Illiteratus

Things seemed to be going well for Ralph Neville, the Bishop of Chichester and Lord Chancellor for life. He had a nice new manor on New Street, appointments that brought him revenues, he was reforming the way Chancery and records-keeping were managed, and the monks of Canterbury Cathedral elected him Archbishop of Canterbury on 24 September 1231. There was opposition to this, from an important roadblock: Pope Gregory IX. Gregory declared Neville illiteratus.

Now, the term wasn't used the same way as it is today. At the time it did not mean he couldn't read and write, just that he was "unlearned." Many important positions were appointed from the clergy, and clergy were often university trained. Neville was not. In fact, there's no reason to believe he ever intended to be educated or a priest: he started a royal clerk under King John and was ordained to legitimize his lucrative appointment as Bishop of Chichester (arms shown to the left). Stephen Langton, the Archdeacon of Canterbury, described Neville as a courtier instead of a true priest.

With Canterbury denied him*, he was still secure in his positions at Chichester and as Chancellor. Or was he? He had been granted, by the king, the right of exemption from seizure of his possessions if he fell out of favor. King Henry also agreed not to interfere with Neville's will (yeah, the king could say "Hey! You cannot bequeath that property to someone else; I gave it to you and I'll decide where it goes once you're dead!").

Henry decided, however, to take away the Chancellor position in 1236. We're not sure why, but perhaps the courtier did not appear to support the king in all things. When Hubert de Burgh (mentioned here and an even more significant supportive figure in Henry's life) fell out with the king and sought sanctuary, Henry wanted him dragged physically out of the church to face punishment. Neville opposed the king on this. Neville also was elected, by the cathedral chapter of Winchester, as Bishop of Winchester. Henry had wanted them to elect William of Savoy, the Bishop of Valence, who happened to be the uncle of Eleanor of Provence, Henry's queen. There may have been other arguments.

Neville argued with Henry that, since the chancellorship had been given to him by the Great Council during Henry's minority, only the Great Council had the authority to take it away. Henry was able to deprive Neville of possession of the Great Seal, but Neville retained the title Chancellor. In May 1242, however, Henry went to France, and the Great Seal needed a responsible holder for official documents, so it went back to Neville temporarily. Although Henry returned from France in September 1243, the Great Seal along with Neville's signature is found on some documents after that date.

Neville died in the first week of February 1244 in his palace on New Street and was buried in Chichester Cathedral. 

Kings giveth, and kings taketh away. The falling out with Hubert de Burgh would have shocked many, considering how much Henry owed him, including (possibly) his life! I'll dig into that relationship tomorrow.

*...and by the way, the next two appointments were also squashed by Gregory, preventing a true Archbishop of Canterbury until 1240

Ralph Neville

Ralph Neville is an example of a powerful figure in Medieval English administration whose personal details are little known. He was ordained on 21 April 1224, and if that ere his first step onto a public stage it would have been likely that he was born about 1200, or not much before. Ordination would also have required a special dispensation, because he was known to be illegitimate.

Ordination was not his first step into adulthood, however; he had been a known quantity for some time, and ordination was merely a formality so that he could be given more positions.

We do not know when he was born, but in 1207 he was already a royal clerk under King John (1166 - 1216), and by 1213 he was entrusted with the Great Seal, used to show royal approval of documents. The Great Seal is usually held by the Chancellor, but the chancellor at the time was Walter de Gray, who was also Archbishop of York (successor of another illegitimate cleric—this one the son of a king—whose story was told here and here). Walter was a steadfast supporter of John, and there was a reason for having the Seal given to another, but maybe I'll save that for his story some day.

Anyway, Nevile was moving up in the ranks. In 1214 he was appointed to Chancery through the effort of one of King John's favorites and his son Henry's tutor, Bishop of Winchester Peter des Roches. After John's death, Neville remained at court, still holding the Great Seal as vice-chancellor under Richard Marsh. Marsh had been appointed Bishop of Durham and was off dealing with diocesan affairs, leaving Neville effectively running the administration of the kingdom, since King Henry was only ten years old.

Keep in mind that a bishop had access to revenues from all the lands in the diocese, so appointing someone a bishop was a greta gift—even if they did not do anything to administer to their diocese. Neville was ordained in 1224 so that he could properly be Bishop of Chichester, to which he had been appointed two years earlier! He, however, remained in London with the king, often ignoring requests to come to Chichester and manage disputes there.

His own appointment to Lord Chancellor came on 17 May 1226, with the promise that it would be for life. He started reforms in Chancery, evolving it into its own governmental department and not just a division of the king's household. The contemporary Matthew Paris praised him for fairness and transparency in his office.

He built a grand manor, the Bishop of Chichester's Inn, to the west of London proper on a street called New Street (but now Chancery Lane), a short walk north of the Domus Conversorum. All was going well, until he was elected Archbishop of Canterbury, the prime ecclesiastical position in England. His journey hit a speed bump in the name of Pope Gregory IX. I'll explain tomorrow.

Kings and Archbishops

The controversy between King Henry II and his best friend, Thomas Becket, was far from the only clash between temporal and ecclesiastical power. Robert Winchelsey (c.1245 - 1313) also started being supported by his king, Edward I, but later clashed with him and his advisors. The same pattern was repeated with the king's successor, Edward II.

Winchelsey (from Winchelsea, whose seal appears here) studied at the University of Paris (where he might have met Thomas Aquinas) and at Oxford. In 1283 he was made a canon of St. Paul's in London. When the Archbishop of Canterbury, John Peckham, died in 1292, Winchelsey was elected to replace him. He could not be confirmed, however, because although he went to Rome to receive the pallium, there was no pope at the time. He could not be consecrated archbishop until after the election of Celestine V.

When he returned to England and swore an oath of loyalty to King Edward, he added his own qualifier, that he was loyal "only regarding the king's temporal decisions and power, not regarding spirituality." Edward's anger with him continued when Winchelsey refused to have the clergy give up the percentage of taxes the king demanded to finance his administration and his wars with France. Winchelsey did allow one tenth of ecclesiastical revenues to go to the king in 1295, and that if the war continued into a second year he might consider more funding.

Things changed in 1296, however, with Clericis laicos, a papal bull forbidding church taxes to secular powers. Winchelsey told his clergy that further taxes were not to be paid to the agents of the king. York, however, allowed the king one-fifth of their revenue, a precedent that made it easier for Edward to declare any clergy who did not pay taxes to be outlaws, and that their property would be seized. The outlaws would be forgiven and return to his good graces if they paid a fine of ... (wait for it) ... one-fifth of their revenues. Winchelsey told the clergy it was up to them if they wanted to pay. Slowly, the clergy gave in.

All except Winchelsey himself. Edward seized his lands, but the two were reconciled in July 1297. At that point, Winchelsey tried to mediate between the king and his earls, who also objected to so much taxation. Speaking of money, Winchelsey clashed with Edward's chief advisor, his Treasurer Walter Langton. Langton was the Bishop of Lichfield, but unlike Winchelsey he placed his loyalty to the king above his loyalty to the church.

In fact, Langton was one of two men sent by Edward to the pope to complain that Winchelsey was plotting against the king. How that turned out will be a subject for next time.

Ralph d'Escures

While Anselm was still abbot of Bec and avoiding the journey to England to become Archbishop of Canterbury because of William II's authoritarian attitude, he attended the installation of his friend Ralph d'Escures as abbot of St. Martin at Séez (northwestern France). d'Escures had been at Bec with Anselm.

Orderic Vitalis, a contemporary chronicler, said he was well-educated and loved by all. The critical-of-clergy William of Malmesbury even said good things about him, although William says that d'Escures occasionally lapsed into inappropriate behavior.

Not long after becoming abbot of St. Martin, d'Escures was in England, visiting St. Martin's daughter house, Shrewsbury Abbey.* Henry I was having trouble with Robert, Earl of Shrewsbury, and some chroniclers say it was Ralph who mediated in Robert's surrender. Robert demanded homage from d'Escures, because Shrewsbury Abbey was in Robert's domain, but d'Escures refused. Pope Urban II had declared that clergy should not owe homage to secular lords, and d'Escures was willing to fight that fight.

d'Escures remained in England, and was one of the clergy who examined the body of St. Cuthbert when it was disinterred for travel, declaring it to be uncorrupted. In August 1108, he was made Bishop of Rochester at the death of Gundulf, and less than a year later attended Anselm's deathbed. He was chosen to succeed Anselm, but not appointed until April 1114. Henry I tried to appoint Faricius, the Abbot of Abingdon. The bishops and secular nobles objected, however, because Faricius was Italian and they wanted a Norman for the position.

It was now up to Pope Paschal II to grant the pallium, without which an archbishop could not be properly consecrated. Paschal was reluctant, however: just as Anselm had fought for the autonomy of the English Church from secular authority, the pope noticed an alarming amount of independence of the English Church from papal authority. England was naming bishops to dioceses without consulting with or getting approval from the pope.

d'Escures also refused to confirm a new Archbishop of York, because the candidate, Thurstan, would not profess obedience to Canterbury. Paschal supported Thurstan, but d'Escures still refused. After Paschal's death, d'Escures held out on Thurstan through two other popes, Gelasius II and Calixtus II (who finally settled the Investiture Controversy).

In July 1119, as he finished Mass and was removing his vestments, he suffered a stroke, becoming unable to speak clearly and partially paralyzed. He insisted on still being involved in important affairs, however. When King Henry I married Adeliza of Louvain (his first wife, Matilda of Scotland, had died a year earlier), d'Escures wanted to officiate. Unable to perform himself, however, he stubbornly forced his own choice of officiant on the ceremony rather than the king's choice.

Ralph d'Escures died on 20 October 1122, and was buried in the nave of Canterbury Cathedral three days later.

Thurstan was still not installed as Archbishop of York, so with Ralph gone, one would expect that the York-Canterbury controversy would end. Not quite. Tomorrow I'll tell you about the ups and downs of Thurstan's journey to York, and how he inadvertently created a pirate.

*Inciodentally, the site of the Brother Cadfael mysteries.

Anselm's Legacy

One of Anselm's last challenges was dealing with a challenge to his authority, but this time not from a secular source. England had two archbishops, Canterbury and York (seen here in 2023). Traditionally, the Archbishop of Canterbury was the primate of England with authority over the English Church. The Archbishop of York was secondary, but this was not acceptable to many of the men who sat in that seat.

In 1108, the Archbishop of York was Thomas II of York. Thomas refused to profess obedience to the Archbishop of Canterbury. The cathedral chapters of each place supported their archbishops. The lay investiture debate—whether secular lords like the king could determine religious titles—was raging, and it would have been against the church's best interests to appeal to the king for help in resolving their primacy issue.

The question had already been resolved in 1071 when Anselm's predecessor, Lanfranc, and the Archbishop of York, Thomas of Bayeaux, appealed to Pope Alexander II, who sided with Canterbury (although he refused to resolve a different dispute between the two, leaving it to the king's council).

Thomas of York's point was that he had received his pallium directly from Pope Paschal II (he had sent the dean of York Cathedral to Rome to fetch it). He therefore felt he did not owe anything to Canterbury.

An old and ill Anselm, from his sickbed, declared anathema any who failed to recognize the superiority of Canterbury. This was a sign that excommunication was on the table, and Henry stepped in, ordering Thomas to profess obedience to Canterbury. Anselm, hearing this, declared himself content. He died 21 April 1109, and was interred near Lanfranc at Canterbury Cathedral in what is now St. Thomas's Chapel. His current remains are unknown, having been relocated after a fire in the 1170s.

Anselm left a body of writing that is considered some of the sharpest intellectual discussions of Christianity in the Middle Ages. They were copied and spread far and wide, and influenced many including Bonaventure, Thomas Aquinas, Duns Scotus, and William of Ockham. He also spoke out strongly against slavery, although his declarations did not bring about any changes.

His lifelong battle to separate church authority from lay investiture had an unintended consequence, that put Pope Paschal at odds with Anselm's successor. I'll explain the Pope's problem with England and the next Archbishop of Canterbury tomorrow.

Itinerary Through Wales

Gerald of Wales (c.1146 - c.1223) provided us with extensive information on Ireland and Wales and England of his time. Serving several Plantagenet kings, he traveled in their service and wrote about what he saw and was told. Two of his several works were the Descriptio Cambriae ("Description of Wales") and the Itinerarium Cambriae ("Itinerary Through Wales"). He claims fairness in his treatment of the subject of his homeland, splitting the Descriptio into two parts, first the virtues of the Welsh, then their vices.

His writing for the Itinerarium through Wales is also better informed than his Topographia of Ireland, since he spent a little time in only a few Irish locations and gathered stories from men he deemed "reliable." He was more familiar with Wales, and he did in fact have an itinerary (see the illustration).

This tour took place while he was accompanying the Archbishop of Canterbury in 1188, preaching to raise a Third Crusade. Gerald writes the Itinerarium almost like a daily journal, recording sights and experiences as he came across them, so it is a more reliable account of day-to-day life in Wales in the last years of the 12th century, and the remnants of Roman Britain:

We went through Caerleon, passing far away on our left Monmouth Castle and the great Forest of Dean, which is across the Wye, but still on this side of the Severn, and which supplies Gloucester with venison and iron ore. We spent the night in Newport. We had to cross the River Usk three times. 

Caerleon is the modern name of the City of the Legions. In Welsh ‘caer’ means a city or encampment. The legions sent to this island by the Romans had the habit of wintering in this spot, and so it came to be called the City of the Legions. Caerleon is of unquestioned antiquity. It was constructed with great care by the Romans, the walls being built of brick. 

You can still see many vestiges of its one-time splendour. There are immense palaces, which, with the gilded gables of their roofs, once rivalled the magnificence of ancient Rome. They were set up in the first place by some of the most eminent men of the Roman state, and they were therefore embellished with every architectural conceit. There is a lofty tower, and beside it remarkable hot baths, the remains of temples and an amphitheatre. 

All this is enclosed within impressive walls, parts of which still remain standing. Wherever you look, both within and without the circuit of these walls, you can see constructions dug deep into the earth, conduits for water, underground passages and air-vents. Most remarkable of all to my mind are the stoves, which once transmitted heat through narrow pipes inserted in the side-walls and which are built with extraordinary skill. [Chapter 5]

But then comes the less reliable (but no less interesting) detail (especially since he says "in our days"):

It is worth relating that in our days there lived in the neighbourhood of this City of the Legions a certain Welshman called Meilyr who could explain the occult and foretell the future. He acquired his skill in the following way. One evening, and, to be precise, it was Palm Sunday, he happened to meet a girl whom he had loved for a long time. She was very beautiful, the spot was an attractive one, and it seemed too good an opportunity to be missed. 

He was enjoying himself in her arms and tasting her delights, when suddenly, instead of the beautiful girl, he found in his embrace a hairy creature, rough and shaggy, and, indeed, repulsive beyond words. As he stared at the monster his wits deserted him and he became quite mad. He remained in this condition for many years. Eventually he recovered his health in the church of St David’s, thanks to the virtues of the saintly men of that place. 

All the same, he retained a very close and most remarkable familiarity with unclean spirits, being able to see them, recognizing them, talking to them and calling them each by his own name, so that with their help he could often prophesy the future.

The story does not end there. He offered numerous instances of Meilyr's ability to see and speak to devils and demons and learn things from them.

Despite the more fanciful anecdotes, as a record of daily life among the Welsh and Normans, it is a valuable account for modern historians.

As I mentioned, he served several Plantagenets, and we'll take a look at what he thought of Henry II and his sons before we move on. See you tomorrow.

Baldwin of Forde

What made Baldwin of Forde (c. 1125 – 19 November 1190) think his connections and his rise to the highest ecclesiastical position in England gave him the authority to do as he liked. He was wrong. The Canterbury Cathedral Chapter Controversy was a blot on what could have been a spotless career.

Gervase of Canterbury claimed very humble origins for him, but the truth is his father became the archdeacon of Totnes and his mother later became a nun. He was sent by the Bishop of Exeter (Robert Warelwast) to Bologna to study law, where he met Peter of Blois, whom he would later hire, and the future Pope Urban III, whom he would seriously anger. Baldwin was chosen by Pope Eugene III (the "Homeless Pope") to tutor Eugene's nephew, a clear sign of papal favor. A few years later, Baldwin was back in England in 1155 in the household of Robert of Chichester, the new Bishop of Exeter.

Robert's successor, Bartholomew Iscanus, made Baldwin archdeacon of Totnes to replace his recently deceased father. John of Salisbury wrote to Baldwin, urging him to persuade Bartholomew to provide better support to Becket in the controversy with Henry II. Bartholomew and Baldwin were apparently leaning toward the idea that the king had authority over the church in England in certain matters.

Baldwin became a monk c.1170, and then abbot of a Cistercian monastery at Forde. His background in law meant that many legal disputes came to him after being sent to the papal Curia and getting remanded back to local experts. King Henry was impressed by his handling of a secular case in which he prevented a hanging.

His support of Henry in the Becket affair is likely why Henry was determined to have Baldwin succeed Richard of Dover as Archbishop of Canterbury, despite the monks of Canterbury putting forward three different candidates. For the problems that followed, see the link above.

One thing he did as Archbishop of Canterbury that was not controversial was preside over the coronation of King Richard I after Henry's death. It happens to have been the first coronation in England for which we have any details, thanks to Roger of Howden, and was intended to be elaborate, thanks to the new king's mother. Let me tell you how it went tomorrow.

The Canterbury Cathedral Chapter Controversy

When Peter of Blois' old law professor, Baldwin of Forde (pictured here outside of Canterbury Cathedral), became Archbishop of Canterbury, Peter might have been happy about renewing old acquaintance. Baldwin, however had some changes in mind that created a controversy that no one else wanted.

The controversy surrounded the chapter house of Benedictine monks. All well and good, but Baldwin belonged to the Cistercians, who branched off from the Benedictines around 1100 because they felt the Benedictines had not been rigorous enough at following the Rule of St. Benedict. They kept the rule, but amended it with ideas from Bernard of Clairvaux.

Baldwin felt the Benedictines were too worldly: diocesan properties that belonged to Canterbury Cathedral had been put in their hands to support their management of pilgrim traffic, especially around the shrine of Thomas Becket. Baldwin also took back the Easter offerings that had been allowed to go to the Benedictine chapter by Pope Lucius III. Baldwin wanted it for the diocese.

Baldwin was also determined to move the chapter north of Canterbury to Hackington.

The Benedictines complained to the current pope, Urban III, who had also been one of Peter's teachers. They also wrote to every bishop and archbishop, and even to King Philip II of France, looking for support. Peter, who had studied law under Baldwin and had been persuasive in the past, was sent to Rome by Baldwin to argue his case. The Benedictines, however, were represented by a skilled full-time Roman lawyer named Pillius, and Peter was no match for him.

Peter argued for months, and wasn't helped by Baldwin, who continued to do provocative things back in Canterbury. The pope had ordered the demolishing of the Hackington building, but Baldwin continued the construction. Baldwin seized the manors of the chapter and excommunicated the monks. Peter followed the papal court to Ferrara in October 1187 to continue to debate on Baldwin's behalf, but Baldwin's refusal to follow papal orders incensed Urban. Urban died on 19 October—Peter's account says it was dysentery—and the new pope, Gregory VIII, was elected on 21 October. He did not take a strong stand on the issue before dying in December and being succeeded by Clement III.

None of these changes in the chair of St. Peter helped Baldwin's case, although he took advantage of the transitions to continue his changes. On 26 January 1188, Clement sent a letter: Baldwin was to cease his changes and restore everything to the way it was prior to his meddling. Once again, however, he ignored the orders until August 1189 when Richard I (who had just become king after his father's death a month before) forced him to submit to the papal resolution.

Why did Baldwin think he could so readily ignore the pope(s)? What was England's royal policy on the controversy boiling over in its most important cathedral diocese? Who did Baldwin think he was? Let's take a close look at the man who started it all next time.

Peter of Blois

Peter of Blois (c.1130 - c.1211) was well-connected; not through his family, but through people he knew growing up and going to school. One of his important early influences was the medieval platonism philosopher, Bernard Silvestris, who urged him to embrace facts over fables. He went to the University of Bologna, where he studied Roman law under Baldwin of Forde, who became an Archbishop of Canterbury, as well as under another who would become Pope Urban III.

He also spent over a decade studying theology at the University of Paris, making a living as a tutor. He tutored two sons of the Bishop of Salisbury, Jocelin de Bohon, which might explain why he spent time at Old Sarum Cathedral, of which he had a harsh opinion. He also amused himself by writing songs in the Goliard tradition; some of his works appear in the Carmina Burana collection.

In 1166 he went to Sicily to where he tutored the future King William II of Sicily. William's mother, Margaret of Navarre, had written to relatives looking for an appropriate teacher. The Archbishop of Rouen sent Peter of Blois along with a party of Frenchmen. Later, the archbishop of Rouen got Peter involved in diplomacy surrounding the conflict between Henry II of England and Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury. Peter re-made the acquaintance of one of his earlier pupils, a son of the Bishop of Salisbury, Reginald Fitz Jocelin. Reginald was to become Bishop of Bath in 1173, but getting the pope's approval was difficult because of Reginald's support for King Henry in the Becket affair. Peter's letters in his defense helped to rally support.

By 1173, Peter was in England and working as chief letter-writer for Richard of Dover, who followed Becket as Archbishop of Canterbury. 1173 was a time of upheaval in England. Some of Henry's sons had followed his heir, Young King Henry, to the court of the King of France to plan a revolt against their father. Henry's wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, had opposed Henry, and Peter wrote to her, criticizing her for leaving her husband. 

Peter diligently wrote on Henry II's behalf to prelates and potentates in Europe, explaining that despite the rumors, Henry was not responsible for the murder of Becket. Peter's efforts helped his career. He was appointed Chancellor of the Archdiocese of Canterbury. He was also appointed Archdeacon of Bath. He was also made Dean of the College of Wolverhampton.

When Richard of Dover died, Peter's old teacher Baldwin of Forde became Archbishop of Canterbury. This looked like an excellent moment in Peter's life: someone he knew well and with whom he was now going to work closely. Instead, the new arrangement almost cost Peter his career, which I'll explain tomorrow.

Augustine of Canterbury

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Thomas Becket, the Legends

The martyrdom and subsequent popularity of Thomas Becket inspired several legends, which is not unusual. Since pilgrimages were popular in the Middle Ages, and could be lucrative for the pilgrimage site, linking a saint to your locale was a common industry. His shrine at Canterbury Cathedral generated so much income that his bones a mere 50 years later could be placed in a casket of gold and gems. The ceremony for this was attended by Henry III and Stephen Langton, then Archbishop of Canterbury, and afterward the date (7 July) became a second feast day for Becket, as well as 29 December, the date of his murder.

In the village of Otford, Kent, made two unusual claims about the new saint. One was "Becket's Well," a pair of springs that came forth from the ground after the archbishop struck the ground with his crozier because he did not like the taste of the local water. Its existence was not mentioned until the 13th century, and it is pictured here. Otford also claims an absence of nightingales because Becket was disturbed by their singing while he was visiting there.

Over in the town of Strood in Kent the men had been on Henry's side in his conflict with Becket. While Becket was riding through, they cut off his horse's tale, after which Becket's curse was that the men of Strood would be born with tails. (No evidence exists of this phenomenon.)

Part of veneration of St. Thomas involved partaking of the "water of St. Thomas." This was a mixture of water and the (supposed) blood of Thomas. This was frowned upon by the Church.

Numerous churches were (and still are) built with his name. The arms of the city of Canterbury incorporated his coat of arms. Portrayals of the murder exist in all artistic media. Chaucer used a pilgrimage in spring to his shrine as the frame story for The Canterbury Tales.

In the discussion of Becket's death and the aftermath, I've neglected the effect it had on one particular person connected to the event. How did Becket's old friend and the instigator (?) of his murder deal with the result? Come back tomorrow and I'll tell you about the Revolt of 1173-74.

Thomas Becket, Martyr

Thomas Becket rose from decent middle-class origins to the highest non-royal position in England. As Archbishop of Canterbury, however, his apparent long-term friendship with and loyalty to King Henry II was replaced by an obligation to promote ecclesiastical priorities over secular royal wishes. 

One crisis point was averted when Pope Alexander III created a compromise that allowed Becket—in self-exile on the continent to avoid arrest for malfeasance—to return to England. Becket might have been more careful after that close call, but his awareness of the significance of his position as Archbishop of Canterbury guided his every move.

So when the king had his young son Henry crowned as his successor, the ceremony should have been performed by the Archbishop of Canterbury, as was tradition. The elder Henry chose the secondary, the Archbishop of York, Roger de Pont L'Évêque, along with the Bishops of London and Salisbury, to elevate his son. Becket was insulted by this, and in November 1170 he excommunicated the three clergy involved.

...and here is where supposition takes over. King Henry, exasperated by the news, uttered words in what we would now call a "hot mic" situation. Exactly what he said, we don't know. A monk, Edward Grim, who says he was standing next to Becket during what happened next, reports Henry's words as "What miserable drones and traitors have I nourished and brought up in my household, who let their lord be treated with such shameful contempt by a low-born cleric?" There are other accounts, including variations on the terse "Won't someone free me of this troublesome cleric?"

Four knights present took this as a command. Richard le Breton, Reginald FitzUrse, Hugh de Morville, and William de Tracy set out for Canterbury. On 29 December, they came to the cathedral, hiding their weapons and putting cloaks over their armor. Demanding that Becket come to the king in Winchester, his refusal made them retrieve their weapons and threaten him. They tried to drag him outside, but he held onto a pillar. With three sword blows to the head, Becket was finished.

This conclusion was only a prologue to more, and tomorrow I'll talk about what happened after.

Thomas Becket, Archbishop

When King Henry II of England saw his good friend and loyal Lord Chancellor become Archbishop of Canterbury, he assumed he had an ideal opportunity to extend his secular authority over ecclesiastical issues. After all, Henry had trusted Becket enough to have his eldest son raised in Becket's household, and Becket, in his rôle as Chancellor, had efficiently enforced the king's policies over things like revenue from landowners, including churches and bishoprics.

Becoming archbishop, however, either motivated or simply coincided with a change in Becket's attitude. He had not formally been ordained a priest prior to this appointment to the highest ecclesiastical position in England. He was finally ordained a priest on 2 June 1162; his consecration as archbishop took place one day later. The ordination seemed to change him, and he began to live an ascetic lifestyle, quite different from how he would have lived as Chancellor.

Becket resigned as Chancellor and focused his energies on the needs of the clergy. In fact, he started trying to extend the "separation of Church and State" and reclaim the rights of the clergy for appointments to positions and jurisdiction without royal interference. This created a significant rift between archbishop and king. Within months of Becket's new position, Henry tried to formalize royal authority over clerical rights in the Constitutions of Clarendon. The Constitutions attempted to regain royal authority over the clergy and weaken the influence of the papacy in England. Becket's old friend Richer L'Aigle (mentioned here) supported Clarendon. Although many English bishops were willing to go along, Becket opposed the move strongly, causing Henry to demand he appear for trial for malfeasance. Becket agreed verbally to the points in the Constitutions, but refused to formally sign the document. He was convicted of malfeasance, but fled the court and went to the continent into the protection of Louis VII of France.

Becket threatened excommunication for Henry and Interdict for England (meaning no one could partake of the sacraments). Pope Alexander III intervened, however, sending papal legates who negotiated a compromise that would allow Becket to return.

Becket came out of exile and resumed his duties, but remained a thorn in Henry's side. In 1170, a stray comment from Henry expressing his frustration (so the story goes), led to an infamous event that would vault Becket's popularity higher than ever. It's a sad story, however, and I'll share it tomorrow.

Simon Sudbury

Simon of Sudbury, or just Simon Sudbury, was one of those people who shows up here and there, for instance during the Peasants' Revolt when he was killed by the mob. Now that I've spoiled the ending, let me go back to the beginning.

Born to the middle-class Nigel and Sarah Theobald in Sudbury, Simon studied at the University of Paris and became a priest, working for Pope Innocent VI during the Avignon Papacy. Innocent sent him to Edward III in England, where he stayed and became Bishop of London in 1362. His career flourished, and he was named Archbishop of Canterbury in 1375. After Edward III's death in 1377, it was Sudbury who crowned Richard II as the new king. In 1380 he was named Chancellor of England.

Still emotionally attached to his hometown, he had St. Gregory's Church there renovated, building a chapel at the east end of the north aisle and rebuilding the aisles. He also founded a college in Sudbury along with his brother, John of Chertsey.

Despite any good acts he may have performed, as Archbishop of Canterbury and Chancellor of England, he was representative of a government that was considered corrupt and oppressive. To be fair, he was involved in the creation of the third poll tax that pushed things over the edge. When the Peasants' Revolt occurred in 1381, he became a target. The mob damaged his properties at Canterbury and Lambeth, and then entered the Tower of London where he was celebrating Mass. There they found Sudbury and the Lord High Treasurer, Sir Robert Hales. Supposedly, the guards stood by and let the mob in, whereupon the mob dragged Sudbury and Hales out and executed them.

Sudbury's head was hacked off with a sword; the head was placed on a pole on London Bridge for six days, then taken down and sent to St. Gregory's, where it can be seen to this day (see picture above). In 2011, a scan of the skull was used by a forensic expert to make a facial reconstruction, which you can view here. The body is interred at Canterbury Cathedral, with a cannonball in place of the head.

His is one of the rare coats of arms that feature a Talbot dog.

The office of chancellor has been mentioned numerous times throughout this blog, but never explained to an audience (mostly) that did not grow up in a country that has that position. It's time we explained what a chancellor does...next time.

Pets and the Clergy

Christine de Pizan and her dog [link]

In Chaucer's Canterbury Tales, the Prologue describes the Prioress as having small lapdogs that she dotes on, feeding them roasted flesh and milk. This behavior is similar to that of a noble-born lady, not a nun. As it turns out, nuns keeping pets was not uncommon, and it was not always a good thing.

Romsey, which was often the home to noble ladies, gives us an example of pet-based extravagance. John Pecham, who was Archbishop of Canterbury from 1279-1292, criticized the abbess for not providing adequate food to her charges, while at the same time keeping and dogs and monkeys (!) in her chamber.

William Wykeham, Bishop of Winchester, wrote to Romsey's abbess in 1387:

...clear proofs that some of the nuns of your house bring with them to church birds, rabbits, hounds and such like frivolous things, whereunto they give more heed than to the offices of the church, with frequent hindrance to their own psalmody and that of their fellow nuns and to the grievous peril of their souls, therefore we strictly forbid you, ... to bring to church no birds, hounds, rabbits or other frivolous things that promote indiscipline;
... whereas through the hunting dogs and other dogs abiding within your monastic precincts, the alms that should be given to the poor are devoured and the church and cloister and other places set apart for divine and secular services are foully defiled, ... we strictly command and enjoin you, ..., that you remove these dogs altogether.

The keeping of pets was common for the upper classes, and monasteries and abbeys were frequently refuges for noble women who had no prospects of (on interest in) marriage. They clearly did not intend, however, to leave certain luxuries behind, and companion pets were clearly a desirable option.

The Saint of Mystic, Connecticut

Off the coast of Mystic, Connecticut is Enders Island. Only 11 acres in size, it is named for Dr. Thomas B. Enders, who purchased it in 1918 from the Sisters of Charity and used it as a private estate. In 1954, his wife gave it to the Society of St. Edmund.

Edmund Rich (1175 - 1240), who became St. Edmund, was born on the feast day of St. Edmund the Martyr (20 November), and therefore was named for that saint. His father was a wealthy merchant, hence the surname "Rich" sometimes attached to Edmund. He studied in England and France, and lectured on Rhetoric and Arithmetic at Oxford. It was said that he studied so long at night that he was known to nod off during lectures.

Some time in the early 1200s he was ordained, earned his doctorate in divinity, and started lecturing on theology. By 1222 he was made a parish vicar in Wiltshire, and eventually became Archbishop of Canterbury as a compromise candidate after Pope Gregory IX had refused to confirm three previous appointees. The confirmation was a surprise, since Edmund championed ecclesiastical independence from Rome. But Edmund also was opposed to foreigners taking important offices in England, so he took the job to avoid the chance of the pope putting an outsider in that chair.

Edmund was a powerful preacher and a strong politician. He fought Henry on his excesses against the Church. He also fought against the Pope, who wanted the Church in England firmly under papal control. On a 1240 trip to Rome, Edmund became ill at the Cistercian Pontigny Abbey and headed back to England, but died after 50 miles. The body was taken back to Pontigny. Within a year of his death, miracles were allegedly taking place at his grave, miraculous healings that motivated full canonization in only six years. His feast day is 16 November.

Although his body was left at Pontigny Abbey, relics were granted to other locations. One of his arms  made it to North America: it is in the Chapel of Our Lady of the Assumption at St. Edmund's Retreat on Enders Island in Connecticut.

Taxing the Church

Excerpt from the Taxatio; see the word "Census" upper-right

Today is the birthday of  Pope Nicholas IV; you can read a brief summary of his life here. Today I want to dig a little deeper into his Taxatio Ecclesiastica ["Church Tax"], which put a value on all parish churches and prebends (non-parish churches, such as those attached to a college) in England and Wales. The purpose of the Taxatio in 1291 was to present to King Edward I one-tenth of the annual profits of each church.

Nicholas was willing to do this to support Edward's intention to go on Crusade. He had been on Crusade decades earlier, and supposedly intended to go again. In 1291, however, the Mamluks captured Acre, the last Christian stronghold in the Middle East, removing from European hands the opportunity for a convenient base from which to re-take the Holy Land. Edward never went on Crusade, but the Taxatio remained.

The documents created by the Taxatio determined the possessions and taxable income of England and Wales for almost 300 years, up until Henry VIII. Historians now can find many inaccuracies in the documents—mostly because the tax was determined inconsistently: each parish assigned two clergy to interview each landholder and record their income. This was done differently in different parishes; the cutoff level for taxable income, for instance, was not always listed consistently.

Edward needed more money, however, in order to finance his wars. In 1294 he demanded (using threats) a tax from the clergy of 50%, and got it. A year later, he decided to be gentler and get them to agree to give him money. This gentler approach failed, however, because the clergy did not want to give in, thereby showing their obedience to a temporal ruler. Edward turned to the Archbishop of Canterbury (Robert Winchelsey) and got him to summon the clergy together; this was the first time the English clergy were called in Convocation, paralleling Parliament. In order to prevent abuses like this in the future, Pope Boniface VIII in 1296 issued a papal bull against such payments.

Edward countered this by telling his law courts not to hear any grievances brought by clergy, but to hear any grievance brought against clergy. The English clergy could take just so much of this, and got around the pope's injunctions by volunteering an amount equivalent to the king's request.

The Fighting Bishop

Tomb of Remigius, Lincoln Cathedral [link]

A "ship list" exists of the ships used by William of Normandy when he conquered England in 1066. It records who contributed the ship and in many cases the men and supplies aboard. One of the ships was provided by Remigius de Fécamp, a Benedictine monk.

The exact participation of Remigius is in dispute. According to the historian Henry of Huntingdon (c.1088 - c.1157), Remigius fought at the Battle of Hastings, bringing 20 knights along with his ship. Gerald of Wales, however, who thought so highly of Remigius that he tried to get him canonized as a saint (it never happened), said he only came along with 10 knights that were sent from the region of Fécamp.

His contribution must have been significant, because after the Conquest he was made the Bishop of Dorchester, which at the time was the largest diocese in England. But he had to continue "fighting": his ordination by Stigand, Archbishop of Canterbury was a point of contention when papal legates came to England in 1070 and pushed Stigand out of his office, also reversing the appointment of Remigius to Dorchester. Stigand's successor, Lanfranc, wouldn't touch the subject of Remigius' legitimacy, and Remigius had to travel to Rome in 1071 to seek forgiveness from Pope Alexander II and become "properly" re-appointed as a bishop.

Was there smooth sailing now that he was recognized as Bishop of Dorchester? Not quite. There were two archbishoprics in England—York and Canterbury—and each one claimed that Dorchester belonged in its territory and Remigius' loyalty was to that archbishop. Lanfranc and the Archbishop of York, Thomas of Bayeaux, appealed to Pope Alexander II who, even though he was a former pupil of Lanfranc's and held him in high esteem, refused to take sides, pushing the debate back to the king's council in England.

The council ruled that Dorchester (and Lichfield and Worcester, to which York also lay claim), belonged to Canterbury. Still, Thomas would occasionally ask for help from Remigius, such as during the consecration of the Bishop of the Orkney Islands. Remigius, not wanting to set a precedent that he "worked for" York, appealed to Canterbury to keep him away from the ceremony.

Remigius had a long and busy career, taking part in William's courts, and sitting on the commission that produced the Domesday Book. He died on 7 May 1092 and was buried in Lincoln Cathedral, where his bones, chalice, paten, and half of his crozier were recovered in 1927.

Traveling to Canterbury

St. Adrian of Canterbury

Yesterday's post on the Leiden Glossary mentioned its two chief contributors, Adrian of Canterbury and Theodore of Tarsus. Also interesting is their journey to Canterbury—not just their appointment to their positions, but what it took to get to their new jobs—and what it tells us about the Middle Ages.

Bede tells the story of Adrian of Canterbury in his Historia ecclesiastic gentis Anglorum ["Ecclesiastical history of the English people"]. Adrian was born in North Africa—we don't know when, but he died about 710—and was abbot of a monastery when Pope Vitalian (who would send Benedict Biscop to England as well) offered him the position of Archbishop of Canterbury on the death of Archbishop Deusdedit in 664. Adrian turned down the offer, and suggested a nearby monk, who also declined. When the pope asked Adrian a second time, Adrian introduced to the pope another friend who happened to be in Rome, Theodore of Tarsus.

The pope accepted Theodore as the new Archbishop of Canterbury, but asked that Adrian accompany him to England; according to Bede, Adrian had traveled to England twice before, and knew the way. Keep in mind that this is a world without roadmaps, without highways, without public transportation or any regularly scheduled wagons or boats or anything of the kind.

On 27 May 668 (note: 4 years after the death of Deusdedit), Adrian and Theodore left Rome. They traveled by sea to Marseille on the southern coast of France (far preferable to crossing the Alps). In nearby Arles they stayed for a time with its archbishop, John, until they managed to get passports from King Clotaire III's Mayor of the Palace, Ebroin. These passports could be shown to any civil servants along the way to grant them safe passage through Clotaire's domain.

By the time they made their way to the north of France, winter had come, so they needed to stay somewhere. Theodore went to stay with the Bishop of Paris. Adrian stayed first with the Bishop of Sens, then the Bishop of Meaux.

In the spring of 669, King Ecgberht of Kent sent for Theodore, who reached England a whole year after he first set out. Adrian, however, was not so lucky. For some reason, Ebroin decided that Adrian might have been an agent of the Greek emperor.* The Greek emperor that he feared had died in September of 668, but news could travel as slowly as bishops crossing France, so Ebroin (and Clotaire) were probably fearing someone that had been dead for months. They finally allowed Adrian to leave France.

Arriving in England, Adrian was made abbot of the monastery of St. Peter, which was re-named St. Augustine's Abbey. He and Theodore taught and wrote commentaries that, along with the writing of others, were compiled into a collection of glosses in Latin and Anglo-Saxon. At least one copy made its way to the continent and the Abbey of St. Gall, where it was copied in 800. That copy eventually wound up in the Netherlands, where it became known as the Leiden Glossary.

*In 669 the emperor would have been Constantine IV, "The Bearded"; Ebroin probably feared the emperor's predecessor, his father Constans II.

Chaucer's Enemy

William Thorpe before Arundel, 1407; a case of heresy

Yesterday's post discussed Thomas Arundel, Archbishop of Canterbury, and suggested that he was Chaucer's enemy. Let's discuss that assertion.*

England had become more liberal under Richard II. John Wycliffe had pushed for a more people-oriented approach to Christianity that focused far less respect on the hierarchy of the Church—the hierarchy of which Arundel had reached the pinnacle in England, as Archbishop of Canterbury. Wycliffe had even started producing parts of the Bible in English, accessible to more people. The followers of Wycliffe, called "Lollards," were considered heretical by many, and especially by Arundel. Prior to his exile, he had tried to curb that hotbed of Lollardy, Oxford, and had been rebuffed and insulted by its chancellor. Now, restored as archbishop under Henry IV, Arundel had a freer hand to pursue his goal of asserting harsher control over the moral fiber of the realm.

One of his targets, by necessity, would have been the popular poet whose freely circulated works showed numerous signs of Lollardy. Chaucer's Canterbury Tales constantly mocked the hierarchy of church officials, displaying their worldliness and corruption. The pilgrim who seems to have Chaucer's greatest respect is the antithesis of the worldly Arundel:

The Parson may be poor but he is rich in holy thought and works. He's a learned man—a clerk—and he truly teaches Christ's Gospel. He's benign and diligent and patient in adversity. He is loathe to excommunicate folk because they can't pay their tithes ... and he would rather give them from his own income and property. [Who Murdered Chaucer, p. 219]

But would Arundel's dislike of these portraits turn into action? Well, it was during the reign of Henry IV (in 1401, in fact) that England started burning heretics, and a few years after that (1407) Arundel made knowledge of the Bible by non-clergy a sign of heresy. He was controlling, heavy-handed, vengeful when it came to Oxford and Lollardy and of anything that attacked or mocked the hierarchy of the church.

Jones et alia assert that Arundel's need to change the tone in England may have been the guiding force behind Chaucer's difficulties at the end of his life (Henry IV officially confirmed Chaucer's annuity, but records show that the payments weren't actually forthcoming) and the obscurity with which he was treated when he died—although praised by fellow-poets during his life, there is no public notice taken of his death. Chaucer might have seen the writing on the wall; hence the Retraction he wrote for the Tales in which he asks forgiveness for his vulgar stories and prays for God's mercy, in a tone very different from everything else he has written.

*I give full credit for this theory to the authors of Who Murdered Chaucer, discussed in a previous post.