearer’s right side (the viewer’s left) is missing, marked here with a black X. Drawing: Jessica Finley.

meant to allow side-to-side movement, perhaps even twisting movement, that a man fighting with weapons would need to have. Below this unpadded section on each side, continuing the proportions of the central quilting, are four more quilted sections. These are padded and painted in a similar manner to the back, leaving the stitching lines unpainted. On the left side as worn, in the center of the eleventh quilted section, a 10-centimeter (4-inch) slit is cut through the garment and bound along the cut edges with a rough whipstitch of unpainted thread. This indicates that the slit was made after the garment was complete. It is unknown whether this is a feature original to the initial production of the garment or a later amendment. This style of slit is often shown on the lower left side of exterior military garments in contemporary art, and similar slits are seen in the Charles VI coat armor.21 These slits allow the wearer to have his sword and sheath hanging outside his garment for ease of use, while the sword-belt sits underneath the garment. The triangular area along each edge of the center front is unpadded and unquilted, and here there were originally seven pairs of parallel eyelets; the top two eyelets on the wearer’s right have since been lost to damage, while the third eyelet was cut through, leaving only the lower half of it remaining. These were used to close the lower part of the garment, likely with a single long cord in the manner of many medieval garments. The uppermost eyelet pair is set directly on the waist seam, which is an interesting and unexpected construction detail because of the difficulty of placing an eyelet directly through a seam. Additionally, an eyelet set into a seam would presumably be weaker 21 Ibid., 173–75.

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Fig. 6.20: Proposed shape of the skirting for the front (top) and the back (bottom). Above the latter diagram are the shapes of the reinforcing triangles of fustian sewn inside the lower back skirting. Herringbone lines indicate missing portions, which are drawn here according to the proportions indicated in the eighteenth-century painting (fig. 6.6). Drawing: Jessica Finley.

than one placed through fabric; however, no wear was observed on the remaining eyelet. Examination of the eyelet that was cut partially through showed that it did not have a metal ring set into it, but rather that it was created with a simple whipstitch. 147

Jessica Finley THE DAGGED SKIRTING

There has been a great deal of damage done to the skirting, which originally hung down from the hemline around the entire garment (fig. 6.20). The skirting took the form of “furry” dags, which were made in layers: Strips of fustian, attached to the garment along the inside of the hem, served as support for decoratively treated strips of layered linen that were attached to the outside of the hem and applied vertically along the fustian. Along the front hem, where the supportive fustian has been entirely removed and only the barest remnants of the treated linen remain, no details about the dagging could be ascertained due to the extensive destruction. Much, however, can be determined from portions that remain at the back. Inside the back of the garment at the hemline, layered across the tops of the fustian strips that form the base material of the dags, are two small triangular pieces, also of fustian, each one 20 centimeters (77/8 inches) wide, measuring 5 centimeters (2 inches) deep at the center back and tapering to a point where it meets the side edge of the back piece. It is possible that these triangles are more than one layer thick, but that could not be determined. These additional pieces provide stability to the skirting in the back, which would be subjected to greater stress as the wearer sat on a chair or on horseback. They are attached with small whipstitches to the garment’s hemline and to the backs of the fustian strips. Neither these attachment threads nor the added fustian triangles are painted, implying that the assembly and painting of the skirting was done in stages, rather than the entire skirting being painted after attachment to the garment. At this time, only two dags extend beyond the triangular support pieces, and even then there is little of them remaining. This means that the original length of the dags cannot be determined, but based upon the proportions drawn in Bleiel’s 1753 watercolors of the garments in their more complete state, they were likely 30 to 35 centimeters (12 to 14 inches) in length. Their width varied, with those on the left being about 6, 9, and 6 centimeters (23/8, 3½, and 23/8 inches), looking at them from left to right (from the side to the center). The width of the dags on the right side of the back could not be determined due to the destruction. The “furry” exterior layer of the dags is constructed from the heavy warp-faced linen described above. Each vertical row of decoration is made of three layers of the heavy linen, respectively about 22, 20, and 18 millimeters in width (15/16, 13/16, and 11/16 inch). These strips were stacked, with the widest one on top, and stitched together down the center. Then, very long stab stitches were used to attach each stack to the fustian skirting, creating vertical lines at intervals of approximately 11 millimeters (7/16 inch). This spacing tended to align them with the ends of the garment’s quilting lines and also the center of each of the quilted sections. At this point, some of the long threads of the linen strips were pulled out from the cut edges, resulting in a fur-like appearance (fig. 6.21). The decoration and stitching are entirely painted with the same paint as the garment back, which I suspect was for fashion as well as for practical purposes. The cut ends of the threads maintain a certain amount of cohesion, in that the spun fibers 148

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Fig. 6.21: Construction of the surface decoration on the skirting. Top: The heavy linen fabric with lengthwise threads removed at the sides to produce long strands. Middle: Three stacked layers of narrow linen strips, shown in cross-section. The vertical line at the center indicates the stitching that joins the stack to a wider base of fustian. Bottom: The stacked fabric in cross-section after the loose threads are teased to stand up, creating a fur-like effect. Drawing: Jessica Finley.

remain in a tubular shape rather than splaying out into a brushy mass. Similarly, the frayed fabric did not come completely undone, largely due to the polymerization of the paint, which adhered the threads to one another. It is possible that the fabric was painted before production of the decoration, and allowed partially to cure. This would make the fabric’s weave and the individual threads resist coming completely apart as the edge threads were pulled. At the same time, were the fabric painted and the paint allowed to fully cure, it would have been impossible to pull the threads due to the 149

Jessica Finley polymerization of the paint. Perhaps the decoration was worked wet? More research and experimentation is required to determine the likely technique. ASSEMBLY OF THE GARMENT

Each individual panel appears to have been largely finished on all sides before all were quilted and stitched together. The waistline and side of each piece was finished by turning the raw edges inside and then securing the pieces with a running stitch along the edge. This running stitch was, again, extremely regular, with 3 stitches per centimeter (8 stitches per inch). It is unclear what treatment, if any, the hem received, as it is encased between the fustian and linen layers of the dags. In the areas in which the dags have been removed, the hem splays open between the quilting lines of the body of the garment, but it remains uncertain whether this reflects damage associated with the removal of the dags or the lack of any hem treatment. Future examination of the hem may reveal if it was stitched closed or if the application of the dags simply covered the hem edges. After the pieces were completed and painted, the garment was assembled. In a likely sequence, the upper front and back were first attached together with the unpadded trapezoidal pieces, with right sides together and the seam allowances opened and stitched down with a fine running stitch. Next, the waists of the front and back pieces were stitched together from the inside using a whipstitch spaced at 3 stitches per centimeter (8 stitches per inch), which prevents the construction seam from being seen on the outside. Along the back waist alone, this seam is reinforced by a heavy whipstitch, going through all layers and showing on both the inside and outside, that encompasses the earlier finishes. This seam is touched up with paint on the outside (fig. 6.22). Finally, the seams on the sides are done in the same manner as the front waist, using the inner whipstitch at the same spacing. These are not stitched the full length of the sides of the garment, but rather the bottom 10 centimeters (4 inches) are left open, giving the wearer more freedom of movement and an area that can expand when he sits. Additionally, there is a slit of similar length in the center back at the hemline, which is finished by turning the raw edges inside and secured with parallel stab stitches. The front opening and neckline are finished with a tape made from the fustian fabric, cut along the grain rather than on the bias, with the linen side showing. Both armholes are finished with raw edges turned inside, and a very rough whipstitch. This is the only area of the garment that appears to have been left roughly finished, besides the sword slit, which is extremely curious. The lack of painting in the back along the armhole and the rough finish would seem to indicate that this section was covered in some way. Some evidence for this treatment remains in the form of a set of very large rough knots and stitch lines that run along the previously described quilted “break” inside the back of the armscye (fig. 6.16). Contemporary paintings and statues show that often open decorative hanging sleeves or “capelets” were attached to the top and back 150

Fig. 6.22: The waist seam at the back. Photo: Roland Warzecha, 2013, by permission.

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Jessica Finley of these types of garments (see figs. 6.2, 6.3, and 6.4). Sometimes they appear to be decorative to match the skirting, and at other times appear to be heraldic in nature. Perhaps, in this case, decorative sleeves, maybe in the colors of the free city of Lübeck, were attached to the garment originally and were taken off and reused or otherwise displayed after the garments were no longer in use. This is, unfortunately, only speculation, as no sleeve treatment is shown on the garments in their earliest depictions. FINAL OBSERVATIONS

The padded military garments held in Lübeck are extremely important for a number of reasons. First, they clearly show, thanks in part to eighteenth-century destruction, the construction methods used by fabric armor producers in Germany during the fifteenth century. We now know, for instance, that these garments were quilted through the cotton padding and not sewn into channels and stuffed after quilting. They also provide us with evidence for how cotton stuffing might have been used, with physical evidence to confirm the documentary evidence regarding cotton’s widespread use as filler and as fabric. An important question, which these garments might help to answer with further study, is how these garments were produced en masse, as there are two apparently of the same make but designed for men of dramatically different size. These garments have been purchased by the Europäisches Hansemuseum in Lübeck for restoration and are now on display together for the first time in nearly eighty years.

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Recent Books of Interest

The Age of Opus Anglicanum, edited by M. A. Michael (London: Harvey Miller Publishers, 2016). ISBN 978-909400412. 240 pages, 210 illustrations (most in color). The papers published here were presented at a symposium held at the Victoria and Albert Museum, London, on February 15, 2013, as part of a project which led to the museum’s exhibition Opus Anglicanum: Masterpieces of English Medieval Embroidery (October 2016 to February 2017). The volume is the first in a planned series “Studies in English Medieval Embroidery.” It is not the catalogue of the exhibition, with which, somewhat confusingly, it shares an editor and contributors.1 M. A. Michael’s brief historiography examines terminology, establishing that originally other art forms were included as opus anglicum [sic] and that when the term did come to be confined to embroidery, it is uncertain whether it referred to materials, technique, or artistic style. Michael accepts its Englishness. His essay includes modern scholarship and points out the gender division between technical and art historical studies (which still persists). It ends with a useful chronological list of major examples of opus anglicanum, documentation, patrons/donors, and present location. The theme of donors and owners is continued in Julian Gardner’s essay, which includes contemporary descriptions of copes. Information about the ownership of opus anglicanum by Avignon popes and the secondhand market in vestments is particularly welcome. Lisa Monnas’s “Embroideries for Edward III” considers vestments, horse equipment, and bedding for state beds, giving names, roles, length of employment, and rates of pay for craftspersons employed in making them, including details of families of specialists and gender balance. Glyn Davies investigates the extent to which the taste of commissioners could be manifested in the iconography of embroidered vestments, focusing on the patronage of Pope John XXII and John Grandison, bishop of Exeter. Nigel Morgan posits an embroiderers’ pattern book compiled in the 1270s or ’80s to explain the recurrence in opus anglicanum of iconography otherwise unusual in contemporary art, focusing on specific examples relating to Christ and the Virgin Mary. Evelin Wetter demonstrates that the relationship between iconography and the liturgy celebrated by the wearer may provide a context for an embroidery even when there is no evidence of its provenance. Kate Heard notes that late medieval embroidery was

1

Clare Browne, Glyn Davies, and M. A. Michael, eds., English Medieval Embroidery: Opus Anglicanum (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2016).

Recent Books of Interest simpler, made of cheaper materials, and produced more quickly than its predecessors, and considers whether theological debate rather than a decline in the art form was the reason for this apparent loss of quality. Colum Hourihane discusses the development of the funeral pall with a detailed catalogue of twenty-one known survivals, mostly sixteenth-century. Evelyn Thomas, whose collection of photographs has been digitised as part of this project, presents a wonderfully detailed study of the development of English embroidery ca. 1275–1350 focused mostly on framing devices and figure style. The themes of the papers interlink in a satisfying way and open up the subject in a manner that is promising for the proposed series. This large-format book is beautifully presented, though uncorrected typing errors in every chapter are an irritation. — Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Editor Armour of the English Knight 1400–1450, by Tobias Capwell (London: Thomas Del Mar Ltd., 2015). ISBN: 978-0993324604. 320 pages, about 650 illustrations (many in color). Despite its English-centered title, this volume will interest anyone studying armor from the first half of the fifteenth century. It is not hyperbole to call this volume a major milestone in the study of late medieval armor. It does, however, focus overwhelmingly on the plate elements of armor, giving little attention to the mail elements used with such armors and even less to the garments worn with them. That said, what it does cover it treats with great attention to detail. The book begins by setting armor in context of its use in war and explaining how the English way of war strongly influenced the choices made by English men-at-arms. Nearly half of this introductory section deals with the problems and benefits arising from the lack of extant pieces from the period and the comparative wealth of effigies and manuscript evidence that must perforce inform our understanding of the sorts of armor in use. Part I covers the period from 1400 to 1430, while Part II covers 1430 to 1450. Each part contains sections on helmets, cuirass, shoulder defenses, arm defenses, gauntlets, leg armor, and sabatons. The vast bulk of the figures are photographs of alabaster tomb effigies, most never before published. The photography is excellent, mostly close-ups with the occasional atmospheric shot that brings out the subject’s romance. Small details of the armor as well as strapping and decoration are prominent in the figures and the text. Capwell uses his resources well to set the armor in temporal context and to provide insight into how English pieces differ from their Continental contemporaries. A thematic sequence of full-body drawings of “typical” armors by period offers a baseline and is also useful in highlighting specific elements that changed over time. Many drawings offer informed representations of how armor pieces fit a human body. The harness drawings are by Robert MacPherson (the creator of the harness featured in the appendix), and most of the detail drawings are by Jeff Wasson. Both men are well-respected armorers of worldwide renown who bring a wealth of practical knowledge to their work.

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Recent Books of Interest A lengthy appendix details the process of creating a painstaking theoretical armor of ca. 1440–50 with many pictures at different stages of construction and adaptations made after testing. Capwell also reports on lessons learned from attempting to use that armor in the joust and in combat, on horse and on foot. Additional end matter includes citations of the printed sources and effigies in the text, a concordance of effigy names and locations, picture credits, a helpful glossary, and an index. Capwell brings academic thoroughness and practical experience to his subject as well as writing with obvious affection for it. The result is a “must have” reference. — Robert Charrette, La Belle Compagnie A Capo Coperto: Storie di Donne e di Veli, by Maria Giuseppina Muzzarelli (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2016). ISBN 978-8815264176. 214 pages, 75 illustrations (56 in color). This small paperback, written in Italian, gives a fascinating overview of the history and use of the veil as a covering for the head, and sometimes face, from the early Christian period to the present day. One of Muzzarelli’s main areas of scholarship is the history of clothing, and she has published extensively on medieval sumptuary legislation, for example. This book continues that interest. Despite its size, it packs a punch. Muzzarelli notes in the introduction that many of us now look at the contemporary Muslim use of the hijab as a throwback to a time when all women in the West were required to wear a headcovering as a sign of modesty and subjection, a period which has now been superseded as the fight for equality has gained ground. Furthermore, the veil can be seen as something which effectively “hides” women and is, therefore, antithetical to contemporary models of clarity and transparency. Muzzarelli sets out to remind the reader of the long and varied history of the veil in the West and, in doing so, to open up debates about this contested item of clothing. She discusses the early Christian use of the veil and St. Paul’s injunction to women to cover their head whilst praying (1 Corinthians 11:5), moving on in chapters 2 and 3 to consider ways in which the veil shifted from being a sign of modesty and religious observance to being a fashion statement, railed against by preachers such as St. Bernardino of Siena (1380–1444). Chapter 4 is dedicated to a discussion of images with the caveat that visual evidence needs to be used with an understanding of the context in which it was created. Subsequent chapters explore the violent removal of the veil; ambiguous uses of the veil, which could show modesty but also sexual availability; veils and marriage; veils and mourning; veils and religious vocation; and the production and marketing of veils. The final two chapters move away from the medieval and Renaissance to contemporary uses of the veil and the foulard. The fashionable foulard, as modelled by Audrey Hepburn and Jacqueline K ­ ennedy, amongst others, is both connected to and contrasted with the white headscarf used by the mothers of the Plaza de Mayo in Argentina, as a headcovering and an emblem, as they attempted to find out what had happened to their children, who had been “disappeared.” The book ends with some reflections on the use of the veil, the hijab, the foulard, and the intersections between them. It is a thought-provoking and timely publication 155

Recent Books of Interest demonstrating the multivalent and evolving understanding and use of this item of clothing, written mainly from the perspective of the history of Christian Europe. — Cordelia Warr, University of Manchester Clothing the Sacred: Medieval Textiles as Fabric, Form, and Metaphor, edited by Mateusz Kapustka and Warren T. Woodfin (Emsdetten/Berlin: Edition Imorde, 2015). ISBN 978-94810-20-3. 207 pages, 108 illustrations (16 in color). This book celebrates the revival of interest, within art history, in the study of textiles, previously ignored as an “applied art” or as “women’s work.” It has to be said, however, that the study of textiles in relation to art styles and iconography has been going on for a long time, in museum and exhibition catalogues and in work by archaeologists, specialists in literature and language, and historians researching the role of the arts within the wider culture of a period or a region. Nevertheless, this is a welcome, well-illustrated collection, offering new perspectives on well-known material as well as bringing forward some less familiar examples and themes. The title of the book is also a fair summary of its content. Warren T. Woodfin discusses the application of mystagogical interpretation (explanation of the varied meanings of liturgical action, important in Byzantine thought) to embroidered Byzantine vestments—concluding that a common programme depicted (a cycle of twelve scenes from the life of Christ), in celebrating both the yearly cycle and the daily liturgical re-creation of Christ’s incarnate life by the priest, fulfilled the metaphorical interpretation emphasised in the literature. Branislav Cvetković shows how royal garments of the Balkans and different styles of arranging them emphasised the heavenly origins of sovereign power. Barbara Eggert considers the role of embroidered architecture and architectural elements in giving structure to iconographic compositions: not a new idea, but used here to some effect in relation to the iconography of the Mass of St. Gregory. Christine Brandner looks at performative aspects of the vestments of the Order of the Golden Fleece as an expression of spirituality, in the absence of any direct reference to the Order or its founder in the iconography. Barbara Baert concludes that an antependium with an unusual presentation of Mary Magdalene is an “intimate interweaving of convent art, textiles and feminine iconography”—an update on the idea of the “subversive stitch.” Two pieces focus on textiles as “clothing the body” of books: David Ganz looks at actual textiles as wrappings; Anna Bücheler examines painted depictions of patterned textiles (Byzantine, Islamic, Central Asian) which link the four Gospels and turn pages into “textile-clad folios,” which she relates to Jerome’s metaphor of scripture as woven textile, while the book as a clothed body expresses the Incarnation of Christ. The clothed “body,” in this case a building, is also discussed by Avinoam Shalem, in relation to the textile wrapping of the Ka’ba in Mecca, a stunning use of textile in the present, linked to accounts of the history of the practice. Finally, Michael Gnehm looks at the function of the tent in Western art as an expression of the Oriental, the “other,” using Old Testament Biblical scenes. — Elizabeth Coatsworth, Manchester Metropolitan University 156

Recent Books of Interest Europe’s Rich Fabric: The Consumption, Commercialisation, and Production of Luxury Textiles in Italy, the Low Countries and Neighbouring Territories (Fourteenth– Sixteenth Centuries), edited by Bart Lambert and Katherine Anne Wilson (Farnham, UK: Ashgate, 2016). ISBN: 978-1409444428. 249 pages, 14 color illustrations. This collection of nine papers on silk, tapestry, and luxury woollens from the fourteenth through the sixteenth centuries arose from scholarly conferences and meetings in 2010 and 2011. They are of a high academic standard and well organised, divided into three subject areas—consumption, commercialisation, and production—with an introduction which considers the concept of luxury, and a conclusion that consumption of luxury textiles extended beyond Europe’s courts and reflected how aspiring segments of society viewed themselves. While most papers are concerned with Italy or the Low Countries, one is on textile consumption in Dijon, and another on the export of Italian silks to central and eastern Europe. The colour plates aptly illustrate the beauty, colour, and intricacy of these textiles, as well as the social position that wearing or owning these textiles represented. As might be expected, these papers substantiate many trends in luxury cloth production and sale. Low Countries’ urban woollen production moved to luxury woollens, as illustrated by Peter Stabel’s discussion of Mechelen’s fourteenth-century cloth industry, and to more specialised products such as tapestries that required expert craftsmanship, as is exemplified in Laura Weigert’s analysis of the choir tapestry covering the life of St. Remigius. Jeroen Puttevils’ paper on trading silks and tapestries in sixteenth-century Antwerp shows how important tapestries had become to many Flemish towns, from which they were then distributed throughout Europe. A majority of the papers are on silks, unsurprisingly, considering their high cost and status, increase in production in both Italy and the Low Countries, and importance in south-north trade. Papers cover the growth in Italian production after 1400, the search for northern and eastern European markets for these products, financing of the silk trade, and the way in which the Low Countries entered into the silk market in the sixteenth century, initially by undercutting Italian silks, and then by producing higher-quality fabrics. Puttevils’ paper shows that silks and high-quality woollens sometimes competed, as the finest woollens, especially scarlets and blacks, were frequently more expensive than silk mixtures such as satins (silk mixed with wool or linen). There is no cloth historian of this period whose knowledge will not be broadened, and who will not find the juxtaposition of silk, luxury woollens, and tapestry thought-provoking. Those concerned with luxury consumption and status or international trade will also find many papers stimulating. Congratulations to the editors who have obviously laboured hard to bring this collection together, and to include the illustrations that communicate almost as much as the words about consumption and display. — John Oldland, Bishop’s University

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Recent Books of Interest Medieval Jewelry and Burial Assemblages in Croatia: A Study of Graves and Grave Goods, ca. 800 to ca. 1450, by Vladimir Sokol (Leiden, Netherlands: Brill, 2016). ISBN 978-9004185531. 256 pages, 66 illustrations (13 in color). With this book, Vladimir Sokol has prepared a detailed relative and absolute chronology of jewelry and burial architecture of 800 to 1450 derived from sixteen cemeteries in Croatia. The chronology proposed by Sokol is based on earrings and temple rings from twenty thousand burial assemblages. Earrings are rings that go through the ear and measure 1.5 to 3 centimeters. Temple rings are larger, ranging from 3 to 10 centimeters, and would have been attached to hair locks, ribbons, or straps of leather hanging from a headdress. Together, these items represent 75 percent of the finds in cemetery contexts and are found primarily in the graves of women. They survive in a variety of materials, including bronze, silver, gold, and gilded silver and bronze. No single type remained in fashion for more than a hundred years. The most interesting insight by Sokol concerns the change that takes place in burial customs and earring styles in the second half of the ninth century. Grave cists change from rectangular to elliptical, and pottery (associated with food offerings) is no longer present in the graves. The forms of earrings change, and the size increases. Sokol associates this with the mass conversion to Christianity that occurred in the mid-ninth century. As Christianity became the norm, the only acceptable grave goods were elements of personal adornment, and the larger earrings appear, which eventually evolve into temple rings. There is a heated debate about the origin of the Croatian earrings. Sokol believes that they originated in the eastern region of the Adriatic Sea, since similar earrings have not been found in lands once under Byzantine control. He also argues that the existence of five thousand specimens from the eastern Adriatic region speaks volumes for local origin, as do archaeological finds of beaten metal sheets, semi-finished beaded earrings, and miscasts found in the royal center in Knin. Figures delineate maps, cemetery and church plans, photographs, and grave architecture. A combination of photos and drawings clearly illustrate the thirty-one types of earrings and temple rings. All told, this book would make a valuable addition to a university or museum library. — Neathery Fuller, St. Louis Community College The Silk Industries of Medieval Paris: Artisanal Migration, Technological Innovation, and Gendered Experience, by Sharon Farmer (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2016). 368 pages, 28 black-and-white illustrations. Medieval Paris has been recognized as a center for certain luxury silk goods, thanks to guild records first compiled in Etienne de Boileau’s Livre des Métiers around 1268, tax records of 1292–1313, and other accounts, inventories, and legal documents. While Parisian silk manufacture and trade are often mentioned anecdotally, there has not been a comprehensive economic or social history of the industry and its workers, due in part perhaps to the emerging nature of the records in the mid-thirteenth to fourteenth centuries. None of the records are systematic, leaving many questions to 158

Recent Books of Interest tantalize but elude definitive answers. Sharon Farmer draws on a career focused on women and marginals of Paris’ high medieval economy to reveal the unique opportunities silk offered thousands of women. Although women silk workers earned less than men, they could earn significantly more than most medieval women in other professions or in the later silk industries documented in Italian cities. The first chapter is an up-to-date survey of medieval Parisian demographics and the many immigrant groups feeding its population over the long thirteenth century: those who came to Paris for purposes of aristocratic marriage, study, or employment, as well as “silk entrepreneurs” from established industrial centers in the Mediterranean such as Lucca, Iberia, and Cyprus (further probed in chapter 3). The second chapter traces the steps involved in silk processing, building chapter 4’s argument that men dominated activities requiring high capital expenditures, such as dyeing and weaving, while women worked where less equipment was needed as throwsters, gold spinners, and veil makers. Investigating accusations of women pawning silk they were to work, chapter 5 explores women’s access to credit, concluding that neighboring Jews offered small loans in a family-friendly setting that helped women get by, in contrast with working in the Lombards’ more sexually threatening all-male compounds. Among the book’s most compelling aspects are “mini-biographies” triangulated from multiple sources: Mahy, the goldsmith cum mercer who arranges the Countess of Flanders’ silk orders; Colette, impregnated while working for Lombards, put on trial for abandoning her baby; chest maker Richart of Aragon, living among saddle makers and leatherworkers from Iberia, the second-largest Mediterranean immigrant group after Italians. Anglophone readers seeking primary sources on silk workers will appreciate the 110 pages of appendices filtering their names, streets, and contributions from the tax assessments, grouping them geographically by different “merceries,” as well as maps of workers by industry and origin. Other images illustrate parts of tax manuscripts, silk technology from later Italian treatises, and extant examples of silk work. — Sarah-Grace Heller, Ohio State University La Tapisserie de Bayeux: Une Découverte Pas à Pas / A Step-by-Step Discovery, by Sylvette Lemagnen (Bayeux, France: OREP Éditions, 2015). ISBN: 978-2815102469. 167 pages, most with color illustrations, and a full facsimile of the Tapestry on the front and back endpapers. The author of this attractive book was curator of the Bayeux Tapestry from 1989 until her retirement in 2016. She has been a good friend to international Tapestry scholars and an energetic organizer and attender of conferences. She was personally responsible for the deposition at Bayeux of the archive of wartime German study of the Tapestry and for the publication and computerised display in the museum of the photographs of the back of the Tapestry. In a long, narrow format, like the Tapestry itself, the volume has a short introduction, first in French, then in English, which deals succinctly with the Tapestry’s known history, its materials and techniques, and the historical context of its narrative. This is followed by a scene-by-scene analysis with full-page illustrations of the whole 159

Recent Books of Interest embroidery accompanied by simultaneous French and English texts. The commentary describes the scenes, sometimes homing in on details of architecture, a ship, vegetation, or border images. Problematic passages are acknowledged: the identity of Ælfgyva; the possibility that Eustace of Boulogne was once named; the puzzling border nudes. The author’s descriptive style leads the reader to appreciate the designer’s art: Of Scene 50, for example, we are told “The bouquet of trees on the hillside offers a grand entry to this short scene,” one in which the movement of a sentry, who unusually appears twice in the same scene, once spying the enemy and once reporting their movements to the king, is described as “a graceful pirouette.” If the English translation is sometimes a little quaint (“hibernated” for “wintered,” “consumed” for “consummated”) it generally renders the author’s confident and lucid writing faithfully. The commentary is followed by a series of invaluable appendices: a chronological account of events from 1064 to 1066; a glossary covering a range of topics, including architecture, dress, animals, tools, and institutions; an index of persons, both those named in the Tapestry and others included in the commentary; a geographical index usefully locating places shown in the Tapestry and others not shown at all but useful for understanding the background events; and a short bibliography, mostly dedicated to primary sources and naming only five secondary works (though Shirley Ann Brown’s Sourcebook2 covers everything else up to 2013). The author’s own considerable scholarship is demonstrated everywhere in this book, but it is worn lightly. As curator of a UNESCO Heritage Monument which receives hundreds of thousands of visitors per year, Lemagnen has produced exactly the kind of book Bayeux Tapestry fans will want to own. I am sure it sells like hot cakes in the Bayeux shop! — Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Editor Weaving Words and Binding Bodies: The Poetics of Human Experience in Old English Literature, by Megan Cavell (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2016). ISBN 978-1442637221. 343 pages. Old English poetry is notoriously allusive, metaphorical, and often enigmatic. In this study (which includes Ælfric’s rhythmic prose) of the imagery of what the author terms “construction and constriction,” the prevalence of weaving and binding metaphors is interpreted as indicative of the “Anglo-Saxon poetic obsession with the bound nature of the human condition,” a “fascination with exercising power and control . . . to bring stability to an unstable world—at once an aspiration and an impossibility for all but the omnipotent eallwealda (all-ruling one).” The book contains much sensitive analysis of the alliterations and assonances of Old English verse, both the sounds for those who heard it and the graphics for those who read it. There is effective use of Anglo-Latin riddles and Latin educational material known to Anglo-Saxon scholars, as when the metaphor in The Seafarer in which hail is called “the coldest of grains”

2

Shirley Ann Brown, The Bayeux Tapestry: Bayeux, Médiathèque Municipale: MS. 1: A Sourcebook, Publications of the Journal of Medieval Latin 9 (Turnhout, Belgium: Brepols, 2013).

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Recent Books of Interest is explained by reference to Isidore’s definition of hail (grando in Latin), and the association of weaving and fate is attributed to inheritance from the classical tradition. The author herself contrasts her intentions with those of Maren Clegg Hyer, whose doctoral dissertation3 is characterised as examining “what poetry can tell us about the history of textiles and textile production in the Anglo-Saxon period,” her own investigating conversely “what weaving imagery can tell us about Anglo-Saxon poetry.” The book is aimed at scholars of Old English, a basic knowledge of which is taken for granted, though all quotations are translated. Those readers concerned with clothing and textiles will inevitably find more of interest in the chapters focused on weaving than in those about binding imagery, which include the construction of buildings, tools and weapons, the fettering of prisoners, and cold, though a section on structural binding contains an interesting analysis of Grendel’s glove in Beowulf. Of particular interest are the opening chapters on “The Material Context of Weaving,” which draws mostly on riddles and Beowulf, and “The Woven Mail-Coat”; the discussion of weaving in association with Fate; and the examination of the Old English compound frithuwebban (“peace-weavers”), where the author usefully demonstrates how the word has been hijacked by feminist and gender scholars, turning the concept of “peaceweaver” into a cultural model of Anglo-Saxon womanhood. Here the term is realigned with moral standing and disassociated from gender. There is a slip at page 79: The wire-bound sword which Beowulf throws down is not, as stated there, the same weapon with which Beowulf defeats Grendel’s mother; it is the named sword Hrunting, the weapon lent to the hero by the kin-killer Unferth, and it has failed to “bite” the female monster. This small error apart, the book is a delight to read, with its range of material, subtle and original perception, and crisp authoritative style. I expect it to be much cited in future publications. — Gale R. Owen-Crocker, Editor ALSO PUBLISHED

Making Sense of the Bayeux Tapestry: Readings and Reworkings, edited by Anna C. Henderson with Gale R. Owen-Crocker (Manchester, UK: Manchester University Press, 2016). ISBN 978-0719095351. 232 pages, 53 illustrations. Textiles, Text, Intertext: Essays in Honour of Gale R. Owen-Crocker, edited by Maren Clegg Hyer and Jill Frederick (Woodbridge, UK: Boydell, 2016). ISBN 978-1783270736. 272 pages, 12 illustrations.

3

“Textiles and Textile Imagery in Old English Literature” (Ph.D. diss., University of Toronto, 1998).

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Contents of Previous Volumes

Vol. 1 (2005)

Elizabeth Coatsworth Stitches in Time: Establishing a History of Anglo-­Saxon  Embroidery Maren Clegg Hyer Textiles and Textile Imagery in the Exeter Book Gale R. Owen-Crocker Pomp, Piety, and Keeping the Woman in Her Place: The   Dress of Cnut and Ælfgifu-Emma Sandra Ballif Straubhaar Wrapped in a Blue Mantle: Fashions for Icelandic  Slayers? John Muendel The Orientation of Strikers in Medieval Fulling Mills:   The Role of the “French” Gualchiera Susan M. Carroll-Clark Bad Habits: Clothing and Textile References in the   Register of Eudes Rigaud, Archbishop of Rouen Thomas M. Izbicki Forbidden Colors in the Regulation of Clerical Dress   from the Fourth Lateran Council (1215) to the Time   of Nicholas of Cusa (d. 1464) Robin Netherton The Tippet: Accessory after the Fact? Kristen M. Burkholder Threads Bared: Dress and Textiles in Late Medieval   English Wills Carla Tilghman Giovanna Cenami’s Veil: A Neglected Detail Vol. 2 (2006)

Niamh Whitfield Dress and Accessories in the Early Irish Tale “The   Wooing Of Becfhola” Gale R. Owen-Crocker The Embroidered Word: Text in the Bayeux Tapestry Monica L. Wright “De Fil d’Or et de Soie”: Making Textiles in Twelfth   Century French Romance Sharon Farmer Biffes, Tiretaines, and Aumonières: The Role of Paris in   the International Textile Markets of the Thirteenth   and Fourteenth Centuries Margaret Rose Jaster “Clothing Themselves in Acres”: Apparel and ­   Impoverishment in Medieval and Early Modern ­  England

Contents of Previous Volumes Drea Leed “Ye Shall Have It Cleane”: Textile Cleaning Techniques   in Renaissance Europe Tawny Sherrill Fleas, Fur, and Fashion: Zibellini as Luxury Accessories   of the Renaissance Danielle Nunn-Weinberg The Matron Goes to the Masque: The Dual Identity of   the English Embroidered Jacket Vol. 3 (2007)

Elizabeth Coatsworth Cushioning Medieval Life: Domestic Textiles in Anglo   Saxon England Sarah Larratt Keefer A Matter of Style: Clerical Vestments in the Anglo   Saxon Church Susan Leibacher Ward Saints in Split Stitch: Representations of Saints in Opus  Anglicanum Vestments John H. Munro The Anti-Red Shift—To the Dark Side: Colour Changes   in Flemish Luxury Woollens, 1300–1550 John Oldland The Finishing of English Woollens, 1300–1550 Lesley K. Twomey Poverty and Richly Decorated Garments: A   Re-Evaluation of Their Significance in the Vita Christi   of Isabel de Villena Elizabeth Benns “Set on Yowre Hondys”: Fifteenth-Century Instructions   for Fingerloop Braiding Lois Swales and Tiny Textiles Hidden In Books: Toward a Categorization Heather Blatt   of Multiple-Strand Bookmarkers Melanie Schuessler “She Hath Over Grown All that Ever She Hath”:   Children’s Clothing in the Lisle Letters, 1533–40 Vol. 4 (2008)

Heidi M. Sherman From Flax to Linen in the Medieval Rus Lands Anna Zanchi “Melius Abundare Quam Deficere”: Scarlet Clothing in   Laxdæla Saga and Njáls Saga Lucia Sinisi The Wandering Wimple Mark Chambers and From Head to Hand to Arm: The Lexicological History Gale R. Owen-Crocker   of “Cuff ” Lena Hammarlund, Visual Textiles: A Study of Appearance and Visual Heini Kirjavainen,   Impression in Archaeological Textiles Kathrine Vestergård Pedersen, and Marianne Vedeler

Contents of Previous Volumes Camilla Luise Dahl and The Cap of St. Birgitta Isis Sturtewagen Robin Netherton The View from Herjolfsnes: Greenland’s Translation of   the European Fitted Fashion John Block Friedman The Art of the Exotic: Robinet Testard’s Turbans and   Turban-like Coiffure Lisa Evans “The Same Counterpoincte Beinge Olde and Worene”:   The Mystery of Henry VIII’s Green Quilt Vol. 5 (2009)

Kate D’Ettore Clothing and Conflict in the Icelandic Family Sagas:   Literary Convention and the Discourse of Power Sarah-Grace Heller Obscure Lands and Obscured Hands: Fairy Embroidery   and the Ambiguous Vocabulary of Medieval Textile  Decoration Thomas M. Izbicki Failed Censures: Ecclesiastical Regulation of Women’s   Clothing in Late Medieval Italy Paula Mae Carns Cutting a Fine Figure: Costume on French Gothic  Ivories Sarah Randles One Quilt or Two? A Reassessment of the Guicciardini  Quilts Melanie Schuessler French Hoods: Development of a Sixteenth-Century   Court Fashion Tawny Sherrill Who Was Cesare Vecellio? Placing Habiti Antichi in  Context Vol. 6 (2010)

Hilary Davidson and Archaeological Dress and Textiles in Latvia from the Ieva Pīgozne   Seventh to Thirteenth Centuries: Research, Results,   and Reconstructions Valerie L. Garver Weaving Words in Silk: Women and Inscribed Bands in   the Carolingian World Christine Sciacca Stitches, Sutures, and Seams: “Embroidered” Parchment   Repairs in Medieval Manuscripts Sarah L. Higley Dressing Up the Nuns: The Lingua Ignota and Hildegard   of Bingen’s Clothing William Sayers Flax and Linen in Walter of Bibbesworth’s Thirteenth   Century French Treatise for English Housewives Roger A. Ladd The London Mercers’ Company, London Textual   Culture, and John Gower’s Mirour de l’Omme

Contents of Previous Volumes Kate Kelsey Staples Fripperers and the Used Clothing Trade in Late   Medieval London Charlotte A. Stanford Donations from the Body for the Soul: Apparel,   Devotion, and Status in Late Medieval Strasbourg Vol. 7 (2011)

Benjamin L. Wild The Empress’s New Clothes: A Rotulus Pannorum of   Isabella, Sister of King Henry III, Bride of Emperor   Frederick II Isis Sturtewagen Unveiling Social Fashion Patterns: A Case Study of   Frilled Veils in the Low Countries (1200–1500) Kimberly Jack What Is the Pearl-Maiden Wearing, and Why? Mark Chambers “Hys surcote was ouert”: The “Open Surcoat” in Late   Medieval British Texts Eleanor Quinton London Merchants’ Cloth Exports, 1350–1500 and John Oldland Christine Meek Laboreria Sete: Design and Production of Lucchese Silks   in the Late Fourteenth and Early Fifteenth Centuries Vol. 8 (2012)

Brigitte Haas-Gebhard The Unterhaching Grave Finds: Richly Dressed Burials and Britt Nowak-Böck   from Sixth-Century Bavaria Chrystel Brandenburgh Old Finds Rediscovered: Two Early Medieval ­   Headdresses from the National Museum of   Antiquities, Leiden, the Netherlands Maren Clegg Hyer Reduce, Reuse, Recycle: Imagined and Reimagined   Textiles in Anglo-Saxon England Louise Sylvester Mining for Gold: Investigating a Semantic Classification   in the Lexis of Cloth and Clothing Project Patricia Williams Dress and Dignity in the Mabinogion Kathryn Marie Talarico Dressing for Success: How the Heroine’s Clothing   (Un)Makes the Man in Jean Renart’s Roman de la Rose Lisa Evans Anomaly or Sole Survivor? The Impruneta Cushion and   Early Italian “Patchwork” Vol. 9 (2013)

Antonietta Amati Canta Bridal Gifts in Medieval Bari Lucia Sinisi The Marriage of the Year (1028)

Contents of Previous Volumes Mark Zumbuhl Clothing as Currency in Pre-Norman Ireland? John Oldland Cistercian Clothing and Its Production at Beaulieu ­   Abbey, 1269–70 Eva I. Andersson Clothing and Textile Materials in Medieval Sweden and   Norway John Block Friedman The Iconography of Dagged Clothing and Its Reception   by Moralist Writers Susan E. James Domestic Painted Cloths in Sixteenth-Century England:   Imagery, Placement, and Ownership Vol. 10 (2014)

Christopher J. Monk Behind the Curtains, Under the Covers, Inside the Tent:   Textile Items and Narrative Strategies in Anglo-Saxon   Old Testament Art Lisa Monnas Some Medieval Colour Terms for Textiles Rebecca Woodward Wefts and Worms: The Spread of Sericulture Wendelken   and Silk Weaving in the West before 1300 Maureen C. Miller The Liturgical Vestments of Castel Sant’Elia: Their   Historical Significance and Current Condition Christine Meek Clothing Distrained for Debt in the Court of Merchants   of Lucca in the Late Fourteenth Century Valija Evalds Sacred or Profane? The Horned Headdresses of St.   Frideswide’s Priory Michelle L. Beer “Translating” a Queen: Material Culture and the   Creation of Margaret Tudor as Queen of Scots Elizabeth Coatsworth “A formidable undertaking”: Mrs. A. G. I. Christie and   English Medieval Embroidery Vol. 11 (2015)

Ingvild Øye Production, Quality, and Social Status in Viking Age   Dress: Three Cases from Western Norway Karen Nicholson The Effect of Spindle Whorl Design on Wool Thread   Production: A Practical Experiment Based on   Examples from Eighth-Century Denmark Tina Anderlini The Shirt Attributed to St. Louis Sarah-Grace Heller Angevin-Sicilian Sumptuary Statutes of the 1290s:   Fashion in the Thirteenth-Century Mediterranean Cordelia Warr The Devil on My Tail: Clothing and Visual Culture in   the Camposanto Last Judgment

Contents of Previous Volumes Emily J. Rozier “Transposing þe shapus þat God first mad them of ”:   Manipulated Masculinity in the Galaunt Tradition Susan Powell Textiles and Dress in the Household Papers of Lady   Margaret Beaufort (1443–1509), Mother of King   Henry VII Anna Riehl Bertolet “Like two artificial gods”: Needlework and Female   Bonding in A Midsummer Night’s Dream Vol. 12 (2016)

Grzegorz Pac The Attire of the Virgin Mary and Female Rulers in   Iconographical Sources of the Ninth to Eleventh   Centuries: Analogues, Interpretations,   Misinterpretations Megan Cavell Sails, Veils, and Tents: The Segl and Tabernacle of Old   English Christ III and Exodus Thomas M. Izbicki Linteamenta altaria: The Care of Altar Linens in the   Medieval Church John Block Friedman Coats, Collars, and Capes: Royal Fashions for Animals   in the Early Modern Period Frances Pritchard A Set of Late-Fifteenth-Century Orphreys Relating to   Ludovico Buonvisi, a Lucchese Merchant, and   Embroidered in a London Workshop Jonathan C. Cooper Academical Dress in Late Medieval and Renaissance   Scotland Camilla Luise Dahl Dressing the Bourgeoisie: Clothing in Probate Records   of Danish Townswomen, ca. 1545–1610

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Contents GALE R. OWEN-CROCKER

The Significance of Dress in the Bayeux Tapestry

MARK CHAMBERS How Long Is a Launce? Units of Measure for Cloth in Late Medieval Britain ANA GRINBERG Robes,Turbans, and Beards: “Ethnic Passing” in Decameron 10.9 CHRISTINE MEEK

Calciamentum: Footwear in Late Medieval Lucca

JANE BRIDGEMAN “Bene in ordene et bene ornata”: Eleonora d’Aragona’s Description of Her Suite of Rooms in a Roman Palace of the Late Fifteenth Century JESSICA FINLEY

The Lübeck Wappenröcke: Distinctive Style in FifteenthCentury German Fabric Armor

ROBIN NETHERTON is a professional editor and a researcher/lecturer on the interpretation of medieval European dress. GALE R. OWEN-CROCKER is Professor Emerita, The University of Manchester. Cover image: Pianella of Beatrice d’Este. Museo della Calzatura,Vigevano. Photo: Courtesy of MIC Museo Internazionale della Calzatura “P. Bertolini,”Vigevano.

MEDIEVAL CLOTHING AND TEXTILES

Medieval Clothing and Textiles 13

MEDIEVAL CLOTHING AND TEXTILES

Editors Netherton & Owen-Crocker

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Edited by Robin Netherton and Gale R. Owen-Crocker