The Plague and The Clergy

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

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

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

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

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

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

Apple Pie

A traveling baker, specializing in pies and pretzels

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Bishop & Bibliophile

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Doctor Profundus

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

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

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

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

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

When the Waters Rise

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

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

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

The Arno floods Florence again in 1966

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

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

And Then There's Maud

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sugar, Short & Sweet

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

A medieval merchant weighs sugar for sale

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Trick or Treat

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Carolingian Bystanders

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

Charlemagne, his children, their tutors

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

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

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

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

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

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

Mothers and Sons

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sons and Mothers

Bertrada of Laon

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

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

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

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

After the Hammer Fell

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Charles the Hammer

Kings cannot run every administrative detail of their household themselves, so they appoint people to do it for them. Chamberlain, seneschal, castellan, steward, concierge, major domo—these are all terms to describe the person fulfilling that role. The Frankish kings of the 7th and 8th centuries referred to their major domo (Latin for "superior of the house") as the "Mayor of the Palace."

In the case of the Franks, the Mayor of the Palace was a hereditary position, descended from an invaluable Merovingian advisor, Arnulf of Metz. His son married the daughter of Pepin of Landen, and from them came a line of Mayors of the Palace who would ultimately change the Frankish world.

In yesterday's post on le rois fainéants, I mentioned that, after Theuderic's death in 737, the throne remained vacant for seven years. Clearly, the country did not disintegrate, and so someone must have maintained its proper functioning. That someone was the Mayor of the Palace, Charles, called "Martel," "the Hammer." He was called "the Hammer" because of his brilliant military victories, especially at the Battle of Tours in 732. Details of the battle—its location, the numbers on both sides—cannot be determined with the scant records available to us, but what is known is that he halted the progress of Islam into Western Europe and in the process cemented Frankish authority over the southern part of Gaul/France.

He is also credited as a champion of Christianity. In 739, two years after Theuderic's death, Pope Gregory III offered Charles the office of Consul in Rome: one of the two highest elected offices. Charles declined. Of course, at that time he was the de facto ruler of most of what we now call France; why give that up? He had been calling himself princeps et dux Francorum (prince and duke of the Franks), and was apparently not interested in the title of "king." But let us be clear: this apparent modesty does not mean he was a "nice" man. Charles kept Theuderic in custody during the last years of his life, first at an abbey, and later at a castle in a town called Otmus.* Charles was not about to let Theuderic's incompetence threaten the stability of the nation.

We hardly hear about Charles Martel today, even though his name was given to an age: the Carolingian Age. When he died, his son, Pepin the Short, asked Pope Stephen II "Who should be king? He who has the title, or he who wields the power?" By that time, the pope depended on Frankish armies for many purposes; he crowned Pepin "King of the Franks." It was Pepin's son, however, the grandson of Charles the Hammer, who would truly unite that part of the world and take it to administrative, academic, and cultural heights not imagined since the glory of Rome: Charles the Great, known everywhere today as Charlemagne.

*During his captivity, the town took on the name Castrum Theodorici ("Camp/Castle of Theuderic"). The name stuck, and now en Français is called Château-Thierry.

The Lazy Kings

What do you do when a dynasty seems to become useless? You name them Le Rois fainéants (The do-nothing Kings).

The Merovingians are the descendants of Merovech or Merovius, a semi-legendary figure whose father was—according to various reports, such as the Chronicle of Fredegar, expanding on something said by Gregory of Tours—a sea deity. Whatever the case, his son Childeric I (c.457-481) was known to be leader of the Salian Franks, and his son Clovis I united all of Gaul.

The Salian Franks came to an agreement with the Roman Empire. The Salians settled in what had been Roman territory at one time, built a decent political alliance with Rome, and slowly adopted some Roman culture, shifting from the reputation of the Germanic tribes as uncouth and warlike. When Attila and his Huns became a problem for Rome, the emperor was able to call on the Salian Franks—by now well-established as the Merovingian dynasty—for aid, ending the threat to Europe from the Huns.

The adoption of Christianity was another trend that helped change the composition of Frankish culture in Gaul. Although Goths and others adopted the heretical Arianism, the baptism of Clovis cemented ties between the Frankish kingdom and Roman Catholicism, giving them the support of the Pope as well as the Emperor.

Clovis' thirty-year rule may have been the high point of the dynasty, however. The Salic Law confirmed royal inheritance exclusively to male descendants, but not limited to the eldest. Clovis' kingdom was divided among his four sons upon his death. Sibling rivalry often turned into civil war among Clovis' descendants. Even worse: over the next two centuries, these frequent struggles between adjacent sub-kingdoms and the desire to reunite them under one banner had an unintended consequence. Young heirs sometimes became tools of strong military leaders who wanted to cement some power for themselves but needed a divinely anointed king under which to do it. By the 7th century, with much of Frankish land brought together again, the Merovingian line became a series of weak kings who seemed disinterested or simply unable to take control and do anything notable. From 675 (Clovis III, king of Austrasia for one year) to the death of Theuderic IV in 737 (after which the throne was empty for seven years), there were a half-dozen kings of the Franks who are called le rois fainéants because of their uselessness and complete lack of administrative agenda or ability. It was a sad ending to what might have been a noteworthy dynasty in that part of the world.

So...what if you were a competent administrator working in the palace, seeing the problems and wishing you could help get the kingdom back on track? Well, if you are a top administrator with the nickname "Charles the Hammer," you take things into your own hands—for the good of the kingdom, of course. That's a good story for tomorrow.

Gregory of Tours

Chilperic I speaking to Bishop Gregory

Georgius Florentius (539-593) was born into a distinguished Gallo-Roman family in Arverni in southern France. His father died when he was young, and Georgius went to live with his uncle, Bishop Gal, who educated him as a cleric. After recovering from a serious illness, he decided to join the church, and he changed his name to Gregory in honor of his mother's great-grandfather, the Bishop of Langres.

In 573, he was appointed Bishop of Tours by Sigebert I, King of Austrasia and Auvergne. He traveled to Rome to have his appointment confirmed, where the 6th century Latin poet Fortunatus wrote a poem to commemorate him. A bishop had many civic as well as ecclesiastical duties, and Gregory justified the faith in him by tending to his flock and challenging the shortcomings of politicians. The Frankish dynasties at the time were not living up to the standards of leadership established by King Clovis (466-511), and their rule often descended into petty disputes and civil war. When Sigebert fought a war with Chilperic I (539-584; he was a son of Clothar I and Aregund), Gregory tried to make them see the damage they were doing to the common folk, proclaiming "This has been more hurtful to the Church than the persecution of Diocletian."*

As brave as he was in trying to ameliorate the crude Frankish culture with an infusion of more sophisticated Roman culture and Christian sensibility, he was also diligent in recording the history of his country. He wrote ten books of history (Historia Francorum, History of the Franks), seven on miracles, one on the lives of the early church fathers; he also wrote on liturgy and scripture.

His work can be called propagandist—or perhaps simply written unsurprisingly with his own personal filters—since Christian tribes and countries always come out looking better than pagans in his history. He also comes out strongly against Arianism and Jews. Despite his moralizing—maybe because of it—his anecdotes are an excellent view into the culture and customs of the time. His history, along with two other works called the "Chronicle of Fredegar" and the "Book of the History of the Franks," provide an almost unbroken history of Gaul for 300 years after the Fall of Rome. He is also fairly objective at times: his writing on miracles questions the truth of some of them.

He is also our best source of history for the Frankish dynasty called the Merovingians while it was still strong and founding what would eventually become the nation of France. He would have been saddened a hundred years later to find a line of kings so different from Clovis and Chilperic that they would be called the "do-nothing kings." But that's a tale for another day ... like tomorrow.

*Diocletian (245-313) was the emperor responsible for the final and worst wave of Christian persecution in the Roman empire.

Arverni

The announcement for the First Crusade was made from Clermont in France. The name "Clermont" came from the Latin clarus mons (clear/plain + mountain), originally the name of a castle because of the dormant volcano next door, and later the name of the city it overlooked. But that wasn't until the 9th century. It had a much earlier name in the 2nd century, Arvernis, because it was the capital of the Gallic tribe the Arverni, whose leader Vercingetorix united several Gallic tribes under one banner to fight Julius Caesar. The name "Arverni" lives on in the modern French name of the region, the Auvergne.

Vercingetorix, honored by France in 1966

As one of the oldest established cities in France, it has a long and noble history. In the 5th century it had a large enough Christian population that it earned its own cathedral and bishop. It fought against Visigothic expansion numerous times, until in the late 5th century the Roman emperor gave up on it and let the Visigoths have it. Eventually it fell under Frankish rule.

It also became notable as a location for religious reform and advancement. The announcement of the First Crusade took place at the Second Council of Clermont. The First Council of Clermont took place in 535 and established several points, such as:

• Marriages between Christians and Jews were forbidden
• Marriages between relatives were discouraged
• Priests may not appeal to secular lords for help against their bishop
• Clerics who attempt to cheat their way to a bishopric will be excommunicated

(The medieval attitude toward Jews was further acted upon in 570, when then-Bishop Avitus offered Jew in Arverni the same deal offered by Edward I in England in 1290: baptism or expulsion.)

The First Council was hosted by the bishop of Arverni, Bishop Gal I. Later, he would be canonized as St. Gal, not to be confused with St. Gall of monastic architecture fame. Although Gal I defended the church steadfastly, and was known at the time for his amazingly even-tempered approach to conflict and personal injury (when struck on the head, his calm response completely disarmed the attacker and defused the situation), he is not well known these days. Connected with him, however, is a true "local boy makes good" story. I am referring to Gal's nephew and pupil, Gregory of Tours, who was not named Gregory and did not come from Tours. But that's a story for tomorrow.

Battle of the Numbers

Among the accomplishments of Hermann of Reichenau, he also provides us with the set of rules for one of Europe's oldest board games, developed by a monk to teach Boethian number theory, called Rithmomachy or Arithmomachia, "Battle of the Numbers."

The pieces on the rectangular 8x16 board, their "ranks" and their allowed moves are determined by mathematical rules based on their geometry (Circles, Squares, Triangles, Pyramids) and the numbers marked on their surfaces. I could not possibly explain the rules in a short post—nor should I be able to, since the intent was to design a game that truly requires a grasp of mathematical functions and the skill to apply them quickly. Feel free to educate yourselves on the rules here and here.

Laser-etched pieces. [link]

It was more than just a game of strategy like chess (to which it has some resemblance). According to a 2001 book, Rithmomachy

combined the pleasures of gaming with mathematical study and moral education. Intellectuals of the medieval and Renaissance periods who played this game were not only seeking to master the principles of Boethian mathematics but were striving to improve their own understanding of the secrets of the cosmos. [The Philosopher's Game, Anne Moyer]

The game became popular as a teaching aid in monasteries in France and Germany, and even reached England where Roger Bacon recommended it to students at Oxford. Over the centuries it spread as an intellectual pastime, and by the Renaissance it had spread enough that instructions were being printed in French, German, Italian and Latin. Sadly (mercifully?), the game fell out of popularity and the public's consciousness after the 1600s until modern historians re-discovered it.

A Grave Strikes Gold

I have mentioned St.-Denis in Paris as the first church in the Gothic style. That project was a re-building of an earlier church—a church, in fact, that would be notable to historians even if it had not been turned into an architectural wonder by Abbot Suger.

Ring inscribed to Aregund (ARNEGUNDIS)

Originally, the structure was a martyrium—a shrine to the martyr Saint Denis, whose head had been carried to that spot (by his decapitated body) while preaching a sermon. This would have been some time in the 3rd century. Dagobert, a King of the Franks (c.603-639), built an abbey on the spot, preserving the crypts that had been installed over the centuries to house kings of France and important figures. The first mention of a church is of one begun in the reign of Pepin the Short (c.714-768), whose son, Charlemagne, finished it. Then, of course, Abbot Suger in the 12th century re-worked much of it into what stands today. All of the building and re-building went upwards, and what was below the surface was untouched for centuries, until later scholars decided to examine the crypts.

Some of the crypts are not marked well. Knowing a list of interments, however, scholars could use a process of elimination along with various dating techniques and even DNA testing to determine the identity of the subjects. There's also direct evidence. An archaeologist and art historian in 1959, examining the contents of one unlabeled sarcophagus, struck gold. Along with the remarkably well-preserved clothing on a female body, he found a gold ring inscribed to Aregund.

Belt clasp from Aregund's jewelry collection

Aregund was one of the wives of Clothar I (511-561), an early Frankish king in the line that led to Dagobert. Her burial provided insight into clothing of the 6th century, but also into how wealthy the early Frankish kings were:

The deceased wore a violet-coloured silk skirt, held in place by a large leather belt that had a sumptuously decorated buckle plate and buckle counter-plate. Her reddish-brown silk tunic, decorated with gold braid, was fastened with a pair of round brooches with a garnet cloisonné decoration. [source]

To be frank,* there are some who believe the remains belong to another noblewoman who lived decades later. Most of the reasoning is based on the age of the sarcophagus. The arguments neglect the simple possibility that Aregund was re-interred—not an uncommon occurrence. Even if the identity were up for debate, however, the value of the contents as a glimpse into 7th century Frankish culture is incalculable.

*Yes, that's a pun.

The First First Crusade

To be thorough: there was more to the plan. Emperor Alexios I of Byzantium had requested help from the pope against invading Turks, and the pope saw an opportunity to help his Christian brother and then, since a western European army would be so close (800-900 miles!), why not take back the city that had been occupied by non-Christians since the 7th century? Expeditions like this required careful planning, and so the pope intended that it should begin in August of 1096.

Unfortunately, "crusading fever" spread quickly, and the spring of 1096 saw a movement of tens of thousands of peasants and lesser knights from across Western Europe amassing in separate groups and making their way toward the Holy Land. These various groups have been called the People's Crusade, the Peasants' Crusade, and the Paupers' Crusade. One group, led by a Walter Sans Avoir (Walter "Haves Not"), went through Germany and Hungary relatively peacefully, but reached the Belgrade area having exhausted their supplies. The leaders of Belgrade had no idea what to do with the newcomers and refused them aid, whereupon the "crusaders" took what they needed from he Belgrade area, causing much consternation and destruction.*

Other crusading groups (there were five major groups prior to the official and organized army) traveled down the Rhine and, finding communities of Jews, took it upon themselves to slaughter them or force them to convert to Christianity. Estimates of casualties among Jews range from 2,000 to 12,000.

The largest group was led by a priest from Amiens, Peter the Hermit (d.1115), who preached the Crusade in France. He rode a donkey and claimed to have a divine commission to lead. He arrived at Constantinople with 30,000 followers, putting Emperor Alexius I in the position of needing to provision this "army" (which included women and children). Walter's group and others showed up as well. Constantinople could not play host to so many needy tourists, and Alexios agreed to ship them across the Bosphorus to Turkey, telling them to wait while he arranged soldiers to get them through the Turkish territory. Crusading fever would not allow delay, however, and the largely non-military masses advanced, to be cut down in the thousands by the Turks. Wounded, starving, and penniless, the handful of survivors could only wait with Peter (Walter had been killed by several arrows at once) for the real army to arrive.

Jerusalem was captured by the armies of the First Crusade, but none of the success can be attributed to any of the tens of thousands of people who set out months early with little but faith on their side.

*I think of Dan Ackroyd and John Belushi in the movie "The Blues Brothers": "They can't stop us: we're on a mission from God!"

Criminal Intent

When Henry I (1068-1135) was king of England, the rule of the law was simple: someone had to pay for a crime. The philosophy was "who sins unwittingly shall knowingly make amends." This was a few decades into Norman rule in England, but it mirrored the previous Anglo-Saxon law as well: someone had to be responsible if a wrong had been committed. In fact, the law under King Cnut (985-1035) demanded that even an infant who broke a cup was guilty as if he were an adult acting deliberately. (Remember the importance of the wergild to pre-Norman England.) At least Henry's law allowed the very young and the insane to be considered innocent, being not in their right minds. Accidental injury was still injury, however, until a legal expert came forward who tried to change that.

Henry Bracton (1210-1268) was a jurist who worked hard to codify and update English law, using the well-developed Roman legal system as his guide. His four-volume De Legibus et Consuetudinibus Angliæ (On the Laws and Customs of England) informed much of English law afterward, even though he didn't finish it (I'll explain why shortly). He had a lot to say about the practice of seeking Sanctuary in a church, about "writs of appeal," and murder fines and dying intestate. But what we are looking at today is the concept of mens rea.

Mens rea, Latin for "guilty mind," was considered by Bracton to be a necessary element of a crime, as opposed to just an actus reus (guilty act). Just as Bracton insisted that stealing required an intent to steal, so the attitude of the law to killing must reflect the agent's intent to kill:

the crime of homicide, be it either accidental or voluntary, does not permit of suffering the same penalty, because on one case the full penalty must be exacted and in the other there should have been mercy. [De Legibus]

This was a significant change, and made a harsh law more reasonable. The fact that a felony in modern jurisprudence requires intent starts with Bracton's move away from a strictly "mathematical," eye-for-an-eye approach to punishment.

A page from De Legibus

So why didn't he finish it? Bracton rose far in his career: from being a justice at the age of 35 to being a member of what became the King's Court. But by 1257, something prompted him to quit his position not long before the summoning of the Mad Parliament by Henry III and the unrest that led to the Provisions of Oxford. By quitting, he had to turn in all of his papers, court cases, notes and copies of the law that he had been drawing on to write De Legibus. The timing is suspicious, especially considering the personal cost to him and his life's work. One wonders if he wanted to avoid taking sides, or, if he already had taken a side, who he was afraid of angering most: the king or the Barons.

Whatever the case, he walked away from law and courts for years, becoming a rector in a couple places, then an archdeacon, and finally the chancellor of Exeter Cathedral, in the nave of which he is buried. But in the last year of his life he was drawn into one more court case which, depending upon his reasons for leaving the law just before the second great conflict between a king of England and the Barons, might have been awkward for him. At the end of yesterday's post, the Dictum of Kenilworth  was mentioned, allowing the rebels to make a case to reclaim their estates from their king. Henry Bracton was appointed to the committee that heard their cases and decided the outcome, giving him one last chance to practice law—on behalf of people who had been his colleagues on the King's Court.

Provisions of Oxford

Henry III (1207-1272) spent much of his reign of 56 years dealing with fallout from the reign of his father, King John. For one thing, the Barons who pushed the Magna Carta on John were always looking for ways to increase their power. In 1258, they got their chance.

Henry had fought a military action against Sicily on behalf of Pope Alexander IV, and subsequently was out of money. So he summoned Parliament in the spring of 1258 to discuss a grant of revenue. The Barons agreed, with the provision that Henry would, in exchange, submit to a list of reforms. This Parliament is alternately called the Easter Parliament and the Mad Parliament. Henry (reluctantly) agreed, and on June 10th the 24-man commission created to develop the reforms (half appointed by the king and half by the Barons) submitted its report. The changes within were called the Provisions of Oxford.

Although considered by some to be the first written constitution in England (and the first published in English: copies were circulated to all of England in French, Latin, and Middle English), the Provisions were actually very short-lived, being superseded by the Provisions of Westminster in 1259. (In fact, they were only supposed to exist for 12 years, as a temporary measure while further reforms were being studied and put in place.) As a consequence, we are not sure that we have a complete record of the Provisions, relying instead on references to them found in contemporary and later documents. Still, we know enough to know that they attempted a series of regulations and "checks and balances" in government.

For instance, Parliament was to meet three times a year, not just when the King wanted them. All high officers were to swear loyalty to the king. Many positions (such as the chancellor, the chief justice, the treasurer) were appointments of only one year—helping to prevent the amassing of power and the temptation to long-term corruption—at the end of which the officer was to give an accounting of his actions while in office. A system was put in place for addressing grievances against sheriffs. Sheriffs were to be loyal landholders who would receive no fees for their work, but be subsidized by the exchequer for their expenses.

Ruins of Kenilworth, where it ended

Attempt to curtail royal power persisted, and the conflict see-sawed. Pope Urban IV annulled the Provisions in 1261 and 1262. The Barons restored and reinforced them in 1263, then modified them in 1264. Finally, the Barons took over England in 1264, Henry defeated them at the Battle of Evesham in 1265 and killed their leader, Simon de Montfort; some Barons held out at Kenilworth, and the siege that started by Henry was curtailed by the intervention of the pope, who suggested reconciliation. The resulting Dictum of Kenilworth allowed the rebels to have their estates back (at prices dependent on how rebellious they had been!), and many of the statutes in the earlier Provisions were overturned. Henry agreed to reconfirm Magna Carta, but the appointment of royal officers was re-recognized as a royal prerogative. The reconciliation between the levels of power lasted through Henry's reign and into that of his son, Edward I (1239-1307).

Tornado Surprise

Tornadoes usually form when masses of warm, moist air and higher altitude cooler air meet. The cooler air descends, the warm air ascends, and the action creates a vertical funnel of swiftly rotating air. The majority of tornadoes in the world are created in the North American mid-west, when cool air coming over the Rocky Mountains meets the warm air rising from the Great Plains. With these geographical features, North America has what is called "Tornado Alley." Without these geographical features, tornadoes have a more difficult time forming; when they do, they are usually very weak. In fact, in the 1000 years prior to the 20th century, only about 2 dozen tornadoes were recorded in all of Europe.

Artist's impression of St. Mary le Bow being destroyed

Which makes it all the more interesting to learn that a tornado—the earliest known in England and perhaps the biggest ever experienced by that country—hit London in 1091. Once again, London Bridge fell down. The church of St. Mary le Bow was flattened, and four of its 26-foot-long rafters were driven into the ground with such force that only 4 feet remained showing. Several other churches were damaged or destroyed, as well as 600 houses. Estimates of the force of the tornado seem foolish, but people have tried, and they rate it an F4 on the Fujita Scale (F0-F5), with winds at 200 miles per hour or more. If that is true, then it is truly remarkable that there were only two deaths reported.

A tornado like that hitting London now would be striking a city of more than 8 million, but in 1091 estimates for London's population range from as few as 10,000 to as many as 20,000. In October of 1091, actually, there were even fewer people in London than usual. Thanks to the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle, we know that King William II was up north with his retinue and army fighting King Malcolm Canmore of Scotland (1038-1093). William prevailed, and was out of town when disaster struck. All things considered, it was probably the luckiest military campaign he ever undertook.

The Plan of St. Gall

In April 2013, near Meßkirch in southern Germany, construction will start on a monastery. It is expected to take 40 years to complete, because the builders will use 9th century tools to build it. This alone should be sufficient to ensure its celebrity on the Internet and in the hearts of medievalists.

But wait ... there's more. The design of the monastery complex is from a document that is 1200 years old. The Plan of St. Gall is a 122cm x 77.5cm manuscript that was discovered in 1844 when a pamphlet containing a 12th century life of St. Martin was unfolded. It shows the layout of 40 structures and spaces for gardens and orchards and a road. It includes 333 labels that identify the buildings and their purpose.

To be clear: the Plan of St. Gall isn't the actual layout of the monastery at St. Gall; the terrain wouldn't allow it. An inscription on the Plan tells us that it was a gift to the Abbot of St. Gall, Gozbertus (fl.816-837), who was responsible for having the monastery's church built in the 830s. According to the men* who brought the Plan to modern attention, it was based on a design made at two Carolingian reform synods held in 816 and 817 in Aachen intended to formalize Benedictine culture.

For modern scholars, its value is as a focal point for study about Carolingian monastic life and 9th century architecture. The ongoing "St. Gall Project," administered by the Center for Medieval and Renaissance Studies at UCLA, is not only creating the to-scale dimensions and models of the structures, it is also re-creating digitally the libraries of the monasteries at St. Gall and Reichenau (mentioned here). Despite the idealized nature of the design, it does have a carefully laid out scale based on multiples (and halves) of the number 40. Clearly there was careful thought put into the design. By constructing the "ideal" Benedictine monastery based on the St. Gall manuscript, and re-creating the monastic complex including the written works that would have informed its inhabitants, the project hopes to gain grater insight to the culture and mindset of the early 9th century.

*Medievalist Walter Horn and architect Ernest Born produced a three-volume analysis of the document in 1979, The Plan of St. Gall (Berkeley, Calif., University of California Press).

Hedwig (Not the Owl)

The name "Hedwig" is now familiar to millions as the name of Harry Potter's owl, but it has a long history that predates its use by Rowling. Hedwig is from Old High German Haduwig (hadu=battle + wig=fight), and would have been pronounced het-vich. Hedy (as in Lamarr) is a diminutive form of the name. The best-known Hedwig in history (that is, prior to 1997) was a 12th century saint.

Family of St. Hedwig*

Hedwig (1174-1243) was born at the castle of Andechs, and became duchess of Silesia. She is alternately known as St. Hedwig of Silesia or St. Hedwig of Andechs. According to what records we have, she was educated at a monastery at Kitzingen, and married off at the age of 12 to Henry I "The Bearded" of Silesia (1165-1238). Although Henry was Polish, his mother was German and he had been educated in Germany; with his marriage, his ties to Germany and its ruling class became stronger. He preferred the German culture over the Polish, and under him "Silesia became German in language and customs."[note]

Hedwig's reputation was built on her piety and fortitude in supporting established monasteries and founding new ones. These monasteries helped spread the German culture of which Henry was fond. As well as establishing monasteries of Augustinian Canons and Cistercians, Hedwig also brought Dominicans (at Bunzlau and Breslau) and Franciscans (at Goldberg and Krossen) to Silesia.

Hediwg did not just spend her husband's money in doing good works. She tended leper women at Neumarkt. Her behavior inspired Henry to establish (at his own expense) the first religious foundation for women in Silesia: a convent of Cistercian nuns at Trebnitz in 1203. The second abbess was said to have been the Blessed Gertrude (c.1200-1268), the sixth child of Hedwig and Henry.

Hedwig had seven children that we know of—only one of which, Gertrude, outlived her—after which she convinced her husband that they should take vows of chastity. Henry even took on the tonsure of a monk and let his beard grow out (hence his nickname). Hedwig began to spend much of her later life in prayer at the Abbey at Trebnitz. On Henry's death in 1238, she settled into Trebnitz permanently, wearing the gray of a Cistercian (although she never took monastic vows), and died there 5 years later.

The piety and care she showed in life impressed more than her husband. In 1227, Henry was captured by Conrad of Masovia after a military engagement over the possession of Cracow; Conrad hauled him off to captivity. Hedwig immediately traveled to Conrad's location, where her appearance and eloquent pleas for her husband made such an impression that Henry was released.

Upon her death, she was buried in the church attached to Trebnitz.  Clement IV took time out from asking Roger Bacon to write books to make her a saint on 26 March 1267.

*From left to right: (front, kneeling) daughter Sophia, son Conrad the Curly; (back, standing) daughter Gertrude, eldest daughter Agnes, son and heir Henry II the Pious, son Boleslaw; (back, sitting) St. Hedwig, Henry I the Bearded.