St. Brendan

Brendan of Clonfert was born 484CE in County Kerry, southwest Ireland. Fostered by a nun, at the age of six he was sent to St. Jarlath's monastery and tutored by Finnian of Clonard, whose students were so well-received that they include the "Twelve Apostles of Ireland."

Ordained at 26, he embarked on a series of voyages to found monasteries and monastic cells, traveling to the Aran Islands, Argyll, Wales, and Brittany. His most famous voyage is recorded in Navigatio Sancti Brendani Abbatis (Voyage of Saint Brendan the Abbot), written over 300 years after his death (in 577). In it, he heads into the Atlantic with several followers (numbers vary in different manuscripts).

The voyage takes seven years and visits many odd islands: the Isle of Birds, Isle of Sheep, the Island of Strong Men, an island with silent monks. The first island they come across is uninhabited, but one of his companions dies there (two others will die at different locations).

One interesting stop they make is on an island where everything seems calm and peaceful. When they light a fire, however, the island starts to move; they realize the "island" is actually the back of an enormous fish that has been floating on the surface of the ocean long enough for plants to grow on its back. The narrative calls this monster "Jasconius." It is a common legendary encounter in classical and medieval literature, but by a different name.

Was any of this narrative based on fact? Well, Brendan did voyage to islands to spread Christianity. The Navigatio says that Brendan finally reached the Promised Land for Saints before returning to Ireland. One of the places he found in 512 is referred to as St. Brendan's Isle: a land of thick vegetation where the sun never set, surrounded by a thick mist. He spent 15 days there. This island was put on future maps. The Portuguese prince known as Henry the Navigator (1394 - 1460) claims to have landed there, and later sailors reported seeing it.

A theory arose that St. Brendan's Isle where it was always day may have been Greenland, where the summer months see 24 hours of sunlight. There is a Saint Brendan Society that claims Brendan discovered North America, and at least one writer believes the details of the voyage prove that Brendan discovered Brazil! A man named Tim Severin proved that a boat like the one Brendan used could make the voyage from Ireland to Greenland.

Post-voyage, he continued to found monasteries, as well as a convent in Annaghdown for his sister, Briga. It was during a visit there to see his sister that he died. He was interred in Clonfert Cathedral. The Catholic Church recognizes his sainthood, and celebrates his feast day on 16 May. He is the patron saint of sailors and travelers.

Brendan is remarkable for the account of the legendary voyage ascribed to him many years later. A more remarkable figure in that time was Finnian of Clonard, about whom you'll learn more tomorrow. See you then.

Fastitocalon

Fastitocalon is the name given to a sea creature in an Old English poem called "The Whale."

This time I will with poetic art rehearse, by means of words and wit, a poem about a kind of fish, the great sea-monster which is often unwillingly met, terrible and cruel-hearted to seafarers, yea, to every man; this swimmer of the ocean-streams is known as the asp-turtle.

His appearance is like that of a rough boulder, as if there were tossing by the shore a great ocean-reedbank begirt with sand-dunes, so that seamen imagine they are gazing upon an island, and moor their high-prowed ships with cables to that false land, make fast the ocean-coursers at the sea's end, and, bold of heart, climb up on that island; the vessels stand by the beach, enringed by the flood.

The weary-hearted sailors then encamp, dreaming not of peril.
On the island they start a fire, kindle a mounting flame. The dispirited
heroes, eager for repose, are flushed with joy. Now when the cunning
plotter feels that the seamen are firmly established upon him, and have
settled down to enjoy the weather, the guest of ocean sinks without
warning into the salt wave with his prey (?), and makes for the bottom,
thus whelming ships and men in that abode of death.

Such is the way of demons, the wont of devils:

The poem then shares a moral, comparing the experience of Fastitocalon with the Devil, who entices men with a promise of safety and security before turning and "sinking" them into their own destruction.

The poem continues, explaining another trait of the monster: when it is hungry, it opens its enormous maw, from which a "perfume" emanates that draws a host of fish inside, when it then snaps its jaws shut. This suggests that sailors may have actually seen a whale opening its mouth to feed.

Fastitocalon is the name given to the creature, but that is the Old English version of the original. The poem (and two others) is found in a Bestiary called the Old English Physiologus, part of the Exeter Book. In the Latin version, the creature is called aspidochelone, combining Greek aspis (shield) and chelone (turtle). The Old English version has become more popular (and familiar) thanks to Tolkien writing a poem of that name in The Adventures of Tom Bombadil.

Where did the story of this giant sea-creature-as-island originate? There is a Greek Alexander Romance written in the first few centuries CE that contains a whale-island anecdote in a letter from Alexander to Aristotle. The first voyage of Sinbad (composed c.8th-9th centuries CE) tells a similar tale. Pliny the Elder talks about enormous fish as well. The Babylonian Talmud and Inuit of Greenland folklore both contains legends of a fish so large that it resembled an island and inspired sailors to land on its back. There are many more examples from different parts of the world.

Even St. Brendan encountered it, and gave it a name that has since been used by the Magic: The Gathering card game. I'll share more tomorrow.

The Eddas and Tolkien

The first and much-talked -about poem in the Poetic Edda is the Völuspá ("Prophecy of the Seeress"). In it, a seeress tells Odin the story of the Creation of the world and its upcoming end and rebirth. J.R.R.Tolkien (3 January 1892 – 2 September 1973), medievalist and author of The Hobbit and The Lord of the Rings, was intimately familiar with the Eddas and all things northern. When the Völuspá lists the creation of the dwarves, we see some familiar names:

There was Motsognir | the mightiest made
Of all the dwarfs, | and Durin next;
Many a likeness | of men they made,
The dwarfs in the earth, | as Durin said.

11. Nyi and Nithi, | Northri and Suthri,
Austri and Vestri, | Althjof, Dvalin,
Nar and Nain, | Niping, Dain,
Bifur, Bofur, | Bombur, Nori,
An and Onar, | Óin, Mjothvitnir.

12. Vigg and Gandalf | Vindalf, Thorin,
Thror and Thrain | Thekk, Lit and Vit,
Nyr and Nyrath,-- | now have I told--
Regin and Rathsvith-- | the list aright.

13. Fili, Kili, | Fundin, Nali

15. There were Draupnir | and Dolgthrasir,
Hor, Haugspori, | Hlevang, Gloin,
Dori, Ori, | Duf, Andvari,
Skirfir, Virfir, | Skafith, Ai.

You can see here the source of familiar dwarf names in his stories, and one extra: Gandalf (appropriately tinted gray). The name is interpreted as "wand elf" and seems to denote either a magical dwarf or a dwarf with a staff. Speaking of Gandalf the Grey, the illustration above is a postcard in Tolkien's possession which he said was the inspiration for the character of Gandalf. It is called Der Beggeist ("The Mountain-spirit"), and was painted by a German artist in the 1920s. The character's colors are off for Gandalf, and his obvious connection to nature suggests rather Gandalf's colleague Rhadagast the Brown, but something about it caused Tolkien to label it "Origin of Gandalf."

Now, to get from a 20th-century scholar back to medieval scholarship: Tolkien wrote poems, one of which, Fastitocalon, referenced a giant mythological sea creature. This was from an Old English poem called "The Whale," and it's worth taking a look at next time.

The Poetic Edda

The Poetic Edda (author[s] unknown) is our name for a collection of narrative poems in Old Norse. It is distinct from the Prose Edda whose author is known, but Snorri Sturluson certainly found a source for some of his stories in the Poetic Edda. Of all the versions that exist, the "common ancestor" is a manuscript called the Codex Regius or Konungsbók ("King's Book"). The Codex was discovered in 1643; it was made a gift to the king of Denmark in 1662; in 1971 it was taken to Iceland, its likely place of origin.

The poems are all alliterative and use kennings. Authorship is impossible to determine, as well as original composition date for most. They were likely orally transmitted over generations before being committed to written form. Dating of a few can be done by internal information. One poem's title, for instance, Atlamál in grǿnlenzku ("The Greenlandic Lay of Atli") could not have been composed before 985, since Greenland had not been settled before that year. Occasionally a poem will mention an actual historical person, indicating the poem's composition obviously later than that person's life.

Another way of dating and locating the poems is by considering the flora and fauna mentioned. If a story contains wolves, for example, it could not have taken place in Iceland. There is always the chance, however, that poetic license was used to enhance a story.

The best-known and most-examined story in the Edda is the Vǫluspá ("Prophecy of the seeress") in which a seeress tells Odin the story of the creation of the world, its coming end, and its rebirth. It exists not only here, but also in another manuscript, and parts are quoted in the Prose Edda. Although dated to the 10th century, prior to the Christianization of Iceland, some think the idea of rebirth after destruction was influenced by Christian ideas of redemption and Heaven.

Speaking of Norse culture, Christianity, literature, and the Eddas, I hope you'll indulge me in discussing their influence on a 20th century Roman Catholic writer and medievalist named Tolkien; but that's for tomorrow.

The Prose Edda

Written about 1220, the Prose Edda by Snorri Sturluson is a detailed telling of the Scandinavian creation of the world, mythological stories of the gods, the ending of the gods, and other tales besides. It is the most thorough source we have for Norse mythology.

It has four sections. The Prologue tells the basics of the gods, treating them as if they were real people whose exploits became exaggerated over the years. The second part is called Gylfaginning ("The deluding of Gylfi"). Gylfi is tricked by a goddess and tries to sail to Asgard. He winds up elsewhere and is taken to a castle with three kings, who ask him questions about the creation and destruction of the world. After answering, the castle vanishes, leaving him alone.

Part three, Skáldskaparmál ("The Language of Poetry") is over twice as long as part two, and consists of a dialogue between two mythical characters: Ægir (the sea) and Bragi (god of poetry). They discuss the nature of poetry while discussing Norse mythology, and Bragi lists numerous acceptable kennings. A kenning is a phrase that can be used in poetry to stand for something else. An example would be "the wave horse" to refer to a ship.

The last section is Háttatal, ("Tally of Meters"). In it, Snorri explains the different types of verse forms in Scandinavian poetry, using his own works as examples. Rhyme is not as important to this poetry as are number of syllables per line and alliteration.

The origin of the word edda (plural eddur) is uncertain. It is identical to the word for "great-grandmother" in another Eddic poem, the Rígsþula. Another Edda as important to our understanding of Norse mythology and culture is the Poetic Edda. I'll talk about it, and its connection to Tolkien, tomorrow.

Who Was Snorri Sturluson?

Snorri Sturluson (1179 - 1241) was one of several children in a powerful clan. His father died when he was young, and he was raised by Jón Loptsson (or Loftsson), one of the most powerful and respected chieftains in Iceland. Through this connection he had a far better education than he would have received otherwise, learning all about Icelandic history, law, and Norse legends.

Snorri was married in 1199 to Herdis; from his father-in-law he inherited an estate and a chieftainship. He had at least two children with Herdis, but his philandering ways resulted in him leaving her behind to become an estate manager in western Iceland called Reykholt. He fathered at least five more children with three different women.

Known for his knowledge of law, he was made lawspeaker at the Althing, the national parliament of Iceland. He was also known, however, as a poet, and it was that reputation that garnered an invitation to Norway from King Hákon Hákonarson. He was given gifts and a ship, and he wrote poetry about them. the king made him a skutilsvein (knight), and hoped Snorri's loyalty thereby would help Hákon extend his realm to Iceland, by having Snorri speak on his behalf in the Althing.

Unfortunately for Snorri, his attempts to join Iceland to Norway, even as the most powerful chieftain in Iceland from 1224 to 1230, turned much of the island against him. Snorri eventually realized he did not want to support Hákon's plans, and while meeting with the king back in Norway in 1238 famously said (supposedly) "ut vil ek" (literally "I wish out" or "I want out" but idiomatically meaning "I will go home"). He returned to Iceland in 1239.

Snorri became a target of assassination when Hákon sent men with orders to kill or capture him. In 1241, he was confronted in his house in Reykholt. Cornered in the cellar, he died after saying "Do not strike!" to his attackers. The manner of the well-known poet's death raised the ire of people in both Iceland and Norway, and the king backtracked, saying he would have lived had he simply given himself up for capture. (In 1262, the Althing ratified union with Norway.)

Regarding his poetry: Snorri's most consequential work was the Prose Edda, which gives us the most detailed information on the non-Christian religious beliefs of the Scandinavian world. I will go into more on that next time.

Norse Beliefs

I recently mentioned a seiðr worker called in to prophesy. The term describes a range of magical and shamanic activities (magical healing, spirit journeys, prophecy, helping heal the soul). 

There were seiðr rituals for divination and clairvoyance; for seeking out the hidden, both in the secrets of the mind and in physical locations; for healing the sick; for bringing good luck; for controlling the weather; for calling game animals and fish. Importantly, it could also be used for the opposite of these things – to curse an individual or an enterprise; to blight the land and make it barren; to induce illness; to tell false futures and thus to set their recipients on a road to disaster; to injure, maim and kill, in domestic disputes and especially in battle. [Price, Neil S. 2002. The Viking Way: Religion and War in Late Iron Age Scandinavia]

A practitioner was called a seiðkonur. A woman who practiced was sometimes called a vōlva (seeress). The Norse word for witch was norn; norns could also practice seiðr. A seiðkonur could be male or female; however, there is a suggestion that there was an ergi ("unmanliness") to it. Even the ultimate practitioner of seiðr, Odin himself, was labeled with this epithet in works by Snorri Sturluson. 

How it developed in Scandinavian countries is unknown, but its demise took place gradually as Christianization took over.

Snorri Sturluson was one of the big names in Norse literature. Although I have mentioned him before, I haven't talked much about him. I'll fix that gap in our medieval discussion next time.

The Saga of Erik the Red

The Saga of Erik the Red is not about Erik the Red. Erik is in it, as well as his son Leif Ericsson, but it focuses more on the actions of Thorfinn Karlsefni and his wife, Gudrid, with references to exploration and the spread of Christianity.

The first few chapters are background, explaining how Erik the Red gets banished from Iceland and discovers an island he calls Greenland, hoping the name would attract colonists—which it does. A difficult and famine-laced winter causes them to ask a seiðr worker (magician/prophet) to prophesy when their fortunes will change. She needs someone to sing warding songs. A young girl, Gudrid, knows the songs even though she has converted to Christianity. She sings the songs, the prophet predicts the famine will soon end and that Gudrid will make two marriages, one in Iceland and one in Greenland.

Gudrid marries a son of Erik the Red, but he dies in an epidemic. He appears to Gudrid after his death, asking her to make sure asking her to make sure Greenland starts to bury their dead in consecrated ground., tells her to not marry another Greenlander, and says she should give their money to the Church.

A few chapters (and several years) later, Thorfinn Karlsefni visits Greenland as a wealthy merchant, for the purposes of trade. He stays the winter and helps co-host a Yule feast with Erik the Red which becomes a wedding feast when he asks Gudrid's hand in marriage. The newly married couple, with 160 others in two boats, set out for Vinland.

One of the boats goes astray and has several difficulties. Thorfinn's and Gudrid's group reach Vinland where they find plenty of game and fish, and where grapes and wheat grow. They encounter the natives, called the Skrælings, who use boats made of animal skins. When the Skrælings bring a delegation and appear to want to trade, the Norse trade red cloth for animal pelts but refuse the Skrælings' desire for swords and spears. The Skrælings later return in a large group and fling arrows and large stones at the Norse.

The final chapter relates that Thorfinn realizes the hostility will not end, and he and Gudrid eventually return to Iceland and raise their family. Their grandchildren will become the parents of three bishops.

The saga reads like a travel documentary, but is also seen as a glimpse into the non-Christian beliefs of the Norse in Iceland and Greenland. For more on the seidworker and similar figures, come back tomorrow.

The Skræling

Of course, there were inhabitants in North America when the Norse arrived.

The Saga of the Greenlanders tells of an Icelander named Bjarni Herjólfsson who drifted off course while sailing to Greenland in 985 or 986. He spotted land that he suspected was not Greenland. Later sailors such as Leif Eriksson explored past Greenland and found lands they gave names to, such as Helluland (Baffin Island), Markland (Labrador), and Vinland (Newfoundland). Leif built some houses on Vinland in his short time there, delighted that grapes and wheat grew wild.

After returning to Greenland, his brother complained that they had not spent enough time exploring the new territory, so Leif gave his brother, Thorvald, his ship and told him to go ahead. It is Thorvald who would record the first contact with people living in the new lands west of Greenland.

First contact was not amicable. Thorvald's crew was attacked on the beach, and killed eight of the natives. Then the Saga tells us:

'I have been wounded under my arm,' [Thorvald] said. 'An arrow flew between the edge of the ship and the shield into my armpit. Here is the arrow, and this wound will cause my death.'

A few years later, Thorfinn Karlsefni attempted to colonize Vinland about 1010, which may explain the settlement at L'Anse aux Meadows.  (The illustration shows the routes of different voyages. I have added a green star for the location of L'Anse aux Meadows.) His encounter with natives was initially peaceful, trading native pelts for red woven cloth owned by the Norse. This is in the Saga of Erik the Red, which describes them:

They were short in height with threatening features and tangled hair on their heads. Their eyes were large and their cheeks broad.

Later records called these natives Skræling, used to refer not only to Vinland inhabitants, but also to Inuit they encountered in Canada and the proto-Inuit with which they shared Greenland. One likely origin is from the Old Norse skrá, which means "dried skin" and probably referred to the animal pelts they wore. It could also be related to Old Norse skrækja, "shout or yell"; his could be an etymology similar to the Greek barabaros for barbarian, which refers to the nonsensical sounds the Greeks considered any non-Greek language. Modern Icelandic skræling means "barbarian."

Thorfinn had brought livestock, and when a bull broke loose from its pen and rampaged, the natives were frightened and attacked the Norse. Two Norsemen were killed, and many natives. Thorfinn realized that his colony would be under constant threat of attack, so he retreated to Greenland.

The Saga of Erik the Red is a mine of information about these events and more. I'll delve into that mine a little tomorrow and see what can be found.

The Norse in North America

The Medieval Warming Period may have helped the Norse discover North America by reducing North Atlantic ice, making the crossing easier.

They didn't necessarily get far into North America, but on the extreme northern tip of the island of Newfoundland in Canada, there is an archaeological site at L'Anse aux Meadows (Meadows Cove). Begun in 1960, the remains of three structures were found whose timbers via tree-ring dating showed they were cut down about 1021CE. (Model of the village to the left.)

One of the structures contained iron slag, showing that it was a smithy. Stone weights found in one building are consistent with the type used in looms. These suggest the place was not just a seasonal hunting camp, but intended to be a long-term settlement.

One question that remains about this site is: is it the Vinland mentioned in literature? In 1073, a German cleric writes

He [the Danish king, Sven Estridsson] also told me of another island discovered by many in that ocean. It is called Vinland because vines grow there on their own accord, producing the most excellent wine. Moreover, that unsown crops abound there, we have ascertained not from fabulous conjecture but from the reliable reports of the Danes.

Vinland is mentioned in two Icelandic sagas: the Saga of Erik the Red and the Saga of the Greenlanders. They discuss the discovery by Norse Greenlanders of land to the west of Greenland that they call Vinland. Although there is no direct evidence to support the theory, many are content to link the settlement at L'Anse aux Meadows with Vinland. Why didn't the settlement grow and continue? The sagas suggest that internal conflict among the Norse as well as conflict with the peoples native to Vinland caused the failure of the settlement. 

I'll talk a little more about the Norse encounter with the natives tomorrow.

Medieval Warm Period, Again

I did mention the Medieval Warm Period in 2012, from the viewpoint of how Greenland must have been warmer than currently. There is, of course, more that can be said.

Also known as the Medieval Climate Anomaly (MCA), research suggests that the warmest decades (about a 50-year span, in fact), occurred at different times in different regions between about 1000 and 1250CE.

Cores taken from sediment in the Sargasso Sea area suggest that the MCA was 1°C warmer. Further sediment cores from the Gulf Coast and Atlantic coastline from New England to Florida show a peak in North Atlantic tropical cyclone activity, consistent with warmer ocean temperatures.

Calling it the "Medieval" Warm Period or Climate Anomaly is, of course, eurocentrism at its finest. Other parts of the world were affected. The climate in Africa was notably drier during this time. Analysis of bones from the Canary Islands shows a drop in temperature of 5°C from the MCA to the later time known as the "Little Ice Age." A study in 2013 found that the water of the Pacific Ocean was 0.9°C warmer in the years in question.

How did it affect daily life and culture is an important question. One belief is that the warmer temperatures benefitted agriculture in Europe, leading to better harvests. This led to healthier individuals and an increase in population. That larger population was more at risk of being culled when disaster struck, such as the Great Famine of 1315-1317.

One other phenomenon the warmer climate might have supported was the Norse colonization of North America, due to less sea ice to deal with, and a convenient stopover at Greenland, but we'll go into that tomorrow. See you then.

The Great Famine of 1315-1317

In 1315, Europe's spring rains never stopped.

The rains kept coming, flooding the fields. Crop failures followed, lasting right through until the summer harvests of 1317. Full recovery took another several years. Hunger and disease devastated the population. People starved; cannibalism is hinted at in records; there is some evidence that parents might have abandoned children to fend for themselves. (The story of Hansel and Gretel may have originated in a famine: the children have been cast out by the parents during a famine.) Records of the city of Bristol report

...such mortality that the living could scarce suffice to bury the dead, horse flesh and dog's flesh was accounted good meat, and some eat their own children. The thieves that were in prison did pluck and tear in pieces, such as were newly put into prison and devoured them half alive. [link]

Harvests were not the only casualty. Marshland that had been reclaimed for crops or grazing was returned to marshland. Constantly wet ground—and a lack of forage—is not good for livestock. Disease killed off cows and sheep. Records from Ramsey Abbey show one manor going from 48 cows to only 2 at this time.

Villages themselves physically suffered. Not only were some abandoned due to dying population and un-tillable soil, but some coastal villages disappeared. The rains and storms reclaimed shoreline communities. One of the wealthiest ports in England, Dunwich, lost almost 300 houses, barns, and shops. 

Of course, prices soared. Edward II stopped at St. Albans on 10 August 1315, and there was not enough bread for him and his entourage; he tried to freeze food prices (in Lorraine, wheat prices rose by 320%), but vendors simply refused to sell for so little, and Parliament overturned the king's decree in 1316. What grain there was was wet, and needed to be dried before using, but it resulted in a poorer quality product. People were forced to consume the grain hey had set aside for planting the following year. Begging and stealing became rampant. Groups of roaming peasants looking for work and food were common, having abandoned their farms and villages.

What caused this weather? Well, like the volcanic winter of c.536, a likely candidate is the 1314 eruption of Mount Tarawera in New Zealand spewing ash into the atmosphere that precipitated rain for two years. Also, this all took place just after the Medieval Warm Period, a three-century span of milder temperatures that were ideal for agriculture; this coincided with a boom in population—a population that could not be maintained when harvests became so poor.

It's been over ten years since I had anything to say about the Medieval Warm Period. I think it's time for another look. See you tomorrow.

Extreme Weather

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Three Futile Battles

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Merlin the Madman

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Nature vs. Nurture

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Mouse Takes a Wife

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

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

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

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

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

Some Fables

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

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

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

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

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

Marie de France

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bisclavret, the Werewolf

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Medieval Werewolves

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

William and the Werewolf

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Medieval Pronouns

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Superstitions about Scissors

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Shear Truth

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

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

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

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

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

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

The Wool Trade in England

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This web article opened with the following:

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

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

Wool—A Brief History

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

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

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

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

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

More specifics of the wool trade in England tomorrow.

The Flemish Revolt, Part 2

To sum up yesterday's post: France considered Flanders their territory, Flanders under Count Robert III fought a war about that and lost, the treaty demanded an annual tribute. Count Robert and his son both died within two months, leaving Robert's grandson Louis in charge while still in his teens. Louis' father-in-law was the king of France, so his attitude toward France was much more supportive than previously in the Flanders ruling family—and more than the citizens of Flanders would have liked.

Louis was more concerned with being diligent about payments to France than his grandfather was, and so he raised taxes to cover the payments. That move, and his Franco-phile attitude, turned the general population of Flemings against him.

Resentment against the Count of Flanders started manifesting as small rural riots in late 1323—poor harvests that year contributed to the unrest—and ultimately boiled over into an organized rebellion that lasted until 1328. A rich farmer from Lampernisse named Nicolaas Zannekin organized his neighbors and other rebels and captured various towns, including Nieuwpoort, Ypres, and Kortrijk. In Kortrijk, they went so far as to capture Robert, the Count of Flanders. Louis was released on 30 November 1325 after promising amnesty to all the members of the rebellion; Louis fled to Paris the next day.

In April 1326, King Charles IV of France got involved, as their ruler (technically, but not in the eyes of Flanders' citizens). The Peace of Arques he established did not last.

The rebellion expanded, and gained a new leader, the mayor of Bruges, William Deken. Deken had become mayor in February 1328 when Bruges rejected the Count's appointed city magistrate and appointed its own officials. That June, Deken traveled to England to persuade the young King Edward III that he should renew his claim to the throne of France. (Clearly, he wished to distract France, Louis' strongest ally.)

King Charles of France died 21 February 1328, and King Philip VI organized an expedition into Flanders to end the rebellion once and for all. They met at the Battle of Cassel (pictured above), where the rebels were defeated and Nicolaas Zannekin was killed. William Deken fled to Brabant and looked for help from Duke John III, but John wanted nothing to do with the conflict and handed Deken over to France, where he was taken to Paris and convicted of high treason. After cutting off his hands, he was dragged through the streets and then hanged.

Back in Flanders, Count Louis confiscated the property of the conspirators; cities that cooperated were forced to pay heavy fines. The fortifications of Bruges, Ypres, and Kortrijk were destroyed so that they could never again resist an army. 

..and so ended the Flemish revolt. That time. When the Hundred Years War started a decade later, Louis stayed pro-French, even though Flanders' wool trade relied heavily on England. England boycotted Flanders wool, and a new revolt started. This was too much for Louis, who fled Flanders for good and was killed in 1346 at the Battle of Crécy, fighting for the French.

If you spend any amount of time on the economy of Western Europe in the Middle Ages, you will learn that one of the most common and important phrases is "the wool trade." You can guess tomorrow's topic.

The Flemish Revolt, Part 1

About 60 years before the Peasants' Revolt in England over a poll tax, the lower classes of the Low Countries revolted against taxes.

Robert III, aka The Lion of Flanders, was the Count of Flanders. When he died sin 1322, he left behind a muddle: his son and heir, Louis I the Count of Nevers, had died two months previous, and the next in line was Robert's grandson, Louis. Louis at the age of about 18 became the Count of Nevers and Flanders. A couple years earlier, in 1320, Louis had married Margaret, the daughter of King Philip V of France.

This marriage made him a Francophile, while Robert III and his father had been anti-French. There was another big issue connected with Louis' reign, and that was taxation. Not that there wasn't a reason:

Louis' grandfather, Robert III, had signed a treaty with King Philip IV of France to conclude the Franco-Flemish War (1297-1305). The war started because, although Flanders had acted independently, it was technically a part of France since the Treaty of Verdun in 843. Philip IV decided to bring Flanders and its wealthy cities under stricter French control. We may discuss the war some other time; for now, suffice it to say that the Flemish forces were defeated.

The terms of the Treaty of Athis-sur-Orge were onerous, to say the least. Certain cities (Lille, Douai, Orchies) would fall under French rule, and fortresses protecting large cities in Flanders needed to be torn down. Expensive monetary re[arations were to be paid to France, and an annual sum. The Count of Flanders would hold Flanders as a fiefdom of France. Flanders was required to send 600 knights for there French army

...and this is where we get back to Louis, raising taxes to pay back his father-in-law and fulfill the terms of the treaty; but I feel I've already taken enough of your time for one day, so I'll finish this tomorrow.

Attacks on Flemings

Whan Adam delf, and Eve span,
Wo was thanne a gentilman?

This was part of a sermon allegedly delivered in Blackheath the night before that group of peasants descended upon London during the Peasants' Revolt of 1381. Although the catalyst for the Revolt may have been a poll tax, resentments against the upper classes were always ready to boil over. Flemings were not generally a large part of the countryside peasant population.

Flemings were, however, mentioned specifically in one account of the Revolt, and it has two curious features. The account in MS Cotton Julius B.II. ends with the lines:

...and many fflemynges lost here heedes at that tyme, and namely they that koude nat say 'breede and chese", but "case en brode".

It was curious that Flemings were mentioned specifically. Also, contemporary references to language in the 14th century are extremely rare, so why distinguish these foreigners with a reference to their tendency to idiomatically express "bread and cheese" as "case and brode." (Modern German for cheese is still "Käse" and for bread is "Brot" with a long ō sound.)

One of the targets for destruction was the "stews" or brothels of Southwark, just south of London across the Thames. It was an area well known for prostitution, and that particular profession at that time was dominated by Flemings. One particular Fleming-run brothel was invaded and destroyed by the mob, but it was owned by the mayor of London, William Walworth, so the destruction may have been aimed at him as a representative of the upper classes—in the spirit of the first quotation above—rather than the foreigners specifically.

But it seems likely that the Revolt, as often happens, "broadened its scope" as the angry mob let its anger focus on several different targets, whether they were a rational reason for the start of the Revolt or not. Xenophobia has been a part of human culture since the beginning of human societies, I would wager, and 14th century England was no different. Distinguishing foreigners by their idiomatic expressions of everyday objects like "bread and cheese" is petty, racist, and perfectly believable.

There was, in fact, other acts of violence against Flemings on the same day of the Revolt, 13 June, as well as the following day, that are not mentioned in any chronicle of the Revolt itself, but come from the law courts. There is a pardon for a man from Holborn who killed seven Flemings just north of London, at Clerkenwell, on 13 June. On 14 June, 35 Flemings were dragged from St. Martin Vintry church and beheaded. The official London records confirm that rebels dragged Flemings from houses and churches in Vintry ward, resulting in 40 decapitated bodies in the street.

Hostility against Flemings continued in the week after the Revolt, and at various locations not connected to the Revolt. Chaucer even refers to the attacks on the Flemings. He was a likely witness to the event, since he was living in an apartment at one of the city gates at the time. In the Nun's Priest's Tale he refers to the shrill voices of the rebels as they killed Flemings.

Why the Peasants' Revolt turned into an opportunity to show extreme prejudice against Flemings particularly is unclear. Flemings would not have been the only foreigners in London, nor did they represent the upper classes, which was one of the targets of the Revolt. It may have been a case of "foreigners taking our jobs." Coastal flooding several years earlier in the Low Countries had caused many weavers from Flanders to seek a living elsewhere, and there was an influx of Flemish weavers into the English textile scene in the 1370s that caused hostility from the English weavers. This was not a new development, however: Edward III had encouraged Flemish weavers in the 1330s to settle in England. Of course his wife, Queen Philippa, was from the Low Countries, and his suggestion may have been at her suggestion.

It might also be that they wanted to help Fleming peasants who had held their own uprising a few years earlier, which we will look at next.