Staufen and Plantagenets: Two Empires in Comparison [1 ed.] 9783737008822, 9783847108825

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Studien zu Macht und Herrschaft Schriftenreihe des SFB 1167 »Macht und Herrschaft – Vormoderne Konfigurationen in transkultureller Perspektive«

Band 1

Herausgegeben von Matthias Becher, Jan Bemmann und Konrad Vössing

Alheydis Plassmann / Dominik Büschken (eds.)

Staufen and Plantagenets Two Empires in Comparison

With 13 figures

V& R unipress Bonn University Press

Bibliografische Information der Deutschen Nationalbibliothek Die Deutsche Nationalbibliothek verzeichnet diese Publikation in der Deutschen Nationalbibliografie; detaillierte bibliografische Daten sind im Internet þber http://dnb.d-nb.de abrufbar. Verçffentlichungen der Bonn University Press erscheinen im Verlag V& R unipress GmbH. Gedruckt mit freundlicher Unterstþtzung der Deutschen Forschungsgemeinschaft.  2018, V& R unipress GmbH, Robert-Bosch-Breite 6, D-37079 Gçttingen Alle Rechte vorbehalten. Das Werk und seine Teile sind urheberrechtlich gesch þtzt. Jede Verwertung in anderen als den gesetzlich zugelassenen FÐllen bedarf der vorherigen schriftlichen Einwilligung des Verlages. Umschlagabbildung: Weingartner Welfenchronik, Hochschul- und Landesbibliothek Fulda, 100 D 11, f. 14r / The Becket Leaves, British Library, Loan Ms 88, f. 3r Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht Verlage j www.vandenhoeck-ruprecht-verlage.com ISSN 2626-4072 ISBN 978-3-7370-0882-2

Contents

Alheydis Plassmann Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Knut Görich Frieden schließen und Rang inszenieren. Friedrich I. Barbarossa in Venedig 1177 und Konstanz 1183 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Stephen Church The dating and making of Magna Carta and the peace of June 1215

. . .

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Thomas Foerster Crossing the Alps and Crossing the Channel. The ‘Empires’ of Frederick I and Henry II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

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Stefanie Schild Bishops in the service of the Staufens and the Plantagenets . . . . . . . . 121 Jonathan R. Lyon Rulers, Local Elites and Monastic Liberties. Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds under the Staufens and Plantagenets . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 151 Dominik Büschken Rainald of Dassel and Thomas Becket. Two Upstarts in Comparison . . . 183 Andrea Stieldorf Das Bild des Königs. Siegel und Münzen der Staufer und Anjou-PlantagenÞt im Vergleich . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 197 Max Lieberman Noble ideals in the Norman/Plantagenet and Welf dynastic narratives . . 229

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Contents

Alheydis Plassmann Lordships acquired by marriage. Henry II in Aquitaine and Frederick Barbarossa in the Franche-Comt8 . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 271 List of contributors . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 305

Alheydis Plassmann

Introduction

Abstract Although European perspectives have gained increasing momentum in research on the High Middle Ages, comparative research in regard to England and Germany has only been done rarely. This can be explained by the ‘national’ lens that suggests foremost France as a comparative subject for England and Italy for Germany, but also by the tradition of historical research in the respective countries. Since both England and Germany wielded hegemonic influence, both can be defined as ‘empires’ within a certain frame, even if only the Holy Roman Emperor held the title. Furthermore, there are other conditions that can be compared, like the confrontations with the Church, the necessity to provide for multiple sons, the loose associations of lordships that were acquired by marriage to name a few. Some of these comparable aspects will be addressed by the authors of this volume, although each article can only pertain a small contribution to the comparison of the ‘empires’ of the Staufen and the Plantagenets.

Historians’ choices for the subject of their comparisons are deeply influenced by the traditions of their respective national histories. For historians of the British Isles who study the 12th century and the Plantagenets it has always been natural to look at France, not only because of the long-term consequences of the Norman conquest, but also because of the multiple possible influences of the continental possessions of the Angevins. Thus, if one looks at comparative pieces for England and France in the 12th century, there has been done plenty of research on that particular comparison as can be shown by making a superficial search on the International Medieval Bibliography.1 For German historians of the Middle Ages the influential interpretation of the Italian politics of the emperors and the imagined long-term repercussions on their ‘wrong’ decision to vie for the imperial crown has led them to do comparisons between Germany and Italy at least for High Middle Ages. Again a

1 The search for British Isles and France produces 1,720 hits (14. 12. 2017).

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search done on IMB shows that there are many articles that deal with Germany and Italy in comparison.2 Thus, choices for comparisons, although each scholar chooses on his or her own what field to study, are embedded into a tradition that might be followed albeit unconsciously. The very simple fact that French is still the first choice of foreign language for many English pupils surely contributes to this. German Medieval History is a field for only a couple of English-speaking Historians and they only rarely delve into comparison, with some notable exceptions. Although these reasons for the negligence of comparison between England and Germany are not rooted in the subject per se or even the comparability of the two realms, they seem to have come into play accidentally for a long time.3 Interestingly enough, a comparison between England and Germany raises some rewarding questions, even if looked at only superficially. Both Henry II and Frederick I were rulers at the same time and Henry II almost as long as Frederick. Both were rulers over multiple dominions that were only loosely connected, although in Frederick’s case the Empire certainly contributed to a closer connection between the realms. Both had troubles with the church, Frederick with the pope and in consequence with some bishops in the Empire, while Henry became involved in the famous controversy with Becket. Both had many sons for whose inheritance they were obliged to care.4 Both were raised as kings although they were not the direct heirs of their predecessors. Both married rich heiresses whose inheritance enhanced their possessions. Both made an effort to re-establish imperial and royal authority after a time of strife and furthered the peace within the realm. In Frederick’s as in Henry’s reign the structure of the realm and the feudal system was strengthened, although that was not necessarily by instigation of the ruler. Thus, even on the surface, the comparison between Henry II and Frederick I or between England and Germany in the 12th century is well worth looking into, but this has only been rarely done. At the International Medieval Congress in Leeds in 2015 I organised three sessions on the Staufen and Plantagenets. Some of the contributors to this volume were involved in the three session at Leeds, but the subject of their contributions has changed and broadened with the years and further research. One guideline was the question of how ruling actually worked and how (and if) the idea of an imperium was used not only to display power but to actually use it as an instrument of ruling. By raising these questions this volume pays tribute 2 The search for Germany and Italy produces 623 hits (14. 12. 2017). 3 The search for Germany and British Isles produces 252 hits (14. 12. 2017). 4 Alheydis Plassmann, The King and His Sons, Henry II’s and Fredrick Barbarossa’s Succession Strategies Compared, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 36 (2014), 149–166.

Introduction

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to the distinction of power (Macht) and rule (Herrschaft) made especially in German Medieval History. By studying aspects of royal rule in a similar set of conditions the contributors of this volume shed light on the interaction between the king/emperor and his nobles and give insight into conditions of power and the practice of ruling in a European perspective. As it is, this volume will all in all only scratch the surface of a topic that is well worth closer attention and only some of the rewarding possible topics of comparison will be addressed. There are many others and if this volume instigates further research or even other comparisons that haven’t been done before our efforts will be well rewarded. The ‘empires’ of the Staufen (1138/1152–1250) and the Plantagenets (1156– 1214) incorporated several lordships connected only very loosely via personal union or via members of the respective dynasties. While the Staufen united their different lordships conceptually under the roof of the denomination ‘imperium Romanum’,5 the so called ‘Angevin Empire’ of the Plantagenets is only a scholarly concept, not even universally accepted, even though some of the ‘more than royal’ authority of the Plantagenets might be covered by the term.6 This scholarly concept of an Angevin Empire ties back to the discussion on the distinction of power and rule, which becomes even more clear when one takes into account that the Angevin Empire does not qualify as an imperium-based or even an imperial dominion, but whose power boundaries are nevertheless beyond those of other kingdoms in 12th century Europe. In German-language research the Staufen and the question of the dynasty’s unity has been within the focus of medieval research almost from the beginning of academic historical research. The early history of research on the Staufen was heavily influenced by the conditions of the 19th century in Germany and how they shaped the interpretation of the ‘Kaiserherrlichkeit’ when looking at the Staufen. Almost no other subject is such an object lesson for the dependency of historical research from contemporary questions. The hegemonic politics of the Staufen were damned or glorified depending on the zeitgeist. In English-speaking research the reign of Henry II, the founder of the Angevin dynasty, and his hegemony on the continent as well as the loss of many of these continental possessions under John Lackland was seen as a period of heavy impact on English 5 Cf. for example the incorporation of Sicily, under the Ius imperii cf. Gerhard Baaken, Ius imperii ad regnum. Königreich Sizilien, Imperium Romanum und römisches Papsttum vom Tode Kaiser Heinrichs VI. bis zu den Verzichterklärungen Rudolfs von Habsburg, Cologne et al. 1993; Thomas Foerster, Romanorum et regni Sicilie imperator. Zum Anspruch Kaiser Heinrichs VI. auf das normannische Königreich Sizilien, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 54 (2008), 37–46. 6 John Gillingham, The Angevin Empire, London 2nd Edition 2001, 1–5: “the empire with no name”.

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history as a whole. Nevertheless for the assessment of the Plantagenets the ‘national’ perspective often contributed to the judgement, as can be seen with Richard the Lionheart, whose long absences of England were – before John Gillingham’s biography – interpreted as a failure to address tasks of national importance.7 We could expect a fresh outlook on all these subjects from the perspective of a European comparison, that would transcend the ‘national’ horizon and questions that were hitherto only asked within the framework of a set national history.8 The aim of the book is to compare two dynasties, that were connected yet were not neighbours. The main basis for the comparison is the ‘imperial’ situation of their respective realms in general. To characterize these realms as imperial is justifiable not only because of the hegemonic style of ruling that can be found elsewhere e. g. with the contemporary Capetians or in the Spanish peninsula, but mainly because of the many lordships that were united under a common roof. If we take the definition by Stephen Howe it is exactly this kind of dominion, that transcends frontiers and at whose heart lies a specific ethnic group that makes an ‘Empire’.9 In this sense, the ‘imperia’ of the Staufen and the Plantagenet differ significantly from other contemporary realms and show striking similarities to each other. Certain problems regarding the practicality of rule and the legitimization of power apply to both ‘imperia’ and can be analysed in depth in a way that the results may shed light on the European context of both dynasties. Since research traditions in both countries have been shaped by national point of views and because of an abundance of sources especially for England, a systematic and detailed comparison between both ‘imperia’ and their ruling dynasties has never been tried, even if parallels and possible comparisons were 7 John Gillingham, Richard I (Yale English Monarchs), New Haven et al. 1999, 11–14; Michael Markowski, Richard Lionheart. Bad King, Bad Crusader? in: Journal of Medieval History 23 (1997), 351–365. 8 Cf. Michael Borgolte, Perspektiven europäischer Mittelalterhistorie an der Schwelle zum 21. Jahrhundert, in: Idem. (ed.), Das europäische Mittelalter im Spannungsbogen des Vergleichs – Zwanzig internationale Beiträge zu Praxis, Problemen und Perspektiven der historischen Komparatistik, Berlin 2001, 13–27; and the collected volume Idem. (ed.), Mittelalter im Labor. Die Mediävistik testet Wege zu einer transkulturellen Europawissenschaft, Berlin 2008; for this aspect see Michael Borgolte, Vor dem Ende der Nationalgeschichten? Chancen und Hindernisse für eine Geschichte Europas im Mittelalter, in: Historische Zeitschrift 272 (2001), 561–596. 9 Stephen Howe, Empire. Avery Short Introduction, Oxford 2002, 14: “It [the empire] has a core territory whose inhabitants usually continue to form the dominant ethnic group, and an extensive periphery of dominated areas, usually acquired by conquest, but sometimes, especially in the medieval world, expansion comes about by the intermarriage of ruling families from previously independent states. … It was typically believed that the dominant core people were clearly culturally superior to the politically subordinate, peripheral ones.”

Introduction

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alluded to once in a while.10 To begin with such a comparison in various aspects a collected volume put together by several authors seemed to be a good starting point. To research several problems from a comparative point of view is worthwhile because the difficulties and opportunities that resulted from the specific ‘imperial’ rule were often similar for Staufen and Plantagenets. It will be rewarding to ask, if the approaches for solutions resemble each other for example the question which title and claim was to be invoked in which lordship or how the strategies to incorporate lordships acquired by marriage were similar. The results will enlighten us about basic conditions of rule from a transnational perspective that can disclose European similarities. The long tradition of research on both dynasties has led to an exceptional width of research and interpretations in regard to the two dynasties. Scholars have disassociated with traditional interpretations in the vein of national history and in general the dynamics between nobles, society and king have been studied much more than the political intent of the rulers. Important developments like the origins of the so-called ‘Reichsfürstenstand’ and the growing responsibility of the princes in the Empire and the institutionalisation and blooming protobureaucracy in England are explained as phenomena that developed from the political dynamics and not an intentional attempt of the rulers to reorganise their respective realms. The focus is on the collective, not on the development of royal rule or royal prerogative.11 The dynamic development is considered to be much more important than the intentions of the rulers. In this vein of research Bryce Lyon even denied that Henry II of England had a decisive role for the constitutional history of England and its institutions.12 At the same time other contemporary phenomena like the bloom of courtly culture or the highpoint of literary production are only understood to be loosely connected to the Plantagenets, if at all.13 The economic development of England as well is not attributed to intentional royal economic measures, but on the contrary the economic 10 The studies of Timothy Reuter are a notable exception: Timothy Reuter, Medieval polities and modern mentalities, ed. Janet L. Nelson, Cambridge et al. 2006. Also Joseph P. Huffman, The Social Politics of Medieval Diplomacy, Anglo-German relations (1066–1307), Ann Arbor 2000. 11 Adelheid Krah, Die Entstehung der “potestas regia” im Westfrankenreich während der ersten Regierungsjahre Kaiser Karls II. (840–877), Berlin 2000; Bernd Schneidmüller, Konsensuale Herrschaft. Ein Essay über Formen und Konzepte politischer Ordnung im Mittelalter, in: Paul-Joachim Heinig/Hans-Joachim Schmidt/Rainer Christoph Schwinges et al. (eds.), Reich, Regionen und Europa in Mittelalter und Neuzeit. Festschrift für Peter Moraw, Berlin 2000 (Historische Forschungen 67), 53–87. 12 Bryce Lyon, Henry II. a non-Victorian interpretation, in: Jeffrey S. Hamilton/George P. Cuttino (eds.), Documenting the Past – Essays in Medieval History presented to George Peddy Cuttino, Wolfeboro, NH 1989, 21–31. 13 Ian Short, Literary Culture at the Court of Henry II, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II – New Interpretations, Woodbridge et al. 2007, 335–361.

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politics of the kings is caused by the wish to profit from the windfall of new economic chances.14 A very similar development can be perceived in German research and I would just pick two examples: Knut Görich demonstrated that the frequent allusion to honor imperii by Frederick Barbarossa does not aim at a new definition or a renewal of the Empire but at noble notions of honour Barbarossa shared with his contemporaries.15 In a similar vein Olaf Rader placed Frederick II’s handling of the different parts of the Empire in the context of the ideas the emperor developed from his experiences in Sicily – thus pointing out that they were neither singular, extraordinary nor novel.16 In contrast to England the influence of the Staufen kings on economic, cultural and social developments were never estimated as influential as their contemporaries’ impact. It is clearly discernible that the Staufen rulers only reacted to new phenomena like the economic boom in Lombardy or the newly increased awareness of townsmen and that they sometimes even failed to keep up with new developments.17 Taking into consideration how the respective rulers of Germany and England have been embedded in their time-dependent context, it is remarkable, that the evident points of comparison of the two ‘imperia’ have yet to be explored, all the more so, since the Staufen and Plantagenets faced similar basis conditions and opportunities to which they had to react and which they could use. The contemporary settings for royal rule as developed by scholars in the last two decades, mean, that the research on similar situations in England and Germany could be significant for the research on both countries. The interplay between the rulers’ will to rule and their restriction by a set of conditions to influence actions that is comparable, justifies such a comparative approach. At the same time the differing emphasis of research in England and Germany provides possibilities for reciprocal impulses, which have yet to be used to their full potential, incorporating the chances of a European background.18 Institutional and con14 Nick Barrat, Finance and the Economy in the Reign of Henry II, in: Christopher HarperBill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II – New Interpretations, Woodbridge et al. 2007, 242–257. 15 Knut Görich, Die Ehre Friedrich Barbarossas. Kommunikation, Konflikt und politisches Handeln im 12. Jahrhundert, Darmstadt 2001; Idem, Friedrich Barbarossa. Eine Biographie, Munich 2011. 16 Olaf B. Rader, Friedrich II. Der Sizilianer auf dem Kaiserthron, Munich 2010. 17 Ulf Dirlmeier, Friedrich Barbarossa – auch ein Wirtschaftspolitiker? in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa – Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 501–518; also Stefan Weinfurter, Erzbischof Philipp von Köln und der Sturz Heinrichs des Löwen, in: Hanna Vollrath/Odilo Engels (eds.), Köln – Stadt und Bistum in Kirche und Reich des Mittelalters. Festschrift für Odilo Engels zum 65. Geburtstag, Cologne et al. 1993, 455–481, on economic constraints for Barbarossa’s policy in the Niederrhein region. 18 Borgolte 2001 (Perspektiven), 24.

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stitutional history was and is the focus of research in England while in Germany, the unwritten regularities of ruling in the daily routine of king, church and nobles has been researched and can be demonstrated by key words like ‘symbolische Kommunikation’ or ‘Ritualdynamik’.19 Especially these unwritten regularities can be termed as preconditions to a formal rule but that are set in advance. Taking this into consideration these restrictions on power are to be set in a context of a transpersonal rule. The diverse lordships demanded to some extent the concept of transpersonal lordship. The papers collected in this volume ponder power, the preconditions of ruling and at least some of the impacts of royal rule on the nobility, on the ideas of nobility and the bishop ideal as well as the idea of courtly culture. The first two contributions by Stephen Church and Knut Görich complement each other, because they both ask how a ruler may accomplish a peace treaty with his own subjects when the very hierarchical situation prevents a treaty on equal footing. Both cases show how the compromise settlement is the result of a process of negotiation, that cannot be forced by power. Stephen Church argues that for that reason the exact date of Magna Carta matters. If Magna Carta was issued – as Church argues – before the actual reconciliation of the rebellious barons to John, that means that the charter was an act of benevolence towards loyal subjects and the rebels could only enter and take advantage of the king’s privilege once they had been forgiven by John. Knut Görich addresses the peace negotiations at Venice and Constance and describes how in these cases the status of the Emperor Barbarossa was preserved by the outward orchestration of the peace while Frederick Barbarossa had to back down in regard to his actual agenda. Thomas Foerster focuses on borders and how the crossing of a border affects the use of titles as well as the legitimisation of royal rule. The different lordships Henry and Frederick had to administer were thought of as an entity in the case of Frederick Barbarossa – the Empire – and had only a very vague connection in the case of Henry. The notion of what kept together the respective realms can be seen best in the moment of border transition when the king/emperor had to base his rules on a different claim. It is obvious, that the word ‘Empire’ carried a meaning that went beyond a simple brace for the different lordships. Henry II in parallel to other contemporary rulers could have claimed to have super-royal quasi imperial rule, but it is telling that within the ‘Angevin Empire’ the evidence for border crossings show that he never attempted it. Alheydis Plassmann focuses on the problem of ‘ruling from afar’, delegating rule and authority in the periphery and looks at the example of Burgundy and 19 www.uni-muenster.de/SFB496/ (19. 12. 2017) und SFB 619 www.ritualdynamik.de/ (19. 12. 2017)

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Aquitaine the two lordships Henry II and Frederick Barbarossa acquired by their respective marriages to Eleanor of Aquitaine and Beatrice of Bugundy. In both cases, the evidence of the charters shows, that the rule of the husband acquires additional legitimisation because of his higher status. Neither does Frederick act solely as the count of the Franche-comt8 in Burgundy nor does Henry II act solely as the duke of Aquitaine. For both, it is clear that their authority is not detained by the options within the region, although in Frederick’s case the additional prestige of the Empire helped constitute a more reliable connection. The evidence for both wives show that their rule fits far better into the region, as they had no opportunity to recruit the staff active in the trans-regional actions of their husbands. Max Lieberman looks at courtly culture and how noble ideals affected the royal courts in England and Germany respectively. The validation of the kings through their own adherence to noble ideals and the change of the noble ideal to incorporate the typical career of a knight and the loyalty to a lord had a severe impact on how the relationship between kings and nobles were seen, and meant that noble virtues developed a certain independence from the royal ideal. Andrea Stieldorf gives insight into how the representation of royal power in seals and coins was handled in Germany and in England. Even though it is logical, that imperial allusions are to be found on the images of the seals in Germany, it is telling that at least the multiple titles of the Angevin rulers are to be found on the circumscription of the seals. Although the imagery of the Angevin seals – particularly the counterseal with the mounted knight – aligns them to other seals of the nobility, Andrea Stieldorf can show that the Angevin seals enforce the idea of important functions of the king, like the military defence, the jurisdiction and others while the German seals point at the king or emperor as holder of office. Stefanie Schild investigates the interaction of king/emperor and bishops in England and the Empire. In both realms the bishops – at least those who were willing to do service to their king and who expected promotion and recompense in exchange for their efforts – had a surprisingly high impact on the royal politics and were significant for the implementation of royal power. Nevertheless, the conditions for this treatment of the bishops as instruments of ruling cannot be defined exactly, and the interaction of kings and bishops and their role as trusted advisors was highly dependent on personal factors and did not develop naturally with their office. Only in the Empire there is a tendency for bishops to act in other lordships than the one they were based in and this shows as in other cases that the actual existence of the Empire had influence on how the service of bishops could be exploited. Dominik Büschken focuses on the special case of Thomas Becket and Rainald of Dassel, two men whose extraordinary familiarity with their kings has attracted

Introduction

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interest for a long time. Both can be seen as examples for upward social mobility, even if Thomas Becket is the more obvious example. Seen from the royal servant’s perspective, advancing to a bishopric as a reward for service of the king could well fulfil personal ambitions. The conditions for social mobility were shaped by the increasing need for administratively schooled personnel, especially in England. The advancement of social climbers was not only a question of merit, but also of conditions, external influence and ambitions, and the unique chances in the Church hierarchy allowed for such an advancement. The upward mobility of favoured persons was recognized and occasionally criticised by the contemporaries, but not yet attacked or prevented. The criticism directed against the favoured must be seen as an argument in the debate about good rule. Thus the need for servants of the king influenced the flexibility of society in that time. Jonathan Lyon takes the examples of the monasteries of Tegernsee and Bury St. Edmund’s as basis for considerations on the challenges monasteries had to face in regard to secular authority. Although the conditions in Germany with the wellestablished system of ‘advocati’ seems on first sight to be fundamentally different to England, nevertheless it can be shown that the kind of challenges to the monastery’s authority did not change much. For the monastery of Tegernsee the attacks on the monastery’s independence would usually come from the wellknown source of the advocati, and although the monastery was under royal protection, the heavy hand of the advocati never could be entirely pushed aside. For Bury on the other hand, the royal protection could be invoked even in cases where royal officers were the culprits of violating Bury St Edmund’s rights. In no way can the authors of this volume claim that they have covered every aspect of Plantagenet and Staufen rule, nor were all possible comparative perspective addressed. Even though the cases in question gives us insight into what line of investigation is promising, still many questions as only hinted at in this introduction could be addressed and researched. Hopefully, the collected volume will give an incentive to study further the questions that were addressed here as well as open other fields for possible comparisons of two realms that might not both have been called ‘empire’ but that nevertheless share more traits than strike the eye at a superficial glance.

Bibliography Gerhard Baaken, Ius imperii ad regnum. Königreich Sizilien, Imperium Romanum und römisches Papsttum vom Tode Kaiser Heinrichs VI. bis zu den Verzichterklärungen Rudolfs von Habsburg, Cologne et al. 1993.

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Nick Barrat, Finance and the Economy in the Reign of Henry II, in: Christopher Harper Bill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II – New Interpretations, Woodbridge et al. 2007, 242–257. Michael Borgolte, Perspektiven europäischer Mittelalterhistorie an der Schwelle zum 21. Jahrhundert, in: Idem (ed.), Das europäische Mittelalter im Spannungsbogen des Vergleichs – Zwanzig internationale Beiträge zu Praxis, Problemen und Perspektiven der historischen Komparatistik, Berlin 2001, 13–27. Michael Borgolte, Vor dem Ende der Nationalgeschichten? Chancen und Hindernisse für eine Geschichte Europas im Mittelalter, in: Historische Zeitschrift 272 (2001), 561–596. Michael Borgolte (ed.), Mittelalter im Labor. Die Mediävistik testet Wege zu einer transkulturellen Europawissenschaft, Berlin 2008. Ulf Dirlmeier, Friedrich Barbarossa – auch ein Wirtschaftspolitiker? in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa – Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers, Sigmaringen 1992 (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), 501–518. Thomas Foerster, Romanorum et regni Sicilie imperator. Zum Anspruch Kaiser Heinrichs VI. auf das normannische Königreich Sizilien, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 54 (2008), 37–46. John Gillingham, Richard I (Yale English Monarchs), New Haven et al. 1999. John Gillingham, The Angevin Empire, London 2nd Edition 2001. Knut Görich, Die Ehre Friedrich Barbarossas. Kommunikation, Konflikt und politisches Handeln im 12. Jahrhundert, Darmstadt 2001. Idem, Friedrich Barbarossa. Eine Biographie, Munich 2011. Stephen Howe, Empire. A very Short Introduction, Oxford 2002. Joseph P. Huffman, The Social Politics of Medieval Diplomacy, Anglo-German relations (1066 1307), Ann Arbor 2000. Bryce Lyon, Henry II. a non-Victorian interpretation, in: Jeffrey S. Hamilton/George P. Cuttino (eds.), Documenting the Past – Essays in Medieval History presented to George Peddy Cuttino, Wolfeboro, NH 1989, 21–31. Michael Markowski, Richard Lionheart. Bad King, Bad Crusader? in: Journal of Medieval History 23 (1997), 351–365. Timothy Reuter, Medieval polities and modern mentalities, ed. Janet L. Nelson, Cambridge et al. 2006. Adelheid Krah, Die Entstehung der “potestas regia” im Westfrankenreich während der ersten Regierungsjahre Kaiser Karls II. (840–877), Berlin 2000. Alheydis Plassmann, The King and His Sons, Henry II’s and Fredrick Barbarossa’s Succession Strategies Compared, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 36 (2014), 149–166. Olaf B. Rader, Friedrich II. Der Sizilianer auf dem Kaiserthron, Munich 2010. Bernd Schneidmüller, Konsensuale Herrschaft. Ein Essay über Formen und Konzepte politischer Ordnung im Mittelalter, in: Paul-Joachim Heinig/Hans-Joachim Schmidt/ Rainer Christoph Schwinges et al. (eds.), Reich, Regionen und Europa in Mittelalter und Neuzeit. Festschrift für Peter Moraw, Berlin 2000 (Historische Forschungen 67), 53–87. Ian Short, Literary Culture at the Court of Henry II, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/ Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II – New Interpretations, Woodbridge et al. 2007, 335–361.

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Stefan Weinfurter, Erzbischof Philipp von Köln und der Sturz Heinrichs des Löwen, in: Hanna Vollrath/Odilo Engels (eds.), Köln – Stadt und Bistum in Kirche und Reich des Mittelalters. Festschrift für Odilo Engels zum 65. Geburtstag, Cologne et al. 1993, 455–481.

Knut Görich

Frieden schließen und Rang inszenieren. Friedrich I. Barbarossa in Venedig 1177 und Konstanz 11831

Abstract The peace treaties of Venice in 1177 and Konstanz in 1183 were often examined in respect to the question who had been the winner of the long confrontation of emperor and pope and emperor and Lombard cities. Since Frederick Barbarossa had become part of the ‘national’ myth after the ‘re-discovery’ of the Kyffhäuser-myth in the 19th century, his reign was analysed with the lens of questions on hegemony and success that tends to allow only for a distorted view on the conditions of peace settlement in regard to rank and honor. Regardless of the actual peace terms, for the public staging of Frederick’s reconciliation with the pope, the Sicilian king and the Lombards, the peace arbitrators had to account for the preservation of the status of the emperor. While the issues themselves were solved in a compromise that involved Frederick Barbarossa’s backing down from unattainable goals and accepting the de facto rule of the Lombard cities without imperial intervention, the staging of the peace followed the expectations connected to the status of the peace parties. The meeting with the pope allowed for the emperor to re-establish his role as defensor ecclesiae while the peace with the Lombards was played out as a reconciliation with subjects, not with equals. The peace settlements of Venice and Konstanz thus restored and consolidated the hierarchical position of the emperor, and led to a stabilization, not a challenge of the emperor’s rank.

Der Anspruch der ostfränkisch-deutschen Könige auf die Herrschaft über das regnum Italiae, aber auch auf die Kaiserkrönung durch den Papst in Rom und die damit verbundene Aufgabe des Schutzes der römischen Kirche haben seit Otto I. bekanntlich zu zahlreichen Italienzügen der Herrscher geführt.2 Ressourcenzehrende Konflikte waren zumindest zwischen dem 10. und 13. Jahrhundert eher 1 Der vorliegende Beitrag nimmt manche Überlegungen, vereinzelt auch Formulierungen wieder auf, die ich bereits an anderen Stellen vorgelegt habe, vgl. Knut Görich, Die Ehre Friedrich Barbarossas. Kommunikation, Konflikt und politisches Handeln im 12. Jahrhundert, Darmstadt 2001, 133–185 und 261–302. Ders., Friedrich Barbarossa. Eine Biographie, München 2011, 372–387, 428–461 und 485–502. 2 Christian Jörg/Christoph Dartmann (edd.), Der „Zug über Berge“ während des Mittelalters: Neue Perspektiven der Erforschung mittelalterlicher Romzüge, Wiesbaden 2014.

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die Regel als die Ausnahme, so dass sich der große Historikerstreit des 19. Jahrhunderts an der Frage entzündete, inwieweit die mittelalterliche Kaiserpolitik das deutsche Königtum geschwächt und damit eine Hauptursache für die späte Entstehung des deutschen Nationalstaates war.3 Dem Stauferkaiser Friedrich I. Barbarossa kam in diesem Gelehrtenstreit eine prominente Stellung zu, hatte der Kaiser von den 38 Jahren seiner Regierungszeit zwischen 1152–1190 doch nur sechs Jahre ununterbrochen nördlich der Alpen verbracht – und den überwiegenden Anteil seiner sechs Italienzüge in Konflikten zunächst mit Mailand, dann mit dem lombardischen Städtebund und mit Papst Alexander III. Dennoch stand für Hans Prutz, der unter dem unmittelbaren Eindruck des deutsch-französischen Krieges von 1870/71 die erste wissenschaftliche Biographie des Stauferkaisers schrieb, außer Frage, dass Barbarossa „als Mittelpunkt des Reiches“ Volk und Fürsten „ihrer Zusammengehörigkeit“ habe bewusst werden lassen; er habe „vermöge der einigenden Gewalt seiner Persönlichkeit“ Einigkeit hergestellt,4 und das deutsche Volk habe sich „niemals so als Nation gefühlt, ist niemals von einem so lebendigen, so wirksamen Nationalgefühle, von einem so freudigen und so durchaus berechtigten Nationalstolze erfüllt gewesen als in den Tagen Friedrichs I. […] Die Siege Kaiser Friedrichs haben das deutsche Volk sich seine Wehrhaftigkeit und Kriegstüchtigkeit wiederum bewusst werden lassen, sie haben es wieder geehrt in seiner nationalen Kraft anderen Nationen gegenüber sich zu fühlen.“5 Oder, ebenso kurz wie nationalstolz und anachronistisch: Des Staufers Ehrgeiz hat „mit den Bedürfnissen des Reichs, mit den Wünschen der Nation“ übereingestimmt.6 Die Ergebnisse dieser langjährigen Kämpfe waren aber natürlich auch schon damals gut bekannt: Im Frieden von Venedig 1177 erkannte Barbarossa den seit 1159 bekämpften Alexander III. als rechtmäßigen Papst an, im Frieden von Konstanz 1183 gewährte er den im Lombardenbund zusammengeschlossenen italienischen Städten die lange verweigerte faktische Autonomie unter der Oberherrschaft des Reiches. Gemessen an den ursprünglichen, gegenüber den Kommunen in den roncalischen Gesetzen von 1158 und gegenüber Alexander III. auf den Synoden von Pavia 1160, Lodi 1161 und St. Jean de Losne 1162 3 Thomas Brechenmacher, Wie viel Gegenwart verträgt historisches Urteilen? Die Kontroverse zwischen Heinrich von Sybel und Julius Ficker über die Bewertung der Kaiserpolitik des Mittelalters (1859–1862), in: Jürgen Elvert/Susanne Krauss (edd.), Historische Debatten und Kontroversen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart 2003, 35–54; Christian Klein, Von der Aktualität einer überholten Fragestellung: Der Sybel-Ficker-Streit und der Diskurs über den deutschen Nationalstaat, in: Christina Jostkleigrewe/ders./Kathrin Prietzel (edd.), Geschichtsbilder. Konstruktion – Reflexion – Transformation, Köln 2005, 203–242. 4 Hans Prutz, Kaiser Friedrich I., 3 Bde., Danzig 1871–74, hier Bd. 3, 354. 5 Prutz 1871–74, 351. 6 Wilhelm von Giesebrecht, Geschichte der deutschen Kaiserzeit, Staufer und Welfen (4), Braunschweig 1872, 379f.

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formulierten Zielen war das eine glatte Niederlage. Jakob Burkhardt wunderte sich, dass die Deutschen Barbarossas „Wiederkommen“ erwarteten, obwohl doch „dessen Hauptlebensziel, die Unterwerfung Italiens, missraten und dessen Regierungssystem im Reich von sehr zweifelhaftem Wert gewesen war“; er erklärte diesen Widerspruch zwischen historischer Leistungsbilanz und allgegenwärtiger Erinnerung an den Kaiser durch die Annahme, dass Barbarossas „Persönlichkeit“ die Resultate seiner Politik „weit überwogen haben“ – worin er generell eine entscheidende Voraussetzung „historischer Größe“ erkannte.7 In Wahrheit aber „war der Barbarossa dem deutschen Volk eine ziemlich fremde Gestalt“ gewesen, und seine Popularität nicht etwa die Konsequenz lebendiger Sagentradition, sondern einer literarischen Auffrischung, die erst mit der Verbreitung der Kyffhäusersage durch die Märchensammlung der Gebrüder Grimm 1816 und die Popularisierung dieses Stoffes durch Friedrich Rückerts Gedicht „Barbarossa im Kyffhäuser“ 1817 eine breite Öffentlichkeit in Deutschland erreicht hatte.8 Erst danach wurde Barbarossa als sagenhafter Kaiser, der im Berg schläft und bei seinem Erwachen die verlorene Herrlichkeit des Reiches zurückbringt, im kollektiven Gedächtnis der Deutschen lebendig.9 Burkhardt verwechselte die Popularität des Staufers, die erst dessen Karriere als Sinnbild der nationalen Einigung geschuldet war, mit einer vermeintlich seit Jahrhunderten „magisch weiterverbreiteten“ Erinnerung. Im 1870/71 neugegründeten Deutschen Reich der Hohenzollern wurde der mittelalterliche Kaiser vollends zum omnipräsenten und legitimierenden Symbol mittelalterlicher Kaiserherrlichkeit. Aus der Perspektive der Deutschen, die vor der Gründung ihres Reiches im 19. Jahrhundert erst ,Befreiungskriege‘ gegen Napoleon, dann ,Einigungskriege‘ gegen Österreich und Frankreich führten und schließlich nach Weltgeltung strebten, war es die Kriegstüchtigkeit des Kaisers, seine Qualität als Kriegsherr, die ihm ehrendes Andenken und einen festen Platz in der Reihe bewunderter Machtpolitiker in der deutschen Geschichte sicherte.10 7 Jacob Burckhardt, Weltgeschichtliche Betrachtungen, Stuttgart 1935, 236; Vgl. Stefan Weinfurter, Mythos Friedrich Barbarossa: Heiliges Reich und Weltkaiseridee, in: Helmut Altrichter et al. (edd.), Mythen in der Geschichte, Freiburg i. Br. 2004, 237–260. 8 Georg Voigt, Die deutsche Kaisersage, in: Historische Zeitschrift 26 (1871), 131–188, hier 135 sowie 187; Treffend Arno Borst, Reden über die Staufer, Frankfurt a. Main/Berlin/Wien 1978, 128: „Die vermeintlich seit Jahrhunderten bohrende Sehnsucht des Volkes nach Wiederkehr des Rotbarts war bloß eine moderne Fiktion der Poeten.“ 9 Knut Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa in den deutschen Erinnerungskulturen, in: ders./ Martin Wihoda (edd.), Friedrich Barbarossa in den Nationalgeschichten Deutschlands und Ostmitteleuropas, Köln 2017, 91–112. 10 Gerd Althoff, Das Mittelalterbild der Deutschen vor und nach 1945. Eine Skizze, in: PaulJoachim Heinig et al. (edd.), Reich, Regionen und Europa in Mittelalter und Neuzeit, Festschrift für Peter Moraw, Berlin 2000, 731–749; Ders., Die Rezeption des Reiches seit dem Ende des Mittelalters, in: Matthias Puhle/Claus-Peter Hasse (edd.), Heiliges Römisches Reich Deutscher Nation 962–1806. Von Otto dem Großen bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters.

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Entsprechend schwierig war es für die patriotisch gestimmten Historiker, Barbarossas Italienpolitik nicht unter dem Gesichtspunkt von Sieg und Niederlage zu beurteilen. Den vermeintlichen Kern ihrer Rationalität sah man darin, dass Barbarossas Regalienpolitik dem Königtum finanzielle Ressourcen in Italien erschließen sollte, die es nördlich der Alpen schon längst an die Fürsten verloren hatte – ohne die astronomischen Kosten in Rechnung zu stellen, die der Versuch ihrer Durchsetzung verschlang. Die aus dem Konstanzer Frieden 1183 dem Kaiser auf der einen Seite und dem lombardischen Städtebund auf der anderen Seite zugefallenen Vorteile wurden mit viel Scharfsinn und in der Tradition einer stark rechts- und verfassungsgeschichtlich orientierten Geschichtsschreibung gegeneinander abgewogen, bis sich schließlich nach etwa 100 Jahren Forschungsgeschichte die nüchterne Einsicht durchsetzte, dass sich der Friede den Kategorien von Sieg und Niederlage entziehe.11 Die Deutung des Friedens von Venedig 1177 stand unter dem Eindruck der im 19. Jahrhundert konfessionell und politisch instrumentalisierten Debatte um die Buße Heinrichs IV. vor Papst Gregor VII. 1077 in Canossa. Sollte der im Zeichen des Machtgedankens schon längst zum Nationalmythos stilisierte Staufer etwa eine dem Salierkaiser vergleichbare Demütigung erlitten haben? Das war mit dem gängigen Geschichtsbild schwer zu vereinbaren, und so war es wohl kein Zufall, dass Barbarossas Fußfall vor Alexander III. in der älteren Forschung gewissermaßen kompensiert wurde durch recht subtile Rekonstruktionen einer vermeintlich überlegenen Diplomatie des Kaisers, mit der sich „der große Staatsmann“ „selbst der vielgewandten Diplomatie der römischen Kurie ebenbürtig, ja überlegen“ erwiesen habe.12 Unter dem Eindruck der Forschungen zur symbolischen Kommunikation wurde diese seit dem späten 19. Jahrhundert kanonisierte Sicht eines kaiserlichen Sieges wieder relativiert, und es mehren sich die Stimmen, die von einer „Demontage“ des Kaisers in Venedig sprechen13 und mit Barbarossas

Essays, Dresden 2006, 477–485; Stephanie Kluge, Kontinuität und Wandel? Zur Bewertung hochmittelalterlicher Königsherrschaft durch die frühe bundesrepublikanische Mediävistik, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 48 (2014), 39–120. 11 Alfred Haverkamp, Der Konstanzer Friede zwischen Kaiser und Lombardenbund (1183), in: Helmut Maurer (ed.), Kommunale Bündnisse Oberitaliens und Oberdeutschlands im Vergleich, Sigmaringen 1987, 11–44, hier 42. 12 Ferdinand Güterbock, Kaiser, Papst und Lombardenbund nach dem Frieden von Venedig. Ein neuer Quellenfund, in: Quellen und Forschungen aus Italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 25 (1933/34), 158–191, hier 158. 13 Stefan Weinfurter, Venedig 1177 – Wende der Barbarossa-Zeit? Zur Einführung, in: ders. (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas, Stuttgart 2002, 9–25; Ders., Papsttum, Reich und kaiserliche Autorität. Von Rom 1111 bis Venedig 1177, in: Ernst-Dieter Hehl et al. (edd.), Das Papsttum in der Welt des 12. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart 2002, 77–99, hier 98.

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Anerkennung Alexanders III. seinen „glanzvolle[n] Abstieg“ beginnen lassen14 – oder sogar die dreitägige Buße des Saliers bei Canossa von einem drei Wochen währenden „Demütigungszeremoniell“ in den Schatten gestellt sehen, das Barbarossa in Venedig über sich habe ergehen lassen müssen.15 Gleichwohl bleibt es insgesamt „ein gewagtes Spiel“, nach Siegern und Verlierern des Friedens von Venedig zu fragen.16 Denn in der zeitgenössischen Wahrnehmung – auch und gerade der päpstlichen Seite – spielte diese Kategorie keine Rolle, und unverkennbar eröffneten die Friedensschlüsse von Venedig und Konstanz dem Kaiser neue Handlungsspielräume: Hatte sich Barbarossa während des Schismas mit wachsendem Widerstand im Episkopat konfrontiert gesehen, konnte er sich in den aufflammenden Konflikten mit Papst Urban IV. ab 1185 der einhelligen Unterstützung der Bischöfe sicher sein; das lange bekämpfte Mailand wurde 1185 zum wichtigsten Bündnispartner des Kaisers gegen das zuvor begünstigte Cremona, und die traditionelle Feindschaft mit dem König des regnum Siciliae wich 1184/86 dem normannisch-staufischen Ehebündnis zwischen Heinrich VI. und Konstanze. Aber jenseits dieser längerfristigen Auswirkungen, die ihrerseits kaum vorhersehbar und planbar waren und daher auch nicht einfach Barbarossas weitblickender politischen Gestaltungsfähigkeit zugeschrieben werden sollten, stellt sich doch die Frage, ob ungeachtet der Zugeständnisse, die Barbarossa 1177 und 1183 seinen Gegnern in der Sache zu machen hatte, in den demonstrativen Handlungen, mit denen die Friedensschlüsse ,veröffentlicht‘ wurden, nicht auch eine spezifisch symbolische, seine Herrschaft stärkende Wirkung gelegen haben könnte. Die jüngere Forschung hat die Bedeutung der Visualisierung von Herrschaft und ihrer Inszenierung in Krönungen, Prozessions- und Sitzordnungen, Herrscherbegegnungen, Gesandtenempfängen, Friedensschlüssen, Unterwerfungen und Investituren als besondere Charakteristika der vormodernen Herrschaftspraxis erkannt. Demnach verlangte Herrschaftsausübung nicht zuletzt öffentliche ,Aufführungen‘.17 Barbarossas Macht bestand zu keinem geringen Teil in der Fähigkeit, die seiner Person und seinem Amt, dem honor imperatoris und dem honor imperii geschuldeten äußeren Zeichen der Ehrer14 So Johannes Laudage, Friedrich Barbarossa (1152–1190): Eine Biographie, Regensburg 2009, 266. 15 Weinfurter 2002 (Venedig 1177), 11f.; Ders. 2002 (Papsttum), 97; Jetzt auch John B. Freed, Frederick Barbarossa. The Prince and the Myth, New Haven/London 2016, 413. 16 Jürgen Petersohn, Kaisertum und Rom in spätsalischer und staufischer Zeit. Romidee und Rompolitik von Heinrich V. bis Friedrich II., Hannover 2010, 282. 17 Gerd Althoff, Die Macht der Rituale. Symbolik und Herrschaft im Mittelalter, Darmstadt 2003; Ders., Das hochmittelalterliche Königtum. Akzente einer unabgeschlossenen Neubewertung, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 45 (2011), 77–98; Barbara Stollberg-Rilinger, Verfassungsgeschichte als Kulturgeschichte, in: Zeitschrift für Rechtsgeschichte, Germanistische Abteilung 127 (2010), 1–32.

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weisung einfordern zu können – wobei honor in diesen Kontexten nicht als irgendwie moralische Größe zu verstehen ist, sondern als dem Rang geschuldete Zeichen sozialen Respekts: So wurde symbolisch sichtbar, was der Staufer zu sein beanspruchte.18 Die Niederlagen, die Barbarossa in der Sache gegen den Lombardenbund und gegen Alexander III. hinnehmen musste, machten die demonstrative Anerkennung seiner Herrschaft und Rücksichtnahme auf den honor von Person und Amt nicht überflüssig – sie waren vielmehr eine unumgängliche Voraussetzung des Friedens in der Inszenierung der Friedensschlüsse von Venedig 1177 und Konstanz 1183.

1. Zwei Feststellungen bleiben einer Untersuchung der beiden Friedensschlüsse vorauszuschicken. Erstens war für die Konflikte mit dem Städtebund und Papst Alexander III. bezeichnend, dass sie – anders als etwa im Falle der Adelsrebellionen im regnum Siciliae – nie auf Beseitigung des Herrschers oder gar der Monarchie zielten.19 Vielmehr verlangten die Städte im Gegenzug für ihren Gehorsam des Kaisers Anerkennung ihrer alten Rechtsgewohnheiten – wie selbst im Gründungseid des Lombardenbundes festgehalten wurde.20 Alexander III. erwartete die Anerkennung als rechtmäßiger Papst und versprach, Barbarossa als Sohn der Kirche zu ehren – schon kurz nach der römischen Doppelwahl von 1159 teilten seine Kardinäle dem Kaiser mit, sie seien bereit, ihn auf jede Weise zu ehren und seinen Ruhm zu mehren, wenn er seinerseits die Römische Kirche ehre und nicht den Schismatiker unterstütze – eine Position, die Alexander III. bei den Verhandlungen in Veroli 1170 bekräftigte:21 ,Wir sind wirklich bereit, ihn vor allen Fürsten der Welt zu ehren und zu lieben und ihm sein Recht gänzlich zu

18 Dazu Knut Görich, Die „Ehre des Reiches“ (honor imperii). Überlegungen zu einem Forschungsproblem, in: Johannes Laudage et al. (edd.), Rittertum und höfische Kultur der Stauferzeit, Köln 2006, 36–74. 19 Theo Broekmann, Rigor iustitiae: Herrschaft, Recht und Terror im normannisch-staufischen Süden (1050–1250), Darmstadt 2005. 20 Gli atti del comune di Milano fino all’anno MCCXVI, ed. Cesare Manaresi, Mailand 1919, Nr. 56, hier 84 Z. 8–15: Ego iuro quod adiuvabo […] contra omnem hominem quicumque voluerit nobiscum facere guerram aut malum eo quod velit nos plus facere quam fecimus a tempore Henrici regis usque ad introitum imperii Frederici. Vgl. Görich 2001, 312 mit weiteren Beispielen. 21 Otto von Freising und Rahewin, Gesta Frederici seu rectius Cronica IV 63, ed. Franz-Josef Schmale, übers. von Adolf Schmidt (Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters 17), Darmstadt 1965, 642, insb. Z. 1f., 23f. und 31–34.

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bewahren, wenn er nur seine Mutter, die allerheiligste römische Kirche, die ihn zur kaiserlichen Macht erhob, mit kindlicher Verehrung liebt.‘22 Zweitens sind die zeitgenössischen Aussagen über die symbolische Seite der Friedensschlüsse von bestimmten Voraussetzungen abhängig. Die Friedensverträge des 12. Jahrhunderts enthielten wenn überhaupt, dann allenfalls knappe Bestimmungen über symbolische Verhaltensweisen.23 So heißt es etwa im Vorvertrag von Anagni 1176, der die Bedingungen für den Friedensschluss von Venedig formulierte, dass der Herr Kaiser, ,was das erste und hauptsächliche ist‘ (quod primum et principale est), den Herrn Papst Alexander als den rechtgläubigen und universalen Papst anzuerkennen habe und ihm die ,geschuldete Ehrerweisung zu zeigen‘ habe (debitam rereventiam exhibere), wie sie seine rechtgläubigen Vorgänger dessen rechtgläubigen Vorgängern erwiesen hatten – ohne dass es für notwendig erachtet wurde, näher auszuführen, worin diese Ehrerweisung eigentlich bestand.24 Im speziellen Fall der Begegnung mit Alexander III. hätte Barbarossa dem Papst aber nicht nur die Fußfall, Fußkuss und Stratordienst zu erweisen,25 sondern sich als Exkommunizierter auch noch dem Rekonziliationsritus zu unterwerfen und sich als reuiger Sünder zu zeigen gehabt – eine wegen der Häufung von Demutsbezeugungen für die kaiserliche Würde heikle Angelegenheit, über deren Inszenierung entsprechend intensiv verhandelt wurde.26 Über den Verlauf solcher Verhandlungen geben die Quellen in der Regel deshalb keine nähere Auskunft, weil die Chronisten nur in Ausnahmefällen genauere Informationen über diese Vorgänge hatten. So ist es ein absoluter Aus22 Boso, Vita Alexandri III, in: Le Liber Pontificalis, ed. Louis Duchesne, vol. ii, Paris 1892, 397–446, hier 422 Z. 8–10: Nos vero, si per eum non steterit, parati et prompti sumus pre ceteris mundi principibus honorare ipsum ac diligere, et suam sibi iustitiam integre conservare, dummodo matrem suam sacrosanctam Romanam ecclesiam que ipsum ad imperii culmen evexit, filiali devotione diligat. 23 Claudia Garnier, Zeichen und Schrift. Symbolische Handlungen und literale Fixierung am Beispiel von Friedensschlüssen des 13. Jahrhunderts, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 32 (1998), 263–287. 24 Die Urkunden Friedrichs I., ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Diplomata 10) 5 Bde., Hannover 1985, 1975–1990, Nr. 658, hier 162 Z. 41–44: Dominus imperator et domina imperatrix et dominus Heinricus rex filius eorum et principes universi exibent ecclesie Romane, quod primum et principale est, videlicet quod dominum papam Alexandrum in catholicum et universalem papam recipient et ei debitam reverentiam exibebunt, sicut katholici sui antecessores suis catholicis antecessoribus exibuerunt. Ähnlich im Frieden von Venedig 1177, vgl. DFI. 687, hier 203 Z. 28–31. 25 Zum Begrüßungszeremoniell vgl. Achim T. Hack, Das Empfangszeremoniell bei mittelalterlichen Papst-Kaiser-Treffen, Köln 1999. Roman Deutinger, Sutri 1155. Mißverständnisse um ein Mißverständnis, in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 60 (2004), 97–133. 26 Knut Görich, Venedig 1177. Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa und Papst Alexander III. schließen Frieden, in: Wolfgang Krieger (ed.), Und keine Schlacht bei Marathon. Große Ereignisse und Mythen der europäischen Geschichte, Stuttgart 2005, 70–91 und 337–343 mit weiteren Literaturhinweisen.

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nahmefall, dass mit Vinzenz von Prag ein Ohren- und Augenzeuge solcher vorbereitenden Gespräche auch über das Geschehen selbst berichtet – er nahm 1158 im Gefolge des als Vermittler fungierenden Herzogs von Böhmen an den Verhandlungen über die Unterwerfung Mailands teil. Ihm verdanken wir das für unsere Vorstellung von Verhandlungen über symbolische Formen des Friedensschlusses höchst aufschlussreiche Detail, dass die Mailänder durchzusetzen versuchten, bei ihrer Unterwerfung vor dem Kaiser Schuhe anbehalten zu dürfen und dem Kaiser für ein solches Zugeständnis viel Geld anboten, Barbarossa das Geld jedoch ablehnte und auf der barfüßig durchgeführten Unterwerfung als einer Bedingung des Friedens beharrte – was die Bedeutung öffentlich wahrnehmbarer Akte für die beabsichtigte repräsentative Wirkung der öffentlichen Zurschaustellung von Herrschaft unmissverständlich belegt und gleichzeitig ihren Stellenwert in den Verhandlungen erklärt.27 Die Wissenslücke, die das Schweigen der Vertragsurkunden über symbolische Verhaltensweisen beim Friedensschluss hinterlässt, kann durch erzählende Quellen zwar häufiger überbrückt werden. Aber die Historiographen berichteten nur in den seltensten Fällen aus so großer Nähe zum Ereignis wie der böhmische Chronist, so dass ihre Nachrichten häufig nicht im selben Maße glaubwürdig sind. Vielmehr steht ihre Deutung vor dem Dilemma, dass sie einerseits höchst erwünschte Einzelheiten überliefern, andererseits aber unklar bleibt, ob sie das tatsächliche Geschehen überhaupt zuverlässig wiedergeben oder eine der eigenen Parteinahme geschuldete historiographische Inszenierung überliefern. Denn die Darstellungsabsicht eines Chronisten lenkt auch seinen Bericht über symbolische Handlungen: Über sie zu berichten ermöglicht ihm, schon durch die bloße Auswahl von Details eine Deutung im Sinne jener Partei vorzunehmen, der er sich verpflichtet weiß.28

2. Barbarossas Friedensschluss mit dem Lombardenbund und Papst Alexander III. war ursprünglich als eine Art Paketlösung geplant: Im sogenannten Vorvertrag von Anagni, der die Verhandlungsergebnisse zwischen kaiserlichen Beauftrag27 Vinzenz von Prag, Annales, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Scriptores 17, Hannover 1861, 658–683, hier 675 Z. 2f.: nudis pedibus, licet enim plurimam offerrent pecuniam quod eis calciatis hanc satisfactionem facere liceret, nullomodo tamen obtinere potuerunt, suo ordine progrediuntur. 28 Zusammenfassend zu dieser Diskussion Hermann Kamp, Die Macht der Spielregeln in der mittelalterlichen Politik: Eine Einleitung, in: Claudia Garnier/ders. (edd.), Spielregeln der Mächtigen, Darmstadt 2010, 1–18; Gerd Althoff, Nachwort, in: Ders., Spielregeln der Politik im Mittelalter. Kommunikation in Frieden und Fehde, Darmstadt, 2. Aufl. 2014, 382–387.

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ten und dem Papst im November 1176 fixierte, war vorgesehen, dass der Friede mit den Lombarden gemäß der Verhandlungsergebnisse von päpstlichen, kaiserlichen und lombardischen Unterhändlern geschlossen werden solle.29 Über die Form dieses Friedensschlusses wurden keine Aussagen getroffen. Aber es gibt Anhaltspunkte, die eine Rekonstruktion der Erwartungen des Hofes erlauben. Das Verhältnis zwischen Kaiser und Lombardenbund war von der empfindlichen Niederlage überschattet, die Barbarossa im Sommer 1176 in der Schlacht von Legnano erlitten hatte. Widerstand war ein Akt des Ungehorsams, zu dessen Wiedergutmachung der Kaiser üblicherweise eine Unterwerfung verlangte – wie sie in den Fällen von Tortona 1155, Mailand 1158 und 1162 auch gut belegt ist.30 Eine deditio war, wie es im Falle von Tortona ausdrücklich heißt, unerlässlich ,um des Ruhms und der Ehre des Königs und des heiligen Reiches willen‘ – ob regis et sacri imperii gloriam et honorem.31 Auch der Lombardenbund hatte sich auf eine solche deditio bereits eingelassen, nachdem sich sein Heer und jenes des Kaisers im Frühjahr 1175 tagelang kampfbereit gegenüber gelegen waren und man sich, um das unkalkulierbare Risiko eines Kampfes zu vermeiden, auf eine friedliche Beilegung des Konflikts verständigt hatte. Auf einem Feld zwischen den Heerlagern bei Montebello schlossen die Vertreter beider Seiten am 16. April einen Vertrag, der die Unterordnung der Konfliktparteien unter ein Schiedsverfahren zur Beilegung ihres Streits vorsah, den Konflikt also nicht etwa löste, sondern nur ein Verfahren zu seiner Beilegung festschrieb.32 Der Einleitung des Schiedsverfahrens war aber ein Friedensschluss vorgeschaltet, der am 17. April in Barbarossas Lager stattfand. Die notarielle Niederschrift über diese Einigung enthält nur zwei knappe Andeutungen über symbolische Verhaltensweisen: Der Friede sollte nicht, wie noch die Gespräche zwischen den Unterhändlern, auf dem Feld zwischen den Heeren geschlossen werden, sondern im Lager des 29 DFI. 658, hier 163 Z. 24–26. 30 Dazu Görich 2001, 195–200, 229–233 und 249–256. 31 Adolf Hofmeister, Eine neue Quelle zur Geschichte Friedrich Barbarossas, in: Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 43 (1922), 143–157, hier 155f.: donec venit abbas quidam Bruno, vir religiosus et prudens, et alii quamplures nobiles de regis curia euntes, ad civitatis deditionem hortando, nomine regis et curiae polliciti sunt, si urbem in regis potestatem darent, parum aut nihil detrimenti in rebus vel personis habituros, imo omnia, quae essent in ecclesiis et locis sacris pro regis clementia forent, nec urbis munimenta et arces destruerentur, quin se in futurum possent ab hostibus deffendere, prout hactenus fecerunt, sed velle solum urbis deditionem ob regis et sacri imperii gloriam et honorem. Zur Sache vgl. Görich, 2001, 190–195. 32 Dazu Walter Heinemeyer, Der Friede von Montebello (1175), in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 11 (1954/55), 101–139; Josef Riedmann, Die Beurkundung der Verträge Friedrich Barbarossas mit italienischen Städten. Studien zur diplomatischen Form von Vertragsurkunden im 12. Jahrhundert, Wien 1973, 105–108; Görich 2001, 266–272; Gianluca Raccagni, The Lombard League 1167–1225, Oxford 2010, 94–97.

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Kaisers ,an seinem Hof‘ – in curia imperatoris.33 War die Ortswahl eine symbolische Aussage über die Unterordnung des Bundes unter den Kaiser, so war das osculum pacis, mit dem Barbarossa dem Bund seinen Frieden gewährte, gleichzeitig eine Anerkennung des Bundes, denn der Friedenskuss galt den beiden als Heerführer fungierenden Bundesrektoren ,stellvertretend und namens aller Städte und Orte und Personen des Bundes der Lombardei, der Marken, Venetiens und der Romagna.‘34 Offenbar deshalb, weil die Niederschrift im Auftrag des Bundes angefertigt wurde, finden die Formen der Unterwerfung, die seine Vertreter auf sich nehmen mussten, keine Erwähnung. Darüber geben allein Hinweise in den erzählenden Quellen Aufschluss. Romuald von Salerno, der ein Jahr später in Venedig als Gesandter des sizilischen Königs Wilhelm II. fungierte und in seiner Chronik, vom Bericht über das Schisma abgesehen, einen eher neutralen Blick auf den Staufer wirft, nennt als Ziel der Verhandlungen bei Montebello, dass die Lombarden die Waffen aus den Händen geben und ,demütig die Huld des Kaisers als ihres Herrn erflehen‘ sollten.35 Die auf Grund ihrer Nähe zu Erzbischof Philipp von Köln, der an den Verhandlungen von Montebello beteiligt war, gut informierte ,Kölner Königschronik‘ berichtet eher übertreibend, ,die ganze furchtbare Schlachtreihe der Feinde‘ habe sich vor Barbarossas Lager mit ausgestrecktem Körper zu Boden geworfen, Frieden und Barmherzigkeit erfleht und über dem Nacken blanke Schwerter getragen; ,auch liefen sie um die Wette zum Kaiser, übergaben ihm die Fahnen aller versammelten Städte, einige aber küßten den Mantel, andere die Füße und wieder andere das Zelt des Kaisers‘.36 Wahrscheinlich wollte der Autor die mit der Unterwürfigkeit der Feinde verbundene Ehrung des Herrschers dem Kölner Erzbischof als besonderen Verhandlungserfolg zuschreiben. Neutraler, aber im Kern doch übereinstimmend, heißt es in der ,Vita Alexandri‘ des dem Staufer konsequent feindlich gesonnenen Kardinals 33 DFI. 638, hier 137 Z. 32 und Z. 35f. 34 DFI. 638, hier 137 Z. 36–39: Ipse dominus imperator fecit pacem osculo interveniente domino Ecilino et Anselmo de Dovaria vice et nomine omnium civitatum et locorum et personarum societatis Lonbardie, Marchie, Venetie et Romanie. Zu den beiden Rektoren Ezzelino II. da Romano und Anselmo da Dovara sowie zu ihrer Funktion vgl. Raccagni 2010, 69–72. 35 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, ed. Carlo A. Garufi (Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, Nuova edizione, 7.1) Citt/ di Castello 1935, 264 Z. 7–8: inter imperatorem et Lombardos hunc modum concordie tractaverunt: ut Lombardi, dimissis armis, imperatoris tamquam domini sui gratiam humiliter postularent. 36 Chronica regia Coloniensis, cum continuationibus in monasterio S. Pantaleonis scriptis aliisque historiae Coloniensis monumentis, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 18), Hannover 1880, 127: Itaque omnis illa terribilis hostium acies ad castra caesaris prostrata, pacem et midericordiam postulabat, nudos in cervicibus gladios portantes. Certatim quoque ad imperatorem currentes, vexilla cunctarum urbium ipsi resignaverunt, alii vero pallium, quidam pedes, nonnulli tentorium imperatoris exosculabantur.

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Boso, dass die Lombarden ,ehrerbietig zu Friedrich herankamen und ihn ehrten‘,37 und in der Chronik des dem staufischen Hof nahestehenden, deshalb aber nicht unkritischen Sicard von Cremona, dass Barbarossa ihnen die Schwerter zurückgab und sie in einer ,dem Reich würdigen deditio‘38 wieder in seine Huld aufnahm. Die Schwerter wiederum spielen in der deutlich später entstandenen Erzählung des Magister Tolosanus eine größere Rolle: Die Rektoren hätten dem Kaiser auf seinen Befehl hin ,wie Getreue einem gnädigsten Herrn auf unterwürfigste Art alle Ehrerbietung‘ erwiesen, seien ihm demütig zu Füßen gefallen und hätten ihm Schwerter übergeben – die sie zuvor über ihrem Nacken getragen hatten –, indem sie Barbarossa den Griff reichten, so dass die blanke Klinge auf sie selbst zielte.39 Ohne in den Details überprüfbar zu sein, vermitteln die erzählenden Quellen in ihrer Gesamtheit das Bild einer Unterwerfung, wie sie aus zahlreichen anderen Fällen für die Zeit Barbarossas belegt ist.40 Obwohl eine Einigung in der Sache als Ergebnis des künftigen Schiedsverfahrens noch ausstand, wurde der Friedensschluss vorgezogen und als einseitiger Gnadenerweis des Kaisers inszeniert. Offensichtlich war die in der Unterwerfung ausgedrückte öffentliche Anerkennung der Herrschaft des Kaisers die unverzichtbare Voraussetzung dafür, dass die Streitfragen einem Schiedsgericht übergeben werden konnte, das beide Parteien im Verfahren auf die gleiche Augenhöhe stellte.41 Auch wenn das Schiedsverfahren noch im Sommer 1175 an Barbarossas Forderung nach Zerstörung der Stadt Alessandria zusammenbrach, dürften sich die Erwartungen der kaiserlichen Seite hinsichtlich der Formen des geplanten Friedensschlusses mit dem Lombardenbund in Venedig 1177 am Vorbild von Montebello orientiert haben. Nach seiner Niederlage gegen den Lombardenbund in der Schlacht von Legnano hatte Barbarossa im Spätsommer 1176 die Friedensverhandlungen in Anagni zunächst mit Alexander III. wieder aufnehmen lassen – und sich gegenüber Erzbischof Wichmann von Magdeburg eidlich dazu verpflichtet, seine Weisungen und Ratschläge in Angelegenheiten der Kirche anzunehmen.42 Damit 37 Boso, Vita Alexandri, 429 Z. 24f.: Post hec Lombardi ad F. reverenter accesserunt et honoraverunt eum. 38 Sicard von Cremona, Cronica, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, in: MGH Scriptores 31, Hannover 1903, 23–183, hier 167 Z. 22f.: eos redditis gladiis subiugavit et in deditione imperio digna recepit. 39 Magister Tolosanus, Chronicon Faventinum, ed. Giuseppe Rossini (Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, Nuova edizione 28,1), Bologna 1939, 60 Z. 8–13: civitatum rectores ad eum ex eius mandato venere, ei reverenciam omnem, ut clementissimo fideles domino, devotissime facientes: qui genibus flexis et collis illaqueatis / ante suos humiles procubuere pedes; / conversis gladiis capulos tribuere tenendos, / et sibi pars ensis tuta relicta fuit. Diskussion weiterer Quellen bei Görich 2001, 268. 40 Siehe oben, Anm. 29. 41 So schon Heinemeyer 1954/55, 109 und 118. 42 Dazu Görich 2001, 163f. Ders. 2017, 431–437.

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hatte der Staufer – wohl, ohne es ursprünglich darauf abgesehen und gewollt zu haben – auch hinsichtlich der Verhandlungen mit dem Lombardenbund in eine Beschneidung seines Handlungsspielraums eingewilligt. Denn weil ein Frieden mit Alexander III. nicht unabhängig von einem Frieden mit dem Lombardenbund geschlossen werden sollte, lag im Falle von unvorhergesehenen Schwierigkeiten mit den Städten die Entscheidung faktisch in Wichmanns Händen. Zusammen mit später beigezogenen weiteren geistlichen Reichsfürsten fungierte er bei den Verhandlungen in Anagni 1176 und dann in Venedig 1177 als Schiedsrichter, der sich, wie sich in Venedig zeigen sollte, auch gegen Erwartungen des Kaisers behauptete.43

3. Ein Friedensschluss mit dem Lombardenbund war, anders als zuvor erwartet, in Venedig nicht durchsetzbar. Zwar hatte man sich schon im Vorfrieden von Anagni geeinigt, dass die Aushandlung des Friedens einem Gremium von jeweils sieben mediatores aller drei beteiligten Parteien – Papst, Kaiser und Lombardenbund – oblag. Für den Fall, dass ,etwas in den Friedensverhandlungen zwischen dem Herrn Kaiser und den Lombarden auftauchen sollte, was durch die mediatores nicht sollte beigelegt werden können,‘ hatte man sogar festgelegt, dass dann ,durch den Schiedsspruch des größeren Teils der mediatores entschieden‘ werden solle, ,die von Seiten des Herrn Papst und des Herrn Kaiser zu diesem Zweck bestimmt wurden‘.44 Diese Regelung, die Kaiser und Papst über die Bundesstädte stellte, war eine konkrete Konsequenz der hierarchischen Ordnungsvorstellung, die Barbarossas Gesandte in Anagni als Grundlage ihres Friedensangebots vortrugen: ,Der allmächtige Gott wollte, dass es auf der Welt zwei geben solle, durch die diese Erde regiert werde, nämlich die priesterliche Würde (sacerdotalis dignitas) und die königliche Macht (regalis potestas).‘45 Für eine dritte Partei gab es neben den beiden Universalgewalten keinen gleichberechtigten Platz. Außerdem nahm diese Regelung insoweit auf den kaiserlichen honor Rücksicht, als sie den Kaiser auf der Verfahrensebene nicht mit dem Bund gleichstellte, der ihm im Vorjahr in Legnano bewaffnet entgegengetreten war und über dessen Städte Barbarossa Herrschaft beanspruchte. Am 10. Mai 1177 wurden in Venedig die Verhandlungen eröffnet. Die drit43 Dazu Gerd Althoff, Der König als Konfliktpartei. Möglichkeiten und Grenzen von Vermittlung im Hochmittelalter, in: Ders. (ed.), Frieden stiften. Vermittlung und Konfliktlösung vom Mittelalter bis heute, Darmstadt 2016, 81–97, hier 92f.; Ders., Kontrolle der Macht. Formen und Regeln politischer Beratung im Mittelalter, Darmstadt 2016, 236–244. 44 Vgl. DFI. 658, 163 Z. 24–30. 45 Boso, Vita Alexandri, 434 Z. 7–9.

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telparitätisch besetzte Kommission wurde um die Gesandten des sizilischen Königs Wilhelm II. mit Erzbischof Romuald von Salerno an ihrer Spitze ergänzt. Von Seiten Barbarossas verhandelten die Erzbischöfe Christian von Mainz, Philipp von Köln, Wichmann von Magdeburg und Arnold von Trier, der Bischofselekt Konrad von Worms sowie der Kanzler Gottfried und der Protonotar Wortwin mit der ,Vollgewalt (plenaria potestate), den Frieden zwischen Kaiser und Reich abzuschließen.‘46 Der Kaiser selbst durfte vor Abschluss der Verhandlungen Venedig nicht betreten. Als die Gespräche zwischen dem Bund und der kaiserlichen Seite stockten und ,viele Tage diskutiert und absolut nichts entschieden war‘, wurde der Papst eingeschaltet, der seinerseits – ,als ein gebildeter und kluger Mann‘ – erkannte, ,daß der Frieden zwischen dem Kaiser und den Lombarden in viele Streitpunkte und Fragen verwickelt sei und nicht in kurzer Zeit vollendet werden könne.‘47 Um Barbarossas Friedensschluss mit der Kirche nicht an seinem Zwist mit dem Bund scheitern zu lassen, schlug Alexander III. einen Waffenstillstand auf sechs Jahre vor, worüber zu verhandeln sich die kaiserlichen Unterhändler ohne ausdrückliche Vollmacht des Kaisers jedoch nicht befugt sahen, weshalb sie angesichts des neuen Vorschlags (novum verbum de treugis faciendis) eine Absprache mit Barbarossa für nötig hielten. Als sie ihn zwischen Ravenna und Venedig in Pomposa erreichten und ihm den päpstlichen Vorschlag mitteilten, ,war er heftig gegen sie entrüstet und schnaubte und erklärte, sie hätten bei dieser Friedensverhandlung mehr für die Ehre des Papstes Alexander (Alexandri pape honori) und dessen Vorteil als für die Würde des Imperiums (dignitati imperii) gesorgt.‘48 Jenseits aller Streitfragen dürfte die symbolische Dimension des Waffenstillstands Barbarossa empört haben, denn eine treuga war keine demonstrative Unterwerfung unter den Kaiser. Nach dem Stand der Dinge konnte Barbarossa also in Venedig nicht mit einer symbolischen Anerkennung seiner Herrschaftsrechte durch den Lombardenbund rechnen – und damit auch nicht mit einer Genugtuungsleistung für die Niederlage, die er in Legnano erlitten hatte. Um den Frieden doch noch zu retten, klammerte Alexander III. seine Forderung nach Rückübertragung der Mathildischen Güter, die ihm in Anagni zugesagt worden war, aus und willigte ein, die Lösung dieser Frage einem künftigen päpstlich-kaiserlichen Schiedsgericht zu übertragen. Darüber hinaus drohten die kaiserlichen Unterhändler, die sich in Anagni eidlich an die Umsetzung ihrer Friedensvereinbarungen durch Barbarossa gebunden hatten und nun für den Fall seines Ausscherens nicht einen Meineid auf sich nehmen wollten, dem Kaiser ganz unverhohlen, sie würden, falls er sich dem ausgehan46 Boso, Vita Alexandri, 433 Z. 33. 47 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 277 Z. 16–19. 48 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 278, Z. 1–5.

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delten Frieden entziehe, Alexander III. künftig als ihren geistlichen Herrn anerkennen. Daraufhin legte der Staufer, so will es jedenfalls Romuald von Salerno in Erfahrung gebracht haben, ,die löwenhafte Wildheit ab, nahm die Sanftmut eines Schafes an‘ und antwortete demütig und freundlich: ,Eure Treue möge zur Kenntnis nehmen, daß ich nicht euren Rat aufgeben und dem Vorhaben des Friedens, der durch euch verhandelt worden ist, ausweichen will; vielmehr wollen wir das, was auf euren Rat hin geregelt worden ist, unverbrüchlich beachten.‘49 Man vereinbarte nun, dass der Graf von Diez stellvertretend für den Kaiser vor dem Papst, den Kardinälen, den sizilischen Gesandten und den Lombarden sowie vor einer großen Volksmenge in Venedig schwören solle, dass der Kaiser seinerseits einen Eid leisten werde, den ausgehandelten Frieden und Waffenstillstand einzuhalten. Damit war der Weg zum Friedensschluss frei. Die Bedingungen des Waffenstillstands enthielten unter anderem das sehr weitreichende Zugeständnis des Kaisers, während der Frist von sechs Jahren keinen Geistlichen oder Laien dazu zu zwingen, ihm einen Treueid zu leisten, und gegen keinen Angehörigen des Bundes ein Urteil wegen nicht geleisteter Treue oder nicht geleisteter Dienste oder nicht erbetener Investitur der städtischen Magistrate zu verhängen oder verhängen zu lassen, und außerdem keinen Ort und keine Person des Bundes wegen dieser Angelegenheiten vor Gericht zu ziehen.50 Das war ein faktischer Verzicht auf Herrschaftsrechte. Zwar wurde die Bestimmung bei der Beschwörung des Friedens am 1. August im Palast des Patriarchen nicht öffentlich vorgetragen – vielmehr bezog sich der Eid nur summarisch auf die treuga, wie sie einvernehmlich niedergelegt wurde in scripto quod aput cardinales est et apud Lombardos.51 Gleichwohl musste sich Barbarossa, als der Graf von Diez stellvertretend für ihn die Einhaltung des Friedens gegenüber der Kirche und des Waffenstillstandes gegenüber dem sizilischen König und dem Lombardenbund beschwor, mit der Anwesenheit der Vertreter der siegreichen Städte, die sich ihm bislang nicht unterworfen hatten, abfinden. Das war mit seiner Vorstellung vom honor imperatoris sicher nicht einfach zu vereinbaren: In Montebello war die direkte Begegnung mit dem Kaiser noch von der Unterwerfung der Bundesrektoren abhängig gemacht worden. Und das war bislang auch die Regel gewesen: Als eine Gesandtschaft aus dem belagerten Tortona 1155 ,vor das Angesicht des Königs treten‘ wollte, um ihn zur Barmherzigkeit zu bewegen, ließ er sie nicht zu sich persönlich vor.52 Dem Herrscher begegnen, ihn sehen zu dürfen, war eine Gunst, auf die zumal Rebellen keinen Anspruch hatten. Als die Bundesrektoren im Oktober 1236 anboten, zu Ver49 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 282 Z. 32–283 Z. 5. 50 DFI. 689, 208 Z. 20–26. 51 Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum I, ed. Ludwig Weiland (MGH Constitutiones I), Hannover 1893, Nr. 265, hier 368 Z. 11f. vgl. auch Z. 24f. 52 Hofmeister 1922, 154. Dazu Görich 2017, 237.

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handlungen direkt zu Friedrich II. zu kommen, lehnte er mit der Begründung ab, es sei nicht ziemlich, dass jene vor sein Angesicht träten, die er seines Anblicks für unwürdig halte.53 Wie wurde der zeremoniellen Herausforderung in Venedig begegnet? Die Nachrichten über die Anordnung der Personen im Versammlungsraum des Patriarchenpalastes sind ungenau. Die Sitzordnung ist zwar überliefert: ,In einem ziemlich langen und breiten Saal dieses Palasts saß der Papst an erhöhter Stelle in einem Faltstuhl, während seine Bischöfe und Kardinäle zu beiden Seiten standen, und ließ den Kaiser, und zwar zu seiner Rechten, höher als die Bischöfe und Kardinalpriester, den Erzbischof Romuald von Salerno [als Vertreter des sizilischen Königs] aber zur Linken, höher als die Kardinaldiakone, sich setzen.‘54 Aber während der Graf von Diez den Eid sprach, der Barbarossa an den Waffenstillstand band, stand dieser vor dem sitzenden Papst (imperator coram pontifice stans), und der Graf wandte sich erst bei der Formel sicut te Deus adiuvet et hec sancta euangelia zum Kaiser hin.55 Wegen der Integration des Waffenstillstandes mit dem Lombardenbund in den Frieden mit der Kirche kann man annehmen, dass sich der Graf bei seiner Eidleistung nicht den Vertretern des Lombardenbundes zuwandte, sondern dem Papst.56 Dass Barbarossa den Bundesvertretern während dieser Zeremonie den Rücken zugewandt haben könnte, ist nicht ausgeschlossen, aber wohl doch eher unwahrscheinlich – es sei denn, man wollte ihm diesen demonstrativen Ausdruck der Nichtachtung seiner Gegner zutrauen. Deutlicher als in diesem Fall der face-to-face-Kommunikation ist im Bereich der schriftlichen Kommunikation nachvollziehbar, auf welche Weise Barbarossa den Städtebund den entstandenen Huldverlust spüren ließ. Die Ausfertigung einer Urkunde oder auch nur eines kaiserlichen Briefes war ein besonderer Hulderweis, der nicht immer am Platz war. So betonte Barbarossa unter explizitem Hinweis auf die beschämende Behandlung, die er bei seinem Aufenthalt in Cremona 1175 erlitten hat, in seiner späteren Klageschrift gegen die Stadt – wenn auch sicher übertrieben –, dass er trotz des Drängens der Cremonesen unter Gefahr für sein Leben kein Privileg für sie ausgestellt habe.57 Ein halbes Jahrhundert später wollte Friedrich II. während seines schon eskalierten Konflikts mit dem Zweiten Lombardenbund den Bundesstädten die 53 Collectio monumentorum veterum et recentium ineditorum, ed. Simon F. Hahn, Bd. 1, Braunschweig 1724, Nr. 15 hier 220: cum non eligans crederemus, illos ante faciem nostram accedere, quos visionis nostre reputamus indignos. Dazu Knut Görich, Ehre als Ordnungsfaktor. Anerkennung und Stabilisierung von Herrschaft unter Friedrich Barbarossa und Friedrich II., in: Bernd Schneidmüller/Stefan Weinfurter (edd.), Ordnungskonfigurationen im hohen Mittelalter, Ostfildern 2006, 59–92, hier 84. 54 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 286 Z. 3–7. 55 Boso, Vita Alexandri, 440 Z. 18 und Z. 23. Const. I, Nr. 264, hier 367 Z. 16f. 56 Vgl. DFI. 687, hier 205 Z. 22–32. 57 DFI. 895, hier 147 Z. 11–17.

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eingeleitete fürstliche Vermittlung deshalb nicht schriftlich ankündigen, weil ihm die Fürsten geraten hätten, es sei verkehrt, ,daß das Schreiben der kaiserlichen Majestät ihrer [also der bisherigen Rebellen] Ergebenheit zuvorkomme‘ und dass ,die Anrede unseres Schreibens [ihnen] unsere Huld ausdrücken könnte, die zu erlangen sie sich aber gar nicht eifrig bemühen‘.58 Ganz analog dazu wurde auch im einzigen kaiserlichen Schriftstück, das 1177 in Venedig ausgestellt wurde und sich auf den Waffenstillstand bezog, jeglicher Gruß an die Adresse des Bundes vermieden.59 Überhaupt erst auf Intervention Alexanders III. zustande gekommen, enthielt es Barbarossas Zusicherung, während des Waffenstillstandes keine Mitglieder des Lombardenbundes wegen Vernachlässigung ihrer Treuepflichten gerichtlich zu belangen. Noch in Venedig ausgestellt, wurde es den Lombarden aber dort nicht direkt übergeben, sondern erst über einen Monat später am 22. Oktober 1177 in Parma durch einen päpstlichen Legaten. Zwar sahen die Friedensbedingungen eigentlich vor, dass Barbarossa den Friedensschluss mit der Kirche und die Waffenstillstände mit dem sizilischen König und den Lombarden durch ein eigenes, mit seiner Unterschrift (bzw. Siegel) versehenes Schriftstück bekräftigen solle,60 jedoch wurden separate Texte nur für den Papst und den sizilischen König ausgefertigt,61 nicht aber für den Städtebund. Natürlich bestand der Bund auf schriftlicher Fixierung der Waffenstillstandsbedingungen ebenso wie auf der kaiserlichen Zusage, sie zu beachten.62 Derselbe Notar Fatolinus, der schon den Vorfrieden von Montebello auf Befehl des Bundes aufgezeichnet hatte, fertigte auch die Niederschrift über den stellvertretend für Barbarossa geleisteten Eid des Grafen von Diez und den Eid der Reichsfürsten an.63 Außerdem bestätigten die kaiserlichen Unterhändler zusammen mit anderen Fürsten des Reiches dem Papst in einem separaten Schriftstück den abgeschlossenen Frieden und den Waffenstillstand mit Sizilien und dem Lombardenbund einzuhalten; diese Zusage war von den zwölf Fürsten besiegelt und von den geistlichen unterschrieben.64 Aus dem Text geht auch hervor, dass die Niederschrift der Waffenstillstandsbedingungen von den me-

58 Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum II, ed. Ludwig Weiland (MGH Constitutiones II), Hannover 1896, Nr. 200, hier 269 Z. 5–9: Scripsissemus utique predictarum universitatibus civitatum, nisi quod esse inposterum consilium principum crederetur, ut devotionem ipsorum imperialium apicum scriptura preveniat; nec nostrarum prescriptio litterarum merito poterat gratiam nostram illis exponere qui eam assequi non nituntur. Dazu Görich 2006 (Ehre als Ordnungfaktor), 83f. 59 DFI. 712. 60 DFI. 687, hier 205 Z. 31–33. 61 DFI. 693, DFI. 707 und DFI. 694. 62 DFI. 689. 63 Const. I, Nr. 265, hier 367f. Vgl. Riedmann 1973, 109 mit Anm. 19. 64 Const. I, Nr. 274, hier 372 Z. 36–42.

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diatores unterschrieben und besiegelt worden war.65 Von einer überwiegend mündlichen Vorgangsweise kann daher eigentlich nicht die Rede sein.66 Vielmehr dürfte erst das Fehlen einer kaiserlichen Bekräftigung oder Ratifizierung des Waffenstillstands, das gleichzeitig unmissverständlich Huldverlust kommunizierte, diese Art von ,kumulativer‘ Bekräftigung von Barbarossas Zustimmung erforderlich gemacht haben. Der Kaiser selbst ließ sie aber offenbar deshalb nicht unter seinem Namen erteilen, weil der Hulderweis eines kaiserlichen Schriftstückes gegenüber Rebellen, die sich noch nicht zu einer demonstrativen Anerkennung seiner Herrschaft bereitgefunden hatten, einfach nicht am Platz war. Unverkennbar war die Beschwörung des Waffenstillstandes mit dem Lombardenbund alles andere als eine prestigeträchtige symbolische Anerkennung kaiserlicher Herrschaft, wie sie der in Anagni geplante Friedensschluss eigentlich hätte mit sich bringen sollen. Dass die Eidesleistungen nur vor der vergleichsweise eingeschränkten Öffentlichkeit einer Versammlung von Papst und Kardinälen, Bundesrektoren und sizilischen Gesandten sowie der Barbarossa begleitenden Fürsten stattfanden, täuscht nicht darüber hinweg, dass Barbarossa auf dem Gebiet symbolischer Anerkennung seiner Herrschaft einen für den Friedensschluss in Venedig ursprünglich nicht erwarteten ,Geländeverlust‘ hinnehmen musste.67 Das spiegelt noch der Ort der Eidesleistung: Anders als in Montebello, wo die Rektoren zur Unterwerfung den Kaiser in seinem Heerlager aufsuchten, erschienen sie in Venedig nicht vor Barbarossa, der damals im Dogenpalast residierte, sondern in der Residenz des Papstes im Patriarchenpalast. Unverkennbar war der Dissens zwischen Kaiser und Städtebund zum Gegenstand symbolischer Inszenierung geworden.

4. Anders als der Waffenstillstand mit dem Lombardenbund war der Friede mit dem Papst für Barbarossa recht vorteilhaft inszeniert. Sollte damit die erlittene Einbuße auf dem Feld des Symbolischen kompensiert werden? Die Quellen geben darüber keine Auskunft. Auffallend ist jedoch, dass die Absolution des Kaisers vom Kirchenbann, den der Papst erstmal 1159 über ihn verhängt und seitdem mehrmals wiederholt hatte, von der öffentlichen Begegnung mit Alex65 Const. I, Nr. 274, hier 372 Z. 33–34; die nur abschriftlich überlieferte Niederschrift enthält jedoch keine Hinweise auf eine Besiegelung, vgl. DFI. 689. 66 So Riedmann 1973, 109. 67 Boso, Vita Alexandri, 440 Z. 17f.: In kalendis vero mensis augusti, convocatis regis Sicilie nuntiis et universis Lombardorum rectoribus, pontifex et imperator consistorium pariter intraverunt.

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ander III. getrennt wurde. Auf diese Weise wurde vermieden, was Heinrich IV. in Canossa hundert Jahre zuvor noch auf sich genommen hatte – dass er sich nämlich als reuiger Sünder die Rekonziliation mit der Kirche erst noch durch öffentliche Buße verdienen musste. Üblich war, dass der Sünder im Bußakt barfuß seine Schuld bekannte. An der verlangten Barfüßigkeit des Herrschers drohten allerdings schon knapp sechzig Jahre zuvor die Verhandlungen zwischen Heinrich V. und Calixt II. in Mouzon zu scheitern. Den damals vermittelnden deutschen Fürsten war es ,hart, ja unerträglich‘ erschienen, ,wenn ihr Herr nach Art der anderen barfuß‘ zur Absolution erscheinen sollte; daraufhin hatten die Kardinäle zugesichert, auf jede Weise darauf hinwirken zu wollen, dass Heinrich den Papst mit Schuhen an den Füßen zu einer nichtöffentlichen Kirchenbuße aufsuchen dürfe.68 Die 1119 erwogene Form des Rekonziliationsrituals wirkt wie ein Drehbuch für Barbarossas nichtöffentliche Kirchenbuße, die seiner Begegnung mit Alexander III. vorgeschaltet wurde. Offensichtlich weigerte sich Barbarossa, sich einem für sein Ansehen prekären Bußritual auszusetzen oder gar barfuß vor den Papst zu treten.69 Auch das Verkehrsverbot mit einem Exkommunizierten wurde bei der Einholung des Kaisers nach Venedig nicht streng beachtet. Pietro Ziani, ein Sohn des Dogen Sebastiano Ziani, fuhr Barbarossa am 23. Juli mit einem Ehrengeleit von sechs Galeeren bis nach Chioggia entgegen und begleitete ihn zurück zu der Venedig vorgelagerten Sandbank des Lido, wo der Kaiser von Jacopo Ziani, einem anderen Sohn des Dogen, empfangen wurde.70 Barbarossa verbrachte die Nacht im Kloster S. Nicolk, das beim Empfang ranghoher Gäste in der Lagunenstadt sozusagen als Vorzimmer diente. Am Morgen des 24. Juli trafen dort die sieben Kardinäle ein, die als mediatores an den Friedensgesprächen teilgenommen hatten. Vor ihnen erklärte sich der Kaiser zusammen mit den Erzbi68 Hesso scholasticus, Relatio de concilio Remensi, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Libelli de lite 3, Hannover 1897, 21–28, hier 26 Z. 5–9: Post haec sui de modo absolutionis et susceptionis cum nostris coeperunt conferre: durum sibi, immo importabile videri, si more aliorum dominus suus nudis pedibus ad absolutionem accederet. Quibus condescendentes nostri responderunt, quod modis omnibus laborarent, ut domnus papa calciatum eum, quanto privatius posset, reciperet. Dazu Klaus Schreiner, Nudis pedibus. Barfüßigkeit als religiöses und politisches Ritual, in: Gerd Althoff (ed.), Formen und Funktionen öffentlicher Kommunikation im Mittelalter, Stuttgart 2001, 53–124, hier 108. 69 Keiner der Augenzeugen erwähnte Barbarossas Barfüßigkeit, eine solche Szene malte sich nur ein flandrischer Mönch im fernen Douai aus, der besonders nachteilig über den Kaiser berichtete, vgl. Andreas von Marchiennes, Continuatio Aquicinctina, ed. Ludwig Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 6, Hannover 1844, 405–438, hier 416 Z. 5. Diese Nachricht als Faktum übernommen bei Weinfurter 2002 (Venedig 1177), 10, und Die Regesten des Kaiserreiches unter Friedrich I., neubearb. von Ferdinand Opll (Regesta Imperii IV, 2), 3. Lieferung 1168–1180, Wien 2001, Nr. 2282. 70 Historia ducum Veneticorum, ed. Henry Simonsfeld, in: MGH Scriptores 14, Hannover 1883, 72–97, hier 83 Z. 15–19.

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schöfen und Bischöfen seines Gefolges unter Eid von der Unrechtmäßigkeit der Wahlen Viktors IV., Paschalis III. und Calixt III. überzeugt und wurde daraufhin von der Exkommunikation gelöst.71 Als derjenige, der die Exkommunikation über den Kaiser verhängt hatte, hätte der Papst Barbarossa ohne weiteres persönlich treffen können, um ihn von der Kirchenstrafe zu lösen – weshalb die Exkommunikation auch kein Hindernis ihrer Begegnung gewesen wäre.72 Dann aber hätte Barbarossa noch als von der christlichen Gemeinschaft ausgeschlossener Sünder vor San Marco ankommen müssen – mit allen nachteiligen Konsequenzen für die Gestaltung seines adventus. Nach der Rekonziliation in San Nicolk jedoch konnte ihm wie einem ,rechtgläubigen Mann‘ (vir catholicus) sogar unter Beteiligung der Geistlichkeit eine ebenso prächtige wie feierliche Ankunft bereitet werden: Mit festlich geschmückten Schiffen landete auch der Doge zusammen mit dem Patriarchen, Bischöfen, Klerus und viel Volk am Lido.73 Sebastiano Ziani selbst geleitete Friedrich auf sein prachtvoll geschmücktes Schiff, saß auf dem vornehmsten Platz an dessen rechter Seite, während der Patriarch links vom Kaiser Platz nahm; ,und sie kamen alle in großer Freude und Fröhlichkeit zur Kirche des heiligen Markus.‘74 Unter Fahnen und Kreuzen wurde der Kaiser von den geistlichen und weltlichen Großen Venedigs in feierlicher Prozession vom Ufer bis vor die Markuskirche geführt, wo Alexander III., umringt von den Patriarchen von Venedig und Aquileja, den Erzbischöfen von Mailand und Ravenna sowie den Kardinälen und anderen geistliche Würdenträgern auf einer Tribüne aus Tannenholz thronte. Vor ihm stehend, legte Barbarossa den roten Kaisermantel ab, sank dann mit ausgestrecktem Körper vor ihm vollständig zu Boden und küsste seine Füße. Daraufhin erhob sich Alexander ein wenig, half dem Kaiser unter Tränen auf, umfasste mit beiden Händen seinen Kopf und gab ihm den Friedenskuss. Dann begrüßte er ihn als in den Schoß der Kirche zurückgekehrt: ,Gut, daß du gekommen bist, Sohn der Kirche‘ (bene venisti, fili ecclesie).75 Vier Augenzeugenberichte, mehrere Briefe Alexanders III. und ein Brief einiger anwesender Kanoniker von St. Peter in Rom bezeugen diesen Moment der Aussöhnung. Unmissverständlich geht aus mehreren dieser Quellen hervor, dass Barbarossa die Prostration nicht in Form eines Kniefalls mit nach vorne geneigtem Oberkörper vollzog, sondern in Form der Bußprostration, also mit 71 Liber Malonus, in: Le vite dei dogi di Marin Sanudo, ed. Giovanni Monticolo (Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, Nuova edizione 22,4) Citt/ di Castello 1900, 326–337, hier 330–332; Vgl. auch Boso, Vita Alexandri, 439 Z. 24–30. 72 So aber Freed 2016, 409. 73 Liber Malonus, 332 Z. 8. 74 Historia ducum Veneticorum, 83 Z. 20–23. 75 Rodney M. Thomson, An English Eyewitness of the Peace of Venice 1177, in: Speculum 50 (1975), 29–32, hier 32.

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ausgestrecktem Körper auf dem Erdboden lag.76 Während Kniefall und Fußkuss zum Zeremoniell der Anerkennung eines rechtmäßig gewählten Papstes gehörten und von Barbarossa in den Jahren zuvor schon Hadrian IV. und Viktor IV. geleistet worden waren, war die Prostration eigentlich das Zeichen, mit dem ein reuiger Sünder um Rekonziliation mit der Kirche zu bitten hatte. Die Szene auf dem Markusplatz erinnert deshalb auf den ersten Blick an das Geschehen in Canossa hundert Jahre zuvor, als Heinrich IV. sich die Lösung vom Bann durch Papst Gregor VII. erst durch tätige Reue verdienen musste, indem er an drei Tagen hintereinander barfuß im Schnee als Büßer erschien. Auf den ersten Blick spielte sich 1177 eine ähnliche Szene ab, weshalb das Geschehen auf dem Markusplatz auch in der neuesten Forschung immer wieder als Demütigung des Kaisers gewertet wird.77 Jedoch sind aller vordergründigen Übereinstimmung mit dem Geschehen von Canossa zum Trotz die Unterschiede ausschlaggebend. Weil der Kaiser die Absolution schon vor seiner Zusammenkunft mit Alexander III. erhalten hatte und unter Beteiligung der Geistlichkeit feierlich nach San Marco gebracht worden war, war seine Prostration auch nicht mehr als der symbolische Akt wahrnehmbar, der einen reuigen Sünder erst mit der Kirche versöhnte. Kein Exkommunizierter hätte auf so feierliche Weise empfangen werden können! Terminologisch präzise schreibt Kardinal Boso, der Kaiser sei ,als rechtgläubiger Fürst‘ (tanquam orthodoxus princeps) demütig vor den Papst geschritten.78 Auch für den Papst selbst hatte Friedrichs Prostration keinerlei statusverändernde Wirkung; in den wenig später geschriebenen Briefen unterschied er ebenfalls begrifflich klar zwischen zuvor vollzogener Absolution einerseits und ,Gehorsam und Ehrbezeigung‘ (oboedientia et reverentia) andererseits, die ihm Barbarossa vor San Marco ,demütig und ehrerbietig‘ (humiliter et reverenter) erwiesen habe.79 Formen einer so hochrangigen Herrscherbegegnung waren nicht spontanen Einfällen überlassen. Also muss Alexander III. den Kaiser schon in den vorausgegangenen Verhandlungen bewusst vom Zwang des Rekonziliationsrituals einer öffentlichen Bußleistung befreit – und ihm damit gleichzeitig die Prostration als freiwillig geleistetes Zeichen von Demut, Frömmigkeit und Frie76 Thomson 1975, 31: [imperator] seseque in terram prostavit. Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 284 Z. 24f.: ad pedes pape totum se extenso corpore inclinavit. Zu weiteren Quellenaussagen vgl. Knut Görich, utpote vir catholicus – tanquam orthodoxus princeps. Zur Einholung Friedrich Barbarossas nach Venedig im Juli 1177, in: Hubertus Seibert et al. (edd.), Von Sachsen bis Jerusalem. Menschen und Institutionen im Wandel der Zeit, Festschrift für Wolfgang Giese zum 65. Geburtstag, München 2004, 251–264, hier 259. 77 Siehe oben, Anm. 14. 78 Boso, Vita Alexandri, 439 Z. 31–34. 79 Alexander III., Opera omnia, ed. Jacques P. Migne (Patrologia Latina 200), Paris 1855, Epistola 1304, Sp. 1130f.

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densabsicht erst eigentlich ermöglicht haben. Dennoch brauchte der Papst auf die symbolische ,Veröffentlichung‘ eines Schuldbekenntnisses Barbarossas nicht völlig zu verzichten, denn die freiwillige Geste persönlicher Demut war als solches durchaus noch wahrnehmbar – nur eben nicht mehr als das für die Rekonziliation erforderliche Bußritual. Barbarossas Wiederaufnahme in die Gemeinschaft der Christen wurde dann nochmals symbolisch vor Augen geführt, indem Kaiser und Papst unter Glockenläuten und Hymnen in die Markuskirche gingen, wo Barbarossa vor dem Altar Alexanders Segen empfing.80 Am nächsten Tag geleitete Barbarossa, nachdem er die Messe gehört und sich bei der Predigt demonstrativ als dem Papst gehorsam gezeigt hatte, Alexander III. aus der Markuskirche und leistete den Stratordienst als ein weiteres Zeichen seiner Ehrerbietung.81 Romuald von Salerno und Kardinal Boso stimmen darin überein, dass er dem Papst beim Aufsitzen den Steigbügel hielt. Über die Wegstrecke, die er das Pferd dann am Zügel führte, machen sie jedoch unterschiedliche Angaben: Während es sich laut Romuald um ein ,kurzes Stück‘ (aliquantulum) handelte, behauptet Boso, Alexander hätte, weil ihm der Weg bis ans Ufer zu weit erschien, Barbarossas Bereitschaft zum Zügelhalten für die Tat selbst genommen und ganz darauf verzichtet.82 Der Widerspruch veranschaulicht die Deutungsmacht der Chronisten, deren Darstellungsabsicht sich gerade in der Selektion von Informationen über symbolhafte Handlungen ausdrückte. Während Boso Alexander zum vorbildlichen Papst stilisiert, der bei der Annahme von Ehrendiensten Demut bewies, lässt Romualds Bericht vermuten, dass Barbarossa den Papst von San Marco nicht ganz bis zum Ufer begleitete. Nicht die Demütigung des Kaisers, sondern die Einheit der Kirche und die Eintracht von sacerdotium und regnum bildeten die Fluchtpunkte des Friedens und seiner Inszenierung. Die Wiederherstellung der gottgewollten Ordnung wurde bei Eröffnung des Konzils am 1. August von Papst und Kaiser betont: Die Kirche, so Alexander, habe im Kaiser ihren Sohn (filius) und Verteidiger (defensor) wiedergewonnen, der Kaiser, so Barbarossa, erweise dem Papst wieder

80 Vgl. dazu Romedio Schmitz-Esser, Friedrich Barbarossa zu Besuch: Zwischen Gästeliste und Wahrnehmung des Friedens von Venedig, in: Knut Görich/Jochen Johrendt/ders. (edd.), Venedig als Bühne. Organisation, Inszenierung und Wahrnehmung europäischer Herrscherbesuche, Regensburg 2017, 79–97, hier 86f.; ferner Jochen Johrendt, Venedig als ,papstfreie‘ Zone. Der Venedigaufenthalt Alexanders III. im Jahr 1177 und seine historiographische Bewältigung, in: Ebd., 99–124, hier 106–111. 81 Dazu Gerd Althoff, Friedrich Barbarossa als Schauspieler? Ein Beitrag zum Verständnis des Friedens von Venedig (1177), in: Trude Ehlert (ed.), Chevaliers errants, demoiselles et l’autre: Höfische und nachhöfische Literatur im europäischen Mittelalter. Festschrift für Xenja von Ertzdorff, Göppingen 1998, 3–20. 82 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 285 Z. 22–27; Boso, Vita Alexandri, 440 Z. 10–12; Vgl. Liber Malonus, 334 Z. 10–335 Z. 3; Alexander III., Opera omnia, Epistola 1304, Sp. 1130f.

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wie einem Vater (tamquam patri) die schuldige Ehrfurcht.83 Die einträchtige Zuordnung beider Gewalten wurde nicht nur in symbolischen Handlungen, sondern auch durch gesprochene Worte als erneuert inszeniert. Mit der Anerkennung Alexanders begann deshalb auch nicht „der glanzvolle Abstieg“ Barbarossas,84 sein Aufenthalt in der Lagunenstadt geriet nicht zum wochenlangen „Demütigungszeremoniell“ und hatte auch keine nachteilige Auswirkung „auf die Autorität des Kaisertums“.85 Vielmehr war dem Kaiser erst jetzt wieder möglich, was ihm seit der Doppelwahl 1159 immer weniger und nach dem Tod Viktors IV. 1164 vollends versagt geblieben war : Seine Rolle als ,Sohn und Verteidiger der Kirche‘ in öffentlicher und demonstrativer Übereinstimmung mit dem von der ganzen Christenheit anerkannten Nachfolger Petri zu spielen – denn das einzig wirklich spezifisch Kaiserliche war die Sorge für die Römische Kirche im Zusammenwirken mit dem Papst.86 Diese wiedererlangte Handlungsgemeinschaft wurde erneut am 14. August auf einer Synode in San Marco inszeniert, wo der Kaiser neben dem Papst thronte und zusammen mit den anwesenden Kardinälen, Bischöfen und Fürsten brennende Kerzen zum Zeichen der Exkommunikation, die Alexander über alle Friedensbrecher verhängte, zu Boden warf.87 All das geschah sozusagen vor den Augen der Welt, denn neben einer in dieser Anzahl selten versammelten Menge geistlicher und weltlicher Großer aus dem burgundischen, deutschen und italienischen Teil des Imperiums hatten sich neben den Gesandten König Wilhelms II. von Sizilien auch Gesandte des englischen und französischen Königs sowie Prälaten und Kleriker aus deren Ländern, auch aus Dalmatien und sogar aus Spanien in Venedig eingefunden.88 83 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 286 Z. 8f./28 sowie 287 Z. 10; Reinhold Röhricht, Ein Brief über die Geschichte des Friedens von Venedig (1177), in: Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 17 (1892), 621–623, hier 622; Dazu Ulrich Schludi, Advocatus sanctae Romanae ecclesiae und specialis filius beati Petri. Der römische Kaiser aus päpstlicher Sicht, in: Stefan Burkhardt et al. (edd.), Staufisches Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert. Konzepte – Netzwerke – Politische Praxis, Regensburg 2010, 41–73, hier 61 mit Anm. 70 und 67–70. 84 So aber Johannes Laudage 2009, 266. 85 So aber Weinfurter 2002 (Papsttum), 97. Vgl. Ders. 2002 (Venedig 1177), 11. 86 Dies übersieht Gerhard Lubich, Das Kaiserliche, das Höfische und der Konsens auf dem Mainzer Hoffest (1184). Konstruktion, Inszenierung und Darstellung gesellschaftlichen Zusammenhalts am Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts, in: Stefan Burkhardt et al. (edd.), Staufisches Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert. Konzepte – Netzwerke – Politische Praxis, Regensburg 2010, 277–293. Den Aspekt der wiedergewonnenen Einheit von Kirche und Reich betont zu Recht Jochen Johrendt, The Empire and the Schism, in: Peter D. Clarke/Anne J. Duggan (edd.), Pope Alexander III (1159–81). The Art of Survival, Aldershot 2012, 99–126, hier 125f. 87 Boso, Vita Alexandri, 441 Z. 12–18; Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 293 Z. 5–20. 88 Dazu Schmitz-Esser 2017, 88–91; Alheydis Plassmann, Barbarossa und sein Hof beim Frieden von Venedig unter verschiedenen Wahrnehmungsperspektiven, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas, Stuttgart 2002, 85–106.

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Für Romuald von Salerno, den Gesandten des sizilischen Königs, war Barbarossa nun ,der besondere Sohn und Verteidiger der Kirche Gottes‘.89 Den Frieden von Venedig als Schwächung von Kaisertum oder Reich, geschweige denn als Ausdruck eines Suprematieanspruchs des Papstes zu beklagen oder zu feiern, kam den Zeitgenossen des 12. Jahrhunderts nicht in den Sinn. Das soll nicht heißen, dass der Frieden aus Sicht der kaiserlichen Partei als Triumph gefeiert worden wäre. In den über zwanzig in Venedig ausgestellten Kaiserurkunden streift nur eine einzige Formulierung die Modalitäten des Friedensschlusses: Barbarossa habe Alexander als seinen geistlichen Vater angenommen.90 Und Erzbischof Philipp von Köln, einer der wichtigsten Bevollmächtigten Barbarossas, schildert in einem Brief zwar ausführlich dessen prächtigen Empfang in Venedig, schreibt über die entscheidende Begegnung aber nur, der Kaiser sei ,mit geschuldeter und heiliger Demut vor den Papst‘ getreten, habe ihn ,als seinen einzigen geistlichen Vater‘ angenommen und sei ,selbst von diesem Papst mit dem Kuss des Friedens und der Liebe als Sohn und Verteidiger der Römischen Kirche‘ angenommen worden.91 Auch hier steht die wiedergewonnene Einheit im Zentrum. Dass von der Prostration des Kaisers und seinem Alexander geleisteten Fußkuss mit keiner Silbe die Rede, mag immerhin darauf verweisen, dass verschwiegen wurde, was als nachteilig hätte wahrgenommen werden können – denn nur so ließ sich die gewünschte Deutung und Wahrnehmung wenigstens ansatzweise lenken. Aber erst unter den politisch veränderten Umständen des 13. Jahrhunderts war der in symbolischen Handlungsweisen fein austarierte Kompromisscharakter des Friedens von Venedig nicht mehr interessant, sondern allein Barbarossas Prostration, die nun – aus ihrem ursprünglichen Handlungskontext gelöst – als eine Geste der Unterwerfung unter den übergeordneten Papst gedeutet und missverstanden wurde, bis hin zu der erstmals bei Thomas von Pavia greifbaren Zuspitzung, der Papst sei dem Kaiser bei dessen Unterwerfung auf den Hals getreten.92 Die komplizierte Balance zwischen kaiserlicherseits in Demut erwiesener und päpstlicherseits in Demut angenommener Ehrerbietung, über die als Folge der zunächst gescheiterten Begegnung zwischen Barbarossa und Papst Hadrian IV. bei Sutri 1155 intensiv nachgedacht worden war, war 1177 schließlich erreicht worden und ermöglichte den gesichtswahrenden Kompromiss eines tragfähigen

89 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 290 Z. 24–28. Vgl. 291 Z. 6–12. 90 DFI. 690, hier 209 Z. 12f.: dominum Alexandrum in patrem spiritualem et summum pontificem recepimus. 91 Röhricht 1892, 623. 92 Zur Rezeption vgl. Gabriele Köster, 24 luglio 1177. La Pace di Venezia e la guerra delle interpretazioni, in: Uwe Israel (ed.), Venezia. I giorni della storia, Rom 2011, 47–90; Johrendt 2017, 111–114.

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Ausgleichs.93 Die materiellen Regelungen des Friedens brauchen an dieser Stelle nicht weiter untersucht werden – festgehalten sei lediglich, dass viele Bischöfe in die Obödienz Alexanders III. zurückkehrten, wichtige Parteigänger Barbarossas wie die Erzbischöfe von Mainz und Köln ihre Würde behielten, manche strittigen Fragen wie Zugehörigkeit der Mathildischen Güter94 oder aber die gegensätzlichen Herrschaftsansprüche im Patrimonium Petri und in Rom nicht trennscharf geklärt wurde.95 In unserem Kontext ist wichtig, dass in den öffentlichen Szenen Rücksicht auf die kaiserliche Würde genommen wurde. Dazu gehörte auch, dass auf eine neuerliche Krönung der 1167 vom kaiserlichen ,Gegenpapst‘ Paschalis III. gekrönten Kaiserin Beatrix verzichtet wurde. Zwar hätte sie nach den Bestimmungen von Anagni entweder vom Papst oder von einem Kardinal vollzogen werden sollen, aber Beatrix ließ zusammen mit ihrem Sohn Heinrich den in Venedig geschlossenen Frieden nur vor einer Gesandtschaft auf einer Burg bei Rovigo beeiden, und keine Quelle berichtet von ihrer erneuten Krönung, auch Kardinal Boso nicht.96 Wenn mit dem Friedensschluss von Venedig eine Demütigung Barbarossas verbunden war, dann dürfte sie weniger im Frieden mit Alexander III. als vielmehr im Waffenstillstand mit den Lombarden gelegen haben: Denn während die wiedergewonnene Einheit von Kirche und Reich, Papst und Kaiser in eindrucksvollen Inszenierungen immer wieder vor Augen gestellt wurde, war der Städtebund stark genug, seine Verweigerung einer Unterwerfung ebenfalls sinnfällig vor Augen zu stellen. Die Inszenierung des Friedensschlusses zwischen Alexander III. und Barbarossas scheint mit ihrer besonderen Rücksicht auf die kaiserliche Würde die Demütigung kompensiert zu haben, die der Staufer durch die unbeugsame Haltung des Lombardenbundes hinnehmen musste. Wie bei der Leistung des Stratordienstes kam der Papst Barbarossa auch bei der Aufführung der Rekonziliation mit der Kirche entgegen. Vielleicht war mit der Selbsteinschätzung, die Romuald von Salerno dem Papst in den Mund legt, tatsächlich ein charakteristischer Zug seiner Person getroffen – oder doch zumindest seiner in Venedig an den Tag gelegten Haltung: ,Ich, für den Heiligkeit und das Amt des Verzeihens den Ruhm gänzlich hintanstellen, denke nicht an mein Unrecht und verzeihe aus Liebe zu Gott die Beleidigung für mich.‘97

93 94 95 96

Dazu Görich 2001, 101–105. Vgl. Boso, Vita Alexandri, 443 Z. 7–20. DFI. 658, hier 163 Z. 3–10, und DFI. 687, hier 203 Z. 34–37. Dazu Petersohn 2010, 276–282. Claudia Zey, Imperatrix, si venerit Romam. Zur Krönung der Kaiserin im Mittelalter, in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 60 (2004), 3–51, hier 34f.; Martina Hartmann, Kaiserin Beatrix von Burgund, in: Amalie Fössel (ed.), Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters, Regensburg 2011, 197–212, hier 205. 97 Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, 282 Z. 8–10.

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5. Nach der vergeblichen Belagerung von Alessandria und der gerade noch abgewandten Schlacht bei Montebello 1175, der Niederlage bei Legnano 1176 und der Unnachgiebigkeit der Bundesvertreter in Venedig 1177 aus ihrer Position der Stärke heraus setzte sich am staufischen Hof die Einsicht durch, dass der Konflikt militärisch nicht mehr zu gewinnen war. Vor Ablauf des sechsjährigen Waffenstillstandes wurden noch 1182 Verhandlungen in Piacenza aufgenommen, die im Juni 1183 zum Frieden von Konstanz führten. Die Friedensbedingungen wurden wie zwischen gleichberechtigten Vertragspartnern ausgehandelt. Die kaiserlichen Unterhändler waren bevollmächtigt, stellvertretend für den Kaiser einen Eid zu leisten – was auch immer sie annehmen, durch Versprechen oder Eid bekräftigen sollten, versprach Barbarossa, seinerseits als gültig zu betrachten und auszuführen.98 Dass sich der Kaiser schon mehrfach – Tortona 1155, Mailand 1158 – über zuvor festgelegte Friedensbedingungen hinweggesetzt und den Frieden von Montebello zum Scheitern gebracht hatte,dürfte seine Gegner in ihrem Misstrauen ebenso wie in ihrem Sicherheitsbedürfnis bestärkt haben.99 Getrennt von den Gesprächen in Piacenza wurden in Nürnberg Verhandlungen über die künftige Stellung der Stadt Alessandria geführt, an der Barbarossa das 1175 vereinbarte Schiedsverfahren hatte scheitern lassen. Den Ausweg bot eine Umbenennung der Stadt in ,die Kaiserliche‘ (Caesarea) und ihre symbolische Neugründung: Alle Bewohner sollten die Stadt verlassen und dann von einem Gesandten des Kaisers, der der Stadt ihren neuen Namen gab – wahrscheinlich unter Vorantragen der kaiserlichen Fahne100 – in die Mauern zurückgeführt werden.101 Damit war das nach Papst Alexander benannte Symbol des Widerstands gegen den Kaiser in ein Symbol seiner Herrschaft und seines alleinigen Rechts zur Gründung einer Stadt umgewandelt, und mit der Fiktion einer Neugründung des Ortes seines früheren Misserfolgs unter kaiserlichem Namen war der Ehre des Staufers Genüge getan, aus dessen Sicht die Stadt ,gegen unsere und des Reiches Ehre‘ gegründet worden war und deren Zerstörung diese Beleidigung hätte rächen sollen.102 Als Barbarossas Kämmerer Rudolf von Sie98 DFI. 842, hier 54 Z. 29–31. 99 Dazu Görich 2001, 195–212, 233f. und 269–272. 100 Eine solche Symbolhandlung wurde jedenfalls 1186 vereinbart für Übernahme des zuvor cremonesischen castrum Manfredi durch einen kaiserlichen Gesandten, vgl. DFI. 941, hier 210 Z. 18–20. 101 DFI. 841, hier 52 Z. 24–31. Dazu Riedmann 1973, hier 72–76. Zu den Verhandlungen über Alessandria seit 1176 vgl. Görich 2001, 274–286. 102 DFI. 895, hier 146 Z. 41–147 Z. 2: contra honorem nostrum et imperii civitatem construxerunt, quam hodierne die dicunt Cesariam. Ad cuius vindictam factum est, quod expeditionem ordinavimus in Italiam et eandem civitatem obsedimus. Dazu Görich 2001, 264f. mit weiteren Literaturhinweisen, sowie Raccagni 2010, 113–118.

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beneich die Nachricht von der Einigung im April 1183 persönlich nach Piacenza überbrachte, hatte man sich dort bereits in zweiseitigen Verhandlungen über strittige Detailfragen ebenso wie über das Grundsatzproblem geeinigt: Barbarossa sollte die je nach Stadt unterschiedlichen Rechtsgewohnheiten anerkennen, und die Bundesstädte im Gegenzug die turnusgemäße Investitur ihrer frei gewählten Konsuln durch den Kaiser oder seine Legaten sowie die Leistung eines Regalienzinses akzeptieren. Damit war der Kaiser als Legitimationsquelle der kommunalen Regierung anerkannt. Der Vorentwurf des Friedensvertrages wurde am 30. April in Piacenza von den kaiserlichen Unterhändlern und etwa dreißig Repräsentanten des Bundes beeidet.103 Für Barbarossa waren die Städte des Lombardenbundes ,Verräter und Rebellen‘, die sich des Ungehorsams schuldig gemacht hatten.104 Der für einen Friedensschluss charakteristische Statuswandel vom Rebellen, der sich der vom Kaiser repräsentierten Ordnung widersetzt hatte, zum Getreuen, der sich in diese Ordnung wieder einfügte und der kaiserlichen Huld erfreute, wurde üblicherweise in einer Unterwerfung öffentlich wahrnehmbar inszeniert. Wiederum finden sich im Text des Vorvertrages von Piacenza über die äußeren Formen des Friedensschlusses aber nur sehr unbestimmte Angaben: Der Kaiser sollte Schäden, Beraubungen und Beleidigungen, die er von den Bundesmitgliedern erlitten hatte, vergeben und ihnen seine Huld in ganzem Umfang wiedergewähren.105 Wie die erwähnte Unterwerfung Mailands 1158 und der Friedensschluss mit Alexander III. zeigt, heißt das freilich nicht, dass über die symbolischen Formen der Unterwerfung nicht verhandelt worden wäre. Schon der Ort des Friedensschlusses war symbolisch: In Konstanz hatte der Konflikt mit Mailand, aus dem sich schließlich die Auseinandersetzung mit dem Städtebund entwickelt hatte, 1152 durch die Klage der Kaufleute von Lodi vor dem neugewählten Herrscher seinen Anfang genommen – in Konstanz sollte dieser Konflikt nun auch beigelegt werden. Dieser bedeutungsträchtigen Ortswahl fügte sich der Bund – nicht aber einer demütigenden Unterwerfung. Aus erzählenden Quellen liegen so gut wie keine ausführlicheren Nachrichten über den Konstanzer Friedensschluss vor, der am 20. Juni beeidet und am 25. Juni 1183 beurkundet wurde. Man kann dieses Schweigen als Indiz dafür lesen, dass sich über das Geschehen zum Ruhme des Kaisers eben nichts berichten ließ. Aber überzeugender scheint, das Fehlen eines hofnahen Geschichtswerkes oder jedenfalls einer den Werken Ottos von Freising und Rahewins vergleichbaren, gut informierten Quelle für ursächlich zu halten – wie das Schweigen auf Seiten der Bundesstädte ebenfalls durch schlichtes Fehlen histo103 DFI. 844 und Const. I, Nr. 290 und 291, hier 403–406. 104 DFI. 645, hier 146 Z. 27f. und DFI. 848, hier 71 Z. 44. 105 DFI. 843, hier 58 Z. 1–4, und DFI. 844, hier 62 Z. 12–14.

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riographischer Darstellungen zu erklären ist. Immerhin enthält die allerdings erst etwa dreißig Jahre nach dem Ereignis entstandene Chronik Ottos von St. Blasien einige Informationen über die Formen des Friedensschlusses. Demnach empfing Barbarossa in Konstanz ,die Gesandten Mailands und aller sich ihm zuvor widersetzenden Städte Italiens, die freiwillige Unterwerfung und die Zeichen der Städte und goldene Schlüssel überbrachten und sich dadurch als Unterworfene zeigten, und er schickte sie, die die kaiserliche Huld und den Frieden ihrer Heimat zurückbringen durften, mit Freuden zurück.‘106

Anders als eine deditio war die Schlüsselübergabe keine demütigende Geste, mit der zurückliegender Ungehorsam gesühnt wurde, sie hatte ihren üblichen Platz vielmehr im adventus-Zeremoniell, in dem das Verhältnis zwischen einziehendem Herrscher und empfangender Stadt zeichenhaft vor Augen gestellt wurde. Barbarossa hatte 1155 die Schlüssel von Tivoli erhalten, 1178 die von Pisa; die Lodesen sollen ihm 1154, die Pavesen vielleicht auch 1157 einen goldenen Schlüssel übersandt und ihn durch diese demonstrative Unterordnung unter seinen Schutz zum Aufbruch nach Italien aufgefordert haben. Im Rahmen einer Unterwerfung wurden, soweit erkennbar, nur bei der deditio Mailands 1162 auch Schlüssel übergeben.107 Dass die Schlüsselübergabe in Konstanz in einer die Bundesstädte besonders demütigenden Weise stattgefunden hätte, ist Ottos Bericht nicht zu entnehmen. Sollte sie von jeder der anwesenden 17 Kommunen des Bundes verlangt worden sein, wäre die häufige Wiederholung der demonstrativen Handlung gewiss eine eindrucksvolle Visualisierung der Anerkennung kaiserlicher Herrschaft gewesen – aber doch keine Demütigung des Bundes. Die auf Einhaltung des Friedens geleisteten Eide beider Seiten betonten nicht Über- oder Unter-, sondern Gleichordnung: Das Pendant zum Eid der siebzehn Bundesstädte waren die Friedenseide, die zunächst der Kämmerer Rudolf von Siebeneich, stellvertretend für Barbarossa und seinen Sohn Heinrich VI. in anima regis, dann sechzehn Reichsfürsten ablegten. Wie im Friedensvertrag vorgesehen, investierte Barbarossa unmittelbar nach dem Friedensschluss jeweils einen Bevollmächtigten der 17 Bundesstädte – mit Ausnahme von Brescia – mit dem Konsulat.108 Es waren ausnahmslos Personen, die zuvor auch den 106 Otto von St. Blasien, Chronica, ed. Adolf Hofmeister, in: MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 47, Hannover/Leipzig 1912, 1–88, hier cap. 27, 39 Z. 1–8: Circa idem tempus Fridricus imperator apud Constanciam in pentecoste generali curia celebrata legatos Mediolanensium omniumque civitatum Italie antea sibi rebellancium subiectionem ultroneam insigniaque civitatum cum clavibus aureis offerentes ac per hoc se dediticios demonstrantes suscepit ipsosque indulta venia gratiam imperialem pacemque patrie reportantes cum gaudio remisit. Zur Überlieferung auch knapp Raccagni 2010, 101f. 107 Die Beispiele bei Görich 2001, 295f. 108 DFI. 848, hier 72 Z. 39–73 Z. 6 und 77 Z. 1–6. Dazu Haverkamp 1987, 41f.

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Frieden beschworen hatten. War die gegenseitige Eidesleistung eine Demonstration der Gleichberechtigung im Friedensschluss und als solche ein Zeichen der faktischen Machtverhältnisse, so war die Investitur mit dem Konsulat ein ebenso klares Zeichen der „rechtlichen Abhängigkeit der ehemaligen rebelles vom Kaiser“.109 Da der Friedensvertrag festlegte, dass in den Städten nur Männer zum Konsul gewählt werden durften, die durch Treueid an den Kaiser gebunden waren,110 ist anzunehmen, dass die sechzehn künftigen Konsuln vor dem Kaiser zusätzlich zu ihrem Eid auf den Frieden auch noch einen Treueid ablegen, sich also verpflichten mussten, ihm zu helfen, seine Krone und seinen honor in Italien zu wahren und weder mit Rat noch mit Tat dazu beizutragen, ,daß er sein Leben oder ein Körperteil oder seine Ehre‘ verlöre.111 Dem Text der auf den 25. Juni datierten Friedensurkunde kann ihr eigentliches Zustandekommen als Ergebnis zweiseitiger Verhandlungen nicht mehr angesehen werden – denn Rücksicht auf Rang und Würde des Kaisers gebot, den Vertragstext in die Form eines kaiserlichen Privilegs zu gießen. Die objektiv gehaltenen Bestimmungen des Vertragsentwurfs aus Piacenza wurden so umformuliert, dass Barbarossa konsequent in der ersten Person des Pluralis majestatis sprach.112 So wirkte der in harter Konfrontation ausgehandelte Friedensvertrag wie ein einseitiger herrscherlicher Gunsterweis: Ganz der Fiktion der Freiwilligkeit verpflichtet, hieß es einleitend, die gewohnte Hoheit kaiserlicher Milde habe den Untergebenen ihre Gunst und Huld auf solche Art erwiesen, dass sie, obwohl sie Vergehen entschieden streng strafen müsse und könne, doch mehr danach strebe, in gewogener Ruhe des Friedens und mit gnädigen Empfindungen der Barmherzigkeit das Römische Reich zu regieren und den Übermut der Rebellen zur geschuldeten Treue und zur geschuldeten Ergebenheit zurückzurufen; deshalb sollten alle Getreuen des Reiches jetzt und in Zukunft wissen, ,daß wir mit der gewohnten Huld unserer Güte der Treue und Ergebenheit der Lombarden, die einstmals uns und das Reich beleidigt hatten, das Innere der uns angeborenen Milde geöffnet haben und sie und den Bund und ihre Anhänger in die Fülle unserer Huld wieder aufgenommen haben, ihnen alle Beleidigungen und jede Schuld, durch die sie uns zur Entrüstung herausgefordert hatten, milde erlassen und sie wegen der Dienste ihrer treuen Ergebenheit, 109 Haverkamp 1987, 42. 110 DFI. 848 Z. 15f. 111 Const. I, Nr. 294, hier 419 Z. 15f. Zur Treue vgl. Knut Görich, Fides und fidelitas im Kontext der staufischen Herrschaftspraxis (12. Jahrhundert), in: Susanne Lepsius/Susanne Reichlin (edd.), fides/triuwe (Das Mittelalter – Perspektiven mediävistischer Forschung 20, 2), Berlin 2015, 294–310. 112 Riedmann 1973, 114. Vgl. Reinhard Härtel, Vom nicht zustandegekommenen, mißbrauchten und gebrochenen Frieden, in: Johannes Fried (ed.), Träger und Instrumentarien des Friedens im hohen und späten Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 43), Sigmaringen 1996, 525–559, hier 539f.

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die wir von ihnen mit Sicherheit zu erhalten glauben, zur Zahl unserer geliebten Getreuen hinzuzählen zu können der Ansicht sind‘. Den ihnen ,milde bewilligten‘ Frieden (pax clementer indulta) habe der Kaiser aufzuschreiben und mit seinem Siegel zu bestätigen befohlen.113 In Akten verbaler wie nonverbaler Kommunikation war der Friedensschluss eine Anerkennung der kaiserlichen Herrschaft, die für den Druck, unter dem die kaiserliche Seite gestanden hatte, nicht mehr transparent war.

6. Barbarossas Macht und Autorität lag nicht zuletzt in der Fähigkeit begründet, symbolisch sichtbar machen zu können, was er zu sein beanspruchte. Auch wenn der Staufer weder gegenüber dem Städtebund noch gegenüber Alexander III. Sieger blieb, so war er in beiden Konflikten doch nicht in einem solchen Maße Verlierer, dass dadurch seine Herrschaft dauerhaft beschädigt worden wäre. Materiell waren die Friedensschlüsse mit Alexander III. und dem Lombardenbund auf einen breiten, wenn auch schwer erkämpften Konsens in der Sache gegründet und hatten deshalb stabilisierende Wirkung. Barbarossas Zugeständnisse in der Substanz waren ein Verzicht weniger auf bereits errungene Vorteile als vielmehr auf undurchsetzbar gewordene Forderungen. An die Stelle des Konflikts trat im Falle des Lombardenbundes die Anerkennung des Kaisers als die für das kommunale Regiment unverzichtbare legitimierende Instanz, im Falle von Alexander III. die Anerkennung der für die kaiserliche Würde spezifischen Rolle des defensor ecclesiae. Die Visualisierungen dieser beiden Funktionen kaiserlicher Herrschaft waren zentrale Elemente in der Inszenierung der Friedensschlüsse. Auf symbolischer Ebene waren sie eine Bekräftigung von Barbarossas Rang und Herrschaftsanspruch. Nicht die faktischen Kräfteverhältnisse wurden vor Augen gestellt, sondern eine als gültig anerkannte, hierarchische Ordnung: Akte symbolischer Kommunikation waren das zentrale Instrument zur Kommunikation der politisch-sozialen Ordnung. Herrschaftsausübung bestand nicht zuletzt in öffentlichen ,Aufführungen‘. Ihre stabilisierende Wirkung lag darin, dass dem Kaiser im Rahmen von öffentlichen Versammlungen, auf denen das Reich erst eigentlich zur Anschauung kam und wie sie in Montebello, Venedig und Konstanz stattfanden, signa devotionis et oboedientiae erwiesen wurden, die ihn als dominus legitimus bestätigten. Dabei waren die Rollen, wie auch sonst üblich, klar an den Rang der Konfliktparteien gebunden: „Der Rangniedere hatte sich zu unterwerfen, der Ranghöhere nahm diese Unterwerfung entgegen, auch wenn der Konfliktverlauf den Rangniederen 113 DFI. 848, hier 71 Z. 41–72 Z. 10.

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als erfolgreicher ausgewiesen hatte.“114 Dass das in Venedig 1177 und in Konstanz 1183 in Szene gesetzte Bild des in voller Unabhängigkeit freiwillig und milde handelnden Herrschers eine Fiktion war, tat seiner Wirkung keinen Abbruch, sondern war eine Voraussetzung der Friedensschlüsse und eine auf Konsens der Konfliktparteien beruhende Inszenierung der kaiserlichen Herrschaft. Die Anerkennung des kaiserlichen Rangs in Form der gebotenen Ehrerweisung war unerlässlich – das galt auch und gerade in den Fällen, in denen der Kaiser in der Sache selbst zurückstecken musste.115

Quellen Alexander III., Opera omnia, ed. J. P. Migne (Patrologia Latina 200), Paris 1855. Andreas von Marchiennes, Continuatio Aquicinctina, ed. Ludwig Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 6, Hannover 1844, 405–438. Gli atti del comune di Milano fino all’anno MCCXVI, ed. Cesare Manaresi, Mailand 1919. Boso, Vita Alexandri III, in: Le Liber Pontificalis, ed. Louis Duchesne vol. ii, Paris 1892, 397–446. Chronica regia Coloniensis, cum continuationibus in monasterio S. Pantaleonis scriptis aliisque historiae Coloniensis monumentis, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 18), Hannover 1880. Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum I, ed. Ludwig Weiland (MGH Constitutiones I), Hannover 1893. Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum II, ed. Ludwig Weiland (MGH Constitutiones II), Hannover 1896. Collectio monumentorum veterum et recentium ineditorum, ed. Simon F. Hahn, Bd. 1, Braunschweig 1724. Hesso scholasticus, Relatio de concilio Remensi, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Libelli de lite 3, Hannover 1897, 22–28. Historia ducum Veneticorum, ed. Henry Simonsfeld, in: MGH Scriptores 14, Hannover 1883, 72–97.

114 Gerd Althoff, Kulturen der Ehre – Kulturen der Scham, in: Katja Gvozdeva/Hans Rudolf Velten (edd.), Scham und Schamlosigkeit. Grenzverletzungen in Literatur und Kultur der Vormoderne, Berlin/Boston 2011, 47–60, hier 53. 115 Ein vergleichbares Beispiel ist die Unterwerfung des böhmischen Herzogs Sobeˇslav vor Lothar III. nach der Schlacht bei Kulm 1126, in der der Böhme den König vernichtend geschlagen hatte. Ungeachtet dieser tatsächlichen Machtverhältnisse unterwarf er sich Lothar III. mit Gesten demonstrativer Demut und Bescheidenheit, um auf diese Weise dessen Anerkennung seiner beanspruchten Stellung in Böhmen zu erlangen. Dazu jetzt Jürgen Dendorfer, Der König von Böhmen als Vasall des Reiches? Narrative der deutschsprachigen Forschung des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts im Licht der Diskussion um das Lehnswesen, in: Knut Görich/Martin Wihoda (edd.), Friedrich Barbarossa in den Nationalgeschichten Deutschlands und Ostmitteleuropas (19. – 20. Jh.), Köln/Weimar/Wien 2017, 229–284, hier 240–243.

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Liber Malonus, in: Le vite dei dogi di Marin Sanudo, ed. Giovanni Monticolo (Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, Nuova edizione 22,4), Citt/ di Castello 1900, 326–336. Otto von Freising und Rahewin, Gesta Frederici seu rectius Cronica IV 63, ed. Franz-Josef Schmale, übers. von Adolf Schmidt (Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters 17), Darmstadt 1965. Otto von St. Blasien, Chronica, ed. Adolf Hofmeister, in: MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 47, Hannover/Leipzig 1912, 1–88. Die Regesten des Kaiserreiches unter Friedrich I., neubearb. von Ferdinand Opll (Regesta Imperii IV, 2), 3. Lieferung 1168–1180, Wien 2001. Romuald von Salerno, Chronicon, ed. C. A. Garufi (Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, Nuova edizione 7,1), Citt/ di Castello 1935. Sicard von Cremona, Cronica, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger, in: MGH Scriptores 31, Hannover 1903. Magister Tolosanus, Chronicon Faventinum, ed. Giuseppe Rossini (Rerum Italicarum Scriptores, Nuova edizione 28,1), Bologna 1939. Die Urkunden Friedrichs I. 1152–1190, ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10, 1–5), Hannover 1975–1990. Vinzenz von Prag, Annales, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Scriptores 17, Hannover 1861, 658–683.

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Gerd Althoff, Der König als Konfliktpartei. Möglichkeiten und Grenzen von Vermittlung im Hochmittelalter, in: Ders. (ed.), Frieden stiften. Vermittlung und Konfliktlösung vom Mittelalter bis heute, Darmstadt 2016, 81–97. Gerd Althoff, Kontrolle der Macht. Formen und Regeln politischer Beratung im Mittelalter, Darmstadt 2016. Arno Borst, Reden über die Staufer, Frankfurt am Main/Berlin/Wien 1978. Thomas Brechenmacher, Wie viel Gegenwart verträgt historisches Urteilen? Die Kontroverse zwischen Heinrich von Sybel und Julius Ficker über die Bewertung der Kaiserpolitik des Mittelalters (1859–1862), in: Jürgen Elvert/Susanne Krauss (edd.), Historische Debatten und Kontroversen im 19. und 20. Jahrhundert, Stuttgart 2003, 35–54. Theo Broekmann, Rigor iustitiae: Herrschaft, Recht und Terror im normannisch–staufischen Süden (1050–1250), Darmstadt 2005. Jacob Burckhardt, Weltgeschichtliche Betrachtungen, Stuttgart 1935. Jürgen Dendorfer, Der König von Böhmen als Vasall des Reiches? Narrative der deutschsprachigen Forschung des 19. und 20. Jahrhunderts im Licht der Diskussion um das Lehnswesen, in: Knut Görich/Martin Wihoda (edd.), Friedrich Barbarossa in den Nationalgeschichten Deutschlands und Ostmitteleuropas (19.–20. Jh.), Köln/Weimar/ Wien 2017, 229–284. Roman Deutinger, Sutri 1155. Mißverständnisse um ein Mißverständnis, in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 60 (2004), 97–133. John B. Freed, Frederick Barbarossa. The Prince and the Myth, New Haven/London 2016. Claudia Garnier, Zeichen und Schrift. Symbolische Handlungen und literale Fixierung am Beispiel von Friedensschlüssen des 13. Jahrhunderts, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 32 (1998), 263–287. Knut Görich, Die Ehre Friedrich Barbarossas. Kommunikation, Konflikt und politisches Handeln im 12. Jahrhundert, Darmstadt 2001. Knut Görich, utpote vir catholicus – tanquam orthodoxus princeps. Zur Einholung Friedrich Barbarossas nach Venedig im Juli 1177, in: Hubertus Seibert et al. (edd.), Von Sachsen bis Jerusalem. Menschen und Institutionen im Wandel der Zeit, Festschrift für Wolfgang Giese zum 65. Geburtstag, München 2004, 251–264. Knut Görich, Venedig 1177. Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa und Papst Alexander III. schließen Frieden, in: Wolfgang Krieger (ed.), Und keine Schlacht bei Marathon. Große Ereignisse und Mythen der europäischen Geschichte, Stuttgart 2005, 70–91. Knut Görich, Ehre als Ordnungsfaktor. Anerkennung und Stabilisierung von Herrschaft unter Friedrich Barbarossa und Friedrich II., in: Bernd Schneidmüller/Stefan Weinfurter (edd.), Ordnungskonfigurationen im hohen Mittelalter, Ostfildern 2006, 59–92. Knut Görich, Die „Ehre des Reiches“ (honor imperii). Überlegungen zu einem Forschungsproblem, in: Johannes Laudage et al. (edd.), Rittertum und höfische Kultur der Stauferzeit, Köln 2006, 36–74. Knut Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa. Eine Biographie, München 2011. Knut Görich, Fides und fidelitas im Kontext der staufischen Herrschaftspraxis (12. Jahrhundert), in: Susanne Lepsius/Susanne Reichlin (edd.), fides/triuwe (Das Mittelalter – Perspektiven mediävistischer Forschung 20, 2), Berlin 2015, 294–310.

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Knut Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa in den deutschen Erinnerungskulturen, in: ders./ Martin Wihoda (edd.), Friedrich Barbarossa in den Nationalgeschichten Deutschlands und Ostmitteleuropas, Köln 2017, 91–112. Ferdinand Güterbock, Kaiser, Papst und Lombardenbund nach dem Frieden von Venedig. Ein neuer Quellenfund, in: Quellen und Forschungen aus italienischen Archiven und Bibliotheken 25 (1933/34), 158–191. Achim Thomas Hack, Das Empfangszeremoniell bei mittelalterlichen Papst-KaiserTreffen, Köln 1999. Martina Hartmann, Kaiserin Beatrix von Burgund, in: Amalie Fössel, Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters, Regensburg 2011, 197–212. Reinhard Härtel, Vom nicht zustandegekommenen, mißbrauchten und gebrochenen Frieden, in: Johannes Fried (ed.), Träger und Instrumentarien des Friedens im hohen und späten Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 43), Sigmaringen 1996, 525–559. Alfred Haverkamp, Der Konstanzer Friede zwischen Kaiser und Lombardenbund (1183), in: Helmut Maurer (ed.), Kommunale Bündnisse Oberitaliens und Oberdeutschlands im Vergleich, Sigmaringen 1987, 11–44. Walter Heinemeyer, Der Friede von Montebello (1175), in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 11 (1954/55), 101–139. Adolf Hofmeister, Eine neue Quelle zur Geschichte Friedrich Barbarossas, in: Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 43 (1922), 143–157. Jochen Johrendt, The Empire and the Schism, in: Peter D. Clarke/Anne J. Duggan (edd.), Pope Alexander III (1159–81). The Art of Survival, Aldershot 2012, 99–126. Jochen Johrendt, Venedig als ,papstfreie‘ Zone. Der Venedigaufenthalt Alexanders III. im Jahr 1177 und seine historiographische Bewältigung, in: Knut Görich/ ders./Romedio Schmitz-Esser (edd.), Venedig als Bühne. Organisation, Inszenierung und Wahrnehmung europäischer Herrscherbesuche, Regensburg 2017, 99–124. Christian Jörg/Christoph Dartmann (edd.), Der „Zug über Berge“ während des Mittelalters: Neue Perspektiven der Erforschung mittelalterlicher Romzüge, Wiesbaden 2014. Hermann Kamp, Die Macht der Spielregeln in der mittelalterlichen Politik: Eine Einleitung, in: Claudia Garnier/ ders. (edd.), Spielregeln der Mächtigen, Darmstadt 2010, 1–18. Christian Klein, Von der Aktualität einer überholten Fragestellung: Der Sybel-FickerStreit und der Diskurs über den deutschen Nationalstaat, in: Christina Jostkleigrewe/ Ders./Kathrin Prietzel (edd.), Geschichtsbilder. Konstruktion – Reflexion – Transformation, Köln 2005, 203–242. Stephanie Kluge, Kontinuität und Wandel? Zur Bewertung hochmittelalterlicher Königsherrschaft durch die frühe bundesrepublikanische Mediävistik, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 48 (2014), 39–120. Gabriele Köster, 24 luglio 1177. La Pace di Venezia e la guerra delle interpretazioni, in: Uwe Israel (ed.), Venezia. I giorni della storia, Rom 2011, 47–90. Johannes Laudage, Friedrich Barbarossa (1152–1190): Eine Biographie, Regensburg 2009. Gerhard Lubich, Das Kaiserliche, das Höfische und der Konsens auf dem Mainzer Hoffest (1184). Konstruktion, Inszenierung und Darstellung gesellschaftlichen Zusammenhalts am Ende des 12. Jahrhunderts, in: Stefan Burkhardt et al. (edd.), Staufisches

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Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert. Konzepte – Netzwerke – Politische Praxis, Regensburg 2010, 277–293. Jürgen Petersohn, Kaisertum und Rom in spätsalischer und staufischer Zeit. Romidee und Rompolitik von Heinrich V. bis Friedrich II., Hannover 2010. Alheydis Plassmann, Barbarossa und sein Hof beim Frieden von Venedig unter verschiedenen Wahrnehmungsperspektiven, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas, Stuttgart 2002, 85–106. Hans Prutz, Kaiser Friedrich I., 3 Bde., Danzig 1871–74. Gianluca Raccagni, The Lombard League 1167–1225, Oxford 2010. Josef Riedmann, Die Beurkundung der Verträge Friedrich Barbarossas mit italienischen Städten. Studien zur diplomatischen Form von Vertragsurkunden im 12. Jahrhundert, Wien 1973, 105–108. Reinhold Röhricht, Ein Brief über die Geschichte des Friedens von Venedig (1177), in: Neues Archiv der Gesellschaft für ältere deutsche Geschichtskunde 17 (1892), 621–623. Ulrich Schludi, Advocatus sanctae Romanae ecclesiae und specialis filius beati Petri. Der römische Kaiser aus päpstlicher Sicht, in: Stefan Burkhardt et al. (edd.), Staufisches Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert. Konzepte – Netzwerke – Politische Praxis, Regensburg 2010, 41–73. Romedio Schmitz-Esser, Friedrich Barbarossa zu Besuch: Zwischen Gästeliste und Wahrnehmung des Friedens von Venedig, in: Knut Görich/Jochen Johrendt/ ders. (edd.), Venedig als Bühne. Organisation, Inszenierung und Wahrnehmung europäischer Herrscherbesuche, Regensburg 2017, 79–97. Klaus Schreiner, Nudis pedibus. Barfüßigkeit als religiöses und politisches Ritual, in: Gerd Althoff (ed.), Formen und Funktionen öffentlicher Kommunikation im Mittelalter, Stuttgart 2001, 53–124. Barbara Stollberg–Rilinger, Verfassungsgeschichte als Kulturgeschichte, in: Zeitschrift für Rechtgeschichte, Germanistische Abteilung 127 (2010), 1–32. Rodney M. Thomson, An English Eyewitness of the Peace of Venice 1177, in: Speculum 50 (1975), 29–32. Georg Voigt, Die deutsche Kaisersage, in: Historische Zeitschrift 26 (1871), 131–188. Wilhelm von Giesebrecht, Geschichte der deutschen Kaiserzeit, Staufer und Welfen (4), Braunschweig 1872. Stefan Weinfurter, Venedig 1177 – Wende der Barbarossa–Zeit? Zur Einführung, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas, Stuttgart 2002, 9–25. Stefan Weinfurter, Papsttum, Reich und kaiserliche Autorität. Von Rom 1111 bis Venedig 1177, in: Ernst-Dieter Hehl et al. (edd.), Das Papsttum in der Welt des 12. Jahrhunderts, Stuttgart 2002, 77–99. Stefan Weinfurter, Mythos Friedrich Barbarossa: Heiliges Reich und Weltkaiseridee, in: Helmut Altrichter et al. (edd.), Mythen in der Geschichte, Freiburg i. Br. 2004, 237–260. Claudia Zey, Imperatrix, si venerit Romam. Zur Krönung der Kaiserin im Mittelalter, in: Deutsches Archiv für Erforschung des Mittelalters 60 (2004), 3–51.

Stephen Church

The dating and making of Magna Carta and the peace of June 1215

Abstract On 5 May 1215, a group of English barons renounced their homage to King John and England entered a state of civil war. The civil war came to a formal close on 19 June when, at Runnymede, most of those rebel barons performed homage to the king. The central text of these six weeks is Magna Carta, sealed at Runnymede, according to the charter’s own dating clause, on 15 June 1215. In the modern historiography, Magna Carta was the peace treaty that brought the civil war to an end, and yet the date of the charter is anomalous. This article explores the implications of the date of Magna Carta and argues that Magna Carta was, in fact, not a peace treaty, but a grant freely given by a beneficent king to all his free subjects. Magna Carta, moreover, was given by King John on 15 June 1215 to exclude from its terms the rebels until they had become, once again, his ‘faithful subjects’, amongst whom, on the day of the grant, they did not number.

Rebellion, in the post-Conquest English polity, was an ever-present danger to rulers who neither enjoyed a monopoly on power nor a monopoly on the legitimate use of violence.1 The king’s barons, in particular, used rebellion as a means of “expressing political discontent” and as a way of “seeking redress for grievances”. In a society where resort to self-help was one of the principal means of resolving conflict, it is perhaps not surprising that self-help against one’s king was deemed to have been a legitimate form of protest.2 But rarely did barons seek to unseat their king. He was, after all, the legitimate fount of authority, he had been made a king by the Church and was thus ‘the lord’s anointed’. His very existence, moreover, provided legitimate title to land, for without the king, no baron might hold his property.3 Indeed, the presence of the king made it near 1 Matthew Strickland, Against the Lord’s Anointed: Aspects of Warfare and Baronial Rebellion in England and Normandy 1075–1265, in: George Garnett/John Hudson (eds.), Law and Government in Medieval England and Normandy : Essays in Honour of Sir James Holt, Cambridge 1994, 56–79. 2 Paul Hyams, Rancor and Reconciliation in Medieval England, Ithaca 2003. 3 Susan Reynolds, Tenure and Property in Medieval England, Historical Research (2015), pre-

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certain that the barons in revolt would not actually attack the king’s army.4 It was not just that the king’s forces were greater and had access to superior war technology, such as siege engines, it was also that the king’s person made men unwilling to use physical force to drive home their point. There were, however, some notable exceptions. In 1141, at Lincoln, for example, the presence of King Stephen did nothing to stop the forces of Robert of Gloucester from engaging in battle and, at the end of the day, capturing the king.5 Although the empress’s party stayed its hand against the thought of murder, the empress herself seems to have thought that the throne was now vacant and that she should move towards her coronation as monarch.6 Likewise, in the aftermath of Magna Carta, those in rebellion against King John sought to unseat him and replace him with another.7 In the vast majority of cases, however, rebellions against English kings were not undertaken with the intent of deposing the reigning monarch. On the contrary, not just the king and his supporters, but also the wider political and ecclesiastical community of the realm had a deeply vested interest in maintaining the king’s person at the head of the medieval English polity. The crisis that brought about the creation of Magna Carta was equally constructed in the context of a political community determined (in the main part) to retain not just the institution of kingship but also the person of King John. Those who sought to force the king to concede the terms that were to be enshrined in Magna Carta did not envisage a situation whereby John would be removed from power. In that regard, Magna Carta has been widely seen as a form of peace treaty. The great historians of the past as well as their contemporary successors have been almost unanimously in agreement on the matter.8

4 5 6 7 8

publication release; eadem, Did all the Land belong to the King?, in: Eadem., The Middle Ages without Feudalism: Essays in Criticism and Comparison in the Medieval West, AlIbidhot 2012, 263–271, reprinted from Iris Shagrir/Ronnie Ellenblum/Jonathan Riley-smith (eds.), In Laudem Hierosolymitani: Studies in Crusades and Medieval Culture in Honour of Benjamin Z. Kedar, AlIbidhot 2007, 263–271. Strickland 1994, 62–67. Edmund King, King Stephen, New Haven 2010, 151f. Stephen D. Church, Succession and Interregnum in the English Polity. The Case of 1141, in: Haskins Society Journal 29 (2017), pp. 181–200. Stephen D. Church, King John: England, Magna Carta and the Making of a Tyrant, London 2015, 235. From the present community of scholars on the subject see James C. Holt, Magna Carta, with a new introduction by John Hudson/George Garnett, Cambridge 3rd edn. 2015, 33; David A. Carpenter, Magna Carta, London 2015, 341; Nicholas Vincent, Runnymede and the Granting of Magna Carta, in: Claire Breary/Julian Harrison (eds.), Magna Carta: Law, Liberty, Legacy, London 2015, 53–75, here 55; Ralph V. Turner, Magna Carta Through the Ages, London 2003, 61. From an earlier generation of scholars whose views still matter see William S. Mckechnie, Magna Carta: A Commentary on the Great Charter of King John, Glasgow 2nd edn. 1914, 39f.; Henry Garold Richardson, The Morrow of the Great Charter, in: Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 28 (1944), 422–443, here 422; Vivian H. Galbraith,

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There is no doubt that a peace needed to be made between king and barons. On 5 May 1215, according to the author of the Southwark annals, who seems to have been writing more-or-less contemporaneously with events,9 the barons ‘renounced their homage to the king, who was at Reading, by the services of a certain black canon.’10 The act of ‘diffidatio’ was crucial if a man were to make war on his lord legitimately without the stain of treason.11 Although King John attempted to play down the significance of the rift that had opened up between himself and those magnates opposed to his method of rule, once the barons had laid siege to Northampton and then had taken London, England was in a state of civil war.12 The peace that brought about the end of that civil war was established between king and barons on 19 June.13 On that day, the rebel barons came to Runnymede where they did homage to the king after which the terms of the peace, as enshrined (or to be enshrined) in Magna Carta came into effect for them.14 Did a final text of Magna Carta exist at the moment that the peace was proclaimed on 19 June? Logic would dictate that it did. The terms of Magna Carta were central to the peace since without it the barons and the king could not reconcile themselves. That is certainly the position of most modern commentators, whether they side with Carpenter and argue for a date of 15 June for the creation of the final engrossed text of Magna Carta, or whether they side with Holt and argue for a date of 19 June for the creation of the final engrossed text.15 One historian, however, stood out against this ‘logical’ view. In 1955, Christopher Cheney, argued that “Magna Carta [should be] disengaged” from the peace-

9 10 11 12 13 14

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Studies in the Public Records, London 1948, 135; James C. Holt, The making of Magna Carta, English Historical Review 72 (1957), 401–422, here 413. Antonia Gransden, Historical Writing in England, c. 550 to c. 1307, London 1974, 318, 332f. Hunc etiam regem diffidere fecerunt per quendam canonicum nigrum apud rading’ In uigilia sancti Johannis ante portam latinam, The Annals of Southwark and Merton, ed. Moses Tyson, in: Surrey Archaeological Collections 36 (1925), 24–57, here 49. Paul Hyams, Homage and Feudalism: A Judicious Separation, in: Natalie Fryde/Pierre Monnet/Otto G. Oexle (eds.), Die Gegenwart des Feudalismus (Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 173), Göttingen 2002, 13–49, here 34–39. Holt 2015, 175. Rotuli Litterarum Patentium in turri Londinsensi asservati, ed. Thomas D. Hardy (Record Commission), London 1835, 143f. See also Holt 2015, appendix 11 in which are collected transcriptions of many of the key texts for understanding the peacemaking process. The date of the making of Magna Carta has proved a fruitful area for disagreement. In sum, historians have divided themselves into those who argue that a final version of Magna Carta existed on 15 June 1215 and those who have argued that the final version was not in existence until 19 June 1215 (or even later). David A. Carpenter, The Dating and Making of Magna Carta, in: Idem, The Reign of Henry III, London 1996, 1–16; Holt 1957, 421.

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making events at Runnymede.16 His views did not find favour, perhaps because although he himself was a great historian, he had the unfortunate luck to publish his thoughts about the making of Magna Carta at a time when the man who was to dominate the scholarship on the subject for the next half century, J. C. Holt, was making his mark. Yet I wish to argue that Cheney had a useful point to make in attempting to persuade us to see the text of Magna Carta not as a peace treaty central to the business of the events of 15 to 19 June 1215 but as a record of the agreement by which peace was made (separate and therefore ‘disengaged’ from the peace-making process). This is a point, moreover, I shall go on to argue, that is more than one focused around semantics: it is one that is central to the way that we should understand the processes by which Magna Carta was made and therefore central to understanding what John might have been doing when he granted his charter. Cheney argued that what made up the peace between the king and his rebel magnates was, firstly, the king’s acceptance of homage from those who had performed (or who had had performed on their behalf) the act of ‘diffidation’ on 5 May (this event took place on 19 June); secondly, the decision on the identities of twenty-five barons of Magna Carta ‘who should’, in the words of Magna Carta, ‘with all their strength observe, hold and cause to be observed the peace and liberties which we have granted them;’17 and thirdly, the restoration of confiscated properties to those who had gone into rebellion. As Cheney stated, and as is well known, “Magna Carta consisted mainly of promises for the future: it did not give the individuals who sought it these immediate concessions; they were the subject of numerous letters issued after 19 June.” Cheney acknowledged that “finality cannot be claimed for [his] hypothesis”,18 but the major advantage of his proposition over the propositions of all those who have come after him is that it fits the available evidence and does not call for an ingenious use of the historical imagination to establish a probable recreation of events. In all the chronicles that have a claim to having a contemporaneity with the events surrounding the creation of Magna Carta, the document itself plays not just a secondary role in the events of June 1215, but it also appears in the narrative after the peace had been secured between king and barons (that is 19 June). The author of the annals of Dunstable, who has a claim to being the witness that stands most closely to the proceedings in time, is very clear about the sequence of events.19 The section concerning the events of May and June 1215 was 16 Christopher R. Cheney, The Eve of Magna Carta, in: Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 38 (1955/56), 311–341, here 333f. 17 The 1215 Magna Carta: Suffix A, The Magna Carta Project, trans. Henry Summerson et al., http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/magna_carta_1215/Suffix_A (06. 10. 2017). 18 Cheney 1955/56, 332f. 19 The author of the annals was Richard de Morins, who was prior of the Augustinian priory

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written up as one complete portion, as is witnessed by the way the text intertwines events. According to the Dunstable chronology embedded in this section of the text, first the Northerners, along with the men of Galloway and the Scots, conspired against the king because they wished to complain about the excessive burden of the king’s rule; second, the rebels laid siege to Northampton; third, they entered London whereupon there was a colloquium held between the barons and the king over which presided Archbishop Stephen Langton with his suffragan bishops; fourth, they convened at Runnymede on 19 June where a peace was made between the king and his barons, which lasted but for a short time; fifth, that the king received the homage of the barons, which they had withdrawn from him at the start of the war by a formal act of ‘diffidatio’ made at Wallingford by a certain canon originating from Dereham;20 sixth, the king restored the castles and rights of the barons and made a charter recording the liberties of the kingdom of England, after which a copy was deposited in each bishopric.21 For the author of the Dunstable annals, therefore, Magna Carta (the text) came after the peace was made between John and his barons. The Dunstable annalist was not alone in that opinion. The Barnwell Chronicler (who we should now call Roger the Crowland Chronicler),22 writing almost contemporaneously with events at Crowland Abbey and noted for the quality of his work,23 also thought that the peace between John and his barons came first (‘they became friends’), whereupon ‘by his

20

21 22 23

from 1202 until his death in 1242 (Robert C. Figueira, Morins, Richard de (early 1160s–1242), in: Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004) http://www.oxforddnb. com/view/article/23518 (23. 09. 2017). The section of the annals between 1210 and 1219 seems to have been written up as a block in about 1220, and although it has long been known that the retrospective act of writing the annals meant that errors in chronology and multiple entries for the same event were made, these confusions arose because the person who drew up this section of the annals did so from notes which had been taken contemporaneously with events. In the view of Cheney, therefore, “the judicious reader must take their evidence seriously” (Christopher R. Cheney, Notes on the Making of the Dunstable Annals, AD 33 to 1242, in: Thayron A. Sandquist/Micheal R. Powicke (eds.), Essays in Medieval History presented to Bertie Wilkinson, Toronto 1968, 79–98 and in: Idem, Medieval Texts and Studies, Oxford 1973, 209–230, at 230; Gransden 1974, 335–339). The mention of a canon of Dereham has prompted Ifor Rowlands to speculate that the canon in question was Mr. Elias of Dereham. (Ifor W. Rowlands, The Text and Distribution of the Writ for the Publication of Magna Carta, in: English Historical Review 124 (2009), 1422–1431, here 1426). Annals of Dunstable, in: Annales Monastici, vol. iii, ed. Henry R. Luard (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 36), London 1866, 3–408, here 43, sub anno 1214. Cristian N. Ispir, A Critical Edition of the Crowland Chronicle, Unpublished King’s College London PhD thesis, 2015, 248–253, https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/files/57571697/2015 (18. 05. 2017). Gransden 1974, 339–45; Ispir 2015, 268–74.

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charter [John] confirmed to them all that they wished.’24 Friendship (19 June) was followed by Magna Carta. The chronicler writing from Melrose Abbey in Scotland, who is now seen as being an especially early witness to the events of 1215, constructed his chronology in the same way.25 In a marked break from the normal prose of his chronicle, the author burst into rhyme to describe the ‘strangest events as has ever been heard’. Having renounced their homage to John and gone to war, ‘a form of peace was concluded on both sides’, which the chronicler dated to 18 June, after which ‘everything, therefore, was reduced to writing by both parties and they petitioned the king to affix his seal to it’.26 Quite what we are to make of the fact that this section of the chronicle is rhymed is not clear, but what is clear is that the peace came first before Magna Carta. Another writer who has equally undergone a recent restoration in the judgment of modern historians is the so-called Anonymous of B8thune, who, likelyas-not, was a secular man in the service of the Flemish mercenary captain, Robert of B8thune. The part of his work that relates directly to the events that surround Magna Carta have been judged to contain “the bones of some strictly contemporary narratives.”27 Like the other narrators of events, the Anonymous noted that the peace agreement between John and his barons was mediated by Stephen Langton and added (unlike our other sources) the role that the twentyfive barons were to have in the enforcing of the agreement who, ‘by their judgment, were to command the king in all matters’. The Anonymous noted that ‘so that the peace might hold, the king gave his charter to the barons’.28 In the mind of the Anonymous, therefore, Magna Carta was not a treaty but a necessary accompaniment to the peace-making process which guaranteed the peace. Ralph of Coggeshall, perhaps writing this part of his chronicle after 1221,29 24 Post multas deliberationes amici facti sunt, rege illis omnia annuente quae volebant, et per cartam suam confirmante, cf. Walter of Coventry, Annales Angliae, in: The Historical Collections of Walter of Coventry, ed. William Stubbs, vol. ii (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 57), London 1873, 27–271, here 221; see also Ispir 2015, 569. 25 The Chronicle of Melrose Abbey : A Stratigraphic Edition: Volume 1: Introduction and Facsimile, ed. Dauvit Broun/Julian Harrison, Woodbridge 2007, 131 (dating this entry to “1218 or soon after”). 26 Omne igitur pactum pariter in scriptum reduxerunt/ Et sigillum regium apponi pecierunt (Chronica de Melros e Codice Unico, ed. Joseph Stevenson, Edinburgh 1835, 118f.). The text may be seen in the CD ROM of The Chronicle of Melrose Abbey, London, British Library MS, Faustina B IX fo. 31v. 27 John gillingham, The Anonymous of B8thune. King John and Magna Carta, in: Janet S. Loengard (ed.), Magna Carta and the England of King John, Woodbridge 2010, 27–44, here 33f. 28 Et par le judgement de ces xxv les menast li rois de toutes choses… De cele pais tenir donna li rois sa chartre as barons. Histoire des Ducs de Normandie et des Rois d’Angleterre, ed. Francisque Michel (Soci8t8 de l’histoire de France), Paris 1840, 150. 29 James C. Holt, King John, in: Idem., Magna Carta and Medieval Government, London 1985, 85–110 reprinted from his King John, Historical Association General Series, 53, 1964, here

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wrote of the meeting that the barons gathered at Runnymede with a multitude of their knights, all well-armed, where they fixed their tents. The king and his followers also remained in tents in the same meadow with the archbishop of Canterbury and many bishops and some barons shuttling between them ‘as peace between the king and the barons was formed; and by the touching of holy things, holding inviolate that which was sworn by all, even the king. Consequently, soon after, the peace was made apparent in the form a charter.’30 Here Coggeshall follows all other contemporary commentators in seeing Magna Carta coming after the peace was agreed. Likewise, the Waverley annalist, probably writing this part of his work after 1219,31 took his narrative from the capture of London (which he dated to the 16 Kalends of July),32 to the field of Runnymede (which he dated to 23 June) where, in order to quieten the discord, gathered the king, the archbishop of Canterbury, the bishops, magnates and barons, and ‘the king made for them in that place a charter of privileges, whatever they wanted’, after which the annalist immediately took the story to the breakdown of the peace.33 Not all contemporary chroniclers even mentioned Magna Carta. The author of the Southwark annals who, like the Dunstable annalist, also seems to have written up his annals in sections, did not think that the document over which we have poured so much concern was important as regards to the creation of the peace between king and magnates. The first section of his annals that deals with 1215 had John taking the cross; the second described the opening of hostilities be-

30

31 32 33

101, 104; but see Grandsen 1974, 323 and note that the Coggeshall Chronicle may well have been written up sporadically. David A. Carpenter, Abbot Ralph of Coggeshall’s account of the last years of King Richard and the first years of King John, in: English Historical Review 113 (1998), 1210–1230 made a powerful case for the contemporaneity of that portion of the chronicle. Evidently the final account of the writing of Coggeshall’s chronicle is yet to be written. Quasi pax inter regem et barones formata est, et tactis sacrosanctis, ab omnibus inviolabiliter tenenda juratur, etiam a rege. Mox igitur forma pacis in charta est comprehensa, (here translating ‘comprehensa’ to mean ‘understood or comprehended’; Ralph of Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. Joseph Stevenson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 66), London 1875, 172. Coggeshall went on to write […], ita quod singuli comitatus totius Angliae singulas unius tenoris haberent chartas regio sigillo communitas. This phrase has a relevance for those interested in the circulation of Magna Carta. See Rowlands 2009, 1422–1431. Gransden 1974, 412. That is 16 June 1215 (the transcription in the Rolls Series edition is correct, BL MS Cotton Vespasian A XVI, fo. 109v), though London was actually captured on 16 Kalends of June, that is 17 May (Holt 2015, establishes the date). [E]t fecit eis ibi cartam libertatum, qualem volebant, Annals of Waverly, ed. Henry R. Luard, in: Annales Monastici vol. ii, (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 36), London 1865, 129–412, here 282f. I have chosen the less weighted word ‘privileges’ to the more problematic ‘liberties’ (libertas, in: The Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British and Irish Sources, fasciscule V (I–J–K–L) (1997), 1600, n. 7)).

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tween John and his northern barons; the third looked at the capture of London; the fourth mentioned the peace agreement at Runnymede, which the author dated to 23 June, mediated by Archbishop Stephen Langton; the fifth dealt with the consecration of new bishops; and the sixth part of that year’s annal talked of a great three-day ‘parliament’ held in the king’s court at Staines to discuss the peace and stability of the kingdom and which the author dated to shortly after the feast of St Bartholomew (24 August).34 For the compiler of these annals, therefore, Magna Carta had no significance to the events of 1215. At the end of this recital of the evidence provided by the near contemporary chroniclers, we find ourselves in a perplexing place. If all the contemporary or near contemporary witnesses to the events of May and June 1215 place the making of Magna Carta not just after the making of peace (which we can date firmly to 19 June), but do not see the document as central to the peace-making process, why is the text itself dated to 15 June? For there is absolutely no doubt whatsoever that the four engrossments which represent our cache of original witnesses to Magna Carta are dated 15 June.35 One chronicler, the much-criticised Roger of Wendover,36 alone placed the meeting between John and the barons on a field between Windsor and Staines on 15 June ‘where they began a long discussion about terms of the peace and the aforesaid liberties.’ Wendover then named those on the king’s side (reciting the witness list of Magna Carta a copy of which he had before him) before stating that ‘at length, after various points on both sides had been discussed, King John, seeing that he was inferior in strength to the barons, without raising any difficulty, granted the underwritten laws and liberties and confirmed them by his charter as follows.’37 Cheney suggested that Wendover had before him a text of Magna Carta with its date which he used to create a plausible reconstruction of events that had at its heart Magna Carta given on 15 June 1215.38 For Wendover, therefore, the date of the charter gave him the date of peace. Like those historians who came after him with no first-hand knowledge, Wendover was doing what good historians do: ex34 Annals of Southwark and Merton, 49f. The date of this meeting is unlikely since John’s itinerary has him sailing between Wareham and Sandwich (Julie E. Kanter, Peripatetic and Sedentary Kingship. The Itineraries of the Thirteenth-century Kings, London PhD thesis, 2011, Appendix 1). 35 Nicholas Vincent, The Magna Carta. Sotheby’s Sale Catalogue, New York December 18, 2007, 55–59. 36 James C. Holt, The St Albans chroniclers and Magna Carta, in: Transaction of the Royal History Society, 5th ser. 14 (1964), 67–88. 37 Tandem igitur, cum hinc inde in varia sorte tractassent, rex Johannes, vires suas baronum viribus impares intelligens, since difficultate leges subscriptas et libertatem concessit et charta sua in hunc modum confirmavit, Roger of Wendover, Chronica sive Flores Historiarum iii, ed. Henry O. Coxe, London 1841, 301f. 38 Cheney 1955/56, 328.

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trapolating from the evidence available to him. But that does not mean that historians are always right and in this instance it seems unwise to privilege this testimony of the 1220s over those of more contemporary chroniclers than Wendover.39 One solution to the problem of the date of Magna Carta could be that it is entirely ‘fictitious’. This was Cheney’s suggestion.40 But it is very unwise for those of us who use the documents of John’s reign to suggest that the dates appended to the documents produced by the royal chancery were anything other than accurate. Until careful work on the chancery of John’s reign has been undertaken to establish the veracity or otherwise of the dating clauses, we should assume that they are correct unless we have evidence to the contrary.41 Magna Carta is clearly and unequivocally dated 15 June (a date that we should not regard as fictitious), so if it was dated 15 June and yet – according to the evidence of the contemporary chronicles – it did not come into existence until after the peace had been secured (19 June), why was it dated 15 June and not, for example, 19 June or even later? Something significant for the composition of the charter must have happened on 15 June. What was it? According to the charter itself, what happened on that day was that the agreement between the barons and the king was sworn upon ‘on our part and on the part of the barons, that all these things named above will be observed in good faith and without evil intent.’42 In other words, neither king nor rebel barons were on the field of Runnymede on 15 June. There was an event on that day at which the final terms that were to be enshrined in Magna Carta were sworn upon, but that event involved neither the king’s person nor the persons of the barons with whom he was in dispute, even though the charter itself was ‘given by our hand in the meadow which is called Runnymede […] on the fifteenth day of June […]’ (I shall return to this sealing clause below). Neither was the person of the baronial leader, Robert fitz Walter, the self-styled ‘marshal of the army of God and of the Church in England’, at Runnymede.43 39 Gransden 1974, 359f. The Latest state of knowledge suggests that Wendover started writing about the year 1220 and finished by 1234 (David Corner, Wendover, Roger of (d. 1236), in: Oxford Dictionary of National Biography (2004), http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/ 29040 [13. 10. 2017]). 40 Christopher R. Cheney, The twenty-five Barons of Magna Carta, in: Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 50 (1967/68), 280–307, at 280. 41 Jean B. Edwards, The English Royal Chamber and Chancery in the Reign of King John, unpublished University of Cambridge PhD thesis, 1973. 42 Juratum est autem tam ex parte nostra quam ex parte baronum, quod haec omnia supradicta bona fide et sine malo ingenio observabuntur, The 1215 Magna Carta: Suffix B, The Magna Carta Project, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/magna_carta_1215/Suffix_B (23. 09. 2017). 43 The agreement concerning London between King John and the baronial party survives in

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After 15 June, evidently there was a period of waiting, presumably a time for the barons to consider the final terms that John’s proctors had delivered to the barons’ proctors. One document in particular gets us close to the final moments of the waiting that happened after 15 June. This is a copy of Magna Carta which is dated 16 June 1215 at Runnymede which has the baronial relief set at 100 marks.44 The 100 marks of 16 June Magna Carta shares the same 100-mark relief of a copy of Magna Carta composed on the morning of 15 June at Windsor.45 Magna Carta itself has the baronial relief at £100. This was John’s final offer and although the barons evidently pressed before the final agreement for a reduction in that relief and pressed again after the final agreement, John steadfastly refused. By 18 June, the barons had come to see that they had to accept the king’s final position or to fight on; they decided to accept the terms as they had stood on the afternoon of 15 June. King John’s triumphant letter of 18 June to Stephen Haringod proclaimed: ‘Know that, by God’s grace, a firm peace is made between us and our barons on the Friday closest after the feast of the Holy Trinity at Runnymede next Staines (19 June), so that we [will have] taken their homage on that same day.’46 It is worth mentioning at this point in the discussion that there is no evidence that any documents (other than the exemplifications of Magna Carta) were dated at Runnymede on 15 June. In fact, John’s own documents produced by the royal chancery give powerful testimony to the view that the king never went to Runnymede on 15 June, but was resident at Windsor from 10 June;47 in these au-

44

45

46

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three versions, one the original bottom-portion of the chirograph (TNA C 47/34/1/1), the other two belonging to the dorses of the two copies of the Close Rolls for that year (TNA C54/ 12 m. 27d; TNA C54/13 m21d). The established text is in Holt 2015, appendix 9). Bodleian Library, MS Rawlinson C 641 fo. 212 r, clearly spelled out ‘centu[m] marchas’ and there is absolutely no doubt about the dating clause, on fo. 29 r, datum per manu[m] n[ost]ram in prato q[ue] vocatur runigmed inter Windelesores et Stanes sexto decimo die iunii anno regni nostri septimo decimo (the text is in a clear bookhand dating from the thirteenth century, though in an eighteenth-century binding); John Hudson/George Garnett in Holt 2015, 30f. David A. Carpenter, The Copies of Magna Carta: XIV. Bodleian Library, MS Rawlinson C 641, fos. 21v–29, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/magna_carta_copies/ XIV__Bodleian_Library_Rawlinson_C_641__fos__21v-29 (23. 09. 2017). This is the so-called Huntingdon Magna Carta, discovered by Vivian H. Galbraith in the 1960s, which is dated 15 June at Windsor and shares almost all the detail of the four engrossments of Magna Carta with the exception of two clauses which use the future rather than the present tense and the baronial relief given as 100 marks rather than the £100 (Vivian H. Galbraith, A Draft of Magna Carta, 1215, in: Proceedings of the British Academy 53 (1967), 345–360, here 353). Sciatis quod firma pax est per Dei gratiam inter nos et barones nostros die Veneris proximo post festum Sancte Trinitatis apud Runemed’ prope Stanes; ita quod eorum homagia eodem die ibidem cepimus. ‘Cepimus’, the perfect of capio, to take, but the use of ‘ita quod’ (so that) to introduce the sub clause shows that it is a future action. The transcription of the Record Commissioner is correct (Rotuli Litterarum Patentium 1835, 143 b; The National Archives C66/14 m. 23). Rotuli Litterarum Patentium 1835, 142 b–143 b; Rotuli Litterarum Clausarum in turri

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thoritative documents, the king only made his appearance on the field of Runnymede on 18 June to witness, of all documents, the writ to Stephen Haringod notifying him that the peace was to commence on the following day. From that moment onwards, and for the next five days, John occupied Runnymede where he issued a series of writs that began to put the terms of Magna Carta into operation.48 Perhaps this was the scene that Coggeshall had in mind when he described the tents of the rebel magnates and the king set up at Runnymede while Stephen Langton and his associates conducted shuttle diplomacy between the two parties.49 So again, we are back to the question why was Magna Carta dated 15 June? Why was it not dated 19 June, the day on which (because that was the day on which the barons did their homages) its terms came into effect for the rebel barons?50 Galbraith thought that “the charter, though drafted, was not yet operative”.51 This may have been so. A more likely explanation is provided by the opening words of Magna Carta itself. The terms enshrined in the charter were to apply ‘to all the free subjects of our kingdom’.52 It did not, therefore, apply to those who had performed (in person or by proxy) the act of ‘diffidation’ on 5 May. This point is made absolutely clear by the case of Earl David of Huntingdon, who was in rebellion on 19 June, but who was unable to come to Runnymede to do homage to his king. A letter patent of 21 June stated that Fotheringay, the earl’s caput, should be returned to him ‘once he has done homage to us; and if by chance he dies before he has done homage, you shall restore the castle to us.’53 Evidently submission to the king in a formal act of performing homage was essential if the individual were to return to the king’s peace and to enjoy the benefits granted by the terms of Magna Carta. Anyone who died before doing homage and therefore returning to the king’s peace forfeited his or her property just as anyone would if he or she were to die while in rebellion. The terms of the peace only affected the king’s ‘fideles’.54

48 49 50 51 52 53

54

Londinensi asservati, ed. Thomas D. Hardy, vol. i (Record Commission), London 1833), 214 b–215. Rotuli Litterarum Patentium, London 1835, 143 b–144; apart from forays to Windsor on 21 and 22 June (Rotuli Litterarum Clausarum. 1833 i, 215–16). Ralph of Coggeshall, 172. See above, 55–6. Galbraith 1967, 353f. Concessimus etiam omnibus liberis hominibus regni nostri, The 1215 Magna Carta: Clause 01, The Magna Carta Project, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/magna_carta_1215/Clau se_01 (14. 10. 2017). Cited in Holt 2015, 222 from Rotuli Litterarum Patentium 1835, 144. Since Earl David’s hostages (including his son, John) were released to his son, Henry, on the same day, there is a supposition that Earl David did his homage on 21 June at Runnymede also (Rotuli Litterarum Patentium 1835, 143 b (2)). ‘Our faithful subjects’ (after Holt 2015, 379) not simply ‘our subjects’, The 1215 Magna Carta:

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By making the date of Magna Carta 15 June, John had taken into his control (in so far as it was in his power to do so) the terms of the agreement between himself and the rebel barons. On 15 June 1215, those terms did not apply to them, but they did apply to the king’s faithful subjects who were also to be the beneficiaries of the king’s benevolent gift gracefully given ‘for ourselves and our heirs in perpetuity, all the following liberties, for them and their heirs to have and to hold of us and our heirs.’55 The words of Magna Carta itself take us to the very heart of the meaning of the dating of Magna Carta. This was to be a grant that, in its written form at least, was to give no hint that it had been extracted by force. Dating Magna Carta to 15 June made it the king’s document which applied to all his ‘free subjects’, women as well as men, so long as they were loyal to him. On 15 June 1215, this deliberately and unequivocally excluded the rebels because on that day they were still in rebellion. Magna Carta was therefore not a peace treaty because it applied, on 15 June, to those who had never been at war and who had remained loyal to John throughout the trauma of the winter and spring of 1215. Only when a man returned to the allegiance of the king did the terms of the agreement apply to him. On 19 June, this meant the majority of the returning rebel barons, but some had to wait longer: Earl David of Huntingdon, for example, had to wait until 21 June. Only when a man did his homage and gave up the position he had adopted on 5 May did the terms enshrined in Magna Carta apply to him. It had to be this way, too. Had Magna Carta been dated to 19 June, it would have become the barons’ document and inextricably linked to their demands from the king. And even the barons must have recognised this point, for no one in the baronial camp – at least not openly and at this stage – was arguing that John should be removed from the kingship. No one in the baronial camp was arguing that kingship itself should come to an end and that power should be vested in the community of the realm. The security clause by which the king was to be brought to book should he or his officials break the terms given in the charter did not (as is popularly thought) seek to limit royal authority nor did it give the barons the freedom to tell the king how to rule or to wage war on him; what it did was to create a court of restitution for transgressions committed and to be committed in the future. The twenty-five barons were a court of appeal to be used in the last resort.56 The king was still to be supreme in his own kingdom, and making Magna Preface, The Magna Carta Project, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/magna_carta_ 1215/Preface (06. 10. 2017). 55 Pro nobis et haeredibus nostris in perpetuum, omnes libertates subscriptas, habendas et tenendas, eis et haeredibus suis, de nobis et haeredibus nostris, The 1215 Magna Carta: Clause 01, The Magna Carta Project, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/magna_carta_1215/ Clause_01 (14. 10. 2017). 56 Holt 2015, 288.

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Carta a concession by the king meant that kingship remained intact and so did King John. That it did not work in the long run should not blind us to the fact that those who on the king’s side issued Magna Carta (even if they did not bring to the table the reforms contained therein) did so in the spirit of making concessions by King John. There could be no other way. In that sense, therefore, Magna Carta was a loyalist document which maintained the status quo even if that status quo had now been more carefully defined than once it had been. The strength of the argument presented here concerning the date of Magna Carta (just as it was the strength of Cheney’s argument in 1955) is that it requires no special pleading to make it fit the evidence as it has survived to us. The chroniclers (apart from Wendover) are in unanimous agreement and no document (apart from Magna Carta) puts John at Runnymede on 15 June. But where my argument differs from that which has gone before is that it does not require us to see 15 June as a “fictitious” date, as Cheney did; nor does it require us to see the terms of Magna Carta as “drafted but not yet operative”, as Galbraith thought; neither does it require us to imagine that the terms of the charter were not settled until 18 June whereupon Magna Carta was drawn up to form a central part in the peacemaking process, as Holt believed; and nor does it require us to accept that an engrossed form of Magna Carta had to exist on 15 June, as Carpenter has argued.57 The date of 15 June represents the date on which the final terms that were to be enshrined in Magna Carta were agreed upon by the proctors of each party, that is why Magna Carta was dated 15 June. That the terms had to be ratified by the king and the barons seems likely, hence the existence of a copy of Magna Carta (representing a draft) dated to 16 June, and hence it was not until 18 June that John knew that the terms by which the barons would return to his side had been agreed. Its terms, however, were operative from 15 June and were operative for the king’s ‘free subjects’ but were not operative for anyone still in rebellion. And until 19 June, that meant every single one of the rebellious barons. I have no doubt that there were drafts of Magna Carta circulating.58 The terms were so complex as to be impossible to remember in full and not to be disagreed upon, and the fact that the Articles of the Barons exists (sealed by the royal chancery but in no way conforming to any standard chancery document) shows that written forms of the terms of the agreement needed to be available for consultation.59 But that Magna Carta as a final engrossed text existed on 15 June seems highly unlikely. And, given the evidence in the chronicles, it seems highly 57 Cheney 1967/68, 280; Galbraith 1967, 353f; Holt 1965, 401–422; Carpenter 1996, 3f.; David A. Carpenter, Feature of the Month: June 2015 – The Date of Magna Carta, The Magna Carta Project, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/feature_of_the_month/Jun_ 2015 (01. 03. 2017). 58 Carpenter, The Copies of Magna Carta (23. 09. 2017). 59 Holt 2015, Appendix 5, 356–372.

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unlikely that an engrossed Magna Carta played a central role in the peacemaking process. Happily, this suggestion fits with what we know about the diplomatic practice of drawing up charters. Charters were not in themselves dispositive: they gave nothing whatsoever by their existence. Charters were records of grants given, and while they might be becoming increasingly important as proofs of title to land and rights, they did not in themselves give land or rights. Magna Carta is a charter. Its diplomatic has some points of difficulty, but there is no doubt that it is a charter. And the very opening words of Magna Carta tells us that it is a record of a grant already given: ‘we have first of all granted to God, and by this our present charter confirmed… all the following liberties, for them and their heirs to have and to hold of us and our heirs.’60 There is no difficulty, therefore, in believing that the terms that were to be enshrined in Magna Carta existed on 15 June without there having been an engrossed text. Indeed, even the evidence of Magna Carta itself points towards the fact that it was not a central player in the peace even if its terms were. Here again we can rely on the text of Magna Carta: ‘Moreover, since we have granted all these things aforesaid for the sake of God, and for the reform of our kingdom, and the better to still the discord arisen between us and our barons, wishing that these things be enjoyed with a whole and constant stability in perpetuity, we make and grant them the following security’.61

It was the content of the agreement that mattered to the peace not the text of Magna Carta. Magna Carta merely recorded the terms of the agreement. There is no difficulty, therefore, in constructing a scenario whereby Magna Carta did not come into being as an engrossed document until perhaps as late as 24 June 1215. This was the position that Cheney took.62 The evidence suggests that, in the minds of those who witnessed events, the peace was not inextricably linked to the text of Magna Carta, although the text preserved the agreement as it stood on 15 June, to which the barons agreed on 18 June and to which they demonstrated their agreement by coming performing homage to the king in person on 19 June and (in the case of men like Earl David of Huntingdon) after. And that the reason we have perhaps got ourselves in a 60 In primis concessisse Deo et hac praesenti carta nostra confirmasse… omnes libertates subscriptas, habendas et tenendas, eis et haeredibus suis, de nobis et haeredibus nostris, The 1215 Magna Carta: Clause 01, The Magna Carta Project, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/ read/magna_carta_1215/Clause_01 (14. 10. 2017). 61 Cum autem pro Deo, et ad emendationem regni nostri, et ad melius sopiendum discordiam inter nos et barones nostros ortam, haec omnia praedicta concesserimus, volentes ea integra et firma stabilitate gaudere in perpetuum, facimus et concedimus eis securitatem subscriptam, The 1215 Magna Carta: Suffix A, The Magna Carta Project, http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac. uk/read/magna_carta_1215/Suffix_A (06. 10. 2017). 62 Cheney 1955/56, 334–341.

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muddle about the dating of Magna Carta is that we have confused the written text (of which four engrossments survive) with the agreement which the text enshrined. The dating of Magna Carta to 15 June disassociated the document from the peacemaking process (even if it did “provide… a necessary complement to the peace-making”)63 and it took the grant freely given by a beneficent king out of the hands of the rebel barons and placed it firmly in the hands of the king. What had been agreed therefore became King John’s document to all his free subjects. In no other way could a king retain his dignity in the face of the rebellion of his subjects and in no other way could a king retain his throne having lost the argument with his rebellious subjects. The agreement at Runnymede had been forced on John by men who had been prepared to go to war, but who had not been prepared to depose their king (yet). As such, the only way that they could bring about peace was to agree to behave as though they were supplicants to a beneficent lord. The homage-making at Runnymede on 19 June was the visual performance of the barons’ supplication; Magna Carta was the text of the king’s beneficence. Both sustained the myth of the king’s supreme power, a myth that was essential if the peace were to be successful. That it was not successful does not detract from the fact that the actors in this drama were attempting – in the best way that they could – to make it so.

Sources Annals of Dunstable, ed. Henry R. Luard, in: Annales Monastici, vol. iii (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 36), London 1866, 3–408. The Annals of Southwark and Merton, ed. Moses Tyson, in: Surrey Archaeological Collections 36 (1925), 24–57. Annals of Waverly, ed. Henry R. Luard, in: Annales Monastici, vol. ii (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 36), London 1865, 129–412. Chronica de Mailros, e Codice Unico, ed. Joseph Stevenson, Edinburgh 1835. The Chronicle of Melrose Abbey : A Stratigraphic Edition: Introduction and Facsimile, ed. Dauvit Broun/Julian Harrison (Scottish History Society), vol. 1, Woodbridge 2007. Histoire des Ducs de Normandie et des Rois d’Angleterre, ed. Francisque Michel (Soci8t8 de l’histoire de France), Paris 1840. The Magna Carta Project: http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/ (23. 09. 2017). Ralph of Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. Joseph Stevenson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 66), London 1875. Rotuli Litterarum Clausarum in turri Londinensi asservati, ed. Thomas D. Hardy, 2 vols (Record Commission), London 1833–1844.

63 Cheney 1955/56, 333f.

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Rotuli Litterarum Patentium in turri Londinsensi asservati, ed. Thomas D. Hardy, vol. I (Record Commission), London 1835. Roger of Wendover, Chronica sive Flores Historiarum, ed. Henry O. Coxe, 5 vols, London 1841–5. Walter of Coventry, Annales Angliae, in: The Historical Collection of Walter of Coventry, ed. William Stubbs, vol. ii (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 57), London 1873, 27–271.

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John gillingham, The Anonymous of B8thune, King John and Magna Carta, in: Janet S. Loengard (ed.), Magna Carta and the England of King John, Woodbridge 2010, 27–44. James C. Holt, The Making of Magna Carta, English Historical Review 72 (1957), 401–422. James C. Holt, The St Albans Chroniclers and Magna Carta, in: Transaction of the Royal History Society, 5th ser. 14 (1964), 67–88. James C. Holt, King John, in: Idem, Magna Carta and Medieval Government, London 1985, 85–110 reprinted from Idem, King John, Historical Association General Series, 53, 1964. James C. Holt, Magna Carta, with a new Introduction by John Hudson/George Garnett, Cambridge 3rd edn. 2015. The Dictionary of Medieval Latin from British and Irish Sources, ed. David R. Howlett et al., fasciscule V (I–J–K–L), Oxford 1997. Paul Hyams, Homage and Feudalism: A Judicious Separation, in: Natalie Fryde/Pierre Monnet/Otto G. Oexle (eds.), Die Gegenwart des Feudalismus (Veröffentlichungen des Max-Planck-Instituts für Geschichte 173), Göttingen 2002, 13–49. Paul Hyams, Rancor and Reconciliation in Medieval England, Ithaca 2003. Cristian Ispir, A Critical Edition of the Crowland Chronicle, Unpublished King’s College London PhD thesis, 2015. https://kclpure.kcl.ac.uk/portal/files/57571697/2015_Ispir_ Cristian_Nicolae_1068129_ethesis.pdf (18. 05. 2017). Julie E. Kanter, Peripatetic and Sedentary Kingship. The Itineraries of the Thirteenthcentury Kings, London PhD thesis, 2011. Edmund King, King Stephen, New Haven 2010. William S. Mckechnie, Magna Carta: A Commentary on the Great Charter of King John, Glasgow 2nd edn. 1914. Susan Reynolds, Tenure and Property in Medieval England, Historical Research, (2015), pre-publication release; eadem, Did all the Land belong to the King?, in: Eadem, The Middle Ages without Feudalism: Essays in Criticism and Comparison in the Medieval West, Aldershot 2012, 263–271. Henry Garold Richardson, The Morrow of the Great Charter, in: Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 28 (1944), 422–443. Ifor W. Rowlands, The Text and Distribution of the Writ for the Publication of Magna Carta, in: English Historical Review 124 (2009), 1422–1431. The 1215 Magna Carta: Suffix A, The Magna Carta Project, trans. Henry Summerson et al., http://magnacarta.cmp.uea.ac.uk/read/magna_carta_1215/Suffix_A (06. 10. 2015). Matthew Strickland, Against the Lord’s Anointed: Aspects of Warfare and Baronial Rebellion in England and Normandy 1075–1265, in: George Garnett/John Hudson (eds.), Law and Government in medieval England and Normandy : Essays in Honour of Sir James Holt, Cambridge 1994, 56–79. Iris Shagrir/Ronnie Ellenblum/Jonathan Riley-smith (eds.), In Laudem Hierosolymitani: Studies in Crusades and Medieval Culture in Honour of Benjamin Z. Kedar, Aldershot 2007, 263–271. Ralph V. Turner, Magna Carta through the Ages, London 2003. Nicholas Vincent, The Magna Carta, Sotheby’s Sale Catalogue, New York December 18, 2007. Nicholas Vincent, Runnymede and the Granting of Magna Carta, in: Claire Breary/Julian Harrison (eds.), Magna Carta: Law, Liberty, Legacy, London 2015, 53–75.

Thomas Foerster

Crossing the Alps and Crossing the Channel. The ‘Empires’ of Frederick I and Henry II

Abstract The article discusses the empires of the Hohenstaufen and the Plantagenets in comparison and analyzes particularly the imperial terminology applied to both of them. According to some medieval definitions, ‘empire’ was the rule over different peoples that live under different laws and speak different languages, and in this light the vast realms ruled by Henry II and Frederick Barbarossa, respectively, could certainly be called empires. Both rulers had to travel their many dominions to personalize their authority, to solve disputes and to create consensus. As a result, they ruled more from the saddle than from the throne, and both crossed repeatedly the large natural barriers within their dominions, the Channel in the case of Henry, and the Alps in the case of Frederick. However, the imperial terminology is not as unambiguous as it may appear. The present article studies in particular the term ‘Angevin Empire’ that was coined for Henry’s realm but that has also encountered much opposition. However, both advocates and opponents of the term, particularly in the Anglo-American tradition, based their arguments on the level of political and administrative coherence within Henry’s sphere of power. In other scholarly traditions, ‘empire’ is defined differently. The article shows how two concepts of empire arose and developed since antiquity and through the Middle Ages. Whereas the former, the understanding of empire as hegemonic rule over other peoples and lands, was eventually superseded by the term ‘imperialism’, this connotation is still partly present in the term ‘Angevin Empire’, first used in 1887. Moreover, if ‘empire’ – in continuing this tradition – is reduced to mean nothing more than administrative coherence, the terminology could and should also be applied to a number of other personal unions through history. The second tradition, focusing on the office and title of emperor and thus referring to the realm ruled by an emperor, was much more present in medieval discourses about empire. It perfectly applied to the realm of Frederick Barbarossa, whose legitimacy as emperor was never questioned, even during the time of his diplomatic isolation in the schism of 1159. Henry, by contrast, never claimed any imperial title, even though that would not have been impossible, as is shown in the article by examples from Castile and Norway. The article concludes, therefore, that vast domains and the rule over different peoples and lands could qualify for imperial status in the medieval understanding, but were not seen as an ‘empire’ in themselves. This difference between Frederick’s and Henry’s realms is further illustrated in the example of crossing the borders within their ‘empires’. Recent scholarship has rightfully questioned

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the notion of linear borders in the Middle Ages, seeing them more as frontier areas with wide personal networks stretching into both sides. Nevertheless, some references from the twelfth century still indicate that within these frontier networks some features still provided symbolic border markers. It is illustrated more generally, how crossing a border was considered a symbolic act. In addition, the article shows how a ruler’s absence in a region often resulted in unrest and rebellions, and quite often it was the arrival of a ruler, his crossing a border alone, that put such rebellions at an end. The ruler’s presence forced the political public to take a decision, to choose the ruler’s or the rebel’s side, and in most cases the ruler’s side was chosen. While these aspects of crossing a border could be found for both Henry and Frederick, the Hohenstaufen added yet another dimension to a border crossing – one that Henry could not claim. While the Plantagenet ruled all his domains in different titles and capacities, Frederick was King of Germany, Burgundy and Italy, but he was also emperor in all of these kingdoms. He could take power in Italy and Burgundy without a formal coronation there and could rule through his imperial title alone. His presence in these kingdoms made them ‘imperial kingdoms’. The Holy Roman Empire, at least in the twelfth century, was still considered much more than just a personal union. Henry’s realm was not, and should therefore also not be called an ‘empire’.

For many years, the ‘Anarchy’ had torn England apart between the supporters of the Empress Mathilda and those of King Stephen.1 It was only when Stephen died in October 1154,2 that Mathilda’s son Henry crossed over to England and was accepted as the heir to the throne by both sides.3 He was crowned king of England on 19 December of the same year.4 For the first time since the death of Henry I, England had an undisputed king.5 However, he was more than only king of England. From his mother he had inherited the duchy of Normandy and thus renewed the Anglo-Norman connection established by William the Conqueror. Through his father, he had inherited Anjou, Maine, Touraine, and several other territories in western France. Through his wife Eleanor, he gained possession of the duchy of Aquitaine. Even Toulouse, Scotland, Wales and Ireland were brought 1 For the events of the ‘Anarchy’ see Marjorie Chibnall, The Empress Matilda. Queen Consort, Queen Mother and Lady of the English, Oxford/Cambridge Mass. 1992; Edmund King (ed.), The Anarchy of King Stephen’s Reign, Oxford 1994; and see Edmund King, King Stephen, New Haven 2011. 2 King 2011, 300. 3 For Henry’s reign cf. still Wilfred L. Warren, Henry II, Berkeley/Los Angeles 1967, which still offers the most detailed account. For more recent scholarly tendencies see the articles collected in Christopher Harper-Bill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 2007. 4 Warren 1967, 53. 5 For Henry’s accession see Marjorie Chibnall, L’avHnement au pouvoir d’Henri II, in: Cahiers de civilisation m8di8vale. Xe–XIIe siHcles 37 (1994), 41–48; and Edmund King, The Accession of Henry II, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 2007, 24–46; Generally, cf. Warren 1967, 41–53; and John Gillingham, The Angevin Empire, London 2nd ed. 2001, 5–19.

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into some dependent position.6 The chronicler William of Newburgh praised Henry for the vastness of his domains, stating that his ‘name was celebrated far and wide, in more regions than that of any other king who ruled England before, for his dominions extended from the farthest frontier of Scotland to the Pyrenees’.7 At the same time when Stephen lay dying in England, another empire was renewed. In October 1154, Frederick Barbarossa, the king of Germany, crossed over the Alps to receive the Lombard crown of Italy.8 Continuing the triad of kingdoms established by his predecessors, his ‘Holy Roman Empire’ included the kingdoms of Germany, Burgundy and Italy and stretched from the plains of Jutland to the rocks of the Apennines.9 Frederick ruled over speakers of French, ProvenÅal, Italian, German and Slavonic.10 Frederick’s son Henry would later even add the kingdom of Sicily to this empire, what inspired his chancellor Conrad of Hildesheim, impressed with the ancient history of southern Italy, to comment that it was now ‘no longer necessary to cross the boundaries of the empire, or to leave the sphere of German command, to see all this what had occupied so much of all the poets’ time’.11 To govern their vast realms both Henry and Frederick sat in the saddle much more than they ever sat on a throne. By way of an example, in the year 1156 alone, Frederick Barbarossa’s household travelled from Trier in the west to Ulm in the south, from there to Würzburg, Fulda, Worms and Cologne, to Aachen, Nij6 Here cf. Gillingham 2001, 20–28; Martin Aurell, L’empire des PlantagenÞt. 1154–1224, Paris 2003, 9–31; and Fanny Madeline, Les PlantagenÞts et leur empire. Construire un territoire politique (Collection Histoire), Rennes 2014, 219–235. 7 William of Newburgh, Historia rerum Anglicarum, books 1–4, ed. Richard Howlett, in: Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II, and Richard I (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 82), London 1884/85, vol. 1, 106: Regis autem supra omnes qui hactenus in Anglia regnasse noscebantur latius dominantis, hoc est ad ultimis Scotiæ finibus ad montes usque Pyrenæos, in cunctis regionibus nomen celebre habebatur. Cf. also John Le Patourel, The Norman Conquest. 1066, 1106, 1154?, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 1 (1979), 103–120, here 114. 8 Die Regesten des Kaiserreichs unter Friedrich I. 1152 (1122)–1190, ed. Ferdinand Opll (Regesta Imperii IV, 2,2), Vienna/Cologne/Weimar 1980–2011, no. 240. 9 For Frederick’s rule, see generally Knut Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa. Eine Biographie, Munich 2011. 10 For Lorraine see Michel Parisse, Pr8sence et interventions de Fr8d8ric Barberousse en Lorraine, in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa. Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 201–223; and Jean-Louis Kupper, Friedrich Barbarossa im Maasgebiet, in: ibid., 225–240. For Bohemia see Jirˇi Kejrˇ, Böhmen und das Reich unter Friedrich I., in: ibid., 241–289. 11 Conrad of Querfurt, bishop-elect of Hildesheim and imperial legate, to Hartbert, provost of Hildesheim, 1195 (the letter is preserved in Arnold of Lübeck, Chronica Slavorum, ed. Johann M. Lappenberg (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 14), Hanover 1868, the letter 174–183, here 175): terminos imperii non oportet egredi, Teutonici orbem dominii non es transeundum, ut ea videatis, circa que poete multa consumpserunt tempora.

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megen, Osnabrück, Goslar, Bamberg and back to Würzburg, from there to Halle and then to Poland, and back to Würzburg again. He later held a diet in BesanÅon and travelled through Burgundy, where he visited Dile, Montbarrey and Arbois, before he returned to Germany where he ended the year in Magdeburg and Goslar.12 Altogether, the emperor and his retinue travelled a distance of well over 5,000 km. Similar lists are more difficult to make for Henry II as his charters are rarely dated, but it can be assumed that his household covered similar annual distances in England, Normandy, Anjou and Aquitaine.13 Throughout his reign, Frederick led seven campaigns into Italy, in the process crossing the Alps fourteen times.14 For Henry, the sea voyage between England and Normandy became a normal part of his government.15 That does not mean that crossing such borders was an easy task. When Henry crossed the Channel and when Frederick crossed the Alps, these were both impressive logistical feats, as they never travelled alone, but were accompanied by their entire royal households. Visiting magnates, clerks, chaplains, advisors, guards, their families, and many more, altogether about a thousand people,16 and not least horses and provisions for all these people had to be transported across the sea or across the mountains. For every crossing, Henry first had to amass a fleet that could transport his entire entourage. Frederick preferred to cross the Alps via the Brenner or Mont Cenis passes,17 but he often had to divide his entire train and send different convoys across different passes, because the German army was, as Otto of Freising tells us, often ‘unable on its passage through the 12 RI IV, 2, 2, nos. 431–515. Also cf. Ferdinand Opll, Das Itinerar Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossas (1152–1190) (Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters 1), Vienna/ Cologne/Graz 1978, 21f. 13 For Henry, see and Warren 1967, 209f.; and Jean Favier, Les PlantagenÞts. Origines et destin d’un empire, xie–xive siHcles, Paris 2004, 287–311, esp. 288–296; and Madeline 2014, 265–286, and the maps at 347–349. 14 Opll 1978, 169–227. 15 Generally, cf. Warren 1967 and see Richard H. Lindemann, Channel Crossings by English Royalty, 1066–1216, Ann Arbor 1986. For Henry’s itinerary, see Madeline 2014, 265–286, and cf. the maps at 347–349. 16 See e. g. Carlrichard Brühl, Fodrum, Gistum, Servitium Regis (Kölner historische Abhandlungen 14), Cologne/Graz 1968, 71. 17 RI IV, 2, 2, nos. 556, 1775 and 2103. Here see also Opll 1978, 13, 23, 33 (with no. 1), 38, 61 (with no. 1) and 82. Generally cf. Heinrich Büttner, Die Alpenpaßpolitik Friedrich Barbarossas bis zum Jahre 1164/65, in: Konstanzer Arbeitskreis für mittelalterliche Geschichte (ed.), Grundfragen der alemannischen Geschichte (Vorträge und Forschungen 1), Sigmaringen 1952, 243–276; Hansmartin Schwarzmaier, Wege des schwäbischen Adels nach Italien im 12. Jahrhundert, in: Helmut Maurer/Idem/Thomas Zotz (eds.), Schwaben und Italien im Hochmittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 52), Stuttgart 2001, 151–174; and Arnold Esch, Auf der Straße nach Italien. Alpenübergänge und Wege nach Rom zwischen Antike und Spätmittelalter. Methodische Beobachtungen zu den verfügbaren Quellengattungen, in: Rainer C. Schwinges (ed.), Straßen- und Verkehrswesen im hohen und späten Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 66), Ostfildern 2007, 19–48.

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mountain barriers to find things necessary for the support of life, on account of the barrenness of the country’.18 Hence, both crossing the Alps and crossing the Channel with a royal household and sometimes an army required much preparation and organization. Royal government could not simply cease in this period. This is evident in some charters of Henry’s that were issued in transfretatione regis,19 somewhere around the ports of Normandy or England, or perhaps even on the ships. Moreover, the crossings were not without dangers. Many a time, Henry’s ships were ‘being tossed about by a most dreadful storm’, and many ‘were broken and shattered, and reached various ports of England just as the strength of the gale drove them along’, as for instance Roger of Howden once put it.20 In some cases, this could lead to absolute disaster : in 1120 Henry I lost his only son and heir when the so-called White Ship sunk off the Normandy coast, leaving him only his daughter Mathilda to inherit, which eventually led to the calamities of the ‘Anarchy’.21 Crossing the Alps was similarly dangerous. This is best exemplified by Henry IV, who crossed during winter 1076/77 as he went to meet Pope Gregory VII at Canossa. The German magnates had set an ultimatum for their king to be absolved from the anathema, and hence the crossing had to be undertaken in winter. Lampert of Hersfeld relates that Henry employed locals to guide them through the snow of the Alps. The descent was difficult as all paths were covered by ice, and hence the men ‘crawled on their hands and feet, or leaned on the shoulders of their guides, and when their feet slipped in the icy surface, they fell 18 Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 46), Hanover/Leipzig 1912), 117f.: Denique miles per claustra montium transiens, ob difficultatem locorum victui necessaria invenire nequiens […]. Trans.: Otto of Freising and his continuator Rahewin. The Deeds of Frederick Barbarossa, trans. by Charles C. Mierow, New York 1953, 124f. Generally cf. e. g. Josef Riedmann, Die Bedeutung des Tiroler Raumes für die Italienpolitik Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossas, in: Evamaria Engel/ Bernhard Töpfer (eds.), Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa. Landesausbau – Aspekte seiner Politik – Wirkung (Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte 36), Weimar 1994, 81–99, here 87; Esch 2007, 30. 19 See e. g. Henry II for Bishop Philip of Bayeux, Barfleur, 1157: Actes du rHgne de Henri II (1154–1189), in: Recueil des Actes de Henri II roi d’Angleterre et duc de Normandie concernant les provinces franÅaises et les affaires de France, eds. L8opold Delisle/Plie Berger, vol. 1 Paris 1916; vol. 2 Paris 1920, no. 38. 20 Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 51), London 1869, 1f.: In qua transfretatione sævissima tempestate quassatus a media noctis hora usque ad crastinæ diei horam nonam, vix applicuit in Anglia apud Portesmue. Cæteræ autem naves fere omnes, quæ cum eo erant, fractæ sunt et comminutæ, et applicuerunt in diversis portubus Angliæ prout vis venti eas tulit. Trans.: The Annals of Roger of Howden, trans. Henry T. Riley, 2 vols. London 1853, vol. 1, 325. 21 Karl Leyser, The Anglo-Norman Succession 1120–25, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 13 (1991), 225–241; now cf. also Susan Raich, The White Ship Disaster as a Case Study in AngloNorman Attitudes towards the Sea, PhD dissertation, Cambridge 2014.

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and slid down some length. Finally, through mortal perils, they arrived in the plains below’. The queen and her ladies in waiting were dragged down on oxhides, and the horses were placed on sleds or dragged down with their legs bound together (which caused the loss of many of them).22 Obviously, this was a special case, as the winter of 1076 was one of the coldest in recent memory,23 but also for Frederick Barbarossa in the twelfth century, and even in summer, the crossing was dangerous. Braving such dangers was inevitable for both Frederick and Henry, as both rulers could not govern all their territories with equal authority. In many dominions of their respective realms, their power was only nominal, and many magnates turned to rebellion the moment the rulers turned their backs on them. For that reason, like most rulers in medieval Europe, they permanently had to travel their realm with their itinerant households.24 They had to visit the various regions to reinforce their authority there, by bringing rebellious magnates or cities to heel and by supporting and rewarding loyal ones. They needed to remind their vassals and their subjects of the loyalty they owed them, and they needed to do so constantly. Being more a primus inter pares, a ruler had to create consensus and had to personalize his authority to those who followed him and had to persuade those who did not.25 Travelling the realms was even more important as they stretched wide and widely different cultural regions,26 where creating consensus also required different forms of coercion and persuasion. When Frederick Barbarossa – or any German king – crossed over to Italy, he also entered a different world, with a different climate, with different cultural traditions and political realities.27 Both Henry and Frederick had to adapt to the political culture, the traditions and 22 Lampert of Hersfeld, Annales, in: Lamperti monachi Hersfeldensis opera, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 38), Hanover/ Leipzig 1894, 1–304, here 286f.: Ibi viri periculum omne viribus evincere conantes, nunc manibus et pedibus reptando, nunc ductorum suorum humeris innitendo, interdum quoque titubante per lubricum gressu cadendo et longius volutando, vix tandem aliquando cum gravi salutis suae periculo ad campestria pervenerunt. 23 Lampert of Hersfeld, 284. 24 See generally Caspar Ehlers, Having the King – Losing the King, in: Viator 33 (2002), 1–42. Also cf. Madeline 2014, 265–316. 25 Here cf. esp. Bernd Schneidmüller, Konsensuale Herrschaft. Ein Essay über Formen und Konzepte politischer Ordnung im Mittelalter, in: Paul-Joachim Heinig et al. (eds.), Reich, Regionen und Europa in Mittelalter und Neuzeit. Festschrift für Peter Moraw (Historische Forschungen 67), Berlin 2000, 53–87. Also cf. the (abbreviated) English translation: Bernd Schneidmüller, Rule by Consensus. Forms and Concepts of Political Order in the European Middle Ages, in: The Medieval History Journal 16 (2013), 449–471. 26 Cf. Favier 2004, 301–311. 27 Generally, for Italy in this period see Giovanni Tabacco, Northern and Central Italy in the Twelfth Century, in: David Luscombe/Jonathan Riley-Smith (eds.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. 4, c. 1024–c. 1198, part 2, Cambridge 2004, 422–441.

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expectations in the different parts of their ‘empires’, they had to act as different ‘political animals’.28 Timothy Reuter has very aptly described a cultural division between northern and southern Europe approximately along the same line that divides “those parts of Europe where people cook with butter rather than olive oil”.29 This line approximately follows the Alps, the Jura Mountains and the Loire. Germany and Italy were different on almost every level of political culture, as were Aquitaine and England. Within the Angevin Empire, the Loire was perhaps a much more important cultural frontier than the Channel ever was. England with its Norman and Angevin elites was well integrated into what has been called an ‘Anglo-French civilization’ that connected the political elites of the Angevin and Capetian realms and that overshadowed the few existing ‘national’ differences between ‘French’, ‘English’ and ‘Norman’.30 Recently, it has also been argued that Angevin rule in Brittany was not (or was not perceived as) an alien regime, but that the Breton elites had shared in the political culture of the AngloFrench region, and that patterns of politics and government typical for the Angevin Empire were already well established in Brittany in the mid-twelfth century.31 Nevertheless, cultural similarities do not imply political cohesion. Whereas early medieval frontiers had had great influence on the formation of regional identities,32 the borders of high medieval political entities did not always

28 Timothy Reuter, Vom Parvenü zum Bündnispartner. Das Königreich Sizilien in der abendländischen Politik des 12. Jahrhunderts, in: Theo Kölzer (ed.), Die Staufer im Süden. Sizilien und das Reich, Sigmaringen 1996, 43–56, here 49. Cf. also James C. Holt, Ali8nor d’Aquitaine, Jean sans Terre et la succession de 1199, in: Cahiers de Civilisation M8di8vale 29 (1986), 95–100; Favier 2004, 288–311; and now see also Madeline 2014, 265–316. 29 Timothy Reuter, 1996, 49; Idem, Assembly Politics in Western Europe from the Eighth Century to the Twelfth, in: Idem, Medieval Polities and Modern Mentalities, ed. Janet L. Nelson, Cambridge 2006 (Orig. 2003), 193–216, here 209; also cf. Theo Broekmann, more normannorum et saracenorum: Über die Aneignung fremder und Ausprägung eigener Rituale durch die normannischen Eroberer im Süden Italiens, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 38 (2004), 101–133, here 107f. Similarly, for the ‘Angevin Empire’, see Michael T. Clanchy, England and its Rulers. 1066–1272, London 1983, 180, who distinguishes the wine-growing Poitevins from the beer-drinking English. 30 See the overview in Klaus van Eickels, Vom inszenierten Konsens zum systematisierten Konflikt. Die englisch-französischen Beziehungen und ihre Wahrnehmung an der Wende von Hoch- zum Spätmittelalter (Mittelalter-Forschungen 10), Stuttgart 2002, 36–40, with n. 60. See also James C. Holt, The End of the Anglo–Norman Realm, in: Proceedings of the British Academy 61 (1975), 223–265, here 225. On the close cross–Channel connections and relations, especially seen against English particularism, cf. Donald Matthew, Britain and the Continent, 1000–1300. The Impact of the Norman Conquest, London 2005, 1–25. 31 Judith A. Everard, Brittany and the Angevins. Province and Empire, 1158–1203, Cambridge 2000, in summary 176f. 32 Walter Pohl, Frontiers and Ethnic Idenities. Some Final Considerations, in: Florin Curta (ed.), Borders, Barriers, and Ethnogenesis. Frontiers in Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages (Studies in the early middle ages 12), Turnhout 2005, 255–265, here 264–265.

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respect or create cultural differences.33 Hence, different cultural traditions, political expectations, personal loyalties and administrative customs created a variety of divisions within the many lands, which both Henry and Frederick ruled. It may be for that reason that many sources credit a ruler’s border crossings with at least some significance. After all, it could be argued that crossing a border from one territory into another and still be the ruler of these lands is what makes an empire. The Hohenstaufen chronicler Godfrey of Viterbo saw empire as the rule over different peoples speaking different languages and living by different laws.34 Therefore, the aim of the present article is to shed some light on the political importance of crossing such borders, to illustrate what happened institutionally when a ruler crossed a border. That will also allow for some insight into the nature of these two empires and into medieval empires more generally. Empire, however, is a very difficult term. Writing in the eighteenth century, Voltaire looked at the Holy Roman Empire and famously proclaimed that “this body which was called and which still calls itself the Holy Roman Empire was in any way neither holy, nor Roman, nor empire”.35 One could express similar criticisms for the twelfth-century empire of Frederick Barbarossa: It was only in his time that the designation as holy was first introduced,36 and its Romanness was disputed long before.37 Its designation as empire, therefore, could be equally problematic. After all, both Frederick and Henry II held their different dominions in different capacities and under different titles. Both the Angevin Empire and the Holy Roman Empire could be seen as commonwealths of various territories with very different cultures rather than unified empires with a single centralized administration and government, as for instance the ancient Roman Empire had been. Frederick’s empire was politically not much more coherent 33 Here see (for the example of Gascony and Brittany) Guilhem Pépin, Does a Common Language mean a Shared Allegiance? Language, Identity, Geography and their Links with Polities. The Cases of Gascony and Brittany, in: Hannah Skoda/Patrick Lantschner/Robert L. J. Shaw (eds.), Contact and Exchange in Later Medieval Europe. Essays in Honour of Malcolm Vale, Woodbridge 2012, 79–101. 34 Godfrey of Viterbo, Pantheon, ed. Georg Waitz, in: MGH Scriptores 22, Hanover 1872, 107–307, here 273. Cf. below, n. 192. 35 Voltaire, Essai sur les mœurs et l’esprit des nations et sur les principaux faits de l’histoire depuis Charlemagne jusqu’/ Louis XIII, ed. Ren8 Pomeau, Paris 1963, ch. 70: Ce corps qui s’appelait et qui s’appelle encore le saint empire romain n’8tait en aucune maniHre ni saint, ni romain, ni empire. 36 Stefan Weinfurter, Wie das Reich heilig wurde, in: Bernhard Jussen (ed.), Die Macht des Königs. Herrschaft in Europa vom Frühmittelalter bis in die Neuzeit, Munich 2005, 190–204 and 387–390. 37 For an overview, see Jürgen Petersohn, Kaisertum und Rom in spätsalischer und staufischer Zeit: Romidee und Rompolitik von Heinrich V. bis Friedrich II. (MGH Schriften 62), Hanover 2010.

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than Henry’s, and both were the results of several political and dynastic acquisitions. That is well illustrated by Frederick’s constant conflicts with the communes of Lombardy, primarily Milan, and by the chaotic civil wars that broke out in both Germany and Italy after the death of his son Henry VI in 1197.38 Still, the connection between the German and Italian kingdoms lasted for centuries and led many German kings to cross the Alps to receive the imperial crown from the pope in Rome and to govern the Italian regions and their cities that were so very different from what these German rulers were used to in their ancestral kingdom.39 Perhaps not so precarious, but similarly coincidental was the connection with the third crown in their triad: The kingdom of Burgundy (or Arelat after its centre in Arles) reunited the Migration period Burgundian kingdom that had been divided when the Frankish Empire fell apart. Culturally, however, this kingdom was never really united, with upper Burgundy in the north as a rather Alpine and continental region, and the south, the Provence, as a Mediterranean one. These divisions are evident in the commonly used title regnum Burgundie et Provincie.40 Nevertheless, this kingdom in 1032 fell to the Salian emperor Conrad II of the East Frankish or German Empire, when the last duke from the Robertine line named the emperor his heir and successor.41 It was in this tradition that Frederick Barbarossa was king of Burgundy. In 1156, he strengthened his grasp of the region by his marriage to Beatrice, daughter of Count Renaud III of Burgundy.42 His county had been established in the tenth century as a subordinate entity within the kingdom of Upper Burgundy. Beatrice 38 Generally cf. Karl Leyser, Friedrich Barbarossa. Hof und Land, in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa. Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 519–530. 39 For an overview, see Ernst Voltmer, Deutsche Herrscher in Italien. Kontinuität und Wandel vom 11. bis zum 14. Jahrhundert, in: Siegfrid de Rachewiltz/Josef Riedmann (eds.), Kommunikation und Mobilität im Mittelalter. Begegnungen zwischen dem Süden und der Mitte Europas (11.–14. Jahrhundert), Sigmaringen 1995, 15–26. Generally cf. Werner Goez, Das hochmittelalterliche Imperium. Probleme der Integration von Reichsitalien (951–1220), in: Werner Maleczek (ed.), Fragen der politischen Integration im mittelalterlichen Europa (Vorträge und Forschungen 63), Ostfildern 2005, 49–65. For institutional influences in Italy see Renato Bordone, L’influenza culturale e istituzionale nel regno d’Italia, in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa. Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 147–168. 40 Die Urkunden Friedrichs I., ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10), 5 vols., Hanover 1975–90, nos. 12 (terra Burgundie˛ et Prouincie˛ in a treaty with the duke of Zähringen), 742 and 743 (for the archchancellor of Burgundy). 41 Cf. also for local implications in the borderlands, Giuseppe Sergi, L’unione delle tre corone teutonica, italica e borgognona e gli effetti sulla Valle d’Aosta, in: Bollettino storico-bibliografico subalpino 103 (2005), 5–37. 42 For Beatrice, see Knut Görich, Kaiserin Beatrix, in: Karl-Heinz Ruess (ed.), Frauen der Staufer (Schriften zur staufischen Geschichte und Kunst 25), Göppingen 2006, 43–58; and Tobias Weller, Die Heiraten der Staufer im 12. Jahrhundert, in: ibid., 192–210.

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was Renaud’s only heir, and thus the Hohenstaufen also ruled this county of Burgundy43 within their eponymous kingdom.44 Over time, the three kingdoms were considered constituent parts of the Holy Roman Empire,45 but originally their connection was a dynastic one. In this regard, it was not unlike the Angevin Empire. Henry, as mentioned above, had inherited the Counties of Anjou and Maine from his father, Geoffrey Plantagenet, and Normandy (and consequently England) from his mother, the Empress Mathilda. After Eleanor of Aquitaine was divorced from her husband, King Louis VII of France, she was married to Henry, and through her he acquired the duchy of Aquitaine and effectively the County of Poitou. As a result, Henry II was king of England and lord of several cities and territories throughout western France, creating an assemblage of lands that stretched from the Tees to the Pyrenees, that vastly overshadowed the realm of his liege lord, the king of France, and that put him among the very most powerful monarchs in Europe.46 Nonetheless, in essence his empire was a personal union that may have had some degree of

43 From this time on the count had become a Count Palatine (‘Pfalzgraf ’) and the later Middle Ages the county’s nomenclature was changed to ‘Free County’ (‘Freigrafschaft’), which is reflected in the modern French name this region bears to this day (or at least until the regional reform of 2016): Franche-Comt8, as opposed to (former) the French r8gion of Bourgogne, which refers to the western rest of the kingdom of Upper Burgundy. Here cf. Ren8 Locatelli/ G8rard Moyse, La Franche–Comt8 entre le Royaume et l’Empire (fin IXe–XIIe siHcle), in: Francia 15 (1987), 109–147. 44 For Frederick Barbarossa’s government in Burgundy, see Heinrich Büttner, Friedrich Barbarossa und Burgund. Studien zur Politik der Staufer während des 12. Jahrhunderts, in: Theodor Mayer (ed.), Probleme des 12. Jahrhunderts (Vorträge und Forschungen 12), Stuttgart 1968, 79–119; Johannes Fried, Friedrich Barbarossas Krönung in Arles (1178), in: Historisches Jahrbuch 103 (1983), 347–371; Ren8 Locatelli, Fr8d8ric Ier et le royaume de Bourgogne, in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa. Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 169–197; Verena Türck, Beherrschter Raum und anerkannte Herrschaft. Friedrich I. Barbarossa und das Königreich Burgund (Mittelalter-Forschungen 42), Stuttgart 2013. See also Alheydis Plassmann, Herrschaftspraxis und Legitimation – Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der Urkundenauswertung am Beispiel der Staufer in Burgund, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 56 (2010), 43–63; and her article in this volume. 45 Here cf. Jörg Jarnut, Barbarossa und Italien. Zeitvorstellungen im staatsrechtlichen und politischen Denken des Kaisers, in: Hans-Werner Goetz (ed.), Hochmittelalterliches Geschichtsbewußtsein im Spiegel nichthistoriographischer Quellen, Berlin 1998, 257–267. Generally cf. Bordone 1992; and Ferdinand Opll, Potestates Placentie: ein Beitrag zur Geschichte der staufischen Reichsherrschaft in der Lombardei, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung 93 (1985), 31–45. Cf. further Peter Thorau, Verbindungen, Kommunikation, Austausch von Nord nach Süd, in: Bernd Schneidmüller/ Stefan Weinfurter/Alfried Wieczorek (eds.), Verwandlungen des Stauferreichs. Drei Innovationsregionen im mittelalterlichen Europa, Darmstadt 2010, 124–132; and Hubert Houben, Verbindungen, Kommunikation, Austausch von Süd nach Nord, in: ibid., 133–142. 46 See the overview in David Bates, The Normans and Empire, Oxford 2013, 1–27.

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structural and administrative cohesion, but that was nonetheless Henry’s “oneman-empire”.47 For that reason, the term ‘Angevin Empire’ was never fully accepted in modern scholarship. Ever since it was first suggested in 1887 by Kate Norgate48 it has found many advocates and opponents, both in the French and in the AngloAmerican debate.49 It still features in many publication titles, again both in French and in English, despite many historians having argued against it. For example, Henry’s biographer W. L. Warren saw nothing more in Henry’s empire “than a loose federation of client states”.50 Others criticized the term as anachronistic,51 but most opponents pointed, like Warren, to the lack of centralization or inner coherence that would preclude the use of the term,52 and favour instead the term ‘commonwealth’.53 A 1986 conference on the subject dismissed the term ‘Angevin’ or ‘Plantagenet Empire’ entirely and suggested that one could speak of no more than the ‘espace PlantagenÞt’.54 While some French55 and English56 historians still use the ‘empire’ terminology, the notion of the ‘espace PlantagenÞt’ appears to become more common.57 Nevertheless, administrative cohesion appears to have become the defining feature of ‘empire’ in these debates, even though Kate Norgate herself had already admitted that Henry’s empire “was composed of a number of separate members over which his authority differed greatly in character and degree”.58 Moreover, much of that cross-Channel coherence on the political and administrative level may have been more pronounced in the eleventh century, but was lost in the twelfth. As early as the 1120s, the chronicler William of Malmesbury already 47 Jim Bradbury, Philip Augustus. King of France 1180–1223, London/New York 1998, 156. Cf. also Holt 1975, 243. 48 Kate Norgate, England under the Angevin Kings (2 vols.), London/New York 1887, vol. 2, 169–228. 49 See the summary in Aurell 2003, 10f. 50 Warren 1967, 228–230, the quotation at 230. See also ibid., 559–564. 51 Natalie Fryde, Why Magna Carta? Angevin England Revisited, Hamburg/Berlin/London 2001, 112f. 52 Here see Gillingham 2001, 4f. 53 Warren 1967, 30. Cf. Aurell 2003, 11f. 54 See Robert-Henri Bautier, Conclusions: “Empire PlantagenÞt” ou “espace PlantagenÞt”: Y eut–il une civilisation du monde PlantagenÞt?, in: Cahiers de Civilisation M8di8vale 29 (1986), 139–147. 55 Examples are Aurell 2003 and Favier 2004. Cf. particularly Madeline 2014, esp. 13–24. 56 Gillingham 2001, 3. 57 See e. g. Amaury Chauou, L’id8ologie PlantagenÞt. royaut8 arthurienne et monarchie politique dans l’espace PlantagenÞt, (XIIe–XIIIe siHcles) (Histoire), Rennes 2001; and the volumes Martin Aurell (ed.), Noblesses de l’espace PlantagenÞt (1154–1224) (Civilisation m8di8vale 11), Poitiers 2001; and Idem/Fr8d8ric Boutoulle (eds.), Les seigneuries dans l’espace PlantagenÞt (c. 1150–c.1250) (Ptudes 24), Bordeaux 2009. 58 Norgate 1887, vol. 2, 185.

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complained that England had to keep Normandy alive, famously using the evocative image of the conjoined twins, of which one had died and withered, and the other had to carry her dead sister’s weight.59 At the end of the twelfth century even “Angevin rule in Normandy was”, as one of King John’s modern biographers noted, “already a guttering candle”.60 Therefore, the administrative cohesion in the Angevin Empire “must not be exaggerated”,61 namely because also regions like Aquitaine or Poitou62 with their cultural differences were particularly loosely connected to the rest of the ‘empire’.63 Cohesion may have been somewhat stronger on the level of the magnates, as many in Henry’s realm held fiefs or possessions both on the continent and in England, also and still in the late twelfth century.64 To some extent, that crossChannel network empowered these magnates, but it also subjected them more to the king,65 who could always threaten their possession in one of the territories of his “polycratic” empire.66 Some advocates of the ‘empire’ terminology have therefore shifted their focus onto this level67 and thus define ‘empire’ as “interacting power structures, agencies, networks, and cultures”, as the sum of many individual experiences, especially of such people with cross-Channel holdings.68 However, several historians have already argued against the coherence of a ho-

59 William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum Anglorum, ed. Roger A. B. Mynors/Rodney M. Thomson/Michael Winterbottom (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 1998, 384–386. On this relationship in administrative terms see Judith A. Green, Unity and Disunity in the AngloNorman State, in: Historical Research 62 (1989), 115–134. 60 Wilfred L. Warren, King John, New Haven/London 3rd edn. 1997, 88–93, here 90. 61 C. Warren Hollister, Normandy, France and the Anglo-Norman Regnum, in: Speculum 51 (1976), 202–242, here 210. See also the overview in Holt 1975, 227 and 239–242; and see Bautier 1986. 62 See Holt 1986; and Fr8d8ric Boutoulle, La Gascogne sous le premiers PlantagenÞt (1154–1199), in: Martin Aurell/No[l-Yves Tonnerre (eds.), PlantagenÞts et Cap8tiens. Confrontations et h8ritages (Histoires de famille 4), Turnhout 2006, 285–317. For Poitou see e. g. Nicholas Vincent, Henry II and the Poitevins, in: Martin Aurell (ed.), La cour PlantagenÞt (1154–1204). Actes du Colloque tenu / Thouars du 30 avril au 2 mai 1999 (Civilisation m8di8vale 8), Poitiers 2000, 103–135. 63 For Henry II in Anjou, see No[l-Yves Tonnerre, Henri II et l’Anjou, in: Martin Aurell/Idem (eds.), PlantagenÞts et Cap8tiens. Confrontations et h8ritages (Histoires de famille 4), Turnhout 2006, 211–225. For Henry II in Anjou and Aquitaine, see generally John Gillingham, Doing Homage to the King of France, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 2007, 63–84. 64 Here see especially Bates 2013, 28–51, 98–115 and 167–177. 65 Here cf. Judith A. Everard, Aristocratic Assemblies in Brittany, 1066–1300, in: Paul S. Barnwell/Marco Mostert (eds.), Political Assemblies in the Earlier Middle Ages (Studies in the early Middle Ages 7), Turnhout 2003, 115–131. See also Eadem 2000, 38. 66 Aurell 2003, 12. 67 See esp. John Le Patourel, The Norman Empire, Oxford 1976, esp. 319–354. 68 Bates 2013, 28f. and 109.

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mogenous aristocracy postulated by some earlier studies.69 Furthermore, some of the cross-Channel connections that did exist on this level long outlasted the Angevin Empire70 and hence cannot be taken as evidence for the administrative cohesion that is said to make an empire. Moreover, for a definition of ‘empire’, administrative cohesion is a very problematic criterion. If ‘empire’ is understood as “nothing more specific than an extensive territory, especially an aggregate of many states, ruled over by a single ruler”,71 and especially if that understanding is applied to a mere personal union of different rights, titles and territories, then very many medieval polities could – and should – be called ‘empire’. It could, then, be asked why one should not speak of the ‘Empire of Kalmar’ instead of the ‘Kalmar Union’ (1397–1523),72 or of the ‘Polish-Lithuanian Empire’ rather than the ‘Polish-Lithuanian Commonwealth’ (1569–1795). Moreover, a medieval kingdom like Hungary collected different ethnic groups within its confines, but neither medieval usage nor modern scholarship refers to it as an ‘empire’. The problems inherent in this understanding of ‘empire’ go even deeper than that: they are founded in the history of the term itself. The Latin noun imperium, from the verb imperare (to command, to order) meant nothing more than a direct order, a bidding, or the right to order and its exercise through military authority. Later it was specifically used for the military command of a magistrate and was then also applied to the authority of the Roman people over other peoples (imperium populi Romani).73 That meant the (theoretically) limitless command and authority of the Romans in other regions of the world, and this meaning was later used more explicitly for the actual territory under Roman control. As Imperium Romanum it is documented since Sallust, whereas the term 69 See e. g. David Crouch, Normans and Anglo-Normans. A Divided Aristocracy?, in: David Bates/Anne Curry (eds.), England and Normandy in the Middle Ages, London/Rio Grande 1994, 51–67. 70 Jörg Peltzer, The Slow Death of the Angevin Empire, in: Historical Research 81 (2008), 553–584. For the cross-channel holdings for individual families after 1204 see also Daniel Power, “Terra regis Anglie et terra Normannorum sibi invicem adversantur”. Les h8ritages anglo-normands entre 1204 et 1244, in: Pierre Bouet/V8ronique Gazeau (eds.), La Normandie et l’Angleterre au Moyen ffge (Publications du Craham), Caen 2003, 189–209 and Idem, The French Interests of the Marshal Earls in Striguil and Pembroke. 1189–1234, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 25 (2003), 199–224. See also Holt 1975, 226 and 263f; also cf. Keith J. Stringer, Aspects of the Norman Diaspora in Northern England and Southern Scotland, in: Idem/Andrew Jotischky (eds.), Norman Expansion. Connections, Continuities and Contrasts, Farnham 2013, 9–47. 71 Gillingham 2001, 3. 72 Here cf. Harald Gustafsson, A State that Failed? On the Union of Kalmar, especially its Dissolution, in: Scandinavian Journal of History 31 (2006), 205–220. 73 Here cf. Jörg Fisch, Imperialismus I und II, in: Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe 3 (1982), 171–175; and Angela Pabst, Imperium, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 5 (1991), 396f.

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imperator (originally a military commander) was correspondingly used more and more exclusively for the emperor in Rome.74 This territorial understanding theoretically encompassed every region where the Romans had anything to say. Explicitly excluded from this notion were only hostes and rebelles, and hence the territorial idea of the imperium did not end at any borders or frontiers.75 This expansionist-hegemonic understanding of Imperium Romanum lost importance when the empire began to solidify and fortify its borders and then especially when the western Empire crumbled in the fifth century. When the imperial title in the West was revived for Charlemagne in 800, the understanding had changed. The Middle Ages understood imperium in very different terms, mostly not through an expansionist calling, but simply as the territory that was ruled by an emperor. Hence, it was the title imperator that defined medieval empires and not vice versa (as it had been done by the ancient Romans). As a result, the medieval emperor was seen in the same way as kings were, only with a higher dignity and a special role in salvation history, even though not much of this dignity translated into higher authority.76 While for Romans the notion of universal authority had been an expansionist one, for the emperors of the early and high Middle Ages, dominium mundi was a mostly prophetic idea of salvation history or a panegyric term used in eulogies for powerful rulers.77 Hence, the European tradition knew two notions of imperium. Obviously, the distinction is not always clear, but nevertheless they can be traced well into the nineteenth century and arguably until today. One of them, especially in English, revived the classical meaning and understood the concept mostly in terms of expansion, as a vast territorial entity that ruled over a variety of peoples and countries and that had the right to conquer even more territories. Obviously, this happened in reaction to the vast British Empire in the Early Modern Age, but the notion was probably also at play in Voltaire’s critical view of the Holy Roman Empire. From the nineteenth century on, this expansionist notion was expressed in the newly coined term imperialism – and was then discussed in almost all directions of political theory of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries.78 As a 74 75 76 77

Fisch 1982, 172. Pabst 1991, 397. Cf. Fisch 1982, 172. Fisch 1982, 172f. Here cf. Robert Holtzmann, Der Weltherrschaftsgedanke des mittelalterlichen Kaisertums und die Souveränität der europäischen Staaten, in: Historische Zeitschrift 159 (1939), 251–264; also cf. Hans Joachim Kirfel, Weltherrschaftsidee und Bündnispolitik. Untersuchungen zur auswärtigen Politik der Staufer, Bonn 1959; cf. Othmar Hageneder, Weltherrschaft im Mittelalter, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 93 (1985), 257–278; and also see Hermann Jakobs, Weltherrschaft oder Endkaiser? – Ziele staufischer Politik im ausgehenden 12. Jahrhundert, in: Theo Kölzer (ed.), Die Staufer im Süden. Sizilien und das Reich, Sigmaringen 1996, 13–28. 78 See the overview in Dieter Groh, Imperialismus III–VI, in: Geschichtliche Grundbegriffe 3

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result, the older term ‘empire’ (as opposed to ‘imperialism’) may have shifted its meaning towards notions of centralization and administrative coherence. The term ‘imperialism’ was, not only in Communist theory, fundamentally discredited after the First World War, perhaps in Germany more than in other countries. However, when the term ‘Angevin Empire’ was first used by Kate Norgate in 1887, this happened in a time of uninhibited colonial rivalry of the great European powers, mainly Britain, France and Germany. This is not meant to accuse Norgate of imperialist sympathies, but only to state that the original contexts of terminologies matter. This original nineteenth-century context of the term ‘Angevin Empire’ implies that British historians with rather positive connotations of ‘empire’ had no major problems in taking the term over, even though it meant that the historiographical focus was shifted away from seeing the history of Henry II and his sons as exclusively English history. In France, on the other hand, at the time a colonial competitor of Britain, it was also taken over, albeit with rather negative connotations, as it offered a further occasion to celebrate Philip Augustus who drove the imperialist English out from France.79 Later advocates of the term simply referred to modern English usage to free it of its late-nineteenth-century colonial-imperialist context,80 as today the terminology has allegedly left behind its old connotations. This is true only to some extent, as the expansive-hegemonic understanding of empire was subsumed by the term imperialism, but a terminology is probably never entirely free of such baggage. Most of the debate about the term ‘Angevin Empire’ can in essence be seen within the framework of the expansive-hegemonic understanding (or its continuation in terms of coherence and centralization). Even the opponents of the term have argued against its use because Henry’s dominions or his commonwealth were by far not as coherent, both in centralized government and in the aristocratic networks, as the term seemed to imply. Even when disregarding the imperialist connotations of the hegemonic-expansionist understanding, its subsequent reduction to administrative coherence or personal networks is still problematic as it could then be used for many other medieval and modern polities, as argued above. Evidently, the expansionist-hegemonic definition of imperium is insufficient to come to terms with medieval empires, and applying the term ‘Angevin Empire’ obscures this problem. The other of the two traditions was the understanding of empire as the realm (1982), 175–221. Also cf. the overviews in Wolfgang J. Mommsen, Imperialismustheorien. Ein Überblick über die neueren Imperialismusinterpretationen, Göttingen 3rd edn. 1987; Eric J. Hobsbawm, The Age of Empire 1875–1914 London 1987, 56–83; and Herfried Münkler, Imperien. Die Logik der Weltherrschaft – vom Alten Rom bis zu den Vereinigten Staaten, Berlin 2005. 79 Here cf. Gillingham 2001, 2f. 80 Gillingham 2001, 3.

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governed by an emperor, who used the title for historical tradition and not because he ruled many different lands. This understanding was originally a medieval one (and mostly reserved for the Holy Roman Empire81) but was also – at least in continental Europe – continued into the modern period and well into the time of Voltaire82 and resulted directly in the modern German term for empire: ‘Kaiserreich’ – the realm of an emperor. The most recent German discussions of imperium and empire, therefore, continue this strand of meaning and place intellectual imperial tradition at the centre of the definitions.83 This understanding, however, defining an imperium through the title of an emperor who rules it, can similarly not be used for Henry’s realms. The Plantagenets never aspired to any imperial title, and Henry never used any such terminology for his domains.84 His court may have tried to find legitimizing myths that were not exclusively English, Norman or Angevin, and for that reason promoted the legends of King Arthur and the ‘Matter of Britain’, to which people from both sides of the Channel could relate.85 That, however, could never be translated into any imperial idea as the ‘Matter of France’ with its Carolingian framework could for the Capetians, or, of course, the ‘Matter of Rome’ for the Hohenstaufen. Imperial aspirations of a royal house such as Henry’s would not 81 Bautier 1986. It could also be argued that the notion of rex imperator in regno suo, which was most prominently forwarded under Philip IV of France (Helmut G. Walther, Imperiales Königtum, Konziliarismus und Volkssouveränitat: Studien zu den Grenzen des mittelalterlichen Souveränitätsgedankens, Munich 1976, 65–111); but was already expressed under Philip Augustus (See Walter Ullmann, Arthur’s Homage to King John, in: The English Historical Review 94 (1979), 356–364, at 362f.), only makes sense in this medieval understanding. 82 As late as 1755, the French Encyclop8die defined empire as “C’est le nom qu’on donne aux 8tats qui sont so0mis / un souv8rain qui a le titre d’empereur”. However, “parmi nous, on donne le nom d’empire par excellence au corps Germanique, qui est une r8publique composHe de tous les princes et etats qui forment les trois coll8ges de l’Allemagne, et soumise / un chef qui est l’empereur” (See Fisch 1982, 174f.). For the dichotomy of empires defined by territory and those defined by central titles and dignities see also see Stefan Burkhardt, Mediterranes Kaisertum und Imperiale Ordnungen. Das lateinische Kaiserreich von Konstantinopel (Europa im Mittelalter 25), Berlin 2014, 218f. 83 Here see Burkhardt 2014, esp. 217–223. 84 Twelfth-century chanceries never referred to his realm as an empire and instead used makeshift constructions as mentioning all ‘his’ [Henry’s] lands, or, more specifically, ‘England and the lands which the king of England holds on this side of the sea’. See e. g. Recueil des Actes de Philippe Auguste, roi de France, ed. Henri–FranÅois Delaborde (4 vols.), Paris 1916–79, no. 123: Anglia [and] terra regis Anglie cismarina. See also Nicholas Vincent, Regional Variations in the Charters of King Henry II, in: Marie T. Flanagan/Judith A. Green (eds.), Charters and Charter Scholarship in Britain and Ireland, Basingstoke 2005, 70–106, 78–81. For contemporary historians see Bates 2013, 51–63. 85 Amaury Chauou, Arturus redivivus. Royaut8 arthurienne et monarchie politique / la cour PlantagenÞt (1154–1199), in: Martin Aurell (ed.), Noblesses de l’espace PlantagenÞt (1154–1224) (Civilisation m8di8vale 11), Poitiers 2001, 69–78, at 77f. See also Favier 2004, 332–351.

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have been entirely impossible or unthinkable. King Alfonso VII of Lejn and Castile, a generation before Henry and Frederick, claimed an imperial title for himself, even though his house could present no imperial tradition or papal appointment whatsoever.86 When the imperial title was first granted to Charlemagne in 800 and to Otto I in 962, it was obviously because of their protection of the papacy, but also because of their hegemonic position in Western Europe. In a similar sense, the imperial title could in the thirteenth century even be offered to the Norwegian king.87 However, in this case, the fact that the king of Norway ruled over several islands in the North – a thalassocracy that inspired Norwegian historians in the nineteenth century to the term ‘norgesveldet’ with all its imperial connotations88 – was probably not the important factor. It was rather the idea that the king would be indebted to the pope and would hence make a much less troublesome emperor than Frederick II. It is unlikely that the islands between Norway, Iceland, Greenland and the Hebrides would have become the new Imperium Romanum. Therefore, in this logic, one could say that a hegemonic position would have qualified a powerful ruler like H,kon IV H,konsson for the imperial title, but in itself it did not make him an emperor. It was the papal bestowal that made the important difference. Moreover, in the twelfth century, after the Investiture Contest and during the schism of 1159, the popes sought after other qualities in candidates to upon whom to bestow the imperial title. In this period the rex christianissimus, the king of France, was a much more likely candidate than Henry II; and in his case, the Carolingian tradition of Capetian kingship would also have been a contributing factor.89 Henry may have ruled many lands in France and in Britain, he may even have achieved a similar hegemonic position on the British Isles as the Hohenstaufen

86 Here cf. Wolfram Drews, Imperiale Herrschaft an der Peripherie? Hegemonialstreben und politische Konkurrenz zwischen christlichen und islamischen Herrschern im früh- und hochmittelalterlichen “Westen”, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 46 (2013), 1–39. 87 Generally, on the offer of the imperial crown to H,kon see Martin Kaufhold, Norwegen, das Papsttum und Europa im 13. Jahrhundert: Mechanismen der Integration, in: Historische Zeitschrift 265 (1997), 309–342, here 326 and 338–342. Also cf. Idem, Deutsches Interregnum und europäische Politik. Konfliktlösungen und Entscheidungsstrukturen 1230–1280 (MGH Schriften 49), Hanover 2000, 71f.; and generally see Sverre Bagge, From Viking Stronghold to Christian Kingdom. State Formation in Norway, c. 900–1350, Copenhagen 2010, 86–91. 88 See esp. Oscar Albert Johnsen, Noregsveldets undergang, Kristiania 1924. Here cf. Steinar Imsen, Conclusions, in: Idem (ed.), Rex Insularum. The King of Norway and His “Skattlands” as a Political System, Bergen 2014, 371–385, here 383–85. 89 Cf. e. g. Walther Kienast, Deutschland und Frankreich in der Kaiserzeit (900–1270). Weltkaiser und Einzelkönige (Monographien zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 9, 2), Stuttgart 1974/ 75, 479–513.

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Empire had in central Europe,90 but all of that hegemony did not make an empire in the medieval understanding. Henry had no imperial tradition at his disposal. His vast territories could have possibly qualified him for an imperial title, but they themselves never made him an emperor, and he never aspired to the title.91 It was in this regard that Frederick’s empire differed from Henry’s. Obviously, the Hohenstaufen Empire was essentially a similar, somewhat coincidental, assemblage of dominions and the result of dynastic chance. Similarly, German rule in Italy was often little more than a guttering candle. Frederick, however, had imperial tradition on his side. He had been crowned emperor by the pope in 1155, and that – in the contemporary understanding – made his dominions an empire. Not even during the schism of 1159 when his obstinate refusal to accept Alexander III isolated him diplomatically,92 his imperial title was ever fundamentally doubted. Similarly, the theory of translatio imperii was never questioned in essence, the notion that the papacy had restored the western tradition of the ancient Roman Empire for Charlemagne in 800, for his successors, and for Otto the Great in 962.93 Frederick’s realm, therefore, was clearly understood as an empire. Applied to Henry’s lands, the imperial terminology is at least problematic (if understood in the sense of cohesion), or wrong (if understood as referring to the realm of an emperor). The conceptual difference between the realms of the Hohenstaufen and the Plantagenets becomes particularly evident in the question of how and in which capacities they ruled their different territories. This is best illustrated in their border crossings. In 1133 King Henry I crossed the Channel to Normandy. It was the last time he saw his island kingdom: two years later, he died in Normandy. As he had no son and direct male successor at the time of his death, England was plunged into the ‘Anarchy’, the long and bloody civil war between Henry’s daughter, the empress Mathilda, and Stephen of Blois, a grandson of William the Conqueror. One chronicler tells us that these events were foreboded by a variety of signs and 90 Here cf. Se#n Duffy, Henry II and England’s Insular Neighbors, in: Christopher HarperBill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 2007, 129–153. 91 Similarly, it has been argued that Cnut the Great claimed imperial forms of expression, in direct response to the imperial coronation of Conrad II in 1027, and on the basis of his vast ‘North Sea Empire’, but also in this case it has to be stated that Cnut never explicitly claimed to be an emperor. Here see Timothy Bolton, The Empire of Cnut the Great: Conquest and the Consolidation of Power in Northern Europe in the Early Eleventh Century (The Northern World 40), Leiden/Boston 2009, esp. 303–307, and cf. Anders Winroth, Review of Timothy Bolton, The Empire of Cnut the Great: Conquest and the Consolidation of Power in Northern Europe in the Early Eleventh Century, in: Speculum 85 (2010), 937f. 92 Generally see Johannes Laudage, Alexander III. und Friedrich Barbarossa (Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters 16), Cologne 1997. 93 Cf. still Werner Goez, Translatio Imperii: Ein Beitrag zur Geschichte des Geschichtsdenkens und der politischen Theorien im Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit, Tübingen 1958.

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omens, particularly for Henry I himself as he waited for fair winds in 1133 for his last crossing to Normandy. He had delayed his departure for several days already, but one day, ‘a cloud appeared in the sky, which was visible throughout England […]. The king and his followers and many others walked about, marveling greatly, raised their eyes to heaven, and saw the sun shining as though it were a new moon’.94 Most likely, this refers to the total solar eclipse that was visible in Europe on 2 August 1133, but it was, according to John, not the only event that portended terrible events connected to Henry’s crossing. Some ships were damaged inexplicably before the king and his retinue could board them. Later, there was an earthquake in England, and some people even saw two moons in the sky.95 Nevertheless, Henry left England never to return. Twenty years of bloodshed later, in 1153, Henry II landed in England with a small band of mercenaries, and as many English magnates deserted King Stephen and supported the young Angevin, the king soon had to agree to negotiate a truce with Henry.96 For later chroniclers, this arrival of Henry’s signalled the end of the ‘Anarchy’. When Henry came to England in 1153, the chroniclers speak of other signs and wonders, different from those told for his grandfather when he left. Henry of Huntingdon wrote ‘at this moment, wretched England, long since destroyed, but now through his coming, about to recover life, broke down in tears’.97 In this account, the land speaks to the young lord directly, to ‘Henry, greatest descendant of great Henry’,98 calling upon him to end the misery that had befallen the land. Henry assures England that all he seeks for her, his ‘sweet foster-daughter’,99 is peace: ‘May I gain possession of you only if, through me, you gain peace. If not, may I die, rather than see you dying’.100 94 John of Worcester, Chronicon, The Annals from 1067 to 1140 with the Gloucester Interpolations and the Continuation to 1141, ed. and trans. Patrick McGurk (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 1998, 208–210: in aere nubes apparuit, que tamen unius eiusdem quantitatis per uniuersam Angliam non comparuit. […] Vnde rex latusque regium ambientes et alii complures mirantes, et in celum oculos leuantes, solem ad instar noue lune lucere conspexerunt. Trans. ibid., 209–211. 95 John of Worcester, Chronicon, 210. Similar stories are told for King Henry II later in his life: Roger of Howden, vol. 2, 285. 96 For this Treaty of Westminster, see Joe W. Leedom, The English settlement of 1153, in: History : The Journal of the Historical Association 65 (1980), 347–364; and cf. James C. Holt, 1153. The Treaty of Winchester, in: Edmund King (ed.), The Anarchy of King Stephen’s Reign, Oxford 1994, 291–316; Generally, see Warren 1967, 48–53; King 2007; King 2011, 280–282. 97 Henry Archdeacon of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, ed. and trans. Diana Greenway (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 1996, 760: Tunc uero miserablis Anglia, pridem destructa, sed iam per aduentum eius quasi uitam rehabitura, in hec uerba cum lacrimis prorupit. Trans. ibid., 761. 98 Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, 760: Dux Henrice, nepos Henrici maxime magni. Trans. ibid., 761. 99 Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, 762: Dulcis alumpna mea. Trans. ibid., 763.

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The entire dialogue between Henry and England is written in hexameters and is reminiscent of the one Lucan wrote for Julius Caesar at the Rubicon.101 According to the two chroniclers quoted here, England’s woes seemed to begin when Henry I left the country, and they ended when his grandson Henry II first set foot in it in 1153, even long before he was crowned king and while Stephen was still alive. For Henry of Huntingdon it was ‘through his coming’ (per aduentum eius) that England recovered. More generally : these chroniclers credited the leaving and the coming, the first and last setting foot on English soil, with particular importance in the history of the English kingdom. Obviously, these passages represent rather special cases, as the ‘Anarchy’ was one of the defining periods in English historical memory.102 Nevertheless, they illustrate the symbolical significance medieval chroniclers attributed to their rulers crossing a border. In recent years, historians have fundamentally reformed our view on medieval borders. They have illustrated that the twelfth century never understood borders as clear lines on a map. Such territorial understandings of government within clearly lined confines are a very modern idea (as are such maps).103 For about two decades now, medievalists have shown medieval borders as transitional spaces 100 Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, 762: Te potiar, si pace tamen per me potiare. / Si secus, emoriar, ne te uideam morientem. Trans. ibid., 763. Stephen’s biographer tells a rather different story of Henry’s first arrival in England (in 1147): Gesta Stephani, ed. and trans. Kenneth R. Potter (Medieval Texts), London et al. 1955, 135: Concussum protinus et conturbatum in eius aduentu regnum; quia, ut fama aduentus eius se latius, sicut solet, diffunderet, multa scilicet milia secum adduxisse, plurimorum in breui futura, infinitæ copiæ thesauros secum attulisse, nunc illam deprædatam prouinciam, nunc istam combustione depastam mentiebatur. Here cf. also the more sober report in Actes ant8rieurs / l’avHnement du prince Henri au trine d’Angleterre, in: Recueil des Actes de Henri II, vol. 1, 1–91, here no. 81. 101 Cf. the editor’s commentary in Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, 761, n. 167. See Luc. I, 183–203. 102 Here cf. Catherine A. M. Clarke, Signs and Wonders: Writing Trauma in Twelfth-Century England, in: Reading Medieval Studies 35 (2009), 55–77; and Graeme J. White, The Myth of the Anarchy, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 22 (2000), 323–337. 103 Guy P. Marchal, Grenzerfahrung und Raumvorstellungen. Zur Thematik des Kolloquiums, in: Idem (ed.), Grenzen und Raumvorstellungen (11.–20. Jh.) / FrontiHres et conceptions de l’espace (11e–20e siHcles), Zurich 1996, 11–25, at 19f. Moreover, it has been argued that “the stabilization of borderlines is a relatively late phenomenon, and historiography has often, based on the later notion of stable borders, succumbed to the danger of drawing questionable conclusions for much earlier situations”. (Friedrich Prinz, Die Grenzen des Reiches in frühsalischer Zeit. Ein Strukturproblem der Königsherrschaft, in: Stefan Weinfurter/Helmuth Kluger (eds.), Die Salier und das Reich, vol. 1: Salier, Adel und Reichsverfassung, Sigmaringen 1991, 159–173, at 160: “Die Stabilisierung von Grenzen ist ein relativ spätes Phänomen, und die Historiographie ist nicht selten der Gefahr erlegen, aus späteren, verfestigten Grenzen fragwürdige Rückschlüsse auf frühere Situationen zu ziehen.”).

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and as frontier regions of contact and interchange.104 Initially, these questions were mostly applied to the frontiers of the Roman empire and the Roman successor states105 as well as the Carolingian Empire,106 but similar questions have increasingly also been asked for high medieval borders and frontiers,107 including those of the Plantagenet ‘empire’.108 Such frontier networks often resulted in multiple or conflicting identities109 and divided loyalties.110 These were 104 For a general overview, see e. g. Marchal 1996; and see the articles in the volumes Robert Bartlett/Angus MacKay (eds.), Medieval Frontier Societies, Oxford 1989; and Wolfgang Haubrichs/Reinhard Schneider (eds.), Grenzen und Grenzregionen / FrontiHres et r8gions frontaliHres / Borders and Border Regions (Veröffentlichungen der Kommission für Saarländische Landesgeschichte und Volksforschung 22), Saarbrücken 1994; and Daniel Power, Frontiers. Terms, Concepts, and the Historians of Medieval and Early Modern Europe, in: Idem/Naomi Standen (eds.), Frontiers in Question. Eurasian Borderlands, 700–1700, Basingstoke 1999, 1–12. 105 Here see the articles collected in the volume Walter Pohl/Ian Wood/Helmut Reimitz (eds.), The Transformation of Frontiers. From Late Antiquity to the Carolingians (The Transformation of the Roman World 10), Leiden 2001. 106 For early medieval frontiers see e. g. Pohl 2005; cf. the articles in Walter Pohl/Helmut Reimitz (eds.), Grenze und Differenz im frühen Mittelalter (Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 1/Denkschriften, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 287), Vienna 2000. 107 For the Carolingian period see Helmut Reimitz, Grenzen und Grenzüberschreitungen im karolingischen Mitteleuropa, in: Walter Pohl/Idem (eds.), Grenze und Differenz im frühen Mittelalter (Forschungen zur Geschichte des Mittelalters 1/Denkschriften, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 287), Vienna 2000, 106–166; and Jürgen Strothmann, Der beherrschte Raum und seine Grenzen: Zur Qualität von Grenzen in der Zeit der Karolinger, in: Millennium 2 (2005), 255–269; and Hans Werner Goetz, Concepts of Realm and Frontiers from Late Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages. Some Preliminary Remarks, in: Idem, Vorstellungsgeschichte: Gesammelte Schriften zu Wahrnehmungen, Deutungen und Vorstellungen im Mittelalter, ed. Anna Aurast et al., Bochum 2007 (Orig. 2001), 287–294; For Outremer, see Ronnie Ellenblum, Were there Borders and Borderlines in the Middle Ages? The Example of the Latin Kingdom of Jerusalem, in: David Abulafia/Nora Berend (eds.), Medieval Frontiers. Concepts and Practices, Aldershot 2002, 105–119; and for northern Italy see Donata Degrassi, Frontiere, confini e interazioni transconfinarie nel Medioevo: alcuni esempi nell’area nordorientale d’Italia, in: Archivio storico italiano 160 (2002), 195–220. Generally see also Andrea Stieldorf, Marken und Markgrafen. Studien zur Grenzsicherung durch die fränkisch–deutschen Herrscher (MGH Schriften 64), Hanover 2012, for frontier regions, especially in the east, under Frederick Barbarossa, esp. 544–549. 108 Here see especially the publications by Daniel Power for the Norman frontier : Daniel Power, What did the Frontier of Angevin Normandy comprise?, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 17 (1995), 181–201; Idem, French and Norman Frontiers in the Central Middle Ages, in: Idem/Naomi Standen (eds.), Frontiers in Question. Eurasian Borderlands, 700–1700, Basingstoke 1999, 105–127; Idem, The Norman Frontier in the Twelfth and Thirteenth Centuries (Cambridge studies in medieval life and thought 4, 62), Cambridge 2004; Now see also Madeline 2014, 169–259. 109 Here see Julia M. H. Smith, Confronting Identities. The Rhetoric and Reality of a Carolingian Frontier, in: Walter Pohl/Max Diesenberger (eds.), Integration und Herrschaft. Ethnische Identitäten und soziale Organisation im Frühmittelalter (Forschungen zur Ge-

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well known and on occasion even royal charters recognized the difficult situation and special circumstances in which their subjects in frontier regions found themselves.111 Nevertheless, it was in this time that first traces of linear conceptualizations of borders can be found. Some twelfth-century charters already describe borders between different political entities increasingly along major rivers or similar natural features.112 To some extent, modern linear understandings of territorial boundaries in medieval texts may originally go back to diplomatic usage.113 Many charters of medieval kings and emperors as well as prelates of the church

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schichte des Mittelalters 3/Denkschriften, Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Philosophisch-Historische Klasse 301), Vienna 2002, 169–182, for the abbey of Redon in the Carolingian period. For similar examples in the twelfth century, see Judith A. Green, Aristocratic Loyalties on the Northern Frontier of England, c. 1100–1174, in: Daniel T. Williams (ed.), England in the Twelfth Century, Woodbridge, Suffolk 1990, 83–100. A good example is a letter sent by abbot Hugh of Cluny to Gilbert, bishop of London in 1163, in which he apologized for his hesitation in speaking out against the emperor in the schism, but as his monastery was situated ‘on the frontier between the empire and the kingdom’, he feared that he would lose the imperial possessions if he did not seem to agree with the emperor (The letter is edited in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury, ed. James C. Robertson, vol. 5: Epistles I.–CCXXVI (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), London 1881, no. 20, 30–32, at 31f.: In confinio regni et imperii sumus). He stated that ‘the body of the church of Cluny consists of two integral parts; one in the empire and one in the kingdom; and woe to us if we were to lose one’. (Ibid., 32: Ex duabus integralibus partes constat corpus Cluniacensis ecclesiæ; altera est in imperio; altera in regnis; quamlibet amittamus, væ nobis!). See e. g. Philip Augustus for the chapter of Langres, Pacy, 1203 November 1–1204 April 24 (Recueil des Actes de Philippe, no. 772): Quia etiam predicta ecclesia a nobis remota est et in confinio regni et imperii sita. Generally, cf. also Kimberly A. LoPrete, Le conflit PlantagenÞt-Cap8tien vu des frontiHres, in: Martin Aurell/No[l-Yves Tonnerre (eds.), PlantagenÞts et Cap8tiens. Confrontations et h8ritages (Histoires de famille 4), Turnhout 2006, 359–375. Some writers envisioned the rivers Rhine and Saine as borders between France and the empire as early as the thirteenth century : Ferdinand Lot, La frontiHre de la France et de l’Empire sur le cours inf8rieur de l’Escaut du IXe au XIIIe siHcle, in: Idem, Recueil des travaux historiques de Ferdinand Lot, part 3, Geneva 1973 (Orig. 1910), 125–154; here see also Bernd Schneidmüller, Nomen Patriae. Die Entstehung Frankreichs in der politischgeographischen Terminologie (10. – 13. Jahrhundert) (Nationes 7), Sigmaringen 1987, 245f.; and cf. Marc Suttor, Le fleuve, un enjeu politique et juridique: Le cas de la Meuse du Xe au XVIe siHcle, in: M8di8vales: Langue, textes, histoire 36 (1999), 71–80; and Idem, Le rile d’un fleuve comme limite ou frontiHre au Moyen Age: La Meuse, de Sedan / Maastricht, in: Le Moyen Age 116 (2010), 335–366. For Austria cf. also DFI. no. 782. Helmut Maurer, Naturwahrnehmung und Grenzbeschreibung im hohen Mittelalter. Beobachtungen vornehmlich an italienischen Quellen, in: Karl Borchardt/Enno Bünz (eds.), Forschungen zur Reichs-, Papst- und Landesgeschichte. Peter Herde zum 65. Geburtstag von Freunden, Schülern und Kollegen dargebracht, 2 vols., Stuttgart 1998, vol. 1, 239–253, at 250f; similarly see Scott T. Smith, Marking Boundaries. Charters and the AngloSaxon Chronicle, in: Alice Jorgensen (ed.), Reading the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle. Language, Literature, History (Studies in the Early Middle Ages 23), Turnhout 2010, 167–185.

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describe such linear confines of their grants in much detail.114 They outline the borderlines in the landscape, along rivers, mountains, woods, and other natural features, and similarly along markers set by human activity, such as border stones or fortifications.115 Obviously, most of these descriptions in charters delineate the possessions of a particular monastery or similar institutions, but in the course of the twelfth century the notion was increasingly also applied to the borders of entire kingdoms. Moreover, a great number of sources in this period also relate that kings and emperors went to great lengths to have the borders of their realms fortified. An anonymous chronicler from Ferraria provided a vivid description of such construction works under King Roger II of Sicily in the 1140s: ‘That same King defended this kingdom’s entrances so well, that nobody could enter it against his will. For this kingdom was enclosed both by rivers, so one could not enter it on bridges, and by mountains, the valleys of which he enclosed with walls. In the other parts it had the seas, and their coasts he safeguarded with towers and sentries, so that an army that came over the sea on ships could be detected in their position already when no more than the banners could be seen’.116 For the same time, similar undertakings are recorded for the kings of England, particularly on the Norman frontier.117 Obviously, such fortifications should not be envisaged as a wall or in similarly linear way, but much rather as defensive networks of towers and castles that ensured communication and military exchange between them.118 All these castles would govern the surrounding space 114 See e. g. DFI., nos. 140, 185, 274, 524, 557, 590, 598, 754, 774, 874 and 981. 115 Here cf. generally Maurer 1998, esp. at 253. For an overview see ibid., 243–250. 116 Chronica ignoti monachi S. Mariae de Ferraria, in: Ignoti monachi Mariae de Ferraria Chronica et Ryccardi de sancto Germano Chronica Priora, ed. Augusto Gaudenzi (Monumenti storici 1/3), Naples 1888, 11–39, at 26f.: Cuius regni ingressus idem rex sic munivit, quod vix posset aliquis illic ingredi contra eius libitum. Nam clausum est idem regnum aut fluminibus, que nisi per pontes transiri non possunt, aut montibus, quorum valles clausit muris. Per cetera vero partes habet maria, quorum horas munivit turribus aut custodibus, ut, si superveniret super maria navalis exercitus, per fanones apparentes in oris marinis quod et ubi essent cito percipi possent. For this borderline in the early period see Laurent Feller, The Northern Frontier of Norman Italy, 1060–1140, in: Graham A. Loud/Alex Metcalfe (eds.), The Society of Norman Italy (The Medieval Mediterranean 38), Leiden 2002, 47–74; for the period of the Hohenstaufen see Dione Clementi, L’attegiamento dell’imperatore Federico I nella questione del confine terrestre nel regno normanno di Sicilia, Puglia e Capua, in: Popolo e stato in Italia nell’et/ di Federico Barbarossa. Alessandria e la Lega Lombarda, Torino 1970, 477–483; and for the later period see Alessandro Clementi, La formazione del confine settentrionale del Regno di Sicilia al tempo dei primi Angioini, in: Walter Capezzali (ed.), Celestino V e i suoi tempi. Realt/ spirituale e realt/ politica, L’Aquila 1990, 55–70. 117 William of Newburgh, 87f. For the Norman frontier during the reign of King Stephen cf. Power 2004, 388–394. For other frontiers, see also Madeline 2014, 169–218, and the map on 344. 118 See e. g. Power 2004, 6–10.

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and would form new layers of allegiance in their region.119 Hence, these border fortifications, however linear their presence in the landscape may have been, do not contradict the importance of cross-border interchange, allegiances and networks, and hence the understanding of borders as frontier regions or borderlands. These linear features can only properly be understood within the framework of the transitional spaces around them. Nevertheless, within these frontier networks, many chroniclers identified symbolic border markers: natural features, which seemed to mark a point or a line in the landscape that identified the border between two entities. These become particularly evident in conferences, when two kings or dukes met, and the meeting place that was agreed upon beforehand was situated precisely on these borders. Frederick Barbarossa is said to have held the 1155 negotiations regarding the Duchy of Bavaria on the Bohemian border.120 Many more examples can be found for the conferences between the Plantagenet and Capetian kings in the twelfth century.121 When, in 1179, Louis VII set over to England, he was met by Henry, who ‘came to meet him on the sea-shore, and received him with great honor and congratulations’.122 There are known cases where the kings of England and France met on a border river, where one stood on a boat, the other on shore, and they shouted their terms and conditions at each other.123 Similarly, when Frederick Barbarossa was to meet with Louis VII of France, the encounter was intended to take place at St-Jean-de-Losne on the Saine River, which was considered the borderline between the empire and the kingdom of France.124 The most famous one is certainly the case from 1188 where Philip Augustus of France and Henry II met at the border near Gisors, under an old elm tree that was not only a border marker, but that also provided shade in the summer heat – at least for Henry and his men. As Henry, according to our sources, refused to give up this place for his liege lord, Philip was so enraged by his insolence that his men cut the tree down; robbing Henry of his shade and the border of its visible marker.125 119 See, e. g. for Outremer, R. Denys Pringle, Castles and Frontiers in the Latin East, in: Keith J. Stringer/Andrew Jotischky (eds.), Norman Expansion. Connections, Continuities and Contrasts, Farnham 2013, 227–240. 120 Regesta Imperii IV, 2, 2, no. 364. 121 Cf. Jenny E. M. Benham, Anglo-French Peace Conferences in the Twelfth Century, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 27 (2005), 52–67; and LoPrete 2006. 122 Roger of Howden, 192: Cui rex Angliæ pater in littore maris occurrens suscepit cum magno gaudio et honore. Trans. Riley 1853, vol. 1, 517. 123 Bradbury 1998, 125. 124 Here see Beate Schuster, Das Treffen von St. Jean de Losne im Widerstreit der Meinungen: Zur Freiheit der Geschichtsschreibung im 12. Jahrhundert, in: Zeitschrift für Geschichtswissenschaft 43 (1995), 211–245.; and cf. Türck 2013, 116–119. 125 Cf. Lindsay Diggelmann, Hewing the Ancient Elm. Anger, Arboricide, and Medieval Kingship, in: Journal of Medieval and Early Modern Studies 40 (2010), 249–272.

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These examples – as well as those quoted for Henry I in 1133 and Henry II in 1153 – show how important borders were, and how even wide frontier networks could be symbolically reduced to linear features. The chroniclers126 and the rulers were well aware of the conflicting loyalties in border regions but nevertheless tried to identify borders through symbolical markers, to conceptualize borders symbolically.127 For the chroniclers this could even be developed into the trope that a ruler who mastered the difficult terrain of a frontier region also mastered all the lands behind that frontier.128 It is in this regard that rulers’ border crossings were of particular symbolical importance, especially within empires. Hence, when Henry II crossed the Channel in 1153, and the land received him in tears, this was a metaphor for him beginning to rule on the island – in the very moment he set foot on the land. The most important aspect of political power and authority in the early and high Middle Ages was the ruler’s presence.129 Particularly remote or estranged regions could be bound to a ruler by his repeated and intensified presence, as has for instance been argued for the kingdom of Burgundy under Frederick Barbarossa.130 Through his presence, as argued above, a king could personalize his authority. For that reason, attendance at the royal court and especially at diets131 126 Here cf. also Joshua C. Birk, From Borderlands to Borderlines: Narrating the Past of Twelfth–Century Sicily, in: James P. Helfers (ed.), Multicutural Europe and Cultural Exchange in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Arizona studies in the Middle Ages and the Renaissance 12), Turnhout 2005, 9–31. 127 See e. g. Pohl 2005, 257. 128 Leonie Hicks, The Concept of the Frontier in Norman Chronicles. A Comparative Approach, in: Keith J. Stringer/Andrew Jotischky (eds.), Norman Expansion. Connections, Continuities, and Contrasts c.1050–c.1200, Aldershot 2013, 143–164. Similarly see Suttor 1999. 129 Cf. Ferdinand Opll, Herrschaft durch Präsenz: Gedanken und Bemerkungen zur Itinerarforschung, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts für österreichische Geschichtsforschung 117 (2009), 12–22. Here and for the following see esp. Christof Paulus, Die Präsenz des Kaisers: Überlegungen zur Herrschaftspraxis Barbarossas, in: Ren8 Brugger (ed.), Kirche – Kunst – Kultur: Geschichts– und kulturwissenschaftliche Studien im süddeutschen Raum und angrenzenden Regionen. Festschrift für Walter Pötzl zum 75. Geburtstag, Regensburg 2014, 451–463. 130 Here see esp. Plassmann 2010. 131 The attendance of magnates at the kings’ courts has been the subject of many studies for nearly all regions of medieval Europe. For the magnates’ attendance of royal courts and diets in the empire, see the overview in Alheydis Plassmann, Die Struktur des Hofes unter Friedrich I. Barbarossa nach den deutschen Zeugen seiner Urkunden (MGH Studien und Texte 20), Hanover 1998; also cf. Theo Kölzer, Der Hof Kaiser Barbarossas und die Reichsfürsten, in: Peter Moraw (ed.), Deutscher Königshof, Hoftag und Reichstag im späteren Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 48), Stuttgart 2002, 1–47; and Karl-Heinz Spiess, Der Hof Kaiser Barbarossas und die politische Landschaft am Mittelrhein. Methodische Überlegungen zur Untersuchung der Hofpräsenz im Hochmittelalter, in: Peter Moraw (ed.), Deutscher Königshof, Hoftag und Reichstag im späteren Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 48), Stuttgart 2002, 49–76. For the attendance in Italy, see e. g. Giovanni

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was essentially considered mandatory for the magnates. That becomes evident in the so-called Privilegium Minus of 1157 that relieved the duke of Austria explicitly from this obligation.132 Most magnates, however, would seek the king’s counsel and most of all his judgment of their own account. Several sources indicate that many subjects of twelfth-century kings travelled far to seek the king and obtain his decision in critical cases.133 Nevertheless, capitals and stable residences which the king or emperor did not need to leave because his authority was undisputed were (at least in western Europe) a product of later centuries. They originated in the ‘Rise of Administrative Kingship’,134 when royal administration and the output of documents became too copious for the archives to be carried around.135 In the twelfth century, neither Frederick’s nor Henry’s authority was ever strong enough that it would not be disputed or rebelled against in their many domains. Obviously, a king could only be in one place at a time, and his absence gave many insubordinate vassals many opportunities to question his authority. Numerous twelfth-century chroniclers comment upon the problems caused by the king’s absence. Otto of Freising related that during the reign of Frederick’s predecessor Conrad III

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Tabacco, I rapporti tra Federico Barbarossa e l’aristocrazia italiana, in: Bullettino dell’ Istituto italiano per il Medio Evo e Archivio Muratoriano 96 (1990), 61–83, Paolo Brezzi, Gli alleati italiani di Federico Barbarossa (feudatari e citt/), in: Raoul Manselli/Josef Riedmann (eds.), Federico Barbarossa nel dibattito storiografico in Italia e in Germania (Annali dell’Istituto storico italo-germanico in Trento. Quaderno 10), Bologna 1982, 157–197; and Idem, Federico Barbarossa in Italia fra fautori e avversari (1154–1177), in: Cultura e scuola 19 (1980), 105–112. For the magnates’ attendance of the Plantagenet court, see Nicholas Vincent, Les Normands de l’entourage d’Henri II PlantagenÞt, in: Pierre Bouet/V8ronique Gazeau (eds.), La Normandie et l’Angleterre au Moyen ffge (Publications du Craham), Caen 2003, 75–88; and for Brittany see Everard 2003. DFI. no. 151. Here cf. Roman Deutinger, Das Privilegium minus, Otto von Freising und der Verfassungswandel des 12. Jahrhunderts, in: Peter Schmid/Heinrich Wanderwitz (eds.), Die Geburt Österreichs. 850 Jahre Privilegium minus (Regensburger Kulturleben 4), Regensburg 2007, 179–199. See e. g. Gerald of Wales, De principis instructione, ed. George F. Warner (Giraldi Cambrensis opera 8. Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 21), London 1891, 186. For a comparison of Richard’s English and his continental vassals in charters cf. James C. Holt, The Acta of Henry II and Richard I of England 1154–1199. The archive and its historical implications, in: Peter Rück (ed.), Fotografische Sammlungen mittelalterlicher Urkunden in Europa. Geschichte, Umfang, Aufbau und Verzeichnungsmethoden der wichtigsten Urkundenfotosammlungen, mit Beiträgen zur EDV-Erfassung von Urkunden und Fotodokumenten, Sigmaringen 1989, 137–140, here 139. C. Warren Hollister/John W. Baldwin, The Rise of Administrative Kingship: Henry I and Philip Augustus, in: American Historical Review 83 (1978), 867–905. Generally, see Birgit Studt, Residenz, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 7 (1995), 755f. Also cf. Hollister/Baldwin 1978, 881. See also Geoffrey W. S. Barrow, The English Royal Chancery in the Earlier 13th Century, in: Archiv für Diplomatik, 41 (1995), 241–248, here 243.

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‘the cities of Italy waxed insolent on account of the king’s absence. The Venetians waged fierce warfare against the people of Ravenna, the men of Verona and of Vicenza against the Paduans and the inhabitants of Treviso, the Pisans and the Florentines against the men of Lucca and Siena; they filled almost all of Italy with bloodshed, rapine and fire’.136

In his Gesta Friderici, he made this point even clearer: ‘Now when the prince returned to the transalpine regions [in 1158], just as his presence restored peace to the Franks, so his absence deprived the Italians of it. For not only did Apulia and Calabria participate in this misfortune (as has been shown), but even Farther Italy, feeling the absence of its prince, could not be immune from this turmoil’.137

Similar examples can be found for the Plantagenets. William of Newburgh devoted an entire chapter to the bad influence which William Longchamp, the bishop of Ely had as the king’s chancellor in king Richard’ absence.138 In many cases the rulers mention these problems themselves in their charters. During his Italian campaign in 1155, Frederick Barbarossa stated: ‘As we, with God’s guidance, have gloriously travelled through all of Italy, and as we return in good health and uninjured, we intend to restore the German lands to the benefit of peace and tranquility, which was disturbed by many evils’.139 These examples show why it was so important to create a consensus that also lasted in the ruler’s absence. In some cases, this worked and it was enough to send 136 Otto of Freising, Chronica, ed. Adolf Hofmeister (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 45), Hanover/Leipzig 1912, 355: His diebus propter absentiam regis Italiae urbibus in insolentiam decidentibus Veneti cum Ravennatensibus, Veronenses et Vincentini cum Paduanis et Tarvisiensibus, Pisani, Florentini cum Lucensibus et Senensibus atrociter debellantes totam pene Italiam cruore, predis et incendiis permiscuere. Trans.: The Two Cities. A Chronicle of Universal History to the Year 1146 A. D. by Otto, bishop of Freising, trans. Charles C. Mierow, New York 1928, 438. For similar examples in the Empire see e. g. Chronica regia Coloniensis Annales maximi Colonienses, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 18), Hanover 1880, 73. See also the annalist of Marbach who is surprised that in the absence of Emperor Otto IV there was neither strife nor conflict or war in Germany : Annales Marbacenses qui dicuntur, ed. Hermann Bloch (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 9), Hanover/ Leipzig 1907, 81. 137 Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 158f.: Denique princeps ad Transalpina rediens, sicut Francis presentia s sua pacem reddidit, sic Italis absentia subtraxit. Nam non solum Apulia et Campania huius mali, ut ostensum est, particeps fuit, sed etiam ulterior Italia absentiam sui sentiens principis inmunis ab hoc turbine esse non potuit. Trans. Mierow 1953, 167. 138 William of Newburgh, 331–336. Here see Egbert Türk, La chute de Guillaume de Longchamp (1191) ou la rumeur instrumentalis8e, in: Ma"t8 Billoré/Myriam Soria (eds.), Le Rumeur au Moyen Age. Du m8pris / la manipulation (Ve–XVe siHcle) (Histoire), Rennes 2011, 195–212. Generally, for the Plantagenets see also Favier 2004, 296–299. 139 See DFI. no. 126: Quia Deo auctore omnia in Italia gloriose peregimus, sani et incolomes redeuntes, terram Theuthonicam propter absentiam nostram diversis hinc inde malis perturbatam ad bonum pacis et tranquillitatis reformare intendimus.

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an envoy to remind the distant subjects to keep the peace.140 In many cases, however, this was not sufficient. The rulers needed trustworthy and reliable representatives in some of their dominions, and the most trustworthy and reliable people at their disposal (at least in theory) were the members of their families, especially their sons. Second- or third-born sons, or their even younger brothers, who had no realistic hope to inherit the crown were often entrusted with some of the territories Henry and Frederick ruled over.141 Apart from the eponymous son who was crowned co-regent with his father and who was to succeed him, until he died in 1183, Henry II had six sons.142 His illegitimate son Geoffrey was made bishop of Lincoln and later archbishop of York. His legitimate son William was made count of Poitou, Geoffrey was made duke of Brittany and the younger William, also illegitimate, became earl of Salisbury. The two later kings Richard and John, before inheriting the crown, had been duke of Aquitaine and count of Mortain, respectively. Frederick Barbarossa’s situation was quite similar.143 He also lost his first-born son and likely successor prematurely : Frederick was born in 1164 and was, in 1167, given the ancestral duchy of Swabia. When he died in 1170, Henry VI became the heir to the throne and was raised at court. At the same time his younger brother Conrad was renamed Frederick and was made duke of Swabia. Barbarossa’s younger sons Otto and Conrad were also placed in important positions: Otto was made count of Burgundy and the younger Conrad later succeeded his brother in the duchy of Swabia. Frederick’s youngest son Philip was originally intended for a clerical career, but when his brother Henry VI became emperor and failed to sire an heir (until 1194), he abandoned his career in the church, was made duke of Tuscia and duke of Swabia. Appointments like Geoffrey’s in Brittany144 or Otto’s in Burgundy145 clearly reflect the intention to have a reliable regent or at least a close representative in these territories. When Henry’s son Geoffrey began to rule in the name of his Breton wife in 1181 his understanding of Breton matters seems to have been much deeper than that of his father, and much more than him, he seems to have 140 See e. g. Otto Morena, Chronica, ed. Ferdinand Güterbock (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum NS 7), Berlin 1930, 165: Post paucos vero dies remisit dominus imperator in Ytaliam Rainaldum, archicanzellarium et electum archiepiscopum Colonie, ut vice sua, que forent in Ytalia ordinanda, statueret. See also (for Henry VI) Iohannes Codagnelli, Annales Placentini, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 23), Hanover/Leipzig 1901, 21f. 141 Here cf. Alheydis Plassmann, The King and His Sons. Henry II’s and Frederick Barbarossa’s Succession Strategies Compared, in: Anglo–Norman Studies 36 (2014), 149–166. For the Hohenstaufen see also Jonathan R. Lyon, Princely Brothers and Sisters. The Sibling Bond in German Politics, 1100–1250, Ithaca 2013. 142 Here and for the following see Warren 1967, 118–123. 143 Here and for the following see Görich 2011, 258 and 547. 144 Everard 2000, 93–145. 145 Here see Türck 2013, 180f. Also cf. Lyon 2013, 128–136.

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tried to establish political consensus in the region according to Breton customs.146 Furthermore, these regencies had the advantage that these sons and brothers gained administrative experience (in case they were to inherit the crown, after all). In addition, it was intended to keep them satisfied and occupied, so they would not rise up against their fathers. In the Hohenstaufen case, that worked out rather well, whereas many of the Plantagenet sons, brothers and younger relatives were notoriously discontent with their roles and often changed sides and supported Philip Augustus of France against the ruling Plantagenet king. Philip often subtly exploited the enmities between ruling kings and their ambitious sons or younger brothers, ‘and in the same way,’ laments the ‘Histoire de Guillaume le Mar8chal’, ‘he often behaved towards all the brothers, one after the other, causing them all mischief [and] one by one they were all tricked and deceived’.147 As Philip’s father Louis VII had done before him with Henry the Young King in the rebellion of 1173, Philip employed this strategy of ‘divide et impera’ in supporting Richard against Henry II, John against Richard and eventually Geoffrey’s son Arthur of Brittany against John. By comparison, the Hohenstaufen sons and brothers seem to have been more content with their lot. Most of them took their father’s (or brother’s) place and represented him in his absence. There was only one Hohenstaufen prince who openly rebelled against his father : Henry (VII) against Emperor Frederick II in 1235 – and that brings us back to the importance of the ruler’s presence and hence to the practicalities and the symbolism of his crossing borders. While Frederick ruled the empire from Apulia, he had made his son and successor king of Germany. Henry developed his own policy which favoured particularly the imperial cities and was directed against the princes and magnates and eventually also against his father, who supported the princes.148 In his open rebellion, Henry could garner much support in Germany, even when news arrived that Frederick prepared to cross the Alps to restore order in the kingdom north of the Alps. The annalist of Marbach relates that ‘The king heard that his father was about to arrive, and fearing him, he began to form friendships with the princes, the barons, and with his cities’.149 146 Everard 2000, 93–122. 147 Histoire de Guillaume le Mar8chal, ed. Antony J. Holden, trans. Stewart Gregory and comm. David Crouch, 3 vols. London 2002–2006, ll. 8100–8107: E eissi servi il souvant / Toz les freres de chief en chief / … un e un / Enginni8 e deceü furent. 148 Christian Hillen, Tutor et provisor. Minority government for German Kings. The Case of Henry (VII) (1220–1235), in: Medieval History, n.s. 1 (2002), 30–48; Björn Weiler, Kingship, Rebellion and Political Culture. England and Germany, c.1215 – c.1250, Basingstoke rev. ed. 2011; More recently cf. Ortensio Zecchino, La tragedia imperiale. Federico II e la ribellione del figlio Enrico, Rome 2014. 149 Annales Marbacenses, 96: Intelligens rex patrem adventurum, timens eum cepit sibi asciscere amicitias principum et baronum et civitatum suarum. Here cf. Weiler 2011, 57.

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Initially, he had been successful in his attempts,150 even though all of it was done ‘out of fear of his father’151 – of his absent father, one might add. When Frederick did cross the Alps and displayed the oriental splendour of his majesty in Germany, almost all of Henry’s allies deserted him and joined the emperor, and soon the king had to surrender to his father who imprisoned him for the rest of his life. For the German cities and magnates, it had been the mere presence of Frederick in the German kingdom that frightened them so much that the rebellion collapsed immediately.152 The example shows the essential effects of the ruler’s presence: Supporters of Henry’s, but also the magnates who kept quiet during the conflict, did not suddenly abandon the young prince because they were impressed by the camels and leopards that Frederick displayed.153 The reason was much rather that Frederick’s presence in the German kingdom forced them to take sides. Before Frederick’s arrival, they could support Henry with relative impunity or could simply keep their heads down, but when the emperor was present in the kingdom, they had to choose one side, and most of them chose the emperor’s. Of course, Frederick also crossed the border with a considerable military force. As several hundred people accompanied kings and emperors in their entourage, this group of people needed to be protected, and by more than only a few sentries. Frederick Barbarossa did not always enter Italy ahead of a large feudal army, but on five of his seven Italian campaigns he did.154 As much as a ruler’s absence had resulted in unrest and rebellions in many regions, his presence with armed forces did the exact opposite. Many sources, both from the Plantagenet realm and from the Hohenstaufen Empire refer to the terrifying effects a ruler’s presence sometimes had in a land. Such an entry was often

150 151 152 153

154

Generally for this source, see Volkhard Huth, Staufische “Reichshistoriographie” und scholastische Intellektualitat. Das elsassische Augustinerchorherrenstift Marbach im Spannungsfeld von regionaler Überlieferung und universalem Horizont (Mittelalter-Forschungen 14), Ostfildern 2004. Here see Die Regesten des Kaiserreichs unter Philipp, Otto IV, Friedrich II, Heinrich (VII), Conrad IV, Heinrich Raspe, Wilhelm und Richard. 1198–1272, ed. Julius Ficker (Regsta Imperii V, 1), Innsbruck 1882, no. 4349a. Annales Marbacenses, 96: Et hec omnia propter timorem patris. See also Continuatio Funiacensis et Eberbacensis [Gotfredi Viterbiensis], ed. Georg Waitz, in: MGH Scriptores 22, Hanover 1872, 342–349, here 348. See ibid.: Tunc conturbati sunt coadiutores regis Heinrici, robustos eius optinuit tremor, formido et pavor nimius irruit super omnes fautores eius pro magnitudine glorie et potencia imperatoris. Salimbene di Adam, Chronica, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger (MGH Scriptores 32), Hanover/ Leipzig 1905–1913, 92f.: Eodem anno domnus imperator Fridericus misit elefantem in Lombardiam cum pluribus dromedariis et camelis et cum multis leopardis et cum multis gerfalcis et asturibus. Opll 1978, 82.

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terribilis visus.155 The ‘Annals of Saint-Aubin’ mention that in 1214 the French crown prince Louis VIII put King John to flight, ‘through the dread of his arrival alone’.156 In similar terms, the ‘Chronica regia Coloniensis’ describes Frederick Barbarossa’s return from his first Italian campaign in 1155.157 Some chroniclers mention that the mere presence of a ruler with his army was enough for entire insubordinate cities, even cities like Milan, to hold the peace,158 and for important magnates to surrender. Also in 1214, Frederick II crossed the river Meuse, to bring the duke of Brabant to heel, and one chronicler tells us that ‘the duke was terrified by his arrival, and peacefully came to meet him, to ask for peace’.159 While rebellious magnates and cities were often alarmed and frightened of a ruler’s arrival, at least according to some chroniclers, the supporters of the ruler in the region in question could expect patronage and rewards. When a king or emperor crossed a border into one of his territories his supporters in that region would be reinforced in their loyalty. Especially the Normans were in constant need of such support, as their loyalty to the Plantagenets was often tested by the inroads Philip Augustus made in their duchy, as well as by the promises he made and the rebellions he fomented there.160 Therefore, many chroniclers told stories like William of Newburgh: In 1194, Richard the Lionheart returned to England from his crusade and his captivity in Germany. William writes that ‘there he received news from across the sea, that the French army assembled with the intention to invade Normandy. Hence, he waited with great impatience for an oppor155 Vita S. Willibrordi, ed. Ludwig Weiland/Georg Heinrich Pertz, in: MGH Scriptores 23, Hanover 1872, 23–30, here 27: Sed quam terribilis visus est eius introitus, tam turpis et foedus subsecutus est exitus. 156 Annals of St Aubin, in: Recueil d’annales Angevines et Vendimoises, ed. Louis Halphen (Collection de textes pour servir / l’8tude et / l’enseignement de l’histoire 37), Paris 1903, 1–49, here 34: Eisdem diebus Ludovicus, filius ejus, Joannem regem Angliae de Andegavi et obsidione castri quod vocatur Rupes Monachi solo adventus sui timore fugavit. 157 Chronica regia Coloniensis, 92: Imperator de Italia redit, perturbatores regni et pacis terrore adventus sui refrenat. 158 Here see e. g. Burchard of Ursberg, Chronicon, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger/Bernhard von Simson (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 16), Hanover/Leipzig 2nd ed. 1916, 28. 159 Chronica regia Coloniensis, 192: Rex vero ultra progressus fluvium Masam transiit, terram ducis Brabantie intrare disposuit; sed dux eius adventu territus, ei pacificus occurrit, pacem quesivit, quem rex tali conditione in gratiam recepit, quod ipse dux regi fidelitatem faceret, obsides daret, quod in omnibus ei fidelis existeret et contra omnem hominem ei fideliter assisteret. 160 For Henry in Normandy, see Daniel Power, Henry, Duke of the Normans (1149/50–1189), in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 2007, 85–128, here 109–123; and Idem, Angevin Normandy, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Elisabeth van Houts (eds.), A Companion to the Anglo-Norman World, Woodbridge 2002, 63–85.

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tunity to cross over, always scolding the elements, but at last, as the winds blew as he hoped for, he crossed over. His people [there] received him with congratulations, because after such a long time of languishing his presence raised their spirits to the greatest courage’.161

Frederick Barbarossa himself, or at least his chancery, writing to the citizens of Rome in 1155, stated that ‘as due respect is properly demanded from inferiors, so a fitting service is justly repaid by superiors. This practice, received from my sainted parents I have elsewhere observed. Why should I deny it to my own citizens? Why should I not make the city happy upon my entrance?’162

Sometimes chroniclers did not know whether it was ‘love of the king or fear of his arrival’163 what made magnates and cities join him when he crossed the border and entered their country or their city. In some cases, it was neither, but much rather the riches and treasures, which he brought with him. The chroniclers Eadmer and John of Worcester relate that in 1105 ‘King Henry of England crossed the channel. On his arrival, almost all the Norman nobles abandoned their duke and lord, and the fealty owed to him, and rushed over to the gold and silver the king had brought with him, and handed castles over to him, and fortified cities and towns’.164

All these examples show that a ruler’s arrival in a land created a new political situation which forced every political actor in this territory to make a decision, 161 William of Newburgh, 417: Ubi accepto de transmarinis partibus nuntio, quod Francorum copiæ irruptionem in Normanniam meditantes convenissent, cum gravi tædio transfretandi opportunitatem exspectans, sæpiusque elementa incusans, tandem, auris ad votum spirantibus, transfretavit, susceptusque a suis cum gratulationibus, sua præsentia post longum torporem ad præclaram fiduciam animos eorum erexit. 162 Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 139: Sicut enim a minoribus debitum rite expetitur obsequium, sic a maioribus meritum iuste rependitur beneficium: hunc, quem alibi a divis parentibus meis acceptum servavi morem, civibus meis cur negarem Urbemque meo in troitu laetam non facerem? Trans. Mierow 1953, 149. 163 Henry of Huntingdon, Historia Anglorum, 774: Fuit igitur Anglia sine rege quasi sex ebdomadis, nec tamen Dei gratia preueniente pace caruit, uel pro regis amore uenturi uel timore. Trans. ibid., 775. 164 John of Worcester, Chronicon, 106: Omnes autem pene Normannorum maiores, ad eius aduentum, spreto comite, domno suo, et fide quam ei debebant, in aurum et argentum regis, quod ipse de Anglia illuc portauerat, concurrerunt, eique castra, munitasque ciuitates et urbes tradiderunt. Trans. ibid., 107. Cf. Eadmer, Historia novorum in Anglia, in: Eadmeri historia novorum in Anglia et opuscula duo de vita sancti Anselmi et quibusdam miraculis ejus, ed. Martin Rule (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 81), London 1884, 1–302, here 165: Omnes igitur ferme Normannorum majors illico ad regis adventum, spreto comite domino suo, et fidem quam ei debebant postponentes, in aurum et argentum regis concurrerunt, eique civitates castra et urbes tradiderunt.

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either in favour or against that ruler.165 As long as a king or emperor was absent, princes, magnates or cities could act in various different ways, many of which would not necessarily have been understood as open rebellion. A ruler’s arrival, his presence, eliminated all such middle ground: it forced everyone in this region to make a decision. That is, again, most explicitly expressed by Otto of Freising, wo tells of an ancient custom that was followed whenever a German king crossed the Alps to assume the imperial crown and that forced ‘all the kings that are his vassals’, and the magnates and their feudatories to stand by the ruler and guard him over one night. ‘Thus all the vassals, both of the sovereign and of the princes, who have remained at home without the full consent of the lords are punished [by confiscation of] their fiefs’.166 The effect illustrated by these examples is, of course, true for both Frederick and Henry II, or for any considerable military force that crosses a border. What set the two empires apart is the fact that for Frederick, the order created by his presence was not only the effect of a show of force, but also had legal grounds. The Plantagenets ruled all their various territories in different capacities. Henry II did not rule Normandy as king of England, but as duke of Normandy. That becomes particularly evident in the way this ‘Angevin Empire’ came to an end. In 1202, a ruling of magnates at the Capetian court declared that John had forfeited his possessions in Aquitaine, Poitou and Anjou due to contumacy (or contempt of summons and orders). Whereas Henry II, in a similar situation in 1152, had still reacted with scorn to such summons and was not punished at all,167 the situation five decades later also reflected the rise of Capetian power over the Plantagenets. Nevertheless, John was not summoned in any way for all his continental possessions, but for the different titles he held individually. When John refused to appear before the court he invoked the ancient prerogative of the Duke of Normandy who only had to meet the king of France on the Norman border, but not in Paris. Philip, for his part, argued that John had not been summoned as duke of Normandy, but as the count of Poitou who did not enjoy that privilege.168 This case, again, illustrates that the Plantagenets held their 165 For similar examples from both the Plantagenet and the Hohenstaufen realm, see e. g. Annals of St Aubin, 38; William of Newburgh, 88; and Chronica regia Coloniensis, 268f. 166 Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 113f., the quotation at 114: sicque omnes omnium beneficiati, qui sine bona voluntate dominorum suorum domi remanserunt, in feodis dampnantur. Trans. Mierow 1953, 125. Here cf. Jürgen Dendorfer, Roncaglia. Der Beginn eines lehnrechtlichen Umbaus des Reiches, in: Stefan Burkhardt et al. (eds.), Staufisches Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert. Konzepte – Netzwerke – Politische Praxis, Regensburg 2010, 111–132. 167 Warren 1997, 74; cf. Bradbury 1998, 27; and cf. Elizabeth M. Hallam and Judith Everard, Capetian France, 987–1328, Harlow 2nd ed. 2001, 230. 168 The most important sources for the court summons and John’s forfeiture are Rigord of St Denis, Gesta Philippi Augusti, ed. Plisabeth Carpentier/Georges Pon/Yves Chauvin

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‘commonwealth’ of dominions in a personal union and in different rights and titles. Frederick Barbarossa, by contrast, certainly held the titles of king of Germany (or rather of the Romans), of Italy and Burgundy, but he was also emperor in all of these kingdoms. This becomes evident in the fact that Frederick ruled Italy and Burgundy even without having received a coronation in these places. For Henry arriving in England in 1153, this could be employed as a literary trope, but for the Staufer it was a political and legal reality. When Frederick arrived in Italy in 1154, he held a solemn diet at Roncaglia in December169 and governed Italy for months, without having yet received the crown. The coronation even became a bargaining chip, a matter with which he simply intended to honour the city of Monza. Milan was certainly the most important city in all Lombardy, and the decision to choose the smaller town of Monza for this prestigious festivity was a clear affront to the Milanese.170 However, the coronation with the Iron Crown of the Lombard kingdom never materialized, and Frederick only celebrated a festive crownwearing in Pavia in April, after the destruction of Tortona.171 Hence, a formal coronation was not considered a necessary legal prerequisite to govern Italy for the rex Romanorum. Frederick ruled the land in the tradition of his predecessors, the Ottonian and Salian kings and emperors, who had made Germany, Burgundy, and Italy the constituent parts of the Holy Roman Empire.172 Without being crowned king of Italy or Emperor, Frederick could arrive in Italy and, as Otto of Freising relates ‘send ahead certain qualified men of [his] retinue to go about among the individual cities and towns to demand what pertains to the royal treasury and what is called by the natives fodrum’. For Otto it was mostly the Roman tradition and title that gave Frederick this right, he calls it ‘an old custom, maintained from the time that the Roman empire passed over to the Franks even down to our own day’.173

169 170 171 172 173

(Sources d’histoire m8di8vale 33), Paris 2006, 370–374; and especially Ralph of Coggeshall, Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. Joseph Stevenson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 66), London 1875, 135f; here cf. Warren 1997, 75; and Frederick M. Powicke, The Loss of Normandy : 1189–1204. Studies in the History of the Angevin Empire, Manchester 2nd edn. 1960, 283f. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, 2, no. 253. Görich 2011, 232f. Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 132. Weinfurter 2005. Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 117f.: Mos enim antiquus, ex quo imperium Romanum ad Francos derivatum est, ad nostra usque deductus est tempora, ut, quotienscumque reges Italiam ingredi destinaverint, gnaros quoslibet de familiaribus suis premittant, qui singulas civitates seu oppida per agrando ea quae ad fiscum regalem spectant, quae ab accolis fodrum dicuntur, exquirant. Trans. Mierow 1953, 129. Here cf. Brühl 1968.

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Similar indications can be found for Burgundy :174 here, too, Frederick ruled simply through his presence. It has been argued that Frederick’s coronation in Arles in 1178 was not a simple and common crown-wearing, as had been argued before, but rather an actual coronation.175 Still, the late date indicates that Frederick had no particular hurry in gaining this crown through the festive ceremony, and that he only considered it necessary after he suffered his crushing defeat against the Lombard cities in the year before. Hence, this coronation was intended to reinforce imperial claims much more than it actually made Frederick king of Burgundy.176 Originally, he did not deem a coronation in Burgundy particularly necessary, and his being rex Romanorum seems to have granted him all royal rights in the kingdom. The same logic and ideology was later applied by Henry VI when conquering the Norman kingdom of Sicily. He went to great lengths to argue that he did not simply inherit this kingdom through his wife Constance, a daughter of Roger II, but that the entire territory had always been part of his empire and that the kingdom of the Altavilla was simply created under the aegis of the Holy Roman Emperors. Hence, he ruled what he regarded as ‘his territory’177 long before he reached the capital. When he did arrive in Palermo, he also celebrated a crown wearing, but not a formal coronation.178 In all these cases, the Hohenstaufen ruled these lands, simply in their capacity as kings or emperors of the Romans, simply by their presence in these kingdoms, by having crossed their border.179 By contrast, the Plantagenets, even in their own kingdom of 174 For Frederick Barbarossa in Burgundy, see Plassmann 2010, Locatelli 1992, and Türck 2013. 175 Fried 1983; see also Türck 2013, 234–245 (on coronations in Arles and Vienne), 243–245 (for their comparison with the coronation in Milan). 176 Fried 1983, esp. 370. 177 Annales Marbacenses, 61. 178 Here see Thomas Foerster, Romanorum et regni Sicile imperator: Zum Anspruch Kaiser Heinrichs VI. auf das normannische Königreich Sizilien, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 54 (2008), 37–46; see also Thomas Foerster, Heinrich VI. Eine Biographie, forthcoming. 179 Some sources from the Hohenstaufen court could even be read in the way that it was the crossing of a border that was considered to make a ruler or to grant him power or a title. In 1195, Conrad of Hildesheim, the chancellor of Henry VI, was sent on an Italian legation and reported about his itinerary in the aforementioned elaborate letter, where he commented on the historical and mythical significance of every place he came to visit. When passing through the Romagna, he had to cross the infamous river Rubicon, and of course, he mentioned Caesar’s crossing of the same river in 49 BC. For Conrad, the crossing of this border was the feat that made the general a Caesar : ‘[the Caesar] crossed here with ease, where the Julius could not succeed’. Cf. Arnold of Lübeck, 176. The Latin reads Quo sine difficultate transiit, quo Iulio contingere non potuit. For the editor of Arnold’s Chronica Slavorum, this quo refers to emperor Henry – that the Staufer crossed through the Rubicon where Julius Caesar failed. But this would mean that Conrad thought that Caesar really did not succeed in crossing the Rubicon, and despite all positivist criticism of Conrad’s letter (See e. g. Eduard Winkelmann, Konrad I. [Bischof von Hildesheim und Würzburg], in: Allgemeine Deutsche Biographie 16 [1882], 581–583), it can still be assumed that an erudite

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England, may have exerted some royal rights before they received the crown, but they – as many other kings in medieval Europe – ‘were never more vulnerable than before they were crowned’.180 A king of Germany – the rex Romanorum – could come to Italy, even without considerable force, and ‘receive the land in his power’ and only then also accept the insignia.181 In 1164, Frederick Barbarossa confirmed the laws and customs of Mantua in northern Italy, describing them as the “customs they have had before our arrival in Italy”182. This implies the notion that his mere crossing the Alps could have even resulted in a legal change for these customs. Evidently, it is considered possible that the customary right in a territory could change by a ruler’s mere presence in this territory, and that (then) this presence could invalidate anything that had developed and that was done before his arrival. Similar notions are recorded for Henry VI,183 and some of Frederick’s charters define rights in Italy differently for the situations of him being inside or outside the kingdom.184 In similar terms, this notion is again expressed by Otto of Freising, who mentioned that in Italy the emperor had yet another right that ‘is said to have found its source in ancient custom’ of the Roman empire:185 ‘When the prince enters Italy all dignities and magistracies must be vacated and everything administered by his nod, in accordance with legal decrees and the judgment of those versed in the law’.186 For Henry II, the “limit of legal memory” was “the legal situation as it existed

180 181 182 183 184 185 186

man like Conrad knew quite well that Caesar did cross this river (had he not, no one would ever have heard of it). Hence, the quo can only refer to Caesar, and so the general Gaius Julius became the Emperor Caesar by crossing the border marker between Cisalpine Gaul and Italy. On this letter, cf. Timothy McFarland, Schulautoren und Kulturtourismus im Reisebrief Konrads von Querfurt. Zum Umgang mit der Antike in der staufischen Führungselite – mit einem Blick auf Wolfram von Eschenbach, Parzival, 656, 14–19, in: Nicola McLelland/Hans-Jochen Schiewer/Stefanie Schmitt (eds.), Humanismus in der deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit. XVIII. Anglo-German Colloquium Hofgeismar 2003, Tübingen 2008, 231–255. Warren 1967, 244. Burchard of Ursberg, Chronicon, 98: Imperator itaque coronatus dimisit exercitum et ipse cum paucis in Italia permansit, accipiens terram in potestatem. Insignia quoque imperialia apud Mediolanum commisit, unde magnum favorem a Mediolanensibus acquisivit. Conventio cum Mantuanis of 1164 (DFI. no. 442): Statum quoque et honorem Mantuanorum et bonas consuetudines, quas habebant ante introitum nostrum in Ytaliam, seu etiam e possessiones ab eis possessas conservabimus. Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum I, ed. Ludwig Weiland (MGH LL. Constitutiones et acta publica imperatorum et regum 1), Hanover 1893, no. 368. DFI. no. 372. Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 118: ex antiqua consuetudine manasse traditur iusticia. Trans. Mierow 1953, 129. Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 118: ut principe Italiam intrante cunctae vacare debeant dignitates et magistratus ac ad ipsius nutum secundum scita legum iurisque peritorum iudicium universa tractari. Trans. Mierow 1953, 129.

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at his own coronation”.187 For Frederick, it was his arrival in Italy. When Henry crossed over from England to Normandy, he became duke of Normandy. The intitulatio in his charters always remained a collection of different titles. For Frederick, one title was enough.188 When he crossed the Alps and entered Italy, it was Italy that became something else. Frederick’s son Henry VI would later refer to Sicily as ‘our imperial kingdom’.189 If this adjective could be applied to the kingdom of Sicily, the three kingdoms that formed the Holy Roman Empire must have been all the more understood as ‘imperial’ kingdoms. Arles was considered a sedes imperii,190 and so was Italy. Thus, the Holy Roman Empire was more than the sum of its parts and of individual networks. It was, as Otto of Freising put it, a ‘transalpine empire’.191 In this empire, Frederick may have been king of Germany, Italy and Burgundy, just as Henry II was king of England, duke of Normandy and count of Anjou, but in all his kingdoms, Frederick was also emperor. His kingdoms, through his presence – and hence whenever he crossed the borders – became ‘imperial kingdoms’. Godfrey of Viterbo, in his aforementioned passage, certainly asserted that empire was the rule over different peoples and lands, but this is not all he wrote. In this passage, he discussed the emperor’s position above the various laws and legal traditions in his empire: ‘In life, in origin and in language the different regions vary, / one rule cannot divide all customs, / and thus many laws affect the empire. / But one law is above the other, one king above the other, one is over many, / an equal above equals, one custom and one experience above others, / and the one in whose world we live commands them all’.192 Despite the laudatory nature of these lines, Frederick was emperor in all his ‘imperial kingdoms’. Henry ruled a conglomeration of lands that could have qualified him for an imperial title, but that did not make him an emperor. It was this imperial title and tradition, which may not have made Frederick’s realm particularly holy or Roman, but that in the contemporary unterstanding certainly made an empire. 187 Warren 1967, 63 and 333. 188 On the attempt of his son Henry to have the union of Sicily and the empire expressed in the intitulatio of his charters, see Foerster 2008. 189 See Die Regesten des Kaiserreiches unter Heinrich VI. 1165 (1190)–1197, ed. Gerhard Baaken 2 vols. (Regesta Iimperii IV, 3), Cologne/Vienna 1972–79, no. 438 (print: Acta imperii inde ab Heinrico I. ad Heinrico VI. usque adhuc inedita: Urkunden des Kaiserreichs aus dem X., XI., und XII. Jahrhundert, ed. Karl F. Stumpf-Brentano [Die Reichskanzler vornehmlich des X., XI., und XII. Jahrhunderts, vol. 3], Innsbruck 1881, no. 530 (741–751): in toto nostro imperiali regno. 190 Fried 1983, 354. See also DFI., no. 184, naming Vienne as civitas imperialis. 191 Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, 151: Transalpinum imperium. See also ibid., 154. 192 Godfrey of Viterbo, Pantheon, 273: Vita, genus, lingua varie variant regiones, / Una nequit cunctos distinguere regula mores, / Unde per imperium plurima iura movent. / Lex superest legi, rex regi, pluribus unus, / Par superest paribus, mos moribus, usibus usus, / imperat hiis unus, cuius in orbe sumus.

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Hermann Jakobs, Weltherrschaft oder Endkaiser? – Ziele staufischer Politik im ausgehenden 12. Jahrhundert, in: Theo Kölzer (ed.), Die Staufer im Süden. Sizilien und das Reich, Sigmaringen 1996, 13–28. Jörg Jarnut, Barbarossa und Italien. Zeitvorstellungen im staatsrechtlichen und politischen Denken des Kaisers, in: Hans–Werner Goetz (ed.), Hochmittelalterliches Geschichtsbewußtsein im Spiegel nichthistoriographischer Quellen, Berlin 1998, 257–267. Oscar Albert Johnsen, Noregsveldets undergang, Kristiania 1924. Martin Kaufhold, Norwegen, das Papsttum und Europa im 13. Jahrhundert: Mechanismen der Integration, in: Historische Zeitschrift 265 (1997), 309–342. Martin Kaufhold, Deutsches Interregnum und europäische Politik. Konfliktlösungen und Entscheidungsstrukturen 1230–1280 (MGH Schriften 49), Hanover 2000. Jirˇi Kejrˇ, Böhmen und das Reich unter Friedrich I., in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa. Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 241–289. Walther Kienast, Deutschland und Frankreich in der Kaiserzeit, 900–1270. Weltkaiser und Einzelkönige, 3 vols. (Monographien zur Geschichte des Mittelalters), Stuttgart 1974/75. Edmund King (ed.), The Anarchy of King Stephen’s Reign, Oxford 1994. Edmund King, The Accession of Henry II, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Nicholas Vincent (eds.), Henry II. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 2007, 24–46. Edmund King, King Stephen, New Haven, CT 2011. Hans Joachim Kirfel, Weltherrschaftsidee und Bündnispolitik. Untersuchungen zur auswärtigen Politik der Staufer, Bonn 1959. Theo Kölzer, Der Hof Kaiser Barbarossas und die Reichsfürsten, in: Peter Moraw (ed.), Deutscher Königshof, Hoftag und Reichstag im späteren Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 48), Stuttgart 2002, 1–47. Jean-Louis Kupper, Friedrich Barbarossa im Maasgebiet, in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa. Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 225–240. Johannes Laudage, Alexander III. und Friedrich Barbarossa (Forschungen zur Kaiserund Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters 16), Cologne 1997. Joe W. Leedom, The English Settlement of 1153, in: History : The Journal of the Historical Association 65 (1980), 347–364. John Le Patourel, The Norman Empire, Oxford 1976. John Le Patourel, The Norman Conquest, 1066, 1106, 1154?, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 1 (1979), 103–120. Karl Leyser, The Anglo-Norman succession 1120–25, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 13 (1991), 225–241. Karl Leyser, Friedrich Barbarossa. Hof und Land, in: Alfred Haverkamp (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa. Handlungsspielräume und Wirkungsweisen des staufischen Kaisers (Vorträge und Forschungen 40), Sigmaringen 1992, 519–530. Richard H. Lindemann, Channel Crossings by English Royalty, 1066–1216, Ann Arbor 1986. Ren8 Locatelli and G8rard Moyse, La Franche-Comt8 entre le Royaume et l’Empire (fin IXe–XIIe siHcle), in: Francia 15 (1987), 109–147.

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Stefanie Schild

Bishops in the service of the Staufens and the Plantagenets

Abstract In the 12th century the Staufen and the Plantagenet kings used bishops as instruments for their rule. Although the practice is more visible in the Holy Roman Empire and was remarked upon often, it also happened in England. While royal appointment of bishops certainly served to induce these bishops to support the king, there is also the reciprocity of royal favour that was advantageous for the dioceses and of episcopal service that eased the everyday tasks of ruling. In the Holy Roman Empire as well as in England candidates for bishoprics were increasingly well educated as can be seen by their attendance of the schools and universities in the new centres of education. Important episcopacies, especially in the centre, were staffed with royal familiars, although neither the education nor the appointment nor the standard career guaranteed the king or emperor that the bishop would support him for the rest of his life. While the kings and emperors obtained the service of capable supporters in the fields of law and administration, diplomacy and even warfare (although the ‘warrior bishop’ was the exception) the influence of these episcopal servants which was not only defined by the constellation of reciprocal benefit but also by conditions of personal understanding could be outstandingly important. Although the sources tend to remark on the unusual figures of the likes of Rainald of Dassel and Christian of Buch, closer inspection shows that in both realms rulers and bishops knew about the benefits of reciprocal support.

Under the Staufen and Angevin kings bishops were not confined to their ecclesiastical office and its duties. Instead, they also were secular lords, who owed feudal obligations and advice (consilium et auxilium) to their king.1 Some bishops held secular offices. But bishops in royal service were not an innovation of these royal dynasties or a novelty of the twelfth century. Even under the Carolingian kings bishops as well as other clergy were active in the royal administration and acted as judges, justiciars, envoys or military commanders. The reform movement of the eleventh century, which had strived to end the involvement of ecclesiastics in worldly affairs and which had resulted in conflicts 1 Ralph V. Turner, Richard Lionheart and English Episcopal Elections, in: Albion 29 (1997), 1–12.

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about the investiture of bishops in both realms, changed nothing in this aspect: bishops can still be found in the service of kings in the twelfth and thirteenth century.2 One reason was the pursuit of secular power by the bishops. Another reason for this might be the fact that the kings of the Plantagenet as well as the Staufen Empire spent a lot of their time abroad. While Henry spent almost half of his reign in Normandy or elsewhere, Richard spent even more time on the continent. In the ten years of his reign, he was only for nine months in England: When John lost Normandy, he reversed this trend of the absentee ruler. After almost a whole century of absent kings it was a novelty for the English magnates as well as the clergy and the populace to be reigned by a king, whose itinerary concentrated on England after 1204.3 Similar to the Angevin kings the Staufen kings ruled not only over the regnum Teutonicum, but also Burgundy and Italy. Like their counterparts in England Frederick Barbarossa and his son, Henry VI spent a lot of their time out of the German regnum. Barbarossa ruled for 38 years of which he spent 14 years in Italy.4 But the amount of time a king was absent is not necessarily an indication for the quality of the government. If the use of writing is used as an indicator for the range and capabilities of the Staufen and Angevin government, the Angevin government was more ubiquitous than the Staufen. Whereas a little over 3,000 writs and writ-charters of Henry II are preserved, only about 1,000 of Frederick Barbarossa survived.5 The number of charters which are handed down to us reflects a development in administrational practise. The increased demands of effective political administration called for a pool of highly educated men. The same applies to judiciary though a professional judiciary existed only from about 1194 onwards. Although we still find some familiares regis as judges under John “a core of ‘professionals’ in a certain sense had been created”.6 The in2 In the view of William of Newburgh, Historia Rerum Anglicanum, ed. Richard Howlett (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 82), London 1884/85, here, V 10, 436, the bishops of his days were fixated on the world. Cf. John Gillingham, The Historian as Judge: William of Newburgh and Hubert Walter, in: English Historical Review 120 (2004), 1275–1287, here 1276. 3 The time of the anarchy is an exception because Stephen was in reality only king of England after the conquest of Normandy by Geoffrey of Anjou in 1144. 4 Frederick went to Italy in 1154–1155, 1158–1162, 1163–1164, 1166–1168, 1174–1178 and in 1184–1186. In 1156, 1157, 1162, 1166, 1168, 1170, 1173, 1178 and 1186 he visited Burgundy ; cf. Ferdinand Opll, Friedrich Barbarossa (Gestalten des Mittelalters und der Renaissance 1), Darmstadt 2nd edn. 1994, 190, 197. 5 Karl Leyser, Frederick Barbarossa and the Hohenstaufen Polity, in: Timothy Reuter (ed.), Communications and Power in Medieval Europe. The Gregorian Revolution and beyond, London 1994, 115–142, at 118f.; The Acta of Henry II will be published by Nicholas Vincent, Acta Henrici II. 6 Ralph V. Turner, The Reputation of Royal Judges under the Angevin Kings, in: Albion 11 (1979), 301–316, here 301.

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creased demands in administration and judiciary are reflected in parts of the episcopacy of this time. Angevin and Staufen kings were – as their predecessors – not adverse to promote men who had not only a reputation for Christian virtue but also for learning.7 An often absent king and the increased needs of an effective administration are not the only reasons for bishops in royal service. To find further – and possibly more important reasons – one must consider the higher clergy of an empire as well as the individual bishops. Everett U. Crosby pointed out that there was not a species of bishop as there was no species of king. “Their relations to the king, to the pope, and to each other, as well as to their clerical and lay colleagues, were determined by different beliefs, habits, desires, and prejudices.”8 Nevertheless the ecclesiastics will be of interest especially because of their background. The career of some bishops might shed some light on the reasons for their service as individuals as well as representatives of their social class. Bishops like Rainald of Dassel, Christian of Buch, Hubert Walter, Walter of Coutances or William Longchamp seem to be prototypes of a bishop in royal service. But why did some bishops become courtiers and sometimes even neglected their dioceses and others did not? Were the king’s enterprises and patronage the centre of interest to the bishops of the Staufen and Angevin Empire?9 This seems to apply at least to some bishops serving the Staufen and Angevin kings. Some are to be found quite regularly at the king’s court or acting in his service (not necessarily at court).10 The varying number of sources makes a survey of this subject difficult. Although the total number of narrative sources, charters and writs is comparatively high, it often depends on the examined region. We have more charters for England and Normandy than we have for Aquitaine, for example. The same applies for imperial charters in regard to Burgundy. This situation is reflected in the number and subject of published studies. Although there is a large number of works on the Angevin king’s and Frederick Barbarossa’s reign, the aspect of royal service by bishops has been examined mostly in biographical studies or studies for a kingdom, but never in comparison. A comparison might show similarities as well as differences in the relationship between episcopacy and king in different countries, e. g. the Staufen and Angevin Empire or France. Analysing (recent) publications concerning this 7 Everett U. Crosby, The King’s Bishops. The Politics of Patronage in England and Normandy, 1066–1216 (The New Middle Ages), New York 2013, 85. This does not mean that kings stopped to use bishoprics as a reward for clerks who had gained a reputation as a loyal and trustworthy clerk in royal service. 8 Crosby 2013, 6. 9 Leyser 1994, 116 asked the same question, but concerning the whole aristocratic world. 10 Bishops like Rainald of Dassel, archbishop of Cologne, or Christian of Buch, archbishop of Mainz, spent even more time at Frederick’s court or in his service than in their own diocese.

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topic, a discrepancy in the emphasis of examined regions becomes obvious. The main part focuses on Anglo-Norman episcopacy or Anjou. As Daniel Power shows, England and Normandy still formed a unity after the Angevin conquest of Normandy in 1144 instead of Normandy being integrated into an ‘Angevin’ ecclesiastical system.11 This unity was even strengthened after Henry II’s coronation in 1154. Further, to cover the episcopacy of both empires in its entirety would exceed the limitations of this article. Therefore, the focus will be on German and Anglo-Norman bishoprics. Examining bishops in the service of the Staufen and Angevin Empire, it might be worth asking whether there is a connection between family and episcopal background, patronage and education and a bishop’s later service for a king.12 In the past the structure of the episcopacy in different periods has often been examined by scholars. One conclusion of these studies is that “from 1066 to 1216, some 54 % of the episcopacy were men who had made their way through the royal service, or who belonged to the king’s immediate circle. Perhaps 60 % of the episcopacy were committed royals.”13 Further it has been concluded that the pattern changed and the balance of curial and non-curial bishops fluctuated from one reign to another.14 Despite these studies and their results it should not be forgotten that we often have not enough evidence to reconstruct the career or the character of every single bishop. Our information often varies from region to region and depends on different factors. For example, we have more information about the background of English and Norman prelates than about bishops from Burgundy or Aquitaine. In contrast to the tenth and – partly – the eleventh century most bishops belonged to the secular clergy in twelfth century England and Normandy.15 Apart from the royal household and the royal administration the households of bishops and archbishops were a constant source for recruiting. From archbishop Theobald’s household came seven bishops and four archbishops: Thomas Becket (Canterbury), Richard of Dover (Canterbury), Roger de Pont l’EvÞque (York), 11 Daniel Power, Angevin Normandy, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Elisabeth van Houts (eds.), A Companion to the Anglo-Norman World, Woodbridge 2003, 63–85, here 80. 12 For the Anglo-Norman period this nexus has been examined by Stephanie Mooers Christelow, Chancellors and Curial Bishops: Ecclesiastical Power in Anglo-Norman England, in: Anglo Norman Studies 22 (2000), 49–69. 13 Daniel Walker, Crown and Episcopacy under the Normans and Angevins, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 5 (1982), 220–233, here 220; See also Jörg Peltzer, Les 8vÞques de l’empire PlantagenÞt et les rois angevins: un tour d’horizon, in: Martin Aurell (ed.), PlantagenÞts et Cap8tiens: confrontations et heritages, Turnhout 2006, 461–484, here 483; Daniel Power, The Norman Church and the Angevin and Capetian Kings, in: Journal of Ecclesiastical History 56 (2005), 205–234, here 211. 14 Walker 1982, 220. 15 Crosby 2013, 37.

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John of Canterbury (Poitiers / Lyon), John of Pagham (Worcester), John of Salisbury (Chartres), Walter Durdent (Coventry), William de Vere (Hereford), Bartholomew (Exeter), Walter (Rochester), William Northall (Worcester). Archbishop Baldwin came from the household of bishop Bartholomew of Exeter before his promotion first to Ford Abbey, then to Worcester and afterwards to Canterbury. Apart from this a considerable number of bishops close to Henry still came from Normandy or possessed a close relationship to the duchy before their election.16 The Norman bishops in Henry’s service can even be divided into two generations. Towards the end of his reign, most Norman bishops had made their career in his administration and owed their position to the king. In contrast, the first generation, e. g. archbishop Rotrou of Rouen, consisted mostly of influential and powerful men with their own power bases, like a powerful family.17 An example of a bishop of the second generation is Walter of Coutances. His career seems characteristic for someone rising through the ranks of royal administration. Henry II as well as Richard recognized Walter’s gifts for administrative efficiency and skilful diplomacy. In 1173, he was keeper of the king’s seal, in 1176 archdeacon of Lincoln and in 1179/80 royal chancellor.18 Between 1180 and 1195 he undertook embassies to the French king, in 1180 to the count of Flanders. From 1182 to 1184 he was bishop of Lincoln. In 1184, he was transferred to Rouen. After Henry’s death Richard continued to rely on Walter’s services and let Walter act as royal justice. While Richard was abroad on crusade and after the fall of William Longchamp he became justiciar and Exchequer official until Walter Hubert’s return from the Holy Land. Together with Eleanor of Aquitaine he negotiated with Henry VI for Richard’s release from captivity.19 Crosby called him the “model of the successful courtier.”20 For him Walter represents “the favoured layman who was quickly ordained as a priest in order to be consecrated as a bishop, and so take his place as a preferred and trusted officer with life tenure in the highest circles of government.”21 Apart from bishops who rose through the ranks of royal service to a see there is another group who is often found in royal service: a king’s relatives. Examples for these are Otto of Freising and Hugh du Puiset. The latter was a nephew of king 16 Many of the bishops in England held estates on both sides of the channel: Crosby 2013, 191; Peltzer 2006, 463. 17 Jörg Peltzer, Henry II and the Norman Bishops, in: English Historical Review 119 (2004), 1202–1229, here 1225. 18 For Walter’s career see for example Crosby 2013, 201f. 19 Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines, in: The Historical Works of Master Ralph de Diceto, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 68), vol. 2, London 1876, 3–174, here 112f.; William of Newburgh, IV. 41, 404. 20 Crosby 2013, 125. 21 Crosby 2013, 125; Similar already Sidney R. Packard, King John and the Norman Church, in: Harvard Theological Review 15 (1922), 15–40, here 30.

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Stephen. Before his promotion to the bishopric of Durham in 1153 he was treasurer of York and archdeacon of East Riding. William of Newburgh wrote that he wholeheartedly attended to the business of the world, the court and public assemblies.22 Under Richard Hugh du Puiset rose to the office of chief justiciar.23 He shared the responsibilities with William de Mandeville and William Longchamp. As half-brother of Conrad III and uncle to Frederic Barbarossa, Otto of Freising was related to two Staufen kings. Dedicated to the church at a young age, he became provost of his father’s foundation Klosterneuburg. In 1132, he entered the Cistercian abbey of Morimond. Six years later he was elected as bishop of Freising. As bishop he visited various court assemblies. In the 1140s, he travelled on Conrad’s behalf to the pope.24 A third group of bishops originated from the regional aristocracy. A good example is Cologne. In the twelfth and thirteenth century 18 out of 21 candidates belonged to the aristocracy from the Lower Rhine and the region of Middle Rhine.25 There are only three exceptions to this; one of them being Rainald of Dassel. Comparing the background of German and Anglo-Norman bishops it becomes obvious that a high percentage of bishops held the office of archdeacon or dean before their promotion to bishop.26 Another observation concerns their education. In contrast to earlier centuries, the main part of the luminaries of the regnum Teutonicum travelled westwards to participate in the new scholastic enlightenment. For example, Otto of Freising and his large following, Rainald of Dassel, Daniel of Prague, Adalbert II of Mainz, Philipp of Heinsberg and Eber-

22 He also bought the county of Northumberland from Richard in 1189; Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, ed. Frederic Madden (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 44), London 1866, ad. 1189, 11; William of Newburgh, V. 1, at 416; V. 10, at 436–439. 23 [Roger of Howden], Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 49), London 1965, ad. 1189, 87, 101; Roger de Wendover, Flores historiarum, ed. Henry G. Hewlett, (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 84), vol. 1, London 1886, ad. 1189, 168; William of Newburgh, IV. 5, at 304; Gillingham 2004, 1276; another example is Henry II’s illegitimate son Geoffrey who rose to the archbishopric of York. 24 Hans-Werner Goetz, Otto of Freising, in: Neue Deutsche Biographie 19 (1999), 684–686. 25 Hugo Stehkämper, Der Reichsbischof und Territorialfürst (12. und 13. Jahrhundert), in: Peter Berglar/Odilo Engels (eds.), Der Bischof in seiner Zeit. Bischofstypus und Bischofsideal im Spiegel der Kölner Kirche. Festgabe für Joseph Kardinal Höffner, Erzbischof von Köln, Cologne 1986, 95–184, here 102. 26 For Cologne see: Stehkämper 1986, 103–110. For example, Thomas of Canterbury, Geoffrey Ridel, Walter (Lincoln), Gilbert de Glanville, were archdeacons before their election; John of Salisbury, Vita S. Thomae, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, ed. Jaimes C. Robertson, (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol 2, London 1875 (Reprint 1965), 299–322, at cap. V, here 304; Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, ad. 1163, at 182, ad. 1185, at 320, 424, 434.

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hard of Salzburg studied in France, while Eberhard II of Bamberg studied in France or Bologna.27 Frederick’s governmental actions were for the most part displays of favour and the settlement of disputes which acquired their coherence through the social centre from which they proceeded instead through governmental technique. This differs from the typical governmental act in England under Henry II. In England, the cores of governmental actions were inquests which meant a constant flow of written instruments between court and counties.28 At the beginning of his reign Frederick relied to a large part on bishops his uncle, King Conrad III, had trusted and often used in his service. This is not only reflected in their presence at court, but also by their activity in royal service. Some of Frederick’s most trusted advisors are often to be found in his entourage. For example, bishop Arnold II of Cologne visited Barbarossa’s court regularly and always stayed for a long period.29 Apart from Arnold II of Cologne, Anselm of Havelberg, Eberhard of Bamberg, Hermann of Constance and Hermann of Verden belong to this group. But most of them died early or withdrew from Frederick’s court in the late 1150’s. Therefore, a change in the body of bishops can be perceived, which is paralleled in the Angevin Empire and the bishops Henry II relied on. After his succession Henry had to rely on bishops, whose majority had been appointed by his predecessors. Another major shift was the result of the catastrophe of 1167 when many participants of the fourth Italian campaign died. Among the victims were men like archbishop Rainald of Dassel and the bishops Conrad of Augsburg, Alexander of LiHge, Daniel of Prague, Eberhard of Regensburg, Gottfried of Speyer and Hermann of Verden.30 Among them are three bishops who had been close advisors to Frederick, in Rainald’s case even someone who arguably had been responsible for Frederick’s policy in 27 Christian Uebach, Die Ratgeber Friedrich Barbarossas (1152–1167), Marburg 2008, 48f., 178; Stehkämper 1986, 104f. 28 Karl Leyser, Frederick Barbarossa: Court and Country, in: Timothy Reuter (ed.), Communications and Power in medieval Europe. The Gregorian Revolution and beyond, London 1994, 143–156, here 148; For the German kingdom there are fewer sources, so that it is hard to say to which degree the same holds true there. See for further detail in local government under Frederick Leyser 1994, 148–154; for England see Wilfred L. Warren, The Governance of Norman and Angevin England, 1086–1272, London 1987. 29 Uebach 2008, 33; he pointed out that Arnold participated in 27 % of Frederick’s charters until his death in 1156. 30 Chronica regia Coloniensis ad 1167, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 18), Hanover 1880, 118f.; Die Regesten des Kaiserreichs unter Friedrich I. 1152 (1122)–1190, ed. Ferdinand Opll, 4 vols. (Regesta Imperii IV, 2) Vienna/ Cologne/Weimar 1980–2011, no. 1697; Vincenz of Prague (und Gerlach), Annales, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Scriptores 17, Hanover 1861, 654–710, ad. 1167, 683f.; Boso, Vita Alexandri III, in: Le Liber Pontificalis, ed. Louis Duchesne, vol 2, Paris 1892 (Reprint 1981), 397–446, here 417f.

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the decade before 1167. Christian Uebach pointed out that Rainald might have been superior to most of Barbarossa’s advisors in education, drive and consequence of acting. Further attested qualities like Rainald’s sharp mind, his tireless perseverance, his courage and his ambition seem to have predestined Rainald for governmental business.31 His importance for Frederick is shown by a remark of Acerbus Morena, who wrote that nullius magis consilio quam suo faveret imperator […].32 At the same time his contemporaries already agreed that Rainald strove only to enhance his king’s honor.33 The true motivation for Rainald’s strong engagement for Frederick will have been a combination of various reasons. One certainly was his ambition to rise to the ranks in the German realm. His example is a rather well documented one for an ecclesiastic career in royal service in the German realm and shall only shortly be outlined here.34 Since 1157/58 Rainald became one of the leading men in Barbarossa’s Italian policy.35 His act as legate ensured that the major part of Italy would take part on Barbarossa’s side in his campaign against Milan.36 Even after the triumph over Milan, Rainald spent a lot of his time supervising the imperial rule in Italy in his king’s name, partly as imperatorie maiestatis legatus.37 As a result he spent more time in Italy, than in his own diocese, acting on Barbarossa’s behalf.38 Apart from this he acted as royal legate in the German empire in 1160 and again in Burgundy in 1164, where he tried to recruit troops for Barbarossa’s Italian campaigns and to persuade the episcopacy, clergy and other aristocrats to declare for Pope Victor IV.39 This indicates a second task of Rainald: to end the papal schism in favour of an imperial candidate. In this context, we find the archbishop again as 31 Uebach 2008, 120. 32 Acerbus Morena, Historia, in: Das Geschichtswerk des Otto Morena und seiner Fortsetzer über die Taten Friedrichs I. in der Lombardei, ed. Ferdinand Güterbock (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum NS 7), Berlin 1930, 130–176. 33 Acerbus Morena, ad. 1163, here 168. 34 Helmuth Kluger, Friedrich Barbarossa und sein Ratgeber Rainald von Dassel, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 26–40; Hubertus Seibert, Rainald von Dassel, in: Neue Deutsche Biographie 21 (2003), 119–121. For a more detailed analysis of his career see the article of Dominik Büschken in this volume. 35 In 1158 he was sent together with count palatine Otto of Wittelsbach to Italy to prepare Frederick’s second Italian campaign. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 523. 36 Uebach 2008, 128. 37 Forschungen zur Reichs- und Rechtsgeschichte Italiens, ed. Julius Ficker, (Urkunden zur Reichs- und Rechtsgeschichte Italiens), vol. 4, Aalen 1961 (Original 1874), no. 131–133, here 171–176, no. 135, at 177; using ‘Reichslegaten’ in Italy was an innovation of Frederick’s Italian policy. This system became the basis of all government actions of the king, cf. Opll 1994, 180, 191. 38 Rainald only spent a year and a half in his diocese, Uebach 2008, 155. 39 Uebach 2008, 138.

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legate. After the synod of Pavia in 1160 he travelled to France and Normandy to persuade Louis VII and Henry II to acknowledge Victor IV as Pope. Sending not only an archbishop, a fact that already spoke for the importance of this mission, but his trusted advisor underlines how important Frederick thought those embassies were. But both legations were unsuccessful. Louis and Henry acknowledged Alexander III as Pope. Although he had been unsuccessful in 1160 Rainald was again sent to Henry II in 1165 to further an alliance. In the previous year, Rainald was acting as Frederick’s legate in Italy when Victor IV suddenly died. Rainald had lost no time and proceeded with the election of a successor. Together with Victor’s cardinals he instigated the election of Pope Paschal III without – as it seems – asking Frederick first. One could argue further that the lack of consequences for his high-handed decision is a clear sign how much Frederick trusted him and his decisions. An outstanding Anglo-Norman bishop comparable to Rainald might be Hubert Walter, the “most powerful of all English prelates”.40 He is an example for the changing structures in administration and in church, which led to the service of literate and highly competent men. Probably a nephew of Ranulf de Glanville, he started his career in Ranulf ’s household.41 Since 1182 we find him in Henry II’s household. Two years later he appeared as royal justice in the sources, and in the 1180s as baron of the Exchequer and dean of York. In 1189, he was raised as bishop of Salisbury. When Richard went on crusade he followed him together with archbishop Baldwin of Canterbury and other magnates and prelates. Here, he led negotiations on Richard’s behalf with Saladin and led a contingent of the English troops. In 1193, he returned home. On his way to England he visited Richard in captivity in Austria. After his return he succeeded Baldwin as archbishop of Canterbury. With his election the monks followed the recommendation of Richard, who had written to the monks of Christ Church in Canterbury while he was held for ransom by Henry VI.42 Until Richard’s return from crusade and captivity, Hubert Walter administered England as justiciar and collected the ransom, together with Eleanor of Aquitaine. After Richard’s death Hubert supported John, who made him chancellor.43 Another example is William Longchamp. William Longchamp was Richard’s chancellor when he had been duke of Aquitaine. After Richard had succeeded his father on the throne he promoted William to the bishopric of Ely. In the same year William was appointed legate for England by the pope.44 From 1190 until 1191 William shared 40 41 42 43

Gillingham 2004, 1277. John Critchley, Walter, Hubert, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 8 (2003), 2001. William of Newburgh, IV. 35, here 391f. At Hubert’s death in 1205 king John is supposed to have said, that only now he was king of England, cf. Matthew Paris, ad. 1205, 104. Gillingham 2004, 1277. 44 Matthew Paris, ad. 1189, 10; ad. 1190, 15.

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the office of justiciar with bishop Hugh of Durham, who was already appointed justiciar in 1189.45 William’s appointment is often seen as an unfortunate choice. William quickly clashed with John and the major part of England’s magnates. In 1191, he had to flee abroad. Still, he remained loyal to Richard while he was a prisoner of Henry VI. In 1192, he was back in England and with the king’s return in 1194 he resumed his duties at court. Like bishop Hugh of Durham, he supposedly was devoted to secular affairs.46 As the examples mentioned above indicate we find bishops in various kinds of service of the Staufen and Plantagenet Empire. Below we will focus on the fields in which bishops can be found like administration and law, diplomacy and war. As a rule, bishops were not confined to one field of service, so the following subdivision is an artificial one to exemplify the various possibilities of royal service.

Administration and law Bishops were prohibited by canon law from combining ecclesiastical and secular offices. A canon of the council at Westminster in 1175 as well as a decree of the Third Lateran Council reinforced earlier prohibitions for clergy to undertake secular jurisdiction.47 Nevertheless, we find bishops acting as sheriff or justice. Some of them already gathered experience in these positions before their promotion to a bishopric. At the time of their election, they often were well experienced in the law which was not only of use when acting as justice, but also as counsellor to the king. In the Staufen Empire we find bishops only sporadically as ‘royal’ judges. The king usually assigned a bishop to decide a particular legal dispute. At Roncaglia in 1158, Frederick used the legal knowledge of Eberhard II of Bamberg, which might have had its origin in law studies in Bologna: Eberhard had to judge in the litigation between the abbot of Leno and the bishop of Brescia.48 He acted again as judge while accompanying the Emperor on his second Italian campaign.49 An45 A short time before, Hugh had bought the earldom of Northumbria. Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores Rolls Series 51), vol. 2, London 1870, ad. 1189, 15f. 46 William of Newburgh, IV. 14, 331–336; V.29, 490. For William’s justiciarship and the following conflicts see also Stephen Church, King John. England, Magna Carta and the Making of a Tyrant, London 2015, 34–55. 47 Gervase of Canterbury, Historica, in: The Historical Works of Gervase of Canterbury, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 73), vol. 1, London 1879, 1–594, here 253; William of Newburgh, III. 3, 219. 48 Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 623. 49 Le carte degli archive parmensi dei secoli X–XII: secolo XII, ed. Giovanni Drei, vol. 3, Parma

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other example for delegated justice is a case concerning the Abbey of Corvey. In 1157 Frederic delegated a case concerning the Abbey of Corvey to Bishop Frederic of Münster.50 Hermann of Verden often acted as judge delegate on Frederick’s behalf, too. Since March 1161 he is described as vicarius of Frederick in sources concerning Italy.51 As Barbarossa’s vicar he judged de omnibus causis Ytalie, tam de principalibus quam de litibus appellationum.52 In Italy his activity as vicar was only restricted to the jurisdiction.53 He stopped only to act as vicarius when Barbarossa returned to Italy in autumn 1163. But three years later we find him again in ea expedition imperialis curiae […] iudex extiterat.54 In choosing Hermann as his vicar Barbarossa had chosen a man with experiences in law. Hermann had been archdeacon and curator of the cathedral chapter of Halberstadt before his appointment as bishop of Verden. As such he had already acted in financial, administrative and legal questions.55 But Hermann’s activity as judge does not only demonstrate in which field a bishop might serve a king. It is important for another reason, too: the judge meant a new kind of administration of justice for the Italian part of the Staufen Empire.56 A similar case is Christian of Buch’s activities as Frederick’s legate in Italy, even before his nomination as archbishop of Mainz.57 We find bishops far more often acting as justices in England and Normandy : Altogether 14 bishops.58 In his ‘Ymagines Historiarum’ Ralph de Diceto wrote that Henry had diligently sought out lovers of justice who would not be corrupted by high offices because he was anxious for an efficient and impartial admin-

50 51 52 53

54 55 56 57 58

1950, no. 279, here 228: […] imperialis aule legatus [sic! Eberhard] a gloriosissimo imperatore Frederico ad iustitias et provisiones faciendas in Parmensi civitate delegatus; See also Uebach 2008, 164. Die Urkunden Friedrichs I., ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10) 5 vols., Hanover 1975–1990, no. 168. Regesta imperii IV, 2, no. 457. Another example: DFI. no. 292. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 932, 1099. Hermann was already employed as judge in Italy under Conrad III. Forschungen zur Reichs- und Rechtsgeschichte Italiens, no. 115, 158f., no. 129, 170f. For example Acerbus Morena, 166. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 1099, 1173, 1190–1191. While participating in the third Italian campaign Daniel of Prague presided a judicial hearing under judge Otto de Cassali in 1166. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 1613. Uebach 2008, 17–176, who thinks his nomination as vicarius was the peak of Hermann’s political career. Cf. also Otto Wurst, Hermann von Verden, 1148–1167. Eine Persönlichkeit aus dem Kreise um Kaiser Friedrich I. Barbarossa (Quellen und Darstellungen zur Geschichte Niedersachsens 79), Hildesheim 1972, 126–130; Opll 1994, 192. Vincenz of Prague, ad. 1167, at 683. Wurst 1972, 15–18, 167. Uebach 2008, 174. For his curriculum see the chapter ‘Warfare’. Gillingham 2004, 1276. Out of 14 bishops and four abbots only seven did so frequently.

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istration of the law. After trying “many different classes of men”59 he appointed as archjusticiars of his realm the bishops of Ely, Norwich and Winchester since they would not be corrupted by the high office because of their fear of God.60 The bishops in question were Geoffrey Ridel, John of Oxford and Richard of Ilchester. All three of them had attained their bishoprics in reward for their long and faithful service to Henry II.61 Richard of Ilchester and Geoffrey Ridel were former archdeacons (Poitiers and Canterbury) while John of Oxford had been dean of Salisbury. Richard of Ilchester is a good example for a bishop who was not only active as judge, but played an important role in other areas, too. Richard belonged to Henry’s group of familiares and gained substantial experience in the administration, first as baron of the Exchequer, then as itinerant justice.62 He was Henry’s legate to the pope and several bishops. Together with John of Oxford, later bishop of Norwich, and Rainald of Dassel he travelled as Henry’s envoy to Barbarossa in 1165.63 At Barbarossa’s court he attended the council of Würzburg. With those missions, he gathered experience as a diplomat. They also are a sign of Henry’s trust in Richard and his abilities. Richard also executed royal policies in the continental possessions and was baron of the exchequer. In 1167/68, he was itinerant judge in many English shires in the south and west.64 After the death of Henry of Blois in 1171, Winchester was placed in Richard’s custody until 1173, when he became bishop of Winchester, one of England’s richest and most influential sees. His promotion did not end his services for the king. Instead he rose higher in the central administration of secular government. In 1176, Normandy was entrusted to his care. Here he reorganized the Norman Exchequer, presided over assizes and collected tollage of Norman towns.65 Moreover, three years later he was appointed one of three chief justices and placed at the head of a panel of five judges with oversight over nine of the southern English shires.66 Between 1180 and 1183 Richard sat at Westminster or at the Exchequer together with other justices at several occasions. Following Charles Duggan Richard had an 59 Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines Historiarum, in: The Historical Works of Master Ralph de Diceto, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 68), vol. 1, London 1876, 290–440, here 434f. 60 Ralph de Diceto, ibid.; Roger of Howden, Chronica, here ad. 1179, vol. 1, 190f. Apart from Ralph most contemporary writers did not think positively about royal officials, including (itinerant) judges. Compare Turner 1979, 301–316. 61 Charles Duggan, Richard of Ilchester, Royal Servant and Bishop, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 16 (1966), 1–21, here 2. Wilfred L. Warren, Henry II (Yale English Monarchs), New Haven/London 2000 (Original 1973), 311–313. 62 Warren 2000, 311–313. 63 Rainald had been in England because of the negotiations for the marriage of Henry the Lion to Mathilda. 64 Duggan 1966, 2, 7. 65 Duggan 1966, 8; Power 2003, 68. 66 [Roger of Howden], Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi, ad. 1179, 238f.

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“exceptional skill in the detail of administration, unusual energy in the execution of his office, patience and persuasiveness in diplomacy, integrity and constancy according to his concept of his duty”.67 Richard of Ilchester was not the only bishop who was appointed chief justice.68 Other examples can be found in Normandy. Before his appointment of the three chief justices in England, Henry had already appointed Arnulf of Lisieux and Rotrou of Pvreux as chief justices of Normandy in the 1150s and 1160s. They were followed by Renaud de Saint-Val8ry, William de Saint-Jean and William de Courcy. After his death in 1176, Richard of Ilchester followed him in office.69 So from the 1150s until 1178 half of the chief justices in Normandy were bishops. The three bishops had in common their experience and their familiarity with the king. Richard and John both continued to use bishops as justices. Under both kings we find Seffrid II of Chichester as justice and royal clerk.70 Certainly it was his experience in this field, which is indicated by his title magister, that recommended him like his predecessor Hilary to both kings.71 Apart from an activity as justice the sources show that bishops sometimes bought the office of sheriff. Bishop Hugh de Nonant, nephew of the bishops Arnulf of Lisieux and John of S8es, bought the sheriff ’s office in three counties when Richard needed the money for his departure on crusade. As has been indicated already, bishops not only engaged themselves in law but in other fields of administration, too. Bishop Nigel of Ely had an outstanding role in England’s financial administration. Until 1166 he took the leading responsibility in reorganizing the Exchequer. The nephew or son of Roger of Salisbury had started his career as royal treasurer under Henry I. On Henry’s instigation Nigel had become bishop of Ely in 1133. Because of his experience and talent for organisation and finance he gained a reputation as expert in this area. This reputation led Henry II to call him back out of his retirement to improve the efficiency of his administration, especially the reorganisation of the Exchequer, on which ‘scientia had almost perished during the long years of civil war’.72

67 Duggan 1966, 20f. 68 In England Henry also employed William de Vere, bishop of Hereford, as itinerant justice and envoy. Godfrey de Lucy was royal justice before he was elected bishop of Winchester after Henry II’s death. For William see Crosby 2013, 116. 69 Power 2003, 71. 70 Richard Fitz Neal, William de Ste-MHre-ðglise, Master Eustace of Fauconberg and Master Henry of London acted as justices under Richard and John and later became bishops, cf. Turner 1979, 310. 71 Crosby 2013, 79. 72 Richard fitzNeal, Dialogus de scaccario, ed. Charles Johnson, London 1950, 50; Warren 2000, 266.

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Because of him the Exchequer recovered its full efficiency of Henry I’s days.73 After 1166 his son Richard fitz Neal (or of Ely) supervised the detailed working of the Exchequer.74

Diplomacy In conflicts bishops often acted as mediators or envoys for their king. The two most well-known conflicts in the period between the succession of Conrad III (1138) and the death of Henry VI (1197) in Germany and the succession of Henry II (1154) and the loss of Normandy (1204) in the Anglo-Norman realm are the papal schism (1159–1177) and the Becket conflict. In the later conflict a core group of bishops is detectable among the group of envoys from England to the Roman Curia who appealed to the pope. Among the members of the first delegation were Roger of York, Gilbert of London, Hilary of Chichester, Bartholomew of Exeter and Roger of Worcester.75 It is remarkable to find two bishops who were close to Thomas Becket as members of this delegation – Bartholomew of Exeter and Roger of Worcester. Although the bishops and clergy of England were one of four groups who made the second appeal in June 1166, only the bishops of Hereford, London and Winchester set their seal to it.76 In 1167 we only find the bishops of London, Salisbury and Winchester signing a new appeal, even though the bishops of Chichester and Worcester were also at Argentan. In 1168 it is only Gilbert Foliot who appealed to Alexander III. It certainly was a precaution to any measures Thomas Becket might use against him. Becket argued that appeals ad cautelam were against lawful authority and 73 Warren 2000, 266. 74 Henry G. Richardson, William of Ely, the King’s Treasurer (?1195–1215), in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 4th ser. 15 (1932), 45–90, here 46. Richard fitzNeal is author of the ‘Dialogus de Scaccario’. In the later years of Henry II’s reign and under Richard I he was constantly engaged in judicial work and sat regularly in curia regis. 75 For the embassies to Alexander III compare for example Alan of Tewkesbury, Vita S. Thomae, ed. Jaimes C. Robertson, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores Rolls Series 67), vol. 2, London 1876, 323–352, here cap. 9, 13, 18, at 331, 334, 336. Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines, vol. 1, 314f., Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1165, vol. 1, 229–231; David Knowles, The Episcopal colleagues of archbishop Thomas Becket, Cambridge 1951, 92. The bishops, who supported Henry in his controversy against Thomas Becket, undertook a number of various missions during this years. See for example Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1165, vol. 1, 229, who tells us, that Henry II sent Gilbert Foliot and William, earl of Arundel, to Louis of France to prevent him from receiving Thomas Becket into his favour. 76 John of Salisbury, Letters, ed. Harold E. Butler/William. J. Millor/Christopher N.L. Brooke, The Later Letters (1163–1180) (Oxford Medieval Texts), vol. 2, London/Edinburgh 1979, no. 171, 122–126, no. 175, 152–164.

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excommunicated Gilbert. But the major part of embassies to Rome was undertaken by Gilbert Foliot and Hilary of Chichester and therefore by bishops who were royal servants. One reason for Henry choosing them might have been their expertise in law although both had not risen through the ranks of royal administration. Before becoming monk at Cluny and later prior at Abbeville and abbot of Gloucester, Gilbert was already a master of theology. In 1148 he was appointed bishop of Hereford. Being the opposite to Thomas Becket after his promotion to Canterbury, he seems like a perfect example of a bishop who acknowledged the king as secular lord while following the Christian doctrine and his principles of virtuous conduct. He cultivated the nobility as friends and colleagues.77 “Hilary appears as an extremely quick-witted, efficient, self-confident, voluble, somewhat shallow man, fully acquainted with the new canon law […].”78 His dean described him further as ‘a man famous for his life and learning, a man honourable and scrupulous.’79 Hilary had been clerk in the household of Henry of Blois and dean at Twynham before Henry of Blois put him forward as candidate for York. But he was opposed by the secular clergy and the bishop of Durham, William St. Barbe. Pope Eugenius III solved the disputed election in York by giving it to the Cistercian Henry Murdac, abbot of Fountains. He compensated Hilary with the vacant bishopric of Chichester. Because of his knowledge of the law he was not only employed on a variety of commissions by the king, but also by archbishop Theobald.80 When the conflict between Thomas Becket and Henry broke out, he supported Henry II. Although he undertook several embassies to the pope on behalf of his king, his foremost purpose seems to have been a reconciliation between king and archbishop. Most Norman bishops supported Henry II like him which did not hinder them to work for a reconciliation of king and archbishop and to mediate with their diplomatic skills between king and pope. This is true in particular for archbishop Rotrou of Rouen. The Norman bishops are mostly responsible for the quickness of the compromise between Henry II and Alexander III.81 One could argue that bishops were predestined to mediate between extreme parties. In a conflict, in which the papacy and the king were involved, bishops were ideal to act as mediators because of their connections to both parties. Besides this they often had excellent and various social contacts and networks, partly because of their family

77 78 79 80 81

Crosby 2013, 112. Knowles 1951, 27. Chronicle of Battle Abbey, ed. and transl. Eleanor Searle, Oxford 1980, 172f. Crosby 2013, 78. Peltzer 2004, 1217.

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origins and high-ranking status in a realm. But the main reason might have been their understanding of their office.82 An example from a later conflict is Eustace of Ely who was mainly active under Richard and John. After he had been educated abroad, Eustace worked in the royal chancery. By 1194 he was keeper of the seal. Richard appointed him dean of Salisbury, treasurer of York and archdeacon of Richmond and East Riding. In 1197 he became vice chancellor and in 1198 bishop of Ely. In the same year he was royal envoy to Germany to promote the imperial election of Otto IV, Richard’s nephew. A year later king John sent him as legate to Philip II. Another bishop, who was sent to the German king under Richard and John, was William de SteMHre-Eglise. He had a long record of service for the Plantagenet dynasty before he was appointed bishop of London in 1198. He was clerk in Henry II’s camera regis and one of the envoys who negotiated for Richard’s release from captivity. Under John he continued to serve as envoy to the Empire – mainly because of the disputed succession – and Rome.83 In 1191 Richard sent archbishop Walter of Coutances, William Marshal and Hugh Bardolf back to England because of the conflicts evolving of William Longchamp’s behaviour as justiciar.84 In this case the envoys were not send to another ruler, but back home by an absent king. They were sent to “add their weight and wisdom to the good government of the realm”.85 Richard used the bishops to convey his wishes and instructions to the magnates (secular and ecclesiastical) in England, thus showing how much he trusted them. Another field of diplomacy where bishops were frequently trusted with negotiations were marriage projects. Not only were they sent to foreign courts to negotiate on the king’s behalf. They often accompanied a bride to their future home and husband. One example is the marriage of Henry II’s daughter Joan. In 1177 the archbishops Richard of Canterbury and Rotrou of Rouen together with the bishops Henry of Bayeux, Geoffrey of Ely and Giles of Evreux escorted Joan from England to Palermo where the wedding took place. Apart from the bishops Joan was accompanied by other magnates and knights. But the bishops would 82 For bishops as mediators see Hermann Kamp, Friedensstifter und Vermittler im Mittelalter (Symbolische Kommunikation in der Vormoderne), Darmstadt 2001, 210f.; see also Wolfgang Georgi, Wichmann, Christian, Philipp und Konrad: Die “Friedensmacher” von Venedig?, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalterforschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 41–84, here 42. 83 Crosby 2013, 136. 84 Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1191, vol. 3, 96f. For Walter of Coutance’s role as crusader see David Spears, The Secular Clergy of Normandy and the Crusades, in: Kathryn Hurlock/ Paul Oldfield (eds.), Crusading and pilgrimage in the Norman World, Woodbridge 2015, 81–102, here 94f. 85 Church 2015, 42.

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have been able to communicate more easily with the Sicilian court and aristocracy as well as the clergy. They added to the prestige of the escorting party, especially as there were two archbishops of the Plantagenet territories among them. Marriage projects or treaties are situations where we can find German bishops as envoys in royal service, too. Rainald of Dassel negotiated marriage projects between two daughters of Henry II, Eleonore and Mathilde, and Frederick I’s son, Philip, and Henry the Lion.86 So the reason for sending a bishop was at least two-fold: First, bishops were skilled in Latin, thus being able to communicate in a common language, at least among the clergy. Second, a bishop or archbishop amongst an embassy could stress the importance of the embassy, because of his prestigious position. At the beginning of his reign Frederick relied heavily on Arnold II of Cologne because of his knowledge about the Byzantines, when he sent Arnold to Constantinople.87 Another bishop who was frequently travelling in Frederick’s name to Rome or the Byzantine emperor was Anselm of Havelberg. Anselm had years of experience in the royal service and had already been Lothar III’s legate to Byzantium in 1135/36.88 Since the 1140’s we find him repeatedly with Conrad III for whom he travelled to Pope Eugene III in 1147.89 Barbarossa used Anselm as an expert for Byzantine matters and frequently sent him as a negotiator for important diplomatic missions to Rome or Byzantium.90 Although appointed to the archbishopric of Ravenna in 1155 as reward for his loyal services by Frederick he still 86 Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines, vol. 1, at 318; Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 1466, 1470; Gervase of Canterbury, 204. Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1176, vol. 2, 94f. The usage of bishops as envoys can be observed in other countries, too: For example, the bishop of Troia and the archbishop elect of Capua were members of the embassy of William of Sicily to Henry II to negotiate the marriage between himself and Joan, Henry’s daughter. Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1176, vol. 2, 94. Regarding the marriages of Henry II’s daughters see Colette Bowie, The Daughters of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine (Histoires de famille. La parent8 au Moyen ffge 16), Turnhout 2014. 87 Uebach 2008, 34. 88 Annales Magdeburgenses, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, in: MGH Scriptores 16, Hanover 1859, 105–196, here ad. 1135 and 1136, 185f.; Die Regesten des Kaiserreiches unter Lothar III., ed. Wolfgang Petke (Regesta Imperii IV, 1) Vienna 1994, no. 453, 487. Further testimony for Anselm in the service of Staufen Empire can be found in Rahewin: Anselmus Ravenne metropolitanus, qui multis diebus in imperii obsequiis et fidelitate probates fuerat […]. Rahewin, Gesta Friderici I, in: Otto of Freising and Rahewin, Gesta Friderici I, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 46), Hanover/Leipzig 1912, 162–346, here IV.17, 548–550. 89 Regesta Imperii IV, 1, no. 455, 459. 90 Uebach 2008, 39, 42. Anselm was part of the embassy which travelled to Byzantium in 1153 to meet with Emperor Manuel and to negotiate about a marriage between Frederick and a Byzantine princess. In 1154 and 1155 he acted again as Frederick’s legate to Constantinople. Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici I., in: Otto of Freising and Rahewin, Gesta Friderici I, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 46), Hanover/ Leipzig 1912, 1–161, here II. 11, at 111f., II. 29, at. 135f. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 305.

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accompanied the king on his Italian campaign and negotiated alongside Arnold of Cologne with Pope Adrian IV.91 As already mentioned the papal schism of 1159 was one of the major conflicts. In a conflict with the church it was only natural to send bishops as envoys. In the autumn of 1159 Barbarossa dispatched bishop Hermann of Verden to invite Alexander III and Victor (IV) to the council of Pavia.92 After the council of Pavia in 1160 he sent Daniel of Prague to Geisa II of Hungary and Hermann of Verden to Spain to inform the rulers about the synod’s decisions.93 Both embassies seem to have had no success. Hermann of Verden could only convince the lords of Baux to acknowledge Victor as pope.94 Daniel can be found in royal service several times. In Italy he belonged to the group of persons Frederick relied on for diplomatic missions acting as envoy at several opportunities. Participating in Frederick’s second Italian expedition he was employed as envoy to various cities as well as to the pope.95 But Daniel is an exception in the line of bishops of Prague, because none of his predecessors or successors can be found as often in Frederick’s service as Daniel.96 This underlines even further the trust Frederick posed in Daniel’s abilities as a legate and – possibly – negotiator. His travels to Hungaria must also be seen in the interest of the Empire. In winter 1156/57 and July 1157 he had visited the court of Geisa to arrange a marriage between a daughter of Geisa II and the Premyslids and a second time to persuade Geisa II to send troops for Barbarossa’s Italian campaign.97 On his diplomatic missions on Frederick’s behalf we find Daniel often in company of Hermann of Verden.98 In this context one must mention Christian of Buch. Like Rainald of Dassel, Christian became archbishop of Mainz at the instigation of the emperor. Prior to that he started his career as member of a cathedral chapter and dean or provost like many German bishops did. Christian was provost of Merseburg and of

91 Boso, Vita Hadriani IV, in: Liber Pontificalis, ed. Louis Duchesne, vol 2, Paris 1892 (Reprint 1981), 388–397, here 390. 92 Rahewin, IV. 18, 257f.; IV. 64, 309; Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 765, 768, 774. Boso, 400. 93 Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 471, no. 840; Vincenz of Prague, ad. 1160, 679. 94 Wolfgang Georgi, Friedrich Barbarossa und die auswärtigen Mächte. Studien zur Außenpolitik 1159–1180 (Europäische Hochschulschriften 442), Frankfurt a. Main 1990, 48. 95 For example Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 558, 566, 590, 641, 660, 774f., 840; Rahewin, IV. 64–65, 644–646; Vincenz of Prague, ad. 1158, 673–675. 96 Theo Kölzer, Der Hof Friedrich Barbarossas und die Reichsfürsten, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 220–236, here 230f., has shown that bishops, whose bishoprics lay at the periphery of the Staufen Empire, are usually not found in royal service. 97 Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 471; Uebach 2008, 180. 98 For example, in 1159, when both were sent to Alexander III and Victor (IV) or on various legations to Italy. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 641, 768, 774, 775.

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Mariengraden in Mainz, since 1162 also of Maastrich.99 After the murder of archbishop Arnold the election of a new archbishop resulted in a schismatic election. Part of the clergy and vassals chose Christian as new archbishop and rival candidate to Rudolf of Zähringen. After both bishop elects had devastated the region of Mainz and the Rheingau Frederick deposed both of them and appointed Conrad of Wittelsbach instead. Christian, however, was appointed royal chancellor later that year to succeed Ulrich who became bishop of Speyer. In this office he proved to be a loyal and trustworthy chancellor. During the papal schism Christian of Buch was amongst Fredericks most important advisors. The antipope Paschal III relied heavily upon his protection. In 1164 Christian lead Paschal III into the city of Pisa.100 Although not being elected archbishop of Mainz (again) before 1165, Christian played an important role trying to establish the imperial antipope in Italy. Nevertheless, he belonged to the group which negotiated to the conditions of the peace of Venice. Frederick had insisted on Christian’s involvement in the negotiations. Christian had expertise in Italian matters as well as a highly valued position amongst Frederick’s advisors. At the end of 1167 he returned to Germany. Here he tried to mediate between Henry the Lion and the Saxon-Thuringian nobility. In 1168 he was sent to Rouen, where he tried to make peace between the French and English kings.101 During his prolonged stay in Italy it is possible that he learned Italian and was even more valuable as imperial ‘legate’. If this is true he was not only able to communicate with the clergy (in Latin), but with the local aristocracy without someone to translate. Interestingly, his acts in Italy show him acting not only at imperial behest, but also on his own:102 When the count of M.con took some German merchants as prisoners, Christian was given the task to write to Louis VII as the count’s feudal lord. He admonished him to bring the count to the book.103 As in Rainald’s case it shows how much Frederick trusted the abilities of Christian.

Warfare Since the bishops of the Staufen as well as the Plantagenet Empire were the king’s vassals they had military obligations like the secular magnates. Because of the servitia debita they were obliged to provide a certain number of armed men when called upon by the king. Besides they were in possession of castles or were put in 99 100 101 102 103

Peter Acht, Christian I., in: Neue Deutsche Biographie 3 (1957), 226f. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 1432. Dieter Hägermann, Christian von Buch, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 2 (2003), 1910f. See for example Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 1451, 1452, 1453, 1486. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 1507.

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charge of royal castles.104 Most of them accompanied their men to battle instead of sending them on a campaign with a deputy. Therefore, it was not difficult for some bishops to take up arms as well like the Anglo-Norman bishops Geoffrey of Coutances and Odo of Bayeux. Both bishops fought in battles and disregarded the prohibition for clergymen to wear arms.105 Since the reform movement in the eleventh century fighting bishops or bishops as military leaders occur fewer times. By the twelfth century they had become more the subjects of legal arguments or learned treatises about the question of secular obligations of the clergy or the right to refuse obedience to a ruler.106 At the same time their vassal-status implied the obligation to provide their ruler with contingents of troops. Timothy Reuter showed that the ratio of ecclesiastical troops was higher in Germany than in England, where it was lay contingents which amounted to between two-third and four-fifths of the whole.107 Caesarius of Heisterbach, writing in the 1220s, underlines this by saying ‘almost all the German bishops wield both the spiritual and material sword, and hence, since they exercise blood-justice and wage war, must give more thought to the wages of their troops than to the souls of their flocks’.108 In a letter to archbishop Christian of Mainz, he is criticized for being more devoted to Mars than to Martin.109 Because of their status as secular lords it is feasible that they organised and directed troops in a military expedition, but they did not usually participate personally in battle by wielding a weapon. Most prelates did not even take part in person in most royal campaigns of the twelfth century. There are only a few examples of prelates taking part in royal campaigns

104 Daniel M.G. Gerrard, The Church at War. The Military Activities of Bishops, Abbots and other Clergy in England, c. 900–1200 (Church, Faith and Culture in the Medieval West), London/New York 2017, 94–112. Christopher Harper-Bill, John and the Church of Rome, in: Stephen Church (ed.), King John: New Interpretations, Woodbridge 1999, 289–315, here 290. 105 Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, ed. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford Medieval Texts), vol. 1–6, Oxford 1969–1980, vol. 4, VIII. 1, 116; for the prohibition see for example Gervase of Canterbury, 254. Of course some bishops had engaged personally in battle before their election to a bishopric: Examples are Waldric, king Henry I’s chaplain, who participated at the battle of Tinchebrai (Orderic Vitalis, vol. 6, XI. 2, 90) or Thomas Becket. 106 Crosby 2013, 286. See also Gerrard 2017, 153–186. 107 Timothy Reuter, Episcopi cum sua militia. The Prelate as Warrior in the Early Staufer Era, in: Idem (ed.), Warriors and Churchmen in the High Middle Ages. Essays presented to Karl Leyser, London/Rio Grande 1992, 79–94, here 81f.; cf. also Benjamin Arnold, German Bishops and their Military Revenues in the Medieval Empire, in: German History 7 (1989), 161–183. 108 Caesarius of Heisterbach, Dialogus Miraculorum, ed. Nikolaus Nösges (Fontes Christiani 86), Turnhout 2009, cap. II. 27; Reuter 1992, 79. 109 Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Die Urkunden seit dem Tode Erzbischof Adalberts I. (1137) bis zum Tode Erzbischof Konrads (1200), 1176–1200, ed. Peter Acht, vol. 2, 2 Darmstadt 1971, no. 392, 640–646.

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and engaging in battle after their consecration.110 Rainald of Dassel and Christian of Buch belong to this exceptionally group of ‘warrior bishops’ under the Staufen kings while it is harder to find examples in the Plantagenet Empire from 1154 until 1204.111 Rainald led his own contingent of troops to Rome when Frederick still fought at the Italian Adriatic coast in 1167 for example. After a skirmish at Tusculum he had to withdraw to Tusculum and wait for the arrival of archbishop Christian of Mainz and his troops. Together they defeated the Roman troops.112 In Italy Christian led imperial troops for twenty years, first as Barbarossa’s chancellor, later as archbishop-elect and archbishop.113 On occasion he even engaged in battle personally, for example at the battle at Tusculum. In 1176 he conquered Fermo, when news of the upcoming peace negotiations between the Emperor and the pope reached him. In the consequence he dismissed his troops to participate at the negotiations in Anagni. Christian stayed in Italy, even after the treaty of Venice in 1177 between Frederick and the pope. In 1183 Christian went to support pope Lucius III against the Romans.114 At that time Christian must have been an expert on Italian policy. Although our focus lies on his military activities this was not the only field of activity where he can be found. He was also very active as Frederick’s legate and envoy. In connection with the papal schism of 1159 he was sent as envoy to king Waldemar of Denmark by Barbarossa and Victor IV. In 1170 Barbarossa sent him to the court of Emperor Manuel in Byzantium. A few years later, in the 1170s, he was – together with archbishop Philipp of Heinsberg, archbishop Wichmann of Magdeburg, archbishop Arnold of Trier and the protonotary Arduin – one of Frederick’s legates who negotiated the peace of Venice.115 At the same time we find him wearing the title of sacri imperii in Italia legatus.116 When he died in 1183 he had hardly spent any time in his archdiocese. 110 Thomas Becket, later archbishop of Canterbury, and Hugh du Puiset, later bishop of Durham, belong to a group of prelates who did not engage personally in battle after their consecration. However, before their consecration they can be found on battlefields. For instance, Thomas participated in Henry’s expedition against Toulouse. 111 Opll 1994, 216, even described Christian as prototype of an ecclesiastical military leader. 112 Chronica regia Coloniensis, ad. 1167, 117. Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Die Urkunden seit dem Tode Erzbischof Adalberts I. (1137) bis zum Tode Erzbischof Konrads (1200), 1137–1176, ed. Peter Acht, vol. 2, 1 Darmstadt 1968, no. 302–303, 520f. Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 1642, 1662, 1664, 1665. Rahewin, III. 22–23, 440. This was not the first time Rainald took part in a military engagement, see for example Chronica Regia Coloniensis, ad. 1158, 95–101. 113 See for example Forschungen zur Reichs– und Rechtsgeschichte Italiens, no. 161, 203f. Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Vol. 2, 2, no. 404, 658, no. 410–411, 666f., no. 457, 740f. 114 Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1183, vol. 2, 282. 115 Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Vol. 2, 2, no. 385–386, 634–636; Boso, 441f.; Georgi 2002, 41–84. 116 Forschungen zur Reichs- und Rechtsgeschichte Italiens, no. 140, 182f., no. 176, 218. Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Vol. 2, 1, no. 263, 469f., no. 295, 512, no. 344–345, 582–584, no. 356, 597f.; vol. 2, 2, no. 388, 637, no. 390, 639, no. 434, 703. Henry VI sent Christian’s successor

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When the Pope heard of his death, Lucius ordered that every German collegiate church had to hold a 30 days long burial ceremony for Christian, thus recognizing Christian’s importance for the Roman church although he had belonged to the strongest supporters of Frederick against Alexander III during the papal schism.117 If we further look at royal campaigns outside of Italy we would find even more examples for military bishops. The archbishops of Hamburg-Bremen, Cologne and Magdeburg as well as the bishops of Halberstadt and Bamberg were part of the coalitions against Henry the Lion. Other bishops can be even found pursuing feuds of their own like archbishop Adalbero of Trier.118 Here the main reason for the bishops’ activities lay in pursuing their own interests and not their obligation to royal or imperial military service. Comparing both empires it becomes apparent that ‘warrior bishops’ are an exception in this time, but German bishops took part in royal campaigns at least occasionally. Rainald and Christian are two of the most well-known ‘warrior bishops’. It is harder to find such ‘warrior bishops’ in the Plantagenet Empire. Hubert Walter is one of a few known examples who took part in a military expedition and personally led troops. While he participated in the third crusade he led an attack on Acre in 1191, although one might argue that a crusade might be a special case.119 In 1194 we find him again engaged in battle when he commanded the siege of Marlborough.120 In 1174 the bishop-elect of Lincoln, Geoffrey, first besieged Roger of Mowbray’s castle in Axholm and destroyed it. Later he proceeded to Malzeard, which he also took.121 When Richard went on Crusade he appointed – amongst three noblemen – the archbishop of Auch, Gerard de la Barte, and the bishop of Bayonne, Bernard de la Carra, commanders of his fleet in

117 118

119 120 121

Conrad of Mainz in 1190 as his legate to Italy. The reason for this might have been Conrad’s knowledge of Italy. Although Conrad had been Frederic’s candidate as archbishop of Mainz after deposing Rudolf of Zähringen and Christian of Buch in 1161, his relationship to the Staufen kings had not always been good. In the time of the schism he had belonged to the alexandrine party. Acht 1957, 226f. Björn Weiler, Bishops and Kings in England, c. 1066–1215, in: Ludger Körtngen/Dominik Wassenhoven (eds.), Religion und Politik im Mittelalter. Deutschland und England im Vergleich (Prinz-Albert-Studien 29), Berlin/Boston 2013, 157–203, here 177; John France, Western Warfare in the Age of the Crusades, 1000–1300, Ithaca/N.Y. 1999, 41, 73; Reuter 1992, 86. Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines, vol. 2, 88f.; Christopher R. Cheney, Hubert Walter, London 1967, 36f. Gillingham 2004, 1278. [Roger of Howden], Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi, ad. 1174, vol. 2, 68; Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1174, vol. 2, 58. Roger of Wendover, ad. 1174, 97, 101.

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1190.122 Other known examples are archbishop Elias of Bordeaux, bishop Hugh de Noyers of Auxerre and bishop Mathias of Toul who were active soldiers with private armies in the late twelfth century although not much detail is known.123 If we were to look at earlier times we would find more examples. Daniel Gerrard argued that the period of the civil wars (1135–1154) saw more military involvement by senior clergy than even that of the Conquest.124 During this period Thurstan of York, Henry of Winchester, Nigel of Ely belonged to the bishops who led contingents of troops.

Conclusion At the end of Barbarossa’s reign German ecclesiastical as well as secular magnates did not longer concentrate their aspirations for power on the king.125 This is reflected in the number of bishops serving their king, e. g. the archbishop Philipp of Cologne focused on his own territory since the 1180s. However, in both empires, especially the bishops were convinced that crown and church could only prosper with mutual assistance, as they had done in the centuries before. But still, the fact remains that some bishops were frequently to be found in attendance of the king and in his service while others were hardly ever at court. Some bishops acted as envoys, judges, justiciars and military commanders. Bishops who could look back on a long career in royal administration before their election often had assisted the king in more than one capacity. The examples of both empires show this clearly. Under the Staufen kings, bishops not only acted as judges but often also as envoys to the pope or other foreign courts. For Hermann of Verden and Christian of Buch we even find the title of vicar. Christian of Buch and Rainald of Dassel are extraordinary examples in so far as both rose through the office of chancellor to two of the most important sees in the German realm. Both not only acted as envoys but as military commanders in Frederick’s Italian expeditions already before their promotion. After their election to the archdioceses of Mainz respectively Cologne they continued their engagement in royal service. Both left their marks on royal policy. In the Anglo122 [Roger of Howden], Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi, ad. 1190, vol. 2, 110; Roger of Howden, Chronica, ad. 1190, vol. 3, 36. 123 Another example, though from France, is Philippe of Dreux, bishop of Beauvais. In the 1180s he fought in Normandy in the 1180s and in 1214 at the battle of Bouvines in 1214: [Roger of Howden], Gesta Henrici Secundi, ad. 1188, vol. 2, 45. William of Newburgh, V. 31, here 492f. 124 Gerrard 2017, 43. 125 Stefan Weinfurter, Venedig 1177 – Wende der Barbarossa–Zeit? Zur Einführung, in: Idem (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 9–25, here 21.

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Norman part of the Plantagenet Empire bishops who served their king often had a wide range of responsibilities. Prelates who acted as judges or justiciars had often been connected to the Exchequer, for example as baron of the Exchequer. As in Germany, some of the English and Norman bishops acted as legates. Here a remarkable difference is visible. While German bishops were deployed as legates in Italy and Burgundy, bishops from the Angevin Empire were mostly deployed in their home province with only a few exceptions, most of these exceptions being confined to England and Normandy. So German bishops were usually more involved in Italian matters than the English or Norman bishops were involved in the policy of Anjou or even Aquitaine. All bishops had to provide the king with a certain quota of knights and were often in possession of castles. But not every bishop took part in military expeditions, leading his contingent of troops in person. Even fewer acted as commanders or wielded a sword or battle axe. Here only a few examples are known for both empires, with Rainald of Dassel and Christian of Buch being the most well-known examples. The low number of bishops who acted as military leaders might suggest that to do so had more to do with someone’s predisposition. A comparison of the bishops in the service of the Staufen and the Angevin empire shows further that almost all bishops had been archdeacon, dean and/or provost before their election to a bishopric. In this capacity they had gathered experience in financial and judicial matters. More and more bishops also had studied in France or – less often – in Italy. At the same time a comparison shows that kings often relied on the same bishops for their services as their predecessors. So we can detect a change at a certain point of a king’s reign: under Henry the Norman and English episcopacy can be divided into two generations. Under Frederick there are two shifts: first in the 1150s when bishops of the reign of his uncle, Conrad III, withdrew from court and royal service or died. The second came with the catastrophe in 1167. To a certain degree we have to take into account the personal sympathy between a bishop and his king, a point which is hardly detectable in the sources. Otto Wurst assumed that Hermann of Verden’s acquaintance with Rainald since 1157 was responsible for Hermann’s commitment to Frederick.126 In contrast, Christian Uebach explained Hermann’s sudden activity in the king’s service since the end of the 1150s with his conflict over lands in the marshlands with archbishop Hartwig of Bremen and suggested that Hermann hoped to gain Frederick’s support against Hartwig.127 In February 1160 the king decided this matter in favour of Hermann. In his charter Frederick pointed out that his decision was a reward for Hermann’s service for the Staufen Empire.128 A remark 126 Wurst 1972, 56. 127 Uebach 2008, 170. 128 Regesta Imperii IV, 2, no. 843; Wurst 1972, 36f.

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by archbishop Richard of Canterbury in one of his letters to pope Alexander III underlines this: defending his fellow bishops Geoffrey of Ely, John of Norwich and Richard of Winchester, he stated that by being close to the king, the bishops were able to confer untold advantages on their dioceses.129 Apart from personal sympathy a prelate’s ambition could be an important reason for serving a king. Bishops like Henry of Winchester or Rainald of Dassel felt “at ease in the world of the court [and] profited and fully engaged in the pursuit of secular power”.130 In addition, they might try to increase their ruler’s prestige and power. The ‘Chronica Regia Coloniensis’ tells us as, that Rainald’s actions during his Italian mission together with Otto of Wittelsbach were all for the glory of the emperor.131 There were further advantages. Proximity to the king could mean to have influence on the king’s decisions. In addition, familiarity with the king added to the bishop’s prestige. At the same time the bishop could influence the king to gain advantages for his diocese or relatives. It still was “cooperation with the king [which] was the secret of success in that era of personal government”.132 Serving a king did not have only advantages. Acting as envoys, judges, justiciars and military commanders in an expedition could mean that a bishop was often absent from his diocese. Rainald of Dassel and Christian of Mainz spent more time abroad than in Cologne or Mainz. This must have brought some critic on the absent bishops by others. At the same time some bishops were aware that their service to a king could mean that they neglected the obligations of their ecclesiastical office.133 A long absence allowed other magnates to extend their lands and rights at the expense of the absent prelate. For example, Frederick used Christian’s long absence to enforce his own territorial policy in the archdiocese of Mainz.134 Examining the relationship between a king and a bishop it becomes obvious that one can often find a bishop in the king’s service when he already has had a long career in royal service before his promotion to a bishopric. At the same time this implies that the more a king could influence episcopal elections, the higher the possibility that the elected bishop was an adherent of the king and as such would engage in the politics of the empire. Therefore, most bishops serving a 129 English Episcopal Acta, vol. 2: Canterbury 1162–1190, ed. Christopher R. Cheney/Bridgett E. A. Jones, London 1986, no. 230. 130 Weiler 2013, 169. 131 Chronica Regia Coloniensis, ad. 1158, 97: […] egit […] pro Gloria imperatoris. 132 Crosby 2013, 263. 133 For example, Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Vol. 2, 2, no. 392, 640–646. See also a letter of archbishop Christian to Hildegard of Bingen which further stresses this: […] dum terreno regno exterius servire conamur, celestem regem multociens interius negligimus, Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Vol. 2, 2, no. 425, 685. 134 Opll 1994, 216.

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king rose through the ranks of royal administration. The above mentioned examples also show that whether or not a bishop was involved in the royal administration did not depend necessarily on his family background. For someone of ‘obscure’ background the royal service could offer a career chance. But this was not the only reason. A certain understanding of one’s office and the resulting duties as well as someone’s predisposition must also be accounted as reasons for bishops to serve their kings. Men like Henry of Winchester, Hubert Walter or Christian of Buch – with their different backgrounds – will have understood that the position was twofold and included besides their pastoral duties in their diocese also obligations which resulted from their position as tenants-in-chief.

Sources Acerbus Morena, Historia, in: Das Geschichtswerk des Otto Morena und seiner Fortsetzer über die Taten Friedrichs I. in der Lombardei, ed. Ferdinand Güterbock (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum NS 7), Berlin 1930, 130–176. English Episcopal Acta: Canterbury 1162–1190, ed. Christopher R. Cheney/Bridgett E. A. Jones, vol. 2, London 1986. Acta Henrici II, ed. Nicholas Vincent, to be published. Alan of Tewkesbury, Vita S. Thomae, ed. Jaimes Craigie Robertson, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol. 2, London 1876, 323–352. Annales Magdeburgenses, ed. Georg Heinrich Pertz, in: MGH Scriptores 16, Hanover 1859, 105–196. Boso, Vita Alexandri III, in: Le Liber Pontificalis, ed. Louis Duchesne, vol. 2, Paris 1892 (Reprint 1981), 397–446. Caesarius of Heisterbach, Dialogus Miraculorum, ed. Nikolaus Nösges (Fontes Christiani 86), Turnhout 2009. Le carte degli archive parmensi dei secoli X–XII: secolo XII, ed. Giovanni Drei, vol. 3, Parma 1950. Chronica regia Coloniensis, ed. Georg Waitz (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 18), Hanover 1880. The chronicle of Battle Abbey, ed. Eleanor Searle, Oxford 1980. Forschungen zur Reichs- und Rechtsgeschichte Italiens, ed. Julius Ficker, [Urkunden zur Reichs- und Rechtsgeschichte Italiens], vol. 4, Aalen 1961 (Reprint of Innsbruck 1874). Gervase of Canterbury, Historica, in: The Historical Works of Gervase of Canterbury, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 73), vol. 1, London 1879, 1–594. John of Salisbury, Letters, ed. Harold E. Butler/William. J. Millor/Christopher N.L. Brooke, The Later Letters (1163–1180) (Oxford Medieval Texts), vol. 2, London/Edinburgh 1979.

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John of Salisbury, Vita S. Thomae, ed. Jaimes Craigie Robertson, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, archbishop of Canterbury (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol. 2, London 1876 (Reprint 1965), 301–322. Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, ed. Frederic Madden (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 44), London 1866. Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, ed. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford Medieval Texts), vol. 1–6, Oxford 1969–1980. Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici I., ed. Georg Waitz, in: Otto of Freising and Rahewin, Gesta Friderici I (MGH Scriptores Rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 46), Hanover/Leipzig 1912, 1–161. Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines Historiarum, in: The Historical Works of Master Ralph de Diceto, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 68), vol. 1, London 1876 [Reprint 1965], 291–440. Ralph de Diceto, Ymagines Historiarum, in: The Historical Works of Master Ralph de Diceto, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 68), vol. 2, London 1876, 3–174. Richard fitzNeal, Dialogus de scaccario, ed. Charles Johnson, London 1950. [Roger of Howden], Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi [attributed to Benedict of Peterborough], ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 49), London 1965. Roger of Howden, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 51), London 1868–1871. Roger of Wendover, Flores historiarum. From the Year of our lord 1145 and the First Year of Henry the Second, King of the English, ed. Henry G. Hewlett (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores 84,1), vol. 1, London 1886, 388–397. Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Die Urkunden seit dem Tode Erzbischof Adalberts I. (1137) bis zum Tode Erzbischof Konrads (1200), 1137–1176, ed. Peter Acht, vol. 2. 1, Darmstadt 1968. Mainzer Urkundenbuch. Die Urkunden seit dem Tode Erzbischof Adalberts I. (1137) bis zum Tode Erzbischof Konrads (1200), 1176–1200, ed. Peter Acht, vol. 2. 2, Darmstadt 1971. Die Urkunden Friedrichs I., ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10) 5 vols., Hanover 1975–1990. Vincenz of Prague (and Gerlach), Annales, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Scriptores 17, Hanover 1861, 654–710. William of Newburgh, Historia Rerum Anglicanum, ed. Richard Howlett (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 82), London 1884–1885.

Bibliography Peter Acht, Christian I., in: Neue Deutsche Biographie 3 (1957), 226f. Benjamin Arnold, German Bishops and their Military Revenues in the Medieval Empire, in: German History 7 (1989), 161–183.

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Colette Bowie, The Daughters of Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine (Histoire de famille. La parent8 au Moyen ffge 16), Turnhout 2014. Christopher R. Cheney, Hubert Walter, London 1967. Stephen Church, King John. England, Magna Carta and the Making of a Tyrant, London 2015. John Critchley, Walter, Hubert, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 8 (2003), 2001. Everett U. Crosby, The King’s Bishops. The Politics of Patronage in England and Normandy, 1066–1216 (The New Middle Ages), New York 2013. Charles Duggan, Richard of Ilchester, Royal Servant and Bishop, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 16 (1966), 1–21. Wolfgang Georgi, Friedrich Barbarossa und die auswärtigen Mächte. Studien zur Außenpolitik 1159–1180 (Europäische Hochschulschriften 442), Frankfurt a. Main 1990. Wolfgang Georgi, Wichmann, Christian, Philipp und Konrad: Die “Friedensmacher” von Venedig?, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalterforschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 41–84. Daniel M.G. Gerrard, The Church at War. The Military Activities of Bishops, Abbots and other Clergy in England, c. 900–1200 (Church, Faith and Culture in the Medieval West), London/New York 2017. John Gillingham, The Historian as Judge: William of Newburgh and Hubert Walter, in: English Historical Review 119 (2004), 1275–1287. Hans-Werner Goetz, Otto von Freising, in: Neue Deutsche Biographie 19 (1999), 684–686. John France, Western Warfare in the Age of the Crusades, 1000–1300, Ithaca NY 1999. Christopher Harper–Bill, John and the Church of Rome, in: Stephen Church (ed.), King John. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 1999, 289–315. Dieter Hägermann, Christian von Buch, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 2 (2003), 1910f. Hermann Kamp, Friedensstifter und Vermittler im Mittelalter (Symbolische Kommunikation in der Vormoderne), Darmstadt 2001. Helmuth Kluger, Friedrich Barbarossa und sein Ratgeber Rainald von Dassel, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 26–40. David Knowles, The Episcopal colleagues of archbishop Thomas Becket, Cambridge 1951. Theo Kölzer, Der Hof Friedrich Barbarossas und die Reichsfürsten, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter–Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 220–236. Karl Leyser, Frederick Barbarossa and the Hohenstaufen Polity, in: Timothy Reuter (ed.), Communications and Power in Medieval Europe. The Gregorian Revolution and beyond, London 1994, 115–142. Stephanie Mooers Christelow, Chancellors and Curial Bishops: Ecclesiastical Power in Anglo-Norman England, in: Anglo Norman Studies 22 (2000), 49–69. Ferdinand Opll, Friedrich Barbarossa (Gestalten des Mittelalters und der Renaissance 1), Darmstadt 2nd edn. 1994. Sidney R. Packard, King John and the Norman Church, in: Harvard Theological Review 15 (1922), 15–40.

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Jörg Peltzer, Henry II and the Norman Bishops, in: English Historical Review 119 (2004), 1202–1229. Jörg Peltzer, Les 8vÞques de l’empire PlantagenÞt et les rois angevins: un tour d’horizon, in: Martin Aurell (ed.), PlantagenÞts et Cap8tiens: confrontations et heritages, Turnhout 2006, 461–484. Daniel Power, Angevin Normandy, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Elisabeth van Houts (eds.), A Companion to the Anglo-Norman World, Woodbridge 2003, 63–85. Daniel Power, The Norman Church and the Angevin and Capetian Kings, in: Journal of Ecclesiastical History 56 (2005), 205–234. Timothy Reuter, Episcopi cum sua militia: The Prelate as Warrior in the Early Staufer Era, in: Idem (ed.), Warriors and Churchmen in the High Middle Ages. Essays presented to Karl Leyser, London/Rio Grande 1992, 79–94. Henry G. Richardson, William of Ely, the King’s Treasurer (?1195–1215), in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 4th ser. 15 (1932), 45–90. Hubertus Seibert, Rainald von Dassel, in: Neue Deutsche Biographie 21 (2003), 119–121. David Spears, The Secular Clergy of Normandy and the Crusades, in: Kathryn Hurlock/ Paul Oldfield (eds.), Crusading and Pilgrimage in the Norman World, Woodbridge 2015, 81–102. Hugo Stehkämper, Der Reichsbischof und Territorialfürst (12. und 13. Jahrhundert), in: Peter Berglar/Odilo Engels (eds.), Der Bischof in seiner Zeit. Bischofstypus und Bischofsideal im Spiegel der Kölner Kirche. Festgabe für Joseph Kardinal Höffner, Erzbischof von Köln, Cologne 1986, 95–184. Ralph V. Turner, The Reputation of Royal Judges under the Angevin kings, in: Albion 11 (1979), 301–316. Ralph V. Turner, Richard Lionheart and English Episcopal Elections, in: Albion 29 (1997), 1–12. Christian Uebach, Die Ratgeber Friedrich Barbarossas (1152–1167), Marburg 2008. Daniel Walker, Crown and Episcopacy under the Normans and Angevins, in: Anglo Norman Studies 5 (1982), 220–233. W. L. Warren, Henry II (Yale English Monarchs), New Haven/London 2000 (Original 1973). W. L. Warren, The Governance of Norman and Angevin England, 1086–1272, London 1987. Björn Weiler, Bishops and Kings in England, c. 1066–1215, in: Ludger Körtngen/ Dominik Wassenhoven (eds.), Religion und Politik im Mittelalter. Deutschland und England im Vergleich (Prinz-Albert-Studien 29), Berlin/Boston 2013, 157–203. Stefan Weinfurter, Venedig 1177 – Wende der Barbarossa-Zeit? Zur Einführung, in: Idem (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 9–25. Otto Wurst, Hermann von Verden, 1148–1167. Eine Persönlichkeit aus dem Kreise um Kaiser Friedrich I. Barbarossa (Quellen und Darstellungen zur Geschichte Niedersachsens 79), Hildesheim 1972.

Jonathan R. Lyon

Rulers, Local Elites and Monastic Liberties. Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds under the Staufens and Plantagenets1

Abstract This article examines forms of secular power over monasteries, with an emphasis on the institution of advocacy (advocatia), which existed in Germany but not England. It argues that this structural difference does not mean that the experience of secular power, especially the ways in which secular elites interfered in monasteries’ affairs, differed significantly in the two kingdoms. Taking as case studies the monasteries of Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds – both rich monasteries under nominal royal protection – the article investigates the triad of ‘ruler-monastery-secular power’ in three spheres of interaction: the violation of sacred space, the election of abbots, and the exercising of justice on monastic estates. While the legal justification for infringements on monastic independence differed in these cases, the sources from the two monastic communities express comparable indignation at secular elites and imagine their avenging saints acting in similar ways against lay transgressors. Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds highlight the fundamental difficulty monasteries faced when trying to prevent secular lords from violating their rights on the one hand, while simultaneously needing to rely on those same secular lords to exercise justice on their estates and to protect their communities against other rivals and outsiders.

On 16 March 1157, Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa issued a charter for the wealthy Benedictine monastery of Tegernsee in Bavaria. Among its numerous clauses confirming the religious community’s rights and privileges, the document states, ‘We decree that whatever properties are regarded as belonging to this monastery, or could come into its possession by lawful and reasonable means in the future, will remain safe and undiminished for that monastery in everlasting right. And lest any person should insolently presume to take possession of, attack, diminish or alienate those same 1 My thanks to Johanna Dale and the participants at the 2016 International Conference of the Haskins Society for their comments on earlier versions of this paper. Some of the research for this paper was conducted while I was holding a Lise-Meitner Fellowship from the Austrian FWF for a project on church advocacy in the Holy Roman Empire (Project M 1534–G18).

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properties, we take all these properties under the protection of our majesty (sub nostre˛ maiestatis tuicionem) and secure them with this written privilege. Moreover, if anyone should rashly presume to come against this page of our law, let him pay one hundred pounds of the purest silver to our treasury and let him collect the same amount for the aforesaid monastery.’2

Twenty-five years later, in February 1182, King Henry II of England issued a writ in favor of one of the leading Benedictine houses of England, Bury St Edmunds in Suffolk. Addressed to the archbishops, bishops, abbots, counts, and barons, among others, it includes the pronouncement: ‘You should know that the abbey of St Edmund and its abbot, Samson, and all its properties and possessions are in my hand, safekeeping and protection (in manu et custodia et protectione mea). And so, I admonish you to keep safe, maintain and protect that abbey and its abbot, Samson, and all its properties and possessions as if they were mine. Thus, you should not do, or permit to be done, any violence or injury or wrong against them. And if, in spite of this, someone should presume to offend them in some way, you should arrange it that justice be done fully for them thereafter – without delay.’3

Not surprisingly, considering the different legal traditions of the Staufen and Plantagenet realms, the language of these two passages is quite different. Their meanings, however, parallel each other in important ways. As both documents make clear, Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds were monasteries under the direct protection of the German and English rulers respectively, and threats to their rights and properties were therefore perceived as threats to royal authority. But what did their status as royally-protected monasteries mean for these religious houses in terms of their interactions with their rulers – and with the other members of the elites in these two kingdoms? Given the sprawling nature of the territories they ruled, neither the Staufens nor the Plantagenets could be expected to provide protection personally for the two communities. Indeed, the fact that both Frederick Barbarossa and Henry II turned to written documents to insist on the special status of the two monasteries is strong evidence for the absentee nature of their royal protection.4 In the case of Tegernsee, as with many other twelfth-century German monasteries, the task of providing physical protection to the religious community 2 Die Urkunden Friedrichs I., ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10), 5 vols., Hanover 1975–1990, here vol. 1, no. 160, 274–276 (hereafter DFI.). 3 Feudal Documents from the Abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, ed. David Charles Douglas, London 1932, no. 100, 104f. 4 I use the term ‘royal protection’ throughout this paper for both the English and the German examples, even though Frederick Barbarossa was emperor at the time of his 1157 charter, because Tegernsee was located in the German kingdom. Barbarossa was therefore acting in his capacity as German king when he extended his protection over the monastery.

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and its properties belonged to the monastery’s advocatus, or advocate. These monastic advocates frequently held judicial authority on a monastery’s estates as well, meaning that two key elements of royal power – protection and justice – lay in the hands of members of local elites. As is well documented, the nobles who fulfilled the role of advocatus often abused this position for their own personal gain, and the efficacy of charters of royal protection like Barbarossa’s for Tegernsee can therefore be difficult to discern at times. Bury St Edmunds, like other English monasteries, did not have an advocatus, making direct comparison to Tegernsee’s situation impossible. Nevertheless, sources from this religious house suggest a comparable set of tensions clustered around the topics of protection and justice, both royal and otherwise. Thus, analyzing the ‘ruler-Tegernseeadvocate’ triad in Germany alongside the ‘ruler-Bury St Edmunds-local elite’ triad in England makes it possible to develop a better understanding of the nature of royal intervention in monastic affairs in both the Staufen and Plantagenet lands. As I will argue here, despite some differences in the roles that rulers played in providing protection and justice for these two religious communities, there are striking similarities in these monasteries’ experiences of royal and elite power.

1.

Advocatus, advocatia, advocatio: an overview

Around the year 1170, an anonymous monk from Tegernsee penned a sharp critique of the tyrannous behavior of his monastery’s noble advocates (tyrannidem advocatorum).5 In a typical passage, he protested that ‘Count Otto [of Wolfratshausen], the advocate of Tegernsee, continuously injured this place in many ways and harassed the household with harsh exactions. He also installed cruel judges, who exacted the count’s rights from the commoners, going door to door through villages and homes.’6 German monastic authors of the central Middle Ages often complained in such terms about their noble advocates, who were not supposed to behave in such ways. Since the Ottonian period, laymen holding the position of advocatus had been tasked with defending monasteries from anyone who threatened their rights and properties; in many cases, these advocates had also been charged with exercising high justice over capital crimes on monastic estates, because abbots were to avoid judging crimes

5 Passio secunda sancti Quirini, ed. Johann Weissensteiner, in: Idem, Tegernsee, die Bayern und Österreich. Studien zu Tegernseer Geschichtsquellen und der bayerischen Stammessage mit einer Edition der Passio secunda sancti Quirini (Archiv für österreichische Geschichte 133), Vienna 1983, 247–287, here 275. 6 Ibid., 280.

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punishable by death.7 However, according to the surviving sources, secular lords frequently took advantage of their access as advocates to extort goods and money from monasteries’ dependents, enfeoff their own followers with ecclesiastical estates, build illicit castles on monastic properties, and carry out countless other abuses.8 Modern scholars, following in the footsteps of medieval monks, have also argued for the deleterious effects of monastic advocacy during the central Middle Ages. Almost a century ago, James Westfall Thompson colorfully noted, “The advocati became like other feudal nobles, given to war and pillage as they, and blackmailing and bulldozing bishops and abbots like lay barons. […] The office became a menace to the church worse than the evils which it was originally designed to remedy.”9 Timothy Reuter compared German monastic advocacy to French banal lordship, since it included jurisdictional elements alongside the ability to demand exactions and encroach upon the dependents of other lords.10 Benjamin Arnold has argued: “Many monasteries were ruined by the impositions and spoliations of their advocates, who reduced their possessions to fragments and incorporated them and the houses themselves amongst their dynastic possessions.”11 And more recently, Thomas Bisson has seen advocates as prime examples of the bad lords who troubled twelfth-century European society more generally.12 As scholars have long recognized, English monasteries did not suffer from this plague of troublesome noble advocati ; rapacious advocates were a phenomenon confined to only certain regions of the Continent.13 The term advo-

7 There is an enormous body of older German scholarship on this topic. See, for example, Georg Waitz, Deutsche Verfassungsgeschichte, vol. 7, Kiel 1876, 320–374; Hans Hirsch, Die hohe Gerichtsbarkeit im deutschen Mittelalter, Prague 1922; Theodor Mayer, Fürsten und Staat. Studien zur Verfassungsgeschichte des deutschen Mittelalters, Weimar 1950; and more recently, Dietmar Willoweit, Vogt. Vogtei, in: Adalbert Erler/Ekkehard Kaufmann (eds.), Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte 5, Berlin 1998, col. 932–946. 8 For examples from twelfth-century sources, see Jonathan R. Lyon, Otto of Freising’s Tyrants. Church Advocates and Noble Lordship in the Long Twelfth Century, in: David C. Mengel/ Lisa Wolverton (eds.), Christianity and Culture in the Middle Ages. Essays to Honor John Van Engen, Notre Dame 2015, 141–167 and Idem, Noble Lineages, Hausklöster, and Monastic Advocacy in the Twelfth Century. The Garsten Vogtweistum in its Dynastic Context, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 123 (2015), 1–29. 9 James W. Thompson, Feudal Germany, Chicago 1928, 7. 10 Timothy Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages c. 800–1056, London 1991, 230f. 11 Benjamin Arnold, Princes and Territories in Medieval Germany, Cambridge 1991, 199. 12 Thomas N. Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth Century. Power, Lordship, and the Origins of European Government, Princeton 2009, 225. 13 Charles West has recently discussed the geographical range of advocacy : Charles West, Monks, Aristocrats, and Justice. Twelfth-Century Monastic Advocacy in a European Perspective, in: Speculum 92 (2017), 372–404. My argument here draws on some of the same

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catus does indeed appear in various sources from England during the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries – but with a different meaning.14 The English form of advocacy, advocatio (advowson), did not have the same far-reaching connotations as the German form of advocacy, advocatia (‘Vogtei’).15 In England, the term typically referred to a type of church patronage that gave the holder the right to present a new priest of his choosing to the bishop for appointment to that church; it tended to concern parish churches and chapels, and this right of patronage could be held by churchmen and laymen alike.16 This is reflected in the initial clause of the 1164 ‘Constitutions of Clarendon’, which reads, ‘Concerning advowson (De advocatione) and the presentation of churches, if a controversy should arise between laymen, or between churchmen and laymen, or between churchmen, let it be handled and settled in the court of the lord king.’17 In the twelfth-century German kingdom, in contrast, advocacies were held by laymen, and these advocacies tended to be for monasteries – and even bishoprics – rather than only for lesser churches and chapels. A German monastic advocate, with military and judicial responsibilities as both defender of monastic rights and executor of justice on monastic estates, had the potential to play a much more prominent role in the day-to-day workings of large religious communities than the English holder of a right of advowson. This does not mean, however, that English monasteries under royal protection were therefore immune from the kinds of problems caused by German monastic advocates.

14

15

16 17

sources as his article, but as the following pages will make clear, I consider his argument too broad and his treatment of the sources too cursory for his claims to be convincing. There are, of course, exceptions to every rule; the use of the term advocatus at Walden monastery seems to parallel Continental usages in interesting ways. See The Book of the Foundation of Walden Monastery, eds. and trans. Diana Greenway/Leslie Watkiss, Oxford 1999, I.18, 38. I thank Nicholas Paul for calling this text to my attention. For more on this point, see Susan Wood, The Proprietary Church in the Medieval West, Oxford/New York 2006, 332f. and Jean Yver, Autour de l’absence d’avouerie en Normandie. Notes sur le double thHme du d8veloppement du pouvoir ducal et de l’application de la r8forme gr8gorienne en Normandie, in: Bulletin de la Soci8t8 des Antiquaires de Normandie 57 (1963/64), 189–283, here 255–257. In some regions, the terms advocatio and advocatia were used interchangeably to refer to ecclesiastical advocacy, but advocatio was used much less frequently in the German kingdom east of the Rhine. For a very broad overview of the concept of advowson, see Peter M. Smith, The Advowson. The History and Development of a Most Peculiar Property, in: Ecclesiastical Law Journal 5 (2000), 320–339. Councils and Synods, with other Documents Relating to the English Church, v. I, II, ed. Dorothy Whitelock et al., Oxford 1981, 879.

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Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds

The history of every monastery is unique; no one comparing two different religious houses can expect to find perfect one-to-one correlations in all aspects of their development. In addition, no two monasteries can be considered representative of all the religious institutions in their respective kingdoms. This short study therefore makes no claims to being comprehensive. Nevertheless, Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds share a number of similarities that make them ideal for analyzing at least some of the features of monastic lordship and secular authority in the Staufen and Plantagenet lands.18 At the level of evidence, there is a wide array of extant source material available from the central Middle Ages for both communities. Papal bulls, royal privileges, private charters, cartularies, miracle collections, and other archival and narrative texts survive from the two monasteries; the best known of these sources is probably Jocelin of Brakelond’s chronicle, an invaluable text for the history of Bury St Edmunds in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. All of this material enables close comparison of the communities’ interactions with the Staufen and Plantagenet rulers, regional archbishops and bishops, and local laymen.19 Read together, these texts provide rich evidence for the numerous, comparable challenges faced by both religious houses – despite the fact that modern scholarship has frequently suggested that the political and legal cultures of the German and English kingdoms were starkly different in the central Middle Ages.20 The Bavarian monastery of Tegernsee was originally founded in the Carolingian period, in the 760s according to the house’s own traditions, by two brothers belonging to the regional elite.21 Soon thereafter, relics of the third18 I draw some of my inspiration here from William C. Jordan, A Tale of Two Monasteries. Westminster and Saint-Denis in the Thirteenth Century, Princeton 2009 and Robert Brentano, Two Churches. England and Italy in the Thirteenth Century, Berkeley 1988. 19 One important point of contrast in terms of source material concerns letters. While two collections of letters survive from Tegernsee from the eleventh and twelfth centuries, extant letters are much rarer from Bury St Edmunds. Cf. Froumund, Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung, ed. Karl Strecker (MGH Epistolae selectae 3), Berlin 1925 (Reprint 1998); Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung des 12. Jahrhunderts, ed. Helmut Plechl (MGH Die Briefe der Deutschen Kaiserzeit 8), Hanover 2002; and Rodney M. Thomson, A Twelfth Century Letter from Bury St. Edmunds Abbey, in: Idem (ed.), England and the 12th-Century Renaissance, Aldershot 1998 (Original 1972), V, 87–97. 20 For a classic statement of the differences between Germany and England in the Middle Ages, see Geoffrey Barraclough, The Origins of Modern Germany, Oxford 1946 (2nd rev. ed. New York 1963), 462. This view has been effectively critiqued in more recent years; see especially Björn Weiler, Kingship, Rebellion and Political Culture. England and Germany, c.1215 – c.1250 (Medieval Culture and Society), Basingstoke 2007. 21 This overview of Tegernsee’s history is drawn from Johann Weissensteiner, Tegernsee, die Bayern und Österreich. Studien zu Tegernseer Geschichtsquellen und der bayerischen Stammessage mit einer Edition der Passio secunda sancti Quirini (Archiv für österreichische

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century martyr St Quirinus were brought from Rome to the fledgling community, and this saint would remain the house’s principal patron throughout its existence. In the late eighth or early ninth century, Tegernsee came under royal protection, and at the time of the later Carolingians it seems to have been one of the foremost religious houses in Bavaria. This would change, however, in the early decades of the tenth century. The Bavarian ruler Arnulf (d. 937) seized many of Tegernsee’s estates in order to fund his military campaigns against the Hungarians, leading to a period of significant decline in the monastery’s fortunes. Tegernsee disappears from the historical record during the mid-900s, until Emperor Otto II re-founded the community in 978.22 According to Otto’s charter, the monastery had been ‘immune from the jurisdiction of every person’ (ab omnium districtione personarum inmunis) because of privileges granted by ‘Pippin and Charles the Great, Louis, [and] Carloman.’23 These privileges do not survive (if they ever existed), but they point to the common Carolingian practice (from Louis the Pious onwards) of granting immunity from the entry of royal officials to monastic houses and their estates.24 Following this re-foundation, Tegernsee experienced significant growth, and during the eleventh and early twelfth centuries it became an important center for monastic reform and cultural production, with one of the leading scriptoria in the southeast of the German kingdom. During the years under investigation here, especially the abbacies of Conrad I (1126–1155) and Rupert (1155–1186), Tegernsee played a prominent role in regional politics as one of the most influential royal monasteries in Bavaria. Like Tegernsee, the early history of the monastery of Bury St Edmunds is difficult to reconstruct in any detail.25 Edmund, king of the East Angles, died in 869 at the hands of Vikings, and people seem to have quickly recognized him as a martyr-saint in subsequent decades. By 950, there was a church at his burial site,

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Geschichte 133), Vienna 1983, 1–309 and Sabine Buttinger, Das Kloster Tegernsee und sein Beziehungsgefüge im 12. Jahrhundert (Studien zur altbayerischen Kirchengeschichte 12), Munich 2004. Die Urkunden Ottos II., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 2, 1), Hanover 1999 (Original 1888), no. 192, 219f. Ibid. There is an enormous body of scholarship concerning immunities, especially in the Carolingian period, but most of this work does not relate directly to the themes of this article. For a good overview in English, see Wood 2006, 251–259 and more broadly, Barbara H. Rosenwein, Negotiating Space. Power, Restraint, and Privileges of Immunity in Early Medieval Europe, Ithaca/New York 1999. This overview of Bury St Edmund’s history is drawn from Antonia Gransden, A History of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 1182–1256. Samson of Tottington to Edmund of Walpole (Studies in the History of Medieval Religion 31), Woodbridge 2007 and Herman the Archdeacon and Goscelin of Saint-Bertin, Miracles of St Edmund, ed. and trans. Tom Licence (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 2014, xiii–xxxv.

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overseen by a group of clergy. A monastic community replaced this clerical one during the early eleventh century. Bury St Edmunds was thus approximately a quarter century younger than the monastic community at Tegernsee reestablished by Emperor Otto II. Although the monks of Bury St Edmunds would claim in the twelfth century that King Cnut (1016–1035) was the founder of this new Benedictine community, it is more likely that the house was originally an episcopal foundation. Regardless, Bury St Edmunds’ rise into the uppermost ranks of English monasteries was faster and more dramatic than that of its royally-established Bavarian counterpart. The relics of the martyred King Edmund were central to the house’s success; the cult started slowly but grew in importance over the course of the eleventh century. In 1043 or 1044, King Edward granted Bury regalian rights over eight and a half hundreds around the monastery, and this mark of royal favor led to increased patronage. According to Domesday Book, Bury was already one of the wealthiest monasteries in England by the close of the eleventh century.26 Under Abbot Baldwin (1065–1097), the monastery emerged as a cultural center and extended its influence over the surrounding region of East Anglia. Like Tegernsee, Bury had a flourishing scriptorium by the midtwelfth century.27 Abbot Samson (1182–1211) – the main subject of the monk Jocelin’s detailed chronicle of the monastery’s history – successfully navigated the politics of the Plantagenet period in further enhancing the community’s status. During the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, Bury St Edmunds was wealthier and (thanks in large part to the fame of its royal saint) more prominent in its kingdom than Tegernsee was, but this prominence did not mean it could escape from some of the same complicated political and legal entanglements that also confronted the monks at Tegernsee. This brief outline of Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds’ early histories and of their standing within their respective kingdoms begins to highlight their similarities under the Staufens and Plantagenets. By 1200, they were both venerable communities of Benedictine monks with extensive property holdings and active scriptoria. For this study, it is equally important to note both abbeys’ longstanding connections to the rulers of their respective kingdoms. To safeguard their valuable rights, both communities had by the early thirteenth century accumulated significant numbers of royal privileges stretching back two centuries and guaranteeing their special status. Tegernsee was in possession of Emperor Otto II’s privilege re-founding the community as well as early privileges issued by two of his successors, Emperors Henry II (1002–1024) and Conrad II 26 For the monastery’s distinctive history in this period, see David Bates, The Abbey and the Norman Conquest. An Unusual Case?, in: Tom Licence (ed.), Bury St Edmunds and the Norman Conquest, Woodbridge 2014, 5–21. 27 Rodney M. Thomson, The Library of Bury St Edmunds Abbey in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, in: Speculum 47 (1972), 617–645.

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(1024–1039).28 As noted above and as will be discussed in more detail below, it also received an important privilege from Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa in 1157.29 When all of these royal charters still proved insufficient for protecting the monastery’s rights against outside interference, the monks forged a privilege of Emperor Henry VI in the early thirteenth century, which they then used in 1234 to acquire a new, authentic charter from Emperor Frederick II.30 Bury St Edmunds possessed an even more impressive collection of royal documents, stretching back to the Anglo-Saxon period but becoming especially numerous from the reign of William the Conqueror onwards. King Henry II’s above-cited writ announcing his royal protection of the community followed a series of writs granted by earlier kings, Henry I in particular, confirming Bury’s rights and liberties; between 1102 and 1106, Henry I had already declared the monastery to be under his protection (in mea dominica manu et custodia esse).31 It is important to note, however, that the monks at this community seem to have begun forging documents much earlier than the monks at Tegernsee; questions about the authenticity of a wide range of archival materials at Bury St Edmunds have long vexed modern scholarship on the abbey.32 Regardless, what is clear is that both communities were willing to use whatever means necessary to defend – and even extend – their rights and privileges as monasteries under royal protection. Because of their eminence and influence, the two abbeys had close connections not only to their respective royal courts but also to the Papal See. Bury St Edmunds was the first monastery in England to obtain a papal bull of immunity – on 27 October 1071 – while the earliest papal privilege for Tegernsee dates from 1150.33 More importantly, during the period under consideration here, both acquired new papal bulls from Pope Alexander III (1159–1181), which re28 Die Urkunden Heinrichs II. und Arduins, ed. Harry Bresslau/Hermann Bloch/Robert Holtzmann (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 3), Hanover 1997 (Original 1900–1903), no. 193, 227f. and Die Urkunden Konrads II., ed. Harry Bresslau (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 4), Hanover 2001 (Original 1909), no. 30, 33. 29 DFI. no. 160, 1:274–276. 30 Peter Acht, Die Tegernseer–Ebersberger Vogteifälschungen, in: Archivalische Zeitschrift 47 (1951), 135–188, here 171–178, and Historia Diplomatica Friderici II sive Constitutiones, Privilegia, Mandata, Instrumenta quae supersunt istius Imperatoris et Filiorum eius, ed. Jean L. A. Huillard-Bréholles, 6 vols., Paris 1852–1861, 4:1, 516f. As part of this forgery campaign, the monks also forged a charter of Frederick Barbarossa: DFI. no. 1056, 4:375–380. 31 Feudal Documents from Bury, no. 28, 65f. 32 Sarah Foot, The Abbey’s Armoury of Charters, in: Tom Licence (ed.), Bury St Edmunds and the Norman Conquest, Woodbridge 2014, 31–52 and Simon Yarrow, Saints and Their Communities. Miracle Stories in Twelfth Century England, Oxford 2006, 27f. 33 Miracles of St Edmund, xxxiii and Monumenta Tegernseensia, in: Monumenta Boica 6 (1766), no. 15, 169–171.

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confirmed their status as monasteries under papal protection and free from all outside interference. Some of the language of these bulls is strikingly similar. This is not necessarily surprising, given the formulaic nature of papal documents, but such language is nevertheless helpful for reminding modern scholars who focus solely on either England or the German kingdom that many features of medieval monastic history were pan-European. Thus, in a bull of Pope Alexander III for Bury St Edmunds is the Latin clause: Obeunte uero te nunc eiusdem loci abbate vel tuorum quolibet successorum nullus ibi qualibet surrepcionis astucia seu violencia preponatur nisi quem fratres communi consensu vel fratrum pars consilii sanioris secundum dei timorem et beati Benedicti regulam providerint eligendum.34

And in a bull for Tegernsee: Obeunte vero te nunc eiusdem loci Abbate, vel tuorum quolibet successorum, nullus ibi qualibet subreptionis astutia seu violentia preponatur ; nisi quem fratres communi consensu, vel pars consilii sanioris, secundum Dei timorem & beati Benedicti regulam providerint eligendum.35

Pope Alexander III’s privileges for the two monasteries also included clauses shielding both of them from intrusions by their diocesan bishops.36 In short, as two leading Benedictine communities under papal protection, Bury St Edmunds and Tegernsee sought confirmation of similar sorts of rights from the papal court during the period of Staufen and Plantagenet rule. The status of the two houses as wealthy monasteries under both papal and royal protection is essential to understanding the comparison in the coming pages, because the abbots and monks of both communities shared similar attitudes about anyone who attempted to encroach upon their rights as monasteries with special standing.

3.

The Advocates of Tegernsee: History and Sources

The evidence for monastic advocates at Tegernsee during the Carolingian period is sparse.37 Only after the community’s reestablishment in the later tenth century do the sources slowly improve. As noted above, Emperor Otto II’s charter for 34 The Pinchbeck Register relating to the Abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, ed. Lord Francis Hervey, Vol. 1, Brighton 1925, 5f. 35 Monumenta Tegernseensia, no. 25, 186–188. See Yver 1963, 244f., for the broader use of this clause in papal bulls. 36 Monumenta Tegernseensia, 186–188 and Pinchbeck Register, 6–8 and 15. 37 Die Traditionen des Hochstifts Freising, ed. Theodor Bitterauf (Quellen und Erörterungen zur bayerischen Geschichte, neue Folge 4–5), 2 vols, Aalen 1967 (Original Munich 1905–1909), no. 197, 1: 187–190.

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Tegernsee from 979 states that the monastery had been ‘immune from the jurisdiction of every person’ since the Carolingian period.38 Ottonian privileges for other religious communities link the concept of monastic immunity directly to church advocacy.39 For example, Emperor Otto III’s 991 privilege for the Saxon convent of Vitzenburg states that ‘no duke or count or public judge (publicus iudex) or tax collector (exactor) or any other person whatsoever with judicial authority’ could exercise justice on Vitzenburg’s estates ‘except the advocate (advocatus) whom the abbess of the said church and the nuns living there under the rule should choose for this work and business.’40 None of the early royal and imperial privileges for Tegernsee are this explicit in describing the nature of the monastery’s immunity from secular judicial authority, and no extant sources from this period describe court proceedings at Tegernsee in any detail. Nevertheless, twelfth-century evidence indicates that the monastery’s advocates must have exercised at least some form of judicial authority on the community’s estates by the Staufen period. One Tegernsee source from the 1170s or 1180s, for example, reports a dispute settlement that occurred ‘at the court session of our chief advocate, Margrave Berthold [II of Istria].’41 Although sources relating directly to the Tegernsee advocates’ judicial authority are limited, the ‘Traditionsbuch’ from Tegernsee – a manuscript preserving the eleventh- and twelfth-century property agreements concerning the monastery – includes abundant references to advocati playing other roles from the opening decades of the eleventh century onwards.42 In one typical example from the early 1000s, the nobilis homo Asciricus donated property to Tegernsee by placing it ‘into the hand of Abbot Ellinger and his advocate, Liutprand.’43 In a document from the mid-eleventh century, Rupert, ‘chief advocate of Tegernsee,’ made a donation to the monastery.44 During the closing decades of the century, one also finds an advocate named in the witness list of one of Tegernsee’s documents.45 After the year 1100, references in the ‘Traditionsbuch’ to the community’s advocates increase; their involvement in property transactions –

38 DOII. no. 192, 219f. 39 Wood 2006, 280–284. 40 Die Urkunden Ottos III., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 2, 2), Hanover 1997 (Original 1893), no. 68, 475–476. 41 Die Traditionen des Klosters Tegernsee. 1003–1242, ed. Peter Acht (Quellen und Erörterungen zur bayerischen Geschichte, neue Folge 9, 1), Munich 1952, no. 380a, 293. See also no. 290c, 220. 42 Ibid., no. 1, 1f.; no. 10, 10f.; no. 17, 15; and no. 21, 17f. 43 Ibid., no. 13, 12f. See also no. 78, 61. 44 Ibid., no. 60, 47f. 45 Ibid., no. 108, 86.

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specifically their receiving property in manum on behalf of the monastery – is especially commonplace in the first half of the century.46 The family backgrounds of many of these early Tegernsee advocates are difficult to determine with certainty.47 Over the course of the eleventh century, the advocacy seems to have gradually passed further and further into the control of a single noble family from Bavaria, known as the Weyarn-Neuburg lineage in modern scholarship. In 1121, Emperor Henry V removed a member of this lineage, Count Siboto II, from his position as advocate and gave the advocacy to Count Otto I of Wolfratshausen (d. 1127).48 For the next three and a half decades, this Otto and his descendants – who were some of the leading noble lords in the region around Tegernsee – held the position of advocate for the community. When Count Henry of Wolfratshausen died without heirs in 1157, the advocacy then passed to another lineage related by blood to the Wolfratshausen lineage, namely that of the counts of Andechs, later margraves of Istria and dukes of Merania.49 This lineage held the advocacy until 1234. While the Tegernsee ‘Traditionsbuch’ is the most important collection of documents for understanding the activities of the monastery’s advocates during the eleventh and twelfth centuries, there are additional sources that provide invaluable details as well. It is these other sources – much more so than the short tradition notices in the ‘Traditionsbuch’ – that reveal the monks’ frequent problems with many of their advocates, especially the ones from the Wolfratshausen lineage. These sources include Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa’s aforementioned 1157 charter for Tegernsee and some of the letters preserved in a twelfth-century epistolary collection from the community. Two narrative sources are also significant. Around the year 1165, the monk known as Metellus of Tegernsee reworked the older hagiography on the monastery’s patron, St Quirinus, into a new work containing the saint’s vita, passio, translatio and miracula. Book 6 of this text contains a series of poems specifically about the monastery’s problems with its advocates – under the rubric De iniquitate iudicum et advocatorum.50 Within a decade or two of Metellus completing his work, another 46 See, for example, ibid., no. 166a, 130–132; no. 183, 146f. and no. 187, 149f. 47 Buttinger 2004, 116–119 and Weissensteiner 1983, 102–108. 48 John B. Freed, The Counts of Falkenstein. Noble Self-Consciousness in Twelfth-Century Germany (Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 74, pt. 6), Philadelphia 1984, 14–19. 49 Alois Schütz, Das Geschlecht der Andechs-Meranier im europäischen Hochmittelalter, in: Josef Kirmeier/Evamaria Brockhoff (eds.), Herzöge und Heilige. Das Geschlecht der Andechs-Meranier im europäischen Hochmittelalter, Munich 1993, 59. See also Jonathan R. Lyon, Cooperation, Compromise and Conflict Avoidance. Family Relationships in the House of Andechs, ca. 1100–1204, Ph.D. Diss., Notre Dame, Ind. 2005, 123–168. 50 Peter C. Jacobsen, Die Quirinalien des Metellus von Tegernsee. Untersuchungen zur Dichtkunst und kritische Textausgabe, Leiden/Cologne 1965, 337.

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monk at Tegernsee produced a prose version of the ‘Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini’. This latter work also includes several stories about the monastery’s advocates, some drawn from Metellus of Tegernsee, but others – most importantly, the ones about Count Henry of Wolfratshausen – are unique to this text.51 Combined, these sources make it possible to examine three key aspects of the ‘ruler-Tegernsee-advocate triad’ in Germany that provide instructive parallels with the sources for the ‘ruler-Bury St Edmunds-local elite triad’ in England: (1) the violation of the monastery’s sacred space by laymen; (2) the involvement of people from outside the monastery in abbatial elections; and (3) the exercise of justice on monastic estates.

4.

The Violation of Sacred Space

Like many other monastic communities across Latin Christendom, the monks at Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds believed that their patron saints were capable of wondrous deeds. St Quirinus and St Edmund were central figures in the monastic life at their respective communities, and trumpeting the efficacy of their saintly works was an important component of the literary output of both houses. As noted above, two monks writing at Tegernsee during the time of Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa produced texts that, among other things, reported various miracles performed in preceding years by St Quirinus – and other saints affiliated with the community as well. The author of the ‘Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini’ explicitly describes the section concerning the monastery’s advocates as a way to ‘celebrate the perpetual victory of our most unconquerable patron over the advocates’ tyranny.’52 Similarly, beginning already in the later eleventh century, the monks at Bury St Edmunds reworked the miracles of their patron, King Edmund, on multiple occasions to promote his cult.53 Like their fellow Benedictines at Tegernsee, these monks included miracle stories that directly addressed the contemporary concerns of their community. Not surprisingly, conflicts with secular authorities over monastic rights and privileges featured prominently in many of the miracle stories from this monastery as well, making these stories a fruitful point of comparison between Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds. The ‘Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini’ from Tegernsee records several stories 51 Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini, 275–287. 52 Ibid., 275. For the intervention of patron saints in their monastic communities’ disputes with the laity, see Warren C. Brown, Violence in Medieval Europe, Harlow et al. 2011, 111–116. 53 Tom Licence, The Cult of St Edmund, in: Idem (ed.), Bury St Edmunds and the Norman Conquest, Woodbridge 2014, 104–130 and Yarrow 2006, 24–62.

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about the community’s advocates, or their agents, violating the sacred space of the monastery – and suffering punishment for it. The first of these incidents supposedly occurred during the advocacy of Bernhard of Sachsenkam, who appears in various sources from the closing decades of the eleventh century.54 According to the ‘Passio’, Bernhard was a ‘most pious’ advocate, but he was nevertheless compelled by his wife to demand an unjust fine from one of the monastery’s peasants: ‘Under the most pious advocate Bernhard, a certain man had pledged a cow of outstanding quality as a judicial fine. This cow, which had to be provided on Christmas Eve, was being led to the courtyard. It so happened that the advocate was staying at the monastery. And so, when the animal was being dragged for slaughter through the gate, the one near the church of St. Nicholas, a certain Isenricus, who oversaw the advocate’s kitchen, showing off the greatness of his strength, cut its throat in that very place with one strike. He began to rage continuously like a mad man. Because it was thought that his brain had lost feeling from the strength of the cold, he was regularly transferred from bath to bath but died that very night. Thereafter, to be sure, the advocate consented that he would by no means take a judicial fine until the end of his life. He had also not taken any earlier besides that one on the suggestion of his evil wife.’55

While the author emphasizes the unjustness of the seizure of the fine in the closing lines, he also suggests that Isenricus’s mistake was not simply killing the cow; the description of the specific location of the incident indicates that he had also violated the religious house’s own sacred space when he had slaughtered the animal inside the gate to the monastic community. Another incident in the ‘Passio’ about monastic space, this one concerning Tegernsee’s church, appears as part of a lengthy story about the first advocate from the Wolfratshausen lineage, Count Otto I. In the mid-1120s, Archbishop Conrad I of Salzburg (1106–1147) and one of his suffragans, Bishop Henry I of Freising (1098–1137), were mired in a dispute in the wake of the Investiture Controversy. Because they were on opposing sides, Conrad refused to recognize Henry as the legitimate bishop of Freising and attempted, unsuccessfully, to have him removed from office.56 This conflict eventually found its way to Tegernsee, where Bishop Henry had re-consecrated the monastery’s church after an earlier fire; he had also consecrated some of the altars. As a result, when Conrad visited the monastery – escorted by both the advocate at the time, Count Otto I, and the 54 Buttinger 2004, 119–121. 55 Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini, 276. I follow here the two oldest extant manuscripts of the Passio, because they include the word praestantem after vaccam, though the word is missing in Weissensteiner’s edition: see Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 18571, 147r–153r and Vorau, Stiftsbibliothek, Ms 277, 126r–128v for the section of the Passio about the advocates. Cf. Jacobsen 1965, no. 3, 340–342. 56 Weissensteiner 1983, 121–130.

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previous advocate, Count Siboto II – the archbishop was displeased to discover the bishop of Freising’s seal at the main altar as a record of Henry’s earlier consecration. Archbishop Conrad intended to undo Henry’s work by re-consecrating the church and the altars. But after destroying the altar dedicated to St Chrysogonus, the sight of the saints’ bones reportedly struck him with terror. As the ‘Passio’ then goes on to explain, ‘The advocate was also very much troubled that, with him acting as escort, the place’s honor had been so greatly diminished on account of the saints’ rest being corrupted and disturbed.’ The fearful archbishop sought to delay the consecrations, ‘but the count pressed him very urgently that the church, which had been violated […] while he was acting as guide [for the archbishop], should not remain desecrated.’ Finally, the archbishop agreed to dedicate the church and consecrate the altars: ‘After this, it was carefully noted that the archbishop never returned again to celebrate mass himself. The advocate, on his return [home], lost an eye.’57 This final sentence is striking. As the text suggests, it was the advocate – not the archbishop – who seems to have suffered divine punishment for his role in these events that had unfolded inside the monastery’s church. The third and final example from Tegernsee to be considered here concerns the advocate Count Henry of Wolfratshausen. According to the story that ends the ‘Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini’, Henry came to Tegernsee in April of 1157, shortly after Frederick Barbarossa issued his imperial privilege in favor of the monastery, in order to negotiate peace with the community. The negotiations quickly fell apart, however, and Henry gave permission for his followers to abuse the monastery’s hospitality. They feasted, became drunk, and began to mock and insult the abbot and monks. Then, as the text complains, ‘around ten of the irrational men, […] with the count not prohibiting them, irreverently rushed into the church in the deep of the night. There, constantly disparaging God and the saints with a shameful clamor, they were always interrupting their own words with loud laughter. Now two, and then another two in return, were going back and forth in song. Some of the senior monks, many of whom had remained in the church for prayer, ordered them to depart. They responded with derision […].’58

As the text goes on to explain, it was only a week later that Count Henry had a vision of his impending death; as his strength faded in his final days, he desperately sought to render satisfaction to St Quirinus for all his misdeeds. Each of these stories from the ‘Passio’ has as a key feature the complaint that Tegernsee’s advocates and their agents had come to the monastery and behaved in a way that was, for the monks, completely inappropriate. Not surprisingly, therefore, the advocates and/or their agents had been punished by St Quirinus 57 Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini, 278. 58 Ibid., 285f.

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and the other patron saints of the community. Elements of all three of these examples find interesting parallels in a miracle story reported at length by the Bury St Edmunds monk Herman in the closing decades of the eleventh century : ‘Well then, on the first of May, a man named Leofstan, who held high office as sheriff in the diocese where our saint is venerated, scornful of the saint’s authority in his ill-willed contempt (for his heart, full of wickedness, set little value upon justice), stood ready to plead suit of law at a mound which had come to be known as Thinghoe because the people assembled there. […] It happened at that time that a woman had fallen into the sheriff ’s disfavour through her involvement in a criminal case. Weak with womanish fear lest she be handed over to suffer the force of the law, she sought the holy martyr’s protection, entered his sanctuary, and stayed there, with the clerics’ consent, next to the martyr’s relics. When the judge, whom we mentioned, discovered this, he presently decided upon a contest to show which of them was more powerful: the martyr, in freeing people, or the judge, in condemning them. So he instantly lined up his servants, bade them bring him the defendant, and (to compound his offence) in his madness, commanded them to violate the sanctuary. […] The wicked servants went at his bidding. They entered the saint’s basilica with no regard for reverence. […] The wretched servants, driven by their devilish presumption and violating the saint’s shrine, seized and hauled her away with all the force they could muster, while the clerics genuflected hither and thither, praying down vengeance. […] Meanwhile, the infamous deputy of that region had come down into the martyr’s churchyard after his lackeys. […] There, divine power made him lose his mind and be driven mad, thereby freeing the martyr’s poor woman and distracting the attention of her captors. […] So many things could be seen to result from a single blow: the defendant was freed to escape, and a demon possessed the judge. Despised in heaven and on earth, he came to a bad end, possessed by a demon in life, and then similarly possessed as a corpse in death.’59

Later in his work, Herman tells the story of the courtier and maior domus Osgod ‘the coarse’ who, at the time of King Edward, entered the monastic church drunk, with his axe, and was punished for this transgression by being struck mad.60 The monk Goscelin, who wrote another compilation of St Edmund’s miracles around 1100, included versions of these two stories in his work as well.61 Thus, for both Herman and Goscelin, St Edmund fulfilled a comparable role to St Quirinus and the other patron saints of Tegernsee, striking down those lay transgressors who showed no regard for the monastery’s sacred space. Although some of these stories date to the decades before the period of Staufen and Plantagenet rule, their similarities suggest that the problem of laymen violating the communities’ sacred spaces was a longstanding one for monasteries more generally. In this environment, both monastic houses began in the late eleventh and twelfth centuries to craft narratives that showed their 59 Miracles of St Edmund, 10–13. West 2017, 383f. makes use of this same story. 60 Miracles of St Edmund, 54–59. 61 Ibid., 142–145 and 206–211.

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patron saints intervening to punish those who ignored the houses’ rights to be free from outside interference. Despite the similarities in the stories told at the two communities, it is important to note that the people performing these acts of infringement belonged to different groups within the local elites of Germany and England. In all the Tegernsee stories, the advocatus and his men are the ones described as violating the monastery’s sacred space in one way or another. In the two stories from Bury, on the other hand, both of the violators can be tied more directly to the king and royal authority ; one is a sheriff, the other a royal official in the king’s entourage. I will return to this point below.

5.

Abbatial Elections

As the Benedictine Rule and Pope Alexander III’s above-cited privileges for Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds make clear, the monks belonging to both these communities possessed the right to elect freely their own abbots – at least in theory. Because of the political significance and landed wealth of these monasteries, abbatial elections were not important only to the monks living inside these houses. People outside the communities – from rulers and bishops to local lords – frequently sought to interfere in the elections at Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds in order to install their own allies in the powerful post of abbot. Two incidents from the reigns of Emperor Frederick I Barbarossa and King Henry II of England offer especially good evidence for understanding how such politically volatile elections could unfold. Let us begin with Tegernsee. According to the author of the ‘Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini’, in his closing section about the advocacy of Count Henry of Wolfratshausen, ‘When Abbot Conrad was weakened by age, he [Count Henry] brought the whole of the monastery to himself, into his power, as if it were his own foundation. After Conrad died [29 June 1155], he labored to obtain before the king a successor to his own liking but could not bring it about. Moreover, the most learned Bishop Otto [of Freising] was doing the same thing; it is said that he promised 400 pounds of silver to Emperor Frederick in return for making the place subject to himself. But the prince refused to diminish that place’s honor within the kingdom – and the kingdom’s honor in that place. He invested a worthy abbot, through the scepter, whom the brothers had elected.’62 62 Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini, 284. For Frederick Barbarossa’s court as a place for mediating disputes such as this one, see Björn Weiler, The King as Judge. Henry II and Frederick Barbarossa as seen by their Contemporaries, in: Patricia Skinner (ed.), Challenging the Boundaries of Medieval History. The Legacy of Timothy Reuter, Turnhout 2009, 115–140. For the language of honor in sources from Barbarossa’s reign, see Knut Görich, Die Ehre

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While the reference to the well-known chronicler Bishop Otto of Freising trying to bribe his nephew, the emperor, is the most eye-opening element of this passage, other sources suggest that it was the electoral meddling by the advocate, Count Henry, that elicited a stronger reaction from both Frederick Barbarossa and the monks of the community. This can be seen clearly in the so-called ‘Tegernseer Briefsammlung’ of the twelfth century, which includes a letter written in the emperor’s name in late 1156 or early 1157 and addressed to the count. In this letter, Frederick takes it upon himself to report the abbot’s election to Henry : ‘We want you to know that, by our authority, at Nürnberg before a great crowd of the princes, we placed in charge of the monastery of Tegernsee an abbot whom the brothers had chosen by common election.’63 The letter goes on to warn Count Henry that the emperor expected him to carry out his functions as advocate of Tegernsee properly, without any violence. A short time later, the emperor’s 16 March 1157 privilege for Tegernsee – which was first and foremost intended to address the advocate’s many ongoing abuses – explicitly stated, ‘We grant to the brothers of the same monastery, both the present ones and the future ones, the unconstrained power to elect an abbot.’64 Thus, Emperor Frederick I and the monks of Tegernsee made a point of emphasizing to Count Henry, the monastery’s advocate, that the community possessed the right of free abbatial elections. Frederick emerges from the depictions of this incident as a strong defender of the monastery’s rights in the face of advocatial abuses, as a ruler willing to enforce Tegernsee’s charters of royal protection. These sources provide an interesting point of comparison with Jocelin of Brakelond’s lengthy account of the election of Samson as abbot of Bury St Edmunds in 1182. This is one of the richest sections of his chronicle and deserves close scrutiny ; Jocelin, himself a monk of the community during Samson’s abbacy, lays out in extraordinary detail how the election unfolded. According to him, King Henry II ‘ordered in a letter that our prior and twelve members of the convent, who were to speak for us all, should appear in his presence on an appointed day to elect an abbot.’65 When the monks heard this letter read aloud,

Friedrich Barbarossas. Kommunikation, Konflikt und politisches Handeln im 12. Jahrhundert, Darmstadt 2001. 63 Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung des 12. Jahrhunderts, no. 198, 230. 64 DFI. no. 160, 1:274–276. 65 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica Jocelini de Brakelonda de rebus gestis Samsonis Abbatis Monasterii Sancti Edmundi, ed. and trans. Harold E. Butler (Medieval Classics), London 1949, 16. For the translation, I prefer to use Jocelin of Brakelond, Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, trans. Diana Greenway/Jane Sayers (Oxford World’s Classics), Oxford/ New York 2008, 15.

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they asked the prior to select the twelve monks who would go with him. After the prior had done this, Jocelin writes that ‘someone asked, ‘What will happen if these thirteen men cannot agree in the king’s court over the election of an abbot?’ To which someone else replied that it would be a perpetual disgrace to us and our church. For this reason, many wanted to have the election here before the others went off – a precaution designed to prevent dissension in the king’s presence. But it seemed to us to be unwise and inappropriate to do this without royal permission, since it was not yet clear if the king would allow us a free election.’66

Another source from the monastery reveals that the concern expressed here about the right of free election was well founded. The Bury St Edmunds monk Herman, in his miracle collection, reports that King Edward had intervened directly in an abbatial election in the year 1065: ‘When the king learnt of Abbot Leofstan’s death, he thought about whom he should nominate in his place, and, after careful thought, promoted Baldwin to the abbacy […] The king sent a summons to the abbey. He bade the prior and senior brethren […] to make for court, so as to receive, by God’s orderly design and the king’s good will, an abbot who was perfectly suited to their needs […] [S]eeing that they lacked a protector now, he himself, he said, had provided the perfect man from among his courtiers (ex suis curialibus).’67

According to Jocelin, the monks in 1182 chose to follow a middle path. Some of the senior monks selected three members of the convent as acceptable choices to be the next abbot, recorded their names in a document, and sealed it. The prior and the monks traveling to the royal court were only to open it if the king agreed to let them hold a free election in his presence. If he did not let them hold a free election, the thirteen monks agreed ‘that whoever the king wished to support should be accepted, so long as he came from our church. […] In case the king might wish to appoint an abbot from outside our monastery, there was a provision that the thirteen should not agree to an outsider except with the consent of the brothers who were remaining here.’68

When the thirteen arrived at court, Henry II permitted them to choose three candidates from the monastery, leading them to open the sealed letter. Jocelin continues, ‘But the king, after asking whether they were born in his dominions, and on whose estate, said that he did not know them, and commanded another three to be nominated from the convent in addition to the first three […] Next, the king required that for the 66 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 17 and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 16. 67 Miracles of St Edmund, 60f. 68 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 18f. and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 17f.

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good of his kingdom, they name three additional candidates from other monasteries. When they heard this, the brothers became apprehensive, suspecting a trick.’69

In the end, however, the king permitted the monks to choose their next abbot themselves – though, at the ‘final stage the king’s intermediaries […] were called in to attend the brothers’ deliberations.’70 Both the 1155 abbatial election at Tegernsee and the 1182 election at Bury St Edmunds call attention to the outside interference that was a common problem in the selection of abbots. These two communities were simply too important within their respective kingdoms for these elections to be left entirely in the hands of the monks. Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds repeatedly sought privileges from both their rulers and the popes in order to confirm their right to elect their own abbots. In practice, however, local lords, prelates, and rulers never universally accepted this right. As in the examples of violations of the communities’ sacred space discussed above, Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds confronted similar challenges when trying to keep the outside world at bay during their abbatial elections. The differences in the details of the 1155 and 1182 elections are nevertheless revealing. For Tegernsee, the problem was the advocatus, and it was the ruler – in this case, Frederick Barbarossa – who appears as the defender of the monastery’s liberties, ensuring that the monastery was able to make its own choice of abbot without interference. In the case of Bury St Edmunds, however, the king’s role is more ambiguous; while the community was ultimately able to choose one of its own as abbot, Henry II inserted himself into the election at many stages of the process, with the goal of creating an opportunity to influence the course of events.

6.

Exercising justice on monastic estates

In both English and German historiography, the subject of who exercised judicial authority on medieval monastic estates is a venerable one. Dust chokes the lungs at the mere thought of the crumbling nineteenth-century tomes that laid the foundation for this topic in both countries; the fact that many of those same books have been digitized in recent years does not mean the subject is suddenly trendy, just less dusty. Terms like ‘sake and soke’ and ‘Blutgerichtsbarkeit’ do not excite younger generations of historians the way they did older ones, as even the most cursory of Google Ngram searches attests.71 Maitland and Waitz’s ghosts 69 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 21f. and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 20. 70 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 22 and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 21. 71 Searches for ‘sake and soke’ and ‘Blutgerichtsbarkeit’ in https://books.google.com/ngrams (10. 05. 2017).

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may still haunt us – for it has proven surprisingly difficult to dismiss completely the old traditions of constitutional history and ‘Verfassungsgeschichte’ – but they no longer hold the power over us that they once did.72 This does not mean, however, that we ought to abandon the subjects that were central to their research; there is always more work to do, fresh perspectives to bring to the table, new theories and methodologies to apply. A comparative study of judicial authority on monastic estates in twelfth-century England and Germany, even the brief one provided here, offers the opportunity to revisit some neglected topics and consider novel avenues of inquiry.73 The sources for both Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds from the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries indicate that these two monasteries frequently became entangled in questions and disputes about judicial authority on their estates. The distinctive legal cultures within the German and English kingdoms mean that these questions and disputes are typically described in very different ways; dig beneath the surface, however, and comparable themes emerge. In the case of Tegernsee, it is useful to begin with a charter forged inside the community at some point during the early decades of the thirteenth century. Purported to be a privilege granted by Emperor Henry VI on 18 May 1193, this lengthy document combines passages from a variety of earlier documents in order to imply that Tegernsee possessed a wide range of valuable rights.74 This forgery therefore provides a clear sense of what the members of the community considered the monastery’s ideal legal status to be. Significantly, long sections include details about the appropriate behavior expected of Tegernsee’s advocates. Clauses borrowed from charters issued to other monasteries indicate that the monks did not question that the advocates had the right to exercise justice on the monastery’s estates. It was how the advocates performed this function that posed problems – and that prompted the monks to include regulations about the advocates in this forged charter. For example, the forgery states that ‘everyone required to attend any advocate’s court session ought to assemble in the specified places once per year, at the time ordered. There, the advocates may not demand for their attendance more than two measures of wheat and two pigs, three jugs of wine and mead, ten jugs of beer, [and] five measures of oats as fodder for thirty horses.’75 72 Frederic William Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond. Three Essays in the Early History of England, Cambridge 1897 and Waitz 1876. 73 West 2017, is also a comparative study of judicial authority on monastic estates, but as noted above he treats his sources much too cursorily to be able to draw, meaningful conclusions. 74 The charter has been edited and discussed at length in Acht, Tegernseer – Ebersberger Vogteifälschungen, 171–178. 75 Ibid., 176.

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It goes on to include additional clauses, such as the provision that ‘one-third of the judicial fines’ belong to the advocates.76 Equally significant is the stipulation, ‘In addition, if the heads of the church, forced by some necessity, should be unable to recover damages suffered to them or their properties without harming their rule, let them call their advocates to a suitable place, where they may plead earnestly about the causes of the dispute. Let them [the advocates] demand nothing from them [the heads of the church] or their dependents there as if on the basis of their judicial authority, but let them undertake this with charity, because it would be a great expense for them.’77

These requirements point to the monks at Tegernsee wanting to regulate not just where and when the advocates could exercise justice, but also how much the advocates could be paid in return for their time serving as judges. To understand why these sections were included in a forged charter from the early thirteenth century, it is helpful to return to some of the earlier sources for Tegernsee and its advocates. Frederick Barbarossa’s 1157 privilege for the monastery offers clear evidence for the sorts of judicial problems the monastery was facing because of the activities of Count Henry of Wolfratshausen. It states emphatically, ‘The abbot’s servants, cooks, bakers and everyone else – whoever are accustomed to minister to the abbot and brothers in the monastery’s immunity – if they should come into conflict, may not be compelled to render account thereafter before the advocate. If they should injure one another with blows and should be summoned to a legitimate court session, the advocate ought to impose correction and punishment without hatred and with the abbot’s honor preserved. Henceforth, the advocate may appoint no local judges. For that office, the abbot may provide the appropriate men whom he wishes.’78

In addition, the forged charter’s precise list of what the advocate was to be paid can almost certainly be tied to the 1157 charter’s clause, ‘We prohibit, in particular, the demanding or offering of the gifts of bread and other things, which have been made to the advocate on Epiphany.’79 And the author of the ‘Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini’, writing one or two decades later, adds to this picture of advocatial abuse when he notes of Henry of Wolfratshausen, ‘At every court session he threatened the men of the church more harshly than his own men.’80 What emerges is a depiction of an advocate – Count Henry, specifically – who had little if any interest in serving as a dedicated and impartial judge for Tegernsee. The count seems to have been most interested in extracting as much profit from his position as advocate as possible. In response, the monks sought to 76 77 78 79 80

Ibid. Ibid., 176f. DFI. no. 160, 1:274–276. Ibid. Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini, 284.

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employ imperial privileges – both authentic and forged – to define clearly the advocate’s judicial role and to limit his ability to interfere in the monastery’s internal legal affairs except when absolutely necessary. In the forgery attributed to Emperor Henry VI, the monks at Tegernsee also went one step further. Throughout much of the twelfth century, the office of monastic advocate had been hereditary, and the monks had had little if any power to control who attained the position. In an attempt to alter this situation, the forger inserted an important provision, one that would eventually – in 1234 – help to dislodge the advocacy from the control of the extended Wolfratshausen-Andechs kin group: ‘No one may become advocate there by hereditary right. But the abbot, having received the advice of the brothers and of the community, may freely choose a just and suitable defender.’81 The next clause in the forged charter even gave the abbot the power to replace a bad advocate with one ‘better and more useful’ if necessary.82 In short, one of the goals of this forgery was to give the community at Tegernsee the ability to appoint a new kind of advocate, one who would exercise justice properly on the monastery’s behalf and be held accountable for his actions.83 Bury St Edmunds may have lacked a comparable monastic advocatus, but that does not mean it lacked problems surrounding the question of how justice was exercised on its properties. During the Plantagenet period, the abbot of Bury St Edmunds ‘was responsible for the Liberty of St Edmunds, that is, the ancient jurisdictional unit of the Liberty of the eight and a half hundreds, where the abbot exercised the powers of a sheriff, and the even more highly privileged Liberty of the town, the banleuca, which no royal official might enter.’84

The precise nature of the abbots’ rights within this liberty is a matter of debate among scholars; fortunately, most of the details need not concern us here.85 What 81 Acht, Tegernseer – Ebersberger Vogteifälschungen, 176. 82 Ibid. 83 Official accountability has become an important topic of debate in recent years among some medievalists; see, for example, Bisson 2009 and John Sabapathy, Officers and Accountability in Medieval England 1170–1300, Oxford 2014. 84 Gransden 2007, 24. 85 See, for example, Mary D. Lobel, The Borough of Bury St. Edmunds. A Study in the Government and Development of a Monastic Town, Oxford 1935; Helen M. Cam, The King’s Government, as administered by the Greater Abbots of East Anglia, in: Eadem (ed.), Liberties & Communities in Medieval England, New York 1963, 183–204; Gransden 2007, 236–238; and more generally, Stephen Baxter, Lordship and Justice in Late Anglo-Saxon England. The Judicial Functions of Soke and Commendation Revisited, in: Idem et al. (eds.), Early Medieval Studies in Memory of Patrick Wormald, Farnham 2009, 383–420 and David Roffe, From Thegnage to Barony. Sake and Soke, Title, and Tenants-in-Chief, in: AngloNorman Studies 12 (1990), 157–176.

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is important to understand is that Bury St Edmunds and much of its property lay outside the traditional system of royal justice at the local level.86 Thus, in the Liberty of the eight and a half hundreds, it was the monastery’s steward (dapifer / senescallus) who fulfilled for the abbot many of the judicial roles normally assigned to the sheriffs in the counties.87 But it was also vital that the abbot of Bury St Edmunds have at least some knowledge of the law.88 As Jocelin of Brakelond explains, Abbot Samson, after his election, took ‘on one knight who was eloquent and had knowledge of the law, not so much on account of his blood relationship, but because his experience in worldly affairs would be useful. In Samson’s early days as abbot, this knight was his assistant in secular disputes, for Samson was new to the abbacy and ignorant of such matters. As he himself admitted, before he became abbot he had never been in a place where securities were given.’89

Samson seems to have learned this part of his job quickly ; in a later passage, Jocelin describes him shrewdly handling a jurisdictional dispute that arose between Bury St Edmunds and the archbishopric of Canterbury.90 For the purposes of comparison with Tegernsee, it is the position of steward that warrants especially close attention. Two points, in particular, are worth emphasizing. First, like the advocacy for Tegernsee, the stewardship for Bury St Edmunds was hereditary during the Plantagenet period.91 At some point in the mid-1110s, Abbot Albold gave Maurice of Windsor the office of steward, granting him all the land that his predecessor Radulfus dapifer had possessed and stating that he held this land in hereditatem.92 Later, in 1155, King Henry II of England conceded to Ralph of Hastings, Maurice of Windsor’s nephew, and his heirs all the land that had belonged to the previous stewards of the monastery.93 The writ goes on to explain, ‘Therefore, I want and I order firmly that the aforesaid Ralph of Hastings and his heirs may have and hold the entire aforesaid land and tenure and stewardship, with sake and soke, […] and in all places and on all properties, which pertain to that tenure and stewardship.’94 This document thus confirms the hereditary nature of the stewardship for the Hastings family. 86 As succinctly stated in Robert Bartlett, England under the Norman and Angevin Kings, 1075–1225 (The New Oxford History of England), Oxford 2000, 178. 87 Gransden 2007, 26. 88 Ibid., 24. 89 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 24 and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 22f. 90 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 50–53 and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 45–47. See also Gransden 2007, 51–55. 91 Paul Brand, The Rise and Fall of the Hereditary Steward in English Ecclesiastical Institutions, 1066–1300, in: Timothy Reuter (ed.), Warriors and Churchmen in the High Middle Ages. Essays Presented to Karl Leyser, London/Rio Grande 1992, 145–162, here 155–157. 92 Feudal Documents from Bury no. 108, 110; see also no. 109, 111. 93 Ibid. no. 87, 97f. 94 Ibid.

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Approximately a decade later, the king then confirmed William of Hastings’ appointment as the monastery’s steward, again with all the privileges that came with the office.95 Against, this backdrop, one of the stories Jocelin tells about events following Samson’s election in 1182 is significant: ‘In answer to a general summons, all the barons, knights, and free tenants came to do homage […]. And behold, Thomas of Hastings came with a large number of knights, bringing his nephew Henry, who had not yet been knighted, for whom he claimed the office of steward (senescaldiam) and its customary rights according to his charter. The abbot told him straight out, ‘I do not and will not deny Henry his rights. If he were capable of performing the duties himself, then I would allow him maintenance in my household with ten men and eight horses, as stated in his charter. If you present me with someone to act as steward (senescaldum) on his behalf, who has the necessary knowledge to perform the stewardship, then I will take him on the same conditions as applied on the day of my predecessor’s death, that is with four horses and their appurtenances.’ […] After this speech by the abbot, the affair was delayed for a while. Later, a na"ve and inexperienced man, named Gilbert [of Hastings], was presented to him as steward. Before he accepted him, the abbot said to his closest associates, ‘If through this steward’s ignorance there is any failure in upholding the king’s justice, he, and not I, will be answerable to the king, because he claims the stewardship by hereditary right (iure hereditario). Therefore for the time being I would rather take him than be cheated by a cleverer man. With God’s help I shall be my own steward (senescaldus).’’96

The charter evidence preserved in cartularies from Bury St Edmunds indicates that Samson did not become his own steward. In fact, despite the abbot’s bluster in Jocelin’s depiction of events, members of the Hastings family would continue to appear as stewards throughout his abbacy. The Gilbert of Hastings mentioned by Jocelin appears as Gilberto de Hastynges senescallo in the witness list of a grant issued by Samson later in the 1180s.97 Also noteworthy is a document issued in 1205–1206, which begins, ‘This is the final agreement made in the court of St Edmund in the seventh year of the reign of King John before William of Hastings, steward of St Edmund, […]’.98 Here, in other words, we see a hereditary steward

95 Ibid., no. 89, 98f. 96 Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 27 and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 25f., but with some changes to the translation made by me. For another discussion of this passage and the hereditary stewardship, see Kevin L. Shirley, The Secular Jurisdiction of Monasteries in Anglo-Norman and Angevin England, Woodbridge 2004, 84f. 97 The Kalendar of Abbot Samson of Bury St. Edmunds and Related Documents, ed. Ralph H. C. Davis (Camden, 3rd series 84), London 1954, no. 56, 106f. 98 Ibid., no. 105, 135f.

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playing a direct role in overseeing an agreement, in this case between Bury and two men concerning the rights in a particular village.99 Another point worth emphasizing concerns the similar language in sources from Bury and Tegernsee about paying stewards and advocates. Abbot Albold’s early twelfth-century document naming Maurice of Windsor as steward defined the privileges that came with the office; he granted ‘the whole stewardship (totum dapiferatum) of the entire land of St Edmund with every custom and privilege which pertains to the same stewardship, namely with its privilege of a cleric and eight men and eight horses with half a pint of wine, if wine should be at hand, and wax with twenty-four candles and with beer.’100

Jocelin’s account of the arrival of the Hastings family at Bury after Samson’s election shows his familiarity with these terms, as he has Samson say of Henry of Hastings, ‘I would allow him maintenance in my household with ten men and eight horses, as stated in his charter.’101 The so-called Pinchbeck register, a fourteenth-century cartulary from Bury St Edmunds, includes an entry for the Juramentum Senescalli, which includes additional information about the steward’s relationship with the monastery : ‘This is the oath that the steward of the liberty of St Edmund makes, namely that he will hold himself faithfully in his office toward the abbot and others and that he will appropriate nothing for himself from the court sessions or from the fines that belongs to the abbot. And he will henceforth give advice faithfully and will respect the abbot’s rights with all his power.’102

The document goes on to list what the steward was to receive in beer, candles and other goods, also granting him the right to ‘take hay for his horses in the meadow in the village of St Edmunds’ – fodder, in other words, like the advocates at Tegernsee were to receive for their horses as well.103 This brief analysis of some of the sources for judicial authority at Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds points to some important comparisons. Although the evidence does not suggest that the stewards of Bury St Edmunds were as violent and disruptive as the advocates of Tegernsee, the stewards could clearly pose problems for the monastic community. The stewardship was hereditary, and therefore, much like the Tegernsee advocacy, it was not entirely under the control of the abbots. Samson’s frustration with unqualified members of the Hastings 99 For additional evidence for the stewards at Bury, see Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica, 8 and Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 9 and Kalendar of Abbot Samson, no. 57, 107f.; no. 59, 109; no. 80, 122; no. 85, 124; no. 106, 136f.; no. 107, 137f.; no. 111, 141. 100 Kalendar of Abbot Samson, no. 108, 110. See also no. 109, 111. 101 See no. 96 above. 102 Pinchbeck Register, 337. 103 Ibid. See also no. 75 above.

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family being introduced for the position mirrors the Tegernsee forger’s efforts to eliminate the hereditary rights of his community’s advocates. Both monasteries may have had privileges giving them a great deal of freedom over judicial authority on their estates, but that does not mean they were truly free from outside influences, because their hereditary advocates/stewards were prominent figures who were not truly accountable officials. Another point of comparison is that the sources from Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds indicate that both the advocates and the stewards needed to be reminded to respect the monasteries’ rights and to perform their duties as judges faithfully. Finally, sources from the two religious houses also suggest that one of the points of potential conflict between the monks and the advocates and stewards revolved around the question of what the advocates and stewards were to be paid for fulfilling their duties. The very specific lists outlining what these men were to receive are evidence that both the advocates and the stewards sought to extract additional income from their positions when they had the chance. Despite these similarities, there is one important difference worth noting here. As with the examples of the violation of the monasteries’ sacred space and the abbatial elections, the rulers’ roles differ in this analysis of judicial authority. Other than Frederick Barbarossa’s 1157 charter attempting to limit the rights and privileges of the Tegernsee advocates, the German rulers have no role to play in the exercise of justice on Tegernsee’s properties. Count Henry of Wolfratshausen, in his role as advocate, is never identified as a royal agent or as someone exercising royal justice on the king’s behalf. At Bury St Edmunds, in contrast, the kings’ fingerprints were all over the office of steward. As Jocelin writes, it was understood at Bury St Edmunds that the role of the steward was to uphold ‘the king’s justice’ (iustitia regis).104 Moreover, the kings issued writs confirming the hereditary rights of the Hastings family to the stewardship. And at least two of these stewards had close ties to Henry II and his court. As King Henry II’s charter confirming Ralph of Hastings as the steward of the monastery notes, Ralph was dapifer regine at the time.105 Henry II then describes William of Hastings as dispensator meus in the charter confirming his appointment.106 Thus, in matters of justice, royal authority cast a longer shadow over Bury St Edmunds than it did over Tegernsee.

104 See no. 96 above. 105 Feudal Documents from Bury, no. 87, 97. 106 Ibid., no. 89, 98f.

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Conclusion

Monastic communities, rulers and local elites interacted in complex ways at both Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds during the period of Staufen and Plantagenet rule. Secular authorities violated the sacred space of the two religious houses, forcing the communities’ saintly patrons to intervene and punish the impious transgressors. Secular authorities ignored the monasteries’ privileges guaranteeing them the right of free abbatial elections, and instead sought to twist the choice of abbot to their own advantage. And secular authorities who exercised justice on the communities’ estates did not always fulfill their judicial roles as faithfully and competently as the monks expected. Thus, while historians often contend that the legal and political cultures of England and the German kingdom were very different during the twelfth century, these two wealthy and influential monasteries – both of them under the special protection of their rulers – nevertheless faced remarkably similar challenges in their efforts to remain free from excessive entanglements with secular authority. However, as this analysis of sources from Tegernsee and Bury St Edmunds has shown, there was one significant difference between these monasteries’ experiences with lay powerholders. At the center of all the evidence for Tegernsee’s problems with secular authority stands a single group of laymen from the local elite: the monastery’s advocati and their agents. It was the advocates and their men who behaved inappropriately inside the monastery, who sought to manipulate the election of 1155, and who abused their judicial authority. In contrast, the sources from Bury St Edmunds reveal a much wider variety of laymen causing trouble for the community. It was a sheriff and a courtier who dared to violate the monastery’s sacred space, the king who sought to intervene in the 1182 election, and the hereditary line of stewards who played the most direct role in the exercise of justice within the monastery’s Liberty. Moreover, while the group of laymen interfering in Bury’s affairs may have been more diverse, all of them can be linked much more closely to the rulers and the royal court than Tegernsee’s advocates can. Despite all of the similarities between these two monasteries in terms of their interactions with secular authority, this difference is a significant one, for it clearly demonstrates that royal protection over Bury brought with it much more direct royal influence than royal protection at Tegernsee did. Barbarossa’s brief intervention to ensure a free abbatial election was one moment of royal authority in the midst of decades of advocatial domination. Thus, this comparison highlights the extraordinary influence that Tegernsee’s advocates exerted over the monastery. Tegernsee was a venerable religious house, holding numerous privileges from popes and emperors asserting its protection from local interference, yet it could not escape the pull of its advocates. The ‘Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini’ provides a revealing glimpse into the

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scope of this problem at the start of the passage dedicated to the advocacy of Count Henry of Wolfratshausen: ‘In private cases, he was harsh to the monastery ; but in external matters no one was able to undertake anything hostile [against the monastery], and in this certainly he was strong beyond his age.’107 The author’s backhanded compliment of Henry here hints at the real source of the advocate’s power over the monastery. Count Henry successfully defended Tegernsee from outside threats, from other secular and ecclesiastical lords, but his motives were anything but altruistic. By keeping other powerholders at bay, he created a situation in which he – and he alone – was in a position to exploit the monastery’s resources for his own benefit and the benefit of his followers. At Bury St Edmunds, in contrast, no single outside power besides the absentee king held comparable influence over the religious community. This English monastery faced multiple challenges to its position, but these threats were dispersed rather than concentrated so tightly in the hands of a single, domineering neighbor. In other words, it is not what the advocates of Tegernsee and other German religious houses did that made them so unusual within the broader framework of Western monasticism and lordship. What made them so unusual was the wide variety of ways that they could exert their influence and authority over the everyday life of a monastic community – even one under royal protection. Hopefully, more comparative work along the lines of what I have attempted in this short article will enable scholars to develop a better understanding of the relationship between monasteries and secular elites under both the Staufens and Plantagenets.

Sources The Book of the Foundation of Walden Monastery, eds. and trans. Diana Greenway/Leslie Watkiss, Oxford 1999. Councils and Synods, with Other Documents Relating to the English Church, v. I, II, ed. Dorothy Whitelock, et al., Oxford 1981. Feudal Documents from the Abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, ed. David Charles Douglas, London 1932. Froumund, Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung, ed. Karl Strecker (MGH Epistolae selectae 3), Berlin 1925 (Reprint 1998). Historia Diplomatica Friderici II sive Constitutiones, Privilegia, Mandata, Instrumenta quae supersunt istius Imperatoris et Filiorum eius, ed. Jean L. A. Huillard-Bréholles, 6 vols., Paris 1852–1861.

107 Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini, 283f. I follow here the two oldest extant manuscripts of the Passio, which include the word cenobio, though the word is missing in Weissensteiner’s edition. See no. 55 above.

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Jocelin of Brakelond, Cronica Jocelini de Brakelonda de rebus gestis Samsonis Abbatis Monasterii Sancti Edmundi, ed. and trans. Harold E. Butler (Medieval Classics), London 1949. Jocelin of Brakelond, Chronicle of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, trans. Diana Greenway/ Jane Sayers (Oxford World’s Classics), Oxford/New York 2008. The Kalendar of Abbot Samson of Bury St. Edmunds and Related Documents, ed. Ralph H. C. Davis (Camden, 3rd series, vol. 84), London 1954. Miracles of St Edmund, ed. and trans. Tom Licence (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 2014. Monumenta Tegernseensia, in: Monumenta Boica 6 (1766), 1–354. Munich, Bayerische Staatsbibliothek, Clm 18571. Passio Secunda Sancti Quirini, ed. Johann Weissensteiner, in: Idem, Tegernsee, die Bayern und Österreich. Studien zu Tegernseer Geschichtsquellen und der bayerischen Stammessage mit einer Edition der Passio secunda sancti Quirini (Archiv für österreichische Geschichte 133), Vienna 1983, 247–287. The Pinchbeck Register relating to the Abbey of Bury St. Edmunds, ed. Lord Francis Hervey, Vol. 1, Brighton 1925. Die Tegernseer Briefsammlung des 12. Jahrhunderts, ed. Helmut Plechl (MGH Die Briefe der Deutschen Kaiserzeit 8), Hanover 2002. Die Traditionen des Hochstifts Freising, ed. Theodor Bitterauf (Quellen und Erörterungen zur bayerischen Geschichte, neue Folge 4–5), 2 vols., Aalen 1967 (Original Munich 1905–1909). Die Traditionen des Klosters Tegernsee, 1003–1242, ed. Peter Acht (Quellen und Erörterungen zur bayerischen Geschichte, neue Folge 9, 1), Munich 1952. Die Urkunden Friedrichs I., ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10), 5 vols., Hanover 1975–1990. Die Urkunden Heinrichs II. und Arduins, ed. Harry Bresslau/Hermann Bloch/Robert Holtzmann (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 3), Hanover 1997 (Original 1900–1903). Die Urkunden Konrads II., ed. Harry Bresslau (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 4), Hanover 2001 (Original 1909). Die Urkunden Ottos II., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 2, 1), Hanover 1999 (Original 1888). Die Urkunden Ottos III., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 2, 2), Hanover 1997 (Original 1893). Vorau, Stiftsbibliothek, Ms 277.

Bibliography Peter Acht, Die Tegernseer-Ebersberger Vogteifälschungen, in: Archivalische Zeitschrift 47 (1951), 135–188. Benjamin Arnold, Princes and Territories in Medieval Germany, Cambridge 1991. David Bates, The Abbey and the Norman Conquest. An Unusual Case?, in: Tom Licence (ed.), Bury St Edmunds and the Norman Conquest, Woodbridge 2014, 5–21.

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Geoffrey Barraclough, The Origins of Modern Germany, Oxford 1946 (2nd rev. ed. New York 1963). Robert Bartlett, England under the Norman and Angevin Kings, 1075–1225 (The New Oxford History of England), Oxford 2000. Stephen Baxter, Lordship and Justice in Late Anglo-Saxon England. The Judicial Functions of Soke and Commendation Revisited, in: Idem et al. (eds.), Early Medieval Studies in Memory of Patrick Wormald, Farnham 2009, 383–420. Thomas N. Bisson, The Crisis of the Twelfth Century. Power, Lordship, and the Origins of European Government, Princeton 2009. Paul Brand, The Rise and Fall of the Hereditary Steward in English Ecclesiastical Institutions, 1066–1300, in: Timothy Reuter (ed.), Warriors and Churchmen in the High Middle Ages. Essays Presented to Karl Leyser, London/Rio Grande 1992, 145–162. Robert Brentano, Two Churches. England and Italy in the Thirteenth Century, Berkeley 1988. Warren C. Brown, Violence in Medieval Europe, Harlow et al. 2011. Sabine Buttinger, Das Kloster Tegernsee und sein Beziehungsgefüge im 12. Jahrhundert (Studien zur altbayerischen Kirchengeschichte 12), Munich 2004. Helen M. Cam, The King’s Government, as administered by the Greater Abbots of East Anglia, in: Eadem (ed.), Liberties & Communities in Medieval England, New York 1963, 183–204. Sarah Foot, The Abbey’s Armoury of Charters, in: Tom Licence (ed.), Bury St Edmunds and the Norman Conquest, Woodbridge 2014, 31–52. John B. Freed, The Counts of Falkenstein. Noble Self–Consciousness in Twelfth-Century Germany (Transactions of the American Philosophical Society 74, pt. 6), Philadelphia 1984. Knut Görich, Die Ehre Friedrich Barbarossas. Kommunikation, Konflikt und politisches Handeln im 12. Jahrhundert, Darmstadt 2001. Antonia Gransden, A History of the Abbey of Bury St Edmunds, 1182–1256. Samson of Tottington to Edmund of Walpole (Studies in the History of Medieval Religion 31), Woodbridge 2007. Hans Hirsch, Die hohe Gerichtsbarkeit im deutschen Mittelalter, Prague 1922. Peter C. Jacobsen, Die Quirinalien des Metellus von Tegernsee. Untersuchungen zur Dichtkunst und kritische Textausgabe, Leiden/Cologne 1965. William C. Jordan, A Tale of Two Monasteries. Westminster and Saint-Denis in the Thirteenth Century, Princeton 2009. Tom Licence, The Cult of St Edmund, in: Idem (ed.), Bury St Edmunds and the Norman Conquest, Woodbridge 2014, 104–130. Mary D. Lobel, The Borough of Bury St. Edmunds. A Study in the Government and Development of a Monastic Town, Oxford 1935. Jonathan R. Lyon, Cooperation, Compromise and Conflict Avoidance. Family Relationships in the House of Andechs, ca. 1100–1204, Ph.D. Diss., Notre Dame, Ind. 2005. Jonathan R. Lyon, Noble Lineages, Hausklöster, and Monastic Advocacy in the Twelfth Century. The Garsten Vogtweistum in its Dynastic Context, in: Mitteilungen des Instituts für Österreichische Geschichtsforschung 123 (2015), 1–29. Jonathan R. Lyon, Otto of Freising’s Tyrants. Church Advocates and Noble Lordship in the Long Twelfth Century, in: David C. Mengel/Lisa Wolverton (eds.), Christianity and

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Culture in the Middle Ages. Essays to Honor John Van Engen, Notre Dame 2015, 141–167. Frederic William Maitland, Domesday Book and Beyond. Three Essays in the Early History of England, Cambridge 1897. Theodor Mayer, Fürsten und Staat. Studien zur Verfassungsgeschichte des deutschen Mittelalters, Weimar 1950. Timothy Reuter, Germany in the Early Middle Ages c. 800–1056, London 1991. David Roffe, From Thegnage to Barony. Sake and Soke, Title, and Tenants-in-Chief, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 12 (1990), 157–176. Barbara H. Rosenwein, Negotiating Space. Power, Restraint, and Privileges of Immunity in Early Medieval Europe, Ithaca/New York 1999. John Sabapathy, Officers and Accountability in Medieval England 1170–1300, Oxford 2014. Kevin L. Shirley, The Secular Jurisdiction of Monasteries in Anglo-Norman and Angevin England, Woodbridge 2004. Peter M. Smith, The Advowson. The History and Development of a Most Peculiar Property, in: Ecclesiastical Law Journal 5 (2000), 320–339. Alois Schütz, Das Geschlecht der Andechs-Meranier im europäischen Hochmittelalter, in: Josef Kirmeier/Evamaria Brockhoff (eds.), Herzöge und Heilige. Das Geschlecht der Andechs-Meranier im europäischen Hochmittelalter, Munich 1993, 21–111. James W. Thompson, Feudal Germany, Chicago 1928. Rodney M. Thomson, A Twelfth Century Letter from Bury St. Edmunds Abbey, in: Idem (ed.), England and the 12th-Century Renaissance, Aldershot 1998 (Original 1972), V:87–97. Rodney M. Thomson, The Library of Bury St Edmunds Abbey in the Eleventh and Twelfth Centuries, in: Speculum 47 (1972), 617–645. Georg Waitz, Deutsche Verfassungsgeschichte, vol. 7, Kiel 1876. Björn Weiler, Kingship, Rebellion and Political Culture. England and Germany, c.1215 – c.1250 (Medieval Culture and Society), Basingstoke 2007. Björn Weiler, The King as Judge. Henry II and Frederick Barbarossa as seen by their Contemporaries, in: Patricia Skinner (ed.), Challenging the Boundaries of Medieval History. The Legacy of Timothy Reuter, Turnhout 2009, 115–140. Johann Weissensteiner, Tegernsee, die Bayern und Österreich. Studien zu Tegernseer Geschichtsquellen und der bayerischen Stammessage mit einer Edition der Passio secunda sancti Quirini (Archiv für österreichische Geschichte 133), Vienna 1983. Charles West, Monks, Aristocrats, and Justice. Twelfth-Century Monastic Advocacy in a European Perspective, in: Speculum 92 (2017), 372–404. Dietmar Willoweit, Vogt. Vogtei, in: Adalbert Erler/Ekkehard Kaufmann (eds.), Handwörterbuch zur deutschen Rechtsgeschichte 5, Berlin 1998, col. 932–946. Susan Wood, The Proprietary Church in the Medieval West, Oxford/New York 2006. Simon Yarrow, Saints and Their Communities. Miracle Stories in Twelfth Century England, Oxford 2006. Jean Yver, Autour de l’absence d’avouerie en Normandie. Notes sur le double thHme du d8veloppement du pouvoir ducal et de l’application de la r8forme gr8gorienne en Normandie, in: Bulletin de la Soci8t8 des Antiquaires de Normandie 57 (1963/64), 189–283.

Dominik Büschken

Rainald of Dassel and Thomas Becket. Two Upstarts in Comparison

Abstract Although there was social mobility in the Middle Ages, there was only little awareness on the reality of social mobility, since the basis of belief understood society as a representation of the divine and stable ordo. Thus, although the possibility of climbing the social ladder via a clerical career or service was well known, but not analysed, nor was it even depicted as desirable. One of the key motivations for upward social mobility, ambition, was frowned upon and was understood as a defect rather than a virtue. Thus, the conditions to even perceive social mobility were not ideal and the fact was seldom addressed. Nevertheless, the examples of Rainald of Dassel and Thomas Becket show that the allegation of ambition and an inadequate social origin could be directed at political enemies. This shows, that the possibility of upward social mobility by clerical careers was recognized, even if concern was only worded in the context of criticism.

Contemporary concepts of society in the Middle Ages interpreted the society as hierarchical ordained and divided into ranks. These ranks and its stratified structure were assumed to be God-given and due to this unchangeable. This structure was part of the ordo which guaranteed peace and a functional society. The general idea of this ordo was static. Change was just as little included in these schemes as dynamics. Today we know that societies are indeed dynamic subject to constant change. Modern science answered to these observations with new theories to analyse it.1 Social mobility is one of these concepts of modern social theory developed to analyse modern societies.2 Still, social mobility is a phenomenon throughout 1 On stratified societies, see Niklas Luhmann, Die Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft II, Frankfurt am Main 9th edn. 2015, chapter 4. VI, 678–706. 2 As an introduction to a theory of social mobility see Peter A. Berger, Soziale Mobilität, in: Bernhard Schäfers/Wolfgang Zapf (eds.), Handwörterbuch zur Gesellschaft Deutschlands, Opladen 2001, 595–605, and Martin Groß, Klassen, Schichten, Mobilität. Eine Einführung (Studienskripten zur Soziologie), Wiesbaden 2008, particularly chapter 4: Theorien und Methoden der intergenerationalen Mobilitätsforschung, 117–158.

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history. It is not necessarily perceived under the notion of social mobility by contemporaries, as medieval social concepts indicate, but certainly what was termed as advancement, ambition or just as ascent might be understood in the same way. In order to analyse social mobility in medieval societies it is essential to adjust the instruments to do so. It will not be promising to start an empirical research without having reliable empirical data. Thus, in a high medieval context, it appears more adequate to evaluate such narrative sources as Vitae and historiography to get evidence of the perception of patterns for and forms of social mobility. Apart from the problem that we do not have statistical sources historical research has to consider the possibility of medieval people not realising that social mobility happened at all. Two outstanding biographies shall be analysed, focusing on the patterns of their remarkable careers and the contemporaries’ perception of it. Rainald of Dassel and Thomas Becket were both well-known career people and seem to be a good choice for an example.3 For they were both socially mobile in two different medieval societies at the same time. Additionally, in both cases we are well equipped for our research with biographical sources. While in England the phenomenon of perceived social advancement can well be observed since Henry I, who according to Orderic Vitalis raised men from the dust,4 in Germany social advancement is mostly connected to ministeriales.5 Rainald of Dassel as a member of the nobility indicates that social mobility happened outside this group as well. Nevertheless, the social backgrounds of Thomas Becket and Rainald of Dassel are quite diverse which might underline different preconditions for social mobility in England and the Empire. Supported by these examples I will try to show causes, ways and perceptions of social mobility in the society of the twelfth century, starting with Rainald. Rainald of Dassel was born in 1120 as the second son of his father also named Rainald of Dassel, a member of the local (lower?) Saxon nobility. As the second born, he did not inherit his father’s title and started – quite conventionally – an ecclesiastical education at Hildesheim, a Bishopric well-known for its educa3 For Rainald recently Helmuth Kluger, Friedrich Barbarossa und sein Ratgeber Rainald von Dassel, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 26–40; for Becket Anne Duggan, Thomas Becket, London 2004, esp. Part I, ch. 3, 1–18. 4 Cf. Ordericus Vitalis, Historia Ecclesiastica, ed. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford Medieval Texts), 6 vols., Oxford 1969–1983, here vol. IV, Books XI, XII and XIII, Oxford 1978, XI, ch. ii, 17: Vnde plerosque illustres pro temeritate sua de sullimi potestatis culmine precipitauit, et heaereditario iure irrecuperabiliter spoliatos condemnauit. Alios e contra fauoribiliter illi osbequentes de ignobili stirpe illustrauit, de puluere ut ita dicam extulit. 5 Cf. recently on ‘Ministerialität’: Hans Georg Trüper, Ritter und Knappen zwischen Weser und Elbe: Die Ministerialität des Erzstifts Bremen (Schriftenreihe des Landschaftsverbandes der ehemaligen Herzogtümer Bremen und Verden 45), Stade 2nd edn. 2015.

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tional quality in this time. Even though he was a member of the nobility and probably could have afforded education on his own, he gained financial support through his membership of the Hildesheim chapter. As canonicus non emancipatus he was entitled to gain income for clothing and his livelihood.6 Sometime between 1130 and 1136 he received his primary education in the priory’s school. Later, he studied in Paris during the 1140s, his subject being law, both civil and canonical.7 When he returned to Hildesheim between 1146 and 1149, he was promoted to provost, a title attributed to him as witness to Hildesheim charters since 1147.8 The first time we find some verifiable action of Rainald in the sources is at the concilium generale at Reims 1148, when he spoke against the decree variorum pellium. Rainald protested the attempt of the papacy to condemn the wearing of luxury coats by clerks.9 Not the most spectacular moment in Rainald’s career, it may well reflect his self-awareness as a clerk. Having grown up a secular noble, he obviously saw no need to show modesty or had a different understanding of modesty at all. We do not have much evidence for Rainald’s actions between 1149 and 115210, aside from a few witnessed charters,11 but that changed in 1152. It is believed that Rainald had his first contact with Frederick Barbarossa in Goslar, at least he was a witness in a royal charter.12 Not much later, he was sent to Rome to get papal confirmation of the donation of Ringelheim to the Bishopric Hildesheim.13 Yet, it might be possible and I myself believe so, that he was sent to Rome for another reason. Contemporaneous to his journey, there were diplomatic negotiations in Rome between the empire and the curia. It seems to be implausible that Rainald travelled three months only for an authentication, while at the same time negotiations took place.14 If Rainald indeed was acting on Fredericks’s behalf, his promotion to the office of the King’s Chancellor in 1156 6 Cf. Walter Föhl, Studien zu Rainald von Dassel I, in: Jahrbuch des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 17 (1935), 234–259, here 237. 7 Cf. For this particular argumentation, Ibid. 1935, 238 and Werner Grebe, Studien zur geistigen Welt Rainalds von Dassel, in: Gunter Wolf (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa, Darmstadt 1975, 245–296, here 249. 8 Cf. Hubertus Zummach, Ruina Mundi! Rainald von Dassel des Heiligen Römischen Reiches Erz- und Reichskanzler, Holzminden 2007, 32. 9 Föhl 1935, 246. 10 Rainald held the honour of a provost from 1148–1160 cf. Helmuth Kluger, Reinald von Dassel (1120–1167). Reichskanzler – Erzbischof von Köln – Erzkanzler für Italien, in: Karlheinz Gierden (ed.), Das Rheinland. Wiege Europas. Eine Spurensuche von Agrippina bis Adenauer, Köln 2011, S. 107–130, here 127. 11 Cf. Urkundenbuch des Hochstifts Hildesheim und seiner Bischöfe, ed. Karl Janicke (Publikationen aus den königlich-preußischen Staatsarchiven 65), Teilband I, Leipzig 1896, no. 253 maioris ecclesie prepositus, no. 263 and no. 264. 12 Ibid. no. 279. 13 Ibid. no. 281. 14 Cf. Werner Grebe, Rainald von Dassel als Reichskanzler Friedrich Barbarossas (1156–1159), in: Jahrbuch des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 49 (1978), 49–74, here 52f.

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would not come out of the blue. Maybe Rainald had proven himself capable of pleading the king’s case and had acted as an envoy for the empire in diplomatic affairs. His appointment as Chancellor was followed by the next important step in 1158, when Rainald was – recommended by Friedrich I. – elected as Archbishop of Cologne. Along with this office he became archchancellor for Italy.15 These are the basics of Rainalds career. Before I try to analyse motives and reasons, let me contrast it first with Thomas Becket’s biography. Also born in the early 12th century, Becket is the perfect English counterpart to Rainald of Dassel – in terms of career in the 12th century societies. Beckets family background however is quite different. He was born as the son of a London merchant. His father Gilbert is believed to have immigrated to London from Normandy, which could explain Thomas Surname ‘Becket’ deriving from his father’s origin at Le Bec, a village near the famous monastic site.16 Similarly to Rainald, Thomas was sent to school early. The London priory school in Merton was according to the numerous existing ‘Vitae’ the first station in Thomas education. The next step, we can retrace, is his stay in Paris in 1138.17 Probably, he came to Paris just like Rainald to study. His two-year stay seems remarkably short in comparison to Rainald’s. This might have been due to financial reasons. In contrast to Rainald, Thomas’ education was completely covered by his father. There is some evidence that in 1140 his father was not capable any longer to afford Thomas’ studies. The biographer Thomas of Froidmont mentions a fire in London which could explain financial problems of his father’s and Thomas’ early homecoming in 1140.18 Soon after his return, both, his father and his mother died.19 This marks the first time that Becket depended on his acquired skills to gain access to another household. He became a sort of book keeper for a family friend, who operated as a money lender in London. This interim solution did not last very long. Again, personal relations opened Becket the doors of Archbishop Theobald’s household.20 There, he started as a writer having been recommended by a friend already working there. This position he could not have filled without the skills learned. And even more, his access to the household of Theobald 15 Walter Föhl, Studien zu Rainald von Dassel II, in: Jahrbuch des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 20 (1938), 238–260, at 252. 16 William Fitzstephen, Vita Sancti Thomae, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, ed. James C. Robertson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol. 3, London 1877, 1–154, here, c. 4, 15.; cf. Frank Barlow, Thomas Becket, London 1986, 11. 17 The Lives of Thomas Becket, Selected Sources, ed. and transl. Michael Staunton, Manchester 2001, 42. 18 Thomas of Froidmont, Vita et passio Sancti Thomae, ed. Paul G. Schmidt (Schriften der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft an der Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität Frankfurt am Main 8), Stuttgart 1991, 20. 19 Cf. The Lives of Thomas Becket, 44f. 20 Cf. William Fitzstephen, Vita Sancti Thomae, c. 4, 15.

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established contacts to superior members of this household and to Archbishop Theobald himself, a fact worth mentioning which shall be shown in detail later. The attendance in Theobald’s household set Thomas in a comparable situation to Rainald, gaining support for renewed studies in Bologna via Theobald.21 Soon afterwards, in 1154, Thomas was promoted as archdeacon.22 We do not know why Thomas was preferred over other likely candidates like John of Salisbury, who was surely capable to perform as effectively. It seems to be plausible that in this case Thomas’s personal relation to Theobald was the crucial argument put forward in his favour. This probably applies even in regard to his further promotion as chancellor in 1155. After a joint journey with Theobald to Rome, Thomas seems to have proven his worth in the eyes of Theobald. So, Thomas, like Rainald, became chancellor at the King’s court.23 Of course, it was Henry II, who actually promoted Thomas, but it was Theobald, who recommended Thomas, trying to get a loyal servant at the court of the young and new King Henry.24 Skipping over the time at the King’s court, we have to address the last but most startling step in Thomas career. In 1162 after Theobald’s death, Henry II nominated Thomas to be elected as archbishop of Canterbury.25 He became archbishop by the same mechanism we have seen before: Having earned the trust of his superior he was recommended for a higher office. His loyalty thus was a crucial factor in his career, along with his skills, and pretty much an argument for Henry to choose Thomas as the new archbishop of Canterbury. It is indeed no coincidence that Thomas and Rainald climbed the social ladder by serving loyally. Obviously, service rendered a path through the hierarchical steps of society without getting blamed for overstepping one’s social status. Especially the service in church, the administration and the urban environment offered opportunities to advance. First of all, this sort of service was bound to be the result of genuine effort and this effort was linked to capability. In church careers, advancement by skills was entirely possible, in contrast to those fields of society, that were defined by birth, like the nobility. Of course, the nobility was no stranger to the concept of service, but nobility was connected more tightly to blood and tenure, less so to education and talent. The latter requirements could also serve as criterion for exclusion. Candidates who lacked required abilities could not serve as well as those who got trained and acquired a certain degree of 21 Ibid., c. 10, 17. 22 Herbert of Bosham, Vita Sancti Thomae, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, ed. James C. Robertson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol. 3, London 1877, 155–534, here lib. ii, c. 6, 168. 23 Cf. William Fitzstephen, Vita Sancti Thomae, c.9, 18. The Lives of Thomas Becket, 48; and Footnote 23. 24 Cf. Duggan 2004, 19. 25 Cf. Herbert of Bosham, Vita Sancti Thomae, lib. 3, c. 1, 180f., Barlow 1986, 70f.

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education. In our case these requirements were mostly simple education, to name it: literacy and numeracy. Of course, these skills depended very much on the status of individuals, too, because the accessibility of education was restricted to those who could afford it. But nevertheless, it offered chances to advance by effort.26 And this system of service was a hierarchic system, just like society was in general. It meant a clear gradation of ranks by status, but also meant an immanent possibility to overcome boundaries of class. Every position needed certain individual skills, and the recruiting for higher ecclesiastical offices by necessity took place in the lower ranks. This kind of career and in-system advancement was not a threat to the hierarchical system, but rather a keystone for its functionality. But, as the chosen examples show, advancement and success were never only about skills and effort. Other factors such as personal relationships and circumstances had a huge influence as well. In the end it was the master who decided who was promoted, likely basing his decision on ability, but not necessarily so. It is self-evident that there existed no formally binding criteria guaranteeing equal treatment. But this was true for every social area, whereas effort was only effective for advancement in the effort-related service. Revisiting the idea of social mobility, the question is what kind of conditions supported hierarchical advancement. Considering the careers of Thomas Becket and Rainald of Dassel, it appears their personal ascent was fostered by external influence, favoured by conditions and aspired to by both candidates. At Frederick’s court the chancellor’s position became vacant because of the death of the predecessor, whereas in England Henry wanted to appoint a new chancellor at the beginning of his reign in England. It goes without saying that opening opportunities are pre-conditions for the social advancement of inferior classes, but these pre-conditions are indeed intrinsic to the structure of society, as social mobility is. In both cases, Thomas and Rainald benefited from their patrons. Their access to service was due to their skills, in contrast to their advancement, which was strongly connected to Theobald of Canterbury and Frederick Barbarossa. Their superiors decided to promote them, eventually based on the evaluation of their accomplishments but more importantly based on their loyalty, which could be seen as a part of the accomplishment as well. Without the initiative to appoint and the need for recruitment the two candidates, their career would not have made such an important turn. The last but not less important condition is the aspiration of social advancement at all. Not only structural mechanisms but also personal ambition is 26 Philippa Maddern, Social Mobility, in: Rosemary Horrox/Mark W. Ormrod (eds.), A Social History of England 1200–1500, Cambridge 2006, 116–118.

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needed to advance. This might sound like the most trivial aspect, but it could be the most critical feature concerning the perception and reputation of social climbers. In modern society, social advancement and personal merit is for the most part perceived positively. Like the common phrase ‘from dishwasher to millionaire’, which is idealised as a dream, a fortune aspired by all. It would be wrong to transfer this idea on medieval society. In fact, when ambition is picked out as a central theme in the sources at all, its connotation is mostly negative, attached to avarice and other sinful behaviour. Avarice itself is a sin, qualified to derange the ordo. We find this and analogue patterns in several medieval sources. To mention one, John of Salisbury seems to be a contemporary worth quoting. ‘Therefore, from the root of pride slowly grows ambition, namely, a passion for power and honours, so that from the one it possesses strength lest it be rooted out, while from the other it obtains reverence lest it become vilified.’27 So, it is not social advancement in general which is criticised. Only when advancement arises from ambition to advance, then it is wrong. Of course, the distinction is difficult to make. To show a passion for honours and power is John’s definition of ambition which clearly deserves condemnation. But even not showing ambition can be judged as such. Like John wrote: ‘But today the ambitious self-excuser fares far otherwise, and more successfully ; all these arguments and many more he multiplies to the end that he may be thought not to desire that which he covets and at last seem to receive freely that which he has already bought. Whereby he is taken for a man of exceptional modesty.’28

To summarize, ambition, hidden or in the open, is frowned upon as motive for advancement, even more so in the church, where modesty was a key virtue and expected behaviour for every official. Thus, in an institution we see as very open to social mobility in fact, a common motive for advancement is condemned. In the end, advancement in general calls for condemnation, because it is so often connected to ambition. This leads us directly to the question of perception of social mobility as a phenomenon and socially mobile individuals. John of Salisbury was quite familiar with Thomas Becket and so he must have known that the very criteria for the ambitious suited nearly perfectly the case of Thomas Becket’s career. In his ‘Vita Sancti Thomae’ we find no single hint of 27 John of Salisbury, Policraticus de nugis curialium, ed. Cary J. Nederman (Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought), Cambridge 1990, Book VII, ch. XVII, 163. De radice ergo superbiae surrepit ambitio, potentiae scilicet cupiditas et honoris, ut hinc uires habeat ne prematur, hinc proueniat reuerentia ne uilescat ( = John of Salisbury, episcopi Carnotensis Policratici sive de nugis curialium et vestigiis philosophorum libri VIII, ed. Clemens C. L. Webb, vol. ii, London 1909, c. 17, 162.) 28 Sed nunc longe aliter succedit excusatori ambitioso; haec enim et alia quam plura multiplicat ut credatur nolle quod appetit et tandem gratis accipere quod praeemit. Vnde tamquam uir modestiae singularis capitur. (Ibid. Libri VII, ch. 18, 165.)

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Becket’s ambition.29 This is presumably due to John’s personal and political position and the dating of the vita after Beckets death and the justification of Becket’s holiness through his biography.30 Since 1153 John had been secretary to the Archbishop of Canterbury, first to Theobald and later, since 1162, to Thomas Becket. He knew Thomas for a long time before he even had become Archbishop and observed Thomas’ career from a short distance. In contrast to John, contemporaries in sources of different genres dating from before Becket’s death made use of his career and insinuated ambition as a motive. Gilbert Foliot, Bishop of London and antagonist of Becket, would be the first to name. Foliot and Becket shared a history in critical debates, induced most probably because they were rivals in career opportunities. But the political circumstances and the path of their career lead to a strong enmity in personal and official affairs. In the official reply of the English bishops to the archbishop of Canterbury, Thomas Becket, Foliot drew the attention to Becket himself. ‘All men were deeply conscious of how kind our Lord the King was to you. To what renown he raised you up from poverty and received you into his intimate favour with so generous a heart […] he strove by every means to raise you up to the dignity in which you now preside, hoping to reign happily.’31

Of course, everybody knew that Becket had been put forward by King Henry for the office of archbishop. ‘He raised you up from poverty’ is a biblical allusion and clearly describes not only Becket’s dependence on Henry, but also his social rise. A rise which was mentioned in a context of disputes on the right behaviour of Becket. And it is clearly no coincidence that Becket’s social rise is used as an argument against him to express criticism on Becket’s role in the conflict with King Henry. But, and this is an important observation, Becket had attracted criticism because he was part of a political debate. His enemies used his political and social rise as a weapon against him and his political goals. What Becket’s antagonists did not do was to criticise him because of his career and his social origins in the first place. The cause of criticism were Becket’s political decisions, the instrument to criticise was his dependence on King Henry and his shown 29 John of Salisbury, Vita Sancti Thomae, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, ed. James C. Robertson, (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol. 2, London 1875, 299–323; and in translation Anselm & Becket. Two Canterbury Saints’ Lives by John of Salisbury, ed. and transl. Ronald E. Pepin (Medieval Sources in Translation 46), Toronto 2009, 73–96. 30 Cf. Michael Staunton, Thomas Becket and his Biographers, Suffolk 2006, 26. 31 The Correspondence of Archbishop Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury I, ed. and transl. Anne Duggan (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 2000, no. 93, 376.: Insedit alte cunctorum mentibus, quam benignus vobis dominus rex noster existiterit, in quam vos gloriam ab exili provexerit, et in familiarem gratiam tam lata vos mente susceperit, […] vos in eam qua preestis dignitatem modis omnibus studuit sublimare, sperans se de cetero regnare feliciter.

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ingratitude, as it was interpreted by Gilbert Foliot. In contrast to John of Salisbury, Foliot used his knowledge well to harm Becket. And he used it in terms of a general accusation of misbehaviour. This shows that ambition and lower social origin were perceived as problematic and therefore mostly opponents used it to harm functionaries with these accusations, in this case Thomas Becket. In Rainald’s case, his rise was rarely the main point of criticism. This is surely due to his different family background as a member of the nobility and implicitly his rise being far less spectacular. But Rainald could as well have been accused of being ambitious assuming some critics had detailed knowledge of his career. At one point in his career Rainald might have been openly ambitious. When Rainald was asked to become the Archbishop of Hildesheim in 1153, he refused.32 And he refused without any other concrete perspective of higher advancement at that time. He could not have possibly known that he would be promoted as chancellor three years later. But he could have aspired it. His refusal was ironically an expression of his ambition and may indeed have been a risky but nevertheless strategic move, since he planned for advance in the king’s service. Although Rainald might have been motivated by the aspiration of higher secular service, his action was not subject to any criticism like in Becket’s case. Rainald was at this point not involved in any internal political debate. But there were other critics of Rainald, mainly brought on by political actions in the papa schism and therefore from outside of the empire. And like Thomas’ political opponents, Rainald’s challengers as well used his career as an instrument for criticism. One of this opponent is once again John of Salisbury. Interestingly, he attacked Rainald on reasons he did not put forward with Thomas: ‘I pass to the new and unheard-of signatures to the decrees of this synod, among which, in default of bishops, counts are admitted, among which those men claim special authority over sees of bishops, whose elections either never took place, or if they did, were annulled. Reginald, the emperor’s chancellor, assumes the archbishopric of Cologne, though it is an undoubted fact that his election was condemned by the blessed Adrian, pontiff of Rome.’33

Again, this criticism is levelled against political enemies. But John uses his knowledge about Rainald’s career, to strengthen his own case and to discredit 32 Cf. Föhl 1935, 258. 33 The Letters of John of Salisbury. Volume I. The Early Letters, ed. William J. Millor/Harold E. Butler (Oxford Medieval Texts), London 1955, ep. 124, 211f. Transeo ad nouas et inauditas decretalis sinodi subscriptiones, in quibus ex episcoporum defectu pro eis comites admittuntur, in quibus illi praecipuam sibi uendicant auctoritatem episcopalium sedium, quorum aut nulla es taut electio reprobata. Raginaldus enim cancellarius inperatoris se Coloniensem gessit archiepiscopum, cum certum sit electionem eius a Romano pontifice beato Adriano fuisse dampnatam.

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Rainald, which can be proven by more than this quote.34 John gives the impression that Rainald is a completely inappropriate candidate because of his social origin as a secular member of the nobility and even more his career, which started in the secular service. But this secular career is comparable to Thomas Becket’s even though Thomas was not a ‘count’, to use John’s own words. This shows clearly that not only social rise but also other social behaviour that did not meet the expectations of medieval writers was perceived negatively.35 It is also John who reports on Rainald’s appearance at the synod of Reims in 1148 – as I mentioned before – where Rainald along with other legates of the empire protested a decree to prohibit the wearing of coloured fur by clerks.36 In this context, it is not only characteristic for Rainald’s self-confidence but also for John’s perception of Rainald. The German chancellor’s social behaviour clearly did not meet John’s expectations of a bishop or even that of a clerk. Social rise and unsuitable behaviour could apparently be used to harm enemies in political arguments. To protect allies and friends, lower social origins or unsuitable behaviour of those were kept secret or at least not underlined. This tells us something about the perception of social mobility. As we could see Rainald’s and Thomas’ careers were not criticized for their advancement as such. The concept of social mobility was not included in the contemporary social conceptions and thus social mobility was just not perceived as a phenomenon at all. Even though, as we can analyse today, social mobility was necessary for the function of institutions in a changing society. After having compared the two biographies of Rainald of Dassel and Thomas Becket in the 12th century, one from the continent and one from England, it has become clear, that the structural conditions were quite similar, even though the demand of skilled servicemen was higher in England than in the Empire due to the better developed administration.37 In general, the secular administration as well as the clerical offered the best chance to advance through service. That this advancement was not only furthered by merit, but also by three other criteria – conditions, external influence and ambition – could also be shown. Especially ambition is the criterion that provides the best starting-point to analyse not just the function of social mobility for a functioning administration at this time, but 34 Ibid., ep. 152, 254: qui Raginaldo successit in officio cancellariae et persecutione ecclesiae et collisione et strage gentium et euersione civitatum. 35 As a general overview of the debate about secular clerks see Hugh M. Thomas, The Secular Clergy in England. 1066–1216, Oxford 2014, particularly ch. 3.1 ‘Social, moral, and religious tensions’, 48–54. 36 Föhl 1935, 246. 37 For the English administration see Judith Green, The Government of England under Henry I (Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought 4th series 3), Cambridge 1986 and Charles W. Hollister, The Rise of Administrative Kingship: Henry I, in: Idem (ed.), Monarchy, Magnates and Institutions in the Anglo-Norman World, London 1986, 223–245.

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also the perception embedded in the mind of the contemporaries. How and not less important when is social advancement the subject of discussion? Contemporary disagreement with social climbers is a result of the interpretation of its causes. On the one hand we have a contemporary explanatory model that links careers with ambition. Under a religious normative provision such a perceived social aberration had to be included in religious concepts of the secular world.38 It meant that individual success was linked to ambition and possible social advancement resulting from it were clearly perceived as at least unsuitable behaviour right up to disturbance of the idealistic ordo. In the light of divine law which held together society and its different classes, in a clear cut hierarchical order, deviation caused condemnation. The order had to be respected for the sake of all. Any aberrance was perceived as a threat.39 But individual social advancement was not necessarily perceived as a threat to the ordo. It was rather used as a weapon in debates about power and the administration of office, especially in the cases when individual advancement was linked to a favourer. Focusing on presumably low origins worked very well as an accentuation of the strong dependence of social climbers on their favourers. It was an instrument to discredit political opponents and thus a threat to the integrity of social climbers in service of their king – and to the king himself. On the other hand, there is no contemporary comprehension of social advancement, recruitment and successful careers as a functional cornerstone of rule. The king’s need for loyal and to a certain extent dependent servant was not part of moral judgement but certainly of political debate. The need for ‘new men’ and their perception as a threat or at least as unsuitable behaviour at the same time is a promising starting point for a study focusing on the contentious issue of the ideal imagination of the medieval society, the social reality of medieval society and the formative influence of these ideal imaginations on medieval social conditions. Like advancement, social mobility was indeed not part of those social and moral standards in the 12th century even though it fulfilled an important function to stabilize royal rulership.40 The correlation between royal rule and servants in dependence of their king was well observed by contemporaries. But it was not thought of as a social mechanism of a social system persisting of a stratified social structure. It was 38 For this normative provision, see e. g. Hans-Werner Goetz, Gott und die Welt. Religiöse Vorstellungen des frühen und hohen Mittelalters, Teil I, Band 1: Das Gottesbild (Orbis mediaevalis Vorstellungwelten des Mittelalters 13.1), Berlin 2011, 30–33. 39 Cf. Hagen Keller, Ordnungsvorstellungen, Erfahrungshorizonte und Welterfassung im kulturellen Wandel des 12./13. Jahrhunderts, in: Bernd Schneidmüller/Stefan Weinfurter (eds.), Ordnungskonfigurationen im Hohen Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 64), Ostfildern 2006, 257–278, here 264–266. 40 Cf. Green 1986, 134–192, especially 139–156 and the biographical appendix 226.

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only perceived as a unilateral instrument of royal power and therefore open to criticism. Indeed, morally unacceptable even unthinkable were whole social stratums who aspired social advancement. According to contemporary concepts like the organic theory this would have disturbed the ordained ‘ordo’.41 However, in the 12th century individual social advancement was mostly not perceived as a threat to the elite. That has changed throughout the 13th and 14th century, as the sumptuary laws strongly indicate which are indeed a restrictive instrument of power over others to secure privileges and prevent participation of social successful individuals.

Sources Anselm & Becket. Two Canterbury Saints’ Lives by John of Salisbury, ed. and transl. Ronald E. Pepin (Medieval Sources in Translation 46), Toronto 2009. The Correspondence of Archbishop Thomas Becket. Archbishop of Canterbury I, ed. and transl. Anne Duggan (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 2000. Herbert of Bosham, Vita Sancti Thomae, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, ed. James C. Robertson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol. 3, London 1877, 155–534. John of Salisbury, episcopi Carnotensis Policratici sive de nugis curialium et vestigiis philosophorum libri VIII, ed. Clemens C. L. Webb, vol. ii, London 1909. John of Salisbury, Policraticus, transl. Cary J. Nederman (Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought), Cambridge 1990. John of Salisbury, Vita Sancti Thomae, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, ed. James C. Robertson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol 2, London 1875, 299–323. The Letters of John of Salisbury vol. I: The Early Letters, ed. William. J. Millor/Harold E. Butler/ Christopher N. L. Brooke (Oxford Medieval Texts), London 1955. The Lives of Thomas Becket. Selected Sources, ed. and transl. Michael Staunton, Manchester 2001. Ordericus Vitalis, Historia Ecclesiastica, ed. and transl. Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford Medieval Texts), 6 vol., Oxford 1978–1980. Thomas von Froidmont, Vita et passio Sancti Thomae, ed. Paul G. Schmidt (Schriften der Wissenschaftlichen Gesellschaft an der Johann Wolfgang Goethe-Universität Frankfurt am Main 8), Stuttgart 1991. Das Urkundenbuch des Hochstifts Hildesheim und seiner Bischöfe Teilband I, ed. Karl Janicke (Publikationen aus den königlich–preußischen Staatsarchiven 65), Leipzig 1896.

41 Tillmann Struve, Die Entwicklung der organologischen Staatsauffassung im Mittelalter, Stuttgart 1978, 63.

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William Fitzstephen, Vita Sancti Thomae, in: Materials for the History of Thomas Becket, ed. James C. Robertson (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 67), vol. 3, London 1877, 1–154.

Bibliography Frank Barlow, Thomas Becket, London 1986. Peter A. Berger, Soziale Mobilität, in: Bernhard Schäfers/Wolfgang Zapf (eds.), Handwörterbuch zur Gesellschaft Deutschlands, Opladen 2001, 595–605. Anne Duggan, Thomas Becket, London 2004. Walter Föhl, Studien zu Rainald von Dassel I, in: Jahrbuch des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 17 (1935), 234–259; Teil II, in: Jahrbuch des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 20 (1938), 238–260. Hans-Werner Goetz, Gott und die Welt. Religiöse Vorstellungen des frühen und hohen Mittelalters, Teil I, Band 1: Das Gottesbild (Orbis mediaevalis Vorstellungwelten des Mittelalters 13.1), Berlin 2011. Werner Grebe, Studien zur geistigen Welt Rainalds von Dassel, in: Gunter Wolf (ed.), Friedrich Barbarossa, Darmstadt 1975, 245–296. Werner Grebe, Rainald von Dassel als Reichskanzler Friedrich Barbarossas (1156–1159), in: Jahrbuch des Kölnischen Geschichtsvereins 49 (1978), 49–74. Judith Green, The Government of England under Henry I (Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought 4th series 3), Cambridge 1986. Martin Groß, Klassen, Schichten, Mobilität. Eine Einführung (Studienskripten zur Soziologie), Wiesbaden 2008. Charles W. Hollister, The Rise of Administrative Kingship: Henry I, in: Idem (ed.): Monarchy, magnates and institutions in the Anglo-Norman world, London 1986, 223–245. Hagen Keller, Ordnungsvorstellungen, Erfahrungshorizonte und Welterfassung im kulturellen Wandel des 12./13. Jahrhunderts, in: Bernd Schneidmüller/Stefan Weinfurter (eds.), Ordnungskonfigurationen im Hohen Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 64), Ostfildern 2006, 257–278. Helmuth Kluger, Friedrich Barbarossa und sein Ratgeber Rainald von Dassel, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 26–40. Helmuth Kluger, Reinald von Dassel (1120–1167). Reichskanzler – Erzbischof von Köln – Erzkanzler für Italien, in: Karlheinz Gierden (Hg.), Das Rheinland. Wiege Europas. Eine Spurensuche von Agrippina bis Adenauer, Köln 2011, S. 107–130. Niklas Luhmann, Die Gesellschaft der Gesellschaft II, Frankfurt a. Main 9th edn. 2015. Philippa Maddern, Social Mobility, in: Rosemary Horrox/Mark W. Ormrod (edd.), A Social History of England 1200–1500, Cambridge 2006, 113–133. Michael Staunton, Thomas Becket and his Biographers, Suffolk 2006. Tillmann Struve, Die Entwicklung der organologischen Staatsauffassung im Mittelalter, Stuttgart 1978. Hugh M. Thomas, The Secular Clergy in England. 1066–1216, Oxford 2014.

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Hans Georg Trüper, Ritter und Knappen zwischen Weser und Elbe: Die Ministerialität des Erzstifts Bremen (Schriftenreihe des Landschaftsverbandes der ehemaligen Herzogtümer Bremen und Verden 45), Stade 2nd edn. 2015. Hubertus Zummach, Ruina Mundi! Rainald von Dassel des Heiligen Römischen Reiches Erz- und Reichskanzler, Holzminden 2007.

Andrea Stieldorf

Das Bild des Königs. Siegel und Münzen der Staufer und Anjou-Plantagenêt im Vergleich

Abstract The picture on the seals of kings and emperors was understood by contemporaries to be an imago transporting several ideas concepts? Although the influence of the ruler himself on the composition of the seals and coins can only be made plausible by some examples, the arrangement of the pictures on the seals shows a clear image that represented the presence of the ruler. The Great seals of the English kings used for solemn charters were double seals with the enthroned king on one side and an equestrian seal on the other side. Although, traditionally it has been maintained that the mounted knight stands for the duchy of Normandy and the enthroned ruler for England, the absence of equestrian seals from the duchy before 1066 as well as the usage of this symbol by English kings who did not hold Normandy, and the connection to the side with the enthroned king that is made in the circumscriptions, it stands to reason that the mounted warrior rather than standing for the duchy, alludes to the military function of the king as a conqueror and a defender of his people. Comparing the crowns of the English and German rulers, and the other insignia of power like sword and sceptre depicted on the seals, it becomes clear that the German rulers not only used the imagery on the majestic seals to imitate (and separate themselves from) Byzantium, but also to allude to their status as the supreme ruler who got his office directly by god. The royal crowns on English seals and the insignia stress the function and not the status. As for coins the insignia are quite different: The English kings used the royal bust to validate the coins, while in Germany the coinage could actually imitate the coins of the great barons of the realm. The image of the mounted knight that did not occur on seals, thus could be used on coins. In both cases the images on coins and seals although superficially similar could be used to transport very different ideas in different settings.

1.

Einleitung

Thronbilder zählen zu den bekanntesten und wohl auch verbreitetsten Motiven, in denen sich mittelalterliche Herrscher abbilden ließen. Aber worauf zielten diese Darstellungen genau? Und: meinten die einzelnen Könige und Kaiser damit auch jeweils dasselbe? Diesen Fragen soll am Beispiel von Münzen und

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Siegeln der englischen Könige und der staufischen Kaiser und Könige vor allem im 12. und beginnenden 13. Jahrhundert nachgegangen werden. Die Siegel englischer und deutscher Herrscher des Mittelalters weisen einige Gemeinsamkeiten auf: Sie wurden nicht als einfache Bilder aufgefasst, sondern als Bilder mit besonderem Gehalt. Im Deutschen kann man das nicht gut differenziert ausdrücken, aber im Englischen gibt es dafür wie im Lateinischen die Begriffe imago und pictura bzw. image und picture. Bei den Siegeln haben wir es mit ,images‘ zu tun. Tatsächlich werden die Siegel der deutschen Kaiser und Könige in manchen Urkunden ausdrücklich als figura nostrae imaginis, also als Bild unseres Abbildes, angekündigt.1 Otto II. befiehlt beispielsweise, eine Urkunde mit seinem Abbild zu besiegeln, er verweist also nicht direkt auf das Objekt Siegel, sondern auf das Siegelbild. Richard of Ely benutzte in seinem Werk über den Exchequer ebenfalls den Begriff imago, als er sich zu den Siegeln der englischen Könige äußerte: Danach sollte das königliche Siegel dasselbe Abbild (imago) und auch dieselbe Umschrift wie das Siegel des königlichen Hofes aufweisen, so dass beide Siegel gleichermaßen als von befehlender, königlicher Autorität anerkannt würden; außerdem sollten diejenigen als gleichermaßen schuldig angesehen werden, die einem der beiden Siegel nicht gehorchten.2 1 Die Urkunden Ottos II., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 2, 1), Hannover 1888, hier DOII. 244: Et ut he˛c nostra imperialis auctoritas firmior teneatur et inconvulse ab omnibus maiori diligentia observetur, manu propria roborantes pre˛sentem paginam figura nostre˛ imaginis supter signari iussimus. Vgl. ferner : Die Urkunden Arnolfs, ed. Paul Kehr (MGH Diplomata regum Germaniae ex stirpe Karolinorum 3), Berlin 1940, hier DArn. 25: anuloque imaginis nostrae iussimus insigniri; Die Urkunden Konrads I., Heinrichs I. und Ottos I., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 1), Hannover 1879–1884, hier DKoI. 24: nostre˛que imaginis sigillo; Die Urkunden Heinrichs II. und Arduins, ed. Harry Bresslau et al. (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 3), Hannover 1900–1903, hier DHII. 6: Et ut haec nostrae traditionis auctoritas stabilis et inconvulsa permaneat, manu propria [e]am roborarentes et sigillari nostra imagine iussimus; Die Urkunden Heinrichs IV., ed. Dietrich von Gladiss/Alfred Gawlik (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 6), Hannover 1941–1977, hier DHIV. 427: corroborat imperialis imaginacio nostri sigilli et decorat; Die Urkunden Friedrichs I. 1152–1190, ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10, 1–5), Hannover 1975–1990, hier DFI. 53: per sigillum expressa nostri vultus imaginatio. 2 Richard FitzNeal, Dialogus de Scaccario, ed. Charles Johnson (Nelson’s Medieval Classics), Oxford 1950, 62: Expressam autem habet imaginem et inscriptionem cum deambulatorio curie sigillo, ut par cognoscatur utrobique iubentis auctoritas et reus similiter iudicetur pro hoc et pro illo qui secus egerit. Der Ramsey Chronicler (um 1170) spricht von einem ,two faced image of duplicity‘ (Michael T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record, London 3. Aufl. 2013, 312), vgl. Chronicon abbatiæ Rameseiensis, a saec. X. usque ad an. circiter 1200: in quatuor partibus, ed. W. Dunn Macray (Rerum Britannicarum medii ævi scriptores. Rolls series 83), London 1886 (ND 1966), 65: Notandum vero quod nullis eædem scedulæ sigillorum impressionibus sunt munitæ, quia, videlicet, inversivas hujusmodi figurarum facies, quæ crescenti cum dierum malitia astutæ hominum calliditati nostris nunc temporibus opponuntur, simplex illa antiquitas non habebat.

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Tatsächlich stand die Zerstörung eines herrscherlichen Siegels unter Strafe, weil man darin eine Missachtung des Herrschers sah. So wurden die Konsuln von Mailand 1153 mit diplomatischer Missachtung bestraft, nachdem sie 1153 ein Schreiben Friedrich Barbarossas mitsamt dem Siegel zerstörten.3 Das Konzept, dass mit den Siegelbildern zugleich Vorstellungen und Ideen vermittelt würden, – denn das steht, stark verkürzt, hinter dem Begriff imago – war den Zeitgenossen folglich vertraut.4 Welche Vorstellungen dies genauer waren, lässt sich Siegelankündigungen in Urkunden seit Otto III. entnehmen. Diese kündigen immer wieder das Siegel, welches den König bzw. Kaiser thronend zeigt, als sigillum maiestatis an, also ausdrücklich als Majestätssiegel – ein Begriff, der noch heute in der Siegelkunde für diesen Siegeltyp verwendet wird.5 Auch diese Terminologie verdeutlicht, dass es bei den Siegelbildern um mehr ging, als um die Abbildung einer Person: Die Herrschersiegel sollten mit dem mit Insignien und besonderer Kleidung ausgestatteten Körper des Königs zugleich dessen Herrschergewalt und Autorität verkörpern. In diese Richtung deutet auch der Vergleich des Gervase of Canterbury in seiner Chronik der englischen Könige des 12. Jahrhunderts zwischen dem Great Seal und dem kleineren Privy Seal. Er betont, dass auch das kleine Siegel mit der königlichen Majestät bezeichnet sei, die die Angelegenheiten des Reiches mit ihrem Zeichen versehen müsse.6 Die Abbildungen der englischen wie deutschen Könige auf ihren Siegeln wurden folglich als Zeichen oder viel-

3 Vgl. Knut Görich, Missachtung und Zerstörung von Brief und Siegel, in: Gabriela Signori (ed.), Das Siegel. Gebrauch und Bedeutung, Darmstadt 2007, 121–126. 4 Vgl. Lutz Lippold, Macht des Bildes – Bild der Macht. Kunst zwischen Verehrung und Zerstörung bis zum ausgehenden Mittelalter, Leipzig 1993, 204, 209–219, 222–224; Inka Moilanen, The Construction of Images. Representation of Kingship in the Historiography of Early Medieval Britain, in: Marko Lamberg et al. (edd.), Methods and the Medievalist. Current Approaches in Medieval Studies, Newcastle-upon-Tyne 2008, 70–85; Gerald Schwedler, Das Angesicht des Herrschers. Frühmittelalterliche Beispiele von Fehlen und Vorhandensein bildlicher Repräsentation im Vergleich, in: Wolfram Drews/Jenny Rahel Oesterle (edd.), Transkulturelle Komparatistik. Beiträge zu einer Globalgeschichte der Vormoderne, Leipzig 2008 (= Comparativ. Zeitschrift für Globalgeschichte und vergleichende Gesellschaftsforschung 18 [2008]), 108–118. 5 Vgl. z. B. DDFI. 602, 730; siehe auch Wilhelm Ewald, Siegelkunde (Handbuch der mittelalterlichen und Neueren Geschichte, Abt. IV), München/Berlin 1914 (ND Darmstadt 1975), 188f. Anm. 2. 6 Thomas Frederick Tout, Chapters in the Administrative History of Mediaeval England. The Wardrobe, the Chamber and the Small Seals, Bd. I, Manchester 1920 (ND 1967), 148f. mit Anm. 1 (148) und 2 (149) nach Gervasius von Canterbury, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii ævi scriptores. Rolls series 73, 1), London 1879 (ND 1965), 509: sigillum parvum regia tamen majestate signatum, quo regni negotia debuerant insigniri. Vgl. Pierre Chaplais, English Royal Documents. King John – Henry VI. 1199–1461, Oxford 1971, 24.

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leicht sogar als Verkörperungen des Königtums angesehen.7 Diese Anmutung von herrscherlicher Autorität, von Majestät wurde noch dadurch verstärkt, dass die Siegel den Eindruck erweckten, der frontal dargestellte Herrscher mit seinen meist vergrößert gearbeiteten Augen wäre dem Betrachter unmittelbar zugewandt und würde ihn direkt anblicken.8 Doch weder die Herrschaftskonzeption noch die Art, sie visuell umzusetzen, waren eine Erfindung der Staufer oder der Anjou-PlantagenÞt. In beiden Fällen war die Typologie des herrscherlichen Siegelbildes von den jeweiligen Vorgängern bereits seit längerem festgelegt.9 Freilich sind Modifikationen zu beobachten, die durchaus Rückschlüsse auf unsere Fragestellung nach der Bedeutung des Herrscherbildes zulassen. Wir wissen freilich nicht genau, ob das Bild des Königs tatsächlich auf ihn selbst zurückgeht, da es nur wenige Quellenstellen gibt, die Hinweise darauf geben. So bat Friedrich Barbarossa bald nach seiner Thronerhebung Wibald, Abt von Stablo und Corvey, die Stempel für sein Siegel ebenso wie für seine Goldbulle zu beschaffen. Wibald, der zuvor schon in der Kanzlei von Friedrichs Onkel und Vorgänger König Konrad III. tätig gewesen war, überliefert uns diese Informationen in seiner Briefsammlung.10 Danach beauftragte Wibald wiederum einen 7 Vgl. Hella Frühmorgen-Voss, Text und Illustration im Mittelalter. Aufsätze zu den Wechselbeziehungen zwischen Literatur und bildender Kunst (Münchener Texte und Untersuchungen zur deutschen Literatur des Mittelalters 50), München 1975, 62–67; Adolf Reinle, Das stellvertretende Bildnis. Plastiken und Gemälde von der Antike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert, Zürich/München 1984, 70, 106–109. 8 Vgl. Hagen Keller, Ottonische Herrschersiegel. Beobachtungen und Fragen zu Gestalt und Aussage und zur Funktion im historischen Kontext, in: Konrad Krimm/Herwig John (edd.), Bild und Geschichte. Studien zur politischen Ikonographie. Festschrift für Hansmartin Schwarzmaier zum fünfundsechzigsten Geburtstag, Sigmaringen 1997, 3–51, bes. 9–15, 19, 37f. 9 Vgl. Hagen Keller, Zu den Siegeln der Karolinger und Ottonen. Urkunden als Hoheitszeichen in der Kommunikation des Herrschers mit seinen Getreuen, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 32 (1998), 400–441 sowie den Überblick zur Entwicklung der Herrschersiegel von Otto Posse, Die Siegel der deutschen Kaiser und Könige von 751 bis 1913, 5 Bde., Dresden 1909–1913, hier Bd. 5, 151–161. Im Rahmen des SFB 1167 ,Macht und Herrschaft. Vormoderne Konfigurationen in transkultureller Perspektive‘ entsteht beim Teilprojekt 22 ,Bilder vom König‘ derzeit eine Dissertation über die Siegel der fränkischen–deutschen Herrscher zwischen 936 und 1254 von Mareikje Mariak. 10 Vgl. Josef Deér, Die Siegel Kaiser Friedrichs I. Barbarossa und Heinrichs VI. in der Kunst und Politik ihrer Zeit, in: Judith Beer/Paul Hofer/Luc Mojon (edd.), Festschrift Hans R. Hahnloser zum 60. Geburtstag 1959, Bern 1961, 47–102, hier 9–10, 22–25 mit Bezug auf: Wibald von Stablo, Briefbuch, ed. Martina Hartmann nach Vorarbeiten von Heinz Zatschek und Timothy Reuter, 3 Teile (MGH Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit 9, 1–3), Hannover 2012, hier Teil 2, Nr. 350, 731f., Teil 3, Nr. 351, 733–736; weiterhin Ewald 1914, 79–81; Irmgard Fees, Friedrich Barbarossa in seinen Siegeln, in: Knut Görich/Romedio Schmitz–Esser (edd.), Barbarossabilder. Entstehungskontexte, Erwartungshorizonte, Verwendungszusammenhänge, Regensburg 2014, 60–74, hier 65–67; Irmgard Fees, Die Siegel und Bullen Kaiser Friedrichs I. Barbarossa, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 61 (2015), 95–132, hier 107–113.

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Goldschmied, der in der Umgebung von Aachen tätig war, mit der Herstellung der Siegelstempel. Doch leider geben die Briefe nicht zu erkennen, wer letztendlich das Siegelbild selbst bestimmte: der König, der Goldschmied oder eben Wibald. Immerhin bat Barbarossa Wibald in einem weiteren Brief einige Jahre später darum, einen Siegelstempel für seine junge Frau Beatrix, die neue Kaiserin, fertigen zu lassen.11 Und darin beauftragte er Wibald, den Stempel so gestalten zu lassen, wie es ihm, Wibald, richtig erscheine. Möglicherweise war Wibald in gleicher Weise für die Siegel des Königs selbst verantwortlich gewesen – endgültig belegen lässt sich dies freilich nicht. In England wiederum erhielt König Heinrichs II. gleichnamiger Sohn Heinrich sein Siegel auf Anordnung des Vaters, nachdem er 1170 bereits zu dessen Lebzeiten gekrönt worden war. In unserem Zusammenhang ist es immerhin eine interessante Anekdote, dass der junge König nach seiner Rebellion 1173 gegen den Vater diesem das Siegel zurückgeben musste, und dass ihm daraufhin König Ludwig VII. von Frankreich, mit dem sich der jüngere Heinrich verbündet hatte, ein neues Siegel verschaffte, welches aber nur historiographisch erwähnt wird.12 Des Weiteren wissen wir, dass König Heinrich III. von England in den Prozess eingebunden war, in dessen Verlauf der Goldschmied William of Gloucester ihm sein zweites, 1259 eingeführtes Siegel gestaltete.13 11 Wibald von Stablo, Briefbuch, Teil 3, Nr. 429, 891–893. Vgl. Carl A. Willemsen, Die Bildnisse der Staufer. Versuch einer Bestandsaufnahme (Schriften zur staufischen Geschichte und Kunst 4), Göppingen 1977, 128f.; Deér 1961, 92; Percy Ernst Schramm, Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit. 751–1190, ed. Florentine Mütherich, München 1983, 128; Andrea Stieldorf, Rheinische Frauensiegel. Zur rechtlichen und sozialen Stellung weltlicher Frauen im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert (Rheinisches Archiv 142), Köln/Wien 1999, 40f. 12 Vgl. Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, Suger and the Symbolism of Royal Power : The Seal of Louis VII, in: Dies., Form and Order in Medieval France. Studies in Social and Quantitative Sigillography (Variorum Collected Studies Series 424), Aldershot 1993, V, 1–18, hier 3–8; John Smith, Henry II’s Heir. The Acta and Seals of Henry the Young King, 1170–83, in: English Historical Review 116 (2001), 297–326, hier 299, 304, 306 mit Bezug auf [Roger of Howden], Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii ævi scriptores. Rolls series 49), 2 Bde., London 1867 (ND 1965), hier Bd. 1, 6: et dimisit in Angliam novum regem filium suum, cui concessit facere in Anglia omnes rectitudines et justitias, per sigillum novum, quod rex ei fieri præcepit. Ebd., 43: et statim fecit fieri ei novum sigillum, per quod ille subscriptas donationes confirmavit. Nach Smith 2001, 304 gibt es keinerlei Hinweise auf Aussehen und Verwendung des durch Ludwig VII. beschafften Siegels. 13 Vgl. Walter de Gray Birch, Catalogue of Seals in the Department of Manuscripts in the British Museum, Bd. 1, London 1887, 15–19 Nr. 101–131, bes. Nr. 118; Alfred Benjamin Wyon/Allan Wyon, The Great Seals of England. From the Earliest Period to the Present Time, Arranged and Illustrated with Descriptive and Historical Notes, London 1887, 22–26 Nr. 43–44; Kate Norgate, The Minority of Henry the Third, London 1912, 73, 102f., 113–115; John Steane, The Archaeology of the Medieval English Monarchy, London 1993, 24; Matthias Ehrhardt, Freiheit im Bild. Zu den Herrscherbildern unter Roger II. von Sizilien und ihren Auftrag-

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So lässt sich, wenngleich mit Einschränkungen, sagen, dass die Siegelbilder uns tatsächlich einen Eindruck von den Vorstellungen des jeweiligen Königs oder Kaisers (und seines Umfeldes) hinsichtlich seiner Herrschaft verschaffen. Ähnliches ist für die Münzbilder anzunehmen, da Richard of Ely erläuterte, dass alle Münzen des Reiches mit dem Bild (imago) des Königs geprägt sein müssten.14 Bei der Verwendung des Herrscherbildes ging es vorrangig um die Vermittlung von Herrschaftskonzepten, die die jeweilige königliche Autorität begründeten.

2.

Die Siegel der englischen Könige

Die englischen Könige verwendeten seit der Zeit Eduard des Bekenners Münzoder Doppelsiegel, also Siegel, die von beiden Seiten mit gleich großen Stempeln geprägt waren.15 Eduard hatte ein Münzsiegel geführt, das ihn auf beiden Seiten thronend darstellt,16 mit jeweils unterschiedlichen Insignien: auf der Vorderseite vermutlich ein langes Zepter mit einer Lilienbekrönung und einen Reichsapfel, und ein langes Zepter mit einem Vogel sowie ein Schwert auf der Rückseite.17 Auf beiden Seiten des Siegels bezeichnete er sich als Anglorum basileus und nahm

14 15

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17

gebern (AUTORIS academics 1), München 2012, 18, 112, 124f. Zur Herstellung von Heinrichs III. drittem Siegel vgl. John G. Noppen, William of Gloucester, Goldsmith to King Henry III, in: The Burlington Magazine for Connaisseurs 51 (1927), 189–195; John Cherry, Medieval Goldsmiths, London 2011, 22. Richard FitzNeal, Dialogus, 12: Cum ergo quelibet moneta regni huius impressam habere debeat regis imaginem et ad idem pondus omnes monetarii teneantur operari qualiter fieri potest ut non omne eorum eiusdem ponderis sit? Ein Siegel Haralds II. ist nicht erhalten, es ist aber nicht völlig ausgeschlossen, dass er eines geführt hat; vgl. Barbara English, The Coronation of Harold in the Bayeux Tapestry, in: Pierre Bouet/Brian Levy/FranÅois Neveux (edd.), The Bayeux Tapestry. Embroidering the Facts of History. Proceedings of the Cerisy Colloquium (1999), Caen 2008, 47–381, hier 351–354. Wyon/Wyon 1887, 3–5 Nr. 5 und 6, Nr. 7 und 8, Nr. 9 und 10 mit Abbildungen Taf. I;i mittlerweile gilt nur noch der zweite Stempel (Nr. 5 und 6) als authentisch. Abbildung der Thronseite mit Vogelzepter und Schwert auch bei Anne Lynn Jones, From Anglorum Basileus to Norman Saint: The Transformation of Edward the Confessor, in: The Haskins Society Journal 12 (2003), 99–120, hier 104 Abb. 4; Birch Bd. 1, 1887, 3 Nr. 12, 13. Ein Abdruck des Siegels befindet sich u. a. an einer auf etwa 1050 datierten Urkunde: London, British Library, Campbell Charter XX1.5, abgebildet in: George Zarnecki/Janet Holt/Tristram Holland (edd.), English Romanesque Art 1066–1200. Hayward Gallery, London 5 April–8 July 1984, London 1984, 301 Nr. 328. Vgl. mit Diskussion der älteren Literatur Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, The King Enthroned. A New Theme in Anglo-Saxon Royal Iconography. The Seal of Edward the Confessor and its Political Implications, in: Dies. 1993, IV, 53–88. Vgl. hierzu Bedos-Rezak 1993, IV. Der einzige erhaltene echte Abdruck ist schwer beschädigt, und bei den Fälschungen des 12. Jahrhunderts bleibt unklar, ob sie auf authentische Abdrucke anderer Stempel zurückgehen.

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damit Bezug auf den byzantinischen Herrschertitel, der allerdings schon im 10. Jahrhundert für kurze Zeit als Vorbild für den englischen Königstitel gedient hatte.18 Auch mit dem Schwert griff Eduard auf Byzanz zurück: während diese Insignie in der Ikonographie angelsächsischer Könige bis zu diesem Zeitpunkt kaum eine Rolle gespielt hatte, wurde sie in Byzanz seit der Mitte des 11. Jahrhunderts verwendet. Auch die Zweiseitigkeit des Siegels gibt imperiale Bezüge zu erkennen, denn die Bullen, also Metallsiegel, der byzantinischen Kaiser waren naturgemäß zweiseitig, ebenso wie die Bullen der römisch-deutschen Könige. Wilhelm der Eroberer griff die Doppelseitigkeit des englischen Herrschersiegels auf: Auf der einen Seite zeigt sein Siegel den bekrönten König auf seinem Thron, offenbar eine Steinbank ohne Rückenlehne, wohl aber mit einem Sitzkissen, wobei er ein Schwert und einen von einem Kreuz überhöhten Reichsapfel als königliche Insignien in den Händen hält.19 Auf der anderen Seite aber wechselte er das Motiv und anstelle der Throndarstellung findet sich dort der König als berittener Krieger, wobei die Kleidung oder Rüstung nicht mehr gut zu erkennen ist, nach links reitend, wobei er in der rechten Hand eine Fahnenlanze als Zeichen seiner militärischen Anführerschaft hält und in der linken seinen Schild, auf dessen Innenseite man gut den Griff erkennen kann, durch den der König seine Hand steckt. Von der Rüstung kann man auf diesem Abdruck vor allem noch den Helm erkennen. Die Reiterdarstellung wird für gewöhnlich als visuelle Repräsentation von Wilhelms auch nach der Eroberung Englands 1066 fortbestehender Herzogsherrschaft in der Normandie gedeutet, zumal auch die Umschrift auf die Normandie verweist. Dagegen spricht freilich, dass kein Siegel Wilhelms als Herzog der Normandie aus der Zeit vor der Eroberung erhalten ist. Da Wilhelms Vor18 Vgl. Bedos-Rezak 1993, IV, 65. 19 Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum. The acta of William I. (1066–1087), ed. David Bates, Oxford 1998, 11–22, 104–105. Insgesamt wurden nach 1066 nur wenige Urkunden Wilhelms für die Normandie besiegelt, da dort zahlreiche andere Beglaubigungsformen ebenfalls verbreitet waren. Eine dieser Urkunden bezieht das Siegel ausdrücklich auf die Autorität des Königs: Nr. 144 (Abtei La Trinit8, F8camp, 1085): signo sancte˛ crucis et sigillo meo cum regali auctoritate confirmo (hierzu auch ebd. 103–105). Receuil des actes des ducs de Normandie de 915 / 1066, ed. Marie Fauroux, Caen 1961, 45–47 erwähnt, dass nur noch zwei Siegel normannischer Herzöge erhalten seien, wobei das Richards II. den Herzog als Halbfigur mit Schild und Lanze zeige. – Zum Siegel vgl. Wyon/Wyon 1887, 5–7 Nr. 11–14 mit Abbildungen Taf. II; Birch Bd. 1, 1887, 3–5 Nr. 15–21; Thomas Alexander Heslop, English Seals from the Mid-ninth Century to 1100, in: Journal of the British Archaeological Association 133 (1980), 1–16, hier 10f.; Clanchy 2013, 313. Abbildungen finden sich z. B. in Paul D. A. Harvey/ Andrew McGuinness, A Guide to British Medieval Seals, London 1996, 28 nach dem Abguss eines Abdrucks von 1069 (London, British Library, Doubleday Casts A 11,12). – In Ermangelung eines vollständigen, modernen Kataloges der englischen Herrschersiegel sei auf folgende Website hingewiesen: http://www.mernick.org.uk/seals/english.htm (19. 05. 2017), die Abbildungen der Siegel ab Wilhelm dem Eroberer nach Fotografien und Nachzeichnungen bietet.

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gänger Herzog Richard II. von der Normandie ein Siegel führte, das ihn stehend mit Lanze und Schild zeigt, kann nicht sicher nachgewiesen werden, ob ein Herzogssiegel Wilhelms, wenn er eines gehabt hätte, eine Reiterdarstellung gezeigt haben könnte. Auch sonst scheint es keine Vorlage für dieses Siegelbild zu geben – offenbar ist Wilhelms Reitersiegel das erste seiner Art.20 Ein weiteres Argument gegen den ausschließlichen Bezug von Wilhelms Reiterdarstellung auf die Herzogswürde der Normandie ist die Beobachtung, dass sein Münzsiegel nur an fünf Urkunden für normannische Empfänger angebracht wurde und es in all diesen Fällen um englische Betreffe ging, wie überhaupt nur sehr wenige der Urkunden Wilhelms als König für die Normandie besiegelt wurden. Weil in diesen wenigen Fällen in der Siegelankündigung explizit das Siegel als Ausdruck königlicher Autorität benannt wurde, muss man aufgrund der allgemeinen Überlieferungslage doch eher annehmen, dass Wilhelms Siegel nicht oder nicht nur geschaffen wurde, um Normannen in der Normandie zu beindrucken. Wenn man die Reiterdarstellung dennoch auf die Normandie beziehen möchte – immerhin wird Wilhelm auf dieser Seite als patronus, also als Schutzherr der Normannen, bezeichnet, so kann man argumentieren, dass das Reiterbild den militärischen Erfolg Wilhelms visualisierte, den die Herzogsherrschaft in der Normandie ihm erst ermöglichte. Das wiederum könnte erklären, warum diese Seite, wie die Umschriften von Wilhelms Königssiegel zu erkennen geben, als Vorderseite des Siegels angelegt war, und damit im Rang vor der Throndarstellung rangierte, die als Rückseite des Siegels konzipiert war. Denn die Umschrift besagt, ,so wie Wilhelm der Schutzherr der Normannen bekannt ist / so soll er durch diese Zeichen den Angeln als König bekannt sein‘. Allerdings änderte dies Wilhelms Sohn Wilhelm II. Rufus, der nur das Königreich England, aber nicht die Normandie erbte: Er benutzte den Titel des rex anglorum für beide Seiten seines Siegels, für das er sowohl die Throndarstellung als auch die Reiterdarstellung beibehielt.21 Er wechselte also nicht zurück zu Verwendung zweier Throndarstellungen, wie bei Eduard dem Bekenner. Spätestens jetzt war die Reiterseite aus dem Zusammenhang mit der Normandie 20 Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, The Social Implications of the Art of Chivalry : The Sigillographic Evidence (France 1050–1250), in: Dies (ed.), Form and Order in Medieval France. Studies in Social and Quantitative Sigillography (Variorum Collected Studies Series 424), Aldershot 1993, VI, 1–31, hier 15, weist auf ein Reitersiegel des 1067 verstorbenen Grafen Balduin von Flandern hin, das aber wohl nicht echt ist. Sein Sohn Robert der Friese rezipierte bereits Wilhelms Siegel; vgl. Jean-FranÅois Nieus, Early Aristocratic Seals. An Anglo-Norman Success Story, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 38 (2016), 97–123, hier 103. 21 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 7–9 Nr. 15 und 16 mit Abbildungen Taf. II; Birch Bd. 1, 1887, 5 Nr. 22. Auch Heinrich III. kehrte nach 1259 zur Verwendung einer Umschrift für beide Seiten zurück.

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gelöst. Dies gilt auch für seinen Bruder und Nachfolger Heinrich I., der zunächst fünf Siegel führte, die dem des Vorgängers ähnelten.22 1106 besiegte Heinrich seinen anderen Bruder Robert Curthose, den Herzog der Normandie, und zählte nun neben England auch die Normandie wieder zu seiner Herrschaft. Auf seinem sechsten Siegel führte er darum nicht nur den Titel eines englischen Königs, sondern auch eines Herzogs der Normandie, den er nun wieder mit der Reiterseite verband; vermutlich in diesem Zusammenhang wird zudem die Fahnenlanze durch ein gezücktes Schwert ersetzt – eine traditionsbildende Innovation für die Reiterseite.23 Tatsächlich belegen aber das Siegel Wilhelm Rufus’ und die ersten fünf Siegel Heinrichs I., dass sie in der Reiterdarstellung keinen speziellen Bezug zur Normandie sahen. Wahrscheinlicher ist, dass der berittene Krieger mit dem gezückten Schwert in der rechten Hand mittlerweile andere, allgemeinere Assoziationen hervorrief, da es ein weitverbreitetes Motiv auf den Siegeln europäischer Hochadeliger seit der zweiten Hälfte des 11. Jahrhunderts war.24 Aber die Siegel der römisch-deutschen Könige und Kaiser zeigen das Bild des berittenen Kriegers nicht, zudem verwendeten sie im Unterschied zu den englischen Königen keine Münzsiegel, sondern einseitig geprägte Siegel, zumindest wenn es sich um Wachssiegel handelte.25 Die Blei- oder Goldbullen der deutschen Herrscher waren durchaus doppelseitig geprägt; auf diese wird noch kurz einzugehen sein. 22 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 9–12 Nr. 17–22 mit Abbildungen Taf. III. Das Siegel mit erneutem Verweis auf die Normandie hier Nr. 23 und 24 mit Abbildungen Taf. IV; Birch Bd. 1, 1887, 5–7 Nr. 23–42; vgl. Walter de Gray Birch, The Great Seals of King Henry I, in: Journal of the British Archaeological Association 29 (1873), 233–262; Pierre Chaplais, The Seals and Original Charters of Henry I, in: Ders., Essays in Medieval Diplomacy and Administration, London 1981, XVII, 260–276, der sich auch mit der Echtheit der Urkunden, an denen diese Siegel befestigt waren, befasst. Zudem hat er eine andere Zuordnung als Wyon. 23 Vgl. Chaplais 1981, XVII, 264f., der hier vom vierten Siegel spricht, sowie den Appendix C mit den Nachweisen der mit diesem Siegel beglaubigten echten Urkunden. 24 Vgl. Bedos-Rezak 1993, VI, 5–13. Der berittene Krieger ist bereits in der ersten Hälfte des 11. Jahrhunderts auf den Münzen böhmischer Herzöge zu finden; vgl. Andrea Stieldorf, Hochadeliges Selbstverständnis in bildlichen Darstellungen bis 1200. Das Beispiel von Siegeln und Münzen, in: Jörg Peltzer (ed.), Rank and Order. The Formation of Aristocratic Elites in Western and Central Europe, 500–1500 (Rank. Politisch-soziale Ordnungen im mittelalterlichen Europa 4), Ostfildern 2015, 201–229. Nach Chaplais 1971, 3 ist Heinrich II. der erste englische König, der den Reiterkrieger als Repräsentation seiner kontinentalen Würden (Herzog von Aquitanien, Herzog der Normandie, Graf von Anjou) ansah. Johann verwendete den Titel eines Herrn von Irland. 25 Philipp von Schwaben und Heinrich (VII.) verwendeten als Herzöge von Schwaben ein Reitersiegel; vgl. Posse Bd. 1, 1909, Taf. 24, Nr. 3 (Philipp), Taf. 31, Nr. 1 (Henrich); Reiner Hausherr (ed.), Die Zeit der Staufer. Geschichte – Kunst – Kultur. Katalog der Ausstellung zum Anlaß des 25jährigen Bestehens des Landes Baden-Württemberg vom 26. März bis 5. Juni 1977, 5 Bde., Stuttgart 1977–1979, hier Bd. 1, 48–49 Nr. 73 sowie Bd. 2, Abb. 21 (Heinrich).

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Sowohl die englischen als auch die deutschen Könige verwendeten Majestätssiegel mit der Darstellung des thronenden Königs. Die englischen Könige sitzen dabei auf einem Thron ohne Arm- und Rückenlehne, der möglicherweise dem geschmückten Sitz in der Westminster Abbey entsprach, bis Eduard I. in den 1290er Jahren den Krönungsstuhl einführte.26 Bereits das 1259 eingeführte zweite ‘Great Seal’ seines Vaters Heinrich III. zeigte keine Thronbank mehr, sondern einen Thronsessel mit hoher Rückenlehne.27 Die Throne auf den Siegeln der englischen Könige stellen also zumindest den Bezug her zu einem Throntyp, den die englischen Könige tatsächlich benutzten.28 Diese Verbindung zur Realität fehlt auf den Siegeln der römisch-deutschen Könige. Bis zum Beginn des 12. Jahrhunderts zeigen diese eine Thronbank, aber seit Konrad III., dem ersten staufischen Herrscher, einen Thronstuhl mit Rückenlehne. Dieser wird zunehmend mit Verzierungen ausgestattet und erhielt auch eine Fußbank bzw. steht auf einer Stufe, auf der die Füße des Königs ruhen. Die Einführung dieser neuen Thronform auf den Siegeln ist auf den Wunsch zurückzuführen, eine größere herrscherliche Würde zum Ausdruck zu bringen, und entspricht keinem der bekannten Throne, den die deutschen Könige und Kaiser tatsächlich benutzten.29 Bei den Kronen der englischen Könige handelt es sich in der Regel um Kronreifen mit drei, manchmal auch mehr Aufsätzen, meistens Dreiblätter oder Lilien, manchmal auch Kreuze.30 Bei den Kronen der deutschen Herrscher hingegen handelt es sich um geschlossene Kronenformen mit Bügeln und einem Kreuz als Abschluss.31 Seit Konrad III. verwendeten sie Pendilien wie die byzantinischen Kaiser. Diese Form einer imitatio imperii wurde nur in wenigen Siegeln aufgegriffen, auch wenn man sagen muss, dass Wilhelm der Eroberer eine Krone mit Pendilien zumindest auf seinen Münzen trug.32 Die Kronen der 26 Vgl. Steane 1993, 37; Odilo Engels/Georg Kreuzer, Thron, B. Mittelalterlicher Westen, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 8 (1997), 739f.; Bedos-Rezak 1993, V, 16–18. 27 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 25; Birch Bd. 1, 1887, 17 Nr. 118. Auf seinem dritten Siegel (1263–1264) verwendete Heinrich III. wieder eine Thronbank. 28 English 2008, 356–359 verweist auf byzantinische Münzen und die Siegel der Salier als Vorbilder für Eduards Thron. 29 Vgl. Posse Bd. 5, 1913, 24f.; Willemsen 1977, 8; Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, Stuttgart 1977, 20 Nr. 27; Schramm 1983, 127. 30 Auch die normannischen Könige verwendeten eine geschlossene Krone, wie sie auf dem Siegel Eduards des Bekenners zu sehen ist; unter Heinrich II. erfolgte dann der Übergang zur Lilienkrone; vgl. zu diesen Kronen Edward Twining, European Regalia, London 1967, 32–36, bes. 35. 31 Vgl. Twining 1967, 35, 39, 46. 32 Vgl. Walter J. Andrew, A Numismatic History of the Reign of Stephen. A.D 1135 to 1154 (2), in: British Numismatic Journal 8 (1911), 87–136, hier 121–127; Michael Dolley, The Norman Conquest and the English Coinage, London 1966, 16 Type I und II (Abb. 1 a und b); Steane 1993, 31f.; Sylloge of Coins of the British Isles, 55. Hermitage Museum St. Petersburg.

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deutschen Herrscher, unabhängig davon, ob sie Könige oder Kaiser waren, waren ringsum mit Edelsteinen besetzt. Es handelt sich in der Tendenz um imperiale Kronen und sie unterscheiden sich von den Kronen, wie sie auf den Siegeln der englischen Könige zu sehen sind.33 Neben den Thronen zeigen also auch die Kronen den Wunsch der Staufer, ihre imperiale Würde, ihren kaiserlichen honor, zu betonen, indem sie sich in ihrer Repräsentation an byzantinische Vorbilder anlehnten. Die Visualisierung der affinitas der staufischen Herrscher zu den byzantinischen Kaisern setzte mit Konrad III. ein, der seine Schwägerin Bertha von Sulzbach, nachdem er sie adoptiert hatte, mit Kaiser Manuel I. Komnenos verheiratete.34 Die visuelle Aufladung des Herrschersiegels wurde noch gesteigert unter seinem Neffen und Nachfolger Friedrich Barbarossa, auf dessen Siegeln als König und als Kaiser die Figur des Herrschers in Anlehnung an byzantinische Beispiele ausgestattet wurde: die Pendilien, die Ornamente der herrscherlichen Zeremonialgewänder oder auch die Art, wie die Augen des Herrschers gestaltet sind; zudem reichen die Insignien nun in die Umschrift hinein, was sie noch stärker betont.35 Die Betonung der Gleichrangigkeit zu Byzanz zeigt sich auch im Titel der Staufer, ergänzte die Kanzlei die intitulatio seit der Regierungszeit Konrads III. doch um das Epitheton augustus.36 Eine affinitas zu Byzanz war nach Eduard dem Bekenner nichts, was für die englischen Könige von Interesse war ; jedoch war sie

33

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Part IV: English, Irish and Scottish Coins, 1066–1485, ed. Marina Mucha, Oxford 2005, Taf. I mit dem Profile Cross Fleury Type (1066–1087), Two Stars Type (1074–1077), Paxs Type Taf. II und III (1083–1086). Vgl. Hermann Fillitz, Entstehung und Wandel der Kaiserkrone, in: Tobias Frese/Annette Hoffmann (edd.), Habitus. Norm und Transgression in Bild und Text. Festgabe für Lieselotte E. Saurma-Jeltsch, Berlin 2011, 259–264, der eine eindeutige Trennung von Kaiser- und Königskrone ablehnt, aber auf die Unterschiede zwischen den Pendilien der Krone und den Fanones der kaiserlichen Mitra hinweist; diese Unterscheidung sei auf den Bullen vor allem seit Friedrich I. wirksam geworden. Siehe auch Ders., Die Reichskleinodien: Entstehung und Geschichte, in: Matthias Puhle/Claus-Peter Hasse (edd.), Heiliges Römisches Reich Deutscher Nation 962 bis 1806. Von Otto dem Großen bis zum Ausgang des Mittelalters. Essays, Dresden 2006, 61–72, hier 62. Vgl. Wolfgang Georgi, Friedrich Barbarossa und die auswärtigen Mächte. Studien zur Außenpolitik 1159–1180 (Europäische Hochschulschriften, Reihe 3, 442), Frankfurt a. Main et. al. 1990, 8–27; Tobias Weller, Die Heiratspolitik des deutschen Hochadels im 12. Jahrhundert (Rheinisches Archiv 149), Köln/Weimar/Wien 2004, 33f., 59–84; Eleni Tounta, Byzanz als Vorbild Friedrich Barbarossas, in: Stefan Burkhardt et al. (edd.), Staufisches Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert. Konzepte – Netzwerke – politische Praxis, Regensburg 2010, 159–174; Karl-Heinz Ruess (Red.), Die Staufer und Byzanz, ed. Gesellschaft für staufische Geschichte e.V. (Schriften zur staufischen Geschichte und Kunst 33), Göppingen 2013. Vgl. Posse Bd. 5, 1913, 25; Deér 1961, bes. 13; Willemsen 1977, 10f.; Fees 2014, 60–74; Fees 2015, 122. Vgl. Rainer Maria Herkenrath, Regnum und Imperium. Das „Reich“ der frühstaufischen Kanzlei (1138–1155) (Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.-Hist. Klasse. Sitzungsberichte 264, 5), Wien 1969, 8–12, 32–34; Willemsen 1977, 16f.

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von erheblicher Bedeutung für die staufischen Herrscher, die in einem politischen wie Rangstreit mit Byzanz standen, nicht zuletzt auch, weil der byzantinische Kaiser ihre Gleichrangigkeit eben nicht anerkennen wollte. Dies hatte Barbarossa selbst recht eindrücklich erfahren müssen, als er sich im Gefolge seines Onkels während des zweiten Kreuzzuges 1147 in Byzanz aufhielt.37 Die ,Byzantinisierung‘ der Herrscherdarstellungen auf den staufischen Siegeln visualisierte freilich noch einen anderen Aspekt der staufischen Herrschaftskonzeption, wie ihn besonders Barbarossa propagierte: dass nämlich der deutsche König und römische Kaiser seine Autorität durch seine unmittelbare Einsetzung durch Gott erhielt. Und dieses Konzept beinhaltete zugleich die Unabhängigkeit der Herrscherwürde vom Papst. Da die byzantinischen Kaiser zu keinem Zeitpunkt päpstliche Superioritätsansprüche akzeptiert hatten, war ihre Art, sich selbst darzustellen, ein den Staufern zur Nachahmung geeignet scheinendes Modell.38 Sowohl die Gleichrangigkeit zu Byzanz als auch die Unabhängigkeit vom Papst dienten natürlich der legitimierenden Absicherung der staufischen Herrschaftsidee. Auf den Bullen der Staufer ist diese letztlich auf das Kaisertum abzielende Darstellung besonders deutlich zu erkennen. Waren diese ursprünglich aus Blei, so handelte es sich seit der Zeit Heinrichs IV. um Gold bzw. Goldauflagen – also dem kaiserlichen Metall.39 Der Revers zeigt seit dem 11. Jahrhundert eine Romdarstellung, die Umschrift Roma caput mundi regit orbis frena rotundi; ,Rom Haupt der Welt, regiert den Erdkreis‘, macht die zentrale Rolle Roms 37 Vgl. Alexandru S. Anca, Herrschaftliche Repräsentation und kaiserliches Selbstverständnis. Berührung der westlichen mit der byzantinischen Welt in der Zeit der Kreuzzüge (Symbolische Kommunikation und gesellschaftliche Wertesysteme 31), Münster 2010, 79–94, 124–126; Eleni Tounta, Thessaloniki (1148) – BesanÅon (1157). Die staufisch-byzantinischen Beziehungen und die „Heiligkeit“ des staufischen Reiches, in: Historisches Jahrbuch 131 (2011), 167–214, bes. 170–178, 193–199. Die normannischen Könige brachten Byzanz kaum Interesse entgegen; vgl. Donald McGillivray Nicol, Byzantium and England, in: Balkan Studies 15 (1974), 179–203, hier 180, 183, 189, 192f. 38 Vgl. Heinrich Appelt, Die Kaiseridee Friedrich Barbarossas (Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.-Hist. Klasse. Sitzungsberichte 252, 4), Wien 1967, 16–18, 22–23; Herkenrath 1969, 25–27; Gottfried Koch, Auf dem Wege zum Sacrum Imperium. Studien zur ideologischen Herrschaftsbegründung der deutschen Zentralgewalt im 11. und 12. Jahrhundert (Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte 20), Wien/Köln/Graz 1972, 215–229; Jörg Schwarz, Herrscher- und Reichstitel bei Kaisertum und Papsttum im 12. und 13. Jahrhundert (Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters. Beihefte zu J.F. Böhmer, Regesta Imperii 22), Wien 2003, 59–66, 81–110; Jürgen Petersohn, Kaisertum und Rom in spätsalischer und staufischer Zeit. Romidee und Rompolitik von Heinrich V. bis Friedrich II. (MGH Schriften 62), Hannover 2010, 110–162. 39 Wilhelm Erben, Rombilder auf kaiserlichen und päpstlichen Siegeln des Mittelalters (Veröffentlichungen des Historischen Seminars der Universität Graz 7), Graz/Wien/Leipzig 1931, 49–52. Die erste Goldbulle findet sich an einer Urkunde Heinrichs II. für das Kloster Göß; vgl. Knut Görich, Kaiserbulle Heinrichs II., in: Josef Kirmeier et al. (edd.), Kaiser Heinrich II. 1002–1024, Augsburg 2002, 221f. Nr. 78; 47 Abb. 18.

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deutlich, auf welcher der Machtanspruch der römisch-deutschen Könige wesentlich gründete. Auf dem Avers findet sich eine Darstellung des Königs oder Kaisers als Halbfigur in den Mauern Roms, wie man an der Bulle Friedrich Barbarossas gut erkennen kann.40 Der Mantel wird über der rechten Schulter mit einer Agraffe zusammengehalten und die Insignien, Zepter und Reichsapfel, sind identisch mit denjenigen, die er auf seinen Wachssiegeln hält. Dargestellt in den Mauern Roms zeigt sich Barbarossa als direkter und einziger Herrscher in und über Rom. Dieses Konzept ist natürlich von besonderer Bedeutung in einer Zeit, in der der Papst versuchte, direkte Beziehungen zwischen Friedrich und den Römern zu unterbinden.41 Friedrichs I. Sohn und Nachfolger Heinrich VI. änderte den Avers seiner Bullen und ließ sich dort nun wie auf den Wachssiegeln thronend abbilden.42 Zugunsten dieser gesteigerten Majestätsauffassung wurde die Darstellung Roms auf der Vorderseite weggelassen, sie war nun wieder ausschließlich auf der Rückseite zu finden. Diesem Beispiel folgten dann auch Philipp von Schwaben, Otto IV. und Friedrich II. – und tatsächlich hatte Rom seine zentrale Legitimationsfunktion für diese Herrscher eingebüßt.43 Natürlich dienten auch die Siegel der englischen Könige der Repräsentation und der Veranschaulichung der eigenen Legitimität, jedoch entwickelten sie hierzu andere Strategien. Die normannischen Könige und die Anjou-PlantagenÞt imitierten Eduard den Bekenner. Dieser hatte Münzsiegel geführt, die ihn auf beiden Seiten thronend darstellten, mit jeweils unterschiedlichen Insignien: langes Zepter (mit Kreuz als Bekrönung) sowie Reichsapfel auf dem Avers, langes Zepter (mit einem Vogel als Bekrönung) und Schwert auf dem Revers. Eduard wiederum hatte sich des Vorbildes der salischen Herrscher, aber auch der by-

40 Die Bullen Barbarossas sind besprochen und abgebildet bei Posse Bd. 1, 1909, Taf. 21, Nr. 3 und 4 (Königsgoldbulle), Taf. 22, Nr. 3 und 4 (Kaisergoldbulle); Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 21–22 Nr. 29 (Königsgoldbulle) sowie 23 Nr. 31 (Kaisergoldbulle) mit Bd. 3, 1977, Abb. 2 und 5. 41 Vgl. Deér 1961, 39f.; Lieselotte E. Saurma-Jeltsch, Rom und Aachen in der staufischen Reichsimagination, in: Bernd Schneidmüller/Stefan Weinfurter/Alfried Wieczorek (edd.), Verwandlungen des Stauferreichs. Drei Innovationsregionen im mittelalterlichen Europa, Darmstadt 2010, 268–307, bes. 268–271; Fees 2014, 71–74. Nicht zuletzt durch die Abbildung des gut erkennbaren Kolosseum auf dem Revers seiner Königsbulle und seiner Kaiserbulle betonte Friedrich I. seine Kontakte zum stadtrömischen Senat; vgl. Fees 2015, 101–103 (mit Abb.), 124–129. Die Goldbulle Lothars III. führte einen ähnlichen Avers wie die Friedrichs I.; vgl. Posse Bd. 1, 1909, Taf. 20 Nr. 5. 42 Posse Bd. 1, 1909, Taf. 22 Nr. 5 und 6; Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 24f. Nr. 34 mit Bd. 3, 1977, Abb. 8. 43 Vgl. Posse Bd. 5, 1913, 26 (Philipp), 27 (Otto IV.), 27–29 (Friedrich II.); Willemsen 1977, 17; Petersohn 2010, 350–383.

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zantinischen Kaiser bedient.44 Die ihm folgenden englischen Könige richteten sich in erster Linie am Beispiel Eduards aus; der Byzanzbezug war freilich von geringerem Interesse.45 Die Anjou-PlantagenÞt orientierten sich am Vorbild Eduard des Bekenners, weil sie die Kontinuität zum letzten bedeutenden angelsächsischen König betonen wollten, in dessen Nachfolge sie sich sahen, und damit ihre Legitimität als Nachfolger der angelsächsischen Herrscher. So übernahmen sie das Bild des thronenden Königs auf ihren Siegeln, änderten aber einige Details ab, wie den Kronentypus oder die Art der Gewandgestaltung: Wurde Eduards Mantel wie bei den Saliern über der rechten Schulter mit einer Agraffe zusammengehalten, so war er nun symmetrisch angeordnet durch eine Brosche über der Brust.46 König Stephan ergänzte das Kreuz als Bekrönung des Reichsapfels mit einem Vogel, möglicherweise als Referenz auf den Vogel, der als Bekrönung eines der Zepter Eduards des Bekenners diente, wobei umstritten ist, ob es sich hier um eine Taube oder einen anderen Vogel handelt.47 Diese Veränderung wiederum wurde nach den Jahren der Anarchie zwischen 1135 und 1154, also dem Kampf um die 44 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 3–5, Taf. I Nr. 5/6, Nr. 7/8; Bedos-Rezak 1993, IV, 53–88; Harvey/ McGuinness 1996, 5 Abb. 4; Catherine E. Karkov, The Ruler Portraits of Anglo-Saxon England (Anglo-Saxon Studies 3), Woodbridge 2004, 158–160; Richard Mortimer, Edward the Confessor. The Man and the Legend, in: Ders. (ed.), Edward the Confessor. The Man and the Legend, Woodbridge 2009, 1–40, hier 22–32; Elizabeth A. New, Seals and Sealing Practices (Archives and the user 11), London 2010, 33–44 mit Abbildungen; Clanchy 2013, 311–313. 45 Edith M. R. Ditmas, The Curtana, or Sword of Mercy, in: Journal of the British Archeological Association Ser. 3, 29 (1966), 122–133; Pierre Chaplais, Une charte originale de Guillaume le Conqu8rant pour l’abbaye de F8camp: La donation de Steyning et de Bury (1085), in: Ders. 1981, XVI, 93–104, 355–357. Abbildungen bei Wyon/Wyon 1887, 5–7, Taf. II Nr. 11/12, Nr. 13/14; Twining 1967, 177, 180; Harvey/McGuinness 1996, 28 Abb. 23; New 2010, 34; Clanchy 2013, 313f. Percy Ernst Schramm, Sphaira, Globus, Reichsapfel. Wanderung und Wandlung eines Herrschaftszeichens von Caesar bis zu Elisabeth II. Ein Beitrag zum „Nachleben“ der Antike, mit 48 Lichtdrucktafeln und 6 Textabbildungen, Stuttgart 1958, 116f. betont Wilhelms Wunsch, auch Knut zu imitieren, der sich wiederum an Konrad II. orientiert habe. 46 Vgl. English 2008, 373. 47 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 12–14 Nr. 25 und 26, Nr. 27 und 28 mit Abbildungen Taf. IV; Birch Bd.1, 1887, 9f. Nr. 43–53; George C. Brooke, English Coins from the Seventh Century to the Present Day, London 1976, 90–95; Thomas A. Heslop, Seals, in: Zarnecki/Holt/Holland 1984, 298–319, hier 303. Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum 1066–1154, Bd. III: Regesta regis Stephani ac Mathildis imperatricis ac Gaudefredi et Henrici ducum Normannorum 1135–1154, ed. Henry A. Cronne/Ralph H. C. Davis, Oxford 1968, XV–XVIII bezieht sich auf zwei Siegel Stephans, wobei ihn eines mit dem Schwert, das andere mit der Fahnenlanze auf der Reiterseite zeigt. Schramm 1958, 77, 83, 117 verweist auf eine Sphaira mit Vogelbekrönung in einer Buchillustration, die König David in einem Werdener Psalter aus der zweiten Hälfte des 11. Jahrhunderts abbildet. Er plädiert hier für eine Taube, die auch als Mariensymbol verstanden werden könne, weil sie sich auf Marienkronen finde. Seit Heinrich II. finde sich die Taube auf dem Zepter, das darum „the rod with the dove“ (118) heiße.

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Nachfolge Heinrichs I. zwischen dessen Tochter Kaiserin Mathilde und seinem Neffen Stephan, durch Stephans Nachfolger Heinrich II. aufgegriffen, der nun seinerseits die Kontinuität zu Stephan visuell umsetzte, obwohl oder weil er der Sohn der Kaiserin war, den Stephan zur Sicherung dieser Nachfolgeregelung adoptierte.48 Für Heinrichs II. Sohn Richard Löwenherz war die Betonung dynastischer Kontinuität nicht in dieser Weise notwendig. Das Schwert wie alle seine Vorgänger führte auch er ; doch gab er den Vogel auf dem Reichsapfel wieder auf, und ließ sich mit einem Zepter mit wechselnden Scheiben und Blättern abbilden, so als ob er eine hybride Insignie aus Zepter und Reichsapfel habe schaffen wollen.49 Zu beiden Seiten seines Kopfes befinden sich Sonne und Mond; zudem änderte sich die Art, wie sein Mantel über seinem Knie drapiert wurde.50 Sein Bruder und Nachfolger Johann Ohneland sowie dessen Sohn Heinrich III. ließen zwar Sonne und Mond weg, folgten ansonsten aber dem Beispiel Richards.51 Jenseits dieser Beobachtungen ist vor allem ein Unterschied hervorzuheben: Während die englischen König in der rechten Hand ein nach oben gerecktes Schwert halten, scheinen die römisch-deutschen Könige diese Insignie auf ihren Siegeln bewusst zu vermeiden. Sie halten vielmehr außer dem Reichsapfel ein Zepter, welches wiederum auf den Siegeln der englischen Könige von Wilhelm I. bis zum ersten Siegel Heinrichs III. nicht zu finden ist. Beide Insignien, Zepter und Schwert, sind Zeichen der Gerichtsherrschaft, so dass es schwierig ist, eindeutig zu erklären, warum die einen das Schwert bevorzugten und die anderen das Zepter.52 Einzig auf den Siegeln des 1235 von Friedrich II. eingerichteten Hofgerichtes hält der thronende Herrscher ein Schwert in seinen Händen.53 48 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 15f. Nr. 30 und 31, Nr. 32 und 33 mit Abbildungen Taf. V. 49 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 18–20 Nr. 35 und 36, Nr. 37 und 38 mit Abbildungen Taf. VI; Birch Bd. 1, 1887, 13f. Nr. 80–90. Vgl. Twining 1967, 208f.; Charles H. Hunter Blair, The Great Seals of Richard, in: Archaeologia Aeliana 4th Ser. 31 (1953), 95–97; Adrian Ailes, The Origins of the Royal Arms of England. Their Development to 1199 (Reading Medieval Studies. Monographs 2), Reading 1982, 64–74; vgl. auch English 2008, 365–369. 50 Heslop 1984, 304 Taf. 334. Der Wunsch nach Visualisierung der eigenen Abstammung zu Legitimationszwecken findet sich bei den Staufern nicht auf Siegeln oder Münzen, wohl aber in anderen Medien, wie bei Reliquienbehältnissen oder in der Buchmalerei; vgl. Willemsen 1977, 11f.; Schramm 1983, 128–130. 51 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 20f. Nr. 39 und 40 mit Abbildungen Taf. VI; Heslop 1984, 305 Nr. 335 (Johann); Wyon/Wyon 1887, 21–26 Nr. 41 und 42 mit Abbildungen Taf. VI; 27f. Nr. 43 und 44, Nr. 45 und 46 mit Abbildungen Taf. VII; Jonathan G. J. Alexander/Paul Binski (edd.), The Age of Chivalry. Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1400, London 1987, 397 Abb. 453; New 2010, 34 Abb. 3.1 (Heinrich III.). 52 Gernot Kocher, Symbole des Rechts. Eine historische Ikonographie, München 1992, 36f., 39, 66f., 70f. 53 Posse Bd. 1, 1909, Taf. 32, 5. Friedrich Battenberg, Das Hofgerichtssiegel der deutschen Kaiser und Könige 1235–1451 (Quellen und Forschungen zur höchsten Gerichtsbarkeit im Alten Reich 6), Wien 1979, 25–29, 74–83 mit Taf. I, 1. Das Siegel konnte gleichermaßen vom

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Die englischen Könige wiederum verzichteten auf die Darstellung des Schwertes seit dem zweiten Siegel Heinrichs III., das er nach dem Vertrag von Paris 1259 schneiden ließ, durch welchen er Maine, Anjou und Poitou an König Ludwig IX. von Frankreich abtreten musste, Aquitanien aber als Lehnsmann des französischen Königs behielt.54 Dies ist das bereits erwähnte Siegel, auf dem erstmals ein Thron mit Rückenlehne verwendet wird. Dieser Siegelwechsel war so bedeutend, dass er in zeitgenössischen Quellen, wie im Londoner ‘Liber de antiquis legibus’, festgehalten wurde, der erwähnt, dass vor Weihnachten das Siegel des Herrn Königs verändert wurde, angegeben wird die Umschrift des neuen Siegels. Wir können folglich annehmen, dass obwohl beide Insignien, also Zepter und Schwert, für die juristische Kompetenz des Herrschers standen, das Schwert eine stärker weltlich konnotierte Bedeutung hatte, weil es auch mit dem militärischen Erfolg des Herrschers verbunden war. Das Zepter hingegen hatte eine stärker spirituelle Bedeutung, weil es stärker für die von Gott verliehene Gewalt des Herrschers über das Recht stand. Während die römisch-deutschen Herrscher auf ihren Siegeln auf ihr Gottesgnadentum zielten, also ihr durch Gott legitimiertes herrscherliches A m t , betonten die englischen Könige seit Wilhelm dem Eroberer bis zu Heinrich III. ihre militärische Durchsetzungskraft, die ihnen bei der Durchsetzung ihrer rechtlichen Kompetenzen half, und heben damit stärker auf die F u n k t i o n e n des Königtums ab. Dass das Schwert eine zentrale Rolle bei der Repräsentation der Funktionen von Königsherrschaft hatte, kann man auch daran erkennen, dass das einseitige Siegel Heinrichs des Jüngeren ihn zwar thronend, aber nicht auf einem Thronstuhl, sondern nur auf einem Faltstuhl zeigte. Vor allem aber hielt er lediglich eine Insignie in der Hand, und zwar ein Zepter ; offenbar wurde so deutlich gemacht, dass er nicht wie der Vater aus eigenem Recht herrschte.55 König als auch vom Reichshofrichter verwendet werden; vgl. Clausdieter Schott, Die Sitzhaltung des Richters, in: Reiner Schulze (ed.), Symbolische Kommunikation vor Gericht in der Frühen Neuzeit (Schriften zur europäischen Rechts- und Verfassungsgeschichte 51), Berlin 2006, 153–187, bes. 176–182. 54 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 21–26, Taf. VI Nr. 41/42; Taf. VII Nr. 43/44, Nr. 45/46; Alexander/ Binski 1987, 397 Abb. 453; New 2010, 34 Abb. 3.1, 98 mm; vgl. Chaplais 1971, 3; Steane 1993, 25. 55 Wyon/Wyon 1887, 17–18 Nr. 34 mit Abbildungen Taf. V; Birch Bd. 1, 1887, 13 Nr. 79; vgl. Smith 2001, 304–307, 312. Die Abbildung eines Abdrucks nach Wyon/Wyon unter http:// www.footnotinghistory.com/uploads/1/6/5/2/16521246/editor/hyk–seal.png?1483582856 (19. 05. 2017). Der Abdruck ist nicht sonderlich gut erhalten, doch spricht die Haltung der Hand dagegen, dass sie einen Schwertgriff umfasst haben könnte. Die Bedeutung des Schwertes für den englischen König zeigt sich auch an einem Medaillon (Harvard University, Houghton Library MS Typ 11), welches den auf einer Thronbank sitzenden und bekrönten Wilhelm I. zeigt. Das Interessante an dieser auf um 1300 datierten Darstellung ist, dass der in

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Dieser knappe Überblick macht deutlich, dass selbst innerhalb desselben Siegeltyps – Majestätssiegel – die Anjou-PlantagenÞt und die Staufer das Motiv und die Insignien zu unterschiedlichen Zielen nutzten, die aus unterschiedlichen politischen Notwendigkeiten resultierten. Die englischen Könige wollten vor allem Herrschaftskontinuität kommunizieren sowie ihre beiden wichtigsten königlichen Funktionen: Rechtsprechung und erfolgreiche militärische Anführerschaft. Ihre Siegelbilder bezogen sich nicht auf eine imperiale Auffassung ihrer Herrschaft, lediglich die Siegellegenden beziehen sich auf unterschiedliche Herrschaftsbereiche.56 Die römisch-deutschen Herrschersiegel vor allem der Stauferzeit, die wie ihre Vorgänger an ihr von Gott verliehenes Amt erinnerten, öffneten sich Einflüssen aus Byzanz. Sie zielten u. a. auf eine Betonung der herausragenden Rolle der staufischen Kaiser und Könige gegenüber den oft ausgesprochen ehrgeizigen Reichsfürsten.57 Darum sollten die Siegelbilder jedermann an die unmittelbare Herleitung ihrer Herrschergewalt von Gott und ihre Unabhängigkeit vom Papst erinnern – gewissermaßen Alleinstellungsmerkmale der Herrscher gegenüber den Fürsten; die Herrschaftsbereiche selbst wurden auch hier nicht im Bild, sondern in der Umschrift berücksichtigt.58

3.

Münzen

Bei den Münzen der Anjou-PlantagenÞt wird es nicht um die ihrer Besitzungen auf dem französischen Festland gehen, da diese den französischen Vorbildern folgen und keine Herrscherbildnisse zeigen. In England hingegen ist die bekrönte Kopfdarstellung des Königs, sowohl frontal als auch im Profil, seit den 970er Jahren das typische Münzbild der Könige, sowohl der angelsächsischen,

der Umschrift William bastard bezeichnete König in der rechten Hand ein gezücktes Schwert hält, auf das er mit der linken Hand in einem Zeigegestus hindeutet. Abbildung bei Clanchy 2013, Abb. 13. 56 Nachdem Wilhelm II. Rufus sich auf beiden Siegelseiten als König der Angeln bezeichnet hatte, nutzte Heinrich I. auf der Reiterseite wieder den Titel eines Herzogs der Normannen. Heinrich II. ergänzt das Herzogtum Normandie und die Grafschaft Anjou und Johann verwendet auf dem Revers den Titel eines Dominus Hibernie. Mit Heinrich III. setzt wieder die Verwendung des englischen Königstitels auf beiden Seiten des Siegels ein. 57 Arnold Bühler, Königshaus und Fürsten. Zur Legitimation und Selbstdarstellung Konrads III. 1138, in: Zeitschrift für die Geschichte des Oberrheins 137 (1989), 78–90. 58 Seit seiner Heirat mit Konstanze von Sizilien verwendete Heinrich VI. auch den Titel rex Sicilie, vgl. Posse Bd. 5, 1913, 25f.; Theo Kölzer, Urkunden und Kanzlei der Kaiserin Konstanze von Sizilien (1195–1198) (Studien zu den normannisch-staufischen Herrscherurkunden Siziliens. Beihefte zum ’Codex diplomaticus regni Sicilie’ 2), Köln/Wien 1983, 83–85.

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normannischen als auch der Anjou-PlantagenÞt.59 Manchmal hält der König zudem noch ein Zepter in der rechten Hand.60 Die Unterschiede und Entwicklungen, die sich bei den englischen Königsmünzen beobachten lassen, sind auf Änderungen in der künstlerischen Gestaltung zurückzuführen, aber die grundsätzliche Anlage des Münzbildes und damit auch seine Bedeutung wurden nicht verändert. Das Königsbild ist von einer Umschrift umgeben, die den Namen des Königs nennt und oft, aber nicht immer, auch den Titel. Auf der Rückseite befindet sich ein Kreuz und die Umschrift nennt den Namen des Münzmeisters. Wilhelm der Eroberer änderte dieses in den 970er Jahren eingeführte Münzbild nicht wesentlich, und auch seine Nachfolger behielten es bei.61 Die Stabilität der englischen Münzbilder entsprach einem Münzwesen, in dem die Münzmeister als Vertragspartner der Krone fungierten und durch diese auch kontrolliert wurden.62 Das Bild des Königs brachte die Legitimität ihrer Münzprägung zum Ausdruck. Die einzigen Ausnahmen sind einige Münzen aus der Zeit der Anarchie, dem Bürgerkrieg zwischen den Anhängern der Kaiserin Mathilde und denen ihres Cousins Stephen, als einige Barone begannen, Münzen auf eigene Rechnung zu prägen.63 Sie behielten die Königsbüste bei, um den Anschein von Legitimität zu wahren, nannten aber in der Umschrift ihren eigenen Namen. 59 Brooke 1976, 79–115 zu den englischen Münzen von Wilhelm I. bis Heinrich III. Zu den Münzen auf dem Kontinent vgl. Edward R. D. Elias, The Anglo-Gallic Coins (Les monnaies anglo-franÅaises), Paris/London 1984, 29–43. Auf Münzen Heinrichs III. findet sich erstmals ein Löwe auf dem Avers: ebd., 44–46 Nr. 13, 14b, 15b, 16, 17. Gute Abbildungen finden sich beispielsweise über den interaktiven Katalog des Münzkabinetts in Berlin, wie z. B. für eine Münze Æthelreds II.: http://ww2.smb.museum/ikmk/object.php?lang=de& id=18202948 (19. 05. 2017). 60 Vgl. Dolley 1966, 20 Type II und VI (Abb. 4 a and b); Brooke 1976, 81. 61 Dolley 1966, 8–14; Walter J. Andrew, A Numismatic History of the Reign of Stephen. A.D. 1135–1154 (1), in: British Numismatic Journal 6 (1909), 177–190, hier 179. Zurückzuführen ist dies auf die Reform des Münzwesens unter Edgar ; vgl. Brooke 1976, 89; Christopher E. Challis, A New History of the Royal Mint, Cambridge 1992, 49–57. H. Alexander Parsons, The Prototype of the First Coinage of William the Conqueror, in: British Numismatical Journal 15 (1919/20), 49–56, hier 50f. betont die Unterschiede von Wilhelms „Harold type“ und den Münzen Haralds II., den er zu ignorieren suchte. Deutlich hingegen sind die Bezüge zu Eduard dem Bekenner, dessen Stempelschneider er offenbar weiter engagierte. 62 Vgl. Brooke 1976, 79–81; John D. Brand, The English Coinage 1180–1247. Money, Mints and Exchanges (British Numismatic Society. Special Publication 1) ohne Ort [Kent] 2. Aufl. 1994, 6–48, bes. 18–20. 63 George C. Boon, Coins of the Anarchy 1135–54, Cardiff 1988, 10, 21 Nr. 10, 11 (mit Abb. 19), 28f. Nr. 22, 23 (mit Abb. 26–27); Challis 1992, 67f. In Deutschland lässt sich dasselbe Phänomen während des 11. Jahrhunderts beobachten, als die ersten Herzöge und Grafen begannen, selbst Münzen zu prägen. Zur Sicherstellung der Akzeptanz dieser Münzen nutzten auch sie das Bild des Königs, bevor sie ihr eigenes Bild verwendeten; vgl. Stieldorf 2015.

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Interessant ist freilich, dass Wilhelm der Eroberer und seine Nachfolger nicht den Souvereign-Type Eduard des Bekenners aufgriffen, der diesen wie auf seinem Siegel thronend zeigte.64 Obwohl die Normannenkönige und dann die Anjou-PlantagenÞt ebenfalls Siegel mit Throndarstellungen verwendeten – auf den Münzen vermieden sie sie.65 Es scheint so, als ob in England seit Wilhelm I. das Thronbild des Königs in rechtlich relevanten Zusammenhängen nur dann benutzt wurde, wenn der König selbst handelnd auftrat, was er tat, wenn es um die Beglaubigung der in seinem Namen ausgestellten Urkunden ging. Die Königsbüste hingegen wurde offenbar als Zeichen für das Handeln im Namen des Königs verstanden, wie es bei den Münzen der Fall war, die im Auftrag des Königs von Münzmeistern geprägt wurden. Dieses Phänomen ist auch bei den Zünften und Gilden zu beobachten, die aufgrund königlicher Erlaubnis aktiv wurden, sie verwendeten auf ihren Siegeln ebenfalls die Büste des Königs.66 Das deutsche Münzwesen hingegen unterschied sich deutlich vom englischen: Seit dem 10. Jahrhundert wurde das Münzrecht nicht mehr nur durch die 64 Ein Exemplar befindet sich im Berliner Münzkabinett: http://ww2.smb.museum/ikmk/ob ject.php?lang=de& id=18202967 (19. 05. 2017). Vgl. R.H. Michael Dolley/F. Elmore Jones, A New Suggestion Concerning the So-Called „Martlets“ in the „Arms of St Edward“, in: Ders. (ed.), Anglo-Saxon Coins. Studies Presented to Frank M. Stenton on the Occasion of his 80th Birthday, London 1961, 215–226, hier 217; Frank Barlow, Edward the Confessor, Berkeley/ Los Angeles 1970, 180–187 mit Taf. 10 (vor 165); Jones 2003, 100–106; Karkov 2004, 157f.; Bernd Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, Bd. 1: Handbuch und Thesaurus Nummorum (Veröffentlichungen der Numismatischen Kommission 45 = Akademie der Wissenschaften Wien, Phil.-Hist. Klasse. Sitzungsberichte 769), Berlin/Wien 2007, 154 (Abb. 425 Nr. 1154). Vgl. Robert-Henri Bautier, Pchanges d’influences dans les chancelleries souveraines du moyen .ge, d’aprHs les types des sceaux de majest8, in: Academie des Inscriptions et BellesLettres. Comptes rendus des s8ances, 112e ann8e, N. 2 (1968), 192–220, hier 199–208. 65 Die normannischen Münzen haben nie ein Bild des Herzogs gezeigt; vgl. Nicholas Mayhew, Coinage in France, from the Dark Ages to Napoleon, London 1988, 19–58; Jean Duplessy, Les monnaies franÅaises f8odales, Bd.1, Paris 2004, 12–16 Nr. 7–31. Ebenso wenig schlugen die Grafen von Anjou (ebd., 91–94 Nr. 367–383) noch die Herzöge von Aquitanien Münzen mit ihrem Bildnis (ebd., 250–255 Nr. 1017–1036). Dies gilt auch, nachdem diese Würden in englische Hand gelangt waren, seit Edward I. verwendeten sie aber einen Löwen als Münzbild: ibid. S. 255–257 Nr. 1037–1046. Die Münzen der französischen Könige zeigten erst seit Ludwig VII. das Bild des Herrschers, aber auch dann nur selten; vgl. Louis Ciani, Les monnaies royales franÅaises de Hugues Capet / Louis XVI, Paris 1926, Nr. 119, 121, 144, 150. 66 Vgl. John Cherry, Heads, Arms and Badges: Royal Representation on Seals, in: No[l Adams/ Idem/James Robinson (edd.), Good Impressions. Image and Authority in Medieval Seals (British Museum Research Publication 168), London 2008, 11–16 mit Abb. 12 und 13 (Siegel der Händler von York, Siegel der Händler von Gloucester). Nur auf wenigen Stadtsiegeln ist die Büste des Königs zu sehen (vgl. Harvey/McGuinness 1996, 97; New 2010, 53–55), wohingegen deutsche Reichsstädte häufig das Bild des Königs zeigen – als Büste und auch in Ganzfigur ; vgl. Artur Dirmeier, Mit Brief und Siegel. Beglaubigungsmittel an Rhein und Donau, in: Jörg Oberste (ed.), Repräsentationen der mittelalterlichen Stadt (Forum Mittelalter. Studien 4), Regensburg 2008, 193–212, hier 206f.

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Kaiser und Könige ausgeübt; vielmehr ging es immer mehr an geistliche und weltliche Fürsten über.67 Dementsprechend findet sich seit dem 11. Jahrhundert und verstärkt seit dem 12. Jahrhundert eine große Bandbreite von Münzbildern. Neben symbolischen Bildern (wie Kreuzen, Stadtmauern, Händen, Schlüsseln usw.) sind auch zahlreiche Bildnisse von Personen vertreten: Bischöfe, Äbte und Äbtissinnen ließen sich auf ihren Münzen abbilden, mal alleine, mal gemeinsam mit dem Hauptpatron oder auch dem Vogt ihrer Kirche, Herzöge und Grafen ließen sich in Rüstung und mit Waffen stehend, aber auch in den Krieg reitend darstellen, manchmal aber auch, wie sie Hof hielten.68 Auch die Münzbilder der späten salischen und dann der staufischen Herrscher weisen eine große Vielfalt auf.69 Einige Münzstätten produzierten Münzen, die den König oder Kaiser bekrönt und mit Insignien, meist Zepter und Reichsapfel, in den Händen auf einem Thron sitzend darstellen. Auf den Münzen der deutschen Herrscher findet sich sogar recht häufig die Throndarstellung, die hingegen auf den Münzen der Anjou-PlantagenÞt nicht zu sehen ist. Dennoch konnten sich natürlich die Münzen der staufischen Herrscher von ihren Siegeln unterscheiden: manchmal wurde der Mantel weggelassen, und das Schwert, welches auf den Hauptsiegeln der Herrscher nicht vorkommt, findet sich auf den Münzen durchaus als Insignie des Königs, wie man z. B. auf Aachener und Duisburger Münzen Ottos IV. oder Gelnhausener Münzen Friedrichs II. sehen kann.70 Doch noch weitere Insignien können auf den Münzen vorkommen, wie Zepter mit Lilienaufsätzen oder auch Palmzweige.71 67 Vgl. Arthur Suhle, Burg, Siedlung und Münzstätte, in: Karl-Heinz Otto/Joachim Herrmann (edd.), Siedlung, Burg und Stadt. Studien zu ihren Anfängen (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin. Schriften der Sektion für Vor- und Frühgeschichte 25), Berlin 1969, 157–160; Ulrich Klein, Münzstätten der Stauferzeit (etwa 1140–1270) in Deutschland und Italien, in: Schweizerische Numismatische Rundschau 56 (1977), 171–278; Elisabeth Nau, Münzen der Stauferzeit, in: Zeit der Staufer, Bd. 1, 1977, 108f., zu königlichen Prägungen ebd., 114f. Nr. 175.57–175.94, 137–140 Nr. 188.22–188.32 und Nr. 188.35–188.62, 159 Nr. 196.6–196.9, 160–161 Nr. 197.1–8 und 197.13–197.15, 162 Nr. 197.22–32, 165 Nr. 198.38, 169f. Nr. 199.46–199.67, 173 Nr. 202.1–3, 178 Nr. 205.17–205.30, 182–184 Nr. 206.29–60; Norbert Kamp, Moneta regis. Königliche Münzstätten und königliche Münzpolitik in der Stauferzeit (MGH Schriften 55), Hannover 2006, 4–27. 68 Vgl. Stieldorf 2015. 69 Vgl. Deér 1961, 32, 39–42; Willemsen 1977, 9; Peter Berghaus, Die Darstellung der deutschen Kaiser und Könige im Münzbild 800–1190, in: Schramm 1983, 133–144, bes. 136 sowie 139–144. Im Rahmen des SFB 1167 ,Macht und Herrschaft. Vormoderne Konfigurationen in transkultureller Perspektive‘ entsteht beim Teilprojekt 22 ,Bilder vom König‘ derzeit eine Dissertation über die Münzen der fränkischen-deutschen Herrscher zwischen 936 und 1254 von Maximilian Stimpert. 70 Etwas früher ist dies auf Münzen aus Aachen und Duisburg zu sehen: Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 119 Nr. 175.58 mit dem Herrscher in Halbfigur (Abb. Bd. 2, 1977, Nr. 94.8). Münzen, die den Herrscher mit einem Schwert zeigen, wurden in Gelnhausen unter Friedrich I. geprägt: ebd. Bd. 1, 115 Nr. 175.89 mit dem Herrscher im Brustbild (Abb. Bd. 2, Nr. 95.7);

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Gelegentlich wird der Herrscher inmitten von Stadtmauern dargestellt, eine Darstellung, die besonders auf den räumlichen Aspekt von Herrschaft abzielt.72 In anderen Fällen hält der Herrscher einen Kirchbau in der Hand, z. B. auf Münzen, die er gemeinsam mit dem Bischof von Speyer prägen ließ; so wurde der König zugleich als Wohltäter der Kirche stilisiert.73 Außerdem belegen diese Beispiele, dass auf den staufischen Münzen auch die Büste des Königs sowie seine Halbfigur als Königsbild verwendet wurden.74 Während im England der Anjou-PlantagenÞt unterschiedliche Darstellungen des Königs unterschiedlichen Zwecken dienten, war dies im staufischen Deutschland beliebiger. Die königlichen Münzstätten mussten zwar auch das Bild des Königs verwenden, aber es scheint, als ob sie in der konkreten Ausgestaltung freie Hand gehabt hätten, also etwa bei der Wahl zwischen Büste, Halbfigur oder Throndarstellung. Leider lassen sich über die Rolle des Herrschers in diesem Prozess keine präzisen Aussagen treffen. Es ist freilich anzunehmen, dass der Herrscher ein starkes Interesse an seinem Münzbild hatte, und dies könnte die Erklärung für einige gänzlich ungewöhnliche Herrschermünzen Friedrich Barbarossas sein. In Thüringen zeigten die Münzen der dortigen Landgrafen Ludwig II. seit der Mitte des 12. Jahrhunderts als berittene Krieger auf einem weißen Pferd – die Punkte auf der Flanke stehen für einen Apfelschimmel – wie er eine Fahnenlanze hält – also das Zeichen eines Reichsfürsten, da dieser vom Herrscher direkt mit der Fahne belehnt wurde.75 Beseitet wird die Reiterfigur von zwei Türmen.

71 72 73 74

75

Speyerische Münzstätte Annweiler : ebd. Bd. 1, Nr. 197.30 mit dem Schwert in der linken Hand (Abb. Bd. 2, Nr. 117.13); vgl. auch Schramm 1983, 127. Vgl. Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 131 Nr. 186.23–24 (Abb. Bd. 2, Nr. 99.1). Vgl. Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 115 Nr. 175.90 (Abb. Bd. 2, Nr. 95.8). Vgl. Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 161 Nr. 197.4. Vgl. Arthur Suhle, Deutsche Münz- und Geldgeschichte von den Anfängen bis zum 15. Jahrhundert, 8. Aufl., 1975, 115; Ders., Münzbilder der Hohenstaufenzeit. Meisterwerke romanischer Kleinkunst, Leipzig 1938, 89 mit Abb. 30 (81); Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 134 187.26 (Abb. Bd. 2, 101.09); Brakteaten der Stauferzeit 1138–1254. Aus der Münzsammlung der Deutschen Bundesbank, Frankfurt a. Main 1977, Abb. 51; Zeit der Staufer 187.29 Abb. 101.11; Kurt Lange, Münzkunst des Mittelalters, Leipzig 1942, 59 Nr. 17 mit Abb., Zeit der Staufer 188.63 Abb.106.3; Lange 1942, 71 Nr. 34 mit Abb.; Lange 1942, 75 Nr. 35 mit Abb.; Zeit der Staufer 188.64 Abb.106.4, 188.65 Abb. 106.5. Brakteaten der Stauferzeit Abb. 55; Zeit der Staufer 187.30 Abb. 101.12; Brakteaten der Stauferzeit Abb. 56; Zeit der Staufer 187.37 ohne Abb. 188.65, Abb. 106.5; 188.66. Abb. 106.6; Zeit der Staufer 188.33 Abb. 104.5; auch 188.34 mit Abb. 104.6; Zeit der Staufer 187.29 Abb. 101.11. Vgl. Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 138 Nr. 188.33–188.34 (Abb. Bd. 2, 104.6); 140 188.63–66 (Abb. Bd. 2, 106.5, 106.6); zu den Ludowingern vgl. Jürgen Petersohn, Die Ludowinger. Selbstverständnis und Memoria eines hochmittelalterlichen Reichsfürstengeschlechts, in: Blätter für deutsche Landesgeschichte 129 (1993), 1–39, hier 21–23; Jitske Jasperse, To Have and to Hold. Coins and Seals as Evidence for Motherly Authority, in: Carey D. Fleiner/Elena C. Woodacre (edd.), Royal Mothers and their Ruling Children, New York 2015, 83–103, hier 86–87 mit Abb. 4.2. und 4.3.

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Friedrich Barbarossa wollte stärkeren Einfluss in Thüringen gewinnen, politisch wie wirtschaftlich, und das ist der Grund, warum seine Münzstätten in Thüringen begannen Münzen zu prägen, die denen des Landgrafen doch sehr ähnlich waren.76 In diesem Fall nämlich verwendeten die Münzen eine Darstellung, die die Herrschersiegel in Deutschland geradezu vermieden: das Reiterbildnis, das auf den Siegeln gänzlich dem weltlichen Hochadel vorbehalten war. Dennoch wurden auf der Münze Konzessionen an den Status des königlichen resp. kaiserlichen Münzherren gemacht:77 Im Unterschied zum Landgrafen trägt er keine Rüstung, sondern herrscherliche Zeremonialgewänder, die denen auf den Siegeln entsprechen. Zwar hält auch Friedrich I. eine Fahnenlanze in seiner Eigenschaft als belehnender Herrscher ; außerdem ist er bekrönt und hält einen Reichsapfel in der linken Hand. Die Eigenheiten des deutschen Münzwesens hatten also Konsequenzen für die Darstellung des Herrschers im Münzbild. Das Bild des Königs konnte nämlich bestimmten Gegebenheiten angepasst werden; entsprechend groß ist die Vielfalt der Münzbilder. Dies zeigt sich auch bei der Verwendung des Herrscherbildes durch andere Münzherren. Diese nutzten es, wenn sie ihrer eigenen Münzprägung besondere Legitimität verleihen wollten, und dann konnten sie aus der bereits etablierten Vielfalt königlicher Münzbilder auswählen. So findet sich hier sowohl die Königsbüste als auch die thronende Darstellung. In manchen Fällen kombinierten sie auch das Königsbild mit ihrem eigenen Bildnis, wie man auf einer Münze des Reichskämmerers Konrad/Kuno von Münzenberg sehen kann: Es zeigt ihn neben dem Kaiser (wohl Heinrich VI.), der einen Reichsapfel in der rechten Hand hält und ein Zepter in der linken, welches zugleich die Bildfläche teilt.78 Kuno ist barhäuptig dargestellt und hält wohl aus Gründen der Symmetrie ein Schwert in der linken Hand.

76 Bernhard Töpfer, Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa. Grundlinien seiner Politik, in: Ders./Evamaria Engel (edd.), Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa: Landesausbau – Aspekte seiner Politik – Wirkung (Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte 36), Weimar 1994, 9–30, hier 11f., 21–25; Torsten Fried, Die Münzprägung in Thüringen. Vom Beginn der Stauferzeit bis zum Tode König Rudolfs von Habsburg 1138–1291 (Schriftenreihe der Numismatischen Gesellschaft Speyer 41 = Zeitschrift des Vereins für thüringische Geschichte und Altertumskunde. Beiheft 31), Speyer/Jena 2000, 37, 93–97; Kamp 2006, 15–22, 349–365; Michael Matzke, Barbarossa auf den Münzen seiner Zeit, in: Knut Görich/Romedio Schmitz-Esser (edd.), Barbarossabilder. Entstehungskontexte, Erwartungshorizonte, Verwendungszusammenhänge, Regensburg 2014, 90–117, hier 105. 77 Vgl. Kamp 2006, 28, 36, 358 nimmt an, dass es keine Anweisungen des Herrschers über die Münzbilder gegeben hat. Zu Münzprägungen in Verbindungen mit Reichsversammlungen vgl. ebd., 78, 357f. 78 Zeit der Staufer Bd. 1, 1977, 131 Nr. 186.18 (mit Abb. Bd. 2, Nr. 98.23).

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Zusammenfassung

Während die Reiterdarstellung auf den Siegeln der staufischen Herrscher fehlt, blieb sie lange Zeit auf den Reversen der Münzsiegel der englischen Könige erhalten – und dies wurde übrigens von den schottischen Königen und walisischen Fürsten auf deren Siegeln nachgeahmt.79 Imperiale Konzepte sind nur auf den Siegeln der römisch-deutschen Herrscher zu finden, die diese aufgrund ihres ambivalenten Verhältnisses zum Papst, des Rangstreites mit Byzanz und der Konkurrenz der Reichsfürsten stärker in den Vordergrund rückten. Bei den englischen Königen finden sich derlei Bezüge nicht; lediglich ihre Siegelumschriften geben die Herrschaft über unterschiedliche Machtbereich zu erkennen. Es konnte zudem beobachtet werden, dass unterschiedliche Bildkonzepte, vor allem natürlich vom Bild des Königs, zu unterschiedlichen Ansätzen bei der Verwendung von Bildmotiven und Attributen führten. Während die deutschen Herrscherbilder auf das A m t des Königs resp. Kaisers zielen, beziehen sich die Bilder der englischen Könige stärker auf die F u n k t i o n e n ihres Königtums. So zielt das Bild des thronenden Königs in England sehr viel stärker auf seine Gerichtskompetenzen als auf dem Kontinent.80 Der berittene Krieger auf den Rückseiten der englischen Königssiegel symbolisiert die Aufgabe des Königs, Königtum und Königreich zu verteidigen, indem er als miles christianus und somit Teil der ritterlichen Kultur dargestellt wird. Die deutschen Herrschersiegel hingegen zeigen Königtum und Kaisertum als von Gott verliehenes Amt. Wir können diese grundsätzlichen Unterschiede zwischen Deutschland und England auch am Beispiel der Bischofssiegel beobachten. Die deutschen Siegel zeigen die Bischöfe mal stehend, mal thronend, immer aber in liturgischen Gewändern und mit bischöflichen Insignien in den Händen. Einige englische Bischöfe jedoch, beginnend mit Odo von Bayeux, dem Halbbruder Wilhelms des Eroberers, in seiner Eigenschaft als Graf von Kent, hatten Siegel, die sie als berittene Krieger zeigen. Noch im 14. Jahrhundert nutzten englische Bischöfe diese Darstellung, wenn sie bestimmte Funktionen, die sie im Auftrag des Königs ausübten, wie den Palatinat, zum Ausdruck bringen wollten.81 In Deutschland 79 Eberhard Gönner, Reitersiegel in Südwestdeutschland, in: Wolfgang Schmierer et al. (edd.), Aus südwestdeutscher Geschichte. Festschrift für Hans-Martin Maurer. Dem Archivar und Historiker zum 65. Geburtstag, Stuttgart 1994, 151–167, hier 152–154. Zu den Siegeln der schottischen Könige und walisischen Fürsten vgl. Harvey/McGuinness 1996, 27–29; New 2010, 35. 80 Alexander/Binski 1987, 313–315 Abb. 264–274. 81 Vgl. Harvey/McGuinness 1996, 23 Abb. 21. Odos Siegel ist deswegen so außergewöhnlich, weil sich englische Bischöfe sonst stehend abbilden lassen; vgl. Heslop 1984, 306–309.

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wäre das nicht möglich gewesen, wie der Züricher Chorherr Konrad von Mure im 13. Jahrhundert feststellte: ,Eine Person, die sich selbst in ihrer Urkunde als Bischof oder Abt bezeichnet und dann das Siegelbild eines Ritters oder eines Löwen verwendet, das wäre doch sehr unpassend und seltsam‘.82 Diese Unterscheidung nach Amt und Funktion war auch auf den Bildern der Herrscher möglich – das ist sicher ein Ansporn, auch bei scheinbar gleichen oder doch sehr ähnlichen Motiven genau hinzusehen und sie auf ihre spezifische Funktion hin zu untersuchen.

Quellen Chronicon abbatiæ Rameseiensis, a saec. X. usque ad an. circiter 1200: in quatuor partibus, ed. W. Dunn Macray (Rerum Britannicarum medii ævi scriptores 83), London 1886 (ND 1966). Gervasius von Canterbury, Chronica, ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii ævi scriptores. Rolls series 73, 1), London 1879 (ND 1965). Konrad von Mure, Summa de arte prosandi, ed. Walter Kronbichler (Geist und Werk der Zeiten 17), Zürich 1968. Receuil des actes des ducs de Normandie de 915 / 1066, ed. Marie Fauroux, Caen 1961. Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum. The acta of William I. (1066–1087), ed. David Bates, Oxford 1998. Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum 1066–1154, Bd. III: Regesta regis Stephani ac Mathildis imperatricis ac Gaudefredi et Henrici ducum Normannorum 1135–1154, ed. Henry A. Cronne/Ralph H. C. Davis, Oxford 1968. Richard FitzNeal, Dialogus de Scaccario, ed. Charles Johnson (Nelson’s Medieval Classics), Oxford 1950. [Roger von Howden] Gesta regis Henrici secundi (Benedikt von Peterborough zugeschrieben), ed. William Stubbs (Rerum Britannicarum medii ævi scriptores. Rolls series 49), 2 Bde, London 1867 (ND 1965). Sylloge of Coins of the British Isles. 55. Hermitage Museum St. Petersburg. Part IV: English, Irish and Scottish Coins, 1066–1485, ed. Marina Mucha, Oxford 2005.

Ferner Margaret Aston, Bishops, Seals, Mitres, in: Diana S. Wood (ed.), Life and Thought in the Northern English Church, c. 1100–c. 1700. Essays in Honour of Claire Cross (Studies in Church History. Subsidia 12), Woodbridge 1999, 183–226, hier 185–187 with Taf. 13a. 82 Konrad von Mure, Summa de arte prosandi, ed. Walter Kronbichler (Geist und Werk der Zeiten 17), Zürich 1968, 166: Sicut enim hominem duo perficiunt, corpus et anima, sic et litteram duo perficiunt, virtus verborum, que se habet ad modum anime, et sigillum, quod se habet ad modum corporis. Unde expedit, ut verba salutationis et epistole sigillo se conforment, alioquin in arduis causis et foro contentioso parum valet, quod agitur. Unde caveri debet, ne in salutatione titulus mittentis discrepant a sigillo, id est ab ymagine et a litteris, quas habet circumferentia sigilli. Si enim aliquis in salutationem se ipsum appelaret episcopum vel abbatem, et sigillum sub imagine militis armati vel sub ymagine leonis eundem appelaret somitem, vel e contrario, hoc esset absonum penitus et absurdum.

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Die Urkunden Arnolfs, ed. Paul Kehr (MGH Diplomata regum Germaniae ex stirpe Karolinorum 3), Berlin 1940. Die Urkunden Friedrichs I. 1152–1190, ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10, 1–5), Hannover 1975–1990. Die Urkunden Heinrichs II. und Arduins, ed. Harry Bresslau u. a. (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 3), Hannover 1900–1903. Die Urkunden Heinrichs IV., ed. Dietrich von Gladiss/Alfred Gawlik (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 6), Hannover 1941–1977. Die Urkunden Konrads I., Heinrichs I. und Ottos I., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 1), Hannover 1879–1884. Die Urkunden Ottos II., ed. Theodor Sickel (MGH Diplomata regum et imperatorum Germaniae 2, 1), Hannover 1888. Wibald von Stablo, Briefbuch, ed. Martina Hartmann nach Vorarbeiten von Heinz Zatschek und Timothy Reuter, 3 Teile (MGH Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit 9, 1–3), Hannover 2012.

Literatur Adrian Ailes, The Origins of the Royal Arms of England. Their Development to 1199 (Reading Medieval Studies. Monographs 2), Reading 1982. Jonathan G. J. Alexander/Paul Binski (edd.), The Age of Chivalry. Art in Plantagenet England 1200–1400, London 1987. Alexandru S‚ . Anca, Herrschaftliche Repräsentation und kaiserliches Selbstverständnis. Berührung der westlichen mit der byzantinischen Welt in der Zeit der Kreuzzüge (Symbolische Kommunikation und gesellschaftliche Wertesysteme 31), Münster 2010. Walter J. Andrew, A Numismatic History of the Reign of Stephen. A.D. 1135–1154 (1), in: British Numismatic Journal 6 (1909), 177–190. Walter J. Andrew, A Numismatic History of the Reign of Stephen. A.D 1135 to 1154 (2), in: British Numismatic Journal 8 (1911), 87–136. Heinrich Appelt, Die Kaiseridee Friedrich Barbarossas (Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.-Hist. Klasse. Sitzungsberichte 252, 4), Wien 1967. Margaret Aston, Bishops, Seals, Mitres, in: Diana S. Wood (ed.), Life and Thought in the Northern English Church, c. 1100–c. 1700. Essays in Honour of Claire Cross (Studies in Church History. Subsidia 12), Woodbridge 1999, 183–226. Friedrich Battenberg, Das Hofgerichtssiegel der deutschen Kaiser und Könige 1235–1451 (Quellen und Forschungen zur höchsten Gerichtsbarkeit im Alten Reich 6), Wien 1979. Frank Barlow, Edward the Confessor, Berkeley/Los Angeles 1970. Robert-Henri Bautier, Pchanges d’influences dans les chancelleries souveraines du moyen .ge, d’aprHs les types des sceaux de majest8, in: Academie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres. Comptes rendus des s8ances, 112e ann8e, N. 2 (1968), 192–220. Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, The King Enthroned. A New Theme in Anglo-Saxon Royal Iconography. The Seal of Edward the Confessor and its Political Implications, in: Dies

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(ed.), Form and Order in Medieval France. Studies in Social and Quantitative Sigillography (Variorum Collected Studies Series 424), Aldershot 1993, IV, 53–88. Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, Suger and the Symbolism of Royal Power : The Seal of Louis VII, in: Dies., Form and Order in Medieval France. Studies in Social and Quantitative Sigillography (Variorum Collected Studies Series 424), Aldershot 1993, V, 1–18. Brigitte Bedos-Rezak, The Social Implications of the Art of Chivalry : The Sigillographic Evidence (France 1050–1250), in: Dies (ed.), Form and Order in Medieval France. Studies in Social and Quantitative Sigillography (Variorum Collected Studies Series 424), Aldershot 1993, VI, 1–31. Peter Berghaus, Die Darstellung der deutschen Kaiser und Könige im Münzbild 800–1190, in: Percy E. Schramm/ Florentine Mütherich (edd.), Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit 751–1190, München 1983, 133–144. Walter de Gray Birch, The Great Seals of King Henry I, in: Journal of the British Archaeological Association 29 (1873), 233–262. Walter de Gray Birch, Catalogue of Seals in the Department of Manuscripts in the British Museum, Bd. 1, London 1887. Charles H. Hunter Blair, The Great Seals of Richard, in: Archaeologia Aeliana 4th Ser. 31 (1953), 95–97. George C. Boon, Coins of the Anarchy 1135–54, Cardiff 1988. John D. Brand, The English Coinage 1180–1247. Money, Mints and Exchanges (British Numismatic Society. Special Publication 1) ohne Ort [Kent] 2. Aufl. 1994. George C. Brooke, English Coins from the Seventh Century to the Present Day, London 1976. Arnold Bühler, Königshaus und Fürsten. Zur Legitimation und Selbstdarstellung Konrads III. 1138, in: Zeitschrift für die Geschichte des Oberrheins 137 (1989), 78–90. Pierre Chaplais, English Royal Documents. King John – Henry VI. 1199–1461, Oxford 1971. Pierre Chaplais, Une charte originale de Guillaume le Conqu8rant pour l’abbaye de F8camp: La donation de Steyning et de Bury (1085), in: Ders., Essays in Medieval Diplomacy and Administration, London 1981, XVI, 93–104, 355–357. Pierre Chaplais, The Seals and Original Charters of Henry I, in: Ders., Essays in Medieval Diplomacy and Administration, London 1981, XVII, 260–276. John Cherry, Heads, Arms and Badges: Royal Representation on Seals, in: No[l Adams/ Idem/James Robinson (edd.), Good Impressions. Image and Authority in Medieval Seals (British Museum Research Publication 168), London 2008, 11–16. John Cherry, Medieval Goldsmiths, London 2011. Christopher E. Challis, A New History of the Royal Mint, Cambridge 1992. Louis Ciani, Les monnaies royales franÅaises de Hugues Capet / Louis XVI, Paris 1926. Michael T. Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record, London 3. Aufl. 2013. Josef Deér, Die Siegel Kaiser Friedrichs I. Barbarossa und Heinrichs VI. in der Kunst und Politik ihrer Zeit, in: Judith Beer/Paul Hofer/Luc Mojon (edd.), Festschrift Hans R. Hahnloser zum 60. Geburtstag 1959, Bern 1961, 47–102. Artur Dirmeier, Mit Brief und Siegel. Beglaubigungsmittel an Rhein und Donau, in: Jörg Oberste (ed.), Repräsentationen der mittelalterlichen Stadt (Forum Mittelalter. Studien 4), Regensburg 2008, 193–212.

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Eberhard Gönner, Reitersiegel in Südwestdeutschland, in: Wolfgang Schmierer et al. (edd.), Aus südwestdeutscher Geschichte. Festschrift für Hans-Martin Maurer. Dem Archivar und Historiker zum 65. Geburtstag, Stuttgart 1994, 151–167. Knut Görich, Kaiserbulle Heinrichs II., in: Josef Kirmeier et al. (edd.), Kaiser Heinrich II. 1002–1024, Augsburg 2002, 221f. Knut Görich, Missachtung und Zerstörung von Brief und Siegel, in: Gabriela Signori (ed.), Das Siegel. Gebrauch und Bedeutung, Darmstadt 2007, 121–126. Reiner Hausherr (ed.), Die Zeit der Staufer. Geschichte – Kunst – Kultur. Katalog der Ausstellung zum Anlaß des 25jährigen Bestehens des Landes Baden-Württemberg vom 26. März bis 5. Juni 1977, 5 Bde., Stuttgart 1977–1979. Paul D. A. Harvey/Andrew McGuinness, A Guide to British Medieval Seals, London 1996. Rainer Maria Herkenrath, Regnum und Imperium. Das „Reich“ der frühstaufischen Kanzlei (1138–1155) (Österreichische Akademie der Wissenschaften, Phil.-Hist. Klasse. Sitzungsberichte 264, 5), Wien 1969. Thomas A. Heslop, English seals from the mid ninth century to 1100, in: Journal of the British Archaeological Association 133 (1980), 1–16. Thomas A. Heslop, Seals, in: Zarnecki/Holt/Holland 1984, 298–319. Jitske Jasperse, To Have and to Hold. Coins and Seals as Evidence for Motherly Authority, in: Carey Dolores Fleiner/Elena Crislyn Woodacre (edd.), Royal Mothers and their Ruling Children, New York 2015, 83–103. Anne Lynn Jones, From Anglorum Basileus to Norman Saint: The Transformation of Edward the Confessor, in: The Haskins Society Journal 12 (2003), 99–120. Norbert Kamp, Moneta regis. Königliche Münzstätten und königliche Münzpolitik in der Stauferzeit (MGH Schriften 55), Hannover 2006. Catherine E. Karkov, The Ruler Portraits of Anglo-Saxon England (Anglo-Saxon Studies 3), Woodbridge 2004. Hagen Keller, Ottonische Herrschersiegel. Beobachtungen und Fragen zu Gestalt und Aussage und zur Funktion im historischen Kontext, in: Konrad Krimm/Herwig John (edd.), Bild und Geschichte. Studien zur politischen Ikonographie. Festschrift für Hansmartin Schwarzmaier zum fünfundsechzigsten Geburtstag, Sigmaringen 1997, 3–51. Hagen Keller, Zu den Siegeln der Karolinger und Ottonen. Urkunden als Hoheitszeichen in der Kommunikation des Herrschers mit seinen Getreuen, in: Frühmittelalterliche Studien 32 (1998), 400–441. Ulrich Klein, Münzstätten der Stauferzeit (etwa 1140–1270) in Deutschland und Italien, in: Schweizerische Numismatische Rundschau 56 (1977), 171–278. Bernd Kluge, Numismatik des Mittelalters, Bd. 1: Handbuch und Thesaurus Nummorum (Veröffentlichungen der Numismatischen Kommission 45 = Akademie der Wissenschaften Wien, Phil.-Hist. Klasse. Sitzungsberichte 769), Berlin/Wien 2007. Gottfried Koch, Auf dem Wege zum Sacrum Imperium. Studien zur ideologischen Herrschaftsbegründung der deutschen Zentralgewalt im 11. und 12. Jahrhundert (Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte 20), Wien/Köln/Graz 1972. Gernot Kocher, Symbole des Rechts. Eine historische Ikonographie, München 1992. Theo Kölzer, Urkunden und Kanzlei der Kaiserin Konstanze von Sizilien (1195–1198) (Studien zu den normannisch-staufischen Herrscherurkunden Siziliens. Beihefte zum ’Codex diplomaticus regni Sicilie’ 2), Köln/Wien 1983.

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Kurt Lange, Münzkunst des Mittelalters, Leipzig 1942. Lutz Lippold, Macht des Bildes – Bild der Macht. Kunst zwischen Verehrung und Zerstörung bis zum ausgehenden Mittelalter, Leipzig 1993. Michael Matzke, Barbarossa auf den Münzen seiner Zeit, in: Knut Görich/Romedio Schmitz-Esser (edd.), Barbarossabilder. Entstehungskontexte, Erwartungshorizonte, Verwendungszusammenhänge, Regensburg 2014, 90–117. Nicholas Mayhew, Coinage in France, from the Dark Ages to Napoleon, London 1988. Donald McGillivray Nicol, Byzantium and England, in: Balkan Studies 15 (1974), 179–203. Inka Moilanen, The Construction of Images. Representation of Kingship in the Historiography of Early Medieval Britain, in: Marko Lamberg et al. (edd.), Methods and the Medievalist. Current Approaches in Medieval Studies, Newcastle-upon-Tyne 2008, 70–85. Richard Mortimer, Edward the Confessor. The Man and the Legend, in: Ders. (ed.), Edward the Confessor. The Man and the Legend, Woodbridge 2009, 1–40. Elisabeth Nau, Münzen und Geld in der Stauferzeit, in: Reiner Hausherr (ed.), Die Zeit der Staufer. Geschichte – Kunst – Kultur. Katalog der Ausstellung zum Anlaß des 25jährigen Bestehens des Landes Baden-Württemberg vom 26. März bis 5. Juni 1977, Bd. 1, Stuttgart 1977, 87–103. Elizabeth A. New, Seals and Sealing Practices (Archives and the user 11), London 2010, Jean-FranÅois Nieus, Early Aristocratic Seals. An Anglo-Norman Success Story, in: AngloNorman Studies 38 (2016), 97–123. John G. Noppen, William of Gloucester, Goldsmith to King Henry III, in: The Burlington Magazine for Connaisseurs 51 (1927), 189–195. Kate Norgate, The Minority of Henry the Third, London 1912. H. Alexander Parsons, The Prototype of the First Coinage of William the Conqueror, in: British Numismatical Journal 15 (1919/20), 49–56. Jürgen Petersohn, Die Ludowinger. Selbstverständnis und Memoria eines hochmittelalterlichen Reichsfürstengeschlechts, in: Blätter für deutsche Landesgeschichte 129 (1993), 1–39. Jürgen Petersohn, Kaisertum und Rom in spätsalischer und staufischer Zeit. Romidee und Rompolitik von Heinrich V. bis Friedrich II. (MGH Schriften 62), Hannover 2010. Otto Posse, Die Siegel der deutschen Kaiser und Könige von 751 bis 1913, 5 Bde., Dresden 1909–1913. Adolf Reinle, Das stellvertretende Bildnis. Plastiken und Gemälde von der Antike bis ins 19. Jahrhundert, Zürich/München 1984. Karl-Heinz Ruess (Red.), Die Staufer und Byzanz, ed. Gesellschaft für staufische Geschichte e.V. (Schriften zur staufischen Geschichte und Kunst 33), Göppingen 2013. Lieselotte E. Saurma-Jeltsch, Rom und Aachen in der staufischen Reichsimagination, in: Bernd Schneidmüller/Stefan Weinfurter/Alfried Wieczorek (edd.), Verwandlungen des Stauferreichs. Drei Innovationsregionen im mittelalterlichen Europa, Darmstadt 2010, 268–307. Percy E. Schramm, Sphaira, Globus, Reichsapfel. Wanderung und Wandlung eines Herrschaftszeichens von Caesar bis zu Elisabeth II. Ein Beitrag zum „Nachleben“ der Antike, mit 48 Lichtdrucktafeln und 6 Textabbildungen, Stuttgart 1958.

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Percy E. Schramm, Die deutschen Kaiser und Könige in Bildern ihrer Zeit. 751–1190, ed. Florentine Mütherich, München 1983. Jörg Schwarz, Herrscher- und Reichstitel bei Kaisertum und Papsttum im 12. und 13. Jahrhundert (Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters. Beihefte zu J.F. Böhmer, Regesta Imperii 22), Wien 2003. Gerald Schwedler, Das Angesicht des Herrschers. Frühmittelalterliche Beispiele von Fehlen und Vorhandensein bildlicher Repräsentation im Vergleich, in: Wolfram Drews/Jenny R. Oesterle (edd.), Transkulturelle Komparatistik. Beiträge zu einer Globalgeschichte der Vormoderne, Leipzig 2008 (= Comparativ. Zeitschrift für Globalgeschichte und vergleichende Gesellschaftsforschung 18 [2008]), 108–118. John Smith, Henry II’s Heir. The Acta and Seals of Henry the Young King, 1170–83, in: English Historical Review 116 (2001), 297–326. John Steane, The Archaeology of the Medieval English Monarchy, London 1993. Andrea Stieldorf, Rheinische Frauensiegel. Zur rechtlichen und sozialen Stellung weltlicher Frauen im 13. und 14. Jahrhundert (Rheinisches Archiv 142), Köln/Wien 1999. Andrea Stieldorf, Hochadeliges Selbstverständnis in bildlichen Darstellungen bis 1200. Das Beispiel von Siegeln und Münzen, in: Jörg Peltzer (ed.), Rank and Order. The Formation of Aristocratic Elites in Western and Central Europe, 500–1500 (Rank. Politisch-soziale Ordnungen im mittelalterlichen Europa 4), Ostfildern 2015, 201–229. Arthur Suhle, Münzbilder der Hohenstaufenzeit. Meisterwerke romanischer Kleinkunst, Leipzig 1938. Arthur Suhle, Burg, Siedlung und Münzstätte, in: Karl-Heinz Otto/Joachim Herrmann (edd.), Siedlung, Burg und Stadt. Studien zu ihren Anfängen (Deutsche Akademie der Wissenschaften zu Berlin. Schriften der Sektion für Vor- und Frühgeschichte 25), Berlin 1969, 157–160. Arthur Suhle, Deutsche Münz- und Geldgeschichte von den Anfängen bis zum 15. Jahrhundert, 8. Aufl., 1975. Bernhard Töpfer, Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa. Grundlinien seiner Politik, in: Ders./ Evamaria Engel (edd.), Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossa: Landesausbau – Aspekte seiner Politik – Wirkung (Forschungen zur mittelalterlichen Geschichte 36), Weimar 1994, 9–30. Eleni Tounta, Byzanz als Vorbild Friedrich Barbarossas, in: Stefan Burkhardt et al. (edd.), Staufisches Kaisertum im 12. Jahrhundert. Konzepte – Netzwerke – politische Praxis, Regensburg 2010, 159–174. Eleni Tounta, Thessaloniki (1148) – BesanÅon (1157). Die staufisch-byzantinischen Beziehungen und die „Heiligkeit“ des staufischen Reiches, in: Historisches Jahrbuch 131 (2011), 167–214. Thomas Frederick Tout, Chapters in the Administrative History of Mediaeval England. The Wardrobe, the Chamber and the Small Seals, Bd. I, Manchester 1920 (ND 1967). Edward Twining, European Regalia, London 1967. Tobias Weller, Die Heiratspolitik des deutschen Hochadels im 12. Jahrhundert (Rheinisches Archiv 149), Köln/Weimar/Wien 2004. Carl A. Willemsen, Die Bildnisse der Staufer. Versuch einer Bestandsaufnahme (Schriften zur staufischen Geschichte und Kunst 4), Göppingen 1977.

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Alfred Benjamin Wyon/Allan Wyon, The Great Seals of England. From the Earliest Period to the Present Time, Arranged and Illustrated with Descriptive and Historical Notes, London 1887. George Zarnecki/Janet Holt/Tristram Holland (edd.), English Romanesque Art 1066–1200. Hayward Gallery, London 5 April–8 July 1984, London 1984.

Internetquellen Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, Interaktiver Katalog des Münzkabinetts, Münze Æthelreds II., http://ww2.smb.museum/ikmk/object.php?lang=de& id=18202948 (19. 05. 2017). Staatlichen Museen zu Berlin, Interaktiver Katalog des Münzkabinetts, Siegel Wilhelm des Eroberers,http://ww2.smb.museum/ikmk/object.php?lang=de& id=18202967 (19. 05. 2016). Abdruck Siegel Heinrichs des Jüngeren, http://www.footnotinghistory.com/uploads/1/6/ 5/2/16521246/editor/hyk-seal.png?1483582856 (19. 05. 2017).

Max Lieberman

Noble ideals in the Norman/Plantagenet and Welf dynastic narratives1

Abstract How did noble ideals change over the course of the long twelfth century, and how much? The genre of dynastic narrative, which has a first high point during that period, lends itself to addressing these questions. This essay focuses on the Norman-Plantagenet tradition which begins with Dudo of St-Quentin’s history of the Norman dukes of around 1000. In Dudo’s text, mounted warriors play an important role in how he describes the ‘taming’ of the Vikings in Normandy ; but, the description of the Norman rulers draws heavily on royal ideals. The complementary and hierarchical relationship that bound men to their lords is central: there is indeed hardly any evidence that Dudo conceived of an ideal nobleman separate from lordship. In particular, in Dudo’s text, the ideal knight hardly appears at all – certainly not as one who excels as a knight even when neither acting as a lord nor serving one. However, this kind of ideal knight features clearly and pervasively in the later versions of the Norman history. Indeed, in these, lords are praised in their own right, without being kings, or king-like; and rulers, and even, occasionally, kings, are praised as knights. This development in Norman sources can be compared with the evidence from the ‘Historia Welforum’ a contemporary dynastic narrative from the Holy Roman Empire. While differences remain, the comparison shows that in regard to the image of the miles, a European development can be traced to the 12th century.

Introduction In the 1170s and 1180s, having been commissioned by Henry II (d. 1189), one Beno%t wrote a version of the Norman ‘dynastic narrative’ in rhyming verse known as the ‘Chronique des ducs de Normandie’.2 Henry II’s ancestor, Richard I 1 This essay builds on my Zurich University Habilitationsschrift on noble rituals and ideals in the eleventh, twelfth and thirteenth centuries (Max Lieberman, Lords, Vassals, Nobles, Knights. Chivalry and Other Ideals in Normandy and England, c. 1000–1300 (submitted in 2015). 2 See Nicholas L. Paul, To Follow in their Footsteps. The Crusades and Family Memory in the High Middle Ages, Ithaca et al. 2012, for the expression and for an appendix surveying ‘dynastic narratives’ of eleventh- and twelfth-century Europe.

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of Normandy (d. 996), is one of the ‘Chronique’s’ great heroes. Here he is, having finally succeeded his father as lord of Rouen: Ci a ovre d’or en avant De noble prince e de vaillant E de chevaler merveillos, De hardi e de corajos, Plein de bont8 e de valor E plein de grant pris e d’onnor.3

This short passage suggests that by the 1170s, noble men might strive to excel both as ‘princes’ (that is, lords or rulers) and as knights. That is to say, it suggests that there were ideals, or sets of standards, for both of these statuses. The passage thus would reflect a significant development in the history of norms for noblemen: that it had become possible for noblemen to earn praise purely as knights – even while acting neither as lords nor in the service of lords. The extent to which rulers were appraised as knights is one measure of this development. The fact that chevalerie began more readily to be used to refer to all knights, rather than just those following particular lords, is another.4 This change in noble ideals is both significant and challenging to study because it involves the core topics of both ‘chivalry’ and ‘feudalism’.5 Modern-day scholars have written about it in varying terms.6 Maurice Keen observed in his classic 3 Beno%t, Chronique des ducs de Normandie, ed. Carin Fahlin, 2 vols., Lund et al. 1951 (henceforth Beno%t), i, 562f: ‘From now on he strives to be / A noble and valiant prince / And a marvellous knight / Bold and courageous / Replete with virtue and valour / And replete with great renown and honour.’ Emphases are added in bold throughout this essay. 4 See further below. 5 ‘Chivalry’ and ‘feudalism’ overlap, but are arguably too separate as academic subjects. The need for a more integral approach to noble ideals is well illustrated by the fact that the entry for ‘honour in the political and legal sense’ (‘Ehre im polit.-rechtl. Sinn’, see Willigis Eckermann, Ehre, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 3 (1986), 1663.) in the Lexikon des Mittelalters cross-refers to the entries for feudalism and for knighthood (‘Lehenswesen’ and ‘Rittertum’), for Lehenswesen see Bernhard Diestelkamp, Lehen, -swesen; Lehnrecht, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 5 (1991), 1807–1811; and for Rittertum see Josef Fleckenstein, Ritter, -tum, -stand, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 7 (1995), 865–873 (in print as well as in the new, extended online version). Honour can and has been treated as a single topic: see, for instance, Klaus Schreiner/Gerd Schwerhoff (eds.), Verletzte Ehre. Ehrkonflikte in Gesellschaften des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit, Cologne 1995. 6 Striving for a complete review of the literature on ‘chivalry’ and ‘feudalism’ here would be futile and I therefore only mention the authors who have most influenced my thinking about noble ideals. Two brief and balanced review articles are: Richard Barton, Aristocratic Culture: Kinship, Chivalry, and Court Culture, in: Carol Lansing/Edward D. English (eds.), A Companion to the Medieval World, Malden MA 2009, 500–524; and Levi Roach, Feudalism, in: The International Encyclopedia of Social and Behavioral Sciences 9 (2015), 111–116. These subjects are also inextricably tied to yet another vast field, that of ‘nobility’: cf. Werner Hechberger, Adel im fränkisch-deutschen Mittelalter. Zur Anatomie eines Forschungsproblems, Ostfildern 2005, where ‘Das Adelsleitbild’, the ideal nobleman, is treated in a section

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study of 1984 that the ‘crystallization’ of chivalry in the eleventh and twelfth centuries was helped on its way by crusading, and probably by the establishment of military orders such as the Templars, since those orders exemplified “the idea of knighthood as an order, with obligations separable from those of vassal to lord and of more general application”.7 For Jean Flori, a once exclusively royal duty, that of protecting the ‘poor’, the powerless, orphans and widows, descended the aristocratic hierarchy (along with symbolic deliveries of arms), before becoming a defining characteristic of the typically ‘chivalrous’ ethic, as expressed in the thirteenth-century ‘Ordene de chevalerie’ and similar texts.8 Richard Kaeuper has recently emphasized again that the truest way to satisfy knightly ambition was, fundamentally and throughout a period of half a millennium, by acts of physical prowess in armed contest; and that the violence thus engendered complicated the role which knights played in the shaping of states in medieval Europe.9 Dominique Barth8lemy, building in particular on the work by Matthew Strickland and John Gillingham on ‘chivalric’ norms in warfare, has proposed that the 1060s saw a ‘chivalric transformation’ in France, when men began to be dubbed knights in solemn acts, and to seek personal renown in martial exploits, especially in tournament. This ‘new chivalry’, for Barth8lemy, superimposed concerned mainly with the ‘lay mirrors’ of the Carolingian period (ch. 8. 1.), and separately from knighthood and chivalry (ibid., ch. 10, ‘Rittertum’). For Carolingian lay mirrors see also now Rachel Stone, Morality and Masculinity in the Carolingian Empire, Cambridge 2012. The manuscript history of these texts during the central and later Middle Ages would be a fruitful area for further research. 7 Maurice Keen, Chivalry, New Haven and London 2005 (Orig. 1984), 50. 8 Conversely, Flori followed Georges Duby in believing that the title, or description, of miles came to be adopted by ever higher echelons of aristocratic society. Cf. Georges Duby, The Chivalrous Society, transl. Cynthia Postan, London 1977, esp. chs. 3 and 11–13; Jean Flori, L’id8ologie du glaive. Pr8histoire de la chevalerie, Geneva 1984 (Reprint 2010); idem, L’essor de la chevalerie. XIe – XIIe siHcles, Geneva 1986. For prominent rebuttals of this, cf. Reginald A. Brown, The Status of the Norman Knight, in: John Gillingham/James Holt (eds.), War and Government in the Middle Ages: Essays in Honour of Joseph O. Prestwich, Woodbridge 1984, 18–32; Dominique Barthélemy, The Serf, the Knight, and the Historian, transl. Graham R. Edwards, Ithaca/London 2009, esp. chs. 5–7. Barth8lemy has emphasized repeatedly that even if it could be shown that miles came to refer to men of ever higher status, this need not be evidence of a rise of the knights’ prestige; and stable usage of the word miles may have masked actual social change. In his more recent books and essays, Flori has to some degree revised and greatly expanded upon his earlier work, but he continues to view nobles and knights as separate groups until their ideological ‘fusion’ in the later twelfth century : e. g. in his Knightly Society, in: David Luscombe/Jonathan Riley-Smith (eds.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. iv, c. 1024–c. 1198. Part I, Cambridge 2004, ch. 6, 148–184; Certainly, the view of knights and nobles as originally separate groups remains influential: cf., for instance, the ‘Davidic ethic’ described in David Crouch, The Birth of Nobility. Constructing Aristocracy in England and France 900–1300, Harlow 2005, 71–79. 9 Richard W. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe, Oxford 1999; Idem, Medieval Chivalry, Cambridge 2016.

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itself on ‘vassalic’ duties and older, heroic ethics, and while it was not entirely compatible with the latter – since serving a lord was not always compatible with building a chivalric reputation – it did not replace them.10 These different emphases are to some extent the result of the different types of sources used by individual scholars.11 There is widespread agreement that over a few generations either side of 1100, a new drive for excellence purely as knights came to co-exist – somewhat uncomfortably – with traditional values deriving from the mutual obligations of lords and the noblemen in their retinues.12 The present article will build on this by assessing the extent of change in noble ideals between the early eleventh and later twelfth centuries. It will proceed by close textual comparison, focusing on the dynastic narratives of the Norman/Plantagenet and Welf houses. It will argue that such a comparison can show not just that noble ideals changed, but also how much they did.13

Sources and approach Dynastic narratives like Beno%t’s ‘Chronique’ are well-suited to present purposes since they were, to varying degrees, written to glorify the deeds of forefathers and vilify their enemies. They therefore have much to reveal about what was thought 10 Dominique Barthélemy, La chevalerie. De la Germanie antique / la France du XIIe siHcle, Paris 2012 (Orig. 2007), esp. 11 and ch. 4; Idem, Les chroniques de la mutation chevaleresque en France (du Xe au XIIe siHcle), in: Comptes-rendus des s8ances de l’Acad8mie des Inscriptions et Belles-Lettres 151 (2007), 1643–1665; Idem, The Chivalric Transformation and the Origins of Tournament as seen through Norman Chroniclers, in: Haskins Society Journal 20 (2009), 141–160; Idem, Chivalric One-Upmanship in France, ca. 1100, in: Thomas Noble/ Thomas N. Bisson (eds.), European Transformations: The Long Twelfth Century, Notre Dame 2012, 75–92. Matthew Strickland, War and Chivalry : The Conduct and Perception of War in England and Normandy, 1066–1217, Cambridge 1996; and John Gillingham, “Holding to the Rules of War (bellica iura tenentes)”. Right Conduct before, during, and after Battle in North-Western Europe in the Eleventh Century, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 29 (2007) (R. Allen Brown Memorial Lecture), 2–15. 11 For instance, in his early work, Flori made much use of liturgical texts on coronations and deliveries of arms; fictional narratives (‘chansons de geste’ and romances) have been particularly important to Kaeuper ; and a key text for Barth8lemy has been the ‘Gesta Guillelmi’ of William of Poitiers: William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ed. and transl. Ralph H. C. Davis/ Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 1998. 12 Note that David Crouch would prefer to see change in noble ideals as initially focused on the preudomme rather than the chevalier : cf. Crouch 2005, esp. 56–80. On the preudomme, compare Marc Bloch, Feudal Society, transl. L. A. Manyon, London 1961, repr. 1995, 305–311. 13 Historia Welforum, in: Quellen zur Geschichte der Welfen und die Chronik Burchards von Ursberg, ed. and transl. Matthias Becher (Ausgewählte Quellen zur Deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters. Freiherr vom Stein-Gedächtnisausgabe 18b), Darmstadt 2006 (henceforth HW), 35–87.

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admirable and reproachable in the characters and actions of the high-born.14 What is more, the Norman/Plantagenet tradition offers a unique opportunity to study change over time, since we have successive versions penned by different authors over the crucial period in question. Dudo, who wrote the first history of the Norman ‘dukes’, between the 990s and c. 1015, was a secular canon and indeed chaplain and chancellor at the court of Richard I’s son, Richard II (d. 1026). William ‘Calculus’ (d. after 1070), who first revised Dudo’s work, turning it into a more concise version known as the ‘Gesta Normannorum ducum’ (henceforth ‘GND’), was a monk at the abbey of JumiHges, on the Seine in Normandy. The later twelfth-century versions differ in several respects. The vision of the court of Henry II, king of England from 1154 to 1189, and his consort Eleanor of Aquitaine as a sort of cultural Camelot has been fundamentally revised.15 However, the fact remains that Henry II commissioned not one but two versions of the Norman history in Old French rhyming metre. The first was written by Wace, self-described clerc lisant, who came to the task after 1155, the year in which he shaped the branch of chivalric mythology known as the Matter of Britain by completing the ‘Roman de Brut’.16 The Beno%t to whom we owe the second Old French version is probably identical with Beno%t de Sainte-Maure, who wrote and dedicated to Eleanor of Aquitaine the ‘Roman de Troie’, a foundation stone of another branch of chivalric mythology, the Matter of Rome.17 These differences in authorship mean that differences between the texts are due not only to change in noble ideals over time. Yet a comparison between Beno%t and Dudo, in particular, is rewarding, for three main reasons. Both wrote substantial texts, and for secular courts; and Beno%t stayed so close to Dudo’s

14 As has often been noted, studying practices, perceptions and ideals are three complementary but separate exercises: even if we knew exactly which statements about practices were accurate in our sources, this would not help us in determining what their authors and audiences took to be true; and even if we also knew which of the statements in our sources were believed to be true, this in itself would not reveal what was thought honourable, appropriate or disgraceful. Conversely, knowing what our authors’ values were would not help us judge which of their statements were true, or which of them were believed to be true. 15 John Gillingham, The Cultivation of History, Legend, and Courtesy at the Court of Henry II, in: Ruth Kennedy/Simon Meecham-Jones (eds.), Writers of the Reign of Henry II. Twelve Essays, New York/Basingstoke 2006, 25–52. 16 The ‘Roman de Brut’ is an adaptation of Geoffrey of Monmouth’s British history which contains the first surviving mention of the Round Table, as well as the strikingly courtly view of chivalry expressed by Gawain: ‘Pur amisti8 e pur amies / Funt chevaliers chevaleries’: Wace, Roman de Brut. A History of the British, ed. and transl. Judith Weiss, Exeter 1999, (2nd rev. edn. 2010), ll. 10771f. Cf. Jean Blacker, Wace (b. after 1100, d. 1174x83), historian and poet, http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/28365 (19. 09. 2017). 17 Louise Gnädinger, Beno%t de Sainte-Maure, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 1 (1980), 1918f.

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‘History’ that his ‘Chronique’ can be considered a translation (albeit only of the prose parts of Dudo’s prosimetric work).18 It should be briefly noted that this essay’s approach could be applied to a wealth of comparable sources. The surviving corpus of dynastic narratives19 for the eleventh and twelfth centuries alone includes texts relating to the counts of Anjou,20 the counts of Amboise,21 the counts of Flanders,22 the counts of Hainaut,23 the counts of Guines and lords of Ardres,24 the counts (and bishops) of AngoulÞme,25 the counts of Nevers,26 the counts of Vendime,27 the earls of

18 It is to Benjamin Pohl that we owe the strongest argument to date that Dudo’s Norman history could have been intended for the Norman court (rather than for a monastic audience or as a ‘school book’ for teaching Latin, especially Latin metre): Benjamin Pohl, Dudo of SaintQuentin’s Historia Normannorum. Tradition, Innovation and Memory, Woodbridge/Rochester 2015, ch. 3, 156–223. On the Old French remaniements see further Max Lieberman, Knighthood and Chivalry in the Histories of the Norman Dukes: Dudo and Beno%t, in: AngloNorman Studies 32 (2010), 129–183. Beno%t’s ‘Chronique’ is 44’544 lines long; the section based on Dudo consists of about the first 28’655 lines. 19 Listed in Paul 2012, 299–303. That work also offers an admirable discussion of the production of dynastic narratives. For an introduction to a comparable group of texts often referred to as ‘ancestral romances’ or romans g8n8alogiques, see Susan Dannenbaum (=Crane), Anglo-Norman Romances of English Heroes: “Ancestral Romance”?, in: Romance Philology 35 (1982), 601–608. 20 Chroniques des comtes d’Anjou et des seigneurs d’Amboise, ed. Louis Halphen/Ren8 Poupardin (Collection de textes pour servir / l’8tude at a l’enseignement de l’histoire 48), Paris 1913. 21 Gesta Ambaziensium dominorum, in: Chroniques des comtes d’Anjou, ed. Halphen/ Poupardin, 74–132; Liber de compositione castri Ambaziae, in: Chroniques des comtes d’Anjou, ed. Halphen/Poupardin, 1–24. 22 Genealogiae comitum Flandriae, ed. Ludwig C. Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 9, Hannover 1851, 302–336. This tradition actually begins in the tenth century : Witger, Genealogia Arnulfi comitis, ed. Ludwig C. Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 9, Hannover 1851, 302–304, dated by its editor to between 951 and 959. 23 Gilbert of Mons, Chronicon, ed. L8on Vanderkindere (Recueil de textes pour servir a l’8tude de l’histoire de Belgique 1), Brussels 1904; Gilbert of Mons, Chronicle of Hainault, transl. Laura Napran, Woodbridge 2005. 24 Lambert of Ardres, Historia comitum Ghisnensium, ed. Johannes Heller, in: MGH Scriptores 24, Hannover 1879, 550–642; cf. [Lambert of Ardres] The History of the Counts of Guines and Lords of Ardres, transl. Leah Shopkow, Philadelphia 2001. 25 Historia pontificum et comitum Engolismensium, ed. Jacques Boussard, Paris 1957, esp. xxxiii–xxxiv, lvi. For the view that this text was not derived from Adh8mar of Chabannes, but drew on two of the same sources used by Adh8mar, see ibid., esp. lv–lvi. 26 Hugh of Poitiers, Origo et historia brevis Nivernensium comitum, in: Monumenta Vizeliacensia. Textes relatifs / l’histoire de l’abbaye de V8zelay, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens (Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Medievalis 42, 1), Turnhout 1976, 235–239. For a translation see Hugh of Poitiers, The V8zelay Chronicle and Other Documents from MS Auxerre 227 and Elsewhere, transl. John Scott/John O. Ward, Binghamton, New York 1992, 92–96. 27 Origo comitum Vindocinensium, ed. L8opold Delisle, in: Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, vol. 11, Paris 1876, 31.

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Warenne,28 the dukes of Austria,29 the dukes of Poland,30 and the counts of Barcelona, besides the Norman/Plantagenet and the Welf houses.31 Furthermore, although much work has already been done on noble ideals in these texts, there is scope for more, certainly from the particular perspective taken here. Keen already pointed to the value of ancestral histories for the eleventh- and twelfth-century history of chivalry, but he did not focus on them.32 Flori found evidence in them for the way in which, at a time of royal weakness in France, originally regal duties and attributes came to be attributed to dukes and counts (whom he saw as separate from ‘the knights’ until the later twelfth century).33 Jean Dunbabin, in her illuminating study of dynastic narratives from France and Flanders, analysed a number of dynastic narratives for what they can tell us about perceptions of the past, noting only as an aside that one of them, the ‘Chronica de gestis consulum Andegavorum’, provided in its description of Geoffrey Grisegonelle (Greymantle) “a model of ideal comital conduct”.34 David Crouch has suggested that before the thirteenth-century chivalric treatises, ancestors served as the models which noblemen were expected to follow, but not yet in the sense that those ancestors were considered ideal knights.35 Thomas Bisson has scrutinized a selection of comparable texts in order to shed light on concepts of nobility, and indeed their relation to both regality and knightliness, in the century leading up to 1150; but Björn Weiler has questioned one of Bisson’s key contentions, that “it is, and was, easy to muddle kingliness and nobility”.36 Nicholas Paul has used dynastic narratives in order to demonstrate the importance of ancestral crusaders to the crusading movement.37 Both Geoffrey Koziol and Alheydis Plassmann have insightfully discussed Dudo’s portrayal of Norman dukes as good lords, but left more to be said on how far the dukes were 28 The Warenne (Hyde) Chronicle, ed. Elisabeth van Houts/Rosalind Love, Oxford 2013. 29 Breve chronicon Austriae Mellicense, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Scriptores 24, Hanover 1897, 69–71. 30 Gesta principum Polonorum, ed. and transl. Paul W. Knoll/Frank Schaer with preface by Thomas N. Bisson, Budapest 2003. 31 Gesta comitum Barcinonensium, ed. Louis Barrau-Dihigo/Jaume Massó i Torrents, Barcelona 1925 (Reprint 2007). 32 Keen 2005 (Orig. 1984), 32f. 33 Flori 1986, esp. ch. 7. 34 Jean Dunbabin, Discovering a Past for the French Aristocracy, in: Paul Magdalino (ed.), The Perception of the Past in Twelfth-Century Europe, London/Rio Grande 1992, 1–14, here 9. 35 Crouch 2005, esp. 30–37. 36 Thomas N. Bisson, Princely Nobility in an Age of Ambition (c. 1050–1150), in: Anne Duggan (ed.), Nobles and Nobility in Medieval Europe, Woodbridge 2000, 101–113, here 102; Björn Weiler, Kingship and Lordship: Views of Kingship in “Dynastic” Chronicles, in: Krzysztof Stopka (ed.), Gallus Anonymous and his Chronicle in the Context of TwelfthCentury Historiography from the Perspective of the Latest Research, Krakjw 2010, 103–124. 37 Paul 2012.

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portrayed as ideal knights;38 Plassmann has also considered comparatively the later twelfth-century dynastic narratives of Anjou, Flanders and of the Welfs, arguing that these dynasties shared a number of ancestral ‘types’ besides the brave knight: the progenitor, the lordship-founder, the unexpected heir, the saint, the model prince, the ancestral hero, the pilgrim, crusader or pope-aider, the king-aider, and the black sheep.39 And Dominique Barth8lemy has found evidence for a late-eleventh century ‘chivalric transformation’ in dynastic narratives,40 but he has focused on texts from France (including Normandy), and as this essay hopes to show, detailed discussion of individual sources has even more to reveal about the extent of change in noble ideals between the early eleventh and later twelfth centuries.

Noble ideals in Dudo of Saint-Quentin Dudo’s Norman history, as indicated, will serve as baseline here. This work was executed as a serial biography, in four books of unequal length, one each devoted to Hasting, a villainous Viking chief; Rollo, the ancestral hero; his son, William Longsword; and William’s son, Richard I, who receives by far the most extensive treatment.41 In Books Two to Four, Dudo therefore faced the challenge of distinguishing his heroes from each other as characters without leaving any doubt as to their excellence as ‘dukes’ of Normandy. Book One acts as a foil to the rest of the work.

38 Geoffrey Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor. Ritual and Political Order in Early Medieval France, Ithaca/London 1992, 147–159 and ch. 8 on ‘The Sublimity of Knighthood’, 241–288; Alheydis Plassmann, Origo Gentis. Identitäts- und Legitimitätsstiftung in früh- und hochmittelalterlichen Herkunftserzählungen, Berlin 2006, 251–257. 39 Alheydis Plassmann, Die Welfen-Origo – Ein Einzelfall?, in: Dieter R. Bauer/Matthias Becher (eds.), Welf IV. – Schlüsselfigur einer Wendezeit. Regionale und europäische Perspektiven, Munich 2004, 56–83, drawing on a comparison between the ‘Historia Welforum’, the ‘Chronica de gestis consulum Andegavorum’ and the text known as ‘Flandria generosa’, which she dates to around 1164 (for the text, see Flandria generosa, ed. Ludwig Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 9, Hanover 1851, 313–325.) 40 Barthélemy 2012. 41 Dudo’s ‘History’ is a substantial work, occupying 187 pages in Lair’s edition and 173 in Christiansen’s English translation. Book Four accounts for 92 and 90 pages, respectively. Cf. Dudo of St. Quentin, De moribus et actis primorum Normanniae ducum, ed. Jules Lair (M8moires des la societ8 des antiquaries de Normandie 23. S8rie 3,2), Caen 1865 (henceforth Dudo); Dudo of St Quentin: History of the Normans, transl. Eric Christiansen, Woodbridge 1998. For the expression ‘serial biography’ and further discussion of Dudo and his historiographical context, see Elisabeth van Houts, Historical Writing, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/Eadem (eds.), A Companion to the Anglo-Norman World, Woodbridge 2003, 103–121; and now Pohl 2015, esp. ch. 2. 109–155.

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To what extent can Dudo’s Norman history be considered a ‘chivalric’ text?42 Given its date, the question may be considered misplaced. Yet in light of Barth8lemy’s recent reading of earlier medieval texts from Francia, including Dudo’s, it is necessary to begin with the fact that Dudo’s Norman history is full of knights, at least in the loose sense of warriors able to fight on horseback. Indeed, the way in which the ship-borne men of the north became mounted warriors is an important, if implicit, aspect of their (partial) assimilation to the Franks. Thus, the contrast between maritime and mounted warriors is found at the very beginning of Dudo’s story. The First Book opens with a description of savage peoples dwelling between the Danube and the Scythian sea, who, faced with a superabundance of boisterous young men, send forth some of them by ship, and some as equites. The former seek to placate the winds by means of a grisly human sacrifice, the latter merely ‘raise the martial standards of battle’ before riding forth.43 Dudo apparently felt the need to explain why the Dacians (or Danes) on whom he focuses raided as a fleet rather than as a cavalry force. The rest of the First Book, as noted, is then devoted to the deeds of the despicable Hasting, who not only refuses to reject paganism, but also clearly leads a band of pirates (though somewhat ineffectively, succeeding only by guile in taking a fortified city he mistakenly assumes to be Rome).44 Hasting, who has no redeeming features whatsoever, of course serves to mitigate the undeniable paganism of Rollo, hero of the Second Book and the ancestor of Dudo’s patrons, Richard I and Richard II. Rollo, though a pagan, sets sail for England not after a blood-soaked ritual but upon hearing a divine voice in a dream and conferring with ‘a wise man who was also a Christian’. Similarly, he voyages from England to Francia after a divinely inspired vision of a promised land which is interpreted for him by a Christian prisoner.45 And although Rollo, too, de facto leads a fleet of pagan Dacians, these are not lawless raiders but honourable warriors. Already as young men, Rollo and his brother are ‘vigorous in arms, skilled in war, most handsome in body, and most steadfast in courage’.46 Rollo and his men always fight in a good cause: defending themselves, or defending the English king against recalcitrant subjects, or in retaliation against enemies who had dealt the first blow.47 And furthermore, it is undeniable that Rollo leads an amphibious raiding party. For instance, after one battle Rollo’s defeated opponents turn to flight and begin ‘to look hard for their horses’; those 42 43 44 45 46 47

The question has been most recently addressed by Barthélemy Paris 2012 (Orig. 2007). Dudo, 130. Dudo, 132–5. Dudo, 145f. Dudo, 141: armis strenui, bellis edocti, corpore pulcherrimi, animositate robustissimi. Cf. especially Rollo’s speech to his men in which he squarely lays the blame for bloodshed on the Franks: Dudo, 156.

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of his foes who are captured are led to his ships.48 Yet Dudo glosses over this contrast between Dacians and Franks by various means, to wit, echoing the ‘Aeneid’ in his battle descriptions,49 and referring to Rollo’s men not as pirates, but – on numerous occasions – as milites.50 This word does not always obviously mean ‘mounted warrior’ in Dudo’s text (on one occasion, Frankish equites are even opposed to Norman milites).51 Therefore, there is considerable ambiguity about the precise tactics of Rollo and his men, until suddenly, towards the end of the Second Book, Rollo’s forces are explicitly said to comprise both equites and pedites. What is more, Dudo implies that Rollo himself rides into battle, for he sends his footsoldiers ahead and turns back with the cavalry to annihilate a force of peasants pursuing him.52 Finally, at the end of his reign Rollo is described as too old to, literally, ‘ride forth’ (equitare) – that is, too old to lead his men on campaign.53 In the Third Book, devoted to Rollo’s son William Longsword, Dudo’s overriding concern with emphasizing the conversion of the Norman ‘dukes’ to Christianity is particularly evident. Again, however, their conversion to Frankish-style warfare is a subsidiary, largely implicit theme. Thus, Dudo goes so far as to have William as a young man vow to take the monastic habit.54 Yet the Norman chiefs favour William as a successor to Rollo because he is ‘begotten from a most noble lineage of the Franks […] supremely well-formed, with a vigorous healthy body, and extremely knowledgeable in mind, after being educated through the study of many subjects.’ Rollo himself approves the choice because one Botho had brought William up as a leader in war should be.55 After succeeding his father, the half-Frank William is presented as a lord of mounted warriors, a distributor to ‘chiefs of the Northmen’ of armour and weapons such as battle-

48 Dudo, 157. 49 E. g. Dudo, 145; cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, n. 131 on 188. Pierre Bouet, Dudon de S. Quentin et Virgile: “L’Pn8ide” au service de la cause normande, in: Recueil d’8tudes en hommage / Lucien Musset (Annales de Normandie, Collection Cahiers des Annales 23), Caen 1990, 215–236. 50 E. g. Dudo, 143, 148, 157, 165, 182 (referring to Rollo’s comites principesque mentioned on 181), 183. In Book 1, Hasting’s forces are never described as milites, but as pagans, Dacians, Danes or Northmanni (for the latter, cf. ibid., 136; Hasting is later said to have sailed cum plurimo milite: ibid., 154). 51 Dudo, 165. 52 Dudo, 162. Rollo’s forces are referred to as an exercitus on 160. 53 Dudo, 174 and Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 197f., n. 223. 54 Dudo, 180. 55 Dudo, 181: Est namque mihi filius […] quem Botho, princeps militiae nostrae, ut filium educavit moribusque et studiis belli sufficienter instruxit; Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 59: ‘There is a son of mine […] whom Botho, the commander-in-chief of our troops, has brought up as his son, and has adequately schooled in the ways and means of warfare.’

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axes and excellent, gold-decorated swords, but also of ‘coursers’ (Dudo’s expression, cambitores equi, implies horses easy to manoeuvre).56 Finally, in the Fourth Book, the book dedicated to Richard I, knights in the military sense, both Frankish and Norman, feature prominently (and they include the ‘dukes’). Richard himself is brought up at the royal court of the Franks, amongst the tirones, learning to ride (as well as to hawk, and to speak eloquently).57 Throughout the Fourth Book, several of the protagonists are depicted riding horses, often heightening drama in the narrative by spurring their steeds on campaigns or on urgent embassies to each others’ courts and castles.58 And throughout, of course, horses are ridden into battle. Richard himself, having secured the succession to the ‘duchy’ of Normandy against considerable odds, displays, on one occasion, an impetuous urge to lead his tirones in a cavalry charge, and has to be restrained by elder knights (majoris aetatis milites), who seize the reins of his bridle.59 Further, one King Harold, having sailed from Dacia to aid his kinsman Richard, rides ‘on a swift galloper’ after Louis, king of the Franks, who in retreating from a losing battle ‘was fleeing hither and thither, because the bit had slipped from the horse’s mouth, and he was holding no more

56 Dudo, 187; Carolo Du Fresne, domino Du Cange, Glossarium mediae et infimae latinitatis, ed. Louis Henschel, Paris 1840–1850, Neue Edition 1883–1887, ed. L8opold Favre [ND Graz 1954]. Entry for Campitor ; Paul Lehmann, Mittellateinisches Wörterbuch bis zum ausgehenden 13. Jahrhundert, vol. 2 (1999), 106, entry for Cambitor. Cambitor is a rare word, which is probably why Dudo clarifies its meaning by linking it with equus (he certainly does so on 243, cf. below, 115, n. 39). Compare Barthélemy Paris 2012 (Orig. 2007), 189. For further appearances of mounted warriors, see also the passage with the Norman and Breton legions riding apart: Dudo, 195f. The four Flemings who assassinate William Longsword also escape on horseback: Dudo, 208. 57 Dudo, 229f. Multimodis illum sermonibus libenter insignibant, et mellifluo palatinae sermocinationis dulcamine erudiebant. In a prefatory poem, Dudo also lauds Richard as a distributor of horses: Dudo, 124. 58 E. g. Dudo, 231–233, 238, 242, 259, 260, 271 (Franks and Flemish: loricati et galeati exercitus, insurgentes hinc inde celeri equitatu), 272, 276 and 295. 59 Dudo, 272; cf. Barthélemy Paris 2012 (Orig. 2007), 148. The majoris aetatis milites are also described as majores natu (ibid., 272). This also connotes high birth, e. g. ibid., 256 (Vos, qui natu sensuque majoris estis; cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 131: ‘You who are greater by birth and by intelligence’). But possibly here and clearly elsewhere Dudo wished to evoke difference in age (and the prudence and wisdom it bestows). Thus, the contrast with tirones also occurs ibid., 269 (Tirones suae domus praemiis et muneribus ad serviendum incitabat; majores natu beneficiis affluenter ditabat; cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 143: ‘He spurred on the young warriors of his household with gifts; the older ones he enriched abundantly with land-grants.’). Note also the use of major natu to identify an elder sibling in Widows, Heirs and Heiresses in the Late Twelfth Century. The Rotuli de Dominabus et Pueris et Puellis, ed. and transl. John Walmsley, Tempe, AZ 2006, 20 (Major natu filiorum est .xviij. annorum. ‘The eldest of the sons is eighteen years old.’) Note finally that the young Richard also has to be restrained at an earlier point in the narrative, Dudo, 260f., though here it is less clear whether he wishes to fight on horseback or on foot.

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than the reins in his hand.’60 Louis is duly captured, but escapes his guards, only to ‘roam about to no purpose careering on a wing-footed steed’61 before being recaptured by a miles from Rouen (Rotomagensis miles), who ‘wrenched round his courser, and charged at king Lewis, and caught the reins of his harness, and compelled him by force to ride along with him.’62 This second appearance of a courser (cambitor) thus occurs in a scene that would not be out of place in a description of a twelfth-century mÞl8e tournament. Thus, the world of Dudo’s ‘History of the Normans’ is a thoroughly equestrian one, in which lords, kings and emperors, but also lesser men, ride into battle. This confirms the point Barth8lemy made generally about texts dating to before the ‘chivalric transformation’ which he dates to the later eleventh century.63 Here we should emphasize how very little evidence there is, even in a substantial text such as Dudo’s, and one so closely concerned with standards in behaviour and character, of knights excelling purely as knights. Important evidence for this claim is furnished by Dudo’s usage of miles.64 Miles is not a rare word in the first Norman history, appearing 74 times in the prose and six times in the metric sections.65 For present purposes, what is perhaps most significant is that Dudo uses miles in an ‘absolute’ sense, even qualifying it with graded adjectives, notably asperrimus. Thus he has Rollo address Rainer ‘Longneck’, the duke of Hesbaye, as follows: Raginere dux, milesque asperrime, regumque et ducum atque comitum superbo satus sanguine.66 Rollo’s companion Botho is described both as a praecipuus Northmannorum comes and 60 Dudo, 242: Rex […] Haigroldus […] volucri sonipede agmen secans medium, citato cursu persequebatur [Luthdovicum]. […] Rex autem Luthdovicus hac illacque fugitabat, quia freni a capite equi delapsi habenas manibus solummodo tenebat. 61 Dudo, 243: alipedis equi cursu errabat inani, cf. Aeneid, 12, l. 484: alipedumque fugam cursu temptauit equorum; Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 117 and 214, n. 363. 62 Dudo, 243: torquens cambitorem equum et irruens super regem Luthdovicum, per habenas freni cepit eum atque vi compellebat equitare secum. The word cambitor also appears with torquere in a Carolingian poem on the zodiac: De sole et de duodecim signis, ed. Paul von Winterfeld, in: MGH Poetae Latini Carolini aevi 4, 1, Berlin 1899, 210f., at 211: Capricornus/In quo cambitores Filogeus torquet enormes (‘Capricorn/In which Philogeus wheels around great coursers’). 63 Barthélemy Paris 2012 (Orig. 2007), esp. ch. 4. 64 The discussion in this chapter of miles, fidelis, militare and militia revises part of my Lizentiatsarbeit, Lieberman 1999, 41f., 46–51. 65 Dudo, 141, 143, 147, 148, 149, 150, 151, 153 (V2), 154 (V2), 157, 158 (V2), 165, 166 (V2), 169, 170, 171, 173 (V4), 182, 183, 187 (V2), 189, 190 (metric), 191 (V3), 196 (V3), 197, 203, 205, 207, 224 (metric), 225 (V3), 228, 234, 239 (V2), 241 (V2), 242, 243 (V6), 244, 246 (V2), 247 (metric), 249, 250, 251, 253, 257, 260, 262, 263, 265 (V3), 272 (V3, once metric), 275 (metric), 280, 293, 298, 300 (metric). Cf. also commilitones, ibid., 248, 249. 66 Dudo, 151. For the distinction between ‘absolute’ and ‘relative’ senses of miles, (the first of these emphasizing prowess, the second personal dependence), see Barthélemy 2009, 141f., with reference to Paul Guilhiermoz, Essai sur l’origine de la noblesse en France au moyen .ge, Paris 1902, 331–345, where the equivalence between miles and vassallus is noted.

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as an asperrimus miles, even cunctorum militum praecellentissimus.67 One Bernard is described as Dacigena miles.68 These instances lend a slight but distinct ‘chivalric’ flavour to Dudo’s Norman history.69 It is also notable that they provide further examples of miles referring to high-ranking individuals. Indeed, they justify asking ourselves how different our understanding of the early history of chivalry would be if he had written not in Latin but in Old French.70 On the other hand, the instances of milites being compared to each other as such, or even qualified with adjectives, are highly isolated;71 and there is no way to be sure if Dudo simply meant ‘warrior’ rather than ‘knight’ when he used miles in the ‘absolute’ sense.72 The word vassallus also appears twice, once when Rollo/ Robert is referred to as such, and once when he is addressed as such by a messenger from Robert, duke of the Franks, in a sentence that could refer either to the Norman’s valour or to his loyalty.73 Also, militia apparently did not, for Dudo, mean a quasi-order comprised of all knights, nor a set of standards specific to them.74 It should further be noted, as Barth8lemy has remarked, that there is no evidence in Dudo of a ritual designed to create knights, let alone exhort them to observe a catalogue of duties expected of knights.75 This constitutes yet another piece of negative evidence – but it may well be a significant one. For in Dudo’s text, rituals, or in any case symbolic gestures, do occur (notably the handclasping by which Norman chiefs pledge their allegiance to ‘ducal’ successors).76 Moreover, splendid swords are gifted, but this does not bestow a particular status

67 68 69 70 71 72 73

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Dudo, 157, 191. Dudo, 189. On Benoit’s translation of these passages see below, 151f. I owe this counterfactual consideration to Matthew Strickland. Though see Dudo, 158 for honesti milites; ibid., 165 for milites addressed as robustissimi armisque asperrimi; ibid., 239 for nobilioris et ditioris potentiae milites. E. g. Dudo, 157, 191, 243f. Dudo, 166f.: sagaci mente vasallus constans et lenis; Satis exercuisti praelia; satis demonstrasti arma virilia. Satis cujus virtutis es declarasti, satis plurimis periculis incubuisti, satis vassallus emeritus, satis toto orbe laudatus. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 48: ‘Enough wars have been waged: enough have you proved your manly skill at arms. Enough have you made known the temper of your valour, enough have you undergone many dangers, enough have you proved your worth as a vassal, enough have you been praised by the whole world.’ See below, 255. This point is made with regard to Dudo, and indeed other authors writing around the year 1000 (Richer of Rheims, Adh8mar of Chabannes, Odo of Saint-Maur) in: Dominique Barthélemy, Nouvelle histoire des Cap8tiens. 987–1214, Paris 2012, 224. Cf. also Idem 2012 (Orig. 2007), ch. 3, 163–243, esp. 222. For a recent discussion of the complex topic of ‘knighting’, see Max Lieberman, A New Approach to the Knighting Ritual, in: Speculum 90 (2015), 391–423. Dudo, 173f., 182f., 221f., 297.

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or rank.77 Rather, swords are given to lieutenants as symbols of royal or ducal authority, or simply presented in gestures of seigneurial largesse.78 Furthermore, Dudo has much to say on the upbringing of his protagonists, particularly Richard I’s.79 If there had, by his day, been a well-established kind of ‘knighting’ ritual associated with coming of age, it seems very possible, indeed probable, that he would have inserted one (regardless of the actual facts of his subject matter) just as Wace and Beno%t were to do in Richard I’s case around a century and a half later.80 The other point that needs emphasizing here is the pervasiveness of ideals related to the hierarchical and mutual relation between lords (including kings) and their men. The obvious place to start is with the main protagonists, Rollo and his successors. Dudo bestows different titles on these men, most commonly, dux, comes and marchio. However, in praising Rollo and his descendants, it seems he invoked standards which he considered appropriate not to any of these titles or offices, but to kings. The near-regality of the Norman ‘dukes’ is a recurring motif in Dudo’s story.81 While still in their pagan homeland of Dacia, Rollo and his brother Gurim must defend their monarchia.82 Later, after his exile from Dacia, one of the advantages of Rollo as a prospective son-in-law of Charles the Simple, king of the Franks, is that he is ‘born of the proud blood of kings and chiefs’.83 Louis, king of the Franks, takes charge of the orphaned Richard I of Normandy, offering to teach him ‘king-craft and courtly eloquence’ (notitiis regalibus palatinisque facundiis instruere).84 Furthermore, on several occasions Normandy (or the combined Norman-Breton realm claimed by Rollo and his heirs) is described as a regnum, placing it on a par with Francia and Burgundy.85 77 78 79 80 81

82 83 84 85

Dudo, 160, 197, 267. Dudo, 275. Dudo, 179f., 219–231. Wace, Roman de Rou, ed. Anthony J. Holden, 3 vols., Paris 1970–1973 (henceforth Wace; translation: Wace’s Roman de Rou, transl. Glyn S. Burgess, Woodbridge 2004), i, 118; Beno%t, i, 577f. Cf. Barthélemy Paris 2012 (Orig. 2007), 228f., for the view that the Norman dukes are for Dudo ideal counts in the Carolingian tradition, but that he already sees Normandy as a kingdom within a kingdom. Benjamin Pohl has recently emphasized the Carolingian and generally imperial heritage of Dudo’s work, particularly with respect to the depiction of Rollo, whom he sees as having been modelled on Constantine: cf. Pohl 2015, esp. ch. 3, 156–223. Dudo, 143. Dudo, 166: superbo regum ducumque sanguine natus. Dudo, 227. E. g. Dudo, 180, 181, 183, 185, 187, 189, 192, 194, 196, 233, 247, 265 (Northmannicum Britonumque […] regnum), 278 (Franciscum et Northmannicum regnum). For patria, cf. Dudo, 222. For the regna of the Franks and the Burgundians see Dudo, 265: Francorum Burgundionumque […] regna. For charters from before 1066 referring to Normandy as a regnum see Recueil des actes des ducs de Normandie, ed. Marie Fauroux, Caen 1961, nos. 3

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The passages in which Richard II’s ancestors are lauded as rulers are in keeping with this. The first of these occurs immediately after Rollo’s baptism. Rollo, christened Robert, first sets about restoring the churches in his realm. He then marries Gisla, daughter of Charles the Simple.86 This is followed by a passage in which it is perhaps impossible to say whether Rollo is being lauded as a nonroyal lord or as a king, as he dispenses land, decrees laws, protects churches, dominates neighbouring peoples, and imposes the bannum.87 The last act was by no means the prerogative of kings.88 But Dudo’s purpose in this passage may well have been to deploy a range of conventionally regal characteristics in order to establish that his patrons’ ancestors were independent of their Frankish neighbours. His vignette of Rollo the ruler makes no mention of subservience to other lords (notably the king of the Franks). And it probably draws, even if indirectly, on patristic, biblical and Roman models of the good king.89 It is no exaggeration

86 87

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(968), 61 (1030), 67 (1028 x 1033), 74 (1027 x 1035), 92 (1038), 95 (1037 x ca. 1040), 122 (1050), 158 (1063); Charles W. Hollister, Normandy, France and the Anglo-Norman Regnum, in: Speculum 51 (1976), 202–242, esp. 211f., and Emily Z. Tabuteau, Transfers of Property in Eleventh-century Norman Law, Chapel Hill/London 1988, 372, n. 128. William, the future Conqueror, was called rex in a charter of 1055: Recueil, ed. Fauroux, no. 137. Cf. Karl F. Werner, Regnum, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 7 (1995), 587–596. Dudo, 170f. Dudo, 171: Securitatem omnibus gentibus in sua terra manere cupientibus fecit. Illam terram suis fidelibus funiculo divisit, universamque diu desertam reaedificavit, atque de suis militibus advenisque gentibus refertam restruxit. Jura et leges sempiternas, voluntate principum sancitas et decretas, plebi indixit, atque pacifica conversatione morari simul coegit. Ecclesias funditus fusas statuit, templa frequentia paganorum destructa restauravit, muros civitatum et propugnacula refecit et augmentavit. Britannos rebelles sibi subjugavit, atque de cibariis Britonum totum regnum sibi concessum sufficienter pavit. Denique in terra suae ditionis bannum (id est interdictum), misit, quod est prohibitio, ut nullus fur vel latro esset, neque quis assensum malae voluntatis ei praeberet. Denique interdixit ut nullus ferramenta aratri domum reportaret, verum in campo cum aratro relinqueret, et nullus post equum, asinumque, atque bovem, ne perderet, custodem mitteret. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 51f.: ‘He placed all the nations which desired to remain within his land under his protection. He divided that land among his followers by measure, and rebuilt everything that had been long deserted, and restored it by restocking it with his own warriors and with peoples from abroad. He imposed everlasting privileges and laws on the people, authorised and decreed by the will of the chief men, and he compelled them to dwell together in peace. He raised up churches that had been demolished to the ground, he rebuilt temples that had been ruined by visitations of the heathen, and he made new and extended the walls and defences of the cities. He subdued the Bretons who resisted him and he amply victualled the whole of the realm that had been granted to him from the Breton food–renders. Next, he imposed a ban, that is, a prohibition, on the land he controlled; so that he forbade any man from being a thief or a robber, or from aiding and abetting him maliciously. Then he forbade anyone to take home the steel blade of a plough, and ordered him to leave it in the field with the plough; and no man was to set a watch to prevent the loss of his horse, his ass and his ox, after that.’ On the secular ban cf. Robert Scheyhing, Bann, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 1 (1980), 1414f. Bannum had many uses, which may well be why Dudo specifies what he means. For a concise survey of characteristically royal duties in the medieval period see Björn

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that Rollo’s baptism by Franco, archbishop of Rouen, effectively inaugurates the rule of a monarch; purely in that sense, in the role it plays in Dudo’s narrative, it is reminiscent of anointment.90 Book Three, whose subject is William Longsword, also contains passages apparently rehearsing conventional features of regality. William, the reader is assured, once he had succeeded his father, ‘having attained so honourable and worthy an eminence, and being attended most suitably by equally respectable counts and knights […] vowed to Christ that he would be of service to the regnum, and would do nothing to harm any man “Truth and glory were in his house, equity and justice were in his works.”’91

Indeed, Dudo repeatedly drives home the point.92 His father having fulfilled the role of founding ruler, William’s priority is less making new laws than upholding and enforcing existing ones. Yet he is remembered as having built a church at JumiHges.93 Indeed, William’s chief distinguishing feature is his excessive piety : as is well known, William is dissuaded from converting to monasticism by the abbot of JumiHges, who reminds him of the three orders of society (in this case, laymen, canons and monks), and of the choice facing all three between the active and the passive life.94 If William Longsword did not protect the patria and uphold his father’s laws, the abbot implies, no-one would: Defensor hujus patriae, cur talia rimatus es facere? Quis fovebit clerum et populum? Quis contra nos ingruentium paganorum exercitui obstabit? Quis paternis legibus reget strenue populum? Cui gregem committes et commendabis? Cui ducamen Britannicae Northmannicaeque regionis largieris?95

90 91

92 93 94 95

Weiler, The Rex Renitens and the Medieval Ideal of Kingship, in: Viator 31 (2000), 1–42, esp. 23–38. Dudo, 169–171. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 60f. As Christiansen notes (ibid., 199, n. 233), the sentence in quotation marks adapts Psalm 3, 3. It is repeated with reference to Richard (Dudo, 261f.). The passage in the original reads (Dudo, 183): Adeptus siquidem culmen tanti honoris et dignitatis, constipatus dignissime comitibus militibusque condignis, vovit Christo se regno auxiliaturum, nullique unquam facturum praejudicium ullum…Veritas et gloria in domo ejus, aequitas et justitia in operibus ejus. Dudo, 185 (Tunc Willelmus utriusque regni populum strenue rexit), 193 (Refulgebat in eo sanctitas et prudentia), 196 (speech beginning Respondit: “Magnae patientiae et justitiae”), 200 (Statimque coepit exercere leges et jura). Dudo, 200. Dudo, 201f. Dudo, 201. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 77: ‘Defender of this our country, why have you searched out such things as this to do? Who will take care of the clergy and the people? Who will stand up to the host of the pagans when it comes upon us? Who will rigorously rule the people with your father’s laws? To whom will you entrust and commend the common herd? On whom will you bestow the ducamen of the Breton and the Norman region?’.

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Dudo’s use of the words patria and ducamen tempers the regal effect of this speech. But, as indicated above, his appreciation of Rollo and William Longsword is sober compared to the panegyrics he devotes to Richard I. The Fourth Book opens with short dedicatory poems, in different metres, from each of the nine Muses, followed by one sung by all nine in unison.96 This is paralleled, towards the end, by a reflection on how Richard’s life and character corresponded to the beatitudes, the declarations of blessedness from Christ’s Sermon on the Mount.97 Yet these are but the first and penultimate courses in a heavy banquet of eulogies in both prose and verse.98 Richard, indeed, has so many merits that the impact of each individual one is rather diminished. Just as Dudo frequently bestows on Richard any or all of the titles of marchio, dux, comes and patricius,99 so in one poem he contrives to fit more than ninety attributes into thirty-four verses. These include arguably ‘regal’ choices such as justus and prudens, but also elegans, robustus in armis and pes claudo, ast oculus caeco, baculusque labanti (‘the cripple’s foot, the blind man’s eye, and the feeble’s staff ’). That particular eulogy culminates in comparing Richard to Paul the Apostle, noting that the Norman ‘duke’ was indeed omnibus omnia factus (‘made all things to all’), a quote from the First Letter to the Corinthians.100 Arguably therefore Dudo’s blandishments are too diffuse to reveal any single ideal. On the other hand, in the following passage Richard’s kingliness is made explicit: Quum autem […] rutilans copiosis quaternarum virtutum profusius incrementis, regnum Northmanniae nulli subactus nisi Deus disponens ut rex, moderaret judicie justi regiminis […] [Hugh the Great:] “[…] Ricardus nec regi nec duci militat, nec ulli nisi Deo obsequi praestat. Tenet sicuti rex monarchiam Northmannicae regionis.”101

96 Dudo, 210–214. 97 Dudo, 293–295. This is followed by a description of Richard’s good death and fitting burial on 296–299. 98 Note, for instance, the lavish prose and verse paeans of praise devoted to Richard I at Dudo, 248, 259, 261–263, 268f., 272, 274, 280f., 292–296. Note also the poems largely concerned with Richard in Book Three: ibid., 180, 186. 99 For different combinations see Dudo, 210–212, 221f., 224, 234, 247f., 253, 255, 258–260, 266, 269f., 272f., 276, 292, 296. 100 Dudo, 280f.; 1 Corinthians, 9, 22. The same phrase is applied to Adalbero of Laon at Dudo, 115. See Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 177, n. 6. C. Stephen Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness. Civilizing Trends and the Formation of Courtly Ideals 939–1210, Philadelphia 1985, comments on the poem on 198f. and 204, although it should be noted that its combination of mansuetus and mitis with acerbus need not be seen as “crude ethical parataxis which can tolerate unsynthesized contradictions”. This is shown by Christiansen’s translation of the three adjectives as ‘mild, mellow, rigorous’ (Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 154). 101 Dudo, 249f. The following translation is based on Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 124: ‘[A]nd as [Richard I] was blazing forth profusely with many additional examples of the fourfold virtues, and governing the realm of Normandy like a king subject to none but God alone, and controlling it with judgement and just rule, the great duke beheld him […] [Hugh the

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Shortly after this passage, Richard is calumniated by Count Theobald of Chartres, who claims Richard holds his lands ‘like a king of the Franks’.102 It may be, then, that Dudo’s descriptions of the Norman ‘dukes’ ought be regarded as variations on a royal ideal. Certainly it is very difficult to decide whether the ‘dukes’ are being praised as ideal lords or model kings.103 Praise as lords and/or kings accounts for the lion’s share of the value judgments in Dudo’s text. However, the twin themes of loyalty and treachery are nearly as pervasive. Vertical, hierarchical interpersonal ties, often reinforced by oaths of fidelity and sometimes by the symbolic hand-claspings which have already been mentioned,104 are perhaps the chief basis for standards of conduct, besides being a ruler. We may begin by noting that Dudo also deployed miles in its ‘relative’ sense (and to refer to the highest-ranking magnates). King Louis summons none other than Hugh the Great by ordering him to make haste ‘upon the fealty by which a lord and a miles are chained together’.105 Hugh, in turn, is understood to owe assistance to Herluin, lord of Montreuil castle, because the latter ‘was his count and miles, ready for any service.’106 Indeed Richard I himself is said (by his arch-enemy Arnulf of Flanders) to have become Hugh the Great’s miles and therefore to be obeying him ‘as a lord in all things, for the love he bears him.’107 In all these cases ‘vassal’ seems a justifiable, if loose, translation of that word. Since it is used in conjunction with a possessive pronoun or a noun in the genitive twenty-two times,108 miles illustrates the importance of the idea that lords are owed loyal service – as indeed do other words, such as, of course, fidelis (used as a noun or an adjective).109 We might also note that militare, for Dudo,

102 103 104 105 106 107

108 109

Great:] “[…] Richard serves neither the king, nor the duke, nor does he render service to any man, but only to God. He holds sole authority over the Norman lands like a king.”’ Dudo, 265: Francorum […] ut rex. Dudo, 235. This is true, of course, even though and indeed because senior is often used to refer to Rollo’s successors, e. g. Dudo, 187, 188, 208 (twice). For kings’ being referred to as seniores see ibid., 228, 245, 246. For dominus see, for instance, ibid., 158, 181, 207 (twice). For the phrase sacramentum verae fidei see Dudo, 184, 203, 221, 232, 245, 248f., 264, 279f., 297; for similar phrases ibid., 182 (twice), 226, 246. for hand-clasping see above, 241. Dudo, 234: ea fide qua concatenantur senior et miles. Dudo, 203: erat ejus comes atque miles promptus in omni servitio. Dudo, 253: Ille vero, suus miles effectus, gratia illius amoris ut domino per omnia obedit. Dudo also refers to Richard as arma militum, ibid., 262. Duby surely exaggerated when he wrote that Dudo keeps the milites clearly separate from the proceres: see Georges Duby, Les origines de la chevalerie, in: Idem, Hommes et structures du moyen .ge. Recueil d’articles, Paris 1973, 325–341, here 333. Dudo, 143, 148 (milites, qui erant sui effecti), 150, 158, 165, 170f., 173 (V2), 182f., 191, 203, 207, 242, 243, 251, 253 (suus miles effectus), 257, 260 (suus senior-suus miles), 263, 265. For Dudo’s use of fidelis, see for instance Dudo, 171, 197, 205, 213, 222, 253, 251, 267 (V3), 269, 273, 279, 280, 297. Fidelis is used 29 times, only twice without being linked to a possessive pronoun or a noun in the genitive. For the expression fidelis efficere cf. Dudo,

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fairly clearly meant ‘to serve’, if often in arms.110 In his usage of militia, too, the connotations of service to a lord are prevalent. He uses this much-discussed word only six times, thrice in the phrase princeps militiae (leader of troops);111 and thrice in the expression palma militiae:112 [William Longsword:] Gratia mea continua, militiæque palma in domo mea fruemini, si incumbentes meo servitio voluntarie fueritis.113 [William Longsword:] Si primi gratia mea militiæque palma […] frui vultis.114 [William Longsword] misit […] Bothonem domus suæ militiæ palma maiorem et præcipuum.115

The usage of miles, fidelis and related words in his ‘History’ suggest that the loyalty owed to – and by – lords, and not just those of Rouen, was crucial to Dudo – and presumably his audience. This is corroborated in several respects. Significantly, there are, in Dudo’s narrative, horizontal ties, or alliances, but these are not always clearly distinguishable from vertical, hierarchical ones. Dudo has Hugh the Great swear an oath to assist Richard I of Normandy when the latter is just a boy.116 Rollo’s ‘alliance’ with Rainer ‘Longneck’, duke of Hesbaye, is rather a captor’s release of a prisoner, on terms.117 Richard I’s reconciliation with Theobald, count of Chartres, is a clearer case of a peace accord between equals, but Dudo is clear on who is the victor and who sues for peace.118 The central importance of loyalty is also evident from one particular activity for which Dudo persistently praises or rebukes men of high but non-royal status: giving counsel. Indeed, evil counsel is

110 111 112

113 114 115 116 117 118

146, 209, 221 and 297. Fidelitas, too, generally refers to hierarchical interpersonal bonds: cf. ibid., 146, 159, 167, 222. It appears thirteen times: Dudo, 117, 181, 182, 183, 223, 234, 236, 250 (twice), 251 (twice), 266, 279 and 294. Cf. also militatio, ibid., 185, 222, 226, 237; militantes, ibid., 234. Dudo, 181f. and 249. Dominique Barthélemy, Points de vue sur la chevalerie, en France vers 1100, in: Laurence Jean-Marie/Christophe Maneuvrier (eds.), Distinction et sup8riorit8 sociale (Moyen ffge et 8poque moderne), Caen 2010, 173–185, here 179, n. 30, sees Dudo’s palma militiae as reflecting the ‘relative’ usage of miles, though he allows for slight ambiguity due to the presence of the ‘absolute’ connotation. See Barthélemy 2012, 1649, for the translation les palmes de la vassalit8. Dudo, 187. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 65: “you will enjoy within my household my constant favour, and the rewards of active service.” Dudo, 204. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 80: “If you wish to be the first to win my thanks, and the reward of combat”. Dudo, 219. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 95: ‘he sent […] Botho, the senior and excellent champion of the knights of his household.’ Dudo, 232; for a later reference to this alliance, which involved another oath and Richard’s betrothal to Hugh the Great’s daughter, see ibid., 264. Dudo, 151. Dudo, 279: Ego vero abhinc tuus sicut tu meus; Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 154: ‘I am yours as you are mine’.

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arguably Dudo’s standard explanation for the frequent outbreaks of conflict between the lords of Rouen and the counts and kings of neighbouring territories which he describes. To give just a few examples, Robert, duke of the Franks, ask Rollo for his consilium and adjutorium.119 King Louis decides to hold captive the young Richard I after succumbing to the pravum consilium of his consiliarii.120 Arnulf, count of Flanders, ‘contriver of crime and of bad counsel’, advises King Louis to seize Richard I’s rightful inheritance and share it with Hugh the Great.121 Louis also proves susceptible to the consilium nefandum of Frankish tirones petitioning him for Norman-held lands.122 And he seeks to persuade Hugh the Great to do his bidding because ‘a king and a duke ought always to be’ ‘in agreement and of one mind’.123 The phrase consilium et auxilium is first attested in Frankish charters of the ninth century and was long thought to encapsulate the ‘feudal’ advisory and military duties owed by ‘vassals’ to their ‘lords’.124 Dudo’s text does not suggest that tenth- or eleventh-century Normandy closely resembled any particular model of a ‘feudal’ society. But we should note that his assumptions with regard to counsel are akin to those expressed in the famous letter on the forma fidelitatis written by his contemporary Fulbert, bishop of Chartres, around 1020, which uses the phrase consilium et auxilium and which was to be included in the ‘Libri Feudorum’ in the early thirteenth century.125 Further, his ‘History’ suggests that he thought that counsel was not owed only to kings but to other lords as well.126 Thus, Theobald of Chartres, in a humiliating apology he offers to Richard I for attacking him, explicitly blames the pravum consilium he had received from ‘certain Franks’.127 For Dudo, at least in this regard, the tenets of ideal rulership overlapped with those of good lordship.128 Even the practice of consilium, in his text, reveals another facet of his ideal ruler. Thus both Frankish kings and Rollo and his descendants demonstrate skill in eliciting counsel and distinguishing good advice from bad.129 And when lords are 119 120 121 122 123 124 125 126 127 128 129

Dudo, 173. Dudo, 228f. Dudo, 234: Inventor sceleris, consilii et mali. Dudo, 238f. Dudo, 235. Karl F. Werner, Consilium et auxilium, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 3 (1986), 162. Fulbert of Chartres, Letters and Poems, ed. and transl. Frederick Behrends, Oxford 1976, no. 51. For the view that counsel was a duty owed specifically to kings see Susan Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals: The Medieval Evidence Reconsidered, Oxford 1994, index entries for ‘aid and counsel’ on 527. Dudo, 279f. After all, for him, kings were lords too: cf. Richard’s speech to Frankish prelates and noblemen, Dudo, 282: Lotharium regem, vestrum seniorem (and note the implication that Lothar was neither Richard’s lord nor king). E. g. Dudo, 136, 137, 141, 151, 181, 185.

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swayed by bad counsel, they fail as lords.130 Conversely, and put simply, good and evil counsellors can be relied upon to recommend actions which, respectively, are contrary to and compatible with what a good lord should do. There is a final twist. The Norman ‘dukes’ are also, sometimes, judged as counsellors. For instance, in Book Three peace between the king of the western and eastern Franks is achieved thanks to the good counsel of William Longsword, ‘most excellent duke of all dukes’.131 To summarize: Dudo’s account is so partisan that the villainy or heroism, respectively, of his characters seems at first sight to be determined largely by whether they act in the interests of the Norman ‘dukes’ or against these. However, on closer study his narrative does reveal more general sets of standards. Most important is that which derives from the complementary and hierarchical relationship that bound men to their lords. There is indeed hardly any evidence that Dudo conceived of an ideal nobleman separate from that relationship. Most strikingly, for present purposes, he does use miles to refer to a Norman ‘duke’, but only in its ‘relative’ sense; further, Richard is restrained by his men when he wishes to charge into battle, suggesting that such reckless behaviour was inappropriate, certainly inadvisable, for a lord; and we should observe that Dudo never uses miles to refer to a king. Thus it would appear that Dudo’s portrayal of the Norman ‘dukes’ mingles two complementary ideals: that of the model lord (who is difficult, perhaps impossible to disentangle from the ideal king) and that of his noble subjects. Dudo deploys both sides of this ideal relationship in order to exalt the ancestors of his patrons. However, there is hardly any evidence, in Dudo’s text, of an ideal knight – certainly not one who excels as a knight even when neither acting as a lord nor serving one.

Noble ideals in the later versions of Norman history Just how much change in noble ideals do the later versions of Norman history reveal, the ‘GND’, Wace’s ‘Roman de Rou’, and Beno%t’s ‘Chronique’? As noted, these successive versions hold out great promise for assessing continuity and change. Yet doing so is not a straightforward exercise. On the one hand, differences between the successive versions of Norman history must to some extent be attributed to differences between authors, rather than changes in noble ideals over time. And on the other hand, similarities between the texts may obscure changes that did occur, particularly as the earlier texts served as sources for the later. For instance, neither William of JumiHges nor Wace include the remarkable 130 E. g. Dudo, 238f. 131 Dudo, 198: per consilium praecellentissimi omnium ducum ducis Willelmi.

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charges of effeminacy against Rollo and William Longsword which are mentioned by Dudo; but Beno%t does.132However, effeminacy as a slur on a prince’s character only appears in Beno%t’s ‘Chronique’ where he found it in Dudo’s ‘History’, suggesting that he included it in order to stay faithful to his original rather than because he knew it would be meaningful to his audience. Nevertheless, besides having the same subject matter as Dudo’s, the subsequent versions, too, are partisan, didactic and addressed to a lay ruler – even though William of JumiHges downplayed the pagan element in his dedicatee’s ancestry, he did so because he did not consider them conducive to his purpose: providing models to follow. It should also be borne in mind that Dudo, Wace and Beno%t (and even, in a sense, William of JumiHges), wrote for secular courts. This would indicate that actual changes in noble ideals must be considered as one possible explanation for the differences between these sources. To begin with, some general points may be made on the issues of good and bad lordship and of mounted warriors. The themes of good and bad lordship, and the loyalties involved particularly (but not only) in hierarchical interpersonal relations, is certainly present in the ‘GND’ as well as in our Old French versions of Norman history. So is the complementary, advisory role played by noblemen. That is to say, kings continue to be appraised as kings (perhaps lords), and the men closest to them in status continue to be lauded as counsellors and branded as traitors.133 If there is a difference, it is one of emphasis. The later versions of the Norman history arguably insist to a lesser degree on the near-regality of Rollo and his successors as ‘dukes’ of Normandy. However, this is not because they are only portrayed as noble counsellors, rather than rulers. William of JumiHges, Wace and Beno%t did retain features of Dudo’s text which downplay the subordination of the Norman ‘dukes’ to the kings of the Franks, though to varying degrees.134 Rollo, William Longsword and Richard I are praised as peace-time 132 William of JumiHges, Gesta Normannorum ducum, ed. Elisabeth van Houts (Oxford Medieval Texts), 2 vols., Oxford 1992–1995 (henceforth GND), i, 70–72, 76–78 (William of JumiHges omitted the episode with the two Frankish knights visiting Rollo’s wife, and it was reinstated by Robert of Torigni without the slight of effeminacy); Wace, i, 56, 59f.; Beno%t, i, 313: [Bernard:] Cuident esfeminez seion; ibid., i, 335–337 Nez senz valor, effemin8 [William Longsword:] […] M’avez dit honte e aasmance, / Qui senz valor, effemin8 / M’avez, oiant tuz, apel8. For the sake of clarity, I shall continue referring to Rollo by that name, even though Wace and Beno%t of course call him Rou. 133 Among many examples, see King Charles the Simple’s speech to the bishops, barons and counts of France at Wace, i, 52, es ll. 1084–1086: ‘Vous me devez,’ dist il, ‘loiaument conseillier / et aidier me devez quant j’en ai grant mestier. / Je ne puiz par moi soul le regne justisier’. Cf. ibid., 51 for the identification of the speech’s addressees. 134 The anecdote of Rollo ordering one of his milites to kiss the Frankish king’s foot by pulling it to his lips, hurling the king backwards (Dudo, 169) is omitted by William of JumiHges, i, 66; compare Wace, i, 54 (where Rollo himself lifts the king’s foot); Beno%t, i, 261f. (note the translation of miles as chevalier). Note Wace, i, 17f., where the independence of Rollo’s

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rulers of Normandy and in particular for decreeing laws and enforcing them. But in the ‘GND’ and Wace’s ‘Rou’ these ‘ruler-passages’ are much abbreviated.135 True, in the ‘GND’, William Longsword is said to have ‘ruled the entire monarchy of the Norman duchy with wise government’.136 Even so, William of JumiHges is clear, in this passage as elsewhere, that Normandy is a duchy, as opposed to a regnum such as that ruled over by the kings of the Franks and the English (thus Rollo ‘governs’ a ‘duchy’ rather than ‘rules’ a regnum).137 William Longsword again excels as a mediator between the kings of the western and eastern Franks (respectively, Louis IV and the misidentified Henry I).138 Richard himself is firmly a dux, not a rex: King Lothar is given a speech in which he wishes that he, ‘the king’, ‘may rejoice to have so great a duke and the duke to have so dear a king’.139 Richard is again calumniated by Theobald, but not explicitly for ruling Normandy like a king.140 Interestingly, it is the ‘dukes’ themselves, rather than their retainers, who are described in the ‘GND’ as principes militiae.141 Even Beno%t restored few elements of the near-regality he found in Dudo’s ‘History’.142 For him, there was a duchy of Normandy (duch8 and variants, ducheaume), a lordship (seignor8), a land (terre), an honor (honnor and variants), even a realm (renne/regne), but not, apparently, a kingdom (reiaume/reaume).143 Nor was it

135 136 137

138 139 140 141 142 143

ancestors is stressed. Contrast ibid., 52, where King Charles the Simple stipulates as one of the conditions of his gift of Normandy to Rollo that he should keep the land free of ‘robeor’ and ‘larron’. Rollo: William of JumiHges, i, 68–70; Wace, i, 55–58 (see also, 29f.). William Longsword: William of JumiHges, i, 76; Wace, i, 59. Richard: William of JumiHges, 114–116 (see also ibid., 130–134); Wace, 116–118 (see also ibid., 149). William of JumiHges, i, 76f. (translation adapted and emphasis added): totius monarchiam Normannici ducatus sagaci moderamini regens. William of JumiHges, i, 68–70: ducatum […] gubernabat. Cf. also ibid., 100, 106 (Normannicus ducatus), 66 (terra maritima, que nunc uocatur Normannica), 104 (patria Normannorum), 114, 126 (Normannica tellus), 116 (Normannica terra). For the simple use of Normannia, see e. g. ibid., 72, 124. William of JumiHges, i, 84, of William Longsword: tam fidelissimus quam prudentissimus mediator. For the misidentification, ibid., 83, n. 6. William of JumiHges, i, 122: gaudeatque rex de tanto suo duce et dux de suo karissimo rege. William of JumiHges, i, 120; Wace, i, 135 (Dudo, 265). William of JumiHges, i, 52, 72. Cf. ibid., 134, for Richard I’s speech to the Normans in which he describes his rule as leading their militia: Hactenus, commilitones optimi, uestre militie prefui. Ibid., 119–123. Beno%t, i, 76: seignorie for monarchia (Dudo, 143); Beno%t, i, 244: Qui de dux e de reis estraiz (Dudo, 166); Beno%t, i, 440: reiauz enseignemenz (Dudo, 227). Beno%t, i, 552 for the expression Rennes, ducheaumes e honnor. See further ibid., e. g. i, 156, 281, 290, 310, 312, 353, 389, 390, 396, ii, 433, 585, 612 (duch8 and variants, ducheaume); i, 262, 270, 271, 280, 307, 354, 424, 434, 452, 456, 502, 509, 556, 572; ii, 21, 105, 140, 617 (renne/ regne); ii, 583, 584 (seignor8); i, 389, 513 (honnor and variants); i, 462, 502, 503, 512; ii, 216, 263, 303, 383, 419, 436, 575, 591, 623 (terre); i, 532, ii, 215 (terre normande); ii, 238 (fieu de Normandie). For the reiaume de France, see ibid., e. g. i, 23 and for that of England e. g. ibid., ii, 477, 484. The simple use of Normandie, on its own, is very common.

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simply a matter of his being able to deploy a more varied specific vocabulary. Even in the ‘Chronique’, the ‘dukes’ of Normandy are not explicitly praised or calumniated as kings in the ‘ruler-passages’.144 Differences of emphasis are difficult to measure. But it does seem as if for William of JumiHges, Wace and Beno%t, dukes and kings were more clearly separate concepts, separate kinds of rulers; as if they felt more able than Dudo to praise the ‘dukes’ as rulers in their own right, without implicitly or explicitly portraying them as kings. Thus in the later versions of the Norman history lords are praised in their own right, without being kings, or king-like. On mounted warriors, the Old French texts at last offer a greater measure of certainty. That certainty is not absolute because it is not always clear whether a serjant, for instance, was cavalry or infantry.145 But one difficulty raised by the polysemy of miles (and words related to it) is obviated: even if chevalier, like miles, carried a number of different connotations, it much more clearly refers to a mounted warrior (though presumably one who might also fight on foot).146 One effect of this is that it allows us to see more clearly how the Vikings were imagined to have operated militarily. True, the contrast between Latin and Old French also, of course, applies to a comparison between the ‘GND’ and the later vernacular versions. Interestingly, William of JumiHges comments explicitly on the difference between ship-borne and horse-borne warriors. Thus he notes that the first Danes to raid Francia (the milites led by Hasting and a new character, Björn ‘Ironside’) began by marching on foot, because they had not yet learned to ride, but that they did later ‘roam all about’ riding on horseback ‘as our fellowcountrymen do’.147 However, this instance of ‘cultural’ or ‘ethnic’ assimilation primarily focuses on horses as a means of transport.148 In the second book of the ‘GND’, William does show an interest in military matters, for instance by asserting that Rollo deployed battering rams and catapults during his siege of 144 Beno%t, i, 269–281 (Rollo); ibid., i, 307–309, 352f. (William Longsword); Beno%t, e. g. i, 562–564 (Richard). For Theobald’s calumniatory speech, see ibid., ii, 20–22. 145 E. g. Wace, i, 42. 146 One possibility that has to be borne in mind is that chevalier might be used purely as a title, even for ‘knights’ who had not trained as cavalry. On knighting as sufficient to be considered a knight, cf. Lieberman 2015, 398f. Note that by 1193, Nigel, a Benedictine monk of Canterbury, commented on the ‘Holy Mary’s knights’ of his day, who were so called because they lacked skill and practice in arms: Nigellus de Longchamp dit Wireker, Tractatus contra curiales et officiales clericos, ed. Andr8 Boutemy, Paris 1959, i, 204. On honorific knights cf. Peter Coss, Lordship, Knighthood and Locality. A Study in English Society, c. 1180–1280, Cambridge 1991, 213; cf. also Michael Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066–1307, London 2nd edn. 1987, 177. 147 William of JumiHges, i, 20: Irruptionibus namque creberrimis cuncta uastando circumeuntes, primo quidem pedites, eo quod equitandi peritia deesset, deinde equis euecti more nostratum omnia peruagantur. For the use of milites see ibid., 16, 18. 148 See also ibid., 20: modo nauibus, modo equis delati.

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Paris.149 But as is the case with Dudo’s book on Rollo, William is somewhat ambiguous on the precise way in which the Danes used horses, partly because of the way he uses the words miles and militia.150 Even though Wace wrote in Old French, it is not entirely clear if he imagined the Plantagenets’ Norse ancestors to have been ‘knights’ even before they first boarded their ships to leave Denmark. He does picture them riding on campaign.151 But he uses chevalier relatively rarely, and not to denote any of Rollo’s Normanz.152 In a comment comparable to William of JumiHges’s, Wace notes explicitly that Rollo and his Normans, after arriving in France, changed their customs with regard to horsemanship, thereby overcoming a cultural, arguably ethnic, difference to the French: Chevaulx quistrent et armes a la guise franchoise/ qu’icelle lor semblot plus riche et plus cortoise.153 Unlike William of JumiHges, Wace probably meant that the Normans began using horses in a new way, rather than for the first time. For one thing, as noted, he pictured Rollo leading mounted warriors while still in Denmark. For another, the motivation for assimilation given in the above two lines is status and display, appearing riche and cortois, keeping up with the French. It also seems probable, given the mention of arms, that Wace understood the horses to be for use in warfare, and not just for transport. Beno%t only comments that Hasting and his Danes raided ‘sometimes on horseback, often on foot, often sailing by boat’; and later, that Hasting had ‘come to France with a fleet and a great force of knights’.154 It is consistent with this that he routinely refers to Daneis as chevaliers,155 beginning with Bjorn Ironside, the character introduced as one of Hasting’s companions by William of JumiHges, who is, for Beno%t, a ‘strong and hardy knight, invulnerable in great battles’ (owing to the spells his mother had put on him).156 Rollo and his brother, too, are introduced with the statement that ‘they were very good knights’, indeed that ‘there were no better knights under the sky’.157 Such claims, of course, chime with 149 William of JumiHges, i, 58. 150 See William of JumiHges, 34, where Frankish milites are contrasted with Danorum bellatores; but, Rollo is chosen by lot as the Danish militie princeps (ibid., 52), and the Danes he leads are frequently described as milites (e. g. ibid., 54, 58, 62). William Longsword is made militie princeps ibid., 72. 151 See Wace’s use of the verb chevaucher (‘riding on campaign’) with regard to Rollo’s exploits in Denmark, Wace, i, 19–21. For Rollo’s use of horses on campaign in France see ibid., 42, 44. 152 For Normanz, see e. g. Wace, i, 50. 153 Wace, i, 34: ‘They sought horses and arms after the French manner / for this manner seemed to them more prestigious and more courtly’. 154 Beno%t, i, 31: Dunc a cheval, sovent a pi8, / Sovent resunt es nex voilli8; ibid., 161: Hastenc oct non, qui od navie / E od fiere chevalerie / Vint en France. 155 E.g. Beno%t, i, 18, 70, 77. 156 Beno%t, i, 21: chevaler fort e durs / E es granz batailles segurs. 157 Beno%t, i, 71: moct furent buen chevaler […] Sos cel n’oct meillors chevalers.

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our introductory juxtaposition of Beno%t’s text to Dudo’s, which suggested that for the former, there were standards specific to chevaliers, as well as rulers. And it is here that a truly striking contrast emerges between the later twelfthcentury and the earlier Latin versions of Norman history. To begin with, it seems certain that Wace and Beno%t knew of a ‘knighting’ ritual, that they imagined such rituals to have taken place in the past they were describing and to have involved the ‘dukes’ themselves. The ‘GND’, like Dudo, contains no clear indication that its author William of JumiHges knew of a ritual dedicated to creating knights. But Wace clearly thought that chevaliers were, at an early stage in their career, adoubez. Thus, he notes of Rainer Longneck’s forces, which he describes as a grant chevalerie: ‘he had very brave and well-equipped knights, some dubbed recently, and others dubbed a long time ago’.158 It is tempting to suggest that he did not refer to the Normanz as knights because he believed that even though they fought on horseback, they had not been dubbed. This would certainly be consistent with Beno%t’s usage, for he, as noted, did refer to Rollo as a chevalier, and he also seems to have envisaged Rollo’s being knighted while still in Denmark: thus, he has Rollo, after being defeated in a battle against the French, cursing his fate, and especially ‘the hour when he was girded with the sword and made a knight’.159 The descriptions by Wace and Beno%t of Richard I’s knighting have already been mentioned.160 Wace’s consists of two lines: Vallet ert, neporquant si fu l’ewre hastee/ Richart fu chevalier, li duc li chaint l’espee.161 Beno%t’s is much fuller.162 158 Wace, i, 46: chevaliers out mout proux et bien appareilliez, / adoubez de novel et adoubez de viex. 159 Beno%t, i, 222: Maudit tote sa destinee / E l’ore qu’en li ceint espee / Ne l’ore qu’il fu chevaler. 160 Above, at 242. 161 Wace, i, 118: ‘He was a young man, yet the matter was expedited / Richard became a knight, the duke girded on his sword’. 162 Beno%t, i, 577f.: Moct i donne, moct i despent / Hue le Maigne sanz faillance. / Assez i oct de ceus de France. / Od vint danzeus de son aage, / Nez e estraiz de buen lignage, / Vestuz d’ermine qui blancheie / E de precios dras de seie, / L’a si li dus fait chevaler / E ceint le trenchant brant d’acier. / N’i oblia pas la colee, / A chascun d’eus a ceint l’espee. / Le jor vos di bien e plevis / Que riche feste oct a Paris. / La ou la messe fu chantee / Fu la presse desmessuree. / L’ofrende, cuit, au plus eschars / Valut le jor plus de vint mars. / Ici orent jent de mestier / Gaaig estrange e [sic] recovrer, / Malade e moine e povre jent; / Ne fu rien fait plus hautement. / Congi8 ront pris sanz sejor faire, / Vers Roem tiennent lor repaire. ‘There much gives, much spends / Hugh the Great without fail. / There were several Frenchmen present. / With twenty squires of his age, / Born and descended of good lineage, / Robed in gleaming white ermine, / And costly silk garments, / The duke thus made him a knight / And girded him with the sharp steel blade. / He did not forget the blow, / Each of them he girded with the sword. / That day, I tell and promise you / There was great celebration in Paris. / In the place where mass was sung / The throng was beyond measure. / The offering, I believe, of the stingiest / Was worth that day more than twenty marks. / Here craftsmen had / Extraordinary profit to gain, / And so did the sick and the monks and the paupers; / Nothing was ever done with higher honour. / They took their leave without delay, / And returned towards Rouen.’

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Wace and Beno%t both assert that Richard ‘became’ or ‘was made’, respectively, a knight when Hugh the Great girded him with a sword. Both authors begin by praising Richard (Wace stating that he was ‘not yet a knight’, Beno%t, as mentioned above, noting his resolve to excel as one); they then go on to celebrate his defeat of Rolf ‘Twist’, before noting his betrothal to a daughter of Hugh the Great’s, describing the knighting, lauding Richard again, and moving on to the episode of Count Arnulf of Flanders and his treachery.163 It is true that neither of these passages lists, in explicit didactic fashion, a catalogue of duties expected of dubbed knights, as the ‘Ordene de chevalerie’ was to do. However, it hardly follows that Wace, Beno%t and their audiences did not understand there to have been any standards particular to knights; on the contrary, it might be argued that those standards were so familiar and well-entrenched that they did not need mentioning. We have already seen hints that this may have been so: Beno%t’s portrayal of Richard striving to be a ‘marvellous knight’, and instances of knights being compared to each other ‘as knights.’164 Another occasion where Beno%t added a dubbing to Dudo’s text is particularly telling: the story of ‘Ricardulus’, or ‘Little Richard’, who in the ‘Chronique’ is knighted by Duke Richard I before being sent on a reconnaissance missionfrom which he returns drenched in his enemies’ blood. This prompts the following response from Richard: Videns autem eum sanguinolentum, ejusque arma cruore perfusa, dux magnus Ricardus dixit adstantibus: ‘Iste namque cum suis interfuit certamini.’165

Oschee e fraite esteit s’espee, S’aveit la chere ensanglantee, L8 braz e le cors e les mains, ... Fait sei li dus: ‘Se cil unt cher Lor pris, qui sunt buen chevaler, N’est pas merveille, aiz est bien dreiz, Quer il i metent plusors feiz Les ch8s toz nuz en abandun. Richart, fait il, bien connoisson Qu’os avez estoveir eü, Od eus vos estes conbatu, Ce ne fu pas joste aplaidee. Sentez vos au cuer grant haschee? De ceus qui de proece unt los Ne devez mais estre forsclos. Se le mestier vos ert novel Contenuz vos i estes bel. Or nos direiz de voz noveles.’166

163 Wace, i, 116–118 (see also 149); Beno%t, i, 562–584. 164 Above, at 229f. 165 Dudo, 274. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 148: ‘And seeing that he was reeking with

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This passage is relevant to the image of the three orders of society, for whose development Dudo and Beno%t are also important sources.167 Dudo’s tale of ‘Ricardulus’ was, to Beno%t, about a young man who had proved his worth in combat for the first time and thereby earned his place among those ‘who are renowned for their prowess’. Beno%t’s metaphorical mention of the knights’ mestier, ‘business’, is particularly notable.168 Being dubbed equipped the young Richardet for doing a knight’s ‘work’.169 Indeed, the concern with knightly excellence, particularly in Beno%t’s ‘Chronique’, is all-pervasive. For one thing, Beno%t seems to use chevalerie, at least once, in the sense of our ‘chivalry’, a set of standards common to all knights (this time referring to Richard II of Normandy).170 What is more, in four instances, chevalerie appears close to the modern English ‘knighthood’, in the sense of a socio-professional class or a body of mounted soldiers (all knights, rather than the knights in one particular lord’s retinue).171 But it is Beno%t’s usage of the word chevalier itself which provides, cumulatively, the most striking measure for a change in noble ideals. This can be conveyed in both quantitative and qualitative terms.172 Readers of the nearly 45,000 lines of the ‘Chronique’ can expect to encounter the word chevalier around once every 100 lines,173 nearly as frequently as in contemporary

166

167 168 169 170

171

172 173

blood, and his weapons steeped in gore, the great duke Richard said to the bystanders: “Now this man and his followers have been in a fight!”’ Beno%t, II, 71: ‘Notched and broken was his sword, / His face was bloodied, / As were his arms, body and hands . . . / The duke said: ‘If those who are good knights / Hold dear their renown / It is no wonder, but well and good, / For many times they risk / Their unprotected heads. / Richard,’ he said, “well we know / That you have been in dire straits, / That you have fought them, / This was not a formal joust. / Do you suffer greatly in your mind? / From those who are renowned for their prowess / You shall never more be excluded. / If the business was new to you / You have comported yourself well in it. / Now tell us your news.”’ Georges Duby, The Three Orders. Feudal Society Imagined, transl. Arthur Goldhammer, Chicago/London 1980, esp. 83–87, 271–280, 290f. On chivalry as a m8tier, see Jean Flori, La notion de la chevalerie dans les chansons de geste du XIIe siHcle. Ptude historique de vocabulaire, in: Le Moyen ffge 116 (1975), 211–244 and 407–445, here 235. Note, however, that dubbing is not an initiation rite: it precedes the test of the candidate, rather than constituting it: Barthélemy Paris 2012 (Orig. 2007), 29, 169. Beno%t, ii, 149f.: Moct par ama joie e largece,/Moct oct valor, moct oct proece,/Moct ama sen e corteisie/E moct maintint chevalerie. ‘He greatly loved joy and generosity, / He had great valour, he had great prowess, / He greatly loved wisdom and courtesy / And he greatly upheld chivalry.’ Flori 1975, 434. Beno%t, ii, 42: Li dus Richart de Normendie,/Flors de tote chevalerie,/Sor les autres li precellenz/E li plus biaus e li plus jenz. ‘Duke Richard of Normandy, / Flower of all knighthood, / The excellent above the others / And the fairest and most noble.’ Further instances of the phrase flors de chevalerie occur ibid., i, 515; ii, 48, 573. ‘Chivalry’ is a possible translation in all these cases. For discussion of the adjective chevaleros in the ‘Chronique’ see Lieberman 2010, 144f. For detailed discussion see ibid. By my count, on average, 10.64 occurrences per 1,000 lines.

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‘chansons de geste’.174 What is more, chevalier was extraordinarily versatile. It could carry a wide range of connotations, relating, of course, to cavalry warfare, but also to social (and other) hierarchies. Furthermore, and crucially in the present context, Beno%t’s usage of chevalier reveals ‘chivalric’ norms, both as arising from lordship and otherwise, that is to say, independently of service to a lord. In this respect, too, the ‘Chronique’ parallels ‘chansons de geste’.175 This can be substantiated by looking closely at the collocations, or habitual phrases, in which chevalier is used. To begin with, when the nearly 500 occurrences of chevalier in the ‘Chronique’ are viewed in aggregate, a clear distinction can be made between two usages of chevalier : for named and for unnamed knights. When chevalier is used to refer to a named individual, rather than, so to speak, anonymously, it is far more likely to be joined to aristocratic ranks such as such as baron, conte, prince, or duc.176 It is also more likely to be qualified with adjectives such as buen, corteis, proz, franc, and jenz.177 On the other hand, unnamed chevaliers appear mostly in the plural, very often in purely military contexts, associated with archer, serjant, garÅons, escuier, jent, train, or vassaus, and adjectives such as armez, beiaus, buen, combatanz, garniz, or proz.178 Conversely, and tellingly, it is very rare for a named knight to appear with a possessive adjective. It is interesting to observe that Beno%t’s usage of chevalier to translate miles fits this pattern. 28 of the 31 certain translations of miles concern anonymous knights;179 and in the three remaining cases, chevalier is used in apposition to an individual’s name in combination with one more adjectives (the passages which, as noted above, lend a ‘chivalric’ flavour to Dudo’s text):180 [Rollo to Rainer] ‘Raginere dux, milesque asperrime, regumque et ducum atque comitum superbo satus sanguine.’181

– ‘Reinier, fait il, dux poestis, Preisie d’armes e esforcis, Aspres chevaliers e engr8s, Damagiez m’aviez ad8s.’182

174 Flori counted 13.05 and 17.80 occurrences per 1,000 lines, respectively, for nine chansons de geste dated to before 1180 (just under 20,000 lines) and eight chansons dated 1180–1200 (just over 56,000 lines). Cf. Flori 1975, 441. 175 Ibid. 176 Lieberman 2010, Appendix (Table 2). 177 Ibid., Appendix (Table 3). 178 Ibid., Appendix (Tables 5 and 6). 179 Beno%t, i, 70, 131, 155, 157, 159, 240, 245, 249, 261, 270, 281 (V2), 282, 283, 346, 362, 363, 364, 408, 442, 514, 520, 528, 539, 542, 547 (V2); ii, 13; the possible translations ibid., i, 122 (148); i, 144 (150) are also ‘anonymous’ cases. 180 See above, 240f. Significantly, this is consistent with Beno%t’s usage of chevalier elsewhere: see below, 258. 181 Dudo, 151. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 34: ‘Duke Rainer, you warrior most fierce, “sprung from the proud blood” of kings and dukes and counts’. 182 Beno%t, i, 148: ‘“Rainer”, he said, “puissant duke, / Renowned by your arms and forceful, / You harsh and savage knight, / You have wronged me enough”’. Note Wace’s lines: li quens

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(Continued) Data igitur securitate, reddiderunt Bothonem, asperrimum militem.183 Videns autem exercitum inimicorum suorum majorem suo, et copiosiorem, dixit ad Bernardum Dacigenam militem185

Qu’od segurt8 e od fiance Unt deu conte [Botho] fait l’asquitance, De l’aspre chevaler e deu proz E d’un des plus vaillanz de toz.184 Quant li dus veit qu’au n’en puet estre, Conte Bernart, a un suen mestre, Daneis, prochain de son lignage, Chevalers proz, hardiz e sage, A dit li dus, pleins de dolor186

Beno%t’s clear distinction between ‘anonymous’ and named knights closely mirrors that between the ‘relative’ and ‘absolute’ usage of miles. However, in the ‘Chronique’, the latter usage is far more developed and better established. In Beno%t’s text, chevalier appears in no fewer than twenty-nine different collocations. Several of these are shared with two other highly versatile nouns, homme and baron. But no less than eighteen are specific to chevalier : C1: Apposition (three times) C2: Apposition + adjective + possessive adjective/genitive (twice) C3: To have the arms of a knight (once) C4: To have the heart of a knight (once) C5: There is no such knight in the world (once) C6: To make a knight (nine times) C7: To garrison with knights (three times) C8: Name or personal pronoun + other knights (once) C9: Never was there a knight more + adjective C10: I cannot read anywhere that ever a knight + past subjunctive (twice) C11: There was no better knight (seven times) C12: A (comparative adjective) knight had never been born (three times) C13: To be (or become) a knight (sixteen times)

183 184 185 186

de Hainon que l’en claimme Regnier, / que l’en dit au Lonc Col, un vaillant chevalier (‘The count of Hainault called Rainer, / nick-named Longneck, a valiant knight’): Wace, i, 26; Wace, transl. Burgess, 18. Dudo, 157: Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 38: ‘So, when they had been given their guarantee of security they returned Botho, who was a most hardy warrior.’ Beno%t, i, 183: ‘With security and trust / They released Count Botho, / The energetic and bold knight / One of the most valiant of all.’ Dudo, 189. Cf. Dudo, transl. Christiansen, 67: ‘However, when he saw that his enemies’ army was greater than his own, and better found, he said to Bernard, the Dacian-born warrior’. Beno%t, i, 333: ‘When the duke saw that he could not prevail, / To Count Bernard, one of his captains, / A Dane, a kinsman / A virtuous knight, bold and wise / The duke said full of sorrow’.

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C14: Well-endowed with knights (twice) C15: To deem a knight (once) C16: Such a knight shall not live again (three times) C17: Such a knight shall not be born again (twice) C18: To see someone as a knight This linguistic versatility demonstrates that chevalier was, to Beno%t, a term of fashion. It also forcefully confirms that for him (and his audience), there were standards specific to knights, and indeed that these existed independently of obligations arising from lordship. C3, C4, and C15 show that chevalier evoked valour and renown even without the addition of adjectives. One might ‘have the heart’ or ‘the weapons’ of a knight, or be ‘deemed a knight’. The variety of expressions highlighting the excellence of individual knights (C5, C9, C10, C11, C12, C16, and C17) is particularly important, as they show that knights were imagined to compete amongst themselves as knights. C7 and C14 further corroborate the patterns observed above, for they combine anonymity with purely martial qualities. On the other hand, C1, C2, and C8 link chevalier with a knight’s name – but not as a title or indication of a specific aristocratic rank. These specific expressions, these collocations particular to chevalier, are here offered as conclusive evidence that Beno%t knew of an ideal knight, of standards expected of knights purely as knights, without reference to obligations owed by or to a lord. It should be noted that the two most common and therefore arguably the most important phrases specific to chevalier were C6, ‘to make a knight’,187 and C13, ‘to be or become a knight’.188 The most frequent collocations specific to chevalier – which are, incidentally, synonymous with ceindre l’espee – therefore relate, above all, to coming of age, to the implicit link between being able to fight and being able to inherit, and to the independence which this bestowed. A final remarkable feature of Beno%t’s text is that in it we find kings described and even praised as knights as well. Athelstan, king of England, assures Rollo that ‘in all the world there is no knight / In whom you can place more trust than myself ’.189 When Louis, king of the Franks is captured by Harold, king of the Danes, the latter orders that he not be bound by feet and hands: ‘He is a king, and ought to be treated better / Than any other poor knight.’190 And after the battle of Hastings, Beno%t describes the discovery of King Harold’s corpse as follows: Cerchez fu sis cors e trovez, En plus de treze leus nasfrez, 187 188 189 190

See Lieberman 2010, Appendix 4 for the nine occurrences. See ibid., Appendix 3 for the sixteen occurrences. Beno%t, i, 120: ce vos quer / Qu’en tot le mont n’ait chevaler / En qui plus vos fiez de mei. Beno%t, i, 536: Reis est, plus bel fait a traitier / C’um autre povre chevalier.

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Quer devers lui, si con je cui, N’oct meillor chevaler de lui; Mais Deu ne crient ne serement, E por ce l’en prist malement.191

These lines suggest once again that martial ability and courage, above all (and apparently not piety) was necessary to excel as a knight. All three passages suggest that it would have seemed possible to Beno%t and his audience that even kings thought of themselves as knights. They further confirm the impression first conveyed by the lines on Richard, lord of Rouen, striving to be a chevalier merveillos: it was possible to do so even when not serving a lord. Yet it is also significant that even in a text as long as the ‘Chronique’, this occurs very occasionally, and somewhat obliquely. Knights being praised purely as knights had become standard – when compared with Dudo, it is no exaggeration to say that the relative importance of ‘absolute’ and ‘relative’ senses of miles/chevalier had become reversed. Yet it would seem that kings’ being considered as knights was still something of a rarity.

Noble ideals in the ‘Historia Welforum’ If such qualitative and quantitative semantic studies across different languages help us gauge not just the existence but the extent of change in noble ideals over time, they also, of course, provide a framework for comparison with other sources, including contemporary texts from other parts of Europe. The ‘Historia Welforum’ (‘HW’) offers a particularly interesting opportunity for comparison with the Norman/Plantagenet tradition. It is, indeed, unique in that it is the only surviving dynastic narrative from twelfth-century Germany. Further, it was written, around 1170, probably by a secular cleric or a lay courtier, either for Welf VI or for Henry the Lion, who married the daughter of Henry II in 1168 and spent some years in exile in England in the 1180s. And the ‘HW’ also builds on an earlier tradition, consisting at least of a surviving genealogy written shortly before 1126.192 To a reasonable extent, then, in what follows, we will be comparing 191 Beno%t, i, 508f.: ‘His body was sought and found, / Wounded in more than thirteen places, / For compared to him, I believe, / There was no better knight than him; / But he respected neither God nor oaths, / And because of that came to a bitter end.’ 192 HW, 1–8 (as n. 13). A brief continuation of the ‘Histora Welforum’, made at Steingaden, also survives. A short history known as the Welf annals is found in two manuscripts of the ‘Historia Welforum’. An independent version of Welf history, the so-called ‘Sächsische Welfenquelle’, was composed between 1132 and 1137, probably in the monastery of St Michael in Lüneburg. Burchard of Ursberg’s chronicle, composed 1229/30, contains several passages on Welf history. Ibid., 8–12.

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like with like, even if the Welf texts are rather shorter than any of the Norman/ Plantagenet sources considered above. Equally, it is reasonable to suppose that in comparing these two traditions we can assess the extent of cultural similarity and possibly exchange across twelfth-century Europe.193 With this in mind, the main finding is that the ‘HW’ is fairly close to the Norman/Plantagenet texts with respect to judgments on good and bad lordship (and kingship); but that there is much less emphasis on the knight who excels purely as such, neither as a lord nor in the service of a lord (with, as will be seen, some very striking exceptions). Thus, the Welfs’ high degree of independence from kings and emperors, and their status relative to them, are of paramount concern throughout the ‘HW’. But, with some exceptions, this is expressed in seigneurial, indeed quasi-regal, rather than in ‘knightly’ terms. There are indeed parallels with the Marcher lords of Britain in the descriptions of the distant Welf ancestors, although the latter outdid the former : refusing to do homage to Roman emperors; defending their borders themselves; ordering ‘their household after the royal manner, so that they appointed counts or men of equal rank to offices of the court, that is, the ministries of the steward, the butler, the marshal, the chamberlain and the herald’; sending representatives to royal and imperial courts; and laying claim to the privilegium of harbouring outlaws.194 To name just a few other examples, one Welf ancestor named Eticho was so distraught by his son’s decision to do homage to the emperor that he withdrew into self-imposed exile with twelve of his companions, leaving behind his ‘royal buildings and abundant riches’.195 Welf III (d. 1055) is remembered for having mustered his troops at the command of Emperor Henry III only to set out for home with them when the emperor was delayed, bluntly refusing to heed Henry’s gifts, promises or threats when he met him on his way.196 Welf IV (d. 1101) is praised for his initial loyalty to emperor Henry IV (d. 1106), but his subsequent

193 On ‘Europe’ see Robert Bartlett, The Making of Europe: Conquest, Colonization, and Cultural Change, 950–1350, London 1993; Idem, Heartland and Border : The Mental and Physical Geography of Medieval Europe, in: Huw Pryce/John Watts (eds.), Power and Identity in the Middle Ages: Essays in Memory of Rees Davies, Oxford 2007, 23–36. 194 HW, 36: Domum quoque suam regio more ordinaverant, ita ut quaeque offica curiae (id est ministeria dapiferi, pincernae, marscalci, camerarii, signiferi) per comites vel eis aequipollentes regerentur. Note that in the ‘Steingaden continuation’, Welf VI (d. 1191) is remembered for ‘favouring outlaws and refugees, from wherever they came, with exceedingly generous gifts’: ibid., 88. On Marcher lords and their ‘liberties’ cf. R. Rees Davies, Kings, Lords and Liberties in the March of Wales, 1066–1272, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th ser., 29 (1979), 41–61; Michael C. Prestwich (ed.), Liberties and Identities in the Medieval British Isles (Regions and Regionalism in History 10), Woodbridge 2008. 195 HW, 38–40, regalibus aedificiis et possessionibus ditissimis relictis. 196 HW, 46.

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defiance is justified by the emperor’s deposition of pope Gregory VII.197 Welf VII (d. 1167) wins ‘popular favour’ as lord in Italy by resisting ‘unjust attacks’ by the emperor’s knights.198 Examples for such shows of Welf independence – including, of course, armed conflict with emperors – could be multiplied. But, as indicated, only very rarely – and somewhat inconclusively – are they linked to Welf ancestors’ excellence as knights. Paul Guilhiermoz already saw the following description of Heinrich, son of the self-exiling Eticho, as an adoubement: Hic itaque Heinricus, cum ad militares annos pervenisset et sue voluntatis compos fieret, ignorante patre ad imperatorem se contulit.199 It is certainly possible that this was understood to mean that Heinrich was knighted. Yet it should be noted that there is only limited corroborating evidence for such a reading in the remainder of the ‘HW’. There are no other Latin phrases which may have been attempts to render vernacular expressions for knighting (such as miles facere, miles fieri, baltheo / cingulo militari (ac)cingere). Nor is ‘knightly’ vocabulary often used in contexts of coming of age.200 One of the two uses of militia is simply as ‘army’.201 Further, miles is generally used ‘anonymously’, often in its ‘relative’ sense. Thus, nobles frequently campaign collecto/ coadunato milite (‘having mustered [their] knights’).202 In the ‘Steingaden continuation’, ‘noblemen and knights’ (homines nobiles et milites) are either contrasted or equated with each other.203 But, vir, rather than miles, is the normal word (apart from titles such as dux) used with adjectives in order to appraise Welf ancestors.204 It should also be noted that the origins of the Welfs, too, is imagined in a cross-cultural setting, but to a less dramatic extent, compared to 197 HW, 48. 198 HW, 78. 199 HW, 38: ‘This Heinrich, when he had reached arms-bearing age and begun to make up his own mind, went to join the emperor, without his father’s knowledge.’ Cf. Guilhiermoz 1902, 395, n. 8. For militares annos cf. also Lampert of Hersfeld, Annales, in: Lampert, Opera omnia, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 38), Hannover 1894, 3–304, here 149, 273 (annals for 1073 and 1076). 200 HW, 42 (sub annis adolescentiae); 46 (sub iuvenili aetate); 54 (sub puerilibus annis). 201 HW, 78. 202 Collecto milite: HW, 56, 60 (twice), 62 (note also milites suos […] milites Guelfonis […] collecta manu militum), 72 (thrice), 76, 80, 84; coadunato milite: 58, 64, 74, 82; for ‘anonymous’ milites cf. also 58 (sexcentis et eo amplius milites […] armato milite); 66, 68, 70 (assumptis fidelibus suis et milite non modico), 76, 78, 88, 90. 203 Ibid., 90. 204 HW, 46 (Welf III: vir per omnia probatum); 48 (Welf IV: vir armis strenuus, consilio providus, sapientia tam forensi quam civili praeditus); 50–52 (Welf V: Vir moderatissimus, qui magis liberalitate et facilitate quam crudelitate omnia sibi resistencia subiecit…mediatorem se ad compositionem faciendam interposuit [between Henry Vand Pope Paschal II]). Cf. also ibid., 58 (Friedrich II the ‘One-eyed’ (d. 1147): uir armis strenuus). See ibid., 42, for an instance of nobilissimus comes.

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the Viking ancestors of the Plantagenets. The ‘HW’ does not dwell on whether or not the Franks from Troy from whom the Welfs claimed descent fought on horseback.205 This picture does need to be balanced, however. It should be noted that warfare in the ‘HW’ generally involves cavalry warfare (along with castle sieges and the harrying of opponents’ unprotected lands and people).206 Noblemen fight in the saddle as a matter of course: Friedrich ‘the One-eyed’, duke of Suabia (d. 1147, father of Barbarossa and one of the chief Welf rivals in the ‘HW’), escapes an ambush because his enemies mistakenly injure and capture the knight who had been riding Friedrich’s horse.207 And finally, against the backdrop of traditional lordship-related values, the description of Welf VI (d. 1191) contains three highly striking passages. This Welf duke is said to have ‘led knights from beyond the Alps […] for the sake of militia’ (probably ‘warfare’, possibly ‘chivalry’);208 the ‘Steingaden continuation’ has him spend his later years feasting and ‘lavishing gifts of splendid arms and precious clothes on the knights and companions of his court at appropriate times’ (another possible reference to knightings);209 and moreover, Welf VI is said to have been conducting ‘the business of a hardy knight’ (strennui militis officium exercens) precisely when engaging in a major rebellion against emperor Konrad III (d. 1151).210 This last passage, with its echo of a chevalier’s mestier, as found in Beno%t’s ‘Chronique’,211 thus exactly parallels the major shift in noble ideals on which this essay has focused: the new tension between excelling as a knight on the one hand, and acting in conformity with the values of good lordship on the other. These passages serve as a reminder that Welf ambitions to attain regal, indeed imperial, status may partly account for the relative lack of ‘chivalric’ properties attributed to other Welf ancestors in the ‘HW’.212 This, in turn, would fit with the final observation made in the previous section: that even by the later twelfth 205 206 207 208 209

HW, 34–36. HW, passim. HW, 60. HW, 60: eo tempore milites Transalpinos […] militiae gratia adduxit. HW, 88: [a]rma preclara cum vestibus preciosis curie sue militibus et consociis ydoneis temporibus ministrando. 210 HW, 74: Guelfo itaque strennui militis officium exercens, modo in Bawaria, modo in Transalpinis partibus Swevie, modo circa Renum tot tempestates bellorum movit, ut regem potius ad defensionem sui quam ad exterarum nationum invasiones excitaret. ‘Welf therefore conducted the business of a hardy knight, and unleashed so many storms of war, sometimes in Bavaria, sometimes in Suabia north of the Alps, sometimes along the Rhine, that he forced the king to concentrate more on the defense of his own lands than on the invasion of external nations.’ 211 Above, at 255f. 212 HW, 68–70, discusses the possibility of Heinrich the Proud, the Welf duke of Bavaria and Saxony (d. 1139), being elected king to succeed Lothar III in 1137.

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century, it was possible, but not yet common, to praise kings as knights. Some cultural difference across later twelfth-century Europe is attested by the Norman/Plantagenet and Welf sources; but it should not be overemphasized.213

Conclusion This essay has aimed to convey a sense of ‘how much’ noble ideals had changed by the later twelfth century, when compared to the early eleventh, that is, across the period when chivalry is widely believed to have ‘crystallized’. We have done so by closely comparing a small number of fairly substantial texts from the same genre of dynastic narratives. The focus has been on an area where ‘chivalry’ and ‘feudalism’ overlap: the issue of the tension between knightly excellence and the obligations arising from interpersonal ties between magnates. Our main argument has been that given the pervasive importance, in Dudo’s Norman history, of the duty of loyalty arising from hierarchical interpersonal relationships, perhaps the most notable and lasting innovation during the period considered here – with regard to a larger story of standards and statuses – was that it became far more widely accepted for noblemen to gain personal reputations while acting neither as a lord nor in the service of a lord, but purely as knights. Thus, we found that throughout our period, magnates who were not kings could be, and were, appraised in different ways. Firstly, they were appraised as lords, rulers or even quasi-kings (the difference being difficult to determine, certainly in the earlier texts). Secondly, they were judged on their loyalty to a lord. And thirdly, throughout our period, we find magnates also being judged as knights, chiefly on the basis of their martial ability and recklessness, though to a lesser extent for ‘courtly’ qualities as well. It seems clear that a new measure of skill expected of mounted warriors, one honed especially in the novel invention of the tournament, best explains why the status of chevalier became a new basis for renown, besides merit gained as a lord or a lord’s loyal man.214 One result of these developments is that it becomes ever more difficult to be certain whether the protagonists in our sources are being criticized as knights, noblemen, lords (or kings), or ‘vassals’ (in the loose sense of a man owing loyalty to a lord). But, the main effect was that the potential conflicts between these ideals became far more accentuated. This could be seen as a dramatic shift in emphasis from the ‘relative’ to the ‘absolute’ sense of miles and 213 For references to Friedrich Barbarossa as miles cf. Heinz Krieg, Herrscherdarstellung in der Stauferzeit: Friedrich Barbarossa im Spiegel seiner Urkunden und der staufischen Geschichtsschreibung, Ostfildern 2003, 63f., 351. 214 As noted by the scholars mentioned in the introduction to this essay.

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chevalier (and militia and chevalerie). It meant that it became possible for even kings to be praised as knights.215 That this remained rare, throughout the period considered here, serves as one measure of the continued force of traditional precepts of good lordship.

Sources Beno%t, Chronique des ducs de Normandie, ed. Carin Fahlin, 2 vols., Lund et al. 1951. Breve chronicon Austriae Mellicense, ed. Wilhelm Wattenbach, in: MGH Scriptores 24, Hanover 1897, 69–71. Chroniques des comtes d’Anjou et des seigneurs d’Amboise, ed. Louis Halphen/Ren8 Poupardin (Collection de textes pour servir / l’8tude at a l’enseignement de l’histoire 48), Paris 1913. Dudo of St Quentin, De moribus et actis primorum Normanniae ducum auctore, ed. Jules Lair (M8moires des la societ8 des antiquaries de Normandie 23. S8rie 3,2), Caen 1865. Dudo of St Quentin: History of the Normans, transl. Eric Christiansen, Woodbridge 1998. Flandria generosa, ed. Ludwig C. Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 9, Hanover 1851, 313–325. Fulbert of Chartres, Letters and Poems, ed. and transl. Frederick Behrends, Oxford 1976. Genealogiae comitum Flandriae, ed. Ludwig C. Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 9, Hanover 1851, 305–312. Gesta comitum Barcinonensium, ed. Louis Barrau-Dihigo/Jaume Massó i Torrents (Memkries de la Seccij Histkrico–Arqueolkgica 79), Barcelona 1925 (Reprint Barcelona 2007). Gesta principum Polonorum, ed. and transl. Paul W. Knoll/Frank Schaer with preface by Thomas N. Bisson, Budapest 2003. Gilbert of Mons, La chronique de Gislebert de Mons, ed. L8on Vanderkindere (Recueil de textes pour servir a l’8tude de l’histoire de Belgique 1), Brussels 1904. Gilbert of Mons, Chronicle of Hainault, transl. Laura Napran, Woodbridge 2005. Historia pontificum et comitum Engolismensium, ed. Jacques Boussard, Paris 1957. Historia Welforum, in: Quellen zur Geschichte der Welfen und die Chronik Burchards von Ursberg und kleinere Texte der welfischen Hausüberlieferung, ed. and transl. Matthias Becher (Ausgewählte Quellen zur deutschen Geschichte des Mittelalters. Freiherr vom Stein-Gedächtnisausgabe 18b), Darmstadt 2006, 35–87. Hugh of Poitiers, Origo et historia brevis Nivernensium comitum, in: Monumenta Vizeliacensia. Textes relatifs / l’histoire de l’abbaye de V8zelay, ed. Robert B. C. Huygens, Turnhout 1976. 215 Note that certainly in the later Middle Ages, in England ‘chivalrous’ and ‘royal’ ideals overlapped: Maurice Keen, Chivalry and English Kingship in the Later Middle Ages, in: Christopher Given-Wilson/Alan J. Kettle/Len Scales (eds.), War, Government and Aristocracy in the British Isles, c. 1150–1500. Essays in Honour of Michael Prestwich, Woodbridge 2008, 250–266.

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Hugh of Poitiers, The V8zelay Chronicle and Other Documents from MS Auxerre 227 and Elsewhere, transl. John Scott/John O. Ward, Binghamton, NY 1992. Lambert of Ardres, Historia comitum Ghisnensium, ed. Johannes Heller, in: MGH Scriptores 24, Hanover 1879, 550–642. [Lambert of Ardres] The History of the Counts of Guines and Lords of Ardres, transl. Leah Shopkow, Philadelphia 2001. Lampert of Hersfeld, Annales, in: Lampert, Opera Omnia, ed. Oswald Holder-Egger (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 38), Hanover 1894, 3–304. Nigellus de Longchamp dit Wireker, Tractatus contra curiales et officiales clericos, ed. Andr8 Boutemy, Paris 1959. Origo comitum Vindocinensium, in: Recueil des historiens des Gaules et de la France, vol. 11, ed. L8opold Delisle, Paris 1876, 31. Recueil des actes des ducs de Normandie, ed. Marie Fauroux, Caen 1961. The Rotuli de Dominabus et Pueris et Puellis, ed. and transl. John Walmsley, Tempe AZ 2006. De sole et de duodecim signis, ed. Paul von Winterfeld, in: MGH Poetae Latini Aevi Carolini 4, 1, Berlin 1899, 210f. Wace’s Roman de Brut: A History of the British, ed. and transl. Judith Weiss, 2nd edn. Exeter 2010 (Orig. Exeter 1999). Wace, Roman de Rou, ed. Anthony J. Holden, 3 vols., Paris 1970–1973. Wace’s Roman de Rou [The History of the Norman People], transl. Glyn S. Burgess, Woodbridge 2004. The Warenne (Hyde) Chronicle, ed. Elisabeth van Houts/Rosalind Love (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 2013. William of JumiHges, Gesta Normannorum ducum, ed. Elisabeth van Houts (Oxford Medieval Texts) 2 vols., Oxford 1992–1995. William of Poitiers, Gesta Guillelmi, ed. and transl. Ralph H. C. Davis/Marjorie Chibnall (Oxford Medieval Texts), Oxford 1998. Witger, Genealogia Arnulfi comitis, ed. Ludwig C. Bethmann, in: MGH Scriptores 9, Hanover 1851, 302–304.

Bibliography Reginald A. Brown, The Status of the Norman Knight, in: John Gillingham/James Holt (eds.), War and Government in the Middle Ages: Essays in Honour of Joseph. O. Prestwich, Woodbridge 1984, 18–32. Richard Barton, Aristocratic Culture: Kinship, Chivalry, and Court Culture, in: Carol Lansing/Edward D. English (eds.), A Companion to the Medieval World, Malden MA 2009, 500–524. Dominique Barthélemy, Knightley Society, in: David Luscombe/Jonathan Riley-Smith (eds.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. iv, c. 1024–c. 1198. Part I, Cambridge 2004, 148–184.

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Dominique Barthélemy, Les chroniques de la mutation chevaleresque en France (du Xe au XIIe siHcle), in: Comptes-rendus des s8ances de l’Acad8mie des Inscriptions et Belles–Lettres 151 (2007), 1643–1665. Dominique Barthélemy, The Chivalric Transformation and the Origins of Tournament as seen through Norman Chroniclers, in: The Haskins Society Journal 20 (2009), 141–160. Dominique Barthélemy, The Serf, the Knight, and the Historian, transl. Graham R. Edwards, Ithaca/London 2009. Dominique Barthélemy, Points de vue sur la chevalerie, en France vers 1100, in: Laurence Jean–Marie/Christophe Maneuvrier (eds.), Distinction et sup8riorit8 sociale (Moyen ffge et 8poque moderne), Caen 2010, 173–185. Dominique Barthélemy, Chivalric One-Upmanship in France, ca. 1100, in: Thomas Noble/Thomas N. Bisson (eds.), European Transformations: The Long Twelfth Century, Notre Dame 2012, 75–92. Dominique Barthélemy, La chevalerie. De la Germanie antique / la France du XII siHcle, Paris 2nd rev. edn. 2012 (Orig. 2007). Dominique Barthélemy, Nouvelle histoire des Cap8tiens. 987–1214, Paris 2012. Robert Bartlett, The Making of Europe: Conquest, Colonization, and Cultural Change, 950–1350, London 1993. Robert Bartlett, Heartland and Border : The Mental and Physical Geography of Medieval Europe, in: Huw Pryce/John Watts (eds.), Power and Identity in the Middle Ages: Essays in Memory of Rees Davies, Oxford 2007, 23–36. Thomas N. Bisson, Princely Nobility in an Age of Ambition (c. 1050–1150), in: Anne Duggan (ed.), Nobles and Nobility in Medieval Europe, Woodbridge 2000, 101–113. Jean Blacker, Wace (b. after 1100, d. 1174x83)’, in: Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford 2004, http://www.oxforddnb.com/view/article/28365 (27. 09. 2017). Marc Bloch, Feudal Society, transl. L. A. Manyon, London 1961 (Reprint 1995). Pierre Bouet, Dudon de S. Quentin et Virgile: “L’Pn8ide” au service de la cause normande, in: Recueil d’8tudes en hommage / Lucien Musset (Annales de Normandie, Collection Cahiers des Annales 23), Caen 1990, 215–236. Michael Clanchy, From Memory to Written Record: England 1066–1307, London 2nd edn. 1987. Peter Coss, Lordship, Knighthood and Locality. A Study in English Society, c. 1180–1280, Cambridge 1991. David Crouch, The Birth of Nobility. Constructing Aristocracy in England and France 900–1300, Harlow 2005. Susan Dannenbaum (=Crane), Anglo-Norman Romances of English Heroes: “Ancestral Romance”?, in: Romance Philology 35 (1982), 601–608. Robert R. Davies, Kings, Lords and Liberties in the March of Wales, 1066–1272, in: Transactions of the Royal Historical Society, 5th ser., 29 (1979), 41–61. Bernhard Diestelkamp, Lehen, -swesen; Lehnrecht, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 5 (1991), 1807–1811. Georges Duby, Les origines de la chevalerie, in: Idem, Hommes et structures du moyen .ge. Recueil d’articles, Paris 1973, 325–341. Georges Duby, The Chivalrous Society, transl. Cynthia Postan, London 1977. Georges Duby, The Three Orders. Feudal Society Imagined, transl. Arthur Goldhammer, Chicago/London 1980.

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Jean Dunbabin, Discovering a Past for the French Aristocracy, in: Paul Magdalino (ed.), The Perception of the Past in Twelfth-Century Europe, London/Rio Grande 1992, 1–14. Willigis Eckermann, Ehre, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 3 (1986), 1663. Josef Fleckenstein, Ritter, -tum, -stand, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 7 (1995), 865–873. Jean Flori, La notion de la chevalerie dans les chansons de geste du XIIe siHcle. Ptude historique de vocabulaire, in: Le Moyen ffge 116 (1975), 211–244 and 407–445. Jean Flori, L’essor de la chevalerie. XIe–XIIe siHcles, Geneva 1986. Jean Flori, L’id8ologie du glaive. Pr8histoire de la chevalerie, Geneva 2010 (Orig. 1984). Jean Flori, Knightly Society, in: David Luscombe/Jonathan Riley-Smith (eds.), The New Cambridge Medieval History, vol. iv, c. 1024–c. 1198. Part I, Cambridge 2004, ch. 6, 148–184. Carolo Du Fresne, domino Du Cange, Glossarium mediae et infimae latinitatis, ed. Louis Henschel, Paris 1840–1850, Neue Edition 1883–1887, ed. L8opold Favre [ND Graz 1954]. John Gillingham, The Cultivation of History, Legend, and Courtesy at the Court of Henry II, in: Ruth Kennedy/Simon Meecham-Jones (eds.), Writers of the Reign of Henry II. Twelve Essays, New York/Basingstoke 2006, 25–52. John Gillingham, “Holding to the Rules of War (bellica iura tenentes)”: Right Conduct before, during, and after Battle in North-Western Europe in the Eleventh Century, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 29 (2007) (R. Allen Brown Memorial Lecture), 2–15. Louise Gnädinger, Beno%t de Sainte-Maure, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 1 (1980), 1918f. Paul Guilhiermoz, Essai sur l’origine de la noblesse en France au moyen .ge, Paris 1902. Werner Hechberger, Adel im fränkisch-deutschen Mittelalter. Zur Anatomie eines Forschungsproblems, Ostfildern 2005. Charles W. Hollister, Normandy, France and the Anglo-Norman Regnum, in: Speculum 51 (1976), 202–242. Elisabeth van Houts, Historical Writing, in: Christopher Harper-Bill/eadem(eds.), A Companion to the Anglo-Norman World, Woodbridge 2003, 103–121. Stephen Jaeger, The Origins of Courtliness. Civilizing Trends and the Formation of Courtly Ideals 939–1210, Philadelphia 1985. Richard W. Kaeuper, Chivalry and Violence in Medieval Europe, Oxford 1999. Richard W. Kaeuper, Medieval Chivalry, Cambridge 2016. Maurice Keen, Chivalry, New Haven/London 2005 (Orig. 1984). Maurice Keen, Chivalry and English Kingship in the Later Middle Ages, in: Christopher Given-Wilson/Alan J. Kettle/Len Scales (eds.), War, Government and Aristocracy in the British Isles, c. 1150–1500. Essays in Honour of Michael Prestwich, Woodbridge 2008, 250–266. Geoffrey Koziol, Begging Pardon and Favor. Ritual and Political Order in Early Medieval France, Ithaca/London 1992. Heinz Krieg, Herrscherdarstellung in der Stauferzeit: Friedrich Barbarossa im Spiegel seiner Urkunden und der staufischen Geschichtsschreibung, Ostfildern 2003. Paul Lehmann, Mittellateinisches Wörterbuch bis zum ausgehenden 13. Jahrhundert, vol. 2 (1999). Max Lieberman, Feudo-vasallitisches und ritterliches Vokabular bei Dudo von Saint–Quentin und in Beno%ts Chronique des ducs de Normandie, lic. phil. Dissertation, Zurich 1999.

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Max Lieberman, Knighthood and Chivalry in the Histories of the Norman Dukes: Dudo and Beno%t, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 32 (2010), 129–183. Max Lieberman, A New Approach to the Knighting Ritual, in: Speculum 90 (2015), 391–423. Nicholas L. Paul, To Follow in their Footsteps. The Crusades and Family Memory in the High Middle Ages, Ithaca et al. 2012. Benjamin Pohl, Dudo of Saint-Quentin’s Historia Normannorum. Tradition, Innovation and Memory, Woodbridge/Rochester 2015. Alheydis Plassmann, Die Welfen-Origo – Ein Einzelfall?, in: Dieter R. Bauer/Matthias Becher (eds.), Welf IV. – Schlüsselfigur einer Wendezeit. Regionale und europäische Perspektiven, Munich 2004, 56–83. Alheydis Plassmann, Origo Gentis. Identitäts- und Legitimitätsstiftung in früh- und hochmittelalterlichen Herkunftserzählungen (Orbis Medieavalis), Berlin 2006. Michael C. Prestwich (ed.), Liberties and Identities in the Medieval British Isles (Regions and Regionalism in History 10), Woodbridge 2008. Susan Reynolds, Fiefs and Vassals: The Medieval Evidence Reconsidered, Oxford 1994. Levi Roach, Feudalism, in: The International Encyclopedia of Social and Behavioral Sciences 9 (2015), 111–116. Robert Scheyhing, Bann, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 1 (1980), 1414f. Klaus Schreiner/Gerd Schwerhoff (eds.), Verletzte Ehre. Ehrkonflikte in Gesellschaften des Mittelalters und der Frühen Neuzeit, Cologne 1995. Rachel Stone, Morality and Masculinity in the Carolingian Empire, Cambridge 2012. Matthew Strickland, War and Chivalry : The Conduct and Perception of War in England and Normandy, 1066–1217, Cambridge 1996. Emily Z. Tabuteau, Transfers of Property in Eleventh-century Norman Law, Chapel Hill/ London 1988. Björn Weiler, The Rex Renitens and the Medieval Ideal of Kingship, in: Viator 31 (2000), 1–42. Björn Weiler, Kingship and Lordship: Views of Kingship in “Dynastic” Chronicles, in: Krzysztof Stopka (ed.), Gallus Anonymous and his Chronicle in the Context of TwelfthCentury Historiography from the Perspective of the Latest Research, Krakjw 2010, 103–124. Karl F. Werner, Consilium et auxilium, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 3 (1986), 162. Karl F. Werner, Regnum, in: Lexikon des Mittelalters 7 (1995), 587–596.

Alheydis Plassmann

Lordships acquired by marriage. Henry II in Aquitaine and Frederick Barbarossa in the Franche-Comté

Abstract Both Henry II and Frederick Barbarossa married heiresses and acquired the lordships of Aquitaine and the Franche-Comt8 by marriage. Yet, both were not very active in these lordships, and it is only by charter evidence that their connection to the peripheral region and the connectedness within the region can be investigated. While in both cases, joined activities of husband and wife are rare, the heiresses played an important role in the times when the succession was settled. In other times their husbands did intervene in the lordships but did so with the weight of their additional quality as king or emperor. In Frederick’s case this was even more facilitated by the claim the emperor had to Burgundy. Mapping the places of issue, the recipients and the witnesses leads to the result that in both cases the peripheral lordship acquired by marriage fell into a pattern of networking on a larger scale for the husbands, while the wives acted more within the boundaries of their inheritance. The wives’ relatives played no prominent roles in supporting the ruling of the lordships, and their place at court seems to have been independent of the matters of the lordship acquired by marriage. The status the husbands brought to the marriage ensured that their foothold in Aquitaine and Burgundy was not dependent on the wives, but neither Frederick nor Henry got deeply involved in their wives’ inheritance which was more of an additional chance that could be exploited than a region at the center of their rule. ‘…he [Fredrick Barbarossa] was thought by many, to be an uxorious husband, who searched after everything that might please his wife.’1

1 Ralph of Diceto, Imagines historiarum, ed. Wilhelm Stubbs, vol. 1 (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 68), London 1876, 267–440, here 426f. On Beatrice cf. Peter Neumeister, Beatrix von Burgund. Gefährtin Barbarossas in Freud und Leid, in: Erika Uitz/ Barbara Pätzold/Gerald Beyreuther (eds.), Herrscherinnen und Nonnen. Frauengestalten von der Ottonenzeit bis zu den Staufern, Berlin 1990, 197–218; Martina Hartmann, Kaiserin Beatrix von Burgund, in: Amalie Fössel (ed.), Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters, Regensburg 2011, 197–212; Ursula Vones-Liebenstein, Vir uxorius? Barbarossas Verhältnis zur Comitissa Burgundiae im Umkreis des Friedens von Venedig, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 189–219; Knut Görich, Kaiserin Beatrix, in: Frauen der Staufer (Schriften zur staufischen Geschichte und Kunst 25), Göppingen 2006,

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If we believe Ralph of Diceto Frederick Barbarossa was devoted to his wife Beatrice, while it is well known that Henry II and Eleanor of Aquitaine’s relationship had its ups and downs to say the least.2 But apart from well-known legends about Eleanor it might be difficult indeed to say anything about how either Barbarossa and Beatrice or Henry and Eleanor functioned as a couple. Anybody from outside would have problems to get at the heart of even a relationship of good friends. So, this is even truer for couples that are well beyond any analysis of their behavior towards each other. So, instead of speculating on the married lives of two medieval couples, I will focus instead at one aspect of the respective marriages of Barbarossa and Henry that might be comparable. Beatrice and Eleanor were both not only wives, but they were also heiresses of considerable wealth.3 Even if they had not married persons of such high status both would have triggered our interest. At least in theory, both held their inheritance in their own right. What say did their husbands have in their native lands? What role did the husbands play? How intensive was the rule of the husband in the lordship acquired by marriage? The situation of both couples and the regions in question is comparable, not only because they were heiresses: First, both husbands were persons of authority in their own right; they did not need their wives to be treated with respect in Aquitaine or Burgundy. Even if Henry had had nothing to say in Aquitaine the local nobility might still have treated him with reverence in case he visited the region. For Barbarossa, this is even more so. As emperor, he was entitled to authority in Burgundy, which had been loosely connected to the empire since the time of Konrad II.4 Their right to rule in their wives’ inheritance might have derived from their marriage, their authority as a person of high social status did not. Thus, they were far from being poor upstarts who happened to marry rich girls. Secondly in both cases, for Burgundy as well as Aquitaine we don’t have an abundance of sources. While many historians commented on both Henry and 43–58; Christian Uebach, Die Ratgeber Friedrich Barbarossas (1152–1167), Marburg 2008, 231–236; Knut Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa. Eine Biographie, München 2011, 256–262. 2 Cf. Ralph Turner, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of France, Queen of England, New Haven/ London 2009, 216–221. 3 On Beatrice’s marriage and her status as heiress: cf. Rainer Maria Herkenrath, Die burgundische Heirat Kaiser Friedrichs I., in: Karl Amon (ed.), Ecclesia perigrinans. Festschrift für Josef Lenzenweger zum 70. Geburtstag, Vienna 1986, 89–94; Johannes Merz, Würzburg. Die Hochzeit Friedrich Barbarossas mit Beatrix von Burgund 1156, in: Alois Schmid/Katharina Weigand (eds.), Schauplätze der Geschichte in Bayern, Munich 2003, 104–118; Tobias Weller, Die Heiratspolitik des deutschen Hochadels im 12. Jahrhundert (Rheinisches Archiv 149), Cologne et al. 2004, 91–99. On Eleanor as an heiress: cf. Turner 2009, 11–17. 4 On the history of Burgundy and its relationship to the Empire cf. most recently Verena Türck, Beherrschter Raum und anerkannte Herrschaft. Friedrich I. Barbarossa und das Königreich Burgund (Mittelalter-Forschungen 42), Sigmaringen 2013, 55–67.

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Barbarossa they did so in the lands in which they were mostly active. We have plenty of histories for Germany, England, Italy and Normandy, while we have none that centers on Henry’s activity south of the Loire5 or Barbarossa’s in Burgundy.6 Our main sources are charters. While the customs of the chancery were of course not the same,7 still we might learn something from looking at the elements we can compare. Thirdly, Burgundy as well as Aquitaine were regions that had very strong traditions of independence. Neither was accustomed to a ruler who acted centrally or who interfered strongly and frequently. In Aquitaine that meant frequent rebellion,8 in Burgundy that might lead to indifference.9 Last and the whole point why the subject belongs in a book on the Staufen and the Plantagenet Empire both Henry and Barbarossa held different regions with different customs and one might wonder if and how they aligned their policies in the acquired lordships with an overall policy of the empire – if there was anything like an overall policy of empire – or if a least they somehow fitted it in.10 Now, for the evidence: Henry II issued about 3.000 charters, and as has been pointed out by Nicholas Vincent, the editor of the charters, the numbers for Aquitaine are very thin indeed.11 There are 91 charters for recipients south of the 5 Cf. Nicholas Vincent, King Henry II and the Poitevins, in: Martin Aurell (ed.), La cour Plantagenet (1154–1204), Poitiers 2000, 103–135, esp. 115; John Gillingham, Events and Opinions. Norman and English Views of Aquitaine c. 1152–c.1204, in: Marcus Bull/Catherine Léglu (eds.), The World of Eleanor of Aquitaine, Woodbridge 2005, 57–81. 6 Cf. Türck 2013, 44–54. 7 The charters of Frederick are edited in: Die Urkunden Friedrichs I. 1152–1190, ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10, 1–5), Hanover 1975–1990. The chancellery is discussed in Volume 5. (henceforth DFI with number). The Acta of Henry II will be published by Nicholas Vincent, Acta Henrici II (henceforth AHII with number). I am indebted to Nicholas Vincent for generously sharing a draft of the acta. 8 On Aquitaine Vincent 2000; Marie Hivergneau, Queen Eleanor and Aquitaine, in: Bonnie Wheeler (ed.), Eleanor of Aquitaine. Lord and Lady, New York 2008, 55–76, here 66–71, on the tenuous hold on Aquitaine; Matthew Strickland, Henry the Young King. 1155–1183, New Haven/London 2016, 134–138. 9 On Burgundy under Hohenstaufen rule cf. Jean-Yves Mariotte, Le comt8 de Bourgogne sous les Hohenstaufen 1156–1208 (Cahiers d’8tudes comtoises 4), Paris 1963; Alheydis Plassmann, Herrschaftspraxis und Legitimation – Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der Urkundenauswertung am Beispiel der Staufer in Burgund, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 56 (2010), 43–63; on Frederick’s Rule in Burgundy cf. Alheydis Plassmann, Legitimation staufischer Herrschaft in Burgund. Rückgriff auf die Vergangenheit?, in: Volker Gallé (ed.), Schätze der Erinnerung. Geschichte, Mythos und Literatur in der Überlieferung des Nibelungenliedes, Worms 2009, 147–185 and Türck 2013. 10 On the question of Frederick I. Barbarossa and an overall policy spanning his entire reign cf. Görich 2011, 601–648. There is no new biography of Henry II. On the question of an Angevin Empire cf. Stephen Church, Was there an Angevin Empire?, http://www.uea.ac.uk/angevinworld/feature-of-the-month (15. 07. 2018) and Strickland 2016, 55–77 on the multiple lordships of Henry II. 11 Vincent 2000, 109f.

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Loire including deperdita,12 and only 42 for Poitou proper.13 In the corpus of these charters there are 28 charters for Fontevraud which is an exception and six charters for churches in Tours, which are both very close to the Loire indeed.14 If we discount Fontevraud and Tours there are only 57 charters. Eleanor on the other hand issued quite a lot of charters for a female ruler. We have an astonishing number of 159 acts of Eleanor.15 Eleanor tops her predecessors and successors as queens of England, even the Empress Matilda.16 Not all of her charters are for Aquitaine and Poitou, but it still got the lion’s share with more than 100 charters,17 Fontevraud getting 18.18 The main focus of her charters was the Poitou.19 Many of these charters, 93 certainly, were not issued but until after Henry’s death when Eleanor tried to ensure the inheritance of first Richard and then John.20 Some of her charters date to the time Eleanor was married to Louis VII, but not many.21 Still we have 29 charters for Aquitanian beneficiaries which were definitely written during Henry’s lifetime, five for Fontevraud.22 Marie Hivergneau noticed a peak of charter output when Eleanor prepared Richard’s elevation as count of Poitiers and duke of Aquitaine in 1172.23 It is significant that Eleanor had a far greater output when she was an independent widow. Thus, Henry about triples his wife’s charters in the time of their marriage, but it is clear, that for him Aquitaine played a far less dominant role than for her. Of course, it would stretch our evidence far too much to conclude that Eleanor devoted two thirds of her lifetime to her own Aquitaine, while Henry only sacrificed about 3 % of his time to the region south of the Loire. It has long been noted that 12 13 14 15

16 17 18 19 20 21

22 23

Cf. the chart at the end of the article. Vincent 2000, 109f. and 134f. Fontevraud: AHII no. 1037–1064; Tours: AHII no. 2663–2668. Edited by Vincent in AHII as appendix, no. 1–159 (subsequently abbreviated as Acta Eleanor). A list can be found in Nicholas Vincent, Patronage, Politics and Piety in the Charters of Eleanor of Aquitaine, in: Martin Aurell et al. (eds), Plantagenets et Capetiens. Confrontations et h8ritages, Turnhout 2006, 17–60, here 56–60. Vincent 2006, 18. Vincent 2006, 19. Acta Eleanor no. 52–70. Vincent 2006, 24. Vincent 2006, 19. Vincent 2006, 19. No. 126a, 128f., 132, 151, 153f. These charters might have had a lesser chance for survival, because Louis had to forgo his claim on Aquitaine. On this time cf. also Marie Hivergnau, Autour d’Alienor d’Aquitaine. Entourage et pouvoir aus prisme des chartes (1137–1189), in: Martin Aurell el al. (eds.), Plantagenets et Capetiens. Confrontations et h8ritages, Turnhout 2006, 61–73, here 62–64; Hivergneau 2008, 57–63. Acta Eleanor no. 8, 31, 41, 48, 49, 55, 56, 57, 58, 67, 71, 84, 89, 92, 93, 98, 99, 100, 112, 113, 120, 121, 123, 133, 134, 139, 145, 152, 154a. For Fontevraud no. 55, 56, 57. 58. 67. Cf. the chart at the end of the article. Acta Eleanor no. 11, 31, 41, 55–57, 84, 92f., 99, 112, 123 and possibly no. 86, 98, 133f.; cf. Vincent 2006, 19; Hivergneau 2008, 66–71.

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Eleanor was very active in England as well, but only occasionally would there be any need to issue a charter, while at least some of the beneficiaries in Aquitaine would make a point of getting a charter by their duchess. While at least at 14 occasions Eleanor is mentioned as witness or intermediary in Henry’s charters,24 we can pinpoint Eleanor’s intervention in Henry’s charters for Aquitaine only once for Fontevraud.25 Only very occasionally, seven times all in all, can we link Henry’s and Eleanor’s charters directly26 and only twice for Aquitaine: A charter of Eleanor’s for Poitiers was confirmed by Henry, but had different witnesses,27 and he reissued a charter of Eleanor’s father for La-Sauve which was confirmed by Eleanor as well.28 Four times charters of Henry show the same set of conditions as a similar charter by Eleanor.29 People in Aquitaine obviously were happy to get a charter either by Henry or by Eleanor and did not need a backup by the other partner.30 It is worth noting, that of the 26 charters of Henry’s that tasked the beneficiaries with prayers for the soul of Eleanor none was for her homeland.31 Since the prayers usually were for husband, wife and children, this might have been due to Henry being suspicious about the devotion of southern churches for his own soul, but, in any case, this shows Henry’s reliance on his own properties. Of Barbarossa’s charters about 1.000 genuine acts have come down to us and at first sight, Burgundy got considerable closer attentions since we can count 123 acts for it.32 But we must distinguish between the Franche-Comt8 proper, which was Beatrice’ inheritance, and the larger regnum Burgundiae where Barbarossa did not act as his wife’s husband but rather as emperor. Only 23 charters were meant for beneficiaries in the Franche-Comt8. Only 2.3 % of the emperor’s charter output thus pertained to the lordship acquired by marriage.33 There is evidence only for 11 acts from Beatrice, almost all of them for her native country and from a time when she probably prepared for the inheritance of one of her sons in 1183.34 Beatrice died before Barbarossa so there was no chance for an 24 AHII no. *61, 285, 1063 (as a petitioner), 1338 (as a petitioner), 1657 und No. 952, 1048, 1182, 1632, 1633, 1634, 1635, 2460, 2911 as a witness. 25 AHII no. 1063. 26 AHII no. *61, 285, 1063 (petitioner), 1338 (petitioner), 1657, 2081 and 2306. 27 AHII no. 2081 (Acta Eleonor No. 113). 28 AHII no 2306. (Acta Eleonor No. 139). 29 Vincent 2000, 118 with note 79 for Saintes, LuÅon, St-Hilaire in Potiers and Sablonceaux. 30 Vincent 2000, 118. His interpretation of this fact is, that Eleaonor’s authority was sufficient to enforce a charter. 31 AHII no. 351, 601, 763, 1029, 1254, *1359, 1360, 1371a, 1421, 1426, 1427, 1577, 1672, 1788, 1929, 1986, 1988, 2055, 2056, 2188, 2312, 2442, 2487, 2488, 2574, 2774. 32 On the charters for Burgundy all in all cf. Plassmann 2009. 33 For the charters for the Franche-Comt8 cf. the chart at the end of the article. 34 Edited in the appendix to the charters of Frederick in DDFI Vol 4. On Beatrice’s charters cf. Heinrich Appelt, Kaiserin Beatrice und das Erbe der Grafen von Burgund, in: Hubert

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abundance of widow’s charters in her case. Interestingly enough, compared to her husband’s output all in all Beatrice reaches about 1 % of her husband’s charters, just like Eleanor with the 29 charters for Aquitaine, but the relation to charters for lordship acquired by marriage is much better. Eleanor reaches about a fourth of her husband’s charters for Aquitaine, Beatrice about a half of Barbarossa’s for the Franche-Comt8.35 This may teach us to be careful with statistics which are based on such thin numbers. As with Henry and Eleanor, evidence for connections between Barbarossa’s and Beatrice’ charters are very rare. Three times Beatrice and Barbarossa issued together, twice for beneficiaries outside the Franche-Comt8, once for a relative of Beatrice.36 A joint charter for Dietrich of BesanÅon is lost.37 Only three times did Barbarossa even mention his deceased father-in-law and confirmed his donations.38 Like Eleanor, Beatrice did not limit intermediary actions to recipients in the Franche-Comt8. As was her due as empress she initiated charters, albeit only six times.39 On some other occasions, Barbarossa listened to her counsel, as we can deduce from the histories.40 Like with Eleanor, her influence was not restricted to her native country. Thus, the production of charters does tell us some things about the lordships acquired by marriage. Beatrice and Eleanor were active in their own region, both women travelled to their own land at a time when an heir was to be introduced. Both women’s activity was not restricted to their own lordship, but they played their role as queen and empress as well which included intermediary actions on behalf of family, intimates or supplicants. In Eleanor’s case the queen even acted on behalf of her husband in England and donated for beneficiaries outside her own Aquitaine.41 Both husbands did not leave the affairs of the acquired lordship to their wives. Barbarossa and Henry were accepted as lords in their wives’

35 36 37 38 39

40

41

Mordek (ed.), Aus Kirche und Reich. Studien zu Theologie, Politik und Recht im Mittelalter. Festschrift für Friedrich Kempf zu seinem fünfundsiebzigsten Geburtstag und fünfzigjährigem Doktorjubiläum, Sigmaringen 1983, 275–283. Cf. the charts at the end of the article. DDFI no. 515 (for count Odo of the Champagne), DFI no. 753 and 1013. DFI no. 1187. DDFI no. 515, *761 und 994. DDFI no. 191, 194 for recipients in the Franche-Comt8; DFI no. 279 for the monastery of Ebsdorf, DFI no. 466, 614 for the monastery of St-Ghislain, DFI no. 648, a treaty with the city of Tortona. On Beatrice’s intervention cf. Amalie Fößel, Die Königin im mittelalterlichen Reich. Herrschaftsausübung, Herrschaftsrechte, Handlungsspielräume (Mittelalter-Forschungen 4), Stuttgart 2000, 126 and DDFI Vol. 5, 113. Fößel 2000, 189; Intervention for Peter of Cambrai: Die Regesten des Kaiserreiches unter Friedrich I. 1152 (1122)–1190, nach Johann Friedrich Böhmer neu bearbeitet von Ferdinand Opll (Regesta Imperii IV, 2), Vienna 1980–2011, no. 1726 und 1728, Beatrice counselling on Poland: RI Vol. 3 (Nachträge), no. 1226. On Beatrice’s influence cf. also Görich 2006. Acta Eleonor no. 1, 6, 7, 8, 9, 11, 12, 19, 34, 37, 38, 39, 45, 47, 75, 76, 77, 87, 88, 94, 95, 117, 118, 125. Hivergnau 2006, 71f., ascertained that outside of Poitou, Poitevin involvement in Eleanor’s charters is rare.

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dominion. Nobles and churchmen who were after donations could obtain valid charters from the husbands alone. Beatrice only issued charters when she was on her own in her own lordship. Eleanor’s output of charters was at least larger when she was not near Henry’s court.42 While the husband’s authority in his wife’s land was not dependent on any conditions we can discern the wife’s actions can be connected to a period of safeguarding the inheritance. There are some charters of Eleanor’s that can be safely dated to the time directly after her marriage to Henry, probably meant to ensure the acceptance of her second husband.43 In Beatrice’s case we can only observe a short visit directly after the wedding and a longer visit of Barbarossa and Beatrice in the Franche-Comt8 in the year after their marriage, which might have served the same purpose.44 In moments of transition the heiresses’ influence was important and could not be ignored. Let us turn to the next question of interest. Where did husband and wife deal with their Burgundian and Aquitanian subjects? Not all the donations for Aquitanian beneficiaries did take place south of the Loire as we can see when we map the known places of issue. Aquitaine was subject of discussion at court all over the so-called Angevin Empire, if only rarely in England. Mapping Eleanor’s places in contrast we get a more condensed picture with only one exception, a charter issued on Norman soil. This was a charter for Fontevraud that one could count as reasonably close to the place of the act (Map 1).45 For Barbarossa, the range of places where he issued charters for the Franche-Comt8 is even more scattered. Charters of Burgundian interest were written all over the Empire, except for the North which Barbarossa did not visit very frequently anyway, while Beatrice’s charters are limited to the Franche-Comt8 (Map 2).46 For Germany, there is a tendency to issue charters in the region between Main and Rhine, were Barbarossa most often took residence.47 Often, we are not sure what instigated the publication of a charter. We might suppose that it meant that at least some supplicants took it upon themselves to visit the court even if it was not as nearby. Now, this clearly means that the locals did not want to wait for the king’s or the emperor’s next visit. Considering that 42 Hivergneau 2008, 66–71. 43 Hivergneau 2008, 63–66; Acta Eleonor no. 67, 100, 152. 44 On this visit Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, ed. Bernhard von Simson (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 46), Hanover/Leipzig 1912, lib. III, cap. 12, 179; Cf. Plassmann 2009, 173f. and 177 with note 112; Türck 2013, 101f. 45 On the places of issue cf. the charts at the end of the article. 46 On the places of issue cf. the charts at the end of the article. 47 Cf. Theo Kölzer, Der Hof Kaiser Barbarossas und die Reichsfürsten, in: Peter Moraw (ed.), Deutscher Königshof, Hoftag und Reichstag im späteren Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 48), Sigmaringen 2002, 3–47, here 7f.; also Ferdinand Opll, Das Itinerar Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossas (1152–1190) (Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters 1), Vienna et al. 1978, 155f.

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Map 1: Places of issue: Henry II (orange) and Eleanor (white)

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Map 2: Places of issue: Frederick I (orange) and Beatrice (white)

neither Barbarossa nor Henry visited their wives’ lordships as regular as some of the more central regions of their realms,48 someone who really was after urgent business would be well advised not to wait. Court visits of Aquitanian and Burgundian nobles might have been induced by the wish to solve a local problem once and for all by appealing to the king or the emperor. People were looking for 48 On Henry in Aquitaine: Vincent 2000, 126; On Barbarossa’s visits to Burgundy : Plassmann 2009, 164; Türck 2013, 98–109.

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an authority and it might not be stretching the evidence too far to suppose that it mattered that the husband of the duchess or the countess had a somewhat grander authority. It might be that the grander authority was called upon if the usual authority was not considered to suffice. The frequently absent overlord could be played as a trump card in a local conflict. This would mean that beneficiaries outside the usual range of influence or outside the usual range of places visited would be keener to visit the court. The nobles of Baux-en-Provence went as far as Worms in order to thwart their rivals in a conflict,49 about which Barbarossa probably knew very little. On the other hand, both Barbarossa and Henry might assess their options to enforce the royal or imperial will and might look for realistic scenarios. Henry is known to have donated income that was to derive from English lands instead of trying to push a local donation.50 This is especially the case in Fontevraud.51 If we look at the beneficiaries next, we can easily see that the geographical range of beneficiaries did not differ as much as the places of issue. Both Eleanor and Henry only seldom bequeathed beneficiaries south of the Charente (Map 3).52 The range of Henry’s authority did not surpass that of Eleanor or her predecessors and it does not even remotely look like he did try to achieve a wider influence in the south.53 Interestingly, and just as an aside the beneficiaries of Richard the Lionheart’s charters are slightly more in the south.54 The surplus authority of the king could not be used to widen the range of actual power. The fact that the duchess’ husband was a king had only influence on the way donations were achieved by the subjects. The fact that Henry had other dominions apart from Aquitaine only rarely had influence on his donation policy in the south. It has long been noted that there is only one exception to the rule that Poitevins were not endowed with property in the rest of the Angevin lands.55 Mapping the pattern of beneficiaries in the Franche-Comt8 leads to a similar result for Barbarossa and Beatrice (Map 4).56 There was a core area of influence in the Franche-Comt8 proper, BesanÅon surpassing other beneficiaries. But in 49 Cf. Wibald of Stablo, Briefbuch, ed. Martina Hartmann nach Vorarbeiten von Heinz Zatschek und Timothy Reuter, 3 Teile (MGH Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit 9, 1–3), Teil 3, no. 429, here 891–893. On the lords of Baux in the context of ProvenÅal politics cf. Johannes Fried, Friedrich Barbarossas Krönung in Arles, in: Historisches Jahrbuch 103 (1983), 347–371, especially 356 and 361; Plassmann 2009, 181; Türck 2013, 212–217. 50 Vincent 2000, 116. 51 Vincent 2000, 119. AHII no. 1043, 1044, 1045, 1046, 1053. 52 Cf. the charts at the end of the article. 53 On this cf. Vincent 2000. 54 Nicholas Vincent, Isabella of AngoulÞme: John’s Jezebel, in: Stephen Church (ed.), King John. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 1999, 165–219, here 169; Vincent 2000, 117. 55 Vincent 2000, 120–122. 56 Cf. the charts at the end of the article.

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Map 3: Beneficiaries south of the Loire: Henry II (orange) and Eleanor (white)

contrast to Henry, Barbarossa did use his foothold in the Franche-Comt8 to bolster his authority in the regnum Burgundiae to the South of the FrancheComt8 proper and to revive forgotten connections to the Empire. On his first extensive visit to Burgundy after his marriage to Beatrice, Barbarossa at least planned to visit the regnum Arelatense as well as the Franche-Comt8.57 He had to rearrange his plans, but at least some of the bishops south of Lyon came to visit him in the Franche-Comt8.58 Up until 1180 Barbarossa occasionally interfered in the Dauphin8 and the Provence and made a lengthy visit on his way back from the 57 Cf. note 43. 58 In DDFI no. 184, 185, 192, 195, 196, 197: there appear the following witnesses: Peter of Tarentaise in 184 and 185, Ado, abbot of St-Gilles near Arles in 192, Heraclius of Lyon in 192 and 193, Geoffrey of Avignon in 195, 196 and 197, Odo of Valence in 195, 196 and 197.

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Map 4: Beneficiaries in the Franche-comt8: Frederick I (orange) and Beatrice (white)

peace of Venice in 1177.59 After the 1180s he did not visit Burgundy personally but appointed legates who were to rule in his stead. Their influence is only feasible in the Franche-Comt8.60 It is only in this area that Beatrice and Bar59 Opll 1978, 71f. 60 On the legates cf. Mariotte 1963, 115–123 and 171–173 (Regesta of the legati); Plassmann 2009, 177f.; Türck 2013, 133–146; although Türck does address the issue that the legates

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barossa’s heir was installed, even though in Germany Otto of Saint-Blasien claimed that Barbarossa’s son was heir to the kingdom of Burgundy.61 The imperial authority was useful for furthering and widening the influence Barbarossa had through his wife. Barbarossa started taking interest in the Franche-Comt8 and Burgundy even before his marriage in 1156, but so did his predecessor.62 It might be argued that the heightened interest in Burgundian affairs beyond the Franche-Comt8 would not be conceivable without the marriage of 1156, but it would be difficult to prove that. Who was involved in the acts of the rulers? For this we will have a look at the witness-lists of the charters. Now, we should be well aware that the witness-lists are anything but a list of attendants. Who was called for to witness depended on many factors and only one of them was the fact that the person in question was at court at the time the charter was written. Even that was not true all the time, because sometimes a scribe would write down the essentials of the act weeks after the event and he might have inserted new witnesses who happened to be at hand when he wrote the charter or he might have put in the witnesses he remembered from the actual occasion of the donation. Close confidents of the king or emperor who were of high status could be called for as witness even if they had no connection to the case in question, locals might only be called for, if they had such a connection.63 Some important courtiers like John of Salisbury in England only acted in the Franche-Comt8, she does not draw conclusions as to the significance for the Franche-Comt8 as a lordship acquired by marriage. 61 Otto of St Blasien, Chronik, ed. Adolf Hofmeister, in: MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum schorlarum 47, Hanover/Leipzig 1912, 1–88, here cap. 21, 31: Ottone archisolio Arelatensi cum Burgundia, Reinaldi avi sui terra, sublimato. On Otto as heir cf. Mariotte 1963, 81–85; Idem, Othon ’’sans terre’’, comte palatin de Bourgogne et la fin des Staufen en Franche-Comt8, in: Francia 14 (1986), 83–102; Plassmann 2009, 184; On Otto as successor to Beatrice cf. Alheydis Plassmann, The King and his Sons. Henry II’s and Frederick Barbarossa’s succession strategies compared, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 36 (2013), 149–166, here 156f. 62 Konrad III. issued eight charters for recipients in Burgundy, cf. Plassmann 2010, 47; Die Urkunden Konrads III. und seines Sohnes Heinrich, ed. Friedrich Hausmann (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 9), Vienna 1969 (Reprint Berlin 1987), no. *24 and 58 (Straßburg), no. 128 and 257 (Worms), no. 132 (Würzburg), no. 145 (Aachen), and no. 165 and 166 (Speyer). 63 On the usefulness of witnesses cf. my argument in Alheydis Plassmann, Die Struktur des Hofes unter Friedrich I. Barbarossa nach den deutschen Zeugen seiner Urkunden (MGH Studien und Texte 20), Hanover 1998, 3–13. David Bates, The Prosopographical Study of Anglo-Norman Charters, in: Katherine Keats-Rohan (ed.), Family Trees and the Roots of Politics. The Prosopography of Britain and France from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century, Woodbridge 1997, 89–102, has voiced scepticism and was joined by others for example Nicholas Vincent, Les Normands de l’entourage d’Henri II PlantagenÞt, in: Pierre Bouet (ed.), La Normandie et l’Angleterre au Moyen Age. Colloque de Cerisy-la-Salle (4–7 octobre 2001), Caen 2003, 75–88, here 77f. Hivergnau 2006, 61, has no qualms about using the witnesses, since she considers the origins of the witness-lists as noting the involved nobles.

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or Rainald of Dassel in Germany are virtually absent from the witness-lists and nobody would argue that they had no influence at court.64 Nicholas Vincent drew our attention to two particularly interesting cases. In 1185 Henry and Eleanor donated to Fontevraud at AlenÅon. The witness lists of the two charters do not match.65 While this might be explained with the estrangement of husband and wife, another example, shows that who was called to witness depended on the subject of the charter : When Henry negotiated the marriage of his youngest son John to the daughter of the count of Savoy he happened to make a donation to the priory of Ennezat. The treaty with the count of Savoy included many Savoyards, while the charter for Ennezat included mainly Anglo-Norman nobles.66 A treaty of Alfonso of Aragon and Raymond of Toulouse negotiated at the same meeting unsurprisingly included ProvenÅal witnesses.67 We have three different subject matters and three different lists of witnesses. Yet, I do think that we can still learn something from the lists if we try to quantify them.68 As is obvious from the maps (Map 5) the witnesses of Henry’s charters for Aquitaine are scattered all over the so-called Angevin Empire. Witnesses which are mentioned in Henry’s and Eleanor’s charters both tend to have a slightly more southern origin.69 In Eleanor’s charters, it is the witnesses mentioned by both that are scattered more widely over the Angevin realms while her white dots have a distinct southern tendency (Map 6). Marie Hivergneau assumed that Eleonor put greater trust in her native Poitou,70 but it could also be explained by the queen’s lack of access to Henry’s courtiers. It fits well into that pattern that the known Norman courtiers of Henry, like Richard de Canville or Simon de Tournebu, only occur once and in charters issued in Normandy,71 and that in charters for non-Aquitanian recipients the Poitevins are rarely present.72 I must mention as a caveat that the clerics of

64 65 66 67 68 69 70 71 72

On the discussion, see also Alheydis Plassmann, Ererbte und erheiratete Herrschaft – Die Einbeziehung von Eliten in der Normandie und in Aquitanien unter Heinrich II. von England, in: Wolfram Drews (ed.), Die Interaktion von Herrschern und Eliten in imperialen Ordnungen des Mittelalters (Das Mittelalter. Beihelfte 8), Berlin 2018, 247–281, here 252. Vincent 2003, 78 on John of Salisbury ; Rainald only occurs in DFI no. 493, 499, 500 and 505 cf. Plassmann 1998, 98. Vincent 2006, 33f. AHII no. 1063; Acta Eleonor no. 58. AHII no. 845 and 1779. Ralph de la Faye, Eleanor’s uncle is one of the few witnesses in both charters. Vincent 2006, 34. Vincent 2006; Vincent 2000; as well as Hivergneau 2006 and Hivergneau 2008, have tracked some of the most prominent courtiers by the witness lists, but both did not include all the witnesses, nor did they compare them by mapping. Some witnesses are already mentioned in Hivergneau 2006, but she concentrates on the important courtiers. Hivergneau 2006, 70f. Hivergneau 2006, 70. Hivergneau 2006, 71f.

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Eleanor’s household who frequently witnessed charters cannot be located easily. As Nicholas Vincent has put forth they received donations in Normandy, Anjou and the Poitou and thus might adhere to any of these regions.73 To strengthen the case, I show you a map for the charters for Fontevraud, an abbey close to the hearts of both Henry and Eleanor (Map 7).74 The Fontevraud charters give us a corpus of reasonable numbers where we can see the same effect. The geographical range of witnesses for Eleanor is far less wide so to say than for Henry. The pattern for Henry’s witnesses does not deviate very much regardless of the conditions. It more or less stays the same, whether you look at the Aquitanian charters all in all (Map 5), at the charters issued in Aquitaine (Map 8) or at the charters for Fontevraud (Map 7). Only if you map the witnesses for charters somehow connected to Eleanor – be it that she is mentioned, that her father is mentioned or that a charter of hers was rewritten – the situation seems to be different (Map 9). The proportion of witnesses common to both looks to be higher than for the charters for Aquitaine in general. If we turn to Frederick now, the pattern is visible even better. There is a huge geographical range for the witnesses from Barbarossa’s charters, while Beatrice’ actions in 1181 to 1183 attracted local nobility (Map 10). The reason for this is of course, that some of the charters for the Franche-Comt8 were issued during campaigns in Italy where German nobles were inserted as witnesses simply because they were important enough even if they had nothing to do with the beneficiary.75 Only one family of moderate nobility is detectable in the charters of both Barbarossa and Beatrice as well as Daniel, the legate for Burgundy who was active in the 1180s.76 Clerics from BesanÅon and Baume-les-Dames and Baumeles-Messieurs were present at both courts, since these institutions were endowed by both, but as far as we can see these persons were not identical. That might cohere with the fact that Beatrice was active at a different time than Frederick. If the focus is set on the charters issued in the Franche-Comt8 the geographical range is only slightly more condensed (Map 11). Burgundy was on occasion used as the passage to and from Italy and thus the participants of the Italian campaigns of sufficient high status or of sufficient familiarity with Barbarossa make their appearance in the witness lists in the Franche-Comt8. 73 Vincent 2006, 44. 74 Fontevraud was the only female monastery that was endowed by Eleanor, Vincent 2006, 25. 75 In DFI no. 370, 639 and 884, there are several noble German witnesses, DFI no. 710 has no witnesses. 76 The family of Chay (DFI no. 994 and Acta Beatrice no. 4, 7, 8, 9 and 10) and Daniel (DFI no. 755, 947, 994; Acta Beatrice no. 5 and 11). There is of course DFI no. 515, which Frederick and Beatrice issued together, but the witnesses in this charter are clearly Frederick’s courtiers, since their names are familiar from other charters of Frederick and do not occur in Beatrice’s charters.

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Map 5: Witnesses in Henry II’s charters: Occurring in Henry’s (yellow) or charters by both, husband and wife (red)

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Map 6: Witnesses in Eleonor’s charters: Occuring in Eleanor’s charters (white) or charters by both, husband and wife (red)

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Map 7: Witnesses in Henry II’s charters for Fontevraud: Occuring in Henry’s (yellow) or in charters by both, husband and wife (red)

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Map 8: Witnesses in Henry II’s charters for Aquitaine, issued in Aquitaine: Occuring in Henry’s (yellow) or charters by both, husband and wife (red)

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Map 9: Witnesses in Henry II’s charters for Aquitaine that are connected to Eleanor : Occuring in Henry’s (yellow) or charters by both, husband and wife (red)

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Map 10: Witnesses in Frederick I’s and Beatrice’s charters: Occuring in Frederick’s (yellow), Beatrice’s (white) and in charters of both, husband and wife (red)

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Map 11: Witnesses in Frederick I’s and Beatrice’s charters issued in the Franche-comt8: Occuring in Frederick’s (yellow), Beatrice’s (white) and in charters by both, husband and wife (red)

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Two more points of comparison must be addressed. First, there is the fact that both Henry and Barbarossa invested bishops in their wives’ inheritance. Henry made John bishop of Poitiers who had been a cleric of Canterbury and promoted William abbot of Reading to the bishopric of Bordeaux. Both did not develop any ambition to further Henry’s cause. John sided with Thomas Becket and fell out of favour and William was witness only twice.77 He appears to have been closer to Eleanor.78 Barbarossa promoted Heribert, who had been a provost at Aachen and a Cologne cleric, to the archbishopric of the important BesanÅon.79 Heribert accompanied Frederick on the Italian campaign in 1166/67.80 His church benefitted from Barbarossa’s favour.81 Thus, for Barbarossa this seems to have worked better. Last, there is the question of the in-laws. The very fact that Eleanor and Beatrice were heiresses meant that there were no male siblings. Eleanor had a paternal uncle Raymond who by the time of her marriage to Henry was already dead, but on her mother’s side she had two uncles and one of them, Ralph de la Faye, is the only Poitevin who was endowed with property in England apart from acting as a seneschal for Poitou. He only witnessed twice for the priories of Ennezat and Fontevraud82 and he was involved in two of Henry’s acts that concerned the property he had been given in England.83 Further, he was at court when Henry arranged a marriage for his youngest son John with count Humbert of Maurienne.84 Considering that the endowment of John triggered the events that eventually led to the Young King’s rebellion85 the involvement of Uncle Ralph is interesting. Ralph then fell from favour when he took Eleanor’s and her sons’ side during the 1173 rebellion. Apparently in spite of his having English property, he was rather a courtier of Eleanor, in whose charters he is mentioned far more often.86 77 78 79 80 81

82 83 84 85 86

Vincent 2000, 110f.; William in AHII no. 1056, 2668; John in AHII no. 553. Hivergneau 2006, 69f. DFI no. 472 (Straßburg), 490 (Worms), 514 (BesanÅon), 515 (Dole). DDFI no. 531 and 532. DFI no. 472 for Heribert himself; no. 49, 50, 190, 710 for churches in BesanÅon; no. 777, 994, *1187 for the successors of Heribert. On the career of Heribert, first in the chancellery of Konrad III and then Frederick, cf. DFI Vol. 5, 29f.; Uebach 2008, 227–229; Türck 2013, 163f. It seems like Frederick invested Heribert deliberately in BesanÅon and not in Arles: Arles was vacant from 1160–1163, and Lyon fell vacant in 1162, cf. Paul Fournier, Le royaume d’Arles et de Vienne. 1138–1378. Ptude sur la formation de la France dans l’est et le sud-est, Paris 1891, 42f. AHII no. 845 (Ennezat), no. 1042 (Fontevraud). AHII no. 328, 1583 (writ). AHII no. 1779; cf. Vincent 2000, 122. Cf. Stephen Church, King John. England, Magna Carta and the Making of a Tyrant, London 2015, 7f. and Strickland 2016, 120–122. Acta Eleonor no. 8, 41, 56, 57, 67, 92, 93, 99, 112, 123. Cf. also Hivergneau 2006, 67f.

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Map 12: Matthew of Lotharingia as witness, places of issue (light blue) and recipients (dark red)

Beatrice’ uncle on her mother’s side was Mathew of Lotharingia, who appears as a witness at least in some in charters for the Franche-Comt8. Matthew was married to a sister of Frederick, and was thus an even closer in-law. His pattern of witnessing is that of a close familiar indeed, but after 1158 he did not frequent Barbarossa’s court as often any more (Map 12).87 His efforts for the emperor are probably not due to his connection to Beatrice who married Barbarossa in 1156.

87 DFI no. 1, 2, 4, 27, 32, 34, 36, 40, 42, 43, 44, 69, 133, 136, 140, 141, 142, 143, 144, 145, 149, 156, 165, before 1158, afterwards only in no. 472, 500, 517, 576, 597, 621; in Burgundy DFI no. 1184, 185, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198 in 1157 and DFI no. 514 and 515 in 1166; Cf. Plassmann 1998, 126.

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It is interesting though that he stood as witness rather often for affairs in the Franche-Comt8.88 Beatrice had a great-uncle as well who played a prominent role at Barbarossa’s court, William of Montferrat. William was included into the description of Barbarossa’s closest confidents in the chronicle of Acerbus Morena89 and was one of the emperor’s most steadfast allies in Italy.90 His family was beneficiary of the emperor’s charters five times.91 William’s relation to the emperor was twofold, like Matthew’s. He was married to a daughter of Leopold of Austria and Agnes, the daughter of the emperor Henry IV who was Barbarossa’s grandmother. The special relationship of William and Barbarossa thus might have been due to this Babenberg-Salian connection. It has been argued on the other hand by Erwin Assmann that one of the sons of Barbarossa and Beatrice, William, who died in infancy, was named after his maternal great-uncle.92 This might speak for a certain fondness on Beatrice’s side. William was in Würzburg, when Barbarossa married Beatrice and Beatrice intervened in a charter for him.93 Nevertheless, if we map him as a witness, it is quite obvious that he was only seldom engaged in the Franche-Comt8 (Map 13).94

88 In 1157: DFI no. 184, 185, 189, 190, 191, 192, 193, 194, 195, 196, 197, 198; in 1166: DFI no. 514 and 515. 89 Otto Morena et continuatores, Historia Frederici I., ed. Ferdinand Güterbock (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum schorlarum NS 7), Hannover 1930, ad a. 1162 (Acerbus Morena), 170. 90 Cf. Görich 2011, 231. 91 Charters for William DFI no. 458, 466, 467, 739, DFI no. 700 was for his son Konrad. 92 Erwin Assmann, Friedrich Barbarossas Kinder, in: Deutsches Archiv 33 (1977), 435–472, here 461f. 93 DFI no. 466; RI 398. 94 Witness in DFI no. 96, 97, 100, 141, 189, 190, 275, 316, 325, 337, 347, 350, 356, 359, 360, 367, 368, 369, 370, 382, 388, 422, 456, 459, 523, 531, 532, 634, 638, 642, 653, 728, 729, 730, 732, only DFI no. 190 and 370 are for beneficiaries in the Franche-Comt8.

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Map 13: William of Montferrat as witness, places of issue (light blue) and recipients (dark red)

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Conclusion While neither Henry nor Barbarassa actually did neglect their wives’ lordships, it was not in the focus of their attention. On the other hand, both did not waste opportunities that presented itself like vacant bishoprics nor did they let down people who had turned out to be loyal. The people who had stood by Henry in the rebellion of 1173 were rewarded, just like the clergy of BesanÅon was. Their subjects in Aquitaine and the Franche-Comt8 were obviously ready to accept the authority of the legal husband. The wives were most important and most active in moments of transition, after marriage and in preparation of inheritance. Their role as wife of the ruler brought other responsibilities that had surprisingly little impact on their own lordship. The legal status of independent widow left far more options than being the wife of king or emperor. As a parallel one could mention the case of Isabella of Angouleme who acted for her inheritance only together with her second husband, while the evidence is silent on her time with King John.95 It is well worth noting the difference to couples where the status of the husband was dependent from the wife’s lordship. Geoffrey the son of Henry acted far more often in concordance with his wife.96 In both cases the lordship acquired by marriage being part of a greater empire meant two things: The places where Burgundian and Aquitanian matters were discussed range all over the respective empires and the witnesses in the charters are equally distributed. The range of influence on the other hand did depend much more on the conditions that had been set before the marriage. Henry did not act beyond the borders that had been valid for his predecessors’ and his wife’s authority. The same holds true for the range of influence in the Franche-Comt8. Only when acting outside the Franche-Comt8 proper Barbarossa used the tailwind of his status as emperor and did not invoke rights of his wife. Considering that Barbarossa tried to refresh memories of imperial rights in Italy with considerable effort,97 it might be argued that he would have done so in Burgundy as well even had he not married Beatrice.

95 On this cf. Vincent 1999. 96 Of the 30 charters of Geoffrey, Constance was involved in 11: no. 2, 4, 7, 10, 11, 15, 16, 20, 21, 25, 28. Cf. The charters of Duchess Constance of Brittany and her family, 1171–1221, ed. Judith Everard, Woodbridge 2000. 97 Görich 2011, 301–311.

298 Henry II’s charter for recipients south of the Loire Place of issue Recipients St-Caprais, Agen Argentan Aimery de Mauleon Belleperche Caen Bordeaux Bourges Angers Bronzeau Westminster Charit8-sur-Loire Westminster Charit8-sur-Loire Charroux La FlHche Charroux Chatelliers Perigu8ux Dalon Caen Dalon Le Dorat Ennezat Montferrand Ennezat Fontaines Saumur Fontevraud Fontevraud Angers Fontevraud Thouars Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Saumur Fontevraud Tours Fontevraud Westminster Fontevraud Westminster Fontevraud Oswestry Fontevraud Angers Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Saumur Fontevraud La FlHche Fontevraud Les Loges Fontevraud Fontevraud Gisors Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Angers Fontevraud Fontevraud Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Fontevraud Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Chinon Fontevraud Alencon Fontevraud Fontevraud Grace-Dieu La Sauve Majeure Grande-Sauve London Grandmont Le Mans Grandmont

Alheydis Plassmann

No. 32 68 200 261 287 335 550 551 553 554 562 741 742 772 844 845 1034 1037 1038 1039 1040 1041 1042 1043 1044 1045 1046 1047 1048 1049 1050 1051 1052 1053 1054 1055 1056 1057 1058 1059 1060 1061 1062 1063 1064 1199 1202 1203 1204

299

Lordships acquired by marriage

(Continued) Henry II’s charter for recipients south of the Loire Argentan Grandmont St-Pierre-sur-Dives Grandmont St-Pierre-sur-Dives Grandmont Angers Grandmont Chinon Grandmont Jarsay Angers Liget Le Mans Liget Liget Limoges, Abbey St-Martial Beaufort-en-Vall8 Loches Angers Loches Loches Beaufort-en-Vall8 Loches Chiz8 LuÅon Bordeaux Maillezais L’Isle Jourdain Montazay Loudun Montmorillon Melle Poitiers La R8ole Le Mans La Rochelle Bordeaux Sablonceaux Poitiers Saintes Saintes Saintes Westminster Saint-Florent-lHs-Saumur Brockenhurst Saint-Florent-lHs-Saumur Brockenhurst Saint-Florent-lHs-Saumur Chinon Saint-Florent-lHs-Saumur Saumur Saint-Florent-lHs-Saumur Saint-Florent-lHs-Saumur Canterbury Saint-Jean-d’Angely SurgHres Saumur Thouars Tours Tours Tours Lyons-la-ForÞt Tours Tours Tours Caen Tours Le Mans Tours Chinon Turpenay Chinon Varennes (close to Bourges) Varennes (close to Bourges)

1205 1206 1207 1208 1209 1354 1495 1496 1497 1501 1616 1617 1618 1619 1679 1696 1832 1858 2081 2186 2221 2306 2339 2340 2349 2350 2351 2352 2353 2354 2359 2569 2638 2663 2664 2665 2666 2667 2668 2691 2735 2736

300

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Eleanor’s charters for recipients south of the Loire (1152–1189) – during Henry II’s lifetime Place of issue Recipients Argenson Poitiers Les Ch.telliers Perigeux Dalon Poitiers Fontaines-en-Talmondais Poitiers Fontaine-le-Comte Fontevraud Fontevraud Abbey Chinon Fontevraud Abbey St-Jean d’Angely Fontevraud Abbey AlenÅon Fontevraud Abbey Fontevraud Fontevraud Abbey Fontevraud Fontmorigny Abbey La Rochelle, Petita of Chiz8 LuÅon Poitiers Maillezais Poitiers Maillezais La Meilleraie Poitiers Merci-Dieu Poitiers Montierneuf Poitiers Poitiers, St Hilaire Rossay Poitiers, St Hilaire Poitiers Sablonceaux Poitiers Sablonceaux Chinon St-Aignan-d’Ol8ron St-Maixent St-Maixent Bordeaux La Grande-Sauve St-Jean d’Angely SurgHres Vendime Vendime

No. 8 31 41 48 49 55 56 57 58 67 71 84 89 92 93 98 99 100 112 113 120 121 123 133 134 *139 145 152 154a

Frederick’s charters for recipients in the Franche-Comt8 (1152–1190) Place of issue Recipient BesanÅon BesanÅon, canons Baume-les-Dames BesanÅon, St-Paul Würzburg Bellevaux Würzburg Clairefontaine Würzburg Cherlieu Dole BesanÅon, canons Montbarrey Lure Arbois Baume les Messieurs Arbois Balerne BesanÅon Bithaine Pavia Bellefontaine, prevost Vesoul Soys near Mathay Strassbourg BesanÅon Worms Ch.teau-Chalon Dole Count Odo of Champagne Baume-les-Dames Treaty with Cluny on behalf of the future count

No. 49 50 143 144 145 190 191 193 194 198 370 390 472 490 515 598

301

Lordships acquired by marriage

(Continued) Frederick’s charters for recipients in the Franche-Comt8 (1152–1190) Pavia Saint-Oyen de Joux In Italy Treaty with Eberhard of BesanÅon Dole Baume-les-Dames Colmar BesanÅon Vicenza St-Oyen-de-Joux Mulhouse St-Oyen-de-Joux Haguenau BesanÅon

639 710 760 777 884 947 994

Beatrice’s charters for recipients in the Franche-Comt8 Place of issue Recipient BesanÅon Dole Romainmitier Pontarlier Lieucroissant La Vielle-Loye BHze La Vielle-Loye RosiHres Saint-Rambert Vaux- surPoligny Saint-Rambert BesanÅon, St-Etienne Saint-Rambert Saint-Rambert Vesoul Corneux

No. 1 2 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

Sources The charters of Duchess Constance of Brittany and her family, 1171–1221, ed. Judith Everard, Woodbridge 2000. Otto of Freising, Gesta Friderici, ed. Bernhard von Simson (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 46), Hanover/Leipzig 1912. Otto Morena et continuatores, Historia Frederici I., ed. Ferdinand Güterbock (MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum NS 7), Hanover 1930. Otto of St Blasien, Chronik, ed. Adolf Hofmeister, in: MGH Scriptores rerum Germanicarum in usum scholarum 47, Hanover/Leipzig 1912, 1–88. Ralph of Diceto, Imagines historiarum, ed. Wilhelm Stubbs, vol. 1 (Rerum Britannicarum medii aevi scriptores. Rolls Series 68), London 1876, 267–440. Die Regesten des Kaiserreiches unter Friedrich I. 1152 (1122)–1190, nach Johann Friedrich Böhmer neu bearbeitet von Ferdinand Opll (Regesta Imperii IV, 2), Vienna 1980–2011. Die Urkunden Friedrichs I. 1152–1190, ed. Heinrich Appelt (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 10, 1–5), Hanover 1975–1990. Die Urkunden Konrads III. und seines Sohnes Heinrich, ed. Friedrich Hausmann (MGH Die Urkunden der deutschen Könige und Kaiser 9), Vienna 1969 (Reprint Berlin 1987). Wibald of Stablo, Briefbuch, ed. Martina Hartmann nach Vorarbeiten von Heinz Zatschek und Timothy Reuter, 3 Teile (MGH Briefe der deutschen Kaiserzeit 9, 1–3), Hannover 2012.

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Bibliography Heinrich Appelt, Kaiserin Beatrice und das Erbe der Grafen von Burgund, in: Hubert Mordek (ed.), Aus Kirche und Reich. Studien zu Theologie, Politik und Recht im Mittelalter. Festschrift für Friedrich Kempf zu seinem fünfundsiebzigsten Geburtstag und fünfzigjährigem Doktorjubiläum, Sigmaringen 1983, 275–283. Erwin Assmann, Friedrich Barbarossas Kinder, in: Deutsches Archiv 33 (1977), 435–472. David Bates, The Prosopographical Study of Anglo-Norman Charters, in: Katherine Keats–Rohan (ed.), Family Trees and the Roots of Politics. The Prosopography of Britain and France from the Tenth to the Twelfth Century, Woodbridge 1997, 89–102. Stephen Church, King John. England, Magna Carta and the Making of a Tyrant, London 2015. Stephen Church, Was there an Angevin Empire?, http://www.uea.ac.uk/angevin-world/ featureof-the-month (27. 09. 2017). Amalie Fößel, Die Königin im mittelalterlichen Reich. Herrschaftsausübung, Herrschaftsrechte, Handlungsspielräume (Mittelalter-Forschungen 4), Stuttgart 2000. Paul Fournier, Le royaume d’Arles et de Vienne. 1138–1378. Ptude sur la formation de la France dans l’est et le sud-est, Paris 1891. Johannes Fried, Friedrich Barbarossas Krönung in Arles, in: Historisches Jahrbuch 103 (1983), 347–371. John Gillingham, Events and Opinions. Norman and English Views of Aquitaine c. 1152–c.1204, in: Marcus Bull/Catherine Léglu (eds.), The World of Eleanor of Aquitaine, Woodbridge 2005, 57–81. Knut Görich, Kaiserin Beatrix, in: Frauen der Staufer (Schriften zur staufischen Geschichte und Kunst 25), Göppingen 2006, 43–58. Knut Görich, Friedrich Barbarossa. Eine Biographie, München 2011. Martina Hartmann, Kaiserin Beatrix von Burgund, in: Amalie Fössel (ed.), Die Kaiserinnen des Mittelalters, Regensburg 2011, 197–212. Rainer Maria Herkenrath, Die burgundische Heirat Kaiser Friedrichs I., in: Karl Amon (ed.), Ecclesia perigrinans. Festschrift für Josef Lenzenweger zum 70. Geburtstag, Vienna 1986, 89–94. Marie Hivergnau, Autour d’Alienor d’Aquitaine. Entourage et pouvoir aus prisme des chartes (1137–1189), in: Martin Aurell el al. (eds.), Plantagenets et Capetiens. Confrontations et h8ritages, Turnhout 2006, 61–73. Marie Hivergneau, Queen Eleanor and Aquitaine, in: Bonnie Wheeler (ed.), Eleanor of Aquitaine. Lord and Lady, New York 2008, 55–76. Theo Kölzer, Der Hof Kaiser Barbarossas und die Reichsfürsten, in: Peter Moraw (ed.), Deutscher Königshof, Hoftag und Reichstag im späteren Mittelalter (Vorträge und Forschungen 48), Sigmaringen 2002, 3–47. Jean-Yves Mariotte, Le comt8 de Bourgogne sous les Hohenstaufen 1156–1208 (Cahiers d’8tudes comtoises 4), Paris 1963. Jean-Yves Mariotte, Othon ’’sans terre’’, comte palatin de Bourgogne et la fin des Staufen en Franche-Comt8, in: Francia 14 (1986), 83–102. Johannes Merz, Würzburg. Die Hochzeit Friedrich Barbarossas mit Beatrix von Burgund 1156, in: Alois Schmid/Katharina Weigand (eds.), Schauplätze der Geschichte in Bayern, Munich 2003, 104–118.

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Peter Neumeister, Beatrix von Burgund. Gefährtin Barbarossas in Freud und Leid, in: Erika Uitz/Barbara Pätzold/Gerald Beyreuther (eds.), Herrscherinnen und Nonnen. Frauengestalten von der Ottonenzeit bis zu den Staufern, Berlin 1990, 197–218. Ferdinand Opll, Das Itinerar Kaiser Friedrich Barbarossas (1152–1190) (Forschungen zur Kaiser- und Papstgeschichte des Mittelalters 1), Vienna et al. 1978. Alheydis Plassmann, Die Struktur des Hofes unter Friedrich I. Barbarossa nach den deutschen Zeugen seiner Urkunden (MGH Studien und Texte 20), Hanover 1998. Alheydis Plassmann, Legitimation staufischer Herrschaft in Burgund. Rückgriff auf die Vergangenheit?, in: Volker Gallé (ed.), Schätze der Erinnerung. Geschichte, Mythos und Literatur in der Überlieferung des Nibelungenliedes, Worms 2009, 147–185. Alheydis Plassmann, Herrschaftspraxis und Legitimation – Möglichkeiten und Grenzen der Urkundenauswertung am Beispiel der Staufer in Burgund, in: Archiv für Diplomatik 56 (2010), 43–63. Alheydis Plassmann, The King and his Sons. Henry II’s and Frederick Barbarossa’s succession strategies compared, in: Anglo-Norman Studies 36 (2013), 149–166. Alheydis Plassmann, Ererbte und erheiratete Herrschaft – Die Einbeziehung von Eliten in der Normandie und in Aquitanien unter Heinrich II. von England, in: Wolfram Drews (ed.), Die Interaktion von Herrschern und Eliten in imperialen Ordnungen des Mittelalters (Das Mittelalter. Beihelfte 8), Berlin 2018, 247–281. Matthew Strickland, Henry the Young King. 1155–1183, New Haven/London 2016. Verena Türck, Beherrschter Raum und anerkannte Herrschaft. Friedrich I. Barbarossa und das Königreich Burgund (Mittelalter-Forschungen 42), Sigmaringen 2013. Ralph Turner, Eleanor of Aquitaine. Queen of France, Queen of England, New Haven/ London 2009. Christian Uebach, Die Ratgeber Friedrich Barbarossas (1152–1167), Marburg 2008. Nicholas Vincent, Isabella of AngoulÞme: John’s Jezebel, in: Stephen Church (ed.), King John. New Interpretations, Woodbridge 1999, 165–219. Nicholas Vincent, King Henry II and the poitevins, in: Martin Aurell (ed.), La cour Plantagenet (1154–1204), Poitiers 2000, 103–135. Nicholas Vincent, Les Normands de l’entourage d’Henri II PlantagenÞt, in: Pierre Bouet (ed.), La Normandie et l’Angleterre au Moyen Age. Colloque de Cerisy-la-Salle (4–7 octobre 2001), Caen 2003, 75–88. Nicholas Vincent, Patronage, Politics and Piety in the Charters of Eleanor of Aquitaine, in: Martin Aurell et al. (eds.), Plantagenets et Capetiens. Confrontations et h8ritages, Turnhout 2006, 17–60. Ursula Vones-Liebenstein, Vir uxorius? Barbarossas Verhältnis zur Comitissa Burgundiae im Umkreis des Friedens von Venedig, in: Stefan Weinfurter (ed.), Stauferreich im Wandel. Ordnungsvorstellungen und Politik in der Zeit Friedrich Barbarossas (Mittelalter-Forschungen 9), Stuttgart 2002, 189–219. Tobias Weller : Die Heiratspolitik des deutschen Hochadels im 12. Jahrhundert, (Rheinisches Archiv 149), Cologne et al. 2004.

List of contributors

Dominik Büschken M.A., SFB 1167, Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn, Institut für Geschichtswissenschaft, Abt. für Geschichte der frühen Neuzeit und rheinische Landesgeschichte, Am Hofgarten 22, 53113 Bonn, [email protected]. Prof. Dr. Stephen Church, University of East Anglia, School of History, University of East Anglia, Norwich, UK, NR4 7TJ, [email protected] Dr. Thomas Foerster, University of Cambridge, Faculty of Modern & Medieval Languages, Raised Faculty Building, Sidgwick Avenue, Cambridge CB3 9DA, United Kingdom, [email protected] Prof. Dr. Knut Görich, Ludwig-Maximilians-Universität München, Universität München, Mittelalterliche Geschichte, Geschwister-Scholl-Platz 1, 80539 München, k.goerich@mg. fak09.uni-muenchen.de PD Dr. Max Lieberman, Universität Zürich, Historisches Seminar, Karl Schmid-Str. 4, CH-8006 Zürich, [email protected] Prof. Dr. Jonathan Lyon, University of Chicago, Department of History, 1126 East 59th Street, Chicago, IL 60637, [email protected]

306

List of contributors

PD Dr. Alheydis Plassmann, Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn, Institut für Geschichtswissenschaft, Abt. für Geschichte der frühen Neuzeit und rheinische Landesgeschichte, Am Hofgarten 22, 53113 Bonn, [email protected] Dr. Stefanie Schild, Schlehenweg 9, 40723 Hilden, [email protected] Prof. Dr. Andrea Stieldorf, Rheinische Friedrich-Wilhelms-Universität Bonn, Institut für Geschichtswissenschaft, Abt. für Historische Grundwissenschaften und Archivkunde, Konviktstraße 11, 53113 Bonn, [email protected]