The Greece Runestones

Several of the Norse Runestones are part of a subset called Greece Runestones. These refer to Grikkland (Greece) or Grikkjar (Greeks), and two refer to grikkfari (traveler to Greece). To Scandinavians, Grikkland was any part of the Byzantine Empire. Some stones were raised to commemorate Scandinavians who died in Greece as part of the Varangian Guards, some to recognize men who returned with wealth from their time down south.

There is variety in size of runestones, and the Greece examples are no different. One is a carved whetstone (3.3 x 1.8 x 1.3), mentioning two men who traveled to Greece, Jerusalem, Iceland, and Serkland (the name referring to land of Muslims). (This was originally thought to be a forgery; the claim was that a worker found it while digging a shaft for a telephone wire. It was considered authentic partially because of a few misspellings of place names: mistakes a forger would not make when every available document one might use as reference spelled those locations accurately.)

One is a boulder 59 feet in circumference, known as U 112, side A of which is shown here. It reads:

Ragnvaldr had the runes carved in memory of Fastvé, his mother, Ónæmr's daughter, (who) died in Eið. May God help her spirit.

Side B reads:

Ragnvaldr had the runes carved; (he) was in Greece, was commander of the retinue.

 U 112 is an example of how the runestones are valuable to modern scholars and historians as far more than an example of art. The name Ragnvaldr indicates that was likely a member of a noble family. The reference to his mother and her father are useful in connecting Ragnvaldr to his family. Ónæmr is mentioned on two other runestones, through which we know that Ragnvaldr had two aunts and a cousin who received Danegeld three times. Ragnvaldr was part of a wealthy family. Also, "commander of the retinue" makes him captain of the Varangian Guard, and well-paid in his own right.

The link between Scandinavia and the Byzantine Empire lasted a long time, especially because of the Varangian Guard, and even motivated Norway and Sweden to create laws specifically about those who went south, especially regarding inheritance. I'll talk about this north-south connection, the Varangian Guard, and keeping family wealth in the country next time.

The Jarlabanke Runestones

Of the thousands of runestones created up until the 12th century, 20 fall into a special category because they were all raised by or on behalf of the same man. These are the Jarlabankestenarna (Swedish "Jarlabanke stones") in Upland, Sweden.

Jarlabanke Ingefastsson was likely a hersir, a chieftain or military commander, of a hundred, which was an administrative division of a hundred men (and their families). He would have been responsible for organizing military support in times of war. (Hundreds were used extensively in Europe, and even in the United States: Delaware, New Jersey, and Pennsylvania used hundreds in the 17th century.)

Jarlabanke likely was very well-off financially thanks to the Danegeld, the practice of being paid off by England to stop attacking it. Another source of revenue would have been from men of his hundred being paid as mercenaries in the Varangian Guard and fighting in Kievan Rus.

He used them to commemorate fallen family members and comrades, and public works. The inscription for the one pictured reads:

Jarlabanki had these stones raised in memory of himself while alive, and made this bridge for his spirit, and (he) alone owned all of Tábýr. May God help his spirit.

Tábýr is modern Täby. There is a bit of controversy based on an Old Norse verb over whether he actually "owned" or was simply a chieftain appointed by the King of Sweden.

The bridge mentioned is actually a causeway. There are three other stones raised to give him credit for constructing roads and bridges. 

There are two Jarlabanke Runestones that mention men who traveled abroad. One of them is broken and now shows only the fragment Hann ændaðis I Grikkium, "He ended [died] in Greece." This is considered part of a subset of stones referred to as Greece Runestones, which will be our next (and final) look into the practice of raising runestones.

Runestones

When King Harald Bluetooth chose to be baptized in the 960s, he decided to commemorate the radical change he was instigating for the Danes turning Christian by having a runestone erected. This kicked off a trend for Scandinavian nobles to have their own runestones created to memorialize themselves or others. There are about 3000 in existence now.

Harald's was not the first, however: runestones as old as the 4th century exist, and they are scattered wherever the Norse traveled and settled. The Isle of Man has several, and there is even one as far away as the Black Sea. (Curiously, this never caught on in Iceland.)

The majority of total stones (percentages differ in different locales) are Christian, and crosses appear on many, as well as one of the oldest depictions in Scandinavia of Jesus on Harald's. The conversion to Christianity altered some practices: instead of burials taking place in the family plot, folk would be buried in the church graveyard and a runestone commemorating them erected with the deceased ancestors.

Runestones carried a lot of text to get their message across. The one pictured here is called Rök, which in Old Norse means "monolith." You cannot tell from this picture, but it is a five-ton stone, eight feet tall and with five sides covered in more runes than any other. It dates from around 800.

The usual formula was to mention the person for whom it was raised, their chief accomplishments, how they died, a prayer for them, and sometimes the connection between them and the person who raised the stone. Because the Varangian Guard were mercenaries all over, especially in the Mediterranean, many runestones were raised in memory of someone who never returned home, and "he died in Greece" (generic term for anywhere in or near the Byzantine Empire) is found on many stones.

One of the largest collections of runestones devoted to a single man is found in Runriket, Rune Kingdom, in Vallentuna, Sweden. Tomorrow I will tell you about the Jarlabanke Runestones.

Kingdom of the Isles

North and west and south of Scotland are numerous islands, the Shetlands and Orkneys, the Hebrides, and the Isle of Man, respectively. From the 9th to 13th centuries, they were collectively known as the Kingdom of the Isles.

Their widely spread locations made them vulnerable to invasion and take-overs. Ireland looked at the Hebrides and Man with desire, and Norway was interested in the Orkneys. Magnus Barefoot of Norway managed to conquer the Kingdom for a time in the 11th century, until the previously ruling family reclaimed the rulership.

We might know very little about this part of the world, but the Isle of Iona had a prominent monastery, whence came many prominent religious figures like Adomnán and others whose activities are recorded starting in the 6th century, although Viking invasions starting in the mid 9th century disrupted life and record-keeping.

The Norse referred to the islands as Suðreyjar ("Southern Isles"). The Laxdaela Saga (one of the Icelandic sagas) refers to people coming to Iceland from Sodor, meaning the southern isles. "Sodor" remains in the name of the Church of England diocese for some of the isles.

The natives of the Isles were Gaels, and Gaelic remained the spoken language even under Norse occupation, although Gaelic place-names all but disappeared in favor of Norse names. Norse occupation on the Isle of Man left 26 runestones, when all of Norway has only 33!

Possession of the Hebrides and the Isle of Man came to a head in the war between Magnus VI of Norway and Alexander III of Scotland. Their conflict ended with the Treaty of Perth in 1263, which recognized Scotland's ownership of the Isles.

Next, let's go into a little more detail on runestones.

The Bishop Pirate

William of Newburgh tells the story of a bishop whose actions were contrary to what was expected by a man of God. More recent research offers hypotheses for why a bishop might turn into a pirate and the scourge of Scotland.

"born in the most obscure spot in England," Wimund was educated at Furness Abbey. He was tall and fair, and had a good speaking voice, but had a proud heart and expected to accomplish great things. He claimed to be the son of the Earl of Moray, which seemed unlikely, but more recent theories are that he was possibly the illegitimate son of Óengus of Moray, who became Earl after Wimund was born, or possibly the illegitimate grandson of King Duncan II.

At some point Furness is asked to create a sister abbey at Rushen on the Isle of Man, part of the Kingdom of the Isles. The well-spoken Wimund was made Bishop of the Isles by Thurstan, Archbishop of York. While bishop, according to Newburgh, at some point he started claiming that he wa deprived of his proper inheritance by the King of Scotland. He gathered supporters, promised them to share in his successes and riches, and embarked on a career of descending on

...the provinces of Scotland, wasting all before him with rapine and slaughter; but whenever the royal army was dispatched against him, he eluded the whole warlike preparation, either by retreating to distant forests, or taking to the sea; and when the troops had retired, he again issued from his hiding-places to ravage the provinces.

Unable to stop Wimund's reign of terror, bought him off by giving him Furness and the territory around, giving him some feudal opportunity to collect taxes, etc. Those who suffered under him, however, did not appreciate this. They waited until they could find him separated from his men, captured him, castrated him, and blinded him.

He was forcibly retired to Byland Abbey, where William of Newburgh resided. He had no regret for his actions, however. In Newburgh's words:

Afterwards he came to us at Byland, and quietly continued there many years till his death. But he is reported even there to have said, that had he only the eye of a sparrow his enemies should have little occasion to rejoice at what they had done to him.

If you want to read his story according to Newburgh, you can find it here.

His success in piracy was probably because his attacks were in the Kingdom of the Isles, a series of locations far enough apart that it wasn't easy for the king to send troops to deal with him, as opposed to on the Scottish mainland. We will look at the geography and history of the Kingdom of the Isles tomorrow.

William of Newburgh

William of Newburgh (c.1136 - c.1198) criticized Geoffrey of Monmouth for his inaccurate History of the Kings of Britain, but Newburgh's Historia rerum Anglicarum (“History of English Things/Events”) included a lot of unverified and unverifiable anecdotes. To be fair, he had to rely on other writers for events that took place prior to his lifetime; his chronicle starts in 1066.

He was quite useful at discussing The Anarchy in detail, and his chronicle gives a lot of insight to regular life in the 12th century. He is the only source for an event that happened in his lifetime: a bishop that became a pirate.

The 12th century in England had an interest—by no means unique to that time or place—in "revenants": animated corpses that haunted the living. I previously shared one of Newburgh's anecdotes in A Vampire at Melrose. Newburgh, who was a priest (an Augustinian canon), considered revenants a "warning to posterity" about living a spiritual life. To him, examples of revenants were so common that "were I to write down all the instances of this kind which I have ascertained to have befallen in our times, the undertaking would be beyond measure laborious and troublesome."

He acknowledges that these stories seem unlikely, but cannot bring himself to dismiss them:

It would not be easy to believe that the corpses of the dead should sally (I know not by what agency) from their graves, and should wander about to the terror or destruction of the living, and again return to the tomb, which of its own accord spontaneously opened to receive them, did not frequent examples, occurring in our own times, suffice to establish this fact, to the truth of which there is abundant testimony. [find the entire translated Historia here]

Another example offered by Newburgh is a criminal who flees York and marries a woman whose faithfulness he doubts. Hiding in the rafters of their house, he sees her with another man in their bed, but falls from the rafters, resulting in a fatal wound:

A Christian burial, indeed, he received, though unworthy of it; but it did not much benefit him: for issuing, by the handiwork of Satan, from his grave at night-time, and pursued by a pack of dogs with horrible barkings, he wandered through the courts and around the houses while all men made fast their doors, and did not dare to go abroad on any errand whatever from the beginning of the night until the sunrise, for fear of meeting and being beaten black and blue by this vagrant monster.

In fact, the revenant killed several people, whereupon the village decided to take action:

Thereupon snatching up a spade of but indifferent sharpness of edge, and hastening to the cemetery, they began to dig; and whilst they were thinking that they would have to dig to a greater depth, they suddenly, before much of the earth had been removed, laid bare the corpse, swollen to an enormous corpulence, with its countenance beyond measure turgid and suffused with blood; while the napkin in which it had been wrapped appeared nearly torn to pieces. The young men, however, spurred on by wrath, feared not, and inflicted a wound upon the senseless carcass, out of which incontinently flowed such a stream of blood, that it might have been taken for a leech filled with the blood of many persons. Then, dragging it beyond the village, they speedily constructed a funeral pile; and upon one of them saying that the pestilential body would not burn unless its heart were torn out, the other laid open its side by repeated blows of the blunted spade, and, thrusting in his hand, dragged out the accursed heart. This being torn piecemeal, and the body now consigned to the flames.

Newburgh doesn't seem to have tried to verify any of these stories, with any statement like "... and I heard this myself from one of the villagers who did the digging."

He was not the only person who recorded stories of revenants. Walter Map (mentioned in The Demonization of Cats post) relates more incidents.

I am hoping, though, that Newburgh 's account of a bishop who became a pirate—not referred to in any other known historical account—is true. I will check that out and report to you tomorrow. Until then...

Geoffrey of Monmouth

Geoffrey of Monmouth may have been born in Monmouth, Wales, since he refers to himself that way (in Latin, he writes it "Galfridus Monemutensis"). He is called by some contemporaries "Galfridus Arturus" (Geoffrey Arthur), which may allude to his father's name or be a nickname based on his interests, since he writes about King Arthur. We assume he was born between 1090 and 1100. We don't really know his country of origin, and some assume his parents came over with William the Conqueror, but Galfridus and Arthur were common names among the Bretons.

A half-dozen charters in Oxford between 1129 and 1151 were witnessed by him, so he was definitely in the Oxford area during that time. He was ordained Bishop of St. Asaph by Archbishop Theobald of Bec in 1152, although he doesn't seem to have ever actually spent time at St. Asaph's because of the wars of Owain Gwynedd. He likely died by Christmas 1154, when he was succeeded by Bishop Richard.

His importance to the modern world was the time he spent writing, especially the Historia Regum Britanniae ("The History of the Kings of Britain"). Although he claimed it was a translation of an ancient book—a common boast of medical writers to give authenticity to their work, which was more important than claiming originality—it is a combination of the works of Bede, Gildas, the Historia Britonum, anecdotes from oral tradition, and his own powers of invention. Future writers like Henry of Huntingdon drew on it without question, and from Geoffrey's time until the 16th century it was accepted as accurate history. (To be fair to medieval historians, William of Newburgh (1136 - 1198) did declare that everything Geoffrey said about Vortigern and Arthur was made up.)

He starts his history with Brutus the Trojan, the great-grandson Æneas, founding (and giving his name to) Britain, and Corineus the Trojan founding (and giving his name to) Cornwall. One of his descendants, Leir, divides his kingdom between his three daughters (General, Regan, and Cordelia), giving a later Shakespeare fodder for one of his tragedies. Books Five and Six deal with Vortigern and Merlin, then Book Seven breaks up the history with a series of prophecies by Merlin, setting up not only the later chapters, but also events in Geoffrey's own time. Books Eight, Nine, and Ten tell the Arthurian story, ending with the return of the Saxons after Arthur's death.

Geoffrey's Historia was enormously popular, with about 200 extant manuscripts known as of the 20th century. His section on Arthur—and the Prophetiae Merlini ("Prophecies of Merlin") and the (attributed to him) poem Vita Merlini ("Life of Merlin")—have provided modern retellings of the Arthurian myth in story and cinema with plenty of dramatic details.

As mentioned above, there were historians like William of Newburgh who were more critical when it came to selecting their material and relating it to an audience. William, however, was not immune to relating stories whose interest for the audience was more important than his ability to confirm them. Medieval clickbait? Let's find out tomorrow.

Saxons versus Britons

A major victory of Saxons in England over the native Britons took place just south of Chester in the early 7th century. Æthelfrith, the king of Northumbria, is recorded to have attacked and defeated the kings of the Welsh kingdoms Powys and Rhôs. Anecdotal evidence of the death of King Iago of Gwynedd suggest that he, too, was a victim at Chester.

Other circumstantial evidence suggests that the Saxon King Cearl of Mercia was involved (not sure on which side), simply because Mercia's influence and activities disappears from records until King Penda in 633.

Why Æthelfrith attacked is unknown. Geoffrey of Monmouth and Reginald of Durham, writing hundreds of years later, say that Æthelfrith wanted to find a rival hiding in Gwynedd, but there's no real evidence for this.

Bede and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle give motivation for the attack to St. Augustine of Canterbury's calling down of divine vengeance on the local bishops a few years earlier, who did not support him in his mission to convert England to Christianity. (He was bringing Roman practices, trying to replace the local practices.)

Coincidentally (?), Bede may have been right, and here's why: there was a monastery nearby, at Bangor-on-Dee. Knowing that the battle was brewing (it took time for armies to arrive and assemble before the fighting actually started), several monks fasted for three days, then climbed a hill to observe the battle and pray for the defeat of Northumbria. Æthelfrith had them slaughtered. Bede says only 50 of 1200 escaped. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle offers a more reasonable tally of 200 priests slain. Whatever the number, some saw this as the result of Augustine's rejection by the Briton bishops. (Odd that a pagan king would strike so far outside of his realm to be the tool of Christian judgment.)

Lots of questions about the Battle of Chester remain. We really don't know why it was fought, or all the significant figures who died. Various writers view it through their own Roman Christian bias. One of them, Geoffrey of Monmouth, deserves a closer look, which he will get tomorrow.

The Battle of Chester

Much is made of Augustine's 597 arrival in Britain to christianize the island, but the Synod of Chester, where he expected to assert authority over local bishops, was a disaster. Native bishops rejected Augustine's attempts to change their ways, whereupon Augustine (according to Bede) promised divine vengeance on them. Bede, and the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, claim the Battle of Chester was where that divine vengeance was enacted.

The map is here to help explain the two sides in the battle: Augustine landed in Kent to start his mission with the Anglo-Saxon King Æthelbert, whose wife Bertha was already Christian. The local bishops were Britons, whose version of religion is now referred to as Celtic Christianity, with some different practices from Roman Christianity. The conflict had a religious and ethnic facet.

That interpretation aligns with the two sources mentioned above. They are writing long after the battle, however. If Augustine landed in 597, the Synod of Chester would have taken place fairly soon. Welsh Annals, displaying the usual brevity of such records, lists the Synod in the same year that Gregory died—presumable Pope Gregory I, who sent Augustine). Gregory died in 604. Also, David died. That would be St. David, the estimates of whose death range from 589 to 601.

Archaeological evidence and literary records for the Battle of Chester place it anywhere between 605 and 613. If the battle was a result of Augustine's curse, it certainly took some time to get it started. Also, I would have expected it to be started by a known Christian aligned with Augustine—maybe a converted Æthelbert?—which was not the case: Æthelfrith of Northumbria was the aggressor, who was not known for being a Christian. Also, I am not aware of Augustine making any efforts in Northumbria.

The Battle of Chester, therefore, seems unlikely to have been a direct result of Augustine's promise of divine vengeance. Later chroniclers linked the two events for narrative purposes. That doesn't mean that the Battle of Chester was insignificant or a minor conflict. We'll look at the details and results of the battle next time.

Augustine of Canterbury

The Venerable Bede tells a story of Pope Gregory I in the Roman slave market, seeing some fair-haired and light-skinned slaves from Britain who stood out for their beauty among the dark-haired, olive-complexioned Mediterraneans. Upon being told that they were Angles, he makes a pun on them being called "angels" and decides that he must send someone to preach Christianity to their "Angel-Land." He sends the prior of a Roman monastery, Augustine.

In 597, Augustine reached Canterbury in Kent to preach to its king, Æthelbert, likely because his queen, Bertha, was already a Christian and would give a start on converting her husband. (Bertha was the daughter of the King of the Franks, Charibert I; the arranged marriage, tying two kingdoms together, had the provision that she be allowed to continue to practice Christianity. Gregory likely was aware of her.)

Most history book entries of this event are brief: Æthelbert did convert, Augustine gained the epithet "of Canterbury," he is considered the first Archbishop of Canterbury, and the conversion of England to Christianity was well begun. What is always left is the fact that there was already Christianity in England, and its clerics were wary of Augustine.

Part of Augustine's purpose was to bring Christianity in England in line with that of Rome, especially their calculation of the date of Easter. (This would not approach a resolution until the Synod of Whitby in 664.) The priests and preachers in England were not that keen to be told they were "doing it wrong." A preliminary meeting between the local bishops and Augustine took place at a location referred to as Augustine's Oak. Bede tells us of two meetings, in the first of which Augustine has them bring to him someone who is disabled, and they would see whose prayers were more effective at healing him. Even though Augustine's prayers restored sight to a blind man, he was told they would have to confer with their peers and hold a more inclusive gathering. This would be the Synod of Chester.

Prior to this second meeting, Bede tells us that the Britons sought the advice of a holy hermit as to how they should handle Augustine. He tells them that, when they approach, if Augustine rises to greet them, then they will know him for a humble man who considers them equals.

Augustine did not rise from his seat to greet them; they did not take it well, and the synod fell apart. Augustine called down divine vengeance on them for not agreeing to work with him. Fortunately, such Old Testament curses did not apply in "modern" 6th century England.

...or did they? You'll want to find out tomorrow what happened next.

The Quest to Spread Christianity

Christianity came to Britain early. Tertullian and Origen, writing in the early 3rd century, mention Christian figures there. What is now Christian doctrine was not fully formed, however, and so some practices differed from what was happening around the Mediterranean. Pelagius, for example, was born there, whose heretical ideas prompted St. Jerome to call him "stuffed with Scottish porridge." The Synod of Whitby pitted the practices of Irish/Celtic/British Christianity against Roman Christianity.

The Christianity developing in the British Isles may have developed differently, but the fervor with which missionaries felt it should be spread was the equal of any 1st century apostle. Missionaries such as Patrick and Finnian of Clonard christianized Ireland, the Irish then christianized the Picts, then St. Columba focused on Scotland. (In all this, the Anglo-Saxons seem to have been left alone. The counties stories of the spread of Christianity in the first several centuries don't include anyone going on missions to southern England, until Pope Gregory I sends Augustine of Canterbury in 597 to preach to them.)

With all the islands converted, Irish missionaries looked for farther goals...and there was a whole continent waiting. One of the most successful Irish missionaries was Columbanus (543 - 615). He first went to Burgundy, establishing schools until he was exiled from there by Theuderic II. He went to Austria and established an abbey there. When Theuderic took over that part of the continent, Columbanus fled to Italy and established a scholar Bobbio.

His schools raised hundreds of Christians with the same philosophy of mission work, establishing monasteries in Belgium, France, Germany, and Switzerland. The legacies of St. Gall and the Scots Monastery can be traced back to Columbanus and his schools.

The Íslendingabók ("Book of the Icelanders") written between 1122 and 1133 mentions Irish priests already in Iceland when the Norse arrived.

The 14th and 15th centuries saw a decline in the number of Irish monks traveling to Europe and joining the monasteries. Monasteries in Nuremberg and Vienna were given over to German groups. The Scots Monastery was handed to a Scottish congregation in 1577 by papal decree.

Enough about missions from Great Britain. What happened when a mission came to Great Britain? Did Augustine have an easy time of it, with the Christians nearby? We'll find out tomorrow.

The Scots Monastery

The earliest reference of the Vision of Tnugdalus comes from the Scots Monastery in Regensburg, Germany. Why was it called "Scots" Monastery?

The Schottenkirche ("Scots Church"), or Schottenkloster ("Scots Cloister/Monastery") was founded about 1070. Schotten is actually the German word for Scotti, which at the time simply meant Gaels, including people from both Ireland and Scotland. In fact, the Irish founded it, and later it was used by Scottish monks. The specific founder was Marianus Scotus of Regensburg, who was born Muiredach Mac Robartaig. An Irish monk and scribe, he wound up in Regensburg on a pilgrimage to Rome, after becoming a Benedictine and deciding to found the monastery.

Regensburg was a central location for the Hiberno-Scottish mission to Europe, and within a hundred years or so daughter monasteries from Regensburg had been established in Würzburg, Nuremberg, Konstanz, Eichstatt, and Kyiv. The site was so popular that it could not handle all the Irish monks traveling to join, and a new abbey was started on a site outside the city walls within 30 years of the founding of the original. The completed Irish Benedictine Abbey Church of St. James and St. Gertrude was included within the city walls when the city was expanded in 1300. This church in the Romanesque style was expanded in the later 1180s, and can be seen today. 

Scottish monks came to dominate the place when the pope in 1577 transferred the rights from Irish monks to Scottish. Currently, it is a Roman Catholic seminary. The illustration is a 1640 drawing of the monastery complex.

The Hiberno-Scotish mission mentioned in paragraph three was a serious trend in the 6th through 11th centuries, and I'll tell you more about the next time.

Vision of Tnugdalus

The 12th century saw a burgeoning of literature by figures whose names we actually know, like Marie de France and Chrétien de Troyes (mentioned here), Thomas of Britain and Hue de Rotelande. Then there were less clearly known names like Marcus, supposedly an itinerant Irish monk in the Regensburg, Germany, monastery called the Scots Monastery. The only item written by Marcus is the Visio Tnugdali, the "Vision of Tnugdalus," found in five 15th century copies, one of which is Cotton Caligula A.ii, found in the famous Cotton Library, that includes several other romances.

Written shortly after 1149, it is an account told to Marcus by a knight, Tnugdalus, called Tundale in English manuscripts. Marcus claims also to have translated the story from an Irish version. We are told that the story took place in Cork in 1148.

The story is of the wealthy Tnugdalus, who loved stealing, sex, and food and drink. He fought and gossiped and never did any good works. One day he goes to collect a debt owed to him. The borrower is unable to pay, and Tnugdalus flies into a rage. The borrower remains calm and talks Tnugdalus down, and invites him to a meal. While eating and drinking, however, Tnugdalus starts to feel ill, starting with his arm becoming paralyzed. When he tries to rise from the table, he collapses; he becomes cold as the proverbial stone, except for some slight warmth on his left side (where the heart is)?

This was on a Wednesday. The slight warmth leads those around him to keep him above ground. He regains consciousness on Saturday afternoon, upon which he has a story to tell.

He says his soul awakened in a dark place, and he wept, sure that his sins had caught up with him in the afterlife. A horde of foul and noisy creatures come rushing toward him, claiming that his sins confirmed his status as one of them! While he cowers before them, a point of light appears and grows closer, ultimately arriving and turning out to be his guardian angel, who asks him "What are you doing here?"

The angel tells him that he still has a chance to be saved. The horde freaks out about this, but the angel turns to Tnugdalus and says "Quick! Follow me!" The angel leads him through a dark tunnel, where the angel's light reveals the souls being tormented for different sins. This Dante-esque journey reveals more and more types of torment for different sins, some of which Tnugdalus experiences for a time, until the angel takes him on to the next experience. Ultimately, nearing the gates of hell, he sees Satan himself, a 150-foot tall human-shaped and thousand-armed creature chewing souls in his sharp teeth a thousand at a time.

Purgatory is also on the itinerary's. great relief to Tnugdalus, who wants to stay there, but the angel assures him that even better awaits, and takes him to Heaven. They stand on a wall in Heaven—seen in the illustration above—and Tnugdalus now grasps knowledge of everything, and can see anything, no matter how far away. Suddenly,

... Saint Ruadan approached them. He welcomed Tundale happily, took him into his arms and hugged him.

‘My son, your arrival here is blessed indeed,’ he said, and they stood together. ‘From now onwards, while you live in the world you can look forward to a good end to your life. I was once your patron saint and in your worldly life you should be willing to show me some generosity and to kneel, as you well know, in my presence.’

St. Patrick is also seen, as well, as several historical deceased Irish bishops. Tnugdalus asks to stay, but is told that is not possible unless someone has led a good life. Tnugdalus must return to his body and change his ways if he wants to see this place again. Tnugdalus re-awakens in his body, astonishes all the people surrounding him by that and by the promise to amend his life.

The story is reminiscent of the Irish immram (Irish "voyage"), a hero's journey, usually by sea, through fantastical and legendary places. Marcus wrote in Latin, although he says he translated an Irish-language account. The story was translated into several languages, at least into French, German, and Norse. The Cotton version is Middle English. You can read a Modern English version here.

I'm curious about the place where Marcus wrote. What was a Scots Monastery doing in Germany? Tomorrow I'll tell you about the Schottenkirche.

St. Ruadán

St. Ruadán was one of the Twelve Apostles of Ireland. Born in Tara and educated at Clonard by Finnian, he later founded his own monastery of about 150 at Lorrha, the remains of which are pictured here.

Ruadán was known for his prophecies. His prophecy that Diarmait mac Cerbaill would die from the roof beam of his house came true, even though Diarmait had it removed and cast into the sea: it was found and innocently used as a roof beam in another house, in which Diarmait was trapped when it was burned down. The roof beam—his own—fell on him.

Ruadán was not just objectively prophesying Diarmait's death: he actively disapproved of Diarmait. Diarmait had imprisoned a kinsman of Ruadán who had violated the king's law. Ruadán came to Tara to curse Diarmait for violating he sanctity of the church; he cursed the hearth, proclaiming that never again would smoke rise from a building on the Hill of Tara. Diarmait then glanced up at the ceiling, at which Ruadán made his famous prediction about the roof beam.

The Curse of Tara and the "decommissioning" of the royal hill site would therefore have started as of Ruadán's visit in 556. Diarmait survived until 565, however, and Adomnán of Iona held a synod at Tara in 697.

Ruadán died in 584; his feast day is 15 April. There is not a lot of detail about his life, but his reputation lived on: he "appeared" in the 12th century to an Irish knight named Tnugdalus (alternately, Tundalus or Tundale). The popular Visio Tnugdali ("Vision of Tnugdalus") was recorded about 1149 by a Brother Marcus who claimed to have heard it from the knight himself. 

But that's a story for tomorrow.

Prophetic Death

Prophetic death is a staple of mythology and legend. One classic trope is the "threefold death" in which a prophecy claims three different manners of a person's death, all of which somehow come true.

One example is a Welsh legend of Merlin, who is asked to prophesy a boy's death; he says the boy will fall from a rock. The boy is then dressed in different clothing and brought before Merlin and asked about the manner of his death; Merlin says he will hang. The boy is then disguised as a girl and brought again; Merlin prophesies drowning. Later, while on a hunt, the boy slips from a rock, is caught on a tree and suspended upside-down, with his head in a lake, where he drowns.

Diarmait Mac Cerbaill was a real historical figure, and yet we are told he suffered the threefold death of legends. According to the Life of Columba by Adomnán of Iona, he is told by an Irish seer that his foster-son, Áed Dub ("Black Áed"), will kill him; Diarmait banishes Áed Dub. Then, St. Ruadán prophesies that he would be killed by the roof beam of his hall at Tara; Diarmait has the roof beam removed and thrown into the sea.

With those dangers removed, Diarmait continues his quest to avoid death by asking druids how he will die. They predict a threefold death, "by iron, water, and fire." This would mean slain with a weapon, drowning, and burning. Further, they are him that there will be signs of his impending death: a shirt grown from a flax seed, a woolen mantle made from a single sheep, ale brewed from a single grain of corn, bacon from a sow that has never farrowed.

Diarmait, satisfied that his death by anything other than old age is unlikely, visits the hall of Banbán, where he is shown a shirt, a mantle, and bacon that satisfy the conditions of his imminent death. He decides to immediately leave the hall, but Áed Dub is waiting at the door, stabs him and sets fire to the hall. Prevented from leaving the burning hall, Diarmait climbs into a vat of ale to survive the heat. The burning hall collapses, and the roof beam, which Banbán had found in the sea and used to build his hall, falls and crushes Diarmait.

It is curious to have a prophetic and threefold death attributed to an actual person. The Annals of Tigernach, in the entry for 563, merely states "Diarmaid son of Cearbhall was killed in Ráth Bec in Magh Line by Aodh Dubh son of Suibne Araidhe, king of Ulster, and his head was taken to Cluain and his body was buried in Connere."

Adomnán, for his own reasons, was clearly embellishing. Perhaps his knowledge that Diarmait was dabbling in Christianity was the emphasis, since legend says that Áed Dub suffered a similar threefold death, which Adomnán attributes to divine justice after killing Diarmait. Adomnán would have been drawing from several sources for his Life of St. Columba, including the saga Aided Diarmata ("Death of Diarmait").

One more look at Diarmait, the king who bridged the pagan and Christian eras in Irish kingship, before we move on to something else. This next look will be from the angle of St. Ruadán.