Memorialising Premodern Monarchs: Medias of Commemoration and Remembrance (Queenship and Power) [1st ed. 2022] 9783030841294, 9783030841300, 3030841294

Table of contents :
Acknowledgements
Contents
Notes on Contributors
List of Figures
Introduction: The Memorialisation of Monarchs in an International Context
Representations of Rulers in Art and Architecture
Commemoration in Literature and Popular Media
The Importance of Memorialisation
Bibliography
Part I: Representations of Monarchs in Art and Architecture
“The Whole Stature of a Goodly Man and a Large Horse”: Memorialising Henry VIII’s Manly, Knightly and Warrior Status
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Unpublished Thesis
Internet Resources
Papal Commemoration, 1300–1700: Institutional Memory and Dynasticism
Liturgical Commemoration
Encouraging Dynasticism Via Commemoration
Papal Tombs
Papal Self-commemoration and Damnatio Memoriae
Strategies of Commemoration: Portraits, Arms, and Objects
Commemoration by Lay Papal Relatives
Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Online Sources
Island Queens: Appropriated Portraits of Royal Samoan Women
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
King Sigismund III Vasa’s Column in Warsaw: A Memorial in Honour of the King, A Representation of Power, and a Commemoration of the Father
Introduction
The Column’s History
The Monument and Its Origins
Florentine Inspirations
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Personal or Perfunctory? Philippa of Hainault’s Legacy Through Religious Patronage and St Katharine’s by the Tower
Queenly Religious Patronage
St Katharine’s by the Tower
Personal Piety
Conclusion
Bibliography
Unpublished Primary Sources
Published Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
The Heroes Who Turned Into Stones and Songs: The Memory of the Monarch Reflected in the Old Tamil Caṅkam Literature
Introduction
Heroic Death in the Old Tamil Caṅkam Literature
The Promises of the Upper Sphere
Funerals of the Kings
Memorial Stones for the Heroes
The Memory of the King in the Caṅkam Literature
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Part II: Commemoration in Literature and Popular Media
Memories and Memorials of Literature and Art at the Turn of the First Millennium
Memorialising Ottonian Monarchs
Female Rulers: Spiritual Portraits and Generations
Image 1 [Fig. 2] (The Gospels of Saint-Géréon, W 312, fol. 22r): Lamb, Otto III, Theophanu and Adelheid18
Images 2 and 3 (Gospel Book from Metz, MS 9395, fols 15r and 15v): Adelheid, Christ and an Abbot; Liber Generationis with Lamb28
Image 4 [Fig. 3] (Pericopes Book of Henry II, MS 4452, fol. 2r): Henry II, Christ, and Kunigunde36
Dating the Images and Implications
Return to Image 1 [Fig. 2] (W 312, folio 22r)
Return to Images 2, 3 (MS 9395, fols 15r and 15v) and Image 4 [Fig. 3] (MS 4452, fol. 2r)
Conclusion
Bibliography
Manuscripts and Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Memory and Kingship in the Manuscripts of Matthew Paris
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Maria Theresia and Catherine II: The Bodies of a Female Ruler in Propaganda, Criticism, and Retrospect
Introduction
The Bodies of Legitimacy
The Problems of Using and Overcoming the Female Body in Female Rule
Motherhood and Motherliness
Symbolic Commemoration
The Challenges of Dissecting Stereotyped Symbols on a Multilevel Basis
Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Mighty Lady and True Husband: Queen Margaret of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden in Norwegian Memory
Margrete and the Royal House of Norway
Margrete in Textbooks
Margrete in a Novel
Margrete for Children
Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Oh to be a Queen: Representations of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Isabella of Angoulême, Two Scandalous Queens, in Popular Fiction
Introduction
Reception, Context, and Audience
Eleanor and Isabella in Historiography
Eleanor and Isabella’s Legends
Eleanor, The Second Crusade, and Sexual Scandal
Isabella: A Scandalous Queen
Eleanor and Family Politics
Isabella and Family Life
Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
From “She-Wolf” to “Badass”: Remembering Isabella of France in Modern Culture
The Making of a “She-Wolf”
The “She-Wolf” in Popular History
Maurice Druon’s Les Rois maudits, and Isabella in Fiction
Online Re-evaluations
“Iron Lady”
“Badass”
Conclusion
Bibliography
Primary Sources
Secondary Sources
Online Sources
Index

Citation preview

Memorialising Premodern Monarchs Medias of Commemoration and Remembrance

Edited by Gabrielle Storey

Queenship and Power Series Editors Charles E. Beem University of North Carolina Pembroke, NC, USA Carole Levin University of Nebraska Lincoln, NE, USA

This series focuses on works specializing in gender analysis, women’s studies, literary interpretation, and cultural, political, constitutional, and diplomatic history. It aims to broaden our understanding of the strategies that queens—both consorts and regnants, as well as female regents— pursued in order to wield political power within the structures of male-­ dominant societies. The works describe queenship in Europe as well as many other parts of the world, including East Asia, Sub-Saharan Africa, and Islamic civilization. More information about this series at http://www.palgrave.com/gp/series/14523

Gabrielle Storey Editor

Memorialising Premodern Monarchs Medias of Commemoration and Remembrance

Editor Gabrielle Storey Southampton, UK

ISSN 2730-938X     ISSN 2730-9398 (electronic) Queenship and Power ISBN 978-3-030-84129-4    ISBN 978-3-030-84130-0 (eBook) https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0 © The Editor(s) (if applicable) and The Author(s), under exclusive licence to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 This work is subject to copyright. All rights are solely and exclusively licensed by the Publisher, whether the whole or part of the material is concerned, specifically the rights of translation, reprinting, reuse of illustrations, recitation, broadcasting, reproduction on microfilms or in any other physical way, and transmission or information storage and retrieval, electronic adaptation, computer software, or by similar or dissimilar methodology now known or hereafter developed. The use of general descriptive names, registered names, trademarks, service marks, etc. in this publication does not imply, even in the absence of a specific statement, that such names are exempt from the relevant protective laws and regulations and therefore free for general use. The publisher, the authors and the editors are safe to assume that the advice and information in this book are believed to be true and accurate at the date of publication. Neither the publisher nor the authors or the editors give a warranty, expressed or implied, with respect to the material contained herein or for any errors or omissions that may have been made. The publisher remains neutral with regard to jurisdictional claims in published maps and institutional affiliations. Cover illustration: Ian Dagnall / Alamy Stock Photo This Palgrave Macmillan imprint is published by the registered company Springer Nature Switzerland AG. The registered company address is: Gewerbestrasse 11, 6330 Cham, Switzerland

To Ellie, and Estelle, who inspire and encourage our love for all queens. For Mark, who left a far better world for us. And for all those we loved and lost along the way.

Acknowledgements

This volume was sparked by the papers presented at the International Medieval Congress in 2018 as part of the Royal Studies Network’s sessions on Memory and Monarchy, and those shared at the Kings and Queens 9 Conference on Royal Sexualities. My thanks go to all those who have shared their research and ideas on this topic, and to Karl Christian Alvestad who helped me put together this collection. I am indebted to the wonderful contributors of this volume, who have worked tirelessly on their chapters and in increasingly difficult circumstances. It has been a pride and a joy to watch their research develop and to be able to showcase it in this volume. My heartfelt thanks go to you all. I also owe sincere gratitude and appreciation to the several reviewers who have strengthened and commented on the work in this collection. Further thanks must go to Carole Levin and Charles Beem, series editors of Queenship and Power, who saw the promise in this volume in its early stages and offer invaluable support. I would also like to thank Sam Stocker, Megan Laddusaw, and Christine Pardue who made the editorial and publication process that much smoother. Lastly, this volume would not have reached fruition without the ongoing support and encouragement from my family, friends, and colleagues. In particular, Ellie Woodacre, Estelle Paranque, and Katia Wright have provided guidance and many motivational conversations during the completion of this work, and are owed my eternal thanks.

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Contents

 Introduction: The Memorialisation of Monarchs in an International Context  1 Gabrielle Storey Part I Representations of Monarchs in Art and Architecture  11  “The Whole Stature of a Goodly Man and a Large Horse”: Memorialising Henry VIII’s Manly, Knightly and Warrior Status 13 Emma Levitt  Papal Commemoration, 1300–1700: Institutional Memory and Dynasticism 37 Jennifer Mara DeSilva  Island Queens: Appropriated Portraits of Royal Samoan Women 65 Elizabeth Howie  King Sigismund III Vasa’s Column in Warsaw: A Memorial in Honour of the King, A Representation of Power, and a Commemoration of the Father 89 Wojciech Szymański

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Contents

 Personal or Perfunctory? Philippa of Hainault’s Legacy Through Religious Patronage and St Katharine’s by the Tower119 Louise Tingle  The Heroes Who Turned Into Stones and Songs: The Memory of the Monarch Reflected in the Old Tamil Caṅkam Literature141 Roland Ferenczi Part II Commemoration in Literature and Popular Media 167  Memories and Memorials of Literature and Art at the Turn of the First Millennium169 Penelope Nash  Memory and Kingship in the Manuscripts of Matthew Paris197 Judith Collard  Maria Theresia and Catherine II: The Bodies of a Female Ruler in Propaganda, Criticism, and Retrospect221 Elena Teibenbacher  Mighty Lady and True Husband: Queen Margaret of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden in Norwegian Memory245 Karl Christian Alvestad  to be a Queen: Representations of Eleanor of Aquitaine Oh and Isabella of Angoulême, Two Scandalous Queens, in Popular Fiction265 Gabrielle Storey  From “She-Wolf” to “Badass”: Remembering Isabella of France in Modern Culture291 Michael R. Evans Index313

Notes on Contributors

Karl  Christian  Alvestad  is Associate Professor of Social Studies at the University of South-Eastern Norway, Norway. He completed his PhD in History at the University of Winchester, UK, in 2016. His thesis “Kings, Heroes and Ships: The Use of Historical Characters in Nineteenth- and Twentieth-Century Perceptions of the Early Medieval Scandinavian Past” looked at the use of Viking Age history in the development of Norwegian national identity in the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. His research focuses on the role of medievalism in politics and culture in Scandinavia, as well as early medieval political culture in Norway. Judith Collard  has been Senior Lecturer in History and Art History at the University of Otago, New Zealand, and is an independent scholar. She has taught a variety of courses, including those on Medieval and Renaissance Art. The work of Matthew Paris has become a major focus of her research and she is writing a monograph on him. Jennifer  Mara  de Silva  holds a PhD from the University of Toronto, Canada, and is Associate Professor of History at Ball State University, Indiana, USA. Her research focuses on the construction of identities: individual, institutional, group, and family, as well as reformed and unreformed. She is a contributor and editor of four collections, entitled Eternal Ephemera: The Papal Possesso and its Legacies in Early Modern Rome (with Pascale Rihouet, 2020), The Borgia Family: Rumor and Representation (2019), The Sacralization of Space and Behavior in the Early Modern World (2015), and Episcopal Reform and Politics in Early Modern Europe (2012). xi

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Notes on Contributors

Michael R. Evans  is Instructor in History in the Social Sciences Division at Delta College, Michigan, USA. His research interests include medieval king/queenship, the crusades, the Robin Hood legend, race and medievalism, and medievalism in social media. He is the author of The Death of Kings: Representations of Royal Death in Medieval England and Inventing Eleanor: The Medieval and Post-Medieval Image of Eleanor of Aquitaine, as well as many published articles on medieval history and medievalism. He is the associate editor for the International Society for the Study of Medievalism’s online review Medievally Speaking. Roland Ferenczi  is a Doctoral student of Ancient History at the Eötvös Loránd University, Budapest, Hungary, and of Indology at the Universität Hamburg, Hamburg, Germany. His research interest focuses on the Old Tamil Cankam literature par excellence the heroic puṟam poetry, the transition between the cult of the ancient kings and the early medieval devout poetry, as well as the pre-modern trading system of the Indian Ocean. Recently, he is working on an annotated translation of the Patiṟṟuppattu, an ancient anthology written for the early Cēra kings, and on the political geography of the early Cēra kingdom. Elizabeth Howie  is Professor of Art History and has taught at Coastal Carolina University in Conway, South Carolina, USA, since 2008. She specialises in modern and contemporary art with an emphasis on history and theory of photography. She received her PhD from the University of North Carolina at Chapel Hill in 2007. Her publications include: “The Dandy Victorian: Yinka Shonibare’s Allegory of Disability and Passing,” in Disability and Art History (2016) coedited with Ann Millett-Gallant; “Indulgence and Refusal: Cuteness, Asceticism, and the Aestheticization of Desire,” in The Retro-Futurism of Cuteness (2017) coedited by Jen Boyle and Wan-Chuan Kao. She is coediting a second volume with Ann Millett-Gallant entitled Disability and Art History from Antiquity to the Present (2021). Emma  Levitt  received her PhD from the University of Huddersfield, UK, in 2017, working on masculine displays in the medieval tournament and the rise of jousting men at the courts of Edward IV and Henry VIII. Most recently, she wrote a chapter on Edward IV’s tournaments and tiltyard friendships in Loyalty to the Monarchy in Late Medieval and Early Modern Britain, c.1400–1688 (2020) published by Palgrave Macmillan.

  Notes on Contributors 

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She has also written articles in BBC History Magazine, History Today, and The Ricardian, with forthcoming articles in Tudor Life and the Medieval Warfare Magazine. Penelope Nash  is an Honorary Associate with the University of Sydney, Australia. Her interests include medieval art, medieval Italy and Germany, women’s power, and biography. Her recent publications include “Insular Influences on Carolingian and Ottonian Literature and Art,” in Prophecy, Fate and Memory in the Early and Medieval Celtic World (2020); “Dominae imperiales: Ottonian Women and Dynastic Stability,” in Dynastic Change: Legitimacy in Gender in Medieval and Early Modern Monarchy (2020); and “Maintaining Elite Households in Germany and Italy, 900–1115,” in Royal and Elite Households (2018). Her 2017 award-winning monograph, Empress Adelheid and Countess Matilda: Medieval Female Rulership and the Foundations of European Society, compares two successful, elite medieval women for their relative ability to retain their wealth and power in the midst of the profound social changes of the eleventh century. Gabrielle Storey  is a historian of Angevin queenship, specialising in gender, sexuality, and the intersections between familial relations and the exercise of power. She has previously written on Berengaria of Navarre and Joanna of Sicily as crusading queens, and on Eleanor of Aquitaine for BBC History Revealed. She is an active member of the Royal Studies Network and the founder of Team Queens, a digital global queenship project. She is working on a biography of Berengaria of Navarre and a monograph focussing on co-rulership in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. She completed her PhD from the University of Winchester, UK, in 2020. Wojciech  Szymański, PhD, is an assistant professor and the Chair of History of Modern Art at the Institute of Art History, University of Warsaw, Poland. He is an independent curator and art critic; member of the International Association of Art Critics (AICA); author of the book “Argonauci. Postminimalizm i sztuka po nowoczesności. Eva Hesse— Felix Gonzalez-Torres—Roni Horn—Derek Jarman” [The Argonauts. Postminimalism and Art After Modernism: Eva Hesse—Felix Gonzalez-­ Torres—Roni Horn—Derek Jarman] (2015); as well as over 40 academic and 100 critical texts published in exhibition catalogues, art magazines, and peer-reviewed journals and monographs. Elena Teibenbacher  has studied history at the Karl-Franzens-University, Graz, Austria, with a strong focus on international relations, holding

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Diplomas from Sciences Po Paris and the Diplomatic Academy of Vienna. She is writing her PhD in History on the cultural-political portrayal of Russia in nineteenth-century German historical writing. She wrote her Master’s thesis on the image of the “Asian” in Middle-Age travel reports, and its influences on popular stereotyping and political propaganda. She specialises in cultural studies, researching the impact of culture—within its manifold interpretations—on the (self) representation and cross-cultural depictions of monarchs, governments, and political systems, the desired effects of this, and its outcomes. She also has a focus on Russian history, especially its role in, and its reaction to, the argumentation of European cultural universalism. Louise  Tingle  holds a PhD in History from Cardiff University, with a thesis focusing on the intercessory, artistic, and literary patronage of the queens Philippa of Hainault and Anne of Bohemia, and the first Princess of Wales, Joan of Kent. She is the author of Chaucer’s Queens: Royal Women, Intercession, and Patronage in England, 1328–1394, in the Queenship and Power series.

List of Figures

 apal Commemoration, 1300–1700: Institutional Memory P and Dynasticism Fig. 1 Fig. 2 Fig. 3 Fig. 4

Detail of funeral monument for Pope Pius II, Sant’Andrea della Valle in Rome. Photograph by Peter 1936F, CC BY-SA 4.0 Alessandro Menganti, Statue of Gregory XIII (1580), façade of the Palazzo Comunale, Bologna. Photograph by author Effaced inscription of Pope Alexander VI, c. 1500, Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome. Photograph by author Workshop of Giovanni Maria Vasaro, “Bowl with the Arms of Pope Julius II and the Manzoli of Bologna surrounded by putti, cornucopiae, satyrs, dolphins, birds, etc. 1508,” Robert Lehman Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New York City. https://www.metmuseum.org/art/ collection/search/459197, CC0 1.0 Universal

44 47 48

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Island Queens: Appropriated Portraits of Royal Samoan Women Fig. 1 Fig. 2

John Davis. Samoa Princess Fa’ane, Apia, about 1893. Albumen print on board. TR2016.33. Courtesy of Phillips Library, Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, MA Sa’o tama’ita’i Fa’amu, daughter of Malietoa Laupepa. Stephenson Percy Smith, 1840–1922: Maori and Polynesian photographs. Ref: PA1-q-223-35-1. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand

67

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List of Figures

 ing Sigismund III Vasa’s Column in Warsaw: A Memorial K in Honour of the King, A Representation of Power, and a Commemoration of the Father Fig. 1 Fig. 2

Fig. 3

Fig. 4

Sigismund’s Column in Warsaw. Photo by Adrian Grycuk, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kolumna_ Zygmunta_III_Wazy_2020.jpg90 Giovanni Paolo Pannini, the Piazza and Church of Santa Maria Maggiore (1744), oil on canvas, Palazzo Quirinale, Rome, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/ File:Giovanni_Paolo_Pannini_-­_The_Piazza_and_Church_of_ Santa_Maria_Maggiore.jpg91 Column of Justice, Florence. Photo by Giovanni Dall’Orto, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:9794_-­_ Firenze_-­_Colonna_di_S._Trinita_-­_Foto_Giovanni_ Dall%27Orto,_28-Oct-2007.jpg92 Project of Cosimo I Column, anonymous drawer, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi. Drawing by Wojciech Szymański after Detlef Heikamp “Die Säulenmonumente Cosimo I” 93

 emories and Memorials of Literature and Art at the Turn M of the First Millennium Fig. 1 Otto II in Majesty. Registrum Gregorii, Reichenau. Musée Condé, MS 14, single sheet. (The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH) 172 Fig. 2 [Image 1] Adelheid, Theophanu, Otto III, and Lamb of God. Initial Page. Matthew Evangelisary, Gospel of Saint-Géréon. Historisches Archiv der Stadt, Cologne, Cod. W 312, fol. 22r. (© Raimond Spekking/CC BY-SA 3.0 [via Wikimedia Commons])174 Fig. 3 [Image 4] Dedications scene with Henry II and Kunigunde presented to Christ by Peter and Paul. Pericopes Book of Henry II, Reichenau, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 4452, fol. 2r 178

  List of Figures 

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Memory and Kingship in the Manuscripts of Matthew Paris Fig. 1

Fig. 2 Fig. 3

Fig. 4 Fig. 5

Henry III carries the relic of the Holy Blood to Westminster Abbey, 1247. (Chronica Majora, Corpus Christi College MS 16, folio 216r, by permission of The Parker Library, Corpus Christi College, Cambridge) William I, William II, Henry I, and Stephen, Historia Anglorum (London. British Library, MS Royal 14 C.  VII, fol. 8v) Henry II, Richard I, John, and Henry III, with a bust of Henry the Young King in a small niche between them, Historia Anglorum (London. British Library, MS Royal 14 C. VII, fol. 9) Uther Pendragon, Arthur, Ethelbert, and St Oswald, Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae (London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius D VI, fol. 6v) Henry II, Richard I, John, and Henry III, Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae (London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius D VI, fol. 9v)

198 204

205 206 207

Introduction: The Memorialisation of Monarchs in an International Context Gabrielle Storey

The practice of remembrance and commemoration has fascinated both historians and the wider population for centuries, with a diverse range of approaches utilised by the populace to commemorate their rulers and companions. The consideration in particular of the different roles people fulfilled as commemorators, according to their gender, has been explored by historians such as Elisabeth van Houts.1 An investigation into the nature of this remembrance, whether it be oral histories, through art, architecture, and literature, or through ritual, serves to inform the modern reader about the importance of remembering not only rulers but family members as well. Although substantive work is being conducted in the field of medievalism, and the analysis of historical texts is the foundation of historiographical work itself to understand the depiction of past rulers, it is rare that such analyses are brought together to demonstrate how

My thanks go to Karl C. Alvestad for his comments and feedback, and support in the completion of this work. G. Storey (*) Southampton, UK © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_1

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rulers were remembered across the globe, in different eras, and through different mediums. It is also worth considering the ways in which monarchs and rulers chose to commemorate themselves, as an example of self-­ efficacy and a desire to leave a legacy of one’s own. Control of one’s depiction allows a greater insight into the figure themselves, and what they viewed as important in their legacy, whilst highlighting the need for further analysis as we seek to uncover what they did not emphasise. The historiography and corpus of works on memory studies is extensive, drawing across theories in several disciplines and requiring a scholar of the field to be interdisciplinary in their approach. Whilst this book is focussed on memorialisation and commemoration, it is important to acknowledge the foundations upon which this work sits. The arguments put forth by Pierre Nora highlight the separation of history and memory as sites; however, it is the intention of this volume to consider how and why monarchs, and their societies, chose to commemorate their rulers and therefore how history and memory cannot be entirely separated from each other.2 Geoffrey Cubitt discusses the difficulties of defining both memory and history, and he notes his decision to use the definition of “memory to refer to relationships to the past that are grounded in human consciousness” is one which can be effectively explored in this work, as the authors highlight the ways “by which a conscious sense of the past, as something meaningfully connected to the present, is sustained and developed within human individuals and human cultures.”3 Cubitt’s work is valuable when considering the intersections of memory and history and the complexities with studying past commemorations and remembrance. The focus of this volume on past monarchs and their commemoration and remembrance brings together several differing methodological approaches in order to understand how rulership functioned and how societies chose to memorialise their rulers after death. This collection of chapters focuses on monarchs, namely kings, queens, empresses, and popes, and their memorialisation across several countries, from England to India to Samoa. It brings forth areas less familiar to Anglophone scholarship, and whilst demonstrating the various methods of commemoration, also shows the agency of individuals and their societies when doing this. This volume indicates that the use of the mediums of art, architecture, literature, rituals, and other popular media to remember monarchs could be incredibly diverse and requires substantive interrogation to present us with an informed representation of the ruler. These representations

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highlight the agency of their subjects, when at first glance it can appear that they had little. This work is split into two sections: the chapters in the first primarily focus on depictions of rulers in art and architecture, from ancient South India through to modern Samoa. The second section encompasses works on the memorialisation of monarchs more widely in literature and popular media, with a particular emphasis on commemorations in Europe. Through this division, patterns and links between the chapters demonstrate the similarity in methodological approaches and the significance of investigating monarchy and memory: understanding the rulership of the past initially allows comparisons with contemporary governments and allows us to consider why we choose to focus on particular rulers and events, and aspects of these for depiction in popular media. Recent work on the remembrance of queens and kings in early modern England and France, and on the representations of gender, sex, and power in popular culture, has influenced discussions in this work, as it reinforces the need for continued interrogation of the past and its depictions.4 The ongoing interest in popular depictions of historical culture remain a balancing act for historians as historical accuracy is sought whilst appreciating the motivations of directors and writers to entertain their audiences.

Representations of Rulers in Art and Architecture The durability of architectural memorials is perhaps testament to those whose memory endures across time, as historians and archaeologists continue to trace those of ancient civilisations through their temples, statues, and monoliths. Although no material is entirely safe from destruction, either due to natural decay or human interference (consider the loss of the Bamiyan Buddhas in 2001), the choice of durable materials as the fabric upon which to inscribe and commemorate their rulers demonstrates the notion that societies wanted their legacies to survive, and survive many have, whilst oral histories and texts have been lost to us. The memorialisation of rulers in art such as portraiture and statues shows that whether through self-commemoration or memorialisation by others, rulers wanted to be visibly remembered by the wider public, with imposing statues and grand portraits commissioned to exemplify their worth and status. In the first part of this volume, six chapters tackle the depictions of premodern rulers, primarily in artistic forms. Chapter 2 sees Emma Levitt discuss Henry VIII of England’s self-commemoration in statues and

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paintings, as well as investigating his commissions and his desire to represent himself as a virile, masculine king, in the wake of a lack of male heirs. Levitt’s meticulous research brings to the fore discussions of the masculinity of one of England’s most famous kings, and how self-efficacy has contributed to our memory of Henry. In Chap. 3, Jennifer Mara DeSilva presents a wide-ranging analysis of papal commemoration from 1300 to 1800, drawing not only upon artistic depictions but also spatial and liturgical commemoration which the popes themselves were often involved in. This broad investigation into the many methods of memorialisation utilised by the medieval and early modern papacy allows a greater understanding of the range of options available to rulers and their societies for commemoration. DeSilva’s work also brings attention to the papacy through another lens as popes are often remembered for their political activities and architectural triumphs rather than as a memorable figure. Chapter 4 moves us from Western Europe to the Pacific Ocean as Elizabeth Howie unpicks the self-representation of twentieth-century royal Samoan women in postcard photographs, with a particular focus on Fa’amusami Malietoa, princess of Samoa. Howie’s research demonstrates the agency of the women who appeared in postcard photographs, typically viewed as an example of colonial exploitation, but upon further investigation present an array of lenses through which these women need to be viewed. Wojciech Szymański’s study in Chap. 5 on the column of Sigismund III, king of Poland, and its architectural links with the Florentine courts of the dukes of Tuscany provides an interesting comparative study of how different regions memorialised their rulers in stone and the transnational links in architecture across central Europe. Szymańsski’s argument for the greatness of both Florentine and Polish rulers being embodied in architectural works is convincing and signifies the importance of not only comparative studies but analysing memorialisation and commemoration in their proper context. In Chap. 6, Louise Tingle examines the religious patronage of Philippa of Hainault, queen of England, and her connections with St Katharine’s by the Tower, London, and how this record of Philippa’s patronage has contributed to her legacy in historical memory. Tingle proves that through Philippa’s patronage, Philippa ensured that her agency would be memorialised and therefore demonstrated her activity as queen consort. Chapter 7 draws together architectural, artistic, and literary sources in its approach as Roland Ferenczi analyses the extant evidence for the memorialisation of the ancient south Indian Tamil kings. Ferenczi’s

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cross-disciplinary approach unveils the choices made by Tamil societies when deciding which kings to commemorate and why, as well as how they were commemorated. It demonstrates an important element in that of memorialisation: that of forgetting and of how memories are shaped by those doing the remembering.5 Part I demonstrates the importance of utilising an approach to commemoration primarily through examination of art and architectural works, which is further enriched with an interrogation of identity and memory: focussing on the agency of the figures involved, and societal traditions and decision making around commemoration provide a greater understanding of why certain rulers become prolific and endure, whilst others may not. It also showcases the different roles that monarchs, in the case of self-­ efficacy, and societies held when choosing to memorialise a ruler. Examining commemoration in an international context demonstrates that although societies may have held different rituals, activities, and methods of memorialisation, their initial mediums were universal, and through this we can see the desire for representations of agency and power survive to the present day.

Commemoration in Literature and Popular Media Alongside artistic works, literature remains one of the primary forms for both the recording of historical events and memories, and the modern-day representations of historical figures. Through literature contemporary to the period, modern readers gain an insight into the importance the authors placed on contemporaneous events, and their agendas and motivations for writing history. In historical fiction, poems, and other narratives, authors often choose to embellish and alter historical events in their depictions of the past and present us with figures that may appear more sympathetic and relatable to a modern-day audience. As North, Woodacre, and Alvestad note, the re-telling of a story from history is an engagement with historical interpretation by the author, although authors of popular media may share a different perspective from historians.6 Part II moves more clearly into the realms of commemoration through literary works and popular media, though some chapters draw upon a wide range of material to demonstrate the practices and rituals through which societies memorialised their rulers. In Chap. 8, Penelope Nash examines the depictions of Ottonian queens and abbesses in manuscript images from the tenth and eleventh centuries. This analysis centres the

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approach of looking back and looking forward when considering memorialisation, as it explores the Ottonian turn to the Carolingian past when choosing methods of commemoration, and the activities of the Salian dynasty, who viewed their Ottonian predecessors as an exemplar of memorial practices. Nash’s work also highlights the importance of elite women in the role of commemorator. Chapter 9 continues the analysis of manuscripts and their images, with Judith Collard’s work on the manuscripts of Matthew Paris and depictions of English kingship the focal point of their chapter. The relationship between commemorator and their subject is explored here, highlighting the intertwining links between self-efficacy and depiction by one’s subjects. Chapter 10 is a comparative study of Catherine II, also known as Catherine the Great (d. 1796) the Great of Russia and Maria Theresa of Austria, wherein Elena Teibenbacher analyses the depictions of these two rulers in literature, artwork, and popular media. Whilst confronting how nationalism has influenced the depictions of these two women in the countries they reigned, Teibenbacher discusses the issues faced when depicting historical figures in popular media for a Western audience. In Chap. 11, the depictions of Margaret, queen of Norway, Sweden, and Denmark in popular works, educational textbooks, and online are analysed by Karl Christian Alvestad. This examination dissects the issues surrounding the memorialisation of royal women, in particular, and further demonstrates the need for a multi-faceted approach when understanding why queens, and indeed other royal women, are remembered in specific ways. The issues surrounding the depictions of royal women in popular culture, particularly with the desire to humanise them and make them relatable, are of note in the following chapter by Gabrielle Storey. Chapter 12 discusses the depictions of two well-known English queens, Eleanor of Aquitaine and Isabella of Angoulême, in popular fiction. This chapter analyses the issues when representing two queens known for their scandalous lives and the motivations behind these depictions. In Chap. 13, Michael R. Evans foregrounds a third infamous English queen, Isabella of France, and interrogates her depictions in online media and popular culture. This analysis examines the role of feminism in modern depictions and the reclamation of terms such as “badass” to describe women who have often faced criticism for their actions in a patriarchal society. In sum, this section brings together an array of chapters which allow the examination of a variety of depictions of kings and queens in both

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popular culture, literature, and manuscripts. Although diverse in their backgrounds and societies, the representations of rulers, particularly women, hold a complex history when considering the usual invisibility of women from the original sources.7 However, this section demonstrates the agency royal women could wield, and therefore discussions arising from their modern depictions are central to understanding not only the historical legacies of other rulers, but how they too can be remembered and portrayed in popular culture and other media.

The Importance of Memorialisation Memorialising Premodern Monarchs offers a variety of chapters, spanning several countries, through which multiple mediums of commemoration and remembrance are analysed. They discuss the complexities of retrieving the past, the ways in which historical memory has been shaped, the power and agency of their subjects, and the issues faced when unravelling the many dimensions of rulers, regardless of the way they or their society chose to remember them. This volume brings together common threads of analysis through the medias examined. Although the purpose of the creation of the mediums may be similar, as they foreground the memory of a ruler, embedding this particular depiction or image in our memory, the motivations behind why this particular ruler was to be commemorated in this specific medium vary. Our fascination with the historical past and our consumption of it through an array of mediums, both by the historical community and the general public, demonstrates the need for this collection as we seek to better understand why some historical figures are so conscious in the public memory and others not. This volume focuses on a select number of countries; however, the approaches and comparisons utilised in this study can be further expanded for analysis of the commemoration of other rulers across the globe. Two recent edited collections by Elena Woodacre demonstrate the need for queenship, and indeed rulership, to be viewed in a global context.8 Through further investigations into the depictions and memorialisation of rulers, we can learn not only about the monarch, their society, and methods of commemoration but also why others are forgotten. The values of each society ultimately influenced their decisions on who and what was worth remembering; however, the rulers who have been forgotten are not completely erased due to their actions, or lack thereof, but are hidden further away from public view. The process of uncovering monarchs and

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their co-rulers is an important task for historians in order to understand the power of the ruler and the governance of society, and from this knowledge we better serve public memory of kings and queens, and their parallels in today’s society.

Notes 1. Elisabeth van Houts, ed., Medieval Memories. Men, Women and the Past, 700–1300 (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001); Elisabeth van Houts, Memory and Gender in Medieval Europe, 900–1200 (Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1999). 2. Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26 (1989): 7–24. 3. Geoffrey Cubitt, History and memory (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007), 9. 4. Estelle Paranque, ed., Remembering Queens and Kings in Early Modern England and France. Reputation, Reinterpretation, and Reincarnation (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019); Janice North, Karl C. Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre, eds., Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers. Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018). 5. Jeffrey Andrew Barash, Collective Memory and the Historical Past (London: The University of Chicago Press, 2016), 168–210; see also Jeffrey Andrew Barash, “The Sources of Memory,” Journal of the History of Ideas 58.4 (1997): 707–717. 6. Janice North, Elena Woodacre, and Karl C.  Alvestad, “Introduction— Getting Modern: Depicting Premodern Power and Sexuality in Popular Media,” in Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers, 3. 7. Theresa Earenfight, “Highly Visible, Often Obscured: The Difficulty of Seeing Queens and Noble Women,” Medieval Feminist Forum: A Journal of Gender and Sexuality 44 (2008): 86–90. 8. Elena Woodacre, ed., A Companion to Global Queenship (Leeds: Arc Humanities Press, 2018); Elena Woodacre, Lucinda H.  S. Dean, Chris Jones, Russell E. Martin, and Zita Eva Rohr, eds., The Routledge History of Monarchy (Abingdon: Routledge, 2019).

Bibliography Barash, Jeffrey Andrew. “The Sources of Memory.” Journal of the History of Ideas 58.4 (1997): 707–717. ———. Collective Memory and the Historical Past.  London: The University of Chicago Press, 2016. 

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Cubitt, Geoffrey. History and Memory. Manchester: Manchester University Press, 2007. Earenfight, Theresa. “Highly Visible, Often Obscured: The Difficulty of Seeing Queens and Noble Women.” Medieval Feminist Forum: A Journal of Gender and Sexuality 44 (2008): 86–90. North, Janice, Elena Woodacre, and Karl C.  Alvestad, “Introduction—Getting Modern: Depicting Premodern Power and Sexuality in Popular Media.” In Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers. Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture, edited by Janice North, Karl C. Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre, 1–20. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018a. North, Janice, Karl C. Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre, eds. Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers. Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018b. Nora, Pierre. “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire.” Representations 26 (1989): 7–24. Paranque, Estelle, ed. Remembering Queens and Kings in Early Modern England and France. Reputation, Reinterpretation, and Reincarnation. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. van Houts, Elisabeth. Memory and Gender in Medieval Europe, 900–1200. Basingstoke: Macmillan Press, 1999. ———, ed. Medieval Memories. Men, Women and the Past, 700–1300. Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001. Woodacre, Elena, ed. A Companion to Global Queenship. Leeds: Arc Humanities Press, 2018. Woodacre, Elena, Lucinda H. S. Dean, Chris Jones, Russell E. Martin, and Zita Eva Rohr, eds. The Routledge History of Monarchy. Abingdon: Routledge, 2019.

PART I

Representations of Monarchs in Art and Architecture

“The Whole Stature of a Goodly Man and a Large Horse”: Memorialising Henry VIII’s Manly, Knightly and Warrior Status Emma Levitt

A marble slab marks Henry VIII and Jane Seymour’s final resting place in the Quire of St George’s Chapel, Windsor Castle; however, this was only intended to be temporary while a grand monument was completed, and it is clear that no expense was to be spared. Although Henry’s magnificent tomb was never achieved, by studying the planned effigy of the king on horseback and dressed in armour, it can reveal much about how he viewed his masculinity and kingly image. It is apparent that the presentation of Henry’s masculinity was significant to his kingship as he consciously devised an image for his tomb, which aligned his monarchy with chivalrous and martial feats. In keeping with the theme of this volume I shall examine the various ways in which Henry’s version of knightly masculinity was constructed, in a deliberate attempt to have his kingship memorialised in a traditional context. This chapter will explore the ways in which Henry projected his masculine image through his active participation in chivalry and through his wars against France that were part of the criteria against

E. Levitt (*) University of Huddersfield, Huddersfield, UK © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_2

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which the performance of kingship was assessed by his contemporaries. It is evident that Henry viewed his kingship in a medieval milieu as he looked to the example of his ancestors Henry V and grandfather, Edward IV, who had been immortalised as warrior kings. The king’s choice of burial place at St George’s Chapel will also be examined, in order to draw links between Henry’s enthusiasm for the Order of the Garter and his dedication to St George as England’s patron saint of chivalry. Furthermore, I maintain that though Henry’s kingship was multifaceted and was informed by other religious and ancient figures, it was the knightly archetype he favoured above everything else. This chapter lends itself to a discussion on memorialising premodern monarchs, as it uses Henry’s designs for his tomb as way to assess the dominant model of manhood he sought to emulate which has not been done before; thus, it offers a valuable contribution to the current historiography on kingly masculinity.1 Initial plans for Henry’s tomb were made by the Italian sculptor Pietro Torrigiano, the same man who designed the tomb of Henry’s parents, Henry VII and Elizabeth of York, who were buried at Westminster Abbey.2 Torrigiano planned for Henry VIII’s sarcophagus to be made of the same white marble and black touchstone as his father’s, only it was to be considerably bigger. Yet, a disagreement over compensation for the designing of the burial plans ensued, causing Torrigiano to return to Italy by June 1519. Henry considered giving another Italian sculptor, Jacopo Sansovino, an extraordinary commission of 75,000 ducats to work on a design in 1527, a modern equivalent of six million and ninety thousand pounds.3 The king’s effigy was cast and polished while he was still alive. Work progressed during the last years of Henry’s reign, but the wars in France and Scotland in the 1540s drained the royal treasury and work slowed. However, the monument which Henry described in his will as being, “an honourable tomb for our bones to rest in, which is well onward and almost made therefore already, with a fair grate about it,” was not originally his, but had been commissioned by his chief minister Thomas Wolsey.4 In 1524 Wolsey commissioned the great Florentine sculptor Benedetto da Rovenzanno to design a magnificent tomb for him that was to include four bronze angels.5 In much the same way as Wolsey had lavishly re-­ designed Hampton Court Palace as a symbol of his power and ambitions, he desired for his tomb to be a lasting monument of his earthly glory.6 In 1524, work began on Wolsey’s tomb which consisted of a marble base, pillars and statues, and a black and white marble sarcophagus, which was mounted on an 8-feet-high base.7 Following Wolsey’s downfall in 1529, Henry confiscated all parts of the cardinal’s tomb for himself. When Henry

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died, the sarcophagus was taken to his burial place at Windsor Castle, but it remained unused at Windsor for three hundred years.8 Antiquarian John Speed unearthed in the seventeenth century a now lost manuscript believed to have been owned by the Lancastrian Herald, Nicholas Charles, which gave details of Sansovino’s design.9 In his History of Britain Speed describes how the proposed tomb was: “the said two tombs of blacke touch, and the said Angel over the King and Queene, shall stand an high basement like sepulchre.”10 This was all to be topped with a life-size gilded statue of Henry on horseback under a triumphal arch, “over the height of the Basement shall be made an Image of the King on Horse-backe, lively in Armor like a King, after the antique manner.”11 Always conscious of the need to emphasise his knightly masculinity, Henry laid down an elaborate plan to have himself depicted on horseback, emulating the iconic image of the medieval knight and his tomb was intended to reflect this.12 The design of Henry’s tomb was in grand Italian Renaissance fashion, but he also combined the classicism of the triumphant arch, with the ostentatious equestrian statue that was intended to be avant-garde. The king’s tomb if completed would have been one of the earliest examples of the antique style in England, as it was intended to seal his reputation as a great and glorious monarch by surpassing everything of its kind. Though Henry’s ambitious plans for his tomb may have highlighted Renaissance modernity, the king’s choice of burial at the chivalric setting of St George’s Chapel symbolised the coming together of the medieval past, with the present. Henry preferred to represent himself as the embodiment of the union of the families of Lancaster and York.13 However, it is evident that the king’s reign has often been argued as marking a clear break with the medieval past. Yet, Lucy Wooding is one of the few historians to consider Henry VIII’s reign as continuing many aspects of the medieval period.14 I would argue that Henry’s burial place is an indication of his desire to have his monarchy remembered within a traditional framework and it is from this perspective that I have considered his presentation of masculinity and kingship. In the description of Henry’s proposed tomb Speed details the image of the king on horseback, “with this horse shall be of the whole stature of a goodly man and a large horse.”15 It is significant that Henry’s plans specified a large horse, as it demonstrated his ability to dominate a great courser that in turn had direct connotations to qualities of manliness. According to Katherine Lewis, “self-mastery was widely regarded as essential to both kingship and manhood.”16 In reference to elite masculinity

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Fiona Dunlop argues, “it is predicated on the ideal of rule- the ability to govern both oneself and others.”17 Yet it was also fundamental that high status men possessed the physical strength and skills to take charge of a horse. It is notable that the king describes a ‘goodly man’: it was a depiction that quite literally expected elite men to be athletic, muscular and supremely fit. Noel Fallows’ explicit discussion of the male body in connection with knightly prowess offers a major contribution to the current literature surrounding chivalry. Fallows describes, “in the Middle Ages a man’s masculinity was often defined by his well formed buttocks, thighs and legs.”18 This knightly model that Henry aspired to required a particular physique: it was not just about performing martial exploits—there was a physical aspect to achieving high status manhood. Indeed, the relationship between the two is self-evident: having a manly body befitting the tiltyard implied that a man was capable of physical prowess because of the hours of training that were involved to achieve this particular physique. Indeed, Wooding rightly acknowledges that the hours that Henry spent on the tournament field were not wasted; “they were at the very heart of his identity and purpose as king.”19 This sculpting of a ‘goodly man’ was a deliberate attempt by Henry to create a lasting image of a knightly body. In spite of the king’s decline of manliness in his later years, due to his lack of self-control, he wanted to be remembered in this youthful vain, since the body was still an essential marker of high status masculinity in the early sixteenth century.20 The gendering of Henry’s effigy as a knightly figure is also evident through Speed’s description of the king being “lively in armour.” The armoured Henry acts as a visual construction of knightly masculinity, as the wearing of armour, on horseback, with the powerful male body on show had direct connotations to knighthood. The hegemonic ideal for elite men in the Middle Ages was the knightly model as Ruth Mazo Karras identifies: “knighthood epitomized one set of medieval ideals about masculinity.”21 The ideals of knighthood were heavily influenced by the chivalric literature at the time that emphasised the knight’s need for physical vigour and military skill. In Geoffroi de Charny’s Book of Chivalry published in 1352, it provides a manual on the daily life of the knight.22 As one of the most respected knights of his age, he applauds those knights who exhibit strength, agility and eagerness for tourney or battle. The armoured male body in itself was a signifier of knightly masculinity as it implied that violent, aggressive and combative action was to take place. Though we are not given any further descriptions of the type of armour that the king

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wanted to be depicted in, by analysing the suits he commissioned during his reign, it is possible to envisage the style of his armour. Under Henry, armour in England developed a distinctive design, as the king set up his own armour workshops at Greenwich in 1511, which became the main suppliers of armour for the monarch and English court.23 The king encouraged armourers from Milan, Brussels and Germany to relocate to the Greenwich armoury so that he could quickly commission personal armours for himself and his men.24 The Greenwich suits of armour commissioned by Henry are particularly notable for their extravagance, reflecting the cultural Renaissance that was taking place in England at large. In particular it was the king’s painter Hans Holbein who was appointed to design the etchings for several of his suits of armour.25 The king’s suits themselves became a valuable status symbol for Henry, with his most impressive armour being reserved for the tournament.26 In following with this trend it is likely that the armour garniture planned for Henry’s effigy would have been highly decorative with etching and possibly gilding as was the case on the king’s surviving suits of armour. The figure of the king on horseback also had strong imperial overtones that fitted Henry’s ambitions for conquest and imperial expansion in France. This military drive harkened back to a golden age of chivalry, with its high point being under Edward III and Henry V who had established English settlements in Normandy and Calais.27 From the start of his reign, Henry VIII had made it clear that he wanted to be a different type of king to his father. Though Henry VII was a proven military leader, he realised that England’s resources were insufficient for an expansive foreign policy on the scale of Henry V. By way of contrast, Henry VIII was determined to go to war with France, despite the fact that war could have been avoided if he had wished.28 The chronicler Polydore Vergil explicitly stated that the king was “not unmindful that it was his duty to seek fame by military skill.”29 It seems that Henry had a shrewd instinct that a victory over France would still hold an important European status for the English nation at all levels. David Trim argues that unlike his father, “Henry VIII’s commitment to the martial ideal and chivalric ethos was unequivocal, he quite consciously modelled himself on Henry V.”30 Henry VIII, anxious to recreate the chivalrous identity of the English monarchy, thus embarked on an unprovoked and aggressive campaign against France. For Henry, military success abroad was a desirable end in itself, as Steven Gunn has shown.31 Indeed martial pursuits added to Henry’s manly reputation, therefore aside from the material rewards that could be gained from war,

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it profited his knightly image. Henry’s intent for war with France highlights the importance of recuperative masculinity as he felt compelled to equal and even to surpass his medieval heroes. If Henry was successful in this endeavour he could be immortalised alongside Henry V as a warrior king. Henry VIII was only too aware that his grandfather and father had secured their thrones on the battlefield.32 He had inherited the throne, unchallenged, but he wanted the fame that accompanied victory in battle. The obvious choice for Henry was glorious military success against England’s traditional enemy, France. In June 1513, the king crossed the sea to Calais, accompanied by hundreds of members of his household. Despite Henry’s pursuit, the French did not want to engage in combat, and apart from one or two minor skirmishes, there was no fighting until the English army laid siege to the town of Thérouanne. On 16 August, a body of French cavalry faced the English and after some exchange of fire, turned and fled. Yet it would later become known as the glorious ‘Battle of the Spurs’ because of the haste of the French to leave the battlefield. English chronicler, Edward Hall, notes that it was the French who “call this battaile the iourney of Spurres because they rune away so fast on horsbacke.”33 Nevertheless, Henry made the most of this victory as he wanted to make a major and lasting impact on Europe by displaying his own chivalric majesty abroad. After Thérouanne fell, Henry launched a second siege, this time on the French city of Tournai, which was fortified by strong walls and a ring of great towers. The king and the English artillery set about besieging the city for eight days until it surrendered on 23 September 1513, which marked the climax of a brilliant campaign. Though Henry VIII’s invasion of France in 1513 in reality achieved only modest success, it was still a remarkable achievement given that it was England’s first victory in France within living memory. Trim contends that modern historians have treated Henry’s triumph with contempt, but at the time, “Henry VIII was perceived as a successful warrior king.”34 Certainly, it likely seemed possible that Henry would extend these conquests further, yet in the end they were promoted for the rest of his reign because he had nothing else to replace them with.35 These events were celebrated when the French ambassadors came to visit the king at Greenwich Palace in 1527, where court painter Hans Holbein had created a panorama of the siege of Thérouanne on a great arch.36 The unsubtle gesture was intended to impress upon Henry’s visitors his military potential by illustrating his only field victory during the 1513 French campaign.37 By memorialising the English triumph over the French for the ambassadors to witness, it

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made it explicit Henry’s desire for commanding status in Europe as a warrior king.38 Had Henry’s designs for his effigy been realised, this magnificent structure would have been far grander than the tomb of the king’s parents and more ornate than the resting places of all the European monarchs. Indeed, perhaps the only royal tomb comparable to Henry’s design is Emperor Maximillian I’s, who envisioned a grand tomb, surrounded by twenty-­ eight life-sized statues of his ancestors and personal heroes, such as King Arthur of Britain.39 Work on the figures began in 1502, and carving continued, under Maximilian’s son, Charles V, and his grandson, Ferdinand I, who completed the extravagant tomb in 1572. The statues are remarkably detailed in costume and image, illustrating medieval knights dressed in armour with heraldic shields and enormous effigies of kings, dukes and princes from the medieval past who all surround the tomb.40 The mammoth project had no medieval counterpart, but it can be best compared with the original plans for the tomb of Pope Julius II, his rival, with which it was likely intended to compete against.41 Thus we might speculate that the image of the Emperor-Knight that Maximillian planned for his tomb influenced the English king in his own equally elaborate design. It is likely that Henry drew inspiration from the Emperor, who was thirty-two years his senior, and shared his passion for jousting competitions and chivalric culture.42 Perhaps the young king even looked to the Emperor as a mentor as he heard about his legendary performances in the tiltyard from across the continent.43 It appears that Maximillian also looked to encourage the young Henry into the chivalric way of life by gifting him the ‘Burgundian Bard,’ an ornate horse armour, to celebrate his marriage to Katherine of Aragon in 1509.44 The bard is lavishly embossed with pomegranates, a personal emblem of both Maximillian and Katherine, which was a shrewd move as it served as a visual reminder of the Emperor’s generosity. Moreover, in 1511 Maximillian commissioned his Austrian armourer Konrad Seusenhofer to make a suit of armour for the English king that was topped with an elaborate ‘Horned Helmet,’ which was deeply embossed and gifted to Henry in 1514.45 It was clearly intended for pageantry and display rather than serving any practical purposes, yet it showcased the skill and intricate detail for which the German armour workshops were famous. Carolyn Springer argues that Italian nobles expressed anxieties about the body and masculine authority that were combated by the commissioning of elaborate and decorate parade armour in the sixteenth century.46 It is apparent that this was the case with Henry’s armour as he

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got older; he used armour to emphasise his manliness, at a time when he was anxious about his standing as a man. In studying men’s bodies, armour provides a valuable material source as, although armour could be somewhat modified to give an impressive appearance, it was bespoke for individuals, and its practical function meant that it had to fit its owner closely. Therefore it does tell us something about what knightly bodies were like, in particular the measurements that we can derive from the king’s surviving suits of armour. The earliest surviving armour of Henry is the ‘Silver and Engraved’ field armour, on display at the Tower of London that is dated from around 1515, when the king was only twenty-four years old. It was the first known product of Henry’s new workshop at Greenwich.47 The armour shows that in 1515 Henry’s waist measured 35in and his chest 42in. It is evident that in his youth Henry displayed a body that exemplified the knightly body, but this clearly changed as the king got older. On Henry’s breastplate is a large image of St George holding a broken lance, the point of which pierces the dragon’s neck. St George had been England’s patron saint since the fourteenth century, and he was inextricably linked with another symbol of English chivalry: the Order of the Garter, which became an essential part of Henry’s kingly identity. The Order of the Garter had been founded by the king’s ancestor, Edward III, in 1348 and represented the highest rank of chivalry.48 The Order under Edward III consisted of his knightly companions who were favoured above all others for their military virtues, which were considered inherent qualities of manhood that climaxed in battle and war.49 In the same way Henry used the Order to create a loyal body of young, noble warriors, who could support him in his war aims with France.50 It was Henry’s grandfather, Edward IV, who had commissioned the building of a new chapel for St George in 1475, which was completed by his grandson in 1528. Significantly, Edward IV was the first monarch who chose to be buried at St George’s Chapel rather than at Westminster, which illustrates his close alignment with chivalry.51 It was Edward IV who provided a significant platform for jousting contests in the 1460s, as unlike all the previous kings of the fifteenth century, he competed alongside his men in the tiltyard.52 Henry VIII clearly identified with his medieval ancestors as he left precise instructions about the repositioning and beautification of the tombs of Henry VI and Edward IV, thus immortalising himself as the living embodiment of the two houses of Lancaster and York.53 Henry was also actively involved in chivalry, like his grandfather, taking part in

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jousting contests from the start of his reign, which may explain why he selected to be buried at St. George’s Chapel, Windsor, rather than at Westminster with his father.54 It is apparent that Henry wanted to be remembered within a chivalrous setting by having his place of burial at St George’s Chapel: the location for the Order of the Garter ceremonies he bound his kingship to these knightly codes of honour. The feast day of St George fell on 23 April; Henry had been proclaimed king on that date and used it as his official birthday. Henry had been invested with the Order of the Garter by order of his father since the age of four and it is most likely that the ceremony took place at St George’s Chapel, the home of the patron of Saint George.55 Even as a prince Wooding writes, “Henry possessed four images of St George, more than any other religious figure.”56 Henry went further in changing the oath taken by his knights so that rather than swearing to defend the college of St George’s, Windsor, new knights now undertook to defend the “honors, quarrels, rights, and dominions and cause of their king.”57 Through this Henry forged a bond between monarchy and nobility that placed him at the centre, as he replaced the figure of St George and presented himself as the ultimate chivalrous idol. Henry also entwined the Tudor iconography with that of the Order of the Garter in 1510, when he decreed that the Garter collar consist of twelve red and white roses set within blue garters, interspersed with twelve tasselled knots.58 From the collar, then hung a pendant of St George slaying the dragon, which the knights were to wear on the annual feast day the king held each year. After Henry’s reign the new Garter insignia combining the Tudor rose was not continued by his successors, making it unique to his reign. The king also commissioned the Black Book in 1534, which was the earliest surviving register of the Order of the Garter stretching back to the knights in Edward III’s reign in 1348.59 Inside it contained the history, regulations and ceremonies of the knights of the Order of the Garter. It was decorated with the initials of the Order’s founder Edward III and successive monarchs up until Henry VIII. The king occupied a central double page depicting the ceremonies of the Order in 1534. It was expected that Henry would feature so heavily compared to his predecessors given that he commissioned the Black Book; he is shown enthroned surrounded by the Garter knights and then again alone at prayer. The illumination of Henry raised above his Garter knights illustrates that as king, he was naturally at the head of this Order and as a result he topped the male hierarchy. Thus the horizontal layers of chivalry that bound Henry and his knights in this brotherhood of arms were also

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carefully overlain with vertical ties. In commissioning a book that illustrated the medieval kings and Garter knights of the past, up until his present reign, Henry solidified his kingship in a traditional context. The early promotions of men advanced into the Order of the Garter under Henry typically were those who were actively involved in this culture of chivalry both titling alongside the king as knights and as soldiers representing him on the battlefield. The exemplar of manhood for Henry was his closest companion, Charles Brandon, whose involvement in chivalric enterprises such as jousting and tourneys led to him being granted further honour through his acceptance in April 1513 into the Order of the Garter.60 This formalised the chivalric relationship between king and servant. Brandon was to pledge his loyalty to the king through service in arms. The Order honoured men of martial virtue, valour and knightliness, which was recognised through the wearing of the collar that symbolised the chivalric brotherhood. Brandon was then expected to prove his loyalty to the Order, by taking up arms in honour of the king’s 1513 campaign to France. It was Brandon’s participation in warfare that gained him higher admiration from Henry, when he was made Duke of Suffolk in 1514.61 The fact that Brandon became one of only two dukes made in Henry’s reign is striking; it proves that Henry privileged this model of martial masculinity above all other versions at his court.62 To make this point further Henry commissioned the burial of Brandon at St George’s Chapel, Windsor, a site reserved for royalty and high nobility. A 1787 entry in Chapter Acts states, “ordered that leave to be given to lay a stone above the grace of Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk, according to his majesties directions.”63 The choice of burial was significant as no other of Henry’s men received a burial at Windsor. This was an extraordinary honour for Brandon as one of the only non-royals to be buried at St George’s Chapel, and it signified the remarkable longevity of his chivalrous bond with the king that was expected to continue beyond death.64 The iconography surrounding Henry’s planned burial monument included the figure of St. George, as described by Speed: “item the foure Images of St. Iohn the Baptist and Saint George, and all the figures of the Father and Angels steps shall be V. foot.”65 Yet, it is evident alongside the chivalrous imagery, a wealth of Christian imagery was added on Henry’s tomb, which provided other influential models for his kingly identity. Indeed, the tapestries that hung in Henry’s palaces included scenes from the New Testament depicting Saint Paul, Samson and the passion of Jesus Christ and others drew on the Old Testament stories of King David,

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Moses and Solomon.66 The earlier portrait of Henry on the title page of the Coverdale Bible designed by Holbein in 1535 is bordered on the right-­ hand side by the lyre playing figure of King David.67 Significantly, David is shown with a likeness of the king and although not formally authorised, it was circulated under the patronage of Thomas Cromwell and was a means to validate Henry’s claim to govern without clerical intercession.68 By the Great Bible front piece four years later in 1539, the figure of David and Henry had now merged into one.69 The king’s supreme status is demonstrated through Henry receiving the word of God quite literally as a prophet, and handing the bible to his clergy and nobility who in turn communicate the word to the people. Perhaps the best illustration of Henry as the new King David was the Psalter of Henry VIII written and illuminated by Jean Maillart in 1540: it features miniatures associating the king with David.70 Those who sought royal patronage at Henry’s court clearly understood the value to the king in creating works of art and literature, which compared his likeness to these biblical models as the Old Testament stories were reinterpreted to validate the English Reformation. In 1540 on New Year’s Day Henry was presented with a painting miniature by Holbein named Solomon and the Queen of Sheba that compared the king to God’s elected ruler Solomon.71 This constructed image clearly alluded to Henry as a Solomonic figure, which fitted with his status as head of the Church of England. The very fact that it was gifted to Henry indicates that he was openly flattered by these biblical archetypes, which were implemented into his policy of absolute kingship. It is evident that Henry was using the archetype of David and Solomon as ideal kings as part of his personal iconography in the 1530s and 1540s, since it elevated his status as the great religious patriarch and memorialised him as the father of the English nation. The early years of Henry’s reign have been categorised as the chivalric phase of his masculinity and kingship, which were marked by the number of tournaments that the king held in the 1510s and 1520s. Yet, in 1540 when the king was forty-nine years old, he had his armourers at Greenwich make a suit of armour, now held at the Tower of London.72 It was likely made for the May Day tournament held at the Palace of Westminster in 1540, but there is no record of the king competing, despite his existing armour.73 The king’s great garniture consists of etched and gilded decorations, and polished steel, which made for a fine showcasing of knightly masculinity. Though Henry at this stage in his lifecycle was now aged, and grossly overweight, and no longer the handsome, athletic king who had dominated the tiltyard in his youth. The king’s armour measurements

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reveal that his waist was now 51in and his chest 54.5in. Therefore Henry displayed a physique that was no longer suited to the tiltyard; nevertheless, his suit of armour had two sets of reinforcing plates added ready for the joust. It is curious why the king had armour garniture made for the contest, if he had no intention of competing. Therefore I would argue that Henry wanted to convey a jouster’s appearance by wearing this spectacular suit of armour so that visually he looked apart of the action. The presentation of chivalric manhood remained an important part of Henry’s kingship even in his later years, which is why the armour is broad and heavy in appearance, and still demonstrates a commanding presence. The king’s oversized codpiece in this armour was in itself an obvious marker of his virility.74 Suzannah Lipscomb argues that in Holbein’s famous portrait of Henry in the Whitehall Mural completed in 1537, everything about how his body has been depicted is intended to convey masculinity and virility.75 Tatiana String has examined the evident motifs of masculine prowess in the mural, drawing attention specifically to Henry’s elaborately decorated and large codpiece, which she argues focused in on the royal genitals as potent and sexual.76 While codpieces also had a practical function, that is, to cover the outstanding part of the body, the point about courtly codpieces was that they became epic in proportion during Henry’s reign.77 It does appear that as Henry got older his codpieces got bigger, as in spite of his failing manly body, he reverted to the chivalrous activities of his youth.78 Hence the king’s impressive suits of armour enabled him to practically and decoratively self-fashion this lasting knightly image. The last suit of armour made for Henry towards the end of his life in c.1544 was designed for use on the field, now on display in New York’s Metropolitan Museum of Art.79 Constructed for use both on horse and on foot, it was probably worn by the king during his last military campaign, the siege of Boulogne in 1544, where he commanded his army personally.80 Henry’s greatly expanded body shape at age fifty-three is apparent from the armour, as its height including the king’s helmet was 73in and it weighed 23kg. The obsession of war with France continued into Henry’s later years, and so this suit of armour designed by the Milanese, Francis Albert, was imported by the king. The spectacular etched, blacked and gilt three-quarter armour was almost certainly, states Robert Hutchinson, “the one Henry wore on his march from Calais.”81 It is significant that this was the first time that the king had worn armour on the battlefield, since his French campaign in 1513 at the start of his reign, a point that should not be overlooked. Henry took a central role in the siege of Boulogne

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supervising every move as he proudly rode a great courser, with the red flag of St George which flew before him. The defeat of the French and the fall of the city of Boulogne on 18 September 1544 signalled the most spectacular military victory of Henry’s wartime career. Hall records Henry’s splendid entrance into the city of Boulogne, “like a noble and valyaunt conqueror rode into Bulleyn.”82 Though it was not at all comparable to Agincourt, it was designed so that Henry appeared like his hero Henry V, whom he considered the exemplar warrior king. The king had long-held ambitions for reconquering France; he had always wanted to pursue his claim for the French throne as far as he could, whilst establishing his international prestige as a celebrated military leader. It is significant that Henry marked the start and end of his reign in war with France, as it is a clear marker of the type of king that he wanted to be and highlights just how much the cult of chivalry appealed to him as a traditional monarch. It is surprising that more has not been made of Henry VIII’s planned tomb despite it not being completed, as it is still vital that we consider how the king wanted to be remembered. There is much we can learn about how Henry understood his kingship and masculinity from the design of his effigy, which was planned to venerate him as a medieval knight in armour on horseback. This model of knightly masculinity was an active ideal that required physical strength and courage and emphasised the need for martial expertise. Hence the focus of Henry’s kingship was to embody those ideals pertaining to knighthood by competing and holding tournaments in his reign and by displaying courage and warrior skills in conquering France. The great medieval kings of the past, Edward III, Henry V and Edward IV, set a precedent of ideal kingship as their reigns evoked memories of great victories in battle, of magnificent tournaments and of chivalric orders, such as the Order of the Garter. In continuing this legacy Henry committed to the archetype of the knight throughout his reign and even in death this imagery was designed to immortalise his chivalrous masculinity. I would argue that Henry rejected other models in favour of a return to the youthful militant version of masculinity by going to war with France at the very start and end of his reign; he showed that he wanted to be remembered as a warrior king above everything else. Henry did not abandon his chivalric kingly status in his later reign in favour of a religious model, as the enduring appeal of the medieval knight was just as prominent in the king’s final years as he continued to sponsor tournaments and returned to war with France in the 1540s. Yet, it is indeed ironic that a

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king who decided on an extravagant and oversized burial effigy, who held spectacular tournaments, wore elaborate armour, and who led a glorious campaign to France, should lie in a plain vault, marked only by a marble slab.

Notes 1. One of the first major studies to examine the performance of masculine ideals of kingship is Christopher Fletcher, Richard II Manhood, Youth and Politics 1377–99 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008), and more recently, Katherine Lewis, Kingship and Masculinity in Late Medieval England (Oxon: Routledge, 2013). 2. Alfred Higgins, “On the Work of Florentine Sculptors in England in the Early Part of the Sixteenth Century, with Special Reference to the Tombs of Cardinal Wolsey and Henry VIII,” The Archaeological Journal 51 (1894): 142. 3. Charlotte Bolland, “Italian Material Culture at The Tudor Court,” (PhD. diss., Queen Mary, University of London 2011), 15–278. 4. Henry VIII, Miscellaneous Writings: In which are Included Assertion of the Seven Sacraments; Love Letters to Anne Boleyn; Songs; Letter to the Emperor; Two Proclamations; Will., ed. Francis McNamara (Golden Cockerel Press: Waltham Saint Lawrence, 1924), 206–207. 5. Phillip G.  Lindley, “Playing check-mate with royal majesty? Wolsey’s Patronage of Italian Royal sculpture,” in Cardinal Wolsey: Church State and Art, eds. Steven J.  Gunn and Phillip G.  Lindley (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991), 261–284. 6. For work on the extravagant ostentation of the building see John Matusiak, Wolsey: The Life of King Henry VIII’s Cardinal (Stroud: The History Press, 2014). 7. Margaret Mitchell, “Works of Art from Rome for Henry VIII,” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 34 (1971): 178–203. 8. Michael Wyatt, The Italian Encounter with Tudor England: A Cultural Politics of Translation (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005), 51. In 1808, it was relocated to St Paul’s Cathedral and set above the grave of the acclaimed war hero Lord Nelson. 9. Mitchell, “Works of Art from Rome for Henry VIII,” 178–203. 10. John Speed, The history of Great Britaine under the conquests of ye Romans, Saxons, Danes and Normans. Their original manners, habits, warres, coines, and seales, with the successions, lines, acts, and issues of the English monarchs, from Iulius Caesar, to our most, gratious soueraigne King Iames. The second edition. Reuised, & enlarged w[i]th sundry descents of ye Saxons kings, their

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mariages and armes (London, 1627), 796–797. Speed’s description of the tomb. 11. Speed, The History of Greate Britaine, 796–797. 12. Mitchell, “Works of Art from Rome for Henry VIII,” 178–203. 13. C.  S. L.  Davies, “Tudor: What’s in Name?” History 97 no. 325 (2012): 24–42. 14. Lucy Wooding, Henry VIII (Oxon: Routledge 2nd ed., 2015), 70. 15. Speed, The History of Greate Britaine, 796–797. 16. Lewis, Kingship and Masculinity in Late Medieval England, 2. 17. Fiona Dunlop, The Late Medieval Interlude: The Drama of Youth and Aristocratic Masculinity (York: York Medieval Press, in association with Boydell & Brewer and the Centre for Medieval Studies, University of York, 2007), 123. 18. Noel Fallows, Jousting in Medieval and Renaissance Iberia (Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2010), 175. 19. Wooding, Henry VIII, 67. 20. Derek Neal, The Masculine Self in Late Medieval England (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004), 134. 21. Ruth Mazo Karras, From Boys to Men: Formations of Masculinity in Late Medieval Europe (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003), 20. 22. Geoffroi de Charny, A Knight’s Own Book of Chivalry, trans. Elspeth Kennedy (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005). 23. Thom Richardson, “The Royal Armour Workshops at Greenwich,” in Henry VIII: Arms and the Man, 1509–2009, eds. Graeme Rimer, Thom Richardson, and John D. P. Cooper (Leeds: Royal Armouries, 2009), 1–8. 24. Thom Richardson, The Armour & Arms of Henry VIII (Trustees of the Royal Armouries Museum, 2017). 25. I discuss below Henry VIII’s armour for field and combat (1540) that incorporated designs by Hans Holbein. 26. For example Henry’s Tonlet armour (1520) worn at the Field of Cloth of Gold tournament see “Tonlet Armour (1520)” Object number II.7 Royal Armouries Collection, accessed 30 November 2020, https://royalarmouries.org/stories/object-­of-­the-­month/object-­of-­the-­month-­for-­ april-­henry-­viiis-­foot-­combat-­armour/. 27. For English settlement in Normandy in the early fifteenth century, see C.T. Allmand, “The Lancastrian Land Settlement in Normandy 1417–50,” The Economic History Review 21.3 (1968): 461–479; C.T. Allmand, The Lancastrian Normandy, 1415–1450: The History Medieval Occupation (Oxford: Clarendon Press: 1983), 50–121; R.A.  Massey, “The Land Settlement in Lancastrian in Normandy, 1417–50,” in Property and Politics: Essays in Later Medieval English History, ed. A.  J. Pollard (New York: St Martin’s Press, 1984), 76–96.

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28. Steven J.  Gunn, The English People at War in the Age of Henry VIII (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 11. 29. Polydore Vergil, Anglican Historia of Polydore Vergil, A.d. 1485–1537, ed. and trans. Denys Hay (Camden Society., 3rd series, 1940), 161. 30. David Trim, “Knights of Christ?” in Cross, Crown & Community: Religion, Government, and Culture in Early Modern England 1400–1800, eds. David. J. B. Trim, Peter. J. Balderstone, and Harry Leonard (Oxford: Peter Lang Pub Inc, 2004), 77–113. 31. Steven J.  Gunn, “Henry VIII’s Foreign Policy and the Tudor Cult of Chivalry,” in François ler et Henri VIII: deux princes de la renaissance, ed. Charles Giry-Deloison (Lille: Charles de Gaulle Université-Lille III, 1996), 25–35. 32. Wooding, Henry VIII, 67. 33. Edward Hall, Hall’s chronicle: containing the history of England, during the reign of Henry the Fourth, and the succeeding monarchs, to the end of the reign of Henry the Eighth, in which are particularly described the manners and customs of those periods. Carefully collated with the editions of 1548 and 1550, ed. J. Johnson (London, 1809), 550. 34. Trim, “Knights of Christ?” 77–113. 35. Charles G. Cruickshank, Henry VIII and the Invasion of France (Stroud: Sutton, 1990), 163 and John Guy, Tudor England, (Oxford: Oxford University Press 1988), 192: the traditional stance taken by these historians is that Henry’s wars were wasteful and ineffective. 36. Henry Guildford’s account book for stores and revels at Greenwich in 1527  in The National Archives, UK, E36/227, fol. 11 records that he earned £4 and 10 shillings for the painting of the siege of Thèrouanne. 37. Glenn Richardson, “Entertainments for the French ambassadors at the court of Henry VIII,” Renaissance Studies 9.4 (1995): 404–415. 38. Dale Hoaks, “Legacy of Henry VIII,” in Henry VIII and his After Lives, eds. Mark Rankin, Christopher Higley, and John King (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 53–73. Tellingly towards the end of his life Henry had two enormous paintings commissioned of him in battle. 39. Olivier Hekster, Emperors and Ancestors: Roman Rulers and Constraints of Tradition (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015), 315. 40. Christopher S.  Wood, Forgery, Replica, Fiction: Temporalities of German Renaissance Art (Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2008), 311. 41. Christoph Luitpold Frommel, Michelangelo’s Tomb for Julius II: Genesis and Genius (London: Yale University Press, 2016). 42. Maximillian recorded his many contests in a richly illustrated tourney book known as Freydal that appears in a text MS. with corrections by Maximilian I in Vienna, National Library, cod. 2385.

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43. Natalie Anderson, “The Tournament and its Role in the Court Culture of Emperor Maximillian I (1459–1519),” (PhD. diss., The University of Leeds, 2017), 1–235. 44. “The Burgundian Bard (1510)” Object number VI.6, Royal Armouries Collection, accessed 30 November 2020, https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-­object-­2626.html. 45. “The Horned Helmet (1512)” Object number IV.22, Royal Armouries Collection, accessed 30 November 2020, https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-­object-­2623.html. 46. Carolyn Springer, Armour and Masculinity in the Italian Renaissance (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010), 21. 47. “Silver and engraved armour (about 1515)” Object II.5, Royal Armouries Collection, accessed 30 November 2020, https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-­object-­18.html. 48. Hugh E.  L. Collins, The Order of the Garter, 1348–1461: Chivalry and Politics in Late Medieval England (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000) 1. 49. Richard Barber, “Why did Edward III hold the Round Table? The political background,” in Edward III’s Round Table at Windsor: The House of the Round Table and the Windsor Festival of 1344, eds. Julian Munby, Richard Barber, and Richard Brown (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2007), 77–84. 50. Wooding, Henry VIII, 63. 51. Charles Ross, Edward IV (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997), 274. 52. For works on the tournaments of Edward IV see Sydney Anglo, “AngloBurgundian Feats of Arms: Smithfield June 1467,” The Guildhall Miscellany 2.7 (1965): 271–283; Richard Barber, “Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur and Court Culture,” in Arthurian Literature XII, eds. James P.  Carley and Felicity Riddy (Cambridge: Boydell and Brewer, 1993), 133–156; Francis Cripps-Day, The History of the Tournament in England and in France (London: B.  Quaritch limited, 1918), 96–98; Maurice Keen and Juliet Barker, “The Medieval English Kings and the Tournament,” in Nobles, Knights and Men-at-Arms in the Middle Ages, ed. M. Keen (Hambledon: Continuum, 1996), 83–101; Emma Levitt, “Tiltyard Friendships and Bonds of Loyalty in the Reign of Edward IV, 1461–1483,” in Loyalty to the British Monarchy in Late Medieval and Early Modern Britain c.1400–1688, eds. Matthew Ward and Matthew Hefferan (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020), 15–37. 53. Henry VIII, Miscellaneous Writings: In which are Included Assertion of the Seven Sacraments; Love Letters to Anne Boleyn; Songs; Letter to the Emperor; Two Proclamations; Will., 207. 54. There is a wealth of literature on Henry VIII’s tournaments. See Viscount Dillon, “Tilting in Tudor Times,” Archaeological Journal 55 (1898):

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269–339; Charles Ffoulkes, “Jousting Cheques of the Sixteenth Century,” Archaeologia Journal 63 (1912): 34–39; Steven Gunn, “Tournaments and Early Tudor Chivalry,” History Today 41.6, (1991): 15–21. 55. Letters and Papers Illustrative of the Reigns of Richard III and Henry VII; letters, &c. of Henry VII; correspondence of James IV, ed. James Gairdner (Longman Green: Longman and Roberts, 1863), 57. 56. Wooding, Henry VIII, 63. 57. Frederick George Beltz, Memorials of the Order of the Garter: From its Foundations to the Present Time with Biographical Notices of the Knights in the reigns of Edward III and Richard II (London: London W. Pickering, 1841), 89. 58. “Henry VIII: April 1523, 16–30,” in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 3, 1519–1523, ed. J.  S Brewer (London, 1867), 1250–1265, British History Online, accessed 16 February 2021, http://www.british-­h istor y.ac.uk/letters-­p apers-­h en8/vol3/ pp1250-­1265. 59. Now in the possession of the Dean at the College of Windsor. 60. “Henry VIII: April 1513, 21–25,” in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 1, 1509–1514, ed. J.  S Brewer (London, 1920), 815–833. British History Online, accessed 16 February 2021, http://www.british-­history.ac.uk/letters-­papers-­hen8/vol1/pp815-­833. 61. “Henry VIII: February 1514, 1–10,” in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 1, 1509–1514, 1147–1153. British History Online, accessed 16 February 2021, http://www.british-­history.ac.uk/ letters-­papers-­hen8/vol1/pp1147-­1153. 62. For an academic study on Charles Brandon see Steven Gunn, Charles Brandon: Henry VIII’s Closest Friend (original edition Oxford: Oxford University Press 1988, revised edition Gloucestershire: Amberley Publishing, 2015). 63. Eleanor Cracknell, “Charles Brandon, Duke of Suffolk,” Archives Blog, accessed 30 November 2020, https://www.stgeorges-­windsor.org/ charles-­brandon-­duke-­of-­suffolk/. 64. Edward IV arranged for his best friend William Hastings to be buried next to him at St George’s Chapel, Windsor. 65. Speed, The history of Great Britaine, 796–797. 66. Thomas P. Campbell, Henry VIII and the Art of Majesty: Tapestries at the Tudor court (New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 2007), 233. 67. Miles Coverdale, Biblia. The Bible tha[t] is, the holy scripture of t[he] Olde and new Testament, faithfully and truly translated out of Douche and Latyn in to Englishe by Miles Coverdale (Germany, 1535): a copy can be found online The British Library, accessed 30 November 2020, https://www. bl.uk/collection-­items/coverdale-­bible.

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68. John N. King, “Henry VIII as David,” in Rethinking the Henrician Era: Essays on Early Tudor Texts and Contexts, ed. Peter. C. Herman (Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press), 78–83. 69. “Henry VIII Great Bible c.1538–1540,” The British Library, accessed 30 November 2020, http://www.bl.uk/learning/timeline/item101943. html The Bible with its coloured title page is visible on here. 70. Jean Maillart, “Psalter (The Psalter of Henry VIII),” The British Library, accessed 30 November 2020, https://www.bl.uk/collection-­items/ henry-­viii-­psalter: the entire manuscript has been digitised. 71. Hans Holbein, “Solomon and the Queen of Sheba c. 1534,” Royal Collection Trust, accessed 30 November 2020, https://www.rct.uk/collection/912188/solomon-­and-­the-­queen-­of-­sheba. 72. “Armor for field and tournament 1540,” Object II.8 Royal Armouries, accessed 30 November 2020, https://collections.royalarmouries.org/ object/rac-­object-­11384.html. 73. The Royal College of Arms collection formerly in Box 37: now in a portfolio, tilting list, 6V. 46, May 1 1540. 74. Neal, The Masculine Self in Late Medieval England, 134. 75. Suzannah Lipscomb, 1536: The Year that Changed Henry VIII (Oxford: Lion Books, 2009), 11. 76. Tatiana String, “Projecting Masculinity: Henry VIII’s Codpiece,” in Henry VIII and His Afterlives: Literature, Politics and Art, eds. Mark Rankin, Christopher Highley, and John N.  King (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009), 143–160. 77. For a recent discussion on the size of codpieces in an adaptation of Hilary Mantel’s Wolf Hall see Alison Flood, “Research confirms inadequacy of codpieces in TV version of Wolf Hall”, The Guardian, 30 April 2015, h t t p : / / w w w. t h e g u a r d i a n . c o m / b o o k s / 2 0 1 5 / a p r / 3 0 / wolf-­hall-­codpieces-­too-­small-­says-­literature-­researcher. 78. Retha M.  Warnicke, The Marrying of Anne of Cleves: Royal Protocol in Early Modern England (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000), 127–153. This is made explicit in one humiliating episode that took place in January 1540, in which Henry hastened to meet his soon to be bride Anne of Cleves at Rochester. 79. “Field Armor of King Henry VIII of England ca.1544,” The Metropolitan Museum of Art, accessed 30 November 2020, http://www.metmuseum. org/collection/the-­collection-­online/search/23936. 80. “Henry VIII: September 1544, 11–15,” in Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volume 19 Part 2, August-December 1544, eds. James Gairdner and R H Brodie (London, 1905), 114–125. British History Online, accessed 16 February 2021, http://www.british-­history.ac.uk/ letters-­papers-­hen8/vol19/no2/pp114-­125.

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81. Robert Hutchinson, Henry VIII: The Decline and Fall of a Tyrant (London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson 2019), 92. 82. Hall, Hall’s Chronicle, 861.

Bibliography Primary Sources College of Arms, UK, Box 37: Now in a Portfolio, Tilting List, 6V. 46, May 1 1540. Hall, Edward. Hall’s Chronicle: Containing the History of England, During the Reign of Henry the Fourth, and the Succeeding Monarchs, to the End of the Reign of Henry the Eighth, in which are Particularly Described the Manners and Customs of those Periods. Carefully Collated with the editions of 1548 and 1550, edited by J. Johnson. London, 1809. Henry VIII, Miscellaneous Writings: In which are Included Assertion of the Seven Sacraments; Love Letters to Anne Boleyn; Songs; Letter to the Emperor; Two Proclamations; Will., edited by Francis McNamara. Golden Cockerel Press: Waltham Saint Lawrence, 1924. Letters and Papers, Foreign and Domestic, Henry VIII, Volumes 1–21 Pt.II, edited by J. S. Brewer. London, 1920. Letters and Papers Illustrative of the Reigns of Richard III and Henry VII; letters, &c. of Henry VII; correspondence of James IV, edited by J. Gairdner. Longman Green: Longman and Roberts, 1863. Speed, John. The History of Great Britaine, Under the Conquests of the Romans, Saxons, Danes, and Normans: Their Originals, Manners, Warres, Coines, and Seales. With the Successions, Lives, Acts and Issues of the English Monarchs From Julius Caesar, T Our Most Gracious Soveraigne King James. London, 1611. The British Library, UK, Coverdale, Miles. Biblia. The Bible tha[t] is, the holy scripture of t[he] Olde and new Testament, faithfully and truly translated out of Douche and Latyn in to Englishe by Miles Coverdale (Germany, 1535). The British Library, UK, Cranmer, Thomas. The Byble in Englyshe, that is to saye the contēt of al the holy scrypture … with a prologe therinto, made by … Thomas [Cranmer] archbysshop of Cantorbury, This is the Byble apoynted to the vse of the churches (London, 1540). The British Library, UK, Maillart, Jean. The Psalter of Henry VIII (c.1540–1541). The National Archives, UK, E. E36/227, f. 11r. Vergil, Polydore. Anglican Historia of Polydore Vergil, A.d. 1485–1537. Edited and translation by Denys Hay. Camden Society., 3rd series, 1940. Vienna, National Library, cod. 2385.

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Secondary Sources Allmand, C. T. “The Lancastrian Land Settlement in Normandy 1417–50.” The Economic History Review 21.3 (1968): 461–479. ———. The Lancastrian Normandy, 1415–1450: The History Medieval Occupation. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1983. Anglo, Sydney. “Archives of the English Tournament: Score Cheques and Lists.” Journal of the Society of Archivists 2 (1961): 153–162. Ashmole, Elias. The History of the Most Noble Order of the Garter. London, 1715. Barber, Richard. “Why did Edward III hold the Round Table? The Political Background.” In Edward III’s Round Table at Windsor: The House of the Round Table and the Windsor Festival of 1344, edited by Julian Munby, Richard Barber, and Richard Brown, 77–84. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2007. Blair, Claude. “The Emperor Maximillian’s Gift of Armour to King Henry VIII and the Silvered and Engraved Armour at the Tower of London.” Archaeologia 99 (1965): 1–52. Beltz, Frederick George. Memorials of the Order of the Garter: From its Foundations to the Present Time with Biographical Notices of the Knights in the reigns of Edward III and Richard II. London: London W. Pickering, 1841. Campbell, Thomas. Henry VIII and the Art of Majesty: Tapestries at the Tudor court. New Haven and London, Yale University Press, 2007. Charny, Geoffroi. A Knight’s Own Book of Chivalry. Translated by Elspeth Kennedy. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2005. Collins, Hugh. The Order of the Garter, 1358–1461: Chivalry and Politics in Late Medieval England. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 2000. Connell, Raewyn, and James Messerschmidt. “Hegemonic Masculinity. Rethinking the Concept.” Gender and Society 19 (2005): 829–859. Cruickshank, Charles. Henry VIII and the Invasion of France. Stroud: Sutton, 1990. Davies, C. S. L. “Tudor: What’s in Name?” History 97 no. 325 (2012): 24–42. Dillon, Viscount. “Tilting in Tudor Times.” Archaeological Journal 55 (1898): 269–339. Dressler, Rachel. “Steel Corpse Imaging the Knight in Death.” In Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities: Men in the Medieval West, edited by Jacqueline Murray, 135–167. New York: Garland Press, 1999. Dunlop, Fiona. The Late Medieval Interlude: The Drama of Youth and Aristocratic Masculinity. York: York Medieval Press, in Association with Boydell & Brewer and the Centre for Medieval Studies, University of York, 2007. Fallows, Noel. Jousting in Medieval and Renaissance Iberia. Woodbridge: Boydell and Brewer, 2010. Ffoulkes, Charles. “Jousting Cheques of the Sixteenth Century.” Archaeologia Journal 63 (1912): 34–39.

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Fletcher, Christopher. Richard II Manhood, Youth and Politics 1377–99. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2008. Frommel, Luitpold Christoph. Michelangelo’s Tomb for Julius II: Genesis and Genius. London: Yale University Press, 2016. Gunn, Steven. Charles Brandon: Henry VIII’s Closest Friend. Original edition, Oxford: Oxford University Press 1988. Revised edition, Gloucestershire: Amberley Publishing, 2015. ———. “Henry VIII’s Foreign Policy and the Tudor Cult of Chivalry.” In François ler et Henri VIII: deux princes de la renaissance, edited by Charles Giry-­ Deloison, 25–35. Lille: Charles de Gaulle Université-Lille III, 1996. ———. The English People at War in the Age of Henry VIII. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018. ———. “Tournaments and Early Tudor Chivalry.” History Today 41 no. 6 (1991): 15–21. Guy, John. Tudor England. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1988. Hekster, Oliver. Emperors and Ancestors: Roman Rulers and Constraints of Tradition. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2015. Higgins, Alfred. “On the Work of Florentine Sculptors in England in the Early Part of the Sixteenth Century, with Special Reference to the Tombs of Cardinal Wolsey and Henry VIII.” The Archaeological Journal 51 (1894): 142. Hoaks, Dale. “Legacy of Henry VIII.” In Henry VIII and his After Lives, edited by Mark Rankin, Christopher Higley, and John King, 53–73. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Hutchinson, Robert. Henry VIII: The Decline and Fall of a Tyrant. London: Weidenfeld & Nicolson 2019. Karras, Mazo Ruth. From Boys to Men: Formation of Masculinity in Late Medieval Europe. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003. King, John. “Henry VIII as David.” In Rethinking the Henrician Era: Essays on Early Tudor Texts and Contexts, edited by Peter. C. Herman, 78–83. Urbana and Chicago: University of Illinois Press, 1994. Levitt, Emma. “Tiltyard Friendships and Bonds of Loyalty in the Reign of Edward IV, 1461–1483.” In Loyalty to the British Monarchy in Late Medieval and Early Modern Britain c.1400–1688, edited by Matthew Ward and Matthew Hefferan, 15–37. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020. Keen, Maurice, and Barker Juliet. “The Medieval English Kings and the Tournament.” In Nobles, Knights and Men-at-Arms in the Middle Ages, edited by Maurice Keen, 83–101. Hambledon: Continuum, 1996. Lewis, Katherine. Kingship and Masculinity in Late Medieval England. Oxon: Routledge, 2013. Lipscomb, Suzannah. 1536: The Year that Changed Henry VIII. Oxford: Lion Books, 2009.

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Phillip, Lindley G. “Playing Check-mate with Royal Majesty? Wolsey’s Patronage of Italian Royal Sculpture.” In Cardinal Wolsey: Church State and Art, edited by Steven J. Gunn and Phillip G. Lindley, 261–284. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1991. Massey, R. A. “The Land Settlement in Lancastrian in Normandy, 1417–50.” In Property and Politics: Essays in Later Medieval English History, edited by A. J. Pollard, 76–96. New York: St Martin’s Press, 1984. Mitchell, Margaret. “Works of Art from Rome for Henry VIII.” Journal of the Warburg and Courtauld Institutes 34 (1971): 178–203. Neal, Derek. The Masculine Self in Late Medieval England. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2004. Richardson, Thom. “The Royal Armour Workshops at Greenwich.” In Henry VIII: Arms and the Man, 1509–2009, edited by Graeme Rimer, Thom Richardson, and John D. P. Cooper 1–8. Leeds: Royal Armouries, 2009. Richardson, Thom. The Armour & Arms of Henry VIII. Trustees of the Royal Armouries Museum, 2017. Richardson, Glenn. “Entertainments for the French Ambassadors at the Court of Henry VIII.” Renaissance Studies 9.4 (1995): 404–415. Ross, Charles. Edward IV. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1997. Saul, Nigel. “Introduction.” In St George’s Chapel, Windsor, in the Fourteenth Century, edited by Nigel Saul, 1–13. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2005. Springer, Carolyn. Armour and Masculinity in the Italian Renaissance. Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2010. String, Tatiana. “Projecting Masculinity: Henry VIII’s Codpiece”. In Henry VIII and His Afterlives: Literature, Politics and Art, edited by Mark Rankin, Christopher Highley, and John N.  King, 143–160. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2009. Trim, David. “Knights of Christ?” In Cross, Crown & Community: Religion, Government, and Culture in Early Modern England 1400–1800, edited by David J. B. Trim, Peter J. Balderstone, and Harry Leonard, 77–113. Oxford: Peter Lang Pub Inc, 2004. Warnicke, Retha M. The Marrying of Anne of Cleves: Royal Protocol in Early Modern England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2000. Wyatt, Michael. The Italian Encounter with Tudor England: A Cultural Politics of Translation. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2005. Wood, Christopher. Forgery, Replica, Fiction: Temporalities of German Renaissance Art. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 2008. Wooding, Lucy. Henry VIII. Oxon: Routledge 2nd ed., 2015.

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Unpublished Thesis Anderson, Natalie. “The Tournament and its Role in the Court Culture of Emperor Maximillian I (1459–1519).” PhD diss., The University of Leeds, 2017. Bolland, Charlotte. “Italian Material Culture at The Tudor Court.” PhD diss., Queen Mary, University of London, 2011.

Internet Resources Royal Armouries. “Armor for field and tournament 1540.” Accessed 30 November 2020. https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-­object-­11384.html. Royal Armouries. “The Burgundian Bard (1510).” Accessed 30 November 2020. https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-­object-­2626.html. Royal Armouries. “The Horned Helmet (1512).” Accessed 30 November 2020. https://collections.royalarmouries.org/object/rac-­object-­2623.html. Royal Armouries. “Tonlet Armour (1520).” Accessed 20 November 2020. h t t p s : / / r o y a l a r m o u r i e s . o r g / s t o r i e s / o b j e c t -­o f -­t h e -­m o n t h / object-­of-­the-­month-­for-­april-­henry-­viiis-­foot-­combat-­armour. Royal Collection. “The Meeting of Henry VIII and the Emperor Maximilian I.” Accessed 30 November 2020. https://www.royalcollection.org.uk/collection/405800/the-­meeting-­of-­henry-­viii-­and-­the-­emperor-­maximilian-­i. Royal Collection Trust. “Solomon and the Queen of Sheba c. 1534.” Accessed 30 November 2020. https://www.rct.uk/collection/912188/ solomon-­and-­the-­queen-­of-­sheba.

Papal Commemoration, 1300–1700: Institutional Memory and Dynasticism Jennifer Mara DeSilva

This chapter follows the diverse strategies that early modern popes and their families used to commemorate their attachment to the papacy in the period from 1300 to 1700. By necessity this analysis depends on considering a division between different types of commemorators (i.e., the institution of the papacy vs. popes vs. cardinal-nephews vs. lay kinsmen) and different types of commemoration (i.e., individual liturgical vs. spatial vs. corporate objects).1 While most popes and their relatives who wished to mark their ascent to the throne of St. Peter considered commemoration strategies to be a social good, which could lead to further access to the cardinalate or papacy, not all pontificates received the same commemorative energy. While this uneven experience sometimes resulted from economic disparities, generally popes who elevated kin cardinals were more widely commemorated. Consequently, this period also witnessed an increase in commemorative energy in line with the expansion of the College of Cardinals and the growth of Italian noble families linked to the papacy.2 This chapter will explore major trends and important anomalies

J. M. DeSilva (*) Department of History, Ball State University, Muncie, IN, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_3

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in papal commemoration that reveal how contemporaries understood the connection between public memory and dynasticism.

Liturgical Commemoration Through the late medieval and early modern periods the commemoration of pontiffs was variously sporadic and also regularised through the papal chapel’s annual liturgical cycle. As the pope was considered to be the vicar of Christ on Earth and the heir of the apostle Peter, chosen by the Holy Spirit during conclave, his post-election corporate identity was more important theologically than his pre-election self. Agostino Paravicini-­ Bagliani showed that through the late medieval and early modern period, Christians believed that the pope had two souls: one soul that he shared with Jesus Christ, and which represented the Catholic Church, and one soul that was entirely human. During his pontificate, the pope appeared as Christ and transitioned back to his mortal self at death.3 Thus, the annual liturgical cycle that re-enacted Jesus’ life reflected one of the pope’s souls and obscured the other soul. Only if the pope was determined to be of extraordinary holiness and canonised after death, did the Catholic Church commemorate him beyond his corporate identity. Between roughly 1300 and 1700, only Celestine V (1294, canonised 1313) and Pius V (1566–1572, beatified 1672, canonised 1712) achieved this level of personal commemoration. This infrequency suggests an institutional preference for commemorating the office and its Christological and Petrine origins over the elected man. In contrast to sporadic commemoration through canonisation, Caeremoniale Romanum (1488), the guide written by Master of Ceremonies Agostino Patrizi, documents an annual corporate commemoration process. Each year the papal chapel held an anniversary Mass for the pope’s immediate predecessor. Although the entire court attended, including the reigning pontiff, only cardinals raised by the deceased pope acted as mourners and filled liturgical roles.4 As the Mass occurred on the predecessor’s death date, the event perpetuated a corporate mythology manifested through the memories of current members of the papal court. This memorial event and the collective memory that animated it constructed an institutional history that historicised the early modern papacy.5 From a structural perspective, the event also reinforced the current pope’s right to hold power, as it recalled his predecessor, the men who were raised by him to the cardinalate, and the predecessor’s death, which allowed for his own

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election. By celebrating the historical precedent established by the men who were his legitimate predecessors, the living pope justified his own continued rule. This annual opportunity to commemorate a papal predecessor is characteristic of the early modern papacy’s memorialising tendency. Perhaps due to its character as a non-hereditary elected monarchy, early modern popes and the court that surrounded them had a keen interest in establishing their place in a historical line. Memories of the Papal Schism (1378–1417), during which there were two, and then three, elected popes vying for popular support, likely intensified the importance of articulating undeniable ties between individuals and the papal office. While the papacy was technically non-heritable, appointing kinsmen as cardinals made the prospects of a papal dynasty more likely. Between 1300 and 1700 eleven popes were elected who had been elevated to the cardinalate by a kinsman.6 Although it is impossible to draw a clear and continuous connection between dynastic creation and commemoration efforts, the flourishing of commemorative projects in this period suggests that commemoration of popes and by popes was a valuable investment for institutional, individual, and familial benefit. The increasing size of the College of Cardinals meant that there were ample participants in papal anniversary Masses. The elevation of household familiars and kin to the cardinalate ensured that factions had long chronological roots. Wolfgang Reinhard and Marco Pellegrini have argued that through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries election to the throne of St. Peter brought income and opportunities for advancement that impacted the pope’s entire family.7 A single kin cardinal was considered acceptable and appropriate, even if the College of Cardinals already numbered above the maximum consensus of twenty-six members.8 This signals an acknowledgement of the importance of kin support (and the loyalty that it often signalled) in the larger administrative and social needs of the papacy. Implicitly this measure accepted an involvement with the pope’s family that could last two or more generations. Notably, kin cardinals were most likely to commission tombs and lasting commemorative spaces. This tendency bundles two animating virtues together: the need to bury a deceased pope honourably and the cardinal’s desire to go beyond liturgical commemoration and permanently assert his family’s ties to the papacy.9

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Encouraging Dynasticism Via Commemoration Early modern strategies of papal commemoration depended on signs and media that looked beyond the man to the institution of the papacy and the pope’s relatives. Because of this, the subject of papal commemoration embraces issues of identity and clientelism, and sits close to the heart of current historiographical trends. As in any discussion of papal dynasticism one must accept the fact that the divide between clerical and lay worlds was permeable and that acquiring clerical offices could play an important role in the advancement strategies of a cleric’s lay relatives. Throughout the early modern period and beyond, families considered themselves to be a community (i.e., house or casa) that shared resources and labour in a coordinated effort to raise the house’s social standing.10 To fully understand the scope of commemoration of and by popes, clerical and lay papal relatives must play an intrinsic part in the conversation.11 If the men who sat on St. Peter’s throne truly wished to be remembered only as the rocks with which the Church was built, there would be no need to carve their names or armorial shields on their statues. Indeed, the reason for carving names, distinctive faces, and coats of arms was to distinguish the history of the papacy and the families that occupied it. Throughout the early modern period there was a reciprocal relationship between the institution and the families that offered cardinals as papabili. Memorialising past popes simultaneously reasserted the institution’s continuity and allowed papal families to share reflected glory derived from secular authority, social credit, and spiritual charisma. Although reformers continued to complain about commemoration creeping into spaces that were exclusively meant for worship, it was a losing battle. Since the papacy depended on the wealth and social leverage of its cardinals and popes and gained from their relatives’ desire to publicly recognise ecclesiastical contributions, there was no practical advantage to limiting papal commemoration. Similarly, these campaigns brought tangible benefits to communities that accepted the funds facilitating memorial objects, images, and spaces. These communities then became standard-bearers for a family’s long-term goal of perpetuating its connection to the elite Church and the papacy, preferably by building a papal dynasty. In the short term a desire to attract patrons and maintain the Catholic hierarchy became a way for families to campaign for further offices, both elected and appointed, based on a history of service to the elite Church.

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There are various levels folded within the papal desire to commemorate. Since the papacy was a continuous, elected monarchy there were benefits to name recognition. Objects or images that bore coats of arms or papal figures usually had a basic practical purpose: liturgical tools, texts, tableware, and façade or mural decoration. The money that papal families invested in these objects functioned in two ways: first, as much-needed gifts that would be used in churches, libraries, squares, and palaces; and secondly, as reminders of the family’s past office-holding, cultural interest, and generosity. Individuals who came in contact with these objects, images, and spaces would become part of a memorialisation campaign that could continue for centuries. At 1300 there was every expectation that the heir of St. Peter would continue to be elected by the College of Cardinals, much as it is today. Thus, a family that hoped to create a papal dynasty took the long view that any investment perpetuating memories of their family’s pope would only reap maximum rewards if they had a kin cardinal who could be elected pope. Conveniently, having a pope in the family increased the chances of having kin cardinals, both during that pontificate and afterwards. Cardinals could train relatives, pass on benefices, and keep them in the vicinity of the pope as he sought worthy candidates for future red hats. These men found it useful to maintain their uncles’ or brothers’ memory in order to portray themselves as carrying on their family’s pedigree. There was profit in being part of a lineage that remained close to power and generally passed its offices down to junior relatives. Objects embossed with a pope or cardinal’s shield followed a similar path and freely crossed the clerical-lay divide. Silver vases with Cardinal Pietro Riario’s arms passed to his brother Girolamo and were part of the tangible domestic magnificence that impressed Caterina Sforza on arrival at her Roman marital home. Likewise, Raphael’s portrait of Pope Leo X with his cardinal-­ cousins (1517) initially stood in place of individuals, reminding wedding guests that the bridal couple was connected to absent power-brokers.12 The fact that the painting remained in Florence for centuries suggests that it was a useful tool in the Medici family’s strategies. In Rome, during the seventeenth century, public fountains became popular sites for civic patronage by papal families. The Borghese family’s Fontana dell’Acqua Paola (1612); the Barberini family’s Fontana della Barcaccia (1627–1629), Fontana del Tritone (1642–1643), and Fontana delle Api (1644); and the Pamphili family’s Fontana dei Quattro Fiume (1648–1651) are examples

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that incorporate family and pontifical imagery or the pope’s name in an effort to remind passers-by of his contribution to urban life.13

Papal Tombs As Cathleen Fleck has shown, from the early fourteenth century the popes in Avignon understood how spaces and objects could assert papal institutional authority and reinforce individual power, even when far from the bones of St. Peter that bestowed apostolic legitimacy on the succeeding bishops of Rome.14 Julian Gardner has noted that some fourteenth-­ century popes built a monument in Avignon as well as a monument in their home diocese, in an effort to assert both an institutional and local identity through liturgical and visual commemoration.15 This practice underlines the importance of tombs in a period of tension and conflict to maintain the chronology of papal history at its contemporary centre, while also communicating personal contributions to distant supporters. Pope Clement VI (r. 1342–1352) constructed a tomb in Avignon, but also had his remains interred at the Abbey of La Chaise-Dieu in Le Puy (Auvergne, France), where forty-four statues of his relatives would surround his monument in the choir.16 Likewise Urban V (r. 1362–1370) built a tomb in Avignon’s cathedral, as well as one in the Abbey of Saint-Victor in Marseille, where he had been abbot.17 In Rome through the twelfth and thirteenth centuries papal tombs were collected in what is now called Old St. Peter’s basilica, a structure initiated by Emperor Constantine (begun 318–322, consecrated 360). Once the papacy returned in 1420 following the Council of Constance, fifteenth-century popes resumed the tradition, further transforming the basilica into a tour of papal history. Carol Richardson has noted that once Julius II began the staged demolition required for the building of New St. Peter’s (around April 1506), the destroyed transept left many wall and sarcophagus-style monuments open to the elements, impeding liturgical commemoration.18 The wholesale replacement of the Church required the redistribution of papal tombs to station churches across the city and prompted uncertainty for future burials.19 Yet even before the basilica’s renewal, popes faced barriers to commemoration. While papal cadavers received provisional burial in St. Peter’s immediately after funerals, the vagaries of financing a tomb fit for a pontiff could mean later removal. The short-lived Pius III (r. 1503) is a good example of this difficulty. As a cardinal he took responsibility for his uncle

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Pius II’s tomb, in the expectation that both this tomb and his own would remain in the chapel dedicated to Sts. Andrew and Gregory. Pius II had built this chapel in Old St. Peter’s and intended it also to be his burial chapel.20 While still a cardinal Pius III received permission to be buried at the foot of his uncle’s tomb, chiefly because he paid for it.21 After Pius III’s death the responsibility to oversee his funeral, burial, and tomb fell to his brothers, Giacomo and Antonio Piccolomini.22 Fortunately, in the early seventeenth century, as New St. Peter’s entered its final phase of construction, the presence of a distant relative, Cardinal Alessandro Peretti Montalto, saved the two Piccolomini tombs from obscurity or destruction by transferring them to facing walls in the nave of Sant’Andrea della Valle. The new church had recently been built on the site of the old Palazzo Piccolomini (begun 1590), through the patronage of the duchess of Amalfi, Costanza Piccolomini d’Aragona, and after her death, Cardinal Peretti Montalto.23 The role of these patrons was crucial to creating sites of memory and commemoration. As Jan de Jong has noted, “[a] tomb is, first of all, a place to be buried. However, devices such as an inscription or a representation in stone or some other material, also make it a place of commemoration.”24 These devices allowed publicity of patronage, alignment of individual patrons with papal memory, and the visual linkage of two popes in a single space. Yet, the distance between the Piccolomini popes and Cardinal Peretti Montalto was evidently so great as to be insurmountable by memory or a coat of arms. To ensure that his contribution and participation in commemorating the Piuses was known, Peretti Montalto added an inscription beneath Pius III’s tomb prominently identifying his role (see Fig. 1).25 Thus, papal tombs posed an opportunity to create a lasting message of achievement by constructing commemorative spaces that both late medieval and early modern families valued. Indeed, some popes valued these spaces so much that they sought opportunities to memorialise themselves by creating tombs for others. Between 1481 and 1483, Pope Sixtus IV built a tomb in his hometown of Savona for his parents. Constructed within the cloister of the cathedral, the wall tomb includes a relief of Sixtus presenting his parents to the Virgin Mary and the Christ Child. Jill Blondin has argued convincingly that this relief places Sixtus in the position conventionally accorded to a patron saint and directly across from two other saints.26 As Savona sits on the Ligurian coast, quite far from Rome, this act was not intended to influence members of the papal court, but targeted a local audience by integrating the pope’s image and updating the space,

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Fig. 1  Detail of funeral monument for Pope Pius II, Sant’Andrea della Valle in Rome. Photograph by Peter 1936F, CC BY-SA 4.0

which was soon called the Sistine Chapel.27 Comparison with other examples of a tomb supplied by a pope to memorialise his parents highlights the unusual character of this project. Urban V built a memorial chapel in Bédouès (Lozère, France) close to his family home and endowed it with a college of six canons. Yet he did not position himself in place of a saintly intercessor, but relied on local knowledge of a famous son and an accompanying inscription.28 What links these two tombs is the patron’s desire to use them as platforms for self-commemoration at a distance from Rome, much as Avignonese popes did with secondary burial sites. These swiftly completed projects contrast with many drawn-out papal tombs in which spectacular designs slowly shrunk. The presence of energetic and wealthy kin and clients was essential to memorials’ honourable completion and maintenance, yet the decades-long process tested the endurance and resources of many families. In addition, the disruption caused by the rebuilding of St. Peter’s basilica coincided with the Catholic

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Reformation. After 1534 there was a change in the display of papal tombs that was influenced by the Council of Trent’s (1545–1563) elevation of pastoral care, which consequently de-emphasised family power carved in stone.29 Traditionally, scholars repeat Gian Matteo Giberti and Carlo Borromeo’s invocations to remove freestanding tombs from the church interior, in order to allow deceased Christians to truly return to dust, while reducing worldly arrogance and eliminating distractions to worship.30 On the whole, wealthy elite clergy ignored Giberti and Borromeo’s advice, instead adopting the more flamboyant decorative motifs of Catholic triumphalism, and highlighting the continued importance of visualising and spatialising commemoration.31

Papal Self-commemoration and Damnatio Memoriae While not all commemorations were funerary monuments or tombs, these are the most recognisable sites and traditional acts. Between 1300 and 1700 popes pursued a variety of other commemorative strategies that reinforced institutional authority and individual identity in public spaces. Popes commissioned representations of themselves with mixed results. As Nancy Rash has shown, Boniface VIII initiated the practice of self-­ commemoration in life with statues in Orvieto, Bologna, and Florence. These portrait statues prompted complaints because they were placed in both ecclesiastical and civic spaces, explicitly supporting his claim of spiritual and temporal lordship.32 While earlier papal portraits existed in mosaic, paintings, and sepulchral effigies, Arnolfo di Cambio’s life-size, half-length portrait of Boniface (now in the Musei Vaticani) was the first sculpture of a living pontiff. Over the next centuries it would serve as an iconographic standard, echoing both Petrine (blessing gesture and keys) and princely models, while incorporating the triple-crown and the liturgical cope/pluvial. In 1341, Benedict XII commissioned a portrait sculpture of himself from Paolo of Siena in an almost identical pose.33 After the fourteenth century few papal statues framed a gesturing half-­ length pope until Gian Lorenzo Bernini’s Clement X (c.1676, Galleria Nazionale d’Arte Antica di Palazzo Barberini), but full-length statues of living popes used Boniface’s iconographical model throughout the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries. In a similar fashion, Boniface’s successors’ statues attracted protest as proxies for unpopular popes.34 After Bologna’s capitulation, Michelangelo’s ten-foot-tall bronze statue of Julius II (1506–1507) was placed in a niche over the portal of the basilica of San

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Petronio.35 Considering the city’s struggle to assert its independence and the basilica’s adjacent position to the Palazzo Comunale, the statue appeared as a sign of conquest. Only three years later, the city handed the statue to the duke of Ferrara, who cast a cannon named La Giulia from the melted bronze and used it against Julius’ troops.36 This experience did not prevent another statue of a later pope appearing in the same square. Today Alessandro Menganti’s statue of Gregory XIII (1580) sits in a niche on the façade of the Palazzo Comunale, the site where the early modern Senate deliberated alongside the papal legate. In this case, the Senate initiated the act of commemoration, contributed the funds, assigned a site, and commissioned the artist.37 This time Gregory’s bronze statue was a sign of pride, offered by the city in celebration of its native son’s elevation, and in gratitude for favours done to his alma mater, the Bolognese Studium.38 Undoubtedly, the Senate was well aware of the trade-off between visually aligning their city with papal authority and manifesting its pride, gratitude, and future hopes on the façade of the town hall. By offering the pope a piece of Bologna, the statue’s viewers recollected that a man from Bologna controlled the Papal States. These statues indicate the precarious nature of dispersed commemoration. The staying power of Gregory XIII’s statue shows the importance of local protection for sites of commemoration. As members of the Buoncompagni family remained in Bologna, their presence, and continued elite status, dissuaded malcontents from removing the statue. Although it sat far from Rome, Gregory’s lay relatives enjoyed this visible reminder of their social pedigree and became the statue’s protectors. In contrast, far from its initial patron and purpose, and without local protectors who appreciated or benefitted from a statue’s presence, the bronze Julius grew vulnerable. As John Hunt has shown in Rome, statues acted as physical proxies for absent leaders, experiencing violence that attackers would have liked to do to the pope, but surely would not have dared. The present and living pope was far more powerful, able to punish attackers, both of his body and his statue, but in absence and death this protection retreated. During the interregnal period, statues at the Capitoline Hill, close to the hub of civic governance but relatively far from the reach of papal protection, became vulnerable targets of popular discontent and victims of perceived poor governance.39 Papal fortresses provide an opportunity for surveilling the tyranny or protection of distance. In Rome Castel Sant’Angelo is a public reminder of papal strength and variously served as a treasury, prison, and refuge.

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After Alexander VI’s death in 1503 and the election of Julius II, the Borgia family’s popularity plunged and his exterior papal arms were chiselled away in Rome and elsewhere, as a sort of damnatio memoriae (damnation of memory, see Fig. 2).40 With the pope’s daughter in Ferrara and his sons in Spain and Naples, there were few protectors present who had the force or inclination to avert the damage to his memory. In contrast, at the fortress of Ostia, which was relatively far from the centre of papal authority, the Borgia coat of arms remained untouched. While Julius visited Ostia

Fig. 2  Alessandro Menganti, Statue of Gregory XIII (1580), façade of the Palazzo Comunale, Bologna. Photograph by author

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often to fish and tour the harbour, he erected his own arms alongside his predecessor’s arms.41 Unlike Castel Sant’Angelo, which faced the Tiber River and mediated between the Rome’s citizenry and the curial Borgo, in Ostia there were either fewer people who mattered viewing Alexander’s coat of arms or its reduced viewing public made the destruction of Borgia memory far less important (Fig. 3).

Fig. 3  Effaced inscription of Pope Alexander VI, c. 1500, Castel Sant’Angelo, Rome. Photograph by author

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Strategies of Commemoration: Portraits, Arms, and Objects In its use of the portrait and the armorial shield, the language of papal commemoration is similar to lay commemoration. While the portrait seems more direct, it is the less common format as it was constrained by cost, originated with the pope, and was disseminated throughout Italian courts, much like the portraits of secular rulers. The papal “state” portrait emerged in the early sixteenth century and followed the “camauro style” developed by Raphael’s portrait of Julius II (1511–1512). As Opher Mansour has shown, this model reflected the spiritual and secular powers fused in the papal prince both iconographically and functionally.42 After the Council of Trent, public expectation of papal behaviour influenced the contours of papal portraiture. While Pius V (r. 1566–1572) subtly transformed Raphael’s model to emphasise his personal piety, the reformer Gabriele Paleotti equated self-representation with pride and vanity, undermining the “state” portrait’s traditional courtly expectation.43 However, this criticism did not prevent continued interest in papal portraiture, and by the late eighteenth century Italian nobles would display the current pope’s picture in their audience hall, replacing it on his death, and privileging alignment with authority over visual chronology.44 Armorial shields abound in commemorations of both clerical and secular elites, chiefly because of their relative simplicity and widespread incorporation into European decorative language. Elite ecclesiastical commemorations generally presented an individual’s armorial shield alongside an indication of rank, which often appeared above palace, chapel, titular church, or cathedral doors.45 The renewal of Rome’s city gates in the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries offer examples of how popes combined shields with laudatory inscriptions to reach a large audience.46 Applying armorial shields to objects (e.g., tombs, vestments, plates, books) and structures (e.g., churches, palaces, carriages, gates) created a visualised network implying patronage and ownership that passively maintained a family’s claim on offices, authority, and thus social credit long after individuals left positions or died. As long as these armorial shields were publicly viewed, they formed an echoing legacy that remained in the public consciousness and supported contemporary reputations. Together legacy and reputation reinforced a family’s continued hope for new offices and the maintenance of a historicised authority.

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The Villa Farnese at Caprarola reveals how armorial shields can argue for a noble lineage stretching back in time, as well as a broad familial network that appears to offer support in the present. Decorated in the sixteenth century, the palace’s rotunda-like courtyard pairs the armorial shields of elite Italian families, combining older and better-known noble families like the Sforza with regional families like the Oddi and Vitelleschi, and rising stars like the Borromei. The fact that Cardinal Alessandro Farnese the Younger, Paul III’s cardinal-great-nephew, decorated this space speaks to the fluid use of the armorial shield by both clergy and laymen for commemoration. Moreover, the courtyard’s decoration reveals the elite clergy’s belief in the importance of family and commemoration of both clerical and lay ancestors, undermining the practical separation of these two groups. Spaces like the Villa Farnese and its contemporaries (the Palazzo Vecchio in Florence and Villa d’Este in Tivoli) assert the widespread use by both clergy and laity of the same strategies of commemoration through the late medieval and early modern periods. The flexibility of the armorial shield encouraged its application on a wide variety of portable objects, which broadened the memorial process. Although St. Antonino Pierozzi, the archbishop of Florence (1446–1459), encouraged wealthy citizens to contribute to beautifying Christendom through the physical restoration of churches and the provision of liturgical tools, the reforming friar Girolamo Savonarola criticised armorial embroidery on liturgical vestments as worldly ambition.47 Nonetheless, Pius II’s gift of vestments to the new cathedral in Pienza is characteristic of this desire to simultaneously commemorate a pope and celebrate his patronage. The Opera della Cattedrale di Pienza displays several silk and velvet chasubles and a cope embroidered with the Piccolomini family arms on the back and near the hem.48 These robes clothed the priest who officiated at the cathedral altar, surrounded by Piccolomini-tagged furniture, and handling altarware stamped with Pius’ name and arms.49 Together these items defined the wearer as a cleric, wholly committed to divine service, and associated the patron who gifted these items with that human sacrifice, facilitating future liturgical sacrifices that benefitted the entire community. Coins minted in the Papal States also used the pope’s arms to signify a new pontificate, but these coins embraced greater diversity of imagery. Commonly, the reverse of papal coins bore an image of Saints Peter and Paul, a fishing boat (for the “fisher of men”), or a cross.50 Over longer pontificates and through the late sixteenth and seventeenth centuries,

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reverse imagery included inscriptions, the kneeling pope, a papal consistory, the Jubilee Holy Door, and new St. Peter’s basilica. Through the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries the obverse displayed either the pope’s head in profile or his arms.51 These customs mirrored coins issued by lay monarchs, underlining the pope’s secular role as prince of the Papal States, but obfuscating his office’s non-hereditary character. Engraving the pope’s face on the coin emphasised his personal leadership role, while displaying his papal arms, which incorporated his family’s shield, reminded the public of the continued involvement of kinship networks in ecclesiastical and political governance. Coins issued to mark the interregnal period, highlight this message as they bear only the Papal States’ essential imagery: St. Peter or his keys, and the cross.52 Nevertheless, the persistence of coins named after the popes that introduced them, for example, the giulio and the paolo, is another way that coins memorialised specific pontificates.53 What links most of these items together is their ability to move from one space to another, increasing their impact and the diffusion of message and memory. While it is unlikely that silver altarware ventured far from home, other objects bearing the papal arms were created expressly for dispersal. Hand-painted tin-glazed earthenware plates were less highly valued, but still prestigious gifts that routinely bore the owner’s shield.54 In this case, workmanship determined the objects’ value, instead of the weight and cost of its precious material. Istoriato maiolica, often displayed on a credenza or banquet table, grew in popularity and reached its height in Italian court circles in the 1520s. Cardinal Ludovico Podocataro’s commission of a ninety-one piece maiolica service bearing his new armorial shield, from the Urbino potter Francesco Garducci soon after his elevation to the cardinalate, underlines the common use of maiolica for public signalling.55 Similarly, the preservation of maiolica ware long after the original owner died reaffirms the way that over time public signalling could become memorialisation. While ceramic plates from the dinner services of popes and cardinals appear in many museum collections, few of these items emphasise maiolica’s political and commemorative power like the “Giovanni Maria dish.”56 Housed at the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City, a maiolica bowl from Casteldurante bears the papal arms of Julius II and Peter’s crossed keys above the shield of the Bolognese Manzoli family (see Fig.  4). Believed to commemorate the pope’s conquest of Bologna in 1506–1507, and gifted to Melchiorre di Giorgio Manzoli, the Bolognese envoy to Rome, in gratitude for his support, this bowl is intrinsically a marker of factional identity and political alliance.57

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Fig. 4  Workshop of Giovanni Maria Vasaro, “Bowl with the Arms of Pope Julius II and the Manzoli of Bologna surrounded by putti, cornucopiae, satyrs, dolphins, birds, etc. 1508,” Robert Lehman Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, New  York City. https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/459197, CC0 1.0 Universal

In a fashion similar to maiolica plates presented on a credenza, prints could be displayed to visitors either in albums or in frames. As Laurie Nussdorfer, Rose Marie San Juan, and Pascale Rihouet have shown, popes commissioned texts and engravings of their activities and distributed them among their factions and families.58 Prints documenting the papal possesso, the ceremonial parade from St. Peter’s basilica to the cathedral of St. John Lateran, by which the pope “took possession” of the city as its bishop, were a particular favourite. The metal plates created for one possesso print could be (and were) reused for a later pope’s possesso print.59 Giovanni Guerra’s Order of the Cavalcade (1589) was the first print to mark Sixtus V’s election by visualising the trans-urban parade that followed his coronation. Guerra’s portrayal quickly became a model, presenting a snaking

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cavalcade that passed select Roman monuments, including the Forum, its triumphal arches, and the Colosseum.60 As Rihouet argues, Sixtus’ print was likely commissioned by either his great-nephew, Cardinal Alessandro Peretti Montalto, or the pope’s sister, Camilla Peretti (Alessandro’s grandmother). The print displays three coats of arms, belonging to the cardinal, his younger, recently married brother, and their grandmother. All three people had reason to be grateful to the pope and to publicly highlight his achievement and their relationship with him. Offices, titles, a marital alliance, and material resources had enriched their family since the election. The same year Guerra had already dedicated a book on Peretti family heraldry to Camilla, further underscoring the perceived value of commemorating kinship ties and revealing its public mechanics.61 Commemoration by Lay Papal Relatives As Rihouet notes, Guerra’s possesso print derived from a fresco designed by Cesare Nebbia in the Vatican Palace library (the Salone Sistino). Although Sixtus V commissioned this fresco cycle illustrating his own achievements, many early modern papal families maintained their connection to the papacy in the same way. While the reigns of Leo X and Clement VII were politically rocky, they integrated the Medici family into European ruling houses. A few years after Clement’s death, Cosimo (r. 1537–1574), the young Duke of Florence (afterward the Grand Duke of Tuscany), commemorated his distant relatives in the Palazzo Vecchio’s decoration, in order to assert his inheritance of the family’s historical authority. Chiefly this strategy appears in the Salone dei Cinquecento, which earlier functioned as a meeting hall for the republican Consiglio Maggiore and later as a ducal audience hall. In the renovated space sat niched statues of Cosimo, his father, his eldest son, Popes Leo and Clement, and Duke Alessandro (his cousin and predecessor).62 Far above these statues, the ceiling and upper wall register portrayed episodes from Florentine history, privileging the expansion of Medici territory, but also recalling the city’s protection of Pope Eugenius IV and the Council of Ferrara-Florence (1438–1445). Since this space would host the wedding of Cosimo’s heir to the Holy Roman Emperor’s daughter in 1565, ensuring the family and city’s future stability, the room demanded a multi-generational narrative that positioned the Medici family at a level proximate to the emperor. The two Medici popes were crucial to this message, as the universal papacy was the only power above the emperor. To further commemorate his illustrious

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ancestors, Cosimo dedicated a separate room to each man. On one ceiling the newly elected Leo X appears enthroned at St. John Lateran, Rome’s Cathedral (1513), while on a wall he enters Florence in triumph (1515), in both cases surrounded by cardinals and noblemen.63 In the room devoted to Clement VII, the pope crowns Emperor Charles V (1530) and officiates at the marriage of the French dauphin to Catherine de’ Medici (1533).64 Cosimo’s alignment of his more illustrious ancestors with his own goals and authority was a traditional strategy for papal families, many of which had gained fiefs through their connections. Thus, commemorating papal kin justified their continued rule. Kin cardinals followed the same strategy. At Caprarola the viewer witnesses Paul III’s coronation as pope, thus legitimising the scenes in which he names his son leader of the papal troops, and his grandsons the prefect of Rome and imperial cardinal-­ legate. Adjacent to those images, Paul’s successor Julius III continues to honour the Farnese family by naming Ottavio as the duke of Parma. Painted in the 1550s these scenes assert the institutional and familial pedigree of Cardinal Alessandro, the villa’s owner, and commemorate his recently deceased grandfather. Paul III reappears briefly in the cardinal’s tiny chapel, surrounded by a frieze of painted chalices, crosses, and triple-­ crowns. The Palazzo Farnese at Piacenza shows how subsequent generations could return to this strategy repeatedly by updating and revising commemorations.65 Scenes from Pope Paul III’s life appear alongside scenes portraying deeds by his descendants, who profited from the marriages, titles, and offices he procured for his children and grandchildren. Not only did Sebastiano Ricci in 1687–1688 produce a Pauline life-cycle for the duchess of Parma, but from the 1690s Ilario Spolverini depicted the papal patriarch as part of a larger cycle of paintings chronicling the family’s ecclesiastical and lay fortunes through the early eighteenth century. For Italian dynasties that experienced a dramatic surge by securing the papal election, commemorating fasti familiari (family deeds) in large-­ scale pictorial cycles on public display was the key to maintaining authority amid widespread Spanish influence after 1527.66

Conclusion Coupled with the desire to maintain the papacy as a mechanism for political strength and social mobility, popes and their kinsmen publicised their association with living and dead popes in a variety of ways. As this chapter

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shows, there was no statute of limitations on commemorative projects. Erecting monuments to a papal relative could take decades or appear unexpectedly as an opportunity to align oneself with long-dead ancestors. While monuments in ecclesiastical spaces—tombs, chapels, and libraries— were often the work of clerical relatives, mostly cardinals, monuments in domestic spaces usually followed the patronage of lay kinsmen. However, commemorative strategies stretched far beyond those bounds and thus speak to the early modern enthusiasm for articulating a historical record that worked equally for institutions and individuals.

Notes 1. In this discussion “individual commemoration” refers to events, spaces, or items that are initiated by individuals to commemorate individuals, as opposed to institutions, families, or other groups. “Spatial commemoration” refers to spaces that are created for the purpose of remembering an individual, either through decorative schemes, interment, or liturgy that might take place there. “Corporate objects” refers to items that bear identifying images, like coats of arms, that could also refer to relatives with the same surname who achieved the same office. 2. On the elevation of papal kin to the College of Cardinals, see Jennifer Mara DeSilva, “Politics and Dynasty: Under-aged Cardinals in the Catholic Church, 1420–1605,” Royal Studies Journal 4.2 (2017): 81–102. 3. Agostino Paravicini-Bagliani, The Pope’s Body, trans. David S.  Peterson (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000), 69–74. 4. Marc Dykmans, L’ouevre de Patrizi Piccolomini ou le cérémonial papal de la première Renaissance, 2 vols. (Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1980–1982), 2:443–444. 5. Paravicini-Bagliani, The Pope’s Body, 71–73. 6. This group includes the elevation of relatives by marriage or sexual intimacy, like Leo X, who was elevated by his sister’s father-in-law, and Paul III, who was elevated by his sister’s lover. On this broader functional definition of papal kin, see Loek Luiten, “Sexuality, agency, and honor in the connections between the Borgia and Farnese families in Renaissance Rome,” in The Borgia Family: Rumor and Representation, ed. Jennifer Mara DeSilva (London: Routledge, 2019), 34–54. 7. Marco Pellegrini, Il Papato nel Rinascimento (Bologna: Il Mulino, 2010); Wolfgang Reinhard, “Struttura e significato del Sacro Collegio tra la fine del XV e la fine del XVI secolo,” in Città italiano del ‘500 tra Riforma e Controriforma: atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Lucca, 13–15 ottobre 1983, ed. Marino Berengo (Lucca: Pacini Fazzi, 1988), 257–265.

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8. J.A.F. Thomson, Popes and Princes, 1417–1517: Politics and Polity in the Late Medieval Church (London: George Allen & Unwin, 1980), 64–70. 9. The Piccolomini Library in Siena asserts this truth. Above the four walls that bear scenes from his uncle, Pope Pius II’s life, Cardinal Francesco Todeschini-­Piccolomini decorated the ceiling with an inscription documenting his own election to the papacy. Susan J. May, “The Piccolomini Library in Siena Cathedral: a new reading with particular reference to two compartments of the vault decoration,” Renaissance Studies 19.3 (2005): 281 n. 2, 292 n. 8. 10. While this understanding of the family as a reciprocal community is most obvious at the elite level where networks are clearly seen in operation, when extended family members lived in close proximity to one another, or when large families lived in small communities, the same dynamic ensued. 11. Jennifer Mara DeSilva, “Articulating Work and Family: Lay Papal Relatives in the Papal States, 1420–1549,” Renaissance Quarterly 69.1 (2016): 1–39. 12. The portrait graced the wedding banquet of Lorenzo de’ Medici and Madeleine de la Tour d’Auvergne on 8 September 1518; Nelson H. Minnich, “Raphael’s Portrait Leo X with Cardinals Giulio de’ Medici and Luigi de’ Rossi: A Religious Interpretation,” Renaissance Quarterly 56.4 (2003): 1007–1008. 13. Katherine W.  Rinne, “Renovatio Aquae: Aqueducts, Fountains, and the Tiber River in Early Modern Rome,” in A Companion to Early Modern Rome, 1492–1692, eds. Pamela M.  Jones, Barbara Wisch, and Simon Ditchfield (Leiden: Brill, 2019), 324–341. 14. Cathleen A.  Fleck, “Seeking Legitimacy: Art and Manuscripts for the Popes in Avignon from 1378 to 1417,” in A Companion to the Great Western Schism, eds. Joëlle Rollo-Koster and Thomas M. Izbicki (Leiden: Brill, 2009), 240, 244. 15. Julian Gardner, The Tomb and the Tiara: Curial Tomb Sculpture in Rome and Avignon in the Later Middle Ages (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992), 111, 146, 151. 16. As a youth Clement entered the Benedictine Order at this abbey, and his elaborate funeral there in 1352 emphasised his family’s continued connection with the community; Anne McGee Morganstern, “Art and Ceremony in Papal Avignon: A Prescription for the Tomb of Clement VI,” Gesta 40.1 (2001): 61–77. 17. Gardner, The Tomb and the Tiara, 151. 18. Carol M. Richardson, “‘Ruined, untended and derelict’: Fifteenth-­century Papal Tombs in St Peter’s,” in Art and Identity in Early Modern Rome, eds. Jill Burke and Michael Bury (Burlington VT: Ashgate, 2008), 191. 19. Unfortunately, many of the monuments from Late Antiquity were disposed of or destroyed, including the thirteenth-century tombs of Nicholas

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III and Honorius IV and the fifteenth-century tombs of Nicholas V and Calixtus III, while Martin V moved to St. John Lateran and Eugenius IV moved to San Salvatore in Lauro; Gardner, The Tomb and the Tiara, 62, 102–103; Wendy J.  Reardon, The Deaths of the Popes (Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2004), 155–158. 20. Ruth Rubinstein noted that building this chapel highlighted a new phase in papal self-commemoration, in which a pope appropriated space previously meant for saints; Ruth Olitsky Rubinstein, “Pius II’s Piazza S. Pietro and St. Andrew’s Head,” in Essays in the History of Architecture presented to Rudolf Wittkower, eds. Douglas Fraser, Howard Hibbard, and Milton J. Lewine (London: Phaidon, 1969), 32. 21. This was not an uncommon request for cardinal-nephews. Carol Richardson, “The Lost Will and Testament of Cardinal Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini (1439–1503),” Papers of the British School at Rome 66 (1998): 199 n. 37. 22. The brothers also contributed to a chapel at the church of San Francesco in Siena, encouraging liturgical commemoration and local remembrance of their family’s achievements. Richardson, “The Lost Will and Testament,” 208 n. 72. 23. Jan de Jong, “Monuments of Meditation and Propaganda. The Tombs of Popes Pius III and Pius V,” Incontri 32.2 (2017): 15–16. 24. de Jong, “Monuments of Meditation and Propaganda,” 8. 25. de Jong, “Monuments of Meditation and Propaganda,” 16. 26. Blondin has also noted that several years earlier Sixtus built a similar tomb (1474–1477) for his nephew Pietro Riario in Santi Dodici Apostoli, Rome, depicting himself in the same position; Jill E. Blondin, “Sixtus IV as Patron (Saint): The Tomb of the Pope’s Parents in Savona,” in Proceedings of Constructions of Death, Mourning, and Memory Conference, October 27–29 2006, ed. Lilian H.  Zirpolo (Woodcliff Lake, NJ: WAPACC Text and Studies, 2006), 147–149. 27. In 1459 Pius II also built a mortuary monument for his deceased parents in San Francesco in Siena, effectively undoing their exile from the city; Fabrizio Nevola, Siena: Reconstructing the Renaissance City (New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007), 82–84; R.J. Mitchell, The Laurels and the Tiara: Pope Pius II 1458–1464 (London: Harvill Press, 1962), 28. 28. Abbé Couderc, Notice sur l’église de Bédoués (Toulouse: Imprimerie de Jean-Baptiste Cazaux, 1856), 6, 9. 29. Yoni Ascher, “Manifest Humbleness: Self-Commemoration in the Time of the Catholic Reform,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 35.2 (2004): 330–332, 339, 355–356. 30. Reformers preferred the far more modest floor slab monuments; Giovanni Matteo Giberti, Constitutiones editae (Verona: apud Antonium Puttelle,

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1542), Book 5, Chapter 26, 37; Carlo Borromeo, Instructiones fabricae et suppellectilis ecclesiasticae (1577), trans. Evelyn C.  Voelker, Book 1, Chapter XXVII, accessed 22 November 2019, http://evelynvoelker.com/. 31. On the development of the funeral as a commemorative event in the sixteenth century, see Minou Schraven, Festive Funerals in Early Modern Italy: The Art and Culture of Conspicuous Consumption (Farnham: Ashgate, 2014). 32. Nancy Rash, “Boniface VIII and Honorific Portraiture: Observations on the Half-Length Image in the Vatican,” Gesta 26.1 (1987): 47–49. 33. Rash, “Boniface VIII,” 49–50, 52–53. 34. Indeed, Michelangelo may have predicted this event as he joked with Julius that “the forceful gesture of the [statue’s] right hand […] is threatening this populace, Holy Father, if they are not prudent.” Ascanio Condivi, The Life of Michelangelo, trans. Alice Sedgwick Wohl, ed. Helmut Wohl, 2nd ed. (University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999), 38. 35. Condivi, The Life of Michelangelo, 37–38. 36. Condivi, The Life of Michelangelo, 39; Giorgio Vasari, Lives of the Artists, trans. George Bull, 2 vols., (London: Penguin Books, 1987), 1:349; Christine Shaw, Julius II Warrior Pope (Oxford: Blackwell, 1993), 202–203, 205. 37. David A.  Lines, “Papal Power and University Control in Early Modern Italy: Bologna and Gregory XIII,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 44.3 (2013): 664–667, 678 n. 69. 38. Monika Butzek, “La statua di Gregorio XIII—vicende storiche,” in Il restauro del Nettuno, la statua di Gregorio XIII e la sistemazione di Piazza Maggiore nel Cinquecento: contributi anche documentari alla conoscenza della prassi e dell’organizzazione delle arti a Bologna prima dei Carracci, eds. Andrea Emiliani, Giovanna Perini, and Giovanni Morigi (Bologna: Minerva Edizioni, 1999), 197–252. 39. John M. Hunt, “The Pope’s Two Souls and the Space of Ritual Protest during Rome’s Sede Vacante, 1559–1644,” in Sacralization of Space and Behavior in the Early Modern World: Studies and Sources, ed. Jennifer Mara DeSilva (Farnham: Ashgate, 2015), 183–189. 40. Robert G. La France, “Exorcising the Borgia from Urbino: Timoteo Viti’s Arrivabene Chapel,” Renaissance Quarterly 68.4 (2015): 1209. 41. Notably, the post-mortem backlash against Julius did not include erasing his arms or the extended inscription he erected running along the external wall of the Vatican Palace and facing the Via Sant’Anna, which reads: “IVLIVS II PONT MAX LIGVRVM VI PATRIA SAONENSIS SIXTINEPOS IIII VIAM HANC STRVXIT PONT COMMODITATI” (“JULIUS II, SUPREME PONTIFF, THE NEPHEW OF SIXTUS IV, A MAN FROM THE LIGURIAN COUNTRY OF SAVONA,

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CONSTRUCTED THIS BRIDGE FOR CONVENIENCE”). The continued presence of a della Rovere faction in Rome surely protected it. 42. Opher Mansour, “Prince and Pontiff: Secular and Spiritual Authority in Papal State Portraiture between Raphael’s Julius II and the Portraits of Pius V and Clement VIII,” in Art and Identity in Early Modern Rome, eds. Jill Burke and Michael Bury (Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008), 212. 43. Mansour, “Prince and Pontiff,” 223–224. 44. Sabrina Norlander Eliasson, “A Faceless Society? Portraiture and the Politics of Display,” Art History 30.4 (2007): 505. 45. In the absence of a reliable physiognomic likeness, the armorial shield became a key identifier, alongside costume and inscription; Georgia Sommers Wright, “The Reinvention of the Portrait Likeness in the Fourteenth Century,” Gesta 39.2 (2000): 117. 46. Gregory XIII inaugurated a new façade on the Porta San Giovanni (1574), Urban VIII renovated the Porta Portese (1644), and Pius IV (1565) and Alexander VII (1655) renewed the outer and inner façades of the Porta del Popolo. 47. Peter Howard, Creating Magnificence in Renaissance Florence (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2012), 49–52, 88, 101–102, 112. 48. Several chasubles and a cope survive from the sixteenth century bearing a Piccolomini cardinal’s arms, but only one chasuble survives from Pius’ original gift of 1460. See Fabiana Bari, Munificia magnificenza. Il Tesoro tessile della cattedrale di Pienza da Pio II Piccolomini agli inizi dell’Ottocento (Pienza: Museo diocesiano di Pienza, 2004), 54–76. 49. The diocesan museum in Pienza displays a situla (secchiello, bucket for holy water), a crozier, and a thurible and incense boat donated by Pius II, most of which bear his pontifical arms; Museo diocesano di Pienza, ed. Laura Martini (Siena: Protagon Editori Toscani, 1998), 70–76. 50. Boniface VIII’s undated grosso from the mint at Ponte de Sorgues (no earlier than 1300) shows his face with St. Peter’s key on one side and a cross quartering the coin on the other. 51. Maria Grazia Bernardini and Marco Bussagli, eds., Il ‘400 a Roma. La rinascita delle arti da Donatello a Perugino (Milan: Skira Editore, 2008), 96, 98, 198–201. 52. This coin is very similar to the denaro and grosso paparino coins issued across the thirteenth- and fourteenth-century Papal States; Francesco Muntoni, Le monete dei Papi e degli Stati Pontifici, 2nd ed. (Rome: Urania Editrice, 1996), 1:23–27, Tavola 5. 53. From 1504 Julius II’s decision to raise the amount of silver in a carlino to 4 grams led the new coins to be called after him. Similarly, from 1540, Paul III’s alteration of the amount of silver in a carlino from 3.65 grams to 3.85

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grams led to his name being applied to the new coins; Edoardo Martinori, La moneta: vocabulario generale (Rome: Istituto Italiano di Numismatica, 1915), 183–184, 363. 54. Luke Syson and Dora Thornton, Objects of Virtue: Art in Renaissance Italy (London: The British Museum Press, 2001), 200–206. 55. Timothy Wilson, Maiolica: Italian Renaissance Ceramics in the Metropolitan Museum of Art (New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2016), 29. 56. Cardinal Ciocchi del Monte (1527), the future Pope Julius III, Cardinal Antonio Pucci (c.1535–1540), Cardinal Innico d’Avalos d’Aragona (c.1565), Cardinal Antonio Maria Salviati (c.1580s), and Cardinal Buonnacorso Buonnacorsi (1670s), and Henry Benedict Stuart, Cardinal of York (1765) all commissioned maiolica dinner services that are now dispersed throughout museums in Europe and North America. 57. Workshop of Giovanni Maria Vasaro, “Bowl with the Arms of Pope Julius II and the Manzoli of Bologna surrounded by putti, cornucopiae, satyrs, dolphins, birds, etc. 1508,” Robert Lehman Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art, accessed 15 November 2019, https://www.metmuseum. org/art/collection/search/459197. 58. Laurie Nussdorfer has explored the increasing appetite for ceremonial print, beginning in the early sixteenth century and exploding in the seventeenth century, while Rose Marie San Juan has shown a more general increase in the use of print as a tool for commemoration in Rome throughout the early modern period; Laurie Nussdorfer, “Print and Pageantry in Baroque Rome,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 29.2 (1998): 439–443; Rose Marie San Juan, Rome: A City out of Print (Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001). 59. Guerra’s plates for the 1589 print were recycled in 1644 to illustrate Innocent X’s cavalcade; Pascale Rihouet, “Giovanni Guerra’s Order of the Cavalcade (1589) and the birth of possesso prints in Sixtus V’s Rome,” in Eternal Ephemera: The Papal Possesso and its Legacies in Early Modern Rome, eds. Jennifer Mara DeSilva and Pascale Rihouet (Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2020), 167. 60. Rihouet, “Giovanni Guerra’s Order of the Cavalcade (1589),” 169–171. 61. Chiara Stefani, “Giovanni Guerra inventor e l’Iconologia,” in Roma di Sisto V. Le arti e la cultura, ed. Maria Luisa Madonna (Rome: De Luca, 1993), 17–33. 62. Baccio Bandinelli sculpted the statue of Clement VII, while Vincenzo de’ Rossi sculpted Leo X. 63. Giorgio Vasari, The Election of Giovanni de’ Medici to the Papacy, and Giovanni Vasari and Giovanni Stradano, The Arrival of Leo X in Florence (1555–1562), Sala di Leone X, Palazzo Vecchio, Florence.

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64. Giorgio Vasari, The Wedding of Catherine de’ Medici to Henry II of France and Giorgio Vasari, Clement VII crowns Charles V in San Petronio at Bologna (1555–1562), Sala di Clemente VII, Palazzo Vecchio, Florence. 65. Confusingly, examples of Fasti Farnesiani (the Farnese Deeds) also appear in Farnese residences in Caprarola, where they were famously executed by Taddeo Zuccari in 1559, in Rome again by Zuccari in the 1560s, and in Naples by Giovanni Evangelisti Draghi in 1680s. 66. Stefano Pronti, “I Farnese nelle imagini” and “Ilario Spolverini, il pittore virtuoso,” Il Farnese a Piacenza: il Palazzo e i Fasti, ed. Stefano Pronti (Milan: Skira Editore, 1997), 67–75 and 77–83.

Bibliography Primary Sources Condivi, Ascanio. The Life of Michelangelo. Translated by Alice Sedgwick Wohl, edited by Helmut Wohl, 2nd edition. University Park: The Pennsylvania State University Press, 1999. Dykmans, Marc. L’ouevre de Patrizi Piccolomini ou le cérémonial papal de la première Renaissance, Volume 2. Vatican City: Biblioteca Apostolica Vaticana, 1982. Vasari, Giorgio. Lives of the Artists. Translated by George Bull. 2 volumes. London: Penguin Books, 1987.

Secondary Sources Ascher, Yoni. “Manifest Humbleness: Self-Commemoration in the Time of the Catholic Reform.” The Sixteenth Century Journal 35.2 (2004): 329–356. Bari, Fabiana. Munificia magnificenza. Il Tesoro tessile della cattedrale di Pienza da Pio II Piccolomini agli inizi dell’Ottocento. Pienza: Museo diocesiano di Pienza, 2004. Bernardini, Maria Grazia, and Marco Bussagli, eds. Il ‘400 a Roma. La rinascita delle arti da Donatello a Perugino. Milan: Skira Editore, 2008. Blondin, Jill E. “Sixtus IV as Patron (Saint): The Tomb of the Pope’s Parents in Savona.” In Proceedings of Constructions of Death, Mourning, and Memory Conference, October 27–29 2006, edited by Lilian H.  Zirpolo, 147–149. Woodcliff Lake, NJ: WAPACC Text and Studies, 2006. Butzek, Monika. “La statua di Gregorio XIII—vicende storiche.” In Il restauro del Nettuno, la statua di Gregorio XIII e la sistemazione di Piazza Maggiore nel Cinquecento: contributi anche documentari alla conoscenza della prassi e dell’organizzazione delle arti a Bologna prima dei Carracci, edited by Andrea

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Emiliani, Giovanna Perini, and Giovanni Morigi, 197–252. Bologna: Minerva Edizioni, 1999. Couderc, Abbé. Notice sur l’église de Bédoués. Toulouse: Imprimerie de Jean-­ Baptiste Cazaux, 1856. de Jong, Jan. “Monuments of Meditation and Propaganda. The Tombs of Popes Pius III and Pius V.” Incontri 32.2 (2017): 8–25. DeSilva, Jennifer Mara. “Politics and Dynasty: Under-aged Cardinals in the Catholic Church, 1420–1605.” Royal Studies Journal 4.2 (2017): 81–102. https://doi.org/10.21039/rsj.v4i2.133 ———. “Articulating Work and Family: Lay Papal Relatives in the Papal States, 1420–1549.” Renaissance Quarterly 69.1 (2016): 1–39. https://doi. org/10.1086/686325 Eliasson, Sabrina Norlander. “A Faceless Society? Portraiture and the Politics of Display.” Art History 30.4 (2007): 503–520. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1467-­8365.2007.00560.x Fleck, Cathleen A. “Seeking Legitimacy: Art and Manuscripts for the Popes in Avignon from 1378 to 1417.” In A Companion to the Great Western Schism, edited by Joëlle Rollo-Koster and Thomas M.  Izbicki, 239–302. Leiden: Brill, 2009. Gardner, Julian. The Tomb and the Tiara: Curial Tomb Sculpture in Rome and Avignon in the Later Middle Ages. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1992. Giberti, Giovanni Matteo. Constitutiones editae. Verona: apud Antonium Puttelle, 1542. Howard, Peter. Creating Magnificence in Renaissance Florence. Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2012. Hunt, John M. “The Pope’s Two Souls and the Space of Ritual Protest during Rome’s Sede Vacante, 1559–1644.” In Sacralization of Space and Behavior in the Early Modern World: Studies and Sources, edited by Jennifer Mara DeSilva, 177–196. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2015. La France, Robert G. “Exorcising the Borgia from Urbino: Timoteo Viti’s Arrivabene Chapel.” Renaissance Quarterly 68.4 (2015): 1192–1226. Lines, David A. “Papal Power and University Control in Early Modern Italy: Bologna and Gregory XIII.” The Sixteenth Century Journal 44.3 (2013): 663–682. Luiten, Loek. “Sexuality, Agency, and Honor in the Connections Between the Borgia and Farnese Families in Renaissance Rome.” In The Borgia Family: Rumor and Representation, edited by Jennifer Mara DeSilva, 34–54. London: Routledge, 2019. Mansour, Opher. “Prince and Pontiff: Secular and Spiritual Authority in Papal State Portraiture between Raphael’s Julius II and the Portraits of Pius V and Clement VIII.” In Art and Identity in Early Modern Rome, edited by Jill Burke and Michael Bury, 209–229. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008.

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Martini, Laura, ed. Museo diocesano di Pienza. Siena: Protagon Editori Toscani, 1998. Martinori, Edoardo. La moneta: vocabulario generale. Rome: Istituto Italiano di Numismatica, 1915. May, Susan J. “The Piccolomini Library in Siena Cathedral: A New Reading with Particular Reference to Two Compartments of the Vault Decoration.” Renaissance Studies 19.3 (2005): 287–324. https://doi. org/10.1111/j.1477-­4658.2005.00100.x Minnich, Nelson H. “Raphael’s Portrait Leo X with Cardinals Giulio de’ Medici and Luigi de’ Rossi: A Religious Interpretation.” Renaissance Quarterly 56.4 (2003): 1005–1052. https://doi.org/10.2307/1261978 Mitchell, R.J. The Laurels and the Tiara: Pope Pius II 1458–1464. London: Harvill Press, 1962. Morganstern, Anne McGee. “Art and Ceremony in Papal Avignon: A Prescription for the Tomb of Clement VI.” Gesta 40.1 (2001): 61–77. https://doi. org/10.2307/767195 Muntoni, Francesco. Le monete dei Papi e degli Stati Pontifici, 2nd edition, Volume 1. Rome: Urania Editrice, 1996. Nevola, Fabrizio. Siena: Reconstructing the Renaissance City. New Haven, CT: Yale University Press, 2007. Nussdorfer, Laurie. “Print and Pageantry in Baroque Rome,” The Sixteenth Century Journal 29.2 (1998): 439–443. Paravicini-Bagliani, Agostino. The Pope’s Body. Translated by David S.  Peterson. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 2000. Pellegrini, Marco. Il Papato nel Rinascimento. Bologna: Il Mulino, 2010. Pronti, Stefano. “I Farnese nelle imagini.” In Il Farnese a Piacenza: il Palazzo e i Fasti, edited by Stefano Pronti, 67–75. Milan: Skira Editore, 1997a. ———. “Ilario Spolverini, il pittore virtuoso.” In Il Farnese a Piacenza: il Palazzo e i Fasti, edited by Stefano Pronti, 77–83. Milan: Skira Editore, 1997b. Rash, Nancy. “Boniface VIII and Honorific Portraiture: Observations on the Half-­ Length Image in the Vatican.” Gesta 26.1 (1987): 47–58. https://doi. org/10.2307/767079 Reardon, Wendy J. The Deaths of the Popes. Jefferson, NC: McFarland & Co., 2004. Reinhard, Wolfgang. “Struttura e significato del Sacro Collegio tra la fine del XV e la fine del XVI secolo.” In Città italiano del ‘500 tra Riforma e Controriforma: atti del convegno internazionale di studi, Lucca, 13–15 ottobre 1983, edited by Marino Berengo, 257–265. Lucca: Pacini Fazzi, 1988. Richardson, Carol M. “‘Ruined, Untended and Derelict’: Fifteenth-century Papal Tombs in St Peter’s.” In Art and Identity in Early Modern Rome, edited by Jill Burke and Michael Bury, 191–207. Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2008.

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Richardson, Carol. “The Lost Will and Testament of Cardinal Francesco Todeschini Piccolomini (1439–1503).” Papers of the British School at Rome 66 (1998): 193–214. Rihouet, Pascale. “Giovanni Guerra’s Order of the Cavalcade (1589) and the Birth of Possesso Prints in Sixtus V’s Rome.” In Eternal Ephemera: The Papal Possesso and its Legacies in Early Modern Rome, edited by Jennifer Mara DeSilva and Pascale Rihouet, 165–211. Toronto: Centre for Reformation and Renaissance Studies, 2020. Rinne, Katherine W. “Renovatio Aquae: Aqueducts, Fountains, and the Tiber River in Early Modern Rome.” In A Companion to Early Modern Rome, 1492–1692, edited by Pamela M. Jones, Barbara Wisch, and Simon Ditchfield, 324–341. Leiden: Brill, 2019. Rubinstein, Ruth Olitsky. “Pius II’s Piazza S. Pietro and St. Andrew’s Head.” In Essays in the History of Architecture Presented to Rudolf Wittkower, edited by Douglas Fraser, Howard Hibbard, and Milton J.  Lewine, 22–33. London: Phaidon, 1969. San Juan, Rose Marie. Rome: A City Out of Print. Minneapolis: University of Minnesota Press, 2001. Schraven, Minou. Festive Funerals in Early Modern Italy: The Art and Culture of Conspicuous Consumption. Farnham: Ashgate, 2014. Shaw, Christine. Julius II Warrior Pope. Oxford: Blackwell, 1993. Stefani, Chiara. “Giovanni Guerra inventor e l’Iconologia.” In Roma di Sisto V. Le arti e la cultura, edited by Maria Luisa Madonna, 17–33. Rome: De Luca, 1993. Syson, Luke, and Dora Thornton. Objects of Virtue: Art in Renaissance Italy. London: The British Museum Press, 2001. Thomson, J.A.F. Popes and Princes, 1417–1517: Politics and Polity in the Late Medieval Church. London: George Allen & Unwin, 1980. Wilson, Timothy. Maiolica: Italian Renaissance Ceramics in the Metropolitan Museum of Art. New York: The Metropolitan Museum of Art, 2016. Wright, Georgia Sommers. “The Reinvention of the Portrait Likeness in the Fourteenth Century.” Gesta 39.2 (2000): 117–134. https://doi. org/10.2307/767140

Online Sources Borromeo, Carlo. Instructiones fabricae et suppellectilis ecclesiasticae (1577). Translated by Evelyn C. Voelker. Accessed 22 November 2019. http://evelynvoelker.com/. Workshop of Giovanni Maria Vasaro. “Bowl with the Arms of Pope Julius II and the Manzoli of Bologna surrounded by putti, cornucopiae, satyrs, dolphins, birds, etc. 1508,” Robert Lehman Collection, The Metropolitan Museum of Art. Accessed 15 November 2019. https://www.metmuseum.org/art/collection/search/459197.

Island Queens: Appropriated Portraits of Royal Samoan Women Elizabeth Howie

Around 1910, the Dunedin, New Zealand photography company, Muir and Moodie, published a postcard titled “A Samoan Dancing Girl.”1 It depicts a young Samoan woman standing in front of a painted backdrop of trees, gazing out with a confident self-awareness, smiling slightly. She wears the traditional costume of the Samoan taupou, a ceremonial role bestowed as an honour, occupied by the virginal daughter of a chief or a high-status young woman who was additionally chosen for beauty and character.2 Far from being simply a dancing girl, the sitter is actually Fa’amusami Malietoa, also known as Sa’o tama’ita’i Fa’amu, the daughter of King Malietoa Laupepa and his first wife, Fuaolemalo Faumuina Fiame Leitutua Johnson of Lepea and Lefaga. This photograph will serve as a case study addressing the uses and reuses of photographs of young Samoan women, which will investigate how misinterpretations of the social roles of young Samoan  women contributed to misunderstandings about the nature of some of these photographs. I will argue that many photographs or postcards that seem to be simple examples of exoticisation may actually

E. Howie (*) Coastal Carolina University, Conway, SC, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_4

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be repurposed portraits of Samoan women of high status, originally made to commemorate their important social roles. The postcard is one of many that circulated in and outside of Samoa in the early twentieth century, printed to satisfy the desires of Westerners who were captivated by the idea of the exotic, partially dressed Samoan girl. Such photographs of young women who appear, to Western eyes, to be scantily clad, tend to be lumped together as examples of colonial exploitation, which is true in part, but which is also a generalisation that obscures important histories and identities. While they may appear similar superficially, they fall into two distinct categories: photographs of young women wearing props who were paid to model, and photographs of high-ranking young women who posed in their own ceremonial garb to memorialise their honorary and sometimes royal status, which is the case with the photograph of Fa’amu (the shortened version of her name). Due to the dual roles of early Samoan photography studios in creating both portraits for individuals and postcards for mass production, as well as the way that the glass plate negatives of portraits were retained by studios and thus outside the control of the sitters, the distinctions between these two groups have been blurred. As a result, historical evidence of Samoan practices of self-­ portraiture, and its relationship to the use of photography to commemorate prominent social status, has been muddied or lost. While this photograph is similar to others that were staged to exploit the exotic beauty of the sitter, it was in fact made to commemorate her role as a royal Samoan woman. The postcard was made, years later, from a negative originally printed in carte-de-visite form (Fig.  1), taken in the Apia studio of photographer John Davis.3 The photograph’s hand-written inscription reads, “Samoan Princess Fa’ane.”4 However, it should read “Samoan Princess Fa’amu,” an identification confirmed by Momoe Malietoa von Reiche, a Samoan poet, artist, sculptor, and photographer who is the granddaughter of the sitter’s brother.5 Traditional Samoan culture was ruled by chiefs, not kings, but Fa’amu’s father Laupepa was so crowned by the Germans in 1881 in an effort to settle unrest in Samoa, making him the first Samoan king, and Fa’amu a princess.6 Fa’amu was in fact a girl who danced, when acting in her ceremonial role as taupou. The garments she wears include an elaborate headdress, called a tuiga, which denotes her high status, an equally elaborate skirt of fine-plaited mat (‘ie toga), held up by a tapa belt, and she holds a ceremonial club. Her upper torso and arms are bare, her breasts exposed. She also wears Western jewellery.7 In addition, she would also have performed

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Fig. 1  John Davis. Samoa Princess Fa’ane, Apia, about 1893. Albumen print on board. TR2016.33. Courtesy of Phillips Library, Peabody Essex Museum, Salem, MA

functions such as mixing the ceremonial drink kava, leading ceremonies, and dancing. The taupou stayed indoors to protect her skin from the sun and did not perform manual labour.8 Usually girls would serve as taupou for two or three years before being married off to a high-ranking man chosen by her family; traditionally in such marriages, she stayed with her husband and his family until she became pregnant and then returned

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home, but did not marry again, although her former husband generally married again, to another taupou. Such marriages had traditionally followed a public defloration ceremony,9 although by the time the photograph was taken, public virginity tests had been all but eradicated, although one took place near Apia in 1897.10 Later in her life, Fa’amu married a paramount high chief, Mata’afa Faumuina Fiame Mulinu’u I, who was a leader of the pro-independence Mau movement, which worked to free Samoa from German colonial rule; Fa’amu was a leader in the women’s Mau. Mata’afa’s marriage to Fa’amu played an important role in his ascent to power, as it cemented ties between two very powerful families who had long been rivals. Their son, Mata’afa Faumuina Fiame Mulinu’u II, became the first president of Samoa. Their granddaughter, Fiame Naomi Mata’afa, is a high-ranking chief and deputy prime minister of Samoa. In 1893, when the photograph was made, Malietoa Laupepa won a war against the rival Matā’afa family, so this photograph could relate to that victory. Fa’amu would have been trained from childhood for her position as taupou, and even at a young age was politically savvy and strategic; neither she, nor her family members or attendants, would have allowed her to be exploited. Instead, this photograph demonstrates a future leader of Samoa commemorating her important social position during a time of cultural and political upheaval. Thus, this photograph commemorates Fa’amu’s role as honoured taupou of the most powerful family in Samoa. The carte-de-visite image also appears in a full-page reproduction in Mary Warner Marien’s Photography: A Cultural History (2014).11 Marien uses the image to demonstrate ways that photography reinforced stereotypes, in this case that of the young, beautiful, sexually uninhibited Polynesian woman. This is certainly a highly pervasive and problematic stereotype of exotic women, but here the context misconstrues the nature of this particular image. The photograph’s caption reads, “Bare-breasted Samoan women were often pictured wearing an elaborate headdress and carrying a large club. Western photographers favored the exotic look of the taupou, or village maiden, a position of honour in Samoan society. Thus anthropological imagery mixed with tourist visions of the Pacific.”12 This framing of the image demonstrates the way in which colonial photographs, like all photographs, may experience radical shifts of meaning when their original context is lost, as well as the way in which such photographs become mired in a confusing matrix of meanings: portrait, postcard, ethnographic document, and so on. The author goes on to state,

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John Davis … the first commercial photographer in Apia (then German Samoa, now the capital of Western Samoa) told a visitor that ‘hundreds of native girls and youths presented themselves at his studio in hopes that they would make photographs of commercial value for book illustrations and for selling to tourists.’ Yet he chose ‘only two, or three at the most, who possessed the thick lips and sensual features which coincided with the stock European idea of the South Sea type.’13

While this is true, the text suggests that the specific woman pictured in the photograph possibly sought out the photographer in the hopes of having her photo published widely for profit, or perhaps unwittingly allowed this to happen, and that the picture is necessarily read in a stereotypical fashion as suggestive of sexual availability. This misreading occludes the sitter’s historical importance. Many photographs published by postcard companies appear to have been appropriated from other origins, including photography studio archives and images published in travelogues by Western visitors to Oceania. This results in what is termed orphaning, when photographs are removed from their original historical and social context. This is certainly the case here. John Davis’s Apia studio burned down in 1895. He re-­ opened his business, and when he died in 1903, it was taken over by his assistant, Alfred Tattersall. Tattersall reprinted some of Davis’s and other photographers’ negatives, taking credit for them. After Tattersall died in 1951, no libraries took on his archives, and they were destroyed in a hurricane in 1966.14 By that time, numerous photographs such as these had long since been repurposed. In 1893, Fa’amu would have been unable to anticipate that the image would ever be used for anything beyond her original intentions. This is but one of many of a best-selling genre of postcards which depicted young, beautiful, Polynesian women.15 Tens of thousands of postcards were made in Samoa alone between 1870 and 1925.16 During the worldwide so-­ called postcard craze circa 1895–1915, such images were sold profitably to tourists by photography companies owned by Europeans, or white Australians and New Zealanders, contributing to the formation of the colonisers’ sense of racial superiority over the colonised. The commercially produced photographs and postcards that have been preserved in libraries, museums, archives, and private collections are but a fraction of those that once existed.17 Because they were widely reproduced, repurposed, mailed worldwide, distanced from the original circumstances of their making,

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mislabelled, and so forth, it is extremely difficult to survey them with any precision. Sometimes young women in such popular postcards were labelled Polynesian beauties, belles, or dancing girls, but many were identified as princesses, chief’s daughters, village maidens or virgins, or in the case of Samoan examples, taupous. The women pictured often wear what appear to be “native” costumes, which are frequently far more revealing than contemporary Western garments; these traditional clothes may be authentic to the sitters’ own culture and status, or may be the photographers’ props. Some women wear garments covering their breasts, while others do not. Some images of this type are evidence of colonial eroticisation and exploitation of indigenous practices, when native models chosen for their attractiveness were paid to wear props which may or may not have anything to do with their own cultural experiences. For example, in a group of images from the archives of the Sydney-based Kerry and Co. postcard company, three figures (a child, a woman, and a man) wear nearly identical tuiga headdresses, indicating that it is a prop, as tuiga were composed of multiple parts that were arranged differently for different wearers.18 In other cases, the images are appropriated studio portraits, made voluntarily by their sitters, who were memorialising their ceremonial roles in a time of great change in their culture.19 A substantial number identify their sitters, for example Davis’s “Vao, taupou of Apia,” 1893,20 and “The taupo Fuamoa,” by an unidentified photographer, printed in Beatrice Grimshaw’s In the Strange South Seas (1907).21 Whether or not these names are spelled correctly or are entirely invented remains to be seen, but I do not believe it to be the case that all of them are fabricated. The young women chosen to appear in staged, costumed images that fulfil long-standing ideals of Polynesian beauty. Polynesians, and in particular Samoans, had been idealised by the West as the most attractive indigenous group. Writing for The Congress of Women: Held in the Woman’s Building, World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago, U.  S. A., 1893, Mrs. E. J. Ormsbee wrote, “The Samoans are a very good-looking and a finely-­ built race, both men and women, with skins of a pale brown color, bright eyes, straight black hair and beautifully white teeth. Physically it would be difficult to find a better developed race.”22 Polynesians generally were equally idealised for what the West perceived to be their happy, and sexually liberated, lives, which was more a misinterpretation of the West than it was reality.23

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In 1876, the New Zealand Herald published a brief, but telling, note relating to Davis’s photographic interests that describes items obtained by a local merchant: Host Perkins, of the Occidental [Auckland, New Zealand] has received a consignment of curiosities from Samoa, including a portfolio of photographs taken by Mr. S. Davis (probably Mr. J. Davis) a Sydney photographer, now travelling through the Navigator and Friendly groups. Amongst these photographs are portraits of Samoan belles that would take the shine even out of a Circassian. The post says that ‘beauty unadorned is adorned the most,’ and Perkins can show to his customers portraits of island beauties possessing ‘considerable personal attractions.’24

This report confirms Marien’s assertion of the photographer’s intention to exploit native Samoans through photography. An advertisement for Davis’s studio in The Samoa Times and South Sea Advertiser from 1894 lists products including “Large stock views of Samoan Scenery and Carte and Cabinet Portraits of Prominent Samoans,” as well as “Photos of Natives, Cabinet size—6s per doz.”25 These instances demonstrate that Davis was certainly interested in taking photographs to be sold for commercial purposes. Nevertheless, the specific conditions in which the portrait of Fa’amu was made suggest that it was not taken for commercial gain. Beginning in the 1880s, in addition to running his photography business, Davis was also the postmaster in Apia, serving directly under King Malietoa Laupepa.26 That the photographer served at the will of this powerful king suggests that photographic exploitation of Fa’amu would have been very unwise, if not out of the question. Furthermore, any interpretation of this image must also consider other, more conventional studio portraits by unidentified photographers of Fa’amu in fashionable, contemporary European dress, circa 1895 (Fig.  2). By contrast, baggy “mother hubbard” dresses were the usual Samoan alternative to traditional dress. As Laupepa’s daughter, Fa’amu was frequently photographed, beginning in childhood,27 and was therefore unlikely to be manipulated into being represented in a way other than one she wished. That the taupou’s customary role was still important in the 1890s and after is demonstrated by the reports of Westerners visiting Samoa. A photograph by an unidentified photographer dated between 1885 and 1898, collected by Thomas Berry Cusack-Smith, is labelled, “Group of men and

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Fig. 2  Sa’o tama’ita’i Fa’amu, daughter of Malietoa Laupepa. Stephenson Percy Smith, 1840–1922: Maori and Polynesian photographs. Ref: PA1-q-223-35-1. Alexander Turnbull Library, Wellington, New Zealand

women armed with traditional weapons, Samoa,” and features two women in the garb of taupous, both holding clubs, at the front of the group of men. In 1893, the same year Fa’amu’s portrait was made, Robert Louis Stevenson described a battle between the Laupepas, Fa’amu’s family, and the Mata’afas, the other most powerful Samoan family, whose heir Fa’amu would later marry. According to Stevenson, the Laupepas returned triumphant with eleven heads as trophies. Subsequently, the victors were horrified to find that one was a girl’s head and that she was the taupou of Savaii.

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She had been helping her father with ammunition when she was shot, and because she had short hair, her executioner would not have realised who she was in the heat of battle.28 Whether or not Fa’amu herself was involved in this battle is unclear, but this record provides evidence that the same year that Fa’amu sat for her portrait as a taupou, other young women serving in that capacity were still performing traditional duties. The role of the taupou in Samoan culture, especially in relation to her virginity, has been debated, and certainly it evolved and changed after European contact, particularly after the arrival of missionaries who found many aspects of the taupou distasteful, if not sinful. Contemporary Western visitors repeatedly reported that the taupou was always accompanied by older women who fiercely guarded her.29 Margaret Mead, however, famously argued that the emphasis on the taupou’s virginity masked widespread sexual activity among other young Samoan women, while Derek Freeman has counter-argued that virginity was widely upheld.30 Mead’s work, while debated, has contributed to the perpetuation of the idea of the sexually available Samoan young woman. The truth lies somewhere in the middle, and the actual behaviours of pre-contact adolescents will never be known. Further complicating our understanding of this role, the taupou’s virtuous character was contradicted by what appeared to Westerners to be salacious dancing in a ceremony the night before her marriage, on what was called Joking Night, when the village welcomed a travelling party including the groom’s extended family. A first section included formal, choreographed dances led by the taupou. The second part, however, consisted of comic acts parodying the taupou as well as suggestive dancing by the taupou herself.31 In this sense she embodied two identities that seem conflicting to Western thought: pure virgin and erotic dancer. But these were evidently not contradictory to Samoans.32 The beliefs of Christian missionaries in Samoa predictably did not support traditional Samoan serial marriage, the seemingly lewd second half of Joking Nights, nor public defloration, but the idea of a village virgin appealed to them.33 They thus held the taupou up as a model for other girls.34 In practicality, Samoans found ways to compromise between traditional behaviours and those imposed by missionaries. They added some of the ribald conduct from the second half of the Joking Night to the dance of the taupou that closed the dignified first half, by surrounding her with comic performers during her final solo; the performance was never in English and did not welcome Westerners.35 While Christian missionaries

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insisted that girls who entered into monogamous permanent marriages be virgins, they also encouraged matches chosen by the girls rather than dictated by their families to achieve social advancement.36 Thus, Christian impositions appealed to girls who wished to have more say in their choice of husband. Adding to misinterpretations of the meaning of Samoan nudity, Westerners misunderstood the meaning behind Samoan women’s removal of their upper garments; the girls’ disrobing did not have a sexual or eroticising component in traditional Samoan culture. For example, in complex Samoan gift-giving etiquette, a respectful present of cloth would be wound around the body of a young girl. Then, to convey the gift, the girl would unwrap the cloth, being left wearing only a garment around her waist and hips.37 Despite these frequent misunderstandings, memoirs written by European travellers in Samoa in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries clearly recognised the prestige of the taupou. Since larger villages usually had two to three taupous, while all villages had at least one,38 and many visitors travelled from village to village, they had the opportunity to interact extensively with their hostess taupous. The European writers are clearly experiencing Samoan culture from a colonial point of view; nevertheless, there are multiple mentions of taupous’ social power, their strong interpersonal skills, their absolute respectability, their skill as entertainers, and their attentiveness to their guests. One such visitor even referred to the taupous he encountered as “represent[ing] the highest class of female chieftains.”39 In the Davis photograph, Fa’amu embodies these tensions around changes taking place in her culture: the portraits of her in Western dress demonstrate that she is clearly able to adopt Western style and comportment, but the Davis photographs indicate that she also treasures her social role as taupou. At the same time, she would have been aware of decades of Western missionaries’ attempts to end topless dress;40 according to Stevenson, her father was a devout Christian,41 and she was educated by missionaries. Having her photo taken in this way may replicate the subversiveness of other Samoan practices under colonialism. The hand-written identification suggests that this photograph, and others similarly labelled from this group, functioned like European cartes-de-visite, given as gifts from their subjects to a visitor to the island.42 In addition to being a taupou, Fa’amu was highly educated, having spent seven years at the English school in Fiji, having been sent there in

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part to escape the turmoil around her father’s contested rule.43 Commentators from the late nineteenth century confirmed her maturity and accomplishment. We catch glimpses of her through the eyes of Swiss author Lina Boegli, who wrote about her visit to Apia in 1897: I went to the English church with Princess Fa’amu, the daughter of King Maleatoa [sic]. She wore European dress, the glory of which centered in a brand-new pair of patent leather shoes, evidently made for someone far smaller than her Samoan Highness. As we were walking home from church, suddenly my princess sat down in the middle of the road, took off her shoes and stockings, and exclaimed, with delight, “Now I feel comfortable.” I wonder why she does not make herself feel comfortable always; she would be so much better looking. Princess Fa’amu is quite a nice girl, well educated, even according to the European standard of education.44

Boegli’s sense of entitled superiority grates, but nonetheless conveys a sense of Fa’amu’s personality and self-possession. Boegli also notes that Fa’amu had confided in her about her dislike of a particular duty of the taupou: “Princess Fa’amu … tells me that she always runs away from home when her father is visited by some noted chief, for fear that she may be called in to chew kawa for them.”45 Writing in 1899, ethnologist and consul general to Samoa, William Churchill comments, The Princess Fa’amu … is the only daughter of King Malietoa Laupepa.46 Although she is not yet twenty, she has had her fair share of troubles. When her father was dragged into exile she was hurried away to Fiji, and there spent [seven] years at school. Since the restoration of her father to the throne she has been a pupil at the boarding-school of the London mission in the hills back of Apia, and may be considered quite an accomplished young person, speaking English, Fijian and Rarotongan in addition to her native Samoan.47

That the consul general to Samoa was well-acquainted enough with Fa’amu to comment thus is indicative of her comfort with interacting with important leaders. Around the same time, in the 1888–1889 volume of The Sunday at home: a family magazine for Sabbath, the Reverend R. Wardlaw Thompson recorded his visit to the Samoan school Fa’amu attended after leaving the English school in Fiji. He describes the senior girls performing a musical drill with Indian clubs, commenting, “They seemed greatly to enjoy this part of their training and went through the

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whole of the drill with great energy and in perfect unison. The king’s daughter, Faamu, a tall, graceful girl of 18, was quite a leader in this exhibition.”48 This too demonstrates Fa’amu’s accomplishments and the respect she was accorded. A few years later, in 1907, another side of Fa’amu emerges. A Mr. and Mrs. W. A. Grebst told an unnamed reporter for The Times of India that while visiting Samoa, we were invited to a native dance given by Princess Faamu (the daughter of the late King Malietoa Laupepa) which was being given in honour of some white friends. After a repast of cocoanuts and arrowroot and other dishes, the natives who were assembled in the house, began to dance. The dance was performed sitting, there being strange movements of the hands and feet and weird swaying of the body. Princess Faamu, fired by the actions of the others, joined in the dance and became more excited and vigorous. She was dressed in banana leaves and her body was oiled with cocoanut [sic] oil until it glistened. Flowers were entwined in her hair and were wreathed around her neck. Eventually she became so impetuous and boisterous, so carried away as it were, that she tore off everything she wore with the exception of a ‘titi’ which covered her loins, and forgot everything but the joy and the enchantment of the dance. The assemblage beat time with their hands on the matting, and gradually made it quicker and quicker. It is impossible to imagine the startling weirdness of the picture that was presented to us. You must have seen a charming Princess in her wild beauty performing the dance; you must have seen the rich and lovely structure of the house, the floor covered with bright fantastic mats; you must have seen glistening nut brown bodies in sinuous action, made startlingly mystical and bewitching by the flickering lights from the numerous cocoanut [sic] oil lamps; you must have seen hundreds and hundreds of eager faces gathered outside in the dark, and you must have heard the wild but still harmonious singing, before it is possible for you to imagine what this dance is like. At all events it will remain in our memories fresh and unsullied for all time.49

While this record by Westerners exoticises the performance, it does demonstrate that if, in 1907, Fa’amu was still dancing in traditional ceremonial dress, toplessness was not a cause for concern for her. Much later in Fa’amu’s life, an article in New York Herald Tribune by reporter Joseph Driscoll, describing Samoa’s loyalties during World War II, provides another glimpse of her:

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In an interview at their straw-thatched fale on the cocoanut-lined highway running out of the town of Apia, on the island of Upolu, the Samoan royal family assured me that it was solidly behind the United States and Great Britain in the war against Germany and Japan. The word ‘solidly’ may be used advisedly, for Mataafa, who weights around 300 pounds, is every inch and every pound a prince of the blood royal and a man of substance whose support can be relied upon. Mataafa’s consort, Faamu, is a woman of ordinary size, but there are those who regard her as the brain trust of the family. It is Mataafa who makes the decision and it is quiet, smiling Faamu who advises him.50

Later in the same article, the author notes, “on a pedestal this Samoan princess had placed an oil painting of an American commoner, a marine buck private. In his right hand was gripped an automatic pistol. When I remarked inanely that it was sad that such nice young men had to kill, the motherly Faamu, who has two children of her own, objected: ‘But this is war. It is right he should kill.’”51 While this reporter’s disrespectfully light-hearted jibes about Mata’afa set an unpleasant tone, the article nonetheless underscores Fa’amu’s reputation for political perspicacity and, with her comments about the role of the soldier, her own role as a female warrior in her youth. The seemingly automatic assumption that a young Samoan who appears partially dressed is completely naïve, provocative, and/or being exploited is commensurate with the West’s misunderstandings about Polynesian culture since its first contacts, long before Gauguin’s controversial Post-­Impressionist paintings of young, often nude Tahitian women. I would therefore like to turn to the early impressions of Tahiti, where we find the roots of the stereotype of the beautiful and sexually available Polynesian princess, as well as the earliest idealised representation of a Polynesian woman. British captain Samuel Wallis sighted Tahiti in 1767, and French explorer Louis-Antoine de Bougainville sailed there in 1768, although neither landed. Bougainville stayed in proximity to the island for two days and claimed it for France, calling it the New Cythera. The idealising identification of Polynesians specifically in relation to the Classical is exemplified by Bougainville’s writings. He likened male Tahitians to Greek gods: “I never saw men better made, whose limbs were more proportionate: in order to paint Hercules or Mars, one could nowhere find better models.”52 Bougainville wrote, describing the arrival of his ship in Tahiti: “All

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these people came crying out tayo, which means friend, and gave a thousand signs of friendship … the periaguas [canoes] were full of females … most of these fair females being naked.”53 Despite his efforts to keep these females from boarding his ship, one did. When the young woman, clad only in a drapery, dropped it to reveal her nude form, Bougainville, demonstrating the idealising perception of Tahitian women by Westerners, wrote: “The girl carelessly dropt a cloth, which covered her, and appeared to the eyes of all beholders, such as Venus shewed herself to the Phrygian shepherd, having, indeed, the celestial form of that goddess.”54 Jean-François de Galaup de Lapérouse’s arrival in 1787 marked the first time Europeans actually landed in Samoa. Influenced by already prevalent stereotypes about Tahiti, in particular Bougainville’s writing about Tahiti as a New Cythera populated by Venuses, Galaup de Lapérouse described the sexual freedom of unmarried Samoan girls, despite evidence to the contrary demonstrating their reluctance to be given as sexual favours to the French: his journal recorded that young girls were involuntarily offered to the French by adults and wept in protest.55 Robert Williamson’s 1939 omission of that part of Lapérouse’s narrative has strongly distorted contemporary views of the sexual permissiveness of young women in Tahiti. Instead, Williamson hews to Bougainville’s stereotype.56 Bougainville was also among the first Westerners to visit Samoa, naming it the Navigator Islands, to recognise the boating skill of the Samoans who greeted his boat,57 in 1768.58 Early reports of interactions with Polynesians also indicate long-standing fantasies about Polynesian royal women in particular. The earliest example of an image representing this Western idealisation of Polynesian women is a painting from 1780 by John Webber, of Poedooa (Poedua), who was the daughter of Oree, the Chief of Ulietea, one of the Society Islands. Webber painted from first-hand experience: he joined Cook’s third expedition (1776–1780). When the ship anchored in Ra’iatea, two sailors deserted, too tempted by the beauty of the island, having “strongly attache’d themselves” to two Tahitian girls.59 When the sailors refused to return, Cook decided to take four hostages: Orio, a chief of Ra’itea; his daughter Poedua; her husband Moetua; and Orio’s son, Teura. It took four days for Cook’s strategy to succeed and the two sailors to return. While Poedua was devastated by being held hostage,60 Webber shows her with a gentle smile. Unlike Fa’amu, Poedua wears a classicising white drape (either tapa or Western cloth)61 around her waist.62 She holds a fly whisk that identifies her as a member of the chief’s family.63 She shows no reluctance to be wearing only a wrap around

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her lower body and a gardenia at each ear, tucked into her tumbling black curls. Faint tattoos ornament her arms and hand. Behind her, palm fronds echo the feathers of her fly whisk, while in the far background, a partly cloudy sky dominates green-grey mountains. The painting in no way documents that it was created on board the ship, nor Cook’s hostility in taking captives who had nothing to do with his sailors’ desertion, nor that Cook obtained his hostages by promising them “Knives, beads & other Things they had been asking for on shore.”64 This painting, then, so clearly the product of a violent and exploitative situation, shows only the idealised beauty of Poedua, and her peaceful nature, setting a precedent for subsequent imagery of chief’s daughters made by Western men. O’Brien has argued that such images represent “the epitome of the Pacific, being young, feminine, desirable and vulnerable.”65 This fascination with Polynesian princesses is related to aesthetic and cultural judgements about colonised peoples. Bernard Smith argues that reactions to colonised peoples categorized them into two categories: either soft or hard primitivism. Soft “primitives” were perceived to lead lives of indolence, where nature provided all with little effort required, resulting in “sloth and degeneration.”66 The indigenous peoples of the Society Islands (Tahiti) were perceived to fall into this category. They were likened to the residents of the classical Elysium.67 Hard primitivism, in contrast, described a very simplified form of life that required work for survival. For example, the indigenous people of Tierra del Fuego were, in their hardscrabble existence, seen as beasts.68 While both forms were idealised at different times, eighteenth-century Europeans saw in soft primitivism a oneness with nature that indicated a natural virtue.69 They related it to the idealised Classical world. Thus, Tahitians were the most ideal “noble savages,” and this nobility translated into the idealisation of beautiful Polynesian women as princesses. Contemporary accounts of encounters with Polynesians repeatedly articulate their innate nobility. As Momoe Malietoa von Reiche has written: “Although the Samoans were used as subjects for profit making, be it as decorative objects, or puppets in power games, or labourers in the schemes of expansionism, their lives and their faces were nevertheless recorded visually and beautifully, and these photographs tell the story of an era and its passing. There are no excuses as to the manner of their making; the circumstances of each condone the idiosyncratic make-up of the image-makers themselves.”70 She also commented, holding in her hands the photograph of her aunt Fa’amu in her taupou garb, that “she considered the camera during the first years

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of contact with the West like a gun, a weapon that induced fear. For her ‘photography became the first real form of exploitation of Samoa because the camera recorded and captured moments that were vulnerable, sensitive, and virginal.’”71 The photograph does indeed capture a complex moment of negotiation between different cultures. Fa’amu posed for this picture during a time of radical change in the social role of the taupou. Public deflowering had all but ended, and the era of the taupou leading warriors to battle was also coming to a close. Oftentimes kava was now mixed by pounding with stones rather than being chewed by the taupou and her attendants. That her father had been crowned king, a role foreign to Samoan culture, making her a princess, is evidence of the extreme changes taking place in her culture. She would certainly have been aware that posing topless would be strongly frowned upon by Europeans, yet nonetheless chose to have her portrait made in this fashion, while certainly not intending it to become a stereotypical postcard image. The two photographs reproduced here demonstrate that she used photography both to demonstrate her modernity and to assert her resistance to it. To investigate such photographs without restoring to these women their own agency, and without considering what they accomplished afterwards, is a grave insult. While certainly in Samoan culture the accomplishments of women like Fa’amusami are well known, the specifics of Samoan political history are not widely studied in Western culture, and these taupous who decided to commemorate their honorific status photographically deserve not to be dismissed as merely victims of exploitation. Some of the visitors to Samoa who wrote about their travels named the taupous they met, providing a potential list to be compared to identified photographs. Thus, it is incumbent on historians to try to find out who these sitters were, rather than to dismiss them as young women exploited by colonising photographers.

Notes 1. I wish to advise readers that this chapter includes images of deceased individuals, including those of indigenous peoples of Samoa, and other material which may offend some readers. Allison Nordström notes the use of a portrait of Fa’amusami on a Muir and Moodie postcard from New Zealand, c.1910 and on prints held by museums in the USA; Allison Nordström, “Paradise Recycled: Photographs of Samoa in Changing Contexts,”

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Exposure 28.3 (1992): 10 and 11–12. Max Quanchi discusses this image in two conference papers, “The Imaging of Samoa in illustrated magazines and serial encyclopedia in the early 20th century,” paper presented at 15th Pacific History Association Conference, NUS, Samoa, Apia, Samoa, 2; and “A Single Visual History of Oceania, New Zealand and Australia,” paper presented at A History of New Zealand Photography, University of Otago, Dunedin, 9. In the former he thanks Max Shekleton for informing him about this example, which is in Shekleton’s private collection, Noumea. 2. In certain instances, Western women were awarded this status, for example, Margaret Mead and artist Aletta Lewis. See Jeanette Mageo, “Zones of Ambiguity and Identity Politics in Samoa,” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 14 (2008): 63. 3. Davis was born in London in 1831 and moved to Sydney, Australia, in 1854, opening his studio in Apia in 1873, on the island of Upolu in Samoa. Nicole Peduzzi notes, “John Davis was the first photographer to arrive in Samoa. … When, in the 1880s, Davis also became postmaster in Apia, he was well informed about all the ships coming and leaving; this considerably helped him to sell and distribute his photographic material and postcards”; Nicole Peduzzi, “Travelling Miniatures: Kerry and Co.’s Postcards of the Pacific, 1893 to 1917,” (PhD Diss, University of East Anglia, 2011), 199 n. 129; cites Allison Nordström, “Popular Photography of Samoa: Production, Dissemination, and Use,” in Picturing Paradise: Colonial Photography of Samoa, 1875–1925, ed. Casey Blanton (Daytona Beach: Southeast Museum of Photography, 1995), 27–29. Apia was one of two towns in Samoa with European and American communities. Nordstrom, “Paradise Recycled,” 8. 4. It is also reproduced in Casey Blanton, ed., Picturing Paradise: colonial photography of Samoa 1875–1925 (Daytona Beach: Southeast Museum of Photography, 1995), illustration 29, p. 71. Max Quanchi points out that “the naming of portraits in the Pacific was often random and usually confused given names, titles and honorific, as well as being regularly misspelt,” in Max Quanchi, “A Single Visual History of Oceania, New Zealand and Australia,” 11. The same is true of irregularities in spelling of Samoan words. Fa’amu is also often spelled “Faamu.” Similarly, taupou is often spelled taupo. I have preserved the original spellings in quotes. 5. Peduzzi, “Travelling Miniatures,” 228. 6. R.P. Gilson and J.W. Davidson, Samoa 1830 to 1900: The Politics of a Multi-­ Cultural Community. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970), 318. 7. Nordström, “Paradise Recycled,” 11. 8. Mageo, “Zones,” 68. 9. Mageo, “Zones,” 65.

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10. Paul Shankman, “Virginity and Veracity: Rereading Historical Sources in the Mead-Freeman Controversy,” Ethnohistory 53:3 (Summer 2006): 488, citing Augustin Krämer, The Samoan Islands [Die Samoa-Inseln], trans. Theodore Verhaaren, (Honolulu: University of Hawa’ii Press, 1994 [1902]) Vol. 1, 46–47n. 11. Mary Warner Marien, Photography: A Cultural History, 4th ed. (New York: Pearson, 2014), 219. 12. Marien, Photography: A Cultural History, 219. 13. Marien, Photography: A Cultural History, 218, citing A. Safroni-­Middleton, South Seas Foam: The Romantic Adventures of a Modern Don Quixote in the Southern Seas (New York: George H. Duran Co., 1920), 228–229. 14. Tony Brunt, To Walk Under Palm Trees: The Germans in Samoa—Snapshots from Albums, Part 1 (Auckland: published by the author; initial print run paid for by Samoa Historical and Cultural Trust, 2016), 240. Brunt is a New Zealand journalist whose information about the Tattersall plates comes from interviews with Samoans associated with the Tattersall family, including Momoe Malietoa von Reiche, 2014. 15. While “Polynesian” is a very broad term, I am using it to reflect the reception of such images in the West, where difference Polynesian cultures may not have been readily recognized. In regard to particular images, however, I will be more specific. 16. Nordström, Picturing Paradise, 11, fn 2. 17. Nordström, Picturing Paradise, 11, fn 2. 18. Peduzzi, “Travelling Miniatures,” 197–198. 19. The work of historians of visual culture such as Sander Gilman, in his writing on Saartje Baartman, and Mallek Alloula, in his book Colonial Harem, has been criticised for re-inscribing exploitation of colonial subjects by reproducing images that are the product of exploitative relationships between image maker and the subject(s). It is my intention in this chapter that, while showing images that are artefacts from such situations, I hope to provide context, history, and criticism that will limit such reinscriptions in order to reach towards the subjectivity and agency of the photographs’ subjects. This is especially relevant in the case of photographs whose original intentions were not for commercial exploitation. 20. There is a Tattersall photo titled, “Some of the turtles killed for Vao’s wedding feast,” published in H.J. Moors, With Stevenson in Samoa (Boston: Small, Maynard and Co., 1910), reproduced in Nordström, “Paradise Recycled,” 11. 21. Beatrice Grimshaw, In the Strange South Seas (London: Hutchinson and Co., 1907), frontispiece. 22. Mrs. E.  J. Ormsbee, “Samoa—Its People and their Customs,” in The Congress of Women: Held in the Woman’s Building, World’s Columbian

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Exposition, Chicago, U. S. A., 1893, ed. Mary Kavanaugh Oldham Eagle (Chicago, IL: Monarch Book Company, 1894), 590–596. From Mary Mark Ockerbloom, A Celebration of Women Writers, accessed 8 February 2020, http://digital.library.upenn.edu/women/eagle/congress/ormsbee.html. 23. See, for example, Bernard Smith, European Vision and the South Pacific (New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989), 47. 24. New Zealand Herald, Volume XIII, Issue 4634, 20 September 1876, 2. https://paperspast.natlib.govt.nz/newspapers/new-­z ealand-­h erald/ 1876/09/20/2. 25. The Samoa Times and South Sea Advertiser, 7 July 1894, 3. https://papers p a s t . n a t l i b . g o v t . n z / n e w s p a p e r s / s a m o a -­t i m e s -­a n d -­s o u t h -­ sea-­advertiser/1894/07/07/3 26. Brunt, “To Walk Under Palm Trees,” 236. 27. Peduzzi, “Travelling Miniatures,” 228. 28. Robert Louis Stevenson, Vailima Letters, Being Correspondence Addressed by Robert Louis Stevenson to Sidney Colvin, November 1890–1894 (London: Methuen, 1895), 166–167. 29. For example, Oszkár Vojnich, The Island-World of the Pacific, trans. Arthur B.  Yolland (Budapest: Pallas Literary Pub. Co., 1909), 314; S.  Percy Smith, “Hawaiki: The Whence of the Maori,” Journal of the Polynesian Society 7 (1898): 161; George Brown, Melanesians and Polynesians: Their Life-histories Described (London: Macmillan and Co., 1910), 120. 30. Shankman, “The History of Samoan Sexual Conduct and the Mead-­ Freeman Controversy,” American Anthropologist New Series 98.3 (Sept. 1996): 556. 31. Mageo, “Zones,” 65, cites Augustin Krämer, The Samoan Islands, trans. Theodore Verhaaren (Honolulu: University of Hawai’i Press, [1902] 1995), 2:366–381; William Thomas Pritchard, Polynesian Reminiscences (London: Chapman and Hall, 1866), 78; John B.  Stair, Old Samoa (London: The Religious Tract Society, 1897), 133–134; Napoloene A.  Tuiteleleapaga, Samoa Yesterday, Today, and Tomorrow (New York: Todd and Honeywell, 1980), 68–69; John Williams, The Samoan Journals of John Williams, ed. Richard M.  Moyle (Canberra: Australian National University Press, [1830–1832] 1984), 247–248. 32. Mageo, “Zones,” 69. 33. Mageo, “Zones,” 67. 34. Mageo, “Zones,” 67 35. Mageo, “Zones,” 69. 36. Mageo, “Zones,” 70. This also affected boys; as all girls began to be treated as taupou, the burden of manual labour, and the girls’ protection, fell on boys, resulting in their sense of a loss of status.

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37. Serge Tcherkézoff, ‘First Contacts’ in Polynesia: The Samoan Case, 1722–1848; Western Misunderstandings about Sexuality and Divinity (Canberra: The Australian National University E Press, 2004) 168. 38. Felix M. Keesing, “The Taupou System of Samoa: A Study of Institutional Change,” Oceania 8 1 (1937): 4. 39. Smith, “Hawaiki,” 161. 40. Mageo, “Zones,” 68. 41. Robert Louis Stevenson, A Footnote to History: Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa (Swanston Edition, 1912), 29, accessed 13 February 2019, http:// www.gutenberg.org/files/536/536-­h/536-­h.htm. 42. Nordström, “Picturing Paradise,” 27. 43. William Churchill, “Samoan Types of Beauty,” The Cosmopolitan 27 (1899): 248. 44. Lina Boegli, Forward: Letters Written on a Trip Around the World (Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott, 1904), 142. 45. Boegli, Forward, 144. 46. This is not correct; Laupepa had several daughters by three different wives. 47. Churchill, “Samoan Types of Beauty,” 248–249. 48. Rev. R. Wardlaw Thompson, “A Sunday at Malua,” The Sunday at Home: A Family Magazine for Sabbath Reading (1898/99): 727. 49. “The Dance,” The Times of India, 30 May 1907, 11. As told by Mr. and Mrs. W. A. Grebst. 50. Joseph Driscoll, “Samoa Pledges Firm Alliance,” New York Herald Tribune, 8 November 1943, 18. 51. “The Dance,” The Times of India; 30 May 1907. 11. 52. Smith, European Vision and the South Pacific, 42. 53. A. Marata Tamaira, “From Full Dusk to Full Tusk: Reimagining the ‘Dusky Maiden’ through the Visual Arts,” The Contemporary Pacific 22.1 (2010): 7, citing Louis Antoine de Bouganville, A Voyage Round the World, trans. John Reinhold Forster (New York: Da Capo Press, 1967), 218. 54. Tamaira, “From Full Dusk,” 7, citing Bouganville, A Voyage Round the World, 219. 55. Tcherkézoff, “First Contacts,” 29. 56. Tcherkézoff, “First Contacts,” 28–29. 57. Tcherkézoff, “First Contacts,” 23. 58. However, he found Samoa distinctly wanting in comparison to the beauty he had appreciated in Tahiti; Tcherkézoff, “First Contacts,” 25 and 27. 59. J.C.  Beaglehole, The Life of Captain James Cook (Stanford: Stanford University Press, 1974), 191; cites J.C.  Beaglehole, ed., The Journals of Captain James Cook on His Voyages of Discovery. The Voyage of the Resolution and Discovery 1776–1780, Part 1 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 116. Italics in original.

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60. Tamaira, “From Full Dusk,” 13, citing J.C. Beaglehole, ed., The Journals of Captain James Cook on His Voyages of Discovery. The Voyage of the Resolution and Discovery 1776–1780, Part 2 (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 1967), 1076. 61. Tamaira, “From Full Dusk,” 11. 62. Miriam Kahn, “Tahiti: The Ripples of a Myth on the Shores of the Imagination,” History and Anthropology 14.4 (2003): 310. 63. Tamaira, “From Full Dusk,” 11. 64. According to the ship’s surgeon, David Samwell. Tamaira, “From Full Dusk,” 13, citing Beaglehole, The Journals of Captain James Cook Part 2, 1076. 65. Patty O’Brien, The Pacific Muse: Exotic Femininity and the Colonial Pacific (Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006), 82. 66. Smith, European Vision, 49. 67. Smith, European Vision, 42. 68. Smith, European Vision, 329. 69. Smith, European Vision, 42. 70. Quanchi, “A Single Visual History,” 12. 71. Peduzzi, “Travelling Miniatures,” 228–229, citing von Reiche, “Letter from Apia,” in Blanton, Picturing Paradise, 69–71.

Bibliography Primary Sources Boegli, Lina. Forward: Letters Written on a Trip Around the World. Philadelphia: J.B. Lippincott, 1904. Bougainville, Louis Antoine de. A Voyage Round the World. Translated by John Reinhold Forster. New York: Da Capo Press, 1967. Brown, George. Melanesians and Polynesians: Their Life-Histories Described. London: Macmillan and Co., 1910. Churchill, William. “Samoan Types of Beauty.” The Cosmopolitan 27 (1899): 248–249. “The Dance,” The Times of India, 30 May 1907. Driscoll, Joseph. “Samoa Pledges Firm Alliance.” New York Herald Tribune, 8 November 1943. Krämer, Augustin. The Samoan Islands [Die Samoa-Inseln]. Translated by Theodore Verhaaren. 2 volumes. Honolulu: University of Hawa’ii Press, 1994 [1902]. New Zealand Herald, Volume XIII, Issue 4364, 20 September 1826.

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Ormsbee, Mrs. E. J. “Samoa—Its People and their Customs.” In The Congress of Women: Held in the Women’s Building, World’s Columbian Exposition, Chicago, U.S.A., 1893, edited by Mary Kavanaugh Oldham Eagle, 590–596. Chicago, IL: Monarch Book Company, 1894. From Mary Mark Ockerbloom, A Celebration of Women Writers. Accessed 8 February 2020. http://digital. library.upenn.edu/women/eagle/congress/ormsbee.html. The Samoa Times and South Sea Advertiser, 7 July 1894. Smith, S. Percy. “Hawaiki: The Whence of the Maori.” Journal of the Polynesian Society 7 (1898): 137–177. Stevenson, Robert Louis. Vailima Letters, Being Correspondence Addressed by Robert Louis Stevenson to Sidney Colvin, November 1890–1894. London: Methuen, 1895. ———. A Footnote to History: Eight Years of Trouble in Samoa, Swanston edition (1912). Accessed 10 February 2020. Gutenberg.org. Thompson, Rev. R. Wardlaw. “A Sunday at Malua.” The Sunday at Home: a Family Magazine for Sabbath Reading (1898/99): 726–730. Vojnich, Oszkár. The Island-World of the Pacific. Translated by Arthur B. Yolland. Budapest: Pallas Literary Pub. Co., 1909.

Secondary Sources Blanton, Casey, ed. Picturing Paradise: Colonial Photography of Samoa 1875–1925. Daytona Beach: Southeast Museum of Photography, 1995. Brunt, Tony. To Walk Under Palm Trees: The Germans in Samoa—Snapshots from Albums, Part 1. Auckland: published by the author, 2016. Gilson, R.P., and J.W.  Davidson, Samoa, 1830 to 1900: The Politics of a Multi-­ Cultural Community. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1970. Jolly, Margaret. “From Point Venus to Bali Ha’i: Eroticism and Exoticism in Representations of the Pacific.” In Sites of Desire, Economies of Pleasure: Sexualities in Asia and the Pacific, edited by Lenore Manderson and Margaret Jolly, 99–122. Chicago and London: University of Chicago Press, 1997. Kahn, Miriam. “Tahiti: Ripples of a Myth on the Shores of the Imagination.” History and Anthropology 14.4 (2003): 307–326. Keesing, Felix M. “The Taupou System of Samoa: A Study of Institutional Change.” Oceania 8.1 (1937): 1–14. Mageo, Jeannette. “Zones of Ambiguity and Identity Politics in Samoa.” Journal of the Royal Anthropological Institute 14 (2008): 61–78. Marien, Mary Warner. Photography: A Cultural History. 4th Edition. New York: Pearson, 2014. Nordström, Alison. “Paradise Recycled: Photographs of Samoa in Changing Contexts.” Exposure 28.3 (1992): 8–15.

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———. “Popular Photography of Samoa: Production, Dissemination, and Use.” In Picturing Paradise: Colonial Photography of Samoa, 1875–1925, edited by Casey Blanton, 11–40. Daytona Beach: Southeast Museum of Photography, 1995. O’Brien, Patty. The Pacific Muse: Exotic Femininity and the Colonial Pacific. Seattle: University of Washington Press, 2006. Peduzzi, Nicole. “Travelling Miniatures: Kerry and Co.’s Postcards of the Pacific (1893–1917).” PhD Dissertation, University of East Anglia, 2011. Quanchi, Max. “The Imaging of Samoa in Illustrated Magazines and Serial Encyclopedia in the Early 20th Century.” Paper presented at the 15th Pacific History Association Conference, NUS, Samoa, Apia, Samoa, 2000. ———. “A Single Visual History of Oceania, New Zealand and Australia.” Paper Presented at A History of New Zealand Photography, University of Otago, Dunedin, 2007. Shankman, Paul. “The History of Samoan Sexual Conduct and the Mead-Freeman Controversy.” American Anthropologist New Series 98.3 (Sept. 1996): 555–567. ———. “Virginity and Veracity: Rereading Historical Sources in the Mead-­ Freeman Controversy.” Ethnohistory 53.3 (Summer 2006): 479–505. Smith, Bernard. European Vision and the South Pacific. New Haven: Yale University Press, 1989. Tamaira, A.  Marata. “From Full Dusk to Full Tusk: Reimagining the ‘Dusky Maiden’ through the Visual Arts.” The Contemporary Pacific 22.1 (2010): 1–35. Tcherkézoff, Serge. “First Contacts” in Polynesia: The Samoan Case (1722–1848), Western Misunderstandings about Sexuality and Divinity. Canberra: The Australian National University E Press, 2004.

King Sigismund III Vasa’s Column in Warsaw: A Memorial in Honour of the King, A Representation of Power, and a Commemoration of the Father Wojciech Szymański

Introduction Originally erected in 1644, reduced to rubble during World War II, and then rebuilt in 1949, Sigismund III Vasa’s Column (later referred to as Sigismund’s Column) (Fig. 1) is undeniably not only Warsaw’s most recognisable historical landmark but also one of its most important monuments. Its pertinence for Warsaw’s cityscape and for Polish culture in general, as well as the sheer originality of its underlying artistic conception, resulted in a number of extensive studies by Polish art historians1 who, over the years, have taken a special interest in this seventeenth-­ century monument to the Polish-Swedish king, Sigismund III Vasa (1566–1632). The main objective of this chapter is to discuss the history of Sigismund’s Column in order to showcase its crucial dependence on the

W. Szymański (*) Institute of Art History, University of Warsaw, Warszawa, Poland © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_5

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Fig. 1  Sigismund’s Column in Warsaw. Photo by Adrian Grycuk, https://commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:Kolumna_Zygmunta_III_Wazy_2020.jpg

Roman and Florentine traditions of commemorating both the saints’ and the rulers’ glorious deeds using the form of a column. Consequently, the chapter wishes to address the long-held assumption about the Column’s uniqueness. Over the decades, a number of scholars have been tempted to argue that it was the first monument since late antiquity of an early

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modern ruler in the form of a column, and thus a memorial which was two centuries ahead of similar commemorative practices in Western art and architecture. Nevertheless, as this chapter will prove, it is possible to identify analogous commemorative designs and projects prior to the erection of Sigismund’s Column in Warsaw and, consequently, challenge the claim about the Warsaw monument’s unprecedented shape. While examining other projects—particularly the Column of the Virgin in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome (Fig. 2)2 and the Column of

Fig. 2  Giovanni Paolo Pannini, the Piazza and Church of Santa Maria Maggiore (1744), oil on canvas, Palazzo Quirinale, Rome, https://commons.wikimedia. org/wiki/File:Giovanni_Paolo_Pannini_-­_The_Piazza_and_Church_of_Santa_ Maria_Maggiore.jpg

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Justice in Florence (Fig. 3)3—this chapter will also focus on methods and means employed by the columns’ creators and commissioners in order to produce and represent political power. In the first part of my analysis, I will discuss the history of the memorial—both the story of its erection and the circumstances surrounding the origins of this enterprise, which was to bring about a monumental appearance of the ruler and to display it on an almost twenty-metre-high

Fig. 3  Column of Justice, Florence. Photo by Giovanni Dall’Orto, https:// commons.wikimedia.org/wiki/File:9794_-­_Firenze_-­_Colonna_di_S._Trinita_-­_ Foto_Giovanni_Dall%27Orto,_28-Oct-2007.jpg

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column.4 Concurrently, I intend to carry out an analysis of the columnoriented research in which one observes considerable prioritisation of a specific political programme behind the monument, as well as its potential ideological meanings. In the second part of my chapter I will demonstrate an analysis of Sigismund’s Column which is placed in the broad context of ancient and modern monuments in the form of a column. The final section of the chapter focuses on the Column of Justice in Florence which was originally designed as a monument to Cosimo l de’ Medici by Giorgio Vasari (Fig.  4). Despite the fact that the original project was never

Fig. 4  Project of Cosimo I Column, anonymous drawer, Gabinetto Disegni e Stampe degli Uffizi. Drawing by Wojciech Szymański after Detlef Heikamp “Die Säulenmonumente Cosimo I”

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accomplished, it will be recognised as a major source of inspiration for Władysław IV, Sigismund’s son and the commissioner of his father’s Column, as well as for the Italian artists involved in the creation of the Warsaw-based monument. As part of my discussion I will suggest that Władysław IV himself might have had a first-hand knowledge of Vasari’s idea. I argue that the Florentine genealogy of Sigismund’s Column should be recognised as pivotal and of utmost importance to any discussion of the origins and the very form of Sigismund’s Column.

The Column’s History Despite a number of gaps and some inconsistencies, the history of the column’s construction was very well recorded in the written documents from the period. Among them, pride of place should be given to the following: the memoirs by Albrycht Stanisław Radziwiłł (1593–1656), a nobleman and the Grand Chancellor of Lithuania; letters by Hubert Walderode von Eckhausen, Ferdinand III’s envoy to Warsaw,5 as well as letters by Giacinto Orselli, a Faenza-born Piarist priest.6 An inscription on the Column’s high plinth and a copperplate engraving by Wilhelm Hondius (1597–c. 1652), after a design by Agostino Locci “the Elder” (c. 1601–1660), in itself the oldest-known image of Sigismund’s Column, are particularly significant for this study. The latter showcases the southern view of the Column, alongside scenes depicting the transport of the Column’s shaft from quarries in Chęciny to its appointed destination, its erection upon the plinth, as well as the inscription tablets mounted onto the Column’s base, and a history of the Column’s creation (together with a list of its makers).7 The above-listed sources have been used to tell the story of the Column’s genesis on several occasions. In 1643 a marble pillar was brought to Warsaw. On 14 September 1644 it was erected in the square in front of the Royal Castle. On 24 November 1644 the pillar was crowned with a bronze statue of Sigismund III Vasa who had died twelve years before.8 The Column’s founder was Władysław IV Vasa (1595–1648), Sigismund’s son and successor in the aftermath of a successful election to the Polish throne. While the Column itself was not only a means to express filial love

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and to commemorate his late father, it was also an ingenious propaganda instrument: a memorial9 in honour of the king and, simultaneously, a representation of royal power created in a very specific and complicated socio-­ political context.10 The king’s intentions, of the kind stipulated above, are easily discernible if one closely reads the inscriptions placed on the bronze tablets and attached to the Column’s plinth. Given their relevance for this discussion, this chapter will quote them in full. The Latin text on the Western tablet reads: Sigismundus III Liberis suffragiis Poloniae, haereditate, successione, iure Sveciae Rex. Pacis, studiis gloriaq[ue] inter reges primus, bello et victoriis nomini secundus, Moscorum ducibus metropoli, provinciis captis, exercitibus profligatis, Smolensco recuperato, Turcica potentia ad Chocimum refracta. Quadraginta quatuor annis regno impensis, quadragesimus quartus ipse in regia serie omnium aequavit aut iunxit gloriam [Sigismund III, following free elections the King of Poland; the King of Sweden by inheritance, succession, and law. The first among all kings in his love of peace and glory. A relentless warrior who never yielded to anybody. He took the Muscovite leaders captive. He conquered the Muscovite capital city and lands, and defeated his enemy’s troops. He re-claimed Smolensk. At the battle of Khotyn he dispersed and drove out the Turks. He ruled for forty-four years. He was the forty-fourth king. He matched them all in glory].11

A bronze tablet placed on the southern side of the plinth contains the following inscription: Honori et pietati sacram statuam hanc Sigismundo III Vladislaus IV natura, amore, genio filius, electione, serie, felicitate successor, voto, animo, cultu gratus patri patriae, parenti opt[ae] mer[iti] anno D[omi]ni MDCXLIII poni iussit cui iam gloria tropheum, posteritas gratitudinem, aeternitas monumentum posuit aut debet [In anno domini 1643, to commemorate Sigismund’s glory and piety, this sacred sculpture was erected upon the order of Władysław IV—his loving and rightful son, his next in line in the wake of the election, succession, and good fortune, who is full of gratitude

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to his father in all his desires, feelings, and esteem. To commemorate the father of the country, the worthies of fathers, whose glory brought him triumphs, whom posterity owes undying gratitude, and for whom eternity erected a monument].

For those visiting the plinth of Sigismund’s Column, the eastern and northern tablets contain the following inscriptions: Sic coelo, sic terris Sigismundus III pietate insignis et armis, geminae gloriae merito sese approbavit, hinc gladium inde crucem tam forti quam pia manu tenet, illo pugnavit, in hoc signo vicit sub hoc insigni vixit, securus, invictus, felix, nunc felicitate quam terris dedit gloriosus, quam coelo meruit, beatus [Famous for his piety and valiancy, King Sigmund III rightfully deserved a double glory—on earth as it is in heaven. One of his hands holds a sword; the other, brave and pious, holds a cross. He fought with a sword and emerged victorious under the sign of the cross. Both the sword and the cross gave him protection, invincibility, and happiness. Now, he is famous due to the happiness he brought to earth; and blessed due to the glory he rightfully deserved];

and Non statua ergitur, nec caeso gloria monte fulta, Sigismundi, Mons errat ipse sibi, nec fulgorem auro, robur neq[ue] sumit ab aere: Auro fulgidior, firmior aere fuit [Sigismund’s glory does not depend either on sculpture or hewn stone mountain. He was a mountain of his own. The brightness of his glory does not rely on gold, nor his power on bronze. His glory was brighter than gold itself and more lasting than bronze].

The northern tablet also features an addendum which states: “Daniel Tym S[acrae] R[egiae] M[aiestatis] fusor Varsaviae fecit, A[nno] D[omini] 1644 [Cast by Daniel Tym, a royal moulder, anno domini 1644].”12 Latin inscriptions placed on the Column’s plinth unambiguously point to the meanings the monument was endowed with by its very creators. What is more, they also provide one with a general idea behind its iconographic programme and testify to a commemorative nature of the whole enterprise launched by the late king’s grieving son. Additionally, they also reveal the name of one of the monument’s creators. Doubtlessly, the Western inscription serves to introduce and describe Sigismund III. It lists the king’s virtues (peace-loving and full of glory)

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and military triumphs, particularly Poland’s victorious wars against pagans and religious dissenters, the Ottoman Empire, and the Grand Duchy of Moscow, which took place during Sigismund’s decades-long reign. The latter should be carefully considered not only in the context of the following inscriptions but above all in the light of the king’s counter-reformation policies.13 It is noteworthy that Sigismund III Vasa is presented as Poland’s electoral king (“Liberis suffragiis Poloniae”), as well as a hereditary and rightful king of Sweden (“haereditate, successione, iure Sveciae Rex”)— despite his deposition in 1599. Both southern and western tablets, though they continue to enumerate the king’s virtues, mostly reveal the monument’s commemorative function. Its founder, Władysław IV Vasa, has been presented here as both a public and private figure: a loving son on the one hand (“filius”) and a rightful heir elected to the Polish throne on the other (“successor”). Comparatively, Sigismund III Vasa has been “privately” and “publicly” commemorated: as a biological father (“parens”) and father of the country (“pater patriae”) respectively. The eastern tablet also lists Sigismund’s virtues, as the king is described as pious, invincible, glorious, famous, and blissful. What one might find particularly intriguing with regard to the eastern tablet is that it explains only the form of the sacred statue (“sacra statua”): a bronze sculpture which crowns the pillar and which is purported to be the ruler’s image (“imago regis”), thus leaving the rest of the monument uncontextualised. Consequently, one learns about the general meaning of two highly symbolic objects which Sigismund III Vasa holds in his hand: a sword (“gladius”) and a cross (“crux”).14 Both speak for the king’s power and virtues and are symbols of his glorious rule. One could even speculate that the monument presents the king as a saintly warrior: the figure holding a sword and a cross has been clad in a suit of armour, while the ruler himself has been recognised as a blessed man (“beatus”). The virtue of piety, which the cross symbolises, has been straightforwardly stipulated in the Column’s bronze inscription (“pietate insignis”). Piety’s companions are courage and fortitude. The Latin word fortitudo has not been used in the inscription, but the virtue has been brought up by means of two associated attributes, the armour and the sword, as well as the following phrase: “insignis et armis.” Another virtue that has not been directly named in the Latin description is justice (“Iustitia”)—an essential characteristic of a good, happy, and Christian (Catholic to be more specific) ruler which Sigismund III Vasa, a slayer of heathen Turks and Muscovites, represents. Similarly to fortitude, justice can also be

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symbolised by the sword. In his insightful and comprehensive study, Mariusz Karpowicz sums up the iconography of the virtuous ruler employed in Sigismund’s Column (which Karpowicz also perceives as a means to commemorate the king’s glorious rule) in the following fashion: Iustitia et Pietas duo sunt regnorum omnium fundamenta. Such were the words engraved in the High Gate, Gdansk’s major city gate, directly under the Coast of Arms of the Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth. This line draws one’s attention to one extra meaning of the word sword, or rather sabre. As it is widely known, it symbolises justice, Iustitia. Thus, Sigismund’s sword was, metaphorically if not literally, double-edged: it smote the king’s external enemies and administered justice to his subjects. Bringing the two virtues, namely Iustitia and Pietas, together is as ancient as Europe’s notion of regnum—its origins can be traced back to the Middle Ages.15

Finally, the inscription featured on the northern tablet acknowledges the creator of the king’s bronze statue: the foundry master Daniel Tym. However, this craftsman was not the only artist working on the monument. If Tym appears to have been responsible for casting the king’s bronze statue in a foundry, the sculpture’s actual designer and rightful author was Clemente Molli (c.1599–1664), a Bologna-born sculptor who was mostly active in Venetian territory and who frequently collaborated with the celebrated Italian architect Baldassare Longhena.16 It is Molli’s name that was inscribed on the lowly base on which Sigismund’s statue proudly stands.17 The names of the remaining architects/creators of the monument can be found in the copperplate engraving made in the Hague two years after the Column’s completion.18 They are the Roman architects Agostino Locci and Constantino Tencalla (1610–1647), the former a Ticino-born builder and the latter an engineer who were both employed by Władysław IV Vasa to carry out projects for the king’s service. The former frequently delivered set designs and instances of ceremonial architecture for the royal court. Regarding Sigismund’s Column, he was primarily responsible for locating the monument at the square in front of the Royal Castle, as well as for its harmonious incorporation into the larger urban planning scheme.19 The latter, Tencalla, as the chief royal architect, supervised the construction works and it is generally assumed that he came up with an idea to build the monument in the form of a column.20

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It is my belief that the very form of the monument (a tall marble pillar with a smooth, unfluted shaft and a Corinthian capital, as well as the protruding impost on which the statue of Sigismund III Vasa stands) remains the most interesting aspect of the king’s commemoration. Had the sculpture representing Sigismund III Vasa, a joint effort by Clemente Molli and Daniel Tym, not been placed on a column, the monument itself would not have been so very unusual and therefore intriguing. It would not have attracted the considerable attention of Polish art historians who have long acknowledged Sigismund’s Column as not only the first monument dedicated to a layperson ever to have been erected in Polish urban space,21 but also as an unprecedented, ground-breaking, and even revolutionary means to represent the ruler in early modern Western art.22 Its originality depends on the assumption that the form of the Warsaw-based memorial in honour of Sigismund III Vasa differs considerably from other royal monuments erected in early modern Europe. According to Karpowicz, royal monuments assumed predominantly two shapes: either equestrian statues resting on variously sized plinths or static figures placed on the base.23 Fine examples of the first type are the equestrian statues of Alessandro Farnese in Piacenza (1625) and of Cosimo l de’ Medici, the latter of which was erected on the Piazza della Signoria in Florence in 1594 thanks to the efforts of his son, Ferdinando I de’ Medici. An excellent example of the second type of monument is the Monument of the Four Moors (“Monumento dei Quattro mori”), located in Livorno, and constructed in 1626, whose objective was to commemorate the victories of Ferdinando I de’ Medici.

The Monument and Its Origins Nearly every study which references Sigismund’s Column is compelled to acknowledge the monument’s originality vis-à-vis other commemorative forms and practices carried out in early modern Europe. These authors also tend to emphasise the fact that this mode of royal commemoration is heavily dependent on the antique Roman memorial tradition. As such, two paradigmatic examples of such tradition are typically put forward: Trajan’s Column (113 AD), and the Column of Marcus Aurelius (after 180 AD), both erected in Rome and both topped with the statues of the two rulers, which were removed in the Middle Ages. In the light of the commemorative nature of the two Roman columns, it should be remembered that although Trajan’s Column was erected during the Emperor’s

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lifetime to commemorate his victory in the Dacian Wars, the Emperor’s statue was put on its top only after Trajan’s death in 117, once he had been deified by the Senate and his ashes deposited under the monument. By comparison, the Column of Marcus Aurelius was crowned with the Emperor’s statue in the aftermath of his demise, when it was commissioned by his son Commodus.24 In the sixteenth century, both columns were renovated upon the initiative of Pope Sixtus V (Felice Peretti) (1521–1590), himself a connoisseur of antiquities. Thus, in the early modern period they were known as Pope Sixtus V’s Columns,25 and they were crowned with the bronze statues of St. Peter and St. Paul.26 The Christianisation of the pagan heritage of Rome’s urban tissue, initiated by Pope Sixtus V, left a significant legacy through the renovation of two imperial columns which powerfully resonated throughout Europe. This was not only because of the city’s unique position on the cultural map of the Christian world but also due to Rome’s popularity among pilgrims and all sorts of early modern travellers. According to Steven F. Ostrow, [t]hrough the agency of his architect, Domenico Fontana, the Peretti pope created a vast new urban network of streets linking the major Early Christian basilicas, providing pilgrims with monumental access routes to the sacred treasures of the city. At the heart of Sixtus’s urban project was the transformation of pagan into Christian Rome, exemplified by his ‘christianizing’ of ancient monuments, most notable among them the columns of Trajan and Marcus Aurelius, and the four Egyptian obelisks that he raised—at the center of St. Peter’s square, in front of the north transept of the Lateran basilica, before the apse of S.  Maria Maggiore, and at the center of the Piazza del Popolo.27

However, the two Roman columns differ considerably from Sigismund’s Column—particularly with regard to their forms. As has already been noted, the shaft of Sigismund’s Column is smooth—unlike those of Trajan’s and Marcus Aurelius’ Columns which are decorated with a continuous narrative relief. What is more, contrary to their Polish equivalent, the Roman columns have spiral staircases which provide access to the very top. Krzysztof Lesiak and Hanna Samsonowicz unambiguously declared that the Roman columns could not have by any means influenced the shape of Sigismund’s Column.28 But there is yet another Roman monument which due to its specific structure, proportions, and, above all, location bears some resemblance to Sigismund’s Column: the Column of

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Phocas dedicated to the Eastern Roman Emperor Phocas and erected at the Forum Romanum in 608 by Smaragdus, the Exarch of Ravenna.29 Its top was also crowned with a statue of the Byzantine ruler; however, this was lost in the Middle Ages and never rediscovered. Nevertheless, the Column’s high plinth, slender proportions, as well as the Corinthian capital encourage one to recognise some formal similarities it shares with the Warsaw-based memorial.30 Juliusz Chrościcki, an esteemed Polish art historian, also acknowledges the Column of Phocas as an important point of reference for Sigismund’s Column.31 In his 1980 study, Chrościcki formulated a highly influential interpretation of the monument, which in the following decades received widespread endorsement from fellow art historians.32 According to Chrościcki, Sigismund’s Column should be seen as part of a larger artistic and urban planning project which he calls Forum Vasorum (“Vasa Forum”).33 In Chrościcki’s view, the Vasa Forum, a representational and centrally located space in front of Warsaw’s Royal Castle, was to comprise a series of monuments which were to serve as the apotheosis of the Vasa dynasty—very much in the manner of the Muscovite Chapel, a mausoleum dedicated to the Muscovite tsars imprisoned by Sigismund III during the Polish–Muscovite War and held captive in Warsaw, where they later died.34 Among the structures which the Forum was to accommodate, Chrościcki lists the following: a triumphal arch in honour of John II Casimir Vasa (1609–1672), Władysław IV’s half-brother, and the third Vasa king on the Polish throne, as well as a freestanding statue of Władysław IV Vasa on a plinth.35 According to this interpretation, Sigismund’s Column would be the only completed part of the Forum—its very heart, and simultaneously demonstrating the “beatification of the king in the Catholic sense, as well as his deification in line with the antique tradition.”36 Fascinating as it is, Chrościcki’s interpretation is exclusively based on only one iconographic source, which in turn makes his argument quite controversial and inherently flawed.37 The source in question is a drawing on the frontispiece of a catalogue by Giovanni Battista Gisleni (1600–1672), an Italian architect and set designer who worked in Poland. The drawing features Sigismund’s Column, as well as other monuments and buildings which have never been erected or designed. For this reason, it is justifiable to consider it Gisleni’s capriccio, or architectural fantasy, and not a fully fledged architectural and urban design (as Chrościcki would have it).38 The commemorative tradition discussed herein, which has its origins in antiquity, adopts the form of a column, and was effectively “Christianised”

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by Sixtus V in the 1580s, was revived in papal Rome once more in 1614, when Pope Paul V (Camillo Borghese) (1551–1621) erected the Column of the Virgin in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. Its shaft was taken from the Basilica of Maxentius and Constantine several decades before, at a time when Sixtus V was still the Roman pontiff and the Basilica was known as the temple of peace (“Templum Pacis”).39 The original plan to erect the Column vis-à-vis the Basilica Santa Maria degli Angeli e dei Martiri was soon abandoned, and the Column of the Virgin was located in front of the most important marine shrine in Rome. It was to be not only a sacred statue but also an allegory of the papacy. In his study dedicated to the Column of the Virgin, Ostrow writes about the monument’s significance: The column and statue thus unite to communicate the idea of a new Pax Romana—a new eternal peace—achieved through the Virgin, who stands as guardian before her basilica in Rome. And while the peace was ushered in by the birth of Christ, Paul V, through this monument, celebrates Mary as the source of that peace.40

Along these lines, the pope was to be understood as an “earthly representative of the Prince of Peace,” while “his papacy was marked by his efforts to establish peace among the Catholic powers.”41 The Column of the Virgin has a lot in common with the Column of Phocas: they share proportions, a high plinth, as well as the employment of the Corinthian order. Individuals behind Sigismund’s Column must have been familiar with the pillar in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore which is testified to by the form of the Warsaw-based memorial. Its plinth with four inscription tablets shows some incontestable formal affinities with the base of the Marian pillar in Rome. Also, one cannot dismiss the fact that both plinths have been adorned by four eagles with luxurious garlands hanging between them. Finally, they also share a protruding impost which makes both columns look particularly slender and elegant. While discussing the influence of the Column of the Virgin on Sigismund’s Column, one should also take into account the pan-­European popularity of the former. It should be noted that the Column of the Virgin soon became a prototypical model for several other Marian columns, as well as those dedicated to various saints and crowned with their images/ statues. A good example of this proliferation is the Munich-based Mariensäule erected in 1638 (a few years before Sigismund’s Column was

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created) or the Croce di Sant’Elena in Milan, which some art historians were eager to see as the prototype of Sigismund’s Column.42 Indeed, the Italian artists who worked at Władysław IV Vasa’s court in Warsaw could not have been strangers to the Column of the Virgin from the Piazza di Santa Maria Maggiore in Rome. Locci was born in Rome and he settled in Poland around 1630, whilst Molli was involved in erecting several columns topped with the statues of saints across Italy.43 What is more, it is a well-known fact that Władysław IV was familiar with the Column of the Virgin as he saw it during his visit to Rome as part of his 1624–1625 Grand Tour of Europe.44 A 1650 narrative poem by Samuel Twardowski, which offers a chronologically arranged, historically accurate, and diligently factual biography of Władysław IV,45 provides a detailed record of the future king’s travels around Western Europe. While offering an account of Władysław’s stay in Rome, Twardowski confirms that the Polish prince visited not only “Sistine columns” but also the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore.46 Ten years before Władysław’s visit to Rome, the Column of the Virgin was erected in the piazza in front of the Basilica di Santa Maria Maggiore. Needless to say, a number of similarities between the Roman columns discussed above, namely the Column of the Virgin and the Column of Phocas, and Sigismund’s Column, by no means override their two major differences. The first difference is straightforwardly formal. If the shafts of the former are fluted, the shaft of the latter is smooth. However, the second difference is far more important and essentially ideological. If the formerly antique and recently “Christianised” columns erected by Sixtus V and Paul V were topped with the statues of saints (and, consequently, became the objects of veneration), the Warsaw memorial was crowned with a figure of a secular, but nonetheless powerful figure, who died no more than twelve years before. Sigismund’s statue was called the “sacred sculpture” (“sacra statua”); high above his head the cross was raised, much like in the case of St. Helena’s column in Milan, and the king was labelled “blessed” (“beatus”). Nevertheless, nothing could change the fact that the column was crowned with a figure of a secular ruler, a layman. In this sense, it became a unique mode of commemoration—one that alluded not only to the antique tradition of former rulers having been remembered and deified by their immediate successors, but also to the early modern, Roman, and Christianised tradition of column erection. However, as the research demonstrates below, this mode is not as unparalleled and singular as many would like it to be.

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Florentine Inspirations Since at least the mid-fifteenth century, Florentine humanists appear to have been familiar with the phenomenon of a statue-topped column. In his architectural treatise published in 1486, but written in the late 1440s and early 1450s, Leon Battista Alberti pronounced: “In the whole art of building the column is the principal ornament without any doubt; it may be set in combination, to adorn a portico, wall, or other form of opening, nor is it unbecoming when standing alone. It may embellish crossroads, theatres, squares; it may support a trophy; or it may act as a monument.”47 The Renaissance architect thus continued his scholarly exploration of columns: Columns may […] be designed purely as markers or as memorials for posterity. […] This type of column is composed of the following parts: steps, serving as a podium and base, rise directly from the ground; a quadrangular dado sits above these, and on top of this another, no smaller than the first; third comes base to the column, then the column itself, and on top of that the capital, and finally a statue sitting on a plinth.48

However, as Alberti duly notes, knowledge about this commemorative tradition was not wholly unproblematic as it faced a number of challenges, both ethical and political. Alberti provides his readers with the following example of a problematic commemoration: “Who would not condemn the extraordinary arrogance of Heliogabalus, for proposing to construct a huge column, on top of which, reached by an internal staircase, was to be seated a statue of himself as deified Heliogabalus, to whose cult it was dedicated?”49 It is likely that the above-mentioned concerns were very much alive in Florence even a century later—at the time when Cosimo l de’ Medici (1519–1574), the Duke of Florence from 1537, and the first Grand Duke of Tuscany from 1569, considered the erection of his own monument in the form of a statue-topped tall column. Even though the project itself has never been accomplished, it deserves an in-depth study in the context of Sigismund’s Column. The existing design drawing of Cosimo I’s Column,50 the long-standing debates about the statue-topped column in the courtly and artistic milieu of Renaissance Florence, as well as close contacts and kinship between the Medici court in Florence and the Vasa

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court in Warsaw51 encourage one to examine and expound on the analogies between the two monuments. Paul William Richelson draws attention to the ruler’s fundamental quandaries regarding his own memorial.52 According to Richelson, Vasari himself, who at the time served as the Duke’s artistic entrepreneur, should be credited with the very idea to put the ruler’s statue on a column and erect it in the very heart of Florence’s urban tissue.53 The column in question was presented to Cosimo I by Pope Pius IV in 1560 and was shipped to Florence a year later. It was an ancient artefact, recovered from the ruins of the Baths of Caracalla. By the Duke’s order, the memorial was to be erected at the Piazza Santa Trinita: the very place where Cosimo learnt about Florence’s victory over the allied Sienese-French forces at the Battle of Marciano in 1554.54 Consequently, the column was to commemorate the Duke’s triumph over his enemies and preserve the eternal memory of the victory (“eterna memoria”).55 In line with Vasari’s intention, the column, erected in 1565, was to be crowned with the statue of the Duke and thus provide a “visual impact and symbolic importance that it might even convince the Duke to permit the creation of the first full scale sculptural representation of his person in Florence.”56 The sculptor Bartolomeo Ammannati was named responsible for the decorative ornaments and stone incisions. Whilst neither sketches nor models of the Duke’s statue have survived, there is no doubt that the phrase “your statue” (“la vostra statua”), which is used in Ammannati’s letter to Cosimo,57 refers to this exactly. Detlef Heikamp argues that an undated letter from Ammannati to Cosimo, which contains the descriptions of sculptural and ornamental forms to be applied to the column’s plinth, should be read as a proclamation of the memorial’s iconographic and ideological programme conceived by Vasari himself, a true commemorator of the Duke.58 Bronze tablets attached to the column’s plinth were to display the Duke’s virtues, as well as his glorious deeds. As Henk Th. van Veen discerningly observes, [t]he reliefs were to glorify Cosimo’s princely virtues, his acquisition of ducal authority, his military prowess, his unification of Florence and Siena, and the manifold blessings of his reign. An inscription was also planned for the pedestal: MAXIMO COSIMO AUCTORI PACIS, ET FOELICITATIS NOSTRAE, AETERNUM HOC DECUS MERITO EREXIMUS.59

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Reliefs of the virtues that are both enumerated in the letter and remain visible in the memorial’s project are: “la Fortezza” (“Fortitudo”), “la Magnanimitá” (“Magnanimitas”), “la Benignitá” (“Benignitas”), and “la Prudenza” (“Prudentia”), translated respectively as fortitude, magnanimity, kindness/generosity, and prudence; as well as three allegorical figures representing justice (“Iustitia”), clemency (“Clementia”), and military virtue—all fleshed out with peace (“Pax”) and felicity (“Felicitas”).60 The Florentine memorial in honour of Cosimo and his many virtues has never been accomplished. One of the reasons for the project’s failed completion may have been Cosimo’s own misgivings about Vasari’s/ Ammannati’s propensity for ostentation and grandiosity.61 As a result, this first early modern attempt to restore the antique tradition of the ruler-­ topped monument is discovered exclusively by means of the written sources, as the statue of the ruler, quite literally, never made it to the top. In 1565, upon the occasion of the marriage between Francesco, Cosimo’s son, and Joanna of Austria, the column was crowned with a terracotta statue of Justice by Ammannati.62 Five years later, in 1570, the works on the monument resumed and the inscription was placed onto the column’s plinth.63 Only after Cosimo I’s death in 1577 was the temporary terracotta figure of Iustitia removed from the memorial’s top. Four years later, in 1581, the column was crowned with a new porphyry statue carved by Francesco del Tadda. However, what was placed on a new stone capital (the former was made of wood) was not a Florentine duke but Justice, clad in a cloak and a suit of armour, and clutching a sword in her hand.64 The construction of Cosimo’s Florentine memorial took about two decades. Over the years, a memorial in honour of the Duke was replaced by a memorial in honour of one of his virtues. One could argue that conceding on Vasari’s original idea resulted in a transition to a new approach: to erect not one but as many as three columns.65 According to Richelson, each column was to be dedicated to a distinctive emblematic concept, namely Justice, Peace, and Religion. Three of Cosimo’s biographers mention these columns, as well as their location: Justice (Piazza Santa Trinita), Religion (Piazza San Felice), and Peace (Piazza San Marco). Richelson claims that each column was supposed to support an allegorical statue of the particular emblematic concept to which it was dedicated.66 Van Veen sums the new concept up in the following manner: “Like the column of Justitia these [two other columns] were to support statues of the respective Virtues. […] The columns’ purpose was to place his [Cosimo I’s] regime squarely in the context of Florentine history.”67

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Cosimo I’s death did not put an end to ambitious commemorative schemes which were being developed in Florence at the time, as evidenced by the already mentioned city map from the 1580s, which depicts an unfinished equestrian statue of Cosimo I at the Piazza San Marco or the subsequent (until the seventeenth century) attempts to build ruler-topped columns in Florence’s cityscape. One of these attempts deserves special acknowledgement: a (failed) attempt to crown the column located at the Piazza San Marco with a statue of Joanna of Austria (1547–1587), the late Duchess of Tuscany, in the early 1600s. Ferdinando I, Cosimo’s son, commissioned the Flemish sculptor Giambologna to carve the statue—possibly on the occasion of Maria de’ Medici’s per procura marriage to the King of France which took place in Florence in 1600.68 Both the apotheosis and the commemoration of Joanna of Austria were to be a reminder of one of the royal aspirations of the House of Medici since Joanna, the mother of Maria and sister-in-law of Ferdinando I, was from the imperial House of Habsburg, and her official title was Queen of Hungary. An overview of the misfortunes of Cosimo I’s memorial, as well as a number of other unfinished Florentine projects, does not intend to prove that the erection of Sigismund’s Column in Warsaw was a fully self-­ conscious allusion to and reinforcement of the artistic, aesthetic, and political ideas that flourished in Renaissance Florence. It is not the intention of this chapter to propose spurious and unfounded links between Florence- and Warsaw-based memorials. Nevertheless, the story of Florentine columns entitles one to reach two major conclusions. Firstly, it is impossible to sustain various art historical narratives that would consider Sigismund’s Column to be fully unprecedented and singular. Indeed, the Warsaw-based Column is an aesthetically imposing structure; it is, indeed, the first completed specimen of the ruler-topped column in Early Modern Europe; however, one should also acknowledge the fact that the Florentine projects of the said column precede the Warsaw realisation by several dozen years. Secondly, despite a number of differences between Warsaw and Florence, both courts operated in similar political situations and purposefully used art to reach similar political objectives. First and foremost, what the two courts appear to have shared are their ambitions and their attempts to satisfy these. In this light, memorials in the form of a column might be interpreted as means of legitimising the Medici/Vasa rule, which the courts achieved by proclaiming the glory of their respective dynasties and by representing their glorious rulers. One should remember that Cosimo I de’ Medici became the ruler of Florence

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and Tuscany by accident once the main line of the House of Medici had died out: he came into power after the death of Alessandro de’ Medici, “il Moro,” the last from the main line of the House of Medici, and the first hereditary ruler of Florence. Similarly, Sigismund III Vasa ascended to the Polish throne in the wake of free elections: he was a nephew of Sigismund II Augustus, the last hereditary Polish king, and the last of the Jagiellonian line. Consequently, Władysław IV Vasa, Sigismund III’s son and the Column’s architect, was not a hereditary ruler of Poland but, like his father before him, he was elected to be ruler by the Polish and Lithuanian noblemen. Similar to his father, Władysław IV used the title of the hereditary king of Sweden—despite the fact that Sigismund III was deposed by the Swedish parliament in 1599. What is more, both the Houses of Medici and of Vasa felt a pressing need to prove their legitimacy and showcase the splendour of their power far and wide—this was made apparent in Florence in the 1600s when it was decided that the statue of Joanna of Austria should crown the Piazza San Marco column, as well as in Warsaw in 1644 when Sigismund’s Column was erected. Therefore, it should come as no surprise that in the act of commemorating his own father Władysław IV used a phrase which proclaimed that Sigismund was not only equal but first among world rulers (“inter reges primus”). One should also pay attention to the fact that the inscription on the Warsaw monument features the formula “pater patriae,” the father of the country. This phrase was also used in Florence with regard to Cosimo di Giovanni de’ Medici (1389–1464), Cosimo I’s ancestor, and the first of the House of Medici. Crucially for the present discussion, the formula was a propaganda tool used by Cosimo I to validate his attempts to erect a memorial in the form of a column. According to Suzanne B. Butters, [p]arallels were often drawn between Cosimo I and his forebear, Cosimo the Elder, eulogized as PATER PATRIAE and PARENS PATRIAE.  For this reason the Duke and his apologists may well have noted, as a possible prototype for a Medici monument, the column raised in the Roman Forum to the memory of Julius Caesar by his followers. Described by Suetonius as “lapidis Numidici”, and bearing the inscription PARENTI PATRIAE on its base, it was said in 1565 by the Tuscan antiquarian Bernardo Gamucci to have been of “marmo numidico” and inscribed PATER PATRIAE.69

Finally, it needs to be observed that even though the first early modern ruler-topped column (Cosimo I’s column, not Sigismund’s) was not

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erected in the end, it was transformed into a memorial to Cosimo’s virtues, the most important of which were Iustitia, Pax, and Religia.70 In other words, the very virtues which characterised Sigismund III Vasa can be identified in his Column’s inscriptions. By way of conclusion, the following question should be posed: was Władysław IV Vasa, the founder and commissioner of Sigismund’s Column, aware of the proximity between Florence and Warsaw? Most likely he was—especially given the close dynastic links between the Vasas and the House of Medici. Suffice to say, when the thirty-year-old Polish prince visited Florence in 1625, he was welcomed there as if he were a close relative.71 But, as a matter of fact, he was a close relative. At the time of Władysław’s visit to the Tuscan capital city, Florence was ruled jointly with Christina of Lorraine (1565–1637), Ferdinando I’s widow by Maria Maddalena of Austria (1589–1631), who was the sister of Anne of Austria (1573–1598) and Constance of Austria (1588–1631), Władysław IV’s mother and step-mother respectively. But the family ties that bound Władysław IV Vasa and Maria Maddalena of Austria were not the only links between Warsaw and Florence. Throughout the 1630s, the Polish king, a connoisseur and collector of art, purchased a number of Florentine sculptures which were subsequently shipped to Warsaw.72 None of them survived the Swedish Deluge (1655–1660) and Swedish occupation of Warsaw. However, Sigismund’s Column miraculously survived and today stands as the only element of the Vasa Forum, a glorious reminder of both Florence and Rome.

Notes 1. Barbara Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna Zygmunta III w Warszawie (Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Sztuka, 1957); Władysław Tatarkiewicz, “Kolumna Zygmunta a kolumna św. Heleny,” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 25.1 (1963): 75–76; Barbara Szymanowska, Kolumna Zygmunta (Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1972); Juliusz A. Chrościcki, “Forum Wazów w Warszawie,” Kwartalnik Architektury i Urbanistyki 25.3–4 (1980): 233–255; Mariusz Karpowicz, Sekretne trescí warszawskich zabytków (Warszawa: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1981), 9–29; Hanna Osiecka-­ Samsonowicz, Agostino Locci (1601–po 1660). Scenograf i architekt na dworze królewskim w Polsce (Warszawa: Instytut Sztuki Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 2003), 130–136. 2. The Column’s indebtedness to ancient and Marian columns has been addressed by Thomas DaCosta Kaufmann, among others. Thomas

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DaCosta Kaufmann, Court, Cloister and City: The Art and Culture of Central Europe, 1450–1800, (Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1995), 232–255. 3. So far the Florentine genealogy of Sigismund’s Column has not been thoroughly addressed by general and art historians. In recent years, only Michał Wardzyński recognised a possible link between the two monuments. However, he discussed the topic broadly and did not offer a detailed discussion of the sources of inspiration behind the erection of the column. Wardzyński also lists another column, that is, Matthias Corvinus’ monument in Buda (c. 1520) which he sees as a likely precedent to Sigismund’s Column. However, the very existence of the column remains highly ambiguous so its relevance might be questionable. Michał Wardzyński, Marmur i alabaster w rzeźbie i małej architekturze Rzeczypospolitej. Studium historyczno-­materiałoznawcze przemian tradycji artystycznych od XVI do pocza ̨tku XVIII wieku (Warszawa: Fundacja Hereditas, 2015), 221–223; Michał Wardzyński, “Rezydencje królewskie Wazów—europé jskie inspiracje architektury i rzeźby,” in Swiat polskich Wazów: Eseje, eds. Jacek Żukowski and Zbigniew Hundert, (Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019), 271; Michał Wardzyński, “L’égal des césars? L’idée du porphyre comme manifestation impériale dans les fondations monarchiques de la République des Deux-­Nations aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles,” in La sculpture au service du pouvoir dans l’Europe de l’époque modern, eds. Sabine Frommel and Paweł Migasiewicz, (Roma: Campisano Editore, 2019), 171–172. 4. Szymanowska, Kolumna, 29. 5. Szymanowska, Kolumna Zygmunta, 10. 6. Ryszard Ma ̨czyński, “Kolumna Zygmunta III Wazy: nowe ustalenia,” Kronika Zamkowa 1–2 (1993): 28. ́ 7. Jacek Żukowski, Swiat polskich Wazów: Przestrzeń–Ludzie–Sztuka: Katalog wystawy (Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019), 62–63. ́ 8. Żukowski, Swiat polskich Wazów, 62. 9. The term “memorial” is used interchangeably with “monument.” 10. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna Zygmunta III w Warszawie, 12. 11. The English translation provided herein is based on the Polish-language rendition of the inscription which has been adapted from Latin by Barbara Zielińska-Szymanowska in Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna Zygmunta III w Warszawie, 12–13, and slightly modified by myself for the purpose of this chapter. In post-World War II Polish art history ZielińskaSzymanowska’s paraphrase of the Latin wording has been widely used as a standard version of the Column’s inscriptions; Karpowicz, Sekretne, 14–15. The Polish-­language rendition of the Latin inscription reads: “Zygmunt III na mocy wolnych wyborów, z tytułu dziedziczenia, następstwa i

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prawa—król Szwecji, w umiłowaniu pokoju i sławie pierwszy pomiędzy królami, w wojnie i zwycięstwach nie ustępuja ̨cy nikomu, wzia ̨ł do niewoli wodzów ­ moskiewskich, stolicę i ziemie moskiewskie zdobył, wojska rozgromił, odzyskał Smoleńsk, złamał pod Chocimiem potęgę turecka ̨, przez 44 lata panował, 44. z szeregu królów, dorównał w chwale wszystkim, albo poła ̨czył cała ̨. Dla uczczenia chwały i pobożności kolumnę tę Zygmuntowi Iii wznieść kazał Władysław IV roku Pańskiego 1643, rodzony i miłuja ̨cy syn, następca dzięki elekcji, kolejności i sprzyjaja ̨cemu szczęsć iu, pełen wdzięczności w swych pragnieniach, uczuciach i czci, ojcu ojczyzny, rodzicowi najbardziej zasłużonemu, któremu już sława—trofeum, potomność—wdzięczność, wieczność—pomnik położyła, ponieważ była mu winna. Tak w niebie, jak i na ziemi król Zygmunt III, znakomity pobożnościa ̨ i oręzė m, słusznie zasłużył na podwójna ̨ chwałę: z jednej strony miecz, z drugiej krzyż trzyma nie mniej dzielna ̨, jak pobożna ̨ dłonia ̨—owym walczył, pod tym znakiem zwycięzẏ ł, pod tymi znakami żył bezpieczny, niezwycięzo ̇ ny, szczęsĺ iwy. Teraz dzięki szczęsĺ iwości, jaka ̨ dał ziemi—sławny, dzięki szczęsĺ iwości, na jaka ̨ w niebie zasłużył— błogosławiony. Nie błysnęła sława Zygmunta dzięki wzniesionej statui ani górze ociosanej: sam dla siebie był góra ̨; nie bierze on blasku od złota ani mocy od spiżu; blask jego był jaśniejszy od złota a trwalszy od spiżu.” 12. Karpowicz, Sekretne, 246–247. 13. Janusz Tazbir, Historia Kos ́cioła Katolickiego w Polsce (1460–1795) (Warszawa: Wiedza Powszechna, 1966), 91. 14. In fact, the weapon that the king clutches in his hand is a sabre, that is, a typical seventeenth-century Polish blade, and not a short, straight, and two-­edged blade as the Latin inscription appears to imply. 15. Karpowicz, Sekretne, 20. 16. Simone Guerriero, “Boschini e la scultura: Clemente Molli scultore di ‘colossi’,” in L’epopea della Pittura veneziana nell’Europa barocca: Atti del Convegno di Studi (Verona, Università degli Studi, Dipartimento TeSIS Museo di Castelvecchio, 19–20 giugno 2014), eds. Enrico Maria Dal Pozzolo and Paolo Bertelli (Treviso: ZeL Edizioni, 2014), 282. 17. The Latin inscription reads: “Clemens Mollus statuar: Daniel Tym fusor A:D: 1644.” Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 23. ́ 18. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 14; Żukowski, Swiat, 62. 19. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 15; Karpowicz, Sekretne, 14. 20. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 15; Karpowicz, Sekretne, 14. 21. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 5. 22. Karpowicz, Sekretne, 9–10; Osiecka-Samsonowicz, Agostino, 133. 23. Karpowicz, Sekretne, 10.

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24. Steven F. Ostrow, “Paul V, the Column of the Virgin, and the New Pax Romana,” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 69.33 (2010): 358. 25. Samuel Twardowski, Władysław IV, król polski i szwedzki (Warszawa: Instytut Badań Literackich PAN, Stowarzyszenie Pro Cultura Litteraria, 2012), 191. 26. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 21; Ostrow, “Paul V,” 353. 27. Ostrow, “Paul V,” 353. 28. Krzysztof Lesiak and Hanna Samsonowicz, “Kolumna Zygmunta III w Warszawie: Twórcy i źródła inspiracji,” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 59.1–2 (1997): 107. 29. Ostrow, “Paul V,” 358. 30. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 21. 31. Chrościcki, “Forum,” 241. ́ 32. Osiecka-Samsonowicz, Agostino, 135–136; Żukowski, Swiat, 62. 33. Chrościcki, “Forum,” 236. 34. Chrościcki, “Forum,” 245. 35. Chrościcki, “Forum,” 244–245. 36. Juliusz A.  Chrościcki, Sztuka i polityka: Funkcje propagandowe sztuki w epoce Wazów 1587–1668 (Warszawa: PWN, 1983), 54. 37. Urszula Augustyniak, “Review of Sztuka i polityka: Funkcje propagandowe sztuki w epoce Wazów 1587–1668, by Juliusz A.  Chros ́cicki,” Przegla ̨d Historyczny 75.2 (1984): 332. 38. Żukowski, “Świat,” 295–297. 39. Ostrow, “Paul V,” 355. 40. Ostrow, “Paul V,” 370. 41. Ostrow, “Paul V,” 370. 42. Tatarkiewicz, “Kolumna,” 75–76. The Croce do Sant’Elena was built in 1581 as one of Milan’s several votive columns erected during or in the immediate aftermath of the 1576 plague with the support of Cardinal Charles Borromeo. It was rebuilt in the years 1613–1614, at which time a protruding impost was most likely added to accommodate the statue of St. Helena. Serviliano Latauda, Descrizione di Milano ornata con molti disegni in rame delle fabbriche più cospicue, che si trovano in questa metropoli, raccolta ed ordinata da Serviliano Latauda sacerdote milanese: Tomo terzo (Milano: Giuseppe Cairoli, 1737), 88–89. 43. For example, in 1636, prior to his arrival in Warsaw, Molli was involved in the erection of the Marian column (so-called Madonna del Fuoco) in Forlì; Szymanowska, Kolumna, 22. After 1640, he also carved a statue of St. Vitalis for the Ravenna column. One should note that the Forlì and Ravenna columns formally imitate the Column of the Virgin (proportions, high plinth, and protruding impost above a capital) and bear further simi-

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larities to Sigismund’s Column in Warsaw. In the light of such findings, a widely held belief among Polish art historians about the primacy of Locci and Tencalla with regard to the Column’s conception and design needs to be rectified. It is more than reasonable to assume that Molli had made a major contribution to the final shape of Sigismund’s Column. He was no ordinary craftsman. Simone Guerriero reminds one that Molli—an intellectual, a poet, and a versatile artist—was a member of the elitist and Venice-based Accademia degli Incogniti. It was his skills and knowledge that brought about an invitation to contribute to the creation of Sigismund’s Column in Warsaw. Guerriero, “Boschini,” 283. 44. Adam Przyboś, “Podróż królewicza Władysława Wazy do Europy Zachodniej w 1624 i 1625 r.,” Rocznik Naukowo-Dydaktyczny WSP Kraków. Prace Historyczne 59.8 (1977): 93–106; Juliusz A. Chrościcki and Ryszard Szmydki, “Wazowie w podróży: Europejska peregrynacja ́ ̇ Władysława Zygmunta,” in Swiat polskich Wazów. Eseje, eds. Jacek Zukowski and Zbigniew Hundert, (Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019) 275–295. The official reason for undertaking the trip was a pilgrimage to Loreto. Roman Krzywy, “Wprowadzenie do lektury,” in Samuel Twardowski, Władysław IV, król polski i szwedzki (Warszawa: Instytut Badań Literackich PAN, Stowarzyszenie Pro Cultura Litteraria, 2012), 9. 45. Krzywy, “Wprowadzenie,” 16. 46. Twardowski, Władysław IV, 187–191. 47. Leon Battista Alberti, On the Art of Building in Ten Books, trans. Joseph Rykwert, Neil Leach, and Robert Tavernor (Cambridge, MA, London, UK: The MIT Press, 1988), 183–184. 48. Alberti, On the Art, 250. 49. Alberti, On the Art, s. 36. 50. Detlef Heikamp, “Die Säulenmonumente Cosimo I.,” in Boboli 90: Atti del Convegno Internazionali di Studi per la salvaguardia e la valorizzazione del Giardino, eds. Cristina Acidini and Elvira Garbero Zorzi (Firenze: Edifir, 1991), 3–17. Heikemp believes that Vasari and/or his circle can be attributed with the authorship of an anonymous drawing from the Uffizi collection, which showcases two variants of Cosimo’s memorial column: the first one features the Duke freestanding on a capital, while the second one is an equestrian statue. Heikemp also contemplates the possibility that it could serve as a kind of draft and artful conception for yet another column: the never-accomplished memorial column dedicated to Cosimo l de’ Medici which was to be erected at the Piazza San Marco, which can be seen on a map of Florence by Stefano Buonsignori which was published in 1584. This proves that in the 1580s the idea to erect Cosimo’s monument was still very much alive. Finally, one could also speculate that the sketch

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might have served as one of several drafts for the Column of Justice erected at the Piazza Santa Trinita in Florence. 51. Ryszard Skowron, “W rodzinnej Europie: Zwia ̨zki i relacje polskich ́ Wazów z innymi dynastiami europejskimi,” in Swiat polskich Wazów: Eseje, ̇ eds. Jacek Zukowski and Zbigniew Hundert (Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019), 326. 52. Paul W.  Richelson, “Studies in the Personal Imagery of Cosimo I De’ Medici, Duke of Florence,” (PhD Diss., Princeton University, Princeton, NJ, 1973). 53. Paul W. Richelson, “Studies,” 132. 54. Richelson, “Studies,” s. 132; Suzanne B. Butters, The Triumph of Vulcan: Sculptors’ Tools, Porphyry, and the Prince in Ducal Florence (Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1996), 94. 55. Richelson, “Studies,” 132. 56. Richelson, “Studies,” 133. 57. Richelson, “Studies,” 136. 58. Heikamp, “Die Säulenmonumente,” 8–9. 59. Henk Th. van Veen, Cosimo I De’ Medici and His Self-Representation in Florentine Art and Culture, trans. Andrew P.  McCormick (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2006), 113. 60. Richelson, “Studies,” 133–135. 61. Richelson, “Studies,” 136. 62. Butters, The Triumph, 92. 63. The initial wording was changed and the new inscription read: “COSMUS MED MAGN DUX ETRURIAE AN MDLXX.” Heikamp, “Die Säulenmonumente,” 7. 64. Heikamp, “Die Säulenmonumente,” 7. The listed elements of attire (a cloak, a suit of armour, a sword) are also to be found in the royal statue atop of Sigismund’s Column. 65. Richelson, “Studies,” 137; van Veen, Cosimo I, 114. 66. Richelson, “Studies,” 137. 67. Van Veen, Cosimo I, 114. 68. The commission was not yet delivered as late as in 1609. 69. Butters, The Triumph, 80–81. 70. Religia might be associated with piety (“Pietas”). 71. His stay in Florence is well known as it was described by two of his fellow travellers: Jan Hagenaw and Stefan Pac. An account of this journey may also be found in Samuel Twardowski’s work. All are available in Adam Przyboś, ed., Podróż królewicza Władysława Wazy do krajów Europy Zachodniej w latach 1624–1625 w swietle ́ ówczesnych relacji (Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1977). 72. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Kolumna, 10.

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Bibliography Primary Sources Alberti, Leon Battista. On the Art of Building in Ten Books. Translated by Joseph Rykwert, Neil Leach, and Robert Tavernor. Cambridge, MA; London, UK: The MIT Press, 1988. Latauda, Serviliano. Descrizione di Milano ornata con molti disegni in rame delle fabbriche più cospicue, che si trovano in questa metropoli, raccolta ed ordinata da Serviliano Latauda sacerdote milanese: Tomo terzo. Milano: Giuseppe Cairoli, 1737. Podróż królewicza Władysława Wazy do krajów Europy Zachodniej w latach 1624–1625 w swietle ́ ówczesnych relacji, edited by Adam Przyboś. Kraków: Wydawnictwo Literackie, 1977. Twardowski, Samuel. Władysław IV, król polski i szwedzki. Warszawa: Instytut Badań Literackich PAN, Stowarzyszenie Pro Cultura Litteraria, 2012.

Secondary Sources Augustyniak, Urszula. “Review of Sztuka i polityka: Funkcje propagandowe sztuki w epoce Wazów 1587–1668, by Juliusz A.  Chroscicki.” ́ Przegla ̨d Historyczny 75.2 (1984): 331–335. Butters, Suzanne B. The Triumph of Vulcan: Sculptors’ Tools, Porphyry, and the Prince in Ducal Florence. Florence: Leo S. Olschki, 1996. Chrościcki, Juliusz A. “Forum Wazów w Warszawie.” Kwartalnik Architektury i Urbanistyki 25.3–4 (1980): 233–255. ———. Sztuka i polityka: Funkcje propagandowe sztuki w epoce Wazów 1587–1668. Warszawa: PWN, 1983. Chrościcki, Juliusz A., and Ryszard Szmydki. “Wazowie w podróży: Europejska ́ peregrynacja Władysława Zygmunta.” In Swiat polskich Wazów. Eseje, edited by Jacek Żukowski and Zbigniew Hundert, 275–295. Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019. DaCosta Kaufmann, Thomas, Court, Cloister and City: The Art and Culture of Central Europe, 1450–1800. Chicago: The University of Chicago Press, 1995. Guerriero, Simone. “Boschini e la scultura: Clemente Molli scultore di ‘colossi’.” In L’epopea della Pittura veneziana nell’Europa barocca: Atti del Convegno di Studi (Verona, Università degli Studi, Dipartimento TeSIS Museo di Castelvecchio, 19–20 giugno 2014), edited by Enrico Maria Dal Pozzolo and Paolo Bertelli, 281–295. Treviso: ZeL Edizioni, 2014. Heikamp, Detlef. “Die Säulenmonumente Cosimo I.” In Boboli 90: Atti del Convegno Internazionali di Studi per la salvaguardia e la valorizzazione del

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Giardino, edited by Cristina Acidini and Elvira Garbero Zorzi, 3–17. Firenze: Edifir, 1991. Karpowicz, Mariusz. Sekretne tres ́ci warszawskich zabytków. Warszawa: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy, 1981. Krzywy, Roman. “Wprowadzenie do lektury.” In Władysław IV, król polski i szwedzki, edited by Samuel Twardowski, 5–21. Warszawa: Instytut Badań Literackich PAN, Stowarzyszenie Pro Cultura Litteraria, 2012. Lesiak, Krzysztof and Hanna Samsonowicz. “Kolumna Zygmunta III w Warszawie: Twórcy i źródła inspiracji.” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 59.1–2 (1997): 104–111. Ma ̨czyński, Ryszard. “Kolumna Zygmunta III Wazy: nowe ustalenia.” Kronika Zamkowa 1–2 (1993): 28–38. Osiecka-Samsonowicz, Hanna. Agostino Locci (1601–po 1660). Scenograf i architekt na dworze królewskim w Polsce. Warszawa: Instytut Sztuki Polskiej Akademii Nauk, 2003. Ostrow, Steven F. “Paul V, the Column of the Virgin, and the New Pax Romana.” Journal of the Society of Architectural Historians 69.3 (2010): 352–377. Przyboś, Adam. “Podróż królewicza Władysława Wazy do Europy Zachodniej w 1624 i 1625 r.” Rocznik Naukowo-Dydaktyczny WSP Kraków. Prace Historyczne 59.8 (1977): 93–106. Richelson, Paul W. Studies in the Personal Imagery of Cosimo I De’ Medici, Duke of Florence. PhD Dissertation, Princeton University, Princeton, NJ, 1973. Skowron, Ryszard. “W rodzinnej Europie: Zwia ̨zki i relacje polskich Wazów z ́ innymi dynastiami europejskimi.” In Swiat polskich Wazów: Eseje, edited by Jacek Żukowski and Zbigniew Hundert, 323–343. Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019. Szymanowska, Barbara. Kolumna Zygmunta. Warszawa: Państwowe Wydawnictwo Naukowe, 1972. Tatarkiewicz, Władysław. “Kolumna Zygmunta a kolumna św. Heleny.” Biuletyn Historii Sztuki 25.11 (1963): 75–76. Tazbir, Janusz. Historia Koscioła ́ Katolickiego w Polsce (1460–1795). Warszawa: Wiedza Powszechna, 1966. van Veen, Henk Th. Cosimo I De’ Medici and His Self-Representation in Florentine Art and Culture. Translated by Andrew P.  McCormick. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press, 2006. Wardzyński, Michał. “L’égal des césars? L’idée du porphyre comme manifestation impériale dans les fondations monarchiques de la République des Deux-Nations aux XVIe et XVIIe siècles.” In La sculpture au service du pouvoir dans l’Europe de l’époque modern, edited by Sabine Frommel and Paweł Migasiewicz, 167–181. Roma: Campisano Editore, 2019a. ———. Marmur i alabaster w rzezb́ ie i małej architekturze Rzeczypospolitej. Studium historyczno-materiałoznawcze przemian tradycji artystycznych od XVI do pocza ̨tku XVIII wieku. Warszawa: Fundacja Hereditas, 2015.

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———. “Rezydencje królewskie Wazów—europejskie inspiracje architektury i ́ rzeźby.” In Swiat polskich Wazów: Eseje, edited by Jacek Żukowski and Zbigniew Hundert, 257–274. Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019b. Zielińska-Szymanowska, Barbara. Kolumna Zygmunta III w Warszawie. Warszawa: Wydawnictwo Sztuka, 1957. ́ Żukowski, Jacek. Swiat polskich Wazów: Przestrzeń–Ludzie–Sztuka: Katalog wystawy. Warszawa: Zamek Królewski w Warszawie, 2019.

Personal or Perfunctory? Philippa of Hainault’s Legacy Through Religious Patronage and St Katharine’s by the Tower Louise Tingle

Medieval queens performed two kinds of religious patronage: personal, based on their own preferences and agency, and perfunctory, based on the practice of previous queens or their husbands, to ingratiate themselves within their new kingdom, and as a way of becoming the keepers of memory within their new marital family.1 Both methods offered an opportunity for queens to ensure that they would be commemorated after death, through their reputation as pious and generous in records and chronicles, or through future queens commemorating their predecessors. Philippa of Hainault’s interference with the Hospital of St Katharine’s by the Tower forms an example in which her patronage was both perfunctory, in that St Katharine’s had been founded by one earlier queen and patronised by others since the twelfth century, and personal, given that she took a special interest in reforming the institution. Philippa’s actions may also have had a political motive in contradicting the choices of the previous queen, the dowager Isabella of France, and cementing her position as the new queen

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early in her tenure. Philippa’s patronage had the advantage of both ensuring that her immortal soul would be prayed for and that she herself would be commemorated by setting an example for succeeding queens to follow, remaining in the popular memory as a dutiful, pious queen. As the wife of Edward III, Philippa had the longest tenure of the medieval consorts of England between her marriage to Edward in 1328 and her death in 1369, providing ample time for activities of patronage. However, her religious links have attracted little scholarship, aside from her tomb effigy and commemoration, and T. D. Atkinson’s article arguing that a gallery was built especially for Philippa at Ely Cathedral.2 This chapter will first establish Philippa’s religious donations and spending within the context of queenly religious patronage in general, with a brief analysis of the religious patronage of English queens preceding Philippa, before considering Philippa’s association with the Hospital of St Katharine’s in particular. Finally, this chapter will contrast the case of St Katharine’s with other examples of Philippa’s personal piety. Religious patronage was already an expected duty for queens to fulfil. After the involvement of Isabella of France in the deposition of her husband Edward II, however, Isabella’s successor as queen may have been especially encouraged or felt it more prudent to channel her energies into ostensibly less dangerous areas such as religious patronage, rather than attempting to overtly channel her political influence. In contrast to Isabella’s scandalous and controversial reputation, Philippa is a relatively little-known queen, aside from her intercessory activity. A study of Philippa’s religious patronage therefore provides one area in which to trace her possible agency, through both her choice of patronage and her actions, as well as her power through influence, for example, with her husband. Philippa could form her own legacy through her choice and extent of religious patronage, creating a lasting memorial to herself and her family, and ensuring that some part of her agency would be remembered.

Queenly Religious Patronage Medieval women were expected to ensure that the souls of their husbands and family were prayed for, and for queens this included donations to religious houses.3 In addition to the concerns of medieval contemporaries about the fate of the souls of themselves and their families after death, with prescriptions on donations that the recipients should offer prayers for the

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souls of the donor and her family, religious patronage could demonstrate wealth, which was an important factor and almost a duty for a queen. Spending offered the opportunity to exert agency through the choice of beneficiaries, particularly because queens were limited in power in the form of public authority in other areas. Religious patronage could also have an effect during the lifetime of the donor. In her study of the thirteenth-­century countesses, Jeanne and Marguerite of Flanders, Erin L. Jordan suggests that religious patronage, despite the perception of private piety, could also be used as a form of power through spending, whilst John Carmi Parsons focuses on the effect that piety could have on the reputation of a medieval queen with regard to the thirteenth-century queens Eleanor of Provence (c. 1223–1291) and Eleanor of Castile (1241–1290), the wives of Henry III and Edward I respectively.4 Whereas praise of religious piety seems a literary convention in memorials of queens, Parsons argues that the absence of such for Eleanor of Castile emphasises her reputation for exploiting bishops.5 In the twelfth century, the Empress Matilda (1102–1167) attracted praise for her piety in later life, after participating in a civil war, through her patronage of monasteries such as Bec-­ Hellouin, Normandy.6 For Isabella of France, her patronage of Greyfriars, London, offered a way in which to situate herself within the bounds of acceptable queenly activity after participating in the deposition of her husband.7 A queen could also affect her husband’s choice of recipient for patronage, an important point given that the patronage of women is often obscured either through poor record-keeping by religious institutions or the assumption that a gift of the wife is a gift of the husband.8 As well as enjoying personal relationships with popes and the monastic members of their own households such as clerks, royal women also bestowed donations ranging from food or cloth to money and properties on their chosen benefices. For queens, the recipients were often already established institutions affiliated with the royal family, such as Westminster Abbey, where Philippa was the first queen buried since Eleanor of Castile in the previous century. Aside from her burial and commemoration there, little evidence survives for any connections Philippa held with the abbey. Her burial site was probably chosen by her husband, given his own plans to be buried there, and conventional, in that a number of previous queens had been buried at Westminster. In fact, rather than Philippa donating to Westminster, the king granted her all the issues and profits during the gap between the death of one abbot and the appointing of another in 1345.9 During the birth of at least two of her children, abroad in 1338 for Lionel

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of Antwerp and at Woodstock for Thomas in 1354–1355, she used the relic of the Virgin’s girdle, kept at Westminster Abbey. Eleanor of Provence had also used this girdle in the preceding century for the birth of her daughter Beatrice in Gascony, in 1242, as had Elizabeth, the daughter of Edward I, in 1303 for her son Humphrey. The girdle might provide an example of keeping-while-giving, because Edward the Confessor had technically given the girdle to the Abbey, but queens and some select highborn women could still use it, to the extent of transporting it overseas.10 Use of the girdle might be for a personal purpose, but had traditionally been borrowed by queens and royal women in the past, and sustained a link between Westminster and various queens, acting as a peg for memory. Other areas of religious patronage also built on the traditions of earlier queens rather than personal piety. For example, Philippa followed the customs of her predecessors in patronising the friary of Greyfriars, London. Philippa is listed among the benefactors to Greyfriars in the Registrum Fratrum Minorum Londonie, but is not, as Laura Slater highlights, described as “illustrissima,” as in the case of the earlier queens, Margaret and Isabella of France. Queen Margaret had founded the church and Isabella may have felt a personal connection, because Margaret was her aunt, and she may have wanted to maintain a link with her birth family in her new country.11 Isabella was also continuing her family’s tradition of close links with the Franciscan order. Isabella’s support of Greyfriars included spending over seven hundred pounds to finish the church which Margaret had begun, as well as paying for the repair of the windows in the chapel.12 Isabella was later buried at Greyfriars, along with the heart of her husband, and dressed in the mantle she had worn at her wedding. F.  D. Blackley argues that the keeping of the latter and the request for burial with both had been due to Isabella herself, by which Isabella could have a direct influence on her posthumous image.13 Her intention, or that of her son, may have been to perpetuate an image of marital unity between Isabella and Edward II.14 The Greyfriars house in London was the most important friary in the kingdom and already had connections with the royal family, with Margaret of France and the heart of Eleanor of Provence buried there.15 The mention of all three women in the friary’s records demonstrates how patronage, and the agency expressed through the choice of that patronage, could directly lead to queenly commemoration. The queenly patronage of Greyfriars, London, was emblematic of their history of patronage towards other religious houses popular in London.

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For example, Matilda, wife of Henry I, founded a leper hospital, St Giles in the Fields at Holborn, as well as the Augustinian house of Holy Trinity at Aldgate. Matilda of Boulogne supported the same house, strengthening the support of the Londoners for herself and her husband, Stephen, and his reign, and the same Matilda founded the Hospital of St Katharine’s by the Tower. Philippa may therefore have simply been continuing a tradition when she donated towards the roof of Greyfriars, a way of maintaining memory in the marital family.16 As Elisabeth van Houts argues, women were expected to become the transmitters of memory in their husband’s family, which included adopting and passing on religious affiliations.17 The example of Greyfriars further emphasises how queens could begin traditions through the patronage of religious institutions, and a form of memorialising themselves and their families. Queenly patronage of Greyfriars continued after Philippa, although no record of Philippa’s successor Anne of Bohemia donating to Greyfriars exists. However, two of her damsels (domicelle), Katherine and Margaret, were buried there, suggesting the possibility of some association between Anne and Greyfriars.18 Charles Kingsford also suggests that Philippa continued the practice of queens favouring Franciscan confessors, begun by Louis IX and continued by French queens and their daughters, including Isabella. Philippa’s confessor John Mablethorpe and Isabella’s confessor John Vye both originated from Greyfriars.19 Christian Steer suggests that the queens’ patronage of the Greyfriars formed a parallel to their husbands’ patronage of the Black Friars, from where kings took their own confessors.20 Altogether, the queenly patronage of Greyfriars for Philippa seems to have been a queenly convention rather than due to a personal connection, but one that she felt was important enough to maintain. Philippa was associated with the patronage of Franciscan friars in other ways. In 1347, the king and queen together requested that Pope Clement VI issue a licence for a house in Little Walsingham for twelve friars.21 In 1329, Pope John XXII asked that the king and queen support his nuncio, Itherius de Concoreto, in a case of two friars arrested in Cambridge for heresy and sent to the papal court for trial.22 Philippa’s patronage of friars continued Eleanor of Castile’s preferment of supporting friars and universities over bishops and clergy. By the fourteenth century, the friars had become a popular choice of patronage for the wealthy. Eleanor of Castile and Margaret of France both patronised Franciscans, whereas Eleanor of Provence particularly supported the Dominican order.23 Philippa was once again following in the patronage choices of earlier queens of England.

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Examples such as Philippa’s support of Franciscan friars, ranging from papal correspondence and taking a Franciscan friar for her confessor, demonstrate how she supported the order in addition to donating to Greyfriars. That Philippa’s donation towards the house was lesser than that of the previous queens, Margaret and Isabella of France, suggests that her patronage was inspired by them, but did not hold the same personal significance, perhaps because of the lack of a close blood link. Rather, Philippa’s perfunctory support of Greyfriars emphasises that queens were expected to become the keepers of memory within their marital families, to the extent of continuing patronage towards the same houses. Likewise, little evidence exists to suggest that Philippa maintained a relationship with her eventual burial location of Westminster Abbey, although she did take advantage of her status, perhaps as was expected, to use the holy girdle kept there in childbirth, like previous royal women. However, the very fact that Philippa continued the patronage of houses such as Greyfriars demonstrates that religious patronage was an important and expected part of queenship, for political purposes as well as to demonstrate wealth through spending. Where Philippa was commemorating previous queens through continuing their religious patronage, so she could also expect succeeding queens to maintain her own choices, as in Philippa’s support of St Katharine’s.

St Katharine’s by the Tower The Hospital of St Katharine’s by the Tower of London formed another popular choice for queenly patronage. St Katharine’s was founded as a hospital for paupers by Queen Matilda of Boulogne (c. 1103–1152), the wife of Stephen, in 1148, with the intention to keep the choice of master for herself and succeeding queens. The hospital was later dissolved after a number of issues and reorganised by Eleanor of Provence, wife of Henry III, in 1273, particularly for the commemoration of her own husband. A 1332 inspeximus at the request of Queen Philippa references a previous example, dating from 16 June 1317, which in turn confirmed the charter of Eleanor of Provence dated 20 January 1291/1292 and ratified by her son. The charter gave certain rights, such as the filling of positions, to succeeding queens.24 The 1317 inspeximus suggests that the charter may have been challenged before, in the previous reign. The queen’s rights were reinforced under Philippa, who removed her predecessor Isabella of France’s choice as master of the hospital. Isabella had selected Richard de

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Lusteshull as master for life in 1318.25 A previous inspection of the hospital, ordered in 1327, had given permission to remove the warden and other ministers, provided they had the consent of Isabella.26 In early 1327, Philippa had not yet married Edward and so was not queen at this point. There was no queen consort, only a queen dowager, the influential Isabella. In addition, Howell notes that after Eleanor of Provence’s own re-founding of the hospital, it had become customary for queens to continue their patronage of St Katharine’s as dowagers, as Eleanor herself did.27 Jamison argues that the wording of Eleanor of Provence’s own charter was ambiguous in whether the patronage belonged to a queen for her lifetime, or until the tenure of a new queen consort, but attributes Isabella’s loss of the hospital patronage to her “forced retirement.”28 However, Philippa’s actions clearly sought a return to the former custom of the queen consort having rights over the hospital. When the original master, Richard de Lusteshull, took his case to Parliament, the king at first ordered an investigation, before Philippa was able to prove that the right to choose the master of the hospital belonged to the queens using Eleanor’s charter. An earlier instance had occurred when Isabella had originally selected her own nominee for master over the choice of her own predecessor as queen, Margaret of France. However, Margaret’s selection died before the matter could be settled.29 In Philippa’s case, the king then turned the matter over to the queen and her council.30 Philippa also made a number of reforms to the hospital, including ordinances mandating that the brothers and sisters were to own no property without the permission of the master, instructions for their clothing and appearance, and limitations on fraternisation between the brothers and sisters.31 Power exerted through religious patronage could be directed into the confirmation of queenly influence and status, and Philippa’s reforms indicate a genuine religious concern, as well as in funding a religious house that would be associated with herself and her memory. Such concern over the details of the daily life of the hospital suggests that Philippa was creating a reputation for herself as a pious queen. The incident over the choice of master took place in 1333, meaning that the event was probably one of the first times that the new queen asserted her higher status over the queen mother, concurrent with Philippa acting as an intercessor in higher numbers of petitionary pardons in 1330 and 1333.32 Before then, Mark Ormrod argued, Isabella infantilised Philippa through delaying her coronation for two years after her wedding, the confirmation of her dower, and even her own household for a further

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year.33 In 1330 Philippa became pregnant for the first time, providing her with an increased importance and necessitating that she be crowned before the birth of the future heir to the throne.34 Philippa was therefore using her religious patronage to further solidify her status as queen consort in opposition to Isabella as the dowager queen, building on the maturity provided by her own new status as the mother of a male heir. Philippa was also obfuscating the memory of Isabella as a patron of St Katharine’s. Other examples demonstrate how queens could use religious patronage for their own motives, including asserting their identity in contrast to the previous consort. Slater suggests that Margaret of France’s religious generosity shortly after her arrival in England was a way of countering the hostile reception to a foreign queen and the unpopularity among the people of her predecessor, Eleanor of Castile. Margaret’s support of the Franciscan order also contrasted with Eleanor’s of the Dominicans, but paralleled the patronage of the previous French queen, Eleanor of Provence.35 Philippa may therefore have been using her very public religious patronage in order to counter Isabella’s reputation after her role in the deposition of her husband, particularly that of an institution founded and then reformed by previous queens. Matilda of Boulogne had herself patronised Holy Trinity Aldgate, to which she granted the hospital, as a way of identifying herself with the popular previous queen Matilda of Scotland.36 Philippa likely hoped to identify herself with prior queens who had supported the hospital, bypassing the memory of Isabella. Commemorating previous queens through continuing their patronage also meant that Philippa herself could expect to be commemorated by her successors. As well as instilling reform, Philippa donated directly to the Hospital of St Katharine’s. A petition to the pope records that in 1342 Philippa acquired the church of St Peter in Northampton and two chapels in Kingsthorp and Upton for the hospital, which was described as poor, although this meant seeking the permission of the bishop of Lincoln and resulted in her requesting the pope to order the bishop of London to appropriate the holdings.37 Philippa also founded a chantry and funded a chaplain through the gift of further lands and property, including a tenement in London.38 Cecily de Bosenham gave Philippa a tenement which the queen in turn gifted to John de Hermerthorp, a warden of St Katharine’s.39 Edward III later gave a further ten pounds per year for Philippa’s chantry after her death, which Richard II confirmed in 1378, continuing the association of Philippa with the hospital.40 St Katharine’s

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produced the Liber de conservatione vitae humanae et quinta essentia, a manuscript combining alchemy and medicine. The dedication read “the more serene queen Eleanor, wife of the most serene king of the English, Edward,” which Jonathan Hughes argues was a mistake for Philippa, given the completion date of the book in 1355.41 The dedication of the book suggests that Philippa’s patronage was appreciated and acknowledged by the hospital and that her patronage continued throughout her life. No record exists of Philippa’s successor Anne of Bohemia donating to the hospital, but Richard II gave the hospital certain rights predating his marriage in 1380 and 1381, with the first mandating that prayers be said for the souls of Richard’s royal grandparents and father.42 Richard’s actions suggest that in the absence of a queen, obligations to St Katharine’s fell to the king, further emphasising that the connection to the hospital was a part of his family’s commemoration, one usually in the charge of the queen. The reservation of the choice of master to the queen may later have protected the hospital during the dissolution. Henry VIII and his first wife Catherine of Aragon founded a guild of St Barbara there, to which many nobles belonged. Anne Boleyn may have saved the hospital from dissolution by a request to the king, and Jane Seymour later appointed a master there.43 The foundation survives to the modern day, having changed location twice. Although Philippa’s patronage of the hospital may have originated from the tradition of prior queens, Philippa’s reforms suggest a more genuine, personal patronage, in comparison to her perfunctory patronage of Greyfriars, London, which also had an established history with the queens of England. Philippa’s reforms and expansion of St Katharine’s meant that the hospital lived on, and with it the memory of Philippa herself. The case over the choice of master between Philippa and Isabella also offered a situation for Philippa to assert her higher status as the new queen consort over the queen dowager, taking over her patronages. In perhaps a transactional relationship, Philippa received not only prayers for herself and her family but also the dedication of a literary work, offering a form of commemoration for her patronage and herself. Although Philippa’s patronage of the hospital may have initially been perfunctory in the manner of queenly support of Greyfriars, her special effort demonstrates that queens could put a personal stamp even on houses that were already accustomed recipients of past patronage, creating a legacy for themselves.

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Personal Piety Other examples of Philippa’s religious patronage suggest explicitly personal connections. For example, Philippa’s son, Lionel of Antwerp, was born in 1339 and baptised at the abbey of St Michael in Antwerp, and the king and queen gave the advowson of the church of Thyngden in Northamptonshire to the abbot and convent at Antwerp in gratitude.44 An inspeximus of 1332 also noted a special relationship between Philippa and the abbot of Chertsey, Surrey, in confirming a charter of the abbey.45 A petition to the pope from Philippa in 1331 asked Clement VI to give the church of Swaneton, Lincoln, to the monastery of Barlings, and another in 1343 the parish church of St. John Baptist in Steynton by Langwath.46 Philippa therefore used her influence on behalf of religious houses in addition to her own donations. Another petition of 1345 listed Philippa in addition to the king and her mother-in-law, and another with the earls of Lancaster, Derby, and Warwick amongst others, asking the pope to respect an earlier papal exemption from ordinary authority for the order of Sempringham.47 Religious patronage could take the form of political protection, in the same way that queens could intervene to request pardons for individuals. But while Philippa was willing to use her influence for religious houses, she also sought to exert pressure on them. The Ledger Book of Vale Royal Abbey relates how the tenants of the abbey, in an uprising against their landlords, deceived Queen Philippa into believing that they were the men of her son, Prince Edward, attempting to use Philippa as an intercessor between themselves and the abbot. Philippa wrote to the abbot ordering him to leave the men alone. The matter was eventually settled before the king and queen in the abbot’s favour.48 Elsewhere, Philippa had spent her first Christmas after her arrival in England before her marriage with the Bishop of Ely.49 T.  D. Atkinson argues that Philippa had a set of personal pews with a private entrance and a canopy in Ely Cathedral. Philippa was also a close friend of Prior Crauden and he may have built a lodging for her, Queen’s Hall, near to his own. Philippa later gave the bishop the velvet robe embroidered with gold squirrels which she had worn at her churching ceremony after the birth of her eldest son, which Stella Mary Newton called the “squirrel suit,” a valuable and personal gift, probably as thanks for the safe delivery of her son.50 Philippa also leased her manor of Soham, which she been given from the properties of Queen Isabella, to the priory from the 1340s until the

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1360s.51 Religious donations could include both property and money as well as seemingly less generous gifts of objects, although embroidery was an expensive luxury. Personal gifts might even be more meaningful for the giver, especially if acting as memorial objects for key life events such as churchings, and commemorating the event itself as well as reminding the recipient of the donor. Not all donations to religious institutions were large amounts of land or property. Gifts of cloth such as that which Philippa gave to Prior Crauden were a common gift from women to religious institutions, with the material often reused for altar coverings.52 The nature of the gift could suggest a purpose for the donation, such as clothing repurposed for vestments or altar coverings, or given on special occasions, such as thanks for the safe birth of a child.53 Philippa also offered a cloth of gold at the tomb of Hugh de Courtenay, according to the book of Philippa’s household controller, and donated several cloths of gold to Westminster Abbey and St Paul’s Cathedral on the day before and of her coronation.54 In 1341, Philippa joined her husband and eldest son in donating gifts at the shrine of Edward II, providing a gold heart and urn, and directly participating in the commemoration of her husband’s family memory.55 Gifts to religious houses were often for the sustenance of their members, whether food or money. For example, on her travels through Kent and other counties, Philippa donated the monetary equivalent of an extra meal and drink to the religious houses she passed.56 Parsons suggests that kings and queens visited shrines and pilgrimage destinations so frequently during their peripatetic lives that not all their donations were recorded.57 Minor gifts such as food or drink might therefore go unknown, but suggest a constant concern on the part of the giver, with the effect that the recipients would remember their generosity. Other gifts resulted through personal connections with the recipients. Philippa had a particular connection to Queen’s College, Oxford, which was founded by her chaplain, Robert de Eglesfield. Eglesfield added depictions of Philippa to the college’s seal and two charter initials.58 Technically, however, the founding charter of the college from 1341 makes no reference to Philippa, although in 1342, Pope Clement VI confirmed the foundation of Queen’s College at her petition.59 Another of Philippa’s confessors, William de Polmorva, became a Fellow of the college.60 Philippa also gave multiple grants of land to support the college, beginning with the church of Burgh under Staynesmore to support six scholars, in return for prayers for the souls of the king, queen, and their offspring.61

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Further grants included the churches of Bleschesdon and St Frideswide’s, Oxfordshire, St Oswald’s in Nostell, Neubold Pacy, Warwickshire, and St Mary’s in Salisbury.62 The connection to Philippa led to further grants to the college from Edward III, as well as Isabella Parvyng, Sir John de Stowford, and William Muskham.63 Philippa also intervened in the donation of John de Handlo, who had intended a donation including ten acres and a mill to St Mary’s, Salisbury, at the request of the queen to the king, and transferred his donation to the college instead.64 Religious institutions including the college therefore benefitted simply from having the queen as a patron, in addition to the gifts which the queen herself made. The patronage of the college was to belong to the queens, which continued at least until Queen Mary, the wife of George V. Magrath suggests that the queens’ patronage of St Katharine’s hospital inspired Eglesfield to make Philippa and her successors the patrons of his college.65 After Philippa, Anne of Bohemia was also referred to as the patron of Queen’s College, in a promise of protection for the scholars and provost of the college who were claiming to be so poor that they could not maintain services, recorded in the patent rolls. Queen Anne’s treasurer was also named as one of the men appointed for the custody of the college’s possessions, and Magrath also attributes a letter recorded in the college archives to Anne in 1384, following which Richard II took over the patronage of the college.66 Philippa’s links with the college thus survived after her death and may have been inspired by her links to St Katharine’s. Philippa’s role in the re-founding and reformation of the Hospital of St Katharine’s emphasises the effect of queenly religious patronage. Eglesfield clearly viewed Philippa in the context of her religious patronage as generous and able to generate donations by others, acting as a role model, to the extent that he memorialised Philippa as the literal symbol of the College in the shape of its seal. Personal motives in other donations included gratitude for the safe birth of her son in Antwerp, and a relationship with Prior Crauden at Ely leading to the construction of a gallery for her use there. Smaller donations also tended to be of a more personal nature, such as gifts of cloth, particularly those worn at special occasions such as coronations and churchings, for use at the altar. Gifts of food or money for sustenance were also made by the queen as she passed through religious houses, and she interceded personally, for example with the pope, exploiting her own high status and demonstrating her influential position. The memory of Philippa thus survives through the College, as well as

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through the range of large and small donations she made to religious houses throughout her lifetime.

Conclusion Patronage through direct donation, such as to religious institutions, as well as indirectly through intercession, formed a key part of the queen’s influence and agency at court, and offered a way for royal women to influence their own legacy and commemoration. Religious patronage in particular built upon the precedents of earlier queens,  and was perhaps especially important for acclimatising and building the reputations of foreign queens in their new culture. The choices and reasons behind examples of religious patronage offered a route for queens to establish their own preferences. Religious patronage also extended to the queen’s household, of whom many members were clerical and rewarded with prebends and other privileges. The queen could use her own relationship and status with the pope in order to intercede on behalf of others. Likewise, papal requests for queens to intercede with their husbands for various political causes shows that popes, and others, recognised the potential of the queen’s influence and relationship with her husband. Despite the difficulties in separating the religious patronage of royal women from their husbands, two distinct trends in patronage emerge. Some religious patronage was personal, with the gift of possessions, such as Philippa donating in thanks for the safe birth of her children. Other choices for the bestowal of patronage followed preceding queens, such as Greyfriars, London, and friars in general, and the Hospital of St Katharine’s by the Tower. Philippa’s especial attention to St Katharine’s through donations and her reforms shows that personal and precedent could also combine in religious patronage. Donations to religious houses and individuals formed a major area of patronage, taking on a grander scale for queens and royal women, who nevertheless found ways to leave their personal mark through religious patronage. In the case of Philippa and St Katharine’s, her actions in confirming that she had the right to choose the master of the hospital also formed one of the first major opportunities of her tenure as queen to establish herself as a strong queen consort against the queen mother, despite her still young age. The evidence for religious patronage through her life demonstrates a continuing concern for her memory after death. Both personal and perfunctory kinds of religious

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patronage helped to form Philippa’s legacy through memory and commemoration, by way of both generous land grants and smaller donations.

Notes 1. Parts of this chapter first appeared in Louise Tingle, Chaucer’s Queens: Royal Woman, Intercession and Patronage in England, 1328–1394 (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020). 2. J.  G. Noppen, “A Tomb and Effigy by Hennequin of Liege,” The Burlington Magazine for Connoisseurs 59.342 (1931): 114–117; Veronica Sekules, “Dynasty and Patrimony in the Self-Construction of an English Queen: Philippa of Hainault and her Images,” in England and the Continent in the Middle Ages: Studies in Honour of Andrew Martindale, eds. John Mitchell and Michael Moran (Stamford: Shaun Tyas, 2000), 157–174; Mark Ormrod, “Queenship, Death and Agency: the Commemoration of Isabella of France and Philippa of Hainault,” in Memory and Commemoration in Medieval England: Proceedings of the 2008 Harlaxton Symposium, eds. Caroline M.  Barron and Clive Burgess (Donington: Shaun Tyas, 2010), 87–103; Christian Steer, “Royal and Noble Commemoration in the Mendicant Houses of Medieval London, c. 1240–1540,” in Memory and Commemoration in Medieval England: Proceedings of the 2008 Harlaxton Symposium, eds. Caroline M. Barron and Clive Burgess (Donington: Shaun Tyas, 2010), 117–142; T. D. Atkinson, “Queen Philippa’s Pews in Ely Cathedral,” Proceedings of the Cambridge Antiquarian Society 41 (1948): 60–66. 3. Patrick J. Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance: Memory and Oblivion at the End of the First Millennium (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1994), 63. 4. Erin L. Jordan, “Exploring the Limits of Female Largesse: The Power of Female Patrons in Thirteenth-Century Flanders and Hainaut,” in Women and Wealth in Late Medieval Europe, ed. Theresa Earenfight (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2010), 149–170. 5. John Carmi Parsons, “Piety, Power and the Reputations of Two Thirteenth-­ Century English Queens,” in Queens, Regents and Potentates, ed. Theresa M. Vann (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1995), 115–116. 6. Marjorie Chibnall, “The Empress Matilda and Bec-Hellouin,” Anglo-­ Norman Studies 10 (1987): 35–48. 7. Laura Slater, “Defining Queenship at Greyfriars London, c. 1300–58,” Gender & History 27.1 (2015): 65. 8. Karen Stöber, “Female Patrons of Late Medieval English Monasteries,” Medieval Prosopography 31 (2016): 117–118.

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9. Calendar of Close Rolls, 1234–1396 (London: H.  M. Stationery Office, 1896–1925), (hereafter referenced as CCR), 1343–1346, 598. 10. London, Westminster Abbey Muniments 19621 and 19623; Nicholas Vincent, The Holy Blood: King Henry III and the Westminster Blood Relic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002), 169–170; Katherine French, “The Material Culture of Childbirth in Late Medieval London and its Suburbs,” Journal of Women’s History 28.2 (2016): 133; Carole Rawcliffe, “Women, Childbirth, and Religion in Late Medieval England,” in Women and Religion in Medieval England, ed. Diana Wood (Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2003), 107. 11. Slater, “Defining Queenship at Greyfriars London,” 56, 60. 12. Slater, “Defining Queenship at Greyfriars London,” 56–57. 13. F. D. Blackley, “Isabella of France, Queen of England 1308–1358, and the Late Medieval Cult of the Dead,” Canadian Journal of History 25.1 (1980): 26. 14. Slater, “Defining Queenship at Greyfriars London,” 67. 15. Michael Robson, “Queen Isabella (c. 1295/1358) and the Greyfriars: An Example of Royal Patronage Based on Her Accounts for 1357/1358,” Franciscan Studies 65 (2007): 328, 340, 347. 16. Slater, “Defining Queenship at Greyfriars London,” 62; C. L. Kingsford, The Grey Friars of London (Aberdeen: British Society of Franciscan Studies, 1915), 165. 17. Elisabeth van Houts, “Introduction: Medieval memories,” in Medieval Memories: Men, Women and the Past, 700–1300, ed. Elisabeth van Houts (Abingdon: Routledge, 2001), 7; Elisabeth van Houts, “Gender, Memories and Prophecies in Medieval Europe,” in Medieval Narrative Sources: A Gateway in the Medieval Mind, eds. Werner Verbeke, Ludo Milis, and Jean Goossens (Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2005), 23. 18. Kingsford, The Grey Friars of London, 87. Margaret could refer to Margery Ludwyk or Lodewick, described as a damsel of Queen Anne’s bedchamber, Calendar of Patent Rolls, 1272–1413 (London: H. M. Stationery Office, 1891–1905), (hereafter known as CPR), 1391–96, 249. 19. Kingsford, The Grey Friars of London, 56; Jens Röhrkasten, The Mendicant Houses of Medieval London, 1221–1539 (Münster: Lit Verlag, 2004), 216; Robson, “Queen Isabella (c. 1295/1358) and the Greyfriars,” 335; CPR, 1367–1370, 432. 20. Steer, “Royal and Noble Commemoration,” 119. 21. William Page, ed., A History of the County of Norfolk: Volume 2 (London: Victoria County History, 1906), 435; W. H. Bliss, ed., Entries in the Papal Registers relating to Great Britain and Ireland: Papal Letters, 1198–1521 (London: H.  M. Stationery Office, 1893–2005), (hereafter known as CPL), 1342–1362, 252.

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22. CPL, 1305–1342, 492; L.  F. Salzman, ed., A History of the County of Cambridge and the Isle of Ely: Volume 2 (London: Victoria County History, 1948), 276–282. 23. Parsons, “Piety, Power and the Reputations of Two Thirteenth-Century English Queens,” 118, 121; Janet Burton, Monastic and Religious Orders in Britain, 1000–1300 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1994), 109; Jens Röhrkasten, “The English Crown and the Franciscans in the Order’s Early History,” in The English Province of the Franciscans (1224– c.1350), ed. Michael J. P. Robson (Leiden: Brill, 2017), 80. 24. CPR, 1330–1334, 314. 25. CPR, 1317–1321, 164. 26. CPR, 1327–1330, 60. 27. Margaret Howell, Eleanor of Provence: Queenship in Thirteenth-Century England (Oxford: Blackwell, 1998), 285. 28. Catherine Jamison, The History of the Royal Hospital of St. Katharine by the Tower of London (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1952), 20–23. 29. Jamison, The History of the Royal Hospital, 22. 30. CCR, 1333–1337, 47, 48, 63 and 171; William Page, ed., A History of the County of London: Volume 1, London Within the Bars, Westminster and Southwark (London: Victoria County History, 1909), 525–530. 31. J. B. Nichols, Account of the Royal Hospital and Collegiate Church of Saint Katharine near the Tower of London (London: J. B. Nichols, 1824), 4. 32. Helen Lacey, The Royal Pardon: Access to Mercy in Fourteenth-Century England (Woodbridge: York Medieval Press, 2009), 207; Lisa Benz St John, Three Medieval Queens: Queenship and the Crown in FourteenthCentury England (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012), 106. 33. W.  Mark Ormrod, Edward III (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2011), 71. 34. St John, Three Medieval Queens, 106. 35. Slater, “Defining Queenship at Greyfriars London,” 61. 36. Patricia A.  Dark, “The Career of Matilda of Boulogne as Countess and Queen in England, 1135–1152” (PhD diss., University of Oxford, 2005), 59. 37. W.  H. Bliss, ed., Petitions to the Pope 1342–1419 (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1896), 236–237; CPL, 1305–1342, 88. 38. CPR, 1367–1370, 338. 39. Calendar of Inquisitions Post Mortem and Other Analogous Documents Preserved in the Public Record Office, ed. J. E. E. S. Sharp et al (London: H. M. Stationery Office, 1904–2004), XV, 81; CPR, 1367–1370, 338. 40. CPR, 1377–1381, 151.

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41. Jonathan Hughes, The Rise of Alchemy in Fourteenth-Century England: Plantagenet Kings and the Search for the Philosopher’s Stone (London: Continuum, 2012), 11, 61, 92. 42. CPR, 1377–1381, 559, 613. 43. Jamison, The History of the Royal Hospital, 54. 44. CPR, 1338–1340, 313. 45. H. C. Maxwell Lyte and Charles G. Crump, eds., Calendar of the Charter Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office, 1226–1516, Vol. V (London: H. M. Stationery Office, 1916), 261. 46. CPL, 1305–1342, 367; Petitions to the Pope 1342–1419, 29. 47. Petitions to the Pope 1342–1419, 89, 103. 48. John Brownbill, ed., The Ledger Book of Vale Royal Abbey (Manchester: Manchester Record Society, 1914), 39–40; Richard Firth Green, A Crisis of Truth: Literature and Law in Ricardian England (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 1999), 165–169. 49. Caroline Shenton, “Philippa of Hainault’s Churchings: The Politics of Motherhood at the Court of Edward III,” in Family and Dynasty in Late Medieval England: Proceedings of the 1997 Harlaxton Symposium, eds. Richard Eales and Shaun Tyas (Donington: Shaun Tyas, 2003), 115. 50. Atkinson, “Queen Philippa’s Pews,” 62–63; R. B. Pugh, ed., A History of the County of Cambridge and the Isle of Ely: Volume 4, City of Ely; Ely, N. and S.  Witchford and Wisbech Hundreds (London: Victoria County History, 2002), 80; Stella Mary Newton, “Queen Philippa’s Squirrel Suit,” in Documenta Textilia: Festschrift für Sigrid Müller-Christensen, eds. M.  Flury-Lemberg and K.  Stolleis (Munich: Deutscher Kunstverlag, 1981), 342–348. 51. A.  F. Wareham and A.  P. M.  Wright, eds., A History of the County of Cambridge and the Isle of Ely: Volume 10, Cheveley, Flendish, Staine and Staploe Hundreds (North-Eastern Cambridgeshire) (London: Victoria County History, 2002), 2–3; The National Archives, Kew (TNA), SC 6/1091/5; Calendar of Charters and Rolls preserved in the Bodleian Library (Oxford), eds. William H.  Turner and H.  O. Coxe (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1878), 39. 52. Frédérique Lachaud, “Vêtement et pouvoir à la cour d’Angleterre sous Philippa de Hainaut,” in Au cloître et dans le monde: Femmes, hommes et sociétés, eds. Patrick Henriet and Anne-Marie Legras (Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris, 2000), 217–233; Chris Woolgar, “Queens and Crowns: Philippa of Hainault, Possessions and the Queen’s Chamber in Mid XIVth-Century England,” Micrologus 22 (2014): 226. 53. Katherine L. French, The Good Women of the Parish: Gender and Religion After the Black Death (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2008), 41–42.

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54. TNA E 35/203; George Frederick Beltz, Memorials of the Most Noble Order of the Garter (London: William Pickering, 1841), 393; Juliet Vale, Edward III and Chivalry: Chivalric Society and its Context, 1270–1350 (Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1983), 84; TNA, E 101/383/13, m. 3 and E 101/385/12, m. 1; Shenton, “Philippa of Hainault’s Churchings,” 117–118. 55. W.  H. Hart, ed., Historia et cartularium monasterii Sancti Petri Gloucestriae, Volume 1 (London: Rolls Series, 1863), 47–48; D. M. Palliser, “Royal Mausolea in the Long Fourteenth Century (1272–1422),” in Fourteenth Century III, ed. W.  M. Ormrod (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2004), 9. 56. John Rylands University Library, Manchester, Latin MS 235, fols. 7v–8v; C.  M. Woolgar, “Gifts of food in late medieval England,” Journal of Medieval History 37.1 (2011): 14. 57. Parsons, “Piety, Power and the Reputations of Two Thirteenth-Century English Queens,” 110. 58. John Richard Magrath, The Queen’s College, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1921), 1: pl. VI; Elizabeth Danbury, “Queens and Powerful Women: Image and Authority,” in Good Impressions: Image and Authority in Medieval Seals, eds. Noël Adams, John Cherry and James Robinson (London: British Museum, 2008), 19. 59. Magrath, The Queen’s College, 1: 15–16. 60. Magrath, The Queen’s College, 1: 95. 61. CPR, 1340–1343, 249. 62. CPR, 1343–1345, 103, 239, 457; CPR, 1348–1350, 254; CPR, 1354–1358, 45; Petitions to the Pope 1342–1419, 120. 63. Magrath, The Queen’s College, 1: 10. 64. William Page, ed., A History of the County of Hampshire: Volume 4 (London: Victoria County History, 1911), 377–379; CPR, 1340–1343, 194; CPR, 1343–1345, 457. 65. Magrath, The Queen’s College, 1: 25, n. 5. 66. CPR, 1381–1385, 401; Magrath, The Queen’s College, 1: 118–120.

Bibliography Unpublished Primary Sources John Rylands University Library, Manchester, UK, Latin MS 235. The National Archives, London, UK, E 35. The National Archives, London, UK, E 101. The National Archives, London, UK, SC 6.

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Page, William, ed. A History of the County of Norfolk: Volume 2. London: Victoria County History, 1906. ———. A History of the County of London: Volume 1, London Within the Bars, Westminster and Southwark. London: Victoria County History, 1909. ———. A History of the County of Hampshire: Volume 4. London: Victoria County History, 1911. Palliser, D. M. “Royal Mausolea in the Long Fourteenth Century (1272–1422).” In Fourteenth Century III, edited by W. M. Ormrod, 1–16. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2004. Parsons, John Carmi. “Piety, Power and the Reputations of Two Thirteenth-­ Century English Queens.” In Queens, Regents and Potentates, edited by Theresa M. Vann, 107–123. Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1995. Pugh, R. B., ed. A History of the County of Cambridge and the Isle of Ely: Volume 4, City of Ely; Ely, N. and S. Witchford and Wisbech Hundreds. London: Victoria County History, 2002. Rawcliffe, Carole. “Women, Childbirth, and Religion in Late Medieval England.” In Women and Religion in Medieval England, edited by Diana Wood, 91–118. Oxford: Oxbow Books, 2003. Robson, Michael. “Queen Isabella (c. 1295/1358) and the Greyfriars: An Example of Royal Patronage Based on Her Accounts for 1357/1358.” Franciscan Studies 65 (2007): 325–348. Röhrkasten, Jens. The Mendicant Houses of Medieval London, 1221–1539. Münster: Lit Verlag, 2004. ———. “The English Crown and the Franciscans in the Order’s Early History.” In The English Province of the Franciscans (1224–c.1350), edited by Michael J. P. Robson, 63–84. Leiden: Brill, 2017. Salzman, L. F., ed. A History of the County of Cambridge and the Isle of Ely: Volume 2. London: Victoria County History, 1948. Sekules, Veronica. “Dynasty and Patrimony in the Self-Construction of an English Queen: Philippa of Hainault and her Images.” In England and the Continent in the Middle Ages: Studies in Honour of Andrew Martindale, edited by John Mitchell and Michael Moran, 157–174. Stamford: Shaun Tyas, 2000. Shenton, Caroline. “Philippa of Hainault’s Churchings: The Politics of Motherhood at the Court of Edward III.” In Family and Dynasty in Late Medieval England: Proceedings of the 1997 Harlaxton Symposium, edited by Richard Eales and Shaun Tyas, 105–121. Donington: Shaun Tyas, 2003. Slater, Laura. “Defining Queenship at Greyfriars London, c. 1300–58.” Gender & History 27.1 (2015): 53–76. St John, Lisa Benz. Three Medieval Queens: Queenship and the Crown in Fourteenth-­ Century England. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2012. Steer, Christian. “Royal and Noble Commemoration in the Mendicant Houses of Medieval London, c. 1240–1540.” In Memory and Commemoration in

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Medieval England: Proceedings of the 2008 Harlaxton Symposium, edited by Caroline M.  Barron and Clive Burgess, 117–142. Donington: Shaun Tyas, 2010. Stöber, Karen. “Female Patrons of Late Medieval English Monasteries.” Medieval Prosopography 31 (2016): 115–136. Vale, Juliet. Edward III and Chivalry: Chivalric Society and its Context, 1270–1350. Woodbridge: Boydell Press, 1983. van Houts, Elisabeth. “Introduction: Medieval Memories.” In Medieval Memories: Men, Women and the Past, 700–1300, edited by Elisabeth van Houts, 1–16. Abingdon: Routledge, 2001. ———. “Gender, Memories and Prophecies in Medieval Europe.” In Medieval Narrative Sources: A Gateway in the Medieval Mind, edited by Werner Verbeke, Ludo Milis, and Jean Goossens, 21–36. Leuven: Leuven University Press, 2005. Vincent, Nicholas. The Holy Blood: King Henry III and the Westminster Blood Relic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2002. Wareham, A. F. and A. P. M. Wright, eds. A History of the County of Cambridge and the Isle of Ely: Volume 10, Cheveley, Flendish, Staine and Staploe Hundreds (North-Eastern Cambridgeshire). London: Victoria County History, 2002. Woolgar, C. M. “Gifts of Food in Late Medieval England.” Journal of Medieval History 37.1 (2011): 6–18. ———. “Queens and Crowns: Philippa of Hainaut, Possessions and the Queen’s Chamber in Mid XIVth-Century England.” Micrologus 22 (2014): 201–228.

The Heroes Who Turned Into Stones and Songs: The Memory of the Monarch Reflected in the Old Tamil Caṅkam Literature Roland Ferenczi

Introduction As Jan Assmann has aptly outlined in his fascinating work on cultural memory, “The rupture between yesterday and today, in which the choice to obliterate or preserve must be considered, is experienced in its most basic and, in a sense, primal form in death. Life only assumes the form of

I thank Alexander Dubyanskiy, Eva Wilden, Jean-Luc Chévillard, Csaba Dezső, Carmen Spiers, Julie Rocton, and an anonymous reviewer for their constructive comments on the drafts of this chapter. In memoriam Prof. Alexander M. Dubyanskiy (1941–2020). R. Ferenczi (*) ELTE University, Budapest, Hungary Universität Hamburg, Hamburg, Germany © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_7

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the past on which a memory culture can be built through its end, through its irremediable discontinuity.”1 If we look around South India, megalithic monuments, menhirs, dolmens, cairn- and stone circles, pillars, and other memorials proclaim the unalterable victory of death, the mourning of the contemporaries, and their zealous effort to keep their dead “as members of their community and to take them with them into their progressive present.”2 As a general observation, when an ordinary man without memorable acts or remarkable deeds passes away, the life of his narrow environment dissolves into chaos for an indefinite period but, as usually happens, certain rituals and sooner or later time itself heals the wounds. When the monarch leaves the physical world behind, the heirs have the duty, following the tradition of succession, to urgently eliminate the social disorder, to restore the political order of the kingdom, and to ensure the continuous flow of the legitimate rule of the dynasty. In both cases, between the mournful chaos and the re-created harmony of the “progressive present,” one of the most important steps is the funeral, and if the dead was a worthy member of the society, the establishment of his memorial, a place for remembrance, but also a place for reminder. In this study, an attempt is made to examine the poems of Old Tamil literature in order to discover the different memorialising techniques after the demise of the heroes and to get an answer to the question, how did the ancient Tamils establish memorials for their kings? Thus, I consider it necessary to discuss the following sub-sections: The heroic death in the Old Tamil Caṅkam literature, to understand the attitude of the Old Tamil sources towards heroic death and transiency; The promises of the upper sphere, since the heaven is the next station for the dead hero after his demise; Funeral of the kings, to present the ways in which the mourning society said farewell to their heroic paragons, as a means of re-creating harmony; The memorial stones for the heroes, as the establishment of memory places (lieux de mémoire) and the long-­ lasting earthly fame of the heroes; so after all we can discuss The memory of the king in the Caṅkam literature, in which sub-section I will point out that the memorial stones, as well as the literature, proved to be de facto memory places, and the puṟam literature itself became “a literary burial ground” of the ancient kings and heroes at the latest from the Middle Ages. As is typical with many other topics of the young field of Dravidology, the subject of this chapter is still not satisfactorily explored neither by Indologists nor by historians. Although important articles and book chapters have already been published, the observations in them cannot be regarded as complete. The monograph of George L. Hart on the ancient

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Tamil poetry has to be mentioned first, which includes thoughtful remarks on the king’s person and his death, the conception of the upper spheres, and the funerary rites.3 K. Rajan’s recent paper on South Indian funerary monuments and his monograph on South Indian memorial stones proved to be very useful, but from this historical approach, although these works refer to a commendable amount of literary sources, his mainly archaeological perspective is not sufficient.4 Kailasapathy’s volume on Tamil heroic poetry discusses the heroic world in ancient Tamil countries, along with the tradition of the erection of memorial stones, on which topics his remarks cannot be ignored.5 There are other relevant works in which short passages or subchapters can be found on funerary rites, memorial stones, ancestors’ cults, and other related topics, but overall there is not a thorough work, which would strictly and critically examine the poems on the memory of the monarch in the Caṅkam literature and evaluate the results with the methodology of a historian, so the main task for this study is to fill this gap somewhat and to mark the direction for an even more detailed study.6 First of all, we should make a few introductory remarks on our main primary sources, the anthologies of Old Tamil Caṅkam literature. Tamil is in fact the second oldest among the Indian languages in line after Sanskrit, which has, as carefully as it is possible to estimate, an inscriptional tradition from the second century B.C. and a literary tradition from circa first century A.D.7 The designation of “Caṅkam literature” covers an old corpus, composed by the bards, who lived on the lands of the ancient Tamil kings, which contains thousands of love songs and heroic poems written (or better to say have reached their final form) in the first half of the first millennium A.D.  Eva Wilden briefly summarises the changes of the Caṅkam corpus from antiquity up to the Middle Ages: “From a fluid body of oral poems it was transformed, during a period of cultural restoration after political upheaval, into written lyrical anthologies which some centuries later were canonised and supplied with a commentarial tradition.”8 In the second millennium the Caṅkam texts were regularly copied on palm leaves, later on papers, by scribes, but the texts themselves received significantly less attention besides other medieval religious corpora. The situation changed only after the Press Act of 1835 (also known as Metcalfe Act), when Tamil book-printing could begin and finally the ancient Caṅkam poems and their manuscripts started to be systematically collected, edited, and printed.

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At the time when the songs of Old Tamil poetry arose, three crowned kings (mūve ̄ntar) reigned over the Tamil countries (Tamiḻakam), the lands of Southern India, including mostly the territories of modern Kerala and Tamil Nadu, namely the Cēra, the Cōḻa, and the Pāṇt ̣iya kings.9 Besides them, powerful chieftains (ve ̄l ̣ir) and village elders (kiḻār) ruled over certain areas. Chiefs were either independent or somehow dependent on the crowned kings’ power, but because in most of the cases the nature of their dependence is not so clear, and because in their territories the contemporary societies treated them as omnipotent rulers, we should include them in our research when we talk about the memory of the monarch. We must agree with Kailasapathy’s definition, based on G.  Thomson’s idea, that “the politics of the Tamil Heroic Age were marked by the ascendancy of an ‘energetic military caste, which, torn by internecine conflicts of succession and inheritance, breaks loose from its tribal bonds into a career of violent, self-assertive individualism’.”10 Around the beginning of the Christian Era, we can already distinguish two pathways in the old literature of the Tamil kingdoms: the erotic, “inner” (akam) poetry; and the heroic, “outer” (puṟam) poetry. As Kailasapathy states, “those treating wars, exploits of kings and chieftains, the splendour of courts, and the liberality and munificence of heroes may be called heroic poems; those in which the love theme is predominant may be called love songs.”11 Following the statements of the Tolka ̄ppiyam, in the erotic poetry, poets are not allowed to mention the names of the dramatis personae, while in the heroic poetry it is allowed.12 It was not only allowed, but it was quite remunerative, considering that the heroic poetry was ordered and funded by the kings and chieftains.13 So, while the poets, as “the counterparts in the Heroic Age of the modern mass-media,”14 were flattering the rulers reciting their masterful compositions, the kings and chiefs showered on them fabulous gifts and offered them abundant feasts, encouraging the bards to wander from one palace to another or in some cases to settle down as loyal court poets.15 What is more, in agreement with Ganapathy Subbiah, in ancient South India the liberality and the boundless capacity of gifting (koṭai, ı ̄kai) were the most important criteria to distinguish a hero from others.16 In the Old Tamil puṟam poetry, the heroes (talaivaṉ, kiḻavōṉ) were the perfect men, paragons (ca ̄ṉṟo ̄r) of the age. The term ca ̄ṉṟōṉ,17 as Zvelebil states, is “one of the key-words in Tamil poetry, if not the key-word of the best in Tamil culture.”18 It refers to a wise, learned, and respectable man, a great, noble person, a warrior, or a poet of the Caṅkam literature.19 The kings and the chieftains were

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almost always20 considered as noble warriors and liberal protectors (puravalaṉ), whose generosity was not dependent on reciprocation but was limitless and always available for the suppliants (paricilar, iravalaṉ).21 The level of the donations was dependent only on military successes, capturing a booty or receiving tributes.22 As we shall see, it was necessary and favourable for the rulers to ritually keep these liberal and iconic heroes alive in collective memory, whose memorialising act could be: the fertile medium of the hero-cult; the assurance for the survival of generosity as a social norm and a tradition of redistributing wealth; the legitimation of the ancestors’ deeds, which made them “immortal” and also legitimised their heirs; emphasis on the moral path on which the forefathers were walking; and the source of livelihood for bards, musicians, and dancers.

Heroic Death in the Old Tamil Caṅkam Literature Those warriors, who were fighting in the armies of kings or chieftains, had to face the inevitable nature of death every day. As the poet Aiyāticciṟuveṇtēraiyār sang on death in the 363rd poem of Puṟanāṉūṟu: “there is no life, that stays without perishing along with the body. Dying is reality, not just an illusion!”,23 which is itself a quite a wise statement,24 or as Kaṇiyaṉ Pūṅkuṉṟaṉār said in his much-quoted poem, beside other illusionary things “there is no novelty not even in death” (ca ̄talum putuvatu aṉṟe ̄).25 Death is indeed the last, irreversible event of the individual, who says farewell to the society, leaving behind a lifeless body, but also long-living memories. Of course, the durability and value of these memories were dependent on the social status of the individuals, the famous acts which they had performed, and the dramatic/heroic/fabulous way, in which they passed away. From the royal perspective of memorialising, the death of a carpenter had probably a less important political value than the heroic death of a loyal soldier. In the latter case, the memorialising policy of the monarch, together with the heroic poetry of the loyal poets, were able to turn the sorrowful grief of the society into a proud, festal event of the kingdom and provided the support of the people and the continuous supply of the army. For a well-functioning military system a sovereign Tamil monarch needed a well-established policy of memorialising, a festive and ritualised way to remember and remind, and a desirable conception of after-life. In fact, death was an opening door either to the upper world of the heroic ancestors or to reincarnation into a new body.

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In battles, fearless heroism was expected from the warriors. Those who bravely persevered until the end of the battle were glorified, regardless of whether they survived or died. Those who betrayed their king and ran away from the battle were humiliated or killed. To observe what happened if someone abortively left his martial duties, the best example is the poem of Kākkai Pāt ̣iṉiyār Nacceḷḷaiyār: When it was uttered by many, that the son of the old woman, whose belly is [wrinkled] like a lotus-leaf and whose slack, soft arms with bulging veins are parched, had withdrawn after his weapon was ruined, she got enraged and said: “If he deserted the crowded battle, then I will cut off my breasts that fed him.” She took a sword and searched [him] on the reddened battlefield turning over the fallen corpses. Once she saw the place, where the pieces of her fallen boy were scattered, she became even more glad than on the day she had given birth to him.26

This research now turns to a deeper analysis of the different passages of Old Tamil poetry, where fearless kings and warriors passed away on the battlefield. First of all, we examine the horrors of the battlefield. In the 77th poem of the Akanāṉu ̄ṟu, the poet sang about “the red-eared kites, which perched at the crossing of stony roads, as they got scared from the emerging fire, which embraced the brave men who traversed the good battlefield, so their animate substance departed.”27 In the 253rd poem of Puṟanāṉūṟu a wife arrived to the battlefield lamenting the death of her warrior-husband, who was no longer able to join to his comrades’ mirth (il ̣aiyar til ̣aippa/nakāal eṉa vantamāre ̄), so she persuades the dead to speak (kūṟu niṉ uraiye ̄), whether she should run to his relatives (kiḷaiyuḷ oyvalō) since she became a widow.28 In the 368th poem of the Puṟanāṉūṟu, the king appears like a farmer29 having his sword as a plough (vāḷ e ̄r uḻava) heaping up the men into straw bales (āl ̣ aḻippaṭut ̣ṭa), so that the poets cannot get their gifts (here horses and elephants) in exchange for their songs, since the elephants laid dead like mountains, and the horses fell down like the ships without wind in the huge flood of blood.30 The murderous king and a very similar flood simile appear in the 49th poem of the Patiṟṟuppattu: The many great desolations, which were created [by the king], so that heaps of corpses arose and the blood from the vital spots of warriors of bloody, red hands, rolls since it has overflown the pits, similarly to the stream of a rainy day, spreading and rushing on the fields.31

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We may not need to quote more from the numerous poems about the devastation of war during which, as we have seen, great warriors lost their lives, but it is necessary to talk about what we have not yet touched upon, the death of kings. In the 56th poem of the Patiṟṟuppattu, we see the victorious Cēra “king dancing on the battlefield where [other] kings, who got enraged because of their huge ignorance, marched up [against him] and fell, their lives lost, leaving [their] bodies behind.”32 In the Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu’s 62nd poem written by Kaḻāttalaiyār, we see how both the Cēra and the Cōḻa kings died together on the battlefield: “ [In] a highly virtuous and valorous battle, [both] kings perished, their parasols drooped and their superior royal drums, which excel in fame, became silent.”33 The death of coward kings can be seen in the 93rd poem of Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu written by the famous poetess, Auvaiyār. Here the kings were killed by the army of a chieftain called Atiyamāṉ Net ̣umāṉ Añci, as we read “those, who came [to fight] could not even endure the van [of your army], so they, the escaping coward kings, scattered and died.”34 Later we see the high priests (mutalvar) of the four Vedas whose doctrines abound in virtues (aṟam puri koḷkai na ̄ṉmaṟai), who embraced the bodies and laid them on the grassy ground, cut their bodies into pieces and buried them pretending that they died a heroic death, while saying, “go [to that] place, where warriors with bright anklets go, who fell in good battles, so that their valour became [immortalized in] pillars!”35 This quotation of the song might be a faint imitation of the Ṛgveda line from the famous funerary hymn for Yama: “Go forth, go forth on the ancient paths on which our forefathers departed!”36 Even so, we see another parallel image, when Yama was invited to sit down on the grass while the poet, who carried him there to the funeral, had to sing funerary songs,37 which reminds us of what we read in the Tamil poem: “those who are [wearing] cord [on their] body and spreading the green grass, laid down [the bodies].”38 It is interesting to entertain the idea of whether the Tamil poetess had an insight into Vedic rituals.39 In fact, the sin of these kings was that they did not fight until death in the murderous battle, but ran away and were deadly wounded on their backs. To liberate them from the disgrace, the priests cut them and provided them with a burial worthy for heroes. The rhetorical question taken by the poetess is, whether in this way “they have escaped [from their sins]” (uyntaṉarmāto ̄). Regarding the “real hero” Atiyamāṉ Net ̣umāṉ Añci, he received a grievous wound (viḻuppuṇ) in a duel with a war-elephant, which was indeed an honourable mark worthy for a warrior.

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If we look at other poems talking about the death of chieftains we can arrange the data into schematic literary trends. To give a few examples, the chieftain Evvi was killed on the battlefield, so the bards put down their harps (ya ̄ḻ);40 the chieftain Ā y Eyiṉaṉ, son of Veḷiyaṉ, who was famous for his charity was killed on the field of Pāḻi when fighting against Miñili41; the liberal chieftain called Pāri was murdered when the armies of the three crowned kings attacked his country;42 and Atiyamāṉ Net ̣umāṉ Añci was also killed on the battlefield by spears.43 To conclude, all the memorable kings and chieftains of the Tamil heroic poetry happened to die a heroic death in battles, except for a few cases when the king went to the forest and became a hermit,44 or starved to death for various reasons.45 All these cases were glorious enough for the establishment of memorials, as we will see later in the chapter. In contrast those kings and chiefs, who surrendered or fled from battle, got a wound on their back, whose tutelary tree had been cut off,46 who were not generous to others and did not shower gifts, or committed sinful acts, did not deserve to be praised, their doubtful heroic memories were not worthy enough to be preserved, and they were definitely unworthy of heroic monuments to be erected for them.

The Promises of the Upper Sphere According to the poets of the Caṅkam literature, the heroes who die in battle will reach the upper world47 (vāṉ, vāṉam; uyar nilai ulakam; arum peṟal ulakam; tuṟakkam; etc.), which has been already “obtained by the ancestors who have unchanging strength and unfailing good fame,” as Māmūlaṉār sang.48 However, it was not just those warriors who obtained heaven, who won the battle, but also the defeated ones, as we see in several poems where the king’s army sent the enemies to the upper world,49 and perhaps also the people who had established good fame on earth.50 The reward for those who do not turn back in battle, is similar to the Northern tradition, as mentioned in the 89th verse of the seventh book of the Mānavadharmas ́a ̄stra: “when kings fight each other in battles with all their strength, seeking to kill each other and refusing to turn back, they go to heaven.”51 The upper world was not only inhabited by famous ancestors but also by deities like Māyōṉ, Koṟṟavai, and Murukaṉ, amongst others, and celestial damsels, who lived there in constant happiness.52 One among the deities, Kūṟṟu, the God of Death, seems to be the only one who lives on Earth, because his divine duty was to collect his victims in the material

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world. The poems, which have the pu ̄vai nilai (bilberry flower-theme) as a dominant theme,53 enumerate the qualities shared by the king and the deities (in most of the cases comparing with Kūṟṟu), the comparison of which was, according to Kailasapathy not empty, since “the bards began to compare the kings to gods” as “the highest form of encomium.”54 We should emphasise that despite the feeling that the conception of heroic heaven might have been original among the Dravidians, we are still not always able to distinguish the different religious and cultural layers and borrowings in the texts, since the reconstruction of the chronology of Caṅkam texts is almost impossible and the only well-functioning tool is philology. Nonetheless, it should not be surprising to find rudimentary brāhmaṇical ideas and certain Indo-Aryan terms in the Tamil poems even around the early centuries of Christian Era, since the ancient tenets of the Vedas were already represented by different groups all over the subcontinent in varying degrees. We can see certain Northern impacts, for instance the role of a heavenly chariot (Skt. vāhana; Tam. vāṉa u ̄rti) without driver, which helps the hero to reach the upper sphere. They say, that those who were praised by the singing learned bards, reach [heaven] on a heavenly vehicle not commanded by a celestial charioteer, after they accomplished their works to be done.55

And the same idea in Kālidāsa’s Raghuvaṁ s ́a: A certain warrior having his head severed off by his adversary’s sword instantly became the master of a celestial car, and with a heavenly nymph clung to his left side beheld his own headless trunk dancing about on the battle-field.56

The idea might have originated in the Maha ̄bha ̄rata, in which we read about Sudeva, the commander of Ambarı ̄ṣa’s army, who was sitting in a vima ̄na, which was ascending to other worlds and rising above his king, after dying a heroic death on the battlefield.57 Although it is outside the scope of my current study, the comparison of puṟam poems with the Maha ̄bhārata would be excessively fruitful for further studies because of the remarkable number of similarities. As another otherworldly option, we must mention reincarnation, which was again either a mindset of the ancient Tamils which emerged independently from the North, or as Hart states, an adaptation of Aryan ideas in

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the South.58 Overall, the idea of reincarnation does not seem to be universally accepted in old Tamil societies, although it was present and became widespread from the Middle Ages. Nonetheless, we find references to reincarnation among the ancient poems, for instance the poet Ammuvaṉār sang the following sorrowful line: “I don’t fear dying, I fear, if I die, if birth becomes another, will I forget that he [is] my lover?”59 On the contrary, we read the critique of reincarnation in the 134th verse of the Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu written by Uṟaiyūr Ē ṇiccēri Muṭamōciyār about the chieftain called Ā y Aṇt ̣iraṉ: Ā y is not a trader for the reward of virtue, saying that which you have done in this birth is for the next life. The path on which other worthy men used to walk, as they say, became [the path for] his hands’ generosity.60

Be that as it may, the heroic death meant the liberation from the ancient cycle; so once the monarch died in a glorious way, it was generally believed that he departed to the upper world, which was inhabited by his ancestors, and when it happened, it was time to prepare and perform the funerary rites and to establish his long-lasting fame on earth.

Funerals of the Kings In the Caṅkam texts we see two regular funerary customs: cremation and urn-burial. The funerals took place at the designated places, which were found in the wilderness, near the battlefield, at the crossroads, or around other deserted places. These cremation fields and burial grounds were considered as fierce and dangerous areas, where owls were hooting, vultures were hunting, jackals were howling, demons were dancing and eating the corpses, and an invisible and unpredictable power called aṇaṅku was potentially present. The 238th poem of the Puṟana ̄ṉūṟu speaks about the different birds of prey (ceñce ̄val, pokuval), crows (ka ̄kkai), owls (kūkai), and demonesses with their attendants (pe ̄ey āyamo ̄ṭu) around the red burial urn (centāḻi) in the burial ground (kāṭu). The 364th poem also mentions the great burial ground (perum kāṭu),61 where innumerable burial urns (a ̄na ̄ ta ̄ḻiya) can be found and an owl hoots in a fast manner (katum eṉa iyampum ku ̄kaikkōḻi).62 The poetess Auvaiyār sang the following lines in the 231st poem of the Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu:

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If the bright fire of the pyre with charred fuel, which is like the wooden pieces of the hillman’s field cleared [by fire], approaches [his body], let it approach! [However,] if [the fire] did not approach [his body] and [he] went and rose to reach to sky, let [him] rise! The fame of the man will not die, who was like the bright sun and whose parasol was like the moon with cool rays.63

There is a possibility that the meaning behind the lines is the dilemma, whether the king has to be burnt or buried, as we see in another poem: “The head of the man who desired esteem, either let it be left or burnt, let it happen [according to] the way [it has to] happen!”64 Once the urn-burial was chosen, it was the duty of the local potter to create a large urn (ta ̄ḻi), which was able to receive the body or the remains of the dead. In case of the king’s death, the poet Aiyūr Muṭavaṉār asks the master of the pots (kalam cey kō): “Are you able to form [your urn, using] the big world as the wheel and the Great Hill65 as the clay?”66 We see references in the Caṅkam corpus, when the king was burnt on a pyre,67 which sometimes integrated the story of the queen who stepped on her husband’s pyre and committed a ritual suicide or satı ̄, but it is extremely difficult to determine the nature and the origin of these literary motifs, because at first glance they do not seem to be original, but were more likely patterns from Indo-Aryan literatures.

Memorial Stones for the Heroes When a hero died in ancient Tamiḻakam, his memory deserved a worthy funeral (burial or cremation) and the erection of his memorial stone, of which a qualified case would be the heroic death of the monarch. According to K. Rajan, in the first stage of the memorials, Iron Age graves (patukkai) were raised for the people who were killed by warlike tribes (maṟavars, ka ̄ṉavars) by charging arrows, of which patukkai was most probably a stone heap (kaṟkuvai) or a cairn.68 The second stage was, when Iron Age graves were raised, and menhirs (nat ̣ukal) were erected for those who died in cattle raids, but as we will see, not just for them but also for other warriors and kings, although the literary and archaeological evidence is very limited. Rajan identifies a third stage, when only the menhir (nat ̣ukal) was raised in memory of the heroes and the grave seems to have been abandoned,69 and a fourth stage when we see the reduced size of the menhir

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reaching the level of later hero stones.70 Archaeologists have already discovered Iron Age edifices (13th c.–5th c. B.C.), hero stones with inscriptions, but without sculptural representation (4th c. B.C.–5th c. A.D.), hero stones with Tamil-Brāhmı ̄ script (the earliest are from the 4th c. B.C.)71 and hero stones with inscriptions and sculptural representations (from the 5th c.–16th–17th c. A.D.).72 But what can we find in the literary works? The Aiṅkuṟunūṟu’s 352nd poem mentions the inscribed memorial stones of those who died from the arrows of maṟavars73 (maṟavar vil iṭa tolainto ̄r eḻutt’ uṭai nat ̣ukal), similar to the 53rd poem of the Akanāṉu ̄ṟu, where we find the same formulaic pattern with almost the same words (maṟavar vil iṭa viḻntōr eḻutt’ uṭai nat ̣ukal). Nōy Pāt ̣iyār, the author of the 67th Akam provided more details: The shields and the implanted spears looked like another frontline around the towering memorial stones, which were adorned with peacock feathers at all the paths, having carved the names and the proud [acts] of [those] modest warriors who overcame in good battles.74

Among the ancient love (akam) poems, many of the poets refer to the memorial stones, for example to the well-standing, imprinted stones (nal nilai poṟitta kal),75 to erected stones (nāt ̣ṭiya kal),76 to the names on the fierce ancient memorial stones (pe ̄em mutir nat ̣ukal peyar),77 to the naturally standing tall stones, which look like they are planted, where many names have been carved on the vast surfaces.78 Other referrals are to the neglected, hard memorial stones with parched and broken top, having withered garlands and shabby writings made by sharp chisels,79 to the memorial stones standing in rows (nirai nilai naṭukal), which were erected for those modest warriors, whose good fame has been established, who were crowded and killing in the difficult battle,80 or the memorial stone at the difficult path, which was ruined by a forest elephant thinking that it was a man.81 The heroic puṟam literature provides a more specific picture about the rituals around the memorial stones. The 232nd poem of the Puṟana ̄ṉūṟu refers to the memorial stones adorned with peacock feathers (pı ̄li), where fibre-filtered palm wine (na ̄r ari) used to be offered.82 In another, the 260th poem mentions the names (peyar) on the surface, the decorative feathers of a bashful peacock (maṭañcāl maññai aṇi mayir), which has

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been used as adornment and the shady pavilion (pantar) above the stone.83 The 263rd poem gives the advice that one should refrain him/herself from not bowing down, when going near the memorial stone of the man, who seized and brought many cattle from the enemies.84 The 264th poem tells about a stone erected by people (naṭṭaṉar) on a mound (patukkai) of a gravelly site (paral uṭai maruṅkil), on which the names were carved (peyar poṟitta), which was adorned by decorative peacock feathers (aṇi mayil pı ̄li cūt ̣ṭi), together with garlands of red flowers (cem pu ̄ṅ kaṇṇiyoṭu) with the picked leaves of bowstring hemp (maral vakuntu toṭutta).85 The hero hereby performed the same heroic act, which we have seen before, when he seized cattle with calves, but also chased away his enemies.86 In the 306th poem, the young woman with sprouting, tender tresses and a shiny forehead (oli meṉ kūntal oḷ nutal arivai) was praising the memorial stone with joined hands without a break (naṭukal kai toḻutu paravum oṭiya ̄tu).87 The 329th poem refers to the little village, where liquor was brewed in the houses (il at ̣u kaḷl ̣iṉ cil kut ̣i cı ̄ṟu ̄r), and to the memorial stones nearby, where daily sacrificial offerings (nāḷ pali ūṭṭi) were given, which were washed with good water (naṉṉı ̄r a ̄ṭṭi), where butter-lamps were lit for the sake of incense (neyynaṟai koḷı ̄i). The author of the somewhat later Malaipat ̣ukaṭām refers to the sweet-sounding music of the bards (iṉ puṟu muraṟkai num pa ̄ṭt ̣u), which used to be performed around the erected stones with names.88 The Puṟana ̄ṉūṟu’s 335th poem states that there are no other gods than the glorious memorial stones of the heroes who stopped the enemies and killed their elephants, on which stones the paddy was scattered.89 The 314th poem mentions a wasteland (parantalai), which is densely crowded with memorial stones (piṟaṅkiya naṭukal), covered with dried leaves (ival it ̣u).90 Another text, the Pat ̣ṭiṉappa ̄lai refers to the memorial stones, surrounded with swords/ spears and shields, as a part of a simile.91 Among the subdivisions of the “literary setting” veṭci, the Tolkāppiyam Porul ̣atika ̄ram Puṟattiṇaiyiyal gives six themes on the erection and the function of memorial stones: kāt ̣ci: the selection of a particular stone for worship; kalkōl ̣: the process of taking the stone; nı ̄rppat ̣ai: pouring water on the stone; nat ̣utal: installing the stone; cı ̄rttaku marapiṉ perumpaṭai: accomplish the great offering according to the superior tradition92; and vāḻttu: praising the stone.93 As we have seen, there was a widespread tradition of the establishment of memorials for the heroes in ancient Tamiḻakam, so this investigation turns to what monuments were erected to the kings.

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The Memory of the King in the Caṅkam Literature

We read in the 221st poem of the Puṟanaṉ̄ uṟ̄ u that the king as the protector (puravalaṉ), who performed noble, memorable acts including liberal donations, ruling with a straight sceptre, sheltering the high persons of the Vedas, and so forth, turned into a memorial stone (natụ kal aȳ iṉaṉ), because of the ignorant God of Death (niṉaiya ̄ Kuṟ̄ ṟam), who seized his sweet life (iṉ uyir uyttaṉṟu) without considering his qualities.94 The king, who turned into a memorial stone, was Kōpperuñcōḻaṉ, whose story we vaguely know from other poems: it appears that his sons rebelled against him so that he chose to sit down facing the North and died in this manner. This custom could be introduced under the influence of a Jaina religious practice of voluntarily fasting to death (sallekhana)̄ . According to Māmūlaṉār and Veṇṇikkuyattiyār, there is another king, who chose the same way to die, a Cēra king, who received a shameful wound on his back from Karikāl Vaḷavaṉ on the battlefield of Veṇṇi, so the king starved himself to death, whilst sitting and facing the North.95 We see the king’s loyal people with their old friendship (tol nat̄ p̣ utạ iyar̄ ) in the Puṟanaṉ̄ uṟ̄ u’s 223rd poem, who decided to follow the king to death, so they also turned into lasting memorial stones (nilai peṟu natụ kal ak̄ iya).96 In the 261st poem we see the young hero who became a memorial stone and we see his suffering widow with shaved head (maḻi talaiyotụ ), although the hero here was a generous village elder (kiḻar̄ ) and not a king.97 In the 265th poem we read about another unknown ruler who turned into stone (kal aȳ iṉaiye ̄).98 These seem to be so far all the references we could extract from the Caṅkam corpus on memorial stones of the monarchs and chiefs, although it seems clear that the heroes, the heroic warriors, the cattle-­raiders, the chiefs, and the kings, who died in battle or passed away in a honourable manner, were worthy for a memorial monument.99 After the king’s death, the widowed queen either chose the sorrowful life of widows or stepped on to the pyre of her beloved, but either way she reached a turning point in her life. Again we cannot be sure whether these details are the projections of the author’s fantasy, memories of real historical events, or literary loans of Northern ideas. Whatever it is, the 246th poem of the Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu suggests that some of the noble warriors intended to force a queen, namely Peruṅkōppeṇt ̣u, the wife of Pūta Pāṇt ̣iyaṉ, to adopt the life of widows sleeping on the bed of pebbles and following an ascetic lifestyle. Even the opening lines are suggestive, “Many

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warriors, o many warriors! You do not let me go, but forbid me to die, o intriguing wicked warriors!”,100 but finally the queen, who was the author of the poem, proclaimed her courageous determination, addressed to the cunning men around the court, as she sang: “the black twigs of the funeral pyre, which were piled up at the burning ground, might be difficult for you, but for me, since my husband with big shoulders passed away, […] the pond and the fire are all the same.”101 The Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu preserved the last episode of the life of Peruṅkōppeṇt ̣u in the 247th poem, when the poet, as an eye-witness, saw the queen entering the funeral pyre of her husband. In the 240th poem the chieftain Ā y Ā ṇt ̣iraṉ has reached the world of the celestials together with his woman102 (makal ̣irot ̣u … me ̄lōr ulakam eytiṉaṉ),103 when he was burnt on a pyre so that the poets headed for other countries. In fact when the king died, his queen had only two choices, either agree with her bitter destiny or step on her husband’s pyre. In the opposite case of the queen’s death, this unfortunate destiny had no effect on the widowed king. As we see in the Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu’s 245th poem, beyond the Cēra king’s terrible pain, there were no social restrictions, so he retained his political role and importance. In the case of the queen, her life in the royal dynasty hung between two threads, which started with the wedding ceremony and ended with death, either of the king or of her. As a queen, she was the source of life and the base of the dynasty’s continuity: generally her and women’s wombs were like a “rock shelter” for the tiger-­ like soldiers,104 but once the king died, she lost her previous significance together with her royal rights and became an ordinary widow who had to begin her bitter penance. At the end of our chapter, we may conclude that the memorialising process of the ancient Tamils had different techniques and layers through the centuries. First of all, the ancient heroic literature was not only a means to praise the great warriors but to keep them alive through their glorious memories mixed with a great quantity of literary topoi. Once the ancient literature of the Tamils has been edited and formed into a canon in the early Middle Ages, this canon was continuously studied (with more or less intensity), copied, and preserved through the ages, which meant to be the next step of memorialising. I strongly believe that the puṟam literature became sensu lato a memory space (lieu de mémoire) in which the poems were quasi-symbolic memorials for the heroes. Following the criteria of Pierre Nora on lieux de mémoire,105 the Tamil heroic literature was able to crystallise and conceal the memory of the ancient heroes; it used a clear

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literary language full of symbolic patterns, but later itself became symbolic as a literary treasury of the ancient heydays; was functional as an initially oral, later semi-oral and court-poetry which was preserved by the Tamils through the millennia; and is material as a written canon, which has stood the test of time and survived the ages on palm-leaf manuscripts. Adding the fact that Old Tamil literature is our only indigenous textual source for the reconstruction of the early history of Tamiḻakam (except for the very sporadic inscriptions), we have the impression that the Tamils themselves looked upon the old literature as an imaginary locus memoriae, as a vast material of their collective memory, which became a part of their collective identity. Reading the texts of Old Tamil literature, we have the feeling that the poets intended to sing the universal and the eternal when they praised the fabulous acts and the memory of the heroes (hiding the unpleasant), rather than reflect to the fragile/fragmented history which appears in the texts sporadically and indirectly with a secondary importance. The puṟam literature as well as the erected memorials both could be identified as the bearers of the collective memory and seem to serve the dual purpose of remembering and reminding. Remembering, and in this sense praising the kings and the heroes as the protectors of the society by means of the “panegyric ritual”106 as a social mechanism, and the establishment of their memorials together with its rites, and reminding the society to the principles that heroes have designated with their lives, and to the heroic acts that could illuminate the unexperienced past. The literary references on the erection of memorials together with the more abundant archaeological findings show the strong efforts of contemporaries to take the worthy members of the old societies with them into their “progressive present.” The old heroic literature, which was delightful and entertaining, indirectly recorded moral and social duties of heroes, highlighted symbolic events, fabulous memories, and retouched historical records and was no doubt a guarantee of the legitimate survival of clans and of the stable functioning of societies. Thus, the memory of the monarch was part of a larger conglomeration called the memory of the heroes, which was reflected in the flattering court poetry of the ancient Tamils, which secured the livelihood of the poets, gave icons and stories to the societies, and as a symbolic memorial preserved the glory of the monarchs so that they obtained the long-lasting earthly fame as the Cēra king did, who “lived in the mouths of learned poets with uttering tongues, after his good fame shining from afar has been established” (ce ̄ṇ viḷaṅku nal icai niṟı ̄i nā navil pulavar vāy uḷa ̄ṉe ̄).107

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Notes 1. Jan Assmann, Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance and Political Imagination (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011), 19. On the following pages, the recent English translation of the original work [Jan Assmann, Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen (München: Verlag C.H. Beck, 1997)] has been cited. 2. Assmann, Cultural Memory and Early Civilization, 19. 3. George L.  Hart, The Poems of Ancient Tamil: Their Milieu and their Sanskrit Counterparts (Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1975), 13–21, 21–51, 82–86, 86–93. 4. K. Rajan, “Life After Death: From Mortal Remains to Monuments,” in Mapping the Chronology of Bhakti: Milestones, Stepping Stones, and Stumbling Stones: Proceedings of a workshop held in honour of Pandit R.  Varadadesikan, ed. Valérie Gillet (Pondichéry: Institut Français de Pondichéry/École française d’Extrême-Orient, 2014), 221–239; K.  Rajan, South Indian memorial stones (Thanjavur: Manoo Pathippakam, 2000). 5. K. Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968). ́ gam Polity: The Administration 6. For example, see N. Subrahmanian, Saṅ ́ gam Tamils (Madurai: Ennes Publications, and Social Life of the Saṅ 1980), 321–322. Xavier S.  Thani Nayagam, Landscape and Poetry: A Study of Nature in Classical Tamil Poetry (Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1966), 64. M.  E. M.  Pillai, Culture of the Ancient Cheras: A Treatise on Cultural Reconstruction (Kovilpatti: Vijayalakshmi Printers, 1970), 41; 94; 170–171. 7. Eva Wilden, Manuscript, Print and Memory: Relics of the Caṅkam in Tamilnadu (Berlin/München/Boston: De Gruyter, 2014), 6. The dating of the Caṅkam literature is still the subject of disagreement; for example it might be enough to mention Herman Tieken’s much-debated theory, which dates Caṅkam literature to the Middle Ages (8th–9th c. A.D.). See Herman Tieken, “Old Tamil Caṅkam literature and the socalled Caṅkam period,” The Indian Economic & Social History Review 40 (2003): 247–278. 8. Wilden, Manuscript, Print and Memory, 1. 9. The Cēra, Cōḻa, and Pāṇtị ya rulers have been mentioned not just in literary works, but on Tamil inscriptions and also in other, non-Tamil sources, for example the fragments of Megasthenes, the edicts of Aśoka (II. and XIII.), the Mahābhar̄ ata, the Hāthigumphā inscription of Khāravela, Strabo, Pliny the Elder, the Periplus Maris Erythraei, and the geographical work of Ptolemy. For further details, see K.A. Nilakanta Sastri, Foreign

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Notices of South India: From Megasthenes to Ma Huan (Madras: University of Madras, 1939). 10. Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 73. 11. Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 5. 12. Tolka ̄ppiyam is known as the ancient grammarly (ilakkaṇam) sister-­ tradition of the literary (ilakkiyam) corpus, which is divided into three books: (1) the phonology and the accidence (Eḻuttatikāram), (2) the morphology and the semantics (Collatikar̄ am), (3) the literary compositions, their subject-matter, and the literary conventions regarding the form and the content (Porul ̣atika ̄ram). Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 49; Tolka ̄ppiyam Porulạ tikāram: An English Translation with Critical Notes, trans. L.  Gloria Sundramathy and Indra Manuel. (Thiruvananthapuram: International School of Dravidian Linguistics, 2010); Tolkāppiyam Poruḷatikāram Akattiṇaiyiyal cū. 57–58. (cited by Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 5). 13. Alexander Dubiansky, “Royal Attributes as Reflected in “Caṅkam” Poetry,” Cracow Indological Studies 15 (2013): 308. 14. Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 77. 15. In the collection of Ten Idylls (Pattuppātṭ ụ ) there are certain texts called a ̄ṟṟuppat ̣ai songs, which have the literary program to guide poets, dancers, artists, and suppliants to the liberal donors of Tamiḻakam. Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 35–48. 16. Ganapathy Subbiah, The Roots of Tamil Religious Thoughts. (Pondicherry: Pondicherry Institute of Linguistics and Culture, 1991), 133. 17. The noun caṉ̄ ṟo ̄ṉ can be derived from the verb cāl-tal, which means to be abundant, full, or extensive; to excel in moral worth; to be great or noble; to be suitable or fitting; or to be finished or exhausted. Tamil Lexicon, vol. 3, part 1 (Madras: University of Madras, 1928), 1389. 18. Kamil Zvelebil, The Smile of Murugan: On Tamil Literature of South India (Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1973), 17. 19. Tamil Lexicon, vol. 3, part 1, 1397. 20. Not in the case of Iḷaveḷimāṉ, who was a famous tightwad, see Puṟanāṉūṟu, 162. 21. For further details, see Subbiah, The Roots of Tamil Religious Thoughts, 133–158. 22. Dubiansky, “Royal Attributes as Reflected in “Caṅkam” Poetry,” 308. 23. ‘… vı ̄ya ̄tu/ut ̣ampotụ niṉṟa uyirum illai/matạ ṅkal uṇmai ma ̄yamo ̄ aṉṟe.’̄ Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 363: 7–9. Cf. the end of the 366th puṟam written by Kōtamaṉār: Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 366: 23. 24. The idea was probably the effect of certain Buddhist/Jaina tenets, propagating the instability (nillāmai) of life. 25. Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 192: 4.

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26. ‘narampu eḻuntu ulaṟiya nirampa ̄ meṉto ̄l/̣ muḷari maruṅkiṉ mutiyōl ̣ ciṟuvaṉ/pat ̣ai aḻintu māṟiṉaṉ eṉṟu palar kuṟ̄ a/maṇtụ /amarkku ut ̣aintaṉaṉ āyiṉ uṇt ̣a eṉ/mulai aṟuttitụ veṉ yāṉ eṉa ciṉaii/koṇtạ vāl ̣ot ̣u paṭu piṇam peyarā/ceṅkaḷam tuḻavuvōḷ citaintu veṟa ̄ k̄ iya/paṭumakaṉ kit ̣akkai kan̄ ̣u ̄u/ı ̄ṉṟa ñāṉṟiṉum peritu uvantaṉaḷe ̄.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 278. 27. ‘uyir tiṟai peyara nal amar kaṭanta/taṟukaṇ a ̄lạ r taḻı ̄i teṟuvara/cem cevi eruvai añcuvara irukkum/kal atar kavalai.’ Akanaṉ̄ ūṟu, 77: 9–12. 28. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 253: 1–6. 29. Eva Wilden, “Agricultural Metaphors in Sangam Literature,” in Pandanus ’06, Nature in Literature and Ritual, ed. Jaroslav Vacek (Prague: Triton, 2006), 191–209. 30. Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 368: 1–18. 31. ‘neytto ̄r toṭtạ ceṅkai maṟavar/niṟam patụ kuruti nilam paṭarnt’ ōtị / maḻai nāḷ puṉaliṉ aval parant’ oḻuka/paṭu piṇam piṟaṅka pāḻ pala ceytu.’ Patiṟṟuppattu, 49: 10–13. 32. ‘maṭam perumaiyiṉ ut ̣aṉṟu mel̄ vanta/ventu ̄ mey maṟanta va ̄ḻcci/vı ̄nt’ uku pōrkkalạ tt’ ātụ m kōve.’̄ Patiṟṟuppattu, 56: 6–8. 33. ‘aṟattiṉ maṇtị ya maṟappo ̄r ventar/ta ̄ ̄m ma ̄yntaṉare ̄ kut ̣ai tulạ ṅkiṉave/̄ urai ca ̄l ciṟappiṉ muraicu oḻintaṉave.’̄ Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 62: 7–9. Although the literary theme of the simultaneous death of both kings can be found among the subdivisions of the tumpai tiṇai in the Tolkāppiyam (iruvar talaivar taputi pakkamum. Tolkāppiyam Poruḷatikāram Puṟattiṇaiyiyal cū. 14: 5.), it is difficult to deal whether the description was a memory of a real event (as suggested by the proper names found in the probably later colophon) or just a part of literary program. 34. ‘… vantōr/tār ta ̄ṅkutalum a ̄ṟṟār vet ̣ipat ̣tụ /o ̄t ̣al marı ̄iya pı ̄ṭu il maṉṉar.’ Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 93: 2–3. 35. ‘maṟam kant’ āka nal amar vı ̄ḻnta/nı ̄ḷ kaḻal maṟavar celvuḻi celka.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 93: 9–10. 36. ‘prehi prehi pathibhiḥ pur̄ vyebhir yatrā naḥ pu ̄rve pitaraḥ pareyuḥ.’ Ṛgveda, X.14.7. The Rigveda: the earliest religious poetry of India, trans. Stephanie W.  Jamison and Joel P.  Brereton (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014), 1392. 37. “This strewn grass here, Yama—just sit here on it, in concord with the Aṅgirases, our forefathers. Let mantras pronounced by poets convey you hither. Become exhilarated on this oblation, o king.” ‘(imaṃ yama prastarama ̄ hi sı ̄dāṅghirobhiḥ pitṛbhiḥsaṃ vidānaḥ/ā tva ̄ mantrāḥ kavisastā ́ vahantvenā ra ̄janhavis ̣a ̄ ma ̄dayasva).’ Rgveda, X.14. 4. The Rigveda, 1391. 38. ‘tiṟam puri pacum pul parappiṉar kitạ ppi.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 93: 8. 39. Hart suggests that the costume of laying the bodies on grass is similar to Indo-Aryan rituals (Hart, The Poems of Ancient Tamil, 85), but since he

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refers only the above-cited poem from the Caṅkam corpus and we cannot find other reference on this rite, we believe that the poem refers to a custom performed by Vedic priests of South India. 40. Akanāṉu ̄ṟu, 115. Cf. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 233, on the death of Evvi. 41. Akana ̄ṉūṟu, 208. 42. Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 112, 113. 43. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 235. 44. For example, Patiṟṟuppattu 3. patikam: 10. 45. Akanāṉūṟu, 55; Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 66. 46. The “tutelary tree” (kat ̣imaram) was an important symbol of royalty at the time of Caṅkam literature, which tree had a deeper connection with the king’s life, “presumably the tree itself was believed to contain and to protect the king’s life energy.” Dubiansky, “Royal Attributes as Reflected in “Caṅkam” Poetry,” 318. 47. Hart uses the word “Valhalla” as a quasi-synonym and an attempt to define the general function of the ancient Tamil heaven-conception (Hart, The Poems of Ancient Tamil, 41), although we consider it as an odd simplification. 48. ‘māṟā maintiṉ tuṟakkam eytiya toyyā nal icai mutiyar.’ Akana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 233: 6–7. 49. Patiṟṟuppattu, 52: 8–9; Akana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 338: 16–17. 50. “Except those, who possess fame here [on earth], there is no abode [for others] in the higher world.” (ivaṇ icai ut ̣aiyōrkku allatu avaṇ atu uyar nilai ulakattu uṟaiyuḷ iṉmai). Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 50:14–15. 51. ‘a ̄haves ̣u mitho’nyonyaṁ jighāṁ santo mahı ̄kṣitaḥ/yudhyaman̄ a ̄ḥ paraṁ saktya ́ ̄ svargaṁ ya ̄ntyaparāṅmukhāḥ.’ Man̄ avadharmasá s̄ tra, VII. 89. Manu’s code of law: a critical edition and translation of the Ma ̄nava-­ Dharmas ́a ̄stra, ed. and trans. Patrick Olivelle. (Oxford/New York: Oxford University Press, 2005), 159. 52. Cf. Patiṟṟuppattu, 63: 13–14. 53. Tolka ̄ppiyam Porul ̣atikāram Puṟattiṇaiyiyal, cū. 63: 9–10. 54. Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 74. 55. ‘pulavar pat̄ ụ m pukaḻ utạ iyōr vicumpiṉ/valavaṉ e ̄vā vāṉa ur̄ ti/eytupa eṉpa tam cey viṉai muṭittu.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 27: 7–9. 56. ‘kas ́cidviṣatkhaḍgahṛtottama ̄ṅgaḥ/sadyo vimānaprabhutam ̄ upetya/va ̄ma ̄ ṅgasaṁ saktasuran̄ ̇ganaḥ svam/nṛtyatkabandham samare dadars ́a …’ The Raghuvamsá of Kālidāsa with the commentary (the Sañjı ̄vanı ̄) of Mallinātha. Cantos I—X, ed. and trans. M.  R. Kale (Bombay: Gopal Narayen & Co., 1922), VII, 51, 58. 57. ‘ambarı ̄ṣo hi na ̄bhaḡ aḥ svargaṃ gatvā sudurlabham/dadars ́a suralokasthaṃ sakreṇ ́ a sacivaṃ saha/sarvatejomayaṃ divyaṃ vimānavaram as̄ thitam/ upary upari gacchantaṃ svaṃ vai senap̄ atiṃ prabhum/sa dṛs ̣t ̣vopari

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gacchantaṃ sena ̄patim uda ̄radhı ̄ḥ/ṛddhiṃ dṛsṭ ṿ ā sudevasya vismitaḥ pra ̄ha vāsavam.’ Maha ̄bhar̄ ata, XII. 98. 3–5. 58. George L. Hart, “The Theory of Reincarnation among the Tamils,” in Karma and Rebirth in Classical Indian Traditions, ed. Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty (Berkeley; Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1980), 116. 59. ‘cat̄ al añceṉ̄ añcuval ca ̄viṉ/piṟappu piṟitu ak̄ uvatu āyiṉ/maṟakkuveṉkol eṉ ka ̄talaṉ eṉave.’̄ Naṟṟiṇai. A Critical Edition and an Annotated Translation of the Naṟṟiṇai., ed. and trans. Eva Wilden, 3 vols. (Pondichéry: École française d’Extrême/Chennai: Tamiḻmaṇ Patippakam, 2008), 2: 852, 397: 7–9. 60. ‘immai ceytatu maṟumaikku am ̄ eṉum/aṟavilai vaṇikaṉ a ̄ay allaṉ/ piṟarum cāṉṟōr ceṉṟa neṟiyeṉa/a ̄ṅku pat ̣tạ ṉṟu avaṉ kaivaṇmaiye ̄.’ Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 34. To add to this that in the Caṅkam literature references to karma are encountered; for instance the term ‘nal-viṉai’ in Naṟṟiṇai, 107: 8 can be interpreted as karma. 61. The primary meaning of peru-ṅ-ka ̄tụ is “great wilderness,” but here it refers to the burning-ground as a synonym of cuṭukātụ . Tamil Lexicon, vol. 5. 2871. 62. Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 364: 11–13. 63. ‘eṟi puṉa kuṟavaṉ kuṟaiyal aṉṉa/kari puṟa viṟakiṉ ı ̄mam oḷ aḻal/ kuṟukiṉum kuṟukuka kuṟukātu ceṉṟu/vicumpuṟa nı ̄lị ṉum nı ̄ḷka pacuṅkatir/tiṅkaḷ aṉṉa veṇkuṭai/oḷ ña ̄yiṟu aṉṉo ̄ṉ pukaḻ māyalave ̄.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 231. 64. ‘it ̣uka oṉṟo ̄ cut ̣uka oṉṟō/paṭu vaḻi paṭuka ippukaḻ veyyōṉ talaiye ̄.’ Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 239: 20–21. 65. According to Tamil Lexicon, which refers to Piṅkalam: peru-malai is equivalent to Mount Meru, the centre of the created world in the Hindu cosmogony. Tamil Lexicon, vol. 5., 2881. 66. ‘iru nilam tikiriya ̄ perumalai/maṇṇa ̄ vaṉaital ollumo ̄ niṉakke.’̄ Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 228: 14–15. On urn-burial, see Rajan, South Indian memorial stones, 9–23. 67. Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 221, 231, 245, 246, 247, 250, 363. 68. Rajan, “Life after Death: From Mortal Remains to Monuments,” 223. 69. Rajan, “Life after Death: From Mortal Remains to Monuments,” 225. 70. Rajan, “Life after Death: From Mortal Remains to Monuments,” 226. 71. The stones were found at Pulimāṉkompai in Ā ṇt ̣ipat ̣tị taluk, Tēṉi district of Tamil Nadu. The most complete inscribed stone has three lines: kal peṭu ̄ tı ̄yaṉ antavaṉ kūtạ l ūr āko ̄ḷ, which means according to K. Rajan’s interpretation: “this hero stone [is raised to] a man called tı ̄yaṉ antavaṉ

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of pe ̄ṭu [village who died in] cattle raid of kut̄ ạ l ūr.” Rajan, “Life after Death: From Mortal Remains to Monuments,” 228. 72. Rajan, “Life after Death: From Mortal Remains to Monuments,” 221–222. 73. The term maṟavar can either mean the inhabitants and hunters of hilly tracts or warriors. Tamil Lexicon, vol. 5, 3119. 74. ‘nal amar kat ̣anta nāṇuṭai maṟavar/peyarum pı ̄ṭum eḻuti atartoṟum/pı ̄li cut̄ ̣t ̣iya piṟaṅku nilai naṭukal/vel̄ ūṉṟu palakai ve ̄ṟṟu muṉai katụ kkum.’ Akana ̄ṉūṟu, 67: 8–11. Cf. Akanāṉūṟu, 131: 10–13. 75. Akana ̄ṉūṟu, 179: 7–8. 76. Akana ̄ṉūṟu, 211: 15. 77. Akana ̄ṉūṟu, 297: 7–8. 78. ‘nat ̣ṭa po ̄lum nat ̣a ̄a netụ ṅkal/akal iṭam kuyiṉṟa pal peyar ….’ Akanaṉ̄ ūṟu, 269: 7–8. 79. ‘puṉtalai citaitta vaṉtalai natụ kal/kaṇṇi vat̄ ị ya maṇṇa ̄ maruṅkul/kūr ul ̣i kuyiṉṟa ko ̄tụ ma ̄y eḻuttu ….’ Akanāṉūṟu, 343: 5–7. 80. ‘… aruñcamam tataiya nuṟ̄ i/nal icai niṟutta nan̄ ̣ ut ̣ai maṟavar.’ Akana ̄ṉūṟu, 387: 13–14. 81. Akana ̄ṉūṟu, 365: 4–5. 82. Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 232: 3–4. 83. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 260: 25–28. 84. Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 263: 3; 5. 85. Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu, 264: 1–4. 86. ‘… kaṉṟoṭu/kaṟavai tantu pakaivar ōtṭ ị ya.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 264: 4–5. 87. Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 206: 3–4. 88. Malaipat ̣ukat ̣a ̄m, 387–395. 89. ‘oṉṉā tevvar muṉṉiṉṟu vilaṅki/oḷiṟu entu ̄ maruppiṉ kal ̣iṟu eṟintu vı ̄ḻnteṉa/ kalle ̄ paraviṉ allatu/nel ukuttu paravum katạ vuḷum ilave.’̄ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 335: 9–12. 90. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 314: 3. 91. ‘kit ̣uku niraittu eḥku uṉ̄ ṟi/natụ kalliṉ araṇ po ̄la.’ Pat ̣t ̣iṉappal̄ ai, 78–79. 92. According to the translation of L. Gloria Sundramathy and Indra Manuel, the line “cı ̄rttaku marapiṉ perumpat ̣ai” means “making the stone worthy of great offering by building a temple,” but also “engraving the merits of the hero on the stone or deifying the stone,” explanations which are based on Nacciṉārkkiṉiyar’s medieval commentaries; Tolkāppiyam Porul ̣atikāram Puṟattiṇaiyiyal, 66–70. 93. Tolka ̄ppiyam Porul ̣atika ̄ram Puṟattiṇaiyiyal, cū. 63: 19–20. 94. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 221: 1–13. 95. Akanāṉu ̄ṟu, 44. cf. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 66. 96. Cf. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 219. 97. Puṟanāṉūṟu, 261.

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98. Puṟana ̄ṉūṟu, 265: 5. 99. Kailasapathy, Tamil Heroic Poetry, 237. 100. ‘pal cāṉṟı ̄re ̄ pal ca ̄ṉṟı ̄re/celkeṉa ̄ colla ̄tu oḻikeṉa vilakkum/polla ̄ cūḻcci pal ca ̄ṉṟı ̄re ̄.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 246: 1–3. 101. ‘peruṅka ̄ṭṭu paṇṇiya karuṅko ̄tṭ ụ ı ̄mam/numakku aritu ākuka tilla emakku em/peruntōl ̣ kaṇavaṉ māynteṉa … /(…)/ … poykaiyum tı ̄yum o ̄raṟṟe ̄.’ Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 246: 11–15. 102. We cannot be sure that the text is talking about one wife, several wives, or other female attendants of the king, since the honorific plural was regularly used for singular and plural subject as well. 103. Puṟana ̄ṉu ̄ṟu, 240: 4–6. 104. ‘puli ce ̄rntu po ̄kiya kal aḷai po ̄la ı ̄ṉṟa vayiṟo ̄.’ Puṟanāṉūṟu, 86: 4–5. 105. Pierre Nora, “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire,” Representations 26 (1989): 18–19. 106. The term “panegyric ritual” was suggested by Alexander Dubyanskiy during our conversations. 107. Puṟanāṉūṟu 282: 10–11.

Bibliography Primary Sources Akanāṉu ̄ṟu. Patippu-āciriyak-kuḻuviṉar, edited by a team of scholars. Ceṉṉai: Es. Rājam, 1957. Maha ̄bha ̄rata. Critical edition. 19 volumes plus 6 volumes of indexes. Edited by Vishnu S. Sukthankar, S. K. Belvalkar, P. L. Vaidya, et al. Poona: Bhandarkar Oriental Research Institute, 1933–1972. “Malaipaṭukaṭām.” In Pattuppāt ̣t ̣u mul̄ amum uraiyum, edited by Po. Vē. 2 volumes. Cōmacuntaraṉār. Ceṉṉai: Kaḻakam, 1956. Manu’s Code of Law: A Critical Edition and Translation of the Man̄ ava-­ Dharmas ́āstra. Edited and translated by Patrick Olivelle. Oxford / New York: Oxford University Press, 2005. Naṟṟiṇai. A Critical Edition and an Annotated Translation of the Naṟṟiṇai. Edited and translated by Eva Wilden. 3 volumes. Pondichéry: École française d’Extrême / Chennai: Tamiḻmaṇ Patippakam, 2008. Patiṟṟuppattu paḻaiyavuraiyum. Edited by U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar. Ceṉṉapaṭtạ ṇam: Vaijayanti Accukkūtạ m, 1904. “Pat ̣ṭiṉappālai.” In Pattuppāt ̣tụ mu ̄lamum uraiyum, edited by Po.Vē. 2 volumes. Cōmacuntaraṉār. Ceṉṉai: Kaḻakam, 1956.

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Puṟanāṉu ̄ṟu mūlamum uraiyum. Edited by U. Vē. Cāminātaiyar. Vē.Tā. Ceṉṉai: Jūbili Accukkūt ̣am, 1923 (2nd edition). The Raghuvams ́a of Kālidas̄ a with the commentary (the Sañjı ̄vanı ̄) of Mallinat̄ ha. Cantos I—X. Edited and translated by M. R. Kale. 3rd edition. Bombay: Gopal Narayen & Co., 1922. The Rigveda: The Earliest Religious Poetry of India. Translated by Stephanie W. Jamison and Joel P. Brereton. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2014. Tolka ̄ppiyam Poruḷatikāram: An English Translation with Critical Notes. Translated by L.  Gloria Sundramathy and Indra Manuel. Thiruvananthapuram: International School of Dravidian Linguistics, 2010.

Secondary Sources Assmann, Jan. Cultural Memory and Early Civilization: Writing, Remembrance and Political Imagination. New York: Cambridge University Press, 2011. ———. Das kulturelle Gedächtnis: Schrift, Erinnerung und politische Identität in frühen Hochkulturen. München: Verlag C.H. Beck, 1997. Dubiansky, Alexander. “Royal Attributes as Reflected in “Caṅkam” Poetry.” Cracow Indological Studies 15 (2013): 307–324. Hart, George L. “The Theory of Reincarnation Among the Tamils.” in Karma and Rebirth in Classical Indian Traditions, edited by Wendy Doniger O’Flaherty, 116–133. Berkeley; Los Angeles, CA: University of California Press, 1980. ———. The Poems of Ancient Tamil: Their Milieu and their Sanskrit Counterparts. Berkeley, Los Angeles, London: University of California Press, 1975. Kailasapathy, K. Tamil Heroic Poetry. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1968. Nora, Pierre. “Between Memory and History: Les Lieux de Mémoire.” Representations 26 (1989): 7–24. Pillai, M. E. M. Culture of the Ancient Cheras: A Treatise on Cultural Reconstruction. Kovilpatti: Vijayalakshmi Printers, 1970. Rajan, K. South Indian Memorial Stones. Thanjavur: Manoo Pathippakam, 2000. ———. “Life after Death: From Mortal Remains to Monuments.” in Mapping the Chronology of Bhakti: Milestones, Stepping Stones, and Stumbling Stones; Proceedings of a workshop held in honour of Paṇḍit R. Varadadesikan, edited by Valérie Gillet. Pondicherry: Institut Français de Pondichéry / École française d’Extrême-Orient, 2014. Sastri, Nilakanta K.  A. Foreign Notices of South India: From Megasthenes to Ma Huan. Madras: University of Madras, 1939. Subbiah, Ganapathy. The Roots of Tamil Religious Thoughts. Pondicherry: Pondicherry Institute of Linguistics and Culture, 1991. ́ gam Polity: The Administration and Social Life of the Subrahmanian, N. Saṅ ́ Saṅgam Tamils. Madurai: Ennes Publications, 1980.

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Tamil Lexicon. Published in 7 Volumes Under the Authority of the University of Madras. Madras: Law Journal Press, 1924–1938. Tieken, Herman. “Old Tamil Caṅkam Literature and the So-called Caṅkam Period.” The Indian Economic & Social History Review 40 (2003): 247–278. Thani Nayagam, Xavier S. Landscape and Poetry: A Study of Nature in Classical Tamil Poetry. Bombay: Asia Publishing House, 1966. Wilden, Eva. “Agricultural Metaphors in Sangam Literature.” in Pandanus ’06, Nature in Literature and Ritual, edited by Jaroslav Vacek, 191–209. Prague: Triton, 2006. ———. Manuscript, Print and Memory: Relics of the Caṅkam in Tamilnadu. Berlin and München and Boston: De Gruyter, 2014. Zvelebil, Kamil. The Smile of Murugan: On Tamil Literature of South India. Leiden: E. J. Brill, 1973.

PART II

Commemoration in Literature and Popular Media

Memories and Memorials of Literature and Art at the Turn of the First Millennium Penelope Nash

Between AD 973 and 974 a canoness at the monastic centre  of either Quedlinburg or Nordhausen recorded from memory Queen Mathilda’s instructions to her granddaughter Abbess Mathilda of Quedlinburg: She then gave her a calendar in which were written the names of magnates who had died, and commended to her Henry’s soul, her own, and those of all the faithful whose memory she preserved.1

Abbess Mathilda’s duty was to recollect deceased ancestors, kin, and friends not only for the living but also for their descendants to come. She was to act as an advocate to God and the saints on behalf of their souls, who were still considered to belong to the community of the incarnate.2 That specific kind of commemoration was often called memoria (memory), one way to remember the past and to be present in the memories of future generations.3 In the above example elite women sought to record

P. Nash (*) The University of Sydney, Sydney, NSW, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_8

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memories in writing. Women (and men) also cultivated other media in order to aid recollection. Historians have studied pictorial representations of kings and emperors extensively; fewer works explore portrayals of queens and empresses. This chapter examines how elite women from the Ottonian and Salian dynasties were depicted, specifically in manuscripts, and how extensive was their sponsorship of those manuscript images. However, before such an analysis can take place, some background is required, first about historical traditions in general and second about how the Ottonian (919–1024) and the Salian (1024–1125) dynasties remembered the past.

Memorialising Ottonian Monarchs The great medievalist Marc Bloch, steeped in the classical tradition and having endured first-hand the two great conflicts of the twentieth century in Europe, reminds us that no record stands alone out of context.4 Robert Frykenberg in his history of Delhi emphasised the crucial importance of keeping records for the transmission of past achievements to future generations.5 The European and Asian historical traditions differ substantially. Nevertheless the two authors were grappling with similar ideas. Case studies from the tenth and eleventh centuries, originating in  locations currently known as France, Germany, and Italy, illustrate how the past becomes the present and the present becomes the future. Twelve hundred years ago the Carolingian King Charles (Charlemagne) entitled himself as “emperor governing the Roman Empire … King of the Franks and of the Lombards.”6 Janet Nelson asserts that he “colluded in the construction of his own story, thus making his biography in part an illusion.”7 That is, he deliberately set out to create a persona based on his perception of the past. One hundred years later successive German emperors, in attempting to emulate him, looked back to put themselves forward as versions of Charlemagne. They created memorials, images, monasteries, and a saint or two not only to carefully preserve their achievements for the edification of future generations but also to recreate their presence.8 In the late tenth and early eleventh centuries, especially in the highly literate artistic cultures at the courts of the last two Ottonian emperors Otto III and Henry II, artworks that addressed the past, present, and future flourished.9 They were created with the anticipation that future viewers would respond with material, visual, and performative oeuvres.10 They were aided and abetted by the monasteries, who played a part in sanctifying

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Charlemagne in order to maintain their foundations, among other objectives.11 After the demise of the Ottonian imperial dynasty in 1024, the Italian chroniclers of the eleventh century had little accurate memory of that past. According to Chris Wickham, “what people remember of the past—and what they forget—is one of the key elements in their unconscious ideology.”12 Whether the above protagonists perceived Charlemagne and the Roman imperium as did Charlemagne himself is debatable—though they might think they did so. They certainly wanted their own legacy to be noted by future generations. The important lay woman, Countess Matilda of Tuscany, unwavering supporter of successive popes and active mostly under the jurisdiction of the Salian emperor Henry IV (r. 1084–1105), showed an understanding of imperial history: she endorsed the portrayal of her rulership in images and in words that reshaped the past to match her own self-conception in her Vita by her biographer and chaplain Donizone.13 What did the Ottonians bring forward from their past and what did later societies perceive when they looked back to that powerful dynasty? Selected case studies illustrate how the Ottonians recalled the Carolingians and how the following Salians evoked the Ottonians in their turn, with particular emphasis on the contribution by and visual depiction of elite women, who lived during the Ottonian and early Salian dynasties.

Female Rulers: Spiritual Portraits and Generations Ottonian imperial manuscript art presented Ottonian male rulers in all their glory (Fig. 1).14 The manuscript images, containing portraits of the female rulers, can be very different from those of their partners in rule.15 The representations of female rulers in selected manuscripts can display a more delicate touch in contrast with those of kings and emperors, as we shall see.16 In this chapter, portraits of Ottonian empresses Adelheid, Theophanu, and Kunigunde are examined in three folios from three manuscripts.17 The initial words of St Matthew’s Gospel decorate a fourth folio. The selected images that focus on the ruling women appear to emphasise the stability and importance of the Ottonian dynasty and of the generations that followed them and to uphold and to promote Ottonian spiritual aspirations. In this chapter I focus on images as items of memory and on memorialising by contemporaries. To do this requires a closer analysis of the dates of the creation of the images, which is a critical point in deciding whom the images represent—but more of that later. I have a

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Fig. 1  Otto II in Majesty. Registrum Gregorii, Reichenau. Musée Condé, MS 14, single sheet. (The Yorck Project (2002) 10.000 Meisterwerke der Malerei (DVD-ROM), distributed by DIRECTMEDIA Publishing GmbH)

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further purpose: it is to examine what the artists remembered and mis-­ remembered from earlier illuminated manuscripts and records, to understand what the artists wished to project for future generations, and to propose a likely sponsor for one of the manuscripts, albeit with some reservations. Meanwhile the remainder of the current section examines the four images from the three manuscripts as case studies relating to female portrayals. The first manuscript, the Gospels of Saint-Géréon, includes a folio (22r) with portraits of Empresses Adelheid and Theophanu, and Emperor Otto III (in this chapter named Image 1). The second manuscript, a Gospel Book from Metz, contains two folios of interest. The first folio (15r) is generally considered to be an image of Empress Adelheid, Christ, and an abbot (here Image 2). That identification can be questioned and is so later in this chapter. The second folio (15v) follows the first with the first words of St Matthew’s gospel (here Image 3). The third manuscript, the Pericopes Book of Henry II, contains a folio (2r) that shows Empress Kunigunde and her husband Emperor Henry II with Christ (here Image 4). The makers of the images had a common purpose; they looked back (creating memory) and looked forward (creating a memorial to promote generational continuity). Image 1 [Fig. 2] (The Gospels of Saint-Géréon, W 312, fol. 22r): Lamb, Otto III, Theophanu and Adelheid18 The first image of female rulers under examination (Image 1 [Fig. 2]) appears in the Incipit of St Matthew in the Gospels of Saint-Géréon. St Géréon was the military saint allegedly beheaded in the fourth century for refusing to worship pagans.19 The Gospel Book was perhaps created at Cologne between AD 983 and AD 1000, although much of its history is unknown: the title of the Gospel has questionable provenance and the association of the church of St Géréon at Cologne with the Gospel is unproven.20 It is more likely that the connection was with the recipients or sponsors rather than with the church.21 At the top of Folio 22r Christ (Agnus Dei, the Lamb of God) triumphs in a roundel. The whole image is generally thought to be a memorial of Otto III, his mother Empress Theophanu and his grandmother Empress Adelheid in clockwise order, starting from the image of the Lamb.22 Otto III, Theophanu, and Adelheid are presented in utmost harmony, blessed by Christ, the Lamb of God. Manuscript pages with Christ depicted as a Lamb are often associated with saints.23 Like many of the Cologne-associated images holiness and harmony are portrayed together (Fig. 2).

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Fig. 2  [Image 1]  Adelheid, Theophanu, Otto III, and Lamb of God. Initial Page. Matthew Evangelisary, Gospel of Saint-Géréon. Historisches Archiv der Stadt, Cologne, Cod. W 312, fol. 22r. (© Raimond Spekking/CC BY-SA 3.0 [via Wikimedia Commons])

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In a previous paper I examined the Insular and Carolingian influences on this first image of predominately female rulers. The diminuendo effect of the letters “L” and “I” of the word Liber and the way the “I” cuts the “L” over its lower stroke had its origins in early Insular art.24 We also catch remnants of Byzantine influences in the perky bird’s head. In total the folio presents a mixture of Roman and Eastern reminiscences with traces of Insular beginnings in a memorial to three imperial Ottonians.25 It is in the style of a number of examples of folio pages in different manuscripts that show medallions.26 The collected ruler portraits on the same page align with the Liber generationis at the beginning of St Matthew’s gospel. The word generationis, the genitive of generatio meaning action of procreating, begetting, or generation of family, reinforces the idea of generational stability and continuity. The page places a focus on Ottonian generational continuity in a context of considerable dynastic uncertainty. Otto II had died in 983, leaving a three-year-old heir, and the stable continuation of the Ottonian dynasty depended on the skill and strength of his mother Theophanu and his grandmother Adelheid.27 Thus when the image was created is significant in relation to the life-status of the participants; its date of manufacture is discussed later in this chapter in the section “Dating the Images and Implications.” Images 2 and 3 (Gospel Book from Metz, MS 9395, fols 15r and 15v): Adelheid, Christ and an Abbot; Liber Generationis with Lamb28 The next images (2 and 3) originate in a second Gospel Book, generally thought to have been composed at Metz and often dated to about AD 1000. The first of these two images, fol. 15r (Image 2), usually noted as depicting the crowned Empress Adelheid, Christ, and an abbot, follows immediately after a series of canon tables.29 The empress and the abbot stand on either side of Christ and look up to him. Christ is seated within a mandorla, the almond-shaped or round aureole surrounding an entire figure that indicates the presence of the power of God. The mandorla can represent Christ’s transfiguration, ascension, Last Judgement, or Christ in Majesty.30 Just as the image in fol. 22r in the Gospels of Saint-Géréon (Image 1 [Fig. 2]) introduces the Gospel of St Matthew, so too does fol. 15r (Image 2) in the Gospel Book from Metz.

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Image 2 is the first illuminated page, which can be perceived as very “Ottonian.” It has some curious features. The markings around Christ in the mandorla are intriguing. The sideways head on a “pillow” is probably the evangelist Matthew, who is shown writing his gospel at the bottom of the composition. The woman is very royal and very saintly.31 This is an image that presents her in two roles—as the crowned female saint and as authoritative ruler. The woman is blessed by Christ and certainly endorsed by the church, here represented by the abbot. Wearing her crown she is marginally taller than the abbot, indicating superior status. The abbot has been most often identified as Odilo of Cluny, who wrote the Life of Adelheid. Two other possibilities are Maiolus and Ekkemann. The holy Maiolus, abbot of Cluny (d. 994), was religious advisor and confidant to Adelheid and Otto I—he was “the ear and repository of the imperial secrets.”32 In 996 or 997 Adelheid appointed Ekkemann, her confessor of many years, as the first abbot of the monastery at Selz in Alsace, which she founded and dedicated to Saints Peter and Paul.33 The second image of interest in the Gospel Book from Metz appears on the reverse side of this depiction of the royal or imperial woman, Christ and the abbot.34 Folio 15v (Image 3) displays the first words of the St Matthew Gospel, embellished with extensive artistic adornment of Romanesque motifs of acanthus-leaf decoration and scrolling vines.35 As in the Gospels of Saint-Géréon (Image 1  [Fig. 2], fol. 22r), an elaborate “L,” cut by an “I,” begins the words Liber generationis (“The book of the generation of Jesus Christ, the son of David, the son of Abraham”). The Liber generationis again reinforces the idea of generational stability and continuity. An image of a spritely Lamb of God heads the page. The agnus Dei is a recurring theme in the Gospels of Saint-Géréon and of Metz, as we shall see below. Moreover in introducing the Gospel of St Matthew, Images 2 and 3 (Folios 15r and 15v) show the royal woman as a lay contributor, essential to the wellbeing of the church through its monastic arm, looking backwards and forwards in time. The common supposition that the image is of Adelheid and Odilo, abbot of Cluny, is analysed more closely below in this chapter where the dating of the image is examined in detail and other possibilities are explored.

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Image 4 [Fig. 3] (Pericopes Book of Henry II, MS 4452, fol. 2r): Henry II, Christ, and Kunigunde36 The final image (Image 4  [Fig. 3]) comes from the Pericopes Book of Henry II, composed at Reichenau, and dated to between about 1002 and 1012. Empress Kunigunde kneels with her husband, Henry II, in a dedication scene with Christ in the top half of the folio. The empress is on Christ’s left, the less important side, and very slightly lower and smaller than her husband, perhaps indicating almost but not quite equality in rule.37 Nevertheless like the empresses before her, Kunigunde held real power—in title (consors regni, consors imperii etc.) and in practice.38 Henry II presented the Pericopes Book to Bamberg cathedral on the day of the cathedral’s consecration in 1012 (Fig. 3).39 Henry II eschewed Aachen, Charlemagne’s “capital” and the city most recently made the repository of Otto III’s three great donations: his Gospels, the Liuthar Gospels, and the Lothar Cross.40 He established Bamberg as a new bishopric. Intensely interested in liturgical practices and with the need to provide his new bishopric with a library, Henry endowed the city with gifts. These included the so-called Romano-German Pontifical, a monumental resource for liturgical texts, commentary, and authorities.41 He also added the Pericopes Book, the Gospels of Otto III, and the Regensburg Sacramentary. Henry publicly confirmed his continuity of certain traditions from the reigns of his predecessors by including Ottonian choices among his gifts to Bamberg.42 Henry died in 1024; Kunigunde lived until 1033. Kunigunde and Henry were childless at the time of the commissioning of the Pericopes Book, and thereafter had no heirs. Kunigunde authorised the rule of Konrad II, the first of the Salian kings and emperors, by handing over the imperial insignia to him at the end of Henry’s reign.43

Dating the Images and Implications Return to Image 1 [Fig. 2] (W 312, folio 22r) We turn now to the dating of certain of the manuscripts. How we interpret Image 1 [Fig. 2], of the Lamb, Otto III, Theophanu, and Adelheid, depends very much on the dating of the Gospels of Saint-Géréon (W 312). A date before 15 July 991 (Theophanu’s death) means all the protagonists were alive when the Gospels were created. Between that date and

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Fig. 3 [Image 4]  Dedications scene with Henry II and Kunigunde presented to Christ by Peter and Paul. Pericopes Book of Henry II, Reichenau, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 4452, fol. 2r

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late 994, Empress Adelheid held sway in the empire, acting independently and generously endowing her favourite monastery at Selz and other monasteries. On Otto III’s coming of age, Adelheid stepped back from rule. Otto had only a short period to be the potential sole sponsor of the manuscript between her death on 16 or 17 December 999, and his on 23 or 24 January 1002. Anton von Euw gives two date ranges in two papers: one to the regency period44 and one more specifically to between about 990 and 1000.45 The latter time period allows for sponsorship from any of the three human subjects, all of whom were alive at some time during this time range. The probable date and sponsorship of the image might be determined from clues within the image. Joshua O’Driscoll proposes initially that the image of two women “of disparate age” with a youth was created within the regency period of Theophanu/Adelheid (that is between 984 and 994) by an artist, whom O’Driscoll assumes is male without further explanation. He proposes, moreover, that Theophanu and the Lamb of God form the more important vertical element. Consequently Theophanu occupies the privileged position in the miniature, even though she appears to be looking up towards her youthful son. This latter observation might suggest that the image falls only within the regency of Theophanu (984–15 July 991). Furthermore, according to O’Driscoll, her covered hands, clearly raised towards her son, mean that the medallion holds a posthumous portrait of the empress and hence the gospel book was ordered after her death and she was not the sponsor after all.46 However, Richard Gyug establishes that a figure holding or receiving a sacred object with covered hands or with the ends of her mantle or chlamys is a well-known motif, originating in Byzantine iconography.47 Therefore covered hands would not necessarily mean that the empress had died and the timeframe for the creation of the image (and the manuscript) remains broad. Theophanu’s privileged position still stands. The above intimations argue at the very least for the influence of Theophanu and/or her circle in the creation of the manuscript. Empress Adelheid was known as a generous and independent endower of monasteries. There is no doubt that Image 1 [Fig. 2]  (W 312) was intended to honour, evoke, and carry forward the memory of the three imperial personages, to emphasise their relationship with the Lamb of God and continuity through future generations in the Liber generationis. Although the sponsorship of the Gospels of Saint-Géréon is unknown and the complete message of this folio remains ambiguous, I incline to the

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view that either one or both women are strong contenders for sponsorship of the manuscript.48 Return to Images 2, 3 (MS 9395, fols 15r and 15v) and Image 4 [Fig. 3] (MS 4452, fol. 2r) Like the Gospels of Saint-Géréon, the Gospel Book from Metz (MS 9395) is often thought to date from the late tenth century.49 A more precise dating of MS 9395 follows a similar argument for the dating of the Gospels of Saint-Géréon (W 312) as used above. Adelheid was in the later years of her life or had just died (16/17 December 999) and Abbot Odilo of Cluny may have begun but had not yet finished his Epitaph of the empress (1002 or later). The Bibliothèque Nationale de France (BnF), which holds MS 9395, dates it to between 996 and 999 (during Adelheid’s lifetime) or to before 1043, a date four years into the Salian Henry III’s reign (r. 1039–1056).50 The date range of “before 1043” is thought provoking. Image 2 (MS 9395) depicts a contemporary figure of an empress; three empresses are contenders for the model. The choice of Adelheid is supported by Carl Nordenfalk and Rita Otto.51 The case for the depiction to be of Kunigunde (d. 1033), wife of the last Ottonian (Henry II, r. 1002–1024), is supported by Percy Schramm and Florentine Mütherich.52 The case for the image to be that of Empress Gisela, wife of the first Salian (Konrad II, r. 1024–1039), is supported in a 1992 catalogue of an exhibition about the Salian Reich.53 In another paper Schramm leaves open the question about which one of the three is portrayed in the image.54 After Konrad died, Gisela lived at Gorze abbey, about twenty kilometres south-west of Metz, until her own death in 1043—hence the date range of “before 1043” in the report of the BnF, which means that the depiction of the reign of any one of the three empresses is plausible. There are two lines of argument that narrow the date range for MS 9395 and support the idea that the abbot in Image 2 is Ekkemann. First, although the manuscript was moved to the BnF in 1802 from the treasury of the cathedral church at Metz, the origin of MS 9395 is more likely to be Selz rather than Metz for a number of reasons. We should recall that Selz was founded by Adelheid and dedicated to Saints Peter and Paul. Clues in the manuscript point to an emphasis on those saints above all others. The only names written in capitals for the vigil and the day of their feast (29 June) are those of Peter and Paul. Four pieces of evidence point

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to associations of the manuscript with Mainz and the Middle Rhine region (and consequently Selz, rather than Metz, as will become clear shortly). One, although Schramm and Mütherich and Hartmut Hoffmann attribute the script to Metz, the ornate initials can be associated with those of Latin 275, a Mainz connection according to Nordenfalk.55 Two, the evangelists were copied from the Gospels of Chantilly (Musée Condé, MS 15) that Nordenfalk located in the Middle Rhine region, under Mainz influence.56 Three, the décor also follows models of the palatine school of Charles the Bald—in curtain architectural frames (Latin 1152), in the rosette motif within an ornate letter (Latin 270) and in the Canon Tables (MS 746)—all of which support the Mainz origin.57 Four, the most important distant possessions of Selz Abbey were on the banks of the Rhine at Mainz, approximately 190 kilometres west of Selz.58 Accordingly the Gospel book is more likely to be Selz-sponsored with stronger links to Mainz than to Metz. The second line of argument addresses the attention given to the memory of Adelheid after her death by supporters from Selz rather than Cluny. The implications that arise from the dating of certain events need to be explored further. If a date after Adelheid’s death (999) up to the year 1043 for the manuscript MS 9395 were to be accepted, it would mean that the image was created during her growing veneration, especially in Germany. Henry II and numerous eminent clerical and lay men in France, Germany, and Italy brought forward supporting evidence for Empress Adelheid’s sanctification during the eleventh century, leading to her papal canonisation as a saint by Pope Urban II in 1097 or 1099. The later date range of between 999 and 1043 proposed by the BnF affects the meaning of the picture. The image seems to record a gathering of two holy and eminent people in Christ’s heavenly kingdom, after their deaths. If created between 16/17 December 999 (Adelheid’s death) and 1043 (Gisela’s death) but before Odilo’s death (1049) and his canonisation (in 1063 by Pope Alexander II), the image becomes a memorial to an empress, probably Adelheid, but not to Odilo—and this again throws doubt on Odilo being the portrayed abbot. We know from a diploma dated 28 September 1002 and issued from Henry II’s court that Abbot Ekkemann was still abbot of Selz at the date of the diploma.59 That is, the date of the image under examination is more likely to line up with Ekkemann’s death—after the death of Maiolus of Cluny (994) and before the death of Odilo of Cluny (1049). The death of Maiolus is too early and that of Odilo is too late for either of them to fit easily into a memorial image.

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Further indirect but plausible support for a Selz rather than a Cluny memorial image in the manuscript arises from the following. The papal register for the period 1089–1099 records that Empress Adelheid was enrolled with the saints and canonised at a Roman synod in the late eleventh century, probably in either January 1097 or in April 1099. Although Selz was confirmed eventually as belonging to Cluny, a clear takeover of the monastery of Selz by Cluny in the eleventh century did not eventuate.60 That is, Selz remained largely independent of Cluny during the hundred years when the necessary processes for Adelheid’s sainthood were undertaken. Further confirmation of Selz’s involvement can be seen in Adelheid’s leading advocate for her sanctification. Bishop Otto was bishop of Strasbourg and diocesan bishop of Selz (d. 1100). He was present at the synod of 1099. The letter from Pope Urban II announcing the event is undated. However, Urban sent his letter confirming Adelheid’s sanctification to Bishop Otto, indicating that the bishop with his responsibilities for Selz was the appropriate person to be informed rather than any representative from Cluny.61 If the above arguments hold, the image is more likely to be of Adelheid and Abbot Ekkemann and to be dated to after Ekkemann’s death. We do not know for certain the date of death of this Ekkemann. My argument puts the date of the Gospel from “Metz” (MS 9395) some time after Henry’s diploma of late 1002, when Ekkemann was still alive, presuming the date of Henry’s diploma is correct.62 The proposal that empresses Kunigunde and/or Gisela took an interest in or even sponsored the Gospel remains valid. In summary the Gospel “from Metz” is more likely to be a Gospel “from Mainz” (with Selz influence) and Adelheid and Abbot Ekkemann are probably the two people depicted in the Gospel Book, created between 22 September 1002 and 1043. Furthermore, an interesting and surprising proposal connects the Gospel Book from “Metz” (MS 9395) and the Gospels of Saint-Géréon (W 312): “The Agnus Dei associated with the Liber generationis is also included in the Cologne Gospels of Saint-Géréon (Cologne, Stadtarchiv, cod. W. 312).”63 That is, the Lamb (Agnus Dei) at the top left of the Liber generationis page (Image 3, MS 9395) with the Lamb at the top of the medallion page (Image 1 [Fig. 2], W 312). To my mind the Lambs are similar in that they are muscular and sprightly, with alert ears and halos that are divided into four parts. They are more or less shown in profile and stand within a circle with one leg raised. Gold illuminates part of each image. However, the Lamb in the Gospels of Saint-Géréon (W 312) faces

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to his left, towards Otto III if anywhere, and holds what may be a staff of office with the raised front left foot. The Lamb also wears a circular band over the left shoulder, across the chest, under the right leg, and around the back. Most of the halo of this Lamb is translucent. However, the Lamb in the Gospel Book “from Metz” (MS 9395) holds nothing. That Lamb stands, with his body directed to his right and with the right leg raised but with the head turning back over the left shoulder towards the letters IBER of the word Liber or possibly towards the following gospel of Matthew. From examining the images of the two Lambs I cannot conclude one way or the other whether these Lambs are connected. Indeed the Agnus Dei is a recurring iconographic motif.64 Nevertheless the proposition that the two lambs might be associated remains provocative. We have recently been reminded that women were responsible for the creation of more medieval art than is customarily credited to them.65 An example of another type of patronage and memorialising follows. Countess Matilda of Tuscany, a keen supporter of Adelheid and a favourite of popes, attended the Lateran Synod of 1097, at which the papal canonisation of Adelheid is often purported to have been confirmed.66 In Adelheid’s progression to sainthood, the support of women, such as Kunigunde and Gisela, as well as the undoubted interest by Countess Matilda, have not been greatly explored. Gisela’s visit and “liberalitas” (gift) to Selz in 1034 are examples of her support for Selz.67 Indeed further work on the processes of papal sanctification in general may highlight other overlooked memories of female instrumentation. The above connections are tentative and suggestive, but food for thought and further investigation.

Conclusion I have examined briefly selected manuscript images from the tenth and early eleventh centuries and raised questions that shift the understanding, sponsorship, and emphasis of those images. What does all this mean for memory and memorialising? Memories are a movable feast: they are contingent on what we know and what we think we know. How much the artists and their sponsors from the period studied here really knew about the history that they recorded can only be conjectured. Sponsorship and execution of manuscripts by elite women are likely to have been more widespread than is currently thought. Where women rulers are concerned, the documents and illuminated images examined in this chapter appear to give equal weight to generational continuity and spiritual practice over

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and above the importance of merely recreating their presence. As rulers, saints, mothers, queens, empresses, and abbesses women became, above all, models, motivators, and sources of inspiration (in modern-day terms) for their contemporaries and later observers.68

Abbreviations MGH Monumenta Germaniae Historica, Hanover, 1826– SSrG Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum separatim editi, Hanover, 1871–

Notes 1. “Quin etiam computarium, in quo erant nomina procerum scripta defunctorum, in manum ipsius dans animam illi commendavit Heinrici nec non et suam sed et omnium, quorum ipsa memoriam recolebat, fidelium”; Bernd Schütte, ed., Vita Mathildis reginae antiquior, MGH SSrG [66]:107–42 (Hanover: Hahn, 1994) [hereafter VMA], ch. 13, 138, trans. in Sean Gilsdorf, Queenship and Sanctity The Lives of Mathilda and the Epitaph of Adelheid (Washington: Catholic University of America Press, 2004), 71–87, at 86. A later biography of Queen Mathilda includes almost identical words: Bernd Schütte, ed., Vita Mathildis reginae posterior, MGH SSrG [66]:143–202 (Hanover: Hahn, 1994) [hereafter VMP], ch. 26, 199, trans. in Gilsdorf, Queenship, 88–127, at 125. Gilsdorf examined authorship at 19–21 and concluded that the author of the VMA was female and that of the VMP unknown; the latter confirmed by Patrick Corbet, Les saints ottoniens: sainteté dynastique, sainteté royale et sainteté féminine autour de l’an Mil (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1986), 120. In communities of well-educated canonesses with close links to the royal family, female authorship is unsurprising. 2. Gerd Althoff, Family, Friends and Followers (New York: Cambridge University Press, 2004); Sean Gilsdorf, The Favor of Friends (Leiden: Brill, 2014). 3. Gilsdorf, Queenship, 27–29; Heinrich Fichtenau, Living in the Tenth Century, trans. Patrick Geary (Chicago: University of Chicago Press, 1991), 148–52; Penelope Nash, “Maintaining Elite Households in Germany and Italy, 900–1115,” in Royal and Elite Households in Later Medieval and Early Modern Europe, ed. Theresa Earenfight (Leiden: Brill, 2018), 42–53. For memoria, as its meaning shifted from one of the five parts of Rhetoric in earlier Latin sources to one of the three parts of the

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Virtue of Prudence, see Frances A. Yates, Selected Works of Frances Yates, Volume III: The Art of Memory (London and New York: Routledge, 1966; ARK Edition, 1984, repr. 2001), 53–54. Patrick J.  Geary, Phantoms of Remembrance (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1994), 48–80. 4. Marc Bloch, The Historian’s Craft, trans. Peter Putnam (Manchester: Manchester University Press, 1954; repr. with an introduction by Peter Burke, 1992), 43. 5. Robert Eric Frykenberg, Delhi through the Ages: Essays in Urban History, Culture, and Society (Delhi: Oxford University Press, 1986), xi. 6. Janet L.  Nelson, King and Emperor (London: Allen Lane, 2019), 2, 384–85; Josef Fleckenstein, Early Medieval Germany, trans. Bernard S. Smith (Amsterdam: North-Holland Publishing Company, 1978), 146. 7. Nelson, King, 3. Mary J.  Carruthers, The Book of Memory, 2nd ed. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2008). 8. Eliza Garrison, “Ottonian Art and Its Afterlife: Revisiting Percy Ernst Schramm’s Portraiture Idea,” Oxford Art Journal 32, no. 2 (2009): 210–212, 215, 222. 9. Rulers of the Ottonian dynasty: Henry I (d. 936), Otto I (d. 973), Otto II (d. 983), Otto III (d. 1002), Henry II (d. 1024). 10. Eliza Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art and Portraiture (Farnham: Ashgate, 2012), 166. 11. Amy Remensnyder, “Topographies of Memory,” in Medieval Concepts of the Past, eds. Gerd Althoff, Johannes Fried, and Patrick J.  Geary (Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press; Washington, DC: German Historical Institute, 2002), 198–199, 207–214. 12. Chris Wickham, “Lawyers’ Time,” in Land and Power, ed. Chris Wickham (London: British School at Rome, 1994), 276, and 282–83. For the transformation in the eleventh century: Lynette Olson, The Early Middle Ages (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007), 157–197. 13. Donizone, Vita di Matilde di Canossa (Vita Mathildis), ed. Paolo Golinelli (Milan: Jaca, 2008). Paolo Golinelli, L’ancella di san Pietro, Biblioteca di cultura medievale (Milan: Jaca Book, 2015); I. S. Robinson, Henry IV of Germany, 1056–1106 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999); Penelope Nash, The Spirituality of Countess Matilda of Tuscany, Quaderni I (Bologna: Pàtron, 2021). 14. Otto II in Majesty. Registrum Gregorii, Reichenau, c. 983, Musée Condé, MS 14, single sheet; Otto III in Majesty with Four Worshipping Tribes. Gospel Book of Otto III, Reichenau, c. 998, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 4453, fols 23v and 24r; Otto III Enthroned. Liuthar Gospels, c. 990, Cathedral Treasury Aachen, fol. 16r; Henry II Enthroned under a Baldachin. Sacramentary of Henry II (“Regensburg Sacramentary”), between 1002 and 1012, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 4456, fol. 11v.

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Space does not allow a detailed comparison with male-ruler portraits here. For a few of the many discussions about male-ruler portraits, see Elisabeth Klemm, “Anfänge und Blütezeit der ottonischen Buchmalerei,” in Pracht auf Pergament, eds. Christiane Lange and Claudia Fabian (Munich: Hirmer, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, 2012), 90–97; Percy Ernst Schramm, Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit 751–1190, ed. Florentine Mütherich (Munich, 1983 (1928)); Percy Ernst Schramm and Florentine Mütherich, Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser. Vol 1. Ein Beitrag zur Herrschergeschichte von Karl dem Grossen bis Friedrich II. 768–1250, 2nd ed. (Munich: Prestel, 1981). For an overview of the location of manuscripts containing Ottonian book art (vol. 1) and images (vol. 2), see Hartmut Hoffmann, Buchkunst und Königtum im ottonischen und frühsalischen Reich, 2 vols., MGH Schriften 30 (Stuttgart: A. Hiersemann, 1986), especially 1:103–516. 15. “Conregnante sua Mathilda coniuge clara” (about Queen Mathilda) and “sui consors dignissima regni” (about Adelheid, not yet Empress) in Hrotsvitha of Gandersheim, Gesta Ottonis, ed. Walter Berschin, Hrotsvit Opera omnia, 3.271–305 (Munich: K. G. Sur, 2001), 3.276, line 22 and 3.298, line 665; Franz-Reiner Erkens, “Die Frau als Herrscherin in ottonisch-­frühsalischer Zeit,” in Kaiserin Theophanu, eds. Anton von Euw and Peter Schreiner (Cologne: Schnütgen-Museum, 1991), 2:245–60; Patricia Skinner, Women in Medieval Italian Society, 500–1200 (Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001), 99–108. 16. Rosamond McKitterick, “Ottonian Intellectual Culture in the Tenth Century and the Role of Theophanu,” Early Medieval Europe 2.1 (1993): 53–74; Rosamond McKitterick, “Women in the Ottonian Church,” in Rosamond McKitterick, The Frankish Kings and Culture in the Early Middle Ages (Aldershot: Variorum, 1995), XI. 79–100. 17. Adelheid (d. 999, second wife of Otto I), Theophanu (d. 991, wife of Otto II), and Kunigunde (d. 1033, wife of Henry II). 18. Hereafter generally abbreviated to Image 1 (W 312). 19. David Hugh Farmer, Oxford Dictionary of Saints, 3rd ed. (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1992), s.v. “Gereon.” 20. Joshua O’Driscoll, “Image and Inscription in the Painterly Manuscripts from Ottonian Cologne” (PhD diss., Harvard University, 2015), 18–21. See also Anton von Euw, Vor dem Jahr 1000. Abendländische Buchkunst zur Zeit der Kaiserin Theophanu (Cologne: Schnütgen Museum, 1991), 30–34; Peter Bloch and Hermann Schnitzler, Die ottonische Kölner Malerschule, 2 vols. (Düsseldorf: Schwann, 1967–1970), 1:25–31. 21. Florentine Mütherich, “Die Buchmalerei in den Klosterschulen des frühen Mittelalters,” in Monastische Reformen im 9. und 10. Jahrhundert: Vorträge

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und Forschungen, eds. Raymund Kottje and Helmut Maurer (Sigmaringen: Thorbecke, 1989), 20. 22. Adelheid, Theophanu, Otto III and Lamb of God. Initial Page. Matthew Evangelistary, Gospel of Saint-Géréon, between 996 and 999 or before 1043, Historisches Archiv der Stadt, Cologne, cod. W 312, fol. 22r. Rainer Kahsnitz, “Ein Bildnis der Theophanu? Zur Tradition der Münz- und Medaillon-Bildnisse in der karolingischen und ottonischen Buchmalerei,” in Kaiserin Theophanu, eds. Anton von Euw and Peter Schreiner, 2:101–105, 2:130–134; Anton von Euw, “Die ottonische Kölner Malerschule. Synthese der künstlerischen Strömungen aus West und Ost,” in Kaiserin Theophanu, eds. Anton von Euw and Peter Schreiner, esp. 1:264–66. 23. Henry Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, 2 vols. (London: Oxford University Press, 1991), 2:144–145, plates XIV and XV. 24. Penelope Nash, “Insular Influences on Carolingian and Ottonian Literature and Art,” in Prophecy, Fate and Memory in the Early and Medieval Celtic World, eds. Jonathan M.  Wooding and Lynette Olson (Sydney: Sydney University Press, 2020), 118–119; Fabrizio Crivello, “L’Irlanda e l’arte carolingia,” in L’Irlanda e gli Irlandesi nell’alto medioevo (Spoleto: Presso la Sede della Fondazione, 2010), 757–777. Crivello considers that the initials are typical Ottonian: Crivello, pers. comm. to author, 15 May 2020. 25. Penelope Nash, “Demonstrations of Imperium,” Basileia. Byzantina Australiensia 17 (2011): 159–172. 26. Florentine Mütherich and Joachim E.  Gaehde, Carolingian Painting (London: Chatto & Windus, 1977), 25, 59, 61, plate 15; Jacqueline Lafontaine-Dosogne, “The Art of Byzantium and its Relation to Germany in the Time of the Empress Theophano,” in The Empress Theophano, ed. Adelbert Davids (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1995), 214; Kahsnitz, “Bildnis,” 2:104–134. 27. O’Driscoll, Image, 20. 28. Hereafter generally abbreviated to  Images 2 (MS 9395, fol. 15r) and  3 (MS 9395, fol. 15v). 29. Empress Adelheid and Odilo of Cluny (?) with Christ, Gospel Book, Metz, between 996 and 999 or before 1043, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS 9395, fol. 15r. The identity of the abbot is questionable; see discussion in the Section “Dating the Images”. 30. Aleksandr P. Kazhdan, Anthony Cutler, and Simon Franklin, eds., Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, 3 vols. (New York: Oxford University Press, 1991), s.vv. “mandorla,” “Christ,” “transfiguration,” “ascension”; Herbert L. Kessler, “Image and Object,” in The Long Morning of Medieval Europe, eds. Jennifer R.  Davis and Michael McCormick (Aldershot: Ashgate,

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2008), 290–291, 299, 303; T.  Noble, “Matter and Meaning in the Carolingian World,” in The Long Morning of Medieval Europe, 325–326. 31. Lynette Olson, pers. comm. to author, 10 June 2018. 32. “Hunc imperator habebat auricularium, hunc a secretis fidum internuntium.” Syrus, Vita sancti Maioli, ed. Dominique Iogna-Prat, in Agni Immaculati, 163–285 (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 1988), 2:22, pp. 242–243, poetically translated in Scott G. Bruce, “Local Sanctity and Civic Typology in Early Medieval Pavia,” in Cities, Texts, and Social Networks, 400–1500, eds Caroline Goodson, Anne Elisabeth Lester, and Carol Symes (Farnham, Surrey: Ashgate, 2010), 181. 33. Josef Fleckenstein, Die Hofkapelle der deutschen Könige, 2 vols., MGH Schriften 16 (Stuttgart: Hiersemann, 1959–1966), 2:47, 2:74. 34. Liber generationis, Gospel Book, Metz, between 996 and 999 or before 1043, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS 9395, fol. 15v. 35. Elizabeth Saxon, “Carolingian, Ottonian and Romanesque Art and the Eucharist,” in A Companion to the Eucharist in the Middle Ages, eds. Ian Christopher Levy, Gary Macy, and Kristen Van Ausdall (Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2012), 251–324. 36. Hereafter, Image 4 (MS 4452). 37. Dedication Scene with Henry II and Kunigunde Presented to Christ by Peter and Paul. Pericopes Book of Henry II, Reichenau, between 1007 and 1012, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm. 4452, fol. 2r. Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art, 124–131, especially 128–131 and Plate 8, between 50 and 51; John Beckwith, Early Medieval Art (New York: Thames and Hudson, 1985), 111–113. Eliza Garrison, “Henry II’s Renovatio in the Pericope Book and Regensburg Sacramentary,” in The White Mantle of Churches, ed. Nigel Hiscock (Turnhout: Brepols, 2003), 57–74, esp. 60–64, 74; Mayr-­Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, 1:179–189. 38. Erkens, “Frau als Herrscherin,” 247, 250, 257–258; Markus Schütz, “Kunigunde,” in Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters, ed. Amalie Fößel (Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, 2011), 78–99. 39. Mayr-Harting, Ottonian Book Illumination, 1:200. 40. Garrison, Ottonian Imperial Art, 155. 41. Henry Parkes, “Henry II, Liturgical Patronage and the Birth of the ‘Romano-German Pontifical’,” Early Medieval Europe 28.1 (2020): 104–141, especially 109–118, 123–141. 42. Janet L. Nelson, “Aachen as a Place of Power,” in Janet L. Nelson, Courts, Elites, and Gendered Power in the Early Middle Ages, XIV.1–23; Eliza Garrison, “Otto III at Aachen,” Peregrinations 3.1 (2011): 85. 43. Erkens, “Frau,” 257. 44. Euw, “Die ottonische Kölner Malerschule,” 264. 45. Euw, Vor dem Jahr 1000, 30.

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46. O‘Driscoll, “Image,” 19–21. 47. Richard F.  Gyug, “The Church of Dubrovnik and the Panniculus of Christ,” in Medieval Cultures in Contact, ed. Richard F. Gyug (New York: Fordham University Press, 2003), 61. See the covered hands of the Encomiast in Encomium Emmae and of the three Magi in the Benedictional of St Æthelwold in Catherine D. Karkov, “Emma: Image and Ideology,” in Early Medieval Studies in Memory of Patrick Wormald, eds. Stephen David Baxter, Catherine D. Karkov, Janet L. Nelson, et al. (London: Routledge, 2016), 510–512, 519. 48. Uta, for example, sponsored two luxury illuminated gospel books: Adam S. Cohen, “Abbess Uta of Regensburg and Patterns of Female Patronage Around 1000,” Aurora 4 (2003): 40–41. 49. See, for example, Ludger Körntgen, “Starke Frauen: Edgith-Adelheid-­ Theophanu,” in Otto der Große, Magdeburg und Europa, ed. Matthias Puhle, 2 vols. (Mainz: Philipp von Zabern, 2001), 1.124–26. 50. Maxence Hermant, “BnF. Archives et Manuscrits. Latin 9395,” accessed 13 December 2020, https://archivesetmanuscrits.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/ cc77424w. 51. Carl Nordenfalk, “Rezension zu Bloch/Schnitzler 1967/70,” Kunstchronik 24 (1971): 304, 308; Rita Otto, “Zu Mainzer Handschriften des frühen Mittelalters,” Mainzer Zeitschrift. Mittelrheinisches Jahrbuch für Archäologie, Kunst und Geschichte 81 (1986): 1–32. 52. Schramm and Mütherich, Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser, 167–168. 53. Das Reich der Salier, 1024–1125: Katalog zur Ausstellung des Landes Rheinland-Pfalz (Sigmaringen: J. Thorbecke, 1992), 312. 54. Schramm, Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige, 101, 222, 227, 236. 55. Evangelia, eleventh century, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Latin 275, http://gallica.bnf.fr/ark:/12148/btv1b100267932, fols 40r, 75r, 112r. Schramm and Mütherich, Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser, 167–168, 486; Hoffmann, Buchkunst, 1.39–40n23. 56. See Nordenfalk, “Rezension,” 292–309. 57. See the analysis of the image in the catalogue of the exhibition: Metz enluminée. Autour de la Bible de Charles le Chauve. Trésor manuscrits des églises messines (Metz: Éditions Serpenoise, 1989), 142. For the Mainz view, see Otto, “Zu Mainzer Handschriften,” 1–32; Das Reich der Salier, 312. 58. For an open view: François Avril, Claudia Rabel, and Isabelle Delaunay, Manuscrits enluminés d’origine germanique. Tome I, Xe-XIVe siècle (Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, 1995), 75–77. For an overall summary: Fabrizio Crivello, “Un evangelario Ottoniano a Lucca (Biblioteca statale, ms. 1379),” Studi in onore del Kunsthistorisches Institut in Florenz per il suo centenario (1897–1997). Annali della scuola normale superiore di Pisa.

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Classe di Lettere e Filosofia Serie IV “Quaderni” 1–2 (1996): 5–6, 9n32. A number of references about the origin of MS 9395 have only been available to me in limited access because of restrictions on lending from international libraries during 2020, owing to the COVID-19 virus. 59. Henry II, Diplomata. Die Urkunden Henry II. und Arduins., eds. Harry Bresslau, Hermann Bloch, and Robert Holtzmann, MGH.  Diplomata regum et imperatorum Germaniae. Die Urkunden der Deutschen Könige und Kaiser 3 (Hanover: publisher, 1900–1903), Nr. 18, Speyer, 28 September 1002. 60. Joachim Wollasch, “Das Grabkloster der Kaiserin Adelheid in Selz am Rhein,” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 2 (1968): 135–143, esp. 142. 61. Penelope Nash, Empress Adelheid and Countess Matilda (New York: Palgrave Macmillan, 2017), 28–32; P.  Jaffé, S.  Loewenfeld, F. Kaltenbrunner et al., eds., Regesta pontificum Romanorum ab condita ecclesia ad annum post Christum natum 1198, 2nd ed., 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1885–88), 1:698, no. 5762; Franz Neiske, “La tradition nécrologique d’Adélaïde,” in Adélaïde de Bourgogne, eds. Patrick Corbet, Monique Gouillet, and Dominique Iogna-­Prat (Dijon: Université de Dijon, 2002), 88–90; Herbert Paulhart, “Zur Heiligsprechung der Kaiserin Adelheid,” Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung 64 (1956): 65–67. 62. Wollasch, “Grabkloster,” 140; Karl-Josef Benz, Unterschungen zur politischen Bedeutung der Kirchweihe unter Teilnahme der deutschen Herrscher im hohen Mittelalter, Regensburger Historische Forschungen 4 (Kallmünz: M. Lassleben, 1975), 60–61. Wollasch concludes that Henry’s diploma is later than 1002, but this does not affect my argument. 63. “L’Agnus Dei associé au Liber generationis figure également dans les Evangiles colonais de Saint-Géréon (Cologne, Stadtarchiv, cod. W. 312)”: Hermant, “Bnf. 9395.” 64. Crivello, pers. comm. to author, 15 May 2020. 65. Therese Martin, Reassessing the Roles of Women as “Makers” of Medieval Art and Architecture, 2 vols. (Boston, MA: Brill, 2012); Jitske Jasperse, Medieval Women, Material Culture, and Power (Leeds: ARC Humanities Press, 2020). 66. Alfred Overmann, Gräfin Mathilde von Tuscien. Ihre Besitzungen, Geschichte ihres Gutes von 1115–1230 und ihre Regesten (Innsbruck, 1895; repr. Frankfurt am Main,: Minerva, 1965), 50b-c, s.aa. 1096/1097, 162–163. 67. Liber miraculorum, eds Giuliano Sala and Giorgio Vedovelli (Torri del Benaco, 1990), ch. 10, 52; Wollasch, “Grabkloster,” 139. 68. I thank the Medieval and Early Modern Centre, School of Literature, Arts and Media, The University of Sydney, the Centre’s Director, Dr John Gagné, and especially Dr Lynette Olson. Professor Fabrizio Crivello clarified certain matters about MS 9395 and increased my understanding of the subject considerably. The anonymous reader gave much helpful advice.

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Noble, T. “Matter and Meaning in the Carolingian World.” In The Long Morning of Medieval Europe: New Directions in Early Medieval Studies, edited by Jennifer R. Davis and Michael McCormick, 321–326. Aldershot: Ashgate, 2008. Nordenfalk, Carl. “Rezension zu Bloch/Schnitzler 1967/70.” Kunstchronik 24 (1971): 292–309. O’Driscoll, Joshua. “Image and Inscription in the Painterly Manuscripts from Ottonian Cologne.” PhD diss., Harvard University, 2015. Olson, Lynette. The Early Middle Ages: The Birth of Europe. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2007. Otto, Rita. “Zu Mainzer Handschriften des frühen Mittelalters.” In Mainzer Zeitschrift. Mittelrheinisches Jahrbuch für Archäologie, Kunst und Geschichte 81 (1986): 1–32. Overmann, Alfred. Gräfin Mathilde von Tuscien. Ihre Besitzungen, Geschichte ihres Gutes von 1115–1230 und ihre Regesten. Innsbruck, 1895; reprint Frankfurt am Main: Minerva, 1965. Paulhart, Herbert. “Zur Heiligsprechung der Kaiserin Adelheid.” Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung 64 (1956): 65–67. Remensnyder, Amy. “Topographies of Memory: Center and Periphery in High Medieval France.” In Medieval Concepts of the Past: Ritual, Memory, Historiography, edited by Gerd Althoff, Johannes Fried, and Patrick J. Geary, 193–214. Cambridge, UK: Cambridge University Press; Washington, DC: German Historical Institute, 2002. Robinson, I.  S. Henry IV of Germany, 1056–1106. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1999. Saxon, Elizabeth. “Carolingian, Ottonian and Romanesque Art and the Eucharist.” In A Companion to the Eucharist in the Middle Ages, edited by Ian Christopher Levy, Gary Macy, and Kristen Van Ausdall, 251–324. Leiden and Boston: Brill, 2012. Schramm, Percy Ernst and Florentine Mütherich. Denkmale der deutschen Könige und Kaiser. Volume 1. Ein Beitrag zur Herrschergeschichte von Karl dem Grossen bis Friedrich II. 768–1250. 2nd edition. Munich: Prestel, 1981. Schramm, Percy Ernst. Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit 751–1190. Edited by Florentine Mütherich. Munich, 1983 (1928). Schütz, Markus. “Kunigunde.” In Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters, edited by Amalie Fößel, 78–99. Regensburg: Friedrich Pustet, 2011. Skinner, Patricia. Women in Medieval Italian Society, 500–1200. Harlow: Pearson Education, 2001. Wickham, Chris. “Lawyers’ Time: History and Memory in Tenth- and Eleventh-­ Century Italy.” In Land and Power: Studies in Italian and European Social History, 400–1200, edited by Chris Wickham, 275–293. London: British School at Rome, 1994. Wollasch, Joachim. “Das Grabkloster der Kaiserin Adelheid in Selz am Rhein.” Frühmittelalterliche Studien 2 (1968): 135–143. Yates, Frances A. Selected Works of Frances Yates, Volume III: The Art of Memory. London and New York: Routledge, 1966; ARK Edition, 1984, repr. 2001.

Memory and Kingship in the Manuscripts of Matthew Paris Judith Collard

On 13 October 1247, Henry III gave the church of Westminster a reliquary containing a portion of Christ’s blood. It was on the feast day of St Edward the Confessor. The king had given orders that all the priests of London, festively clad in hoods and surplices, together with their clerks, suitably attired, and bearing their symbols and crosiers and with lighted tapers, join him in procession. The king was dressed in humble clothes, carrying the vessel above his head, and walked from St Paul’s Cathedral to Westminster Abbey. He walked under a canopy. Afterwards the King summoned him [Matthew Paris] to sit on the step separating the royal throne from the rest of the nave and said, “you have observed all these things and is what you have seen impressed on your mind?” To which he [Matthew] replied, “Yes, my Lord, for the splendid events of this day are worthy of being recorded.” The king then continued “… I therefore beseech you to write an accurate and full account of all these proceedings and write them in a noble and indelible script in a book that their memory may not be

J. Collard (*) North Fitzroy, VIC, Australia © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_9

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lost to posterity.” And he invited this person with whom he was speaking to dinner together with his three companions.1

Matthew Paris duly wrote about these events in his Chronica Majora. He also illustrated the procession, showing the king bearing the reliquary and walking under the canopy, thus reinforcing the importance given to this act. This was found on folio 216r in the Cambridge manuscript, Corpus Christi College MS 16 (Fig. 1). This was an important moment in the life of the monk and such a public acknowledgement of his role as a chronicler was unusual. Therefore it was not surprising that Matthew Paris recorded this honour. It was an exceptional distinction, and it was very unusual to find a record of such a meeting between the historian and the king. The events of this day were clearly regarded as being of great significance to both Matthew Paris and to the king, Henry III. In this chapter, I will examine the role of Matthew Paris in the memorialisation of medieval kings, both his contemporaries and their predecessors. I will first contextualise Paris’s background and his relationship with Henry III. The remainder of this chapter will then see the analysis of the

Fig. 1  Henry III carries the relic of the Holy Blood to Westminster Abbey, 1247. (Chronica Majora, Corpus Christi College MS 16, folio 216r, by permission of The Parker Library, Corpus Christi College, Cambridge)

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multiple kings Paris featured in his manuscripts and his role in facilitating the memory of these monarchs. Matthew Paris was a thirteenth-century monk based at St Albans Abbey. He was an important figure in the writing of English history, being responsible for several chronicles and saint’s lives that have provided us with much useful and intriguing information about the events and society of the thirteenth century. These included the Chronica Majora: the autograph text is now found in three manuscripts held in Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, and the British Library;2 the Historia Anglorum;3 and the Flores Historiarum, which was initially composed for Westminster Abbey, and also provided the basis for several other monastic chronicles.4 A copy of the Flores Historiarum manuscript that contains both Matthew Paris’s recognisable hand and some marginal notations is found in the Chetham Library, Manchester.5 The complicated history of this manuscript is revealed in the number of scribes who contributed to it. The images of the coronations of the kings of England from Edward the Confessor to Edward I were not by Matthew Paris. An important feature of most of Paris’s manuscripts is the presence of prefatory material such as genealogies and maps, as well as more elaborate ‘galleries of kings’ that appear in two manuscripts, the Historia Anglorum (fols. 9–9v) and the extensive genealogy of Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae (fols. 6–9v).6 Both are now in the British Library. The galleries of kings found in these manuscripts differ. The Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae begins with Brutus and ends with Henry III, while that of the Historia Anglorum begins with William the Conqueror, includes Henry the Young King, and concludes with Henry III. The information contained in this material was much valued at the time not only by chroniclers but also by the barons and the royal family, as Henry III demonstrated when he visited St Albans in 1257. The significance of this encounter between the king and the chronicler has received less discussion than might have been expected. It featured in Vaughan’s translation of extracts, and he also referred to it in his study of the chronicler.7 Suzanne Lewis, in her important study of Matthew Paris’s Chronica Majora, also referenced it, suggesting that these events not only inspired Paris to soften his customary hostility to the king but to produce one of his more considered illustrations.8 She also suggested that this marked the king’s first acknowledgement of Matthew’s skills as an historian.9 The recognition that the chronicler received and which he was justifiably proud, not only allowed him to include himself in the historical record, but also provided us with a rare glimpse into a moment of both

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personal and national significance. It demonstrated to the modern reader the importance of recording of these events and that both the eyewitness, Matthew Paris, and the protagonist, Henry III, were aware of this. The importance of these events also led Nicholas Vincent to devote a monograph to this occasion and tease out some of its implications.10 In his book, Vincent took Paris’s account as evidence of the close connection between the king and the historian, but he was more interested in the wider background behind these events and in investigating other primary sources that further fleshed out these events. He does describe Paris’s illustration as “one of his better known drawings.”11 The effectiveness of Matthew Paris’s recording of these events and their accompaniment by this image are demonstrated in both this book and by works such as those by David Carpenter, further indicating the importance of his work in memorialising the actions of the king. David Carpenter wrote about these events, pointing out their significance to the king. The possession of the Holy Blood honoured both Henry and his kingdom, potentially transforming the spiritual life of both. It was also related to his rivalry with Louis IX, the king of France, who had obtained in 1239 the crown of thorns, fragments of the True Cross and other relics of Christ’s passion, and was now building Ste-Chapelle in Paris to house them.12 Matthew Paris recognised the significance of these relics, referencing them several times in both the Historia Anglorum (fols. 131v and 137v) and the Chronica Majora (fols. 139v, 141v, and 182).13 By giving this relic to Westminster Abbey Henry was offering it to both St Edward the Confessor and to the Abbey, as well comparing the Abbey to Ste-Chapelle, as both now housed relics directly related to Christ’s Passion. Björn Weiler also mentioned how the king spied Paris amongst those who watched these events and then called up both the chronicler and his companions to sit near him, inviting him to record these events. Then he invited all four to join him at dinner, as noted above.14 Paris’s work as a chronicler and recorder was well known to the king, who acknowledged his activities on several occasions. For example, in 1244 he was asked by Henry to record the miraculous cure of Thomas Savoy from fever by St Edward the Confessor.15 In March 1257, when Henry III stayed at St Albans Abbey for a week, he honoured Matthew by inviting him to the royal table and to his chamber, where he was flattered by the king’s insistent demonstration of his own knowledge of historical and political matters such as the names of the German electors, English sovereigns who had been canonised, and the titles of 250 English

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barons.16 Paris was continually with the king, who ‘directing amicably and diligently the pen of the writer’ to include such evidence of his mastery of material that he considered important.17 Paris was aware that such moments might otherwise be lost. This type of knowledge was valued not only by the king but also found in a variety of historical documents that Matthew Paris possibly consulted, if not compiled himself. One such text that has been associated with Paris and St Albans was the Eton copy of Peter of Poitiers’s Compendium Historiae (MS 96).18 Such texts circulated throughout the late twelfth and thirteenth centuries and were filled with information that was highly valued at the time. It underlines that memory was a skill necessary for both kings and historians. Matthew Paris himself showed a familiarity with heraldry and royal genealogies in his own manuscripts. Not only did he record the heraldry of those mentioned in his various chronicles but in the Liber Additamentorum he included approximately 50 coloured shields and 25 uncoloured in this manuscript.19 That this type of knowledge was considered important was demonstrated by the series of shields that decorated Westminster Abbey. These were added to the decoration of the Abbey following the king’s visit to France.20 These carved and coloured shields run along the choir aisles, each series organised by rank, starting with St Edward the Confessor and England at the east end of the south aisle, while the Empire and France were on the corresponding northern side.21 Henry III had first seen such shields on his trip to France. There such shields were hung, as was the continental custom, in the Great Hall in the Palace of the Old Temple where the king had feasted. Carved straps were attached to them to recreate what the king had seen in Paris.22 Memory was a recurrent theme in Paris’s work. He recorded different kinds of memory and strategies used in commemorating figures and events that he considered of significance. In the examples given above we have the mixing of the individual, personal memory of Matthew Paris, with his ‘humble’ account at the end of his very detailed description, together with the recognition by the king of the need for an official recording in a chronicle. Paris was probably an eyewitness to various events during the reign of Henry III. According to Vaughan, Paris seems to have been present at the translation of St Thomas Becket at Canterbury Cathedral in 1220, and at the marriage of Henry III and Eleanor at Westminster Abbey in 1236.23 It was much rarer for him to record his personal interactions with the king. There were two more events that Paris singled out as they also involved his own contributions. In 1250 or 1251, he described how

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he defended St Albans Abbey, remonstrating against the granting rights of free warrant contrary to the Abbey’s privileges.24 The final occasion that he recorded such an intimate occasion was in March 1257 when, again at St Albans, Henry III invited the monk to eat with him and come to his royal lodgings where the king shared his own knowledge of history. Matthew took the opportunity to speak on behalf of the University of Oxford, whose Masters of Arts had sent a complaint against the bishop of Lincoln.25 Such singling out of these types of encounters was rare in the chronicler’s writings. The naming of kings and the recording of their deeds was central to works like Matthew Paris’s chronicles. They recurred throughout these works to form cohesive histories, be they of the realm or an abbey. The genealogies of the kings of England appeared in most of Paris’s historical writings.26 The naming of individual kings became, literally, a framing device of his histories. They defined the time covered in text, the appearance of illustrations, and in the ancillary devices that framed the manuscript. Their individual names appeared in the running headings in several of his chronicles and reinforced the idea that history, and indeed time, was broken up into the reigns of individual kings. In the Chronica Majora, for example, these named headings did not begin until the reign of King Harold, which immediately preceded the commencement of William I’s conquest and then reign over England. This is found on folio 87v of Corpus Christi College MS 26. Thus, the use of this device in Matthew Paris’s chronicle only commenced during the lead up to the Norman conquest of England. It marked the beginning of a new regime and a radical change in the way the country was governed. The royal genealogies featured in all of Matthew Paris’s histories, as well as in the La Estoire de Seint Aedward le Rei,27 although they did emphasise the different lessons such genealogies could teach. Within the chronicles themselves, genealogies could be linked to diagrams of the Heptarchy, which described an England ruled by seven different kings. This was subject to change as allegiances and alliances were fluid. Generally these kingdoms were listed as Northumbria, East Anglia, Essex, Kent, Sussex, Wessex, and Mercia. In the Chronica Majora, such a diagram included a bust of King Alfred, who here was described as the “protomonarchia” (Cambridge, Corpus Christi College MS 26, fol. iv verso). The image also was connected to a second drawing on page 139,28 in the Chronica Majora where Alfred was identified as the first king to rule England alone. This second image on page 139 also looked back to the

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opening genealogy, describing it as the “genealogia orbiculata,”29 an unusual example of such self-conscious cross-referencing. This would also suggest that the prefatory material found in this volume was designed to accompany this manuscript as it made explicit reference to the contents in this text. As Lewis pointed out, this diagram also included additional texts relating to Alfred’s reign, as well as to King Offa, purported founder of St Albans monastery.30 An enthroned King Offa was also shown holding a book opposite another circular diagram of the Heptarchy in the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae (London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius D.VI, fol. 5). This image of Offa served as the opening of the manuscript Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae and on the following folios was the ‘gallery of kings,’ a useful designation derived from Suzanne Lewis’s study.31 These kings began with Brutus and concluded with Henry III. While it followed the order of kings found in Geoffrey of Monmouth, it was not as comprehensive. For example, it did not include Egbert, although it did have King Offa, one of the founders of Matthew Paris’s own monastery.32 Cnut as a conqueror of England was included but his sons were not, while all the Norman and Plantagenet kings were also included. Following the ‘gallery of kings’ was a genealogical diagram that ran over three pages and was divided again by banded borders.33 In this genealogy the Heptarchy diagram appeared a second time, and there were also individual busts of Alfred, here holding a book and labelled ‘the wise’ (sapiens), as well as William I (labelled the ‘Conqueror’) and Richard I (bellipotens or ‘mighty in battle’). Both William and Richard held raised swords, while William also held a shield emblazoned, very crudely, with representations of three rampant leopards. This genealogy concluded with Henry III and five named children: Edward, Margaret, Edmund, Beatrice, and Katherine. While each were placed in individual roundels, none were illustrated. On the following page was a map of England, Scotland, and Wales. The layout of this manuscript followed a pattern of heptarchy diagrams, maps, and genealogies found in most of Paris’s manuscripts, although none were identical nor were they formulaic. There was something almost ritualistic in the manner that these works presented. These diagrammatic, visual forms presented a very readable text. The welfare of the kingdom was bound up in strong and continuous leadership, a message that these continuous lists of lineage reinforced, particularly if the reader overlooked the inevitable breaks in the line through conquest or deaths. This is further expanded when the related portraits of kings are added. These

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sequences of kings were only found in two manuscripts: the Historia Anglorum (London. British Library, MS Royal 14 C.  VII, fols. 8v–9) (Figs.  2–3) and the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae (London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius D. VI, fols. 6–9v) (Figs. 4–5). These ‘galleries of kings’ were visually striking. In the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae, most of the kings were seated holding a variety of

Fig. 2  William I, William II, Henry I, and Stephen, Historia Anglorum (London. British Library, MS Royal 14 C. VII, fol. 8v)

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Fig. 3  Henry II, Richard I, John, and Henry III, with a bust of Henry the Young King in a small niche between them, Historia Anglorum (London. British Library, MS Royal 14 C. VII, fol. 9)

attributes including models of churches, swords, books, or spears. The attributes in the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae were used to signify different aspects of royal duty and simultaneously to identify noteworthy or memorable features of their reign. Consequently, Brutus, the legendary

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Fig. 4  Uther Pendragon, Arthur, Ethelbert, and St Oswald, Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae (London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius D VI, fol. 6v)

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Fig. 5  Henry II, Richard I, John, and Henry III, Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae (London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius D VI, fol. 9v)

founder of Britain, was shown resting his feet on the heads of three giants, whilst holding the boat that carried him to Britain. This refers to the race of giants who inhabited the land before he conquered it.34 Unlike the more impassive figures found in the Historia Anglorum, these images were distinctly engaging, for all their crudity of execution.

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The figures in the Historia were more refined in style, although they were also distanced through their more archetypal presentation. The sole exception was the depiction of William the Conqueror, who sat with an upturned long boat at his feet.35 This was a subtle reference, almost lost within the decoration of the frame. The motif itself reappeared in the series found in Cotton MS Claudius D.  VI, where Brutus, Cnut, and William I all held boats. The boats identified them as foreign conquerors of the British Isles, who won victory through battle, whether over giants or the Anglo-Saxons.36 As such they mark significant disruptions to the royal line. Each of these kings, however, was interpreted differently. Brutus held a model of his ship by the mast, while trampling on the defeated giants, while Cnut clasped his ship to his side while he held an axe on his right hand. William I raised up a model of his boat in his left hand, while his right rested a sword on his knee. Attention was paid to the peculiarities of particular reigns. On folio 6v of the Cotton Claudius manuscript, Uther Pendragon was shown with a dragon’s head to his right, while Arthur rested his feet on Mordred’s severed head and seemed to juggle four crowns. On the same page, St Oswald held a large green cross, a reference to his victory over Penda, the Mercian king, who was also depicted beneath the king’s feet. The king’s poses were varied, giving each a lively persona in contrast to the formally arranged figures in the Historia Anglorum. Offa (fol. 7), the founder of St Albans, held a magnificent church with three spired towers. Egbert (fol. 7), Edmund I and Ethelred the Unready (fol. 8) and John (fol. 9v) held nothing. On folio 8v another king was also shown. He held no attribute to aid in his identification. Matthew Paris had identified this figure as ‘Alfredus’ in the right margin. Robert Cotton (1571–1631), who added additional labels to these images, omitted to write a caption for this image, thus side-­ stepping an awkward break in the accepted narrative of royal descent. Lewis, in her discussion of this image, suggested that Matthew Paris here deliberately ignored Cnut’s two sons, Harold I and Hardacanute, in favour of Ethelred’s son.37 This was Alfred, who came over to England from Normandy in 1036, to unsuccessfully claim the throne after the death of Canute. His brother was Edward the Confessor, who eventually did become King of England after Hardacanute’s death. It was also possible that Matthew Paris had made a mistake when compiling this ambitious, but idiosyncratic series.38 In keeping with the more informative, colourful depictions of kings it is in this series that probably the most unexpected image occurs. This was

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of King John, who was shown with his crown aslant.39 It was unprecedented in medieval art. While the figure shared many characteristics with other images in the series, he was distinguished from others in two ways: the church founded by him, Beaulieu Abbey, was placed in the background of the image, and his crown was shown slipping, seemingly drunkenly aslant on his head. In itself, the position of the Abbey was an unusual variation on the standard composition, since such motifs were usually held by the patron. These disruptions to the more formulaic formal representations found in this series, and in other such depictions of kings, signalled the uneasiness with which King John was presented throughout Matthew Paris’s texts. The use of the falling crown in visual representations of King John complemented the textual accounts. The portrait found within the written text of the chronicles was severely critical of the king. He was seen as being far worse than any of his predecessors. He was presented as a cruel and ruthless tyrant, and an unsuccessful one, able to preserve neither his lands nor the peace within the boundaries of his kingdom.40 This attitude was summed up in a speech found in the Chronica Majora: John was a tyrant rather than a king, a subverter rather than a governor, an oppressor of his own people, and a friend to foreigners and rebels; for, owing to his idleness, he lost the duchy of Normandy and many other of his territories, and moreover was eager to lose or destroy the kingdom of England; and he was an insatiable extorter of money, and an invader and destroyer of the possessions of his own countrymen.41

In Paris’s portrayal of John, the criticism of the king in the text was reinforced by the accompanying images. This is unusual in any medieval manuscript. In a sense, John had placed himself outside the boundaries of Christendom during the time of the interdict (1208–1214). Showing King John with his crown slipping revealed the seriousness with which Paris regarded both him and the events of his reign. The falling crown was an image that the artist used twice more in his references to John’s reign. Its significance is underlined by its appearance within the Chronica Majora, where the inverted shield signalling the king’s death was accompanied by a falling crown with the inscription “vae labenti coronae Angliae” (Cambridge, Corpus Christi College MS 16, fol. 48) which can be translated “woe to the tottering crown of England.”42 Given how closely the depiction of John conformed to the image of the king found in

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both the written accounts and the use of signa, it seems that this gallery was designed to appear in one of Paris’s chronicles. This is because it did so carefully reflect the contents of these manuscripts in its visualisation of the criticism found in both the text and the imagery. It seems unfortunate then that the execution of this image should be so ineffectually done. Despite the crudity of execution, both Suzanne Lewis and Nigel Morgan identified these pictures as being by Paris.43 In contrast, Vaughan tentatively suggested that the attribution of these images to Paris was doubtful because of their sketchiness.44 Lewis had suggested that these sketches may have been preparatory drawings for a prolegomen for the large Chronica Majora.45 In that case, the final version would have been more polished, as was found in the Historia Anglorum. Certainly, the expansive nature of these illustrations would have made them particularly suitable for this massive chronicle. It may also be argued that it seems unlikely that the sequence that preceded the Historia Anglorum was only a fragment of a similar series.46 The latter manuscript, besides being unified by the iconographical theme of king as donor, appeared in the choice of kings, from William I to Henry III, to reflect the contents of this particular chronicle, which began with the coming of the Normans to England and ended with the contemporary reign of Henry III. The history found in the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae, beginning with Brutus and concluding with Henry III, suited a more comprehensive history of England. Therefore it did seem probable that the colourful sequence that accompanied the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae was intended for the more complex Chronica Majora, which began with the Creation and included the history of the legendary kings of Britain first recounted by Geoffrey of Monmouth. The sequence of kings found in the Historia Anglorum was much tighter in both its treatment and in its uniformity of subject matter, reflecting the nature of this chronicle, which traced the fortunes of the Kings of England from the time of the Norman Conquest to Henry III. It began with William I (the Conqueror), marking this new regime of kingship through conquest, and concluded with Henry III, and this sequence in the Historia Anglorum only occupies two folios. It also included a very rare image of Henry the Young King, son of Henry II. Henry the Young King is sat in an arched frame in the centre of the second folio. The prefatory material, in addition to the genealogical material, included the maps (fols. 4v—5v), the gallery of kings (fols. 9—9v), and the Madonna and Child (fol. 6) are some of the more polished works that Paris produced.

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His maturity as an artist was on display in these finely designed and produced works. In Paris’s work, the nine kings were shown formally seated within individual, arched frames in a static elegant arrangement. Each was labelled, with an accompanying rubric also in the artist’s hand. The presentation was restrained, and considerable care was taken in the treatment of the drapery and the details on these figures. The pages were brightly coloured with their alternating blue, red, and maroon backgrounds. This was particularly noticeable when compared to the more robust, almost cartoonish figures found in the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae gallery from the same decade. Both were probably done in the 1250s. With the exception of Henry the Young King, each held a model of a building that was either founded by or benefitted from their patronage. The upturned ship under William I’s feet marked him as the founder of this dynasty and as Conqueror, reinforcing the message that appeared in the opening of the chronicle. Unlike the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae, in the Historia Anglorum the nine kings shown are all presented in the role of patrons or founders of churches. There were two exceptions: Henry the Young King, son of Henry II, and William Rufus. Neither was shown with a church building, although William Rufus holds a model of Westminster’s Great Hall. Accompanying each of these seated figures texts explained the significance of these attributes. In the top and bottom margins were short texts written by Paris in his distinctive hand. These explanatory rubrics described the royal foundation of each king therefore explaining the model of a building held by these kings. Together, they presented a picture of these Norman and Angevin kings as royal patrons of the Church and as defenders of the great monastic houses, which was something that Matthew Paris as a monk from St Albans Abbey was keen to encourage. There was a long tradition in Christian art of donor portraits, dating back at least to the sixth century.47 These images generally occurred in  locations associated with a specific church. With this in mind, the Historia Anglorum was highly unusual, as the figures were isolated from their sites of patronage. None of the buildings were associated with St Albans, which was the site of Matthew Paris’s abbey. In the Historia Anglorum, the separation of the motif from a specific church detaches it from a particular act of charity or devotion, instead underlining a broader importance of this royal role of patronage for the Church in general. Thus, their appearance in this setting presented an image of the king as the English Church’s pious protector and supporter, in a manner similar to

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the eleventh-century coins of Emperor Henry IV, on which the figure was shown holding a model of Speyer Cathedral. The spread of this image around the Empire presented Henry at once as patron of a particular church and as protector of the institutional Church in its widest sense.48 Locating the church behind the figure of King John in the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae therefore marked a significant disruption to a well-­ established trope. An obvious comparison with Paris’s chronicles was with the near contemporary Abingdon Chartulary, or Chronicle (British Library, MS Cotton Claudius B. VI). The theme of king as patron was the principal organising theme behind that entire chronicle, which was constructed around charters given by the depicted kings and queens.49 As Lewis pointed out, the principal difference between these images and those found in Matthew Paris’s works was that they were spread throughout the manuscript, accompanying the relevant charters, rather than being collected together as they were in Paris’s galleries of kings. The imagery found in the Historia Anglorum also recalled other manuscripts by or associated with Paris that began with visual references to genealogy and the succession of kings. Although done in a later hand, but generally thought to be based on a now lost Matthew Paris manuscript is the Cambridge manuscript of La Estoire de Seint Aedward le Rei. This work began with a vision of England’s past, with its tradition of good governance (Cambridge, University Library MS Ee.3.59, fol. 3v). It showed three earlier kings crowned by angels, proclaiming the nobility of the royal line. These kings were identified by rubrics as Alfred, labelled the Wise, the first king of England; Edgar, the king who brought “peace to the English and prosperity to the reign”; while Ethelred was recorded as the father of St Edward. The emphasis in this manuscript, and by implications others that included genealogies, was of the merits of inherited power. The text in La Estoire reinforced this: “When the root is from good stock, the fruit should rightly taste of it. When a good graft grows from a good trunk, it stands to reason that good fruit comes from it; and bad fruit comes from the bad.”50 The author pointed to the continuing importance of Henry III’s heritage for the prestige of the throne.51 In many ways, the succession of kings in the gallery reinforced this. The linking of the ideals of good kingship and the prosperity of a nation was a major theme in La Estoire that was also repeated in the Historia Anglorum. The saint’s life, as with the chronicle’s gallery of kings, was a more abstract version of the genealogies that appeared in Paris’s other

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chronicles, where a genealogy began was important. While the latter generally began with Alfred, represented as a wise lawgiver and the first real king of England, the protomonarch, the galleries of kings in both the Historia Anglorum and the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae began with conquerors, William and Brutus, both of whom defeated the unworthy occupiers of the country, Harold the oath-broker, and the giants whom Brutus vanquished. Both founded new lines. Both sequences also demonstrated, like more standard genealogies, as much about the concerns of the compilers as they did about the history of the dynastic line.52 In the Estoire Paris was even more explicit about this. The links between legitimacy and the continuity of the royal line had an impact on the nation’s well-being. The most obvious example of this was the Norman Conquest, where the illegitimacy of Harold’s claims to the throne was overthrown by William I’s conquest of England. In the depiction of Harold’s coronation the absence of a clerical presence or approval further emphasised this. Harold was shown placing the crown on his own head (Cambridge, University Library, MS Ee. 3 59, fol. 30v). In this and his chronicles, Matthew Paris used his images to reinforce the underlining messages he was presenting. The Historia Anglorum began with a brief prologue outlining a moral purpose for history as it served to help the reader to remember the past and the people and events that it recorded. Paris also included the range of those who wrote historical narratives such as Josephus, Eusebius of Caesaria, and Bede, as well as more recent historians such as Marianus Scotus and Sigisbert of Gembloux.53 Paris’s account was very much influenced by previous writers, and not just by his knowledge of those based in his own abbey, such as Roger of Wendover, whose chronicle was used by Paris.54 Even the preliminary material that accompanied Paris’s chronicles reinforced this. His maps and itineraries that preceded his main chronicles also found precedents in earlier writings. Bede, for example, began his important chronicle with a description of Britain.55 The presence of lists of kings, and even bishops, was also a feature. John of Worcester included such material in his chronicle.56 The opening text of his Historia Anglorum continued: “So here begins the Chronicle of the English with Duke William of the Normans, who attacked Harold, the perfidious and perjurious king of the English, and drove him from the throne of his kingdom as one who had broken faith, providing his readers a brief instruction on these actions.”57 The phrasing signalled both the timeframe of the Historia and the underlying belief that history acted as “a mirror of the human condition.”58 The very visual framing of the manuscript with its almost

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ceremonial procession of prefatory images of kings also reinforced this. By his referencing of such antecedents in the introduction he further anchored himself in a tradition of European chronicle writing. The appearance of images of kings within the context of Matthew Paris’s chronicles occurred within a much wider collection of images. While the images found in prefatory material were exclusively devoted to English monarchs, within the chronicles themselves they were surrounded by illustrations reflecting the variety of material covered within. These included events involving England, the Holy Roman Empire, and the Papacy, as well as references to Saracens, the crusades, and the appearance of the Mongol army. There was also information about domestic affairs and natural phenomena. The kings were shown in these manuscripts in a variety of situations: in battle, in birth and death, their marriages, treaties and their coronations, as patrons of relics, travelling and in formal depictions as enthroned rulers. Despite their variety, these illustrations showed the king in his public role. The informality of the image was restricted to the manner of the execution rather than the situation. In part, this sense of informality found in many of the drawings was due to Paris’s style, in his use of lively lines and light washes. The kings and their activities were depicted in three basic ways: through emblems such as crowns and shields, in narrative scenes, and in formal poses. The ceremony and events recorded in 1247 acted as a reminder of the role of a chronicler in the thirteenth century. They revealed that Henry III was aware of Matthew Paris and his activities as an historian when he asked him to record these events. Matthew Paris was also able to remind potential readers of his chronicles of his connection to those who had power and who could shape current affairs. Thus from examining his chronicles, the prefatory material that accompanied his writings were of greater interest and relevance than might have seemed immediately obvious. The succession of kings and their deeds that made up much of his histories were also of interest. Indeed, the very walls of Westminster Abbey carried similar messages in the decorative scheme that recorded the shields of important families and in the recognition of the primacy of the site for royalty. Both Paris and the king shared this interest in royal genealogy. Knowledge about the succession, the significant families of the realm, and their heraldic devices was information that became important elements in his chronicles, acting not only as recording documents but as aide-mémoire. As is readily demonstrable, not only did Matthew Paris record the events from

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1247  in his chronicle, but by following the king’s instructions that “I therefore beseech you to write an accurate and full account of all these proceedings and write them in a noble and indelible script in a book that their memory may not be lost to posterity”59 they were indeed not forgotten. The addition of his evocative image made it even more memorable. The gifting of the relic of the Holy Blood and the pomp that accompanied it proved unforgettable not only for those present at this ceremony but also for later readers of the chronicle. In his chronicles and genealogies Matthew Paris utilised text and imagery to create vivid accounts of deeds and events, as well as memorials to the kings of England. His histories became important sites for recording and retaining accounts that were considered worthy of memorialising, such as Henry III’s gift of the relic of the Holy Blood and the events that surrounded it.

Notes 1. Translated in Suzanne Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris in the Chronica Majora, (Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984), 225–226. The full text can be found in Matthew Paris, Chronica Majora, ed. H.R. Luard, 7 vols. (London: Rolls Series, 1872–1884) (hereafter referenced as CM), iv, 644–645. 2. Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, UK, MSS. 26 and 16; and British Library, UK, MS Royal 14 C. VII. 3. British Library UK, MS Royal 14 C. VII. 4. Judith Collard, “Flores Historiarum Manuscripts: The Illumination of a Late Thirteenth-Century Chronicle Series,” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 71.4 (2008): 441–466. 5. Chetham Library, Manchester, UK, MS. 6712. 6. British Library, UK, MS Cotton Claudius D. VI. 7. Richard Vaughan, Matthew Paris (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1958), 3 8. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 224–227, Plate X. 9. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 4. 10. Nicholas Vincent, The Holy Blood: King Henry III and the Westminster Blood Relic (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001). 11. Vincent, The Holy Blood, 4. 12. David Carpenter, Henry III: 1207–1258 (New Haven: Yale University Press, 2020), 476–478. Carpenter also points out the connection with the June 1247 canonisation of Edmund of Abingdon who was recently translated to a new shrine in Pontigny and was taken up by the French royal house.

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13. M.R. James, A Descriptive Catalogue of the Manuscripts in the Library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912), 58; Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 306–309. 14. Björn Weiler, “Matthew Paris on the writing of history,” Journal of Medieval History 35 (2009): 263. 15. Paris, CM, vi, 92–94, Carpenter, Henry III, 419. 16. Paris, CM, v, 617–618; Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 4; Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 5; Carpenter, Henry III, 399. 17. Carpenter, Henry III, 399; Paris, CM, V, 617–618. 18. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 39. 19. See, for example, the Liber Additamentorum, (British Library, UK, MS. Cotton Nero D. I, fols. 171–171v, 186, 199.) Thomas D. Tremlett ed., Rolls of Arms: Henry III (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967), 45–52; Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 250–253; Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 467–468. 20. Pamela Tudor-Craig, “The Painted Chamber at Westminster,” Archaeological Journal 114 (1957): 104. 21. Paul Binski, Westminster Abbey and the Plantagenets: Kingship and the Representation of Power 1200–1400, (New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1995), 76–82. 22. Pamela Tudor-Craig, “The Painted Chamber,” 103–104, Matthew Paris, CM, v, 480. 23. Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 3; Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, ed. F.  Madden (hereafter referenced as HA), 3 vols. (London: Rolls Series, 1866–1868) ii, 241; CM, iii, 336. 24. CM, v, 233–234; Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 4. 25. CM. v, 42–45; Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 4. 26. The manuscripts that include such genealogies are: the Chronica Majora, Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, UK, MS. 26, fol. iv verso; Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, UK, MS 16, fols. Iii–iii verso; Historia Anglorum, British Library, UK, MS.  Royal 14. C.  VII, fols. 8v-9, Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae, British Library, UK, MS.  Cotton Claudius D. VI, fols. 5 verso–9 verso. 27. M.R.  James edited a facsimile of this manuscript, La estoire de Seint Aedward le Rei, (Oxford: Roxburghe Club, 1920); the manuscript is also available digitally: accessed 1 February 2020, http://www.lib.cam.ac.uk/ deptserv/manuscripts/Ee.3.59/. The text has been edited twice in Lives of Edward the Confessor, ed. H. R. Luard, (London: Rolls Series, 1858) and La estoire de seint Aedward le Rei attributed to Matthew Paris, ed. Kathryn Young Wallace, (London: Anglo-Norman Text Society, 1983). The text has also been translated in The History of Saint Edward the King by Matthew

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Paris, trans. Thelma S.  Fenster and Jocelyn Wogan-Browne (Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2008). 28. Unusually this manuscript is paginated rather than the usual foliation. 29. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 168–170 30. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 170. 31. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 140. 32. Olivier Laborderie, “The First King of England? Egbert and the Foundations of Royal Legitimacy in Thirteenth-century Historiography,” in The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, eds. Sean McGlynn and Elena Woodacre, (Newcastle-on-Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014), 75. 33. This is found in the Abbreviatio Chronicorum Angliae, British Library, UK, MS. Cotton Claudius D. VI, fols. 8 verso–9 verso. 34. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 147. 35. This is found in the British Library, UK, MS. Royal 14 C. VII, fol. 8v. 36. Lewis cites the example of Brutus; Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 143, 147. 37. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 156. 38. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 147. 39. Judith Collard, “King John and the symbol of the falling crown in the Chronicles of Matthew Paris,” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History 3rd series, 6 (2009): 35–52. 40. Galbraith, Roger Wendover and Matthew Paris, 17–19, 34–37; Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 182; see also V.H. Galbraith, “Good and Bad Kings in English History,” History 30 (1945): 119–132. Here Galbraith argues that the idea of a good king, as found in medieval chronicles, was bound up with a king’s religious activities. Little account was taken of the tensions between good government and papal encroachments. A king was considered to be good if he was generous to the Church and successful in war (120–124). 41. Translated in Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 182, CM, ii, 562–563. 42. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 185; Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, UK, MS 16, fol. 48. 43. See Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 156; Nigel Morgan, Early Gothic Manuscripts 1190–1250 (New York: Harvey Miller Publishers, 1982), 144, no. 93. 44. Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 223. 45. Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 145. 46. Morgan, Early Gothic Manuscripts 1190–1250, 142–143, 144, no. 93; Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 143.

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47. Elizabeth Lipsmeyer, “The Donor and his Model Church in Medieval Art from Early Christian Times to the Late Romanesque Period,” (Ph.D. Diss., Rutgers University, New Brunswick, 1981). 48. Lipsmeyer, “The Donor and his Model Church,” 74; see also G. Schramm, Die Deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit (Leipzig: Leipzig University, Institut für Kultur- und Universalgeschichte, 1928–1929), 137. 49. Morgan, Early Gothic Manuscripts 1190–1250, 89–90; Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 140. 50. History of Saint Edward the King, 54; Wallace, La estoire de seint Aedward le Rei, 4. 51. History of Saint Edward the King, 54; Wallace, La estoire de seint Aedward le Rei, 2–3. 52. Judith Collard, “Gender and Genealogy: English Illuminated Royal Genealogical Rolls from the Thirteenth Century,” Parergon n.s. 17 (2000): 15; K. Sisam, “Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies,” Proceedings of the British Academy 3 (1953): 289–348; D.  Dumville, “Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists,” in Early Medieval Kingship, eds. P.H. Sawyer and I.N. Wood, (Leeds: University of Leeds, 1977), 72–104. 53. Paris, HA, i, 3–5. 54. British Library, UK, MS Otho D. iii; Roger of Wendover, Flores Historiarum, ed. H.G. Hewlett, 3 vols. (London: Rolls Series, 1886–1889). Wendover’s influence and importance was discussed in several texts. V.H.  Galbraith, Roger Wendover and Matthew Paris, (Glasgow: Jackson, Son and Co, 1944); Vaughan, Matthew Paris, 21–34. 55. Bede, Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, eds. Bertram Colgrave and R.A.B. Mynors (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969.) 56. An autograph version is housed at Corpus Christi College, Oxford, UK, MS 157; Judith Collard, “Henry I’s dream in John of Worcester’s Chronicle (Oxford, Corpus Christi College MS 157) and the Illustration of Twelfth-­ Century English Chronicles,” Journal of Medieval History 36 (2010): 121. See also John of Worcester, The Chronicle of John of Worcester, eds. Reginald P. Darlington, P. McGurk, and Jennifer Bray, 2 vols. (Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995–1998). 57. Paris, HA, i, 5. 58. “…ecce speculum humanae conditionis.” Paris, HA, i, 4. 59. Translated in Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris, 226.

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Bibliography Primary Sources Anonymous. Lives of Edward the Confessor. Edited by H. R. Luard. London: Rolls Series, 1858. ———. La estoire de Seint Aedward le Rei. Edited by M.  R. James. Oxford: Roxburghe Club, 1920. Accessed 1 February 2020. http://www.lib.cam. ac.uk/deptserv/manuscripts/Ee.3.59/. Bede. Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People. Edited by Bertram Colgrave and R.A.B. Mynors. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1969. British Library, UK, MS. Cotton Claudius D. VI. British Library, UK, MS. Cotton Nero D. I. British Library, UK, MS Otho D. British Library, UK, MS. Royal 14 C. VII. Chetham Library, Manchester, UK, MS. 6712. Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, UK, MS 16. Corpus Christi College, Cambridge, UK, MS. 26. Corpus Christi College, Oxford, UK, MS 157. James, M. R. A Descriptive Catalogue of the Manuscripts in the Library of Corpus Christi College, Cambridge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1912. John of Worcester. The Chronicle of John of Worcester. Edited by Reginald P. Darlington, P. McGurk, and Jennifer Bray. 2 volumes. Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1995–1998. Paris, Matthew. Historia Anglorum. Edited by F. Madden. 3 volumes. (London: Rolls Series, 1866–1868). ———. Chronica Majora. Edited by H.R.  Luard. 7 volumes. London: Rolls Series, 1872–1884. ———. La estoire de seint Aedward le Rei attributed to Matthew Paris. Edited by Kathryn Young Wallace. London: Anglo-Norman Text Society, 1983. Roger of Wendover. Flores Historiarum. Edited by H.G.  Hewlett 3 volumes. London: Rolls Series, 1886–1889. The History of Saint Edward the King by Matthew Paris. Translated by Thelma S. Fenster and Jocelyn Wogan-Browne. Tempe: Arizona Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies, 2008.

Secondary Sources Binski, Paul. Westminster Abbey and the Plantagenets: Kingship and the Representation of Power 1200–1400. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 1995. Carpenter, David. Henry III: 1207–1258. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2020.

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Collard, Judith. “Gender and Genealogy: English Illuminated Royal Genealogical Rolls from the Thirteenth Century.” Parergon n.s. 17 (2000): 11–34. ———. “Flores Historiarum Manuscripts: The Illumination of a Late Thirteenth-­ Century Chronicle Series.” Zeitschrift für Kunstgeschichte, 71.4 (2008): 441–466. ———. “King John and the Symbol of the Falling Crown in the Chronicles of Matthew Paris.” Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History 3rd series, 6 (2009): 35–52. ———. “Henry I’s dream in John of Worcester’s Chronicle (Oxford, Corpus Christi College MS 157) and the Illustration of Twelfth-Century English Chronicles.” Journal of Medieval History 36 (2010): 106–125. Dumville, D. “Kingship, Genealogies and Regnal Lists.” In Early Medieval Kingship, edited by P.H. Sawyer and I.N. Wood, 72–104. Leeds: University of Leeds, 1977. Galbraith, V. H. Roger Wendover and Matthew Paris. Glasgow: Jackson, Son and Co, 1944. ——— “Good and Bad Kings in English History.” History 30 (1945): 119–132. Lewis, Suzanne. The Art of Matthew Paris in the Chronica Majora. Berkeley: University of California Press, 1984. Laborderie, Oliver. “The First King of England? Egbert and the Foundations of Royal Legitimacy in Thirteenth-century Historiography.” In The Image and Perception of Monarchy in Medieval and Early Modern Europe, edited by Sean McGlynn and Elena Woodacre, 70–83, Newcastle-on-Tyne: Cambridge Scholars Publishing, 2014. Lipsmeyer, Elizabeth. “The Donor and his Model Church in Medieval Art from Early Christian Times to the Late Romanesque Period.” (Ph.D. Diss., Rutgers University, New Brunswick, 1981. Morgan, Nigel. Early Gothic Manuscripts 1190–1250. New  York: Harvey Miller Publishers, 1982. Schramm, G. Die Deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit. Leipzig: Leipzig University, Institut für Kultur- und Universalgeschichte, 1928–1929. Sisam, K. “Anglo-Saxon royal genealogies.” Proceedings of the British Academy 3 (1953): 289–348. Tremlett, Thomas D., ed. Rolls of Arms: Henry III. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1967. Tudor-Craig, Pamela. “The Painted Chamber at Westminster.” Archaeological Journal 114 (1957): 92–105. Vaughan, Richard. Matthew Paris. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1958. Vincent, Nicholas. The Holy Blood: King Henry III and the Westminster Blood Relic. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2001. Weiler, Björn. “Matthew Paris on the Writing of History.” Journal of Medieval History 35 (2009): 254–278.

Maria Theresia and Catherine II: The Bodies of a Female Ruler in Propaganda, Criticism, and Retrospect Elena Teibenbacher

Introduction Following Kantorowicz’s theory of the Two Bodies of a King, a female ruler, like their male counterpart, could equally be transferred to a second, symbolic and disembodied position. The legitimacy of a sovereign is primarily derived through the physical body via dynastic heritage in which women usually represented the last possible solution. Legitimacy can be further strengthened or weakened by a sovereign’s physical constraints and mental abilities. For instance, the term Königsheil was attributed to a leader who governed for the benefit of his people. The dynastic ties between the Heil and the (primarily) male members of a specific family were only established later. This chapter will analyse the different aspects of the body that Maria Theresia and Catherine II used in defence and representation of their

E. Teibenbacher (*) Karl-Franzens-University Graz, Graz, Austria © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_10

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legitimacy, depending on their respective circumstances and possibilities. Both monarchs constitute an exception of the norm of male rulership. Within that exception, however, and in juxtaposition to each other, Catherine II represents irregularity, while Maria Theresia shows an almost disappointing lack of provocativeness.1 In a larger context the commemoration of both female monarchs was strongly intertwined with political and societal circumstances during the nineteenth and twentieth centuries. This chapter will show how gender-specific attributes were used in their commemoration, both to laureate and to denigrate them. Presenting contemporaneous sources and posthumous depictions, it attempts to show how those attributes have been intertwined, subjectively redefined, or simplified. The sources have been selected according to their representative status and are by no means exhaustive.

The Bodies of Legitimacy There has been extensive research on the topic of the monarchical bodies since Kantorowicz first published his work in 1957, and the discussion has long been extended to the question of the number and characteristics of the queen’s bodies.2 The question of the king’s two bodies was first evoked by lawyers of Elizabeth I discussing the legality of certain decisions made by her brother, the minor king Edward VI. In this context, the lawyers decided that for the sake and purpose of government, the political body of a ruler had to be considered void of all “[…] defects that happen to the natural bodies of other people.”3 Following the logic of Elizabethan lawyers, the theory of the two bodies of a monarch is applicable to male and female rulers alike. However, no matter how big the pool of possible heirs, in European Christian traditions of rulership, a female sovereign was usually the last possible option. Within that context, a woman did not only represent the insufficiencies of her physical body, she also represented the lack of a male heir.4 Even if the succession was dynastically legitimate, it offered easier chances to challenge a woman on the throne. Wolfram Mauser argued that in popular narratives, female rulers were held to higher standards than their male counterparts.5 Considered to be more susceptible to negative forces, overcoming them made their virtues even more impressive and admirable. Taking that thought further, we also find attributes that can elevate a female ruler’s character, but would appear less virtuous or more controversial in a male body.

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Both Maria Theresia and Catherine II understood their legitimacy as duty and divine calling. Maria Theresia argued hers through her hereditary right. However, aside from the Dei Gratia aspect of legitimacy that is acquired dynastically, passively, we can find the possibility of actively achieving Dei Gratia through ability and endeavour. The second view was prominently represented and propagated by Emperor Peter I (1682–1725) at the beginning of the eighteenth century and provided Catherine II with a powerful argument to build her legitimacy on. A wrongful ruler could draw the wrath of supreme forces not only upon himself and his dynasty, but also upon his entire realm. At the same time, inheriting a throne did not relieve a ruler from his obligations towards his people. In Russian history, the symbolic connotation of “royal pretenders” sometimes even disregarded the fact of dynastic legitimacy: Pretenders […] are perceived as sorcerers, and elements of anti-behaviour are attributed to them. And conversely Peter the Great, whose conduct seemed to his contemporaries nothing more nor less than anti-behaviour, is perceived essentially as a pretender: popular rumour, even during Peter’s lifetime, proclaimed him to be not a genuine (“natural”) Tsar, but rather a substitute Tsar who had no right to the throne.6

While Maria Theresia had inherited the Habsburg lands, Catherine II had been a foreign bride with no dynastic claim to the Russian Imperial throne. The need to create a dynastic legitimacy and the need to prove herself as a monarch embodying Russian values were more paramount than problems arising from her female sex. Presenting herself as worthy Russian successor was particularly important after she had made her husband’s Germanophilia a major point in the propaganda to denigrate him. The law of succession established by Peter I in 1722 played into her hands because it introduced the possibility of inheritance through ability before dynastic origin if the ruling monarch wished it. Consequently, instead of a physical one, Catherine established a spiritual link to her Romanov and Rurikid predecessors, referring to them as her “forefathers.”7 Another example showing the prominence of legitimacy by ability over birth right was demonstrated during Catherine’s coronation festivities through the association with the Roman emperor Trajan, the first of the adopted emperors.8 In connection with her “grandfather” Peter I, her feminine sex was used to emphasise her role as the fulfiller of Peter’s endeavours. The

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combination of her feminine heart and her male intellect were presented as assets that allowed her to close the circle and complete his work.9 When Michael Yonan writes that Catherine II argued the choice of the better woman over the lesser man, it does not refer to a general confrontation of gender aspects but to a personal juxtaposition.10 In a German newspaper review of the Sky TV series “Catherine the Great” from 2019 we can find the following comparison: “She [Catherine] died the most powerful woman of her time. Maria Theresia […] had secured her position through diplomatic marriages. Catherine however, owed her power to her tactical talents and her mistrust of whisperers.”11 Concerning the question of dynastic legitimacy, the review, whilst being a journalistic, not a scientific essay, still offers interesting food for thought. With regard to securing her position, Maria Theresia’s dynastic legitimacy is not mentioned at all. Successful dynastic marriages of royal children mark a pragmatic tradition followed by sovereigns independently of their sex. It was undoubtedly a means to secure the political future of Maria Theresia’s realm, and the motivation was certainly strengthened by the wars that had cost her dearly, but it had little to do with the legitimacy of her rule as a female monarch per se. The quote seems to serve as comparison of Maria Theresia and Catherine II in terms of feminine traditionalism versus breaching the boundaries of gender. Similarly, Michael Yonan summarised, “For Maria Theresia, the role of mother, wife and widow were paramount in her iconography.”12 Maria Theresia had inherited the rule over the Habsburg lands dynastically, following the stipulations in the Pragmatic Sanction from 1713, established by her father Charles VI (1711–1740). It was the first legal document that secured succession in the Habsburg lands without division. It also included the yet unprecedented possibility of female succession in case of a break in the male line. As a woman, Maria Theresia now faced the challenge of defending an inheritance that was yet uncustomary in two aspects. Nonetheless, her legitimacy was challenged not so much based upon her sex, than using it within political power play. August III of Poland and Prince-elector Charles I of Bavaria argued their claims through their own Habsburg relations, and additionally, the Spanish Bourbons and Frederick II of Prussia joined the conflict in hope of profiting from the situation by territorial gain. The result was the War of the Austrian Succession from 1740 to 1748. The situation of Catherine II was slightly reversed to that of Maria Theresia’s. She had overcome the biggest challenge by deposing her

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husband. Her defence of legitimacy was directed inwardly, not outwardly. She was duly concerned with her lack of dynastic legitimacy, even after the deaths of the last male Romanov heirs, apart from her own son Paul, Ivan VI, and Peter III.  However, no foreign power militarily challenged her rule and criticism was limited to words. Frederick II of Prussia, relative to both Catherine and her husband Peter III, had taken quick advantage of the succession gambit that followed Charles VI’s death, but would not have challenged the Russian Empire. In fact, Prussia had strongly relied on Russian support and Frederick allegedly expressed his displeasure with his supporter’s removal by saying “he [Peter III] let himself be overthrown like a child sent to bed.”13 Maria Theresia’s female gender caused yet another complication. Since 1438, the Habsburg dynasty had occupied the throne of the Holy Roman Empire. As an electorate title it had never been awarded to a woman, but no law actively prohibited it. The matter was apparently discussed even if the answer was forestalled. The prominent  German jurist Johann Jacob Moser (1701–1785) remarked that while women were not exempt from succession by law, they could still hardly hope for it even if female regency had happened at the occasion of a ruler’s absence or his early death, leaving only an infant heir.14 Maria Theresia needed to secure the imperial position for the Habsburg dynasty through a husband and a son, making her physical body as mother and wife doubly important.

The Problems of Using and Overcoming the Female Body in Female Rule Regina Schulte writes that the political strength of the female body “seems to require the proximity of a male body—as the consort of the king, the mother of future sovereigns, the widow and preserver of the royal or dynastic legacy.”15 What happens when the relationship is reversed, even reduced or completely omitted? Maria Theresia strongly represented her sublime body through her physical body in the context of dynastic femininity, drawing her legitimacy from a union of three body parts so to speak, that of queen, mother, and wife. She ruled as a dynastic heir but always in the proximity of a male body. She accomplished the roles of consort, mother, and eventually widow, and lifted them onto the sovereign’s throne with her.

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Catherine II could not use the physical feminine body in the same way, as a loyal and loving wife or as an attentive, cherishing mother. Neither did she present a lifestyle deemed virtuous for an unmarried woman. She had switched roles, turning from consort—which she had been praised at upon her wedding—into ruler.16 She took power as Empress in her own right and never made her son Paul co-regent, although he represented the only dynastic link between Catherine and the Romanov dynasty. The Empress focused on the ethereal aspects of an androgyne body, and by creating an intellectual spiritual legitimacy she circumvented the aspects of her physical feminine body. She portrayed her life as an ascent from a comparatively insignificant noble background, having been neglected by her mother for her female sex while great, intelligent men had not failed to recognise her talents.17 Catherine’s memoirs masterfully juxtapose the intimate feelings and personal life of a vulnerable young woman with a superior mind and spirit. The Empress shows a person, and not primarily a woman, who acquired the ability to unite the physical and the elevated body of a ruler through talent and endeavour. During her coup, “[…] Catherine projects different images of leadership as the historical moment requires: a divine androgyne on horseback, a noble and endangered empress, a popular military captain in touch with the spirit of each individual soldier, and finally, a pair of girlfriends privately revelling in their excellent adventure.”18 Maria Theresia’s son, Joseph II, would later argue the limitations of female rule by making an indissoluble connection of character, intellect, and gender. While acknowledging his mother’s experience and practice, he judged that she would always lack the ability of distinction while a man could discern the essence of things more easily and less emotionally.19 Catherine II would make a reverse conclusion and accuse her husband Peter III of almost exactly those shortcomings that Joseph II and others attributed to the female sex. She described Peter on many occasions as rash and emotion-driven in his decisions, following personal inclinations more than making rational calculations for the benefit of the realm.20 The identification of their femininity as the source of moderation, ratio, and clemency were used to praise both monarchs alike. It symbolised their ability to complete the positive male attributes of a ruler with their female talents. Similarly, Joseph von Sonnenfels praised Maria Theresia in 1762 as a ruler whose serenity was not derived from birth right but from capability. Neglecting to answer the prayers for a male heir, heaven had sent something even better instead. He praised Maria Theresia for uniting and thus

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completing “all male assets” with the “charms” of the female sex.21 Maria Theresia might not have been what was desired, but she was even better. While both rulers profited from the possibility of uniting male and female aspects perhaps more advantageously than a male ruler could, Catherine II’s depiction is clearly more focused on that aspect and strongly connected to the image of legitimacy by ability. A painting by Vigilius Eriksen completed shortly after her coronation depicts the Empress with her two bodies, the earthly, palpable feminine and the sublime political.22 Next to the two coronation portraits by Eriksen and Torelli, it is symbolically even more complex and fascinating in the variety of interpretations it offers. The Empress is dressed in regal silver, standing at the centre of an otherwise unembellished room. On the left-­ hand side a mirror shows a reflection of her torso. The Empress meets the viewer with a soft, pensive, and benevolent look, one hand on her heart, the other gracefully holding a fan. The latter is pointing at her regal insignia positioned on the side table directly under the mirror. She presents, as the description on the Hermitage website aptly reads, “enchanting femininity,” while her reflected image shows a less feminine, perhaps even less attractive profile. The small crown that could easily be mistaken for a simple diadem on the Empress’s head is clearly visible on her mirrored image. The imperial crown features prominently and doubly as does the sceptre, its tip only visible in the mirrored image, while otherwise covered by Catherine’s fan. According to traditional contemporary connotations, a mirror represented truth and one’s image reflected in heaven. Eriksen’s portrayal depicts transcendence and the unification of a supporting physical body with the domineering imperial body. The mirror can also be seen as symbol of prudence, the personification of wisdom and intellectual virtues, foresight, precaution, and reasoning. All those are characteristics that Catherine used in her juxtaposition with her husband Peter III, whom she denied them. Catherine’s symbolic motherhood was neither focused on a physical aspect nor was it in its sublime, almost exclusive focus on the imperial mother-figure, chastely unsexual. It was also—apart from her son whose role was marginalised—almost completely detached from any specific male body. Catherine’s motherhood to the nation was meant to combine it with the fatherhood. On the other hand, her association was limited in that sense that it could not transform from motherhood to motherliness.

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Motherhood and Motherliness Motherliness evolved as a female virtue from the focus on the family as an educational and emotional community in the late eighteenth century. When Joseph von Sonnenfels applied the yet fairly uncommon term to Maria Theresia in 1762, he created an encompassing signature for everything Theresian, argues Wolfram Mauser.23 Maria Theresia became mother to sixteen children and portrayed a family lifestyle that would become a major aspect in cultural-historical retrospective and facilitated the adjustment of Maria Theresia’s image to nineteenth-century bourgeois values.24 Outside the personal sphere, her marriage was meant to recreate the regularity of male succession and to replenish a drastically reduced dynasty. It was also directed at providing the Empire with another male successor from the Habsburg line. Maria Theresia’s fertility was therefore a matter of private and public interest, praised as her husband’s “delight” and as “joy in German breast.”25 The term “German” reflects the critical situation of conflict between the different German fractions competing for hegemony inside the Holy Roman Empire. It therefore emphasises Maria Theresia’s legitimacy not only as mother to the dynasty, but as mother to the future German King and Emperor, securing the title for her family. The assurance of dynastic succession by reuniting the Habsburg lands and the Reich in one, male hand was paramount to Maria Theresia. Her son, Joseph, was elected King of the Romans as heir designate while his father was still alive, in 1764. It was a common practice but after previous events even more imperative. All aspects of the coronation were meticulously depicted in a fascinating richness of detail by court painter Martin van Meytens. The cycle was then put on display for a restricted public viewership in the Belvedere Castle to present the glory and continuance of the dynasty.26 As Sandra Hertel argues, despite a reduction in formality of every day court life, Maria Theresia brought the depiction of ceremonies to a new height, intending to present her achievements, in statesmanship, and in a dynastic sense, in the context of the Familia Augusta.27 Wolfgang Schmale creates the term of “working couples” as another signature of the eighteenth-century royal family model at the Viennese court, citing the relationships between Maria Theresia and her husband Francis Stephen, and Maria Theresia and Joseph II respectively as examples.28 Both men, while sovereigns as Emperors within the Reich, were only co-regents in the Habsburg lands, a fact that particularly annoyed

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Joseph II. However, it was also within this constellation next to her son that Maria Theresia’s symbolic signature role appears most challenged. A commemoration of Catherine II as part of a task-sharing royal family business was not possible, considering her family arrangement was a very different one. Instead of a harmonious marriage, the relationship between Catherine and Peter eventually turned to rivalry. Any lack of popularity on his side could only serve her purpose. The line of succession was secured through her son Paul. Certain factions at court who had supported Catherine during her coup against Peter III expected that she would raise Paul’s role to more prominence, ruling merely as regent for the infant heir. Catherine had defended her coup as a mother who needed to protect her Russian children, but also as a biological mother saving her son and heir from being removed by his own “father.” At the time of the coup, Paul was only eight years old, and unlike Maria Theresia, no strategic political or symbolic considerations urged Catherine to install her son as co-regent, neither was she personally inclined to do so. If Paul had been a valuable asset for taking the throne, he was obviously less important for keeping it. The Empress’s representation focused more strongly on the aspect of Mother to the Nation, while her motherhood of the only dynastically legitimate heir played a minor role in her representation of legitimacy. A panegyric text portrayed Catherine II as Astrae, the goddess who, following Vergil’s fourth eclogue, could be associated with the Virgin Mary and mother to a son, who brings about a golden age.29 However, it was the Mother who took the spotlight and stayed there. According to the Petrine laws of succession, Paul’s future depended solely on his mother’s choice of heir and their personal relationship is not known to have been very affectionate. A nineteenth-century source compares Maria Theresia as paradigm of conjugal love and fidelity to Catherine, who unseated her own husband and treated her only child like a stepson.30 All in all, there is not much that offers a propagandistic portrayal of a loving relationship between mother and son. Elisabeth Badinter argues that the peace agreement between Maria Theresia and Frederick II that was negotiated against her son’s explicit wishes in 1779, must have torn her heart out, stuck between the ruler and the loving mother who had to publicly patronise and degrade her son.31 It is difficult to determine Maria Theresia’s emotion on that matter so clearly, but it appears implausible to make a similar argument about Catherine II. This is meant to emphasise the limits that can be found regarding Catherine’s portrayal as a mother-figure within her own character and self-presentation.

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Symbolic Commemoration Within the social-cultural and national-political context of the nineteenth century, Maria Theresia was lifted above men through idealised depictions. It greatly relied on the fact that she, albeit an exception as female ruler, had otherwise not broken with tradition. She had accepted the singularity of her position and did not question the predominance of male succession itself. Her feminine gender was presented as an accomplishment in order to legitimise a female ruler, but she did not redefine gender roles. She did not have to. The praise of her feminine attributes was meant to strengthen her rule by dynastic right, not to justify an illegitimate usurpation. Stollberg-Rilinger writes, “As an exception, Maria Theresia did not endanger traditional gender roles but on the contrary, allowed historians to indulge in the praise of her femininity, beauty, fertility, authenticity, grace, warmth and devotion.”32 Historian Géza Hajós called the imperial life at Schönbrunn Palace “vorbiedermeierlich,” comparing it to the nineteenth-century family idyll away from restraint and protocol where the bourgeois family allowed a role separation that was not found among classes where husband and wife traditionally worked together.33 Soon the images of the bourgeois wife and the romanticised version of the royal wife overlapped. A copper engraving from 1868 by Liezen-Mayer shows Maria Theresia breastfeeding the child of a beggarwoman in the tradition of Mary lactans.34 Furthermore, Maria Theresia became the symbol of a newly shaped Austria that had emerged from the Holy Roman Empire. By the last third of the nineteenth century, it was in need of consolidation and redefinition, especially after an economic crisis and severe losses of territory to the newly created German Empire and Kingdom of Italy. This situation showed clear parallels to the challenges of Maria Theresia’s reign. Her image combined the physical-biological mother and the devoted Mother of Austria, both embedded within the romanticised ideal of an almost physically palpable bourgeois motherliness. Within it, despite the original background of role-segregation, the sovereign, the wife, and the mother perfectly intertwined. Austrian writer Hugo von Hofmannsthal argued that the motherhood of Maria Theresia extended to her subjects, which formed a completion of the woman and the ruler.35 However, the writer considered Catherine II torn between her greatness as ruler and her inferiority as women since she had refused to fully embrace her motherhood.

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As a consequence, according to Hofmannsthal, she would always be judged by history for her immoral lifestyle, while Maria Theresia escaped such criticism. We can see a pattern forming in the commemoration of both monarchs that often focuses on either the physical or the intellectual abilities of the subject under observation. Whether the connotation was made advantageously or disadvantageously frequently depended on the socio-cultural and political background of the writer. The presentation of and focus on Maria Theresia’s physical body would be negatively argued as representing a lack of intellect, and in combination with her Catholic faith, labelling her as a bigot and reactionary. At the same time, Catherine’s intellectual and supra-sexual sublime body could be easily denigrated by different traditionally feminine-connotated weaknesses. For instance, the rumour of Peter III having been poisoned enjoyed popularity not least because poison was regarded as a woman’s weapon, as a most dishonourable way to remove an opponent, and as a vicious example of the use of female intelligence. The praise of Maria Theresia as national mother-figure continues into the twentieth century. Ideologically, for Catholics and Protestants, and for proponents of Greater-Germanism and Lesser-Germanism alike, Maria Theresia represented a truly Germanic woman. She embodied all female virtues of the traditionalist völkisch-nationalist propaganda, but within the Greater- and Lesser-German context, she could easily get caught in propagandistic crossfire. German historian Willy Andreas wrote that “The name of this woman who was completely German and Austrian […] preserves its warm, lively and enchanting ring. Poets are right to speak of her like they speak of Haydn and Mozart similar to something exquisite and indissoluble.”36 According to Andreas, Maria Theresia was happiest in the years between her marriage and her father’s death where she had to be mother, daughter, and wife alone.37 In his opinion, she had shown little interest in the bloom of German intellectual culture and was too religiously conservative, thus limiting progress and variety in cultural development. These words call to mind a general depiction of Austrian culture made by Madame de Staël from the early nineteenth century. If Austria has produced no great men in the literary career, it is to be attributed not so much to constraint as to the want of emulation. It is a country so calm, a country in which competence is so easily secured to all classes of its inhabitants, that they think but little of intellectual enjoyments.38

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These characteristics, however, were not simply owed to her sex, said Andreas. Unlike Maria Theresia, “the other German woman, the one on the tsarist throne” proved what the female mind could accomplish in the areas of spirit and science.39 After 1945, Maria Theresia became the symbol of an Austria that had finally accepted its fate outside of Germany and began to build an identity of its own. Austria continued to represent softness, tranquillity, and savoir vivre versus almost over-stretched German efficiency. Historian Wilhelm Hausenstein called Maria Theresia the centre of Austrian culture, and described Baroque Vienna as symbol of femininity, where male and female melted into each other, unlike sterile male Baroque cities like Rome and Berlin.40 It is only since the end of the twentieth century that scholars have begun to tackle the stereotyping and the generalisations on a large scale, trying to separate the two female monarchs from the context of their strongly political and socio-cultural commemoration over the last two hundred years.

The Challenges of Dissecting Stereotyped Symbols on a Multilevel Basis Myth is not a context; it is a framework within which one can make interpolations.41 Symbols are not fixed to a strict interpretation, and within different religious-cultural influences those interpretations could easily merge into each other. The multiple aspects of Pallas Athena were used for married and unmarried women in various combinations, and offered the possibility of unifying the female body with a male spirit. As a virtuous maiden unaffected by Cupid’s arrows, Minerva could even be associated with the Virgin Mary herself.42 When Maria Theresia was depicted as Minerva after the birth of her first son, Joseph II, it was not the virginal warrior goddess but the aspect of protection that was paramount. Furthermore, the figures associated with Catherine and Maria Theresia, both historically palpable and mythological alike, were embedded within different narratives and contexts, and offered critics opportunities to redefine the images. When Willy Andreas referred to Catherine II’s epithet “Semiramis of the North,” he did so in juxtaposition to Maria Theresia, presenting the latter as more virtuous but also less crafty. Like many others, by the eighteenth century, the name of the Babylonian queen had become a dictum with a great variety of possible uses and interpretations,

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depending mostly on the desired connotation. Voltaire himself, who had shaped the epithet in laureation of the Russian Empress, had published a play called “Sémiramis” in 1746 that depicted a tragic heroine who had poisoned her husband to achieve the throne. He uses the term to express admiration for Catherine’s achievements, comparing Semiramis to Penthesilea, Tomyris, and Elizabeth I of England as a ruler, but considering the circumstances of Catherine’s ascension to the throne, a sarcastic undercurrent can be at least suspected.43 However, his connotation is still far away from the popular reduction of the epithet in connection with Catherine to a cunning and sexually insatiable woman whose way was paved with the corpses of her victims, the personal and the political. In fact, the study material for the archduchess Maria Theresia, as provided by her tutor Spannagl, also contained a short biography on the Babylonian queen. In it, Semiramis was described as a woman who surpassed not only her own sex but men as well in virtue and courage.44 The acknowledgement of a woman sovereign could subliminally imply the degradation of her male counterparts. Frederick II would often make his appreciation or disregard of ruling women or their influence on men in power depending on political circumstances.45 Particularly within the strongly male-dominated area of warfare, the aspect of denigrating competition took effect. A woman defeating her enemies added even more to their shame. Hence, approval or ridicule of their gender was extremely situational and aside from cultural connotations and personal inclinations, often had a strong political dimension, depending on the role of the ally or antagonist. Unlike Maria Theresia, Catherine II did not fight wars primarily to defend her legitimacy but to enlarge the Empire, which had been extended by the size of a quarter of its European parts at the time of her death. That difference is shown very well in the funeral orations of Maria Theresia where her wars were argued as justified, lead out of necessity and not desire, in defence of her God-given birth rights.46 Depicting a female ruler in conflict and war always leads to a hybrid portrayal of the woman between her physical body and her symbolic body as ruler. Whether leading her troops in battle or not, she still represents them. In her wartime propaganda, Maria Theresia was glorified as the Mother of Christ who, herself peaceful and forgiving, could call God’s wrath to the defence of her insulted honour, which was particularly effective against the Protestant Prussians. Similarly, during the Russo-Turkish Wars, Catherine’s soldiers were praised as an army of Enlightenment and the Russian Empire,

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marking Catherine respectively as the defender of Christianity. Thus, like Maria Theresia, Catherine became a symbol of the Holy Mother despite the great differences in their approach to traditionally considered female virtues and chastity.47 Voltaire took advantage of the chance to ridicule the Turkish troops for their defeat by a woman when commenting that the victory would be celebrated with a Te Deam instead of a Te Deum.48 In an international political context, Catherine’s questionable legitimacy and shortcomings as a woman would be repeatedly combined to denigrate her, and as a further consequence, the Russian Empire. Both monarchs stood pars pro toto for their realms, culturally as well as politically, and were or still are portrayed as such. If Russia symbolised expansion, Catherine would often represent the greedy, cunning schemer. If Maria Theresia’s Austria stood for defence, Catherine’s Russia represented attack. In 1792, Sir Horace Walpole wrote, “[…] and yet one has the assurance to rail at the grand usurperess, who would sluice all the veins of Europe and Asia to add another chapter to her murderous history. Well! If she dies soon, she will find the river Styx turned to a torrent of blood by her shedding!”49 Caricatures, a relative new media in the eighteenth century, are an excellent example as “[…] visual pendants to the escalations of political crisis.”50 They show the appropriation of the physical gender in a wider context. However, caricaturists did not reinvent facts and they depicted Maria Theresia and Catherine II mostly within the context of their mainstream images. We can see that Maria Theresia as a character becomes almost invisible in caricatures, while the focus of her denigration is very much reduced to her sex. Catherine II, however, gave caricaturists ample opportunity for interpretations of her character. From the sanctimonious reformer, to the seductive, mischievous Delilah and her poisonous charms, from the man-eating matron outwitting the meek male kings and smart diplomats of Europe alike, to the devilish bloodthirsty virago, who is struck down by the vision of her own cruel past, we can find the Empress in almost all shapes and sizes.51 Considering the personal and political circumstances of Catherine’s rise to power, the criticism was more frequent, more frequently explicit, and more personal than compared to Maria Theresia. James Harris, envoy to Catherine’s court, argued that she was aiming for male virtues but could not even drop her female vices; “she wants the manlier virtues of deliberation, forbearance in prosperity and accuracy of judgment, while she possesses in a high degree the weaknesses vulgarly attributed to her sex—love

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of flattery, and its inseparable companion, vanity.”52 Unlike in the case of Maria Theresia, Catherine’s pars pro toto representation of Russian politics, culture, and society often lead to a disadvantageous portrayal of all, melding prejudice and criticism of the woman, the ruler, and the realm. “[…] Only in Russia could a German Princess be transformed in such a way—where the murder of tsars and grand dukes remains a custom to this very day. […] And can we not say the same considering the love life of the great duchess and empress?”53 The commemoration of Catherine II thus exploited her physical feminine body within the political and socio-­cultural context. “Next to her versatile education […] she had amassed slyness, experience, pretense and prudence in such a way as only the intrigues of the Russian court could have taught her.”54 Negative connotations would be used to symbolise the Empress and the realm alike, but interpretations differed as to how much Catherine had been corrupted by Russia and how much by herself.55 In 1936, a German biographer argued that as wife to a German prince, Catherine would most likely have born a dozen children while astonishing the world with witty anecdotes and a Chronique Scandaleuse that would have found its place on bookshelves next to the accounts of Princess Elizabeth Charlotte, Madame Palatine.56 Even the recent Russian TV series “Ekaterina” (2014) adopts a similar portrayal when a young Catherine informs the Empress Elizabeth that for the lessons of the Russian court and consequently for her future conduct, Elizabeth alone would be to blame. In juxtaposition with Maria Theresia, we can see that the aspects of symbolic national parenthood worked out very differently in retrospective throughout the nineteenth and twentieth centuries outside of Russia. Within Austria, aside from her previously discussed lack in motherliness, her rule became controversial in a cultural-political context. Neither did the Empress feature prominently among the Russian rulers that were “discovered” for Soviet propaganda. Her entry in the Great Soviet Encyclopaedia identifies her thirst for power and glory as defining motives and does not fail to mention her favouritism and the expensive gifts she bestowed upon her beloved French philosophers, casually linking her failings to female characteristics.57 Again, we find the accusation of vanity and pretence, instead of introducing effective legal and economic reforms that would ignite social change. As a Soviet encyclopaedia, it also criticises Catherine for her Francophilia, and as autocrat who aggravated serfdom and whose reforms were mostly in favour of nobility. At the same time, her antagonist, Pugachev, became a leading figure of Soviet

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propaganda as commander of the so-called Peasants’ War.58 In a conversation with Sergei Eisenstein, Joseph Stalin expressed that he considered the Empress as the beginning of a development that turned the Russian court into a German one.59 Of the two rulers strongly associated with Europeanisation, Peter I was the more preferable option. In the direct juxtaposition of Catherine II and Maria Theresia, we identify a few key features that stayed constant during their posthumous reception, but switched between praise and denigration according to different contexts. In direct comparison to Catherine II, Maria Theresia’s idealisation as femina ad exemplum within her exceptionality eventually began to draw criticism and even ridicule. Her lack of provocativeness made her less interesting for gender studies.60 Catherine’s questionable family life and sexual behaviour were eventually disconnected from their negative connotations and pars pro toto contexts. As an irregularity within the exception, she represents at first glance a more interesting, albeit controversial figure for gender studies and associated disciplines, as well as popular culture. The latter continues to exploit familiar characteristics for both monarchs and often simplifies them within gender stereotypes, whilst attempting to show intimate portrayals and trying to uncover the woman from history.

Conclusion Juxtaposing two female rulers from eighteenth century Europe, analysing their very individual approaches without losing the bird’s eye view and studying the different aims behind their commemoration diachronically as well as synchronically, poses a fascinating challenge. Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger writes that “Maria Theresia does no longer need to be revived by history, she must rather be dug out from under all the different layers of historiographic projections that have overrun her.” This is equally true for Catherine II.61 The two monarchs established their female legitimacy as exceptions of the rule within which they presented themselves. Both were represented and criticised as differently from each other as they might have been from certain male counterparts. They were deeply embedded within their political and cultural environments and strongly dependent on their circumstances, sometimes beyond their female sex. Posterity has turned them into symbols of larger societal, cultural, and political contexts, positive and negative alike. To detach them from those contexts, focussing prominently on their “gender-personae” is

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certainly tempting in the search of “precursors” for the modern emancipated woman. However, it also risks new generalisations and stereotyping. This chapter is by no means exhaustive but seeks to encourage the idea of more comparative works and detailed observations that analyse the different approaches to female legitimacy within the restraints of personal characteristics and surrounding conditions. Additionally, it stresses the importance of looking at the consequences of one-dimensional portrayals within larger contexts and of discussing female rule empirically, considering its manifold variations.

Notes 1. Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia Die Kaiserin in ihrer Zeit (München: Beck, 2017), xxii–xxiv. 2. See for instance Regina Schulte, ed., The body of the Queen (New York/ Oxford: Berghahn Books, 2006). 3. Ernst H. Kantorowicz, The King’s two Bodies. A Study in Medieval Political Theology (Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957), 7. 4. Regina Schulte, “Conceptual Approaches to the Queen’s Body,” in The Body of the Queen. Gender and Rule in the Courtly World, 1500–2000, ed. Regina Schulte (New York: Berghahn, 2006), 1. 5. Wolfram Mauser, Konzepte aufgeklärter Lebensführung: literarische Kultur im frühmodernen Deutschland (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2000), 145. 6. B.A. Uspenskij, “Tsar and Pretender: “Samozvanchestvo or royal imposture in Russia as a cultural-historical phenomenon,”” in “Tsar and God” and other essays in Russian cultural semiotics, eds. Boris Uspenskij and Victor Zhivov (Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2012), 132. 7. Claus Scharf, “Tradition—Usurpation—Legitimation. Das herrscherliche Selbstverständnis Katharinas II,” in Russland zur Zeit Katharinas II. Absolutismus—Aufklärung—Pragmatismus, ed. Eckhard Hübner, Jan Kusber, and Peter Nitsche (Köln et al.: Böhlau, 1998), 75. 8. D.A.  Rovinskij, obozrenie ikonopisanija v“ rossij. Do konca XVII veka (A. S. Suvorina, 1903), 279. 9. Simon Dixon, “The Posthumous Reputation of Catherine II in Russia 1797–1837,” The Slavonic and East European Review 77.4 (October 1999): 646–679. 10. Michael Yonan, Empress Maria Theresa and the Politics of Habsburg Imperial Art (University Park, PA: Pennsylvania University Press, 2011), 4.

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11. “Frankfurter Allgemeine Zeitung,” accessed 11 March 2021, https:// www.faz.net/aktuell/feuilleton/medien/serien/die-­sky-­serie-­katharina-­ die-­grosse-­erotomanin-­der-­macht-­16447576.html. It should be mentioned here that the argument of Catherine’s “mistrust of whisperers” stands in a certain contrast to the numerous sources that criticized Catherine for favouritism and susceptibility to flattery. 12. Yonan, Empress Maria Theresa, 4. 13. Dieter Wunderlich, Vernetzte Karrieren (Regensburg: Pustet, 2000), 155. 14. Moser, Johann Jakob, Teusches Staats=Recht, Bd. 2 (Nürnberg: Stein, 1738), 327 15. Schulte, “Conceptual Approaches,” 1. 16. B. von Bilbassoff, Katharina II.  Kaiserin von Russland im Urtheile der Weltliteratur I. Band: Die Literatur bis zu Katharinas Tode (1744–1796) (Berlin: Johannes Räde, 1897), 3. 17. Mark Cruse and Hilde Hoogenboom, ed. and trans., The Memoirs of Catherine the Great (New York, Modern Library, 2005), 21. 18. Monika Greenleaf, “Performing Autobiography: The Multiple Memoirs of Catherine the Great (1756–96),” The Russian Review, 63.3 (2004): 415. 19. Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia, 557. 20. Catherine the Great, “Letter to Count Poniatowski Informing Him of Her Coup,” in Andrew Kahn and Kelsey Rubin-Detlev, trans., Catherine the Great. Selected Letters (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018), 16-23; see further Catherine’s memoirs for her descriptions of Peter III. Cruse and Hoogenboom, Memoirs of Catherine the Great 21. Joseph von Sonnenfels, Sonnenfels  Gesammelte Schriften, Achter Band (Wien: mit von Baumeisterischen Schriften, 1786), 4. 22. “The State Hermitage Museum,” accessed 11 March 2021, https://www. hermitagemuseum.org/wps/portal/hermitage/digital-­collection/01.+Pa intings/38706/. 23. Wolfram Mauser, Konzepte aufgeklärter Lebensführung: literarische Kultur im frühmodernen Deutschland (Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2000), 137–147. 24. Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia, 264; Aquarelles by Maria Theresia’s favourite daughter Maria Christina depict members of the imperial family in almost bourgeois-like intimacy. The archduchess most likely imitated Dutch paintings by Cornelis Troost. 25. Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia, 253. 26. Sandra Hertel, “Die Zeremonienbilder im Kontext der maria-­ theresianischen Repräsentation,” in Die Repräsentation Maria Theresias, eds. Werner Telesko et al. (Wien et al.: Böhlau, 2020), 173. 27. Hertel, “Die Zeremonienbilder im Kontext der maria-theresianischen Repräsentation,” 173.

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28. Wolfgang Schmale, “Maria Theresia, das 18. Jahrhundert und Europa,” in Die Repräsentation Maria Theresias, Werner Telesko et al., ed. (Wien et al.: Böhlau, 2020), 27. 29. Vera Proskurina, Creating the Empress: Politics and Poetry in the Age of Catherine II. (Brighton, USA: Academic Studies Press, 2011) 49–50. See also Girardet, Klaus Martin, Konstantin. Oratio ad sanctorum coetum. Rede an die Versammlung der Heiligen, trans.  and ed. Klaus  Martin Girardet. Fontes Christiani, Volume 55 (Freiburg et al.: Herder, 2013), 201–207. 30. Karl Ludwig Blum, Ein russischer Staatsmann. Des Grafen Jakob Johann Sievers Denkwürdigkeiten zur Geschichte Rußlands, Zweiter Band  (Leipzig, Heidelberg: C. F. Wintersche Verlagshandlung, 1857), 3. 31. Élisabeth Badinter, Maria Theresia. Die Macht der Frau (Wien: Paul Zsolnay, 2017), 276. 32. Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia, xvii. 33. Géza Hajós, Schönbrunn (Wien, Hamburg: Paul Zsolnay, 1976), 58 34. Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, “Weibliche Herrschaft als Ausnahme?” in Weibliche Herrschaft im 18. Jahrhundert. Maria Theresia und Katharina die Große, eds. Bettina Braun et al. (Bielefeld: transcript, 2020), 22–23. 35. Hugo von Hofmannsthal, Maria Theresia. Zur zweihundertsten Wiederkehr ihres Geburtstages, full text in: Katja Kaluga, “Beeinflussung der öffentlichen Meinung. Hugo von Hofmannsthals Austriaca 1914–1917. Kritische und kommentierte Edition,” (PhD diss., University of Wuppertal, 2011), 48–49. 36. Willy Andreas, Geist und Staat. Historische Porträts (München, Berlin: Oldenbourg, 1927), 128. 37. Andreas, Geist und Staat, 84. 38. Baroness Staël Holstein, Germany. In three volumes. Vol. 1 (London: John Murray, 1813), 57. 39. Andreas, Geist und Staat, 124. 40. Wilhelm Hausenstein, Europäische Hauptstädte. Ein Reisetagebuch (1926–1932) (München: Prestel, 1954), 95ff. 41. Hans Blumenberg, “Wirklichkeitsbegriff und Wirkungspotential des Mythos,” in Terror und Spiel. Probleme der Mythenrezeption, ed. Manfred Fuhrmann (München: Fink, 1971), 51. 42. Rudolf Wittkower, “Transformation of Minerva in Renaissance Imagery,” Journal of the Warburg Institute 2.3 (1939): 199. 43. Hans Schumann, ed. and trans., Monsieur—Madame. Der Briefwechsel zwischen der Zarin und dem Philosophen (Zürich: Manesse Verlag, 1991), 321. Voltaire has been heavily criticized for his friendship with Catherine II, among others, by several of his French compatriots. François A.J. Mazure accused him of having prostituted his genius and the dignity of history: “Pour qui donc Voltaire a-t-il prostitué son genie et la dignité de l’histoire? […] Aux yeux de Voltaire, Catherine II fut un grand homme

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[…] si elle prodigua 100 millions de roubles pour ses favoris, elle protégea du moins Diderot et l’Encyclopédie.” F.A.J. Mazure, Vie de Voltaire (Paris: Alexis Eymery et al., 1821), 215 44. Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia, 23. 45. Frederick II in a letter to d’Alembert, January 6th 1781  in Œuvres de Frédéric le Grand, Tome XXV, ed. Johann David Erdmann Preuss (Berlin: Rodolphe Decker, 1854), 171, letter 228; Dieter Wunderlich, Vernetzte Karrieren. Friedrich der Große, Maria Theresia, Katharina die Große (Regensburg: Pustet, 2000), 129, 152. 46. Bettina Braun, “Maria Theresia—Friedensfürstin oder Oberbefehlshaberin?” in Weibliche Herrschaft im 18. Jahrhundert. Maria Theresia und Katharina die Große, eds. Bettina Braun et al. (Bielefeld: transcript, 2020), 169–171. 47. Vera Proskurina, Creating the Empress: Politics and Poetry in the Age of Catherine II (Brighton, USA: Academic Studies Press, 2011), 181. 48. Voltaire in Brenda Meehan-Waters, “Catherine the Great and the Problem of Female Rule,” The Russian Review, 34.3 (1975): 294. 49. Horace Walpole, Letters addressed to the Countess of Ossory. From the Year 1769 to 1797. In two Volumes. Vol. II, ed. Vernon Smith (London: Richard Bentley, 1848), 475–476. 50. Werner Telesko, “Zerrbilder der Politik. Karikaturen der Epoche Maria Theresias,” in Die Repräsentation Maria Theresias. Herrschaft und Bildpolitik im Zeitalter der Aufklärung, eds. Werner Telesko et al. (Wien et al.: Böhlau, 2020), 142. 51. See for instance the caricatures by Thomas Rowlandson and Isaac Cruikshank, “The British Museum,” accessed 11 March 2021, https:// www.britishmuseum.org/collection/object/P_1868-­0808-­6401/; for caricatures on Maria Theresia see for instance Telesko, “Zerrbilder der Politik. Karikaturen der Epoche Maria Theresias,” 142–148. 52. James Harris in Meehan-Waters, “Catherine the Great,” 293. 53. Wilhelm Rath, ed., Die deutsche Zarin. Denkwürdigkeiten der Kaiserin Katharina II. von Rußland (München: Wilhelm Langewiesche-Brandt, 1916), 302. 54. Karl Ludwig Blum, Ein russischer Staatsmann. Des Grafen Jakob Johann Sievers Denkwürdigkeiten zur Geschichte Rußlands, Erster Band (Leipzig, Heidelberg: C. F. Wintersche Verlagshandlung, 1857), 135–136. 55. Anonymous, Katharina II vor dem Richterstuhle der Menschheit. Größtentheils Geschichte (St. Petersburg: 1797), 2. 56. Wolfgang Hoffmann-Harnisch, Die Große Katharina. Geschichte einer Karriere (Berlin: Drei Masken Verlag, 1936), 30. 57. “Great Soviet Encyclopedia,” accessed 11 March 2021, http://bse.sci-­lib. com/article037013.html.

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58. Dietmar Neutatz, “Die Umdeutung von Razin und Pugačev in der Sowjetunion unter Lenin und Stalin,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 65.1 (2017): 114–131. 59. Authorised transcript of the conversation in Katerina Clark  et  al., Soviet Culture and Power. A History in Documents, 1917–1953 (New Haven & London: Yale University Press, 2007), 440–445. 60. Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia, xxii–xxiv. 61. Stollberg-Rilinger, Maria Theresia, xxvi.

Bibliography Primary Sources Anonymous. Katharine II vor dem Richterstuhle der Menschheit. Größtentheils Geschichte. St. Petersburg: 1797. Girardet, Klaus Martin, ed. Konstantin. Oratio ad sanctorum coetum. Rede an die Versammlung der Heiligen, translated by Klaus Martin Girardet. Fontes Christiani, Volume 55. Freiburg et al.: Herder, 2013. Catherine the Great. Selected Letters, translated by Andrew Kahn and Kelsey Rubin-­ Detlev. Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2018. Moser, Johann Jacob. Teutsches Staats=Recht, 50 Theile und 2 Zusätze. Nürnberg et al.: 1737–1754. Preuss, Johann David Erdmann, ed. Œuvres de Frédéric le Grand, Tome I— XXX. Berlin: Rodolphe Decker, 1846–1856. Baroness Staël Holstein. Germany. In three volumes. London: John Murray, 1813. The Memoirs of Catherine the Great, translated and edited by Hilde Hoogenboom and Mark Cruse. New York: The Modern Library, 2005. von Sonnenfels, Joseph. Sonnenfels Gesammelte Schriften. 10 Bände. Wien: mit von Baumeisterischen Schriften, 1783–1787. Walpole, Horace. Letters Addressed to the Countess of Ossory. From the Year 1769 to 1797. In two Volumes, edited by Vernon Smith. London: Richard Bentley, 1848.

Secondary Sources Andreas, Willy. Geist und Staat. Historische Porträts. München, Berlin: Oldenbourg, 1927. Badinter, Élisabeth. Maria Theresia. Die Macht der Frau. Wien: Paul Zsolnay, 2017. Blum, Karl Ludwig. Ein russischer Staatsmann. Des Grafen Jakob Johann Sievers Denkwürdigkeiten zur Geschichte Rußlands, Bd. 1–4. Leipzig, Heidelberg: C.F. Wintersche Verlagshandlung, 1857–1858.

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Blumenberg, Hans. “Wirklichkeitsbegriff und Wirkungspotential des Mythos.” In Terror und Spiel. Probleme der Mythenrezeption, edited by Manfred Fuhrmann, 11–67. München: Fink, 1971. Braun, Bettina. “Maria Theresia—Friedensfürstin oder Oberbefehlshaberin?” In Weibliche Herrschaft im 18. Jahrhundert. Maria Theresia und Katharina die Große, edited by Bettina Braun, Jan Kusber, and Matthias Schnettger, 169–189. Bielefeld: transcript, 2020. Clark, Katerina et al. Soviet Culture and Power. A History in Documents, 1917–1953. New Haven and London: Yale University Press, 2007. Dixon, Simon. “The Posthumous Reputation of Catherine II in Russia 1797–1837.” The Slavonic and East European Review 77.4 (1999): 646–679. Greenleaf, Monika. “Performing Autobiography: The Multiple Memoirs of Catherine the Great (1756–96).” The Russian Review 63.3 (2004): 407–426. Hajós, Géza. Schönbrunn. Wien: Paul Zsolnay, 1976 Hausenstein, Wilhelm. Europäische Hauptstädte. Ein Reisetagebuch (1926–1932). München: Prestel, 1954. Hertel, Sandra. “Die Zeremonienbilder im Kontext der maria-theresianischen Repräsentation.” In Die Repräsentation Maria Theresias, edited by Werner Telesko, Sandra Hertel, and Stefanie Linsboth, 170–174. Wien et  al.: Böhlau, 2020. Hoffmann-Harnisch, Wolfgang. Die Große Katharina. Geschichte einer Karriere. Berlin: Drei Masken Verlag, 1936. Kaluga, Katja. “Beeinflussung der öffentlichen Meinung. Hugo von Hofmannsthals Austriaca 1914–1917. Kritische und kommentierte Edition.” PhD diss., University of Wuppertal, 2011. Kantorowicz, Ernst H. The King’s Two Bodies. A Study in Medieval Political Theology. Princeton, NJ: Princeton University Press, 1957. Mauser, Wolfram. Konzepte aufgeklärter Lebensführung: literarische Kultur im frühmodernen Deutschland. Würzburg: Königshausen & Neumann, 2000. Mazure, F. A. J. Vie de Voltaire. Paris: Alexis Eymery et al., 1821. Meehan-Waters, Brenda. “Catherine the Great and the Problem of Female Rule.” The Russian Review 34.3 (1975): 293–307. Neutatz, Dieter. “Die Umdeutung von Razin und Pugačev in der Sowjetunion unter Lenin und Stalin,” Jahrbücher für Geschichte Osteuropas 65.1 (2017): 114–131. Proskurina, Vera. Creating the Empress: Politics and Poetry in the Age of Catherine II. Brighton, CO: Academic Studies Press, 2011. Rath, Wilhelm, ed. Die deutsche Zarin. Denkwürdigkeiten der Kaiserin Katharina II. von Rußland. München: Wilhelm Langewiesche-Brandt, 1919. Rovinskij, D.  A. obozrenie ikonopisanija v” rossij. Do konca XVII veka. St. Petersburg: A. S. Suvorina, 1903.

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Scharf, Claus. “Tradition—Usurpation—Legitimation. Das herrscherliche Selbstverständnis Katharinas II.” In Russland zur Zeit Katharinas II.  Absolutismus—Aufklärung—Pragmatismus, edited by Eckhard Hübner, Jan Kusber, and Peter Nitsche, 41–103. Köln et al.: Böhlau, 1998. Schmale, Wolfgang. “Maria Theresia, das 18. Jahrhundert und Europa,” In Die Repräsentation Maria Theresias. Herrschaft und Bildpolitik im Zeitalter der Aufklärung, edited by Werner Telesko, Sandra Hertel, and Stefanie Linsboth, 19–32. Wien et al.: Böhlau, 2020. Schulte, Regina. “Conceptual Approaches to the Queen’s Body.” In The Body of the Queen Gender and Rule in the Courtly World, 1500–2000, edited by Regina Schulte, 1–15. New York, Oxford: Berghahn, 2006. Schumann, Hans, ed. and trans., Monsieur—Madame. Der Briefwechsel zwischen der Zarin und dem Philosophen. Zürich: Manesse Verlag, 1991. Stollberg-Rilinger, Barbara. Maria Theresia Die Kaiserin in ihrer Zeit. München: Beck, 2017. ———. “Weibliche Herrschaft als Ausnahme?” In Weibliche Herrschaft im 18. Jahrhundert. Maria Theresia und Katharina die Große, edited by Bettina Braun, Jan Kusber, and Matthias Schnettger, 19–51. Bielefeld: transcript, 2020. Telesko, Werner. “Zerrbilder der Politik. Karikaturen der Epoche Maria Theresias.” In Die Repräsentation Maria Theresias. Herrschaft und Bildpolitik im Zeitalter der Aufklärung, edited by Werner Telesko, Sandra Hertel, and Stefanie Linsboth, 142–148. Wien et al.: Böhlau, 2020. Uspenskij, B. A. “Tsar and Pretender: “Samozvanchestvo or Royal Imposture in Russia as a Cultural-historical Phenomenon.”” In “Tsar and God” and Other Essays in Russian Cultural Semiotics, edited by Boris Uspenskij and Victor Zhivov, 113–153. Boston: Academic Studies Press, 2012. von Bilbassoff, B. Katharina II. Kaiserin von Russland im Urtheile der Weltliteratur I. Band: Die Literatur bis zu Katharinas Tode (1744–1796). Berlin: Johannes Räde, 1897. Wittkower, Rudolf. “Transformation of Minerva in Renaissance Imagery.” Journal of the Warburg Institute 2.3 (1939): 194–205. Wunderlich, Dieter. Vernetzte Karrieren. Friedrich der Große, Maria Theresia, Katharina die Große. Regensburg: Pustet, 2000. Yonan, Michael E. Empress Maria Theresa and the Politics of Habsburg Imperial Art. University Park, PA: Pennsylvania University Press, 2011.

Mighty Lady and True Husband: Queen Margaret of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden in Norwegian Memory Karl Christian Alvestad

Like many nations and cultures around the world, Norway and the Norwegian culture sometimes turn to the near and distant past for heroes and heroic deeds for two purposes: to remember and to instil in the population a sense of sameness and pride.1 Among those individuals selected from the Middle Ages to be remembered in Norwegian culture are those whose actions led to the foundation, growth, and flourishment of the medieval kingdom of Norway. As such, the list of heroes is dominated by men—often kings—whose actions saved the kingdom or preserved its culture. The list of heroic individuals, particularly from the medieval period, is dominated by the kings of the Fairhair and Sverri dynasty, with a scattering of Vikings such as Leif Eiriksson, Erling Skjalgsson, Einar

My thanks go to the editor and reviewers for their input, guidance, and work on this chapter. Any errors and omissions that remain in this chapter are my own. K. C. Alvestad (*) University of South-Eastern Norway, Notodden, Norway © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_11

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Tambarskjelve, as well as the occasional women such as St Sunniva, Ragnhild Sigurdssdatter (c. 820–c. 860), Kristina Haakonsdaughter (1234–1262), and Margrete Valdemarsdaughter (1353–1412). This list is not exhaustive, but it is indicative of some trends in Norwegian memorialisation of medieval individuals. One of these trends is the near absence of women, and another is the close link between memorialisation and national history and nationalism. The list might also point to a sense of a popular understanding of the Middle Ages as a male-dominated world where only the actions of men were worth remembering. Yet this male dominance in Norwegian memorialisation of the medieval demonstrates also the lack of understanding of the roles of medieval women, and especially the roles and lives of royal mothers, mistresses, wives, and daughters. Further evidence to this lack of understanding can be found by looking at the three royal women included in my sample list above, for they are memorialised not because their lives break any general patterns related to the lives of royal women, but they are exceptional because they are remembered at all.2 Ragnhild is remembered for being the mother of the first king of Norway.3 Kristina is remembered as the daughter of King Haakon IV Haakonsson, under whom medieval Norway was at the heights of its power.4 Margrete is remembered for, among other things, bringing Norway into the Kalmar Union, which led to the decline and fall of the Norwegian kingdom.5 It is the memorialisation of Margrete that this chapter will focus on, because of the historical importance of her political successes which is mirrored in popular and official invocations of her life. This is exemplified by an Instagram post by the Archbishop’s palace, a museum in Trondheim, in November 2018, when they published an image of a reconstruction of Margrete’s golden gown with the caption: “Reconstruction of Queen Margrete 1 Valdemarsdaughter’s gold gown. She was the only reigning queen in the Middle Ages. But in return, she did rule Norway, Sweden and Denmark. What a lady.”6 Yet, this memorialisation does not inform us about the life of Margrete and the realities of her rule, but rather it can tell us a lot about the communities who invoke her memory, their motivations, needs, and the context in which the invocation take place.7 As such, this chapter will examine the memorialisation of Margrete in four select spheres and media. This investigation seeks to demonstrate how Margrete’s life and deeds are linked with the Kalmar Union and its political legacy, while also seeking to show how contemporary authors are reclaiming Margrete’s humanity and make her a relatable heroine for independent

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Norwegian women. To examine the memorialisation of Margrete, this chapter will focus on, firstly, the memorialisation by The Royal House of Norway, and secondly Margrete’s presentation in educational materials, followed by two depictions of Margrete in popular culture, one aimed at adult readers and one aimed at children. Combined these four avenues can give a fair insight into the varieties and nuances within her memorialisation. It is worth noting that I have yet to find any contemporary Norwegian-produced plays, films, or musical pieces featuring Margrete. This chapter will only be looking at Margrete in a Norwegian cultural context, partly due to the scope of this chapter and partly due to the somewhat conflicting relationship Norwegian popular memory has of the Kalmar Union and its long-term consequences. By focusing on Margrete in a Norwegian context, this chapter demonstrates how the memorialisation of Margrete is influenced by what Myhre called the prevailing sentiment Norwegian historical consciousness, the grief over the entry into the Kalmar Union, and the trauma of the subsequent loss of Norwegian independence.8 This grief is, according to Myhre, reflected in the “famous quotation” that argues that the history of Norway is not a history of the Norwegian kings, but a history of Norway’s farmers because of the loss of an independent Norwegian monarchy after 1319. Thus, by focusing on the Norwegian memory of Margrete, this chapter gives a concise account of how a national trauma has contributed to shaping the posthumous memory of one premodern monarch. Queen Margrete Valdemarsdaughter was born in 1353 as the daughter of the Danish king Valdemar IV (1320–1375) and his wife Hedvig of Schleswig.9 At the age of 10, Margrete wed King Haakon VI Magnusson of Norway, and they had their son Olav IV in 1370.10 When Valdemar IV of Denmark died in 1375, Margrete secured Olav’s election as Danish king, and she was appointed his regent by the Danish royal council. Upon Haakon’s death in 1380 Olav also inherited Norway, where Margaret once again was appointed his regent until he came of age. Olav’s death in 1387 resulted in Margrete being elected as regent in Denmark and Norway until a new king could be agreed upon. Even though Margrete’s grandnephew Eric of Pomerania was elected and crowned king in both kingdoms, as well as in Sweden in 1396/1397 which united the three kingdoms in a personal union at Kalmar in 1397, Margrete remained the power behind the throne until she died in 1412. The Kalmar Union fragmented in the fifteenth century and by 1536 had transformed into two separate kingdoms, the kingdom of Sweden under the Wasa dynasty, and the

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kingdom of Denmark under the Oldenburg dynasty. By this point, the kingdom of Norway had been abolished and the territories of Norway and its dependencies were integrated into the Danish kingdom.11 In 2014, Margrete’s “Diploma of Norwegian election” was included among the documents on the Norwegian UNESCO document heritage list, cementing it and Margrete’s rule as one of the key historical moments in Norwegian history.12 The inclusion of Margrete’s document in the UNESCO document heritage list points to both her contemporary standing and her posthumous importance, especially for the Norwegian state and royal family. Upon ascending to the newly independent throne of Norway in 1905, the Danish Prince Carl, who was elected to become the king of Norway, choose to take the name Haakon and gave his son Alexander the name Olav, as an act of becoming Norwegian and re-claiming the medieval royal names.13 It is worth noting that Haakon VII and Olav V choose the names of the last two “independent kings of Norway” and the last two male members of the medieval Norwegian royal dynasty, namely Margrete’s husband and son. As such, it might be argued that Margrete played an important role in a transitional period in Norwegian history, both historically and in the present.

Margrete and the Royal House of Norway At the same time as Haakon VII in 1905 chose to link himself to the medieval dynasty of Norway through this regnal name, his legitimacy and the legitimacy of the Norwegian kingdom was partly founded on the two 1905 national referendums in Norway. The first was about independence and the second about whether the new state should be a republic or a kingdom legitimising Haakon VII’s succession. Nevertheless, the new dynasty’s legitimacy was also underpinned by a historical narrative where Haakon was the successor and the restorer of the medieval kings of Norway. As such, his throne and the very idea of a Norwegian kingdom rested upon the understanding that there was an ancient kingdom to restore, a kingdom whose king formed a continuous line from Harald I Fairhair—via the kings of Denmark and Sweden—to Haakon VII.  This understanding is cemented in the list known as “Den Norske Kongerekken” or in English: the list of Norwegian kings, which at the end of the nineteenth and the beginning of the twentieth centuries was a common feature in most history textbooks in Norway. Today the list can be found under a

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subheading “Historie” on the website of The Royal House of Norway. The page containing the list was last updated in 2018,14 but according to versions of the website found on archive.org, has stayed the same since its first documented appearance on The Royal House of Norway website in 2001.15 The list consists of sixty-four entries, four of which are the earls Haakon, Eirik, Svein, and Haakon of Hlade. The list also includes a single entry of a woman, number thirty-eight. Margrete Valdemarsdaughter’s entry shows she reigned from 1387 to 1412, succeeding her son Olaf IV and co-ruling with her successor Eric III. If we are to take the list at face value, The Royal House of Norway suggests that Margrete’s status, as queen, was equal to that of the crowned kings before and after her, as well as equal to the early medieval earls of Hlade. This reading of the list and Margrete’s inclusion in it might be an exaggeration of the situation, but the inclusion comes despite contemporary historians Erik Opsahl and Halvard Bjørkvik arguing that she was never a ruling queen in her own right, but rather a regent on behalf of her son Olaf and later her adoptive son Erik.16 If her inclusion is based on her regency, then the list as it stands is incomplete, for it should then also include women who previously held a similar position such as Alfiva and Astrid Olofdaughter, and possibly Gunnhild Gormsdaughter. It is instead more likely that Margrete’s inclusion in the list is due to her significant political position in her lifetime, as well as her legacy. The inclusion of Margrete in the list is slightly problematic, for she is in some modern scholarly texts only referred to as queen regent and queen mother, and not queen regnant.17 Although Bjørkvik and Opsahl differentiated between the statue and roles of queen regent and queen regnant, such differentiation does not seem to have made its way into the official and popular memorialisation of Margrete. Thus, Margrete’s somewhat inconsistent status in the monarchical line of Norway also reflects her popular reception overall and provides a clue to her post-mortem legacy in the kingdom.18

Margrete in Textbooks The place Margrete holds in the line of kings on the website of The Royal House of Norway is not unlike the wider presentations Margrete receives in contemporary and historic textbooks, in that she is closely linked to her political achievements and the Kalmar Union. In Jonas Vellesen’s textbook from 1900 the reader encounters a Margrete who gains power by default, but rules in a sly manner undermining Norwegian independence.19

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Additionally, in the contemporary teachers’ aid for instruction by Siegwart Petersen (1886), a teacher could read the following line: “Queen without trousers and grindstone,”20 referring to a specific episode in Margrete’s struggle for power in Sweden in 1388–1389. During this episode, Albrecht of Mecklenburg, the king of Sweden, is supposed to have sent Margrete a grindstone to sharpen her sowing needles along with the taunt that she was a “king without trousers,” implying that she was subverting the role of the king. These lines were intended to frame a narrative and to tell Norwegian teachers how to instruct their pupils, but it also gives a distilled image of the narrative communicated to pupils in classrooms where teachers had access to this text. Even though we cannot go back in time and examine whether teachers retold these narratives to their pupils, it is possible to argue that Petersen thought teachers ought to instruct pupils about the narrative surrounding the process of how the Kalmar Union came into being, and especially the role Margrete played in this process. Looking beyond the late nineteenth century, we can observe that there is a distinct narrative continuity, and continuity of interpretations, within history textbooks in Norway. This is witnessed by examples such as Idar Libærk, Trude Mathiesen, Rolf Mikkelsen, and Øivind Stenersen’s textbook Globus 7 from 2008,21 and Tone Aarre, Bjørg Åsta Flatby, and Håvard Lunnan’s textbook Midgrad 7 from 1999.22 Both texts present Margrete as a strong and wise woman who built the Kalmar Union, who is a legitimate reigning monarch even though she was a woman. Libærk’s 2008 account of Margrete adds a layer on this depiction by addressing gender and gender norms in the narrative. For example, Libærk highlights that Margrete ruled well, despite her gender.23 This statement not only highlights the authors’ assumptions about kingship but also about gender, and gives emphasis to the perceived exceptionality of Margrete as a wise and strong queen. It is noteworthy that following the educational reform of 1974, which introduced gender and gender roles as a topic into the Norwegian national curriculum,24 we find that Margrete’s life and actions are described in more detail. Her coverage in the 1999 textbook runs to 130 lines,25 compared to 38 lines in a comparative text from 1900.26 The length of coverage of Margrete is not the only significant change, but it is also striking how Margrete’s life is described and what aspects of her life are stressed. These shifts are especially evident from the 1990s onwards when we see Aarre (1999) and Libærk (2008) examine Margrete’s whole life, including her youth, education, and marriage, as well as how she overcame her

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political opponent Albrecht by persuading the aristocracy of the three Nordic kingdoms to unite against him by promising to protect each kingdom’s interests. In both of these textbooks, Margrete’s political successes are highlighted using illustrations and captions relating to the coverage given to Margrete and her life. One example comes from Libærk’s book which includes an image of a charter and the caption “The Coronation letter from 1397 where the council and nobles acknowledge Eric of Pomerania as king over Sweden, Denmark and Norway […].”27 The placing of this image and caption underscoring to the reader that Eric’s reign is entirely due to Margrete’s agency and political manoeuvrings, a fact that is somewhat at odds with the earlier statement about Margrete ruling despite her gender. By seeing these two presentations of Margrete side by side it is very possible that Libærk and others aimed to highlight Margrete as a strong independent role model for young girls, rather than as a woman who overstepped societal and political boundaries. This interpretation of “The Coronation letter” and Margrete’s exceptional political abilities are also promoted by other teaching resources, such as the resources curated by NDLA.NO, an online resource centre for teaching further education history in Norway. Within the NDLA resources, Margrete’s life and actions form the backbone of the overall analysis of the Late Middle Ages as she is an illustrative example for both the political and social developments in Norway between 1350 and 1550.28 As such, Margrete is presented as a good case study for understanding the Middle Ages, an interpretation that might be correct from the need to understand how the Norwegian kingdom and state declined in the late medieval period. Additionally, it is worth noting that she is the only individual given such a specific role in the whole presentation of the late medieval material on NDLA. In drawing attention to Margrete with this distinction in the materials, NDLA offers their users a historical interpretation where Margrete is both the key to understanding the Kalmar Union and Norway’s subsequent union with Denmark until 1814, but also the cause of the union, a cause that exacerbated the decline of an independent Norwegian kingdom in the Middle Ages. This depiction of Margrete’s role in the development of the Kalmar Union, and the later Danish-Norwegian union, seems to be the core of the depiction of Margrete in educational material since the late nineteenth century. As the Norwegian educational system is quite prescriptive in its content and focus through the curriculum and teachers’ guidelines, I argue that these educational resources frame how the Norwegian population

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understands the past. As such, Margrete’s depiction in these books indicates on the one side how the textbook publishers want to present her, as well as how the Norwegian educational authorities and education institutions understand gender roles and the Middle Ages. I have elsewhere argued that educational resources like these have been intrinsic in the way Norwegians view the past and that these texts can be seen in the light of how Patrick Geary describes the spread of nationalism from an elite group of “enthusiasts” to the wider population.29 Consequently, I will argue that these texts socialise pupils and future citizens into a historical narrative and frame of understanding the past, the present, and the future. Furthermore, these texts frame how the audience approach and receive Margrete’s appearance in popular culture such as novels.

Margrete in a Novel While educational materials in Norway are to a great extent something everyone in the kingdom is exposed to, not everyone chooses to seek out popular culture and literary medievalism. Nevertheless, it is within the popular culture the resonance of historical narratives and interpretations can be gauged. Therefore, the memorialisation of historical individuals within such products shed light on a wider memory of the memorialised. Alongside Sigrid Undset (1882–1949) and Vera Henriksen (1927–2016), Frid Ingulstad (1935–) might be considered among the most important Norwegian authors engaging with and producing medievalism in the twentieth and twenty-first centuries. Similar to Undset and Henriksen, Ingulstad’s medievalism for female adult readers is akin to what Katherine Weikert in 2016 described as “the romance novel … of white, middle-class reader[s],”30 but Ingulstad’s books have gained a poor reputation among literary critics due to her texts being published as serial novels and pocketbooks. This choice of literary genre has, according to a contemporary biography of Ingulstad, made her one of Norway’s most prolific authors in recent decades with over 230 books published,31 as well as being the most read author in Norway in period 2005–2010. As such, her novel Margrete from 2000, reprinted in 2008, and released as an audiobook in 2015, is part of her considerable and varied authorship that saw her awarded the “H.M. Kongens fortjenstmedalje” [King’s Medal of Merit] in 2018. She was awarded the Medal of Merit for her work promoting literacy and historical interest.32

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In her 2000 novel Margrete, Ingulstad introduces the reader to a young, strong, and independent-minded Margrete anchored in the known biographical data about the life of Margrete Valdemarsdaughter.33 Yet, where biographical and historical data is limited, or insufficient, Ingulstad introduces the reader to Margrete’s inner thoughts, feelings, and motivations. The opening scene of the novel in many ways sets the stage for the relationships in the novel. The novel opens with Margrete’s arrival in Oslo in 1368, four years after her wedding, when at the age of fifteen she takes up the role as Lady of Akershus Castle and Queen of Norway. Already in the opening sequence, Margrete expressed that she is convinced Haakon, her husband, is weak, surrounded by a poor council and unable to fully take part in the political manoeuvring in Scandinavia at the time and that the only solution to secure Haakon’s position is for her to take an active role by manipulating events. Margrete’s first move is convincing Haakon that they need to wait for the consummation of the marriage until her body is fully developed. The relationship with Haakon is in part cooperation and part competition, as they reach an agreement about waiting for the consummation of the marriage, and agree on their political ambition of uniting all of the Scandinavian crowns in one person. The second part of this cooperation, related to the ambition of unifying the Scandinavian crowns, is by Ingulstad presented as Margrete’s grand plan, an ambition she and Haakon worked towards from the date of their wedding. In his biography of Margrete, Halvard Bjørkvik claimed that although the union of the three crowns was the result of her life’s work, there is nothing to indicate that this was part of her grand plan.34 Unlike Bjørkvik’s Margrete, Ingulstad’s fictional interpretation of Margrete has a clear aim and ambition already at the beginning of the novel.35 What Bjørkvik and Ingulstad both agree on is that it was Margrete’s political manoeuvrings that lead to the union. In Ingulstad’s novel, Margrete starts her political programme by taking on the role of Haakons VI’s closest advisor in a bid to save Haakon and his kingdom from Swedish and Hanseatic pressures.36 Through this role, Margrete is presented to the reader as the saviour of Norway and that her actions are a continuation of the political ambitions of her husband and his father earlier in the fourteenth century. Her actions are implicitly and explicitly presented as subverting social norms and accepted gender roles in Ingulstad’s image of the Norwegian court of Haakon VI. This is shown through Margrete’s active involvement of the political developments in Scandinavia, and her close relationship with her advisor and rumoured lover, the historical nobleman Henrik

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Henriksson. With the help of Henrik, Margrete exerted her agency, as she tried to influence the then political situation in Sweden through patronage of Swedish and Danish magnates, in the bid to secure her son’s claim to the Danish throne and Haakon’s claim to the Swedish throne.37 Although Margrete’s actions are, according to her thoughts and voice in the book, in the aid of Haakon and their son Olav IV, Haakon accuses her of being unfaithful and overstepping her role as wife and queen. In his eyes, she is subverting her role and being too masculine, mirroring her father’s statement in the opening chapter: “You should have been a boy Margrete. The Lord made a mistake when he made you a girl.”38 Valdemar’s statement about his daughter echoes throughout the novel, as well as the historical evidence of Margrete as presented by Opsahl and Bjørkvik in their biographies of her, for to all of them Margrete’s abilities and actions, as suggested by Ingulstad, transgresses what is understood and known about other Norwegian queens of the period. This transgression of gender, and partial masculinity, is in Ingulstad’s work a counterbalance to Haakon’s weakness, while it is also tempered by the closing sections of the novel, where Margrete gives in to her lust and seeks Henrik’s bed and comfort following Haakon’s death. Margrete’s political and emotional, and eventually sexual relationship with Henrik underpins the image of Margrete given to the reader in the book’s preface and notes. At the end of her novel, Ingulstad gives a brief biography of the key characters in her novel, as well as provides a list of sources she consulted. As such, she interacts critically with her authorship, indicating what is truth and what is fiction— allowing readers who might be interested to dig deeper into the life and time of Margrete Valdemarsdaughter. This relationship between truth and fiction is something Ingulstad comments on in her autobiography from 2007 where she claims: I thought it was interesting to write about the women in our history since there is so little about them in the history books. In Snorre [Sturluson’s Heimskringla] there are 220 pages about Olaf the Holy, but only a few sentences about his queen. The Norwegian People’s Life and History [by S. Hasung (1934)] contains page upon page with names in the index, but one has to look for a long time to find a woman’s name. Yet, I believe women were more involved than historians want to say. I attempted in The Daughters of the Kings [the book series the novel Margrete is a part of] to imagine how these women could have experienced the world. During research I found all I needed about the life at a royal estate, the events in the

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kingdom, who held what position, what they ate, what they were afraid of, what they believed in, and how people behaved. There was enough to work on, just not when it came to the thoughts and feelings of women.39

In this quote, Ingulstad explains her process and motivation for writing the book series that Margrete is a part of, and she highlights that she had to imagine how the daughters of kings could have experienced the world. As such, she discloses that although her novels are grounded in reality, the thoughts and feelings of Margrete are likely fiction. Yet, while the thoughts, feelings, and words of Margrete might be fiction, this fiction stems from Ingulstad’s desire to write royal women like Margrete back into history, and through that exposes her readers to a plausible reality of how a strong, independent girl in the mid-fourteenth century would have experienced Norway and its court. Essentially, Ingulstad’s history writing takes on a feminist agenda—making it possible to encounter the past through the eyes of a woman. Read in this light, Ingulstad’s opening description of Margrete as a strong-willed girl in the preface of the book could and likely should be understood as a positive and as an act of liberation within the narrative and within the past as well as in the present. This liberated, strong Margrete which Ingulstad presents to an adult audience resonates with Valdemar’s words about Margrete suggesting she should have been born a boy. In including this perspective as an element of how Ingulstad’s Margrete understands herself, Ingulstad attempts to reclaim a sense of how Margrete’s actions might have been experienced by herself and her peers in Scandinavia—as the region at that time was not used to strong female rulers. In doing so, Ingulstad reclaims the past for her readers, allowing them to relate to Margrete through Margrete’s experiences, thoughts, and feelings, allowing the modern reader to form an intimate bond with a queen centuries dead. Many of the same aspects Ingulstad presents to the reader is also highlighted in Linn T. Sunne’s 2017 children book on Margrete.

Margrete for Children Sunne’s book Margrete 1. (2017) is a picture book with some text aimed at children in the age range of 6–9 years, which is part of a 4 volume series about queens, featuring Elizabeth I of England, Cleopatra, Catherine the Great of Russia, and Margrete. The volume on Margrete opens with a preface explaining why Sunne finds Margrete so special, as Sunne states:

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In Norway, we have had many kings. Over 60 men have reigned over Norway, but only one woman has been a reigning queen, that is a queen who decides herself, and was not just married to a king. Margrete lived in the 1300s, and ruled not only Norway but also Sweden and Denmark. At that time much strife and unrest were surrounding the royals. The King had great power, and it was a challenging job to rule a kingdom. Queen Margrete was good at ruling, and she is still remembered—over 600 years after her death. […] I hope you want to read about the tough girl who became Norway’s first and so far last—reigning Queen!40

In this preface, Sunne introduces her readers to two basic narratives about Margrete, firstly that she is tough, and secondly that she has been the only reigning queen in Norwegian history. The book follows episodes of Margrete’s life, such as her first meeting with her husband Haakon, their wedding, her journey to Norway, Margrete’s first menstruation, Margrete’s experience of poverty and plague in Oslo in 1370, Margrete’s trip to Denmark to introduce her son Olav to her father, and finally Margrete’s stay at Tønsberghus in 1374 when she and Haakon were informed that Haakon’s father Magnus had died, leaving Haakon as the sole ruler of Norway and parts of Sweden, sending them on a trajectory that leads to the Kalmar Union. The book closes with an epilogue, giving a brief 3-page account of Olav’s succession to the Danish crown and Margrete’s life after 1374. The final paragraph before the epilogue includes a line mirroring the preface: “She [Margrete] remembers what her father said:—had she been a boy, then she would have been king.”41 In the same paragraph, Margrete goes on to wonder if she and Haakon can manage to be good rulers for their kingdoms. In doing so, Sunne emphasises that the original plan to Margrete would have been to rule with her husband, not alone, and that the subsequent deaths of Haakon in 1380 and Olav in 1387 changed the political reality around Margrete, causing her to have to seize power to prevent the kingdoms from falling into her enemies’ hands. It appears that Sunne attempts to cast Margrete’s life in a relatable fashion to her readers. By emphasising Margrete’s feelings, friendships, and losses, Sunne presents a girl who overcame much hardship to become the only reigning queen regnant in Norwegian history. This perspective on Margrete might be a result of the intended audience of the book, and the need to make Margrete relatable to children, but it might also be a result of the author’s use of Erik Opsahl as a consultant for the historical content of the book.42 The contrast between the way Margrete is presented in

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textbooks and the way she is depicted in Sunne’s book is in Margrete’s agency. Sunne emphasises Margrete’s political agency through her cooperation with Haakon about the rule, and not her political dominance in the conflict with Albrecht and the road to the Kalmar Union. Emphasising cooperation rather than dominance takes the image of Margrete from being an explanation of national misfortune to being a role model for young girls, a woman worthy for the modern girl.

Conclusion Where much of Norwegian medievalism is focused on highlighting national glory, or heroes, the memorialisation of Margrete plays, as we have seen, a slightly different role. Both the mainstream medievalism in Norway, which is focused on Vikings, heroes, and kings, and the one examined above, reflects contemporary Norway’s relationship with the past and its need for grand narratives, hero(in)es, and legitimacy. But just as Myhre argued Olaf Engebrekson was remembered as a complex anti-­ hero in a Norwegian cultural memory,43 I will argue that Margrete, due to her legacy, has a similarly complex memorialisation in Norway. Her role as the legitimate regent and link in the transition between the medieval Royal House of Norway, and the subsequent royal unions with Sweden and Denmark, while also being the person who took Norway into the Kalmar Union, a union which led to the dismantling of the institutions of the Norwegian kingdom and in 1536 the integration of Norway into the kingdom of Denmark, makes her political legacy a complex yet dominant feature of her memory. It is therefore not surprising that aspects of her political life dominate the educational resources produced in Norway, whilst in popular culture, here represented by Ingulstad and Sunne, attempts to humanise Margrete by exploring her feelings, motivations, and thoughts. Through these actions, Ingulstad and Sunne reclaim Margrete from the political narrative and present her life in a relatable fashion, highlighting Margrete’s exceptional deeds as woman and queen. Sunne and Ingulstad’s Margrete becomes a heroine, who overcame the obstacles surrounding her to achieve what no Scandinavian ruler has achieved since Cnut the Great, to unite all of Scandinavia under one individual. Despite the humanising efforts of Sunne and Ingulstad, the dominating focus of the memorialisation of Margrete can be summarised in the title she was granted by the Norwegian council in 1388 of “Mighty lady and true husband,” a title which according to Frode Iversen demonstrates

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the true character of her role in the creation of the Kalmar Union.44 As I have attempted to demonstrate, the Kalmar Union has influenced how Margrete is presented and remembered in a modern Norwegian context. This relationship cannot be ignored, for even Sunne and Ingulstad’s attempts to reclaim the woman Margrete are influenced by the union and its legacy. This raises both a conclusion and a question to mind: what would Margrete have been remembered for if it had not been for her involvement with the Kalmar Union? The likelihood is that she would have fallen by the wayside if she or the union had not succeeded. Consequently, the greatest memorial to Margrete in Norwegian culture and politics is perhaps the continued importance of this union as it stands as a testament to Margrete’s deeds, heroism, and cunning.

Notes 1. Kristin Bliksrud Aavitsland, “Middelalder Og Norsk Identitet. Litterære Og Visuelle Eksempler På Norsk Medievalisme,” Konsthistorisk Tidskrift/ Journal of Art History 75.1 (2006): 38–49; Karl C. Alvestad, “The ‘accurate’ deeds of Our Fathers: The ‘authentic’ narrative of early Norway,” in The Middle Ages in Modern Culture: History and Authenticity in Contemporary Medievalism, eds. Karl C. Alvestad and Robert Houghton (London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2021); Karl C. Alvestad. “Neither Dane, nor Swede, and definitely not Finn; transmission of narratives of otherness in 19th- and early 20th-century Norwegian Historiography,” Revue d’Histoire Nordique 23.2 (2016): 105–120; Karl C.  Alvestad, Kings, Heroes and Ships: The Use of Historical Characters in Nineteenth—and Twentieth—Century Perceptions of the Early Medieval Scandinavian Past, (PhD diss., University of Winchester, 2016); Karl C.  Alvestad, “Seeing Him for What He Was: Reimagining King Olaf II Haraldsson in Post-War Popular Culture,” in Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers: Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture, eds. Janice North, Karl C.  Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 283–301. 2. This exceptionalism of Ragnhild, Kristina, and Margrete in modern memorialisation is as Heather L. Tanner, Laura Gathagan, and Lois L. Huneycutt argue not a representation of their real historic importance, but rather a result of prolonged chauvinism and exclusion from the historical narrative. Structures of exclusion are undoubtedly also at play in the sources and memories of the Norwegian past. Heather J. Tanner, Laura L. Gathagan, and Lois L. Huneycutt, “Introduction,” in Medieval Elite Women and the Exercise of Power, 1100–1400: Moving beyond the Exceptionalist Debate, ed. Heather L. Tanner (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019), 1–18.

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3. Bjørn Bandlien, “Ragnhild—Halfdan Svartes annen dronning,” Store norske leksikon on snl.no, accessed 18 September 2020, https://snl.no/ Ragnhild_-­_Halfdan_Svartes_annen_dronning. 4. Audun Dybdahl, “Kristin Håkonsdatter,” Norsk Biografisk Leksikon on snl.no, accessed 18 September 2020, https://nbl.snl.no/ Kristin_H%C3%A5konsdatter. 5. Per G. Norseng, “Margrete 1,” Store norske leksikon on snl.no, accessed 18 September 2020, https://snl.no/Margrete_1. 6. “Rekonstruksjon av Dronning Margrete 1. Valdermarsdaughters gullkjole. Hun var den eneste regjerende dronningen i middelalderen. Til gjengjeld regjerte hun i både Norge, Sverige og Danmark. For ei dame!” Erkebispegården (@erkebispegarden), “Rekonstruksjon av Dronning Margrete 1. Valdermarsdaughters gullkjole. Hun var den eneste regjerende dronningen i middelalderen. Til gjengjeld regjerte hun i både Norge, Sverige og Danmark. For ei dame!,” Instagram photo, 12 November 2018, https://www.instagram.com/p/BqFHwoHgn3c/?igshid=1m9s 0kj8xa287. 7. Alvestad, Kings, Heroes and Ships, 19; Karl C. Alvestad, “Middelalders helter og Norsk nasjonalisme før andre verdenskrig,” Slagmark 79.1 (2019): 83; J.  Fentress and C.  Wickham, Social Memory (Oxford: Blackwell, 1992), 201. 8. J. E. Myhre, “The ‘Decline of Norway’: Grief and Fascination in Norwegian Historiography on the Middle Ages,” in The Uses of the Middle Ages in Modern European States: History, Nationhood and the Search for Origins, eds. R.J.W. Evans and Guy P. Marchal (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan: 2015), 18–30. 9. Vivian Etting, Queen Margrethe I, 1353–1412, and the Founding of the Nordic Union. (Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 2004), 1. 10. Norseng, “Margrete 1,” accessed 18 September 2020, https://snl.no/ Margrete_1; Halvard Bjørkvik, “Margrete Valdemarsdotter,” in Norges Konger og Dronninger, ed. Jon Gunnar Arntzen (Oslo: Kunnskapsforlaget, 2007), 117–122; Erik Opsahl, “Margrete—“Norges pengefattige og magtløse dronning”?” in Dronningemagt I Middelalderen: Festskrift Til Anders Bøgh, eds. Jeppe Büchert Netterstrøm and Kasper H.  Andersen (Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2018), 298–299. 11. The status of Norway and its medieval dependencies in the Danish kingdom between 1536 and 1814 shifts over the course of the early modern period. In 1660, the kingdom was resurrected in the establishment of the double monarchy Denmark-Norway, but its legitimacy was a product of the Union founded by Margrete in 1397.

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12. Kulturrådet, “RIKSARKIVET: Dronning Margretes valgbrev 1388,” on Kulturrådet.no, accessed 18 September 2020, https://www.kulturradet. no/vis-­mowartikkel/-­/mow-­dronning-­margretes-­valgbrev-­1388. 13. Alvestad, Kings, Heroes and Ships, 34. 14. Det Norske Kongehus, “Den Norske Kongerekken,” on Kongehuset.no, accessed 18 September 2020, https://www.kongehuset.no/artikkel. html?tid=27626&sek=26982. 15. Det Norske Kongehus, “Historikk,” on archive.org, accessed 20 September 2020, https://web.archive.org/web/20010331091551fw_/http:// www.kongehuset.no/monarkiet_hist.html. 16. Bjørkvik, “Margrete Valdemarsdotter,” 117–122; Opsahl, “Margrete,” 301. 17. Bjørkvik, “Margrete Valdemarsdotter,” 117–122; Opsahl, “Margrete,” 301. 18. Whereas the differentiation between queen regent and queen regnant is important for how we should understand Margrete, it is clear that Margrete’s role as queen and the nature of her queenship is as troublesome to define. This differentiation problem reflects Theresa Earenfight’s claim that queenship is vexing to define. See Theresa Earenfight, “Medieval Queenship,” History Compass 15.3 (2017): 1–9, https://doi. org/10.1111/hic3.12372. 19. J. Vellesen, Norgis soga aat folkeskulen (Kristiania: Beyers Forlag, 1900), 49. 20. S. Petersen, Momenter til støtte for hukommelsen ved den mundtlige undervisning (Kristiania: Mallings Bokhandel. 1886), 10. 21. Idar Libærk, Trude Mathiesen, Rolf Mikkelsen, and Øivind Stenersen, Globus 7 (Oslo: Cappelen, 2008), 118–121. 22. Tone Aarre, Bjørg Åsta Flatby and Håvard Lunnan, Midgrad 7 (Oslo: Aschehoug forlag: 1999), 114–117. 23. Libærk, Globus 7, 119. 24. Theo Koritzinsky, Samfunnskunnskap: fagdidaktisk innføring (Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2018), 40. 25. Aarre, Midgrad 7, 114–117. 26. Vellesen, Norgis soga, 49–51. 27. “Kroningsbrevet frå 1397 der riksråd og stormenn anerkjende Erik av Pommern som konge over Sverige, Danmark og Noreg …” Libærk, Globus 7, 119. 28. NDLA.NO, “Maktens korridorer,” on NDLA.NO, accessed 19 September 2020. https://ndla.no/nb/subjects/subject:9/topic:1:182163/ topic:1:154342/resource:1:162882; NDLA.NO, “Senmiddelalderen,” on NDLA.NO, accessed 19 September 2020. https://ndla.no/nb/subjects/ subject:9/topic:1:182163/topic:1:154342/resource:1:169341/945.

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29. P. Geary, The Myth of Nations: The Medieval Origins of Europe (Woodstock: Princeton University Press, 2002), 17–18; Alvestad, Kings, Heroes and Ships, 185–200; Alvestad, “Neither Dane, nor Swede,” 105–120. 30. Katherine Weikert, “Feminism, Fiction, and the Empress Matilda,” in Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers: Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture, eds. Janice North, Karl C. Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre (London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 82. 31. Caroline Drefvelin, “Det hjelper ikke all verdens priser jeg får. Jeg blir ikke kvitt det. Jeg er ikke bra nok,” Dagbladet.no, last modified 5 May 2018, https://www.dagbladet.no/kultur/det-­hjelper-­ikke-­all-­verdens-­priser-­ jeg-­far-­jeg-­blir-­ikke-­kvitt-­det-­jeg-­er-­ikke-­bra-­nok/69773675. 32. CappelenDamm, “H.M.  Kongens fortjenstmedalje til Frid Ingulstad,” accessed 15 September 2020, https://www.cappelendamm.no/cappelendamm/forfattere/forfatternyheter/article. action?contentId=143114. 33. F. Ingulstad, Margrete (Oslo: Egmont Bøker, 2000). 34. Halvard Bjørkvik, “Margrete Valdemarsdotter,” in Norges Konger og Dronninger, ed. Jon Gunnar Arntzen (Oslo: Kunnskapsforlaget: 2007), 117–122. 35. Ingulstad, Margrete, 5–6. 36. Ingulstad, Margrete, 6. 37. Haakon VI did not manage to secure the Swedish crown before his death in 1380. Ingulstad, Margrete, 214–216. 38. Ingulstad, Margrete, 7. 39. “Jeg syntes det var interessant å skrive om kvinnene i vår historie siden det står så lite om dem I historiebøkene. I Snorre står det 220 sider om Olav den Hellige og bare noen få setninger om hans dronning. I Det norske folks liv og historie [av S.  Hasung (1934)] står det side opp og side ned med personregister, men du må lete lenge etter et kvinnenavn. Likevel tror jeg at kvinnene har hatt mer å si enn historieskriverne vill ha det til. I Kongsdøtrene [bokserien romanen Margrete er en del av] forsøkte jeg å tenke meg hvordan disse kvinnene kunne ha hatt det. Under research fant jeg alt jeg trengte å vite om livet på en kongsgård på den tiden, hva som skjedde ellers i landet, hvem som hadde de høye stillingene, hva de levde av, hva de var redd for, hva de trodde på og hvordan de oppførte seg. Det var nok stoff å ta av, bare ikke når det gjaldt kvinnenes tanker og følelser.” Frid Ingulstad, Min Historie (Oslo: Cappelen Damm: 2007), 207. 40. “I Norge har vi hatt mange konger. Over 60 menn har regjert over Norge, men bare én kvinne har vært regjerende dronning, altså en dronning som bestemte selv, og ikke bare var gift med en konge. Margrete levde på 1300-tallet, og styrte ikke bare Norge, men også Sverige og Danmark. På den tiden var det mye strid og uro rundt de kongelige. Kongen hadde stor

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makt, og det var en krevende jobb å regjere over et helt land. Dronning Margrete var god til å regjere, og hun huskes ennå—over 600 år etter at hun døde. … Jeg håper du har lyst til å lese om den tøffe jenta som ble Norges første—og foreløpig siste—regjerende dronning!” Linn T. Sunne, Margrete 1. (Oslo: Gyldendal Forlag: 2017), 7. 41. “Hun husker hva faren hennes sa—hadde du vært gutt, ville du vært konge.” Sunne, Margrete 1., 64. 42. Sunne, Margrete 1., 4. 43. Myhre, “The ‘Decline of Norway’,” 18–30. 44. Frode Iversen, “Dronning Margretes instruks,” in Dronningen: I Vikingtid Og Middelalder, eds. Karoline Kjesrud and Nanna Løkka (Oslo: Scandinavian Academic Press, 2017), 384–421.

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Kulturrådet. “RIKSARKIVET: Dronning Margretes valgbrev 1388.” Kulturrådet. no. Accessed 18 September 2020. https://www.kulturradet.no/vis-­ mowartikkel/-­/mow-­dronning-­margretes-­valgbrev-­1388. Libærk, Idar, Trude Mathiesen, Rolf Mikkelsen, and Øivind Stenersen. Globus 7. Oslo: Cappelen, 2008. NDLA.NO. “Maktens korridorer.” on NDLA.NO. Accessed 19 September 2020. https://ndla.no/nb/subjects/subject:9/topic:1:182163/topic:1:154342/ resource:1:162882. ———. “Senmiddelalderen.” on NDLA.NO.  Accessed 19 September 2020. https://ndla.no/nb/subjects/subject:9/topic:1:182163/topic:1:154342/ resource:1:169341/945. Norseng, Per G. “Margrete 1.” Store norske leksikon on snl.no. Accessed 18 September 2020. https://snl.no/Margrete_1. Petersen, S. Momenter til støtte for hukommelsen ved den mundtlige undervisning. Kristiania: Mallings Bokhandel. 1886. Sunne, Linn T. Margrete 1. Oslo: Gyldendal Forlag, 2017. Vellesen, J. Norgis soga aat folkeskulen. Kristiania: Beyers Forlag, 1900.

Secondary Sources Alvestad, Karl C. “Seeing Him for What He Was: Reimagining King Olaf II Haraldsson in Post-War Popular Culture.” In Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers: Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture, edited by Janice North, Karl C.  Alvestad and Elena Woodacre, 283–301. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. ———. “The ‘Accurate’ Deeds of Our Fathers: The ‘Authentic’ Narrative of Early Norway.” In The Middle Ages in Modern Culture: History and Authenticity in Contemporary Medievalism, edited by Karl C. Alvestad and Robert Houghton, 23–41. London: Bloomsbury Academic, 2021. Alvestad, Karl Christian. “Neither Dane, nor Swede, and Definitely Not Finn; Transmission of Narratives of Otherness in 19th- and Early 20th-Century Norwegian Historiography.” Revue d’Histoire Nordique 23.2 (2016a): 105–120. ———. Kings, Heroes and Ships: The Use of Historical Characters in Nineteenth— and Twentieth—Century Perceptions of the Early Medieval Scandinavian Past. PhD diss., University of Winchester, 2016b. ———. “Middelalders Helter Og Norsk Nasjonalisme Før Andre Verdenskrig.” Slagmark 79.1 (2019): 77–95. Bandlien, Bjørn. “Ragnhild—Halfdan Svartes annen dronning.” Store norske leksikon on snl.no. Accessed 18 September 2020. https://snl.no/ Ragnhild_-­_Halfdan_Svartes_annen_dronning.

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Bjørkvik, Halvard. “Margrete Valdemarsdotter.” In Norges Konger og Dronninger, edited by Jon Gunnar Arntzen, 117–122. Oslo: Kunnskapsforlaget, 2007. Bliksrud Aavitsland, Kristin. “Middelalder Og Norsk Identitet. Litterære Og Visuelle Eksempler På Norsk Medievalisme.” Konsthistorisk Tidskrift/Journal of Art History 75.1 (2006): 38–49. Dybdahl, Audun. “Kristin Håkonsdatter.” Norsk Biografisk Leksikon on snl.no. Accessed 18 September 2020. https://nbl.snl.no/Kristin_H%C3%A5konsdatter. Earenfight, Theresa. “Medieval Queenship.” History Compass 15.3 (2017): 1–9. https://doi.org/10.1111/hic3.12372. Etting, Vivian. Queen Margrethe I, 1353–1412, and the Founding of the Nordic Union. Leiden: Brill Academic Publishers, 2004. Fentress, J. and Chris Wickham. Social Memory. Oxford: Blackwell, 1992. Geary, P. The Myth of Nations: The Medieval Origins of Europe. Woodstock: Princeton University Press, 2002. Iversen, Frode. “Dronning Margretes instruks.” In Dronningen: I Vikingtid Og Middelalder, edited by Karoline Kjesrud and Nanna Løkka, 384–421. Oslo: Scandinavian Academic Press, 2017. Koritzinsky, Theo. Samfunnskunnskap: fagdidaktisk innføring. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget, 2018. Myhre, Jan Eivind. “The “Decline of Norway”: Grief and Fascination in Norwegian Historiography on the Middle Ages.” In The Uses of the Middle Ages in Modern European States: History, Nationhood and the Search for Origins. Volume 8. Writing the Nation, edited by R.  J. W.  Evans and Guy P.  Marchal, 18–30. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2011. Opsahl, Erik. “Margrete—“Norges pengefattige og magtløse dronning”?” In Dronningemagt I Middelalderen: Festskrift Til Anders Bøgh, edited by Jeppe Büchert Netterstrøm and Kasper H.  Andersen, 298–299. Aarhus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag, 2018. Tanner, Heather J., Laura L. Gathagan and Lois L. Huneycutt. “Introduction.” In Medieval Elite Women and the Exercise of Power, 1100–1400: Moving beyond the Exceptionalist Debate, edited by Heather J.  Tanner, 1–18. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. Weikert, Katherine. “Feminism, Fiction, and the Empress Matilda.” In Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers: Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture, edited by Janice North, Karl C. Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre, 69–89. London: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018.

Oh to be a Queen: Representations of Eleanor of Aquitaine and Isabella of Angoulême, Two Scandalous Queens, in Popular Fiction Gabrielle Storey

Introduction “Daughter of Belial! Your appearance is an affront to God! If your husband will not take you to task, it is my duty to do so, in God’s name!”1 —Bernard of Clairvaux on Eleanor of Aquitaine, Devil’s Consort

Eleanor of Aquitaine and Isabella of Angoulême are both famous and infamous, having had their reputations slandered by the quick pens of medieval chroniclers, and are familiar to any who research Western Europe in the Middle Ages. The legends surrounding the two queens have proven fertile ground for artists, allowing ample opportunity for writers and directors alike to bring royal scandal to the fore. This chapter analyses the representations of Eleanor and Isabella in historical fiction, through an

G. Storey (*) Southampton, UK © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_12

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examination of the issues in depicting historical figures in popular culture, and by discussing the popular scandal which has affected contemporary perceptions of the lives of Eleanor and Isabella. This research will also engage with recent feminist historiography to understand why the women have been depicted in certain ways in historical fiction, in order to complement existing discussions on the  representations of medieval queens in popular culture. The first section of this chapter will contextualise the novels under discussion, considering the background of the authors, and their intended audiences for these works, and my motivations for analysing these particular pieces. The second section will then investigate the depictions of Eleanor and Isabella in four novels, chosen here for their differing representations of the two women, focusing on the portrayals of queenship and sexual scandal, and then on their respective familial relationships. The popularity of both historical fiction and historical drama, and subsequent analysis of these works, has grown over the last six decades.2 From The Lion in Winter to Game of Thrones (both novels and televised dramas), the image of a strong, powerful queen undoubtedly provides an inspiration for women of all ages who seek a connection not only to the medieval past but also an example of what it means to be a woman with power.3 Readers not only seek entertainment and escapism through engagement with the novel, but also a sense of identity and familiarity. The two queens here are presented as women assertive with their sexuality and desires, with families to care for, close relationships and friendships to maintain, and thus form a connection to the modern reader due to shared experiences. Despite their benefits in presenting historical figures and worlds to a new audience, however, some of these historical novels of royal women fall short in their depictions of characters due to inaccuracies and invocation of alleged scandal, and the failure of the authors to engage with a wider readership by taking an intersectional approach and providing a wider array of characters.4 Although there is a growing corpus of works on non-white queens, this is underrepresented in the face of a focus on white, European queens, and their seemingly white courts, a discussion which is beyond the limits of this chapter.5 As it stands, although several works have considered Eleanor’s representation in popular works, little attention has been paid to Isabella, and rarely in a comparative manner as this chapter seeks to do, with the exception of Carey Fleiner’s examination of Isabella in film.6 As this discussion will reveal, there are several occasions whereby historical liberties have

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been taken to draw attention to spurious or unknown events in the lives of these two queens. This chapter will first consider the context and reception of these novels, before moving on to discuss the historiography and legends of these two women. Through examination of the four depictions of Eleanor and Isabella in the novels of Elizabeth Chadwick, Anne O’Brien, Erica Lainé, and Lisa Hilton, this chapter concludes that these portrayals have focussed on the most scandalous and most relatable aspects of their lives in order to gain traction with their audience. By doing so, these authors have continued to perpetuate on occasion inaccurate and misleading characterisations which do modern interpretations of Eleanor and Isabella more harm than good.

Reception, Context, and Audience The novels under discussion in this chapter are: Elizabeth Chadwick’s The Summer Queen trilogy, Anne O’Brien’s The Devil’s Consort, Lisa Hilton’s The Stolen Queen, and Erica Lainé’s The Tangled Queen trilogy.7 Before analysing these representations, it is necessary to consider the context of these novels and the intention of their authors. Historical fiction’s primary purpose is to entertain, and all four authors provide illuminating descriptions of their queens and their lives. Jerome de Groot has stated that historical novels, “taking as their subjects female subjectivity, domestic private/public politics or the marginalisation of weaker subjects means these texts create a dissonant space in which various issues of legitimacy, authority and identity might be considered.”8 Historical novels offer an opportunity for the author to reinvent the past and engage their audiences with a series of relatable emotions and themes. The background of the authors is an important consideration when examining their motivations for writing: both Elizabeth Chadwick and Anne O’Brien are well-established historical authors, having written historical fiction on queens for several decades. Lisa Hilton and Erica Lainé’s backgrounds lie in journalism and education respectively, before they composed historical fiction. Chadwick noted on her blog that her reasoning for writing about Eleanor was to explore facets of her life that other novels had not.9 The backgrounds of Chadwick and O’Brien lend credence to their works, and indeed their depictions of Eleanor are less outlandish than the one of Isabella presented by Hilton. The backgrounds of all four authors is also important when considering who they are writing for: both Chadwick and O’Brien have a well-established following of

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readers interested in discovering the latest queenly tale, whereas Hilton and Lainé would intend to attract a primarily older female readership who follow Isabella’s life, drawn in by the fantastical adventures that partially make up Isabella’s story. A primarily female audience in the 2010s would be interested in seeing active female figures in control of their agency and sexuality, in spite of a patriarchal society, which is something the novels accomplish. Lastly, the time in which these novels are produced is of importance: all have been published in the last decade, with O’Brien’s work the earliest, produced in 2011, Chadwick’s novels from 2013 to 2016, Hilton’s standalone released in 2015, and Lainé’s trilogy published between 2015 and 2018. With the exception of O’Brien, the authors focus on the status of their queens to draw their audience in, utilising crowns and coats of arms on their front covers, perhaps an indication of the importance they place on the historical status of their subjects, an appropriate comment on the modern society’s difficulties with acknowledging the status of important women. As noted, a predominantly female audience of this era would be drawn to the romance and sexual reclamation that Eleanor experiences in these novels, whilst finding Isabella an entertaining, if not entirely authentic, figure who experiences the trials and tribulations of a patriarchal society. Elizabeth Chadwick’s three-volume series chronicles Eleanor’s life from her marriage to Louis VII, king of France, in 1137, through to her time as queen consort and later dowager queen of England, until her death in 1204. Eleanor’s status as consort and dowager ought to have afforded her a great deal of power; however, she was thwarted on several occasions by restrictions placed upon her by her husbands. This does not mean she was completely powerless: however, Chadwick has taken several liberties with her depiction of Eleanor and her power. In The Summer Queen, Chadwick writes that “throughout her vast lands Alienor held court with Louis at her side. They received the homage of petitioners and vassals, witnessed and signed charters together, always with the caveat that anything to which Louis put his name was with the ‘assent and petition of Queen Alienor.’”10 Historian Marie Hivergneaux has convincingly stated that although Eleanor undoubtedly legitimised Louis’ authority in Aquitaine, it was he who took charge of the acts issued, albeit with Eleanor’s consent.11 Eleanor’s possession of a seal and her use of it in two charters in Aquitaine in the 1140s demonstrates her status and importance, but not that she fully exercised power.12 Chadwick’s moniker of “History’s Most Powerful Woman” is an alluring description of someone who was a very

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powerful woman in the High Middle Ages in Europe; however, deeper analysis shows that the historical Eleanor’s power waxed and waned, depending on her relationship with her husbands. In Aquitaine, Eleanor’s authority was frequently paramount to the successful rulership of the region; however, it faced challenge from her husbands when they co-ruled with her.13 The strong, powerful, and authoritative duchess of Aquitaine in Chadwick’s novels has her moments of despair at her lack of agency; however, these moments are brought to the fore with a sense of drama and defiance. The depiction of Eleanor as someone who seeks to be in continued control of her destiny and her authority is one which a modern audience can relate to, with the impact of third-wave feminism driving female readers to continue to push again patriarchal legacies and the glass ceiling in contemporary life. Anne O’Brien’s novel, Devil’s Consort, aptly titled due to the legendary Plantagenet association with the devil, focuses on Eleanor’s life from her betrothal to Louis VII in 1137 through to her coronation as queen of England in December 1154.14 O’Brien labels Eleanor as “England’s most ruthless queen,” a description which conjures ideas of bloodthirstiness and a merciless ruler, which is unsupported by the historical evidence. Eleanor may have been assertive in her rights to rule, stubborn to defend her homeland of Aquitaine, and to continue to access her dower lands; however, this does not equal ruthlessness. The depiction of Eleanor as a woman determined to rule was not exceptional at this time, as it was not uncommon for royal and noble women to rule, despite O’Brien’s assertions. In the novel, upon Louis’ proclamation of crusade, Eleanor posits that she will “remain at home and rule the country in your stead.”15 This statement draws uncertainty and vehemence from Louis and his key advisor, Abbot Suger. In reality, ruling women were not unusual, particularly amongst the nobility, and queens consort who acted as a strong co-ruler or regent, whether formal or informal, were not uncommon either.16 The rulership of the kingdom of France by women had a contested history, as Salic law, introduced by the Merovingians in the 510s, was often incorrectly utilised to bar women from the line of succession in the mid-fourteenth century.17 However, such misgivings about female succession were not applied as heavily at an elite level, and given that Aquitaine had a tradition of duchesses who were strongly involved in its governance, it is unsurprising that Eleanor sought to continue her rule of Aquitaine and be heavily involved in royal rule as queen consort of France. The chronicles note that Eleanor’s presence on the crusade was driven by Louis’ desire to have Eleanor by his

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side.18 It is highly likely that Eleanor saw opportunities for going on crusade: the potential to influence her husband further, away from Suger, a chance for religious salvation and atonement, as well as attempts to beget a second child. Lisa Hilton’s The Stolen Queen focuses predominantly on Isabella’s first marriage to King John of England. Hilton’s volume is fantastical in many respects as it invokes spurious pagan beliefs including devil worship, sex rituals to summon the devil, and a series of sexual exploits. The licence to entertain and the lack of knowledge regarding Isabella’s life with John allow for a fuller exploitation of her life for the reader’s entertainment. Given Isabella’s young age at her marriage to John and her maturity under the eyes of the Angevin courts, it is highly unlikely she indulged in any extramarital affairs whilst married to John. Though her actions upon the death of John have caused speculation regarding her loyalties and priorities, her swift marriage to Hugh X de Lusignan was beneficial from both a political and personal standpoint as their views aligned and they worked in relative harmony for their relationship. Lastly, Erica Lainé’s The Tangled Queen trilogy allows a fuller exploration of Isabella’s life from both a fictional biographical standpoint and for a wider discussion of her familial relationships and political experiences. Lainé’s novels are far less controversial than Hilton’s, though they still draw upon familiar aspects of plot points including sexual scandal and Isabella’s complicated family life. Although Isabella’s exercise of power (and attempts thereof) and her political activity are depicted, during her first marriage there is scarce evidence upon which to confirm this. It is during her second marriage that Isabella’s authority and activities are more clearly documented, and it is this which allows for a more confident and compelling representation of Isabella as a ruler and mother. The fictional representations of Eleanor are numerous. In film, her most famous depiction is by Katherine Hepburn in The Lion in Winter, and in fiction she has been the protagonist in works by Alison Weir, Jean Plaidy, and Sharon Kay Penman, to name a few.19 By contrast, Isabella has not received as much attention, however still features in popular culture, as seen with Carey Fleiner’s work.20 Isabella has also appeared in novels by Jean Plaidy, Rachel Bard, and Susanna Kearsley.21 The selection of Chadwick, O’Brien, Hilton, and Lainé for examination here is driven by the differences in representations, and also their longevity, as they explore the lives of Eleanor and Isabella to a fuller extent than some other fictional

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works. It is useful to focus on representations within historical fiction only, rather than a fuller range of media, for a closer comparison.

Eleanor and Isabella in Historiography The political and personal lives of Eleanor and Isabella have been the subject of varying degrees of analysis. Eleanor is perhaps England’s most famous premodern queen shy of Elizabeth I, in part owing to legends surrounding Eleanor, which will be discussed in further detail in the next section. Some of the most influential biographies of Eleanor including Amy Kelly’s Eleanor and the Four Kings, Marion Meade’s Eleanor of Aquitaine, Ralph V.  Turner’s Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Jean Flori’s Eleanor la insoumise, although the edited volume by Bonnie Wheeler and John Carmi Parsons is perhaps the most recent scholarly work which provides a clear analysis of several facets of Eleanor’s life.22 Isabella, conversely, has received little in the way of biographical attention, being the subject of chapters by Nicholas Vincent and Louise J. Wilkinson in edited collections on King John and royal mothers respectively, and a conference proceedings by Gabriel Biancotto, Robert Favreau, and Piotr Skubiszewski.23 This chapter takes its approach in part from Katherine Weikert’s analysis of the Empress Matilda in fiction, noting that historical writing post-third-wave feminism has shown female figures reclaiming their sexuality and experiences.24 The work of de Groot is also of use here, as it argues that the rewriting of history in historical fiction allows female figures to be brought to light and that a lack of historical evidence allows for further liberation when representing their lives.25 The attention that has been paid to Eleanor and Isabella in academic circles has mitigated some of the legends around them which are discussed in more detail below; however, such attempts do not always engage feminist theory or bring due nuance to appropriate categories of analysis, which would enable a more balanced and interrogative approach to the various representations and facets these two queens present us with. Joan Wallach Scott’s foundational works on gender as a category of analysis highlight the importance of employing gender theory, as well as the use of gender as in political theory to justify or criticise the reigns of monarchs (and their consorts), although most scholarship from the 1990s onwards in royal studies, such as that by Pauline Stafford and Marjorie Chibnall, counteracts the criticism of critiquing rulers due to their gender, a common feature in medieval chronicles and some later historiography.26 It is

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important nonetheless though to consider gender theory when examining female power and rulership, and the representations of such. Authors of historical fiction will often use the figure that comes down through history and legend as inspiration for their works, alongside the representation which survives to us from the chronicles. However, the influence of nineteenth-century female biographers of royal women such as Agnes Strickland has also affected depictions in historical fiction. Therefore, this figure created from myth and popular culture is often the image typically preponderant in historical fiction, rather than a more realistic depiction based on further engagement with the surviving sources. It is impossible for us to know the true Eleanor or Isabella: little exists in what could conceivably be called their own words, they commissioned no biographies of their own, and that which survives to us in letters and charters was written in another hand and has been copied and plausibly edited. Thus all interpretations of them, via historical research or historical fiction, come to us through a degree of separation and different lenses of study.

Eleanor and Isabella’s Legends The infamous legends of Eleanor of Aquitaine have been examined in two works of relevance here: Ralph V. Turner’s article “Eleanor of Aquitaine, Twelfth Century Chroniclers and her ‘Black Legends’” and Michael R.  Evans’ book Inventing Eleanor.27 This chapter does not repeat their research at length here but will focus on the key points that align with this chapter’s approach. Much of Eleanor’s scandalous reputation is owed not to inappropriate actions, but due to critique of female power by medieval chroniclers as she sought to establish her own spheres of authority and fully extend her powers as queen of France and England. The Aquitainians were far more supportive of female rulership than their northern neighbours, and Eleanor’s decisions to share power with her husband and co-rule effectively across the Angevin domains brought criticism from contemporary chroniclers, including Walter Map and Richard of Devizes.28 Eleanor was unexceptional in her desire and ability to rule; however she has attracted more interest and commentary than her predecessors and successors. This may be in part due to her familial connections: the Plantagenets, famous as they are, were not without opposition, and the actions of her ducal predecessors also contributed to the supposedly lascivious reputation of the southern dukes. In the 1110s, the liaison of William IX, Eleanor’s

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grandfather, with Dangerosa, the wife of one of his vassals Aimery I, viscount of Châtellerault, whereby William installed Dangerosa as his mistress in Poitiers and both parties later abandoned their marital partners, did little to assuage contemporary chroniclers’ fears of Eleanor’s potential misbehaviour. This plays out in modern fiction as Eleanor’s familial history is brought against her, for example, by Bernard of Clairvaux in O’Brien’s Devil’s Consort. Eleanor’s historical links with the Plantagenets, both in her marriage to Henry and her alleged infidelity with her future father-in-­ law Geoffrey of Anjou, her participation in the Second Crusade, as well as the rebellion of her and Henry’s sons, would all amplify her status as an infamous queen and one worthy of literary attention. Both the chroniclers’ and the historical authors’ works will be discussed in further detail below; however, it is worth emphasising here how potent and enduring the weapon of sexual slander can be when it comes to remembering rulers. The reputation of Isabella of Angoulême owes much to the harsh pen of Matthew Paris, who openly states that she was “more Jezebel than Isabel,” hence the title of Nicholas Vincent’s chapter.29 It would seem an epithet in need of much remedy, particularly given Isabella’s young age at the time of her marriage to John, supposedly around twelve according to medieval chronicler Ralph of Coggeshall.30 As Henric Bagerius and Christina Ekholst have convincingly demonstrated, sexual slander could be held against the queen consort in order to weaken the king’s authority, as a king who was unable to control his wife was unable to exercise power successfully.31 Like Eleanor, Isabella was routinely criticised for her alleged sexual behaviour. However, Isabella was rarely accused of adultery by the chroniclers, although adultery does make an appearance in historical fiction, including those discussed below. Instead, Isabella was accused by medieval chroniclers of captivating John through witchcraft and other malevolent deeds when he ought to have been focussed on the wars in France.32 The most fanciful tale attached to Isabella comes from a report featured in Paris’ Chronica Majora, whereby Isabella is recorded as having conducted an affair with the emir of Morocco.33 Interestingly, Isabella does not face accusations in the same manner during her second marriage to Hugh X de Lusignan, with her political activities drawing much condemnation on all sides. Her calculated diplomatic manoeuvres between the kings of England and France respectively have added to her infamous reputation; sexual slander, however, was not utilised here to attack Isabella or Hugh. Unlike Eleanor, Isabella was limited in her ability to wield power whilst queen consort as John did not provide Isabella with sufficient

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income or lands to exercise patronage and network effectively.34 Although there is no evidence Isabella was neglected financially, John’s control prevented Isabella from ruling both Angoulême and the Angevin domains during his reign. Therefore, critiques of Isabella need to be considered as an indirect criticism of John and his rule rather than Isabella’s activities whilst consort. As with Eleanor, there is substantial evidence that points to a critique of the two women sexually in order to undermine their position as queen consort and potential power. Given the focus on the deeds of kings or religious histories in medieval chronicles, it is perhaps unsurprising that the actions of women, even royal ones, merited little attention unless it was a significant life cycle event or an unusual occasion. However, the critique utilised by chroniclers was often provoked by fear or disdain of female power and authority. As April Harper has stated, “The dichotomy [good meaning non-sexual, bad meaning sexual] of women that is so frequently found in medieval chronicles … was, for a long time, rarely challenged by modern historians, who instead often perpetuated these images of women.”35 Harper has highlighted the challenges in separating the studies of women’s bodies and their sexuality, and it is this separation which is often lost in historical fiction as authors seek to portray powerful women with control of their sexuality, though at key moments this sexuality is shown to be dependent on their relationship with a man.36 The following analysis will predominantly focus on the representations of Eleanor and Isabella as women with their own desires, and as mothers, in order to develop our understanding of how they are remembered in fiction.

Eleanor, The Second Crusade, and Sexual Scandal Perhaps one of the greatest departures from historical events that Chadwick depicts is Eleanor’s affair with Geoffrey de Rancon, lord of Taillebourg, and commander of the Aquitainian contingent, whilst on the Second Crusade.37 However, Chadwick makes no mention of the affair typically alleged to have happened at this time, that between Eleanor and her uncle Raymond, instead presenting Raymond and Eleanor’s relationship as that of a cordial uncle and niece. In the novel, Eleanor and de Rancon’s affair results in the conception of a child; however, Eleanor miscarries on the journey from Antioch to Jerusalem after her kidnap by Thierry de Galeran, Louis’ adviser and a strong opponent of Eleanor.38 The retelling of Eleanor’s alleged affair with Raymond has occupied both historians and

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authors for centuries, so although there is merit in avoiding the retelling of an unsubstantiated, incestuous affair, it is interesting to then replace the scandal with an affair for which there is no historical allegations or evidence. Eleanor is very much in control of her sexuality here, willingly entering into the affair with Geoffrey, and Chadwick gives a positive depiction of her control and agency in these events. However, as with the other sexual allegations that have plagued her historical character, it is highly unlikely that Eleanor would have entered an affair that may have compromised her position and power as both queen of France and duchess of Aquitaine. The titillation of an affair would draw readers’ interests, although potentially garnering disapproval. Gratuitous sex is often used for entertainment value, but Eleanor’s actions and motivations as she seeks reclamation of her sexuality may redeem her as an inspirational or relatable figure for the novels’ target audience. Perhaps one of the most infamous moments of the Second Crusade, the attack on Mount Cadmos by the Turks, is often noted as a decisive turning point in Eleanor and Louis’ relationship. The fictional Eleanor in O’Brien’s novel places the blame for the attack on the main body of the French forces at Louis’ feet. Louis ordered the vanguard to go ahead and wait on a plateau; however unsheltered as it was, the two commanders Geoffrey de Rancon, leader of Eleanor’s forces, and Louis’ uncle, Amadeus III, count of Maurienne, decided to press ahead to a more secure campsite. The disagreement between Louis and Eleanor saw her excluded from the war councils, “treating me like a woman rather than as a ruler in her own right with as much authority as he.”39 Eleanor’s will to exercise her own authority is undoubtable in both fiction and reality: charters document her patronage and networking from her time as queen consort of France to dowager queen of England, still active even as she entered her eighth decade.40 This desire to rule, particularly in her homeland of Aquitaine, and the unwillingness of her partners to allow her to do so, was a point of contention throughout her life. The disagreement after Mount Cadmos led to what has been noted as one of the most infamous moments of Eleanor’s life: her alleged incestuous affair with her paternal uncle, Raymond, prince of Antioch. O’Brien portrays Eleanor as a sexual being in a positive manner with regard to her relationship with Henry, later count of Anjou, duke of Normandy, and king of England, her future father-in-law, Geoffrey of Anjou. Depicting this alleged indulgence of incest with both her future father-in-law Geoffrey and her uncle Raymond do much to continue her

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infamy, which historians have disproven, most notably Michael R. Evans.41 In the novel, O’Brien writes of Eleanor’s seduction by Raymond: “Raymond … became my lover … I loved him, I adored him, my senses overpowered by his sheer physical presence.”42 Chronicler John of Salisbury noted that the attentions paid to Eleanor by the prince “aroused the king’s suspicions”: few chroniclers were willing to outrightly accuse Eleanor of incest, particularly whilst she remained in a position of power as either queen consort or dowager queen.43 It is implausible that Eleanor would have committed incest surrounded by her and her husband’s courts, in a situation where Eleanor held few allies and little control. This lack of control did not impede Eleanor’s desire for an annulment, although it would only be five years later after the birth of another daughter, and Eleanor’s continued persistence, that the annulment would be accepted by Louis and granted by the Church. Walter Map, a strong critic of the Plantagenets, is one of the few chroniclers who openly accused Eleanor of incest with her future father-in-law Geoffrey Plantagenet, one of many instances which caused marital disharmony between Henry and Eleanor, as well as the political strife they faced.44 Map wrote that Eleanor was “secretly reported to have shared the couch of Louis with his [Henry’s] father Geoffrey.”45 In the novel, Eleanor is shown to be swayed by Geoffrey’s charms, as she is neglected by Louis in both a political and personal sense. Initially resistant to Geoffrey’s advances, Eleanor is eventually captivated in a moment of lust in O’Brien’s novel.46 As with Raymond, Eleanor’s alleged liaison with Geoffrey has drawn the attention of historians and popular audiences; however, it is highly unlikely that Eleanor would have risked her position as queen of France and potentially her position as duchess of Normandy through adultery and incest. Eleanor would have been well aware of the precarities of her situation, and given her desire to rule, it appears implausible that she would have compromised herself in such a manner. Eleanor’s demand for an annulment and her swift marriage to Henry following the annulment is indicative of her forethought and planning, being aware of her status as a sole powerful noblewoman when arranging her marriage and that Aquitaine was coveted as an asset by several local rulers.

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Isabella: A Scandalous Queen Erica Lainé’s first novel in her trilogy on Isabella opens with Isabella as a tempestuous child, having a tantrum, which although understandable for a modern audience, was viewed as misbehaving in the eyes of her medieval household, whilst meeting her betrothed Hugh IX, count of Lusignan and Le Marche, and future (though at this point unknown) husband, King John of England.47 Lainé focuses on the minutiae of Isabella’s betrothal arrangements and movement to the English court, where Isabella is one of many characters, and her voice does not dominate the dialogue in spite of her being the central character.48 In the novel shortly after her marriage to John, Isabella states, “the king has me in his bed and I will have power.”49 Indicative of Isabella’s wilfulness and transition from a noble daughter to now queen consort, this statement and the following chapters demonstrates Isabella’s desire to have status and control, which can be seen in the historical evidence with Isabella’s fight for her dower lands and power plays with the English and French courts as dowager queen.50 Lisa Hilton’s depiction of Isabella offers a stark portrayal compared with Lainé. The beginning of The Stolen Queen focuses on Isabella as a young girl, betrothed to Hugh X de Lusignan, when in reality she was betrothed to his father, Hugh IX de Lusignan.51 Isabella is portrayed as a strong-willed child, echoing Lainé’s portrayal; however, the core focus of the novel is her marriage to John and subsequent activities as queen consort of England. Isabella is presented as somewhat tempestuous, and with her family giving credence to a series of clandestine beliefs, particularly devil worship. On the eve of her wedding to John, Isabella is raped by The Horned Man, namely the devil in another guise.52 The substantial departures from reality as Hilton weaves her fanciful tale are rather unconvincing: although many readers familiar with Isabella will be aware of Paris’ report that she kept John abed with enchantments and witchcraft, there is no substantive proof that Isabella engaged with any pagan beliefs or rituals.53 Hilton presents John as impotent during his marriage to Isabella, noting Isabella cringing away from John’s touch and his inability to consummate the relationship when they are in close quarters.54 In 1202, after the siege of Mirabeau, Isabella seduces and embarks upon an illicit affair with Arthur, duke of Brittany.55 When caught in the act by John, she accuses Arthur of rape to explain her loss of virginity.56 This representation of

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Isabella as a sordid, incestuous adulterer builds upon her poor historical reputation, largely owed to Paris’ writings, and employs the trope of gratuitous sex for entertainment purposes. The depiction of Isabella and Arthur’s affair is entirely fictional: no medieval chronicler has ever made reference to this, and it would be highly unlikely that a young Isabella would engage with her husband’s enemy regardless of any tensions between Isabella and John at this early stage of the marriage. The sensationalist approach taken by Hilton continues in the novel: after the death of Arthur, Isabella then conducts a liaison with her half-­ brother Pierre de Joigny in order to bear a child to John. Hilton writes that “for a few shameless, helpless moments, I abandoned myself to the throb of the Lusignan blood.”57 As with Eleanor, the notion that either queen would lower themselves to the point of first-degree incest is untenable. Both women would have been well aware of the consequences of being caught as an adulterer, and doubly so with the risk of incest threatening to malign their names and reputations. Risking the king’s displeasure would have been serious pause for thought, with Eleanor and Isabella aware of the potential consequences that would have arisen from the discovery of infidelity. In sum, Hilton’s characterisation of Isabella fulfils its purpose of entertaining historical fiction, more than historical accuracy given that the historical Isabella was not an enchantress, pagan, or adulterer, and although such titillation may garner interest from the audience, it contributes more to the romance genre than that of authentic historical fiction, as it is based on the work of Strickland rather than detailed research. Readers of the novel would find little inspiration or perhaps even empathy with the life of Isabella; therefore the purpose of Hilton’s work must be largely to entertain rather than spark an interest in the historical Isabella.

Eleanor and Family Politics The second of Chadwick’s volumes, The Winter Crown, focuses on the accession of Eleanor to the English throne and her early years of rulership in England, ending with her imprisonment in Sarum Castle after her participation in the 1173 rebellion against her husband Henry. Although the historical Eleanor’s exact role in the rebellion and her motivations are contested, it is plausible that Henry’s attempts to curb both her and her sons’ powers led to dispute after attempts to negotiate her exercise of authority failed.58 In the novel, Eleanor’s family life takes just as central a role as courtly politics. Eleanor’s relationship with her mother-in-law, the

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Empress Matilda, of which we know little, is developed at the beginning of the novel after the death of Eleanor’s firstborn son, William. Chadwick writes that Matilda “had been compassionate and concerned for her [Eleanor’s] welfare,” although “she was the patronising matriarch showing a younger subordinate how much she still had to learn.”59 In reality it is likely that Eleanor and Matilda operated a policy of tacit co-operation with one another for the benefit of the Angevins and therefore the early Plantagenet dynasty; however, no letters between the pair survive and it cannot be proven that there was a strong, friendly relationship between the two rulers or otherwise.60 What is also of interest here is the emphasis on motherhood: both Eleanor and Matilda are presented as having great concerns and care for their children, and a vested personal and political interest in their future and wellbeing. Though there have been assumptions of a maternal disconnect between royal and noble women and their children due to the children being raised in separate households or religious institutions, the historical Matilda and Eleanor both held strong connections with their children and worked for their interests and inheritance throughout their lives, even as dowagers and widows.61 The Eleanor presented in The Autumn Throne is a more mature but just as defiant figure, as the novel commences on the eve of Eleanor’s release from Sarum Castle, where she has been held prisoner after her part in the 1173 rebellion. Refusing to annul her marriage to Henry, the depiction of Eleanor then turns to one of her as a mother: it shows her strong bonds with Henry the Young King, Richard, and Joanna.62 This novel does not discuss Eleanor’s sexual desires, but instead draws a more relational figure for its audience, that of a mother attempting to garner the best outcome for her children, though the idea of a woman trapped in a struggling marriage and prioritising other matters may also garner sympathy from the readers. Eleanor’s battle to regain her power under her husband’s rule is shown, with due attention paid to the events of 1185 wherein Henry subjugates Eleanor and his sons by reinstalling Eleanor in Aquitaine and removing Richard from power, while keeping them under tight control.63 Hivergneaux has proven the extent of Henry’s control of Aquitaine as Henry, Richard, and John’s assent was needed in an 1185 charter alongside Eleanor’s, demonstrating that Eleanor’s power in Aquitaine was only a pretence.64 Therefore the Eleanor represented here is more nuanced than expected, delving into the power plays which affected her ability to exercise authority and rule in the Angevin domains.

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Isabella and Family Life The second novel in Lainé’s series introduces Isabella in the year following John’s death (1217), whereby we can see Isabella’s determination in full force as she breaks the betrothal between her daughter Joan and Hugh X de Lusignan, the son of the count Isabella was betrothed to prior to her marriage to John. Isabella “had discovered that she could turn her wilfulness into steely resolve.”65 This Isabella is far more representative of the historical Isabella based on the surviving evidence, as one who sought to exercise her own power and be able to wield authority in her domains effectively. Like her mother-in-law Eleanor, she was also aware of the importance of marital alliances in assisting this exercise of power. Both Eleanor and Isabella faced obstructions to their power, particularly by their husbands; however, they were both able to overcome these obstacles through their diplomatic strengths and political acumen. The Isabella of The Tangled Queen series allows us to see her development in the political arena and thus provides an interesting break from other historical fiction heroines and queens, although, as with any historical fiction, there are dramatic liberties taken. The historical Isabella, or at least the historical Isabella known to the general public, is one associated with captivating the king sexually, abandoning her children for her interests in France, stealing her daughter’s husband, and then causing friction between the English and French courts as she sought to protect her own power, as shown in Plaidy’s Plantagenet novels noted above. As discussed, criticism of the king via the queen can undoubtedly account for much of the critique Isabella has borne, and Wilkinson’s work on Isabella highlights the nuances behind Isabella’s decision to return to Angoulême in 1217.66 Isabella may have driven by the defence of her own interests and the protection of Angoulême primarily; however, she was also keen to work for her familial interests, though with perhaps less devotion than Eleanor had for her children. The final volume of the fictional series focuses on Isabella from the mid-1220s until her death in 1246. Notably estranged from her children after her return to the continent, Lainé notes a reunion between Isabella and three of her Angevin children, Henry, Richard, and Eleanor, in France in 1230, based on a historical meeting during the English campaign against the Capetians. Isabella takes pride in the appearance of her sons; however, there is no strong affection between Isabella and her Plantagenet children, with all three keen to impress Isabella with their actions.67 Little

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reference is made to Isabella’s Lusignan children, with the main discussion of them in the novel depicting them as Isabella’s pawns as she plans alliances, although she displays fondness for her daughter Yolande and her grandchildren.68 The historical Isabella had little choice but to leave her Plantagenet children after being excluded by the regency council, and as much work focuses on her relationships within the Angevin domains or her networks with royal and noble men, it is difficult to ascertain whether her relationships with her Lusignan children were any more or less affectionate.69 Taken together, Lainé’s trilogy provides a well-rounded representation of Isabella that investigates several facets of her life and relationships, and portrays the essence of Isabella that survives from the historical evidence: a determined and resolute woman who was capable of playing political figures against one another in order to achieve her own ends, regardless of how it affected her popularity.

Conclusion Eleanor and Isabella’s reputations have suffered historically owing to medieval chroniclers’ inability to accept women as powerful sexual beings, and unfortunately this image has carried down to historical fiction. This image has also been propagated by early biographers, such as Strickland. It is unlikely we will know the true characters and actions of Eleanor and Isabella when it comes to both their exercise of power and their sex lives; however, it would seem somewhat uncharacteristic of both to be overtly expressive of their wants and desires in a society which viewed faithful marriage as the only legitimate sexual outlet.70 What this examination tells us about how queens and women are written in fiction is that historical fiction continues to focus on the standout moments of these women’s lives, whether proven to be true or not, and will embellish these for the author’s own ends, primarily the interest of the reader. Though this is nothing new to a critic of historical fiction, there is ample material through which an author can provide a more convincing and realistic depiction of queens in this period. The motivations of the authors to focus on the touchpoints outlined above are to solicit readers with an entertaining tale. The motivations of medieval chroniclers when writing about scandalous queens have been briefly touched upon above, and this chapter follows the theory posited by Ekholst and Bagerius that being able to critique the king through his wife was one such method. Undoubtedly Eleanor and Isabella were both politically active women, keen to defend their own interests,

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and work on behalf of their children, which comes across strongly in the books examined here. The figures of Eleanor and Isabella may be relatable to some readers, looking for inspiration in a strong woman who took control of their situation whilst balancing conflicting priorities. Nonetheless, these works serve the purpose of entertaining the reader and bringing two famous women to new audiences.

Notes 1. Anne O’Brien, Devil’s Consort (Surrey: MIRA Books, 2011), 124. 2. See Jerome de Groot, The Historical Novel (Abingdon: Routledge, 2009); Janice North, Karl C.  Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre, eds., Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers. Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018). 3. George R.  R. Martin, A Song of Ice and Fire (London: Harper Collins, 1991–present); David Nutter, Alan Taylor, Alex Graves, et al, dir., Game of Thrones (California: Warner Bros. Home Entertainment, 2012–2019), DVD; Zita Eva Rohr and Lisa Benz, eds., Queenship and the Women of Westeros. Female Agency and Advice in Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020). 4. For example, there is an unfortunate common thread that by and large, white women tend to write white women for white women, with little consideration to expanding their character base to be representational and more inclusive. 5. See Mira Assaf Kafantaris, Royal Marriage, Foreign Queens, and Constructions of Race in the Early Modern Period (forthcoming); Priya Atwal, Royals and Rebels. The Rise and Fall of the Sikh Empire (London: Hurst Publishers, 2020); Elena Woodacre, ed., A Companion to Global Queenship (Leeds: Arc Humanities, 2018); Elena Woodacre, Lucinda H. S. Dean, Chris Jones, Russell E. Martin, and Zita Eva Rohr, eds., The Routledge History of Monarchy (London: Routledge, 2019), for more discussion of diverse societies in the medieval period and as part of the growing corpus on non-white queenship. 6. Carey Fleiner, “‘She Is My Eleanor:’ The Character of Isabella of Angoulême on Film—A Medieval Queen in Modern Media,” in Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers, 91–110. 7. Elizabeth Chadwick, The Summer Queen (London: Sphere, 2013); Elizabeth Chadwick, The Winter Crown (London: Sphere, 2014); Elizabeth Chadwick, The Winter Crown (London: Sphere, 2014); O’Brien, Devil’s Consort; Lisa Hilton, The Stolen Queen (London: Corvus, 2015); Erica Lainé, Isabella of Angoulême. The Tangled Queen Part I (Bristol:

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SilverWood Books, 2015); Erica Lainé, The Tangled Queen Part 2 (Bristol: SilverWood Books, 2018); Erica Lainé, The Tangled Queen Part 3 (Bristol: SilverWood Books, 2018). 8. De Groot, Novel, 68. 9. Elizabeth Chadwick, “The Summer Queen Behind the Scenes,” 3 June 2013, http://livingthehistoryelizabethchadwick.blogspot.com/2013/ 06/tomorrow-­ill-­be-­starting-­series-­of.html, accessed 10 April 2021. 10. Chadwick, The Summer Queen, 100. 11. Marie Hivergneaux, “Queen Eleanor and Aquitaine, 1137–1189,” in Eleanor of Aquitaine: Lord and Lady, eds. Bonnie Wheeler and John Carmi Parsons (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002), 62. 12. Hivergneaux, “Eleanor,” 62. 13. Hivergneaux, “Eleanor,” 55–76; Gabrielle Storey, “Co-Rulership, Co-operation and Competition: Queenship in the Angevin Domains, 1135–1230,” (PhD Diss., University of Winchester, 2020), chapter 3. 14. The title of Devil’s Consort is undoubtedly due to the alleged descent of the Plantagenets from the devil: Evans, Inventing Eleanor, 31; Gerald of Wales, De principis instructione in Giraldi Cambrensis Opera, ed. George F. Warner (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1891), 301, 309. 15. O’Brien, Devil’s Consort, 265. 16. For further discussion of exceptionalism, see Heather J.  Tanner, ed., Medieval Elite Women and the Exercise of Power, 1100–1400. Moving Beyond the Exceptionalist Debate (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019). 17. Sarah Hanley, “Configuring the Authority of Queens in the French Monarchy, 1600s–1840s,” Historical Reflections/Réflexions Historiques 32.2 (2006): 456. 18. William of Newburgh, History of English Affairs Book I, ed. and trans. P.  G. Walsh and M.  J. Kennedy (Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1998), 128–129. 19. Alison Weir, The Captive Queen (London: Arrow, 2010); Jean Plaidy, The Courts of Love (London: Robert Hale, 1987); Sharon Kay Penman, When Christ and His Saints Slept (London: Michael Joseph, 1994); Sharon Kay Penman, Time and Chance (London: Michael Joseph, 2002); Sharon Kay Penman, Devil’s Brood (London: Michael Joseph, 2008). 20. Fleiner, “Eleanor,” 91–110. 21. Jean Plaidy, The Prince of Darkness (London: Robert Hale, 1978); Rachel Bard, Isabella: Queen Without a Conscience (Bloomington: Trafford Publishing, 2006); Susanna Kearsley, The Splendour Falls (London: Corgi, 1995). 22. Amy Kelly, Eleanor of Aquitaine and the Four Kings (London: Harvard University Press, 1950); Marion Meade, Eleanor of Aquitaine. A Biography (London: Phoenix Press, 1977); Ralph V.  Turner, Eleanor of Aquitaine

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(London: Yale University Press, 2011); Jean Flori, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen and Rebel, trans. Olive Classe (Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007); Bonnie Wheeler and John Carmi Parsons, eds. Eleanor of Aquitaine: Lord and Lady (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002). See also Regine Pernoud, Aliénor d’Aquitaine (Paris: Éditions Albin Michel, 1965); Jean Markale, La vie, la légende, l’influence d’Aliénor Comtesse de Poitou, Duchesse d’Aquitaine, Reine de France, puis d’Angleterre, Dame des Troubadours et des Bardes bretons (Paris: Payot, 1979); William W. Kibler, Eleanor of Aquitaine, Patron and Politician (Austin: University of Texas Press, 1976); Martin Aurell, “Aliénor d’Aquitaine (1224–1203) et ses historiens: la destruction d’un mythe?” in Guerre, pouvoir et noblesse au Moyen Age: Mélanges en l’honneur de Philippe Contamine, eds. Jacques Paviot and Jacques Verger (Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2000), 43–49; Hivergneaux, “Eleanor,” 55–76. The most recent popular biography of Eleanor by Sara Cockerill is also worthy of mention here for its rigorous research and attention to detail, see Sara Cockerill, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of France and England, Mother of Empires (Stroud: Amberley Publishing, 2019). 23. Nicholas Vincent, “Isabella of Angoulême: John’s Jezebel,” in King John: New Interpretations, ed. Stephen D.  Church (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1999), 165–219; Louise J. Wilkinson, “Maternal Abandonment and Surrogate Caregivers: Isabella of Angoulême and Her Children by King John,” in Virtuous or Villainess? The Image of the Royal Mother From the Early Medieval to the Early Modern Era, eds. Carey Fleiner and Elena Woodacre (Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2016), 101–124; Gabriel Biancotto, Robert Favreau, and Piotr Skubiszewski, eds. Isabelle d’Angoulême: Comtesse-reine et son temps. Actes du colloque tenu à Lusignan du 8 au 10 novembre 1996 (Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, 1999). Isabella’s life, although not her representation in popular fiction, will be examined in Sally Spong’s forthcoming thesis: Sally Spong, “Isabella of Gloucester and Isabella of Angoulême: Female Lordship, Queenship, Power, and Authority 1189–1220,” (PhD diss., University of East Anglia, forthcoming). 24. Katherine Weikert, “Feminism, Fiction, and the Empress Matilda.” in Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers, 69–90, especially 77. 25. De Groot, Novel, 70. 26. Pauline Stafford, Queen Emma & Queen Edith, Queenship and Women’s Power in Eleventh-Century England (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997); Marjorie Chibnall, The Empress Matilda, Queen Consort, Queen Mother and Lady of the English (Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1993, 1991); Joan Wallach Scott, “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis” The American Historical Review 91.5 (1986): 1067, 1070–1071.

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27. Ralph V. Turner, “Eleanor of Aquitaine, Twelfth-Century Chroniclers and her ‘Black Legend’,” Nottingham Medieval Studies 52 (2008): 17–42; Michael R.  Evans, Inventing Eleanor, The Medieval and Post-Medieval Image of Eleanor of Aquitaine (London: Bloomsbury, 2014). See also Michael R.  Evans, “A Remarkable Woman? Popular Historians and the Image of Eleanor of Aquitaine,” in Studies in Medievalism XVIII: Defining Medievalism(s) II (Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2009), ed. Karl Fugelso, 244–264. 28. See further discussion below for Map and Devizes’ comments. 29. Vincent, “Isabella,” 165–219. 30. “que quasi duodenis videbatur,” Ralph of Coggeshall, Radulphi de Coggeshall Chronicon Anglicanum, De Expugatione Terræ Sanctæ Libellus, Thomas Agnellus de Morte et Sepultura Henrici Regis Angliæ Junioris, Gesta Fulconis Filii Warini, Excerpta Ex Otiis Imperialibus Gervasii Tileburiensis, ed. Joseph Stevenson (London: Longman & Co.; Trübner & Co.; Parker & Co.; Macmillan & Co.; A & C. Black; A. Thom, 1875), 103. 31. Henric Bagerius and Christine Ekholst, “For Better or For Worse: Royal marital sexuality as political critique in late medieval Europe,” in The Routledge History of Monarchy, 648. 32. Roger of Wendover, Roger of Wendover’s Flowers of History Comprising The History of England From the Descent of the Saxons to A. D. 1235, Formerly Ascribed to Matthew Paris, trans. and ed. John Allen Giles. 2 vols. (London: George Bell & Sons, 1892), ii, 207. 33. Matthew Paris, Matthæi Parisiensis, Monachi Sancti Albani, Chronica Majora, ed. Henry Richards Luard. 7 vols. (London: Longman & Co., 1872–1880), ii, 563. 34. Vincent, “Isabella of Angoulême,” 185–193; Gabrielle Storey, “Co-Rulership, Co-operation and Competition: Queenship in the Angevin Domains, 1135–1230,” (PhD Diss., University of Winchester, 2020), chapter 5. 35. April Harper, “Bodies and Sexuality,” in A Cultural History of Women in the Middle Ages, ed. Kim M. Phillips (London: Bloomsbury, 2016), 45. 36. Harper, “Bodies,” 47–49. 37. Chadwick, The Summer Queen, 268. 38. Chadwick, The Summer Queen, 288–291. 39. O’Brien, Devil’s Consort, 321. 40. Paul Marchegay, “Chartes de Fontevraud concernant l’Aunis et La Rochelle,” Bibliothèque de l’École des chartes 19 (1858): 132–179 and 321–347; Hivergneaux, “Eleanor,” 55–76; Calendar of Documents preserved in France, Illustrative of the History of Great Britain and Ireland, I, 918–1206, trans. and ed. James Horace Round (London: Her Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1899), nos. 1107 and 1108.

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41. See Evans, Eleanor, 19–44. 42. O’Brien, Devil’s Consort, 369. 43. John of Salisbury, The Historia Pontificalis of John of Salisbury, trans. and ed. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1986), 52. 44. Evans, Eleanor, 22–24. 45. Walter Map, De Nugis Curialium. Courtiers Trifles, trans. and ed. M. R. James (Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1983), 475–477. 46. O’Brien, Devil’s Consort, 242–243. 47. Lainé, The Tangled Queen Part 1, 17–26. 48. Hilton, The Stolen Queen. 49. Lainé, The Tangled Queen Part 1, 88. 50. For Isabella’s fight for her dower lands, see Isabel of Angoulême, “Letter from Isabel of Angoulême to Henry III (1218–1219),” Epistolae: Medieval Women’s Latin Letters, accessed 18 November 2020, epistolae.ctl.columbia.edu/letter/2416.html; Isabel of Angoulême, “Letter from Isabel of Angoulême to Henry III (1220),” Epistolae: Medieval Women’s Latin Letters, accessed 18 November 2020, epistolae.ctl.columbia.edu/letter/457.html; Vincent, Isabella of Angoulême, 184–190, 208–211. 51. Hilton, The Stolen Queen, 21, 304. 52. Hilton, The Stolen Queen, 89–90. 53. “Sponsam habet sibi exosam et ipsum odientem, incestam, maleeficam, et adulteram,” Paris, Chronica Majora, ii, 563. 54. Hilton, The Stolen Queen, 154, 158. 55. Hilton, The Stolen Queen, 162. 56. Hilton, The Stolen Queen, 174–178. 57. Hilton, The Stolen Queen, 211. 58. For discussion of the rebellion, see Turner, Eleanor, 205–230 for context and the events of 1173–1174. 59. Chadwick, The Winter Crown, 48–49. 60. For discussion of Matilda and Eleanor’s relationship, see Gabrielle Storey, “Co-Operation, Co-Rulership and Competition: Queenship in the Angevin Domains, 1135–1230,” (University of Winchester: PhD thesis, 2020), chapter 5. 61. For more on medieval childhood, see Philippe Ariès, Centuries of Childhood, A Social History of Family Life, trans. Robert Baldick (New York: Vintage Books, 1962); and conversely Shulamith Shahar, Childhood in the Middle Ages, trans. Chaya Galai (London: Routledge, 1992). 62. Chadwick, The Autumn Throne, 19–20, 29, 37, 39. 63. Chadwick, The Autumn Throne, 174–178. 64. Hivergneaux, “Eleanor,” 71; Marchegay, “Chartes,” 330–331. 65. Lainé, The Tangled Queen Part 2, 98. 66. Wilkinson, “Abandonment,” 101–124.

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67. Lainé, The Tangled Queen Part 3, 117, 120–122. 68. Lainé, The Tangled Queen Part 3, 185–187. 69. Wilkinson, “Abandonment,” 114. 70. Ruth Mazo Karras, Sexuality in the Middle Ages. Doing Unto Others, 2nd ed. (Abingdon: Routledge, 2012), 76.

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O’Brien, Anne. Devil’s Consort. Surrey: MIRA Books, 2011. Paris, Matthew. Matthæi Parisiensis, Monachi Sancti Albani, Chronica Majora. Edited by Henry Richards Luard. 7 volumes. London: Longman & Co., 1872–1880. Penman, Sharon Kay. When Christ and His Saints Slept. London: Michael Joseph, 1994. ———. Time and Chance. London: Michael Joseph, 2002. ———. Devil’s Brood. London: Michael Joseph, 2008. Plaidy, Jean. The Prince of Darkness. London: Robert Hale, 1978. ———. The Courts of Love. London: Robert Hale, 1987. Ralph of Coggeshall. Radulphi de Coggeshall Chronicon Anglicanum, De Expugatione Terræ Sanctæ Libellus, Thomas Agnellus de Morte et Sepultura Henrici Regis Angliæ Junioris, Gesta Fulconis Filii Warini, Excerpta Ex Otiis Imperialibus Gervasii Tileburiensis. Edited by Joseph Stevenson. London: Longman & Co.; Trübner & Co.; Parker & Co.; Macmillan & Co.; A & C. Black; A. Thom, 1875. Roger of Wendover. Roger of Wendover’s Flowers of History Comprising The History of England From the Descent of the Saxons to A. D. 1235, Formerly Ascribed to Matthew Paris. Translated and edited by John Allen Giles. 2 volumes. London: George Bell & Sons, 1892. Walter Map. De Nugis Curialium. Courtiers Trifles. Translated and edited by M. R. James. Oxford: The Clarendon Press, 1983. Weir, Alison. The Captive Queen. London: Arrow, 2010. William of Newburgh, History of English Affairs Book I. Edited and translated by P. G. Walsh and M. J. Kennedy. Warminster: Aris and Phillips, 1998.

Secondary Sources Ariès, Philippe. Centuries of Childhood, A Social History of Family Life. Translated by Robert Baldick. New York: Vintage Books, 1962. Atwal, Priya. Royals and Rebels. The Rise and Fall of the Sikh Empire. London: Hurst Publishers, 2020. Aurell, Martin. “Aliénor d’Aquitaine (1224–1203) et ses historiens: la destruction d’un mythe?” In Guerre, pouvoir et noblesse au Moyen Age: Mélanges en l’honneur de Philippe Contamine, edited by Jacques Paviot and Jacques Verger, 43–49. Paris: Presses de l’Université de Paris-Sorbonne, 2000. Bagerius, Henric and Christine Ekholst. “For Better or For Worse: Royal Marital Sexuality as Political Critique in Late Medieval Europe.” in The Routledge History of Monarchy, edited by Elena Woodacre, Lucinda H. S. Dean, Zita Eva Rohr, and Russell Martin. Abingdon: Routledge, 2019.

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Biancotto, Gabriel, Robert Favreau and Piotr Skubiszewski, eds. Isabelle d’Angoulême: Comtesse-reine et son temps. Actes du colloque tenu à Lusignan du 8 au 10 novembre 1996. Poitiers: Université de Poitiers, 1999. Chibnall, Marjorie. The Empress Matilda, Queen Consort, Queen Mother and Lady of the English. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1993, 1991. Cockerill, Sara. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of France and England, Mother of Empires. Stroud: Amberley Publishing, 2019. De Groot, Jerome. The Historical Novel. Abingdon: Routledge, 2009. Evans, Michael R. “A Remarkable Woman? Popular Historians and the Image of Eleanor of Aquitaine.” In Studies in Medievalism XVIII: Defining Medievalism(s) II, edited by Karl Fugelso, 244–264. Woodbridge: Boydell & Brewer, 2009. ———. Inventing Eleanor, The Medieval and Post-Medieval Image of Eleanor of Aquitaine. London: Bloomsbury, 2014. Fleiner, Carey. “‘She Is My Eleanor:’ The Character of Isabella of Angoulême on Film—A Medieval Queen in Modern Media.” In Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers. Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture, edited by Janice North, Karl C.  Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre, 91–110. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. Flori, Jean. Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen and Rebel. Translated by Olive Classe. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press, 2007. Hanley, Sarah. “Configuring the Authority of Queens in the French Monarchy, 1600s–1840s.” Historical Reflections/Réflexions Historiques 32.2 (2006): 453–464. Harper, April. “Bodies and Sexuality.” In A Cultural History of Women in the Middle Ages, edited by Kim M. Phillips, 39–58. London: Bloomsbury, 2016. Hivergneaux, Marie. “Queen Eleanor and Aquitaine: 1137–1189.” In Eleanor of Aquitaine: Lord and Lady, edited by Bonnie Wheeler and John Carmi Parsons, 55–76. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Kafantaris, Mira Assaf. Royal Marriage, Foreign Queens, and Constructions of Race in the Early Modern Period. Forthcoming. Karras, Ruth Mazo. Sexuality in the Middle Ages. Doing Unto Others. 2nd edition. Abingdon: Routledge, 2012. Kelly, Amy. Eleanor of Aquitaine and the Four Kings. London: Harvard University Press, 1950. Kibler, William W. Eleanor of Aquitaine, Patron and Politician. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1976. Markale, Jean. La vie, la légende, l’influence d’Aliénor Comtesse de Poitou, Duchesse d’Aquitaine, Reine de France, puis d’Angleterre, Dame des Troubadours et des Bardes bretons. Paris: Payot, 1979. Meade, Marion. Eleanor of Aquitaine. A Biography. London: Phoenix Press, 1977. Pernoud, Regine. Aliénor d’Aquitaine. Paris: Éditions Albin Michel, 1965.

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Rohr, Zita Eva, and Lisa Benz, eds. Queenship and the Women of Westeros. Female Agency and Advice in Game of Thrones and A Song of Ice and Fire. Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2020. Scott, Joan Wallach. “Gender: A Useful Category of Historical Analysis.” The American Historical Review 91.5 (1986): 1053–1075. Shahar, Shulamith. Childhood in the Middle Ages. Translated by Chaya Galai. London: Routledge, 1992. Stafford, Pauline. Queen Emma & Queen Edith, Queenship and Women’s Power in Eleventh-Century England. Oxford: Blackwell Publishers, 1997. Storey, Gabrielle. “Co-Operation, Co-Rulership and Competition: Queenship in the Angevin Domains, 1135–1230.” University of Winchester: PhD thesis, 2020. Tanner, Heather J., ed. Medieval Elite Women and the Exercise of Power, 1100–1400. Moving Beyond the Exceptionalist Debate. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2019. Turner, Ralph V. “Eleanor of Aquitaine, Twelfth-Century Chroniclers and her ‘Black Legend’.” Nottingham Medieval Studies 52 (2008): 17–42. ———. Eleanor of Aquitaine. London: Yale University Press, 2011. Vincent, Nicholas. “Isabella of Angoulême: John’s Jezebel.” In King John: New Interpretations, edited by Stephen D.  Church, 165–219. Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 1999. Weikert, Katherine. “Feminism, Fiction, and the Empress Matilda.” In Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers. Gender, Sex, and Power in Popular Culture, edited by Janice North, Karl C.  Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre, 69–90. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018. Wheeler, Bonnie and John Carmi Parsons, eds. Eleanor of Aquitaine: Lord and Lady. Basingstoke: Palgrave Macmillan, 2002. Woodacre, Elena. ed. A Companion to Global Queenship. Leeds: Arc Humanities, 2018. Woodacre, Elena, Lucinda H. S. Dean, Chris Jones, Russell E. Martin, and Zita Eva Rohr, eds. The Routledge History of Monarchy. London: Routledge, 2019.

From “She-Wolf” to “Badass”: Remembering Isabella of France in Modern Culture Michael R. Evans

She-Wolf of France, with unrelenting fangs, That tear’st the bowels of thy mangled mate, From thee be born, who o’er thy country hangs The scourge of Heav’n. —Thomas Gray, “The Bard.”

In 1757, Thomas Grey gave Isabella, queen of England, and wife of Edward II, a sobriquet which she has been unable to shake off.1 The She-­ Wolf of France has become the title of dozens of novels, biographies, and blog entries about Isabella including Maurice Druon’s 1959 novel La Louve de France, Alison Weir’s biography Isabella: She-Wolf of France, Queen of England (2006), a scholarly article in 1936 by Hilda Johnstone, and—applying the term more generally to powerful pre-modern queens of England—Helen Castor’s book She-Wolves.2 This vicious and animalistic image reinforced her negative reputation as the queen who overthrew her husband and ruled England (badly) in tandem with her lover, Roger

M. R. Evans (*) Delta College, University Center, MI, USA © The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0_13

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Mortimer. In the words of Sophia Menache, “the she-wolf image, perpetuated in theatre, poetry or even in historical research” has worked to portray Isabella as “the archetypal faithless woman.”3 The purpose of this chapter is to investigate the “She-Wolf” epithet in popular history and culture. Traditionally, it has been used in an anti-­ feminist sense, as seen in Gray’s epithet. But recent revisionism has gone some way towards reclaiming the tag in a feminist sense, as Isabella is recast as a “bad-ass,” as a heroine whose actions reveal an assertive, independent woman. But the “she-wolf” image is a stubborn one, and some interpretations refer to both traditions, admiring her as an independent woman while still casting her as a destructive force. Furthermore, modern attempts to recast her in a more positive image struggle to find a label to replace the “she-wolf”; expressions such as “badass” and “iron lady” all have problematic and potentially anti-feminist connotations.

The Making of a “She-Wolf” The term “she-wolf” was used by Shakespeare about a different queen when, in Henry VI, part III, the Duke of York calls Margaret of Anjou “She-wolf of France, but worse than the wolves of France.”4 The phrase occurs in the context of a diatribe against her as a woman who dares take up power: “How ill-beseeming is it in thy sex/To triumph, like an Amazonian trull.”5 Sophia Menache traces the term back to Apuleius,6 and according to Carla Lord it was also applied to Blanche of Castile, who was identified with the figure of Dame Hersent, the adulterous she-wolf in the Roman de Reynard.7 By the nineteenth century, it was also applied to Isabeau of Bavaria, wife of Charles VI, who was perceived—like Isabella and Margaret of Anjou—as an overly assertive queen to a weak king.8 Likewise, the fourteenth-century queen Johanna I of Naples has been described as a “She-Wolf” and has been through a similar process of historical reassessment.9 Although she was a regnant queen rather than a consort, she resembles Isabella in that she was accused of murdering a sexually inadequate husband.10 Bertolt Brecht continued the tradition in his 1924 adaptation of Marlowe’s work, The Life of Edward II. Isabella (named Anne in the play) declared “I’d become like a she-wolf/Hurtling through the bushes with teeth bared.”11 Isabella enjoyed a measure of rehabilitation in the twentieth century. In 1936, Hilda Johnstone asked of Isabella’s overthrow of Edward II,

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[o]ught we not to look back behind it for possible provocation, and beyond it for further activities? May we not view her in other connections? Surely we need not fix our whole and sole attention upon the grisly spectacle of the wolf tearing its prey.12

Johnstone pointed out humanising aspects of Isabella’s life that are revealed in the records, such as her caring for a Scottish orphan boy.13 However, she could not fully put aside the image of Isabella as unnatural. Discussing possible reactions of the queen to her husband’s probable homosexuality, Johnstone speculated that “[s]he might perhaps in time have adapted herself, or even joined Edward in a league of mutual perversity.”14 Writing in 1984, Sofia Menache drew attention to the difference between Isabella’s reputation and the accounts of some contemporaries: “The wide gap separating the she-wolf from the charming figure of the sources creates a paradox, even a challenge, which requires explanation.”15 Menache rejected the moralistic argument that Isabella had gained support as a wronged woman in 1326–1327 only to forfeit it as the lover of Mortimer,16 and emphasises her role as a peacemaker—“nutrix pacis (wet-­ nurse of peace)” in the words of the chronicler John of Trokelowe—for much of her husband’s reign.17

The “She-Wolf” in Popular History Twenty-first-century popular history treatments of Isabella have often adopted the “she-wolf” term in their titles. Helen Castor’s 2011 work on English pre-modern queens She-Wolves (and the accompanying BBC television series) included a section on Isabella alongside studies of the Empress Matilda, Eleanor of Aquitaine, and Margaret of Anjou.18 Castor addresses the origins of the “she-wolf” label in her introduction. She criticises the label in feminist terms, locating it in misogynist discourses that were distrustful of female power: The unease, if not outright denunciation, with which their rule was met has coalesced in the image of the she-wolf, a feral creature driven by instinct rather than reason, a sexual predator whose savagery matched that of her mate—or exceeded it, even, in the ferocity with which she defended her young.19

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Castor frames her study of medieval queens of England retrospectively by reference to the Tudor period. The book’s subtitle is “the women who ruled England before Elizabeth”: the covers of both the U.S. and British editions feature a detail of the coronation portrait of Elizabeth I, and her first chapter begins with Edward VI’s nomination of Jane Gray as his successor, inaugurating England’s first period of rule by queens regnant.20 This framing leads Castor a little towards anachronism, as she reads early modern disapproval of female authority (exemplified by Knox’s First Blast of the Trumpet)21 back into the Middle Ages to view powerful medieval queens as anomalous. She introduces “three … exceptional women— Eleanor of Aquitaine, Isabella of France, and Margaret of Anjou.”22 Identifying them as “exceptional” misses the fact that it was common for queens consort to exercise authority in medieval England (and medieval Europe more generally), exemplified by figures such as Mathilda of Scotland, Mathilda of Boulogne, and Blanche of Castile, to name a few. To quote the editors of a recent volume that invites us to move beyond the “exceptionalism” model of medieval women, “elite women in positions of authority in the central medieval period were expected, accepted, and routine.”23 Castor, in line with recent trends that reconsider the “she-wolf” stereotype, is sympathetic to Isabella. Isabella is presented as long-suffering in the face of insult: she “had done everything she could to be the perfect royal wife to a husband who had now demonstrated himself to be incorrigible,”24 making her decision to rebel appear understandable. She is not the violent, impetuous she-wolf, but “a shrewdly intelligent young woman.”25 However, Castor also romanticises Isabella’s alliance with Mortimer: while acknowledging that “[t]here is tantalisingly little evidence to document the private dynamics of this charged liaison,” Castor argues that “its emotional logic is instantly recognisable. Physical attraction there clearly was … Isabella at thirty was still a famous beauty, and Mortimer, though his looks are unknown [my emphasis], an athletic and compelling figure.”26 Castor’s conclusion offers an oddly passive view of Isabela in retirement following “bloody events” of earlier years: She had discovered, in violent and painful fashion, that the will to power could be its own undoing. But perhaps this royal retirement was a vindication of a different kind. The deference and luxury that were her due were now hers without question.27

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Alison Weir, a prolific author of both popular history and historical fiction, wrote a biography of Isabella in 2005 that was published in the United Kingdom under the title Isabella: She-Wolf of France, Queen of England.28 Weir uses the term “she-wolf” frequently: Gray’s is one of the featured quotations in the front matter of the book, and the same expression—“She-Wolf of France”—is used as the subtitle for her introduction.29 While Weir addresses the term’s origins in Shakespeare’s and Gray’s works, she does little to interrogate the term itself, focusing more generally on the unfair denigration of Isabella as an adulterous and vicious woman.30 Despite her stated aim to rehabilitate Isabella, Weir frequently interprets Isabella’s actions in the most sensationalist way possible. Isabella’s biographer Kathryn Warner is particularly critical of Weir on this point, identifying a number of such examples. Weir “is the only modern writer” to support claims that Edward abandoned her on his retreat from Scotland in 1312 “despite having read Isabella’s Household Book which demonstrates that the story is completely unsupported by the queen’s own accounts.”31 Weir argues, based on highly speculative interpretation of primary sources, that Hugh Despenser the Younger raped Isabella—an accusation that originates not in any contemporary source, but in a twentieth-century work of fiction.32 She also presents the relationships between Edward, Isabella, and Mortimer in stereotypically gendered and heteronormative terms. Mortimer “appears to have been everything that Edward was not: strong, manly, unequivocally heterosexual, virile, courageous and decisive.” As for Isabella, “after surrendering herself to his embraces, she could feel nothing but profound revulsion for her husband.”33 The “she-wolf” label is also used in the title of another popular history, Elizabeth Norton’s, She Wolves: The Notorious Queens of Medieval England, which (in the words of the blurb) tells the story of “the ‘bad girls’ of England’s medieval royal dynasties.”34 Like Weir, Norton claims to seek to rehabilitate “accused queens,” asking “were these queens really as bad as their reputations suggest?,”35 while also catching the reader’s eye with stereotypical references to “she-wolves,” “bad girls,” and “notorious queens.” Norton’s chapter on Isabella is, perhaps inevitably, titled “The She-Wolf of France.”36 She is sympathetic to Isabella, arguing that she fulfilled the expected roles of queen and dowager for most of her life; “For years, Isabella attempted to play the role of a good and dutiful queen and it was only after years of provocation that she finally snapped.”37 The exaggerated distinction between Isabella as a dutiful queen and Isabella as a

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rebel (a view partly shared by Castor) owes something to an outdated and stereotyped view of medieval queens as passive. Commenting on Isabella’s giving birth to a male heir, Norton writes, “By 1312 her career followed that of a traditional medieval queen and the birth of her son cemented her role.”38 We therefore see popular historians striving to challenge the sexist image of the “she-wolf,” yet ultimately unable to escape its allure. The term is understood to be misleading and misogynist, yet Isabella’s life is still presented in terms of exceptionalism and sensationalism. The dramatic events of her seizure of power are contrasted with her years as a “traditional queen,” betraying a misunderstanding of medieval queenship as an institution that allowed the queen to exercise authority.

Maurice Druon’s Les Rois maudits, and Isabella in Fiction Isabella features in Maurice Druon’s series of novels Les Rois maudits, particularly the fifth, which takes her infamous epithet as its title: La Louve de France (The She-Wolf of France). The series’ title—the Accursed Kings in English—alludes to the curse proclaimed on the Capetian dynasty by the last Templar Grand Master, Jacques de Molay, on the day of his execution by Philip IV. However, it is Isabella’s marriage to Edward of England that is the original sin, leading to the collapse of the Capetian dynasty. The first novel centres on the Tour de Nesle affair, when two of Philip IV’s daughters-­ in-­law were imprisoned for adultery and a third condemned for enabling the affairs. In Druon’s version, Isabella put these events in motion by exposing her sisters-in-law, setting off a chain of events that leads to the death of her sister-in-law Queen Jeanne, the disinheritance of Jeanne’s daughter, and a disputed succession culminating in Edward III of England’s invasion of France. Isabella also endangers the dynasty in a less direct fashion; as the mother of Edward, she provides him with the hereditary claim to the French crown that leads to the outbreak of the Hundred Years’ War. Druon has characters in the novel directly refer to her (anachronistically, of course) by her famous sobriquet; for example, when Hugh Despenser the Younger says, “You see, it’s your wife who has ordered this. It is she, that French she-wolf, who is the cause of it all. Oh, Edward, Edward, why did you marry her?”39 Her lupine portrayal even extends to a description of “her fine little teeth” which “were clenched, sharp,

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carnivorous” and (on three occasions) references to “her little carnivore’s teeth.”40 Sarah Hanley describes Druon’s Isabella as vicious, manic, sex-crazed. … The ‘she-wolf’ with noticeably sharp teeth. …In Druon’s telling, the women are beautiful and narcissistic, lustful and naïve. … They are also the snarling she-wolf whose sharp little teeth go for the jugular, the blood-stained whore Isabella, more animal than human.41

Likewise, Colette Beaune criticised Druon’s representation of women, classifying the female characters in Les Rois maudits into three categories: “Machiavellians, submissive women, and prostitutes!” (les machiavéliques, les soumises et les prostituées!).42 While Hanley is correct to criticise Druon’s depiction of women, his Isabella is a little more complex than a “sex crazed” whore, falling more into Beaune’s first category, the Machiavellian. Her manipulations begin in the very first scene of the series of novels, as she plots the downfall of her sisters-in-law. As an adulterous woman, she could also be classified in the third category (prostitute), but her relationship with Mortimer is presented more in romantic than sexual terms. In fact, she evolves from being an asexual figure to a woman who falls under the spell of romantic love when she meets Mortimer. When we first meet her at court in England, she is portrayed as authoritative, cold even—the stereotypical ice-queen. She flirts with Robert of Artois at their first meeting, before deciding she must place duty before love. Later, Isabella, far from being “sex crazed,” professes her love for Mortimer in chivalric terms in a section titled “Isabella in love.”43 Despite being a key agent in earlier events, she becomes curiously passive following her overthrow of Edward II, and the Mortimer becomes the active party in the overthrow and killing of Edward. Although Druon’s portrayal of Isabella is problematic from a feminist perspective, her character is still able to inspire excitement among readers as a strong female character, reflected in online responses. A tweet by Laetitia Noel about her reading Druon’s La Louve de France is accompanied by the hashtags “#girlpower #femmefatale,”44 reflecting, perhaps, the contradictory portrayal of Isabella by Druon, as well has how the “femme fatale” she-wolf image can coexist with a more feminist reading. A similar desire to have the best of both worlds—drawing on Isabella’s scandalous reputation while also sympathizing with her as a woman—can be seen in the French graphic novel Isabelle, la Louve de France45 in the series Les Reines de Sang, which also includes works on Eleanor of

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Aquitaine, Jeanne the Lame (wife of Phillip VI), the Frankish queen Fredegund, and the Chinese dowager empress Cixi—all of them women who were perceived to have exercised authority beyond that appropriate to their sex. The titles of both book and series play up the sensationalist approach to the material. The publisher’s description of the Isabella books follows Druon in blaming her for the Hundred Years’ War: “Isabella brought fire and blood to Europe during the greatest medieval war that Europe knew, the Hundred Years’ War.” (Isabelle met l’Europe à feu et à sang durant la plus grande guerre médiévale que l’Europe ait connue, la guerre de Cent Ans.)46 It also follows Druon in beginning the story with the execution of the Templars and Jacques de Molay’s curse of Philip IV. Yet it also sympathises with her as a “wronged woman, free woman” (femme meurtrie, femme libre).47 A sample page on the same website presents her sympathetically, as she reflects of her marriage to Edward that “I have sacrificed my happiness as a woman for politics … and I am alone” (j’ai sacrifié mon bonheur de femme à la raison d’état … et je suis seule).48 Isabella features in many other works of fiction about her and Edward’s lives. Kathryn Warner (the biographer of both Edward and Isabella) provides a tongue-in-cheek survey of some of them, showing that there has been a backlash against the “she-wolf” image of Isabella since Druon’s novels appeared: Generally, the rule in Edward II/Isabella fiction over the last forty years or so has been to portray Isabella as a long-suffering tragic neglected victim of her nasty cruel heartless gay husband who is later miraculously transformed into a strong empowered feminist kick-ass heroine; … that whole ‘She-­ Wolf’ thing went out of the window long ago.49

Neither “she-wolf” nor “tragic neglected woman” do justice to the reality of Isabella as a medieval queen and replace one sexist stereotype (the scandalous woman) with another (the passive victim).

Online Re-evaluations Finally, we can see a re-evaluation of the “she-wolf” label by online writers who portray Isabella as an assertive, proto-feminist woman. Jason Porath’s Rejected Princesses—a cartoon blog with accompanying book,50 based on his work about historical women who would be too assertive to be chosen as Disney princesses—devotes a chapter to Isabella, who was “maligned

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for centuries as the She-Wolf of France.”51 Porath’s work also addresses similarly maligned women, including Elisabeth Báthory, and the archetypal wicked queen, Jezebel. Isabella is presented sympathetically as a girl groomed for an arranged, dynastic marriage, but disappointed following rejection by her husband. Porath repeats the myth (based on a misreading of the Pauline Annals)52 that Edward gave her wedding jewels to Gaveston. He emphasises Isabella’s active role as political supporter of Edward before he alienated her, and the dangers in which she was placed by his ineptitude in war. She is presented as the wronged party during the rise of the Despensers: she “fought to save her marriage” but “Despenser turned Edward’s violence to her.” Her rebellion against Edward and her affair with Mortimer are also presented sympathetically: “She took happiness into her own hands by taking a lover into her bed.”53 Her failings as a ruler are not airbrushed, but Porath presents them as the errors of a woman hardened by suffering: “She’d suffered years of a world with no regard for imperfect women. She would show it no regard in return.”54 The older Isabella, in enforced retirement in a house of the Poor Clares, is presented as a pious peacemaker and lover of family. Elizabeth Kerri Mahon’s “Scandalous Women” blog (which, like Rejected Princesses, has also spawned a book) devotes an entry to Isabella “She-Wolf of England.”55 Mahon’s purpose is explicitly revisionist and feminist: she employs Laurel Thatcher Ulrich’s famous saying “Well-­ Behaved Women don’t make History” as a tagline for her blog, and describes her work as “herstory.” The discredited story of Edward giving Isabella’s bridal gems to Gaveston is repeated; the recurrence of this motif in these blogs can probably be explained by the fact that it sets up the image of Isabella as the wronged wife from the very inception of their marriage. Mahon presents a fairly dispassionate telling of Isabella’s life, although she does include the story of Edward’s supposed death by red-­ hot poker. Like Porath, she presents the older Isabella as pious and “[a] doting mother and grandmother.”56 These online treatments of Isabella bring some nuance to the portrayal of her life (e.g. addressing her role as a pious queen) but share some of the shortcomings of treatments in other media. They perpetuate discredited myths, such as the claim that Edward gave Isabella’s jewels to Gaveston, and present Edward and Isabella’s relationship in personal rather than political terms, with Isabella as a romantically wronged woman.

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“Iron Lady” If the term “she-wolf” has become a sexist cliché, have any of our featured authors succeeded in providing a better alternative? One interesting candidate is “Iron Lady,” which Castor uses as the subtitle for the section devoted to Isabella in her book.57 Many readers—especially those who grew up in the United Kingdom in the 1980s—will immediately see in this a reference to Margaret Thatcher, Britain’s first woman Prime Minister (1979–1990). The nickname was first coined in print by the Soviet writer Yuri Gavrilov in January 1976,58 and Thatcher herself embraced the label enthusiastically in a speech to Conservatives in her Finchley constituency: I stand before you tonight in my Red Star chiffon evening gown. (Laughter, Applause), my face softly made up and my fair hair gently waved (Laughter), the Iron Lady of the Western world. A cold war warrior, an amazon philistine, even a Peking plotter. Well, am I any of these things? … Yes I am an iron lady.59

The “iron lady” label compared Thatcher to male authority figures, limiting its usefulness as a feminist alternative to “she-wolf.” The Soviet journalist Melor Sturua associated her with “the image of the ‘iron’ German Chancellor Bismark [sic].”60 When Thatcher reappropriated the “Iron Lady” nickname, she did so by comparing herself to a great male general and statesman, the Duke of Wellington: “Yes I am an iron lady, after all it wasn’t a bad thing to be an iron duke.”61 A notable cultural portrayal of Isabella as an “iron lady” is far from positive in its representation of female authority: Tilda Swinton’s portrayal of her in Derek Jarman’s 1991 film adaptation of Marlowe’s Edward II.62 The film was made in the context of a Conservative government (still headed by Thatcher when the film went into production, although she was removed as prime minister by the time of its release) that was attacking LGBTQ+ rights. Section 28 of the Local Government Act of 1988 banned local councils and state schools from “intentionally promot[ing] homosexuality or publish[ing] material with the intention of promoting homosexuality” and “promot[ing] the teaching … of the acceptability of homosexuality as a pretended family relationship.”63 As such, Edward symbolises LGBTQ+ rights and human liberation more generally (his partisans are portrayed as gay rights protestors in conflict with riot police), while Isabella is part of the repressive

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heteropatriarchy. With her elaborate hairstyles and dresses, Isabella is more reminiscent visually of Eva Perón than Margaret Thatcher, but the parallels with the Conservative prime minister are still clear. For example, Mortimer and Isabella’s supporters are shown seated around a table with red dispatch boxes in front of them, a scene obviously modelled on British cabinet meetings around the notorious “coffin-shaped table” of 10, Downing Street’s Cabinet Room.64

“Badass” An alternative, and more demotic, variation is to rechristen Isabella a “badass.” Ben Thompson’s blog “Badass of the Week” grants that title to Isabella. He plays up the sensationalist aspects of her image—“her crazy, insane life smashing peoples’ [sic] asses across the British countryside would include giant booze-laden parties, face-crushing vengeance, and wild monkey sex”—but also celebrates her resolve and challenges negative stereotypes: Despite being a vengeful, hate-filled asskicker, it should be noted that Isabella was actually pretty well-liked by the general populace, and was known for helping the poor and donating money to support institutions that cared for the sick and the needy. So yeah, basically anybody who wasn’t in the process of having their shit wrecked by her pretty much thought she was alright.65

Thompson concludes “don’t fuck with Isabella.”66 He repeats the discredited story that Edward gave away her jewels to Gaveston, wrongly attributes to Isabella a role in the latter’s killing, and stereotypes medieval queens as “measured solely based on their abilities to successfully produce human male children.”67 Likewise, an incident where Isabella confronted Margaret de Clare over being denied entry to Leeds castle is cited as evidence of the queen’s badassery, even though Menache argues the episode served Edward’s purposes more than Isabella’s.68 Most of the “badasses” featured on the index to Thompson’s site are men (fifty-nine vs. nine women), and the nature of the few women selected is also interesting. Most are violent in some way or at least participated in conflict: World War Two spy Virginia Hall, Irish rebel leader Constance Markievicz, medieval pirate Jeanne de Clissone, female samurai Nakano Takeko, seventeenth-century swordswoman Julie d’Aubigny, and Zhou

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dynasty Chinese empress Wu Zetian (who is described on the site as a “tyrant”). Only the journalist Nelly Bly represents women involved in more pacific pursuits. Thompson is not alone in applying the label “badass” to Isabella; it is a popular descriptor for her online. An article by Jacopo della Quercia on the Cracked website in 2011 identifies (in a spirit similar to that behind Porath’s Rejected Princesses) “5 Real Princesses Too Badass for Disney Movies.”69 Number five is “Isabella, the She-Wolf of France”; “Princess Isabella was so damn deadly that she eventually earned the nickname ‘She-­ Wolf of France’ for all the new assholes she tore England.”70 Isabella also makes the list of “10 Most Badass Princesses in History” on the Beyond Society website71: “Called the ‘She-wolf of France,’ Isabella had it hard from the beginning when she was married to her, presumably homosexual husband, Edward.”72 The term “badass” is not entirely gendered female, as we have seen from the example of Thompson’s website, where most “badasses” are men, but it has frequently been used in recent years to describe strong women and promoted as a non-sexist way of describing female authority. In 2015 article by Megan Garber in The Atlantic analysed “How ‘Badass’ Became a Feminist Word,” arguing that it was once applied to tough male TV and movie heroes, such as Chuck Norris and Clint Eastwood, but had been redefined to refer to strong women: The badass is, per one definition [from The Urban Dictionary], “the epitome of the American male.” Someone who “radiates confidence in everything he does, whether it’s ordering a drink, buying a set of wheels, or dealing with women.” … Today, “badass” describes not just men, but the ladyfolk. It doubles as an endorsement of a woman who is particularly strong, who is particularly cool, who is particularly swaggery. It’s a term of acclamation and aspiration, both for women and for a culture that is finally giving them their due.73

Karrin Vasby Anderson discusses the use of “badass” as a descriptor for Hillary Clinton: I assess key moments in [Hillary] Clinton’s two presidential campaigns— moments in which she was framed as a “bitch” and a “badass.” Both frames foregrounded Clinton’s strength; however, “bitch” characterized that strength as deviant and dangerous, whereas “badass” presented her as cool and unassailable.74

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Attempts to move beyond “she-wolf” to “badass” for Isabella seem to reflect a similar desire to reassess her female authority in more positive ways. After all, “she-wolf” is, at a very literal level, the same as “bitch”—a canine female. There are, however, problems with attempts to redefine “badass” as a feminist term of approbation. Anderson advises moving beyond both “bitch” and “badass”: ‘Badass’ recognizes women’s capacity to lead but does so in a way that deflects attention away from the persistence of sexist stereotyping and cultural misogyny … as depictions of political women become increasingly complex and varied, fictional characters and actual women are beginning to move beyond the bitch and badass frames.75

Conversely, there has been a reaction against “badass” on feminist grounds, with several mass-media articles published in 2019 that challenged its use. On International Women’s Day Hanna Watson in PR Week asked us to “[s]top describing powerful women as ‘badass’; it’s just patronizing”: “Fierce” and “badass” seem to be the terms of choice, used by both male and female communicators alike to refer to powerful, influential women. These terms are almost never prescribed for male panelists or speakers, but solely reserved for describing women, which is problematic and frustrating …. I cannot imagine a time when we might describe a panel of men as fierce or badass, making these words highly gendered.76

Likewise, Emma Brockes in the Guardian’s online section declared, “My heart sinks every time I hear women called ‘gutsy’ or ‘badass.’” Like Anderson she focuses on Hillary Clinton, but objecting to the “badass” label applied to her, as well as Clinton’s own claiming of similar terms: [F]or some reason, when I hear badass and its synonyms, my heart sinks. I get the same mild squeamishness when I read about Hillary and Chelsea Clinton’s anthology, The Book of Gutsy Women. It’s partly that descriptors like “gutsy” seem to protest too much, partly that they feel slightly infantilising, and mainly, I think, that they have become disembodied marketing terms used to launder self-promotion as somehow socially useful.77

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In this light, we can see the creation of a “badass” Isabella as a way of masculinising her. She is celebrated for her “male” prowess as a warrior and rebel, rather than in the more pacific (but still authoritative) roles of a medieval queen as advisor, peacemaker, or intercessor. Consider the linguistic choices of Ben Thompson in his “Badass of the Week” feature on Isabella: “exciting and bloody”; “crazy, insane life smashing peoples’ asses”; “face-crushing vengeance”; “vengeful”; “a vengeful, hate-filled asskicker”; “a crazy, bloodthirsty bitch-o-rama.”78 All these emphasise violence and (especially) vengeance. The one phrase that is gendered female (“bitch-o-rama”) returns to the she-wolf/bitch stereotype to describe her governance alongside Mortimer. Her actions are admirably violent when in rebellion, but once she is in a position of rulership, her authority is suspect and that of a “bitch.”

Conclusion Although attempts to present Isabella in a positive light may be motivated by a desire to challenge sexism and place women at the centre of history, they are also problematic from a feminist perspective. The focus on outstanding “badass” women rests on a stereotypical assumption that medieval women were otherwise downtrodden baby-makers and, in Weir’s words, “placid adornments of their husbands.”79 To cite Kathryn Warner, “[p]raise is heaped on women of the past who are believed to have been liberated in an approved twenty-first century fashion and to have broken the bonds of custom and followed their own path.”80 So when a woman like Isabella is seen not to match the stereotype, she is assumed to be exceptional. The more sensationalist aspects of her life (the “Treachery, Adultery, and Murder” in the subtitle of the U.S. edition of Weir’s book) are foregrounded, but those which show her fulfilling the roles expected of a medieval queen—not just dynastic marriage and production of male heirs, but also taking part in foreign diplomacy and acting as an intercessor at home—tend to be neglected. As Victoria Thompson remarked on Facebook, “Badass, like feisty, is just another way of saying ‘she’s so cute when she’s angry.’”81 The “she-wolf” label has been both embraced and challenged in popular cultural portrayals of Isabella. It is eye-catching and dramatic, making it attractive for titles of novels and popular histories, but carries misogynistic associations. Thus, authors of fiction, popular history books, and websites have somewhat awkwardly attempted to simultaneously use and

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challenge the “she-wolf” concept, attempting to reframe Isabella as a symbol of female empowerment. As such, alternative labels have been suggested, from “iron lady” to “badass,” but all are problematic as they continue to reflect gendered stereotypes.

Notes 1. Thomas Gray, “The Bard: A Pindaric Ode,” The Poetry Foundation, accessed 14 June 2018, https://www.poetryfoundation.org/ poems/44298/the-­bard-­a-­pindaric-­ode. 2. Maurice Druon, La Louve de France (Paris: Del Luca, 1959); Alison Weir, Isabella: She-Wolf of France, Queen of England (London: Jonathan Cape, 2005); Hilda Johnstone, “Isabella, the She-Wolf of France,” History 21 (1936): 208–218; Helen Castor, She-Wolves: The Women Who Ruled England Before Elizabeth (New York: Harper, 2011). 3. Sophia Menache, “Isabelle of France, queen of England—A Reconsideration,” Journal of Medieval History 10 (1984): 120. 4. Shakespeare, III Henry VI, 1.4.551; Johnstone, “Isabella, the She-Wolf of France,” 208. 5. Shakespeare, III Henry VI, 1.4.553–554. 6. Menache, “Isabelle of France,” 121 n.6. 7. Carla Lord, “Queen Isabella at the Court of France,” in Fourteenth Century England, II, ed. Chris Given-Wilson (Woodbridge: The Boydell Press, 2002), 45 n.2. 8. See M.  S. Fitzgerald, The Kings of Europe, Past and Present, and their Families (London: Longmans, Green, 1870), 161; Harriet Parr, The Life and Death of Jeanne d’Arc, called The Maid, 2 vols. (London: Smith, Elder, 1866) 1:52; Anonymous, Joan of Arc, or, The Study of a Noble Life (Edinburgh: William P. Nimmo, 1871), 22. 9. See Elizabeth Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr: The Reign and Disputed Reputation of Johanna I of Naples (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2015). 10. Casteen, From She-Wolf to Martyr, 1, 14. 11. Bertolt Brecht, Edward II.  A Chronicle Play, trans. Eric Bentley (New York: Grove Press, 1966), 46. 12. Johnstone, “Isabella, the She-Wolf of France,” 208. 13. Johnstone, “Isabella, the She-Wolf of France,” 212. 14. Johnstone, “Isabella, the She-Wolf of France,” 209. 15. Menache, “Isabelle of France,” 107. 16. Menache, “Isabelle of France,” 112. 17. Menache, “Isabelle of France,” 114–115. 18. Castor, She-Wolves.

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19. Castor, She-Wolves, 31. 20. Castor, She-Wolves, 5–24. The television series moves into the Tudor period, with the last of three episodes devoted to Jane Gray, Mary I, and Elizabeth I. She-Wolves, episode 3, “Jane, Mary and Elizabeth,” directed by Lucy Swingler/presented by Helen Castor, aired 21 March 2012, on BBC 4, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JxmRco4P0bk&t=8s. 21. Castor, She-Wolves, 31–32. 22. Castor, She-Wolves, 30. 23. Heather J.  Tanner, Laura L.  Gathagan and Lois L.  Huneycutt, “Introduction,” in Medieval Elite Women and the Exercise of Power, 1100–1400. Moving beyond the Exceptionalist Debate, ed. Heather J. Tanner (London: Palgrave, 2019), 1–3. 24. Castor, She-Wolves, 283. 25. Castor, She-Wolves, 284. 26. Castor, She-Wolves, 294. The tendency to reflect on the good looks of medieval figures whose appearance is unknown to us is a common feature of popular history. See Michael R. Evans, Inventing Eleanor: The Medieval and Post-Medieval Image of Eleanor of Aquitaine (London: Bloomsbury, 2014), 62, 149–150 on such speculation about another medieval queen of England. 27. Castor, She-Wolves, 319–320. 28. Weir, Isabella: She-Wolf of France; published in the U.S.A. as Queen Isabella. Treachery, Adultery, and Murder in Medieval England (New York: Ballantine, 2005). My references are to the U.S. edition. 29. Weir, Queen Isabella, vii, xvii–xxi. 30. Weir, Queen Isabella, xviii–xxi. 31. Weir, Queen Isabella, 63–64; Kathryn Warner, Isabella of France: The Rebel Queen (Stroud: Amberley, 2016), chapter 7; chapter 3, n. 28. Kindle edition. 32. Weir, Queen Isabella, 149; Warner, Isabella of France, chapter 7, n. 80. 33. Weir, Queen Isabella, 196; Warner, Isabella of France, chapter 1, n. 5. 34. Elizabeth Norton, She Wolves: The Notorious Queens of England (Stroud: The History Press, 2008). Kindle edition. 35. Norton, She Wolves, 6. 36. Norton, She Wolves, 138–155. 37. Norton, She Wolves, 138. 38. Norton, She Wolves, 155. 39. Maurice Druon, The She-Wolf, trans. Humphrey Hare (London: Harper, 2014), 343. 40. Druon, The She-Wolf, 45, 51, 185, 345. 41. Sarah Hanley, “Imagining the Last Capetians,” Fiction and Film for French Historians: A Cultural Bulletin, accessed 3 July 2015,

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http://h-­f rance.net/f f fh/classics/imagining-­t he-­l ast-­c apetians-­ maurice-­druon-­the-­accursed-­kings/. 42. Cited in Hervé de Boisbaudry and Philippe Verdin, Maurice Druon: le partisan (Paris: Éditions du Cerf, 2014), chapter 3, Kindle edition. 43. Druon, The She Wolf, 129–221. 44. Laetitia Noel (@LaetitiaNoel), “#Vendredilecture avec La Louve de France de Maurice Druon,” Twitter, 6 October 2017, https://twitter.com/laetitianoel/status/916228450557587458. 45. Marie Gloris, Thierry Gloris and Jaime Calderón, Isabelle, la Louve de France, 2 vols. (Paris: Delcourt, 2012, 2014). 46. “Les reines de sang—Isabelle, la Louve de France,” Bedetheque, accessed 16 June 2018, https://www.bedetheque.com/BD-­Reines-­de-­sang-­ I s a b e l l e -­l a -­L o u v e -­d e -­F r a n c e -­I N T-­T T-­I s a b e l l e -­L a -­L o u v e -­d e -­ France-­219004.html. 47. “Les reines de sang—Isabelle, la Louve de France.” 48. “Les reines de sang—Isabelle, la Louve de France.” 49. Kathryn Warner, “So You Want to Write a Novel About Edward II And Isabella…?” Edward II (blog), 31 March 2010, accessed 1 February 2020, http://edwardthesecond.blogspot.com/2010/03/so-­y ou-­w ant-­t o-­ write-­novel-­about-­edward.html. 50. Jason Porath, Rejected Princesses: Tales of History’s Boldest Heroines, Hellions, and Heretics (New York: Dey Street Books, 2016). 51. Jason Porath, “Isabella of France (c.1295–1358): The She-Wolf of France,” Rejected Princesses, accessed 17 June 2018, http://www.rejectedprincesses.com/princesses/isabella-­of-­france. 52. Author, “Annales Paulini, 1307–1340,” in Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II, ed. William Stubbs, 2 vols. (London: His Majesty’s Stationery Office, 1882–1883), 1: 262; Kathryn Warner, “Edward II, Piers Gaveston and Isabella’s Jewels That Weren’t,” Edward II (blog), 18 July 2014, accessed 1 February 2020, http://edwardtheseco n d . b l o g s p o t . c o m / 2 0 1 4 / 0 7 / e d w a r d -­i i -­p i e r s -­g a v e s t o n -­a n d -­ isabellas.html. 53. Jason Porath, “Isabella of France.” 54. Jason Porath, “Isabella of France.” 55. Elizabeth Kerri Mahon, “Isabella of France; She-Wolf of England,” Scandalous Women (blog), 31 July 2012, accessed 1 February 2020, http://scandalouswoman.blogspot.com/2012/07/isabella-­of-­france-­ she-­wolf-­of-­england.html. 56. Mahon, “Isabella of France; She-Wolf of England.” 57. Castor, She-Wolves, 231–321. 58. “Maggie, the ‘Iron Lady’.” The Sunday Times 7963 (25 January 1976), 3.

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59. “Margaret Thatcher, Speech to Finchley Conservatives (admits to being an “Iron Lady”),” Margaret Thatcher Foundation, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www.margaretthatcher.org/document/102947. This was Thatcher’s first use of the term “iron lady,” but not the first occasion when it was used about her in Britain. 60. Tatiana Shilóvska, “Russia Pays Tribute to the ‘Iron Lady,’” Russia Beyond, 13 October 2013, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www.rbth.com/ business/2015/10/13/russians_pay_tribute_to_the_iron_ lady_50035.html 61. “Margaret Thatcher, Speech to Finchley Conservatives.” 62. I discuss this more fully in my article Michael R. Evans, “Queering Isabella: The ‘She-Wolf of France’ in Film and Television,” in Premodern Rulers and Postmodern Viewers, eds. Janice North, Karl C.  Alvestad, and Elena Woodacre (Cham: Palgrave Macmillan, 2018), 263–282. 63. Local Government Act 1988 (England and Wales) s 28, accessed 1 February 2020, http://www.legislation.gov.uk/ukpga/1988/9/ section/28/1991-­02-­01. In a speech against Section 28 in 1988, the actor Ian McKellen compared supporters of the law to “the sort of person who tried to stop me acting in Edward 2 at the Edinburgh Festival in 1969” a reference to “the late Councillor John Kidd [who] took offence to this show of male affection, particularly as it took place on a stage erected within the Assembly Hall of the Church of Scotland.” Ian McKellen, “Section 28,” Ian McKellen Official Home Page, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www.mckellen.com/writings/activism/8807section28. htm; McKellen, “Edward II,” Ian McKellen Official Home Page, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www.mckellen.com/stage/edward/index.htm. 64. Evans, “Queering Isabella,” 270. 65. Thompson, “Isabella of France.” Badass of the Week (blog), 14 May 2009, accessed 1 February 2020, http://www.badassoftheweek.com/isabella.html. 66. Thompson, “Isabella of France.” 67. Thompson, “Isabella of France.” 68. Menache, “Isabelle of France,” 109. 69. Jacobo della Quercia, “5 Real Princesses Too Badass for Disney Movies,” Cracked, 20 October 2011, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www. cracked.com/article_19478_5-­r eal-­p rincesses-­t oo-­b adass-­d isney-­ movies.html. 70. Della Quercia, “5 Real Princesses Too Badass for Disney Movies.” 71. “10 Most Badass Princesses in History,” Beyond Science, 9 October 2017, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www.beyondsciencetv. com/2017/10/09/10-­most-­badass-­princesses-­in-­history/. 72. “10 Most Badass Princesses.”

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73. Megan Garber, “How ‘Badass’ Became a Feminist Word,” The Atlantic, 22 November 2015, accessed 1 February 2020, https:// w w w. t h e a t l a n t i c . c o m / e n t e r t a i n m e n t / a r c h i v e / 2 0 1 5 / 1 1 / how-­badass-­became-­feminist/417096/. 74. Karrin Vasby Anderson, “Introduction,” in Women, Feminism, and Pop Politics: From “Bitch” to “Badass” and Beyond, ed. Karrin Vasby Anderson (New York: Peter Lang, 2018), 4. 75. Anderson, Women, Feminism, and Pop Politics, v, 2. 76. Hannah Watson, “Stop describing powerful women as ‘badass’; it’s just patronizing,” PR Week, 7 March 2019, accessed 1 February 2020, https:// www.prweek.com/article/1578229/stop-­describing-­powerful-­women-­ badass-­its-­just-­patronising. 77. Emma Brockes, “My heart sinks every time I hear women called ‘gutsy’ or ‘badass’,” The Guardian, 16 November 2019, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www.theguardian.com/commentisfree/2019/nov/16/ badass-­gutsy-­women-­hillary-­clinton-­outspoken-­achievers. 78. Thompson, “Isabella of France.” 79. Weir, Queen Isabella, xxi. 80. Warner, Isabella of France, 500–1. 81. Victoria Thompson, 18 June 2018, comment on “Guy Halsall— Historian,” Facebook, accessed 1 February 2020, https://www.facebook. com/groups/1830618560601180/?multi_permalink s=1966207683708933&comment_id=1966351527027882¬if_ id=1529341969946451¬if_t=feedback_reaction_generic. Thompson writes and publishes as Victoria Whitworth.

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Porath, Jason. “Isabella of France (c.1295–1358): The She-Wolf of France.” Rejected Princesses. Accessed 17 June 2018. http://www.rejectedprincesses. com/princesses/isabella-­of-­france. Shilóvska, Tatiana. “Russia Pays Tribute to the ‘Iron Lady.” Russia Beyond, 13 October 2013. Accessed 1 February 2020. https://www.rbth.com/business/2015/10/13/russians_pay_tribute_to_the_iron_lady_50035.html. Thatcher, Margaret. “Speech to Finchley Conservatives (Admits to Being an ‘Iron Lady’).” Margaret Thatcher Foundation. Accessed 1 February 2020. https:// www.margaretthatcher.org/document/102947. Thompson, Ben. “Isabella of France.” Badass of the Week (blog), 14 May 2009. Accessed 1 February 2020. http://www.badassoftheweek.com/isabella.html. Warner, Kathryn. “Edward II, Piers Gaveston and Isabella’s Jewels That Weren’t.” Edward II (blog), 18 July 2014. Accessed 1 February 2020. http:// edwardthesecond.blogspot.com/2014/07/edward-­ii-­piers-­gaveston-­and-­ isabellas.html. ———. “So You Want To Write A Novel About Edward II And Isabella…?.” Edward II (blog), 31 March 2010. Accessed 1 February 2020. http:// edwardthesecond.blogspot.com/2010/03/so-­y ou-­w ant-­t o-­w rite-­n ovel-­ about-­edward.html. Watson, Hannah. “Stop Describing Powerful Women as ‘Badass’; It’s Just Patronizing.” PR Week, 7 March 2019. Accessed 1 February 2020. https:// www.prweek.com/article/1578229/stop-­d escribing-­p owerful-­w omen­badass-­its-­just-­patronising.

Index1

A Aachen, Germany, 177 Adelheid, queen of Italy and Holy Roman Empress (d. 999), 171, 173–177, 179–183 Agency, 2–5, 7, 80, 82n19, 100, 119–122, 131, 251, 254, 257, 268, 269, 275 Agnus Dei (Lamb of God), 173, 174, 176, 179, 182, 183 Alexander VI, pope (d. 1503), 47, 48 Anne of Bohemia, queen of England (d. 1394), 123, 127, 130 Architecture, 1–5, 91, 98 Armour, 13, 16, 17, 19, 20, 23–26, 27n25, 27n26, 97, 106, 114n64 Art, 1–5, 23, 89, 91, 99, 101, 103, 104, 107, 109, 110n3, 110n11, 113n43, 169–184, 209, 211 Artworks, manuscript Byzantine influences in, 175 Insular influences in, 175

Roman influences in, 175 ruler portraits in, 175 Austria, 230–232, 234, 235 Austrian Empire, 224, 228, 230 B Black Book, 21 Bloch, Marc, 170 Blogs, 267, 291, 298, 299, 301 Bologna, Italy, 45–47, 51 Boniface VIII, pope (d. 1303), 45, 59n50 Boulogne, France, 24, 25 Buonarroti, Michelangelo, 45 C Caṅkam literature, 141–156 Caprarola, Italy, 50, 54, 61n65 Carte-de-visite, 66, 68

 Note: Page numbers followed by ‘n’ refer to notes.

1

© The Author(s), under exclusive license to Springer Nature Switzerland AG 2022 G. Storey (ed.), Memorialising Premodern Monarchs, Queenship and Power, https://doi.org/10.1007/978-3-030-84130-0

313

314 

INDEX

Catherine II/Catherine the Great (d. 1796), 6, 221–237, 255 Catholic Church, 38 Charlemagne, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 814), 170, 171, 177 Charles I of Bavaria (d. 1745), 224 Charles VI, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 1740), 224, 225, 292 Charles Brandon, 1st duke of Suffolk (d. 1545), 22, 30n62 Children’s literature, 255–257 Chivalry, 13, 14, 16, 17, 20–22, 25 Chronicles, 119, 199, 201, 202, 209–215, 217n40, 268, 269, 271, 272, 274 Clement VI, pope (d. 1352), 42, 56n16, 123, 128, 129 Clement VII, pope (d. 1534), 53, 54, 60n62 Cluny, abbey of, 181, 182 College of Cardinals, 37, 39, 41, 55n2 Column, 4, 89–109 Column of Justice (Florence), 91–93, 114n50 Column of Phocas (Rome), 101–103 Column of the Virgin (Rome), 91, 102, 103, 112n43 Commemoration, 1–7, 37–43, 45, 46, 49–54, 55n1, 57n22, 89–109, 120–122, 124, 127, 129, 131, 132, 169, 222, 229–232, 235, 236 Council of Trent, 45, 49 Crivello, Fabrizio, 187n24 D Davis, John, 66, 67, 69–71, 74, 81n3 Denmark, 6, 246–248, 251, 256, 257 Donations, 120, 121, 124, 128–132, 145, 154, 177

E Edward II, king of England (d. 1327), 120, 122, 129, 291, 292, 297, 298 Edward III, king of England (d. 1377), 17, 20, 21, 25, 120, 126, 130, 296 Edward IV, king of England (d. 1483), 14, 20, 25, 30n64 Effigy, 13, 14, 16, 17, 19, 25, 26, 45, 120 Eisenstein, Sergei, 236 Ekkemann, abbot of Selz, 176, 180–182 Eleanor of Aquitaine, queen of England (d. 1204), 265–282, 293, 294, 298 Eleanor of Castile, queen of England (d. 1290), 121, 123, 126 Eleanor of Provence, queen of England (d. 1291), 121–126 Elizabeth I, queen of England (d. 1603), 222, 233, 255, 271, 294, 306n20 Elizabeth Charlotte, Madame Palatine (d. 1722), 235 Empress Matilda, daughter of Henry I, king of England (d. 1167), 121, 123, 271, 279, 293 England, 2–4, 14, 15, 17, 18, 20, 23, 28n33, 120, 123, 126–128, 199, 201–203, 208–210, 212–215, 268, 269, 271–273, 275, 277, 278, 291, 294, 295, 297, 302, 306n26 Eriksen, Vigilius, 227 F Fa’amusami Malietoa (nineteenth century), 4, 65, 80, 80n1 Feminism, 6, 269, 271 Film, 247, 266, 270, 300 Florence, Italy, 41, 45, 50, 53, 54, 92, 93, 99, 104, 105, 107–109, 113–114n50, 114n71

 INDEX 

France, 3, 13, 14, 17, 18, 20, 22, 24–26, 42, 44, 77, 107, 170, 181, 200, 201, 268, 269, 272, 273, 275, 276, 280, 292, 296 Francis Stephen, Duke of Lorraine/ Francis I, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 1765), 228 Frederick II, king of Prussia (d. 1786), 224, 225, 229, 233, 240n45 Frykenberg, Robert, 170 G Gallery of kings, 203, 210, 212 Gender, 1, 3, 224–226, 230, 233, 234, 236, 250–254, 271, 272 Gisela, queen of Germany and Holy Roman Empress (d. 1043), 180–183 Gospel Book, 173, 175, 176, 179, 181, 182, 187n29, 188n34 from Metz (MS 9395), 175–176, 180–183 Gospels of Otto III, 177 of Saint-Géréon (W 312), 173–180, 182 Graphic novels, 297 Greenwich workshop, 17, 20 Gregory XIII, pope (d. 1585), 46, 59n46 Greyfriars, London, England, 121–124, 127, 131 H Haakon VI Magnusson, king of Norway and Sweden (d. 1380), 247, 253, 261n37 Henry I, king of Germany (d. 936), 123, 204

315

Henry II, king of England (d. 1189), 205, 207, 210, 211 Henry II, king of Italy and Germany, and Holy Roman Emperor (d. 1024), 170, 173, 177, 180, 181 Henry III, king of England (d. 1272), 121, 124, 197–203, 205, 207, 210, 212, 214, 215 Henry V, king of England (d. 1422), 14, 17, 18, 25 Heroic death, 142, 145–151 Historical fiction, 5, 265–267, 271–274, 278, 280, 281, 295 Historiography, 2, 14, 266, 267, 271–272 Holbein, Hans, 17, 18, 23, 24, 27n25 Holy Blood, 198, 200, 215 Holy Roman Empire, 214, 225, 228, 230 Hospital of St Katharine’s by the Tower, England, 4, 119–132 I Illustrations, 23, 69, 199, 200, 202, 210, 214, 251 Ingulstad, Frid, 252–255, 257, 258 Intercession, 23, 131 Internet, 299, 301–304 Isabella of Angoulême, queen of England (d. 1246), 6, 265–282 Isabella of France, queen of England (d. 1358), 6, 119, 120, 122, 124, 291–305 Ivan VI, emperor of Russia (d. 1764), 225 J John, king of England (d. 1216), 205, 207–209, 212, 270, 271, 273, 274, 277–280

316 

INDEX

John XXII, pope (d. 1334), 123 Joseph II, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 1790), 226, 228, 229, 232 Jousting, 19–22 Julius II, pope (d. 1513), 19, 42, 45, 47, 49, 51, 59n53 K Kalmar Union, 246, 247, 249–251, 256–258 Kingship, 6, 13–15, 21–25, 26n1, 197–215, 250 Knight, 15, 16, 19, 21, 22, 25 Kunigunde, Holy Roman Empress (d. 1033), 171, 173, 177, 180, 182, 183 L Lamb of God, see Agnus Dei Leo X, pope (d. 1521), 41, 53, 54, 55n6, 60n62 LGBTQ+ issues, 300 Lieux de mémoire, 142, 155 Literature, 1–3, 5–7, 16, 23, 29n54, 142, 144, 151, 152, 155, 156, 169–184 M Mainz, 181, 182 Maiolus, abbot of Cluny (d. 994), 176, 181 Malietoa Laupepa, ruler of Samoa (d. 1898), 65, 66, 68, 71, 72, 75, 76, 84n46 Margaret of France, queen of England (d. 1318), 122, 123, 125, 126 Margrete Valdemarsdaughter, queen of Denmark, Norway, and Sweden (d. 1412), 246, 247, 249, 253, 254

Maria Theresia, Holy Roman Empress, queen of Hungary and Croatia, archduchess of Austria (d. 1780), 221–237 Marien, Mary Warner, 68, 71 Mariensäule (Munich), Germany, 102 Masculinity, 4, 13–16, 18, 22–25, 254 Mata’afa Faumuina Fiame Mulinu’u, president of the Mau (d. 1948), 68 Mathilda, abbess of Quedlinburg (d. 999), 169 Matilda of Boulogne, queen of England (d. 1152), 123, 124, 126, 294 Matilda of Scotland, queen of England (d. 1118), 126, 294 Matilda of Tuscany, countess and margravine of Tuscany (d. 1015), 171, 183, 185n13 Mathilda, queen of the Ottonians (d. 968), 169 Mau, 68 Mead, Margaret, 73, 81n2 Medici court, 104 Memorial, 3, 6, 38, 40, 44, 50, 89–109, 120, 121, 129, 142, 148, 151–156, 169–184, 215, 258 Memorial stones, 142, 143, 151–154 Memory, 2–5, 7, 8, 18, 25, 38, 41, 43, 47, 48, 51, 76, 105, 108, 119, 120, 122–127, 129, 130, 132, 141–156, 169–184, 197–215, 245–258, 258n2 Metz, Germany, 173, 175–176, 180–182 Milan, Italy, 17, 103, 112n42 Monument, 13, 14, 22, 42, 44, 45, 53, 55, 57n27, 89, 91, 93, 94, 96–106, 108, 110n3, 113n50, 142, 143, 148, 153, 154

 INDEX 

N Nationalism, 6, 246, 252 Nelson, Janet, 170 Norway, 6, 245–258 Novels, 252–255, 266–270, 274–281, 291, 296–298, 304 O Odilo, abbot of Cluny (d. 1049), 176, 187n29 Olav IV Haakonsson, king of Norway/Olav II, king of Denmark (d. 1387), 247, 254 Order of the Garter, 14, 20–22, 25 Otto, bishop of Strasbourg (d. 1100), 182 Otto I, king of Italy and Germany, and Holy Roman Emperor (d. 973), 176 Otto II, king of Italy and Germany, and Holy Roman Emperor (d. 983), 172, 175 Otto III, king of Italy and Germany, and Holy Roman Emperor (d. 1002), 170, 173–175, 177, 179, 183 Ottonians, Ottonian dynasty, 5, 6, 170–171, 175–177, 180, 186n14 P Papacy, 4, 37–42, 53, 54, 56n9, 102, 214 Paris, Matthew, 6, 197–215, 273 Paul I, emperor of Russia (d. 1801), 225, 226, 229 Paul III, pope (d. 1549), 50, 54, 55n6, 59n53 Peretti Montalto, Cardinal Alessandro, 43, 53 Pericopes book of Henry II (MS 4452), 173, 177, 188n37 Peter I, emperor of Russia (d. 1725), 223, 236

317

Peter III, emperor of Russia (d. 1762), 225–227, 229, 231 Petitions, 126, 128, 129, 268 Philippa of Hainault, queen of England (d. 1369), 4, 119–132 Pius II, pope (d. 1464), 43, 50, 56n9, 57n27, 59n49 Pius III, pope (d. 1503), 42, 43 Popular history, 292–296, 304 Postcard, 4, 65, 66, 68–70, 80, 81n3 Power, 3, 5, 7, 8, 14, 38, 41, 42, 45, 46, 51, 53, 68, 74, 79, 89–109, 120, 121, 125, 144, 150, 175, 177, 212, 214, 224–226, 233–235, 246, 247, 249, 250, 256, 266, 268–270, 272–281, 292–294, 296 Pugachev, Yemelyan/Emel’jan Pugačëv, 235 Puṟam poetry, 144 Q Quedlinburg, 169 Queens consort, 4, 125–127, 131, 268, 269, 273–277, 294 dowager, 119, 125–127, 268, 275–277, 295 regent, 249, 260n18, 269 regnant, 249, 256, 260n18, 292, 294 Queen’s College, Oxford, England, 129, 130 R Raphael, Sanzio, 41, 49, 59n42 Religious patronage, 4, 119–132 Reputation, 15, 17, 49, 77, 120, 121, 125, 126, 131, 252, 265, 272, 273, 278, 281, 291, 293, 295, 297

318 

INDEX

Richard I, king of England (d. 1199), 203, 205, 207 Rome, Italy Sant’Andrea della Valle, 43, 44 St. Peter’s basilica, 42, 44, 51, 52 Vatican Palace, 53, 58n41 Royal House of Norway, The, 247–249 Russia, 234, 235, 237n6, 255 Russian Empire, 6 S Saint, 14, 43, 57n20, 90, 102, 103, 169, 170, 173, 176, 180–182, 184, 199, 212 Salians/Salian dynasty, 6, 170, 171, 177, 180 Samoa, 2–4, 65, 66, 68, 69, 71–76, 78, 80, 80n1, 81n3, 84n58 Sanctification, 181–183 Sanctity, 181, 182, 184n1, 188n32 Selz, Alsace, France, 176, 179–183 Sexual scandal, 266, 270, 274–276 Siena, Italy, 45, 56n9, 105 Sigismund III Vasa’s Column, 4, 89–109 Sixtus IV, pope (d. 1484), 43, 58n41 St George, 14, 20–22, 25 St George’s Chapel, Windsor, England, 13–15, 20–22, 30n64 Stalin, Joseph, 236 Stevenson, Robert Louis, 72, 74 Sunne, Linn T., 255–258 Sweden, 6, 95, 108, 245–258

T Tamiḻakam, 144, 151, 153, 156 Tattersall, Alfred, 69, 82n14, 82n20 Taupou, 65–68, 70–74, 79, 80, 83n36 Textbooks, 6, 248–252, 257 Theophanu, Holy Roman Empress (d. 991), 171, 173–175, 177, 179 Thérouanne, France, 18 Tomb, 13–15, 19, 20, 22, 25, 39, 42–45, 49, 55, 120, 129 Tournai, Belgium, 18 Tournament, 16, 17, 23, 25, 26 Trauma, 247 V van Meytens, Martin, 228 Vasa court, 104–105 Vasa Forum, 101, 109 Voltaire (d. 1778), 233, 234, 239n43 von Reiche, Momoe Malietoa, 66, 79, 82n14 von Sonnenfels, Joseph, 226, 228 W War of the Austrian Succession, 224 Warsaw, Poland, 89–109 Westminster Abbey, England, 14, 121, 124, 129, 197–201, 214 Wickham, Chris, 171 Women, 4, 6, 7, 65–80, 120–124, 129, 131, 155, 169–171, 179, 180, 183, 184, 221, 225, 230, 232, 233, 246, 247, 249, 254, 255, 266–269, 272, 274, 278, 279, 281, 282, 282n4, 294, 297–299, 301–304