Black Monday

Today is known in the USA as Black Friday. The term was coined in 1966 to refer to the practice of kicking off the Christmas shopping season with big sales on the day after Thanksgiving, and is "black" because the increased revenue is supposed to lift companies out of red ink and into solvency.* "Black" has been used historically to denote particular days when disaster has struck. There is more than one Black Sunday, and Black Tuesday will forever be linked with the USA stock market crash on 29 October, 1929. The markets crashed again on 19 October, 1987—though not so spectacularly as in 1929. There are also a number of Black Mondays, but I want to focus on two of them.

In The antiquities and history of Ireland (1705) by Sir James Ware and Sir John Davie, we find this:

The occasion of Black-Monday, and the Original remembrance thereof rose at Dublin. The City of Dublin, by reason of some great Mortality, being waste and desolate, the Inhabitants of Bristol flock'd thither to Inhabit, who after their Country manner, upon Holy-days, some for love of the fresh Air, some to avoid Idleness, some other for Pastime, Pleasure, and Gaming-sake, flock'd out of the Town towards Cullen's Wood upon Monday in Easter Week. The Bitanes, Tooles, (the Mountain Enemies) like Wolves lay in Ambush for them, and upon finding them unarm'd, fell upon them, and slew 300 men besides Women and Children, ...

Also called "The Cullenswood Massacre," the event in 1209 was commemorated by Dubliners every year for a few centuries afterward.

Hailstones from a storm in the Philippines

The other Black Monday (in fact, there are several, but I'm talking about the medieval ones) took place in 1360. The Hundred Years War was in a particularly busy phase, and Edward III's forces were all over France. While he was approaching Chartres, a storm of great severity struck his encamped forces on 13 April (Easter Monday that year). It brought thunder, lightning, high winds, hailstones as big as pigeon eggs that dented armor. One report described it as “A foul dark day of mist and hail, and so bitter cold, that sitting on horseback men died.” We are told that 1000 men and 6000 horses died from the storm. According to Froissart, this storm was taken by many of Edward's advisers to be an omen; they convinced him to make peace, and on 8 May the Treaty of Brétigny was first concluded (it was formally ratified months later at Calais).

*Calendar note: given the way Thanksgiving is calculated, today (the 22nd) is the earliest date that Black Friday can take place; the latest is 29 November.

To Make an Antipope

What makes a pope into an antipope?

In 355, the Roman Emperor Constantius II (317-361) wasn't happy with the pope. Constantius was an Arian Christian, and he did not care for the Council of Nicaea's decision to outlaw Arianism. Since St. Athanasius of Alexandria was instrumental in that decision, Constantius wanted Pope Liberius (ruled 352-366) to condemn Athanasius. Liberius refused to do so, and the Emperor sent him into exile in Thrace.

In his place, the Emperor installed Pope Felix II. The politics of papal succession were far more flexible then. It wasn't until Celestine V that formal voting by the body of cardinals began to be the expected method. So temporal rulers often put their favorites on the Throne of St. Peter. Little is known of what Felix accomplished. Records from the 4th century are scarce, and his name was later confused with St. Felix. After two years, the people of Rome begged Constantius to bring back Liberius; it took another year for him to return. Felix was still present, and Constantius wanted the two to rule jointly, but the people of Rome objected and drove Felix out. Tradition says he was forced to retire to Porto, near Rome, where he died on 22 November 365.

To declare Felix II an antipope seems easy—he was appointed randomly by a temporal ruler who ousted the previous pope—but what about situations like the chaos connected to Benedict VIII? How do you untangle that mess? And if cardinals are split, and some elect one pope and some elect another, how do you determine legitimacy? The Annuario Pontificio (the Pope's Yearbook) puts it thusly:

we come across elections in which problems of harmonising historical criteria and those of theology and canon law make it impossible to decide clearly which side possessed the legitimacy whose factual existence guarantees the unbroken lawful succession of the successors of Saint Peter. The uncertainty that in some cases results has made it advisable to abandon the assignation of successive numbers in the list of the popes.

Felix II, for instance, has not had his number altered, and so the next pope to take the name Felix is called Felix III, even though he is only the second "true" pope to be named Felix. Forty-one names in papal records are listed as antipopes. The last was Felix V, who reigned from 1439-1449. Since that time, the College of Cardinals has been more careful in its elections, and has reached consensus before declaring Habemus papam! ("We have a pope!") The illustration above is of Saint Hippolytus of Rome, (c.170 - 235), considered the first antipope.

Other Popes Who Quit

Pope Celestine V might have needed Cardinal Benedetto Gaetani to find a justification for him to resign, but papal resignations had taken place previously. The 11th century saw two papal resignations that might have saved a little time in the 13th century, had they been remembered.

The Chair of Peter

One of them was largely a political pawn—albeit probably a willing one. Phasanius became pope in January 1004, taking the name John XVIII.* Like several decades of popes prior to him, he owed familial allegiance to the head of the Crescentii clan, a patrician Roman family who wielded great power in Rome, controlling much of the City as well as the popes. Unlike Celestine V, John XVIII was an administrator, and the records of his papacy show that he worked at various initiatives: he established a base, the See of Bamberg, from which to begin christianizing the Slavs to please King Henry II of Germany. He confirmed archbishops, including Elphege of Canterbury. He arbitrated disputes between religious figures. Even in Constantinople he gained Eastern Orthodox recognition as the Bishop of Rome; it is assumed he somehow reached out to the Eastern Church and established (however briefly) some kind of détente.

Details of his departure from the Throne of Peter are missing. A catalog of popes lists him as having been a monk at St. Paul's near Rome at his death in June 1009. At some point he must have stepped down; perhaps he wasn't doing enough for John Crescentius III, the had of the Crescentii clan. He was replaced by Pietro Martino Buccaporci (Peter Martin Pigsnout), who was no doubt glad to take the name Pope Sergius IV. Sergius and John Crescentius both died in the spring of 1012, and the Crescentii influnce over the papacy faded away.

About the same time that Sergius and John Crescentii were dying, Theophylactus of Tusculum (c.1012-c.1056) was born in Rome. Son of the Count of Tusculum, he achieved the papacy as a young man in 1032 through the efforts of his father, taking the name Benedict VIII. He clearly had no qualifications for being pope; it was said of him that he "feasted on immorality" (St. Peter Damian) and that "a demon from hell in the disguise of a priest... occupied the chair of Peter and profaned the sacred mysteries of religion by his insolent courses." (Ferdinand Gregorovius)

It can be said that he left the papacy several times, some of them of his own volition. He was driven from Rome in 1036, but returned with the help of Emperor Conrad II. He was driven out again in 1044 and Pope Sylvester III was elected, but Benedict returned again in April 1045 and drove out Sylvester (who never stopped calling himself pope). In May 1045, Benedict resigned in order to get married; he sold the papacy to his godfather, Fr. John Gratian, who took the papal name Gregory VI.

Papal coat of arms

He changed his mind, however, and returned to Rome months later, taking back the throne by force until July 1046. For most residents of Rome, however, Gregory VI was the true pope now. It did not help when Sylvester III pushed his own previous claim forward. King Henry III of Germany intervened, and at the Council of Sutri in December 1046, it as decided that all three popes were to be replaced. A bishop from Germany named Suidger became Pope Clement II. Clement died less than a year later, however, and Benedict tried to seize power again but was driven away by German troops. Poppo of Brixen was elected Pope Damasus II, and things finally started to settle down.

*Note: although he was the 18th pope to take the name John, he is officially considered the 17th John, because John XVI (pope from 997-998) has been declared an antipope and does not count in the true reckoning of popes. The historical numbers taken by the popes has never been "corrected."

The Pope Who Quit

Yesterday referred to the resignation of Pope Celestine V, and that there was some confusion about it. It was not common for popes to resign, but it did happen.

Pope Celestine is crowned

Celestine V (1215-1296) was born Pietro Angelerio to a family of humble farmers. His mother wanted better for him; it may be through her urging that he joined a Benedictine monastery in 1232. After several years, he chose the life of an ascetic, and lived in a succession of caves, including one at Monte Morone, because of which he was sometimes called Pietro di Morone. His penitential activities were severe: he wore a chain of iron, fasted every day except Sunday, spent four Lents each year while living on bread and water, and prayed continuously. As we have seen previously, such holy men draw others to them, and soon Pietro had a following who wished to live by his example. This following became a sub-order of the Benedictines, and were called the Celestines. He seemed content to live an exemplary life for other devout ascetics.

The simple life would not be his forever. The Catholic Encyclopedia explains the turning point:

In July, 1294, his pious exercises were suddently[sic] interrupted by a scene unparalleled in ecclesiastical history. Three eminent dignitaries, accompanied by an immense multitude of monks and laymen, ascended the mountain, announced that Pietro had been chosen pope by unanimous vote of the Sacred College and humbly begged him to accept the honour.  [source]

A deadlocked committee of cardinals spent two years and three months after the death of Pope Nicholas IV, unable to agree on a candidate, until Cardinal Latino Orsini (d.1294) proclaimed that a good and saintly man would come to Rome and admonish them if they did not come to agreement. Supposedly, they all knew to whom he referred: the hermit of the Morone. King Charles of Naples liked the idea that one of his subjects would become pope. Thousands of members of spiritual orders believed this was the best election in centuries.

He was crowned August 1294 as Celestine V (note that he was almost 80 years of age), and quickly showed that he was not going to be a good pope. He had no organizational skills, and no memory (he would give the same benefice to more than one person). He would appoint bishops and cardinals without observing proper protocols. He quickly created many cardinals, the majority of them French; this would help lead to the Avignon papacy which led to the Great Schism. He tried to make the cardinals adhere to a strict schedule of prayer, and wanted to give away papal treasure to the poor.

Letter from the cardinals to Angelerio, asking him to be pope

He wasn't exactly enjoying the life. Administrative matters began to press on him, which left him no time for his devotions. Resigning the position seemed like a good idea, but could it be done? Were popes eligible for resignation? Cardinal Benedetto Gaetani advised that common sense and the need to preserve the church allowed for resignation when the pope was incapable of performing the job. The aged pope summoned his cardinals and resigned after only five months and eight days, leaving to them the task of finding his replacement. Within two weeks, they had one: Benedetto Gaetani—who had provided the argument allowing Celestine to resign—would become Pope Boniface VIII. His first acts were to revoke many of the decrees of his predecessor. He also took Celestine into custody, lest the old man become a tool for some unscrupulous person who might challenge the change in pontiff. He imprisoned Celestine for the remainder of his life. To us this seems cruel, but for the reluctant pope it meant a return to the solitary life he had enjoyed for decades, left with silence and the time to pray. He died 13 December, 1294.

One Faith

When Pope Boniface VIII wasn't excommunicating people for treating corpses in unapproved ways, he was very busy doing lots of other things.

Maybe we should start at the beginning.

Benedetto Gaetani was born about 1235 in Italy. A younger son of minor nobility, his religious career began when he was sent to a monastery. He became secretary to a cardinal in 1264, which put him close to Vatican politics. He had a busy career in international affairs, accompanying a cardinal to England to put down a rebellion, going to France to supervise a collection, and acting as a diplomat to France, Naples, Sicily and Aragon.

In December of 1294, stating "the desire for humility, for a purer life, for a stainless conscience, the deficiencies of his own physical strength, his ignorance, the perverseness of the people, his longing for the tranquility of his former life," Pope Celestine V resigned. A contemporary said that it was Benedetto Gaetani who convinced him to resign; other reports say that he was only one of several, or that Gaetani was the person who convinced Celestine that a papal resignation was legal. Whatever the case, Benedetto Gaetani was elected pope by the conclave on Christmas Eve.

That's when the fun began. His first act was to imprison his predecessor. A few years later he formalized the Roman Jubilee, a tradition that established a year of pilgrimages to Rome for pardoning of sins. This influx of tourists seeking forgiveness turned into a big money-maker for the pontiff. This may be why Dante put Boniface into the 8th circle of Hell in Inferno, with the simonists. He enriched the lives of his relatives, and used his position to war against the Colonna family (rivals of the Gaetani); he even offered a pardon for one's sins equivalent to that granted when one goes on Crusade if you would join in his war against the Colonna. He was the epitome of a power-mad ruler.

Then, on 18 November 1302, Boniface made his boldest move: the papal bull called Unam Sanctam (One Faith). The document establishes that salvation is only available through the Church, and that the Church wields "two swords" that represent both spiritual and temporal power. Among other pronouncements, it concludes with

Furthermore, we declare, we proclaim, we define that it is absolutely necessary for salvation that every human creature be subject to the Roman Pontiff.

...and that has been the source of endless conflict between the papacy and others ever since.

Refuting Astrology

As attractive as astrology was in the Middle Ages, not everyone was willing to accept the premise that it was "easy" to use it for predictive purposes, or even that it was likely that the existence and movements of observable heavenly bodies had a direct influence on events and people on Earth.

We have seen how some sources, such as the University of Paris, spoke against astrology's predictive uses not because it believed they were in error, but because they were believed to contravene God's wishes for human beings. There were others who objected to the reliance on astrology because they could not believe that it was likely to work.

Ibn Qayyim Al-Jawziyya (1292-1350) was a Sunni Islam theologian and commentator on the Qu'ran. Not given to flights of fancy, and accustomed to arguing the details of the law, he put a critical lens on astrology. One of the lynch pins of his refutation of astrology came from the fact that hundreds of stars were not included in astrological calculations. Astrologers told him that the stars were too far away and to small to matter. To Al Jawziyya, this was an intolerable double-standard:

And if you astrologers answer that it is precisely because of this distance and smallness that their influences are negligible, then why is it that you claim a great influence for the smallest heavenly body, Mercury? Why is it that you have given an influence to al-Ra's and al-Dhanab, which are two imaginary points?

Astrologers accepted at the time, through their calculations, that the stars appeared small because they were far away, but were actually enormous compared to the world. They also knew that the Milky Way was "a myriad of tiny stars packed together in the sphere of the fixed stars"; Al-Jawziyya said that it was impossible to know what effect, if any, they would have. Astrology had too many variables, and was just so much guesswork.

What were the "two imaginary points" mentioned in the above quotation? He was referring to "orbital nodes," the imaginary point in space where the line of "an orbit crosses the plane of reference to which it is inclined." Astrologers made much out of these points, which had no physical existence, and yet ignored actual physical stars. They neglected stars as being too small to matter, and yet put all their attention on planets that were a ridiculously small fraction of the size of a star. To the keen legal and theological mind of Al-Jawziyya, this suggested that astrology was not, in fact, based on any kind of rational thinking.

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.