Funeral Practices

[In memoriam: William Shaw, 1917 - 2012]

Have modern funerary practices always been in place? Were there different methods (and reasons) for disposing of the deceased over the ages?

The 9th century Oseberg ship

Burials of pre-historic human beings have been found, showing that the practice of interment has been around for tens of thousands of years. We have not found tens of thousands of burials, however. It is entirely possible that time and shifting geography has simply eradicated traces of huge numbers of burials. It is also possible that nomadic peoples might have pushed a body into a river, or piled up some stones, and moved on.

The Judaic tradition was clearly for burial. Deuteronomy 34:6 tells us, of Moses, that "God buried him in the depression in the land of Moab opposite Beth Peor. No man knows the place that he was buried, even to this day." Early Christians favored burial over cremation or any other disposal. Tertullian (160-225 CE) discusses Christian funeral practices, and Christ's placement in the tomb reinforces the idea of keeping the body intact in preparation for resurrection.

The Viking image of the funeral pyre on land, or the ship ablaze and pushed out to sea, was another medieval attitude to death. The Viking cultures believed in an afterlife, but they knew it could not be a corporeal life—that was over. They (like the Egyptians) honored their dead by surrounding them with accoutrements that would accompany them into that afterlife. Because they were a sea-faring people, using a ship as a bier was appropriate. When those cultures began to adopt Christianity, they changed their funerary practice but did not give up their cultural symbols: they buried their nobles, but chose to bury them in a boat—like the Oseberg ship pictured above—or a boat-shaped grave-mound.

Bound body being carried, from the Bayeux Tapestry

There were debates about the state of the body at the time of burial. The Christian desire to keep the body intact ran up against reality at time. It may have been the Crusades that started the practice of "de-fleshing" a body. When someone was killed far from home, and burial in his homeland was a long time coming, his comrades would boil the body to reduce it to a nice clean and non-putrefying skeleton. This skeleton was considered sufficient to transport home and bury. Not only was this a grisly sight, but Pope Boniface VIII (1253-1303) made the action of treating a body thusly worthy of excommunication. Furthermore, such remains were to be denied Christian burial.

The image of bodily resurrection had taken such a strong hold on Christian doctrine that interfering with the body deliberately seemed sacrilegious. Cremation was likewise considered inappropriate. Which leads me to a personal observation: if resurrection of a body that has decayed for centuries is possible, I do not see how resurrection of a body turned into ashes would be significantly more difficult. Still, this distinction in how bodies should be treated provided a strong visual image for cases when the Church wanted to make a point: it became common practice to throw the corpse of a heretic into the river to be washed away. You may remember the case of Jan Hus, who was burned at the stake and had his ashes thrown into the nearest river, and Jan's inspiration, John Wycliffe, who, although he died in 1384, was declared a heretic in 1415, and whose body was dug up in 1428 so that it could be burned and then thrown into the nearest river!

Father of Arab Astrology

Abu Ma'shar, from his Introduction to Astronomy

Albertus Magnus, Robert Grosseteste, Geoffrey Chaucer—well-known names from the Middle Ages denoting a Dominican scientist, a university scholar and administrator, and a courtier and poet. One thing they had in common, besides a love of learning, was their attention to the art of astrology. And through their interest in astrology, they were all influenced by a 9th century Arab known in the West as Albumasar. His full name was Abu Ma'shar Ja'far ibn Muhammad ibn 'Umar al-Balkhi (787-886), and he was one of the most respected figures in the history of astrology.

Abu Ma'shar was of particular interest to Western Europe because he was a source for knowledge of and commentary on Aristotle when his writings reached Europe in the 12th century, brought back by the Crusaders. He offered so much more, however. His work blends knowledge of Greek science with Islamic doctrine, Persian chronology, Mesopotamian astrology, and hermetic traditions from Anatolia. He presented a unified approach to the knowledge of several cultures that lent weight to his work.

For instance, he uses the Biblical Flood as the focal point of his astrological tables. He calculates it at midnight on Thursday to Friday, 17-18 February 3101 BC. This date was not arbitrary, nor was it an indication that Abu Ma'shar believed in a short-lived Earth. He chooses the date because it is the start of the Hindu Kali Yuga (the "age of vice"; the last of four phases the world will go through). His knowledge and acceptance of Hindu chronology and its "Great Year" (composed of 360,000 years) is further shown when he calculated a grand conjunction of planets in 183,101 BC, and again in 176,899 BCE.

The Middle Ages loved "unified theories" that could reconcile different traditions to enhance understanding. Abu Ma'shar argued for the superiority of his chronological calculations because he made the year out to be 365.259 days long. Why was he so enamored of this number? Because "259" he explained was the minimum number of days for human gestation (8.6 months). It was obvious to him that he was onto something!

Unlike the hostility experienced by astrology from the University of Paris and others, who felt it was a way to contravene God's plan, or to know what should remain unknowable, Abu Ma'shar was able to give his astrology a veneer of respectability by acknowledging Islamic religious doctrine.

Albertus Magnus & Astrology

Since the last two days have been about reconciling opposing views, and since today is the anniversary of the death of Albertus Magnus, it would probably be a good time to talk more about him.

Albertus Magnus (c.1200-1280) has only been mentioned so far in the context of rainbows, but he was involved in so much more than that. A German Dominican who became provincial of the order in 1254, he became so widely known for his learning that the term Magnus (The Great) was attached to his name in his lifetime by contemporaries such as Roger Bacon (also mentioned in the rainbow entries, as well as here). Although in the future the Dominicans would be nicknamed Domini canes (dogs of the Lord) and be put in charge of rooting out heresy, Albertus would actually spend part of his life writing to defend ideas that were considered heretical.

Most of the charges of heresy were coming from the University of Paris. The University issued a series of Condemnations between 1210 and 1277, condemning the teaching of ideas they considered heretical. Paris had no authority to universally condemn these teachings, however. In a twist that might seem very modern, this left other universities open to excellent marketing opportunities. The University of Toulouse invited students with "Those who wish to scrutinize the bosom of nature to the inmost can hear the books of Aristotle which were forbidden at Paris."

Attacking Aristotle was one way to raise the ire of Albertus. He had written commentaries on all available works of Aristotle, bringing that classical author more fully into the realm of accessible discussion. When Paris condemned the teaching of Aristotelian astrology as a threat to the notion of free will, Albertus had to get involved by writing the Speculum astronomiæ (Mirror on astronomy).* In this work, Albertus explains (using Aristotle's model of the heavens, of course), how the study of astrology and its predictive ability does not contravene God's Will or Free Will.

The order of the Heavenly Spheres

Between God's divine Will and human beings are the nine spheres of the heavens. As God's Will passes through each of the celestial and planetary spheres, it is tainted by exposure to those un-divine substances, just as water flowing down a stream can erode the banks and pick up silt. This has two results. One is that what we perceive in our study of astrology here from Earth is altered, meaning we are not looking directly at and anticipating God's intent for us. The other result is that, because the divine influence has been tainted or diluted by exposure to corporeal bodies, its influence is now corporeal; that is, it may affect our bodies, but not our souls. Astrological influence could make a man envious or prideful or lustful, and many people are content to just follow their impulses, but we have the ability to refuse to act on these impulses.

For Albertus, studying astrology helped to forewarn us about the influences that filtered down through the heavens, and gave us a chance to resist them. The Speculum became a central argument in favor of astrology for centuries, claiming that astrology helped us to understand and perfect our use of Free Will.

*There are numerous medieval works ascribed to Albertus Magnus with little proof, so modern scholars are cautious about claiming authorship; the Speculum has been disputed, but recent scholarship has found sufficient evidence to feel comfortable to claim it was by Albertus.

Natural Philosophy

William of Conches (1085-1154), as mentioned yesterday, wrote on Plato's Timaeus. The Timaeus was a popular work or analysis because, for a long time in the Middle Ages, it was the only work of Plato accessible to scholars. Medieval scholars, looking to create a "unified theory" of the world, did not want to reject material from the venerated philosophers of the past—even if they were pagan. Instead, they tried to reconcile earlier writers to Christianity to make a complete picture.

Natural Philosophy—the attempt to explain how the world works—had its own goal of reconciliation: to explain how a world where choice was possible could co-exist with a God who oversaw and was the motivator of everything that happened. There is an idea that science and religion find themselves in conflict because determining physical causes is pointless in a world where God determines everything. The classic example of this is: what should a good Christian do if he becomes ill? Should he visit a priest or a doctor? Is illness a divine punishment for sin, or best understood as a physical failing that can be treated?

In the Middle Ages, of course, the sufferer would not take chances, and would visit both. But men like William of Conches wanted to bring these two sides intellectually into agreement. He recognized that God was the ultimate cause: His omnipotence made him the primary cause that underlies everything in the universe. As a natural philosopher, however, William drew a distinction between this aspect of God and His methods for achieving His aims. There are actions, he said, that are secondary causes.

For instance, if I put a kettle with water on the stove to make tea and turn on the flame, my actions will cause the water to boil. A natural philosopher can examine the boiling water, measure its temperature, gauge the length of time it takes to boil and how active the boiling is, and find uses for boiling water. Those are all secondary causes and effects, however; the primary cause is my desire to make tea and my application of heat. The natural philosopher can learn about heat and water without knowing about my desire for tea. If he observes the water heating several times, he will learn to predict the outcome through his understanding of natural law.

What about miracles? Well, a miracle is an event that we recognize happens that contravenes natural law; in order to recognize a miracle, however, William said we first need to thoroughly understand natural law. By analyzing natural laws, the philosopher does not challenge God's authority; he is analyzing the secondary causes, with the understanding that they are an "additional layer" between God and the world.

Given that miracles are possible, however, does this invalidate our observations of natural law and are reliance on our predictive ability regarding them? For his part, William was very clear: he believed that God was loving and consistent, rather than capricious. The natural laws that God established would remain natural laws forever. The few times we observe something different are either a miracle—an anomaly that we do not have to understand, or merely more information that will enhance our understanding of natural law.

The Flat Earth

In 1620, Sir Francis Bacon published Novum Organum ("The New Organon," by which he meant a new interpretation of nature). In it, he claimed that the ancient fathers of the Christian church did not tolerate a belief in a round Earth. It is probably this work that influenced the popular belief ever since that the Middle Ages, or religion, were steadfast in their belief in a flat Earth.

There is plenty of evidence to the contrary, however. True, there was "evidence" in the Middle Ages of a flat Earth. The Mappa Mundi (Map of the World), meant to portray the part of the world believed to be habitable, does make the world look flat and finite. Way back in he 3rd century BCE, however, Eratosthenes had coined the term "geography" and measured the circumference of the clearly round Earth by noting the difference in shadows of a stick at noon on two points many miles apart; the angles and length of the shadows told him that the sun was shining down on the surface at different angles, and the surface was therefore curved.

As revered an early christian as Boethius (480-524, mentioned here) in De consolatione philosophiæ (The Consolation of Philosophy) reminds us of how small we are in the grand scheme of things with this:

It is well known and you have seen it demonstrated by astronomers, that beside the extent of the heavens, the circumference of the earth has the size of a point; that is to say, compared to the magnitude of the celestial sphere, it may be thought of as having no extent at all.

Medieval sources even quote Pliny the Elder's figure of 29,000 miles for the circumference, a remarkably accurate figure.*

So was there a conflict between science and Christianity? Depends who you talk to, I suppose. William of Conches (1085-1154), who may have been a tutor to the young man who became King Henry II of England, wrote extensively on reconciling the origin of the cosmos in Plato's Timaeus with Genesis. The Bible may have described the earth as flat, but William knew this should not be taken literally, explaining:

The authors of Truth are silent on matters of natural philosophy, not because these matters are against the faith, but because they have little to do with the upholding of such faith, which is what those authors were concerned with.

As learning spread—specially with the advent of mass printing—perceptions of the Earth's shape would have spread thanks to re-printed classical works. Columbus' idea to go west to arrive at an eastward point was not a risky gamble or a brilliant insight. Other "facts" in the Bible were also understood to be not literal: Pope Innocent III, for instance, knew that the Moon shone with reflected light, even though the Bible refers to the Sun and Moon as "two lights."

So what account for the learned Bacon's statement? It may have something to do with the conflict between Galileo and the Church. Although the famous trial would not take place until 1633, Galileo had received a formal Admonition in 1616, warning him:

to relinquish altogether the said opinion that the Sun is the center of the world and immovable and that the Earth moves; nor further to hold, teach, or defend it in any way whatsoever, verbally or in writing; otherwise proceedings would be taken against him by the Holy Office; which injunction the said Galileo acquiesced in and promised to obey.  [link]

It is very likely that Bacon and the rest of Europe's scientific community was aware of this growing conflict. In this historical context, Bacon's statement can be seen as a condemnation of the Church because of a recent action—even though for centuries the knowledge of a round Earth was common.

*In fact, the original figure might have been more accurate than we suspect: it was given in Greek stadia, a measurement which meant different things to different users. Our best interpretation is 29,000 miles, but if Pliny were using stadia of a slightly shorter length... .

The Anarchy, Part 3 (of 3)

Let's sum up: when the White Ship sank, taking the heir of King Henry I with it, he finally settled on Empress Matilda (Henry's daughter) as his next heir. When Henry died, however, Stephen of Blois (Henry's nephew) rushed to England and seized the throne with the help of many of the nobles. Thus began a civil war called "The Anarchy" during which the citizens suffered much by the actions of their king and the greed and overreaching of his nobles—so much so that "Christ and his saints wept."

After the exchange of prisoners (mentioned in Part 2)—Robert of Gloucester for King Stephen—the war between Stephen and Matilda went back and forth with no one in control of the whole country. Matilda's husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, was busy gaining and holding the King of England's provinces on the continent while Matilda ran her military campaigns in England.

In 1147, Matilda brought her and Geoffrey's eldest son, Henry, on another unsuccessful invasion of England. Although Henry was only 14, he became convinced and determined that his mother should be recognized as queen. Henry was an impressive youth. His great-uncle, King David I of Scotland, knighted him in 1149. His father made him Duke of Normandy a year later, when he was still only 17. Shortly after that, he made one of the most famous marriages in the Middle Ages, when he wed the powerful Eleanor of Aquitaine (who was about 10 years older than Henry) after she left her husband, King Louis VII of France, and brought the province of the Aquitaine with her.

Henry & Eleanor

Meanwhile, Stephen was dealing with a restless populace, nobles who were amassing their own power during his weakness and building castles with which to form centers of power, and difficulties with the Church. English lands once owned by the Church were promised by Stephen to return to them, but nobles had seized many of them, and Stephen had no power to make his nobles relinquish the territories. When Archbishop of Canterbury William de Corbeil died, Stephen seized his personal wealth, an action which was not well received by the clergy.

Then, worse for Stephen, was the death of his son and heir, Eustace. Henry had returned to England with a small invasion force in 1153, and Stephen could not manage to corner him or defeat him. In August of that year, Eustace died suddenly—we do not know the cause. According to the chronicler William of Newburgh, the king was devastated:

grieved beyond measure by the death of the son who he hoped would succeed him; he pursued warlike preparations less vigorously, and listened more patiently than usual to the voices of those urging peace.

Actually, a treaty had already been broached earlier that summer, but Eustace had opposed it. Now, with Eustace no longer providing opposition and the future of Stephen's dynasty insecure, the Treaty of Wallingford was re-visited. It was made formal and ratified in November. The agreement was that Stephen would remain on the throne until his death (which came just a year later, in October 1154), after which Matilda's son would take the crown as Henry II. Henry was crowned on 19 December, 1154. His 35-year reign would have its ups and downs, but he would be recognized as a great king.

As for the Empress who would be Queen: she retired to Rouen. She died in 1167 and was buried at the Abbey of Bec-Hellouin in Normandy. Her body was later re-interred at Rouen Cathedral, where her epitaph reads: Great by Birth, Greater by Marriage, Greatest in her Offspring: Here lies Matilda, the daughter, wife, and mother of Henry.

The Anarchy, Interlude

Before we conclude our three-part journey through the 20 years of civil war between Stephen of Blois (a usurper whom history calls king) and the Empress Matilda (an acknowledged heir whom history calls a footnote), I wanted to pause and look at what the country itself thought about the dispute. Clearly, among the nobles, there were those who chose to offer their loyalty to one or the other, based on personal preference or the potential opportunities for advancement gained if their chosen leader won the throne.

In any war, however, the greatest suffering is felt by those who are not in charge, so how did the average citizenry fare? What did contemporary chroniclers think of the events of the 20 years that Stephen and Matilda spent fighting each other? We have an answer in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, which records events (and opinions on them) in England from the birth of Christ until the end of the reign of Stephen of Blois. It turns out that Stephen had his detractors.

In the days of this King there was nothing but strife, evil and robbery, for quickly the great men who were traitors rose against him. When the traitors saw that Stephen was a mild good humoured man who inflicted no punishment, then they commited all manner of horrible crimes. they had done him homage and sworn oaths of fealty to him, but not one of their oaths was kept. They were all forsworn and their oaths broken. For every great man built him castles and held them against the king; they sorely burdened the unhappy people of the country with forced labour on the castles; and when the castles were built they filled them with devils and wicked men. By night and by day they seized those they believed to have any wealth, whether they were men or women; and in order to get their gold or silver, they put them into prison and tortured them with unspeakable tortures, for never were martyrs tortured as they were. They hung them up by the feet and smoked them with foul smoke. They strung them up by the thumbs, or by the head, and hung coats of mail on their feet. They tied knotted cords round their heads and twisted it until it entered the brain. they put them in dungeons wherein were adders and snakes and toads and so destroyed them. Many thousands they starved to death.

I know not how to, nor am I able to tell of, all the atrocities nor all the cruelties which they wrought upon the unhappy people of this country. It lasted throughout the nineteen years that Stephen was king, and always grew worse and worse. Never did a country endure greater misery, and never did the heathen act more vilely than they did.

And so it lasted for nineteen long years while Stephen was King, till the land was all undone and darkened with such deeds and men said openly that Christ and his saints slept.

Tomorrow we will conclude the tale of the period in England called "The Anarchy" and see how Matilda's son becomes the next king.

The Anarchy, Part 2 (of 3)

In 1135, upon the death of Henry I of England, his nephew Stephen of Blois (c.1192-1154) assumed the throne. All well and good, except that Stephen (and the top men of the country) had sworn an oath years earlier to uphold Henry's choice of his daughter Matilda as heir. Stephen's argument was that his oaths were not as important as a quick and successful transition. His opportunity came because Matilda was across the Channel and Stephen was able to travel faster than she—also, he was supported by many of the barons and Stephen's powerful younger brother, Bishop of Winchester Henry of Blois.

Stephen was crowned on 26 December. Shortly after, he had to go north to deal with Scotland. David I of Scotland (1084-1153) was laying claim to lands in the north of England, and Stephen dealt with this quickly and decisively. His court at Easter was lavish and well attended by the nobles of England. Stephen's position had been confirmed by Pope Innocent II. Later conflicts with Wales turned to victories for Stephen. All looked well.

Meanwhile, on the continent, Matilda and her husband, Geoffrey of Anjou, were taking control of the lands that had been joined to England since William the Conqueror—the mutual grandfather to many of the players in this drama. By 1144, Geoffrey and Matilda were styling themselves Duke and Duchess of Normandy. By 1139, she had gathered sufficient armed forces in France to be able to cross the English Channel and begin the conquest of southwest England. In February 1141, Stephen's forces besieged Matilda in Lincoln Castle; unfortunately, Matilda's illegitimate half-brother, Robert, 1st Earl of Gloucester, brought up his forces behind the king. Robert was aided by the Stephen-hating Welsh. Many of Stephen's forces deserted him, and the king was captured and imprisoned in Bristol, a city currently in the hands of Matilda's forces.

Matilda escaping Oxford

Matilda made a procession to London, sending word ahead that the "Lady of the English" (so she was calling herself) was coming to be made Queen, as was her right. Once she took up residence, emissaries from the city suggested what was probably her surest way to gain their hearts: cut their taxes in half. When she refused to do so, the citizens waited until she had left the city, and then shut the gates of London against her.

Meanwhile, the imprisoned Stephen's wife, also named Matilda, succeeded in capturing Robert of Gloucester, and used him to arrange an exchange of prisoners. With the release of both Stephen of Blois and Robert, hostilities resumed. The following winter, Queen Matilda was almost captured at Oxford, but she fled across the frozen Thames, camouflaged against the snow in a white cloak. The future of England's throne was looking more uncertain than ever.

[to be continued]

The Anarchy, Part 1 (of 3)

When the White Ship sank in 1120, drowning King Henry I's son and heir, William Adelin, England was in crisis. Henry decided that his daughter, Empress Matilda (1102-1167), should inherit the throne. She was called "Empress" because she had been betrothed as a child to the Holy Roman Emperor, Henry V; they were married in 1114. She had actually spent some years as Henry's regent in Italy, gaining some political and administrative experience.

That came later, however. Her father, King Henry I, had about 20 illegitimate children, but none of them would have been acceptable as king, so he tried to gain himself a legitimate heir to replace William by marrying again in 1121 (to Adeliza of Louvain), but no male heir was forthcoming. Henry V died in 1125, and Henry I summoned his daughter from Germany—awkward for her, since she had essentially become a German, having grown up there since childhood, learned the language, and ruled its people. Still, she had not produced an heir for Henry V, and so that dynasty ended and the throne went to someone who had no use for the widow of his predecessor. Matilda spent a year in Normandy, becoming re-acquainted with her father, and in 1126 went to England.

Even though Henry had his Court swear oaths to accept her status, however, not everyone was pleased with the choice. King Louis VI of France suggested William Clito, Henry's eldest illegitimate son, in order to create conflict in the English court. Through a sudden and advantageous marriage, Louis managed to make Clito's status more important and potentially more disruptive to Henry's plans.

Then, in 1135, Henry I died. Matilda was in Anjou with her new husband, Geoffrey of Anjou—too far from England to take control of the situation. Her cousin, Stephen of Blois, rushed to seize the Crown, breaking—along with a majority of barons—the oath he had sworn years earlier. His action started a period of civil war that lasted for almost 20 years.

[to be continued]

A Vampire at Melrose

Although the Oxford English Dictionary doesn't record "vampire" in English until 1734, the word is now used to include tales of post-death activity that go back centuries. Archaeologists have found burials from all eras in which the corpse seems to have been "staked" or treated in some way to ensure its staying put in the grave. [National Geographic link]

William of Newburgh (c.1136-c.1198) wrote Historia Rerum Anglicarum (History of English Events), covering the period from the Conquest in 1066 until 1198 (which is why we presume 1198 to be his death). Besides political shifts and biographies of important figures, he includes tales from various locales that he finds interesting and considers true. He has more than one story about the undead; this is one of them:

A few years ago the chaplain of a certain illustrious lady, casting off mortality, was consigned to the tomb in that noble monastery which is called Melrose. This man, having little respect for the sacred order to which he belonged, was excessively secular in his pursuits, and -- what especially blackens his reputation as a minister of the holy sacrament -- so addicted to the vanity of the chase as to be designated by many by the infamous title of "Hundeprest," or the dog-priest; and this occupation, during his lifetime, was either laughed at by men, or considered in a worldly view; but after his death -- as the event showed -- the guiltiness of it was brought to light: for, issuing from the grave at night-time, he was prevented by the meritorious resistance of its holy inmates from injuring or terrifying any one with in the monastery itself; whereupon he wandered beyond the walls, and hovered chiefly, with loud groans and horrible murmurs, round the bedchamber of his former mistress. She, after this had frequently occurred, becoming exceedingly terrified, revealed her fears or danger to one of the friars who visited her about the business of the monastery; demanding with tears that prayers more earnest than usual should be poured out to the Lord in her behalf as for one in agony. With whose anxiety the friar -- for she appeared deserving of the best endeavors, on the part of the holy convent of that place, by her frequent donations to it -- piously and justly sympathized, and promised a speedy remedy through the mercy of the Most High Provider for all.

From article on Medieval Vampires

Thereupon, returning to the monastery, he obtained the companionship of another friar, of equally determined spirit, and two powerful young men, with whom he intended with constant vigilance to keep guard over the cemetery where that miserable priest lay buried. These four, therefore, furnished with arms and animated with courage, passed the night in that place, safe in the assistance which each afforded to the other. Midnight had now passed by, and no monster appeared; upon which it came to pass that three of the party, leaving him only who had sought their company on the spot, departed into the nearest house, for the purpose, as they averred, of warming themselves, for the night was cold. As soon as this man was left alone in this place, the devil, imagining that he had found the right moment for breaking his courage, incontinently roused up his own chosen vessel, who appeared to have reposed longer than usual. Having beheld this from afar, he grew stiff with terror by reason of his being alone; but soon recovering his courage, and no place of refuge being at hand, he valiantly withstood the onset of the fiend, who came rushing upon him with a terrible noise, and he struck the axe which he wielded in his hand deep into his body. On receiving this wound, the monster groaned aloud, and turning his back, fled with a rapidity not at all in[f]erior to that with which he had advanced, while the admirable man urged his flying foe from behind, and compelled him to seek his own tomb again; which opening of its own accord, and receiving its guest from the advance of the pursuer, immediately appeared to close again with the same facility. In the meantime, they who, impatient of the coldness of the night, had retreated to the fire ran up, though somewhat too late, and, having heard what had happened, rendered needful assistance in digging up and removing from the midst of the tomb the accursed corpse at the earliest dawn. When they had divested it of the clay cast forth with it, they found the huge wound it had received, and a great quantity of gore which had flowed from it in the sepulchre; and so having carried it away beyond the walls of the monastery and burnt it, they scattered the ashes to the winds. These things I have explained in a simple narration, as I myself heard them recounted by religious men.

On this, the 165th anniversary of the birth of Bram Stoker, whose Dracula brought the concept to the modern era, I thought a story of a man so sinful that his evil lives on after his death would be appropriate.

The Plague and The Clergy

The Black Death, estimated to have killed up to one-third of Europeans from 1347-1351, caused changes in society that we cannot imagine. Some of those changes wind up on record, however. Consider, for instance, important positions in government or the church.

The first Archbishop of Canterbury was St. Augustine* (died c.604), who was sent by Pope Gregory I to bring Christianity to Kent in 597. The office is even referred to sometimes as "The Chair of Augustine." Gregory's proposed methods for missions was discussed here. The position became the most important Christian post in England, and candidates for it—chosen by election from their peers or appointed by the king (which led to many conflicts over the years)—had to travel to be confirmed personally by the Pope.

During the plague years, maintaining the office was difficult. John de Stratford, who became Archbishop in 1333, died of the plague in 1348. The election for his successor created a conflict: the canons voted for Thomas Bradwardine, while Edward III wanted them to choose his Chancellor, John de Ufford. The king's choice was grudgingly accepted, de Ufford was declared by the pope to be the new Archbishop, but he died before he could be consecrated back in Canterbury. So Thomas Bradwardine got his chance after all. Bradwardine made the trip to Avignon to be confirmed by Pope Clement VI, but died in Rochester of the plague on his way back to London. He had officially been Archbishop for only 40 days. Fortunately, the next candidate, Simon Islip—the fourth archbishop in 16 months—was confirmed in December of 1349 and lasted for 17 years.

Islip had his work cut out for him, however. As Archbishop following the plague, he was faced with the problem of too few priests in the country. Priests were demanding greater stipends for their work, to which the normally frugal Islip objected both personally and professionally. He worked to regulate their fees, and increased the pace of finding more priests to fill parishes and other posts. Despite his efforts, many in the years to follow would comment on the unhappy change in the post-plague quality of priests, claiming that quantity prevailed over quality in the selection of new clergy.

Although the plague returned at regular intervals, its effects were never as radical as the first time through the population. Islip survived these further outbreaks, but suffered from a stroke in 1363; he spent the last three years of his Archbishopric debilitated while subordinates kept things running. Before he became ill, he did manage to resolve a long-standing dispute between the positions of Archbishop of Canterbury and Archbishop of York, but that's a tale for another day.

*Note: Not the same as the earlier Augustine of Hippo.

Apple Pie

A traveling baker, specializing in pies and pretzels

Someone suggested to me recently that I should offer a recipe from the Middle Ages. I was thinking about Tartletes (meat tarts) that I have made and enjoyed, but the crisp autumn weather practically begs for the following.

A few months ago I talked about a manuscript that survives from the kitchen of Richard II. This cookbook, The Forme of Cury (The Forms of Cooking), has dozens of recipes that have been translated and tweaked by modern scholars and cooks to turn them into dishes acceptable to the modern palate. Tweaking is necessary, since precise measurements are rarely included. For instance, here is the recipe for an apple pie:

XXVII For to make Tartys in Applis.
Tak gode Applys and gode Spycis and Figys and reysons and Perys and wan they are wel ybrayed colourd with Safron wel and do yt in a cofyn and yt forth to bake wel.
27. To make Apple Tarts
Take good Apples and good Spices and Figs and raisins and Pears and when they are well cut up (and) well-colored with saffron, put them into a coffin and set it forth to bake well.

Only a few years before Richard's cookbook was made, the "apple coffin" was first recorded. We would call it a pie with a top crust, but in this case the "coffin" was made of dough that was probably not very tasty. If we can rely at all on the proportions shown in woodcuts and illustrations, it was taller relative to its base than modern pies. Basically, it was a delivery method for the delicious filling, and the coffin itself would not be eaten. Now we are accustomed to eating the whole dish, so crust-making methods have developed differently over the ages.

Here is how one modern cooking expert has interpreted this recipe:*

8 large Golden Delicious apples, peeled, cored and sliced
4 Bartlet pears peeled, cored and sliced
½ cup of raisins
½ cup of figs, sliced
2 tsp cinnamon
1 tsp nutmeg
1 tsp ginger
¼ tsp cloves   
a pinch of saffron

This would make a very different flavor than the typical "American" apple pie. For one thing, Golden Delicious apples, not generally used for baking, are chosen because of their similarity to an old variety that would have been available to medieval cooks. If you recall this recent post on sugar, you'll remember that it was difficult to come by and not an easy inclusion in a recipe. Also, "sweets" had been made and served for centuries without the addition of sugar, relying on the addition of honey or simply the natural sweetness in the fruit. If you are interested in trying this recipe, I suggest falling back on a modern recipe for the crust that suits you.

The next time you hear the phrase "As American as apple pie," think about its long pre-American history.

*I highly recommend the website http://www.godecookery.com, as both scholarly detailed and culinarily satisfying!

Bishop & Bibliophile

The desirable treasure of wisdom and science, which all men desire by an instinct of nature, infinitely surpasses all the riches of the world; in respect of which precious stones are worthless; in comparison with which silver is as clay and pure gold is as a little sand; at whose splendour the sun and moon are dark to look upon; compared with whose marvellous sweetness honey and manna are bitter to the taste. ... Where dost thou chiefly lie hidden, O most elect treasure! and where shall thirsting souls discover thee? ... Certes, thou hast placed thy tabernacle in books, where the Most High, the Light of lights, the Book of Life, has established thee.

So begins Chapter I of the Philobiblon (Greek for "The Love of Books") of  Richard de Bury (1287-1345). As a young man he studied at Oxford and became a Benedictine. His learning and piety made him a suitable tutor for Prince Edward, son of Edward II and Isabella of France, who after the stormy events of 1327 would become King Edward III. Royal patronage worked well for de Bury: he became Bishop of Durham in 1333, High Chancellor in 1334, and Treasurer of England in 1336. He went on diplomatic missions for the Crown, even in his later years.

Along the way, however, he never gave up the love of learning that first sent him to Oxford and later made him a tutor to royalty. He had libraries in each residence, filled with contemporary authors but mostly classical works. "He kept copyists, scribes, binders, correctors, and illuminators, and he was particularly careful to restore defaced or battered texts." [source]

That love of learning, found in books, needed to be spread far and wide. His purpose for writing the Philobiblon was three-fold:

• To instill in clergy the love of learning, and of book as the source of learning
• To explain his own love of books that drove him to spend so much time collecting and preserving them
• To lay out the policies for management of a library he wanted to establish at Durham College, Oxford

His goal in founding Durham College was to create a place where Benedictines from Durham Abbey could better themselves through education. To that end, he bequeathed his books to the library at Durham College. Sadly, Durham College was dissolved, like many other religious institutions, by Henry VIII. Its memory remains as the Durham Quadrangle on the grounds of Trinity College. Tradition says that the library was broken up, some books going to Balliol, some to the part of the Bodleian called Duke Humphrey's Library, and some to the Welsh antiquarian George Owen (1552-1613).

Despite his connections with royalty, which many men would use as a path to a comfortable life, Richard de Bury's passion for the purchase and preservation of books would outweigh his means. When he died, on 14 April 1345, he was very much in debt. The Philobiblon did not see the light as a printed book until 1473 in Cologne, but numerous editions in various languages appeared over the next centuries, including an English edition in Albany, New York in 1861. It is available at the Gutenberg Project, and may be read (in English) here.

Doctor Profundus

I have written about the Oxford Calculators, four men at Oxford University in the second quarter of the 14th century who made great strides in science and philosophy by treating things like heat and light as if they were quantifiable, even though they did not have ways to measure them. They engaged in "thought experiments" and used mathematics to determine the validity of their points. They were not always right in the end, but they were meticulous in their approach. One of the four was so esteemed that he was called Doctor Profundus, the "Profound Doctor."

Thomas Bradwardine (c.1290-1349) had a reputation as a precocious student at Balliol College. We know he was there by 1321, and later took a doctor of divinity degree. A gifted scholar and theologian, he wrote theories on the Liar Paradox and other logical "insolubles." The Liar Paradox is the statement "I am a liar." For it to be true, the speaker must be a liar; but if it is a true statement then the speaker is not lying. Resolving with logic how such statements can be understood had been tackled for centuries. Bradwardine's work Insolubilia presented complex solutions for puzzles/statements like this.

Like many university men of his day, Bradwardine followed an ecclesiastical career path. After serving as chancellor of the university, he became chancellor of the diocese of London and Dean of St.Paul's. He was also chosen to be chaplain and confessor to Edward III (mentioned in this blog numerous times), celebrating victory masses after campaigns of the Hundred Years War and being entrusted with diplomatic missions. The only time he did not have Edward's support was when John Stratford, Archbishop of Canterbury, died. Bradwardine was elected archbishop by the canons of Canterbury, but Edward opposed the choice, preferring his own chancellor at the time, John de Ufford. When de Ufford died of the Black Death (this was in 1349), Edward allowed Bradwardine to assume the position. Bradwardine had to travel to Pope Clement VI in Avignon for confirmation. but on his return, he succumbed to the Black Death on 26 August. He had been archbishop for 40 days.

That career would not have secured his place in history, however, even with his work attacking the Pelagian heresy. As one of the Oxford Calculators, he developed the "mean speed" theorem and the Law of Falling Bodies before Galileo. He studied "star polygons" (how regular polygons "tile" or fit together in patterns) before Kepler. He developed mnemonic techniques to improve mental abilities, explaining them in De Memoria Artificiali (On Artificial Memory).

One of his theories involved the vacuum of space. Aristotle felt that a vacuum needed a container, because an open space would automatically become filled by matter outside that space flowing into it. Therefore, according to Aristotle, no vacuum could exist above the world, because there was no container beyond the world to maintain the vacuum. Bradwardine was not satisfied with this. The infinity of space was a hot topic in the Middle Ages and Renaissance. His De causa Dei (On the Causes of God) argued that God Himself was infinite, and therefore space beyond our world extended infinitely. (This was different from suggesting that God created separately a space that was infinite.) He also suggested that this infinity could include other worlds that God could create and rule over.

When the Waters Rise

One of the famous sites in Florence, Italy, is the Ponte Vecchio, the bridge over the River Arno. Ponte Vecchio means "old bridge," and it's true: it is old. It is believed that the bridge that first appears in records in 996 was built in Roman times. That wooden bridge collapsed in 1117; its stone replacement survived until 1333, when the Arno experienced one of the worst floods in its known history.

Giovanni Villani (c.1276-1348) was a Florentine banker who wrote the Nuova Cronica (New Chronicles), a year-by-year account of happenings in Florence in the 14th century. He wanted to make Florence as well-documented as Rome in terms of political events, historic buildings and monuments, and natural disasters. He reports on a flood that started on 3 November 1333.

By noon on the 4th, the waters overtook the banks and spread across the plain of the church of San Salvi, 1000 feet from the riverbanks. Florence, like many cities at the time, was walled, and Villani reports that by nightfall the city wall, which had been holding back the majority of the surge, crumbled from the force of the waters, allowing the rising tide to flood the city. Supposedly, there are scratches high up on columns in the Florence baptistry that survive to this day, showing the height reached by the water. According to Villani, the water flooded the courtyard of the commune (the seat of local government) to a height of 10 feet.

The Arno floods Florence again in 1966

Bridges on the Arno—the Carraia and the Trinità—both collapsed. The Ponte Vecchio stood a little longer, but logs and debris floating own the flood piled up against it, damming the river, which rose higher and flowed over the bridge, eventually bringing all but two central piers down.

All in all, 3000 people are reported to have died because of the flood. While it is often difficult to sympathize with casualties from so long ago and so far away, very recent events on the northeast coast of North America make for an apt comparison across the centuries of two tragedies. But there's even a third tragedy that needs mention here: 1333 was not the first, nor the last, time that the Arno flooded. A devastating flood in Florence in 1966 caused enormous damage; fortunately, modern methods of warning and rescue meant the casualties were kept to 1% of the 1333 totals. But the interesting footnote on the 1966 flood, when compared to 1333: it took place on 3-4 November!

And Then There's Maud

Matilda of Flanders (c.1031-1083), also called Maud, was the wife of William II of Normandy (later William the Conqueror). Their legendary and odd "courtship" was described here. The odd thing is that, after the supposed abuse he heaped on her when she first refused his hand, she later defied her father, Count Baldwin of Flanders, and refused to marry anyone else.

The pope objected, because they were too closely related. Determining the exact relationship has been difficult for modern scholars, however:

It has thus been suggested that both William and Matilda were cousins in the fifth degree, being both directly descended from Rolf the Viking. ... Finally, it has been suggested (perhaps with greater probability) that the prohibition was based on the fact that after the death of Baldwin V's mother, Ogiva, his father, Baldwin IV, had married a daughter of Duke Richard II of Normandy. All these theories have difficulties to overcome, and the matter may well therefore be left in some suspense. —William the Conqueror, David C. Douglas (1964)

We know that she was a direct descendant of Alfred the Great, and also was a descendant of Charlemagne, but those connections should not have sparked the pope's concern. Whatever his objections, they were overcome eventually with the help of Lanfranc (see the link above).

Matilda proved to be an admirable consort. She outfitted a ship, the Mora, with her own funds to join his fleet for the Conquest of England. She also had skills as an administrator: William left the Duchy of Normandy in her hands when he headed to England in 1066 to defeat Harold. In fact, although she did spend time with her husband in England—notably when she accompanied him during his Harrying of the North campaign—except for giving birth to their fourth child, Henry, in Yorkshire while on that campaign, all of their other children were born in Normandy.

One thing she likely did not do is work on the Bayeaux Tapestry. As picturesque as the image is of her and her ladies in waiting working away as seamstresses and embroiderers, it is now believed that the tapestry (actually a banner) was arranged by Bishop Odo of Bayeaux (William's half-brother) and created by Kentish artists.

So far as we know, once she captured William's heart she never let it go again. There are no records of William having any children outside of his marriage, or of taking a mistress. They had nine children, all of whom lived to adulthood. Two of them became kings: William II, called Rufus, who ruled England after the Conqueror, and Henry who ruled after William as Henry I.

Her illness and death, with William at her side, was devastating for her husband. William survived her by four years, but he was changed. True, in 1085 he called for the Domesday Book, but his interest in ruling England was waning, and he returned to Normandy for good in 1086. There are also reports that he became more cruel. When he died, he was buried in Caen, near but not with his wife. While he was buried at Abbaye aux Hommes (Abbey of Men), at which Lanfranc had once been abbot, Matilda was interred down the road at the Abbaye aux Dames (Abbey of Women), which had been founded by William and Matilda in 1062. She is buried under a slab of black marble.

Matilda of Flanders died 929 years ago today. The illustration is a statue of her in Paris

Sugar, Short & Sweet

In a few parts of the world today, children are gorging on their haul of candy from trick-or-treating last night. The makers of candy out-do themselves yearly in producing variations on sugar and chocolate and color and texture, et cetera. But there is hardly anything in children's sacks and plastic jack-o-lanterns today that does not contain sugar.

A medieval merchant weighs sugar for sale

It was soldiers of the Persian Emperor Darius who reported finding, near the Indus River in 510 BCE, reeds which produced honey without bees. Nothing was made of this discovery, but Alexander the Great in 327 BCE learned of it and spread the knowledge to the Mediterranean. By 95 CE, this substance was well-known to the point where the Periplus Maris Erythræi (Guidebook to the Red Sea) could say there is "Exported commonly ... honey of reeds which is called sakchar." Not only may this be the first recorded evidence of sugar cane, it is probably also the origin of the later term saccharine.

But let's skip a bit to the European Middle Ages. According to one scholar, the Muslim conquest of Sicily would have introduced sugar to the West:

"Practically all the distinguishing features of Sicilian husbandry were introduced by the Arabs: citrus, cotton, carob, mulberry, both the celso, or black and the white morrella-sugar cane, hemp, date palm, the list is almost endless." — The Barrier and the Bridge-Historic Sicily, Alfonso Lowe (1972)

When William II of Sicily (1155-1189) built the Benedictine Abbey of Monreale and made it the largest landowner in Sicily after the Crown, it became one of the largest manufacturers of processed sugar in Europe.

Sugar was wonderful, like honey before it. It could be used to sweeten food, make medicine more palatable, and produce new kinds of drinks. It also could add a decorative touch to food: either by adding sparkle to fruit dusted in sugar crystals, or by caramelizing to a lovely brown on cooked foods.

Still, sugar was not as common as everyone would have liked. In 1226, Henry III (1207-1272) had difficulty finding 3 whole pounds needed for a banquet. Before long, however, production and trade must have increased, because only a generation later, in 1259, Henry could have bought that pound of sugar for only 12 shillings (ginger was 18 shillings, and a pound of cumin was only 2).

To see a collection of recipes from the Middle Ages for sweets, many of which used sugar, see here.

Trick or Treat

Like finding the origin of Mother Goose in Bertrada of Laon, or finding the origin of "Ring Around the Rosie" in the Bubonic Plague, finding the origin of Halloween in the Middle Ages is difficult. It is easy to associate ghosts and witches with an era that was technologically and academically more primitive. But the chain of causality requires more links than that ... so let's manufacture some.

When Pope Gregory the Great (c.540-604) sent missionaries to bring Christianity to the world, he gave them a bold idea: don't argue with the natives about their religious practices, but explain to them that the true source of goodness comes from the Christian God. What he really said was:

"Non enim pro locis res, sed pro bonis rebus loca amanda sunt." — "Things are not to be loved for the sake of a place, but places are to be loved for the sake of their good things."

In other words, if the natives worshiped a rock or a tree or a hill, do not tell them that they are wrong. Instead, preach at that place and convince them that the special quality of the place originates with God, not in the tree or rock itself.

Therefore, Celtic festivals weren't suppressed, but subsumed. The festival of Samhain (pronounced like sow in), approximately halfway between the autumnal equinox and the winter solstice, celebrated harvest time and the end of the growing season. It is, we believe (because the Celts didn't exactly leave written records), a time when dying was on people's minds because of what was happening to the flora all around, and so it was thought that spirits might be more likely to appear or be active around that time.

In 609, All Saints Day was established in May, but in 835 it was moved to its current spot in November, right at the time that Samhain was being celebrated. Another name for All Saints was "All Hallows" because "Hallow" means "Holy" and refers to the saints. The evening before the day was therefore called "All Hallows Eve," which eventually was shortened to Halloween (the word "Halloween" doesn't appear in English until the 18th century). A three-day span of celebrating the dead was established in the 10th century when the 2nd of November was named "All Souls Day" to include a time to pray for those who were not saints.

The pagan custom of leaving offerings (soul cakes) out for spirits is connected in people's minds with the candy and treats given out to children on Halloween. Pumpkins were not known in Europe in the Middle Ages, so we are told that jack-o-lanterns (the name first appears in 1660) were carved from turnips (the modern practice of carving pumpkins in America is first mentioned in 1834).

Despite the similarities we can find between the ancient customs and the current pastime, to say that the former evolved into the latter would require putting aside any pretense at scholarly thought. Even a century ago, it was not being celebrated as it is today. The current secular holiday seems to be a revival of old customs for the sake of having fun, not an extension of a spiritual belief.

But it was an easy intro to Gregory the Great, who probably deserved a mention in this blog long before this.

Carolingian Bystanders

To round out the Merovingian/Carolingian week we've been having, let's take a look at some of the other women and children whose lives were intertwined with political events. Bertrada of Laon is interesting because she was so involved in the events of her time.* Many folk, however, were more ... "incidental" to their era. History focuses on the principals, and yet everyone had family around them. What about those other people?

Charlemagne, his children, their tutors

For instance: yesterday I mentioned that Carloman's wife wanted his son to inherit the throne after Carloman's death. What happened to her and her son? Her name was Gerberga, and little about her is known except that she must have been Frankish. When her brother-in-law Charlemagne married Desiderata, a Lombard (from the folk who were traditionally enemies of the papacy), Pope Stephen III wrote a letter to both brothers, referring to their father's "explicit order" that they be "united in marriage to beautiful Frankish women." There was no criticism about Gerberga as there was about Desiderata, so we can assume Gerberga was a Frank. Gerberga fled to Lombardy when her eldest son, Pippin, was rejected as king; this action seems to have motivated Charlemagne to enter Italy and attack the Lombards, finally defeating them completely and enabling him to give his eldest son, Carloman, the Iron Crown of Lombardy (and renaming him "Pippin" at the same time).

But wasn't Charlemagne allied with the Lombards' King Desiderius through his marriage to Desiderius' daughter? Not anymore. I glossed over some facts in this post. Just as Pepin the Short put aside Leutberga to marry Bertrada, Charlemagne dumped Desiderata. His second wife was Hildegard of Vinzgouw, who bore several children; Carloman/Pippin was her child, as was Louis the Pious who inherited after Charlemagne. But what about Himiltrude? Probably not a wife, but a paramour whose son by Charlemagne, Pippin the Hunchback, was exiled to a monastery by his father years later after leading a rebellion. And then there was Fastrada, Charlemagne's third wife, whose daughter Theodrada (b.784) became an abbess. Charlemagne took a fourth wife, Luitgard, who died 4 June 800, months before he was crowned Holy Roman Emperor. They had no children.

Ultimately, Charlemagne had 17 recorded children with between eight and ten wives and mistresses. He did his best by them, according to his biographers. Sons and daughters were all educated. When he was home, he took meals with his children. When he traveled, his sons rode with him.

And I want to give some attention to Gisela. Pepin the Short and Bertrada had eight children that we know of, only three of which lived to adulthood. Charles and Carloman you know. Gisela (757-810) was dedicated to religion from childhood (according to Charlemagne's most famous biographer, Einhard), and became a nun at Chelles Abbey. Abbeys and monasteries were often the place where people could be put "out of the way"—under house arrest, as it were, such as with Pippin the Hunchback mentioned above—but that was not the case with Gisela. For one thing, as a woman she posed no threat to her brothers' ambitions. Also, Chelles Abbey appears to have benefited from her presence. Charlemagne's interest in education and the arts is well-known, and Chelles became a tool of the Carolingian Renascence. Chelles became a prolific scriptorium in the 8th and 9th centuries, copying and preserving manuscripts from all over. Gisela would have had welcome company later, when Charlemagne's daughter Rotrude joined her aunt there. Gisela probably joined the abbey too late to meet her step-grandmother: Charles Martel had also had more than one wife, and his second, Swanachild, was put in Chelles after Charles' death, when she failed in her attempt to help her son Grifo claim some inheritance from his half-brothers, Pepin the Short and Carloman.

I am always curious about the bystanders, the people involved in fascinating times but whose personal stories we can never know. I'm glad for the chance to give some exposure, however brief and incomplete, to the unknown facets of stories we have all heard before and think we know.

*And, of course, few other women in the Middle Ages were played on Broadway by Irene Ryan. Nota bene: the musical "Pippin" is based on the life of Pippin the Hunchback, not Carloman/Pippin who became King of Lombardy.

Mothers and Sons

Bertrada of Laon, first introduced here, was the wife of Pepin the Short and mother of Charles (later Charlemagne) and Carloman.* She was not a passive wife and queen. Her relationship with Pepin started while he was still married. She accompanied him on military campaigns. After his death, she stayed involved in the kingdom through her sons.

Her sons did not always see eye-to-eye. Each had half their father's kingdom, but they were supposed to share the part of Aquitaine that Pepin had conquered. When Pepin's death motivated the Aquitainians to rebel, Charlemagne led an army to subdue it. Carloman likewise marched in with an army; the two joined up at Moncontour, where the brothers quarreled and Carloman took his army and went home. Some historians think Carloman was hoping to see Charlemagne's power appear unequal to the task of ruling. Charlemagne succeeded in putting down the rebellion, however, and Carloman simply looked petty and unpatriotic.

Although Bertrada was living at Aachen with Charlemagne—and would for most of her widowhood—she is credited with trying to reconcile the two after their falling out. In light of later events, however, I wonder at her motivations. Her efforts in supporting Charlemagne often seemed to be to the detriment of her younger son.

For instance, she persuaded Charlemagne to marry Desiderata, daughter of King Desiderius of Lombardy. The Franks had fought the Lombards on the pope's behalf in the past, so this was an unusual move. The result, however, was an alliance between Charlemagne and an enemy who would no longer give him trouble. Apparently Carloman tried to warn the pope of the dangers of this alliance, but Bertrada had convinced Desiderius to give up some territories that were of interest to the papacy. The pope was persuaded to bless the union of his friend with his enemy.

Family Tree; "Carolus magnus" is in the lower left

In 770 Bertrada visited Carloman at his headquarters in Seltz (a little northwest of Baden-Baden). It was a unique visit for her, and we don't know what her purpose was: maybe to soothe his hurt feelings, maybe to explain to him her vision for the kingdom, which seemed to be centered on Charlemagne. She also traveled to Bavaria in 770, to speak to Duke Tassilo. Tassilo was a nephew of Pepin the Short, and Bertrada was probably relying on the alliance between the Bavarians and Lombards to ensure the support of the Lombards for Charlemagne.

Not only did this marriage create an alliance between Charlemagne and the enemies of the pope, but also meant Carloman's territory had Charlemagne on his western side and a traditional enemy in the Lombards on the eastern. Carloman was isolated now, but his discomfort would not last long. Carloman died suddenly in 771; very suddenly, but no chroniclers at the time hint at foul play (of course, the chroniclers at the time were fans of Charlemagne). His widow expected their son Pepin to inherit, but her husband's advisers all turned against this plan and asked Charlemagne to reunite the kingdoms. It was only after Carloman's death and Charlemagne's assumption of power over the whole kingdom that Bertrada left her son's side and retired to the Abbey of Choisy sur Aisne. She died in 783; Charlemagne buried her with honors in St.-Denis.

One final note. Bertrada had a nickname: Regina pede aucae (queen with a goose foot). In English, she was called Bertha Broadfoot. No doubt she had large feet, and perhaps walked a little oddly. Some (pseudo-)historians have decided to make a connection between her and the character of "Mother Goose." The earliest reference we have to such a figure is from 1650 and a reference in French to something "like a mother goose story." As I explained in the case of the rhyme "Ring around the rosy" however, such tenuous connections ought never to be made.

Okay, one more final note on the relationship between Charles and Carloman: Charles named his eldest son "Carloman" as, we would assume, a tribute to his brother. This boy was named King of Italy and took the Iron Crown of Lombardy in 781, but there is no King Carloman of Italy in the records. Why? Because in that same ceremony, Charlemagne re-named his son "Pippin," wiping out the tribute to his now-long-dead brother. Ouch.

*There was a third child who lived to adulthood, Gisela (757-810), who became a nun and then abbess at Chelles Abbey.

Sons and Mothers

Bertrada of Laon

Properly speaking, the Carolingian Era started with Carolus Martellus, Charles "the Hammer" Martel (c.688-741). After his death, his two sons maintained order in the Frankish kingdoms of Neustria and Austrasia, until Carloman stepped down in 747, leaving Pepin the Short to unite the two and be named Rex Francorum (King of the Franks) by the pope. Sadly, for the kingdom, it was divided again upon Pepin's death, between his two sons, Charles and Carloman.

There appears to have been bad blood between the brothers, but little agreement as to the cause. Consider, however, that the two were very young when their father—and both boys, to ensure the dynasty's legitimacy—was anointed by Pope Stephen II. They had both grown up believing it was their destiny to rule. Also, they had never known a divided kingdom. Their father had united the two parts, and then extended the borders into Aquitaine. In 768, after the kingdom of the Franks had been unified for 20 years, to have it made smaller again by dividing it might have tried the patience of the most peaceable of brothers. Perhaps a mother's influence might have softened the sibling rivalry, except that this mother had a favorite.

Bertrada of Laon married Pepin in 740—and here is another potential reason for the brothers' hostility. "Married" might not be considered a flexible term in this case. (Remember that it would take the church another 500 years to codify marriage a little more strictly.) Pepin was apparently married earlier to a Leutberga, of whom little is known—still married, technically. He put his first wife aside in order to choose Bertrada. Charles was born in 742 from this second union. Pepin and Bertrada's marriage was not confirmed by the church until years later. After the marriage was considered legitimate, Carloman was born. Carloman may have considered himself the legitimate heir, even though Charles was the elder.

Bertrada was an educated woman and spoke Latin. When Pepin went to Narbonne to fight Saracens, she accompanied him. This desire to be involved in politics meant she wasn't going to sit idly by while her sons ruled their respective parts of the kingdom. We'll see a little more of that tomorrow.

After the Hammer Fell

Nicknames: so easy to get, so hard to get rid of. When Mayor of the Palace and military genius  Charles Martel presented his 12-year-old son to the nobles of the Frankish court, he (jokingly) referred to him as "Pepin the Short." (Really, dad? You get to be called "the Hammer" and I have to be known as "the Short" in all the chronicles? How fair is that?)

Pepin (714-768) was not the only son of Charles Martel to take a leadership role; he's just the one we remember because of his son, Charlemagne. But the Carolingian Age started with Martel, and Pepin was an important part of it before Charlemagne stepped onto the scene. Pepin had two brothers. After the death of their father, Carloman (the eldest) was Mayor of the Palace for Austrasia (including Tournai, Aachen, Cologne and Metz) while Pepin was Mayor of the Palace for Neustria (the territory from Nantes and Tours on the south along the Loire to Soissons in the north). They picked Childeric III to be a puppet king starting in 743, not being willing to take over in their own right.* A third brother, Grifo (son of Charles' second wife), wanted to have some authority, but Pepin and Carloman locked him away in a monastery.

In 747, Carloman decided to retire to a monastery, leaving the running of Austrasia to Pepin. Pepin decided it was time to make a radical change, so he wrote to Pope Zachary with a question: who should be king, the one with the family title or the one who actually exercised the power? By this time, the pope had come to rely on Frankish military support, so he was certainly willing to take the necessary steps. He dethroned Childeric and tonsured him. (The cutting of his hair was a powerful symbol: the Merovingian line believed in not ever cutting their hair as a sign of the royal authority.) Childeric and his son, Theuderic, went to a monastery.

So Pepin the Short (infrequently called Pepin III because his grandfather and great-great-grandfather were both Pepins) became the new King of the Franks, being anointed by the archbishop of Mainz in 752, and then in 754 at St.-Denis in Paris by Pope Stephen II. In order to ensure a succession, the pope anointed Pepin's sons at the same time, establishing that the two boys, Charles and Carloman.

Pepin's first act was to attack the Lombards in Italy, returning control of Ravenna and more to the pope, establishing the Papal States and the pope's temporal authority. He also worked hard to assume control over as much the the Aquitaine as possible. He continued to expand the army and cavalry as his father had done. He fought more battles with Muslims encroaching from Spain and drove them out of Gaul. He was, in fact, never defeated in battle.

Which is not to say that he never died in battle. He died at the age of 54 in a military campaign. He was interred in the church of St.-Denis. Just as the kingdom was divided among Clovis' four sons, so was it divided again between Pepin's sons Charles and Carloman. The Carolingians had the potential to be just as divisive as the Merovingians who came before. Sibling rivalry can be even more bitter, however, when mother plays favorites.

*Childeric was truly plucked from obscurity; modern historians are not sure of his parentage.