Death and the Noble Body in Medieval England

Death and the Noble Body in Medieval England We all die, but how we perceive death as an event, process or state is inextricably connected to our experiences and the social and environmental culture in which we live. During the early middle ages, the body was used to demonstrate a whole range of concepts and assumptions: the ideal aristocrat possessed a strong, whole and virile body which reflected his inner virtues, and nobility of birth was understood to presuppose and enhance nobility of character and action. Here, the author examines how contemporary ideas about death and dying disrupted this abstract ideal. She explores the meaning of aristocratic funerary practices such as embalming and heart burial, and, conversely, looks at what the gruesomely elaborate executions of aristocratic traitors in England around the turn of the fourteenth century reveal about the role of the body in perceptions of group identity and society at large. Dr DANIELLE WESTERHOF is Honorary Visiting Fellow, School of Historical Studies, University of Leicester, and Research Associate, Centre for Medieval Studies, University of York.

Death and the Noble Body in Medieval England

DANIELLE WESTERHOF

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Danielle Westerhof 2008 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner The right of Danielle Westerhof to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988 First published 2008 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge ISBN 978–1–84383–416–8

The Boydell Press is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library This publication is printed on acid-free paper Typeset by Pru Harrison, Hacheston, Suffolk

Printed in Great Britain by CPI Antony Rowe Ltd, Chippenham, Wiltshire

Contents List of Illustrations and Figures Acknowledgements List of Abbreviations Introduction: Staking out Aristocratic Identities at Roncevaux

vii ix x 1

1. Death and the Cadaver: Visions of Corruption ‘Inter omnia terribilissimum est mors’ Voices of the dead What I am so you will be: death and personhood Conclusion

13 16 21 28 31

2. Embodying Nobility: Aristocratic Men and the Ideal Body Observing is knowing: body and identity Noble body, noble identity The nobility of the aristocratic heart Conclusion

33 35 43 51 54

3. Here Lies Nobility: Aristocratic Bodies in Death Religious benefaction and burial practice: the Earls of Cornwall Aristocratic patronage and burial ‘Hic jacet corpus nobilis’: funerals and funerary monuments Conclusion

57 58 64 69 73

4. Shrouded in Ambiguity: Decay and Incorruptibility of the Body Multiple burial: origins and context Preserving the cadaver: embalming and mos teutonicus Resting in pieces: aristocratic multiple burial Nobility as incorruptibility Debating the body: integrity and fragmentation Conclusion

75 75 78 82 87 89 95

5. Corruption of Nobility: Treason and the Aristocratic Traitor Scottish traitors and their treatment, 1305–06 ‘Feloniously as a felon, traitorously as a traitor’

96 97 102

Against king and kingdom: treason accusations between 1238 and 1330 Conclusion

109 113

6. Dying in Shame: Destroying Aristocratic Identities Display and stigmatisation: corporeal punishment in context ‘A horrifying spectacle for all nations’ Us and them: The social and metaphorical exclusion of aristocratic traitors Conclusion

115 117 121 131

Conclusion: Death and the Noble Body

137

Appendix 1 Appendix 2 Bibliography Index

141 150 155 179

134

List of Illustrations and Figures Figures 1 Richard Earl of Cornwall and his family 2 Reasons for heart and viscera burials 3 Distribution of known heart and viscera burials 4 Distribution of bodies associated with heart and viscera burials 5 Treason accusations 6 Punishments for treason

62 83 85 86 113 120

Illustrations 1 The Three Living encounter the Three Dead in the De Lisle 24 Psalter. © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (Arundel 83, f. 127) 2 Willam de Marisco’s broken inverted shield, lance and sword. 110 © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (Royal 14 C. VII, f. 133v) 3 Simon de Montfort’s death and mutilation on the battlefield at 132 Evesham. © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (Cotton Nero D. II, f. 177) Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view these images please refer to the printed version of this book.

Acknowledgements Thanks to everyone who has provided comments, criticisms, suggestions, observations, wine, company, distraction, sounding board, fresh air, questions, answers, a sense of humour, and more wine, to help me complete this book. It has been a laborious, fascinating and slightly uneasy task since its subject matter – death, dismemberment, dead bodies and methods of cadaver conservation – generally unearths instinctive fears about our own mortality and confronts us with questions about the purpose of it all. Nevertheless, death and dead bodies have been my companions for a number of years and I would not have survived without the help, advice and support from the following people: Professor W. Mark Ormrod and Dr Nicola McDonald; Professor Linne Mooney; Professor Carole Rawcliffe; Professor Bill McCormack; Dr Chris Daniell, Dr Jackie Hall and Dr Martyn Lawrence who generously shared some of their unpublished work with me; Dr Sophie Oosterwijk; Dr Victoria Thompson; and the workroom posse at the Centre for Medieval Studies in York. Caroline Palmer at Boydell and Brewer has shown great patience with my queries and has been very supportive of this project in its publishing stages. I would also like to thank everyone able to drag me away from any dark nights of the soul: Simon, Anne and Coby, Sheelagh and Larry, Bill and Carla, Renate, Maaike, Kim and Steve, Danny, Christa, Rebekah, Andy, Chris, Florence, Helen and Nick, and last but not least, Oscar. Lastly, I also gratefully acknowledge the financial support I received during the course of this research from the Centre for Medieval Studies in York, the VSB beurs, and the Stichting Hendrik Muller’s Vaderlandsch Fonds. Material from chapters 2, 3 and 5 has previously appeared in articles in Journal of Medieval History, Citeaux, and The End of the Body, ed. S. Akbari and J. Ross. Special thank you for support, faith and understanding: my partner Simon, and my parents Anne and Coby, to all of whom this book is dedicated.

Abbreviations Add. Additional AN Anglo Norman Ann. Chester Annales Cestrienses, or the Chronicle of the Abbey of St Werburg at Chester. Ed. R.C. Christie. Record Society of Lancashire and Cheshire 14. 1887 Ann. Dunst. Annales de Dunstaplia, AD 1–1297. Annales Monastici. Ed. H.R. Luard. 5 vols. RS 36. London: 1864–69. Vol. 3 Ann. Hailes ‘A Critical Edition of the Annals of Hailes (MS Cotton Cleopatra D. iii, ff. 33–59v) with an Examination of their Sources’. Ed. M.N. Blount. University of Manchester MA Thesis: 1974 Ann. London Annales Londonienses. Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II. Ed. W. Stubbs. 2 vols. RS 76. London: 1882–83. Vol. 1 Ann. Oseneia Annales de Oseneia, 1016–1347. Annales monastici. Ed. H.R. Luard. 5 vols. RS 36. London: 1864–69. Vol. 4 Ann. Paulini Annales Paulini. Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward I and Edward II. Ed. W. Stubbs. 2 vols. RS 76. London: 1882–83. Vol. 1 Ann. Tewks. Annales monasterii de Theokesberia. Annales monastici. Ed. H.R. Luard. 5 vols. RS 36. London: 1864–69. Vol. 1 Ann. Wav. Annales monasterii de Waverleia, AD 1–1291. Annales monastici. Ed. H.R. Luard. 5 vols. RS 36. London: 1864–69. Vol. 2 Baronage W. Dugdale. The Baronage of England. 2 vols. Hildesheim: 1977 [London: 1675] BL British Library Brut Brut or the Chronicles of England. Ed. F.W.D. Brie. 2 vols. EETS os 131 and 136. 1906–08 CChR Calendar of Chancery Rolls CCR Calendar of Close Rolls CEC The Charters of the Anglo-Norman Earls of Chester, c. 1071– 1237. Ed. G. Barraclough. Record Society of Lancashire and Cheshire 126 (1988) Cligés ‘Cligés’, in Chrétien de Troyes, Arthurian Romances. Trans. W.W. Kibler. Harmondsworth: 2004

ABBREVIATIONS

CP CPR CS EETS EHR Flores historiarum Foedera

xi

Complete Peerage Calendar of Patent Rolls Camden Society Early English Text Society English Historical Review Flores historiarum. Ed. H.R. Luard. 3 vols. RS 95. 1890

Foedera, conventions, litterae et acta publica. Ed. T. Rymer 4 vols. London: 1816–69 HMRC: The Manuscripts of His Grace the Duke of Rutland K.G. Rutland preserved at Belvoir Castle. Royal Commission for Historical Manuscripts. 4 vols. London: 1888–1905 Huntingdon, Henry of Huntingdon. Historia anglorum. Ed. T. Arnold. RS Historia 74 (1879) JBAA Journal of the British Archaeological Association Monasticon W. Dugdale. Monasticon Anglicanum. Ed. J. Caley, H. Ellis and B. Bandinel. 6 vols. London: 1846 Newburgh, William of Newburgh. Historia rerum anglicarum. Chronicles Historia of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard I. Ed. R. Howlett. 2 vols. RS 82. London: 1884. Vol. 1 ns New series ODNB Oxford Dictionary of National Biography Orderic Historia Ecclesiasticae: The Ecclesiastical History of Orderic Vitalis. Ed. M. Chibnall. 6 vols. Oxford: 1969–80 os Original series Perceval ‘The Story of the Grail’, in Chrétien de Troyes, Arthurian Romances. Trans. W.W. Kibler. Harmondsworth: 2004 PMLA Publications of the Modern Language Association Register Episcopal Registers: Diocese of Worcester. Register of Bishop Giffard Godfrey Giffard. Ed. J.W. Willis Bund. Worcester Historical Society Publications 1. Oxford: 1902 RS Rolls Series TBGAS Transactions of the Bristol and Gloucestershire Archaeological Society TCWAS Transactions of the Cumberland and Westmorland Archaeological Society TRHS Transactions of the Royal Historical Society Trokelowe Johannis de Trokelowe et Henrici de Blaneforde, monachorum S. Albani, necnon quorundam anonymorum Chronica et annales regnantibus Henrico Tertio, Edwardo Primo, Edwardo Secundo, Ricardo Secundo et Henrice Quarto, 1259–1296; 1307–1324; 1392–1406. Ed. H.T. Riley. RS 28.3. London: 1866

xii

VCH Worcester

Wykes Yvain

ABBREVIATIONS

Victoria History of the Counties of England Florentii Wigorniensis Monachi Chronicon ex Chronicis. Ed. B. Thorpe. English Historical Society Publications 12. Vaduz: 1964 Chronicon Thomae Wykes. Annales Monastici. Ed. H.R. Luard. 5 vols. RS 36. London: 1864–69. Vol. 4 ‘The Knight with the Lion’, in Chrétien de Troyes, Arthurian Romances. Trans. W.W. Kibler. Harmondsworth: 2004

Introduction Staking out Aristocratic Identities at Roncevaux Charlemagne is standing in the midst of his vanquished rearguard in the valley of Roncevaux, lamenting the demise of his kinsman Roland. Before the fallen hero can be laid to rest, however, his death needs retribution. Ganelon is brought before the Emperor and summarily tried by battle, during which he is defeated by Charlemagne’s champion Thierry. Found guilty of treason, Ganelon is next drawn, hanged, disembowelled, and quartered by four horses tearing apart his body. Almost immediately afterwards, Roland, Oliver and the rest of the ‘douceper’ are prepared for burial: their bodies are eviscerated, embalmed with sweet spices and wrapped in hides and lead. Others are covered in salt. This is obviously not the traditional ending of the Chanson de Roland. Following roughly the same course of events, the author of Otuel and Roland – an early fourteenth-century Middle English redaction of the French Estoire de Charlemagne – nevertheless changes several significant details. Ganelon fights for himself rather than being represented by Pinabel, who dies in the Chanson. It is also the first fight in which he is engaged. He is immediately tried on the battlefield instead of in Charlemagne’s court. He is not just torn apart by four horses as a punishment for his treason, but is subjected to a range of agonising procedures. The author includes more details of the funerary preparations for Roland’s body and those of others. Some of these changes the author found in his source, the ‘Johannes’ translation of the Latin Historia Karoli magni by Pseudo-Turpin. Others are his own.1 The origins of this Middle English redaction are both fascinating and complex. The closing scenes of Otuel and Roland are part of a composite poem 1

Otuel and Roland, in Firumbras and Otuel and Roland: Edited from MS British Museum Additional 37492, ed. M.I. O’Sullivan, EETS os 198 (1935), lines 2733–47, 2754–68. For the identification of this Middle English version of the Johannes redaction of the Historia see R.N. Walpole, ‘The Source Manuscript of Charlemagne and Roland and the Auchinleck Bookshop’, Modern Language Notes 60 (1945), pp. 22–6; id., ‘Note to the Meredith-Jones Edition of the Historia Karoli magni et Rotholandi ou Chronique du Pseudo-Turpin’, Speculum 22 (1947), pp. 260–2; Historia Karoli magni et Rotholandi ou Chronique du Pseudo-Turpin. Textes revues et publiés d’après 49 manuscrits, ed. C. Meredith-Jones (Paris, 1936); The Song of Roland: An Analytical Edition, ed. G.J. Brault, 2 vols. (Philadelphia, 1978).

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of which only the second and last section is derived from the ‘Johannes’ Estoire (lines 1692–2786). In 1945, Ronald Walpole argued that the French source of this redaction was MS BL Additional 40142 (mid thirteenth century). The Middle English Otuel and Roland is found in a single manuscript of the late fifteenth century (MS BL Additional 37492) and it forms part of a larger Middle English *Charlemagne and Roland cycle which survives only in one other fragment, now given the title Roland and Vernagu, found in the Auchinleck Manuscript. Both fragments appear to be translated from the same source manuscript which gives an approximate terminus a quo of post1250 and terminus ad quem of c. 1330 for this translation.2 This means that the closing scenes described above were almost certainly conceived during the time in which male aristocratic perceptions of themselves were increasingly focused upon their body. The Middle English redaction generally follows its original, but deviates significantly in the judicial and embalming scenes. The ‘Johannes’ translation, for example, closely follows its Latin source in stating that Ganelon was judged in a trial by battle in which he was defended by his kinsman Pinabel. Thierry kills Pinabel after a short fight which proves Ganelon’s guilt. Ganelon is torn apart by four horses. At this point, Charlemagne has already battled the Saracens a second time and has had Roland’s body embalmed. After Ganelon’s judgement and execution which take place at Roncevaux, the narrative briefly mentions that other (anonymous) knights were eviscerated, embalmed or salted.3 By contrast, in the Middle English redaction the scenes of Roland’s embalming and Ganelon’s execution are used to foreground a deliberate juxtaposition between heroic and treacherous behaviour which is implicit and far more complex in the Chanson de Roland and the Historia Karoli magni. While in the Chanson doubt is cast over Ganelon’s treason because of his noble body, in Otuel and Roland his corruption and disloyalty are made clear on several occasions, not least in his reluctance to fight for anything apart from saving his own body (unsuccessfully) from destruction.4 In Otuel and Roland, Ganelon is bought to Roland’s body and not Charles but Turpin and Thierry 2

H.M. Smeyser, ‘Charlemagne Legends’, in A Manual of Writings in Middle English 1050–1500, gen. ed. J. Burke Severs, 10 vols. (New Haven, 1967), pp. 87–92, at 91; Walpole, ‘Source Manuscript’, pp. 22–6. 3 R.N. Walpole (ed.), The Old French Johannes Translation of the Pseudo-Turpin Chronicle, 2 vols. (Berkeley, CF, 1976), 1: 171–3; Historia Karoli magni, c. 25–28. This sequence deviates significantly from that in the Chanson de Roland. Here Ganelon’s judgement and execution are postponed until after the Franks return to Aix. Moreover, there is a long debate between Charles and his aristocracy about whether Ganelon should be tried in the first place. The knights are reluctant because of his nobility, but finally Thierry of Anjou agrees to stand for Charles. The scene of the judicial combat is the longest of all versions. 4 Song of Roland, laisse 279: ‘Ganelon stood before the king, his body robust, his face a gentle colour. If he were loyal, he would resemble the perfect baron.’

INTRODUCTION

3

accuse him of treason (lines 2673–84). Although the embalming of Roland’s body has been mentioned before, after Ganelon’s shameful death the author returns in more detail to the funerary preparations of Roland and the other dead. While in the earlier versions the dead are rendered anonymous, in Otuel and Roland the author is more specific by naming Roland and Oliver as among those whose bodies are prepared. Having stated before Ganelon’s death that Roland was embalmed ‘for fear of putrefaction’, we are afterwards told that the bodies are elaborately embalmed with balsam and myrrh, and that thus ‘anointed’ they are made ready for transport to their burial sites (lines 2543, 2754–74). Throughout the Roncevaux episode of Otuel and Roland the author deliberately inscribes the character traits of loyalty and treason into the characters of Roland and Ganelon respectively, which is ultimately manifested within the contrasting treatment of the men’s bodies. Both men are valued in terms of their attitude towards the Christian faith and Charlemagne to the extent that within the narrative space of the poem, the two become synonymous. Ganelon’s actions are highly suggestive of Judas Iscariot’s betrayal of Christ: he sells his loyalty to the Saracens for thirty horses ‘or more’, packed with gold and silver – an obvious reference to Judas’s reward of thirty pieces of silver; he is held directly responsible for the death of Roland, ‘the very martyr’ (lines 2074–5, 2440). His betrayal consists of telling Charlemagne a fabricated story about the Saracens’ good intentions – ‘a fals traytour as was Iudas’, the author comments (line 2093). Roland, on the other hand, is ‘Godes knygt’, a quasi Judas Maccabaeus, fighting not only for God’s cause but also to protect the empire from a surprise attack from behind (lines 2532–4). The drama of Roland’s martyrdom provides the context in which the juxtaposition of his moral integrity and the corruption of Ganelon’s character comes most emphatically to the fore. In a series of verbal markers, the author gradually draws attention to the bodies of the two men. Roland’s body is protected from ‘rottyng’ and putrefaction, and is later described as ‘anointed’, while Ganelon’s challenge to Thierry’s accusation of treason in the presence of Roland’s corpse firmly lodges his character within his body’s physicality: ‘nay, thowe lyxt falsly by thys day, and that schall be well y-fownde, thy body anone-ryghtys to myn’ (lines 2688–91). The fact that Ganelon’s body betrays him by losing the battle is the inevitable consequence of the collapse of interior and exterior, which is in the end literally enacted during his execution. Presented as rather one-dimensional archetypes, Roland and Ganelon are symbolic of more complex modes of behaviour and characterisation which shaped the social, political and cultural interactions of the aristocratic group in England around 1300. Together, they and their bodies establish the parameters of aristocratic personal and communal identity which extends beyond their death. Roland represents loyalty, prowess, integrity, piety and bodily control – Ganelon inhabits the realm of cowardice, betrayal, sinfulness and

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lack of control. As a consequence, in death Roland’s body is presented as static, protected from ‘rottyng’, while Ganelon’s body is forcefully torn to pieces. This intriguing conceptual dichotomy of nobility and treason woven into corporeal matter is only one example of the way in which character, or interiority, was thought to manifest itself within and upon the physical body in the perception of aristocratic identity in the thirteenth century. The awareness of social difference had a profound impact on how aristocrats perceived themselves in relation to others, which came most prominently to the fore in the focus on the noble body as essential to incorporation into the ‘in-group’.5 As I argue in Chapter 2, the male aristocracy perceived nobility (both in the sense of moral and of physical integrity) to be embodied; in other words, while their status was predicated on privileged access to social, political and economic resources, their ontological underpinning was located in concepts of physical superiority – thus excluding men from more modest backgrounds from the elite network on the basis of ‘inferior birth’ and blood relations. Since a sense of group identity depends on mostly unwritten precepts which are interpreted and enacted subconsciously, it is at times in which the ideal underlying social interactions comes under pressure from external, uncontrollable, factors that it becomes most visible. In the case of the internalised projection of nobility as corporeal, the fundamental pressures are those generated by the physiological processes which make the body what it is. The area in which this comes most dramatically to the fore is in the context of attitudes towards death and dying, and the means by which a society disposes of its dead.6 However, it can also be found at other moments during the life course in which the norms of bodily appearance in relation to notions of personal and communal identity are challenged by the natural order of ageing or illness. The above example thereby also highlights the tensions between the culturally defined transcendent ideals of the body and the reality of the physical body’s temporal fixity. Therefore, the following discussion of the perceptions of aristocratic identities in medieval England does not only address the pressure upon the body engendered by mortality but also highlights the inevitable discrepancy between the ideal and its practical implementation. Not all aristocrats were noble to the same extent (however they interpreted the idea of nobility) or 5 D. Crouch, The Birth of Nobility: Constructing Aristocracy in England and France 900–1300 (Harlow, 2005); T. Reuter, ‘Nobles and Others: The Social and Cultural Expression of Power Relations in the Middle Ages’, in Nobles and Nobility in Medieval Europe: Concepts, Origins, Transformations, ed. A.J. Duggan (Woodbridge, 2000), pp. 85–98. 6 ‘[T]he manner of disposing of the dead reflects social or cultural norms and ideals’; R.C. Finucane, ‘Sacred Corpse, Profane Carrion: Social Ideals and Death Rituals in the Later Middle Ages’, in Mirrors of Mortality: Studies in the Social History of Death, ed. J. Whaley (London, 1981), pp. 40–60.

INTRODUCTION

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cared about nobility to the same extent, but all who perceived themselves to belong to the social elite, or who were designated by others to belong to it, would have had a notion of what made them different from the rising bourgeoisie or from their peasant tenants above and beyond access to wealth or political connections. This manifested itself in a range of practices and behaviours which fundamentally came back to embodied nobility.7 My focus on the attitudes towards death, dying and disposal in the late twelfth to early fourteenth centuries in England in relation to notions of embodied nobility is different from more traditional historiography on the aristocracy in its interdisciplinarity and its emphasis on sociocultural and psychological mechanisms informing aristocratic behaviour and attitudes. Instead of concentrating on the external trappings signifying aristocratic identities such as clothes, weaponry and other material signs of status, I aim to capture some of the ideas underlying the appropriation of particular objects as signifiers of aristocratic status as well as some of the strategies informing the interaction between embodied personhood and external object, such as the use of heraldry as a metonym for individual and familial identity. This study deals with ideas about chivalry but aims to go beyond the discussion about its origin or practical expression in warfare and society at large to grasp its meaning in relation to personal and communal identity.8 Modern popular perceptions of the medieval aristocrat almost invariably conjure up images of the armour-clad muscular knight riding on his magnificent warhorse from one chivalric adventure to the next. Obviously this is an image derived from romance literature intended for the aristocracy it celebrated and coloured by the lens of eighteenth- and nineteenth-century romantic notions of ‘the’ Middle Ages. It is an ideal type, a discursive construct, which by its very existence and its popularity among medieval audiences attests the extent to which it shaped perceptions of the aristocracy outside literary discourse. However, for the majority of aristocrats in the period between 1100 and 1300 their day-to-day occupation was more about the drudge of managing estates, administrating local government, and maintaining the familial and social networks essential for the advancement and consolidation of one’s position within the social hierarchy. Of course, some knights went on the French tournament circuit in the hope of gaining fame and honour, but also to build a lasting reputation for ‘preudommie’ which might stand them in good stead at the royal court.9 Yet, the image of the armoured knight proved to be resilient as a defining characteristic of the

7 8

Reuter, ‘Nobles and Others’, p. 96. For recent English and French studies on the aristocracy, chivalry and the various aspects of nobility see the historiographical narrative in Crouch, Birth of Nobility, passim. 9 Crouch, Birth of Nobility; P.R. Coss, The Knight in Medieval England, 1000–1400 (Stroud, 1993).

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aristocracy, despite the drop in the number of aristocratic men being knighted towards the end of the thirteenth century.10 Additionally, it is my intention to present a more culturally and temporally specific discussion of social and psychological attitudes to death and disposal focusing on the fate of the cadaver. Studies of attitudes towards medieval death have mushroomed since the publication of Philippe Ariès’ Hour of our Death in 1978. Although initially scholars agreed with his statements about medieval death as ‘tamed’ and strictly controlled, these views have now been challenged as being idealised and too generalised.11 Nevertheless, Ariès’ work has opened up a wide field of interdisciplinary studies ranging from the more archaeological to the art historical, from the early medieval to the early Tudor period, and from localised settings to the whole of Western Europe. They focus on the rituals of deathbed and funeral, the shape and function of commemoration, the importance of the Afterlife and the influence of the formulation of the doctrine of Purgatory on attitudes to death and commemoration. The position of the soul and its salvation are central to these discussions, but one aspect is often overlooked or treated summarily, even in discussions about the archaeology of death: the relevance of the cadaver, the physical human body. By this I do not mean the discussion of the macabre or the Dance of Death but rather the ways in which the human corpse was perceived and manipulated psychologically, socially and culturally.12 I will discuss the metaphors of death and the cadaver in a religious framework, but move on to specific questions about the attitudes towards the personalised cadaver: what does one’s own dead body reveal about oneself? What strategies are employed to avoid the inherent tension between the concept of the cadaver and one’s own corpse?13 This will inevitably also raise questions not generally asked in the death studies mentioned here: what exactly is a body and how are the subjective experiences of our body shaped by language, culture and political systems? How do ideal and practice interact when it comes to embodied experience?14 Although my study focuses specifically on the English 10 11

Ibid., pp. 69–70, 103–4. See for example D. Crouch, ‘The Culture of Death in the Anglo-Norman World’, in Anglo-Norman Political Culture and the Twelfth-Century Renaissance, ed. C.W. Hollister (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 157–80. 12 P. Ariès, The Hour of Our Death (New York, 1981); P. Binski, Medieval Death: Ritual and Representation (London, 1996); C. Daniell, Death and Burial in Medieval England, 1066–1550 (London, 1997); B. Gordon and P. Marshall (ed.), The Place of the Dead: Death and Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe (Cambridge, 2000); D.M. Hadley, Death in Medieval England: An Archaeology (Stroud, 2001); V. Thompson, Dying and Death in Later Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2004); R. Gilchrist and B. Sloane, Requiem: The Medieval Monastic Cemetery in Britain (London, 2005). 13 A notable exception to the studies mentioned above, is the themed issue of the journal Micrologus on the cadaver (vol. 7; 1999). Despite its title, Finucane’s ‘Sacred Corpse, Profane Carrion’ discusses attitudes to death in general and to four ‘types’ of dead more specifically. 14 The concept of ‘body’ underlies an impressive mountain of work in all disciplines. The

INTRODUCTION

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male aristocracy in the late twelfth to the early fourteenth centuries, similar questions can be asked for other social groups and for different times but, as we shall see, it is in relation to male aristocrats that the tensions between the ideal and the natural body come most acutely to the fore. Any study into attitudes towards the dead body must take into account the substantial work done by Caroline Bynum on theological ideas about the resurrection of the body and the inherent problems regarding personhood and identity.15 A study of non-theological beliefs and discourses reveals that it was not just the educated few who pondered the fate of the body after death, although the concerns proved to be different. Instead of these complex eschatological issues, people were concerned about burial location; about the putrefaction of their body and what it said about them; about isolation and being forgotten; about social status and commemorative strategies. Therefore, despite a new emphasis on expressing one’s own thoughts and feelings (which has been interpreted as a ‘rise of the individual’) in the twelfth century, fear of isolation from the social and religious community informed much social interaction and experience, including perceptions of death and dying. Interactional strategies were based on an awareness of one’s position within society and the awareness of different conceptions of communal normativity and alterity. As Chapter 2 argues, for the aristocracy in this period it meant the adherence to a concept of embodied nobility which separated persons from the rest of society, but as part of a collective. This separation was conceived as a nobility of blood: one’s birth predisposed one to a higher status, more wealth, more political influence. The vertical family was therefore an essential part of what it meant to be an aristocrat and one of the subjects which will receive more attention in Chapter 3 is patronage of religious houses and aristocratic burial practices in relation to the need to be located within a good family structure. Aristocratic funerary practices have of course surfaced in discussions of their self- and group-representation. Recently, Rachel Dressler has discussed the interplay of masculinist ideas inherent in the concept of the knight and the

dominant strands in the current debate focus on the discursivity of bodily practice, the nature of matter, and the interaction between discourse and nature. A great deal of this work focuses on the concepts of gender and sex. See for example J. Butler, Bodies that Matter: On the Discursive Limits of ‘Sex’ (New York, 1993) and Susan Bordo’s critique of Butler’s insistence on ‘discursive foundationalism’ in for example her ‘Bringing the Body to Theory’ in Body and Flesh: A Philosophical Reader (Oxford, 1998), pp. 84–97. Bordo represents a less radical position which sees the body as a combination of cultural and material elements – a view also proposed by sociologists. For a polemic on the study of the body see D. Mann, ‘The Body as “Object” of Historical Knowledge’, Dialogue 35 (1996), pp. 753–76, arguing that ‘body theory’ is a typical product of consumer capitalism (p. 753). 15 See in particular her Fragmentation and Redemption: Essays on Gender and the Human Body in Medieval Religion (New York, 1992) and Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity 200–1336 (New York, 1995).

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rise of the knightly effigy in the late thirteenth century, while David Crouch, Brian Golding and Christopher Harper-Bill have each discussed the attitudes of the ‘knightly class’ to religious patronage and piety in England and Normandy as well as their decisions on burial location.16 However, both Golding and Harper-Bill concentrated on the benefits aristocratic burial would bring to the religious houses families patronised as well as on the patterns of burial either in Normandy or in England. Crouch, on the other hand, was predominantly concerned with the rise of humanism in the sources detailing funerary practices. Nevertheless, the picture is more complex: burial patterns and funerary practices depend on a wider set of considerations which all need to be taken into account: burial was more than an act of piety; it also was a confirmation of one’s status in society. The rising number of heart and viscera burials in the thirteenth century in England as well as the rest of Western Europe, one of the topics discussed in Chapter 4, was a logical development from all these different considerations, since it solved issues of individual preference, familial obligation, and social status. It also addressed the problem of bodily putrefaction and the threat to moral and physical integrity. Apart from presenting a more in-depth study of this practice, my focus on the perception of the aristocratic cadaver is also new since the physicality of the living or dead body is generally sublimated into more general discussions of chivalry, violence, burial locations or funerary art. In relation to this, it is for the first time that later medieval aristocratic executions for treason will be discussed from a cultural perspective rather than as state controlled events or as part of a discussion on the development of legal and political attitudes towards treason. It is in the context of corporeal punishment that social responses to the body and identity come most prominently into view, something which has been recognised by scholars of the early modern period. However, the latter have mainly posited medieval executions as a monolithic alterity marked by barbaric customs which were gradually phased out in the eighteenth century.17 Instead, I argue in Chapters 5 and 6

16

R.A. Dressler, Of Armor and Men: The Chivalric Rhetoric of Three English Knights’ Effigies (Aldershot, 2003); B. Golding, ‘Burials and Benefactions: An Aspect of Monastic Patronage in Thirteenth-Century England’, in England in the Thirteenth Century: Proceedings of the 1984 Harlaxton Symposium, ed. W.M. Ormrod (Grantham, 1985), pp. 64–75; id. ‘Anglo-Norman Knightly Burials’, in The Ideals and Practice of Medieval Knighthood: Papers from the First and Second Strawberry Hill Conferences, ed. C. Harper-Bill and R. Harvey (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 35–58; C. Harper-Bill, ‘The Piety of the Anglo-Norman Knightly Class’, in Proceedings of the Battle Conference on Anglo-Norman Studies 2, ed. R.A. Brown (Oxford, 1979), pp. 63–77. 17 M.H. Keen, ‘Treason Trials under the Law of Arms’, TRHS fifth series 12 (1962), pp. 85–103; J.G. Bellamy, The Law of Treason in England in the Later Middle Ages. Cambridge Studies in English Legal History (Cambridge, 1970); M. Foucault, Discipline and Punish: The Birth of the Prison (Harmondsworth, 1977); F. Egmond, ‘Execution, Dissection, Pain and

INTRODUCTION

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that the treatment of the aristocratic traitor should be seen in the context of concerns about the corruption of their embodied nobility and consequently about their pollution of society.18 This is not to say that other circumstances, such as political instability and the level of royal power, did not impinge on the very real change in attitudes towards aristocratic traitors which can be observed from the thirteenth century onwards. Moreover, as Katherine Royer has rightly pointed out, our conception of cruelty and propriety is bound to be different from past perceptions and therefore medieval executions should not be judged by our own standards. However, this should not mean that we regard them as meaningless events in themselves or only as being meaningful in relation to legal and political developments.19 This book is thus located at the intersection of three very large conceptual domains, namely ‘identity’, ‘body’ and ‘death’, and is intended as a cultural, interdisciplinary study. This is not to everyone’s taste and no doubt there will be areas in which my expertise falls short of that of the specialist. Nevertheless, I feel it makes a considerable contribution to our understanding of people’s behaviours in history, in particular where they deviate substantially from our own. I also hope it will offer scholars from different disciplines an insight into alternative readings of historical events and discourses by making connections and associations from across a range of genres and attitudes. As a consequence, this study draws upon a wide selection of sources ranging from monastic and urban chronicles to judicial and government records; from literary texts and political songs to law codes; from contemporary narratives to early modern antiquarian collections. To this mix are added a selection of medical and encyclopaedic sources pondering the anatomy and physiology of the human body, philosophical debates on the nature of the dead body in relation to the soul, and lastly, political treatises exploring the concept of the body politic. Throughout, the conflicts between ideal and practice will be highlighted.20 Moreover, I should stress here that as in any complex society or culture, Infamy – A Morphological Investigation’, in Bodily Extremities: Preoccupations with the Human Body in Early Modern European Culture, ed. F. Egmond and R. Zwijnenberg (Aldershot, 2003), pp. 92–127. 18 For an interesting, if unreferenced, article listing examples of dismemberment in relation to treason and heresy, see F. Ohly, ‘The Death of Traitors by Dismemberment in Mediaeval Literature’, Atti della Accademia Peloritana dei Pericolanti. Classe di Lettere Filosofia e Belle Arti 63 (1989), pp. 9–27. Ohly suggests broadening the view beyond the punishment for political treason to address cultural attitudes towards dismemberment. 19 K. Royer, ‘The Body in Parts: Reading the Execution Ritual in Late Medieval England’, Historical Reflections 29 (2003), pp. 319–39. For an interpretation which is coloured by modern concepts of sexuality see C. Sponsler, ‘The King’s Boyfriend: Froissart’s Political Theater of 1326’, in Queering the Middle Ages, ed. G. Burger and S.F. Kruger (Minneapolis, 2001), pp. 143–67. I will come back to this in Chapter 6. 20 A good example of the wider use of sources to highlight cultural interconnectivity see J. Sawday, The Body Emblazoned: Dissection and the Human Body in Renaissance Culture (London, 1995). However, Sawday has been criticised for his reliance on ‘highbrow’ sources while

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beliefs are not uniform or unchangeable. However, it is very clear that the human body stood in the centre of the medieval universe and was subject to a continuous play of associations and metaphors which occasionally collapsed into the physical. It was ruled by natural and metaphysical forces while providing an interpretative template for them; it was, as Marcel Mauss has commented in a different context, humanity’s ‘most natural instrument’.21 This totalising interconnecting concept would provide a serious challenge to any exploration of medieval attitudes towards the body or identity. By limiting myself to the analysis of how one segment of society defined itself and was defined by others within the parameters of a critical moment within the life course – the transition from this life to the next – while making use of a wider range of sources, I hope to capture some perceptions of and attitudes to the body. In the following chapters, the issues raised here will be explored in greater detail. First of all, in Chapter 1, I will examine medieval responses to the cadaver in relation to ideas about the meaning and nature of death. What associations were conjured up by the concept of death and how did this impact on attitudes towards dying and the dead body in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries? Next, Chapter 2 discusses the embodied nature of aristocratic identity in this period, central to which was the merger of knighthood and the concept of nobility. I have made a conscious decision to refer to the social group under discussion as the ‘aristocracy’ to distinguish them from ‘nobility’. The former is used as a collective noun, the latter as a term for the quality with which the group identified themselves. It also means that it is possible to include all who regarded themselves to belong to the social elite – be they magnates of the realm or local landholders – or were regarded by others to belong to it. With group identification came adherence to a common ideal, which in the case of the aristocracy meant the concept of nobility.22 In this chapter, I will also address the gendered nature of this concept. The ideas discussed in Chapters 1 and 2 will be combined in a more applied analysis of aristocratic religious patronage and funerary practices, which includes a discussion of heart and viscera burials. Chapter 3 will focus on the former, Chapter 4 on the latter. Moreover, the practice of ‘multiple burial’ will be located in the context of theological and medical ideas about the integrity of the body and its participation in the actualisation of identity. Having examined the means by which aristocrats embodied nobility and implying cultural all-inclusiveness. See M.S.R. Jenner, ‘Body, Image, Text in Early Modern Europe’, Social History of Medicine 12 (1999), pp. 143–54, at 144–6. 21 M. Mauss, Sociology and Psychology: Essays (London, 1979), p. 104. 22 Cf. Crouch, Birth of Nobility, p. 3; id. The Image of the Aristocracy in Medieval Britain 1100–1300 (London, 1992), pp. 4–5; T. Reuter, ‘The Medieval Nobility in TwentiethCentury Historiography’, in Companion to Historiography, ed. M. Bentley (London, 1997), pp. 177–203, at 178–9.

INTRODUCTION

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sought to control their bodies in death, the final two chapters focus on what happens when that nobility is thought to be corrupted and to pose a threat to the rest of society. Chapter 5 discusses definitions of treason in legal and political sources and examines the accusations made against aristocratic traitors in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. Chapter 6 focuses on the executions of aristocratic traitors and shows how the aristocrat was gradually removed from the social group by destroying his identity and exposing his corrupted nobility.

Chapter 1

Death and the Cadaver: Visions of Corruption Imagine a large exhibition space somewhere in a large North American, European or South-East Asian city. Throngs of people are queuing at the entrance, while inside others walk around in amused horror in the modern equivalent of a nineteenth-century ‘freak show’. Welcome to ‘Body Worlds’, the controversial exhibition staged under the auspices of the German doctor Gunther von Hagens. Inside the exhibition space, the human form is on display in all its glory, not in the shape of intricate plastic models, but the real thing. According to the official documentation, the exhibitions are staged to demystify human anatomy in a drive to educate the public about how to take care of their bodies.1 In order to achieve this, real bodies and body parts are displayed in a series of striking poses illuminating the workings of muscles, bones, organs and displaying their pathologies. Caught in perpetual stasis effected by a process called ‘plastination’, death is made visible in a tasteful objectification of the human cadaver, acting as a contemporary memento mori (one of the exhibits for example displays the effect of heavy smoking on the lungs) but without the accompanying smells and sights so repulsive to the modern human senses and without the danger of contamination, fear of which is generally triggered upon contact with decomposing matter.2 Paradoxically, by displaying a static and sanitised death, the Body Worlds exhibitions subconsciously subscribe to a wider trend within modern society to deny the effects of ageing and dying (the exhibits of whole cadavers tend to underscore the athletic and vigorous aspects of living). Popular culture, privileging the young and healthy body, encourages us to shop for anti-ageing products to manipulate the outward signs of physical decay subconsciously associated with a loss of the ‘real’ us, a process completed with death.3 Death 1 2

See the official Body Worlds website at www.bodyworlds.com. In a sense, the Body Worlds project reads as a postmodernist reinvention of the anatomy theatres of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries, including rumours of bodies of executed criminals being used. Von Hagens himself staged a televised autopsy a few years ago on a British TV channel. 3 On this topic, see E. Hallam, J. Hockey and G. Howarth, Beyond the Body: Death and Social

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tends to be depersonalised and segregated. In some extreme cases, the dying, in their anonymous hospital beds, experience social death before clinical death sets in. The process of death is something we cannot control and we can never experience subjectively and live to tell the tale. We have trouble defining the boundary between life and death; when do we know that someone is dead? In the twenty-first century, modern medical techniques make this an even more pressing ethical question as more people are kept alive in a state not traditionally associated with life.4 The funerary business is booming as more people engage in elaborate fantasies to obscure the reality of the death of loved ones by requesting to have the deceased presented to them as if alive. This is achieved through embalming, the careful application of cosmetics and by dressing the deceased in their favourite clothes (often daywear). It is no surprise that Von Hagens’ technique of ‘plastination’ is in effect a very elaborate combination of mummification and embalming.5 Although it would be simplistic, not say anachronistic, to read medieval sociocultural responses to death and the dead body as if they mirror our own, there are indications that what medieval men and women experienced when confronted with the mysteries surrounding death and dying was not completely dissimilar to modern reactions. While medieval perceptions, which conceptualised physical death as ‘transition’ rather than as ‘end’, were infinitely more coloured by religious beliefs than ours, it is obvious that there was a real concern about what happened to the body after death, either to one’s own or that of others.6 Generally, when medieval historians have addressed the issue of death and dying in the period before the Black Death, they have tended to focus on areas such as eschatology, burial practices and rituals, and the relationship between the dead and the living, while ideas about the actual cadaver itself are hardly addressed. Ronald Finucane concentrated on the role of the cadaver in medieval eschatology in a brief article in which he identified four oppositional archetypes of the dead: saints and heretics, criminals and kings. The juxtaposition of attitudes towards saintly and criminal bodies in relation to autopsy was also argued by Katherine Park in an article specifically focused on Italy. In a second article, she observed a difference between Italy and Northern Europe in late medieval beliefs and attitudes towards the cadaver, again in relation to autopsy and to burial customs. Recently, a volume of Micrologus was devoted

Identity (London, 1999); J. Hockey and A. James, Social Identities across the Life Course (Basingstoke, 2003). 4 C. Seale, Constructing Death: The Sociology of Death and Bereavement (Cambridge, 1998), pp. 53–5; R.J. Kastenbaum, Death, Society, and Human Experience (St Louis, 1977), pp. 31–6. 5 A. Bardgett, ‘A Job for Life’, in Ritual and Remembrance: Responses to Death in Human Societies, ed. J. Davies (Sheffield, 1994), pp. 188–99, at 194–5. 6 See for example Bynum, Resurrection of the Body on this.

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to the cadaver, with articles on, for instance, cruentation, jurisprudence involving the cadaver, and ghosts.7 According to a more traditional view, first suggested by Johan Huizinga, it was only with the mass mortality of the mid fourteenth century that people’s perspectives on death changed profoundly. Suddenly, it was argued, medieval men and women concentrated on the physicality of death: cadaver tombs and other macabre iconography appeared to warn the living of the dangers of dying in sin.8 However, although the Black Death had made an impact on how people felt about death and dying, the focus on the cadaver or the macabre was not new. Rather, new outlets were found to express ideas associated with the cadaver, ideas which had been prevalent since the early days of Christianity. The dead body was in turn seen as a valuable participant in the salvation drama and as a source of pollution and vileness; the conceptual boundaries were usually drawn between martyrs and ordinary people or between bones and flesh.9 The body was at best an ambiguous and often unreliable companion on the road to salvation during life, but it was after death that this became more obvious. How a society deals with death and the dead is often highly informative of its sociocultural attitudes.10 As Julia Kristeva has observed, the fear of pollution associated with the cadaver has less to do with ideas about hygiene or health (although this may be how this fear is vocalised) and more with ideas about order and identity.11 For example, Robert Hertz’s comparative study on the death customs of indigenous tribes in Borneo and other pre-industrial communities shows how post-mortem rituals are informed by ideas about the connection between the deceased and their body until the process of decay has been finalised.12 What Hertz’s observations reveal is the conceptual difference between visible decay of the flesh (which is a source of pollution – lack of order) and the apparent stasis of the post-decay skeleton (which is safe to

7

Finucane, ‘Sacred Corpse, Profane Carrion’, pp. 40–60; Micrologus 7 (1999); K. Park, ‘The Criminal and the Saintly Body: Autopsy and Dissection in Renaissance Italy’, Renaissance Quarterly 47 (1994), pp. 1–33; ead. ‘The Life of the Corpse: Division and Dissection in Late Medieval Europe’, Journal of the History of Medicine and Allied Sciences 50 (1995), pp. 111–32. 8 K. Cohen, Metamorphosis of a Death Symbol: The Transi Tomb in the Late Middle Ages and the Renaissance (Berkeley, Calif., 1973). 9 Bynum, Resurrection of the Body, passim; P.R.L. Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity. Haskell Lectures on History of Religions ns 2 (Chicago, 1981). One of the main differences between early Christianity and Judaism and Roman religions was the attitude towards the dead and mortal remains. 10 Finucane, ‘Sacred Corpse, Profane Carrion’, p. 41. 11 J. Kristeva, Powers of Horror: An Essay on Abjection (New York, 1982), p. 4. 12 R. Hertz, ‘Death’ and ‘The Right Hand’, trans. R. Needham and C. Needham with an introduction by E.E. Evans-Pritchard (Aberdeen, 1960), pp. 27–86. His ideas were elaborated upon by M. Douglas, Purity and Danger: An Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo, Routledge Classics (London, 2002). See also P. Metcalf and R. Huntington, Celebrations of Death: The Anthropology of Mortuary Ritual, second edition (Cambridge, 1991), pp. 34–8, 71–9, 84.

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handle – ordered and static). Despite the danger of generalisation on the basis of selective evidence in Hertz’s work, it will become evident that medieval Western European society held broadly similar views about the dead body.13 Before concentrating on the impact of death on the noble body, it is useful to think about some of the sociocultural dimensions of death and the cadaver in medieval society. How was death defined? What associations did the cadaver conjure up in the medieval mind? How did ideas about identity and personhood inform attitudes towards death and the cadaver?

‘Inter omnia terribilissimum est mors’ 14 How society perceives death tends to be shaped by basic values of good and bad; the prospect of reward or damnation in an afterlife (or its absence); and how the dead continue to interact with the living. Although I am mainly concerned with attitudes towards the cadaver, as a once animate object it is inevitably invested with the cultural notions informing life and death in general. For example, how people personify death can be highly informative of their attitudes towards it and as Elizabeth Bronfen has pointed out in a critique of nineteenth-century English attitudes to death, the image of the cadaver is easily appropriated and manipulated politically, morally, even erotically.15 For the last we do not have to look in medieval attitudes, but moral and political appropriations of death and the cadaver feature widely. It is also important to realise the different conceptual dimensions of death: it can refer to a temporally and spatially limited event, in which the transition from life to death takes place; it also refers to the state beyond life; and finally, it can point to a socio-religious exclusion, which is tied in with notions of memory and forgetting both before and after physical death. In modern society, the fear of both pre- and post-mortem depersonalisation or marginalisation looms large despite our yearning for individuality; in medieval society exile, excommunication or post-mortem damnation were equally dreaded as mechanisms to erase one’s memory from the community. For example, as John of Salisbury maintained with regard to traitors and other criminals: ‘those with whom no one associates in life [as a consequence of their crime] are not exonerated by benefit of death.’ In other words, criminals would not only be excluded from their community, but their punishment

13

See the comments by Evans-Pritchard in his introduction to Hertz, ‘Death’ and ‘The Right Hand’, pp. 21–2. 14 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae I.2.42.2 (citing Aristotle, Ethics, 3.6). 15 Kastenbaum, Death, Society and Human Experience, pp. 25–8; E. Bronfen, Over her Dead Body: Death, Femininity and the Aesthetic (Manchester, 1992); cf. E. Bronfen and S.W. Goodwin (ed.), Death and Representation (Baltimore, 1993), introduction.

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would continue after death without the prospect of successful intercession by the living.16 Although, as Augustine of Hippo argued, there was no physical state of ‘being in death’, medieval theologians and preachers did often point out the difference between physical death of the body (which was temporary) and spiritual death of the soul (which was eternal). Those ‘dead’ to the teaching of Christ, for example, had no hope to regain eternal life on the Last Day; after the reunion of body and soul, they would continue to suffer the pains of eternal death, which Augustine would concede was a kind of permanent ‘being in death’. It meant being eternally deprived of God’s presence, a failure to obtain Divine Grace, as a result of sins committed with full awareness and without repentance. According to Aquinas, this was an unnatural rejection of the rational soul by the body – a ‘rebellion of the flesh against the spirit’.17 Moreover, spiritual death was associated with lack of control: sinners were subject to punishments signifying their lack of control over themselves and their bodies, while those who were ‘alive’ with God were depicted as static and unchangeable.18 Death was thus viewed as a consequence (and result) of change, but whether it was a natural part of life or intrinsically alien from humanity’s original state was debatable. For example, Thomas Aquinas considered death to be part of the nature of the material body. Although it was a consequence of sin in that the Divine Grace which gave humanity immortality had been withdrawn from the soul, physical death did not in itself signify sin. Instead, because the matter from which the earthly body was formed was subject to change, it belonged to a different ontological category from angels whose nature was unchangeable. It needed Divine Grace to stop this change from reaching its inevitable conclusion; immortality was therefore a sign of special favour and not an intrinsic part of embodied existence, as Augustine had argued. For Augustine, physical death was an actualisation of sin brought into the world by Adam and it was therefore unnatural. Although humanity was immortal in principle, individuals died if disobedient to God. In this they differed from angels who were immortal and could not die as a result of sin.19 16 Kastenbaum, Death, Society and Human Experience, pp. 5–40. Iohannes Salisburienses Episcopi Carnotensis Policratici, sive De nugis curialium et vestigiis philosophorum libri VIII, ed. C.C.I. Webb, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1909), 2: 74; Policraticus: Of the Frivolities of Courtiers and the Footprints of Philosophers, ed. and trans. C.J. Nederman, Cambridge Texts in the History of Political Thought (Cambridge, 1990), p. 137. [Hereafter: John of Salisbury, Policraticus.] Cf. Ps. 31:13 (Douay-Rheims trans.): ‘I am forgotten as one dead from the heart’. 17 Augustine, De civitate Dei, II.13.11; II.20.6; Honorius Augustodunensis, L’Elucidarium et les lucidaires, ed. Y. Lefèvre, Bibliothèque des écoles françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 180 (Paris, 1954), p. 177; Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I.97.1; II.2.164.1. 18 Cf. Bynum, Resurrection of the Body, pp. 117–19. 19 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I.97.1; II.2.164.1; Augustine, De civitate Dei, II.13–14. For a lengthier discussion of Thomas’s ideas on the nature of death see M.D. Jordan,

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The connection between death and sin was frequently emphasised in sermons and homilies, whereby the distinction between physical and spiritual death was often blurred. Although Thomas Aquinas could argue that physical death was natural to the body’s material essence, images of physical death constituted potent metaphors for sin and its consequence.20 A twelfth-century homilist declared that there were three kinds of spiritual death, the worst of which, evil habits, was connected to the terrible smells emanating from the tomb. Habitual sinners could be compared to the owl living in the graveyard, both delighting in the ‘stench of human flesh’.21 Although the dead were physically separated from the living, the latter could still learn from them and their remains. The image of the tomb, for example, could be used to remind people about death, even though ‘dead bones cannot speak from the tombs’.22 A stark warning against sin also filtered through in the idea that physical death would be a fearful and painful experience for sinners. Stories about journeys to the afterlife such as the Vision of Tundalus were intended to instruct the audience as its main character was enlightened about his hitherto sinful life. The soul of the knight Tundalus was subjected to a particularly fearful ordeal after it had left the body: timid and vulnerable, the soul was surrounded by jeering demons eager to take this ‘child of death’ to the ‘unquenchable fire’. A similar experience was recounted by Gervase of Tilbury on the evidence of a ghost who had appeared to his cousin a few days after his death. Having been murdered, as the soul of the man left his body he witnessed a battle between angels and demons to determine his fate – an event which left him so traumatised that even the word ‘death’ conjured up painful images. Instead, he preferred to speak of ‘passing from life [migracio a seculo]’.23 Regular confession and an awareness of the inevitability of death could help relieve the trauma of this migration from life, and idealised depictions of one’s deathbed invariably show the dying quietly reclining in their bed. Surrounded by family and possibly attended by their physician and a priest within the private space of the bedroom, it was possible to prepare one’s passing with ‘Death Natural and Unnatural’, in Death, Sickness and Health in Medieval Society and Culture, ed. S.J. Ridyard, Sewanee Mediaeval Studies 10 (Sewanee, Tenn., 2000), pp. 35–53. 20 Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, I.97.1; II.2.164.1. 21 Twelfth-Century Homilies in MS Bodley 343, ed. A.O. Belfour, EETS os 137 (1909), pp. 136–7; R. Barber (ed.), Bestiary (Woodbridge, 1992), p. 149. Cf. the comment by Walter Map about the owl, which as one of the ‘creatures of the night’, is primarily concerned ‘to follow up the odour of carrion’. Walter Map, De nugis curialium: Courtiers’ Trifles, ed. and trans. M.R. James; revised by C.N.L. Brooke and R.A.B. Mynors (Oxford, 1983), pp. 12–13. 22 Twelfth-Century Homilies, pp. 124–5; Fasciculus morum: A Fourteenth-Century Preacher’s Handbook, ed. S. Wenzel (University Park, Penn., 1989), p. 33. 23 Visio Tnugdali. Lateinisch und Altdeutsch, ed. A. Wagner (Hildesheim, 1989; 1882), p. 10; The Vision of Tnugdal, ed. and trans. J.M. Picard and Y. de Ponfarcy (Dublin, 1989), p. 114; Gervase of Tilbury, Otia imperialia: Recreation for an Emperor, ed. and trans. S.E. Banks and J.W. Binns, Oxford Medieval Texts (Oxford, 2002), pp. 762, 768; J.C. Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in Medieval Society (Chicago, 1998), pp. 88–9.

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proper decorum. As peaceful as this may sound, it is unlikely to have been the case for many that they were able to renounce life with quiet resignation. Even saints could be described as belligerent or in severe pain on their deathbed, although they would welcome the prospect of union with God.24 The ‘tameness’ of death which Philippe Ariès observed as the dominant attitude for the medieval period is also belied by what are evidently paradigmatic descriptions of how things ought to be, not how they were.25 Young King Henry, for example, was described by Geoffrey de Vigeois and Thomas Agnellus as resigned to his fate as he lay dying in the early days of June 1183, although he did request to be placed on a bed of ashes in contrition for rebelling against his father and for plundering the monasteries in the Limoges region. There is little to no evidence in these sources to point to the fact that he died of the agonising effects of dysentery.26 Similarly, the description of Earl William Marshal of Pembroke’s deathbed in the Histoire de Guillaume de Mareschal is a textbook moment-by-moment account of how an elderly aristocrat was supposed to die.27 In the course of this section of the narrative, which is over a thousand lines, the reader catches a glimpse of William arranging his funeral and sharing his possessions with others, including many religious houses, in exchange for spiritual intercession. He appears calm and resigned even as his relatives and ‘familiares’ appear overcome by grief, and he is rewarded with a vision of two angels who will guide him towards God. Finally, William feels the pangs of death upon him and asks for the doors and windows to be opened. As he dies, his hands are folded in prayer and his eyes are firmly fixed upon the cross in front of him. Although there are signs of William’s suffering dotted around in the narrative, the overwhelming impression remains that of someone acutely aware of the correct procedures to follow in this situation.28 William’s eldest son, another William Earl of Pembroke, however, died excommunicate in 1231. When his cadaver was found in 1240 at the dedication of new Temple Church, according to Matthew Paris, it was sewn into an oxhide; the late Earl’s body, however, was found to be so putrid and horrible that people recoiled in disgust. In the 24

Cf. Crouch’s discussion of the deathbeds of Ailred of Rievaulx and Hugh of Lincoln: ‘Anglo-Norman Death Culture’, pp. 166–7. 25 Crouch, ‘Anglo-Norman Death Culture’, p. 159; Ariès, Hour of Our Death; Binski, Medieval Death, p. 36. 26 Geoffrey de Vigeois, ‘Chronica Lemovicense’, in Recueil des historiens de France de la Gaule, ed. M. Bouquet et al. 24 vols. (Paris, 1869–1904), 18: 217; Thomas Agnellus, ‘Sermo de morte et sepultura Henrici Regis Junioris’, in Radulphi de Coggeshal Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. J. Stevenson. RS 66 (1875); Crouch, ‘Anglo-Norman Death Culture’, p. 168. 27 Histoire de Guillaume de Mareschal, ed. A.J. Holden, S. Gregory and D. Crouch. Anglo-Norman Text Society Occasional Publications 4–6. 3 vols. (London, 2002–06), 2: 396–451. 28 Crouch surmises that William may have died of bowel cancer; D. Crouch, William Marshal: Court, Career and Chivalry in the Angevin Empire 1147–1219, The Medieval World (London, 1990), p. 130.

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context of recounting the sins committed by William Marshal the Younger, Matthew’s point is clearly that because the younger William had died excommunicate, his corpse reflected his sinful life and death.29 The idea of social containment was one of the dominant elements in medieval perceptions of death. Death ideally took place in a specific private location, in which the dying were expected to make peace with God and to maintain their composure in the presence of their relatives and friends. As such, the fear of death itself was rendered visible as a fear of the unknown and the disorderly. The ideal death ‘event’ was a highly orchestrated process in which all participants, including the dying, knew what to do and what to expect. Although disease would inevitably be the cause of death in many cases, it was glossed over in the narrative of the ideal death unless it was used as a sign of endurance and patience within the dying. An underlying reason for this orderly death, moreover, was the desire to ensure a good memory of the deceased in the minds of survivors – thus to re-establish oneself within the social community which encompassed both the living and the dead and not to be forgotten. So for example, while St Augustine argued that care for the dead actually made very little difference to the dead themselves, it was a suitable and positive strategy for survivors to cope with their loss to think that their deceased relatives and friends were properly cared for.30 Continuing on from this thought, the continuator of Aquinas’s Summa stressed the charitable nature of burial – and it would of course become one of the Seven Works of Mercy – which was pleasing to God. Sinners, on the other hand, deserved far less because they were not worthy of attention, from which it was logical to conclude that they deserved to be forgotten.31 The centrality of burial locations and of commemorative practices in the attitudes towards death further reveals the importance of remaining part of the wider community. People were buried in their local parish cemetery amongst their relatives and friends, unless they could pay their way into a monastic house. Again depending on money and status, a commemorative programme could be instigated for years to come. This ensured continued future intercession for the deceased, which became an acute concern during the rise of Purgatory in popular belief, and after its adoption as Church doctrine in 1274 at the Second Council of Lyons. It also maintained a disembodied presence of the dead in the minds of the living community, despite the growing commercialisation and specialisation of commemoration in the thirteenth century.32 29 30 31 32

Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 4: 494–5. Augustine of Hippo, De cura pro mortui gerenda, par. 6. Thomas Aquinas, Summa Theologiae, suppl.71.9 and 11. Cf. J. Le Goff, The Birth of Purgatory (Chicago, 1984), pp. 84, 326–8. For example, the rising popularity of chantry foundations in the thirteenth century is testimony to the

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The codification of dying, the assurance of an appropriate burial location and the instigation of commemorative programmes, all formed an elaborate sociocultural response to what was essentially an inevitable and fearful part of living. A considerable part of this response involved procedures to smoothen the transition from living body to cadaver and to limit exposure to putrefying matter, which as we have seen, formed part of the metaphorical arsenal of preachers and homilists in their quest to spread a proper understanding of the Christian message. Whether death itself was natural or unnatural, the fact remained that people died as a result of the first sin, as a consequence of which putrefaction of the body was also part of the process. The rest of this chapter will focus on how people responded to and used the image of the cadaver in relation to their own sense of being, social membership and salvation.

Voices of the dead One of the most powerful symbols of sinful life in medieval religious discourse, both prior to and after the Black Death, was the spectre of the rotting cadaver. As ‘matter out of place’, the decomposing body confronted its audience with the transience of earthly life in general and with the prospect of their own end in particular. Within hours of clinical death, signs of decomposition begin to appear: discolouration of tissue occurs, noxious gases and fluids escape from the body, and insects and larvae eventually appear – all very clear signs that there is no longer inherent control over bodily processes.33 The threat to psychological order becomes acute: what is this leaking and chaotic thing demanding of us the realisation that we will all end up like it? The means by which the cadaver would negatively impose itself upon the living was by means of a multilevel sensory attack. Bernard of Clairvaux, cited in the Fasciculus morum, pointed out the ‘deadly poison’ of the monstrous body which is cadaver on the visual, olfactory and tactile senses. ‘Nothing’, he said, ‘is more abhorrent than [the] corpse [cadavere]’ which should therefore

importance of intercession and remembrance. See G.H. Cooke, Mediaeval Chantries and Chantry Chapels, rev. edn (London, 1968); Daniell, Death and Burial, pp. 12–20; one of the earliest references to the foundation of a chantry for an individual is John Count of Mortain’s allocation of funds to Lichfield Cathedral for one in 1192. See Crouch, ‘Anglo-Norman Death Culture’, p. 177. 33 Douglas, Purity and Danger, p. 44; Kristeva, Powers of Horror, pp. 1–4; A.T. Chamberlain and M.P. Pearson, Earthly Remains: The History and Science of Preserved Human Bodies (London, 2001), pp. 12–18. Here the authors discuss the process of decomposition in greater detail and point towards environmental and chemical factors which inhibit or slow the bacterial growth aiding decomposition resulting in saponification or mummification. Kristeva’s notion of the corpse as abject is inherently subjective; it is the individual response rather than a collective, unified, repression of the cadaver as object – she criticises Douglas for rejecting individualism from her social analysis of taboo and pollution (pp. 65–6).

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be removed from the company of the living so that it would not taint the air or the water, or the sight, smell and touch of surviving relatives.34 The putrefying cadaver would not just be repulsive to the eye, but posed a real threat to survivors by the way it smelled. Medical practitioners held that foul vapours could be responsible for a range of diseases, while pleasant odours aided the patient towards recovery.35 Vapours formed an intrinsic part of the essence of an object and were composed of the same humoral elements. As substance, smells could therefore immediately affect those who inhaled them, both physically and mentally. One of the main dangers, according to Bartholomaeus Anglicus, came from ‘heavy’ or cold vapours, which he marked as ‘evil’. Typically, he associated these heavy vapours with corrupt matter: ‘as it fareth in fisshe that is longe kepte withouten salt’ or indeed any other matter which had been left to putrefy.36 The abundance of good, ‘light’ and more subtle vapours from herbs and spices would serve to neutralise the dangers of heavy and corrupt odours, which is important to bear in mind in the context of embalming practices.37 Some vapours could be lethal: one of the explanations for the pandemic of 1348–49 was that the air had been corrupted by the stench of carrion and unburied corpses; a similar fear of contamination surfaces in the comment made by Henry of Huntingdon with regard to the burial preparations of King Henry I in December 1135.38 After several attempts to stop his body from decomposing, one of the king’s servants died from contact with the royal brain, despite having taken the precaution of wrapping his face in a cloth. As the chronicler gloomily observes, he was ‘the last of many the king had murdered’.39 The sensory attack of the cadaver is also the main theme in the many revenant stories circulating in medieval society at all levels. Despite the frequent assertions in sermons, homilies or theological discourse that the dead do not interact with the living, revenants appear frequently in exempla or in the context of popular literature, such as in Walter Map’s De nugis curialium. Generally speaking, revenants were dead people who had died in bad 34 Fasciculus morum, ed. Wenzel, pp. 98–9; see also pp. 718–19 for similar sentiments attributed to St Jerome. 35 R. Palmer, ‘In Bad Odour: Smell and its Significance in Medicine from Antiquity to the Seventeenth Century’, in Medicine and the Five Senses, ed. W.F. Bynum and R. Porter (Cambridge, 1993), pp. 61–8. 36 Bartholomaeus Anglicus, On the Properties of Things: John of Trevisa’s Translation of Bartholomaeus Anglicus’ ‘De proprietatibus rerum’, Gen. ed. M.C. Seymour, 3 vols. (Oxford, 1975–88), 1: 115–16 (Lib. III, c. 19) [Hereafter: Bartholomaeus Anglicus, De proprietatibus rerum]; Palmer, ‘In Bad Odour’, p. 63. 37 Bartholomaeus Anglicus, De proprietatibus rerum, 2: 1296–1304; Palmer, ‘In Bad Odour’, p. 66. See below Chapter 4. 38 E.g. R. Horrox, The Black Death (Manchester, 1994), pp. 173–6; P. Ziegler, The Black Death, ill. edn (Stroud, 1991), p. 10; Huntingdon, Historia, pp. 254–8. 39 Ibid., p. 257.

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circumstances; those who had followed the correct procedures to die would be safe in the awareness that the living would intercede on their behalf and therefore there was no need to get back in touch with surviving relatives, neighbours or friends. The most apparent characteristic is the revenants’ overwhelming corporeality, which has nothing in common with romanticised views of the spectral waif but all the more with tangible physicality, putrefaction and lack of containment. These bodies can hold objects, be wounded and cause wounds, and have conversations with the living (sometimes – more often it is a matter of howling and shrieking), but they also leak, suck blood, change shape and weight, and pollute the air around them to cause disease. One revenant who had been causing a plague in his village was found ‘swollen to an enormous corpulence, with its countenance red and turgid’ as if he had been sucking blood, while another bled heavily after being wounded with a well-planted axe stroke in his chest.40 A series of revenant stories found in a Yorkshire manuscript of c. 1400, moreover, call attention to the problematic relationship between body and soul, the idea of personhood and the flexibility of the physical body after death.41 In these stories, the revenants more than once change the shape of their body, appear weightless yet very material, and they are all recognised as former members of the local community who need absolution for their sins; in one case, the revenant is presented as an empty husk: the dead person’s voice is thought to come from his bowels rather than his tongue.42 This, plus the fact that revenants were sometimes considered to be bodies possessed by demons, suggests that they were somehow animated by residual ‘spirits’ which would also account for their animalistic behaviour, which is irrational and uncontrolled. Their rational soul is no longer present, and the revenant could be considered in Augustinian terms only to be the ‘outer man’ (i.e. the body) without its ‘inner man’ (i.e. the rational soul).43 40 41

Newburgh, Historia, pp. 479, 481–2. M.R. James, ‘Twelve Medieval Ghost Stories’, EHR 37 (1922), pp. 413–22 (Latin edition); A.J. Grant, ‘Twelve Medieval Ghost Stories’, Yorkshire Archaeological Journal 27 (1924), pp. 363–79. A related issue is the matter of ‘cruentation’ or a cadaver bleeding in the presence of its murderer. The common scientific explanation was that an exchange of spirits took place between the murderer and a freshly murdered body either through the laws of physics or through the guilty conscience of the murderer. Cf. B. Lawn, The Prose Salernitan Questions (London, 1979), p. 130; Albertus Magnus, Quaestiones super de animalibus, in Opera omnia 12, ed. E. Filthaut; gen ed. B. Geyer (Köln, 1955), p. 151. The Franciscan Roger Marston was altogether more dismissive of the possibility of cruentation in relation to the bleeding bones of Thomas Cantilupe as his remains passed through the lands of John Pecham, Archbishop of Canterbury; Roger Marston, Quodlibeta quattuor ad fidem codicum nunc primum edita, ed. G.F. Ertzkorn and I.C. Brady, Bibliotheca Franciscana scholastica medii aevi 26 (Florence, 1968), pp. 281–2; A. Boureau, ‘La preuve par le cadavre qui saigne au XIIIe siècle: Entre expérience commune et savoir scolastique’, Micrologus 7 (1999), pp. 247–81, at 260. 42 James, ‘Twelve Medieval Ghost Stories’, pp. 416, 418–19. 43 Augustine of Hippo, De trinitate, IV.3. Cf. Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae, XI.1.6: ‘Human beings have two aspects: the interior and the exterior. The interior human is the soul [and] the

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Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of this book.

1: The Three Living encounter the Three Dead in the De Lisle Psalter. © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (Arundel 83, f. 127r)

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However revenants might defy the laws of nature – and it is obvious that authors including revenant stories in their work have difficulty explaining their existence – they ultimately could not defy the laws of the Divine.44 After a period of incessant fear and anxiety, the living resolutely regained control through a ritual ‘killing’ of the revenant or by means of granting absolution. The absolution tended to be quite straightforward; the ritual killing involved several measures geared towards fragmenting or destroying the revenant’s body. One evil revenant spreading pestilence was beheaded and sprinkled with holy water, while another was dismembered and burnt after his ‘evil heart’ had been ripped out with a blunt spade and was torn to pieces.45 The medieval cadaver, as death personified, as mirror of a living individual or as actual revenant, therefore calls attention to the fragility of the material body and the effects of sin.46 This is particularly evident in the forceful confrontation between the living and the dead in the French poem Le dit des trois morts et trois vifs, for example found in the famous early fourteenthcentury De Lisle Psalter.47 In this particular manuscript, the poem is accompanied by an image which follows the flow of the poem, while depicting exact mirror figures of the living and the dead (ill. 1). The three living, young and handsome kings richly attired and displaying symbols of their status, are confronted with three gruesome cadavers stripped of their worldly possessions, with two dressed in shroud-like rags and the third stark naked. These three cadavers, stiff and static compared to the elegantly flowing bodies of the three living, appear to represent three different stages of decomposition, while simultaneously mirroring the responses of the kings in the poem. The second corpse, for example, is modestly covering its decaying flesh and bowing its head in humility. This corresponds to the second king, whose body language expresses fear and wonder. He is partly shielded by the exterior is the body’. The ‘Etymologies’ of Isidore of Seville, ed. S.A. Barney, W.J. Lewis, J.A. Beach, O. Berghof (Cambridge, 2006), p. 231. 44 E.g. William of Newburgh refers to revenants as ‘prodigies’ or ‘monsters’ and occasionally ‘spirits’, while maintaining that in some, but by no means all, cases these bodies are possessed by demons. Walter Map, writing with a different agenda, provides his audience with a series of ‘apparitions’, ‘fantasms’, and ‘prodigies’ which include encounters with demons and fairies as well as the wandering dead. Sometimes these are God-approved demonic appearances; sometimes they are not so easily explained. Ultimately, however, Map dismisses the question with the comment that we cannot even begin to comprehend God’s ways. Newburgh, Historia, p. 476. Walter Map, De nugis curialium, pp. 148–65. See also N. Caciola, ‘Wraiths, Revenants and Ritual in Medieval Culture’, Past and Present 152 (1996), pp. 3–45, at 10–15. 45 Walter Map, De nugis curialium, pp. 203–4; Newburgh, Historia, p. 482; see also p. 476 for a similar procedure. 46 Cf. the popular ‘Debate between Body and Soul’, discussed by R.W. Ackerman, ‘The Debate of the Body and the Soul and Parochial Christianity’, Speculum 37 (1962), pp. 541–65. Also P. Tristram, Figures of Life and Death in Medieval English Literature (London, 1976), pp. 154–83. 47 MS BL Arundel 83, f. 127. See Binski, Medieval Death, pp. 135–6 for a brief discussion and a translation.

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first king who proudly but fearfully confronts the first corpse. The second corpse, on the other hand, reverses the gesture in what appears to be an extension of sympathy to the first corpse, whose abdomen is covered with vermin and whose speech is a stark warning not to indulge too much in earthly pleasure. The second king shows awareness of the need for repentance (‘I desire, friend, to amend my life’). In response to the third king questioning the divine purpose of death when life is so full of pleasures, the third corpse – with its empty abdominal cavity – responds that even the worms which ordinarily prefer corruption, have deserted it because of the earthly pleasures it enjoyed during life.48 In this profound and confrontational exchange, image and text together invoke the common flow of thought within Everyman: from doubt to resignation back to doubt, while every time the answer comes back to ‘such as we are you will be’. The potency of the image obviously follows from the contrast between the living and the dead but also from the realisation of how little influence on their fate humanity can exert in the face of death: depending too much on earthly pleasures subjects the cadaver to passivity as worms make their temporary home in it; at least a degree of humility and self-awareness can take away some of this anxiety. This is also the message underlying the numerous ‘signs of death’ lyrics which came forth from a long tradition of medical prognostication. It is a truism that dying or death cannot normally be subjectively experienced and be recounted afterwards. However, it is possible to imagine its process through observation, which is how the Hippocratic tradition of prognostication developed. Initially included in medical discourse to provide authoritative basis for predicting a patient’s state of health, these ‘signs of death’ were enthusiastically employed in religious discourse to warn the living against the unpredictability and suddenness of death. In the transition from strictly medical prognostication, with its semblance of objectivity, to religious didactic literature, the signs acquired an intimacy and urgency directed towards subjective experience: although phrased in terms of another person’s

48

According to the thirteenth-century encyclopaedist Bartholomaeus Anglicus, worms and vermin were the only creatures which thrived on corrupt smells and vehemently disliked sweet odours. Interestingly, he also maintains that foul smells could sometimes be countered by even fouler vapours – this appears to be the case for the third corpse, who was so corrupt in life that even the worms did not want him in death. Bartholomaeus Anglicus, De proprietatibus rerum, 2: 1302. Cf. Thomas Cantimpratensis Liber de natura rerum. Editio princeps secundum codices manuscriptos. Teil 1: Text, ed. H. Boese (Berlin, 1973), p. 277. [Hereafter: Thomas of Cantimpré, De natura rerum.] Thomas also mentions that it is said that ‘serpents’ are born in the human spine. Also, Lotario dei Segni (Pope Innocent III), De miseria conditionis humanae, III.1: De putredine cadaverum. PL 217 col. 735–7. See A. Paravicini-Bagliani, The Pope’s Body (Chicago, 2000), p. 179, who argues that Lotario’s comments are inspired by Salernitan learning.

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demise, the audience was invited to identify with the process through the context in which the signs occurred (e.g. sermons, lyrics or hagiography).49 As expected, although certain rituals or procedures were also occasionally included in the list of signs, the most common elements are those relating to sensory response and the loss of bodily functions. It is the latter in particular which seeks to invoke the sense of alienation and lack of control associated with dying, which would ordinarily be made abject through the elaborate funerary strategies described above. In a systematic top-to-bottom description of the body, of the kind often found in romances and rhetorical guides, the signs of death are catalogued according to the loss of faculty in each body part. The eyes become blind, the ears deaf, the nose sharp, and the tongue dumb within a contracting and grimacing mouth surrounded by blackened and shrivelled lips. Hands and feet tremble and become rigid, the muscles contract and paralyse.50 Disturbing when recounted as happening to someone else, these signs occasionally appear in a more intimate and urgent setting. Instead of the neutral third person singular, or the more invocative second person, the signs are recounted in the first person present tense bringing the action extremely close to its audience, who are forced to witness death as it happens at that moment and who by extension are irrevocably caught up in the enfolding drama: Whanne mine eyhnen misten/ and mine eren sissen/ and my nose koldeth/ and my tunge foldeth/ and my rude slaketh/ and mine lippes blaken/ and my mouth grenneth /…/ and mine honden bivien/ and mine fet strivien …51

This can hardly be described as a clinical prognostication either in a medical or in a sermonic sense. The tone is anxious and urgent; the rhyme is staccato and the grammar repetitive; the words reveal disgust and horror: this is the body itself bemoaning its fate in its final moments and warning its audience to repent before it is too late. It is a potent image of the body losing control over itself which simultaneously symbolises the lost opportunity of the soul to save itself (‘All too late/wanne the bere is ate gate’). The body is presented here as a catalogue of disharmonious and malfunctioning parts – a threat to the idea of the unity and stability of the inner person, which is further underscored by the transitional nature of the moment: ‘body’ becomes ‘cadaver’ as we read or listen. One of the strongest images in this lyric is surely that of the face transformed into a grinning skull, not too dissimilar to those of the Three Dead in the De Lisle Psalter. However, 49 R. Woolf, The English Religious Lyric in the Middle Ages (Oxford, 1968), pp. 67–85; R.H. Robbins, ‘Signs of Death in Middle English’, Mediaeval Studies 32 (1970), pp. 282–98; Fasciculus morum, ed. Wenzel, pp. 718–21. F.S. Paxton, ‘Signa mortifera: Death and Prognostication in Early Monastic Medicine’, Bulletin for the History of Medicine 67 (1993), pp. 631–50. 50 Middle English Lyrics, ed. M.S. Luria and R.L. Hoffman, A Norton Critical Edition (New York, 1974) pp. 232–31 for some ‘death’ lyrics. 51 Middle English Lyrics, p. 224.

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this is not all. The lack of control displayed by the dying body is a reminder of a lack of moral constraint: for the body repentance comes too late, a realisation rendered visible in its symbolic fragmentation.

What I am so you will be: death and personhood These observations about the connection between sin and putrefaction in the depictions of the Three Dead and the death lyrics hark back to one of the essential elements of religious behaviour, namely rational control over the body by the soul in terms of corporeal processes and emotions. As Caroline Bynum has shown, the somatic miracles of the high Middle Ages reveal a deep-seated belief in the reasembling of body parts at the Resurrection and a masterly control over the body’s physicality and emotions.52 While on the one hand, saints were subjected to pre-mortem fragmentation and viscosity (the latter albeit without permanently destroying the body’s boundaries), which they generally endured with remarkable equanimity, on the other hand their bodies were often found incorruptible after death.53 Their cadavers were quasi-alive: cheeks were rosy or milky white, the body was supple without signs of rigor mortis and it was sometimes surrounded by a fragrant odour.54 When Hugh of Lincoln’s body was prepared for burial, for example, it was observed to be perfectly clean and shining like glass, and his outer skin to be whiter than milk. Mixing the mundane with the miraculous, his hagiographer then explains that because Hugh’s remains had to travel a distance, it was decided by his doctors that he should be disembowelled. However, when the viscera (‘interaneorum secreta’) were removed from the body by a surgeon, they were also found to be perfectly clean and immaculate. Walter Daniel, moreover, describes Ailred’s post-mortem state in similar terms, adding that there were no signs in the dead man of his illness or old age, but instead that he resembled an innocent child.55 Significantly, there is a general silence on the topic of saintly putrefaction. Parts of the body might be slightly damaged from being placed in a coffin, such as Edmund of Pontigny, whose nose was found to be damaged by the 52

Cf. Thomas Aquinas, Summa theologiae, II.2.164.1: ‘For life and soundness of body depend on the body being subject to the soul, as the perfectible is subject to its perfection. Consequently, on the other hand, death, sickness and all defects of the body are due to the lack of the body’s subjection to the soul.’ This sentiment also underlies treatises on old age; see below, p. 37. 53 Bynum, ‘Bodily Miracles’, pp. 69–71; ead. Fragmentation and Redemption, p. 295. 54 A. Vauchez, Sainthood in the Later Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1997), pp. 427–8; Finucane, ‘Sacred Corpse, Profane Carrion’, p. 53. 55 Magna vita Sancti Hugonis: The Life of St Hugh of Lincoln, ed. D.L. Douie and H. Farmer. 2 vols. (London, 1961–62), 2: 218–19; Walter Daniel, Vita Ailredi: The Life of Ailred of Rievaulx, ed. F.M. Powicke (London, 1950), p. 62.

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weight of the coffin lid upon his translation, but saints did not decay in the sense that ordinary mortals were subject to putrefaction. Edmund, for example, was still found to emanate a most ‘heavenly scent surpassing that of any balsam or myrrh’.56 Future saints either possessed incorruptible bodies or they were reduced to a white unblemished collection of bones to be distributed as relics. They were not subjected to the humiliating liquefying process of their bodily remains (or if their bodies were found to be liquid, it was interpreted as holy oil); instead their remains were perceived to be static and to have attained a semi-celestial appearance.57 Many times this was attributed to Divine intervention; however, in twelfth- and thirteenth-century hagiography, we find explicit references to attendants aiding God by embalming the saintly body – as Hugh of Lincoln’s hagiographer maintained, the removal of the saint’s viscera served to increase God’s glory in that they were found miraculously clean – or by subjecting holy remains to mos teutonicus. The latter procedure was followed for Thomas Cantilupe for his post-mortem journey back to Hereford, but also for Thomas Aquinas, whose body was boiled to speed up the distribution of his relics.58 The importance of bodily purity in saints is underscored by a curious eulogy written by Thomas Agnellus shortly after the death of Young King Henry in 1183.59 In this case, the natural process of bodily decay is rewritten to suit a political purpose rather than a hagiographical one. The Young King died after a troubled life in the shade of his formidable father Henry II and his potentially formidable brother Richard Duke of Aquitaine. Despite being crowned king, young Henry lacked real political authority or the funds to support his lavish lifestyle. Driven in desperation, and perhaps envy, to rebellion in early 1183 for the second time, Henry cast his lot with the rebelling barons of Aquitaine in exchange for being recognised as Duke of Aquitaine instead of Richard. In the next few months, the brothers raided each other’s territories and on one such expedition, while plundering the monasteries surrounding Limoges, the Young King fell ill with dysentery and died on 11 June 1183.60 After his death, the brain and entrails were extracted from young Henry’s body, which was salted and wrapped in hides and lead. The extracted organs were buried at Grandmont near Limoges, while his body was taken to Rouen via Le Mans. There was a squabble between the people of Le Mans and 56

The Life of St Edmund by Matthew Paris, ed. and trans. C.H. Lawrence (London, 1999; 1996), p. 167. 57 Vauchez, Sainthood in the Later Middle Ages, pp. 429–30. 58 AASS 2 October, p. 581; R.C. Finucane, ‘The Cantilupe-Pecham Controversy’, in St Thomas Cantilupe, Bishop of Hereford: Essays in his Honour, ed. M. Jancey (Hereford, 1982), pp. 103–23; Vauchez, Sainthood in the Later Middle Ages, pp. 219, 431. 59 Thomas Agnellus, De morte et sepultura Henrici Regis Angliae junioris, in Radulphi de Coggeshal Chronicon Anglicanum, ed. J. Stevenson. RS 66 (1875), pp. 265–73. 60 J. Gillingham, Richard I (New Haven 2002), pp. 70–5; Crouch, ‘Anglo-Norman Death Culture’, p. 168.

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the archbishop of Rouen over Henry’s remains, which meant that several weeks passed before the body reached its final destination.61 The eulogy by Thomas Agnellus, however, skips over the more mundane practicalities and realities of the Young King’s death and burial; instead the emphasis is on his heroic suffering and martyrdom. Henry is described as ‘beatus vir’, ‘vir sanctus’ and ‘beatus martyr’ who heals the people suffering from haemorrhoids and anal fistula, leprosy and putrefying pustules on his journey from Limoges to Rouen.62 Moreover, although Thomas describes the effects of the burning fever which gradually weakens the Young King, he glosses over the fact that it was caused by dysentery. Neither does he see the need to elaborate on the preparation of the royal cadaver, while he highlights its miraculous preservation at forty days after Henry’s death when it finally arrived in Rouen. It was found to be whole and without signs of decay. There were no effects of sun and delayed burial upon the body to horrify attendants, nor was there any fetid smell to offend their noses.63 Clearly, Thomas has reconstructed the events of Henry’s final days and post-mortem journey in terms of a saintly paradigm, which stresses the virtues of the young man’s soul in an attempt to divert the attention from the acrimonious circumstances in which he had died. At the other end of the spectrum we find the cadavers of (perceived) sinners, which rotted prematurely and were presented as a danger to the living. Despite their elevated position in society, after their death the early Norman kings did not escape scathing comments on their spiritual well-being from ecclesiastical chroniclers. Orderic Vitalis, for example, uses the unceremonious funeral of William the Conqueror at Caen, which culminated in the undignified eruption of stench and body fluids from the king’s body, as a pretext to comment on William’s moral shortcomings.64 Similarly, Henry of Huntingdon elaborates extensively on the character of Henry I by means of the royal corpse’s behaviour. Both Orderic and William of Malmesbury are relatively neutral in this case. Orderic restricts himself to giving the bare facts, while William merely states that the king’s body was prepared to stop its decay. Henry of Huntingdon, however, freely indulges in the comparison of decomposing body and sinful

61

Roger of Howden, Gesta Regis Henrici Secundi Benedicti Abbatis: The Chronicle of the Reigns of Henry II and Richard I, AD 1169–1192, ed. W. Stubbs, RS 49 (1867), pp. 301–4. 62 Agnellus, De morte et sepulturae, pp. 267–8. 63 Ibid., pp. 265, 271–2. 64 Orderic, 4: 100–9. According to Orderic, William’s bowels ‘disgracefully’ (cum dedecore) burst from eating too many delicacies (pp. 108–9), while the corpse’s stench was so overwhelming that even the frankincense and other spices could not obscure it (pp. 106–7). The association with Judas and Arius whose bowels also erupted from their bodies as a consequence of sin would have been obvious to Orderic’s audience. Cf. Ohly, ‘The Death of Traitors’, p. 15.

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soul in his version of the events of December 1135.65 Henry I, it is well known since 1066 and All That, died of a surfeit of lampreys, which are notoriously difficult to digest. In fact, the king had been warned they were bad for his health, yet he chose to ignore his doctor’s advice because he was excessively fond of the fish. The king died soon after from the bad humours caused by the extreme coldness which the fish and the king’s bitter feelings towards his rebelling daughter together had effected.66 During the preparation of the royal remains for transport to Reading Abbey, it was noted that the brain had become putrid, which caused the death of one attendant as we saw above, while others were severely affected by the noxious smells emanating from the corpse. After finishing the embalming, however, the king’s body continued to leak a black fetid liquid, which the application of more salt and oxhides could not stop. This, Henry of Huntingdon suggests, was a clear sign of the king’s love of riches, of his gluttony and his tyranny. The misbehaving royal corpse in its unstoppable process of decomposition thus became a testament to Henry’s sinful behaviour in life and a mirror of his wretched soul in death.67

Conclusion It is evident from the above discussion that medieval perceptions of death focused on the frightfully real possibility of dying in sin rather than on the physical process of dying itself. The idea of ‘death’ contained a social and moral dimension which entailed exclusion from the community, being forgotten and isolated, and which called attention to the dangers of sin; elaborate strategies were in place to contain the event of death and to ensure the correct installation of the dead into their new position within the social community. The putrefying cadaver forcefully disrupted this harmonious and ideal process of dying and disposal while it reinforced the need for containment. Emblematic of sin it issued a warning to the living about their own spiritual state, while incorporating a real danger of contaminating the living by its presence. As a material object the cadaver constituted a danger to the well-being of the community of the living; as a metaphor it rendered visible the effects of sin upon the soul and body alike: it engendered death and it symbolised death. The ways in which the cadaver was perceived in the medieval mind thus provide a good example of how it could be manipulated to express an opinion about moral behaviour – much of this manipulation obviously took place in the realms of discourse with hagiography providing a clear example of Divine Grace overcoming natural decay in saintly bodies; in other 65 Orderic, 6: 448–51; Huntingdon, Historia, pp. 254–7; William of Malmesbury, Historia novella: The Contemporary History, ed. E. King (Oxford, 1998), pp. 26–31. 66 Huntingdon, Historia, p. 254. 67 Ibid., p. 257.

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instances the putrefying body was held up as a mirror to Everyman. In addition, the cadaver was symbolic of the continued connection between body and soul: not only did it reinforce ideas about material and numerical continuity until the Resurrection, as Bynum has shown, it also expressed notions of a psychosomatic personhood, in which the body rendered visible the metaphysical state of the soul. The next chapters will concern themselves with exploring these themes in greater detail. If the message of sin as death was reinforced time and again in socio-religious contexts, this undoubtedly impacted on how people viewed their own bodies and bodily processes in relation to personhood and communal identity. The notion of the incorruptible bodies of saints is a case in point, but how did a social group such as the aristocracy manipulate their (dead) bodies to render visible their political, economic and social supremacy both inwards, amongst themselves, and outwards? It is to this question that we shall now turn.

Chapter 2

Embodying Nobility: Aristocratic Men and the Ideal Body Much has been said and written about the high medieval nobility as a social class and their ideas of chivalry. David Crouch has recently written a very useful and densely packed overview of the centuries-spanning English and French historiographies of the nobility underlying current discussions and it is therefore unnecessary here to rehearse the main points of debate.1 One of the most interesting themes to arise from Crouch’s discussion is the adoption of the French sociologist-philosopher Pierre Bourdieu’s notion of habitus in an attempt to define and analyse ‘pre-chivalric’ chivalric behaviour – ‘pre-chivalric’ meaning before the first manuals and codifications of noble behaviour appeared in the late twelfth century.2 Although there are several epistemological issues with Bourdieu’s use of habitus as well as with Crouch’s assertion that habitus ‘disappears’ when codification of behaviour takes place, the notion that (embodied) behaviour is socioculturally produced and takes place subconsciously in social interaction between members of the same group or community is extremely useful for the discussion of aristocratic ideas of personal and communal identity.3 In Bourdieu’s theory as I understand it, habitus is always present (the epistemological issue here is how change is effected) and codification is therefore part of it. Moreover, it is important to 1 2

Crouch, Birth of Nobility. He is of course not the first to allude to Bourdieu’s theory of practice: cf. Reuter, ‘Nobles and Others’, p. 92. Also, the first manuals of aristocratic behaviour, such as Stephen de Fougères’ Livre des manières, were written at approximately the same time as Hugh of St Victor’s De institutione novitiorum, and by men not part of the secular aristocratic community. W. Simons, ‘Reading a Saint’s Body: Rapture and Bodily Movement in the Vitae of Thirteenth-Century Beguines’, in Framing Medieval Bodies, ed. S. Kay and M. Rubin (Manchester, 1997), pp. 10–23, at 14. 3 For a balanced critique of Pierre Bourdieu’s work see R. Jenkins, Pierre Bourdieu (London, 1992); for Crouch’s assertion that habitus disappears or moves elsewhere, see Birth of Nobility, p. 55. The idea of habitus itself is founded in the structuralist anthropology of Durkheim and Mauss, who posited the idea of embodied experience and behaviour. Cf. Bede’s description of Imma, who was ‘of noble family’ (de nobilibus) because of his ‘appearance, bearing and speech’ (ex vultu et habitu et sermonibus eius), cited in J. Roberts, ‘The Old English Vocabulary of Nobility’, in Nobles and Nobility in Medieval Europe, ed. Duggan, pp. 69–84, at 72.

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make a distinction between ideal and day-to-day behaviour. The former is obviously found in the prescriptive manuals Crouch discusses, initially written by those outside the secular aristocratic community; the latter is more difficult to envisage because of its subjective, embodied, nature.4 This distinction obviously raises further issues of how ideal and practice interacted, and to what extent the ideal impinged on social interaction and shaped the communal outlook. Having said this, Crouch’s discussion of high medieval aristocratic ideals is a good starting point for an examination of aristocratic perceptions of the body and the impact of death in the context of ideas about personal and communal identity. Another important point raised by Crouch is the role of the concept of nobility with which the social elite came to differentiate itself from the rest of society in the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. About as difficult to define as ‘chivalry’, nobility was grounded in ideas about ancestry and personal moral conduct above and beyond the sense of social, political and economical supremacy already inherent in the elite identity. The force of the concept of nobility as a kind of social glue holding together a disparate group of people with individual ideas about what exactly nobility meant to them is evident from our application of the term as a collective noun, even for a period in which they did not use the term themselves as a group identifier.5 The idea of nobility constituted an additional layer of social differentiation beyond wealth and political position. Because of its flexible nature, it could be manipulated strategically to further personal and familial aspirations in terms of social status, wealth and influence, whilst destroying those of others. With the political and economical arena open to the upwardly mobile, the elite resorted to an abstract ideology concretised by the notion of knighthood to obscure what in practical terms remained a power struggle over economic and political stakes. Nobility was something which was first of all interior and innate to the members of the aristocratic elite, rather than something which could be acquired as easily as money or political influence. The boundaries between social groups, therefore, were more fluid and permeable than the ideal surfacing in prescriptive sources would allow for. Members of the urban community, such as Robert Fitz Harding, or men of lower birth from the countryside could establish themselves as members of the aristocracy while, conversely, aristocrats invested in trade or urban ventures. Military or administrative skills, or just good fortune, could bring social and 4

It is interesting that he chose not to include a more extended discussion of the songs by the troubadour Bertran de Born, who was a castellan himself and who wrote his songs for a highly critical audience of fellow aristocrats, or the Roman des eles, written by the aristocratic troubadour Raoul de Hodenc. 5 C.B. Bouchard, ‘Strong of Body, Brave and Noble’: Chivalry and Society in Medieval France (Ithaca, 1998), pp. 1–3, 26. Reuter, ‘Nobility in Twentieth-Century Historiography’, pp. 177–203; Crouch, Image of the Aristocracy, pp. 2–4.

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economic prosperity, although critics were quick to point out the inappropriate behaviours and ostentatious display of wealth which sometimes followed upon success. As Turner has pointed out, the same critics were also keen to highlight – falsely – these men’s peasant background which, they argued, accounted for the fact that they did not know the correct behaviours befitting the lofty position they now found themselves in.6 Generally speaking, however, it was possible for individuals in the grey area between social groups to reposition themselves higher up in the internal hierarchy, someone such as William Marshal being a case in point.7 This chapter, therefore, focuses predominantly on how the idea of nobility was rendered visible or concrete within and upon the body of the aristocratic man, who was almost unthinkingly cast as a knight in the contemporary sources discussed below. In the first part, I shall outline my thoughts on the interconnectivity of body and identity (both communal and personal) in medieval culture, particularly in relation to communal self-definition through positive and negative typology, including ideas about physiognomy, disease, and gender. These are obviously vast subjects in their own right, and I cannot do more than provide a sketch in this context. In the second half of this chapter, I shall focus on the noble body more specifically in terms of its ontological status and what behaviour and appearance this ought to engender.

Observing is knowing: body and identity On the surface of it, modern popular culture appears to perceive personal and communal identity almost exclusively in terms of the body and body image; whether consciously or not, our embodied practices reveal a wealth of information about how we see ourselves in relation to others, our environment and the social groups we suppose ourselves to belong to or wish to belong to (even under the guise of individualism …).8 Moreover, whether we approve of it or not, this information is often used (again consciously or subconsciously) by those around us – as well as ourselves – to evaluate how we relate to the cultural norms and ideas associated with the social groups in which we move. 6 R.V. Turner, Men Raised from the Dust: Administrative Service and Upward Mobility in Angevin England (Philadelphia, 1988), pp. 1–19. Cf. Crouch, Birth of Nobility, pp. 53, 213–20 for examples. 7 J. Gillingham, ‘Some Observations on Social Mobility in England between the Norman Conquest and the Early Thirteenth Century’, in The English in the Twelfth Century: Imperialism, National Identity and Political Values, ed. J. Gillingham (Woodbridge, 2000), pp. 259–76; Crouch, William Marshal. 8 See for example B.S. Turner, The Body and Society: Explorations in Social Theory. 2nd edn (London, 1996); M. Featherstone, M. Hepworth and B.S. Turner (ed.), The Body: Social Process and Cultural Theory, Theory, Culture and Society (London, 1991) and the extremely accessible A. Howson, The Body in Society: An Introduction (Cambridge, 2004).

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This is a continuous and flexible process depending on a great many variables of context and circumstance, and one which may depend on subconsciously ‘knowing’ how to behave ‘correctly’. In the best circumstances, it is a harmonious process whereby each member is valued in their own right; in the worst, it leads to social exclusion and bigotry. Identity is a multilayered and intrinsically flexible and unstable construct. Moreover, it is a process of ‘becoming’ rather than an end point, while it is not always clear where social identity ends and personal identity begins. My terminology will therefore move along a slightly different axis. Instead of social identity, I will use communal identity, which is this fuzzy sense of belonging to a particular group which has its own set of values and practices to distinguish itself from other groups. Personal identity, I feel, refers to how individuals position themselves in relation to the groups in which they move. This is obviously as fictitiously stable a construct as communal identity: I will ‘perform’ differently as a daughter, friend or colleague, but in all cases my environment (and hopefully myself as well) will perceive me as ‘me’. The body and embodiment – i.e. our sense of being a body rather than having a body to paraphrase the sociologist Bryan Turner – play an important role in the definition of personal identity: how would I know who or what I am without reference to a social environment? How would I be able to distinguish between my body and that of another?9 This leads to further questions about the nature of the body, and whether we are not over-reifying it in our search to define it.10 Because of our embodied perception, any definition of the body will be subjective and culturally bounded, our conception of the ‘ideal’ body is likewise highly individualised. According to Mark Jenner, we should be historicising ‘bodies’ rather than the body. Although this may be a near impossible task to undertake in detail, it is a warning against an over-conceptualised generalisation of bodily practice. At the root of the multifaceted and discursive ‘body’ lies a physicality which cannot be ignored (as much as we might want to sometimes) and sociocultural conditioning of the body can be interpreted as a consequence of physiological processes resistant to order or unity, which are given meaning by that selfsame 9

Turner, Body and Society, p. 232. This also taps into the well of psychoanalytical theory, in particular of Jacques Lacan, who posited the idea of the ‘mirror stage’ in which the infant gradually comes to see itself as a coherent being rather than a loose array of body parts. This process is accompanied by a growing sense of unity of the ‘self’, Lacan’s ‘armour of an alienating identity’, which serves to obscure the fact that there is no such thing as ‘a self’ but rather a collection of ‘selves’. See J.J. Cohen et al., ‘The Armour of an Alienating Identity’, Arthuriana 6.4 (1996), pp. 1–24. 10 See Mark Jenner’s comments in a rather scathing article on the popularity of ‘body studies’ in history: Jenner, ‘Body, Image, Text in Early Modern Europe’, p. 154. Also: R. Porter, ‘History of the Body Reconsidered’, in New Perspectives on Historical Writing, ed. P. Burke, 2nd edn (Cambridge, 2001), pp. 232–60; Kay and Rubin, ‘Introduction’, in Framing Medieval Bodies, ed. Kay and Rubin, pp. 1–9.

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discursive valorisation. However, the way in which this valorisation is applied is dependent on individual interpretations of it. For example, modern society disavows the effects of ageing as a sign of losing one’s ‘self’ based on the fact that in old age we may encounter difficulties performing tasks which came easily in youth. Sometimes, this can in turn lead to an excessive emphasis on ‘staying young’.11 Similarly, medieval interpretations of the life course held an ambiguous attitude towards ageing in relation to bodily practice and identity, although it could be more pragmatic. For example, the elderly hermit introducing the squire to the principles of knighthood in Ramon Llull’s Llibre de l’Orde de Cavalleria reveals himself to be a knight who has retreated from the world of tournaments and battles, because his body has become too weak in old age to maintain the knightly lifestyle. Rather than suffering dishonour as a result of diminishing achievements, he has withdrawn from society to live a solitary life in a forest. As a consequence of this change, his body has taken on the appearance of hooly lyf, i.e. the old man has shed the characteristics of one communal identity and has taken on another, which is marked by a change in his body.12 At the other end of the spectrum, however, was the drive to retard the effects of old age through a combination of natural science and alchemy. For instance, one author, long thought to be Roger Bacon, argued that it was necessary for rulers and those in high office to delay the onset of mental and physical decrepitude by following a strict dietary and moral regimen – advice which appears to have been lapped up at the court of Pope Boniface VIII, whose concern with decay and bodily integrity has been pointed out in relation to his attitudes towards mos teutonicus.13 The reason for fearing old age seems not just to have been the physical defects which it causes, but also the weakening of the mind, morally and intellectually, as a result of a change in the humoral conditions within the body. Old age was signified by dryness and 11 Cf. Hockey and James, Social Identities across the Life Course, pp. 42–3; M. Featherstone, ‘The Body in Consumer Culture’, The Body: Social Process and Cultural Theory, ed. Featherstone, Hepworth and Turner, pp. 170–96, which argues that this is a consequence of capitalist policing of society. For a discussion of medieval interpretations of the life course, see J. Burrow, The Ages of Man: A Study in Medieval Writing and Thought (Oxford, 1986), which appeared around the same time as E. Sears, The Ages of Man: Medieval Interpretations of the Life Cycle (Princeton, 1986). 12 Ramon Llull’s Llibre de l’Orde de Cavalleria was written in Catalan. I shall refer to the Caxton translation, supplemented by a modern Spanish translation where necessary. Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, translated by William Caxton, ed. A.T.P. Byles. EETS os 168 (1926), pp. 4, 7; Ramon Llull, Obras litterarias, ed. M Batllori and M. Caldentey. Biblioteca de Auctores Cristianos (Madrid, 1948), pp. 97–141 for the Libro. Cf. D.M. Westerhof, ‘Deconstructing Identities on the Scaffold: The Execution of Hugh Despenser the Younger, 1326’, Journal of Medieval History 33 (2007), pp. 87–106, at 95–6. 13 See below, pp. 89–90. Roger Bacon, De retardatione accidentium senectutis cum aliis opusculis de rebus medicinalibus. Opera hactenus inedita Rogeri Baconi 9, ed. A.G. Little and E. Withington (Oxford, 1928). For a discussion of the authorship of the De retardatione, see Paravicini-Bagliani, The Pope’s Body, pp. 201–9.

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an increasing coldness as the body’s natural heat receded. As a consequence, old men were thought to be melancholic, miserly and irascible. The accidents of old age, moreover, were described as the result of moral corruption engendered by the First Sin and transmitted through the generations. In other words, the equilibrium experienced during adulthood would gradually disappear if the right precautions were not taken earlier in life. As a consequence of re-establishing physiological equilibrium, however, the body would be primed for resuscitation in an incorrupt state at the Last Judgement.14 Although these examples reflect two ends of a spectrum, both have at their heart the perception that the body somehow reflects the status of the soul. The knight’s transformation into a wise, and indeed semi-sanctified, hermit is first of all signified by his changed appearance. The author of the De retardatione argues that moderation and virtue of character can have a profound impact on the body’s physiological processes. Both examples, moreover, reflect on aspects of self-knowledge and self-control, which as we have seen above equally informed the metaphorical use of the cadaver. As Caroline Bynum has argued, the body’s physicality and the question of personal identity were at the heart of discussions about the Resurrection. Whether personal identity was lodged exclusively as form within a substantial soul, or it was something in which the physical body participated as well, it was generally agreed that the soul would be embodied at the sound of the Last Trumpet.15 Not only did this have consequences for how the body should be treated after death, as we have seen, there were also consequences for how it was perceived during its earthly existence in terms of sin and moral worth. In terms of the first, it highlighted the problematic ontological status of the cadaver; the second raised the issue of who, or what, was responsible for the intention and the act of sinning: the soul or the body, or both, and as a consequence, whether the physical body could be marked either by sin or its absence. From about the 1060s onwards, considerations about the role of the flesh in the act of sinning sparked a venerable flow of self-aware confessional tracts, debates about the sinfulness of certain bodily functions, and a greater emphasis on the significance of intention and contrition. Self-awareness, selfexamination, and self-control logically led to an examination of one’s embodied practice in relation to the soul, to the natural environment and to other human beings.16 14

Paravicini-Bagliani, The Pope’s Body, p. 208. See also M. Goodich, From Birth to Old Age: The Human Life Cycle in Medieval Thought, 1250–1350 (Lanham, MD, 1989), pp. 146–8 (on old age), pp. 150–4 (on retardation of old age). The views expressed in the De retardatione were not isolated and there are numerous treatises which advocate healthy living to prolong youth and, as a consequence, one’s life span. 15 See Bynum, Resurrection of the Body. 16 C.W. Bynum, ‘Did the Twelfth Century Discover the Individual?’ Journal of Ecclesiastical History 31 (1980), pp. 1–17. J.F. Benton, ‘Consciousness of Self and Perceptions of

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Intercutting theological concerns about the relationship between body and soul were natural philosophical ideas about sex and gender. If the body’s surface should be considered a mirror of the soul, how were non-conforming bodies and peoples to be viewed? Did appearance determine the state of the soul as much as the other way around? What constituted a conformist body or person? These were questions addressed variably in attitudes towards disease, or ‘other’, non-Christian peoples, in hagiography and in physiognomical treatises, which considered the relationship between inner and outer ‘man’. The interplay of inner and outer ‘man’ was particularly tense when it came to non-Christian peoples, the diseased, and the ‘monstrous races’. Thomas of Cantimpré questioned whether the latter even had a rational soul; despite this, however, he spoke approvingly of the gymnosophists and Bragmani as being close to the Christian ideal of living. These ‘monsters’ had either come into the world through the illegitimate coupling of humans and animals, or they were the result of the disobedience of some of Adam’s offspring.17 The Muslim adversaries of the Christian crusaders, moreover, were popularly depicted in less than flattering descriptions and images, while a romance writer such as Chrétien de Troyes deliberately exacerbated the difference between his main characters and their adversaries in terms of physical appearance.18 Matthew of Vendôme, in his rhetorical handbook, following Sidonius, provided an elaborate description of ugliness in which inner corruption is manifested upon the outer surface of the body. What is interesting in the case of the description by Sidonius is his repulsion of his ugly character’s leaking and uncontrollable body which renders visible his moral depravity.19 Disease which manifested itself on the exterior body and was considered the result of an internal imbalance of the humours was often perceived to be connected to moral corruption. Some illnesses were caused by immoderation

Individuality’, in Renaissance and Renewal in the Twelfth Century, ed. R.L. Benson and G. Constable (Cambridge, Mass., 1982), pp. 263–95. 17 Thomas of Cantimpré, De natura rerum, pp. 97–8. Although Thomas derived his material from Jacques de Vitry’s Historia orientalis, he does not follow the latter’s more nuanced approach to foreign peoples. See J.B. Friedman, The Monstrous Races in Medieval Art and Thought (Cambridge, Mass., 1981), pp. 93, 164. 18 L. Mirrer, ‘Representing “Other” Men: Muslims, Jews, and Masculine Ideals in Medieval Castilian Epic and Ballad’, in Medieval Masculinities: Regarding Men in the Middle Ages, ed. C.A. Lees (Minneapolis, 1994), pp. 169–86; cf. the image of Richard I and Saladin among the Chertsey tiles as well as the colour and body changing topos in the King of Tars; J. Gilbert, ‘Putting the Pulp into Fiction: The Lump-Child and its Parents in The King of Tars’, in Pulp Fictions of Medieval England: Essays in Popular Romance, ed. N. McDonald (Manchester, 2004), pp. 102–23. For Chrétien de Troyes’ use of the motif see for example Yvain, p. 298. Cf. Porter, ‘History of the Body Reconsidered’, p. 247, where he discusses the ideal of the Classical Greek man in eighteenth-century Western Europe, cast in relief against a collection of ‘other’ vilified types of masculinity. 19 See J. Ziolkowski, ‘Avatars of Ugliness in Medieval Literature’, Modern Language Review 69 (1984), pp. 1–20, at 8.

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(either excess or abstinence) which disrupted the ideal internal balance of the individual, and which could be taken as a physical manifestation of a lack of moral control over one’s flesh, although the opposite view was advocated as well. For example, the figure of the physically afflicted leper could in religious or literary texts be considered as a symbol of lechery, as a warning against those indulging too much in physical beauty, or as the fortunate who were able to atone for some of their sins before they died.20 Nevertheless, hagiographers could write admiringly about their subject attending to the sick, ‘even those afflicted with leprosy’, as in the case of St Hugh of Lincoln. He would attend to them, receiving them as honourable guests in his chamber or by going round the hospitals on his estates. He would embrace and kiss them, and console them in their misery. Despite their deformity, Hugh would say, those afflicted shone with an inner beauty. Indeed, those ‘who now gloried in the beauty of their bodies’ should await the Final Judgement in dread. His biographer, however, confesses to being utterly disgusted by the sufferers’ ‘swollen and livid, diseased and deformed faces with the eyes either distorted or hollowed out and the lips eaten away!’21 Only the saint is capable of seeing beyond the ravaged exterior, which as a consequence says as much about the poor sufferers as about the response of their environment to their affliction. The saint and the physically deformed come to share an ideological space separated from the rest of society (which includes Hugh’s disgusted biographer) in a fascinating example of reverse psychology. By siding himself with his audience, the hagiographer suggests that Hugh’s response is exceptional and that this is a sign of his inherent saintliness. Thus, by pointing out his own moral weakness, compared to Hugh’s magnanimity and insight, the hagiographer reconstructs the scene as a moral lesson about superficial judgement and instinctive fear. In other words, despite the ambiguous response to leprosy, those thought to suffer from the disease were singled out, either positively or negatively, as different because of their bodily deformities. Saints themselves could be subject to bodily afflictions and suffering, which could be interpreted as a pre-purgatorial atonement. However, as they died, any signs of deformity were rapidly erased from the surface of the body to leave a perfectly formed and shining prefiguration of the saint’s heavenly existence.22 The main thrust of the moral message underlying these descriptions 20 Recently, the view that lepers were ipso facto regarded in a negative light during the medieval period has been challenged. Archaeological evidence suggests that although leprosaria could be situated outside towns, they were conspicuously placed along main roads in and out of urban settlements. Moreover, in some cases their extramural location was due to a lack of space inside the town walls. See C. Rawcliffe, Leprosy in Medieval England (Woodbridge, 2006); ead. ‘Learning to Love the Leper: Aspects of Institutional Charity in Anglo-Norman England’, Anglo-Norman Studies XIII: Proceedings of the Battle Conference, ed. J. Gillingham (Woodbridge, 2000), pp. 231–50. 21 Magna vita Sancti Hugonis, 2: 13–14. 22 See above, pp. 28–9.

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appears to be the opposition of control and its lack in terms of physical moderation and balance. From the twelfth century onwards, mystics (mainly women) subverted this opposition by displaying extremes at different times. Their vitae emphasised the supreme control these women held over their body: they never moved or spoke without purpose and no untoward corporeal behaviour was ever observed in them. The only time this extreme composure was broken was during periods of spiritual rapture in which their body was subject to the Divinity rather than to their soul.23 Internal balance could therefore manifest itself in different ways; it could either be an experiential process in which both extremes surfaced, or it could be a permanent state, as advocated in health regimens, physiological treatises and physiognomy. In these texts, the collapse of inner and outer ‘man’ appears almost complete. The normative body in these texts was male. Men were thought to have a hotter constitution and a more even-tempered disposition than women; above all, men were considered to be the normative sex, with women being regarded as imperfect men, which also consigned each to specific gendered roles in society. As we shall see below, the idea of a single-sex continuum, as McNamara has described it, had a profound impact on conceptions of aristocratic personal and communal identity.24 Men (vir) derived their name from the fact that they had greater strength (virium) than women, according to Isidore of Seville. Men in the prime of their life were supposed to be in perfect balance physically and mentally, and to display qualities such as loyalty, strength, courtesy, justice and temperance. The adult man was ruled by reason rather than emotion.25 For example, Giles of Rome argued that the acme of life is the phase in which there is supreme equilibrium within the body. He regarded this as the middle age, in which rulers were ‘manly in a temperate way and temperate in a manly way’.26 Women and sexually ambiguous people such as eunuchs and hermaphrodites were expected to conform to certain gendered behaviours.27 As Miri Rubin has shown, hermaphrodites were expected to ‘choose’ their sex and the 23

Simons, ‘Reading a Saint’s Body’, pp. 15–16; Bynum, ‘Bodily Miracles’, p. 71. According to Isidore of Seville, the word ‘virgin’ was related to ‘virago’ in that both indicated a sense of incorruptibility and capacity to control feminine passion. He makes a positive comparison with the Amazons, generally regarded as one of the ‘monstrous races’. Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae, XI.22; Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference, pp. 205–6. Cf. Thomas of Cantimpré, De natura rerum, pp. 97–8. 24 Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference, pp. 170–1, 183–4, 202. T. Laqueur, Making Sex: Body and Gender from the Greeks to Freud (Cambridge, MA, 1990), pp. 19, 25–6; J.A. McNamara, ‘An Unresolved Syllogism: The Search for a Christian Gender System’, in Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities: Men in the Medieval West, ed. J. Murray (New York, 1999), pp. 1–24. See also, D. Neal, ‘Masculine Identity in late Medieval English Society and Culture’, in Writing Medieval History, ed. N. Partner (London, 2005), pp. 171–88. 25 Goodich, From Birth to Old Age, pp. 143–5. 26 Cited by Burrow, Ages of Man, p. 11. 27 Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference, pp. 201–6.

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associated gendered behaviour, while women such as Queen Matilda or Countess Hawise of Aumale were described with admiration because of their ‘manly’ behaviour. Both women were skilled in manipulating their male dominated environment by appropriating ‘masculine’ behaviour. Queen Matilda, for example, took control over the royalist army after her husband Stephen was captured at the Battle of Lincoln in 1141. Described as a woman of ‘constancy with a clever and virile heart [astute pectoris virilisque]’ by the sympathetic author of the Gesta Stephani, she did not hesitate to instruct her army to ransack London. However, the comment is flanked by comparative observations about the empress, whose lack of mercy distorted the face of female gentleness (‘muliebris mansuetudinis eversa faciem’) and whose viscera were devoid of compassion.28 Countess Hawise, a rich heiress subjected to three different marriages before she paid John 5,000 marks to relieve her from marrying a fourth time, was described by Richard of Devizes as a ‘woman who was almost a man, lacking nothing virile except virile organs’ (‘feminam fere virum, cui nichil virile defuit preter virilia’). Half-mockingly highlighting the ontological connection between manhood and strength, the author thus describes Hawise as a woman of exceptional inner strength who would be a good match for the virile and valorous knight William de Forz.29 Although women with a virile character were said to display certain physical characteristics of manhood, such as beard growth, physiognomical treatises did not generally consider women part of their discussion of character types, although their basic premise was that the outer appearance of the body could be read as a description of the interior.30 The most widely read treatises were the Pseudo-Aristotelian Chiromancy and the Secretum Secretorum, which in the Latin translation by Phillip of Tripoli (early thirteenth century) was given a separate section on physiognomy in contrast to its Arabic original. Roger Bacon included it in his version of the Secretum secretorum, Albertus Magnus discussed it in his commentary on Aristotle’s De animalibus, and it was part of physiological description in the medical compendium known as Almansor by Rhazes, translated by Gerard of Cremona in the late twelfth century.31 Despite the warning against the indiscriminate application of physiognomy in one’s judgement of others, both Roger Bacon and Albertus 28 29

Gesta Stephani, ed. and trans. K.R. Potter (London, 1955), pp. 122–5. Richard of Devizes, Chronicle of Richard of Devizes of the Time of Richard the First, ed. J.T. Appleby (London, 1963), p. 10. 30 Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference, pp. 204–5. Hildegard of Bingen’s physiognomy was an exception in that it focused exclusively on female characteristics; ibid., p. 186. 31 L. Thorndike, History of Magic and Experimental Science II: The First Thirteen Centuries (New York, 1923), pp. 266–72, 575; Roger Bacon, Secretum secretorum cum glossis et notulis; Opera hactenus inedita V, ed. R. Steele (Oxford, 1920), pp. xxii–xxiii. Albertus Magnus, De animalibus: A Medieval Summa Zoologica, ed. K.F. Kitchell Jr. and I.M. Resnick. 2 vols. (Baltimore, 1999) and Quaestiones de Animalibus; Rhazes’ physiognomy is in Scriptores physiognomonici Graeci et Latini, ed. R. Förster, 2 vols. (Leipzig, 1892–93), 2: 163–79.

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Magnus maintained that it was a useful skill to possess. Both also cite a story about Hippocrates, attributed to Aristotle, about the danger of holding too mechanistic a view on the connection between the interior and exterior. A physiognomist described Hippocrates in mostly negative terms, which outraged his disciples. Hippocrates, however, agreed with this description of him, saying that his intellect and rationality had been able to overcome the character defects suggested by his physical appearance.32 Nevertheless, Hippocrates being an exceptional figure, Bacon asserted that the rules of physiognomy were a great help for rulers in choosing their friends and advisors; his ideal man was in fact someone who displayed moderation in appearance.33 Although the relationship between external appearance and soul was therefore occasionally problematised as too reductionist, in particular considering the influence of Divine Grace on individual characters, in many other cases the interconnectivity of the exterior and interior of the body was considered a reliable indicator of one’s physical, mental, and spiritual well-being, which is evident in hagiography and medical discourses and, as we shall see now, also in texts generated for aristocratic consumption.

Noble body, noble identity Although ‘new men’ had entered the sphere of the social elite with every generation and there had been a mainly unwritten understanding of who belonged to the elite, it is possible to observe an increased differentiation during the course of the twelfth century of those who had entered it because of their individual merit, or material success, and those who could claim noble ancestry. As the structural anthropologist Mary Douglas argued, just as any threats to the stability of a social body may translate itself into closing its symbolic boundaries to outsiders or the exclusion of non-conformist elements, so society may redraw its ideas about the physical body as a consequence of social threat.34 A similar process appears to be taking place in the later decades of the twelfth century with urban elites and non-aristocratic members of society increasingly entering the sphere of political influence in national and local government. By appropriating the idea of knighthood and transforming its raison d’être from being just a functional office to an innate and embodied essence, the aristocratic communal identity distinguished itself from members of the urban elite or other upwardly mobile men who obviously lacked this essential feature, even if they were able to achieve the status of 32

Roger Bacon, Secretum secretorum, p. 165; Albertus Magnus, Quaestiones de animalibus, p.

95. 33 34

Roger Bacon, Secretum secretorum, pp. 166–7. M. Douglas, Natural Symbols: Explorations in Cosmology. With a new introduction (London, 1996), pp. 74–5; Ead., Purity and Danger, p. 142.

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knighthood. The focus was cast more sharply on the physical and moral qualities true knights were supposed to possess: strength, prowess, loyalty, valour, grace, generosity and honour – qualities which came to be underwritten by an impressive noble lineage.35 Association with the aristocratic community’s ideal was increasingly determined not in terms of material possessions or political influence (which anyone could acquire) but in terms of abstract and romanticised notions of personal honour and virtue, with the understanding that the truly ‘noble man’ was a knight who was naturally entitled to political, social and economic power. This immediately drew a line between those who fought and those who did not; between those who fought on horseback and those who did not; and between those who could afford the time and money to maintain a knightly life style and those who could not. The centrality of the knight’s body in the perception of communal aristocratic identity in relation to the above is evident. The etymological ontology of the knight in Raoul de Hodenc’s Roman des eles (c. 1220), for example, is gentillece, a term which refers both to birth and individual character.36 In a cleverly conceited play on the interconnectedness of language, social order, and moral qualities, which centralises Raoul’s own moral authority as minstrel to comment on knighthood and which exposes the fragile symbiosis of nobility and resources, the Roman describes the two wings of prowess, each with seven feathers, which all true knights should have. One wing represents generosity, the other courtesy. In order to remind true knights of their nature, Raoul has taken it upon himself to act as an educator, since as a minstrel he has a deep understanding of the nature of honour, shame and courtesy both through the material which shapes his profession and through first-hand experience of courtesy and generosity (lines 104–12). Knights, according to Raoul, embody or ‘are’ (ont) courtesy, a virtue instilled in them by God; a knight’s proper name is gentillece, or nobility (lines 13–15, 23–6, 39). This ontology is, for example, echoed by Daniel of Beccles, who wrote his treatise on ‘urbane’ conduct towards the end of the twelfth century. Daniel maintains that it is conceptually impossible for a noble character to issue forth from bad blood (de sanguine prauo).37 Fundamentally, by indicating the centrality of language and meaning inspired by the

35

M.H. Keen, Chivalry (New Haven, NJ, 1984) and Coss, Knight in Medieval England trace the development of the noble knight. 36 Raoul de Hodenc, Le Roman des eles, ed. K. Busby. Utrecht Publications in General and Comparative Literature 17 (Amsterdam, 1983). On gentillece see E. Kennedy, ‘The Quest for Identity and the Importance of Lineage in Thirteenth-Century French Prose Romance’, in The Ideals and Practice of Medieval Knighthood 2, ed. C. Harper-Bill and R. Harvey (Woodbridge, 1988), pp. 70–86, at 73. 37 Urbanus magnus Danielis Becclesiensis, ed. J.G. Smyly (Dublin, 1939), p. 5; Crouch, Birth of Nobility, p. 127. Cf. Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, p. 58.

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etymological view of the world proposed by Isidore of Seville, Raoul observes that the name of the object is the key to its meaning and essence. As a wordsmith, therefore, he is in a prime position to comment on the essence of knighthood (lines 1–4, 55–6).38 As a consequence of their ontologically superior status, Raoul argues, it is only proper that knights are socially elevated. Sadly, however, there are too many knights who are ignorant of the true nature of knighthood and many vainly appropriate the title and status without understanding its essence or origin (lines 33–54). As a result, the very nature of knighthood is corrupted by those who claim its title. Not for the last time, a distinction is made between true knights who embody nobility and false knights who attain negative characteristics. This idea is taken quite literally by Raoul as expressing themselves upon the body. In a rather graphic description of a miser (i.e. a false knight), his stinginess is envisaged as literally erupting from the insides of his corrupt body in a flow of fetid and noxious matter which permeates the minstrel’s every sense: as he hears the shameful word, he smells its corruption which he feels has sprung from evil and idleness (lines 84–103). In other words, a true knight will reveal himself through his noble bearing (franchise), liberality and courtesy. The opposition between knightly and rich ‘common’ members of society, implicit in Raoul de Hodenc’s discussion of knighthood (cf. ‘A knight … will not rise to great heights if he inquires of the value of corn’; lines 165–7), is made explicit both in the work of Bertran de Born and Andreas Capellanus. The former, a troubadour and minor aristocrat from the Limoges region, frequently highlights the noble characteristics of true knights, while deeply criticising the nouveaux riches who call themselves noble, but who put wealth and political status before worth and honour. In S’abrilis e fuoillas e flors, for example, Bertran spites rich men for ruling by fear rather than by generosity and for preferring siege warfare over more honourable face-to-face combat. They hunt and joust, build large castles and eat too much – they squander their reputation ‘because such behaviour is not admired by good people [las bonas gens]’. Only nobility, grace and generosity (‘francs e cortes e chauzitz e larcs e bos donadors’) and valour give a man ‘high merit’ in Bertran’s view as one of the ‘good people’. In Mout mi plai quan vey dolenta, a more vicious attack is launched against ‘rotten rich people [malvada gent manenta]’, who cause trouble to noblemen (‘paratge’) by their very existence. These rich people are the upwardly mobile who, when they rise to wealth, ‘go mad’. It is better to keep them in their right place, Bertran asserts, because they are

38

See Jacquart and Thomasset, Sexuality and Medicine, pp. 8–11 for a useful discussion of Isidore’s etymological system. Cf. The lady’s advice to her son Perceval in the romance by Chretien de Troyes to learn the names of those he encounters on the road, ‘for by the name one knows the man’; Perceval, p. 388.

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disloyal and untrustworthy by nature. In other words, they are the antithesis of the noble knight, who of course is entitled to all that wealth.39 Andreas Capellanus steers a slightly different course in his attack on non-noble ‘upstarts’. Like Raoul de Hodenc, he sees the ability to love in a polite manner as one of the defining characteristics of knightly mentality.40 Needless to say, this only applies to civilised interaction between the members of the aristocracy. However, his discussion does not limit itself to rules of conduct between members of the aristocracy, but also calls to attention the inherently hyper-masculine nature of aristocratic communal identity. Like Raoul’s miser, who is described as ‘soft in arms and fat from sojourning’ (line 99), Andreas’s ladies comment sharply on the bodily shapes of their bourgeois suitors (referred to as ‘plebeii’ by Andreas). One suitor is told by a lady of middling nobility (‘nobilis’) that his non-noble lineage (‘genus’) is evident from his appearance (‘forma’), while another is dismissed by a countess (‘nobilior’) because of his physique which makes him unsuitable for the knightly profession: Knights [milites] should be naturally [ex sua natura] endowed with slim long calves and neat feet whose length exceeds their width as if moulded by a craftsman, but I observe that your calves are on the contrary podgy, bulging, round and stunted, and your feet are as broad as long, and gigantic to boot.41

His contemporary Chrétien de Troyes likewise stresses the connection between moral and physical nobility. In a telling passage describing the arrival of Alexander, the father of Cligés, at Arthur’s court from Greece, he and his group of soldiers bare their shoulders ‘so that no one could consider them ill-bred’. Arthur’s barons, moreover, are in awe of the youths’ nobility and physical beauty, their ‘handsome age’ and their ‘well-formed body’.42 The Greeks are polite, modest, respectful, and well spoken. In Perceval, the eponymous hero is from an impressive lineage which shows in his behaviour and body, even though he was brought up like a peasant and wears peasant clothes. 39

The Poems of the Troubadour Bertran de Born, ed. W.D. Paden Jr., T. Sankovitch and P.H. Stäblein (Berkeley, 1986), no. 20 (pp. 254–65), no. 28 (pp. 318–23). 40 Raoul devotes most space to the discussion of love which he states inspires all knightly deeds and gives them greater honour (lines 485–632). 41 Andreas Capellanus, On Love, ed. and trans. P.G. Walsh (London, 1982), pp. 62–3, 78–9. The tension between nobility of birth and nobility of character is played out between the lady and her suitor in a further critical exchange in which the suitor chastises the lady for paying too much attention to the exterior. Later on in the dialogue, the lady instructs the suitor in the ways of noble love (pp. 82–7). Andreas’s satire, therefore, is never far from being instructional also. Needless to say, the suitor does not get his way. 42 Cf. the description of Lancelot’s body and behaviour in the Prose Lancelot: Lancelot do Lac: The non-cyclic Old French Prose Romance, ed. E. Kennedy, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1980), 1: 38–40; Lancelot of the Lake, trans. C.F.V. Corley (Oxford, 1989), pp. 27–30. Not only is his behaviour exemplary, his body is described as temperate and moderate, while individual body parts are in ‘reasonable’ proportion to the others. His only shortcomings are his great fury when angered and his large chest.

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He takes to being a knight quite naturally, and although he lacks the ‘civilisation’ to be a noble man until instructed by an older fellow knight, it is clear that his innate nobility can be easily unlocked.43 Moreover, Walter Map, in a satirical story about a lady pursuing a virtuous knight, draws attention to the virility of knights, connecting courage and prowess to sexual ability. In order to escape the attentions of this lady, who is his lord’s wife, the knight feigns impotence. Not deterred by this, because she considers ‘the signs […] clear enough’, the lady tries to trick the knight by sending one of her maids to seduce him. These signs are the external manifestations of his character and physical health listed by the lady: the knight is a young man with a strong body and sufficient beard growth, and without a ‘jaundiced eye or coward heart’. The lady is puzzled. Surely, his martial prowess, valour and physical appearance point towards a sexually healthy man? ‘Could one less than a man have pierced through so many armed phalanxes [Numquid posset effeminatus tot armorum penetrare cuneos], dimmed the glories of all men, raised his own repute to such a pinnacle of praise?’44 In other words, the lady’s evocative and sexually charged description of the knight, which draws upon medical ideas, consciously connects virility to the martial and virtuous excellence needed to be a knight.45 Ramon Llull, writing in a more serious vein, nevertheless reveals very similar thoughts on the noble body, insisting that men who did not possess a ‘whole’ body were not fit to enter the order of chivalry: ‘A man lame or ouer grete or ouer fatte or that hath ony other euyl disposycion in his body, for whiche he may not vse thoffyce of chyualrye, is not suffysaunt to be a knight.’ Although in this passage he does not overtly stress the connection between the inner and outer man in judging someone’s suitability to become a knight, elsewhere Llull emphasises the importance of body and soul working together to maintain chivalry. A morally depraved knight is ‘al contrary to chyvalrye and to al honour’, who ought to be removed from the order and destroyed. Llull warns his audience that nobility does not lie in external trappings such as armour or clothes, but in the display of virtue and knightly qualities.46 Llull’s concept of nobleza de corazón, which signifies these virtues of the soul, is a 43

Cligés, pp. 126–7; Perceval, p. 393; cf. Perceval’s transition from being a ‘boy’ to being a ‘man’, p. 402. 44 Walter Map, De nugis curialium, pp. 218–19. 45 See Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference, pp. 171, 181–2. Both women and castrati did not grow beards, because they were thought to be colder and moister than men. The growing of a beard (a sign of nutritional superfluity) signified male adulthood and the ability in men to produce the heat needed to create healthy semen from the vital spirit located in the heart. Cf. Rhazes, Al-Mansor, II. 57, in Scriptores physiognomonici, ed. Förster, 2: 178. 46 Ramon Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, pp. 63, 45, 55. See also p. 99: a knight is called a knight, because he fights against evil and vice with the force of noble courage. Cf. John of Salisbury’s ideas on knighthood, based on Vegetius, discussed in J. Flori, Richard the Lionheart: King and Knight (Edinburgh, 1999), pp. 250–1.

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treasure protected by the body and it is as essential to the knight as eyes are to the artisan to judge his own work or to the sinner to observe his sin.47 The noble body thus becomes a shrine or castle which needs to be maintained in order to be worthy of the treasure kept within it.48 This is also the sentiment in the Ordene de chevalerie, which was written about seventy years before Llull came to write his treatise. In it a knight instructs Saladin in the obligations of knighthood. One of the main instructions concerns the knight’s body, which should be kept ‘pure and untainted by the follies unceasingly committed’ by it.49 Although less explicit in the necessity of noble ancestry, stressed in other treatises, the Ordene nevertheless makes it very clear that not everyone is suitable for knighthood – only the pure and virtuous can be admitted. In the end, Saladin is denied his knighthood on account of his religion, which reinforces the knight’s earlier crude response to Saladin’s request to be made familiar with the idea of knighthood that it is impossible to ‘cover a dunghill with silken sheets so that it could never stink’.50 This embodiment of nobility was not unproblematic and it was severely challenged from the ecclesiastical corner as being divorced from reality. Alexander Neckam lamented the fact that noble blood seemed to count for itself as a sign of worth and honour without recourse to individual noble behaviour. If knightly qualities were embodied and a consequence of noble ancestry, did not the aristocracy have a moral obligation to maintain the high standards of nobility? One would think so. However, not only did noble and non-noble ultimately derive from the same source, all the lofty ideas so favourable to the aristocracy were in fact a sham. Instead of showing real nobility of character, the aristocrats in Neckam’s time exaggerated their manners to give the impression of noble birth. They were more concerned with money than with virtue, and besides many aristocrats were actually humbly born and had forced legitimate heirs away from their rightful inheritance. Without disputing that noble

47

Ramon Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, pp. 39–40. Cf. Llull, Libro de la orden de Caballería, p. 117: ‘Si Dios ha dado ojos al menestral para que vea trabajando, los ha dado también al picador para que llore sus pecados. Y si al caballero ha dado el corazón para que sea aposento de la nobleza de ánimo …’ 48 Ramon Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, p. 119. Cf. Henry Duke of Lancaster’s elaborate metaphor of his body as a castle under attack from vices who try to enter his heart: the donjon containing his soul. Henry of Lancaster, Le livre de seyntz medicines: The Unpublished Devotional Treatise of Henry of Lancaster, ed. E.J. Arnould. Anglo Norman Text Society 2 (Oxford, 1940), pp. 64–5. See also E.J. Arnould, ‘Henry of Lancaster and his Livre des seintes medicines’, Bulletin of the John Rylands Library 21 (1937), pp. 352–86. Henry probably wrote this highly contrite confession and plea for absolution around 1354 (Livre, p. 244). The castle is also used as a metaphor by the fourteenth-century author of the Fasciculus morum (pp. 720–1). 49 Ordene de chevalerie, ed. K. Busby. Utrecht Publications in General and Comparative Literature 17 (Amsterdam, 1983), lines 233–4 (trans. p. 172). 50 Ordene de chevalerie, lines 87–90 (trans. p. 171). On importance of noble ancestry for knights, see Ramon Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, p. 58. Cf. Giles of Rome, The Governance of Kings and Princes, pp. 150–2; Henry of Lancaster, Livre de seyntz medicines, p. 27.

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birth predisposed an aristocrat to a better position in society, Neckam argues that only noble deeds can declare one’s noble ancestry, not the other way around.51 The emphasis on virtue and bodily appearance in relation to true knighthood is found with other social commentators as well. Bernard of Clairvaux, for example, in his praise of the Knights Templar contrasts their humility and prowess sharply with knights he considers effeminate. Instead of restraining their lower urges, these knights grow their hair, adorn their armour with all sorts of frivolous extras and rather than serve others, they serve themselves.52 In his description of the Battle of the Standard (1138), Ailred of Rievaulx, on the other hand, praised the knightly qualities of Walter Espec, Lord of Helmsley and patron of Rievaulx Abbey, by referring to his conduct and bodily appearance grounded in a noble background (‘nobilis carne’), although Ailred was also quick to point out that his patron was ‘more noble’ in Christian piety. Walter was of great stature and limb, with black hair and a flowing beard, a broad forehead and an open face with sharp eyes. He had a voice like a trumpet and could speak eloquently. Although we cannot tell whether Ailred drew a faithful portrait of Walter or not, it is interesting to note the similarities between Walter’s body, his aristocratic (and knightly) qualities, and the connections between the two noted in physiognomical treatises. According to Rhazes, black hair signified anger, while Roger Bacon maintained that it referred to a love of justice. The latter also connected a loud voice with a love of war and with eloquence; long arms showed the owner’s courage, his goodness and largesse.53 Writing from a more secular perspective, moreover, Richard de Templo in his celebration of Richard the Lionheart’s deeds in the Middle East in 1191–92 stresses the king’s splendid noble qualities which marked themselves in an equally splendid physical appearance. Richard was considered very generous, skilled in warfare and diplomacy, and valorous to the extent that it was sometimes considered inappropriate. In the Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta Regis Ricardi, authored by Richard de Templo in c. 1220, King Richard is favourably compared to the heroes of the Ancient World, such as Hector, Alexander and Titus Vespasianus, as well as the paragon of crusaders, i.e. 51

Alexander Neckam, De naturis rerum libri duo, ed. T. Wright. RS 34 (1863), pp. 244, 312–13. 52 Bernard of Clairvaux, De laude novae militiae, in Opera, III, ed. J. Leclerq and H.M. Rochais (Rome, 1963), pp. 216–19. See also R. Bartlett, ‘Symbolic Meanings of Hair in the Middle Ages’, TRHS sixth series 4 (1994), pp. 43–60 for comments on different hair styles and what they were thought to signify. 53 Ailred of Rievaulx, Relatio de standardo. Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard I, Ed. R. Howlett, 3 vols. RS 82 (1886), 3: 138. Rhazes, Almansor, Lib. II c. 28, Scriptores physiognomonici, 2: 164; Roger Bacon, Secretum secretorum, pp. 167, 169–70. Cf. the Middle English version of the Secretum secretorum in Secretum secretorum: Nine English Versions, ed. M.A. Manzalaoui. EETS os 276 (Oxford, 1977), p. 11.

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Roland. Moreover, the king did not only possess heroic and military virtues, but he was also wise and clever (an unusual combination according to the author). What is more, the king had the physique to match his virtues: tall and elegant of stature with long arms and legs, his body was highly suitable for knightly pursuits.54 What impressed Richard de Templo was the king’s awareness of how to make the right impression. In describing Richard’s entry into Messina, the chronicler waxes lyrical about the king’s astuteness in projecting authority commensurate to the power he holds. King Philip of France, in contrast, had entered the city furtively and with only a few companions. This is wrong, according to de Templo who maintains that the king’s ‘exterior appearance should declare his inner virtue’: As it is commonly said: ‘The man that I see I expect you to be’. What is more, appearance is governed by character. Whatever sort of character the ruler has, it is naturally reflected in outer appearance.55

Evidently, to Richard de Templo, King Richard’s noble birth and virtues were clearly inscribed upon his body, which thus acted as a touchstone for his inner being. The idea of the body as touchstone for nobility also arises from comments made by John of Arderne in the introduction to his Fistula in ano which reveal an interesting practical example of the pressures generated by the flow of ideological chivalric texts. Sometimes associated with sexual overindulgence, anal fistulas could mark the sufferer as physically, morally and socially deficient. The case cited by John of Arderne concerns a household knight of Henry Duke of Lancaster, who is sent home when he becomes unable to fulfil his functions as a consequence of his fistula. At home, according to the surgeon, the knight shed his armour and donned ‘mornyng clothes’ to mark the end of his professional career and social status.56 In other words, the ideal knight was predominantly the ideal man discussed in the previous section: he was of noble ancestry which predisposed him to noble deeds; he was loyal, courteous, generous, courageous, temperate, judicious, virile and virtuous. If sex and gender were to be seen as a continuum, the 54

Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta Regis Ricardi, in Chronicles and Memorials of the Reign of Richard I, vol. 1, ed. W. Stubbs, RS 38 (1864), p. 144. Translations are taken from H.J. Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade (Aldershot, 1997). His valour and diplomatic skills were also commented upon by Muslim authors such as Baha al-Din and Imad al-Din. Gillingham, Richard I, p. 19. 55 Itinerarium peregrinorum et gesta Regis Ricardi, pp. 155–6; Nicholson, Chronicle of the Third Crusade, p. 156. This is reminiscent of Ecclesiasticus (Sirach) 19:26 (Douay-Rheims trans.): ‘A man is known by his look, and a wise man, when thou meetest him, is known by his countenance [sensatus].’ Cf. Vauchez, Sainthood in the Later Middle Ages, p. 435 n. 31. 56 John of Arderne, Treatise on fistula in ano, ed. D. Power, EETS os 139 (London, 1910), p. 1; see also J.J. Citrome, ‘Bodies that Splatter: Surgery, Chivalry and the Body in the Practica of John Arderne’, Exemplaria 13 (2001), pp. 137–72, at 137.

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ideal man inhabited one end, the ideal woman the other. In between, there were numerous points of reference for men and women not fitting these ideal categories. The idea of the knight as the ideal man is not surprising in a society which valorised the characteristics of the most dominant social group, and one of the ways in which the knight’s position was problematised was in comparison to feminine qualities. Walter Map’s satirical story highlights the social expectations of knights as simultaneously strong and (hetero-)sexually active; without one or the other, he would be less than perfect and could be negatively viewed as effeminate. As we shall see below, the feminisation of the knight, both literally and discursively, was one potent strategy for diminishing his social reputation in the contexts of punishment and negative propaganda.

The nobility of the aristocratic heart There was one thing secular and ecclesiastical authors of chivalric treatises agreed on: the virtues of knighthood in evidence in worthy individuals were located in the heart. The heart plays a central role in the description of Lancelot’s character and body: his anger is disproportionate and his chest could be criticised by lesser men for being too large. However, as Guinevere observes, his chest is large enough to accommodate his heart, ‘and it would surely have burst, if it had not had a space that size to reside in’.57 Lancelot’s supreme knightly qualities thus take on a physical, heart-shaped, dimension both in terms of its size and in terms of the innate heat erupting from his body in anger or happiness. Indeed, the ‘qualities of his heart’ are the very qualities good noblemen were supposed to possess: generosity, gentleness, judiciousness, moderation, courage and steadfastness.58 In a later dialogue between Lancelot and the Lady of the Lake, an allowance is made for a difference between qualities of the heart and those of the body. According to Lancelot, qualities of the heart are easier to come by, even if the body is of lesser quality. The Lady of the Lake agrees, but from her instruction it is abundantly clear that only a combination of heart and body qualities make the best knight. The first knights were ‘the big and the strong and the handsome and the nimble and the loyal and the valorous and the courageous, those who were full of the qualities of the heart and of the body.’59 In addition, the Lady argues that knights ought to have two hearts: a heart ‘soft as wax’ and ‘hard as diamond’. The latter ensures that a knight punishes the cruel with ferocity and cruelty – indeed a knight should

57 58 59

See above, p. 46 n. 42; Kennedy, ‘Quest for Identity’, pp. 73–4. Lancelot do Lac, p. 41; Lancelot of the Lake, p. 30. Lancelot do Lac, pp. 141–3; Lancelot of the Lake, pp. 50–2. Kennedy, ‘Quest for Identity’, pp. 73–4.

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never attack the good with a diamond heart; it will damn him ‘for the Scriptures say that a man who loves treachery and cruelty hates his own soul’.60 The Ordene also instructs aspiring and existing knights first of all to love God from the heart, while Ramon Llull and Henry Duke of Lancaster both centralise the heart as the seat of the soul. Raoul de Hodenc explains that the knight is spurred on to greater deeds through the love for a lady. In a clever inversion of his earlier example of the miser whose corrupt heart erupts from his mouth, he argues that love born from a noble heart will cast out evil (‘vilonie’) and keeps it clean, pure and fine so that love becomes like a good wine:61 I promise you this about good wine: when it is in a good clean vessel, the vessel is all the better for it, for from a good vessel the drink is good.

A heart cleansed by love reveals itself in great deeds, good manners and polite conversation. Within the contemporary context of the valorisation of knighthood and its qualities, it is easy to see how King Richard was able to present himself as a dashing romance hero as a result of his early military successes. Educated and probably exposed to contemporary literature extolling the virtues of the aristocracy, he would have grown up with a deep sense of duty to himself and his family to perform ‘noble’ deeds, and while his elder brother sought to gain honour in the tournament circuit, Richard by necessity concentrated on military campaigns against his rebellious barons.62 Contemporaries commented on his aristocratic qualities, and scenes such as his entry into Messina, and later Limassol, are evidence of his awareness of his own reputation. Unsurprisingly, the epithet ‘lion-heart’ was applied in connection to his prowess, strength and leadership already during his life. Some physiognomy texts described the lion with its red-golden mane as emblematically masculine; and the animal was generally seen as a symbol of royalty and nobility. The fact that contemporaries went as far as to refer to Richard as lion-heart, suggests that they felt he embodied, not just resembled, the essence of the lion, whose strength (virtus) was said to reside in the chest. Like Raoul de Hodenc’s assertion that knights are nobility, so ‘lion-heart’ seems to encapsulate Richard’s being.63 Subscribing to the psychosocial need for order, the body in medical theory was divided into a strict hierarchy of physiological components, of which the 60 61

Lancelot do Lac, p. 145; Lancelot of the Lake, p. 55. Ordene de chevalerie, lines 201–3 (trans. p. 172); Raoul de Hodenc, Roman des Eles, lines 565–76 (trans. p. 168). See also p. 48 n. 48. 62 Gillingham, Richard I; Flori, Richard the Lionheart, pp. 282ff. 63 Alexander Neckam, De naturis rerum, pp. 288–9; Isidore of Seville, Etymologiae, XII.2; Gillingham, Richard I, pp. 260, 266, and p. 326 citing Bernard Itier’s comments in the margin of the St Martial (Limoges) copy of the chronicle of Geoffrey de Vigeois; Cadden, Meanings of Sex Difference, p. 207.

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heart was generally regarded the noblest. To Henri de Mondeville, the heart was like a king in his kingdom, controlling the body with the distribution of the vital spirit and blood.64 For Bartholomaeus Anglicus, the heart was the source of all ‘felinge’ and the fountain of life, which therefore takes precedence over the brain. Its nobility was marked not only in its centrality physiologically but also anatomically. As Aristotle had maintained and Bartholomaeus repeated, no other organ is as necessary as the heart, which is therefore the most noble. Because of its supremacy, moreover, it is located in the noblest part of the body: For nature, when no other more important purpose stands in her way, places the more honourable part in the more honourable position; and the heart lies about the centre of the body, but rather in its upper than in its lower half, and also more in front than behind.65

Aware of the significance of the heart to one’s inner being, the knight, as embodiment of reason, should be naturally inclined towards good judgement and intention.66 But because of his innate nobility, this made him also susceptible to lapsing. Arnold de Villanova, for example, ascribed to the heart the origin of all religious thoughts and actions, as well as the reverse: all malign and evil thoughts and intentions emanate from the heart, which makes it not only the noblest but also potentially the weakest organ in the body. Henri de Mondeville also commented on the frailty of noble organs.67 The nobility of the heart was considered fundamental in later medieval theological discourse. As Bernard of Clairvaux had argued, the heart was the location of the dialogue between humankind and God, and the contemplation of one’s interior life and intentions would ultimately lead towards salvation – a point eagerly exploited by late medieval female mystics and authors of devotional tracts.68 Saints could be found after death to have the cross and

64

Le Goff, ‘Head or Heart: The Political Use of Body Metaphors in the Middle Ages’, in Fragments for a History of the Human Body 3, ed. M. Feher, R. Nadaff and N. Tazi. (New York, 1989), pp. 13–27, at 23; cf. Albertus Magnus, On animals, 1: 368 using the same metaphor. 65 Aristotle, De partibus animalium, III.4.665b, in The Works of Aristotle Translated into English 5, ed. J.A. Smith and W.D. Ross (Oxford, 1965). Bartholomaeus Anglicus, De proprietatibus rerum 1:239. 66 See the comment by the Lady of Lake: Lancelot do Lac, p. 142; Lancelot of the Lake, p. 51; cf. Ramon Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, pp. 85–6. 67 J. Ziegler, Medicine and Religion c. 1300: The Case of Arnau de Villanova (Oxford, 1998), p. 72; M.C. Pouchelle, The Body and Surgery in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1990), p. 119. 68 Bynum, Resurrection of the Body, pp. 329–43; the New Testament in particular focuses on the relationship between Christ and humanity in terms of interiority and the heart. Cf. Gal. 4:6, Rom. 5:5, Eph. 2:4–5 and 3: 17. See also, W. Gewehr, ‘Zu den Begriffen anima und cor’, Zeitschrift für Religions- und Geistesgeschichte, 27 (1975), pp. 40–55; X. von Ertzdorff, Studien zum Begriff des Herzens und seiner Verwendung als Aussagemotiv in der höfischen Liebeslyrik des 12. Jahrhunderts (Freiburg, 1958), p. 42. On Bernard’s spirituality, see T.H. Bestul, ‘Antecedents: The Anselmian and Cistercian Contributions’, in Mysticism and Spirituality in Medieval England, ed. W.F. Pollard and R. Boenig (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 1–20, at 10–14.

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other symbols of the Passion literally inscribed upon their heart and other internal organs. Chiara of Montefalco’s heart and entrails were dissected to find these symbols formed from their flesh, while the examination of the heart of St Ignatius revealed that the name of Jesus Christ was carved into it.69 The idea of the metaphorical exchange of hearts between two lovers was made literal in visions in which Christ took out the mystic’s heart and replaced it with his own.70 By contrast, Lotario dei Segni, the future Innocent III, described how sinners were tortured after death internally in their heart and externally in their body, making the connection, as Augustine had done, between the human interior (represented by the heart) and the soul.71 Lastly, organic metaphors of society frequently associated the heart with lay power; while Mondeville associated the heart with kingship, Humbert de Moyenmoutier had written earlier (1057) that the heart and chest are the knights defending the Church. John of Salisbury saw it more in terms of the Senate providing the king with counsel and guidance, which concentrated more on the advisory role of the aristocracy, and by implication its political and moral intelligence.72 The latter, as we shall see in particular in chapters 5 and 6, proved to be one of the crucial factors determining the individual worth of an aristocrat in the thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries.

Conclusion The body in medieval culture was a site of intense scrutiny and a touchstone of normative behaviour, appearance and character. Therefore, identity, a multifaceted concept, was considered to be embodied: the soul predicated the exterior. Although not universally accepted, ideas about the interconnectivity of soul and body – of the inner and outer human being – resonated in popular treatises such as the Secretum secretorum and medical texts. Physiognomy

69 P. Camporesi, The Incorruptible Flesh: Bodily Mutilation and Mortification in Religion and Folklore (Cambridge, 1988), pp. 3–6; M.C. Pouchelle, ‘Répresentations du corps dans la Légende Dorée’, Ethnologie Française 6 (1976), pp. 293–308, at 296. 70 Vauchez, Sainthood, p. 442. For the motif of the heart exchange, and its actualisation in the shape of the motif of the ‘eaten heart’, see for example Geoffrey Chaucer, Troilus and Criseyde, in The Riverside Chaucer, gen. ed. L. Benson, 3rd edn (Oxford, 1987), pp. 471–585, in which various literal and metaphorical heart exchanges take place. For the ‘eaten heart’, see the collection of stories in Le coeur mangé: Récits érotiques et courtois des XIIe et XIIIe siècles, ed. D. Régnier-Bohler (Paris, 1979). Cf. M. Doueihi, A Perverse History of the Human Heart (Cambridge, Mass., 1997), which traces the motif of the heart exchange from the Egyptians through to the cult of the Sacred Heart from a psychoanalytical perspective. 71 Lotario dei Segni, De miseria humanae conditionis, III.2 (col. 737); see also above, p. 23. Cf. Albertus Magnus, On animals, 1: 373; ‘For the soul is a unity, with united power, which functions out of the heart.’ 72 John of Salisbury, Policraticus, 1: 318 (ed. Nederman, p. 81); Le Goff, ‘Head or Heart’, pp. 16–17.

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established ideals of (mainly) manhood from which, unsurprisingly, the figure of the temperate man arose as normative. Despite critical appraisal of physiognomy – interior and exterior are not always mirror images – we find in the literature intended for an aristocratic audience that the ideal character did in fact lodge in the ideal body. Appropriating a dual concept of ‘nobility’, aristocratic self-perceptions centred on the ‘virtues of the heart’ and the ‘virtues of the body’: a noble soul and noble body enfolded. One’s ancestral background became one of the predicates for a noble character. As several romances testify, it is the heroes’ elevated parentage which ensures their virtue and worth as knights. Lancelot’s assertion that virtues of the heart can be acquired by anyone, for example, is undermined by the fact that the text’s project is to recount his deeds as the most excellent knight at Arthur’s court. The author of the Prose Lancelot spends a great deal of time describing Lancelot’s appearance in detail; and his reference to his hero’s deviating characteristics is sufficiently ambiguous to be read either positively or negatively, as is in fact pointed out in the narrative. Moreover, there is a noticeable divide between innate and acquired behaviour: Lancelot’s ancestry means his noble character is fully shaped and the author points out that although he has a tutor to teach him how to be a ‘gentil home’, he does not really need one. Other men, less able-bodied, may still learn noble behaviour but they may never reach the same level of worth as one in whom both noble qualities are naturally lodged. Ramon Llull, as we saw above, went much further to exclude everyone not conforming to the idea of the ‘whole’ body from the ranks of knighthood.73 Other authors point out the ontological necessity of knights to be noble and reiterate that there is no such thing as an ignoble knight. As we saw, both Raoul de Hodenc and Ramon Llull urge knights to think on the name of knighthood and to expel anyone who fails to live up to the standards of nobility and honour which are its requirement. Again, it is only those men with a noble background who are most suitable to be members of the knighthood, not the nouveaux riches, the bourgeoisie or ‘peasant upstarts’. The position of the noble body within the ideal aristocratic identity comes even more to the fore in the assertion that noble character lies enshrined in the heart. Again, this does not come as a surprise, but it leads to an intense valorisation of the body as a suitable shrine for a precious treasure – as for example Ramon Llull and Henry of Lancaster point out – and it collapses the metaphorical into the physical, testified by Lancelot’s large heart as well as the motif of the heart exchange and its actualisation, the eaten heart, in different literary genres. The notion of the noble heart within the noble body therefore becomes the ideal which binds together the aristocratic group. 73

Lancelot do Lac, pp. 39, 141–2; Lancelot of the Lake, pp. 27, 51; Kennedy, ‘Quest for Identity’, p. 74; for Ramon Llull, see above p. 47.

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All this points to a real concern with the perceived threat of the permeability of social boundaries and a drive to exclude new members, which seems part of the developments in government administration allowing nonaristocrats to build a career, and part of the growing importance of towns and urban communities threatening the exclusive position of the landholding aristocracy. It is evident also in peripheral members imitating the cultural habits of those closer to the centre of the group and the communal adherence to the idea of knighthood even when a great number of aristocrats would not be engaged in active warfare or would never have been knighted, as was the case in the later thirteenth century. As we shall see in the next chapter, the adherence to a communal image of knighthood and nobility becomes evident in the aristocratic patronage of religious houses, their insistence on exclusive burial rights within monastic compounds and, again from the mid thirteenth century onwards, a greater emphasis on the idea of knighthood as a signifier of social difference in the shape of the knightly effigy.

Chapter 3

Here Lies Nobility: Aristocratic Bodies in Death In this chapter and the next, I shall explore the ways in which the noble body was perceived both in death and in funerary practices.1 Firstly, I will look at where and how aristocrats were buried and how they were represented after death. Secondly, I shall examine in greater detail the practices surrounding the dead aristocratic body, in particular the role of embalming and multiple burial.2 Funerary practices such as multiple burial should be seen in a wider context of aristocratic presence in a local setting and the role of religious houses in maintaining the image of nobility and status upon which a successful local lord was dependent. Perceived in real and metaphorical terms as superior to the people he lorded over, the aristocrat was reliant on presenting himself as noble towards his tenants, peers and ecclesiastics, all of whom were part of an intricate status- and honour-related network of socio-economic relationships, which in general excluded the peasantry; in other words, one only had to be noble towards one’s peers and superiors. As the Limousin troubadour Bertran de Born reminded his aristocratic audience: it will not do to rule by fear and extortion, but rather nobility should be used to attain one’s goal.3 Although it 1

A shorter discussion of this subject has previously appeared as D.M. Westerhof, ‘Celebrating Fragmentation: The Presence of Aristocratic Body Parts in Monastic Houses in Twelfth- and Thirteenth-Century England’, in Sepulturae Cistercienses, ed. J. Hall and C. Kratzke. Citeaux: Commentarii cistercienses Studia et Documenta 14 (Forges-Chimay, 2005), pp. 27–44. 2 I will refer to this practice as ‘multiple burial’ to indicate that the dead person received more than one burial of parts of their body, although I am aware it is used in archaeological scholarship to indicate the burial of more than one person in the same grave. The alternatives are ‘secondary burial’, which implies the sequencing of burials of the whole body over a longer period (cf. Hertz, Death, passim), ‘multi-stage burial programme’ which is rather elaborate and suggests a degree of premeditation not always evident from surviving evidence, or ‘partial burial’, which conjures up a variety of meanings. See E. Weiss-Krejci, ‘Restless Corpses: “Secondary burial” in the Babenberg and Habsburg Dynasties’, Antiquity 75 (2001), pp. 769–80; B. Gittos and M. Gittos, ‘Motivation and Choice: The Selection of Medieval Secular Effigies’, in Heraldry, Pageantry and Social Display in Medieval England, ed. M. Keen and P. Coss (Woodbridge, 2002), pp. 143–67, at p. 146. 3 See above, p. 45.

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may in reality not always be the case that lords acted nobly towards each other or towards their inferiors, the idea was certainly present in the aristocratic mentality. It is this idea of nobility, which as we saw was located in the heart and was enshrined by the body, which comes to the fore in aristocratic relations with religious houses and their burial practices.

Religious benefaction and burial practice: the Earls of Cornwall On 13 March 1271, a shocking event took place which caused outrage in England and Italy. As he was attending mass in Viterbo during peace negotiations with the exiled Montforts, Henry of Almain, King Henry III’s nephew, was brutally murdered by his cousins Guy and Simon de Montfort, sons of the late Earl of Leicester, apparently in retaliation for their father’s ignominious death in 1265. Henry had not been present at the Battle of Evesham, but had played a duplicitous role during the baronial uprising before siding with his royal relatives.4 The horror of the murder was highlighted in Dante’s Inferno, where Guy’s soul is positioned in Phlegeton, the River of Blood, all ‘by itself to one side’ in abject isolation as punishment for the murder: ‘That one cleft, in the bosom of God, the heart that still drips along the Thames.’5 After his death, Henry’s body was swiftly prepared for its journey home. His entrails and flesh were interred in the church of Santa Maria dei Gradi in Viterbo, ‘between two popes’ according to the Hailes Chronicle, while his heart and bones were returned to England. After their arrival, on 15 May his heart was placed close to the shrine of Edward the Confessor in Westminster Abbey, apparently encased in a golden cup. Six days later, his bones were given their final resting place before the high altar at Hailes Abbey, founded by his father Richard Earl of Cornwall in 1246.6 Henry’s momentous and tragic return to England was by no means 4

N. Vincent, ‘Henry of Almain (1235–1271)’, ODNB, online edition (Oxford, 2005); R. Studd, ‘The Marriage between Henry of Almain and Constance of Béarn’, Thirteenth Century England III: Proceedings of the Newcastle upon Tyne Conference 1989, ed. P.R. Coss and S.D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1991), pp. 161–79; Ann. Hailes, p. 78; Wykes, p. 241; Foedera, 1: 501–2; De antiquis legibus liber: Chronica maiorum et vicecomitum Londoniarum, ed. T. Stapledon. Camden Society first series 64 (1864), pp. 133–4. 5 Dante Alighieri, The Divine Comedy of Dante Alighieri: Inferno. Ed. R.M. Durling (Oxford, 1996), 190–1 (Canto XII). See also, P.H. Brieger, ‘A Statue of Henry of Almain’, Essays in Medieval History presented to Bertie Wilkinson. Ed. T.A. Sandquist and M.R. Powicke (Toronto, 1969), pp. 133–8, at 133–4. J. Maddicott, ‘Guy de Montfort (c.1244–1291/2),’ ODNB, online edition (Oxford, 2006); F.M. Powicke, ‘Guy de Montfort (1265–1271)’, TRHS fourth series 18 (1935), pp. 1–23. 6 Ann. Hailes, p. 78; Wykes, p. 244; Ann. Oseneia, p. 244; Flores Historiarum, 3: 22; N. Denholm-Young, Richard of Cornwall (Oxford, 1947), p. 151. Brieger discusses an Italian tradition which maintains that a statue was made of Henry holding in his hand a cup containing his heart pierced with a dagger; ‘A Statue of Henry of Almain’, pp. 133–8.

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exceptional in the thirteenth century. Embalming, or in his case, excarnation, was a practical means of preserving bodily remains for transport between the site of death and the site of preferred interment. His case highlights the emotional value of repatriating bodily remains for burial in familiar surroundings, which doubtless underlay some known cases of multiple burial. His father’s foundation of Hailes provided a suitable space for his bones; only a year later, Richard himself was interred before the high altar beside his son. His stepmother Sanchia had been buried at Hailes in 1261, while one of Henry’s half-brothers who died in infancy in 1246 had been transferred as soon as the abbey church had been consecrated. Hailes was therefore clearly intended as a focal point for family commemoration and burial.7 Moreover, Henry’s case points to the valorisation of the heart in its own right as a body part which could be interred separately in a container of precious metal and without compromising one’s corporeal integrity. Westminster Abbey, and in particular the area around the Confessor’s shrine, became the preferred burial site for a number of royal children; in addition, Henry may have followed Henry III, his uncle, in holding the Confessor in special esteem.8 Before looking into these issues in greater detail, it may be useful to contextualise Henry’s burial in light of his family’s benefaction and burial preferences. Cistercian Hailes in Gloucestershire was evidently the centre of the family’s religious patronage, although away from their base of landholdings in the Home Counties.9 Founded in 1246 on terra Normannorum and populated from John’s foundation of Beaulieu in Hampshire, Hailes was the first of Richard of Cornwall’s foundations, followed in the early 1250s by a Trinitarian friary in Knaresborough in Yorkshire, and in 1266 by an Augustinian nunnery at Burnham in Buckinghamshire.10 In 1270, Richard’s second surviving son, Edmund, donated a vial of the Holy Blood to Hailes in a splendid ceremony which included a procession from nearby Winchcombe with Edmund carrying the vessel and formally donating it at the high altar at Hailes. Building work on the church in 1272 necessitated by a fire, included the construction of a majestic polygonal apse, or chevet, modelled on that of

7

Ann. Hailes, pp. 61–2. The dedication of the church took place on 9 November 1251. See also Ann. Oseneia, p. 128. For Sanchia’s death and burial see below. 8 J.D. Tanner, ‘The Tombs of Royal Babies in Westminster Abbey’, JBAA third series 16 (1953), pp. 25–40. Edward the Confessor’s remains had been translated on 13 October 1269 in the presence of Henry III, who was himself temporarily interred in the old shrine after his death in November 1272. P. Binski, Westminster Abbey and the Plantagenets: Kingship and the Representation of Power 1200–1400 (New Haven, 1995), pp. 98–9. Henry’s only known religious donation concerned money to finance candles before the Confessor’s shrine. Vincent, ‘Henry of Almain’. 9 See Denholm-Young, Richard of Cornwall, Appendix 2. 10 CChR 1226–1257, pp. 288, 294; C. Holdsworth, ‘Royal Cistercians: Beaulieu, her Daughters and Rewley’ in Thirteenth-Century England 4: Proceedings of the Newcastle upon Tyne Conference 1991, ed. P.R. Coss and S.D. Lloyd (Woodbridge, 1992), pp. 139–50, at 144.

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Westminster Abbey, which was largely paid for by Edmund and which was to house a shrine to the Holy Blood. After the work was completed in 1277, he continued to endow the abbey with several manors and advowsons.11 In 1301, his skeletal remains were interred at Hailes in a ceremony attended by the king and queen, and several aristocratic and ecclesiastical dignitaries. Alongside Edmund’s own foundations, Hailes appears to have been the only one of his father’s foundations and patronage to have received the younger Earl’s special consideration.12 Apart from founding and supporting Hailes, Knaresborough and Burnham, Richard’s and Edmund’s patronage could certainly be considered generous. During Richard’s stays in the Low Countries and the Rhineland after he had been consecrated King of the Romans in 1257, he confirmed the privileges of religious houses made by his predecessors and in his will he left 500 marks to the Dominicans in Germany. Richard also made donations of property and rents to his father’s foundation of Beaulieu in 1235 and 1240.13 After the death of his first wife Isabella in 1240, he granted £10 each to the Knights Templar and Hospitaller, and he instituted a chantry at Wallingford with an endowment of five marks to pray for his wife’s soul. Moreover, he was one of the main supporters for the canonisation of Edmund of Abingdon and visited his shrine in Pontigny in 1247 and 1250.14 Edmund, Richard’s son named after the saint, followed in his father’s footsteps and founded a chapel in honour of his patron saint at Abingdon in 1288. Following a wider social and religious interest in the work of the mendicant orders, Richard also made financial donations to the Dominicans and Franciscans, and in 1272 his heart was buried in the church of the Oxford Grey Friars ‘under a sumptuous pyramid’.15 His crusading dream was kept alive by a donation of 8000 marks upon his death to support another attempt to liberate the Holy Land, money 11 W. Bazeley, ‘The Abbey of St Mary, Hayles’, TBGAS 22 (1899), pp. 257–71, at 267; N. Vincent, The Holy Blood: King Henry and the Westminster Blood Relic (Cambridge, 2001), p. 137–53, 206–8; VCH Gloucester, 2: 97; J. Denton, ‘From the Foundation of Vale Royal Abbey to the Statute of Carlisle: Edward I and Ecclesiastical Patronage’, in Thirteenth Century England 4, ed. Coss and Lloyd, pp. 123–38, at 125; L.M. Midgeley, Ministers’ Accounts of the Earldom of Cornwall 1296–1297, 2 vols. Camden Society third series 66–67 (1942, 1945), 1: x–xi. 12 Ann. Hailes, pp. 114–15; N. Vincent, ‘Edmund of Almain (1249–1300)’, ODNB, online version (Oxford, 2004); Midgeley, Ministers’ Accounts, 1: xi. Holdsworth calculated from the Taxatio Nicholai of 1291 that the income for Hailes was £106, £29 of which was donated by either Richard or Edmund. ‘Royal Cistercians’, p. 147. 13 Richard’s contribution to Beaulieu came to £47 out of a total of £286 in 1291. Holdsworth, ‘Royal Cistercians’, p. 146. 14 Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 4: 646–7, 5: 111. 15 A. Wood, Survey of the Antiquities of the City of Oxford, ed. A. Clark, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1889–90), 2: 384; A.G. Little, The Grey Friars of Oxford (Oxford, 1892), p. 25. N. Trivet, Annales sex regum Angliae, ed. T. Hog (London, 1845), p. 279. Urns and pyramids were a common feature in French funerary sculpture associated with heart and viscera burials. See M. Desfayes, ‘Les tombeaux de cœur et d’entrailles en France au moyen âge’, Bulletin des musées de France 12 (1947), pp. 18–20, at 18.

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which was in the meantime to be kept at the New Temple Church in London.16 Lastly, he set aside money to found a college in Oxford, realised as the Cistercian abbey of Rewley by Edmund to be a studium for Cistercian monks coming to Oxford.17 This was followed in 1291 by another studium for Trinitarian friars whom Edmund provided with a house and chapel in Oxford.18 Edmund’s other major foundation was that of a college of Bonhommes at Ashridge in 1282, dedicated to the Holy Blood, a portion of which had already been granted to Hailes. In addition to this relic, the convent also received the heart of Bishop Thomas Cantilupe of Hereford, who had died in Italy in the same year and whose remains had been transported back to England for interment at Hereford Cathedral. Edmund’s own heart was buried at the convent in January 1301 in the presence of Edward Prince of Wales, Bishop Antony Bek of Durham, Bishop Walter Langton of Coventry and Lichfield, Guy de Beauchamp Earl of Warwick and many others. His entrails had been interred here immediately after his death in September 1300.19 Richard was married three times (Fig. 1). His first wife was Isabella Marshal, formerly married to Gilbert de Clare Earl of Gloucester, and daughter of William Marshal Earl of Pembroke and Isabella of Striguil. Before her death during childbirth in 1240, she granted land worth £10 to Tewkesbury Abbey where Gilbert was interred, a collection of relics, 40 marks in silver and liturgical objects. She had also left 100s to Markyate for a perpetual chantry in her first husband’s memory before she remarried.20 According to the author of the Tewkesbury annals, she had arranged to be buried with her first husband. Instead, Richard decided that her remains should rest at Beaulieu Abbey before the high altar, but he did grant her heart to Tewkesbury (‘the best part’ according to the annals). Since she died at Berkhamsted, her entrails were buried at Missenden Priory, perhaps with her still-born infant.21 In November 1261, Richard’s second wife, Sanchia, the Queen’s sister, died at Berkhamsted. With Hailes Abbey having been dedicated, the natural choice was for her to be interred there, despite the fact that her relations with Richard appeared remarkably cold by this time.22 There is hardly evidence for 16

Calendar of Entries in the Papal Registers relating to Great Britain and Ireland: Papal Letters. 13 vols. (London, 1893–1955), 1: 621. 17 In 1291, Rewley’s income was listed as £38, which was completely derived from gifts made by Edmund. Holdworth, ‘Royal Cistercians’, p. 147. 18 CPR 1281–1292, pp. 132–3; Midgeley, Ministers’ Accounts, 1: xi–xii, xiv–xv, 148. Holdsworth, ‘Royal Cistercians’, pp. 140, 142. 19 Midgeley, Ministers’ Accounts, 1: xiii–xiv; Ann. Hailes, p. 114; Monasticon, 6: 517. 20 Ann. Tewkesbury, pp. 113–14. 21 Ibid., p. 113. 22 Ann. Hailes, p. 78; Wykes, p. 244; Ann. Oseneia, p. 244; Denholm-Young, Richard of Cornwall, pp. 112–13. Before her death on 9 November, her executors were given control over

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Fig. 1: Richard Earl of Cornwall and his family John* = 2. Isabella of Angoulême

Henry III*

John (b.d. 1232)

Richard Earl of Cornwall (1209–1272)* = 1. Isabella Marshal (d. 1240)* Isabella Henry* Nicholas (b.d. 1234) (b. 1235–d. 1271) (b.d. 1240) = 2. Sanchia of Provence (d. 1261)? Richard (b.d. 1246)

Edmund* (b. 1250–d. 1300 s.p.) = 3. Beatrice of Falkenburg (d. 1277)

KEY * Multiple burial certain ? Multiple burial not certain

her making religious donations on her own, although she was thanked by the Franciscan Adam Marsh for her generosity towards the Grey Friars in Oxford. In addition she is known to have made a gift of a hermitage to John of Apulia near the Tower, and she left £100 to Cirencester Abbey in her will.23 Despite the latter generous donation it is a little surprising to find a reference to the separate interment of her heart at Cirencester in an account of the sixteenth-century antiquarian John Leland. Unfortunately, he is the sole source of this information and, as yet, it has not been possible to ascertain the exact relationship between the earls of Cornwall and Cirencester Abbey, although evidence from the surviving cartulary suggests it was a predominantly acrimonious and otherwise indifferent affair.24 The source of conflict her will, which strongly suggests she was in a coma from which she was considered unlikely to recover. This uncertainty may also account for the fact that although Richard had visited her a few days before her death, he was in London the day she died. 23 Monumenta franciscana, ed. J.S. Brewer, 2 vols. RS 4 (1858), 1: 292; Denholm-Young, Richard of Cornwall, p. 51; The Cartulary of Cirencester Abbey 3, ed. M. Devine (Oxford, 1977), p. 808 (no. 283). 24 John Leland, The Itinerary of John Leland in or about the years 1535–1543, ed. L. Toulmin-Smith, 5 vols. (London, 1964), 1: 129.

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centred on the manor of Lechlade in Gloucestershire, which had been granted to Richard and Sanchia in 1252 upon the death of Isabella de Mortimer. On at least two occasions, the abbot successfully contested Richard’s encroachment of his judicial liberties in the manor; Richard’s other involvement with Cirencester was limited to witnessing charters issued by his brother Henry III, while the abbey’s cartulary does not contain any evidence that Edmund had any further relations with the community. In 1300, however, he granted Lechlade Manor to Hailes for £100 in farm fee.25 Of Richard’s third wife, Beatrix of Falkenburg, we know very little. A member of the Rhineland aristocracy, she and Richard married in June 1269, after which he took her to England. When Richard died in 1272, it is possible that she organised his heart burial at the Oxford Franciscans, where she was buried herself in 1277. Between these years, Beatrix all but disappears from the records. She was a receiver of royal gifts in 1273 and 1276; her stepson Edmund, in the meantime, disputed with her over part of Sanchia’s dower, which appears to have been settled in February 1276.26 If the surviving donor portrait of her, now in the Burrell Collection in Glasgow, is indeed from the Franciscan church in Oxford, it would be an indication of her considerable benefactions to the order. Other than this, she has left no trace of religious donations.27 What we can observe from the above information is that, first of all, burials clustered around one favoured religious house, founded by the pater familias. Before Richard founded Hailes, Beaulieu and Reading Abbeys had been chosen as burial sites for his first wife and two of their children, presumably because these were founded by his ancestors.28 After the dedication of Hailes, several members of his family including himself were buried there. Secondly, in some cases, the heart received separate interment, either because of a particular devotion to a saint (Henry) or attachment to a house founded by the donor (Edmund). Thirdly, Richard’s young widow Beatrix seems to have had 25

The Cartulary of Cirencester Abbey 1–2, ed. C.D. Ross (Oxford, 1964), 1: 39 (no. 44/8), 42 (no. 49/36–7); 2: 548–9 (no. 650); Cartulary of Cirencester Abbey 3, pp. 847–8 (no. 378); D.A. Carpenter, ‘A Noble in Politics: Roger Mortimer in the Period of Baronial Reforms and Rebellion, 1258–1265’, in Nobles and Nobility, ed. A. Duggan, pp. 183–203; VCH Gloucestershire, 2: 125; for Edmund’s donation see CChR 1257–1300, p. 349; CChR 1300–1326, p. 2. 26 CCR 1272–1279, pp. 268, 299, 319; Ann. Oseneia, p. 274; F.R. Lewis, ‘Beatrice of Falkenburg: The Third Wife of Richard of Cornwall’, EHR 52 (1937), pp. 279–82; Denholm-Young, Richard of Cornwall, pp. 141, 153. 27 Glasgow Museums and Art Galleries, Burrell Collection 45/2; for an image see P. Coss, The Lady in Medieval England, 1000–1500 (Stroud, 1998), p. 48. The legend in the panel reads ‘Beatrix de Valkenburgh Regina Allemannie’. See also S.H. Steinberg, ‘A Portrait of Beatrix of Falkenburg’, The Antiquaries Journal 18 (1938), pp. 142–5. 28 Beaulieu was founded by John; Reading was reinstated as a regular community by Henry I, who was also buried there. After this, the abbey seems to have become a mausoleum for junior members of the royal family. Monasticon, 4: 40 (Reading), 5: 680–4 (Beaulieu). Also, Holdsworth, ‘Royal Cistercians’, pp. 140–1.

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little reason to feel particularly attached to her English in-laws and instead of Hailes, she chose to be buried with the heart of her elderly husband at the Grey Friars in Oxford. Likewise, Isabella had indicated a strong preference for Tewkesbury Abbey rather than a house associated with her husband’s family, but in this she appears to have been overruled. Instead, only her heart was sent to Tewkesbury, which the community there obviously chose to interpret as an act of devotion to her first husband. Lastly, there was a clear physical separation of the entrails from the heart. In both references to entrail burials, we find that they were inhumed at the nearest suitable location and with little ceremony. In Edmund’s case, we find that there was a deliberate delay in the funerary proceedings to accommodate a grand funeral for his heart, separately from his other interior organs which were disposed of immediately after his death. This also indicates a clear premeditation to inter the heart separately from the rest of the body. The burial pattern therefore shows a strong focus on burial amongst family members on the one hand and on a concern with religious piety on the other. Moreover, the preference for one’s own foundation for interment created a strong bond which would aid commemoration, while at the same time impressing one’s secular presence on the religious community not only through the usual signs of ‘ownership’, such as the display of heraldry on windows, walls or floor tiles, and the sponsorship of building works, but also through the physical presence of the aristocratic body and the funerary art.29

Aristocratic patronage and burial Religious patronage was an important aspect of aristocratic burial practices; it not only ensured spiritual comfort during life and thereafter, but also gave the patron or benefactor political status and influence. To the aristocracy, the foundation and continued support of religious houses formed a significant aspect of their lordship, which could be continued independently of particular family connections, for example when the title and estates moved from one family to the next.30 Religious communities, however, became apprehensive about such patronage, while welcoming the social and financial rewards it might bring. Founders, patrons and benefactors often wished to become part of the familia of a religious community; they desired burial within the monastic precinct for themselves and their family; they exercised the right of advocacy; and they frequently demanded money in exchange for a ‘gift’ of 29

For signs of secular lordship at Hailes, see Bazeley, ‘The Abbey of St Mary, Hayles’, pp. 262, 268–9. 30 See for example the case study of the Clare benefactions in J.C. Ward, ‘Fashions in Monastic Endowment: The Foundations of the Clare Family, 1066–1314’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 32 (1981), pp. 427–51.

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land.31 Religious patronage was regarded as a means of enhancing or consolidating one’s social status, for example by persuading tenants to surrender income to a favoured house or by being able to proclaim ownership.32 In addition, the alienation of rents, lands or use of facilities required the approval of whoever held the fee. Great landowners such as Gilbert I de Clare Earl of Gloucester or Ranulph III Earl of Chester could therefore be regarded as donors even if they did not make donations in person.33 Patronage could render visible dynastic continuity of a social position, while maintaining the well-being of one’s soul. Having close relationships with a monastic community offered the opportunity of exclusive burial while creating a focal point of familial commemoration, to which a monastery might oblige by creating a family genealogy, as for example at Llantony Secunda or Walden Abbey.34 Religious patronage also created a divide between aristocrats and nonaristocrats, which was further underscored by the use of funerary tombs and effigies, ostentatious funerals and the practice of burial of body parts at more than one site, which reached a peak after 1200. The advantages of religious patronage and benefaction for the aristocracy are evident. Often on the doorstep of important administrative centres within lordships, religious communities provided spiritual guidance, prayer and fraternity for the lord, his relatives and his tenants.35 It is therefore not surprising that there was a pattern to aristocratic patronage depending on shifts in political and social fortune, advice by members of a particular order, 31

S. Wood, English Monasteries and their Patrons in the Thirteenth Century (Oxford, 1955); E. Mason, ‘Timeo barones et donas ferentes’, in Religious Motivation: Biographical and Sociological Problems for the Church Historian, ed. D. Baker (Oxford, 1978), pp. 61–75; C. Holdsworth, The Piper and the Tune: Medieval Patrons and Monks (Reading, 1991), p. 5, for his discussion of the difference between patrons and benefactors; E. Cownie, Religious Patronage in Anglo-Norman England, 1066–c.1135 (Woodbridge, 1998), pp. 152, 172–3. 32 For example, Hugh d’Avranches Earl of Chester persuaded his baronial tenants to join him in the endowment of St Werburgh Abbey in Chester. Tenants were also able to make their own arrangements with other religious houses: William Fitz Nigel donated to St Werburgh, but also to Bridlington and Nostell; Cownie, Religious Patronage, pp. 176, 178, 181. They were not to give lands exceeding 100s rent per annum, but were allowed to offer their remains for burial in the abbey precinct provided they parted with an additional third of possessions held of him. Ranulph III Earl of Chester, in his charters to Dieulacres, which he founded, proudly proclaims ownership over its community: e.g. CEC, nos. 377, 379, 381, 392 (abbatia mea … monachi mei; abbati et monachis meis de Deulacres). Cf. B. Golding, ‘Burials and Benefactions: An Aspect of Monastic Patronage in Thirteenth-Century England’, in England in the Thirteenth Century: Proceedings of the 1984 Harlaxton Symposium, ed. W.M. Ormrod (Grantham, 1985), pp. 64–75, at 68–9. 33 Mason, ‘Timeo barones’, p. 71; Ann. Tewks, p. 76 for Gilbert I de Clare’s benefactions; for Ranulph III see Westerhof, ‘Celebrating Fragmentation’, pp. 30–1 and references there. The patronage of the earls of Chester in fact eclipsed that of the original founders of Poulton Priory, whose community was moved to Dieulacres by Ranulph III. 34 Dugdale, Monasticon 4: 133–49; 6: 127–40. 35 Holdworth, Piper and the Tune, pp. 17–19; M.W. Thompson, ‘Associated Monasteries and Castles in the Middle Ages: A Tentative List’, Archaeological Journal 143 (1986), pp. 305–21.

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or just individual preference.36 Moreover, new foundations could appear on estates which were under contested ownership or which had escheated to a baron or the king as a result of the death or punishment of the previous owner. Hailes Abbey, as we saw, was founded on an escheated manor which Henry III donated to Richard in 1245, while after acquiring the contested manor of Lechlade as a marriage portion for Sanchia in 1252, Richard exerted his lordship by granting the hospital on the estate the right to chose their own prior. Robert II Earl of Leicester allowed his steward Ernald de Bosco to found a daughter-house of Garendon Abbey on land to which he held an uncertain claim, and reverted to this way of eliminating contested ownership on other occasions as well.37 The options for aristocratic endowment and benefaction of religious houses were obviously more varied than the choice of where someone wished to be buried. Traditionally, burial amongst relatives was seen as the norm, although it was expected that one would respect the wishes of the dying if they decided otherwise.38 With regard to aristocratic burial practices, it is clear from surviving records that where the body was laid to rest was as important as how it was disposed of. Frequently, the choice of burial site coincided with the preference shown in benefactions, which themselves were the result of familial, political and personal factors. Aristocratic burials tended to cement the relations between families and religious houses: once a benefactor or patron was received for interment, the community could look forward to further financial benefits from surviving relatives, while they would provide the spiritual support for the deceased and their families. This desire to be associated with particular monasteries or churches is also evident from a preference to be buried with other members of the family (usually ancestors or predeceased children, rather than extended family members). This clustering took place for example at Hailes Abbey (earls of Cornwall), Tewkesbury Abbey (earls of Gloucester), and Llantony Secunda (earls of Hereford), to name but a few.39 Moreover, it was not just the geographical location which mattered, but also the topographical space within

36 37

For the royal preference for Cistercian monasteries, see Holdworth, ‘Royal Cistercians’. For Hailes and Lechlade see above, pp. 59 and 63; for Biddlesden Abbey, founded by Ernald: J. Burton, Monastic and Religious Orders in Britain 1000–1300, Cambridge Medieval Textbooks (Cambridge, 1994) pp. 73–4. Garendon Abbey was also founded during the course of a dispute over ownership. 38 Gratian, Decretum, C.13, Q.2, c.2–3. Corpus iuris canonici, ed. E.A. Friedberg and E.L. Richter, 2 vols. (Graz, 1959; 1879), 1: 717, 720–2. Cf. E.A.R. Brown, ‘Authority, Family and the Dead in Late Medieval France’, French Historical Studies 16 (1990), pp. 803–32, at 807. 39 For Hailes, see above; for Tewkesbury, see Ann. Tewks, pp. 76, 113–14, and 169; Monasticon, 2: 55. Also, Golding, ‘Burials and Benefactions’, pp. 68–71; id. ‘Anglo-Norman Knightly Burials’, in The Ideals and Practice of Medieval Knighthood: Papers from the First and Second Strawberry Hill Conferences, ed. C. Harper-Bill and R. Harvey (Woodbridge, 1986), pp. 35–48, at 41.

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the monastic precinct. As Christopher Daniell has argued for parish churches, there was a distinct spatial hierarchy which reflected social stratification.40 The same is observable in monastic spaces, where there is a distinct preference for the area close to the high altar or the chapter house. For example, four generations of Ros lords of Helmsley were buried in front of the high altar and the space between the presbytery and ambulatory of Kirkham Priory, despite the occasional issues between the priory and its patrons. William I (d. 1258) was buried ‘coram summam altare’; Robert III (d. 1285) ‘ex parte australi’ in a marble tomb; William II (d. 1316) was buried on the north side and his son again to the south of the high altar. Prior to this, Rievaulx Abbey, also in the patronage of the Ros family, had received two generations plus the founder Walter Espec for burial in their grounds. However, considering that Rievaulx Abbey only allowed the burial of its lay benefactors in the Galilee porch at the west entrance, rather than in the church itself, it is possible that Kirkham was chosen because it would allow church interment.41 Moreover, around 1300 a major rebuilding of the choir was started to provide a more ostentatious setting for the tombs of the Ros family, while the gatehouse front was redecorated with the heraldry of several aristocratic families, including the Ros.42 The chapter house, which more than the high altar signified the political influence of the patrons over the monastery, was a favoured location of the Bohun earls of Hereford from the moment they acquired the earldom through marriage to the heiress of Miles of Gloucester. With the earldom came the patronage of Llantony Secunda, founded by Miles. Ordinarily, the chapter house was reserved for abbatial burials and was not available to lay benefactors. The fact that the Bohuns were able to secure this space for successive earls and their wives is evidence of their powerful presence within the monastery.43 Similarly, Ranulph I Earl of Chester decided to have the remains of the founder of St Werburgh, his uncle Hugh, transferred from the cemetery to the chapter house in 1129 and he was buried there himself soon afterwards.44 Several benefactors, moreover, were keen to stress the continuity of patronage associated with their family or with a lordship. One way was to shift their burial preference, as happened at Tewkesbury Abbey with the Clares inheriting the earldom of Gloucester and, after 1314, with the Despensers, or at Llantony Secunda. Another way was to move the remains of the founder from their original location to a new, more prominent space. 40 41

Daniell, Death and Burial, pp. 96–101. For Kirkham see J.E. Burton, Kirkham Priory from Foundation to Dissolution. Borthwick Paper 86 (York, 1995), p. 23; G. Coppack, S. Harrison, and C. Hayfield, ‘Kirkham Priory: The Architecture and Archaeology of an Augustinian House’, JBAA 148 (1995), pp. 55–136. 42 Burton, Kirkham Priory, p. 23; Coppack, Harrison and Hayfield, ‘Kirkham Priory’, p. 108. 43 Monasticon, 6: 135; see also I.J. Sanders, English Baronies: A Study of their Origin and Descent 1086–1327 (Oxford, 1960), pp. 91–2 for a corrected genealogy of the Bohun earls. 44 CEC, p. 47 (no. 29).

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The translation of Hugh d’Avranches has just been mentioned, but a similar fate befell Robert Fitz Hamon, founder of Tewkesbury in 1241 and Henry de Ferrers, founder of Tutbury Priory in 1165.45 A more dramatic move of ancestral remains occurred in 1283 at the request of Henry de Lacy Earl of Lincoln, when several generations of Lacy ancestors were translated from the uninhabitable site of Stanlaw in Cheshire to a new monastery at Whalley in Lancashire.46 The monuments of those requesting interment in front of an altar or within the chapter house would have been relatively simple. Considering the exclusivity of burial locations, the interment sites were either common knowledge, or there were lists, maps or visual signs in the fabric of the building to indicate locations, as there appear to have been for monastic cemeteries. Additionally, genealogical lists and local chronicles would often include information on the burial location of the main benefactors and patrons.47 For instance, the Clares were buried in a row in front of the high altar, which would suggest a simple grave slab to avoid anyone being hindered by trip hazards. Early Cistercian statutes, for example, clearly indicate that funerary monuments should be flush with the floor in the cloisters and it seems unlikely that similar restrictions were not in place in other heavily used areas.48 In other instances, aristocratic patrons were content to be buried further away from the high altar, or to use the sides of the ambulatory and presbytery walls for entombment which would allow for more ostentatious funerary monuments. Moreover, not all burials needed floor space. Many hearts, for example, were buried close to walls or inside wall niches which could then be covered with a vertical grave marker, such as Giles de Coberley’s heart monument or that of Bishop Aymer de Valence.49 An aspect of aristocratic patronage that has not been discussed so far is the shift in preference towards the mendicant orders, which becomes particularly pronounced towards the end of the thirteenth century. Headed by members 45 Ann. Tewks. 76; The Cartulary of Tutbury Priory, ed. A. Saltman (London, 1962), pp. 66–7; Golding, ‘Knightly Burials’, p. 42. The translation of Robert Fitz Hamon’s remains occurred while Richard de Clare was still a ward of the king. It is possible that the community of Tewkesbury wished to anticipate the young Richard de Clare’s seisin of his inheritance and, by implication, his patronage of the abbey. On the other hand, it could have been instigated by Richard of Cornwall, who had been married to Richard’s mother Isabella. 46 Monasticon, 5: 647–8. 47 Gilchrist and Sloane, Requiem, pp. 47–52. Brian Golding rightly points out that these lists and chronicles, possibly compiled to ensure the continuation of endowments, do not always provide accurate information. The Bohun genealogy compiled at Llantony Secunda is a case in point. Golding, ‘Knightly Burials’, pp. 38–9. 48 C. Kratzke, ‘Bestatten – Gedenken – Repräsentieren: Mittelalterliche Sepulkraldenkmäler in Zisterzen’, Sepulturae Cistercienses, ed. Hall and Kratzke, pp. 9–25, at 14–16. 49 Gittos and Gittos, ‘Motivation and Choice’, p. 154; R. Horrox, ‘Purgatory, Prayer and Plague: 1150–1380’, in Death in England: An Illustrated History, ed. P.C. Jupp and C. Gittings (Manchester, 1999), pp. 90–118, at 100.

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of the royal family, aristocrats occasionally diverted considerable endowments to the Grey and Black Friars, and sought burial in their convents.50 The Beauchamps of Worcester, for example, were keen to shift their attentions to the Franciscan friary of that town, although the cathedral had been their traditional object of benefaction. William III and his son William IV both preferred to be interred with the Franciscans, a decision which was met with great indignation by the cathedral community. In the end, only William IV succeeded in getting his burial with the friars, leaving not a single penny to the cathedral in his will.51 This necessarily short survey, therefore, reveals that aristocratic burial was predominantly organised around ancestral interments inside the monastic space, although a conscious break from this could be effected by changes in the fortunes of the patronal family, by the lordship shifting to a new family through inheritance or royal gift, or by changes in preference for a religious order. Moreover, aristocrats generally wanted the best locations for themselves and their family, which influenced where they chose to be buried and commemorated. From all this, it is evident that physical presence played an important role in the establishment of spiritual and socio-economical relations between aristocrats and ‘their’ religious houses. For the aristocracy, the clustered interment of ancestors strengthened their position in the locality, while a move to a new monastic community upon the acquisition of an earldom or lordship could help to establish a new presence. For religious houses, the extra income which burials would bring was often exceedingly welcome, even if it was not in the spirit of monastic rule.52

‘Hic jacet corpus nobilis’: funerals and funerary monuments If it mattered where the aristocratic body was laid to rest, it was consequently also important to bury it properly and to mark the grave sufficiently for targeted spiritual intercession and commemoration. Although death was the great leveller, the social hierarchy was strictly maintained during the funeral obsequies and of course in the choice of burial site. The fact that the bodies of founders could still be identified in cemeteries or elsewhere inside monastic buildings certainly suggests that there were grave markers or a site plan.53

50

Burton, Monastic and Religious Orders, p. 120; cf. C.L. Kingsford, The Grey Friars of London: Their History with the Register of their Convent and an Appendix of Documents (Aberdeen, 1915), pp. 134–44 for a register of burials. 51 Mason, ‘Timeo barones’, pp. 66–7, 72–3; Golding, ‘Burials and Benefactions’, pp. 65–6. 52 See J. Hall, ‘The Legislative Background to the Burial of the Laity and other Patrons in Cistercian Abbeys’, in Sepulturae Cistercienses, ed. J. Hall and C. Kratzke, pp. 373–417. 53 Isidore of Seville argued that ‘monumentum’ shared the same etymology as ‘memoria’; a monument admonishes the mind to remember the dead. Etymologiae, XV.11.1.

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However, it is hard to ascertain how much an aristocratic funeral would cost in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in the absence of wills specifying sums of money to be left for specific actions or of systematic household accounts which would specify actual expenditure.54 Moreover, their physical and symbolic presence did not prove to be enough for aristocratic donors. Increasingly in the thirteenth century patrons and benefactors requested a more enduring indicator of their individual and familial presence than a simple grave marker. Heraldry became more common at burial sites, as did figurative monuments displaying the aristocratic dead in all their worldly glory. The surviving references to the costs of the funeral and funerary monuments for Eleanor of Castile in 1291–92 are exceptional both in terms of their specificity but also in what it entailed.55 After she died, Edward I commissioned an elaborate programme of funerary architecture and sculpture which included three effigies for the three sites at which parts of Eleanor’s body were buried, twelve crosses for each overnight station of the funerary cortège from Lincoln to Westminster Abbey where her body was interred. A separate funeral was staged for her heart at the Black Friars in London, after the interment of her body. In addition, Edward founded chantries in every part of the country.56 In other cases, calculating expenditure is more a matter of guesswork. In addition to costs of transport, the preparation of the body, the mortuary fee and the fair distribution of one’s estate, other costs would have to be taken into account, such as alms to the poor, legacies to one’s favourite religious houses, food and drink for the guests, the payment of debts, the purchase of funerary objects and clothes, the tomb and of course commemoration.57 For example, Roger de Clifford left a will in 1284 in which he specified some projected expenditure related to his funeral and commemoration. He stipulated that his warhorse trappings or 30 marks should be donated to Abbey Dore (Herefordshire) where he wished to be buried; for the funeral and alms (not further specified), £40; £100 for ten chaplains celebrating mass for his soul for three years. Further payments were to be made to various religious

54

This is different for the later medieval period, although there was no consistency on how much should be spent on the funeral. Cf. C. Gittings, Death, Burial and the Individual in Early Modern England (London, 1984), p. 25; C.M. Woolgar, ed. Household Accounts from Medieval England 2, Records of Social and Economic History ns 18 (Oxford, 1993), pp. 679–82 detailing the funeral expenses for Thomas of Lancaster, Duke of Clarence who was killed in France in March 1421 and buried the following September; the total came to c. £125 14s 6d. 55 See Manners and Household Expenses of England in the Thirteenth and Fifteenth Centuries Illustrated by Original Records, ed. T.H. Turner (London, 1841), pp. 93–146; J. Hunter, ‘On the Death of Eleanor of Castile, Consort of King Edward the First, and the Honours paid to her Memory’, Archaeologia 29 (1842), pp. 167–91. 56 J.C. Parsons, Eleanor of Castile: Queen and Society in Thirteenth-Century England (New York, 1995), pp. 206–8; Binski, Westminster Abbey and the Plantagenets, pp. 107–8. 57 Daniell, Death and Burial, pp. 44–8, 52–61.

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houses (£16) and 50 marks were set aside for one man to go to the Holy Land.58 Although Roger’s concerns appear to focus on spiritual benefits more than the pomp of a funeral service, sometimes we do catch a glimpse of more secular interests, belied by the emphasis on spiritual welfare expressed in wills and charters, which reveals a level of display and pride of social position anticipating the lavish aristocratic and royal funerals of the late fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries.59 Although the Annals of Hailes do not enumerate the expenditure for the funerals of Edmund Earl of Cornwall in 1301 at Ashridge and Hailes, it is evident that they were elaborate and well-attended affairs, including a funerary procession from Winchcombe to Hailes attended by Edward I, his second wife Margaret and many other dignitaries to escort the Earl’s body to its final resting place.60 It is possible that Edmund’s coat of arms would have been displayed and that his horse would be included in the procession; Roger de Clifford’s donation of his ‘warhorse trappings’ certainly suggests a role for them during the funeral proceedings. In 1269, William III de Beauchamp specifically requested that one horse ‘completely harnessed with all military caparisons precede my corpse’. A similar request was made by his son, and by Giles de Berkeley of Coberley, who also donated one horse to Little Malvern where his body was interred and his horse Lumbard to St Giles Coberley, the parish church which received his heart.61 Although he requested the opposite, Otto de Grandison’s (d. 1358) arrangements are equally revealing. Imploring his executors to keep his funeral simple, he insists that: No armed horse or armed man be allowed to go before my body on my burial day, nor that my body be covered with any cloth painted or gilt, or signed with my arms; but that it be only of white cloth marked with a red cross.

For this supposedly modest funeral, Otto set aside £20 and 10 quarters of wheat; by contrast, one priest was to be paid £15 to celebrate mass for three years after his death.62 Although he had become a Templar on his deathbed, William Marshal’s thoughts did not turn towards simplifying his funeral. Thirty years prior to his death, he had purchased some high quality fabric in the Holy Land, which was to be draped over his body during his funeral. Although he requested the cloth be given to the Templars after the proceedings, 58

Register Giffard, 2: 283; Roger’s father had been interred at Abbey Dore in the early 1230s; the abbey was founded by his maternal great-grandfather Robert de Ewyas. See H. Clifford, The House of Clifford from before the Conquest (Chichester, 1987), pp. 42–3. 59 Gittings, Death, Burial and the Individual, pp. 25–34. 60 Ann. Hailes, pp. 114–15. 61 Testamenta vetusta, 1190–1560, ed. N.H. Nicholas, 2 vols. (London, 1826), 1: 51–2; Register Giffard, 2: 449–50. William IV also requested his heart to be buried wherever his wife was to be interred, but there is no surviving evidence that this was carried out. 62 Testamenta vetusta, 1: 62.

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William was also anxious to protect it at all costs from bad weather during the funeral.63 The funerary procession, therefore, was the final moment in which the deceased aristocrat could present his vision of status and spirituality to the world. The body, although most likely hidden away from the public gaze, would still have a role to play – as we saw in the first chapter, the idea of a leaking and uncontrolled cadaver disrupting the funerary proceedings was considered socially embarrassing and a blemish on one’s personal honour and reputation. What is evident is the dual nature of the body as a signifier of personal and communal identity. Reminiscent of Kantorowicz’s concept of the ‘king’s two bodies’, the aristocratic body in death was representative of more than one’s individual spiritual status; it also incorporated ideas about nobility which defined the aristocracy as a group.64 Not only did heraldry start to make an appearance in the fabric of monastic buildings, the late thirteenth century also witnessed an increase in the use of heraldic motives in funerary art as well as the rise of aristocratic effigies, in particular those displaying knights in full armour. Although the latter have been regarded variously as statements of piety or as representations of the deceased in the afterlife, their most striking aspect is their worldliness. Marking mortal remains, these effigies were meant to be visual reminders for prayer and identification of the individual and his or her family.65 Although many knightly effigies have been rendered anonymous over time as paint or accessories have disappeared, enough evidence survives to show that they would have carried shields or surcoats bearing the symbolic family identity, and anchoring the deceased firmly in the dynastic chain of ancestors and (hopefully) descendants.66 High-status tombs, such as those for Edmund Earl of Lancaster (d. 1297) and William de Valence (d. 1296) in Westminster Abbey, show how heraldry was used to depict the wider vertical and horizontal social network of these men, while projecting an image about themselves as able-bodied knights in the effigies resting on the top of the tombs. Niches in the sides of Edmund’s tomb, moreover, contained several small figures of

63 64

Histoire de Guillaume de Mareshal, 2: 413–15. E.H. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies: A Study in Medieval Political Theology (Princeton, 1997; 1957); cf. N. Llewellyn, The Art of Death: Visual Culture in the English Death Ritual c.1500–c.1800 (London, 1991), p. 104 discusses the idea of the two bodies in relation to late medieval and post-Reformation funerary sculpture. 65 See H. Tummers, Early Secular Effigies in England: The Thirteenth Century (Leiden, 1980), which is still the most fundamental study of these effigies. Because his survey rests on surviving effigies in parish churches, it is unsurprising that his conclusion seems to be that they were for the most part associated with ‘knights of the shire’ rather than higher status individuals (p. 127). Since they would have been buried in monasteries, their effigies no longer exist on such a large scale. A European overview can be found in K. Bauch, Das mittelalterliche Grabbild: Figürliche Grabmäler des 11. bis 15. Jahrhunderts in Europa (Berlin, 1976). 66 Tummers, Secular Effigies, pp. 8, 18–20.

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kings and queens. Although much of this has disappeared, early antiquarian descriptions of the tombs suggest that the relations rendered visible were those of ancestry, close family and comrades-in-arms.67 The first effigies of knights did not appear in England until the early thirteenth century. What is striking about them is that there is no difference between magnates and local knights in the depiction of the body, which strongly suggests a sense of shared values and ideas about communal identity. For example, the effigy of William Longespee Earl of Salisbury (d. 1226) created in 1240 for his tomb in Salisbury Cathedral is very similar to other, often anonymous, knightly effigies found in parish churches or monasteries. The Earl is depicted wearing full armour, reclining in peace and with his head slightly tilted sideways. His shield displays his arms which have been cut into the stone. By comparison, the anonymous knightly effigy at Tickenham, Somerset, dated by Tummers as mid thirteenth century is an almost exact carbon copy of the Earl’s effigy.68 In the majority of cases, as Rachel Dressler has pointed out, the corporeality of the knightly effigy is in stark contrast to the cloaked royal, female and ‘civilian’ effigies which obscure the bodily form almost completely.69 The sculpted bodies of knights appear deliberately to emphasise the muscularity and strength associated with ideas of knighthood, while their attitudes focus on either their martial prowess (sword-handling, distorted facial features) or their virtue (hands in prayer, peaceful gaze). Both prowess and virtue were associated with ideals of knighthood and nobility as we have seen in the previous chapter, and it is evident that these qualities were immortalised in the knightly effigy. Together, the tomb and the effigy rendered visible the ancestral and social network providing a symbolic boundary between aristocrats and nonaristocrats, a boundary which transcended the obvious difference in wealth and socio-political position.

Conclusion Religious patronage and the privilege of burial in monastic houses were two major strategies for the English aristocracy to assert their claims to social and moral superiority. Both magnates and local landholders – often the tenants of

67 See Duffy, Royal Tombs, pp. 89–96; A.M. Morganstern, Gothic Tombs of Kinship in France, the Low Countries and England (University Park, Penn., 2000), pp. 64–73. 68 See Tummers, Early Secular Effigies in England, pls 3 and 5. 69 R. Dressler, ‘Steel Corpse: Imaging the Knight in Death’, in Conflicted Identities and Multiple Masculinities, pp. 135–67, at 151–3; Coss, The Knight in Medieval England, pp. 72–3, who points out that the emergence of the knightly effigy is closely contemporaneous with the first rolls of arms.

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magnates – distributed some of their wealth among houses which had established close connections with their family or with the lordships they held. There were obvious advantages for monastic orders to associate themselves with an aristocratic family and their social network, namely to secure a continuing stream of endowments and other financial assistance; the downside was the expectation of aristocrats to have control over official appointments, to gain spiritual and material benefits in return for gifts and to proclaim ownership. Moreover, newly instigated building programmes, often financed with aristocratic wealth and sometimes initiated by individual aristocrats to commemorate their ancestry or create the illusion of continuity between different families holding a lordship, incorporated symbolic messages of ownership into the fabric of the monasteries they patronised. Last but not least, generations of the same family or holders of a lordship were buried in the most prominent spaces within the monastic compound, burials which were increasingly marked by tombs, effigies and brasses. These monuments focused on anchoring the individual deceased into the line of ancestors and descendants, while providing a commemorative focal point. While on the one hand the preference for church and chapter house burial was inspired by spiritual concerns and the fear of being forgotten, on the other hand it produced a very clear signal to the monastic and local community that the aristocracy were entitled to be buried here because of their social status. Bodily presence was therefore extremely important. Already before burial, the aristocratic cadaver was the centre of attention in elaborate funerary proceedings which included, once again, the symbols of status such as the warhorse, armour and heraldry preceding the bier in the procession to the final resting place of the deceased. After the funeral, the presence of the physical body, or its more enduring representation, within the sacred space would ensure continued commemoration. As we saw in the previous chapter, the aristocratic body was valorised as the shrine of the noble heart; the sculpted knight on his tomb represented therefore a more permanent image of the muscular, well-trained body fit to harbour the virtues associated with nobility. However, the rise of the effigy in the thirteenth century was accompanied by a rise in the separate interment of the heart as a consequence of embalming practices. Both were exclusive to the aristocracy and monarchy, and both arose from practical needs surrounding the safe transport of dead remains from the site of death to the site of burial. While religious patronage and monastic burial ensured continued commemoration and established patterns of lordship and friendship, embalming and multiple burial focused on the individual aristocrats themselves and the image of supreme nobility of body and soul they wished to perpetuate.

Chapter 4

Shrouded in Ambiguity: Decay and Incorruptibility of the Body If aristocratic patronage of and burial in religious houses was to a large extent influenced by ideas about social, economical and political status, how does the concept of multiple burial fit in? Sometimes regarded as a means of increasing the efficacy of prayers, multiple burial, I would argue, is also tied up with issues of nobility and social status, and to some extent with secular lordship. I will suggest that rather than enforcing decay and fragmentation, these practices were partly geared towards creating a fantasy of wholeness and incorruptibility suggestive of saintly corporeal preservation found in hagiography, which served to underscore these ideas of nobility and social status. Both embalming and mos teutonicus not only enabled a delay between death and burial, but also served to avoid the premature putrefaction of the cadaver during this period, decay which would reflect negatively on the deceased in spiritual and social terms. In relation to this representational aspect of the noble body, it will also become evident that the separate interment of the heart or viscera was a means of asserting one’s personal nobility in relation to communal ideas about identity, and also of proclaiming one’s personal spirituality while conforming to dynastic or social pressures. What we see, therefore, is a distinction in the perception of the body and its interior between personal and communal identities, not too dissimilar from ideas about the abstract and concrete body of the king discussed by Ernst Kantorowicz.1

Multiple burial: origins and context There are several explanations for the sudden popularity of multiple burial amongst the royalty and aristocracy of thirteenth-century Western Europe. In the past, the practice has been connected to the crusades: people, knights in particular, dying away from home would request (rather romantically) to have

1

See above p. 72.

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their heart sent back to their loved ones.2 However, multiple burial is not just associated with male aristocrats, as Appendix 1 shows, but included ecclesiastics and aristocratic women. Furthermore, between the twelfth and the fourteenth centuries in particular, it was a practice associated with people in positions of social and political power. Lastly, the majority of people associated with multiple burial practices had far shorter post-mortem journeys than is generally assumed, and recently Paul Binski has commented that the practice had its roots in the ‘conflict between tribal loyalty, or group solidarity, and individual piety’, in other words, there were social and religious reasons for requesting multiple burial even if someone died close to the site of interment.3 Related to individual piety, another explanation for multiple burial has been that the practice became popular as a means to increase the number of prayers for one’s soul, although its rise coincided with the development of chantry bequests which served the same purpose.4 For the majority of aristocrats in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, it seems that this additional spiritual intercession was a useful side effect of their decision to inter body parts separately, which could have a variety of intents and purposes. Moreover, it has to be borne in mind that the practice of multiple burial originated from elaborate embalming practices which involved the removal and separate interment of the interior organs and which could be the reason behind a number of multiple burials. In relation to this, there is some evidence that the interior organs could also be interred with the body, perhaps for either one to be removed at a later date for separate burial – Henry III’s heart was given, as he had requested, to Fontevrault twenty years after his death when he was transferred to his final resting place in 1290; similarly, Edmund Earl of Lancaster’s body was transferred to a tomb at Westminster Abbey, while his heart remained in the convent of the Poor Clares where he had originally been buried in 1297, having died in Gascony the previous year.5 I would argue that multiple burial, although to some extent rooted in religious concerns which accorded a greater involvement of the body in the

2

Cf. C.A. Bradford, Heart Burial (London, 1933), p. 42. See also the overview article by Patrice Georges: ‘Mourir c’est pourrir un peu … Intentions et techniques contre la corruption des cadavres à la fin du moyen âge’, Micrologus 7 (1999), pp. 359–82. 3 Binski, Medieval Death, p. 63. 4 Cooke, Mediaeval Chantries; Binski, Medieval Death, pp. 63–9, argues that multiple burial was primarily intended to secure additional intercession. For a recent European-wide brief survey of medieval and post-medieval practices, see E. Weiss-Krejci, ‘Excarnation, Evisceration, and Exhumation in Medieval and Post-Medieval Europe’, in Interacting with the Dead: Perspectives on Mortuary Archaeology for the New Millennium, ed. G.F.M. Rakita et al. (Gainesville Fla., 2005), pp. 155–72. 5 Appendix 1; for later examples see Bradford, Heart Burial. Henry III’s mother, Isabella of Angoulême was buried at Fontevrault, and it is possible that Henry had wished to stress his Angevin ancestry in the face of French occupation.

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salvation process, was predominantly informed by social considerations. The fact that people’s bodies were conserved for transport or for a delayed funeral in the first place is evidence of their wealth and influence to make this possible. Also, a number of men from a more modest background who gained roles in local government and administration requested multiple burial, perhaps as a sign of their changed social position.6 As we saw above, aristocratic funerary practices centred foremost on displaying one’s social position during and after burial. The embalming of a dignitary’s face underscores the idea of visibility and identification of the dead, and from this it is only a small step to the complete embalming of the body inside and out, and the practice of multiple burial. Considering the dearth of early medieval sources which consider cadaver conservation in more than a passing reference, it is extremely difficult to ascertain whether this was a standard feature of burial customs or not. Although the dead body was considered a source of pollution in Judaism and Roman religions, there were Biblical precedents, and there is some evidence to suggest that in the later Roman Empire bodies were occasionally embalmed following Egyptian custom.7 There are certainly many references to early Christian saints and martyrs being treated to some form of embalming, even if it did not involve evisceration.8 The external application of balm was known at the Merovingian court and the single reference in Gregory the Great’s Dialogues to evisceration as part of the corpse preservation process suggests that the practice was known to at least part of his audience. However, the earliest and most explicit reference to evisceration in a Western European context concerns the unsuccessful attempt to transport the remains of Emperor Charles the Bald across the Alps in October 877.9 6 For example, Giles de Berkeley of Coberley and Paulin Peyvre. Unless indicated, all references to specific multiple burials can be found in Appendix 1. 7 Several Middle Eastern and North African communities used external and internal embalming. The Egyptian practice was described by Herodotus and there is some evidence that the Myceneans practiced a form of body conservation. In Roman times, it was so uncommon that Tacitus referred to the internal embalming of Nero’s wife Poppaea as a foreign custom. Byzantine death customs are unclear about procedures. Von Rudloff cites a Byzantine court physician on cadaver preparation, but this is for external embalming only. See E. von Rudloff, Über das Konservieren von Leichen im Mittelalter: Ein Betrag zur Geschichte der Anatomie und des Bestattungswesens (Freiburg, 1921), pp. 3–4, 23–4; D.B. Counts, ‘Regum externorum consuetudine: The Nature and Function of Embalming in Rome’, Classical Antiquity 15 (1996), pp. 189–202; G.T. Dennis, ‘Death in Byzantium’, Dunbarton Oaks Papers 55 (2001), pp. 1–7. For early Christian attitudes towards the dead body, which inspired comment from non-Christians because of its difference, see Brown, Cult of the Saints. 8 H. Leclercq, ‘Embaumement’, Dictionnaire d’archéologie Chrétienne et de liturgie, 15 vols. (Paris, 1921), 8: 2718–23. 9 Gregory the Great, Dialogorum libri quattuor, PL 77 (Paris, 1862), col. 384. Gregory refers to evisceration in the case of a man dying in Constantinople. See V. Thompson, Death and Dying in Later Anglo-Saxon England (Woodbridge, 2004), pp. 20–1, for the Anglo-Saxon rendering of this passage, which suggests that its translator was unfamiliar with the practice. For

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Less than a century later, in May 973, Emperor Otto I’s body was eviscerated prior to its final journey to Magdeburg and his viscera were buried in the church of St Mary at Memleben.10 In January 1002, his grandson Otto III was transported from Rome to Aachen; although his intestines would have been removed soon after death, they were taken on the journey and buried at Augsburg. Already there is a suggestion that multiple burial allowed for more than the safe transport of one’s remains. In 1056, Emperor Henry III requested the interment of his heart with the rest of his viscera at Goslar where his daughter had been buried earlier, while his body was taken to Speyer for burial alongside his father.11 Around the same time, it seems that the practice of corpse preservation involving evisceration was becoming more familiar to Northern France: in 1040, Count Fulk ‘Nerra’ of Anjou’s viscera were interred separately from the rest of his body in a cemetery at Metz before his body was taken to his foundation of Beaulieu-les-Loches. By the beginning of the following century, Robert d’Arbrissel, founder of Fontevrault and Orsan, could stipulate the separate interment of his body and heart to avert a conflict between the two houses about where their founder should be buried.12 The practical and socio-political dimensions of the separate burial of viscera and body thus became increasingly intertwined, while at the same time the heart came to be singled out as an organ worthy of a separate sepulchre, and, by the end of the thirteenth century, of an elaborate funeral ceremony.13

Preserving the cadaver: embalming and mos teutonicus Before looking in greater detail at the reasons for requesting separate interment of the heart, the practices of embalming and mos teutonicus should perhaps be given some attention, in particular in relation to their objectives and their cost. As we saw above, the average aristocratic funeral in the thirteenth century would have been as ostentatious and possibly as expensive as those for which we have more detailed records; the costs of extensive embalming were generally too prohibitive to be universally introduced, which meant that it remained exclusive to the wealthy elite. the Merovingians, see A. Erlande-Brandenburg, Le roi est mort: Étude sur les funérailles, les sépultures et les tombeaux des rois de France jusqu’à la fin du XIIIe siècle (Genève, 1975), p. 27. 10 Schäfer, ‘Mittelalterlicher Brauch’, p. 479. 11 Ibid., pp. 480–1. From Otto III onwards, the Holy Roman Emperors died far from where they wished to be interred. According to Erlande-Brandenburg, this is one of the reasons why multiple burial did not catch on with the French monarchs in the eleventh and twelfth centuries: they tended to die within reach of their intended sepulchre. Le roi est mort, p. 28. 12 Georges, ‘Mourir c’est pourrir un peu’, pp. 360–1. Metz was part of the Holy Roman Empire at this time. For Robert d’Arbrissel see Bradford, Heart Burial, pp. 39–41. 13 For further examples in Germany and France, see Schäfer, ‘Mittelalterlicher Brauch’; Erlande-Brandenburg, Le roi est mort; Brown, ‘Death and the Body’.

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About the practice mos teutonicus – so called by the Florentine chronicler Boncompagno who connected the procedure specifically to German aristocrats wishing to be buried at home in Germany rather than in ‘foreign parts’ – we can be quite brief in terms of cost and objective.14 It involved the dismemberment and boiling of the dead body in water or wine until the flesh was cooked and fell off the bones. The flesh and interior organs could be buried immediately, or be preserved in the way animal meat might be for further transport. Stripped of their perishable matter, the clean bones could be taken wherever the deceased had wished to be interred. Depending on whether water or wine was used, it could be practical, cheap, quick, and relatively hygienic. In 1270, it was the preferred method for the conservation of Louis IX’s body after his death in Tunis – Muslim territory and therefore not suitable for the burial of a saintly king of France – which is perhaps understandable considering the time, effort and materials it took to embalm a body.15 However, in more leisurely circumstances and with more money to spare, embalming seems to have been the preferred option among English and French aristocrats. The French royal surgeon Henri de Mondeville, in a chapter on corpse preservation techniques in his Chirurgie (c. 1316), directly connects the need for embalming to the social status and financial situation of the deceased.16 He has little time for the corpses of the poor, since it is, he states, not lucrative to embalm them. Instead, Mondeville devotes his attention to two groups of rich people – and note the similarity with Andreas Capellanus’s social division in his treatise on love – the ‘middling class’ (homines mediocris status), such as knights and barons, and the ‘highest class’, which includes kings, queens, popes and prelates. He makes this distinction on the basis that the ‘highest class’ should lie in state with an exposed face, whereas this is not necessary for members of the ‘middling class’. By restricting embalming procedures to those who could afford it (and Mondeville advises his readers to secure payment before commencing with the expensive treatment), which in his perception of the social hierarchy is equal to being part of the elite, Mondeville subscribes to the idea that nobility is marked by an incorrupt body. After establishing his social hierarchy, Mondeville discusses the different 14

See Schäfer, ‘Mittelalterlicher Brauch’, p. 493; Boncompagno seems to have lived around 1200. What has not been noticed before is that his description of the ‘German custom’ is decidedly negative. It occurs in a passage on the burial customs of the Jews and the Romans, both of which seek to preserve and honour the dead body. The Germans (teutonici), on the other hand, destroy the bodies of their most eminent people. 15 Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, pp. 231–2. 16 Die Chirurgie des Heinrich von Mondeville (Hermondaville) nach Berliner, Erfurter und Pariser Codices, ed. J. Pagel (Berlin, 1892), pp. 390–3 (hereafter Mondeville, Chirurgie). The section on preservation techniques follows on from one on the amputation of corrupt body parts. For Henri’s social awareness, see M.C. Pouchelle, The Body and Surgery in the Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1990).

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methods of treatment based on the time between death and burial; on whether the face should be exposed or not; and on whether there is a need for the corpse to be prepared with greater security to disallow premature decay. He takes his information predominantly from the discussion of corpse preservation of the Arab medic Rhazes, whose works were translated by Gerard of Cremona in the late twelfth century, but he also adds his own observations.17 All treatments required a mix of herbs, spices and resins as well as the use of mercury or something similar to constrict all bodily cavities, in particular those of the face if it was to be left exposed.18 Although the list of ingredients of the embalming paste was not fixed, in general, one needed salt or another sodium compound, coloquinth (used in medicine as a purgative), camphor, rose water, vinegar and honey. These would have been fairly readily available, and, in fact, there is contemporary evidence for the use of salt in the preservation of cadavers.19 However, although salt would be useful as a rough and ready means of preservation, it was only really suitable for journeys or if the body was not to be on display. More exotic ingredients were needed for display purposes; hence Mondeville’s comments about status and wealth. For example, he recommends the use of aloe, myrrh, frankincense, mastic and other resins of trees more commonly found in the eastern Mediterranean. In addition, he suggests that the abdominal cavity and the coffin are filled with sweet smelling flowers, herbs and spices to obscure the dangerous fetid odours.20 When Edward I became seriously ill in the winter of 1306–07 and was forced to stay at Lanercost Priory on his way to Scotland, his physician decided to purchase not only the medicines needed to aid the king’s recovery but also materials to be used for his embalming if he were to die. An amount of £36 33s appears to have been spent on balsam, aloe, frankincense, myrrh, musk and amber to fill the king’s bodily orifices and the inside of his body. By contrast, £15 3s 4½d was paid for the cerecloth and spices used to embalm Henry VI in 1471, while Henry Earl of Huntingdon in 1596 was embalmed for the princely sum of £28 4s 1d. According to Claire Gittings, the average cost for a gentleman to be embalmed in the sixteenth century would have been £5.21 After his death in July 1307, Edward I’s body appears to have been elaborately embalmed and, upon the opening of his tomb in the late eighteenth 17 18 19 20

Von Rudloff, Über das Konservieren von Leichen, pp. 24–5, 28–9. Mondeville, Chirurgie, p. 391. E.g. Hugh de Grandmesnil in 1098: Orderic, 4: 336–7. Mondeville, Chirurgie, pp. 391–2; Von Rudloff, Über das Konservieren von Leichen, pp. 28–35. Guy de Chauliac, a French surgeon connected to the papal court, wrote in 1363 that in addition to these spices and resins, caraway, nutmeg and marjoram should be used while ideally the dead are placed in a coffin made of cedar wood. The Cyrurgie of Guy de Chauliac, ed. M.S. Ogden, EETS os 265 (1971), pp. 413–14 (hereafter Chauliac, Cyrurgie). 21 J. Litten, The English Way of Death: The Common Funeral since 1450 (London, 1991), p. 38; Gittings, Death, Burial and the Individual, p. 104.

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century, it was found to be very well preserved and tightly wrapped in cerecloth.22 It also appears that his body was eviscerated. An admittedly late witness, the Scot Walter Bower (fl. 1440s), refers to a tradition that Edward’s viscera were interred at Holm Cultram, a Cistercian daughter-house of Melrose Abbey in northern Cumberland, close to Burgh-on-Sands where Edward died.23 The application of embalming mixtures and cerecloth was not enough, according to Mondeville, who recommended wrapping the body in oxhides and sealing it into a lead coffin. This, for example, accounts for the fantastic preservation of a male body found at St Bees in Cumberland in the early 1980s, but also for the antiquarian accounts of examinations of lead coffins which were found to contain skeletal remains immersed in a kind of aromatic soup – a mixture of decayed matter and embalming products.24 The autopsy of the St Bees man revealed that all internal organs were still in place, which coincides with Mondeville’s description of a less invasive preparation of the cadaver sufficient for a shorter period between death and burial.25 In contrast to France, where members of the royal family towards the end of the thirteenth century began to request a specific interment for their entrails, in England the usual arrangement was for the interior organs to be discarded promptly without too much public ceremony and close to the site of death. There were exceptions of course. According to one chronicle, Saer de Quincy Earl of Winchester, who died at the Siege of Damietta in 1219, asked for his cremated internal organs to be taken back to Garendon Abbey. The excavated visceral remains at Lewes Priory, moreover, have been assigned (without much argument or further evidence) to William III de Warenne, who also died on Crusade.26 Generally, however, the entrails were regarded as ignoble and easily corruptible. The early fourteenth-century Italian anatomist Mondino dei Luzzi described the body as a hierarchical system in which the lower part was inferior to the head and thorax. One of the reasons for this hierarchy was that the viscera were likely to putrefy quickest because of their ‘confused’ state. 22

J. Ayloffe, ‘An Account of the Body of King Edward the First as it appeared on the Opening of his Tomb in the Year 1774’, Archaeologia 3 (1786), pp. 376–413. I will address the mythology surrounding Edward’s burial arrangements in an article on King Robert Bruce’s heart request in a European context. 23 Walter Bower, Scotichronicon, gen. ed. D.E.R. Watt, 9 vols. (Aberdeen, 1989–98), 6: 332. Holm Cultram held the advowson and fees of Burgh-on-Sands parish church. Being a vulnerable border monastery with predominantly Scottish interests, it is possible that the monks seized the opportunity to obtain Edward’s viscera to enhance their status in England. VCH Cumberland 2 (1905), pp. 162–73. When Edward arrived at Lanercost in September 1306, it was his intention to move on swiftly to Holm Cultram, where building work had been commissioned to accommodate him and his household. Moorman, ‘Edward I at Lanercost’, p. 164. 24 Gilchrist and Sloane, Requiem, pp. 109, 119. 25 Mondeville, Chirurgie, pp. 391–2. 26 See Appendix 1 for references.

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Therefore, Mondino argued, dissections should start with the removal of the entrails and move gradually towards the more organised and nobler parts of the body; in other words: the more the body part was thought to be organised and in control of itself, the nobler it was.27 As we saw, Mondeville preferred the extraction of the internal organs in the process of corpse preservation and argued that this would yield a superior end result. The ambiguous quality of the entrails is highlighted by frequent references to their interment at night and soon after death. When Emperor Otto I died in 973 his body was eviscerated the same night; his entrails were buried immediately afterwards. In December 1135, Henry I’s entrails were extracted at night in the private chambers of the archbishop of Rouen, while Edmund Earl of Cornwall, who died before dawn (ante auroram) in September 1300, was eviscerated that same night. In addition, the incorruptibility of saintly entrails was commented upon by hagiographers as a miracle and a sign of God’s favour.28

Resting in pieces: aristocratic multiple burial The reasons for separate interment of the heart (or heart and entrails together, i.e. viscera burials) between c. 1130 and c. 1330 are predominantly related to ancestral and individual benefaction and patronage (see Fig. 2). Nearly all of the 88 cases relate to establishing a physical presence in a site favoured during life.29 In 21 per cent of cases, the heart was buried at an ancestral or own foundation, and many are connected to body interments in locations associated with the family or lordship. For example, in 1232 Ranulph III de Blundeville Earl of Chester donated his heart to his foundation at Dieulacres and his body to the ancestral burial site at St Werburgh in Chester. Similar reasons appear to have informed men such as William III de Percy (d. 1245) or William III d’Albini of Belvoir (d. 1236) when they donated their heart to a favoured monastic community. Although in general aristocratic men favoured houses associated with the paternal family, in the case of Stephen Longespee, Seneschal of Gascony (d. 1269) there is a very clear preference for his maternal religious associations. His body was buried in his mother’s foundation of Lacock; his heart was donated to Bradenstoke Priory, which was founded by one of his mother’s ancestors.30 Only two known heart burials appear specifically rooted in concerns about lordship. William de Mandeville Earl of Essex (d. 1226) was only distantly 27 N.G. Siraisi, Medieval and Early Renaissance Medicine: An Introduction to Knowledge and Practice (Chicago, 1990), p. 109. 28 Schäfer, ‘Mittelalterlicher Brauch’, pp. 478–9; Orderic, 6: 450–1; Ann. Hailes, p. 114. For saintly entrails see above, p. 29. 29 These figures are based on information provided in Appendix 1. (Percentages have been rounded off to the nearest whole number.) 30 CP, 12.2: 171.

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Fig. 2: Reasons for heart and viscera burials (c. 1130–c. 1330) Reasons

Number

percentage

Ancestral foundation Ancestral benefaction Probable benefaction Certain benefaction Ecclesiastical Founder Lordship Proximity to death Special honour Spousal relationship

10 11 14 8 9 9 2 16 1 8

11% 13% 16% 9% 10% 10% 2% 18% 1% 9%

Total

88

100%

related to the original Mandeville earls. Upon his acquisition of the earldom William changed his surname to Mandeville and, when he died, he left his heart to Walden Priory, while his body was interred at his father’s foundation of Shouldham.31 King John’s viscera were interred at Croxton Kerrial, but whether this was a natural consequence of his embalming being performed by the abbot of Croxton or of a decision to establish a connection with a house founded by an earlier Count of Mortain is debatable. The connection between office and religious house becomes more evident in the case of ecclesiastical multiple burial. Most known ecclesiastical examples relate to heart burials either in the convent connected immediately to the office, or in a monastic house founded by a previous incumbent.32 In addition, some of the heart burials in the category ‘spousal relationship’ are in fact men donating their heart to a house founded or patronised by their wife’s ancestors. For example, Saer de Quincy Earl of Winchester (d. 1219) donated his viscera to Garendon Abbey, founded by his wife’s grandfather. Upon the death of Robert IV de Beaumont Earl of Leicester, Saer’s wife Margaret inherited half of the estate, her elder sister obtaining the other half with the title of Earl of Leicester.33 Robert III de Ros of Helmsley (d. 1285), who had married Isabella d’Albini, heiress to the Belvoir estate, happened to die at Belvoir Castle. His entrails were buried before the high altar and beside the body of his father-in-law at Belvoir Priory, traditionally patronised by the 31 32 33

CP, 5: 126, 129–33. See Appendix 1. CP, 12.2: 745, 748–51; R. Oram, ‘Quincy, Saer de, earl of Winchester (d. 1219)’, ODNB, online edition (Oxford, 2005).

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Albini family. Robert’s heart, however, was taken to Croxton Kerrial where earlier the heart of his father-in-law had been buried, while his body was interred at Kirkham Priory.34 Lastly, the high incidence of cases in the category ‘proximity to death’ relate to viscera burials and the burial of entrails almost immediately after death. In only two instances does there appear to be a deliberate decision to inter the internal organs in the church of a particular convent, which prefigures the French custom of triple burials. Henry I’s internal organs (including his heart) and brain, although extracted in the private chambers of the Archbishop of Rouen, were interred at Ste Marie-des-Prées, which had been founded by his mother. Richard I’s entrails were famously alleged to have been interred at Charroux in Poitou to signify the treachery of the Poitevin barons.35 In all other cases, the choice of interment site depended on where the preparation of the body occurred (e.g. Eleanor of Castile at Lincoln) or where a person happened to die. While taking into account the devastation of the Dissolution which saw the destruction and disappearance of many funerary monuments, the preference to display the location of the heart and the body more prominently than the entrails is evident from the very few monuments which still exist. Again in contrast to France, where effigies of donors proudly displayed their ‘bowels in a bag’ to indicate the interment of their internal organs, there are only four examples of tomb sculpture associated with the burial of entrails in the British Isles that I know of: Bishop Walter de Kirkham of Durham’s viscera monument at Howden (inscription only); Eleanor of Castile’s entrails which were marked by a full-size effigy and a Latin inscription; a fourteenth-century effigy of a lady in St Giles parish church in Coberley; and a diminutive effigy of a robed figure in Christ Church Cathedral in Dublin, which is said to be part of the original tomb of Richard ‘Strongbow’ de Clare, Earl of Pembroke and Striguil.36 In terms of preference for religious orders, it is clear that the later thirteenth-century vogue among aristocrats to be benefactors of the mendicant orders is echoed in the number of heart burials received by both the Dominicans and Franciscans. Although, as always, the numbers are to be taken as estimates due to the fickleness of surviving records, it is possible to discern a notable trend to donate the heart to the newer religious orders which 34 35

CP, 11: 95–6; Monasticon, 3: 289. Orderic, 6: 448–51; Roger of Howden, Chronica magistri Rogeri de Houedene, ed. W. Stubbs, 4 vols. RS 51 (1868–71), 4: 84. 36 Eleanor’s effigy is a nineteenth-century replica of the Westminster Abbey effigy, but earlier images suggest that the two were always very similar. My thanks go to Dr Sophie Oosterwijk for bringing the St Giles effigy to my attention. For the Strongbow effigy, see B. Gittos and M. Gittos, ‘Irish Purbeck: Recently Identified Purbeck Marble Monuments in Ireland’, Church Monuments 13 (1998), pp. 5–14, at 8 and fig. 3. There may of course be more, but there has been no recent systematic survey of either entrails or heart burial monuments in the British Isles.

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Fig. 3: Distribution of known heart and viscera burials in England and the Norman and Angevin territories c. 1130–c. 1330

Religious establishment

Total religious houses in England Percentage of Number of Percentage of in 1350 (except heart burials in heart burials total Templars)37 religious houses

Augustinian38 Benedictine39 Cistercian40 Dominican Franciscan Gilbertine Knights Templar Parish church Premonstratensian41 Uncertain location42

16 26 10 10 8 0 1 9 4 4

18% 30% 11% 11% 9% 0 1% 10% 5% 5%

Total

88

100%

260 261 75 51 54 24 45 (in 1216) — 36 — —

6% 10% 13% 20% 15% 0% 2% — 11% — —

advocated personal spirituality. As Fig. 3 shows, when taking into account the actual number of foundations per order, apart from the mendicants the Cistercians also received a slightly larger number of hearts than the Benedictine and Premonstratensian orders, while the Augustinians only account for 6 per cent of the total. One reason is that the Benedictines and Augustinian Canons are generally associated with ancestral interments in the sample: together they received nearly 50 per cent of aristocratic bodies also associated with heart and viscera burials (Fig. 4). The Cistercians, on the other hand, were not more preferred either way in that they received 13 per cent of the hearts and 15 per cent of the bodies. In addition, most heart and viscera burials were individual occasions; if the body was interred in a monastery associated with family or lordship patronage and where associated burials had taken place previously, the heart and viscera burials were usually not followed by those of other members of the family. The exceptions are associated with a shift in the relationship between 37 Based on D. Knowles and R.N. Hadcock, Medieval Religious Houses of England and Wales, second edition (London, 1971), pp. 488–95. 38 Including alien priories, Bonhommes and conventual hospitals. 39 Including alien priories and Cluniac order in total number of houses. 40 Including Savigniac order in total number of houses. 41 Including dependencies and alien houses. 42 This refers to cases in which a heart or viscera burial is referred to but without, or doubtful, indication of location.

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Fig. 4: Distribution of bodies associated with heart and viscera burials in England and the Norman and Angevin territories c. 1130–c. 1330 Religious houses

Number

Percentage

Augustinian Benedictine Cistercian Dominican Franciscan Gilbertine Knights Templar Parish church Premonstratensian Secular cathedrals Uncertain Unknown43

13 29 13 0 1 2 1 1 1 6 1 20

15% 33% 15% 0% 1% 2% 1% 1% 1% 7% 1% 23%

Total

88

100%

monastery and the incumbents of a lordship, as in cases of devolving inheritance through heiresses (e.g. Robert III de Ros) or in case of a succession of unrelated individuals holding ecclesiastical office (e.g. the bishops of Winchester). Lastly, the nine heart and viscera burials in parish churches nearly all relate to minor aristocrats who were more tied to a locality than the greater barons, but who were either government administrators themselves or their relatives held such office. Paulin Peyvre (d. 1251), for example, was a knight of modest origins who had made a fortune for himself in Henry III’s government. According to Matthew Paris, who is fairly critical of how Peyvre acquired his lands, he spent most of his wealth on his manor at Toddington (Bedfordshire), and it is therefore not very surprising that in aristocratic fashion, Peyvre had his heart interred in the local parish church as a sign of his increased status.44 For similar reasons were the hearts of Ralph de Stopham of Bryanston (d. 1272) and Giles de Berkeley of Coberley (d. 1294) buried at their local parish church, as were in all probability the hearts of Agnes of Narborough and Maria de Meriet.45

43 44 45

‘Unknown’ refers to cases in which a heart burial is known, but not the location of the body. Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 5: 242–3; VCH Bedfordshire, 3: 349–50, 446. G. Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials and Some Purbeck Marble Heart Shrines’, Dorset Natural History and Antiquities Field Club Proceedings 48 (1927), pp. 38–58, at 38 (Ralph de Stopham), 54 (Agatha de Narborough); Register Giffard, pp. 449–50; Gittos and Gittos, ‘Motivation and Choice’, pp. 153–5, 160.

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Nobility as incorruptibility The funerary practices of the aristocracy then show a great concern with the interment location of their body, both geographically and topographically, in the representation of social status, wealth and dynastic connections. To this end, relations with religious houses could be established and fostered over generations, while certain monastic communities became inextricably connected to a lordship or office rather than a single family (although the two obviously could coincide). What is evident from the discussion of multiple burial is the clear separation of the body and the heart to represent different aspects of the aristocratic identity. The body was clearly viewed as a manifestation of the individual within the dynastic continuum and as a representative of the communal concept of nobility – further underscored by corpse conservation techniques engendered to halt putrefaction. The body’s post-mortem ‘behaviour’ was valorised as a mirror on the deceased’s personal spiritual nobility as well as their physiological nobility. As we saw earlier, Henri de Mondeville clearly associated elaborate embalming practices to conserve the cadaver with the aristocratic elite and some of his methods certainly relied on sufficient funds to pay for the materials needed. Moreover, he calls attention to the possibility of preserving a cadaver indefinitely by removing the internal organs and filling the abdominal cavity with salt, spices and flowers. Although his own experience of embalming two French kings was flawed by his own admission, his attitude towards the dead body is respectful and delicate.46 A body may be conserved as if it were a side of beef, but it was conducted with great care, as is evident, for example, from the well-preserved state of Edward I’s remains in the eighteenth century: reminiscent of Egyptian mummies, his corpse was found tightly wrapped in many layers of cerecloth with each finger treated separately.47 The extraction of the internal organs may have been an unpleasant process, but, according to Mondeville, the viscera should not be discarded lightly. Instead, because they are part of the human body, they should be salted and covered in a mixture of spices before being sealed in a jar of lead or silver.48 It is likely that the aristocracy was highly influenced by reports of saintly incorruptibility, and with elaborate embalming techniques or mos teutonicus 46

Mondeville, Chirurgie, p. 392. He speculates that the kings suffered from a rare disposition which hampered their post-mortem conservation, along with the failure of antiquated embalming fluid. Also, as a caveat he points out that the method of cleansing the inside of the body depends on the physical constitution of the deceased and their age: young people’s bodies decay faster than those of the elderly whose bodies are drier and colder – a point also made by Guy de Chauliac, who advises external embalming only for slim and dry men or those dying in winter. Mondeville, Chirurgie, p. 392; Chauliac, Cyrurgie, pp. 414–15. 47 See above, pp. 80–1. 48 Mondeville, Chirurgie, p. 393.

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they were able to imitate this incorruptibility until the body disappeared from public view.49 However much aristocrats sought to imitate saints in their sense of shared nobility, they did not seek to be on a par with them. The integrity and imagined purity of the body were more important than the deliberate fragmentation of body parts in the way that saintly bodies were dispersed. So for the great majority of aristocrats undergoing multiple burial, this meant the interment of the body or skeletal remains in one grave, and the flesh, heart and entrails in others. Not one aristocratic body was dismembered for the separate inhumation of, say, arms and legs. It significant, for example, that Philip IV of France, whose actions sparked a debate in the 1280s on the position of the body in terms of human salvation, did not wish to obtain part of his grandfather Louis IX’s skull for the Sainte Chapelle in Paris until well after his canonisation in 1297.50 It is equally significant that in 1268 the podesta Pietro de Vico from Viterbo specifically requested post-mortem dismemberment of his body into seven pieces to signify the seven deadly sins; whether this also meant seven different interment sites is unfortunately not entirely clear.51 As we saw in chapter 2, the heart represented humanity’s inner being. In it were contained the core values associated with spiritual nobility and it was therefore regarded as a valuable object to be treated with due reverence. It is therefore not entirely surprising to find the aristocratic ideals of chivalric or noble behaviour being lodged within the heart, recasting the body as a shrine to its purity. The heart was the location of the interiorised spirituality advocated by the new religious orders, which may explain the preference for heart burials in mendicant convents in the later thirteenth century: aristocratic donors could at the same time express their piety and their socially elevated status by presenting their noble heart to an order which had centralised it as a site of religious experience. However, this did pose issues about the integrity of the body in relation to personhood and the resurrection, and although it is clear that the aristocracy did not consider the separation of the body and heart problematic, they were influenced by intellectual debate on this issue which reached a high point in the later thirteenth century.

49

Bynum, Resurrection of the Body, pp. 208–10; Vauchez, Sainthood in the Later Middle Ages, pp. 427–8. 50 For this debate see below, pp. 93–5. Permission to remove the skull from its tomb at St Denis was granted by the French Pope Clement V in 1305. P. Duparc, ‘Dilaceratio corporis’, Bulletin de la société nationale des antiquaires de France 1980–1981 (1981), pp. 360–72, at 365; E.A.R. Brown, ‘Burying and Unburying the Kings of France’, in The Monarchy of Capetian France and Royal Ceremony, ed. E.A.R. Brown (Aldershot, 1991), IX. 241–66, at 247. 51 A. Paravicini-Bagliani, ‘The Corpse in the Middle Ages’, in The Medieval World, ed. P. Linehan and J.L. Nelson (London, 2001), pp. 327–41, at 331.

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Debating the body: integrity and fragmentation By 1300, all was not well in the world of aristocratic funerary practices. In 1299, Pope Boniface VIII issued his vitriolic condemnation of the practice of mos teutonicus for reasons still debated amongst scholars today. The bull Detestande feritatis, first issued in September 1299 and reissued in January the following year, comprises a heated attack on the way in which the nobility ‘and other high dignitaries’ are accommodated in their burial practice, which involves ‘savagely [truculenter]’ eviscerating the corpse and ‘horribly [immanenter]’ dismembering it before boiling it. It is perverse and ‘driven by sacrilegious concern’ with burial in a specific site far away from the location of death.52 According to some, it was promulgated partly as a consequence of the conservation of Cardinal Nicholas de Nonancourt’s corpse, which deeply shocked Boniface who regarded the Cardinal as a friend. The reason why he found it so abhorrent, it is argued, was because of his own ideas about the integrity of the body and his fear of decay. One view has been that because Italians and Northern Europeans held opposite ideas about the relationship between the body and personal identity, Boniface found the practice incomprehensible and therefore reacted strongly against it. Others have looked at Boniface’s troubled relations with the king of France to seek a political explanation, and some have pointed out the similarities between the bull and the arguments raised at a series of Quodlibets at the University of Paris in the 1280s and 1290s. In addition, the bull has been regarded as a statement against the friars, considering they benefitted most from the donations accompanying heart burials.53 Part of the difficulty with the bull is that it is not entirely clear what is being banned, nor is there evidence for a systematic condemnation. Does it include embalming involving evisceration, or multiple burial? Does he indirectly condemn the blossoming practice of anatomical demonstration at the Italian universities? Perhaps Boniface was deliberately vague; in 1303 one of his cardinals, Jean le Moine, felt the need to explain in a gloss to the bull that the Pontiff had indeed meant evisceration under all circumstances, whether part of mos teutonicus or not. Moreover, he reiterated Boniface’s solution to the problem of geographical distance between death and burial, which was to inter the body temporarily at the site of death before exhuming it after a year for transport to the preferred burial location.54 Also in 1303, the Pope again 52 53

Corpus iuris canonici, 2: 1271–2. A. Paravicini-Bagliani, Boniface VIII: Un Pape hérétique? (Paris, 2000), p. 233; Park, ‘The Criminal and the Saintly Body’, pp. 1–33; ead. ‘The Life of the Corpse’, pp. 111–32; Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, pp. 221–70; ead. ‘Authority, Family and the Dead’, pp. 803–32. 54 Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, pp. 246–7, 250–1.

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stressed his opinion that a cadaver should only be transported after a period of inhumation and not be artificially reduced to ashes through cremation, boiling or dismemberment, which left the option of embalming with evisceration wide open however.55 It is obvious that medical practitioners, religious authorities, and those involved in funerary preparations were unsure how far Boniface’s prohibition stretched. Henri de Mondeville suggests that to eviscerate the dead body, one would need to obtain dispensation. Mondino dei Luzzi in his anatomical demonstration (1316) only refers to the sin involved in cleaning certain bones of the ear by boiling them, while Guido de Vigevano (1345) begins his treatise with the statement that all anatomising is prohibited by Church authorities. Despite this, however, he boasts of having been able to perform many autopsies himself.56 By 1363, Guy de Chauliac does not mention the need for dispensation at all and suggests that popes themselves are subjected to elaborate embalming procedures, which is likely to be the result of Pope Clement VI’s perpetual dispensation for the French royal family issued on 20 April 1351. Towards the end of the fourteenth century, it seems evisceration had become a standard procedure in the preparation of royal bodies for burial in England as well.57 In the fifty years between Detestande feritatis and Clement VI’s reversal of its condemnation, there was more confusion about the propriety of corpse conservation, and the number of explicit references to heart burials certainly lessened dramatically, although there are several indications that the aristocracy was not prepared to give up this particular aspect of their funerary practices. Dispensations were sought for multiple burials by the French, including the French queens of England, Margaret and Isabella, who both requested a triple burial. No such dispensation seems to have been obtained for Margaret’s husband Edward I, whose entrails are very likely to have been buried separately; for Edmund Earl of Cornwall, whose body was probably subjected to mos teutonicus; or for Edward II, whose heart was buried with Isabella in the Grey Friars’ church in London in 1358.58 By contrast, Robert Bruce’s executors were excommunicated and absolved in 1330 for extracting

55 56

Ibid., pp. 222–3. Mondeville, Chirurgie, p. 392; E. Wickersheimer, Anatomies de Mondino dei Luzzi et de Guido de Vigevano (Genève, 1977), p. 72; E. Grant (ed.), A Source Book in Medieval Science (Cambridge, Mass., 1974), p. 739; R.K. French, Dissection and Vivisection in the European Renaissance (Aldershot, 1999), p. 11. 57 Guy de Chauliac, Chirurgie, p. 415; Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, p. 261. Liber regalis, ed. W.H. Bliss, Roxburghe Club (London, 1870), p. 37. 58 Calendar of Papal Letters, 2: 45 (Margaret), 235 (Isabella), 3: 168 (Isabella again). For Edward I, see above pp. 80–1; for Edmund, p. 61 and for Edward II, Bradford, Heart Burial, p. 106.

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the king’s heart to fulfil his crusading vow, as were John de Meriet in 1314 and John ‘Brabanzon’ in 1317.59 In other cases, either the body was eviscerated surreptitiously or something resembling Mondeville’s external embalming procedure was used. The St Bees man, mentioned above, was found to have all his internal organs in situ, while the length of time between death and burial of for example two Verdun lords of Alton suggests some form of elaborate embalming which may or may not have involved evisceration. Theobald I de Verdun died 24 August 1309 at the family caput of Alton in Staffordshire and was not buried until 13 October at nearby Croxden Abbey. Similarly, Theobald II died at Alton on 27 July 1316 and was buried at Croxden on 19 September. Despite the papal ban, it is obvious that some form of corpse conservation had to be applied to preserve their remains over the summer months.60 If the embalming had involved evisceration, it is possible that the viscera were interred with the body, as occurred in later times. Although Henri de Mondeville does not concern himself as such with burial locations, the fact that he insists on the careful preservation of the internal organs suggests that he held an opinion similar to that of the Parisian secular masters Godefroid de Fontaines and Gervais de MontSaint-Eloy, who both allowed evisceration as part of conservation procedures as long as the viscera were buried with the rest of the body; because in some cases it could be too dangerous to leave them in situ it was allowed to removed the internal organs and transport them separately.61 The thorny issue of corpse preservation and multiple burial had its roots in the pronouncement of the Fourth Lateran Council that soul and body together constituted a person.62 This had led Thomas Aquinas to conclude, in Aristotelian fashion, that the soul constituted the form of the body which was nothing but uninformed matter without the soul’s presence. Moreover, after death the soul would not be complete until it once again was united with matter to form a body. As a consequence, the cadaver was to be regarded as formless matter which gradually decayed to its natural state, and which of itself did not have any participation in the formation of a person beyond

59

Calendar of Papal Letters, 2: 345; A. Theiner (ed.), Vetera monumenta Hibernorum et Scotorum historiam illustrantia (Rome, 1864), p. 251; Gittos and Gittos, ‘Motivation and Choice’, p. 160; Calendar of Papal Letters, 2: 161 (John ‘Brabanzon’). Thomas Randulph, Earl of Moray, who was behind the request to absolve the Bruce’s executors, obtained an indult in November 1329 for a separate interment of his heart; Calendar of Papal Letters, 2: 311; Theiner, Vetera monumenta, p. 249. The indult very specifically states that Randulph’s body and heart could be separated for burial in two different places ‘ex magna devotione’. 60 CP 12.2: 249–50, 372–4; Monasticon, 5: 661. I am grateful to Dr Jackie Hall who kindly shared her findings on the relationship between the Verduns and Croxden Abbey with me. See also J. Hall, ‘Croxden Abbey Church: Architecture, Burial and Patronage’, JBAA 160 (2007), pp. 38–128, in particular 84–92. 61 See below p. 94. 62 Brown, ‘Authority, the Family and the Dead’, p. 814.

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providing the raw material with which the soul could work. It also meant that there was no sense of material continuity, which posed a problem with regard to saints’ relics. Although the cadaver was seen as ontologically and theologically ambiguous, Aquinas’s theory of the unicity of form was roundly condemned at Oxford and Paris, while at the latter university a spirited debate ensued at the instigation of Pope Honorius IV in the 1280s which related to the ontological status of the body between death and Resurrection.63 The trouble was that both sides of the debate could harness the same arguments in favour of unicity or plurality of forms in relation to burial and the spread of relics. If one followed Aquinas, one could conclude that it did not matter – so to speak – where the body was interred or in how many pieces, since body did not participate in the formation of personhood. On the other hand, it did not matter where the body was buried, or in how many pieces a saint’s body was divided, if there was a multiplicity of forms which together made up the body without compromising its material continuity – an intricate use of synecdoche as Caroline Bynum has pointed out.64 An additional difficulty was the status of flesh. According to Isidore, the enfleshed body was ipso facto alive. Although there were many different ‘bodies’, not all of them could be considered alive because they lacked flesh (‘caro’), such as grass or stones. As Elizabeth Brown and Katherine Park have suggested in opposite arguments, one of the main concerns in medieval attitudes towards death was the idea of a connection between soul and body which was not entirely separated until after the decay of the flesh. For Katherine Park, this was a feature of Northern European funerary practices and ghost stories not found in Italian attitudes towards the dead. Elizabeth Brown argued almost the reverse when she stated that the solution of Boniface VIII, who was Italian, to the conundrum of burial away from the site of death pointed towards a belief in the continued connection between soul and body – an argument she based on Hertz’s studies of secondary burial practices.65 Flesh was that which was responsible for change and decay – hence saintly cadavers being either miraculously preserved to resemble heavenly bodies or being reduced to the pure essence of skeletal remains and, as we saw in Chapter 1, hence also the powerful imagery of the putrefying cadaver to signal moral corruption and the depiction of ghosts as animated corporeal revenants.66 Boniface’s solution focused on the natural stripping away of the flesh, before 63

Bynum, Resurrection of the Body, pp. 256–78. Brown, ‘Authority, Family and the Dead’, pp. 816–17. 64 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, pp. 285, 290, 294. 65 Park, ‘The Life of the Corpse’, pp. 111–32; Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, p. 223. 66 For flesh rather than soul being responsible for sin see A. Boureau, ‘The Sacrality of One’s Own Body in the Middle Ages’, Corps mystique, corps sacré: Textual Transfigurations of the Body from the Middle Ages to the Seventeenth Century, ed. F. Jaouën and B. Semple, Yale French Studies 86 (1994), pp. 5–17.

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the body could be removed to its permanent sepulchre, which denied the flesh any real participation in the Resurrection, but which also ensured the complete separation of body and soul. This was ultimately also the outcome of a series of debates held at the University of Paris in the 1280s and 1290s, which originated as a response to the burial arrangements of King Philip III of France (d. 1285).67 Initially, the discussion centred on whether the wishes of the deceased regarding interment could be changed by their executor. When Philip III died in the south of France in October 1285, his body was prepared for the journey to St Denis where he had wished to be interred. At the request of the Archbishop of Narbonne, Philip’s flesh and entrails were buried in the cathedral, two days after his death. His son, however, had originally promised these to the Dominicans in the same city. After protests, he then decided to donate his father’s heart to the order’s church in Paris. It was the latter which incensed the monks of St Denis, who evidently had little care about the resting place of the royal entrails and flesh; they argued that because Philip III had promised his whole body to them, the heart could not be interred elsewhere, as this would go against the wishes of the deceased.68 However, the discussion soon focused on the nature of the body, the importance of burial in one grave and the theological ramifications of multiple burial. In 1286, the three masters involved in the debate, Henri de Ghent, Godefroid de Fontaines and Gervais de Mont-Saint-Eloi, agreed that there was little religious justification for multiple burial, although they did not condemn the practice. It was more natural for the body to be buried in one location, but as a practical necessity the separate interment of the viscera was allowed in certain cases. Both Gervais and Godefroid agreed on this matter, and Godefroid referred to it as an ‘ancient’ custom practiced by the elite (secundum antiquam consuetudinem maiores personae). As Henri de Ghent pointed out, was not Jacob’s body embalmed ‘in the Egyptian manner’? Nevertheless, he maintained that multiple burial was not sanctioned by the holy fathers, did not increase the efficacy of prayer and in the end was a horrible and dehumanising practice.69 While Henri de Ghent draws upon the traditional view that anyone would want to be buried amongst one’s relatives and rationalises this with reference 67

Elizabeth Brown has devoted two seminal articles to the debate. See her ‘Death and the Human Body’ and ‘Authority, Family and the Dead’. 68 Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, pp. 235–7; ‘Authority, Family and the Dead’, p. 818. For a summary of the complaint see Henrici de Gandavo Opera Omnia 13: Quodlibet 9, ed. R. Macken, Ancient and Medieval Philosophy; De Wulf-Mansion Series 2 (Leuven, 1983), p. 225 [hereafter Henri de Ghent, Quodlibet 9]. 69 For Gervais, see Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, pp. 269–70; for Godefroid, see Les quatre premiers quodlibets de Godefroid de Fontaines, ed. M. de Wulf and A. Pelzer. Les Philosophes Belges, Textes et Études 2 (Leuven, 1904), pp. 28–9 [hereafter Godefroid de Fontaines, Quodlibets]; Henri de Ghent, Quodlibet 9, p. 231. Brown, ‘Authority, Family and the Dead’, pp. 818–19.

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to the Pauline metaphor of the Church as body of Christ, Godefroid de Fontaines is more emotive. According to him, heirs should spare no labour or expense in honouring the wishes of the deceased and should ensure their interment in one piece where they had elected to be buried – suggesting that if there is an absolute need for the body to be eviscerated, the entrails should be carefully embalmed and buried with the body. Similarly, although Gervais disagrees in principle with the ‘novel’ custom (!), he will make allowances for the removal of the entrails, since they cannot be transported without danger to other parts of the body.70 Unavoidably perhaps, because the debate touched upon a practice which was proving lucrative to the mendicants, the Dominican Olivier de Tréguier argued in 1291 that multiple burial was effective for the well-being of the soul when its intention was to increase the number of prayers; moreover, he pointed out the obvious belief that God would be able to reassemble all parts of the body. In response to this, Godefroid reiterated his earlier arguments in favour of integrity and proposed a two-stage burial programme which would allow the flesh to decay naturally and leave the bones to be transported safely to their final destination. The same, he argued, should be applied to the remains of saints who could be divided because of their semi-public status, but only after the flesh and other perishable parts had turned to dust. In fact, he stated, in their drive to counter corruption, those who wished for multiple burial were actually deliberately corrupting their body, because its natural corruption was only accidental as a result of the first sin.71 The issue of the separate interment of the heart against the wishes of the deceased therefore pointed to a more profound concern about the idea of integrity in which entrails and flesh only played a secondary role. As Philip III had requested the burial of his whole body (simpliciter, integraliter) with the monks of St Denis, was it right for the Dominicans to hang on to the king’s heart? The problem of changing one’s last will was still present, but became entangled in the theological conundrum of the status of the body, as well as issues with the burial activities of the mendicants. In the end, those opposed to the practice could do nothing more than harness their emotive arguments about the unnatural and irrational sentiments which underlay multiple burial in the same way that Boniface VIII was to oppose it in strikingly similar terms as those used by Godefroid. Although there is a real possibility that Boniface’s bull was inspired by the debate, since he was in Paris in 1291 and suspended Henri de Ghent from his position as university master as a consequence of his opposition to the extended rights of mendicant orders, the similarity in 70 Henri de Ghent, Quodlibet 9, p. 230; Godefroid de Fontaines, Quodlibets, pp. 28–9; Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, p. 270. 71 Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, p. 270; Le huitième quodlibet de Godefroid de Fontaines, ed. J.A. Hoffmans, Les philosophes Belges 4: Textes et Études (Louvain, 1924), pp. 87–90, 97; Brown, ‘Authority, Family and the Dead’, pp. 820–3.

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argument also seems to point to an unwillingness to engage in theological debate – either because the arguments were weak, or because it was not felt to be necessary in the context of what the bull sought to curtail.72 There was much confusion about the scope of its contents, but it was phrased in a way that made papal opinion abundantly clear to those not au fait with the intricacies of the theological consequences of their funerary practices: mos teutonicus was a horrible treatment of God’s creation.

Conclusion One of the most significant aspects about this debate in the context of aristocratic funerary practices is the status of the heart/viscera. Since it was regarded as the seat of the soul, the ‘inner man’ of Isidore’s etymological episteme, the heart was integral to the idea of personhood under the pronouncements of the Fourth Lateran Council. It followed that for the aristocracy, there was no ontological discrepancy between burial in one grave or separate interment of the heart or the viscera: in both cases one’s individual identity was represented by all parts.73 There was, however, as we have seen, an issue with the division of skeletal remains, which as a consequence was never contemplated as an option. Very clearly, the aristocracy saw the burial of skeletal remains in one location, and the heart in another, as different expressions of communal and personal identity; religious piety was a factor but it was superseded in many cases by dynastic and individual socio-political considerations. Burial of body parts became an expression of lordship, of familial identity, of the relationship between family and monastery, of individual status. The emphasis on the integrity of the aristocratic body – in the sense of nobility and wholeness – in ideas of communal identity came to lie at the heart of funerary practices and cadaver preservation. Moreover, as a result of the association between the spiritual virtues of nobility and its physiological position as ‘most worthy’ organ, the heart was considered a special part of the noble body which carried the essence of one’s being. Its separate interment therefore did not only signify the owner’s social status, in a sense it also was the owner. The collapse of the metaphorical and ideological into the physical not only had profound effects on burial practices; it came most acutely to the fore in the treatment of aristocratic traitors.

72

Ibid.; Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, pp. 236–7; ‘Authority, Family and the Dead’, pp. 820–1. 73 Bynum, Fragmentation and Redemption, p. 295.

Chapter 5

Corruption of Nobility: Treason and the Aristocratic Traitor1 On the vigil of St Bartholomew’s Day, 23 August 1305, amongst cheering crowds, one of Edward I’s most persistent opponents was dragged by a horse through the streets of London towards the site of his execution. Charged with treason and a range of felonies, the Scotsman William Wallace, scion of a minor landholding family, was subjected initially to personal humiliation before being publicly killed in elaborate fashion. About a year later, on 6 September 1306, Simon Fraser was similarly put to death for treason and other crimes and only two months later, John Earl of Atholl underwent the same fate – the first earl, according to John Bellamy, to be executed since Waltheof of Northumbria in 1075.2 For the next thirty years or so, aristocratic men were unable to rely on their high social status if their political fortune changed, but instead they could be subjected to a humiliating public punishment which did not necessarily end with death. What had happened between 1075 and 1306 in the attitudes towards aristocratic treason and punishment? How was treason defined in different political circumstances and why was it thought more suitable for aristocrats to die rather than to be punished more leniently? In this chapter and the next, I will explore a different perspective on death and its impact on the body. Where in the previous chapters the focus has been on aristocratic funerary practices and the ways in which the body was perceived in honourable circumstances, it is now time to see how, if one failed to live up to the standards of aristocratic identity and the community, dishonour was rendered visible within and upon the body. To pick up an argument made in Chapter 2, it is nowhere clearer than in the treatment of the

1

Elements of this chapter and the next have appeared previously in Westerhof, ‘Deconstructing Identities’, and ead., ‘Amputating the Traitor: Healing the Social Body in Public Executions for Treason in Medieval England’, in The Ends of the Body: Identity and Community in Medieval Culture, ed. S. Akbari and J. Ross (forthcoming). 2 Ann. London, pp. 139–42; Flores historiarum, 3: 123–4; G.W.S. Barrow, Robert Bruce and the Community of the Realm of Scotland, 3rd edn (Edinburgh, 1988), pp. 136–8, 155–6; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 46.

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aristocratic body in public executions how the body was perceived as a central space in and upon which personal and communal identity interacted and merged. It will also be clear from the discussion in the next pages that, as in funerary practices, a significant aspect of ideas about treason and corporal punishment involved issues of self-control or its absence in relation to a perceived imbalance between the inner and the outer person. My focus will be on the executions of aristocrats from the middle of the thirteenth century onwards – executions which incorporated mutilation and/or division of the body in a series of punishments designed for a variety of crimes but always including a charge of treason. In this chapter, the focus will be on the nature of treason in legal and political contexts, and how definitions of treason intersected with ideas about nobility. In the next chapter, I shall concentrate on the nature of the punishment of aristocratic traitors and suggest that aristocrats came to be penalised more harshly as a result of the common ideology of embodied nobility which collapsed perceptions of inner and outer person.

Scottish traitors and their treatment 1305–06 The capture and execution of the three Scotsmen in 1305–06 occurred in the context of dramatic developments in the relations between England and Scotland. Before Robert Bruce claimed the throne of Scotland in the spring of 1306 it had appeared that Edward I had succeeded in submitting the kingdom to his rule. In the political void which had started dramatically with the death of a little girl destined to be queen of Scotland in 1290, Edward was able skilfully to manipulate the Scottish aristocracy into accepting him as their overlord in the proceedings determining the rightful heir to the throne. This culminated in 1296 with John Balliol’s abdication in Edward’s court and the English king effectively assuming political control, formalised by the forced homage of the Scottish aristocracy at the Parliament of Berwick on 28 August of that year.3 Nine months later, Scotland was back in turmoil with William Wallace in Lanarkshire (having killed, and supposedly dismembered, the sheriff of Lanark) and Andrew of Murray in the north rising against English rule. In the south-west, a group of barons, including Wallace’s own lord James the Steward and Robert Bruce the younger (the future king), collected an army, although their resistance was to be short-lived. For a brief period, Wallace and Murray were joint Guardians for John Balliol, who was still regarded as the rightful king of Scotland. Murray died in November 1297 3

For the background to the Anglo-Scottish conflict and for what follows, see E.L.G. Stones and G.G. Simpson, Edward I and the Throne of Scotland, 1290–1296: An Edition of the Record Sources for the Great Cause, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1978); F. Watson, Under the Hammer: Edward I and Scotland 1286–1307 (East Linton, 1998), pp. 6–29; Barrow, Bruce, pp. 39–53; M. Prestwich, Edward I (London, 1988), pp. 356–76.

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after being wounded at the Battle of Stirling Bridge, while Wallace was forced to resign after a disastrous Scottish defeat at Falkirk the following year.4 During this period, Simon Fraser, a relative of William Fraser bishop of St Andrews, and John of Atholl were in Flanders serving with the English army, probably in exchange for release from English captivity. Fraser, who was warden of Selkirk Forest under the English, remained loyal until September 1301; John of Atholl, who was a member of the Scottish Council from 1299, first renewed his loyalty to the English in late 1303 but was present at Robert Bruce’s inauguration in March 1306.5 It was not until the end of 1302 that Edward was able to devote his full attention to the North again. By May 1303, he was in Berwick whence he started a slow progress into Scotland with his army. The English king met with some resistance but, in March 1304, he was able to hold a parliament at St Andrews, where once again the Scottish aristocracy was summoned to perform homage under terms of a general peace. John Comyn, who had led the Scottish rebellion between 1298 and 1304 did homage for his lands and swore fealty, followed by all magnates who had previously resisted Edward. Excluded from this peace were William Wallace, Simon Fraser and the Stirling garrison, which turned them into outlaws. John of Atholl, loyal to the English since the previous year, was soon serving as justiciar in the North.6 Wallace and Fraser had rejected the initial peace terms offered to the Scots in February, which isolated them in their military efforts. The Stirling garrison held out until July 1304, during which time Fraser had thrown himself on Edward’s mercy and had been accepted in the king’s peace. Wallace, however, refused to surrender himself to the uncertainty of Edward’s temper and judgement, which appears to have infuriated the English king. Immediately after the fall of Stirling Castle, Edward ordered John Comyn, Simon Fraser and others to capture Wallace to show their good faith towards him.7 The outlawed Wallace was finally captured in early August 1305, not by Comyn and Fraser but by John of Menteith who was awarded 40 marks and £100 in land for his service.8 According to the Annales Londonienses, which provides the fullest account of Wallace’s trial and execution, he was taken to London where he arrived on 22 August. The following day Wallace was led on horseback from a house in All Saints Haymarket to Westminster Palace, in a 4

Barrow, Bruce, pp. 90–1. Documents Illustrative of Sir William Wallace, ed. J. Stevenson, Maitland Club (Edinburgh, 1841), p. xvii; Ann. London, p. 140. 5 F. Watson, ‘Strathbogie, John of, ninth earl of Atholl (c. 1260–1306), magnate’, ODNB, online edition (Oxford, 2004) and ead. ‘Fraser, Sir Simon (c. 1270–1306), rebel’, ODNB, online edition (Oxford, 2004). 6 Watson, Under the Hammer, pp. 176–83, 186–9. Robert Bruce had already made peace with Edward in 1302. Barrow, Bruce, pp. 121–4. Watson, ‘Strathbogie, John of’. 7 Watson, Under the Hammer, pp. 191–2. 8 Prestwich, Edward I, pp. 502–3; Documents illustrative of Sir William Wallace, p. 169 (no. XX).

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procession which included his guard John de Segrave, his judges, the aldermen of London and ‘many others walking and riding’.9 In the Great Hall in Westminster Palace, Wallace was seated on the ‘southern bench’ (scamnum australe), probably indicating the King’s Bench, which was located at the southern end of the Great Hall.10 Here he was accused of treason, which he denied although he accepted the other charges against him.11 After this Peter Mallore, a justice of the Common Bench, read out the writ of gaol delivery which was followed by a list of Wallace’s crimes. These were presented as beyond doubt, based on the king’s word. Because he had never been received back into the English king’s peace, Wallace was considered an outlaw and would be tried as such. This meant that he was not allowed to speak in his own defence and after reading out his crimes, the judges immediately proceeded to pass sentence.12 For his manifest treason (‘pro manifesta seditione’), for the plotting of felonies (i.e. premeditated crimes) and planning to murder the king, for his attempts to weaken the Crown and the dignity of the king, and for raising the banner against his liege lord in battle, Wallace was drawn first from Westminster Palace to the Tower of London, then from the Tower, via Aldgate, Cornhill, Cheap and Newgate, to the Elms at Smithfield. It is possible that he was initially drawn to the Tower via the same route, which constituted the main arterial road through the city and the market areas.13 As a consequence, the first part of his punishment was intended to alert the Londoners to his execution and thereby to increase Wallace’s public humiliation. Upon arrival at the Elms, he was first hanged for the robberies and homicides he had committed both in England and Scotland (‘in regno Angliae et terra Scotiae’ – note the difference in status); after losing consciousness 9

Ann. London, pp. 139–42 for the following account. The Annales were probably written in the 1320s by a chamberlain of the London Guildhall, called Andrew Horn. Based on an abbreviated version of the Flores historiarum the narrative is interspersed with the author’s own material, which includes legal documents (such as Wallace’s writ of gaol delivery). J. Catto, ‘Andrew Horn: Law and History in Fourteenth-Century England’, in The Writing of History in the Middle Ages: Essays Presented to Richard William Southern, ed. R.H.C. Davis and J.M. Wallace-Hadrill (Oxford, 1981), pp. 367–91, at 367–71, 374–6. A writ under the Privy Seal, however, suggests the Tower as Wallace’s gaol. Documents illustrative of Sir William Wallace, p. 187 (no. XXVII). 10 My thanks go to Professor Mark Ormrod for pointing this out. See H.M. Colvin, History of the King’s Works: The Middle Ages, 2 vols. (London, 1963), 1: 543–4. In the years 1305–18, the King’s Bench was permanently at Westminster, although traditionally it only sat in the king’s presence. During Edward’s earlier Scottish campaigns it travelled with him. A. Musson and W.M. Ormrod, The Evolution of English Justice: Law, Politics and Society in the Fourteenth Century (Basingstoke, 1999), pp. 17–19. 11 Ann. London, p. 139. In response to the treason accusation, Wallace responded that he had never betrayed the king of the English. 12 Ann. London, p. 141; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 34–8. 13 Ann. London, p. 141. For his route through London see The British Atlas of Historic Towns vol. 3: The City of London, gen. ed. M.D. Lobel (Oxford, 1991).

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(‘semivivus’), Wallace was taken down and beheaded ‘because he was an outlaw’ and had not been received back into the king’s peace. Moreover, because of sacrilege his heart, lungs and liver ‘and all his interior organs [omnia interiora ipsius Willelmi] from which his perverse thoughts had emanated’ were extracted from his body and burned on the spot. Interestingly, because his actions had not only affected the king but also the people of England and Scotland (‘toti plebi Angliae et Scotiae’), his trunk was quartered for a prominent display on the gallows in Newcastle, Berwick, Stirling and Perth, while his head remained in London to be placed on London Bridge. The choice of four northern towns for each of Wallace’s quarters was evidently meant to deter others from rebelling against the English.14 The Annales Londonienses also provides a detailed account of the death of Simon Fraser, although it lacks the transcripts of official documents similar to Wallace’s trial. In addition, we have a contemporary poem which fills in some of the gaps in the chronicle accounts while it corroborates other details. The vernacular Song on the Execution of Sir Simon Fraser, found in MS BL Harley 2253 (c. 1340), not only provides details of Fraser’s execution, but also relates how he was received in London prior to his trial and how his suspended cadaver fared after the execution: it was guarded by twenty-four men every night to stop the Scots from taking the body down. Since Fraser’s body was taken from the gallows three weeks after his death, it seems that the poem was composed in the period prior to this (Song of Simon Fraser, lines 209–16). Moreover, since it is written in the vernacular it offers a fascinating insight into the sentiments of a wider audience regarding the events in Scotland.15 In early September 1306, about six months after Robert Bruce’s inauguration as king of the Scots at Scone, Simon Fraser was brought to London after his capture at the Battle of Methven on 19 June. He entered through Newgate on horseback but with his feet fettered underneath and his hands tied. Like Wallace, who was made to wear a laurel wreath in mockery at his trial, Fraser wore a ‘crown of periwinkle’.16 The day after his arrival, two other Scottish noblemen, Herbert de Morham and his squire Thomas de Bois were beheaded in the Tower after receiving judgement by Ralph de Sandwich, the Constable of the Tower. Subsequently, Fraser was summarily tried and sentenced to death. Dressed in sackcloth, he was placed on an oxhide and immediately drawn from the Tower through the centre of London to the gallows – according to the Song, 14

Ann. London, p. 142; Flores historiarum, 3: 123–4, also mentions that Wallace’s genitals were cut off and that he was disembowelled before he was beheaded. John de Segrave was paid 15s for taking Wallace’s quarters back to the North. Prestwich, Edward I, p. 503. 15 Ann. London, p. 148; see also Flores historiarum, 3: 134; Brut, 1: 200–1. Song on the Execution of Sir Simon Fraser, in Historical Poems of the XIVth and XVth Centuries (New York, 1959), pp. 14–21 [hereafter Song of Simon Fraser]. 16 Song of Simon Fraser, lines 115–23; John Lydgate in the Fall of Princes associated periwinkle with the condemned criminal: Lydgate, Fall of Princes, ed. H. Bergen, 4 vols. EETS extra series 121–24 (1924), 3: 678 (book 6 line 126).

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at Smithfield – for his treason. He was hanged for robbery, then taken down while unconscious, beheaded for homicide and disembowelled. Afterwards, his body was returned to hang on the gallows in iron chains, while his head was placed beside that of William Wallace on London Bridge.17 John of Atholl’s execution on 7 November followed a slightly different pattern as a consequence of his status. Captured in August, he had been led ‘secretly outside the walls [occulte extra muros]’ towards London’s Postern Gate beside the Tower, where he was incarcerated.18 Two days after his arrival, he was tried at Westminster Palace by Roger de Brabazon and Peter Mallore, the king’s justices.19 Instead of being drawn, he was allowed to proceed on horseback to the gallows (which was fifty feet high) on account of his royal blood. He was hanged for treason, and like Wallace and Fraser taken down while unconscious to be beheaded. His remains (‘una cum carne et ossibus’) were immediately burned in a fire which had been lit earlier. His head was sent to London Bridge and put on display in the ‘highest position’ again because of his exalted status as Edward’s distant kinsman.20 It appears there was some unease mixed with self-righteous anger in the proceedings against the Earl of Atholl. Unlike the triumphant entry of Wallace and Fraser, who had given Edward and his henchmen a hard time in Scotland trying to capture them, the Earl’s arrival in London was shrouded in secrecy. It was only after his judgement that royal indignation was fully vented through the use of the high gallows, the disgraceful funeral pyre as well as the fact that the earl’s head was placed on London Bridge. John of Atholl’s treason was felt all the more because of his high status and distant connection to the English royal house. In each case, despite the similarities in the type of punishment, the accusations of treason differed as did the position of the men prior to their capture. Wallace had been proclaimed an outlaw, which foreclosed access to a fair trial; Fraser, although his exile had been commuted after Wallace’s capture, had subsequently betrayed Edward again by fighting on the Scottish side. John of Atholl, lastly, had played a dangerous and duplicitous role by openly adhering to the English, but secretly throwing in his lot with Robert Bruce in the early months of 1306. William Wallace was accused of a range of crimes, including ‘accroachment’ of royal power and crimes against the people of England and 17

Ann. London, p. 148; Flores historiarum, 3: 134; Song of Simon Fraser, lines 113–28, 153–216. 18 Flores historiarum, 3: 134–5; Ann. London, p. 149. 19 Mallore served on the Common Bench, but Roger de Brabazon was Chief Justice of the King’s Bench. A. Musson, Public Order and Law Enforcement: The Local Administration of Criminal Justice, 1294–1350 (Woodbridge, 1996), p. 88n; J.R. Maddicott, Law and Lordship: Royal Justices as Retainers in Thirteenth- and Fourteenth-Century England, Past & Present Publications, supplement 4 (1978), p. 16. 20 Flores Historiarum, 3: 135. John of Atholl was distantly related to the English royal house through his mother, who was a granddaughter of one of King John’s illegitimate daughters; CP, 1: 305.

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Scotland; by contrast, Fraser and Atholl were only accused of a breach of loyalty towards the English king. What all three had in common, however, was an idea of being subject to a form of punishment which emphasised the complete destruction of the human body through quartering or burning. At the same time, by displaying the head or different body parts, the physical destruction of the traitor was further underscored as a stark warning to others, aristocrats in particular. The events of 1305–06, used as an illustration of the visceral corporeality of punishment, highlight two main issues: what was considered treason, and why were aristocratic traitors increasingly facing public humiliation and death in the course of the thirteenth century?

‘Feloniously as a felon, traitorously as a traitor’ 21 The savagery of the punishment for treason in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century in England has puzzled scholars for decades. Maurice Keen has pointed out that the trials of traitors did not conform to the usual procedures for criminal persecution, and the majority of traitors appear to have been convicted on the king’s record alone and under martial law – highlighting the fact that treason was generally committed during periods of open war.22 For John Bellamy – following Pollock and Maitland’s assertion about the nature of treason – the punishment for treason signified its difference in status from lesser crimes, which led him to consider the development of a specific law of treason connected to bloodier punishments. However, as the discussion in the following chapters will reveal, the severity of punishments hardly ever corresponded to the severity of accusations. Moreover, John Gillingham has recently questioned this emphasis on the development of new concepts of treason and instead suggests that the focus should be on the fact that the punishments for treason changed in this period. In addition, he argues that the use of harsher punishments for treason might indicate a decline in ‘chivalric’ standards, which culminated in the civil unrest of the 1320s and public execution of traitors.23 21 22 23

The Mirror of Justices, ed. W.J. Whittaker, Selden Society 7 (1895), p. 55. Keen, ‘Treason Trials’, pp. 85–103. Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 20; F. Pollock and F.W. Maitland, The History of English Law Before the Time of Edward I, 2 vols. (Cambridge, 1968), 2: 511; J. Gillingham, ‘Killing and Mutilating Political Enemies in the British Isles from the Late Twelfth to the Early Fourteenth Century: A Comparative Study’, in Britain and Ireland 900–1300: Insular Responses to Medieval European Change, ed. B. Smith (Cambridge, 1999), pp. 114–34, at 133–4. One aspect of the debate has centred on the influence of Roman law on the changing attitudes towards punishment. See for a brief discussion W. Childs, ‘Resistance and Treason in the Vita Edwardi Secundi’, in Thirteenth Century England 6, ed. M. Prestwich, R.H. Britnell and R. Frame (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 177–91, at 180.

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I would like to progress from Gillingham’s argument by suggesting that we should see treason in light of aristocratic idealised self-definition of embodied nobility and ask how this ideal impinged upon the complex socio-political realities of the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. As I pointed out in my introduction, the communal set of values which formed the glue holding the aristocracy together as a group was not fixed or interpreted one way – all group members would have a vague idea of what it meant to be a noble aristocrat, but its practical manifestation would differ from person to person. Like ideas of ‘chivalry’, the written circumference of the concept of treason was ambiguous, an ambiguity which manifested itself in the lack of unity in accusations and punishments. Often, treason would be conceptually interchanged with theft as both encompassed a degree of deliberate deception and secrecy. For example, the armiger literatus attempting to kill Henry III in 1238 was described by Matthew Paris as a thief (ipse latro), whose body parts were displayed on cruci latronali; Hugh Despenser the Elder (d. 1326) and Roger Mortimer (d. 1330) were also both hanged on the common gallows ‘like thieves’.24 Moreover, treason as a political concept was unavoidably related to specific political circumstances. The ambiguity of the concept of treason provided both king and aristocracy with a flexible interpretation of accusations of ‘seditio’, ‘proditio’ or ‘crimen laesae maiestatis’ and even the 1352 Statute of Treasons incorporated a loophole with which any future actions and intentions not specifically detailed in the Statute could be reinterpreted as treasonous by king and parliament.25 In 1352, for the first time, a discussion regarding the conceptual boundaries of treason entered the arena of executive justice in an attempt to reconcile the theoretical ramifications of the concept of treason with actual accusations of treason in practice. Significantly, the Statute was engendered in a context of concerns about forfeiture rather than about addressing the unstable boundaries of the concept of treason. As far as both Edward III and the commons were concerned, the financial implications outweighed the judicial, political and social interpretations of the crime in question.26 24

Paris, Chronica majora, 3: 498; Adae Murimuth Continuatio chronicarum, ed. E.M. Thompson, RS 93 (1889), p. 49; Geoffrey Le Baker of Swinbroke, Chronicon Angliae temporibus Edward II et Edward III, ed. J.A. Giles. Caxton Society 7 (1847), p. 112. This connection is also found in the Anglo-Saxon Dooms: cf. VI Athelstan 1.1–5 or II Cnut 4.6. See Neal, ‘Masculine Identity’, pp. 184–5. Neal argues that in later medieval court cases the term ‘thief’ was used as an umbrella term to indicate any manifestation of ‘trickery, deception and oversubtlety’. 25 Statutes of the Realm, 1: 319–20 (25 Edward III 5.C.2). For this loophole being used, see Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 180–1. 26 Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 59–87; cf. I.D. Thorney, ‘The Act of Treasons, 1352’, History 6 (1921), pp. 106–8; S. Rezneck, ‘The Early History of the Parliamentary Declaration of

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In order to effect the correct distribution of forfeited property, however, a working definition of treason had to be espoused. Therefore, a distinction was made between high and petty treason, whereby the former was limited to crimes against the king and his government and entailed the forfeiture of goods to the crown. Petty treason involved acts against one’s lord, husband or master, whereby goods were forfeited to the lord of the fee. The Statute is not particularly concerned with the latter (only killing one’s lord, husband or master is mentioned), but provides a list of what constitutes high treason, pertaining directly to the body of the king and his family, the political body of government and its representatives, and the social body. The latter included open rebellion and adhering to the king’s enemies but emphatically excluded felonies committed under cover of secrecy such as homicide, robbery or kidnapping in the context of private warfare. Forms of high treason directed against the king and his government included the act and intention of assaulting the king, his wife, his heirs, his government officials or members of the king’s council, forging the royal seals, and coin clipping and forgery. Even if the Statute failed to include the most elusive of accusations, viz. ‘accroaching royal power’, or did not address issues of judicial process or forms of punishment, it certainly focused the idea of treason on the concrete betrayal of the king and the crown.27 The most fundamental element of any accusation of treason involved a breach of trust, oath or loyalty.28 Although considered a particularly heinous crime in Anglo-Saxon law, which could not be compensated by payment and which threw a man on to the king’s mercy, treason was not different from other felonies such as arson, homicide or theft.29 Nevertheless, a distinction could be made as, for example, in Alfred’s law code, which specifies that ‘hlafordsearwe’ (betrayal of one’s lord) is the only crime for which the king ought not to show mercy and it is only in very exceptional circumstances that one may break one’s oath to one’s superior, which includes deserting one’s lord in times of war.30 Edmund, Alfred’s grandson, equally stresses the importance of his men swearing an oath of loyalty: ‘since a man should be loyal to his

Treason’, EHR 42 (1927), pp. 497–513; W.M. Ormrod, The Reign of Edward III (Stroud, 2000), pp. 29–31. 27 Cf. Kantorowicz, The King’s Two Bodies, p. 258 for a late thirteenth-century opinion on the scope of treason. 28 See also Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 1–22 for a discussion of the theory of treason which, however, excludes the Anglo-Saxon Dooms. 29 Cf. III Edgar 7.3, II Aethelstan 4, in Die Gesetze der Angelsachsen, ed. F. Liebermann, 3 vols. (Halle, 1898–1916); Leges Henrici Primi, ed. L.J. Downer (Oxford, 1972), c. 12.1a; 13.1, 13.7, 13.12. The author of the Leges uses the English terms for the felonies in 12.1a – including breach of loyalty – but reverts back to Latin terminology in 13.1 (infidelitas et proditio). See also F. Lear, Treason in Roman and Germanic Law (Austin, Texas, 1965), pp. 181–95. 30 Alfred 4.

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lord, without any dispute [controversia] or betrayal [seductione].’31 In the following century, Archbishop Wulfstan of York powerfully condemned disloyalty as a particularly shameful act in the Sermo lupi ad Anglos: ‘hlafordswice’ is defined as betraying the soul of one’s lord, killing him or driving him into exile. The particularity of the latter two crimes is the consequence of relatively recent events which Wulfstan refers to: the killing of King Edward ‘the martyr’ in 978 and King Aethelred’s exile in 1013. For the Archbishop, however, betrayal is only one of the many crimes the English have succumbed to and for which they are being punished with the presence of the Vikings.32 Later legal treatises, such as Glanvill and Bracton (c. 1180–1220), incorporated the Roman concept of lese-majesty, which was used as a kind of umbrella term for any act which could be construed as being contemptuous of royal authority.33 Betrayal of the king’s person (‘seditione personae domini regis’), his army or his kingdom, was not different from any act which disturbed the king’s peace (the usual felonies).34 For Bracton, lese-majesty was the most serious of public crimes and in its definition the author focuses specifically on acts of betrayal and conspiracy, whereby intention is as culpable as the act itself.35 Both authors, however, agree that the punishment should be death or mutilation. They also agree on an aspect of the accusation which was to be popular during the reigns of Edward I and Edward II, namely that a suspected traitor could be brought to justice on account of public notoriety. In two legal texts written during the reign of Edward I, we find that the definition of treason is more or less encapsulated by the punishment for it. Although Britton broadened the scope of treason by suggesting that treason was ‘any mischief [damage], which a man knowingly [escient] does, or procures to be done, to one to whom he pretends to be a friend [a cely a qi hom se fet ami]’, the author specified that for treason the criminal should be drawn, while ‘suffering death for the felony’.36 Fleta, moreover, argues that treason (referred to as lese-majesty – which demands ‘penalties beyond death’) is the 31 32

III Edmund 1. Sermo Lupi ad Anglos, ed. D. Whitelock, Methuen’s Old English Library (Oxford, 1939), pp. 31–2. 33 H.G. Richardson and G.O. Sayles, Law and Legislation from Aethelberht to Magna Carta (Edinburgh, 1966), pp. 71–4. The term lese-majesty refers to the semi-sacerdotal nature of kingship, which is further highlighted by the frequent pairing of treason and sacrilege. See for example John of Salisbury’s comments: Policraticus, 2: 73 (ed. Nederman, p. 137) and Vita Edwardi Secundi: The Life of Edward the Second, ed. W.R. Childs (Oxford, 2005), pp. 142–3, whose author refers specifically to Boniface VIII’s De poenis in which sacrilege is called treason. 34 G.D.G. Hall (ed.), Tractatus de legibus et consuetudinibus regni Anglie qui Glanvilla vocatur (London, 1965), pp. 3–4. 35 Henry Bracton, On the Laws and Customs of England, ed. G.E. Woodbine and trans. S. Thorne, 4 vols. (Cambridge, Mass., 1968), 2: 334–7. 36 Britton: The French Text Carefully Revised with an English Translation, Introduction and Notes, ed. F.M. Nichols, 2 vols. (Oxford, 1865), 1: 40–1.

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most serious crime which ought to be dealt with first ‘lest a penalty should be extinguished or wrongdoings remain unpunished’.37 Treason, according to Fleta, is any act against the king: such as plotting his death or his abdication, or to betray him and his army (referred to as ‘seduccionem’). The French Mirror of Justices, also compiled in the reign of Edward I, adds to this list sexual assault of the queen, their eldest daughter or the ‘nurse suckling the heir of the king’. Moreover, unlike the other texts, the Mirror emphatically asserts that treason is sacrilege and that traitors are mortal sinners who should be purged from the community.38 It is obvious, therefore, that before the change in attitudes towards the physical punishment of aristocrats in the later thirteenth century, legal literature such as Leges, Glanvill and Bracton had already insisted on the death penalty and mutilation of traitors, although they did not always specify in detail how this should be effected. Moreover, with the exception of Glanvill, who used lese-majesty as an overarching concept for both treason and felonies, later legal authors use the type of punishment (i.e. execution) as an umbrella concept whereby lese-majesty is considered the most serious crime, despite its similarities to felonies.39 Both Britton and Fleta, compiled as the changes in attitude were taking place, are more reflective on the specifics of the punishment and Britton in particular mirrors what became a standard treatment of convicted traitors.40 These attitudes to treason were not just found in the writings of legal theorists. Political theory, in the person of the twelfth-century scholar John of Salisbury, was equally critical of betrayal and went even further in its condemnation of treason.41 In the eyes of John of Salisbury, the traitor was not only corrupt in himself, but he also symbolised corrupt matter which had to be expelled from society in the way a surgeon would cut away diseased limbs. In Ciceronian spirit, John saw harmony as the fundamental precept of successful government; without a state of equilibrium in which each member of the body politic was assigned its proper place, rebellion and injustice would prevail.42 37

Fleta, ed. H.G. Richardson and G.O. Sayles, 4 vols. Selden Society 62 (1955), 2: 56. This very much echoes the sentiments of the compiler of the Leges Henrici Primi, for whom scalping or disembowelment of the traitor is not nearly enough punishment. Instead, the traitor should wish to die before he died. Leges, 75.1. 38 Fleta, 2: 56; Mirror of Justices, pp. 13, 15, 21. 39 Cf. Britton, 1: 98–9. 40 For example, William de Marisco’s sixteen accomplices were all drawn and hanged in 1242. Also, chronicles occasionally refer to ‘proditio’ and lese-majesty as distinct crimes (cf. Chron. Buriensis, p. 79; Flores historiarum, 2: 231. 41 John of Salisbury, Policraticus, ed. Webb and trans. Nederman. He sets out his political vision in Books IV, V and VI, where he draws an elaborate metaphor of the body politic. For the development of this metaphor in political theory see T. Struve, Die Entwicklung der organologischen Staatsauffassung im Mittelalter (Stuttgart, 1978). The following is derived from Westerhof, ‘Amputating the Traitor’. 42 C.J. Nederman, ‘The Physiological Significance of the Organic Metaphor in John of

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Drawing upon widely circulating ideas about health and the prevention of disease, John described crime as an imbalance within the body politic which could be redressed by the ruler as ‘medicus rei publicae’ administering the law like a medicine (‘medicinaliter’).43 Occasionally, the crime would be so severe, he argued, that the only way of purging society would be to ‘amputate’ the corrupted criminal. This is thrown sharply into relief in John’s discussion of treason, informed by then current legal theory. In his view, treason constitutes anything which intends to disrupt society and he goes so far as to state that it is sacrilege to commit treason, since both lead to the spiritual death of the perpetrator.44 Although he maintains that the ruler by ordination is ‘a sort of deity on earth, and that any attack on him is an attack on God’, he argues that as a consequence of the interdependence of head and members, ‘a blow to the head [lesio capitis] … is carried back to all the members and a wound unjustly inflicted upon any member whatsoever [i.e. outside the bounds of legitimate violence] tends to the injury of the head.’45 Invoking Christ’s metaphor of removing offending members from the community of the faithful, John concludes that in order to preserve the safety of the body, the corrupt body part ought to be removed: [T]his is to be observed by the prince with regard to all of the members to the extent that not only are they to be rooted out, broken off and thrown far away [Matt. 18:8], if they give offence to the faith or public security, but they are to be destroyed utterly so that the security of the corporate community may be procured by the extermination of the one member (my italics).46

The medical practice of amputating corrupt and deadened body parts thus takes on a decidedly moral dimension in John’s vision of ideal society. Although it should be used in moderation, harsh punishment is particularly needed for repeat offenders, or for those who commit crimes which endanger the moral and political health of society.47 Salisbury’s Policraticus’, History of Political Thought 8 (1987), pp. 211–23; H. Liebeschütz, Mediaeval Humanism in the Life and Writings of John of Salisbury (London, 1950), p. 80. Cf. Policraticus, 1: 282–3. For the dissemination of his ideas, see A. Linder, ‘The Knowledge of John of Salisbury in the Late Middle Ages’, in Studi Medievali 3rd ser. 18:2 (1977), pp. 315–66; W. Ullmann, ‘John of Salisbury’s Policraticus in the later Middle Ages’, in Geschichtschreibung und geistiges Leben im Mittelalter: Festschrift für H. Löwe, ed. K. Mordek and H. Mordek (Cologne, 1978), pp. 519–45. 43 Policraticus, 1: 262. 44 Policraticus, 2: 73–7. 45 Ibid. Trans. Nederman, p. 137. 46 Policraticus, 2: 79; trans. Nederman, pp. 140–1. Cf. Marcus Tullius Cicero, De officiis. On Obligations, ed. and trans. P.G. Walsh (Oxford, 2000), iii.6 and Gerald of Wales, De principis instructione, in Opera 8, ed. G.F. Warner, RS 21 (1891), pp. 34–5. Cf. Arnold de Villanova (c. 1300), who was a physician and theologian, asserts that the rich cause gangrene to the social body and ought therefore to be removed to prevent further damage. Ziegler, Medicine and Religion, p. 75. 47 Note the similarities with excommunication rituals. One twelfth-century Ordo excom-

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Giles of Rome, who wrote a practical treatise on government for the future Philip IV in c. 1275, takes a similar view on renegade members of the polity. He agrees with John that society is ideally based on co-operation and harmony: just as the body needs different members doing different things, so the kingdom needs different offices to function ‘perfectly’ in its goal towards the common good.48 The concept of the common good is all pervasive; members may on occasion sacrifice themselves to maintain the safety of the polity, although this relies heavily on the moral and political strength of the ruler.49 When members go against the common good within the body, Giles argues, this will reveal itself in disease and corruption of humours, for which the only remedy is phlebotomy. Healthy blood was a source of life and regeneration; corrupt blood, by contrast, was a sign of death – of degeneration.50 By draining the body of excess humours, which would otherwise continue to fester and endanger the whole body, it could be healed and protected from further disruption. Although less explicit than John’s metaphor of amputation, the idea of corruption of blood within the body politic and within the traitor became more current in later medieval treason accusations, since as a concept it not only implicated the perpetrator but also his family. One of the earliest references occurs in Britton in relation to the punishment of felonies. The author states that the heirs of the felon will be disinherited, since the felon’s blood is ‘attainted by judgement [le saunc al feloun atteynt par jugement]’.51 In practice, although it was not used as a phrase in the judgement of Roger Mortimer in 1330, the concept is referred to in the petition to clear his name in 1354 (‘son Sang desheritez’), while in the fifteenth century it became a standard phrase in parliamentary acts of attainder.52 municationis instructed the excommunicator to proclaim: ‘membrum putridum et insanible … ferro excommunicationis a corpore Ecclesiae abscidamus’. Cited by F.D. Logan, Excommunication and the Secular Arm in Medieval England: A Study in Legal Procedure from the Thirteenth to the Sixteenth Century (Toronto, 1968), p. 13. The difference is that excommunication was meant to be a cure for the sinner, whereas in treason executions it was society which was in need of a cure. Cf. R. Arbesmann, ‘The Concept of “Christus Medicus” in St Augustine’, Traditio 10 (1954), pp. 1–28, at 21. 48 The edition of the De regimine principum used here is the Trevisa translation: The Governance of Kings and Princes: John of Trevisa’s Middle English Translation of the ‘De regimine principum’ of Aegidius Romanus, ed. D.C. Fowler, C.F. Briggs, and P.G. Remley (New York, 1997), p. 300. The text was initially written in Latin but was translated into French in 1282 and from then on circulated widely among the European aristocracy. See C.F. Briggs, Giles of Rome’s ‘De regimine principum’: Reading and Writing Politics at Court and University, c. 1275–1525 (Cambridge, 1999). 49 Giles of Rome, Governance, p. 32. 50 Ibid., p. 429; P. Camporesi, Juice of Life: The Symbolic and Magic Significance of Blood (New York, 1995), pp. 28–32. See also Pouchelle, Body and Surgery, p. 77 for an exemplum of a man who punished his unfaithful wife by having her bled to purge her blood of the evil she had committed. 51 Britton, 1: 37. 52 Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 255. See for example Jack Cade’s attainder and that of William de la Pole, Earl of Suffolk: Ibid., 5: 224, 226.

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Connected to metaphors of moral and physical corruption in legal and political texts, it is evident that treason was diametrically opposed to the ideas inherent in the concept of nobility and chivalry. It was strongly associated with theft, which entailed the dimension of secrecy and deception also found in acts interpreted as treason. Nobility, and its avatar chivalry, as I argued in chapter 2, was predicated on the intrinsic balance of the inner and the outer person: one could ‘read’ one’s body and know their character. It is therefore not difficult to see how the occurrence of deception and secrecy forced society to rethink its cultural parameters and to find a solution to the disruption in the balance of inner and outer person. However, before examining how the aristocratic community responded to (perceived) traitors in their midst, we should see what these men were accused of and in what terms.

Against king and kingdom: treason accusations between 1238 and 1330 In a summons to parliament in 1283, after the capture of David ap Gruffydd, Edward I set out his indignant accusation against the Welshman in anticipation of his conviction. Not only has David spurned the gifts of his rightful lord, he has also committed numerous crimes: ‘suddenly, treacherously [proditionalibus], [he] burned our towns, slew and burned many of our subjects [fidelibus nostris] and committed others to prison, invaded our castles, spilling vast quantities of innocent blood’. Ten years later, a fellow Welshman, Rhys ap Maredudd, was similarly accused of rebellion and a series of heinous crimes which broke the king’s peace, while William Wallace in 1305 was said to have committed several serious crimes against the innocent people of England and Scotland.53 The great majority of treason accusations in the period between 1238 and 1330, in fact, involve direct references to breaking the king’s peace through felonies (see below, Fig. 5), which is hardly surprising in the increasingly tempestuous political arena of late thirteenth- and early fourteenth-century Britain.54 Despite this focus, the concept of the king’s peace was itself not entirely consistently defined. Originally, it meant a code of behaviour in the king’s presence, which gradually extended to those who were on the king’s business or travelled on the roads.55 However, by the time of William de Marisco, the king’s peace extended to all parts of the king’s realm and incorporated all the king’s subjects with the exception of outlaws.56 53

CChR 1277–1326, p. 281, Foedera, 1.2: 630 (David); CCR 1288–1296, p. 267 (Rhys); Ann. London, p. 140 (William Wallace). 54 Although some of these accusations are closely related, these figures are based on explicit references in sources either as an allegation or as a reason for a particular punishment. 55 Cf. Leges, c.10.2. 56 Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 2: 463.

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2: William de Marisco’s broken inverted shield, lance and sword. © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (Royal 14C VII, f. 133v) Crimes against the king’s peace, moreover, were now considered to be felonies, including forms of betrayal. Matthew Paris when describing William’s crimes in the Historia Anglorum refers to them as ‘robberies and pillaging [rapinis et praedis]’, but his symbolic drawing of William’s downfall – a shield, sword and banner broken in half – is captioned ‘arma Willelmi de Marisco de proditione convicti’ (ill. 2).57 Similar accusations occur throughout: treason (either ‘proditio’ or ‘seditio’ and only very rarely ‘crimen maiestatis lesione’) forms part of a complex of criminal activities and intentions which are perceived to be worse because they were part of an act of treason.58 Of the full list of William Wallace’s crimes only his rebellion and assumption of royal powers in Scotland could be considered acts of treason.59 Following from Edward’s outburst in his writ of summons to the parliament which convicted David ap Gruffydd, the chronicles of Dunstable and Bury St Edmunds reflected on David’s crimes in terms of sacrilege, felonies, ‘proditio’ and lese-majesty.60 In 1326, the Despensers

57 58

Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, 2: 462. Thomas de Turberville is an exception with a single accusation of spying (i.e. adhering to the king’s enemies). John of Powderham, the son of an Exeter tanner, was accused of accroaching royal power in 1317 after claiming he was the rightful heir to the throne. See W. Childs, ‘ “Welcome, my Brother”: Edward II, John of Powderham and the Chronicles, 1318’ in Church and Chronicle in the Middle Ages, ed. I. Wood and G.A. Loud (London, 1991), pp. 149–63. The Chronicle of Bury St Edmunds accused David ap Gruffydd of ‘proditione, regie maiestatis lesione ac sacrilegio’. Chron. Buriensis, p. 79. 59 See above, pp. 99–100. 60 Ann. Dunstaplia, p. 294; Chron. Buriensis, p. 79.

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were similarly accused of robbing the church and the people, of orchestrating the deaths of innocent people and of ‘accroaching’ royal power.61 Earlier, Thomas of Lancaster and Andrew Harclay had been convicted in more general terms for betraying the king and the kingdom (‘proditore regis et regni’).62 The conviction of traitors was deliberately presented as being to the benefit of the whole polity. As in John of Salisbury’s twelfth-century ideas about treason as an allinclusive and sacrilegious crime against the body politic, in thirteenth- and fourteenth-century England, treason allegations similarly emphasised the real and potential damage to the whole of society as a consequence of criminal intentions and activities. Apart from the ambiguity about what constituted an act of treason, these accusations also reveal the extent to which monarch and government felt the need to appeal for communal approval for their actions. Notoriety, and subsequent conviction on the king’s record, became instruments with which the government could quickly and legally dispose of its most dangerous opponents – the all-inclusive charges against traitors served to bolster the royal position on the punishment of treason by appealing to the common weal. This comes very blatantly to the fore in the judgement of Hugh Despenser the Younger by Queen Isabella and Roger Mortimer in early November 1326. In this case, the king was extremely unlikely to sanction the execution and the queen had to be circumspect in the way Despenser and other supporters of Edward II were dealt with. One way in which this was achieved was by appealing to the people of the realm – a strategy repeated during the parliament which deposed Edward II in January 1327.63 Several copies of Despenser’s judgement have survived and it was edited twice from different base texts.64 In essence, Despenser was represented as a notorious traitor and enemy of the realm.65 This was a consequence of his activities and increased royal favour after Boroughbridge, but also refers to his earlier parliamentary trial in 1321 which saw him and his father convicted of felonies, ‘accroaching’ royal power and depriving heirs of their inheritance. For this they were sent into exile, after 61 62 63

Ann. Paulini, pp. 317–18; Taylor, ‘Judgement on Hugh Despenser the Younger’, pp. 70–7. Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 3; Foedera, 2: 509. See N. Fryde, The Tyranny and Fall of Edward II, 1321–1326 (Cambridge, 1979), p. 199; C. Valente, ‘The Deposition and Abdication of Edward II’, EHR 113 (1998), pp. 852–81. John Stratford bishop of Winchester first sermonised on II Kings 4: 19 ‘My head pains me’ to indicate that the king was not fit to govern. After the decision was made to depose Edward in favour of his son, the Archbishop of Canterbury delivered a sermon on the text ‘vox populi vox dei’ (ibid., pp. 871–5). 64 Holmes, ‘Judgement on the Younger Despenser’, pp. 261–7; Taylor, ‘Judgement on Hugh Despenser the Younger’, pp. 70–7. 65 Ibid., p. 73. This is echoed in the Annales Paulini, in which his crimes are described as notorious and manifest (‘per ipsum factis et procuratis clam et palam’), p. 319.

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which the younger Despenser had turned pirate in the English Channel.66 In this trial and judgement, the magnates followed the precedent set by the Ordainers in their dealings with Piers Gaveston in 1310. Gaveston, who was accused of accroaching royal power and of abusing his position as the king’s favourite, was exiled and was to be treated as an outlaw if he returned without consent.67 The 1326 judgement of Despenser the Younger repeated the 1321 accusations and suggests that he had returned to England without the consent of parliament, in other words, he could be regarded an outlaw. Significantly, in order to bolster their intention to execute Despenser, the judges presented their case in such a way that they became the representatives of a unified aristocratic community removing a corrupt element from their midst, and he was sentenced with the approval of the ‘bones gentz du Roialme, greindres et meindres, riches et poures’, i.e. the polity had given its full consent.68 Moreover, Despenser’s crimes were not just against the law of the country, but also against reason and the order of chivalry. The latter accusation is particularly significant if we remember the vehement condemnation and anathematisation of treacherous aristocrats in, for example, the Policraticus or Ramon Llull’s book on chivalry. He had conspired without ‘pity or mercy’ to have many barons unlawfully murdered – referring to the executions of 1322; he had provided evil counsel to the king and plotted against the queen; he had taken money from the Church.69 What is more, his crimes were almost exclusively framed as acts undermining the common weal of the realm by assuming royal prerogatives. In other words, the majority of charges centred on Despenser’s inappropriate behaviour as an aristocrat, abusing his position rather than actualising the noble qualities which ought to have been innate and natural. As Fig. 5 shows, the betrayal of the kingdom (in the sense of breaking the king’s peace) features strongly in treason accusations (76 per cent), closely followed by betrayal of the king (64 per cent), referred to in sources as ‘proditio’ – in the sense of spreading lies, making false claims and accusations, but also spying. The accusation of adhering to the king’s enemies (mentioned in 28 per cent of the 53 cases) is obviously closely related to ‘proditio’, but involved more than providing information, as Andrew Harclay’s judgement shows. In 1323, a year after his victory over the rebels at Boroughbridge for which he was made Earl of Carlisle, Harclay was found guilty of entering into negotiations with the king’s enemy, Robert I King of the Scots, without royal consent. With this, Harclay had not only betrayed the trust of the king of 66

Vita Edwardi Secundi, pp. 192–5; Gesta Edwardi secundi, in Chronicles of the Reigns of Edward the First and Edward the Second, ed. W. Stubbs, 2 vols. RS 76 (1883), 2: 65–73. 67 Vita Edwardi Secundi, pp. 34–7. 68 Taylor, ‘Judgement of Hugh Despenser’, p. 76. 69 Ibid., p. 73.

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Fig. 5: Treason accusations 1238–133070 Type of accusation

Number

Percentage

Plotting to kill or harm the king Rebellion Adhering to the king’s enemies Displaying one’s banner against the king Accroaching royal power Breaking the king’s peace Betraying the king Sacrilege

12 4 15 13 10 40 34 10

23% 8% 28% 25% 19% 76% 64% 19%

England and broken his formal ties with Edward II, but he had endangered the whole kingdom in his manifest attempt to break the peace and quiet of the people of the realm (‘les piers et le people du roialme’). It is doubtful whether the people in the Anglo-Scottish borders would not have welcomed some stability which a truce would bring, but it is interesting to note that once again an attempt is made to include all subjects of the realm.71

Conclusion In the late thirteenth and early fourteenth century, although legal practice was catching up with legal and political theory with regard to the definition of treason, as a concept it remained flexible and multifarious, perhaps deliberately so. More aristocrats were accused and sentenced for treason in this period, which no doubt related to the difficulties the English monarchs were experiencing in Wales and Scotland as well as in England with baronial factions seeking to restrain royal control over financial, judicial and political matters including royal favouritism. Legal and political texts increasingly viewed the concept of treason as being a corruption of society. Both John of Salisbury and Giles of Rome, whose treatises were read by the aristocracy, strongly condemned treason as something which could potentially harm the whole polity. Employing surgical metaphors of phlebotomy and amputation, these authors argued that it was better to remove the corrupted member from the social body rather than to leave it to fester. Legal theorists concerned themselves with providing a working definition of the concept of treason which focused initially on the person of

70 71

Figures are based on 53 cases. For further details in this table and the next see Appendix 2. Foedera, 2: 504, 509.

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the king but gradually came to refer to the whole kingdom in tandem with the widening of the concept of the king’s peace. The increasing number of accusations against aristocrats in this period should be seen in the context of the communal ideology of nobility and chivalry which stressed the embodied moral and social superiority of the aristocratic group. According to the chivalric manuals and romances, as noble men aristocrats were expected to adhere to the strict values of honour, loyalty, largesse, prowess, and protecting the socially and economically less fortunate members of society. Although in general the aristocratic group may have been aware of the fact that this was an ideal rather than reality, we find that in cases of accusations of treason the subversion of the ideal is highlighted in the tainted behaviour of the aristocratic traitor: instead of acting like a noble man, he is ignoble, and therefore a corruption of the ideal. Ramon Llull condemned felons and traitors to the expulsion from the order of chivalry, even condoning the killing of a treacherous knight by his peers. How the corrupted nobility of the aristocratic traitor was dealt with in practice will be the subject of the next chapter.72

72

Ramon Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, p. 49.

Chapter 6

Dying in Shame: Destroying Aristocratic Identities One of the surprising aspects of the 1352 Statute of Treasons is the total absence of a discussion on corporeal punishment for treason. Although king and commons are concerned about the division of escheats and forfeitures, the fate of the traitor is cloaked in silence, which suggests a common agreement on the propriety of the punishment. On the basis of this, it is difficult to disagree with Gillingham’s observation about the introduction of harsher punishments for aristocratic traitors.1 Edward I’s attitude towards men he considered to be traitors was radically different from previous reigns (although a precedent was set by Henry III’s treatment of the anonymous knight and William de Marisco in 1238 and 1242 respectively), and his array of punishments for them was generally accepted by English sources as just and valid, mainly because the convicted traitors were Welsh or Scottish, or had conspired with the king’s enemies of the time. Moreover, many of them had been ‘repeat offenders’, pushing the boundaries of the king’s displeasure by persisting in their rebellion after Edward’s initial judicial reticence. Men such as David ap Gruffydd, Simon Fraser or John of Atholl, after a first rebellion against him, had been accepted back into Edward’s peace, which they subsequently spurned. William de Marisco and William Wallace had been outlawed, while in 1312 and 1326, Piers Gaveston and the Despensers could be executed for treason partly because they were perceived to have broken the terms of exile imposed upon them on an earlier occasion.2 Taking this into account, it will seem obvious that there were similarities between what was propounded in political treatises and how traitors were seen in practice. On the surface of it, therefore, it appears to have become more acceptable to kill aristocrats where previously they had been able to call upon chivalric codes of interpersonal conduct. Although in the 1320s status could still be invoked, it was only to receive a less humiliating death. That there was a change in attitudes towards the punishment of aristocratic traitors seems beyond doubt. But, rather than 1 2

See above, p. 102. The only English traitor convicted during Edward’s reign, Thomas de Turberville, was only drawn and hanged. For Piers Gaveston and the Despensers see above p. 112.

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viewing this predominantly as a decline in chivalric mores as Gillingham has argued, could this change not be interpreted as a substantial shift in perspective on what it meant to be an aristocrat? The notion of treason, no matter how its details were filled in, was opposed to the idea of nobility as embodied by aristocrats. Nobility was a means as well as an end of aristocratic conceptions of personal and communal identity, which consequently raised the stakes considerably in terms of honour and dishonour.3 True nobility meant a constant pressure to maintain an image of moral, physical and political superiority, in particular for those men new to the community. It meant that lapses from the ideal could be severely criticised or punished, which would result in public humiliation. As nobility of birth came to be interpreted as a sine qua non for nobility of character in the course of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, so treason or breach of loyalty increasingly came to be perceived as a corruption both of character and of lineage. As a consequence, those of the highest birth were considered to be the most corrupt if they were found to be guilty of treason.4 In other words, because aristocrats were thought to embody nobility, it became acceptable to punish them with death and mutilation. Their moral and social nobility obliged them to exercise rationality over lower impulses; a breach of loyalty towards one’s king by indulging in harmful and amoral behaviour could therefore be regarded as contrary to nature. In this chapter I will put the punishment of aristocratic traitors in the wider perspective of the signification of mutilation and death as social indicators of shame and dishonour and locate the rise of the public execution of aristocrats in the need to expose the inner corruption of nobility as well as that of society. As a consequence of this expositional drive, during the public execution the traitor’s body was gradually alienated from both individual and society and manipulated to display both the origin and the outcome of corruption. This process was not a matter of external political or judicial forces imposing their ideological programme on to the unsuspecting masses but a careful negotiation of common symbols and values between those in power and the rest of society.5 For example, rather than being a passive audience, urban spectators 3 4

See above Chapter 2. Cf. the comments about John of Atholl in Flores historiarum, 3: 135. French law codes held that the closer to the king the traitor was, the more severely he ought to be punished. See S.H. Cuttler, The Law of Treason and Treason Trials in Later Medieval France (Cambridge, 1981), p. 23. 5 This goes against Michel Foucault’s model of state punishment set forth in Discipline and Punish and followed by a number of early modern studies on capital punishment. Cf. P. Spierenburg, Spectacle of Suffering: Executions and the Evolution of Repression: From a Pre-Industrial Metropolis to the European Experience (Cambridge, 1984); R.J. Evans, Rituals of Retribution: Capital Punishment in Germany 1600–1987 (Harmondsworth, 1997). Katherine Royer provides a useful critique of early modern studies of capital punishment and argues rightly that many interpretations of the medieval practices are informed by a sense of reading

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of executions were expected to participate in a display primarily intended for the traitor’s social equals. Given the tensions between aristocracy and the urban bourgeoisie in aristocratic literature it is significant that these executions of aristocratic traitors were carried out in urban settings. In addition, although the information on public executions may depend on sources skewed in favour of the authority behind the punishment, there is enough in them to suggest that some of the practices informing treason executions were accepted and adopted by other social groups.

Display and stigmatisation: corporeal punishment in context Although legal theory and political treatises advocated the forceful and permanent removal of traitors, in practice aristocrats were generally exempt from capital punishment or bodily mutilation. Before 1238, when Henry III ordered the drawing, hanging, beheading and quartering of the anonymous knight sent to murder him, rebellious barons were fined, exiled or imprisoned. Although their possessions could be forfeited, they did not suffer bodily harm in the way their followers might. After the rebellion of 1123–24, for example, Henry I spared the leading magnates and imprisoned them while three minor players were blinded because they had broken their oath to the king.6 In 1138, Stephen hanged the whole garrison of Shrewsbury Castle after their surrender, but spared Geoffrey de Mandeville although he was suspected of doubledealing. Nevertheless, when Stephen threatened to hang him and Ranulph Earl of Chester on separate occasions, both men submitted themselves and their estates to Stephen without delay – an indication that neither wished to call Stephen’s bluff.7 Henry II similarly chose leniency over capital punishment in 1173, although two earls were imprisoned and several castles were demolished in the year following the rebellion. Moreover, the king was said to have kept lists of those who had betrayed him.8 There were exceptions of course. The Anglo-Saxon Earl Waltheof of backwards. However, she appears to fall into the same trap by adopting Foucault’s view that public executions were meant to be judicial spectacles asserting government control. See ‘The Body in Parts’, pp. 320–3. 6 Orderic, 6: 352–5; D. Crouch, The Beaumont Twins: The Roots and Branches of Power in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge, 1986), pp. 14–24 for the background and outcome of the unsuccessful Norman rebellion which was led by Amaury of Evreux and Waleran of Meulan. See also C.W. Hollister, ‘Royal Acts of Mutilation: The Case Against Henry I’, Albion 10 (1978), pp. 330–40, at 330–1. 7 Orderic, 6: 520–3; Gesta Stephani, pp. 162–3; 195–9. 8 H.L. Warren, Henry II (London, 1973), pp. 117–41. M. Strickland, ‘Against the Lord’s Anointed: Aspects of Warfare and Baronial Rebellion in England and Normandy, 1075–1265’, in Law and Government in Medieval England and Normandy: Essays in Honour of Sir James Holt, ed. G. Garnett and J. Hudson (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 56–79, at 58. Henry’s sons escaped with fines, but their mother was also imprisoned.

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Northumbria was executed for his involvement in a rebellion against William the Conqueror in 1075, despite the fact that he was married to one of the king’s nieces. His co-conspirators, however, escaped with exile and imprisonment. According to Orderic this was because of the difference between Norman and English customs, but considering that it was Waltheof’s second association with an attempted rebellion and that he was the only Anglo-Saxon earl left, it is possible that William had lost patience with him.9 Similarly, while William Rufus was advised leniency in 1088, a few years later William de Alderi was sentenced to death and his cousin William of Eu was blinded and castrated.10 As Anglo-Saxon and later law codes make clear, death and mutilation were standard punishments for a range of felonies, and the gallows was commonly referred to as the ‘cross of thieves’.11 In 1124, forty-four alleged thieves were hanged and six were blinded and castrated in Leicestershire by Ralph Basset, Henry I’s justiciar. Henry I held no compunction about killing, dismembering or blinding money forgers, thieves and even members of his own court pillaging the countryside without permission. As Hollister has argued, Henry I’s punishments should be seen primarily as attempts to keep the peace and secure his rule, which was also the case for later monarchs.12 Late twelfthcentury surviving eyre records testify to large numbers of thieves and homicides being sentenced to death, while Henry II in the Assize of Northampton (1176) instructs judges to implement hanging or the amputation of limbs and subsequent exile for anyone found guilty of committing felonies.13 According to Richard Fitz Nigel, author of the Dialogus de Scaccario (c. 1178), some

9

Orderic, 2: 322–3; J. Gillingham, ‘1066 and the Introduction of Chivalry into England’, in Law and Government in Medieval England and Normandy: Essays in Honour of Sir James Holt, ed. G. Garnett and J. Hudson (Cambridge, 1994), pp. 31–55, at 41–2, 47. For the background see F.S. Scott, ‘Earl Waltheof of Northumbria’, Archaeologia Aeliana fourth series 30 (1952), pp. 149–213. 10 Orderic, 4: 130–3, 284–5. William Rufus was apparently told that ‘the man who does injury today may perhaps serve as a friend in the future.’ The leader, William’s uncle Odo of Bayeux, was sent into exile and disinherited. F. Barlow, William Rufus (London, 1983), pp. 89–93; William of Malmesbury, Gesta regum anglorum, 4: 319.2. William of Eu, according to Orderic was ‘publicly found guilty of treason’, and blinded and castrated at the instigation of Hugh d’Avranches Earl of Chester, whose sister he had married and had been unfaithful to. 11 See K. O’Keeffe, ‘Body and Law in Late Anglo-Saxon England’, Anglo-Saxon England 27 (1998), pp. 209–32 for examples of judicial mutilation in the late tenth and early eleventh centuries. She argues that the act of mutilation inscribes the crime upon the body of the culprit, allowing others to read the guilty body as a deterrent. Cf. K. von Eickels, ‘Gendered Violence: Castration and Blinding as Punishment for Treason in Normandy and Anglo-Norman England’, Gender and History 16 (2004), pp. 588–602. 12 Hollister, ‘Royal Acts of Mutilation’, pp. 335, 338. 13 F.W. Maitland, Pleas of the Crown for the County of Gloucester (London, 1884), pp. 21–2; F. Barlow, The Feudal Kingdom of England 1042–1216, 4th edn (London, 1988), pp. 311–12; Assize of Northampton, art. 1. Select Charters and Other Illustrations of English Constitutional History, ed. W. Stubbs, ninth edition (Oxford, 1966), pp. 178–81.

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criminals could escape the shameful death by hanging, and would instead be mutilated to ‘become a public spectacle and a terrible example to discourage the rash attempts of other offenders’.14 Ralph Diceto, commenting on Henry II’s apparent difficulty to find honest judges, observed that although the punishment for lesser crimes was dismemberment or hanging, only exile was reserved for treason, a situation with which the chronicler did not appear entirely at ease. Gerald of Wales, moreover, appeared horrified at the thought that felons could be hanged and buried underneath the gallows without proper funeral rites.15 This may have been the case on some occasions, although there is also some evidence for hanged felons being given a Christian burial in special cemeteries, as for example at St Margaret in Combusto in Norwich.16 Despite the comment by Ralph Diceto, drawing and hanging was becoming a more regular feature of the English judicial system in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries. The Londoner William fitz Osbern was drawn and hanged at Tyburn with his accomplices in 1196 after accusations of inciting rebellion against Richard I.17 In 1225, a Richard son of Nigel was drawn and hanged because he had falsely accused others of treason (plotting to poison the king) and because it turned out that he was a convicted felon who had escaped gaol on two occasions.18 A similar fate would have befallen the Montfordians if the political circumstances had been different. According to the Song of Lewes, Lord Edward insisted the defeated rebels would acknowledge their treason by placing ‘halters around their neck and give themselves up to us for hanging and for drawing’.19 During Edward’s reign, a great number of traitors was drawn and hanged with, increasingly, more severe punishments reserved for more serious treasonous offences. But before concluding that the later medieval period became 14

Richard fitz Nigel, Dialogus de Scaccario, ed. C. Johnson, rev. edn (Oxford, 1983), p. 88. This is also the thought behind the prohibition on the death penalty in the early twelfth-century Willelmi articuli retractati, c. 17 in favour of mutilation. 15 Ralph Diceto, Ymagines Historiarum, in Opera historica, ed. W. Stubbs, 2 vols. RS 68 (1876), 1: 434; Gerald of Wales, Gemma Ecclesiastica, in Opera, ed. J.S. Brewer, J.F. Dimock and G.F. Warner, 8 vols. RS 21 (1861–91), 2: 116. However, elsewhere he came down harshly on traitors: De principis instructione, pp. 34–5. 16 B. Ayers, ‘Norwich’, Current Archaeology 122 (1990), pp. 56–9; Daniell, Death and Burial, pp. 102–4; R.B. Pugh, ‘The Knights Hospitallers of England as Undertakers’, Speculum 56 (1981), pp. 566–74. For a case in which the body of a hanged felon was buried underneath the gallows, and eaten by dogs and vultures, see Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 4: 490. 17 Ralph Diceto, Ymagines Historiarum, p. 143; R. Bartlett, England under the Norman and Angevin Kings (Oxford, 2000), pp. 344–5; Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 2: 507. 18 Curia Regis Rolls 1225–26, pp. 215–16; The Dunstable annalist refers to the alleged crime as crimen laesae majestatis; Ann. Dunst., p. 97. See below for further examples. 19 The Song of Lewes, ed. C.L. Kingsford (London, 1890), lines 250–2; D.A. Carpenter, ‘From King John to the First English Duke’, The House of Lords: A Thousand Years of British Tradition (London, 1994), pp. 28–43, at 32. See also below for a discussion of Simon de Montfort’s fate.

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Fig. 6: Punishment for treason 1238–133020 Type of punishment

Number

Percentage

Drawing Hanging Beheading Evisceration Quartering Burning Display21

43 44 18 8 8 9 14

84% 86% 35% 16% 16% 18% 27%

more barbaric with regard to the punishment of aristocratic traitors, it should be noted that of all those accused of treason in the period between 1238 and 1330, only five or six men were subjected to the full range of physical punishments involving drawing, hanging, beheading, evisceration (sometimes including emasculation), quartering and display.22 Others were punished with fewer elements from this range, but the great majority were drawn and hanged (Fig. 6).23 Moreover, despite the fact that it became possible to execute aristocratic traitors in this cruel and humiliating fashion, this does not mean that it was universally accepted or that it was not accompanied with a sense of unease. The execution of David ap Gruffydd, for example, was a cause of outrage for the author of the Osney annals and the problems sparked by the death of Thomas of Lancaster, whose sentence was commuted to beheading only, are only too well-known.24 Simon de Montfort’s post-mortem dismemberment in 1265, although not the result of a formal judgement, bore the hallmarks of an execution and was condemned by several chroniclers.25

20 21 22

Figures are based on 51 cases; see Appendix 2 for references. This number could be higher; number refers to explicit references in the sources. These were: David ap Gruffydd, William Wallace, Gilbert de Middleton, Andrew Harclay and Hugh Despenser the Younger. William de Marisco is likely to have been beheaded for display since he was quartered for the same purpose. Although these punishments were applied separately for other crimes, it is only in relation to treason that they could be used together. 23 For example: Simon Fraser (whose body was burned), Bartholomew Baddlesmere and Hugh Despenser the Elder. 24 Ann. Oseneia, p. 294. 25 See below pp. 131–4 for further discussion. Llewellyn, David’s brother, was killed in an ambush in 1282. His head was taken to London and displayed, while his mutilated body (truncatum et laceratum) was buried in Cwmhir Abbey; Bartholomaei de Cotton Historia Anglicana (AD 449–1298), ed. H.R. Luard, RS 16 (1859), p. 163 [hereafter Cotton, Historia].

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‘A horrifying spectacle for all nations’ 26 Public shaming was an integral part of most judicial punishments. As a consequence of a criminal act, naming and shaming the offender would serve as a future deterrent for the culprit and witnesses, while reaffirming the norms and values of the community by exposing the offender as a norm-breaker and a corrupted element within the community. Even relatively minor crimes would typically involve the humiliation of offenders in a public location, such as urban markets, by putting them in the stocks or pillory exposed to the taunts and insults of the community. The centralised context of the punishment would taint the reputation of the culprit by calling attention to their crime as damage done to the community.27 Occasionally, convicts were drawn on a hurdle through the crowded streets, as was the case with Richard Davy, a baker from London. In contrast to the elaborate punishments inflicted on serious offenders, the more common intention of the judicial system for smaller crimes was to induce a temporary psychological pain of humiliation rather than to cause permanent bodily harm. Richard the baker, after his degrading drag through the streets, was able to stand up from the hurdle unaided and throw a bone at a bystander who had accompanied him through the city on his shameful journey.28 In these punishments, the convict was often led in procession to the market square dressed in distinctive clothing – usually a plain shirt or undergarment. Where relevant, some symbol of the crime or the actual object with which the crime had been committed would be attached to the convict or to the instrument of restraint to inform spectators of the nature of the crime. Although the intention was primarily to humiliate, physical abuse was probably envisaged as being part of the punishment; through public exposure and temporary physical restraint the convict would be left vulnerable to the force of communal indignation about the committed crime. This indignation also found its expression in punishments led by crowds, which imitated the judicial measures directed towards more serious crimes. During the riots of 1326, for example, a crowd of Londoners led the winemerchant Arnold of Spain to ‘Nonemanneslonde’ to be beheaded for imposing a new tax on wine and various other crimes. He was barefoot and dressed in a pauper’s tunic.29 In the same period, the Chancellor, Bishop 26 27

Flores historiarum, 3: 134. J. Masschaele, ‘The Public Space of the Marketplace in Medieval England’, Speculum 77 (2002), pp. 383–421, at 400–401, 405–6, 409, 418. 28 B.A. Hanawalt, ‘Rituals of Inclusion and Exclusion: Hierarchy and Marginalisation in Medieval London’, in ‘Of Good and Ill Repute’: Gender and Social Control in Medieval England, ed. B.A. Hanawalt (New York, 1998), pp. 18–34, at 28. 29 Ann. Paulini, p. 321; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 193.

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William Stapledon of Exeter, was dragged from the church of St Paul’s, drawn by horse to West Cheap and decapitated, after which his naked corpse was left exposed for a day in the middle of the market.30 The similarities with the public execution of traitors are obvious as is the level of crowd participation. The public degradation of the aristocratic traitor often started before his actual judgement, and crowds were actively encouraged to participate. The alleged traitor would enter a town publicly, be dressed in simple clothes and wearing a nettle, periwinkle or laurel crown while riding a nag. Occasionally, his arms would be displayed in reverse, marking his social death. Thomas Turberville, accused of adhering to the king’s enemies, was dressed in ‘poor clothes’ and was taunted by men dressed like devils on the way to his judgement – his hangman being one of them. William Wallace was led in procession to the Palace of Westminster accompanied by the very men who were to pronounce his sentence, while Hugh Despenser the Younger was dressed in sackcloth which displayed his reversed coat of arms and was made to wear a nettle crown. People had come out to watch him and apparently there was a lot of noise accompanying his entry into Hereford, including two trumpets blowing in his ears. Before his actual judgement commenced, Andrew Harclay was stripped of his title, his sword and his spurs, and branded a ‘knave’ instead of a ‘knight’ by one of his judges – possibly with the intention of insulting him but also to point out that Harclay was formally removed from the ranks of the aristocracy. 31 The reversal of the traitor’s coat of arms was a particularly laden gesture. According to the Brut, Despenser’s arms being reversed signified his undoing ‘for evermore’.32 The whole of the aristocrat’s essence and belonging was condensed within the coat of arms: for those who could read it, it signified familial and political connections and it was regarded as a badge of honour. By reversing it in the context of the public execution, shame was brought not only upon the individual but also upon his family. For Ramon Llull, the reversed coat of arms signified dishonour – a sentiment also expressed by the reversal of the arms of those who failed to deliver their ransom during the Hundred Years War.33 The association of physical death with the degradation of one’s social status is explicitly made with this reversal. Matthew Paris used reversed shields metonymically in the margins of his chronicle to express the deaths of aristocrats, while he referred to William de Marisco’s public death, as we have seen,

30 31

Ann. Paulini, p. 316. Cotton, Historia, p. 306; Ann. London, p. 139; Knighton, pp. 436–7; Chronique de Jean le Bel, ed. J. Viard and E. Déprez (Paris, 1977), 1: 27; Brut, 1: 227, 240. For ‘knave’ as a term of insult see E.J. Dobson, ‘The Etymology and Meaning of “boy” ’, Medium Aevum 9 (1940), pp. 121–54, at 129, 133–6, 139. 32 Brut, 1: 240. 33 Ramon Llull, Book of the Ordre of Chyvalry, p. 88; Keen, Chivalry, p. 175.

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with his weapons and shield bearing his arms in reverse and broken in pieces (see ill. 2 above). After judgement, drawing formed the first stage of the execution proper and served to humiliate the convicted traitor in a dishonourable reversal of the usual noble display upon entering a town in a way befitting one’s elevated status.34 Dragged by horses through the streets with often a hurdle or an oxhide as the only protection from dust and dirt, the traitor was exposed to jeering crowds on his way to the gallows, usually outside the urban area. The Song of Thomas Turberville serves as a reminder of the defencelessness and humiliation of the traitor: without protection of an armour and with hands tied, his body was cut by stones ‘which made his blood flow’.35 The use of oxhides highlights, like the reversal of arms, the conceptual connection between physical and social death: the bodies of the dead were generally sewn into freshly tanned hides and it was Henri de Mondeville’s specific recommendation to use them in the process of embalming. Their use in public treason executions therefore can be seen as the removal or degradation of the traitor’s social status. Hanging, moreover, was a slow and painful procedure before the implementation of the standard and long drop in the middle of the nineteenth century. Rather than sudden death by breaking the convict’s neck, hanging involved a process of slow asphyxiation, or the obstruction of the carotid arteries, which induced the relaxation of muscles, including those of the bladder and bowels; the traitor lost control over his bodily functions in public as he was suspended between life and death. Marked by dirt from the streets as well as his own urine and faeces, the traitor was thus gradually but forcefully removed from his elevated position within society.36

34 It has been argued that drawing constitutes the first stage of an elaborate rite de passage to separate the criminal from society: A. Blok, ‘Openbare Strafvoltrekkingen als Rites de Passage’, Tijdschrift voor Geschiedenis 97 (1984), pp. 470–81. Although this interpretation partly fits the treason execution, it is not so evident for other forms of capital punishment; nor is it possible to point to a single social category of criminals at the end of the ritual. Drawing may have been introduced as a punishment for treason under influence of Roman law, and was used in the late Roman Empire as a punishment. See E.R. Varner, ‘Punishment after Death: Mutilation of Images and Corpse Abuse in Ancient Rome’, Mortality 6 (2001), pp. 45–64, at 58. 35 Song of Thomas Turberville, in Anglo-Norman Political Songs, ed. I.S.T. Aspin (Oxford, 1953), pp. 49–57, at 52 (lines 44–52), translation on p. 54. Both Simon Fraser and Hugh Despenser the Younger are said to have been wrapped in an oxhide. Song of Simon Fraser, line 163; Jean le Bel, Chronique, p. 27. 36 J. Glaister and E. Rentoul, Medical Jurisprudence and Toxicology, eleventh edition (Edinburgh, 1962), pp. 165–6. Asphyxia is a very slow process which initially induces a coma. The numerous references to the traitor being taken down from the gallows semivivus as well as stories about felons recovering from their hanging indicates that it was a well-known fact that hanging did not immediately lead to death. Cf. H. Summerson, ‘Attitudes to Capital Punishment in England, 1200–1350’, in Thirteenth Century England 8, ed. M. Prestwich, R. Britnell and R. Frame (Oxford, 2001), pp. 123–33, at 133.

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For the majority of traitors, the display of their post-mortem remains was restricted to being left on the gallows until decomposed. Because decomposition occurs about eight times faster in the air than in earth, it is possible that the body was treated in some way to prolong the display. Some of the remains of traitors executed after Boroughbridge in 1322 were finally removed two years later; with bodies quartered and beheaded for display, the period between the execution and final removal of body parts from the public eye could be even longer.37 Other traitors, such as Rhys ap Maredudd and Roger Mortimer, were only suspended for three days before being buried, while Simon Fraser’s remains were burnt after three weeks on the gallows. The Brut relates, moreover, that Hugh Despenser the Elder’s remains were quartered and fed to the dogs after hanging on the gallows for three days.38 Beheading served a two-fold purpose: it killed the traitor and it severed his head for display or to provide proof of his death. Llewellyn ap Gruffydd’s head was removed to be sent to Edward I, who ordered it to be displayed in London ‘ad spectaculum populorum’. It was joyously received by the Londoners, who paraded Llewellyn’s head around before it was displayed on London Bridge for at least the following fifteen years.39 Similarly, when in 1328 Robert de Holland was captured and beheaded by men from Henry of Lancaster’s entourage for his treacherous behaviour towards Henry’s brother Thomas, his head was presented to the Earl of Lancaster as proof of his death. The same happened with the head of William de Stapledon, Bishop of Exeter, which was sent to Queen Isabella in Bristol in 1326 by the citizens of London.40 Occasionally the punishment of beheading was specifically connected to a particular crime committed by the traitor. William Wallace and Thomas of Lancaster were sentenced to be beheaded as a consequence of their outlawed status, while Hugh Despenser the Elder was decapitated for his crimes against the Church.41 Most commonly, however, it facilitated post-mortem display. The heads of ten out of the eighteen traitors who were 37

Glaister and Rentoul, Medical Jurisprudence, p. 120. Murimuth, p. 43. It is possible that as decomposition progressed, body parts were reattached to the gallows after falling down or placed in a gibbet. Cf. Spierenburg, Spectacle of Suffering, p. 58 citing a declaration from a 1461 council at Strasbourg. 38 Brut, 1: 240. Although this may seem a little unlikely, it is difficult to ascertain what happened otherwise to the remains of the great majority of traitors, in particular when they were quartered for display. 39 Calendar of Chancery Warrants: Privy Seals vol. 1: 1244–1326, p. 76. I owe this reference to Barbara Wright. For other examples of Welsh captives being beheaded to provide evidence of their death and secure a reward from the king, see F. Suppe, ‘The Cultural Significance of Decapitation in High Medieval Wales and the Marches’, The Bulletin of the Board of Celtic Studies 36 (1989), pp. 145–60, at 147–8. 40 Henrici Knighton Leycestrensis Chronicon, ed. J.R. Lumby, 2 vols. RS 92 (1889), 1: 449; Ann. Paulini, p. 316. 41 For Wallace see above; Thomas of Lancaster: Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 3–5; Despenser the Elder: Ann. Paulini, p. 318.

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beheaded (see Fig. 6) were most certainly displayed, while those of four men were buried immediately with their body. Piers Gaveston’s head was allegedly stitched back on to his body by the Dominican friars before they took his remains to Oxford.42 Similarly, the process of quartering was either part of the punishment for a specific crime or a practical means of ensuring the distribution of the traitor’s body for the purpose of display. The crime mostly related to quartering was betrayal of the king and kingdom by committing felonies and the subsequent display of body parts in public areas can easily be seen as a metaphor for communal redress for these actions. The fragments of the traitor’s body were a physical testimony of his crimes and a continual memory of his dishonour. William Wallace’s quarters, for example, were regarded by Peter de Langtoft as a ‘memoria’ to his name signifying his and his family’s disgrace in the way his banner had previously been a marker of his status.43 On the basis of the limited number of traitors quartered in the period between 1238 and 1330 (only seven cases) it is difficult to establish a pattern in the choice of towns selected for the display of particular body parts. London was the usual destination for traitors’ heads, but with the exception of the clear point behind sending Wallace’s quarters to four Northern towns, two of which were strategically important Scottish towns (Perth and Sterling), it is not easy to give an explanation. Usually the choice involved a mixture of northern and southern towns, with York, Newcastle and Bristol as relatively fixed destinations. In two cases, no names of towns are given in the sources.44 It is certain that in some cases body parts remained on display until relatives or supporters successfully petitioned the king to have them removed from their public locations. While they were still visible, these corporeal remains continued to serve as memoriae to the traitor’s crimes and therefore to his and his family’s disgrace. As was noted earlier, Llewellyn’s head was displayed at least fifteen years after his death and was still identified as such; Thomas de Turberville was told that his body was to hang for ‘as long as anything of him should remain’.45 At least one part of Andrew Harclay’s body could still be seen five years after his execution at Carlisle Castle. In 1328, Harclay’s sister, his only surviving relative, successfully petitioned Edward III’s government to have her brother’s remains buried; in 1330, one of Edward III’s first acts as independent ruler was to grant the burial of Hugh Despenser the Younger’s

42

Vita Edwardi Secundi, pp. 48–9. At Oxford, he lay unburied for over two years because he was excommunicate; cf. pp. 100–3. 43 Pierre de Langtoft: Le règne d’Édouard Ier, ed. J.C. Thiolier (Créteil, 1989), p. 420. 44 These are the anonymous knight and William de Marisco. See Appendix 2 for references. 45 J.G. Edwards, ‘The Treason of Thomas Turberville, 1295’, in Studies in Medieval History Presented to F.M. Powicke, ed. R.W. Hunt, W.A. Pantin and R.W. Southern (Oxford, 1948), pp. 296–309, at 308.

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remains. In other words, the punishment of the traitor was felt to continue for as long as his remains were above ground.46 In some cases, the traitor was emasculated as well as quartered. Simon de Montfort, William Wallace and Hugh Despenser the Younger were said to have had their privy members removed after death. In only one of these cases is there some explanation for this particular element in the punishment. For the killers of Simon de Montfort it appears to have been a humiliating addition to his dismemberment – apparently his penis was stuffed in his mouth before being sent to Maud de Mortimer. William Wallace’s emasculation is mentioned only as part of his evisceration. Jean le Bel, however, explains that Hugh Despenser the Younger was emasculated because he was a ‘heretic and sodomite’.47 We should very much read this statement in the context of Jean le Bel’s pro-Isabella stance. Writing thirty years after the event, it is evident that Jean is more sympathetic to her than to the disgraced royal favourite. He is unique in connecting the act of emasculation to Despenser’s religious and sexual activities, the latter of which was rumoured, the chronicler adds scandalised, to have extended even to the king himself. Rather than taking this statement at face value, as for example Claire Sponsler has done in her critique of Froissart’s version of the event, the comment on Despenser’s alleged sexual relations with the king serves to highlight Edward’s passivity and inability to control Despenser, while at the same time it metaphorically emasculates the fallen favourite.48 Although Edward’s favouritism was on occasion criticised as extending into the realms of the sexual, we should not lose sight of the fact that both charges of heresy and sodomy could be used as strategies to discredit one’s enemies; like accusations of treason, these claims were aimed at the core of one’s being: they were value judgements expressing deviation from the norm, which exposed one’s character as impure. Both accusations, often in combination, were applied to categories of deviant behaviour which were more generalised than we might understand them to be.49 Moreover, the accusation of sodomy,

46

Foedera, 2.2: 748 (Harclay), 2.2: 804 (Despenser the Younger). See also J. Mason, ‘The Tomb of Sir Andrew de Harcla’, TCWAS ns 26 (1926), pp. 307–11 and id. ‘Sir Andrew Harclay Earl of Carlisle’, TCWAS ns 29 (1929), pp. 98–137, at 131; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall of Edward II, p. 157. 47 Willelmi Rishanger, quondam monachi S. Albani … Chronica et annales regnantibus Henrico tertio et Edwardo primo, AD 1259–1307, ed. H.T. Riley RS 28.2 (1865), p. 37; Flores historiarum, 3: 124; Le Bel, Chronique, 1: 28. The following paragraph is based on Westerhof, ‘Deconstructing Identities’, pp. 93–4. 48 Sponsler, ‘The King’s Boyfriend’, pp. 143–67. Jean Froissart’s account of the 1320s, including Despenser’s execution, is copied verbatim from Le Bel and therefore suggests very little in itself about Froissart’s authorial intentions. 49 M.J. Ailes, ‘The Medieval Male Couple and the Language of Homosociality’, in Masculinity in Medieval Europe, ed. D.M. Hadley (London: 1999), pp. 214–37.

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as well as acts of emasculation, implied a lesser form of masculinity; sodomy was described as an act in which ‘a man sins with another man in the manner of a woman’, thus creating a category of masculinity deviant from the normative heterosexual virility of aristocrats, which was predicated on being ‘less feminine’, ‘less boyish’ or ‘less old’ than other men.50 Emasculation was used in a broader context than as punishment for alleged same-sex encounters alone. Henry I blinded and castrated felons following the laws of his father, and as late as 1615 we find a traitor being emasculated to indicate that his offspring was tainted by his actions. Furthermore, a man could be castrated as a result of illicit heterosexual encounters.51 If Despenser was emasculated as part of his punishment, we should perhaps understand it, as well as Jean le Bel’s comments, as symbolic of his inferior masculinity and disempowerment as a result of his ignoble behaviour rather than as a statement concerning his sexual behaviour per se. Like emasculation, evisceration and the burning of the interior organs went to the heart of what treason meant to the aristocratic community. The ideology of nobility privileged the heart as the seat of knightly virtues and its eradication with the rest of the interiora signified the destruction of the aristocrat’s innermost essence. Although it was sometimes a punishment associated specifically with sacrilege (e.g. David ap Gruffydd, Gilbert de Middleton), evisceration generally symbolised the perverse intention or premeditation of treason which had originated in the interior of the body. Andrew Harclay was told that because his treasonous thoughts had originated in his ‘heart, bowels and entrails’ they were to be extracted and burnt to ashes, which would then be dispersed. Both William Wallace and Gilbert de Middleton were eviscerated so that the moral impurity of their intentions could be eradicated by fire.52 The association with the death of Judas Iscariot, the Christian arch-traitor, will be obvious. It was in Judas that treason and sacrilege intersected during the symbolic eruption of his viscera from his body in the Field of Blood (Acts 1:16–19).53 The heart or viscera (the terms cor and viscera were sometimes used interchangeably) was held to be the seat of judgement and was therefore

50

Hildegard von Bingen, Scivias, cited by Cadden, Meanings of Sexual Difference, p. 213. Neal, ‘Masculine Identity’, pp. 177–8; Von Eickels presents a similar argument for Scandinavian and Norman attitudes towards masculinity; ‘Gendered Violence’, pp. 590–1. 51 Gesetze der Angelsachsen, 1: 488; Von Eickels, ‘Gendered Violence’, passim; C. Gittings, ‘Sacred and Secular: 1558–1660’, in Death in England: An Illustrated History, ed. P.C. Jupp and C. Gittings (Manchester, 1999), pp. 147–73, at 149. One only needs to think of Abelard’s castration as an example of punishing socially unacceptable forms of heterosexual contact. 52 Foedera, 2.1: 509; Ann. London, p. 142; G.O. Sayles (ed.), Select Cases of the Court of the King’s Bench 4, Selden Society 74 (1950) , p. 78. 53 P.F. Baum, ‘The Mediaeval Legend of Judas Iscariot’, PMLA 31 (1916), 481–632. The story was extremely popular in the medieval period.

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responsible for the rational and emotional balance of the individual – a pure heart would lead to salvation. This is why John of Salisbury equated the heart to the Senate in his description of the body politic and why the Spanish theologian and physician Arnold de Villanova (c. 1300) described the heart as harbouring the principle of good and evil intention.54 By positioning the heart or viscera as the seat of individual judgement and the physical, visible, expression of the inner ‘man’, an important distinction is made between the traitor as the metaphorical corruption of the body politic and the traitor as being corrupted in character. It is in the exposure of the interior of the traitor’s body that the impurity of character is metaphorically exposed. Moreover, the evident need to burn the heart or viscera suggests a drive to destroy an essential part of the traitor’s identity. The core of his being is exposed and annihilated in an attempt to eradicate the dangerous essence of corruption. As was noted in Chapter 1, the undead – revenants – were often neutralised by dismembering and burning their bodies, often after the heart had been removed. One particularly persistent revenant in a Yorkshire narrative, when he was questioned by a priest, spoke from ‘the inside of his bowels, and not with his tongue, but as it were in an empty cask’. It seems that it is the sheer force of his corrupted will which moved him to leave his grave every single night to harass his neighbours. When questioned, his interior speaks, not his tongue and it is the essence of his being, his inner ‘man’ which yearns for salvation.55 After the systematic destruction of the aristocrat’s outer person, firstly by degradation and secondly by fragmenting his body, the removal and burning of the viscera signified the final stage of dismantling his personal identity and exposing his ignobility. Considering the cultural and religious implications of burning as purgation, it is not surprising that evisceration was reserved for only few of the most serious traitors in this period (only 8 out of 51 cases). Although all public executions could be considered a humiliating and socially disgraceful end for aristocrats, it is instructive to address the question of why some aristocrats were subjected to a more severe punishment in relation to ideas about nobility and honour.56 There was general agreement on the fact that these executions served as a deterrent to others. Matthew Paris refers to the execution of the anonymous knight as a ‘horrifying example’ to all who may think of committing similar evils, while similarly, the judgement of

54 55

John of Salisbury, Policraticus, 1: 318; Ziegler, Medicine and Religion, p. 72. Grant, ‘Twelve Medieval Ghost Stories’, p. 370. The Latin reads: ‘loquebatur in interioribus visceribus et non cum lingua sed quasi in vacuo dolio’. James, ‘Twelve Medieval Ghost Stories’, p. 418. 56 Matthew Paris specifically refers to William de Marisco’s death as an ‘ignoble’ one: Chronica majora, 4: 196.

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William Wallace refers to the edification and castigation of the Scots.57 Simon Fraser’s head was displayed on London Bridge as a ‘very horrible spectacle’ while Andrew Harclay was told that his displayed quarters would serve as an example illuminating the dangers of committing treason.58 What should be borne in mind, however, is that even though these executions were enacted before urban crowds and the traitors’ body parts were displayed in towns, the real audience would be the traitors’ peers: i.e. other members of the aristocracy. Rather than being passive onlookers, urban groups and visitors were part of an all-inclusive display of punitive justice primarily intended to signal the importance of loyalty and honour. Also, among these severe executions there were three ‘foreign’ traitors (David ap Gruffydd, William Wallace and Simon Fraser); one was newly raised to the rank of earl (Andrew Harclay); while another could be regarded as an avaricious upstart (Hugh Despenser the Younger); the fifth was an aristocrat of middling rank (Gilbert de Middleton) as was William de Marisco, who was most likely executed in a similar manner to these other men. The other multiple punishments again concerned foreigners, ‘upstarts’ or men of middling aristocracy. In other words, English aristocrats of old families were treated with a greater degree of consideration even if they were to be put to death. So, for example, Thomas Earl of Lancaster, Edmund Fitz Alan Earl of Arundel and Edmund of Woodstock Earl of Kent were summarily beheaded and buried almost immediately afterwards, while Andrew Harclay and Hugh Despenser the Elder were given a more severe treatment, presumably partly because they had only been elevated recently to their respective earldoms. This difference in treatment is partially underscored by a comment made in connection to Piers Gaveston in the Vita Edwardi Secundi: instead of being drawn and hanged like a traitor and a thief, the king’s favourite suffered punishment (i.e. beheading) like a nobleman (nobilis) on account of his connection to the earl of Gloucester. However, in the context of the Vita it seems that we should take this as ironic. Wendy Childs suggests that the author was indulging in wordplay around capitalis, which seems further supported by the author’s comments about Gaveston’s hubris and lowly origins. Moreover, he consciously sets up the contrast between Gaveston, the upstart earl, and Thomas Earl of Lancaster, who was the noblest man in England after the king. Because Gaveston was the king’s favourite, his execution was risky – best to kill him like a nobleman, even though, as the author implies, it would have been more appropriate to draw and hang him.59 In other words, there was little unanimity on the correct way of punishing 57

Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 3: 498; id. Historia Anglorum, 2: 463 for his comments on William de Marisco’s execution; Ann. London, p. 142. 58 Flores historiarum, 3: 134; Foedera, 2.1: 509. Cf. Ann. Dunstable, p. 294; Ann. London, p. 141; Brut, 1: 228. 59 Vita Edwardi Secundi, pp. 46–51.

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aristocratic traitors which depended to a large extent on political circumstances. However, what is clear is that both the severe executions of new men – and of foreigners and lower ranking aristocrats – and the beheading of established members of the higher aristocracy can be regarded as a way in which the group’s sociocultural boundaries could be re-established from within, as well as a means of rendering visible the abstract ideology of the noble body. On the one hand, titled aristocrats such as the Earls of Lancaster, Arundel and Kent could be treated differently on account of their high status, they still died and they died in public. The level of humiliation and degradation may therefore have been different to the more severe executions of other traitors, but they were still very much part of the punishment. The fact that they were buried almost immediately after their death suggests that it was there was a level of discomfort with the decision to kill them. After the humiliation of their public death, therefore, the burial of these traitors would reinstate them into the aristocratic community, although in terms of material forfeiture the shame of their crime could linger on. Richard FitzAlan, for example, continued to petition Edward III to have his father’s name cleared and to be reinstated in title and honours.60 On the other hand, the heavy punishment for treason committed by foreigners, new men and middling aristocracy, although subscribing to the same ideology of nobility, focuses predominantly on excluding corrupt members from the aristocratic group and thus outlining the limits of nobility. In the aristocratic communal representation there was no place for contradictory treacherous nobility, although it appears to have been easier to exclude these more or less marginal members of the aristocratic group by means of harsher corporeal punishment. The difference, I think, does not so much point to a sociocultural difference in attitude to nobility within the group but rather to a political awareness of the difference in social status. All aristocrats subscribed to a version of the same ideological principle of the nobility of body and soul; culturally, there was no difference between an earl and a local lord committing treason. Politically, however, difference in status did matter. For example, the traitors subjected to harsh punishments did not generally have the family or social connections to rally together to avenge the traitor’s humiliating death, whereas those men who were only beheaded did have politically active relatives and friends or were members of the royal family. Wallace and Fraser had been politically isolated before their death, while John of Atholl’s son and heir, David, was an English hostage at the time of his father’s execution. Although he submitted to the Scots in 1312, he returned to the English side shortly

60

Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 5–7, 55–6, 226–7. Edmund FitzAlan’s lands were forfeited in parliament after Edward III’s accession. Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 84.

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before Bannockburn.61 Post 1326, it would have been political suicide to express support for the Despensers and it is significant that both Richard FitzAlan’s first petition for his father’s posthumous reinstatement and the request to reassemble Despenser the Younger’s remains were made after the fall of Roger Mortimer in November 1330.

Us and them: the social and metaphorical exclusion of aristocratic traitors The fragmentation and destruction of the aristocratic traitor’s body signalled the shattering of the carefully wrought ideology of embodied nobility which formed the basis of aristocratic group and personal identity. The conceptual connection between corporeal wholeness and identity was severed as the corruption of nobility within the body was exposed and eradicated. The execution of traitors can be read on two levels. First of all, it was meant to be a punishment for the corrupted aristocratic traitor and his family by exposing and destroying his inner core – in this sense the destroyed body was that of the individual located within the familial network of ‘consanguini’. Secondly, it was a structured process of removing the tumour of ignobility from the aristocratic group by stripping the individual of his identity and corporeal wholeness – in this sense, the body represented the organic metaphor of the body social as well as its diseased limb. The elaborate execution of certain aristocratic traitors – ringleaders in conspiracy or rebellion – was thus embedded within a socio-political framework as a mechanism to expose the boundaries of group identity by focusing on the tension within the aristocratic traitor between the ideology of embodied nobility and the reality of its corruption. I started this chapter by pointing out the silence on corporeal punishment for treason in the 1352 Statute as a sign of general acceptance that it was just, and I would like to finish with an event to which I have only alluded so far, but which I would argue is most significant in the way treason was perceived by aristocrats.62 As is well known, the great majority of Simon de Montfort’s followers, despite Prince Edward’s alleged sabre-rattling in the Song of Lewes, were not physically punished or executed after their defeat in 1265. Instead, they temporarily lost their estates and were given the opportunity, under the terms of the Dictum of Kenilworth drawn up over the summer of 1266, to reclaim them in exchange for a financial contribution to the royal coffer. Moreover, Henry III was urged not to harbour any resentment towards those

61 62

See Watson, ‘Strathbogie, John of’. The following is based on Westerhof, ‘Amputating the Traitor’.

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Disclaimer: Some images in the printed version of this book are not available for inclusion in the eBook. To view the image on this page please refer to the printed version of this book.

3: Simon de Montfort’s death and mutilation on the battlefield at Evesham. © British Library Board. All Rights Reserved (Cotton Nero DII, f. 177r). who had strayed, with the explicit exception of Simon de Montfort and his immediate accomplices.63 The difference in attitude towards the rebels is significant in the context of how de Montfort was treated after his death on the battlefield of Evesham on 4 August 1265. The outrage over his death and that of his eldest son, which appears to have been premeditated murder, was exacerbated by the fact that certain ‘anonymous knights’ dismembered, emasculated and beheaded the Earl of Leicester’s corpse.64 Reminiscent of Matthew Paris’s drawing on William de Marisco’s broken and reversed shield and sword (ill. 2), an early fourteenth-century image in the Rochester continuation of the Flores historiarum provides an arresting example of how treason and nobility were thought to be conceptually opposed (ill. 3), and also of how the intention of treason could be regarded as more fundamentally corrupting than following a traitor.65 The image shows the dismembered corpse of the earl, identified by 63

Documents of the Baronial Movement of Reform and Rebellion 1258–1267, ed. R.F. Treharne and I.J. Sanders (Oxford, 1973), pp. 317–37. 64 Robert of Gloucester refers to the battle as the ‘murder’ of Evesham; Metrical Chronicle, ed. W.A. Wright, 2 vols. RS 86 (1887), 2: 764. 65 MS BL Cotton Nero D.II, f. 133v. With the exception of MS Westminster, Dean and Chapter, W (c. 1306), which is extremely hostile towards the royal party, all other versions of

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the arms on his shield and hauberk lying alongside his naked body, which is sharply contrasted with the figure of his eldest son Henry, who is fully clothed but disarmed, in a pose reminiscent of the cross-legged knightly effigies discussed in Chapter 3 above. To the left of this central scene, a group of knights is displayed in the act of ‘amputating’ the earl’s limbs and head.66 To the right one can barely make out a number of bodies, presumably representing de Montfort’s associates, in a disorderly heap on the ground. The image clearly emphasises de Montfort’s harsher punishment as a consequence of his leading role during the rebellion, and although his family had supported him they were not to be treated as severely, as Henry’s corpse seems to suggest. An account discovered some years ago suggests that Prince Edward instructed a ‘death-squad’ led by Roger Mortimer to find and kill de Montfort.67 Significantly, after the fatal blow was struck by Mortimer, according to this account, ‘all worthy nobles turned away from him [tote la gent de value de luy se turnerent]’ as if to dissociate themselves from the slaughter which followed, carried out by ‘certain others [puis autres]’, as well as from the ignoble man de Montfort was perceived to be. When the younger Simon de Montfort finally arrived on the scene, he was confronted with his father’s head being carried around on a spear.68 Despite the condemnation of it in some sources, what is significant about de Montfort’s post-mortem dismemberment, and its depiction in the Rochester Flores, is that it strongly calls to attention the connection between treason as corruption of society and the destruction of the aristocratic body. Moreover, the punishment is left to anonymous members of the aristocracy and does not appear to have been sanctioned by Henry III or his son. Nevertheless, this suggests that there was some shared understanding of how an aristocratic traitor ought to be punished; the perpetrators never came forward and no one appears ever to have been held to account for it, but it is evident that the royalists regarded de Montfort as a traitor. Before the Battle of Lewes in 1264, both Henry III and Richard of Cornwall had renounced the Montfordians as traitors to the king and kingdom, and de Montfort himself was hailed by the royal army as ‘old traitor’ before the Battle of Evesham. The Song of Lewes suggests that the barons acted against the ‘peace and common customs’ of the kingdom and were guilty of treason.69 The decision of the knights to dismember de Montfort posthumously implies an awareness of the conceptual connection the chronicle are more negative about the earl. His death and dismemberment elicit little comment, while his sons are twice referred to as the offspring of Ganelon (Flores historiarum, 1: xix; 3: 6, 22, 67). 66 The word amputation is used by William Rishanger, Chronica, p. 37 and Wykes, p. 173. 67 See O. de Laborderie, J.R. Maddicott and D.A. Carpenter, ‘The Last Hours of Simon de Montfort: A New Account’, EHR 115 (2000), pp. 378–412. 68 Laborderie, Maddicott and Carpenter, ‘The Last Hours of Simon de Montfort’, p. 408; Wykes, p. 175. 69 Flores historiarum, 2: 493–4; Ann. Oseneia, p. 170; Song of Lewes, line 604.

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between disease and treason which was to be rooted out from the body politic. In fact, de Montfort himself had hinted at this in a letter to Pope Alexander IV in 1258, when he explained his actions as benefiting the common good of the realm, which is a sort of body, … and is driven by the command of the highest equity and ruled by a kind of rational government, and it is not useful that in one body of members there is discord.70

De Montfort was obviously arguing that his actions were commonly accepted and were considered most profitable for the body politic, excepting some dissenters who were keen to create discord. Unfortunately, by 1265 it seems public opinion had turned against him and from this moment onwards, aristocratic traitors were neither automatically exempt from the death penalty nor from the dishonour brought upon them by the metaphorical disclosure of their corrupted nobility.

Conclusion That the punishment of aristocratic traitors changed in the course of the thirteenth century is beyond doubt. Moreover, it has become clear from this discussion, no one questioned the increase in the number of shameful death penalties exacted upon aristocratic traitors: the Statute of Treasons of 1352, although showing concern with the distribution of forfeited estates, does not discuss the nature of the traitor’s punishment or its appropriateness. In light of the foregoing discussion about the role of the body in the communal perception of aristocratic identity it is perhaps not surprising that if the aristocrat was found to fall short of the perceived ideal, his body would be the focus of rendering his corruption visible. Additionally, it is clear that the extreme form of punishment involving ‘multiple deaths’ was only reserved for the most notorious traitors, usually foreigners or those of the middle to lower ranks of the aristocracy. This is partly because it was easier to punish harshly when public opinion was in favour of it or when the aristocrat in question was not one of the leading magnates of the realm. A particular enlightening example of the ideas behind the punishment of traitors is the case of Thomas of Lancaster: initially sentenced to a range of punishments for his various crimes, these were commuted to a sentence of beheading only on account of his noble ancestry. On the one hand, what this reveals is a concern with the symbolic boundaries of the aristocratic community rendered visible by men on the fringes of the 70

Matthew Paris, Chronica majora 6: 402–3; cf. Policraticus, 1: 282; ed. Nederman, p. 66: ‘For the republic is … a sort of body which is animated by the grant of divine reward and which is driven by the command of the highest equity and ruled by a sort of rational management.’

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social group; while on the other hand, it exposes a profound unease with the execution of high-ranking aristocrats. Furthermore, the analysis of the elaborate execution for treason shows that, rather than just being a strategy to redress the balance of power in society under the auspices of royal government, it was meant to exclude the culprit symbolically and physically from the social order of aristocrats. To this end, the crime of treason was constructed as one which harmed both the king and the people of the realm; the treatment of the traitor’s body can therefore be interpreted both as the disclosure of corruption within him and the expulsion of corruption from the body politic. The example of Simon de Montfort’s death and dismemberment, ostensibly enacted by his peers but perhaps given royal sanction, shows that when it came to treason, both monarchy and aristocracy interpreted it as a corruption of the precept of membership to the social group, i.e. the nobility of character and the nobility of birth.

Conclusion: Death and the Noble Body As Marcel Mauss pointedly remarked in his call for a combined psychological and sociological approach to the study of human behaviour: ‘the body is man’s first and most natural instrument’ to give meaning to one’s social and material environment.1 It is the pivotal site of interaction between person and society, while it embodies notions of personal and communal identity: it is with the body that we experience, perform, communicate. By contrast, the lifeless and decaying body, the cadaver, typically evokes a sense of fear and alienation – it is ambiguous, ‘matter out of place’ and thus abject, yet it forcefully presents us with a premonition of our own fate. As an abject ‘other’, the cadaver is a fluid category exposing the limitations of the human need to order and control oneself and one’s environment, which can be manipulated to express society’s innermost fears and anxieties. Like other categories of embodiment, moreover, the opposition between living and dead body is never absolute; it is near-impossible to identify the transition between the two states, as Augustine had already acknowledged around AD 400. These days, with our medical advances, the boundary has become even more blurred.2 During the twelfth and thirteenth centuries the cadaver was constituted as a location in which ideas about moral purity and impurity were rendered visible. The image of putrefaction and corruption – a fragmenting and viscous body – was a powerful instrument warning society about the dangers of sin, while concepts of stasis and equilibrium were valorised as the essence of primeval human being. Stories about restless revenants intent on evil circulated widely, at the same time as reports of the miraculous conservation of saintly bodies. Moreover, ideas of stasis and corruption were found in genres as diverse as medical and political theory. This collapse of metaphorical and physical notions of corruption also had profound consequences for ideas about personal and communal identity. Although, for example, the science of physiognomy was judged to be not wholly reliable, the notion that the integrity of the soul would be transposed on to a whole and healthy body was widespread. This is not only evident from saintly post-mortem stasis and the premature putrefaction of the bodies of 1 2

Mauss, Sociology and Psychology, p. 104. See above, Chapter 1.

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sinners but also from ideas about nobility found in the self-definition of the aristocratic community in this period. As the office of knighthood merged with the social elite, the communal aristocratic ideal became lodged in the knight’s well-regimented and controlled body as a suitable shrine for noble virtues such as loyalty, generosity, gentility, valour, prowess, and honour. The heart played a central role in the exploration of these virtues and was often presented as a treasure house containing the noble soul, enshrined within the castle of the body. Moreover, nobility became an ontological necessity for acceptance into the aristocratic group. The concept of nobility was grounded in, on the one hand, a sense of individual worth; on the other hand, it was predicated by the idea of noble ancestry. Despite emphasis on the former by some authors, aristocrats themselves were keen to stress the latter to create a division between themselves and the rest of society. One of the strategies through which the sense of lineage and dynasty was rendered visible was the patronage of monasteries and the insistence on exclusive burial in the most sacred spaces within these, such as the chapter house and the area around the high altar. Aristocratic patronage raised expectations about ownership and control which together with the display of pious donation added to the prestige of individuals and their family – unsurprisingly monastic communities might respond by writing family genealogies and by allowing signs of secular lordship to appear in the fabric of their buildings in exchange for financial aid. The choice of interment site was often informed by the prior burial of ancestors or relatives which thus created the impression of a continuous dynastic line of power. Moreover, if the physical presence of aristocrats was essential for the expression of family status, so was the means by which the resting place of the individual’s mortal remains was marked. The rise of the knightly effigy in thirteenth-century England runs parallel with notions of the nobility of the body and the importance of noble ancestry. The appearance of knightly effigies also runs parallel with an increase in the popularity of methods of corpse preservation and multiple burial. The idea of death as something evil and sinful which translated itself in the putrefying cadaver held the potential to dislodge forcefully the imagined integrity of the noble body. If the post-mortem behaviour of the body signified the state of the soul, then a decaying and viscous noble body was a contradiction in terms. Practices such as embalming and mos teutonicus served to delay or remove the possibility of the cadaver ‘misbehaving’ before interment and created the illusion of stasis and bodily integrity associated with spiritual virtue. The swift interment of perishable parts of the body such as the entrails, and flesh in the case of mos teutonicus, equally points to the unease in the perception of the decaying body. The separate burial of the heart, however, furthered the sense of spiritual nobility inherent in the aristocratic ideal. Buried with a level of ostentation to rival the funeral obsequies for the body, the heart represented

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the aristocrat’s personhood, virtue and integrity; the body could be said to render visible the ideals of aristocratic nobility relating to family and social status, the heart was reserved for the display of piety and thus spiritual nobility. My analysis of a sample of heart and viscera burials over the period supports this idea. A great number of burials occurred as a result of pre-existing interests in the monastery predominantly of the individual whose heart was buried there or of the individual’s ancestors, whose bodies were interred elsewhere. Although in relative terms a greater number of traditional orders received the hearts of aristocrats, in light of the actual numbers of religious houses, aristocratic hearts were predominantly donated to the mendicants and spiritual orders such as the Cistercians and Premonstratensians. The majority of associated burials of bodies, however, typically involved interment amongst relatives or occurred for other reasons mostly relating to the expression of lordship. These burials (perhaps unsurprisingly) took place mostly among the traditional orders with the Cistercians receiving an equal share of either body or heart. The separate interment of body and heart/viscera was problematic for some ecclesiastics and secular theologians who debated the consequences of multiple burial in terms of identity and personhood, which only served to underscore the importance of the heart and the body as participants in the formation of identity as well as to strengthen the belief in the efficacy of saints’ relics. Although Pope Boniface VIII’s bull prohibiting mos teutonicus for example resulted in a diminished number of openly acknowledged multiple burials, dispensations were successfully obtained for the separate interment of body and heart, while the sentence of excommunication was applied haphazardly and was of a non-permanent nature. Moreover, the practice of multiple burial always centred on the separation of the heart and other internal organs from the rest of the body – the division of skeletal remains, as happened with saintly bodies, was not an option. It is possible that the latter formed one of the foundations of the changing treatment of some aristocratic traitors from the middle of the thirteenth century onwards. The punishment for treason had become almost a standard of drawing and hanging for non-aristocratic traitors, while aristocrats were either exiled or fined. With the interiorisation of nobility as part of aristocratic self-definition, it was almost inevitable that treason would become its conceptual opposite: in its most basic form, treason entailed a breach of loyalty, which was one of the essential qualities of knighthood. It was thought to be on a level with sacrilege which strengthens the idea of moral corruption. Several authors commenting on the virtues of knighthood in texts intended for aristocratic consumption specifically isolate treason as a crime contrary to nobility and suggest that it gives the aristocratic community licence to dispose of the corrupt member in their midst. The elaborate punishment of aristocratic traitors, isolated incidents when

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seen in the wider context of treason executions taking place in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries, typically entailed the systematic removal and destruction first of their material signs and symbols of status, and secondly of their physical integrity. It was a processual event which culminated in the burning of the viscera and the quartering of the traitor’s body for further display across the kingdom and which did not end until the bodily remains were either buried or removed from public view. This form of execution and display served to expose and amputate the internal corruption of the traitor, and revealed the pollution within and cure of the body politic. It did not only harm the individual traitor, but also his family who were tainted by association; his descendants were disinherited and his genitals might be cut off to underscore the point. There appears to have been an unspoken agreement between the monarchy and the aristocracy that this type of punishment was appropriate; despite incidental disapproving remarks in ecclesiastical chronicles, it was not a matter of general public debate and there are signs that it was incorporated by other social groups as a means of exposing corruption. Since the human body was medieval people’s ‘natural instrument’ with which they defined themselves and the environment, it is understandable that it could be destroyed on occasion for transgressing the boundaries of the metaphorical social body as a consequence of the most fundamentally undermining crime, namely treason. Returning to the Middle English Otuel and Roland discussed at the beginning of this book, the conceptual pairing of Roland and Ganelon by means of their bodies makes a lot of sense. Roland is the epitome of spiritual and physical nobility. Ganelon not only betrays his secular lord but also God, and therefore his treason is also sacrilege. As a consequence, Ganelon’s body is destroyed to harmonise it with his inner corruption; by contrast, Roland’s body – the privileged shrine of his noble heart – is lovingly conserved for future burial as a symbol of his excellence. Having shown how the concepts of nobility and treason were embodied by male aristocrats from the thirteenth century onwards, it becomes easy to imagine later medieval aristocratic audiences of Otuel and Roland approving of its ideological underpinning.

Appendix 1 This appendix provides a tentative list of multiple burials in England and the Angevin territories; it excludes the heart burials of John Balliol (1269) and Robert Bruce (1329). The information is generally drawn from chronicles, genealogies and antiquarian sources, and builds upon (and occasionally corrects) the lists provided by Hartshorne and Bradford. The latter’s work was recently reprinted in unaltered form and still provides the most comprehensive selection of heart burials from the medieval to the modern period for the British Isles (with particular focus on England).1 Full references to sources can be found in the list of abbreviations and the bibliography. Date

Name

Body

Heart

1129

Walter Giffard, Bishop of Winchester Henry I King of England

Winchester Cathedral

Waverley Abbey Gill, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 11

Reading Abbey

Ste-Marie-desPrées (Normandy) [with entrails]

Edith d’Oilly

unknown

Oseney Priory

1135

1137 (post)

1

Bibliography

Orderic, 6: 448–51; Huntingdon, Historia, pp. 254–7; Malmesbury, Historia, pp. 26–31; Monasticon, 6: 1099–1100 Monasticon, 6: 251 (based on John Leland)2

E.S. Hartshorne, Enshrined Hearts of Warriors and Illustrious People (London, 1861) should be used with caution since it contains many inaccuracies; also, Bradford, Heart Burial; A.A. Gill, ‘Heart Burials’, Yorkshire Architectural and Archaeological Society Proceedings 2 (1936), pp. 3–18; Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials and Some Purbeck Marble Heart Shrines’, pp. 38–58. For continental examples see Brown, ‘Death and the Human Body’, passim; Erlande-Brandenburg, Le roi est mort; Schäfer, ‘Mittelalterlicher Brauch’, pp. 478–89; and recently: Weiss-Krejci, ‘Restless Corpses’, pp. 769–80. 2 For more information on the Oilly family and their patronage of Oseney Priory, see D. Postles, ‘The Foundation of Oseney Priory’, BIHR 53 (1980), pp. 242–4; idem, ‘Patronus et advocatus noster: Oseney Abbey and the Oilly Family’, Historical Research 60 (1987), pp. 100–2. Edith was one of Henry I’s mistresses before she married Robert d’Oilly, constable of Oxford Castle.

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APPENDIX 1

Date 1138

Name Body Heart Stephen Duke ? Bégard Abbey ? St Mary’s of Brittany and (Brittany) Abbey, York Earl of Richmond

1148

William de Warenne III, Earl of Surrey Geoffrey de Mandeville II, Earl of Essex Robert de Beaumont II, Earl of Leicester

? Laodicea in the Holy Land

? Lewes Priory [with entrails]

Walden Priory

‘In a sacred place’ in Chester [with entrails] Brackley Hospital

1183

Henry the Young King

Rouen Cathedral

Grandmont nr Limoges (Limousin)

1189

William de Mandeville, Earl of Essex William de Longchamp, Bishop of Ely Richard I King of England

Mortemer Abbey (Normandy) ‘A Cistercian Abbey’

Walden Priory

Fontevrault Abbey

Rouen Cathedral

1216

John King of England

Worcester Cathedral

1217

Robert de ? London Quincy Saer de Quincy, ? Acre Earl of Winchester

1166

1168

1197

1199

1219

3

Ste Marie de Pré, Leicester

Ely Cathedral

Bibliography Chronicle of St Mary, p. 112; Hartshorne, Enshrined Hearts, pp. 39–40 Mantell, ‘A Few Remarks’, p. 434 Monasticon, 4: 140, 142–3 CP, 7: 527–30; Crouch, The Beaumont Twins, p. 95; Knighton, 1: 64 Howden, Gesta, 1: 301; Diceto, 2: 19–20; Agnellus, Sermo de morte, pp. 265–73; Vigeois, Chronica, p. 217 Monasticon, 4: 140, 144–5 Gill, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 11

Howden, Chronica, p. 84; Ann. Winchester, p. 71; Wendover, 1: 282–4; Way, ‘Effigy of King Richard’, p. 202–16 Croxton Priory, Foedera, 1.1: 192; Leicestershire Matthew Paris, Historia anglorum, 2: 667–8; CChR 1226–1257, p. 463 Brackley CP, 12.2: 750–13 Hospital Garendon Ann. Wav., p. 292; Abbey Monasticon, 5: 331

For more information on the Quincy family, see S. Painter, ‘The House of Quency 1136–1264’, Mediaevalia et Humanistica 11 (1957), pp. 3–9.

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APPENDIX 1

Date

Name

Body

Heart

Bibliography

1220

Henry de Bohun, Earl of Hereford

Llantony Secunda

?London

1221

William d’Albini IV, Earl of Arundel and Sussex William de Mandeville III, Earl of Essex Maurice de Gaunt

Wymondham Priory

? Italy

Monasticon, 4: 139–41 (Walden), 6: 134–5 (Llantony Secunda); Bradford, Heart Burial, pp. 67–84 Ann. Wav., p. 294

Shouldham Priory

Walden Abbey

CP, 5: 126–33; Monasticon, 4: 140

St Augustine’s Abbey, Bristol or Hospital of St Mark or Dominicans Bristol

St Augustine’s Abbey, Bristol or Hospital of St Mark or Dominicans Bristol

1232

Christine de Valognes

Shouldham Priory

Binham Priory

1232

Ranulph III de ‘Blundeville’, Earl of Chester

St Werburgh Abbey

Dieulacres Abbey

1235

Margaret de Quincy, Countess of Winchester William de Albini III of Belvoir Richard le Poore, Bishop of Durham

Garendon Abbey

Brackley Hospital

Ann. Tewks., p. 77–8; Smyth, Lives of the Berkeleys, 1: 20; Lyte, Dunster and its Lords, 39–41; Hartshorne, Enshrined Hearts, pp. 92–3 CP, 5: 133; Golding, ‘Burials and Benefactions’, p. 68. Ann. Tewks., p. 87; Ann. Chester, p. 58–9; CEC, pp. 386–85 CP, 12.2: 750–4

Newstead by Stamford

Belvoir Priory

Tarrant Crawford, Dorset

Durham Cathedral

1226

1230

1236

1237

4

Monasticon, 3: 285, 289; Nichols, Leicestershire, 2: 25–6 Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 40

There is a lot of confusion about whether it was Henry de Bohun (d. 1220) or a Humphrey de Bohun (d. 1234) whose heart was buried separately in London (unspecified location). The Walden and Llantony Secunda genealogies provide different information in this regard, as well as giving diverging accounts of when the earldom of Essex transferred to the Bohuns. See Sanders, English Baronies, pp. 91–2 for what may be considered the correct genealogy. 5 See Westerhof, ‘Celebrating Fragmentation’, pp. 29–32.

144

APPENDIX 1

Date

Name

Body

Heart

1238

Peter des Roches, Bishop of Winchester Henry de Turbeville, Seneschal of Gascony Edmund of Abingdon, Archbishop of Canterbury Isabella Countess of Cornwall

Winchester

Waverley Abbey Hartshorne, Enshrined Hearts, pp. 76–8 Normandy CCR 1237–1242, p. 1656

Ralph Niger, Bishop of London Gilbert Marshal, Earl of Pembroke

St Paul’s Cathedral

1239

1240

1240

1241

1241

Unknown

Pontigny Abbey Soisy

Beaulieu Abbey Tewkesbury Abbey

Beeleigh Abbey

Bibliography

Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 4: 72–4; Life of St Edmund, p. 156 Ann. Tewks., p. 113–14; Golding, ‘Burials and Benefactions’, p. 69 Bradford, Heart Burial, pp. 72–3

Temple Church, Hertford Priory Matthew Paris, London Chronica majora, 4: 495 1241 Robert de Say Unknown Hertford Priory Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 4: 136 1242 William de Belvoir Priory Croxton Priory Baronage, 1: 115; Albini IV of HMRC: Rutland, 4: Belvoir 148 1245 William de Sawley Abbey Sandon Hospital Monasticon, 5: Percy III 515–16, 6: 676; VCH Surrey, 2: 118 1252 Paulin Peyore of ?Westminster Toddington, Matthew Paris, Toddington Abbey ?parish church Chronica majora, 5: 242 1253/4 John de Mohun Bruton Priory Newenham Monasticon, 5: of Dunster Abbey 692–3; CP 9: 21. 1256 William of Sugho, Spain Ely Cathedral Dru Drury, ‘Heart Kilkenny, Bishop Burials’, p. 49. of Ely 1258 Edmund de Stanlaw Priory Dominicans CP 7: 680–1; Lacy, Earl of Pontefract Monasticon, 5: Lincoln 271–3

6

Henry III paid 4 marks 60s for a ‘precious cup’ to contain the heart of his seneschal.

145

APPENDIX 1

Date

Name

Body

Heart

William III de Forz, Count of Aumale 1260 Walter de Kirkham, Bishop of Durham 1260 Aymer de Valence, Bishop of Winchester ?1260s Matilda de Hastings

Meaux Abbey

Thornton Priory Chronica de Melsa, 2: 106.

Durham Cathedral

Howden Parish Gill, ‘Heart Burials’, Church [with p. 11. viscera]

1261

Sanchia de Provence, Countess of Cornwall Richard de Clare, Earl of Gloucester Margaret Clifford

Hailes Abbey

Cirencester Abbey

Tewkesbury Abbey

Peter de Aigueblanche, Bishop of Hereford Robert de Gournay

Hereford Cathedral

William de Mauduit IV, Earl of Warwick Stephen Longespee, Seneschal of Gascony ? Maud Countess of Arundel Ralph Fitz Ranulph of Middleham

?Westminster Abbey

Canterbury Ann. Tewks., p. 169; Cathedral or CP, 5: 696–702 Tonbridge Aconbury Priory Sheehan, The Will in Medieval England, p. 313 Aiguebelle ‘Will of Peter de collegiate Aigueblanche’ CS church, Savoie third series 37 (1926), pp. 1–9. Dominicans Ann. Tewks., pp. Bristol 77–8; Baronage, 1: 430–1 Catesby Priory Baronage, 1: 399; CP, 12: 367–8

Roger de Leybourne

Unknown

1260

1262

1263

1268

1268

1268

1269

1270 1270

1271

Church of St Winchester Genevieve, Cathedral Paris St Mary Overy, Barnwell Priory Southwark

Unknown

Hospital of St Mark

Bibliography

Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 49–50. Liber memorandum ecclesie de Bernewelle, p. 50 Ann. Oseneia, p. 128; Leland, Itinerary, 1: 129

Lacock Abbey

Bradenstoke Priory

Baronage, 1: 177; CP, 12: 171

Unknown

?Chichester Cathedral Franciscans, Richmond

Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 52. Hartshorne, Enshrined Hearts, p. 87; Gill, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 12. Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 44; CP, 7: 631–4

Unknown

?Leybourne Church, Kent

146

APPENDIX 1

Date

Name

Body

Heart

Bibliography

1271

Henry of Almaine

Hailes Abbey

Westminster Abbey

1272

Robert de France Stichill, Bishop of Durham Ralph de StophamUnknown of Bryanston

Ann. Hailes, pp. 78–9; Ann. Oseneia, p. 244 Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 41

1272

1272

Richard Earl of Cornwall

Hailes Abbey

1272

Henry III King of England

Westminster Abbey

1273

George de Unknown Cantelou of Abergavenny Robert de Sutton, Monastery nr Abbot of Bologna Peterborough Henry, son of Westminster Edward I Abbey

1274

1274

1275

1275

1275

John le Breton, Bishop of Hereford Beatrice, daughter of Henry III Humphrey de Bohun IV, Earl of Hereford and Essex

Durham Cathedral

?Bryanston Dru Drury, ‘Heart Church, Dorset Burials’, p. 38; Hutchins, History of Dorset, 1: 264 Franciscans, Ann. Hailes, p. 80; Oxford Trivet, Annales sex regum Angliae, p. 279; Wykes, pp. 247–8. Fontevrault Ann. Hailes, pp. Abbey (in 1291) 80–1; Foedera, 1.2: 497, 758 Dominicans, CP, 1: 23; VCH Pontefract Yorkshire, 3: 271–3 Peterborough Abbey

Gill, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 13

Dominicans, Guildford

Johnstone, ‘Wardrobe and Household’, p. 397–9; Tanner, ‘Tombs of Royal Babies’, p. 30 Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 45

Hereford Cathedral

Abbey Dore

Franciscans, London

Fontevrault Abbey

Llantony Secunda Priory

CP, 10: 811–14; Kingsford, Grey Friars, p. 70 ‘Workleye’ [sic]: CP, 6: 459–62; Wormsley Monasticon, 6: 135 Priory, Herefordshire?

147

APPENDIX 1

Date

Name

1276

John de Valence Westminster Abbey

1276

Margaret de Valence

Westminster Abbey

1280

Nicholas of Ely, Bishop of Winchester Thomas Cantilupe, Bishop of Hereford Adam de Novo Mercato Alphonso, son of Edward I

Winchester Cathedral

1282

1283 1284

1285

1289

1290

1290

Body

Heart

Bibliography

Dominicans, London

Hope, ‘Funeral Monument’, p. 149; Stow, Survey of London, p. 304; Tanner, ‘Tombs of Royal Babies’, pp. 31–2 Dominicans, Hope, ‘Funeral London Monument’, p. 149; Stow, Survey of London, p. 304; Tanner, ‘Tombs of Royal Babies’, pp. 31–2 Waverley Abbey Monasticon, 1: 196

Hereford Cathedral

Bonhommes, Ashridge

Unknown

Dominicans, Pontefract Dominicans, London

AASS 2 Oct., p. 581; Monasticon 6.1: 517.

VCH Yorkshire, 3: 272–3; CP, 9: 546–7 Westminster Flores historiarum, 3: Abbey 61; Stow, Survey of London, p. 304; Tanner, ‘Tombs of Royal Babies’, pp. 30–1 Robert de Ros III Kirkham Priory Croxton Priory, Baronage, 1: 547; of Helmsley and Leicestershire CP, 11: 95–6; Belvoir Greenhill, Incised Slabs, p. 46 John de Vescy Alnwick Abbey Dominicans, Ann. London, p. 99; of Alnwick London Chron. Lanercost, p. 52 Roger de Norton, St Albans St Albans Abbey Dru Drury, ‘Heart Abbot of St (High Altar) (Altar in Burials’, p. 41 Albans retro-choir) Eleanor of Westminster Dominicans, Ann. London, p. 99; Castile, Queen Abbey London Chron. Lanercost, pp. of England 137–8; Flores historiarum, 3: 71–2; Rishanger, Chronica, p. 121

148

APPENDIX 1

Date

Name

Body

Heart

Bibliography

1291

Eleanor of Provence, Queen of England

Amesbury Nunnery

Franciscan, London

?1291 Nicholas de Mitton 1292 John Pecham, Archbishop of Canterbury

St Mary Bredon, Worcestershire Canterbury Cathedral

Franciscans, Worcester Franciscans, London

1293

William de Yaxley, Abbot of Thorney Agatha de Narborough Giles de Berkeley II of Coberley

?Thorney

Yaxley Parish Church

Chron. Lanercost, p. 141; Flores historiarum, 3: 72; Rishanger, Chronica, p. 129 Reg. Giffard, 2: 388–90 Bradford, Heart Burial, pp. 93–4; Kingsford, Grey Friars, p. 70 VCH Huntingdon, 3: 241–7

Unknown

Narborough Parish Church St Giles Coberley, Gloucestershire

Robert de Vere II, Earl of Oxford Edmund, Earl of Lancaster

Earl’s Colne Priory

Nicholas Longespee, Bishop of Salisbury Edmund, Earl of Cornwall

Salisbury Cathedral

Lacock Priory

Hailes Abbey

Bonhommes, Ashridge

1293 1294

1296

1296

1297

1300

?1300s Mary de Meriet

7

Little Malvern Priory

Franciscans, Ipswich

Westminster Minoresses, Abbey (initially: London Minoresses, London)

Unknown

Dru Drury, ‘Heart Burials’, p. 54 Reg. Giffard, 2: 449–50; Barkly, ‘The Berkeleys of Cobberley’, pp. 105–9 Baronage, 1: 191–2; CP, 10: 216–18 CP, 7: 378–87; Monasticon, 6: 1553–4; Duffy, Royal Tombs, pp. 92–6 Baronage, 1: 177

Ann. Hailes, pp. 114–15; Monasticon, 6: 514, 517 Merriott parish Gittos and Gittos, church, Somerset ‘Motivation and Choice’, p. 1607

Another heart burial monument was found at Combe Flory dedicated to Maud de Meriet, a nun at Cannington Priory. As yet, she has not been identified. Gittos and Gittos, ‘Motivation and Choice’, p. 160.

149

APPENDIX 1

Date

Name

Body

1307

Edward I King of England

Westminster Abbey

Heart

Bibliography

?Holme Cultram Bower, [with viscera] Scotichronicon, 6: 332; Pierre de Langtoft, 1: 428–9; Rishanger, p. 423–4, Trivet, Annales, pp. 413–14; Wright, Political Songs (ed. Coss), p. 247 1314 Gilbert de Tewkesbury Shelford Priory Stapleton ‘Summary Clare, Earl of Abbey of Wardrobe Gloucester Accounts’, p. 341 ?1316 Matilda de Vaux Pentney Abbey Belvoir Priory CP, 11: 97, VCH Norfolk, 2: 388. 1327 Edward II, King St Peter’s Abbey, Franciscans, Smyth, Lives of the of England Gloucester London in 1358 Berkeleys, 1: 293–4; Bradford, Heart Burial, pp. 105–6

Appendix 2 The following references form the basis of figs. 5 and 6. For full citations refer to the list of abbreviations and bibliography. 1238

Armiger literatus

1242

William de Marico

1265

Simon de Montfort, Earl of Leicester

1282

Llewellyn ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales

1283

David ap Gruffydd, Prince of Wales

1283

Mabadin, David’s steward Rhys ap Maredudd

1292

CCR 1237–1242, p. 146; Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 3: 497–8; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 23; Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 2: 501; Powicke, King Henry III and the Lord Edward, 2: 741–59. Matthew Paris, Chronica majora, 4: 193–7; Matthew Paris, Historia Anglorum, pp. 462–3; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 23; Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 2: 501; Powicke, King Henry III and the Lord Edward, 2: 741–59. Ann. Oseneia, pp. 175–6; Ann. Wav., pp. 365, 367; Flores historiarum, 2: 493, 3: 6; Rishanger, 37–8; Wykes, pp. 174–5; Prestwich, Edward I, p. 51. Ann. Dunst., pp. 292–3; Ann. London, pp. 90–1; Cotton, Historia, pp. 162–3; Worcester, 2: 227; Prestwich, Edward I, pp. 193–4. Ann. Dunst., pp. 293–4; Ann. London, pp. 90–2; CChR 1277–1326, pp. 281–2; Chron. Buriensis, pp. 78–9; Cotton, Historia, p. 164; Foedera, 1.2: 630; Worcester, 2: 229–330; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 24–6; Powell and Wallis, House of Lords, pp. 207–8; Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 2: 501; Prestwich, Edward I, pp. 202–3. Chron. Buriensis, p. 79; Cotton, Historia, p. 164; Worcester, 2: 230; Prestwich, Edward I, p. 203. CCR 1288–1296, p. 267; CChR 1277–1326, pp. 306–8; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 29–31; Edwards, ‘Treason of Thomas Turberville’, p. 296; Prestwich, Edward I, pp. 218–19.

APPENDIX 2

1295

Thomas de Turberville

1304

Nicholas de Segrave

1305

William Wallace

1306

Simon Fraser

1306

John of Strathbogie, Earl of Atholl

1312

Piers Gaveston, Earl of Cornwall

1318

Gilbert de Middleton

1322

Thomas, Earl of Lancaster

1322

Bartholomew Baddlesmere

151

Cotton, Historia, pp. 304–6; Song of Thomas de Turberville (Anglo-Norman Political Songs, ed. Aspin, pp. 49–55); Edwards, ‘Treason of Thomas Turberville’; Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 2: 501; Prestwich, Edward I, p. 383. Rotuli parliamentorum, 1: 171–81; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 55. Ann. London, pp. 139–42; Brut, 1: 196; Pierre de Langtoft, ed. Thiolier, 1: 344, 419–20; Flores historiarum, 3: 123–4; Song of Simon Fraser (ed. Robbins, pp. 14–15; ed. Wright, p. 213); Barrow, Robert Bruce (1988 ed.), pp. 136–7; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 34–9; Pollock and Maitland, History of English Law, 2: 501; Prestwich, Edward I, pp. 499–503; Watson, Under the Hammer, pp. 211–14. Ann. London, pp. 148–9; Brut, 1: 200–1; Flores historiarum, 3: 134; Song of Simon Fraser (ed. Robbins, pp. 14–21, 252–6; ed. Wright, pp. 212–23); Barrow, Robert Bruce (1988 ed.), pp. 156, 161; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 45–6; Prestwich, Edward I, pp. 501, 507–8. Ann. London, pp. 149–50; Brut, 1: 201–2; Flores historiarum, 3: 134–5; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 46; CP, 1: 306; Prestwich, Edward I, p. 508. Ann. London, pp. 206–7; ‘Trokelowe’, pp. 76–7; Vita Edwardi Secundi, pp. 42–53, 100–3; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, pp. 19–22; CP, 3: 433–4; Hamilton, Piers Gaveston, pp. 96–100. Brut, 1: 209; Sayles, Select Cases, 4: 78; Vita Edwardi Secundi, pp. 142–5; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 46–8; Prestwich, ‘Gilbert Middleton and the Attack on the Cardinals, 1317’, pp. 179–94. Brut, 1: 219–24; Foedera, 2.1: 41–2, 493; Gesta Edwardi, pp. 74–6; Murimuth, p. 36; Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 3–5; Vita Edwardi Secundi, pp. 214–15; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 49–50; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, pp. 58–61; Maddicott, Thomas of Lancaster, p. 312. Murimuth, p. 36; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 50–1; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 61; Haskins, ‘Judicial Proceedings against a Traitor’, pp. 509–11; Sayles, ‘Formal Judgements on Traitors’, pp. 57–63.

152

APPENDIX 2

1322

Roger Clifford

1322

John Mowbray

1322

Henry Tyes

1322

John Giffard

1322

Henry Willington

1322

Henry de Montfort

1323

Andrew Harclay, Earl of Carlisle

1326

Hugh Despenser the Elder, Earl of Winchester

1326

Hugh Despenser the Younger

1326

Edmund Fitz Alan, Earl of Arundel

Murimuth, p. 36; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 50–1; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 61; Haskins, ‘Judicial Proceedings against a Traitor’, pp. 509–11; Sayles, ‘Formal Judgements on Traitors’, pp. 57–63. Murimuth, p. 36; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 50–1; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 61; Haskins, ‘Judicial Proceedings against a Traitor’, pp. 509–11; Sayles, ‘Formal Judgements on Traitors’, pp. 57–63. Murimuth, p. 36; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 50–1; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 61; Haskins, ‘Judicial Proceedings against a Traitor’, pp. 509–11; Sayles, ‘Formal Judgements on Traitors’, pp. 57–63. Murimuth, p. 36; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 50–1; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 61; Haskins, ‘Judicial Proceedings against a Traitor’, pp. 509–11; Sayles, ‘Formal Judgements on Traitors’, pp. 57–63. Murimuth, p. 36; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 50–1; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 61; Haskins, ‘Judicial Proceedings against a Traitor’, pp. 509–11; Sayles, ‘Formal Judgements on Traitors’, pp. 57–63. Murimuth, p. 36; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 50–1; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 61; Haskins, ‘Judicial Proceedings against a Traitor’, pp. 509–11; Sayles, ‘Formal Judgements on Traitors’, pp. 57–63. Brut, 1: 227–8; CCR 1327–1330, p. 404; Chron. Lanercost, pp. 250–1; Foedera 2.1: 509, 748; Gesta Edwardi, pp. 83–4; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 52; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, pp. 156–8; Mason, ‘Sir Andrew de Harcla earl of Carlisle’, pp. 124–31. Ann. Paulini, pp. 317–18; Brut, 1: 239–40; Jean le Bel, Chronique, p. 23; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 53, 66; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 190. Ann. Paulini, pp. 319–20; Brut, 1: 240; Foedera, 2.2: 804; Jean le Bel, Chronique, pp. 27–8; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 66; Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, pp. 192–3; Holmes, ‘Judgement on the Younger Despenser’, pp. 261–7; Taylor, ‘Judgement on Hugh Despenser the Younger’, pp. 70–7. Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 55–6, 226–7, 256–7; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 84; CP, 1: 241–2.

APPENDIX 2

1328

1329

1330

1330 1330

Robert de Holland

153

Fryde, Tyranny and Fall, p. 218; Maddicott, ‘Thomas of Lancaster and Sir Robert Holland’, pp. 449–72. Edmund of Woodstock, Brut, 1: 265–7; Le Baker, Chronicon, pp. 107–8; Earl of Kent Murimuth, pp. 59–60; Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 55; Bellamy, Law of Treason, p. 207; CP, 7: 142–8. Roger Mortimer, Earl Brut, 1: 271–2; Chron. Lanercost, p. 266; Le of March Baker, Chronicon, pp. 109–13; Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 55, 255–6; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 54, 66. Simon de Beresford Le Baker, Chronicon, p. 113; Murimuth, p. 64; Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 53. John Maltravers Murimuth, pp. 63–4; Rotuli parliamentorum, 2: 53; Bellamy, Law of Treason, pp. 82–3.

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London, British Library Arundel 83 London, British Library Cotton Nero D II London, British Library Royal 14 C VII PRIMARY SOURCES

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Index Page numbers in bold refer to the illustrations and figures. Appendix 1 and 2 are indexed on personal name only. Abbey Dore (Herefordshire) 70, 71 n.58 Abelard 127 n.51 Abingdon, Edmund of, Archbishop of Canterbury 28–9, 60, 144 Adam 39 Agnellus, Thomas 19 Sermo de morte et sepultura Henrici regis junioris 29–30 Aigueblanche, Peter, Bishop of Hereford (d. 1268) 145 Albertus Magnus 42–3 Alderi, William de 118 Alfonso, son of Edward I (d. 1284) 147 Alighieri, Dante 58 Almaine, Henry of (d. 1271) 58–9, 62, 63, 146 Alexander IV, Pope 134 Alexander the Great 49 Amputation 79 n.16, 107, 108, 113, 118, 119, 120 n.25, 132–3, 133 n. 66, 140 Anatomy see Dissection Annales Londonienses 98, 99 n.9, 100 Anglo-Scottish relations 97–102, 112–13, 130–1 Angoulême, Isabella of 62, 76 n.5 Aquinas, Thomas see also under Death; Burial 17, 20, 29, 91–2 Arderne, John of 50 Ariès, Philippe 6, 19 Aristocracy see also Nobility And knighthood 5, 10, 43 And religious patronage 7–8, 10, 57, 59–64, 64–6, 68–9, 70–2, 73–4, 75, 138 Assessment of current scholarship on 5, 33–4

Attitudes towards other social groups 34, 43–4, 45–6, 55–6, 117 Characteristics of see also under Knighthood 33, 54, 116 Definitions of 3–5, 7, 10, 88 Punishment for treason before 1238 117–19 Role of religious houses in maintaining image of 57, 64, 65, 69, 74, 87, 138 Aristotle 42, 43, 53 Arius 30 n.64 Armiger literatus 103, 115, 117, 125 n.44, 128, 150 Ashridge, Convent of Bonhommes (Bucks) 61 Assize of Northampton (1176) 118 Attainder see Executions, Treason Augustine, Bishop of Hippo see also under Death; Burial 17, 20, 54 Augustinian Canons 85, 85, 86 Autopsy see also Dissection 14 Avalon, Hugh of, Bishop of Lincoln 28, 29, 40 Bacon, Roger 37, 42–3, 49 Baddlesmere, Bartholomew (d. 1322) 120 n.23, 151 Balliol, John (d. 1269) 141 Balliol, John, King of Scots 97 Bartholomaeus Anglicus 22, 26 n.48, 53 Basset, Ralph 118 Beatrice, daughter of Henry III (d. 1275) 146 Beauchamp family 69 Beauchamp Guy de, Earl of Warwick 61

180

INDEX

Beauchamp, William III de 69, 71 Beauchamp, William IV de, Earl of Warwick 69 Beaulieu Abbey (Hants) 59, 60, 61, 63, 63 n.28 Beaumont, Margaret de see also under Leicester, earls of 83, 143 Beaumont, Waleran de, Count of Meulan 117 n.6 Beauty, concepts of 39, 40 Beccles, Daniel of 44 Beheading see under Executions Bek, Antony, Bishop of Durham 61 Bellamy, John 96, 102 Belvoir Priory (Leics.) 83 Benedictines 85, 85, 86 Benefaction see Patronage Beresford, Simon de (d. 1330) 153 Berkeley of Coberley, Giles de (d. 1294) 68, 71, 77 n.6, 86, 148 Bernard of Clairvaux see Clairvaux, Bernard of Binski, Paul 76 Black Death 14, 15, 21, 22 Black Friars London 70 Body see also Flesh Ageing see also Prolongatio vitae 4, 37–8 And personhood see under Identity And sin 38 Appearance see also Physiognomy 40, 46, 47, 49, 74 As castle or shrine 48, 48 n.48, 74, 88 Corruption of 15, 39, 94, 109, 128, 134, 137 Dead see also Cadaver 4, 13 Debate on the nature of the 91–2, 93, 94 Disease 39–40, 50 Fragmentation of 25, 28, 75, 88, 102, 131, 133, 137 Gendered 39, 41–2 Integrity 59, 87–8, 95, 131, 137 Material see also Cadaver 8, 95 Medical perceptions of 38, 40, 41, 52–3, 81–2, 87 n.46, 106, 108, 108 n.50, 137 Nobility of 48, 49, 55, 74, 79, 87–8, 95 Political see under Body Politic Pollution 15, 77

Popular perceptions of 13 Relationship between soul and 17, 23, 31, 38, 39, 43, 49–50, 54, 91–3, 137 Religious 94, 107 Resurrection of 7, 28, 38, 88, 93 Saintly 28, 40–1, 53–4, 75, 92, 94, 139 Social 43, 72, 79, 87 Theoretical underpinnings of 4, 6, 6n, 10, 36–7, 137 Body Politic see also Salisbury, John of 54, 106–8, 111, 128, 131, 134, 140 Actualisation of 111, 133, 135 Medical metaphors and 106–8, 113–14, 131, 140 Treason and 106–8, 113, 132–4 Body Worlds Exhibition 13–14 Bois, Thomas de 100 Boncompagno 79, 79 n.14 Boniface VIII, Pope 37, 89–90, 92–3, 105 n.33, 139 Detestande feritatis 89, 94–5 Born, Bertran de 34 n.4, 45–6, 57 Bosco, Ernald de 66 Boulogne, Matilda of 42 Bourdieu, Pierre 33 Bower, Walter 81 Brabanzon, John de 91 Bracton 105, 106 Bradenstoke Priory (Wilts.) 82 Bradford, Charles 141 Bridlington Priory (Yorks.) 65 n.32 Brittany, Stephen Duke of, and Earl of Richmond (d. 1138) 142 Britton 105, 106, 108 Bronfen, Elizabeth 16 Brown, Elizabeth 92 Bruce, Robert de, King of Scots (d. 1329) 90–1, 97, 100, 101, 112, 141 Brut 124 Burial 86, 93, 94 Abbatial 67 Amongst relatives 59, 63, 64, 66, 69, 85, 93 Anthropological views on 15–16, 92 Aristocratic see also under individual names and religious houses 1, 3, 7–8, 10, 69, 73–4, 75, 77, 87, 89, 90, 95, 138

INDEX

As act of lordship 64, 66, 67–8, 69, 74, 85 As act of piety 69 As one of Seven Works of Mercy 20 Augustine of Hippo on 20 Entrails see Entrails, Burial of Executed felons and traitors 119, 124, 125–6, 129, 130, 140 Heart see Heart Burials Locations within religious space 67, 68, 69, 74 Ambulatory 67 Cistercian statutes on 68 Chapter house 67, 68, 138 Cloisters 68 High altar 58, 59, 61, 67, 68, 138 Identification of 69 Parish 20, 67, 85, 86, 86 Preparations see also Embalming; Mos teutonicus 1, 3, 31, 58, 77, 78–82, 87, 89–90, 91, 95 Role of relatives in 93, 94 Use of lead coffins 81 Use of oxhides 19, 31, 81 Thomas Aquinas on 20 Translation of remains 28–9, 68, 89–90 Viscera see Viscera, Burial of Burnham Nunnery (Bucks) 59, 60 Bynum, Caroline 7, 28, 38, 92 Cadaver see also Revenants 6, 10, 16 As metaphor of corruption see also under Death, Signs of 15, 21, 25–6, 27, 30–1, 38, 75, 92, 137, 138 Bernard of Clairvaux on 21 Dance macabre 6 Fasciculus morum 21 Three Living and Three Dead 24, 25–6, 27, 28 Cremation see also under Executions, Treason 81, 90 Cruentation 15, 23 n.41 Eaten by dogs 119 n.16, 124 Identity and 21, 31, 72, 87, 88, 91–2 Macabre iconography 15, 24, 27 Miraculous preservation of 28–9, 75, 82, 87, 92, 137

181

Mummification 21 n.33, 87 Ontological status of 91–2 Preservation techniques see Burial Preparations; Embalming; Mos teutonicus Physical decay of see also Miasma 19, 21, 21 n.33, 22, 29, 30 n.64, 31, 72, 75, 80, 89, 92, 124, 137 Scholarship on 6, 15, 92 Respect for 87 Saponification 21 n.33 Skeleton 15, 79, 88, 92, 95, 139 Transportation of 77, 92–3 Cade, Jack 108 n.52 Cantelou of Abergavenny, George de (d. 1273) 146 Cantilupe, Thomas, Bishop of Hereford (d. 1282) 23 n. 41, 29, 61, 147 Cantimpré, Thomas of 26 n.48, 39 Capellanus, Andreas 45, 46, 46 n.41, 79 Castile, Eleanor of (d. 1291) 70, 84, 147 Castration see Emasculation under Executions, Treason Cemeteries 18, 20 Chanson de Roland 1, 2 Chantries 20 n.32, 60, 61, 76 Charlemagne 1–3 *Charlemagne and Roland 2 Charles the Bald, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 877) 77 Chester, earls of Hugh d’Avranches (d. 1101) 65 n.32, 67, 68, 118 n.10 Ranulph I 67 Ranulph II (d. 1153) 117 Ranulph III (d. 1232) 65, 65 n.32, 65 n.33, 82, 143 Childs, Wendy 129 Chiromancy 42 Chivalry see knighthood Chrétien de Troyes see Troyes, Chrétien de Christ Church Cathedral, Dublin 84 Cirencester Abbey (Glos.) 62 Cistercians 68, 85, 85, 86, 139 Clairvaux, Bernard of see also under Death 49, 53

182

INDEX

Clare, Richard de, Earl of Pembroke and Striguil (‘Strongbow’) 61, 84 Isabella, his daughter 61 Clement V, Pope 88 n.50 Clement VI, Pope 90 Clifford, Margaret (d. 1263) 145 Clifford, Roger de (d. 1284) 70–1 Clifford, Roger de (d. 1322) 152 Cornwall, earls of 58–64, 66 Edmund (d. 1300) 62, 148 Death and burial 60, 64, 71, 82, 90 Patronage 59–60, 61, 63 Richard (d. 1272) 58, 61, 62, 62–3, 68 n.45, 133, 146 Death and burial 59 Patronage 59, 60, 66 (for Piers Gaveston see under Gaveston, Piers) Corruption of blood see under Nobility Comyn, John 98 Cremona, Gerard of 42, 80 Crouch, David 8, 33, 34 Croxden Abbey (Staffs) 91 Croxton Kerrial Priory (Lincs.) 83, 84 Crusades 75–6, 79, 81 Cwmhir Abbey (Powys) 120 n.25 D’Abrissel, Robert 78 D’Albini, William IV, Earl of Arundel (d. 1221) 143 D’Albini of Belvoir, Isabella 83 William III (d. 1236) 82, 143 William IV (d. 1242) 83–4, 144 Daniel, Walter 28 Daniell, Christopher 67 Dante see Alighieri, Dante Davy, Richard 121 Dead Commemoration of the 20, 21 n.32, 61, 69, 70–1, 74 In relation to the living see also Cadaver; Revenants 14, 18, 20, 26 Death Afterlife 14, 18, 20 As event 20 As transition 17, 18, 21, 27, 137 Definitions of 16, 21 Augustine of Hippo 17, 137

Thomas Aquinas 17–18 Descriptions of see also under Death, Signs of 27 Personification of see under Cadaver, Macabre iconography Physical 14, 17–18, 21, 96, 123 Post-medieval attitudes to 13–14, 16 Scholarship on 6, 14–15, 16, 92 Signs of 26–8 Social 14, 16, 31, 116, 123, 140 Social hierarchy in 69 Spiritual see also Cadaver as metaphor of corruption 17–18, 31, 54, 107, 138 Tomb as symbol of 18 Deathbed 18–19 De la Pole, William, earl of Suffolk 108 n.52 Despenser family 67 Despenser, Hugh the Elder, earl of Winchester (d. 1326) 103, 110–11, 115, 120 n.23, 124, 129, 131, 152 Despenser, Hugh the Younger (d. 1326) 110–11, 111–12, 115, 120 n.22, 122, 123 n.35, 125, 126–7, 129, 131, 152 Devizes, Richard of 42 Diceto, Ralph 119 Dictum of Kenilworth (1266) 131 Dieulacres Abbey (Staffs) 65 n.32, 65 n.33, 82 Disembowelling see Embalming; Executions; Mos teutonicus Dismemberment see Amputation; Embalming; Executions; Mos teutonicus Dissection 81–2, 89, 90 D’Oilly, Edith (post 1137) 141, 141 n.2 Dominicans see also Black Friars 60, 93, 94, 125 Douglas, Mary 21 n.33, 43 Drawing see under Executions Dressler, Rachel 7, 73 Durkheim, Émile 33 n.2 Effigies see Monuments, funerary Ely, Nicholas of, Bishop of Winchester (d. 1280) 147

INDEX

Emasculation see under Executions As challenge to masculinity 126–7 Embalming see also Mos teutonicus 22, 28, 31, 74, 75, 76, 77, 78–82, 90, 91, 138 Cost of 78, 79, 80, 87 Evisceration 28, 76, 77, 77 n.9, 78, 80, 82, 87, 89, 90, 91, 94 Exclusivity of 1–3, 76, 78, 79, 80, 87 Guy de Chauliac on 80 n.20, 87 n.46, 90 Henri de Mondeville on 79–80, 81, 82, 87, 87 n.46, 90, 91, 123 Ingredients 3, 80, 87 Origins of 77–8, 77 n.7 Subject of debate 89, 91, 93–5 Techniques 14, 80, 81, 90, 91, 94 Embodiment see also under Identity 33, 35–7, 137, 140 England, kings of Aethelred (d. 1016) 105 Alfred (d. 899) 104 Edward I (d. 1307) 70, 71, 80–1, 81 n.23, 87, 90, 97–8, 101, 105, 106, 109, 110, 115, 119, 124, 131, 133, 149 Edward II (d. 1327) 61, 90, 105, 111, 112–13, 126, 149 Edward III (d. 1377) 103, 125–6, 130 Edward the Confessor (d. 1065) 58, 59 Edward the Martyr (d. 879) 105 Edmund (d. 946) 104 Henry I (d. 1135) 22, 30–1, 63 n.28, 82, 84, 117, 118, 127, 141 Henry II (d. 1189) 29, 117, 118, 119 Henry III (d. 1272) 58, 59, 62, 63, 66, 76, 86, 103, 115, 117, 131, 133, 146 Henry VI (d. 1471) 80 Henry, Young King (d. 1183) 19, 29–30, 142 John (d. 1216) 21 n.32, 42, 59, 63 n.28, 83, 142 Richard I (d. 1199) 29, 39 n.18, 49–50, 52, 84, 119, 142 Stephen (d. 1154) 42, 117

183

William I (d. 1087) 30, 30 n.64, 118 William II (d. 1100) 118, 118 n.10 Entrails Burial of 58, 64, 81, 82, 83, 94, 138 Moral connotations of 28, 42, 54, 81–2 Espec of Helmsley, Walter de 49, 67 Erlande-Brandenburg, Alan 78 n.11 Essex, earls of Mandeville, Geoffrey I de (d. 1144) 117 Mandeville, Geoffrey II de (d. 1166) 142 Mandeville, William II de (d. 1199) 142 Mandeville, William III de (d. 1226) 82–3, 143 Estoire de Charlemagne 1–2 Eu, William of 118, 118 n.10 Evesham, Battle of (1265) 132, 133 Evisceration see Executions, Treason; Embalming Evreux, Amaury of 117 n.6 Excommunication 90–1, 107 n.47, 125 n.42, 139 Executions see also Death, social; Body politic, actualisation 8, 96, 97, 98, 105, 116, 120, 130, 131, 150–3 As example 128–9 As rite de passage 123 n.34 As social death 123–8, 140 Attainder 108 Beheading 100, 101, 117, 120, 122, 124–5, 129, 133 Blinding 117, 118, 118 n.10, 127 Burning of remains 100, 101, 102, 124, 127, 128, 140 Crowd participation in 121–2, 129 Dependent on status 101, 129–30 Display of remains 100, 101, 120, 122, 123, 124, 125, 129, 133, 140 Drawing 1, 96, 99, 100–1, 117, 119, 120, 121, 123, 129, 139 Emasculation 100 n.14, 118, 118 n.10, 120, 126–7, 127 n.51, 140 Evisceration 100, 101, 120, 127, 128

184

INDEX

Executions (cont.) Hanging 1, 99, 101, 117, 118, 119, 120, 123–4, 129, 139 Humiliation 96, 99, 100, 102, 120, 123, 126, 130 Implications for relatives 126–7, 140 Locations 99, 100, 121, 122, 123 Post-mortem treatment 100, 120, 120 n.25, 124 n.37, 125, 129, 133 Quartering 1, 100, 102, 117, 120, 124, 125, 126, 140 Reversal of heraldry 122–3 Urban setting of 99–101, 121–2, 129 Use of oxhides 100, 123, 123 n.35 Use of distinctive dress or fabric 100, 121, 122 Use of wreaths (laurel, nettle and periwinkle) 100, 100 n.16, 122 Exile 101, 112, 115, 117, 118, 118 n.10, 119, 139 Falkenburg, Beatrix of 62, 63–4 Felons, Treatment of see also under Executions 118–19, 119 n.16, 123 n.36, 127 Felony and felons 96, 99, 101, 118, 119 Ferrers, Henry de, Earl of Derby 68 Field of Blood 127 Finucane, Ronald 14 FitzAlan, Edmund, Earl of Arundel (d. 1326) 129, 130, 152 FitzAlan, Richard, Earl of Arundel 130, 131 Fitz Harding, Robert 34 Fitz Hamon, Robert 68, 68 n.45 Fitz Nigel, Richard, Bishop of London 118–19 Fitz Nigel, Richard, felon 119 Fitz Nigel, William 65 n.32 Fitz Osbern, William 119 Fitz Ranulph of Middleham, Ralph (d. 1270) 1270 Flesh see also under Body 92–3, 94 Body regarded as polluted 15, 18 Burial of 58, 79, 138 Fleta 105–6

Flores historiarum 132–3 Fontaines, Godefroid de 91, 93–4 Fontevrault Priory (Anjou) 76 Forfeiture 103–4, 115, 117, 130, 131, 134 Forz, William de, Count of Aumale (d. 1260) 42, 145 Fougères, Stephen de 33 n.2 Fourth Lateran Council 91, 95 France, kings of 90 Louis IX (d. 1270) 79, 88 Philip II (d. 1223) 50 Philip III (d. 1285) 93, 94 Philip IV (d. 1314) 88, 89, 93, 108 Franciscans see also Grey Friars 60, 69 Poor Clares 76 Fraser, Simon (d. 1306) 96, 98, 100–2, 115, 120 n.23, 123 n.35, 124, 129, 130, 151 Fraser, William, Bishop of St Andrews 98 Froissart, Jean 126 Fulk, count of Anjou (d. 1040) 78 Funerals see also Burial Cost 70–2, 70 n.54, 78 Ritual 61, 70–2, 74 Gallows 100–1, 119, 123, 124 As ‘cross of thieves’ 103, 118 Ganelon 1–4, 133 n. 65, 140 Garendon Abbey (Leics.) 66, 81, 83 Gaunt, Maurice de (d. 1230) 143 Gaveston, Piers, Earl of Cornwall (d. 1312) 112, 115, 125, 125 n.42, 129, 151 Ghent, Henri de 93–4 Ghosts see also Revenants 15, 18 Giffard, John (d. 1322) 152 Giffard, Walter, Bishop of Winchester (d. 1129) 141 Gilbertines 85, 86 Gillingham, John 102–3, 115, 116 Gittings, Claire 80 Glanvill 105, 106 Gloucester, earls of 66, 67 Clare, Gilbert de (d. 1230) 61, 65 Clare, Gilbert de (d. 1314) 129, 149 Clare, Richard de (d. 1260) 68 n.45, 145 Golding, Brian 8, 68 n.47 Gournay, Robert de 145

INDEX

Grandison, Otto de (d. 1358) 71 Grandmesnil, Hugh de 80 n.19 Grandmont Priory (Marche) 29 Gregory the Great, Pope 77 n.9 Grey Friars London 90 Oxford 60, 62, 63 Gruffydd, David ap (d. 1283) 109, 110, 110 n.58, 115, 120, 120 n.22, 127, 129, 150 Gruffydd, Llewellyn ap (d. 1282) 120 n.25, 124, 125, 150 Habitus 33–4, 36 Hagens, Gunther von 13 Hailes Abbey (Glos.) 58, 59, 63, 66 Hanging see under Executions Harclay, Andrew, Earl of Carlisle (d. 1323) 111, 112–13, 120 n.22, 122, 125, 127, 129, 152 Harper-Bill, Christopher 8 Hartshorne, Emily 141 Hastings, Mathilda de (d. ?1260s) 145 Hawise, Countess of Aumale 42 Heart As location of character 25, 42, 51, 55, 88, 127, 138 As location of intention 53, 127–8 As seat of the soul 52, 88, 95, 128 Descriptions of 52–3 Exchange 54, 54 n.70, 55 In relation to rest of body 48, 48 n.48, 74, 88, 93, 138 Metaphors 54, 128 Nobility of 47–8, 51–4, 55, 59, 74, 88, 95, 138 Heart Burial see also Viscera burial 8, 10, 58, 59–64 passim, 70, 71, 74, 78, 82–6, 90, 93, 94, 138–9 Reasons for 83, 95 Ancestral 82 Emotional attachment 61, 64, 78, 83 Lordship 82–3, 86 Piety 64, 75, 82, 84–5, 88 Sign of nobility 75, 88, 95 Location of 68 Valuable containers used for 59, 87, 144 Hector of Troy 49

185

Henry III, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 1056) 78 Henry, son of Edward I (d. 1274) 146 Heraldry 64, 70, 71, 72, 122–3, 133 Hereford, earls of 66, 67, 68 n.47 Bohun, Henry de (d. 1220) 143 Bohun, Humphrey IV de (d. 1275) 146 Gloucester, Miles of 67 Herodotus 77 n.7 Hertz, Robert 15–16, 92 Hippocrates 26, 43 Histoire de Guillaume de Mareschal 19 Historia Karoli Magni 1–2 Hodenc, Raoul de 34 n.4, 44–5, 46, 52, 55 Holland, Robert de 124, 153 Holm Cultram Priory (Cumbria) 81, 81 n.23 Holy Blood, Relic of the 59–60, 61 Holy Land 61, 71 Honorius IV, Pope 92 Horn, Andrew 99 n.9 Huizinga, Johan 15 Huntingdon, Henry of 22, 30–1 Huntingdon, Henry Earl of (d. 1596) 80 Identity Communal 4–5, 7, 10, 33, 34, 36, 73, 75, 87, 95, 96–7, 116, 127, 130, 131, 134–5 Embodied 4, 35, 37, 50, 72 87, 88, 95, 96–7, 114, 128, 130, 131, 137 Modern perceptions of 35–6 Personal 7, 35–6, 75, 88, 95, 97, 116, 128, 131, 139 Imprisonment 117, 118 Innocent III, Pope 54 Isabella of France 90, 111, 124, 126 Isidore, Bishop of Seville 41, 44, 92, 95 Isolation, social see also Death, social 7, 127, 128–9, 130, 135 Jenner, Mark 36 John of Salisbury see Salisbury, John of Judas Iscariot 3, 30 n.64, 127 Judas Maccabaeus 3

186

INDEX

Kantorowicz, Ernest 72, 75 Keen, Maurice 102 Kilkenny, William, Bishop of Ely (d. 1256) 144 King’s Bench 99 Kirkham Priory (Yorks.) 67, 84 Kirkham, Walter de, Bishop of Durham (d. 1260) 84, 145 Knaresborough Priory (Yorks.) 59, 60 Knighthood see also under Nobility Characteristics of 33, 44–6, 47, 48– 9, 50, 52, 73, 114, 138, 139 Criticism of 35, 45, 48–9 Ideals of 33, 50, 51, 54 Modern perceptions of 5, 7 Order of chivalry 112 Physical characteristics of 44–7, 49, 50, 138 Knights Hospitaller (Knights of St John) 60 Knights Templar 49, 60, 61, 71, 85, 86 Kristeva, Julia 15, 21 n.33 Lacan, Jacques 36 n.9 Lacock Priory (Wilts.) 82 Lacy, Edmund de, Earl of Lincoln (d. 1258) 144 Lacy, Henry de, Earl of Lincoln 68 Lancaster, Duke Henry of 48 n.48, 50, 124 Lancaster, earls of Edmund (d. 1296) 72–3, 76, 148 Thomas (d. 1322) 111, 120, 124, 129, 130, 134, 151 Lancelot do lac 46 n.42, 51–2, 55 Lanercost Priory (Cumbria) 80 Langtoft, Peter de 125 Langton, Walter, Bishop of Coventry and Lichfield 61 Le Bel, Jean 126–7 Le Breton, John, Bishop of Hereford (d. 1275) 146 Lechlade (Glos.) 63 Leges Henrici Primi 106, 106 n.37 Leicester, earls of Beaumont, Robert II de (d. 1168) 66, 142 Beaumont, Robert IV de 83 Montfort, Simon de (d. 1265) 58, 120, 126, 131–4, 132, 150

Leland, John 62 Le Mans 29 Le Moine, Jean, Cardinal 89 Le Poore, Richard, Bishop of Durham (d. 1237) 143 Leprosy 40, 40 n.20 Lewes Priory 81 Leybourne, Roger de (d. 1271) 145 Life course 37, 38 Lincoln Cathedral 84 Lion, characteristics of the 52 Little Malvern Priory (Worcs.) 71 Llantony Secunda (Glos.) 65, 66, 68 n.47 Llull, Ramon 47–8, 52, 54, 112, 114, 122 Longchamp, William de, Bishop of Ely 142 Longespee, Nicholas, Bishop of Salisbury (d. 1297) 148 Longespee, Stephen (d. 1269) 82, 145 Longespee, William, Earl of Salisbury (d. 1226) 73 Luzzi, Mondino dei 81–2, 90 Lydgate, John 100 n.16 Mabadin, steward of David ap Gruffydd (d. 1283) 150 Maitland, Frederic 102 Malmesbury, William of 30 Maltravers, John (d. 1330) 153 Manuscripts Edinburgh National Library of Scotland Adv MS 19.2.1 (Auchinleck) 2 London British Library Additional 37492 2 London British Library Arundel 83 (De Lisle Psalter) 24, 25–6, 27 London British Library Harley 2253 100 Map, Walter see also Revenants 18 n.21, 22, 25 n.44, 47, 51 Maredudd, Rhys ap (d. 1292) 109, 124, 150 Margaret of France 71, 90 Marisco, William de (d. 1242) 106 n.40, 109–10, 110, 115, 120 n.22, 122–3, 125 n.44, 128 n.56, 129, 133, 150 Markyate 61

INDEX

Marsh, Adam 62 Marshal, Gilbert, Earl of Pembroke (d. 1241) 144 Marshal, Isabella (d. 1240) 61, 62, 64, 68 n.45, 144 Marshal, William I, Earl of Pembroke (d. 1219) 19, 35, 61, 71–2 Marshal, William II, Earl of Pembroke (d. 1231) 19–20 Marston, Roger 23 n.41 Masculinity see also Body, Gendered 7, 52 Challenged 46, 47, 49, 50, 51, 126–7 Matilda, Countess of Anjou 42 Maud, Countess of Arundel (d. 1270) 145 Mauduit, William IV de, Earl of Warwick (d. 1268) 145 Mauss, Marcel 10, 33 n.2, 137 McNamara, Jo Ann 41 Memoria 125 Mendicant orders see also Dominicans; Franciscans 68–9, 84–5, 85, 86, 94, 139 Menteith, John of 98 Meriet, John de 91 Meriet, Maria de 86, 148 Meriet, Maud de 148 n.7 Miasma 21–2, 23, 31 Middleton, Gilbert de (d. 1318) 120 n.22, 127, 129, 151 Miracles, somatic 28, 30 Mirror of Justices 106 Missenden Priory (Bucks) 61 Mitton, Nicholas (d. ?1291) 148 Mobility, social 34, 43, 45 Mohun of Dunster, John de (d. 1253/4) 144 Mondeville, Henri de see also under Embalming 53, 54 Montefalco, Chiara de 54 Montfort, Guy de 58, 133 n. 65 Montfort, Henry de (d. 1265) 132, 132–3 Montfort, Henry de (d. 1322) 152 Montfort, Simon de (the elder) see under Leicester, earls of Montfort, Simon de (the younger) 58, 133, 133 n. 65 Mont-Saint-Eloy, Gervais 91, 93 ‘Monstrous races’ 39

187

Monuments, funerary 65, 68, 70, 74, 84 Effigies 8, 72–3, 74, 133, 138 Heart 60, 70, 84 Entrails 84 Moreham, Herbert de 100 Mortimer, Isabella (d. 1252) 63 Mortimer, Maud de 126 Mortimer, Roger de (d. 1282) 133 Mortimer, Roger de, Earl of March (d. 1330) 103, 111, 124, 131, 153 Mos teutonicus 29, 37, 59, 75, 78–82, 87, 90, 138, 139 Difference from embalming 79 Origins of term 79, 79 n.14 Subject of debate see also under Boniface VIII 89–90, 95 Technique 79, 89 Mowbray, John (d. 1322) 152 Moyenmoutier, Humbert de 54 Multiple burial see also Burial; Embalming; Evisceration 59, 64, 65, 74, 75–8, 87, 88, 93, 138, 141–9 Definition of 10, 57 n.2 Dispensation for 90–1, 91 n. 59 Origins of 75, 76 Reasons for 75–7, 93–4 Subject of debate 88, 89–95, 139 Murray, Andrew of, Guardian of Scotland 97 Narborough, Agnes de 86, 148 Neckam, Alexander 48, 49 Nero 77 n.7 Newburgh, William 25 n.44 Niger, Ralph, Bishop of London (d. 1241) 144 Nobility 33–4, 44, 55, 75, 114 As moral quality 4, 48, 53, 54, 87–8, 97, 112, 114, 116, 128, 135, 138, 139 As qualifier for membership of aristocracy 34, 43–4, 48, 55–6, 72, 73, 95, 116, 130, 135, 138 As social construct 4, 10, 34, 44, 138 Corruption of 2, 3, 9, 11, 45–6, 48, 102–3, 109, 112, 114, 116, 127, 128, 130, 134, 140

188

INDEX

Nobility (cont.) Embodied 2–5, 10, 35, 44–51, 52, 54, 58, 72, 88, 95, 97, 103, 116, 127, 128, 130, 138, 139, 140 Of blood 7, 44, 48, 55, 108, 116, 135, 138 Opposed to treason 116, 127, 130, 132–3, 139 Nonancourt, Nicholas de, Cardinal 89 Norton, Roger de, Abbot of St Albans (d. 1290) 147 Nostell Priory (Yorks.) 65 n.32 Notoriety 105, 111 Novo Mercato, Adam de (d. 1283) 147 Odo, Bishop of Bayeux 118 n.10 Ordene de chevalerie 48, 52 Oliver 1, 3 Otto I, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 973) 78, 82 Otto III, Holy Roman Emperor (d. 1002) 78 Otuel and Roland 1–4, 140 Outlawry 98, 99, 109, 112, 124 Owl, association with sin 18, 18 n.21 Paris, Matthew 19–20, 86, 103, 110, 122, 128, 128 n.56, 132 Park, Katherine 14, 92 Patronage Aristocratic see under Aristocracy Attitudes of religious houses to 8, 64–5, 69, 74, 138 Made visible in religious space 59, 64, 74, 138 Pecham, John, Archbishop of Canterbury 23 n.41, 148 Perceval 45 n.38, 46–7 Percy, William III (d. 1245) 82, 144 Peyvre, Paulin (d. 1251) 77 n.6, 86, 144 Phlebotomy 108, 108 n.50, 113 Phlegeton (river in Dante’s Inferno) 58 Physiognomy 42–3, 47, 49, 52, 54–5, 137 Pinabel 1, 2 Plastination 14 Pollock, Frederick 102 Pontigny, Edmund of see Abingdon, Edmund of

Poppaea 77 n.7 Porter, Roy 39 n.18 Poulton Priory 65 Powderham, John 110 n.58 Premonstratensians 85, 85, 86, 139 Prognostication see under Death, Signs of Prolongatio vitae 37–8 Processions 71–2, 121–2 Provence, Eleanor of (d. 1290) 148 Provence, Sanchia of (d. 1261) 59, 61–2, 66, 145 Pseudo-Turpin see Historia Karoli magni Punishment see also under Executions 117–20, 121, 129–30, 131, 134, 139 Purgatory 20 Putrefaction, fear of see also Cadaver 3, 8, 19, 80, 81, 89. 137 Quartering see Executions Quincy, Robert de (d. 1217) 142 Quincy, Saer de, Earl of Winchester (d. 1219) 81, 83, 142 Randulph, Thomas, Earl of Moray (d. 1332) 91 n.59 Reading Abbey (Berks) 63, 63 n.28 Reason (and lack of) 23, 41, 53, 112, 128 Revenants 22–5, 25 n.44, 92, 128, 137 Rewley Abbey (Oxon) 61 Reynolds, Walter, Archbishop of Canterbury 111 n.63 Rhazes 42, 49, 80 Rievaulx Abbey (Yorks.) 49, 67 Rievaulx, Ailred of 28, 49 Roches, Peter des, Bishop of Winchester (d. 1238) 144 Roland 1–4, 50, 140 Rome, Giles of see also Body politic 41, 108, 113 Roncevaux 1, 2 Ros of Helmsley see also d’Albini of Belvoir 67 Robert III de (d. 1285) 67, 83–4, 86, 147 William I de (d. 1258) 67 William II de (d. 1316) 67 Rouen 29, 30

INDEX

Royal justices Brabazon, Roger de 101 Mallore, Peter 99, 101 Sandwich, Ralph de 100 Royer, Katherine 9, 116 n.5 Rubin, Miri 41 Rudloff, Ernst von 77 n.7 St Bees Man 81, 91 St Denis, Paris 93, 94 St Giles, Coberley 71, 84 St Ignatius 54 St Margaret in Combusto, Norwich 119 St Victor, Hugh of 33 n.2 St Werburgh Abbey 65 n.32, 67, 82 Sainte Chapelle, Paris 88 Saladin 39 n.18, 48 Salisbury Cathedral 73 Salisbury, John of see also Body Politic 16, 54, 106–7, 108, 111, 113, 128 Policraticus 112 Say, Robert de (d. 1241) 144 Secretum secretorum 42, 54 Segrave, John de 99, 100 n.14 Segrave, Nicholas de 151 Self-control (and lack of) 3–4, 23, 27–8, 39–40, 97, 137 As moral quality 3, 28, 38, 41 Single-sex continuum 41, 50–1, 127 Shaming, function of 121 Shouldham Priory (Norfolk) 83 Sidonius 39 Sin 18, 25, 31, 109, 137 As lack of control 23, 30 Mortal 18 Preservation of the cadaver indicating absence of 28–9, 30, 31 Song of Lewes 119, 131, 133 Song of Thomas Turberville 123 Song on the Execution of Sir Simon Fraser 100 Soul see also under Body 47, 74, 116, 138 Spain, Arnold of 121 Sponsler, Claire 126 Stanlaw Priory (Ches.) 68 Stapledon, William, Bishop of Exeter (d. 1326) 122, 124 Stewart, James the 97

189

Stichill, Robert de, Bishop of Durham (d. 1272) 146 Stopham of Bryanston, Ralph (d. 1272) 86, 146 Stratford, John, Bishop of Winchester 111 n.63 Strathbogie, John of, Earl of Atholl (d. 1306) 96, 98, 101–2, 115, 130, 151 David, his son 130–1 Sutton, Robert de, Abbot of Peterborough (d. 1274) 146 Tacitus 77 n.7 Taxatio Nicholai 60 n.12 Temple Church 19, 61 Templo, Richard de 49–50 Terra Normannorum 59, 66 Tewkesbury Abbey (Glos.) 61, 64, 66, 67, 68, 68 n.45 Titus Vespasianus, Roman Emperor (d. AD 81) 49 Thierry 1, 2, 3 Tickenham (Somerset) 73 Tilbury, Gervase of see also Revenants 18 Toddington (Beds) 86 Tombs see also Death, Spiritual Opening of 80–1, 87 Traitors As corrupt 128, 130, 135 Attitudes to 16–17, 95, 100, 101, 102, 109, 112, 114, 115–16, 123, 129–131 Treason 96, 97, 102–9, 110–14, 113, 117, 119, 126, 133, 135 Accroaching royal power 99, 101, 104, 111, 112 Adhering to king’s enemies 104, 112, 122 As manifest 99, 111 As sacrilege 3, 100, 105, 105 n.33, 106, 107, 110, 112, 124, 127, 139 Breaking the king’s peace 99, 100, 101–2, 109, 111, 112, 113 Connection with specific punishment 99 Connection with theft 103 Deception 109 Difference high and petty 103

190

INDEX

Treason (cont.) Disloyalty 102, 104–5, 109, 111, 112, 116, 117, 125, 139 Displaying one’s banner against the king 99 Forgery 104 Intention 104, 105 John of Salisbury on 107, 111 Law of 102 Legal theory on Anglo-Saxon 104–5, 118 Anglo-Norman 105–6, 106 n.37 Statute of Treasons (1352) 103–4, 115, 131, 134 Plotting to harm government officials 104 Plotting to kill or harm the king or his family 99, 104 Political circumstances see also under Body politic 129–31 Providing bad counsel 112 Punishment see under Executions Rebellion 29, 97–8, 99, 100, 104, 118, 119, 131 Scholarship on 8–9, 102–3 Terminology and definitions 103, 105–6, 106 n.40, 110, 113–14 Trials 2, 3, 98–9, 100, 101, 111–12 Tréguier, Oliver de 94 Tripoli, Phillip of 42 Troyes, Chrétien de 39, 45 n.38, 46 Cligés 46 Perceval 46–7 Tummers, Hendrik 72 n. 65, 73 Turbeville, Henry de (d. 1239) 144 Turberville, Thomas (d. 1295) 110 n.58, 115 n.2, 122, 125, 151 Turner, Bryan 36 Turner, Ralph 35 Turpin 2 Tutbury Priory (Staffs) 68 Tyes, Henry (d. 1322) 152 Valence, Aymer, Bishop of Winchester (d. 1260) 68, 145 Valence, John de (d. 1276) 147 Valence, Margaret de (d. 1276) 147 Valence, William de (d. 1296) 72 Valognes, Christine de (d. 1232) 143

Vaux, Matilda de (d. ?1316) 149 Vendôme, Matthew de 39 Verdun of Alton, Theobald I de (d. 1309) 91 Verdun of Alton, Theobald II de (d. 1316) 91 Vere, Robert II de, Earl of Oxford (d. 1296) 148 Vermin see under Bartholomaeus Anglicus; Thomas of Cantimpré Vescy of Alnwick, John de (d. 1289) 147 Vico, Pietro de 88 Vigeois, Geoffrey de 19 Vigevano, Guido de 90 Villanova, Arnold de 53, 107 n.46, 128 Virility 42 Viscera burial see also under Heart burial; Entrails, burial of 8, 10, 78, 79, 80, 81, 81 n.23, 82–6, 83, 83, 87, 91, 93, 139 Vision of Tundalus 18 Vita Edwardi Secundi 129 Vitalis, Orderic 30, 118 Viterbo (Italy) 58 Walden Abbey (Essex) 65, 83 Wales, Gerald of 119 Wallace, William (d. 1305) 96, 97–102, 109, 110, 115, 120 n.22, 122, 124, 125, 126, 127, 129, 130, 151 Wallingford (Oxon) 60 Walpole, Ronald 2 Waltheof, Earl of Northumbria (d. 1075) 96, 117–18 Warenne, William III de, Earl of Surrey 81, 142 Westminster Abbey 58, 59, 70, 76 Whalley Priory 68 Willington, Henry (d. 1322) 152 Woodstock, Edmund of, Earl of Kent (d. 1329) 129, 130, 153 Wulfstan, Archbishop of York 105 Yaxley, William de, Abbot of Thorney (d. 1293) 148

Death in the Middle Ages

Dying and Death in Later Anglo-Saxon England VICTORIA THOMPSON An exemplary study...with relevance beyond the period. MEDIEVAL ARCHAEOLOGY A groundbreaking multidisciplinary study. SPECULUM A necessary book, a very rich and stimulating examination of the subject. EARLY MEDIEVAL EUROPE Pre-Conquest attitudes towards the dying and the dead have major implications for every aspect of culture, society and religion of the AngloSaxon period. Dr Thompson examines death-bed and funerary practices in the context of confessional and penitential literature, wills, poetry, chronicles and homilies, to show that complex and ambiguous ideas about death were current at all levels of Anglo-Saxon society. Her study also takes in grave monuments, showing in particular how the Anglo-Scandinavian sculpture of the ninth to the eleventh centuries may indicate not only status, but also religious and cultural alignment.

Feasting the Dead Food and Drink in Anglo-Saxon Burial Rituals CHRISTINA LEE Anglo-Saxons were frequently buried with material artefacts, ranging from pots to clothing to jewellery, and also with items of food, while the funeral ritual itself was frequently marked by feasting, sometimes at the graveside. Lee examines the place of food and feasting in funerary rituals from the earliest period to the eleventh century, considering the changes and transformations that occurred during this time, drawing on a wide range of sources, from archaeological evidence to the existing texts. She looks in particular at representations of funerary feasting, how it functions as a tool for memory, and sheds light on the relationship between the living and the dead.

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