Extreme Weather

"Volcanic winter" is a frightening phrase. It is the result of a volcanic eruption that spews so much ash and dust into the atmosphere that it encircles the globe and prevents sunlight from reaching the surface of the Earth. 

A volcanic winter took place in the 530s CE, the most severe drop in temperature in the Common Era. An eruption of sulfate aerosols possibly in late 535 dropped summer temperature averages in 536 by at least 4-5 degrees Fahrenheit. In 539-540, a second volcanic eruption caused summer temperatures to drop another 5 degrees.

This was recorded in the Northern Hemisphere by contemporary writers in Constantinople. Procopius, whose writing revealed the secret of where silk came from, records of 536 

...during this year a most dread portent took place. For the sun gave forth its light without brightness … and it seemed exceedingly like the sun in eclipse, for the beams it shed were not clear."

Cassiodorus, in a letter in 538, describes the sun's rays being weak, no shadows from people at noon, the sun's heat being feeble, the moon "empty of splendor," prolonged frost, unseasonable drought, frosts during harvest, the need to use stored food because harvests were so poor.

The Annals of Ulster mention a failure of bread in the year 536.

Dendrochronology (tree ring analysis) shows very poor growth in Irish oak in 536. Ice cores from Greenland and Antarctica show substantial sulfate deposits around 534±2 years, which offers evidence for the volcanic eruption. Which volcano was the cause, however, has never been agreed upon. The 536 event was worse than 1816, when the explosion of the Mount Tambora volcano caused the "Year Without a Summer."

As mentioned in the prior post, the line regarding the Battle of Camlann in the Welsh Annals that says of 537 "there was great mortality in Britain and Ireland" is likely a reference to the famine that resulted from the volcanic winter.

The 536 event was not the only severe weather crisis in the Middle Ages. Next time, let's jump forward to the Great Famine of 1315-17.

Three Futile Battles

The Welsh Triads are several statements that group things in threes. They can be basic knowledge, such as "There are three primary musical forms, namely: string music; bellows music; and music of the tongue." They can be historical, such as "Three princes of the Court of Arthur. Goronwy son of Echell Fordwyten; and Cadreith son of Porthfaurgaddu; and Fleidur Fflam."

Accordingly, there were "Three Futile Battles of the Island of Britain." They were the Battle of Arfderydd, the battle of Camlann, and the Battle of the Trees. Arfderydd was mentioned in the previous post, because the outcome—the death of Gwenddoleu, ruler of Arfderydd (now Arthuret)—drove his bard Myrddin/Merlin mad, causing him to flee to the forest and live among birds and beasts. This battle is said to have taken place in 573CE, according to the Annales Cambriae, the Annals of Wales.

The Battle of Camlann is also mentioned in the Annales Cambriae, taking place in 537, with very little detail except to call it "strife of Camlann, in which Arthur and Medraut fell, and there was great mortality in Britain and Ireland." Although Medraut is naturally equated to Mordred, there is no clue in the entry that they were enemies.

The Battle of the Trees is a Welsh poem found in a 14th century manuscript, The Book of Taliesin. In it, the Welsh magician and warrior Gwydion enchants the trees to fight as his army against Arawn, lord of the Underworld.

The reason they are called "futile" is because the battles came about because of small, pointless actions. Arderydd is said to have been brought about because of an argument over a lark's nest. The Battle of the Trees comes about when Amaethon, Welsh god of agriculture, steals a dog, a lapwing, and a roebuck from Arawn. Camlann is brought about because of an argument between Gwenhwyfar (Guinevere) and her sister, Gwennhwyfach. Some sources specify this as a slap (hence the illustration above), which became part of another Triad: "The Three Fatal Slaps" or "The Three Harmful Blows of the Island of Britain."

Although this slap, and the hostility between Guinevere and her obscure sister, are not seen outside of Welsh legend, it is interesting that Malory does make Camlann's big battle the result of something "futile": during a parley between Arthur and Mordred, a soldier reflexively draws his sword because he sees a snake in the grass before him. This act causes the opposing side to assume treachery, whereupon they draw their swords, and the fight is on. Something that should be insignificant causes great destruction.

But, as mentioned, the earliest reference to Camlann includes none of this. There were extreme weather events in 535-36 that led to great famine; this could easily have led to fighting between groups struggling for food. Some suggest Camlann was a disastrous cattle raid for food. Next, let's talk about the weather.

Merlin the Madman

I've mentioned before that this blog is about discussing the things about the Middle Ages that are outside the mainstream, so no talking about the things "everyone knows": jousting, King Arthur, "wiping your hands on the dog because they had no napkins" (sorry, inside joke). Merlin has been mentioned in passing several times, but never discussed in any sort of detail. For those readers who have an image of Merlin in their heads from literature and cinema, here's a fresh (and authentic) take.

In short, Merlin spent time as a madman, acting like a beast in the wilderness. Mary Stewart's wonderful Arthurian take on post-Roman Britain has him "lost" for several months after being drugged.

In truth, this may be Merlin's "natural state"; that is, originally, the character who comes down to us as the Merlin of legend may be based on a real figure whose chief feature was being not quite sane. This is the story of Myrddin Wyllt.

Myrddin Wyllt (pronounced like "murthin wilt") is a character in medieval Welsh legend (where many Arthurian stories originate). The name means "Myrddin the Wild"; he is also known as Myrddin Emrys (Emrys=Ambrosius), Merlinus Caledonensis ("of Caledonia"), and Merlin Sylvester's ("of the woods"). Born supposedly c.540CE, he was a bard (perhaps the chief bard) who goes mad after the Battle of Arfderydd. Having become irrational for some reason, he takes to the forest (some versions say the Caledonian Forest in Scotland). There he gains the power of prophecy (often associated with being not quite right in the head).

The "Life of Saint Kentigern" tells of the saint (also known as St. Mungo) encountering a madman in the Caledonian Forest named Lailoken or Laleocen in the late 6th century. A later (15th century) story about "Lailoken and Kentigern" includes the line "...some say he was called Merlynum." This link between the two names may have been influenced by a 12th (?) century poem, a dialogue between Myrddin and his sister (?) Gwendydd in which his sister calls him Llallwgan, the Welsh form of Lailoken.

Some scholars assume a conflation of several different characters:one in Wales, one in Scotland, maybe more. The Merlin story is convoluted, obscure, and largely probably untrue, but much of it starts with a mad bard. Because of the time period, his legend much later became linked to Arthur's court as a wise man and prophet. But in the beginning, his chief feature is his sudden madness.

Why did he go mad after the Battle of Arfderydd? It was an important turning point, one of the "Three Futile Battles of the Island of Britain," which I'll explain next time.

Nature vs. Nurture

The English polymath Francis Galton (1822 - 1911) framed the debate calling the terms

...a convenient jingle of words, for it separates under two distinct heads the innumerable elements of which personality is composed. Nature is all that a man brings with himself into the world; nurture is every influence that affects him after his birth.

He could not have known that in the year of his death a French manuscript from six centuries earlier would surface that used the same terms (although it spelled one of them "Noreture"). It tells the story of Cador of Cornwall, whose just-born daughter would not be allowed to inherit property and title, so he decides to raise her as a boy. Named Silentius (Silence), she turns out to be the equal of any boy in various chivalric pursuits.

Throughout her life there are two personifications, Nature and Nurture, who address Silentius with their opinions on her lifestyle. Nature tries to convince her to act like the woman she was born as. Nurture supports Silentius' desire to be what she wants to be. Silentius knows that if she reveals herself to be a woman, her parents will be dishonored.

Ultimately, in a Twelfth Night-style twist, the "young man" travels to the court of King Eban, whose queen, Eufeme, falls in love with the talented and beautiful young Silentius. Silentius, not willing to betray the king by having an affair, and of course not willing to have her true sex discovered, rebuffs the queen's advances. The queen, enraged, decides silence must die, and sends her/him off to capture Merlin, an impossible task, since Merlin "cannot be captured by a man."

Silence succeeds, and brings Merlin back to court. Merlin reveals that Silentius is actually female. Silence reveals that the queen was in love with her, etc., causing King Eban to execute Queen Eufeme for faithlessness and cruelty and make the now-named Silentia his new queen.

I have severely abbreviated the story, which has many more details and events. The ultimate lesson is that Nature wins out. This may be perfectly natural for a culture that believed some were born royal and some were not, and there was a difference between the two.

Here's a question that might be raised after this story: why would anyone try to (or need to) capture Merlin? Because Merlin was a mad beast running wild, that's why. If you didn't know that about Merlin, you should read tomorrow's post.

The Mouse Takes a Wife

Marie de France's collection of 102 fables written in the late 12th century mostly come from Aesop and Avianus, but there are a few she seems to have made up herself, and at least one not seen before in western literature but has a source in the east. One wonders how she learned of it. Today we take a closer look Marie called it "The Mouse Takes a Wife," a cautionary tale against trying to marry above your station.

It mirrors "The Mouse Turned into a Maid." This original is found in the Panchatantra, a collection of Indian fables from. about 200 BCE. The story goes...

...a mouse drops from the beak of a bird of prey into the hands of a holy man, who turns it into a girl and brings her up as his own. Eventually he seeks a powerful marriage for her but discovers at each application that there is one more powerful: thus the cloud can cover the sun, the wind blows the clouds about but is resisted by the mountain; the mountain, however, is penetrated by mice. Since the girl feels the call of like to like in this case, she is changed back to her original form and goes to live with her husband in his hole. [link]

A Romanian folk variant shows a rat setting out to pay a visit to God, but gets thrown through the same succession of sun and clouds and wind which finally dumps him on an ant heap, where he "belongs."

That the mouse or rat has aspirations but cannot rise above its birth station (even if it is magicked into a human being) makes a strong case for nature over nurture. Although many think of this debate as a modern one, prompted by Darwin's theory of evolution, it was a question raised long before. Next I'll talk about the Nature vs. Nurture debate in the Middle Ages.

Some Fables

People love fables. Brief stories that offer a lesson or moral can be instructive as well as fun. A Castilian version of Arabic fables was mentioned here. And another fable was told here. Marie de France translated a large collection of fables, some from Aesop (c. 620–564 BCE), some from Avianus (fl. 400 CE), some from unknown sources.

Marie claims she made the collection for a Count William from an English version by "li reis Alvrez" (King Alfred, who did have an interest in history and literature), but no evidence exists for such a source work).

Many of the fables are recognizable from what we know of Aesop and Avianus, though some have small changes. Aesop's fable of the dog that sees its reflection while carrying a bone or piece of meat, and ultimately opens its mouth to attack the "other" dog and get its treat, loses what the dog had. Marie has the dog carrying a piece of cheese. The moral is the same, but did Marie originally hear the story her way, or did she change the dog's mouthful for a specific purpose. It is not clear.

Marie includes several previously unknown ones involving human characters, many of them with married couples. The story of "The Man and the Wife Who Quarreled" is a little gruesome while being funny. A husband cuts his wife's tongue out to stop her from quarreling, only to have her continue in sign language. Marie flips the gender of the moral, however, by saying "This fable shows what one can often see: if a fool talks foolishness and someone else comes along and speaks sense to him, he won't believe it but gets angry instead. Even when he knows he is absolutely in the wrong, he wants to have the last say, and no one can make him shut up."

One of her fables, "The Mouse Takes a Wife," is unique in western literature, though it has analogues from India and the Far East. It sets up a discussion about nature vs. nurture, and is worth a closer look, which we can do next time.

Marie de France

Marie de France (c.1160 - 1215) is called that because of one line from her writing: "Marie ai num, si sui de France." It means "My name is Marie, and I am from France." If that is not a pseudonym, then it sums up all we know factually about her life.

The desire to pin down who she was (and the fact that Marie was a very common name) has led to numerous guesses regarding her identity, none of which would make a difference in the study of her writings. (If Shakespeare's plays were written by the Earl of Oxford, how would that change our enjoyment of them? Not a bit.)

Those who have heard of her know of The Lais of Marie de France, a collection 12 lais. A lai (English lay) was a lyric poem in octosyllabic couplets, popular in France and Germany in the 13th and 14th centuries, dealing with adventure and romance. The 12 are written in Anglo-Norman and often focus often on courtly love. A few of the stories exist separately in manuscripts, but there is one manuscript in the British Library that has all 12. That manuscript, Harley 978, presents them in what may be a deliberate order: the odd numbers show positive results for characters who love others; the even lais show the negative results of love that is imperfect. (Bisclavret is number four, an even number.)

Harley 978 also has a prologue in which we gain some insight into Marie. She writes that she wanted to create something that would be entertaining and morally instructive in the style of Greco-Roman literature. She therefore is recording Breton tales that she has learned. The prologue also dedicates the lais to a "noble king." From the time period in which they seem to be written, and her knowledge of Anglo-Norman and Middle English, the assumption is that she was known in the court of Henry II or possibly even his son.

A few other works are also attributed to her. She is credited with a retelling of the Legend of the Purgatory of St. Patrick, a French translation of a latin poem. "Purgatory" in this case is not a cosmic status between Heaven and Hell; it is a pilgrimage site in Northern Ireland, a cave that Christ showed to St. Patrick and explained was an entrance to Purgatory.

She also produced a re-telling of Aesop's Fables called Ysopet ("Little Aesop"), which has some fables not seen in Aesop. Many of her fables are about humans, and in many of those she presents tales of female cunning over male ignorance or foolishness.

Her fables would make a good topic on their own, so that's what we will look at next.

Bisclavret, the Werewolf

Just as there is a difference between the medieval werewolf and the modern, in medieval literature we can see distinctions between types of werewolf. One such distinction is made in the story Bisclavret by Marie de France. The word "bisclavret" means "werewolf" in Breton, and the character is clearly a werewolf. The author, however, distinguishes him by referring to other werewolves by the Norman French word for werewolf, garwaf.

Baron Bisclavret of Brittany disappears every week for three days. His wife begs him to tell her why, and he finally relents, explaining that he turns into a wolf. He tells her he hides his clothes so that he can find them after three days and turn back into a human.

His wife is a little freaked out by this revelation, and doesn't want to be with him any more. She tells a knight who has loved her top follow him and steal his clothes so that he cannot return to human form. The baron fails to return to his people, a search for him is to no avail, and the "widow" marries the knight.

A year later, while hunting, the king comes upon a wolf that rushes at the king and kisses his foot and leg. Amazed at the behavior, the king decides to bring the wolf back to the castle. The wolf's gentleness is remarkable, until...

...at a large celebration, the knight who married Bisclavret's wife arrives and is attacked by the wolf. The king threatens Bisclavret, who backs down. The court assumes that the knight has somehow wronged the wolf.

Later, the king is visiting Bisclavret's former barony, and takes the wolf along. Bisclavret's "widow" comes to the king bearing gifts, but when the wolf sees her, he rushes at her and tears off her nose. A wise man links this unusual attack with the first attack: that the two are married, and the woman was married to the missing baron. The king has the woman tortured, whereupon she confesses what she did to her husband. The produce the baron's clothing, and he becomes the baron Bisclavret once more. The king restores his lands and exiles the baroness and her knight. Her descendants are born nose-less afterward.

Marie de France claims she heard this performed snd translated it from Breton, along with a collection of other stories. We have several stories from her, and I'll tell you more about her tomorrow.

Medieval Werewolves

The European Middle Ages had plenty of werewolf stories, but they were notably different from what we portray about modern werewolves. Let's talk about some of the differences.

First, how does one become a werewolf? In the Middle Ages, it was not a curse passed along by the bite of a werewolf, but either placed on you by a spell, as in the story of William and the Werewolf, or a "lifestyle choice" by putting on a wolf skin. Gerald of Wales tells the story of a priest who encountered a werewolf couple in Ireland who needed last rites for the she-wolf. When the priest refuses, the wolf skin is opened like opening a coat to reveal an old woman.

In the tale of Bisclavret, we do not know how he became a werewolf, but he explains to his wife that he has to hide his clothes so that he can return to them after three days and become human again. In this situation, the werewolf "curse" is innate, and negated after the period is over by wrapping himself in his original human clothing.

The medieval werewolf also retained its human understanding, and did not simply become a ravenous wolf. When a werewolf in medieval tales attacks someone, it is out of a sense of revenge due to wrongs done to the human host. Bisclavret demonstrates this, and I will go into those details next time.

Regarding phases of the moon: Gervase of Tilbury tells the story of Chaucevaire, who transforms according to the phases of the moon; however, it is the dark of the moon, not the light of a full moon. The moon link may also be part of the werewolf condition in Bisclavret because he transforms without his own choice every week for three days. The author does not specify that there is a lunar link—especially since it is each week, not month—but three days is there length of time often attributed to the full moon. 

The word werewolf includes the Old English wer- meaning "man." In the Middle Ages, a werewolf is a man who becomes a wolf. Modern horror films often have werewolves, but in many cases they are larger and more monstrous-looking than ordinary wolves, often standing on two legs. For the Middle Ages, the werewolf literally became a wolf, indistinguishable from other wolves until it acted in ways that wolves would not act.

You will see this tomorrow in what is perhaps the best-known werewolf story from the Middle Ages.

William and the Werewolf

Medieval Europe (and beyond) had a fascination with werewolves, but they were different from the modern horror-story representations. hey rarely had anything to do with phases of the moon, and they were not simply murderous beasts.

Such was the case of the story of Guillaume de Palerme, or "William of Palerme" which was later re-titled in English "William and the Werewolf." This story gives us in early English the first instance of the pronoun "they" being used to refer to  singular subject in the sole English manuscript dated to 1375, but the original French version was probably composed about 1200. The story was commissioned by Yolande, daughter of the Count of Hainaut, Baldwin IV (once mentioned here). The French version also exists in a single surviving manuscript from the 1200s.

The main character, William, is the son and heir to the King and Queen of Palermo, and his birth is welcomed by everyone except his uncle, who stood to inherit if the King had no heirs. The uncle plots to poison the child. Shortly before he can do so, a wold leaps the wall of the royal gardens, snatches the babe in its mouth, and flees. His parents mourn the loss, after a search fails to find the wolf.

Flashback! The author then tells us whence came the wolf. An evil queen in Spain, desiring to have her children by the king inherit rather than the king's eldest son by his first wife, transforms Prince Alfonse into a wolf. Alfonse, however retains his human understanding, In his wandering, the wolf Alfonse overhears the plot to poison the prince and decides to save the child. He teals him away and deposits him with a cowherd, who raises him.

Years later, the Emperor of Rome goes hunting in the wood and comes upon a young man with such regal bearing and handsome features that he insists on taking him away to raise him "properly." There, William and the emperor's daughter, Melior, fall (inappropriately) for each other. Their secret love is aided and abetted by Melior's friend Alexandra.

The emperor of Greece wants to marry his son to Melior, and her father agrees. The young lovers decide to flee, and Alexandra helps them by procuring two white bear skins, sewing the two into the skins (except the hands, so they can eat), and they flee. They are not really suited to surviving in the wild, but Alfonse the wolf reappears, bringing them fancy food and killing two deer so the pair can have nicer skins to live in and hide out as deer instead of white bears.

There's more, much more. You can read a modern English translation here if you like. Tomorrow? More about werewolves, the cool medieval kind, not the modern hour kind.

Medieval Pronouns

Medieval scholars from very early on were fascinated by grammar and analyzed it and language endlessly, trying to figure out how a word related to the thing the word signified.

Even as scholars were "complicating" things, English was becoming simpler, more streamlined. As an inflected language, for instance, English had various forms of pronouns depending on where in the sentence the pronoun was working at the time. (We still do this, but with fewer versions.)

Hwæt, I mean "Hey!" We even had a dual form when referring to just "we two" or "you two." Plurals used to be more interesting that way. (I like this, and would bring it back if I could when talking about me and my spouse versus other couples.) The plural "you" eventually replaced the singular "thou"; this was possibly a courtesy thing: plural forms of dress toward a single person seemed to be used as a sign of respect, as if the person were "more" than just "a" person. King Lear uses the plural "you" when praising Cordelia, but "thou" when speaking as her father to his daughter.

Old English also had a gender neutral pronoun, "man." It would be used the same way we now use "one," as in "I got vaccinated and boosted, as one does." It got associated with the masculine forms and disappeared.

Grammarians of more recent centuries tried to "lock down" singular vs. plural, the same way Webster tried to "lock down" American English spelling as distinct from British English. (The founder of Quakerism, George Fox, in 1660 labeled anyone who used "you" as a singular pronoun rather than "thou" was an idiot.) This created unnecessary confusion among speakers who used language in perfectly natural and understandable ways. The most prominent example of this is in the use of plural pronouns to denote singular subjects.

In 1794, an essay by three women in the New Bedford Medley used "they" as a singular, deliberately (they later had to explain) to conceal gender. A later to the editor criticized this as doing no ‘honor to themselves, or the female sex in general.’ They replied, challenging the mansplainer to come up with a better pronoun.

But "they" already was the better pronoun, and had been so for a long time. "They" was used in 1375 to refer to a singular person in the line "Each man hurried ... till they drew near ... where William and his darling were lying together."

So let us embrace "they" and its variants as useful pronouns for singular subjects following a 650-year-old tradition, and (in the words of Eomer to Eowyn) "think no more on it."

But what you should be wondering about is these men hurrying to "where William and his darling were lying together." What's that about? I've got a story to tell you next time!

Superstitions about Scissors

Human cultures can weave anything into a story. Opening an umbrella indoors might knock something over, and walking under a ladder (presumably set up so someone can climb it to reach something high up) might disturb it and cause someone to fall; these small bits of practicality can turn into homespun wisdom about what not to do. Passing along this advice without detailing the explanation can turn them into a superstitious injunction against causing "bad luck."

Scissors are made of metal, they are pointed and sharp, and so handling them must always be done with caution in mind. (I remember the dull-edged, blunt-nosed things we called scissors in the younger grades in school.)

In Turkey and elsewhere, passing scissors to someone (or a knife) was considered bad luck. Instead, you set the scissors (or knife) down where the other person could reach them. Clearly a health and safety response to scissors, but has become a "bad luck" warning.

Dropping a pair of scissors is also bad luck; of course, since dropping scissors from your hand means they are in the proximity of your feet, you can see why this is a bad thing. If they fall point first and stick in the floor, that is very bad (well, it means, had your foot been there, you would have effectively stabbed yourself).

There are good superstitions as well as bad, and in the Middle Ages scissors could be beneficial beyond their utilitarian purpose. Scissors were being made from iron instead of bronze as early as the first century BCE in the Roman Empire. Iron implements took on a special use as protection against fairies and magic. In the British Isles, a pair of (iron) scissors would be hung over a cradle to ward against night-time intrusions (and changeling replacement). The scissors could also be left open to form a cross.

The curious linguistic point about scissors is that they are referred to as both singular or plural, depending on the circumstances. I think it's a good time to talk a little about singular "versus" plural pronouns.

The Shear Truth

A reference to sheep-shearing made me wonder about the origin of scissors. Apparently, some have given the credit to Leonardo da Vinci because he used shears to cut canvas. An inventive man, but he did not have to come up with scissors, because they existed long before he did.

First, some terminology. The Latin verb scindere meant "to cut"; from it, the noun scissor meant "one who cuts." Through Old French cisoires which came into Middle English as sisoures, it eventually got "corrected" by scholars who knew the Latin root. It is a plural noun ("these are scissors" rather than "this is scissors"), but is referred to also by the singular "pair of scissors."

Between 3000 and 4000 years ago, scissors were used in Mesopotamia. These were "spring scissors" (a sample is pictured above). They were two bronze blades connected by a flexible strip of bronze. They were aligned so that squeezing them together brought the two blades in contact; letting go allowed them to spring apart again. Egypt also had this type in 1500BCE made from bronze. The trick in manufacture, of course, was to make sure the blades came together closely and firmly.

The modern "pivoted" or "cross-blade" scissors were first noted in Rome in 100CE, using bronze and sometimes iron. This is now the most commonly used scissors, but the spring version was used extensively in Europe until the 16th century, especially in sheep-shearing.

They were first made from cast steel and mass-produced in Sheffield, England by Robert Hinchcliffe around 1760. He received a trade-mark in 1791, and his company still makes scissors today.

Curiously, scissors are part of many superstitions. I'll share those tomorrow.

The Wool Trade in England

Wool is different from hair in that it has a natural "crimp" to it that allows the fibers to bind together. This, and the fact that it can be found in abundance on the backs of sheep, made it an excellent source for textiles. Anyone with a plot of grass could have sheep, and anyone with sheep could learn the steps to make it into cloth.

The Low Countries, such as Flanders, did not have as much land to give over to grass instead of other human-based edibles, but they became excellent weavers whose textiles were in demand all over Europe. They needed the raw material, however, and England was an excellent source.

Wool as in such demand that it became the backbone of the English economy from the second half of the 13th century to the second half of the 15th. Everyone kept sheep for this purpose. Abbeys and monasteries often had large tracts of land given to them, and they became major sources of raw wool.

Wool was so popular a commodity that Edward I (1239 - 1307) realized it was a source of revenue for the crown as well. He instituted a tax on every bale and bag of raw wool that went out of the country. The beauty of taxation for the historian is that it means records are kept, so we know a lot about how much wool was exported. From 1281 to 1300, about 26,000 sacks of wool. How much was that, really? The English "sack," used for wool and coal, equalled 224 pounds. That equates to about 2900 tons of wool annually. In the first couple decades of the 1300s, the annual output averaged 35-40,000 sacks.

Edward III (1312 - 1377) needed a lot of revenue to manage expenses during the Hundred Years War, and raised the tax on wool. He promoted the wool trade by establishing the Woolsack, a large cushion of wool on which the presiding officer of the House of Lords sat.

Edward would make decisions that ultimately lessened the value of wool for his economy. He invited weavers from Flanders to relocate to England. Perhaps he though he could bring another source of revenue closer to home. His high taxes, however, started to discourage people from sending wool abroad, and they started making their own woolen cloth. An influx of skilled Flemish weavers meant less raw wool leaving the country to be taxed. The annual export started decreasing in the final years of his reign, and dropped below 20,000 sacks in the decade following. From 1400 to 1430, it didn't exceed 15,000 sacks, and after 1430 it fell below 10,000.

There was another reason: quality. English wool reigned supreme for generations, but experiments in cross-breeding in the Iberian Peninsula produced something else: Merino wool. The best guesses are Spanish ewes being bred with English and North African rams in the 12th and 13th centuries, and then increased stock over the years, produced a much finer wool that became all the rage for cloth. You can learn more about it in this post.

This web article opened with the following:

Wool as a raw material has been widely available since the domestication of sheep. Even before shears were invented, wool would have been harvested using a comb or just plucked out by hand.

I thought the second sentence was pretty superfluous, but then I asked myself: "Well, when did shears come into the picture?" So I did some looking, and now I know, which I will shear...excuse me, share tomorrow.

Wool—A Brief History

Before we talk about the wool trade, I think a few words about the history of wool is a good start.

There is evidence that sheep were domesticated 9000-11000 years ago, but no evidence that they were used for wool until much later. The oldest woolen garments found are dated to only 4000-3000BCE. The oldest known European woolen fabric comes from a Danish bog and is dated to 1500BCE. In the Roman era, wool was used along with linen and leather. Cotton and silk were rare, coming from India and China, respectively.

We jump now to Northeastern France in the 1100s and the County of Champagne. In various towns in the region, annual fairs were held, lasting 2-3 weeks, where merchants gathered to buy and sell textiles, leather, furs, and spices. These "Champagne Fairs" created economic opportunity and growth and, in the case of wool, they connected the weavers of the Low Countries, such as Flanders, with Italians, who not only were skilled in dyeing cloth, but also had the merchant fleets to distribute products all around the Mediterranean. Wool cloth from Flanders could reach from Spain to Constantinople, from Majorca to Cyprus.

Wool was the economic engine of the Low Countries in the 13th century. Where did the raw wool come from that the Low Countries cleaned and carded and wove so well? England. Nothing benefitted the medieval English economy as much as the wool trade.

In fact, wool was so important to England that it had so-called "wool churches": a church financed by merchants who had become wealthy through the wool trade. Wool was so important that King Edward III in the 14th century instituted "The Woolsack," a large cushion of wool in the House of Lords upon which the presiding officer sat (at the time the Lord Chancellor, now the Lord Speaker).

More specifics of the wool trade in England tomorrow.