John of Salisbury

I mentioned yesterday that John of Salisbury was one of the medieval authors who understood eclipses. He had a long career that I'll get out of the way before we look at his extensive writings.

John of Salisbury (c.1110 - 1180) was an Anglo-Saxon author and philosopher in Norman England, and so his family was not going to be particularly prominent. His writings show us that he went to a parish school as a boy. About 1136 he went to France where, like Arnold of Brescia,  he studied under Peter Abelard. He wrote about students and teachers there, giving us a view into one of the oldest universities. John also studied at Chartres under William of Conches.

About 1140 he was back in Paris, studying theology and supporting himself by tutoring the sons of nobles, sharing an apartment with Peter of Celle, who became a Benedictine and abbot of St. Rémy at Reims. While attending the Council of Reims in 1148, it is believed he was introduced by Bernard of Clairvaux to Theobald of Bec, the Archbishop of Canterbury. John became Theobald's secretary.

This position brought him back to England, where he was secretary to Theobald for seven years and where he came to know Thomas Becket. John also made trips to Rome during this time, where he got to know Nicholas Breakspear, the only Englishman to become pope (as Adrian IV).

In 1176, John was made Bishop of Chartres, a position he held until his death on 25 October 1180. His successor as bishop was his longtime friend and former roommate in college, Peter of Celle.

Now that we have some background on the man, we'll turn next to his written works.

The Town of Sandwich

So...Sandwich. Most people just think about the food item that shares its name, but it has had more history than that, and not just as a Cinque Port. Its significance as a port in southeast England helped to weave it through many events that have been mentioned in this blog before.

The name Sondwic is mentioned first in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, covering events in England from the 800s to 1154. The Domesday Book, an account of all property in England so the new Norman rulers knew what they had, calls it Sandwice. The suffix -wic is Anglo-Sacon for a fortified place where trade takes place (a town). The name means a market town on sandy soil, appropriate for a coastal location.

When Rome invaded Britain in 43 CE, Sandwich was their landing point (technically, a town called Stonar across the river Stour from Sandwich, but Stonar disappeared in the 14th century).

King Cnut (c.990 - 1035) had history with Sandwich, initially leaving a pile of bodies strewn across the beach when he fled to Denmark after fighting with King Æthelred the Unready, but then later giving special rights to the church at Sandwich.

When Richard Lionheart was released from captivity after the Third Crusade and returned to England, Sandwich was his choice of landing port.

During the First Barons War (mentioned here) against King John, Prince Louis (later King Louis VIII) of France landed at sandwich to support the barons against John. The Battle of Sandwich was part of the First Barons War, and had the participation of Eustace, the Pirate Monk.

In the 14th century, a hospital (an almshouse for the poor) was established, named for St. Thomas Becket and still standing (see illustration).

In 1660, an earldom was created to bestow on Admiral Sir Edward Montagu. The 4th Earl of Sandwich was First Lord of the Admiralty and sponsored the voyages of Captain Jame Cook, who named the Sandwich islands for the Earl. The 4th Earl, John Montagu, is also credited with the naming of a food item when asking for meat between two pieces of bread so that he would not have to stop his activities. It bears mentioning, however, that a 1st century CE rabbi, Hillel the Elder, put the lamb and bitter herbs of the Seder between two pieces of matzoh, so this concept predates Montage by several centuries. (I doubt, however, that you'd get anything but blank stares of you ask for a "roast beef hillel" next time you want lunch.)

In a more serious vein: once again, I find a gap in my reporting: although King Cnut has had several references in this blog going back over a decade, he himself has not had his story told. Stay tuned.

Dealing with Lice

There are plenty of examples of combs from centuries gone, and sometimes they are two-sided, with one side having the teeth extremely close together. These were "nit combs," designed to be run through hair and pull out the "nits" and eggs that were part of the life cycle of the louse.

I should say "of lice," since if your hair was home to one, it was home to many. Also, there are over 5000 species of louse, 800 of which prey on mammals. Humans experience just a few. (The others? 4000 species prey on birds; even penguins in the Antarctic have at least 15 species.)

The scientific details on lice don't interest us, however, as much as how the Middle Ages dealt with them, because they were ubiquitous. After Thomas Becket's death, when they went to prepare the body, they discovered he wore a hair shirt under his clothing. It was so infested with lice that “The vermin boiled over like water in a simmering cauldron, and the onlookers burst into alternate weeping and laughing” [Rats, Lice and History, Hans Zinsser Page 185].

Combing the hair was a common way to get rid of lice. It was also considered a contemplative act, and recommended to put oneself into the right mood for devotion. The 13th century French liturgist William Durand in his Rationale divinorum officiorum ("Rationale for the Divine Offices"), said combing "symbolized the removal of worldly or superfluous thoughts." When the tomb of St. Cuthbert was opened in 1104, it contained a comb; was it more for contemplation or hygiene?

Lice had to be dealt with in every walk of life, including among the religious set. The late 14th century canon regular (a priest in a church, not a monk) John Mirk in his Instructions for Parish Priests said that if a louse or lice entered the chalice, they needed to be consumed with the wine (unless it was a poisonous insect).

Besides the comb, there was other methods for dealing with head lice. A concoction of pork grease, incense, lead, and aloe was supposed to stop them (probably by asphyxiation). The simplest method, available to everyone, was having someone look through your hair and remove them by hand. Montaillou by French historian Emmanuel Le Roy Ladurie reconstructs (from contemporary records) the lives of villagers from 1294 to 1324. One recollection that he finds is of a woman named Vuissane Testanière, who observed her neighbors chatting while their daughters picked through their hair, looking for lice.

In fact, the story of the village of Montaillou would be a refreshing change from talking about lice, so let's use that last paragraph as a transition to tomorrow. See you then.

Edward I - King

Lord Edward returned from the Ninth Crusade to a country that had not had a king in residence for a couple years. His father, Henry III, had died 16 November 1272. Word reached Edward in Sicily while he was recuperating from an assassination attempt in the Holy Land. Instead of traveling directly to England, however, Edward made a "good will" tour.

He went through Italy, visiting Pope Gregory X, whom he had known as Teobaldi Visconti on Crusade. He visited his uncle, Philip I, to receive homage from him. He in turn traveled through France and paid homage to Philip III for Edward's domains there. He spent time in the Duchy of Gascony, suppressing a rebellion and taking stock of his feudal possessions.

He arrived in England on 2 August 1274, almost two years after Henry's death. He had already been proclaimed king upon his father's death, so the coronation on 19 August was a formality. Once he was officially crowned, he removed the crown, announcing his intention not to don it again until he had reclaimed all the lands that his father had lost.

As in Shakespeare's Henry V, "the courses of his youth promised it not." The stories of a callow teen gave way to an able administrator and a devoted and gentle family man, though not without bouts of temper and intimidating behavior. He was a good and chivalrous soldier, and a pious churchgoer with particular devotion to the Virgin Mary and Saint Thomas Becket. Despite his piety, however, he still clashed with the archbishops of Canterbury and with the popes over the question of taxing the churches.

He had a particular interest in the legend of King Arthur, visiting the "grave" of Arthur and Guinevere at Glastonbury Abbey to underscore to the Welsh that Arthur was not returning to lead them. He held two Round Table events with feasting and tournaments.

He maintained correspondence with the Mongol Empire—still smarting from their overthrow in the Middle East by the Mamluks—promising to go on Crusade again with them if the pope approved. Further Crusades were also inhibited by potential wars on the continent, in which Edward took a hand in negotiating truces. When a Tenth Crusade might have been implemented, news came of the fall of Acre in 1291, and crusading fever abated.

Mindful of the unrest during his father's reign that led to rebellions and the Second Barons' War, he undertook an overhaul of the administrative systems, and ordered an inquest of the entire country, inviting complaints about abuse by royal officials. The resulting records, called the Hundred Rolls, were like a second Domesday Book, and became a foundation for deterring what rights and possessions were held by others, and which should revert to the Crown. (This was not without controversy, since it seemed to be done largely to increase Edward's possessions.)

Because these posts are supposed to be short and digestible snacks rather than feats, things like a constitutional crisis, war with Wales, disputes with Scotland, expelling the Jews, and overhauling the coinage can all be left for their own self-contained posts. To wrap up this drawn-out biography of Edward I, I will tell you that on 6 July 1307, suffering from dysentery while traveling northward to deal with Robert the Bruce, he was awakened by his servants to rise for the day, and died in their arms. He was 68 years old.

If only he had someone who could have used the royal touch on him, he might have been healed. I will explain that reference tomorrow.

Young Henry's Revolt, 1173

Henry II had conflicts with the Scotland, with Ireland, with Wales, with France, but the most difficult conflicts may have been with his family.

The Norman practice of not only naming but formally elevating your heir led to Henry's eldest son, Henry, was formally made "king" and known as Henry, the Young King. At 18, Henry was well-liked and admired, but he had a problem: he was living like a king, with a retinue of knights and followers who wanted to be with the next monarch, but he had no revenues. Revenues come from the taxes on property, and his father kept tight control of England, Normandy, and Anjou. His mother, Eleanor, held the enormous Aquitaine. Young Henry stood to inherit a vast area, but he wanted it sooner. Then his father gave three castles, that would have belonged to young Henry, to Prince John. Eleanor and others urged Henry to rebel

His solution was ironic: give his future kingdom away in order to rule it. He promised territories to several counts of areas on the continent if they would support him in overthrowing his father. Henry senior's reputation had been severely tarnished by the killing of Thomas Becket in 1170; in 1173, people were still outraged.

Young Henry went to the court of King Louis VII of France, whose daughter he had married, to plan. His brothers Richard (Lionheart) and Geoffrey joined him (likely also upset at the preference shown to the youngest brother John). The first step was in March of 1173 when young Henry and his allies attacked Normandy from three sides. It was a failure. Loyal Norman forces repelled them and killed the Count of Boulogne.

The next phase took place when the Earl of Leicester took an army of Flemish mercenaries to England ... and was soundly defeated. Danger from the north was next: forces from Scotland in the spring of 1174 invaded northern England.

Then something happened that would not initially seem to be related to the war, but may have had an effect. Henry II, crossing from Normandy back to England in July, stopped at Canterbury Cathedral and did penance before the tomb of Thomas Becket, whose murder people felt as Henry's fault. The very next day, loyalists in northern England captured the Scottish forces. That was the end of the revolt. Henry II destroyed the castles of several of the nobles who supported his son. Young Henry, Richard, and Geoffrey all re-pledged their loyalty to the father.

Besides Prince John, there was another son who did not have cause to join the rebellion. This was another Geoffrey, who was illegitimate and possibly older than the rest. This Geoffrey had different ambitions, which were to be realized if he just kept his place and stayed the course. Tomorrow we'll talk about just how far a bastard son o a king could go.

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, Aftermath

It's a rare medieval post that starts with a Star Wars reference, but here it is (spoilers!): when Obi Wan confronts Darth Vader, he warns his former pupil "If you strike me down, I shall become more powerful than you could possibly imagine." As it turns out, the murder of Thomas Becket by knights acting (so they believed) on Henry II's wishes gave to the problematic and disgraced Archbishop of Canterbury a level of celebrity I doubt he would have achieved otherwise.

Henry's involvement—deliberate or not—in the murder tarnished his reputation; the death of Becket was one of the points brought against him during a rebellion in 1173. But let's focus on the immediate events after 29 December 1170.

The four knights responsible fled northward, to the castle of one of their number, Hugh de Moreville. Regardless of their "good intentions"—they thought they were carrying out orders of a king—the murder of an archbishop was not going to be without consequence. They might have thought to get to Scotland, where English law would not follow them. The four were excommunicated by Pope Alexander III. They were not in immediate danger of secular punishment: Henry did not confiscate their lands, which would have been appropriate for the circumstances. When they appealed to him for advice on their future in August 1171, however, he refused to help them. They ultimately went to Rome to seek forgiveness from the Pope, whose penance for them was to go to the Holy Land and support the Crusading efforts.

Back to Canterbury and 29 December 1170: the monks began to prepare the body for burial. Legend says they were astounded to find that he wore a hair shirt under his clothing: a sign of great piety, to willingly do penance through discomfort. His coffin was placed beneath the floor of the cathedral, with a hole in the stone floor where pilgrims could stick their heads in and kiss the tomb. The martyr's tomb became an enormously popular pilgrimage site; from martyr to saint took only two years: he was canonized by Alexander III on 21 February 1173.

Fifty years after his death, his bones were put into a shrine of gold and jewels—affordable because of the radical increase in donations and offerings due to the popularity of St. Thomas of Canterbury—and given a more prominent place behind the high altar. Sadly, the shrine and bones were destroyed by Henry VIII in 1538, and all mentions of Becket's name were to be eliminated. Despite Henry's efforts, Thomas Becket is still one of the most popular and best-known martyrs and saints in English history.

As was typical for prominent figures, especially saints, several legends cropped up about him with no evidence, but several locales tried to connect themselves to a now-famous figure. I'll share some of the more outrageous stories next.

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.

The Fork

17th century knife and fork

There is a point in the movie Becket (taken from the play of the same name by Jean Anouilh) that introduces the fork. King Henry II has never heard of it before, and doesn't see the point.* Forks did come to England rather late, but they were around much earlier elsewhere.

Ancient Greeks used two-tined forks as serving utensils, though not for transporting food directly to the mouth. Forks show up in the Middle East by the 7th century CE, used by aristocracy. In the 11th century, the Doge of Venice, Domenico Selvio, married a Byzantine princess, Theodora, who brought to Venice a case of forks, surprising the locals with her refusal to eat with her hands. Bishop Peter Damian of Ostia attributed her death to her "excessive delicacy."

"An Englishman named Thomas Coryate brought the first forks to England after seeing them in Italy during his travels in 1608." [link] This is not true of the "first forks," since documentary evidence of forks exists in England prior to that. This site shows examples of forks in wills and household accounts:

• The Will of John Baret of Bury St. Edmunds, 1463: "Itm J. yeve and beqwethe to Davn John Kertelynge my silvir forke for grene gyngor" [my translation: "Item: I give and bequeath to Davin John Kerteling my silver fork for green ginger."
• The Jewelhouse inventory of Henry VIII: "Item one spone wt suckett fork at the end of silver and gilt" [Note: a "suckett" fork was used to get preserves like ginger out of jars; John Baret's was probably also a suckett fork.]
• Inventory of property left by Henry VII: "Item, one Case wherein are xxi knives and a fork, the hafts being crystal and chalcedony, the ends garnished with gold"
• "Item, one Case of knives furnished with divers knives and one fork, whereof two be great hafts of silver parcel-gilt, the case covered with crimson velvet"

This is not to say that everyone in England had seen forks; only that forks were known at least to the upper classes. No doubt they were often made with expensive materials, and not accessible to everyone.

They started with two tines to prevent whatever was speared from twisting. The tines were straight, however, and some foods tended to slip off. More tines were eventually added for stability, and in the late 17th century in France we start to find curved tines meant for scooping and holding food more reliably.

Our word "fork" comes from Old English forca, meaning a pitchfork, from the Latin furca for pitchfork. The French called them forchette for "little pitchfork."

*You can see a clip here.

Movie Trivia

Every once in awhile, I decide to throw in bits and pieces that come my way but don't fit into a regular post. I did one here for the date of October 6th, and I gave an Update to cover some odds and ends I came across long after writing about certain subjects.

Since Becket has been on my mind (and on these pages) the past week, I cannot help thinking about how many people are probably familiar with him through the movie Becket, based on the play by Jean Anouilh. Made in 1964, it stars Richard Burton as Becket and Peter O'Toole as Henry II. The portrayal of Becket and his relationship with the king is inaccurate; Anouilh based it on a book he bought for his library whose green cover he thought would look good on his shelves. The book was not a true history, but Anouilh found that out after finishing the play, and altering his characters to reflect the truth would involve rewriting the entire play.

Perhaps it was the success of Becket that prompted the filming of A Man For All Seasons, based on the play by Robert Bolt of the same name, in which we see the tumultuous consequences suffered by (Saint) Sir Thomas More (Paul Scofield) when he refused to acknowledge King Henry VIII (Robert Shaw, probably better remembered to modern audiences as Captain Quint in Jaws) as the head of the new Church of England.

Peter O'Toole would play Henry II again in 1967, against Katharine Hepburn as Eleanor of Aquitaine, in The Lion in Winter. Like Becket, the movie was good, though the history was bad.

I've also mentioned The Anarchy as the backdrop for part of Theobald of Bec's career. The Anarchy is the era in which the Brother Cadfael mysteries of Ellis Peters take place.

I call Pope Celestine V "the pope who quit"; Dan Brown's Angels and Demons book and movie use him as an example of a murdered pope. (Dan Brown's books should not be used as history.)

Speaking of bad history and historical conspiracy theories, William of Gellone is a prominent figure in Holy Blood, Holy Grail by Baigent, Leigh, and Lincoln. Dan Brown's work shows the influence of this book.

...and that's enough trivia for another several months.

Theobald of Bec

Since we brought up Canterbury yesterday, and arguably its most famous archbishop, let us take a look at his predecessor, who was very much at odds with the King of England for the same reasons, but hasn't made it into as many history books.

Theobald (c.1090-1161) was born in Normandy. He joined the abbey at Bec as a Benedictine and became its abbot in 1137. A year later, King Stephen of England appointed him the Archbishop of Canterbury. Theobald's relationship with the king was not ideal, especially when he clashed with the king's younger brother, Henry of Blois, who happened to be the Bishop of Winchester. Theobald was Henry's superior, but when your brother is the king, I suppose you tend to think you can get away with a little insubordination. Henry was appointed papal legate by Pope Celestine II, giving him some extra authority, but when Celestine died and Pope Innocent II (mentioned here) took the throne of Peter, Henry lost his position. Innocent did not like King Stephen, and wanted to appoint Theobald as his legate. This required Theobald to travel to meet the pope, which King Stephen forbade. Theobald went anyway.

Which brings us to the major issue between Theobald and King Stephen—and it's the same issue that created the greatest difficulties between Thomas Becket and King Henry II: who makes the decisions, the leader of the country or the leader of the church? The Archbishop was appointed/approved by the king, but did that give the king authority over everything the archbishop did in the future?

(For more on Stephen of Blois and his attitude toward his own right to authority, see how he took the throne in during The Anarchy, Parts One, Two, and Three, along with this.)

One of Theobald's acts that exacerbated this conflict between temporal and spiritual authority was a synod  Theobald called in 1151. It comprised mostly the bishops of the land, but the king and his son and heir, Eustace, were invited. The synod made eight new statutes, including ones forbidding taxing church property, or seizing church property, or prosecuting clergy in the royal courts as opposed to church courts.

An even worse slap in Stephen's face came a year later, when Stephen wanted to crown Eustace as his heir.* Theobald refused to participate, claiming that to crown Eustace and legitimize Stephen's dynasty would be perpetuating a crime. (See the four links above, describing how Stephen claimed the throne for himself.)

The civil war ("The Anarchy"; see above) that came not long after the death of Eustace on the White Ship tore England apart for years, until the Treaty of Wallingford. Ironically, the negotiations that brought peace between Stephen and Henry of Anjou (later King Henry II) were managed by Theobald and his long-time enemy, Henry of Blois. When Stephen died in October 1154, Theobald attended him on his deathbed; Stephen named Theobald regent until Henry could take up the reins of power. Although the two had feuded, there is evidence of mutual respect that allowed them ultimately to work together.

Theobald had the same relationship with Henry II, fighting over authority to try clergy in ecclesiastical courts rather than secular courts, and protecting church property from royal interference. Theobald helped his protégé, Thomas Becket, become chancellor. Becket seems to have become very close to the king, so close that the king was glad to make him Archbishop of Canterbury upon Theobald's death. That arrangement, however, if it was intended to make Henry's dealing with the church any easier than under Theobald, was surely a disappointment to the king. Becket proved to be as protective of the church and clergy as Theobald was. (But then, everyone knows how that turned out.)

*The Capetian Dynasty followed the practice of crowning the heir while his predecessor was still alive, previously posted about here.

Chaucer Performs

Whan that Aprille with his shoures soote 

The droghte of Marche hath perced to the roote 

DailyMedieval doesn't usually talk about topics that everyone knows about (King Arthur, Geoffrey Chaucer, jousting and castles, etc.), because it tries to pull back the curtain on all the other interesting people and places and tidbits of knowledge that do not get any exposure in textbooks or modern popular culture. (Not that I don't have a strong feelings about Chaucer, as the book link in the upper-right corner of this website tells you.)

From the Ellesmere manuscript

Today, however, we mention Geoffrey Chaucer, because today is thought to be the day of the year when his pilgrims set out on their journey in The Canterbury Tales. Also, 17 April 1397 is considered to be the day that he first gave a public reading of his most famous work at the court of Richard II.

Spring was the time when folk "longed to go on pilgrimages" because they had been cooped up indoors all winter and the roads were finally becoming navigable.

Canterbury was a common goal for pilgrimages because it held the shrine of Thomas Becket, Archbishop of Canterbury from 1162-1170, who was killed during the reign of Henry II by four knights who were acting either on behalf of  the King or were removing the king's rival on their own in order to curry favor. He was universally loved by the population of England, and was declared a martyr by Pope Alexander III in 1173.

While we're on the subject, let's make something clear about The Canterbury Tales: it is not a complete work. In the collection, the proposal for the pilgrims is that they would each tell two tales heading to Canterbury and two tales coming back, after which their Host would judge the best tale. Chaucer's intent was possibly to top Boccaccio's Decameron with its ten tales each day for ten days. We have barely over 30 tales (and some of them fragmentary), a far cry from the 120 we could expect if he completed the work.

London Bridge is Falling Down!

[For earlier history, see here.]

Finding the origin of nursery rhymes can be unreliable, since one never knows how long a rhyme was circulating orally until it got recorded. See my comments on "Ring Around the Rosie" here. Also, what we think of as the nursery rhyme may be just the latest version; earlier versions may lead to entirely different interpretations. The full current version of "London Bridge Is Falling Down" can be read here. It has references that make it very unlikely to be a medieval poem.

Viking boat pulling down London Bridge

The earliest reference to something that might be related to the Bridge rhyme is found in the Norse Heimskringla, written in Iceland by Snorri Sturluson (1178-1241). In it, Sturluson collected stories of Norwegian kings. In one story, King Olaf II attacked London and the Bridge in the company of the Saxon King Æthelred the Unready. They pulled it down with chains, dividing the Danish forces who had no other easy way to cross the Thames. The 1844 English edition included a poem by another poet, Ottar Svarti ("Ottar the Black"), which begins with the line "London Bridge is broken down." It was discovered later, however, that the translator decided to prefix Ottar's poem with a made-up line. Ottar never referred to London Bridge.

In the 1890s, another theory as to the origin came from a British folklorist. Drawing on an old theme of blood sacrifice to make foundations strong, she suggested that children were buried—perhaps alive—under the Bridge. Actually, there was a burial "under" the Bridge. Peter de Colechurch, who was heavily involved in the construction of the 12th century version, was a chaplain of the church in which St. Thomas Becket was baptized. He had a chapel on the Bridge dedicated to Becket. de Colechurch died in 1205 and was buried in the crypt, at the river level of the chapel. At the dismantling of the Bridge in 1832, when his bones were found, they were unceremoniously tossed into the Thames.

Wedding of Henry III & Eleanor of Provence

Then there's the story that Eleanor of Provence (c.1223-1291), who was given the tolls and rents from the Bridge as a present from her husband, Henry III, spent them on herself rather than the upkeep of the Bridge. The Bridge fell into disrepair, and a derisive verse was formed with the telling, sarcastic phrase "my fair lady."

Control of the Bridge was returned to the City of London in 1281. Ironically, the heavy river ice that winter built up against the bridge and five of the arches collapsed.

The Bridge has become iconic. A few remaining stones of the medieval version can be seen in the churchyard of St. Magnus Martyr, which used to be at one end of the span. In the early 1960s, when he learned London wanted to replace the Bridge and offered to sell the Victorian version, American chainsaw magnate Robert McCulloch offered the winning bid of $2,460,000. McCulloch transported the stones (carefully coded) to Lake Havasu City, Arizona, USA, where he had them painstakingly re-assembled over a steel structure. "London Bridge" now exists on both sides of the Atlantic!

Gervase of Canterbury

Gervase of Canterbury (c.1141-c.1210) was a monk of Christ Church in Canterbury. He was ordained on February 16, 1163 by Archbishop of Canterbury Thomas Becket (who would be assassinated in 1170, canonized by Alexander III a few years later, and become the focus of the most famous shrine in England).

Gervase had a fairly undistinguished career as a monk, and his "importance" for us is in his connection to other people and events. He was involved in the dispute between the monks of Christ Church and Archbishop of Canterbury Baldwin of Forde. Baldwin disapproved of the luxury in which the monks of Christ Church lived, derived from the donations made by pilgrims to the shrine of St. Thomas Becket. At one point, Baldwin had the entire monastery confined under house arrest for a year and a half. Gervase was one of the monks sent to inform Baldwin that they were making an appeal to the pope. Ultimately, the monks were given their freedom and normalcy restored (except that Baldwin appointed Roger Norris, a pretty ineffective administrator, as their prior).

For a brief time Gervase held the position of sacristan (the person who takes care of the church and its contents), working for the Archbishop Hubert Walter.

...and that's about it for Gervase, except for one little thing that has intrigued historians and astronomers for centuries. Gervase kept records and wrote books, such as a history of the Archbishops of Canterbury and his Mappa Mundi, which lists bishoprics and ecclesiastical houses in England, Wales and Scotland. He was also the chronicler of his monastery, and on the night of June 18th, 1178,* he recorded something curious and previously unseen.

...but what the event was, and how June the 25th is actually the anniversary of the event on the 18th, I'll save for tomorrow.

*The same year this was happening in Italy, as mentioned on the June 20th post.