Early Medieval Europe - Volume 13, Issue 1 - February 2005

The local articulation of central power in the north of the Iberian Peninsula (500–1000) S  C   I  M  V 

Envisaging political power as dynamic allows the historian to deal with its structures with some sophistication. This paper approaches political power, not as a circumscribed block of bureaucratic elements, but as a complex phenomenon rooted in social reality. The authors explore the dialogue between local and central power, understanding ‘dialogue’ in its widest sense. Thus the relationships (both amicable and hostile) between local and central spheres of influence are studied. The authors propose a new analytical framework for the study of the configuration of political power in the northern zone of the Iberian peninsula, over a long period of time, which takes in both the post-Roman world and the political structures of the early Middle Ages. The organization of political power in the post-Roman west has been the focus of much scholarly reappraisal in the last few years. One might have thought, however, that, thanks to the study of institutions, we have been aware for some time of the realities of power which lay behind the political structures emerging in the west from the fifth century onwards. To a certain extent, this is true. A more or less literal reading of the sources provides detailed descriptions of the institutions of the different regna that emerged in the former western Roman empire, and of their subsequent evolution towards the forms of government described in text books on the early Middle Ages. Thus there are a number of excellent works which are full of descriptions of, and references to, palatine officia, administrative and territorial responsibilities, the judiciary *

We should like to thank Ignacio Álvarez Borge, Ángel Barrios, Pablo C. Díaz, Julio Escalona, José Mª. Mínguez and Chris Wickham for reading and commenting on the original version of this paper. Any remaining errors are, of course, the responsibility of the authors.

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and military organization. These scientific developments in themselves mean that we can now turn to the question of the dynamic of political power. Rather than studying political power as a circumscribed block of bureaucratic and administrative elements, the historian needs to pay attention to its complexity. We also need to remember that political power is, above all, a human issue. In studying it one must therefore evaluate factors that are diverse, profound and, in the widest sense, cultural.1 From within the range of possible analytical approaches, we have chosen to emphasize the study of the principal elements of the dialogue between central and local power. In other words, we consider the mechanisms that made possible the local implantation of central power, focusing on the analysis of two-way channels of communication, of mutual collaboration, of consensus or of its breakdown. Clearly, this investigation cannot start from the idea that political power is a monolith that either imposes itself or fails to do so by virtue of a series of specific events. We understand ‘dialogue’ in its widest sense, with all that that implies about the dialectic of historical structures that does not imply mutual comprehension, but a relationship of some sort. We emphasize that, in our opinion, the dialogue between central power and the local scene is one of the keys to a precise understanding of the articulation of political power. Finally, it is appropriate to delimit the geographical and chronological scope of our development of this theme. The area covered is the greater part of the northern third of the Iberian peninsula – the north-west, the Cantabrian mountains, the northern Meseta and the Upper Ebro (Fig. 1). The chronological limits are the post-Roman and early medieval periods, politically linked in these areas to the kingdoms of the Sueves (409–585) and the Visigoths (507–711) and, after the collapse of the latter, to a series of loosely constructed polities which crystallized in the ninth and tenth centuries as the kingdom of the Asturias and León and the county of Castile. In the north-west of Hispania in the Roman period the civitas, including Augustan foundations such as Lucus, Bracara and Asturica, was a fundamental means by which Roman political power was established in any given territory.2 Rome had as its principal objectives the control of resources and the maintenance of the peace; in these respects, 1

2

On this approach for Francia, see P. Fouracre, ‘The Origins of the Carolingian Attempt to Regulate the Cult of Saints’, in J. Howard-Johnston and P. Hayward (eds), The Cult of the Saints in Late Antiquity and the Early Middle Ages (Oxford, 1999), pp. 143– 65, at p. 165. I. Sastre Prats and D. Plácido Suárez, ‘Onomástica y formas de dependencia en el Noroeste peninsular’, in F. Villar and F. Beltrán (eds), Pueblos, lenguas y escrituras en la Hispania prerromana, Actas del VII Coloquio sobre Lenguas y Culturas Paleohispánicas (Salamanca, 1999), p. 295 ff.

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Fig. 1 Area of study.

Roman interests were in line with those of the indigenous aristocracy. 3 Well-organized local and regional control of the latter furthered Rome’s political ends in the broadest sense. Rome’s chosen instrument, the civitas, was a tool constructed for the benefit of the regional aristocracy and which resulted in the strengthening of Roman political control. 4 It represents the key to the political order of north-west Hispania, especially after the Augustan period. The development of the civitates also 3

4

This included a military element, since we know of the existence, in the area under discussion in this article, of a series of garrisons commanded by the establishment of the Legio VII Gemina in the future León in the first century AD. These establishments, from Galicia to the headwaters of the River Ebro (cf. A. Cepas Palanca, Crisis y continuidad en la Hispania del siglo III (Madrid, 1997), pp. 41–2), were operative during the Principate and the beginning of the late Roman period, but they do not appear to show many signs of activity during the turbulence of the beginning of the fifth century. Thus most current scholarship rejects the traditional limes hypothesis for the fifth century. The bibliography is extensive; for a clear restatement of the position with bibliography, see J.M. Novo Güisán, ‘El “limes hispanus”, un concepto llamado a desaparecer de nuestros libros de Historia’, in F. Bouza-Brey Tillo (ed.), Galicia: da romanidade á xermanización (Santiago de Compostela, 1993), pp. 61–90. As Arce has indicated recently, the textual basis of this hypothesis, the Notitia Dignitatum, includes a large amount of bureaucratic propaganda, which helps to explain its reiteration of anachronisms; cf. J. Arce, ‘Un limes innecesario’, in Mª.J. Hidalgo, D. Pérez and M.J.R. Gervás (eds), ‘Romanización’ y ‘Reconquista’ en la Península Ibérica: nuevas perspectivas (Salamanca, 1998), p. 185 ff. I. Sastre, Formas de dependencia social en el Noroeste peninsular. Transición del mundo prerromano al romano y época altoimperial (Ponferrada, 1998).

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affected the human landscape, which became more varied. 5 The success of the implantation of Roman political power in the north-west lay in the integration into the civitates of the system of castros or oppida, which was the basic pattern of settlement in this region. In recent times, Spanish historiography has come to grips with the complex character of the political and social organization of the castra and oppida of the Indo-European world, which contrasts with traditional ‘tribal’ and gentilicio (kin-based) views of these societies.6 Most recently, elites within the complex political and social organization of these castros /oppida have been identified; this was already in evidence in pre-Roman times, when these elites controlled embryonic organizational networks. 7 The castro was the axis about which smaller settlements turned. The local aristocracy was not only the key element and beneficiary of Roman political power, but also the pivot upon which it rested. Together with this human factor, the Romans developed the civitas, which in the north-west was the focal point of different territories, in which the castros continued in many cases to play an organizational role. Epigraphy reveals that suprafamilial indigenous groups survived, now forming part of the socio-political equilibrium that the Romans called pax. Thus castros and suprafamilial groups, as elements of indigenous origin, were neither isolated nor a mere ‘survival’, but an integrating factor in the articulation of Roman power in the north-west of the Iberian peninsula.8 And not only in the north-west, since the most recent studies of other areas of the northern third of the peninsula have drawn very similar pictures. This is the case in the Asturias and Cantabria, as well as in the greater part of the northern Meseta. 9 Perhaps even more 5

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A. Orejas Saco del Valle, Estructura social y territorio. El impacto romano en la cuenca noroccidental del Duero (Madrid, 1996). [Tanslator’s note: castro(s) is the technical term in modern Spanish for the nucleated, often fortified, settlements of the north-west, which Latin sources often call oppida or castra. The term gentilicio is also a standard one in recent Spanish historiography.] Amongst other revisionist contributions, see Mª.C. González Rodríguez, Las unidades organizativas indígenas del área indoeuropea de Hispania (Vitoria, 1986); Mª.C. González and J. Santos (eds), Las estructuras sociales indígenas del Norte de la Península Ibérica (Vitoria, 1994); F. Beltrán Lloris, ‘Un espejismo historiográfico. Las “organizaciones gentilicias” hispanas’, in Actas del I Congreso Peninsular de Historia Antigua 2 (Santiago de Compostela, 1988), pp. 197–237; G. Pereira, ‘Aproximación crítica al estudio de la etnogénesis: la experiencia de Callaecia’, Complutum 2 – 3 (1992), pp. 35–43; J.F. Rodríguez Neila and F.J. Navarro Santana (eds), Los pueblos prerromanos del Norte de Hispania. Una transición cultural como debate histórico (Pamplona, 1998). For a wide-ranging survey, see M. Almagro-Gorbea, ‘Estructura socio-ideológica de los oppida celtibéricos’, in Villar and Beltrán (eds), Pueblos, lenguas y escritura, p. 35 ff. G. Pereira-Menaut, ‘Los galaicos’, in Rodríguez Neila and Navarro Santana (eds), Los pueblos prerromanos, p. 301 ff. For the Asturians and Cantabrians, J. Mangas, ‘Pervivencias sociales de astures y cántabros en los modelos administrativos romanos: tiempos y modos’, in Hidalgo, Pérez, and Gervás (eds), Romanización y Reconquista, pp. 117–28; Mª.C. González Rodríguez, Los astures y los cántabros vadinienses (Vitoria-Gasteiz, 1997). For the whole of the Submeseta, see J.Mª. Solana (ed.), Las entidades étnicas de la Meseta Norte de Hispania en época prerromana (Valladolid, 1991).

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revealing of the heterogeneity within which Roman dominion was structured is the ever-increasing information that is coming to light about Roman-style settlements and archaeological finds in areas which until recently were considered almost virgin territory in this respect; Roman social patterns which, furthermore, would remain important in late antiquity and the early Middle Ages.10 In short, we can see that even in areas traditionally thought to have had little relationship with the Roman world, the channels establishing Roman power are now known to have been very varied. The way in which civitates were developed also varied; there are examples of creations ex novo, such as Asturica (Astorga) and Legio (León), and also of foundations developed from earlier centres. The latter characterizes the majority of settlements which are identified as civitates, on the basis of the literary sources, or else following the conclusions of archaeologists. Thus the impact of Roman structures in the north of the Iberian Peninsula was much greater than has previously been thought. At the same time, however, both castra and large-scale indigenous family structures were realities which often were strengthening inside the framework of Roman dominion, above all thanks to the civitates and the castra themselves, as well as other smaller units and, of course, the role local aristocracies played in the Roman power structure.

The post-Roman age: the Suevic and Visigothic periods In the post-Roman period, our focus here, the civitates continued to have great importance as axes of the articulation of political power. 11 Nevertheless, there was no single model for the civitas, nor was it the only structural element of geopolitical control. The idea of local political centres, sedes, appeared; thus, in the north-west, the Sueves took as their symbolic centre Bracara (Braga), the royal seat, the capital of the regnum. Bracara was also a metropolitan see (with Lucus, Lugo) and its local centrality was incorporated almost unchanged into the Visigothic regnum.12 10

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The recent bibliography is extensive and widely dispersed, but for a synthesis for the Asturias, see L.R. Menéndez Bueyes, ‘Algunas notas sobre el posible origen astur-romano de la nobleza en el Asturorum Regnum’, Stvdia Historica. Historia Antigua 13–14 (1995–6), pp. 437–56. The archaeological record is proving increasingly fruitful in this area. For the civitates of the north of Hispania see, amongst others, the contributions of C. Fernández Ochoa and A. Morillo, De Brigantium a Oiasso. Una aproximación al estudio de los enclaves marítimos cantábricos en época romana (Madrid, 1994); C. Fernández Ochoa, ‘La ciudad en la Antigüedad tardía en la Cornisa Cantábrica’, in L.A. García Moreno and S. Rascón Marqués (eds), Complutum y las ciudades hispanas en la Antigüedad tardía (Alcalá de Henares, 1999), pp. 73–86. P.C. Díaz, ‘El reino suevo de Hispania y su sede en Bracara’, in G. Ripoll and J.Mª. Gurt (eds), Sedes regiae (ann. 400–800) (Barcelona, 2000), pp. 403–23. On the subject of the civitates in the post-Roman and early medieval north-west, see recently J. López Quiroga and M.R. Lovelle, ‘Ciudades atlánticas en transición: la “ciudad” tardo-antigua y alto-medieval en el noroeste de la Península Ibérica (s. V–XI)’, Archeologia Medievale 26 (1999), pp. 257–68.

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However, the key to the articulation of political power in the northwest seems to have been more localized units. The castra were again important: these are recorded in the written sources (particularly, as we shall see, in the Chronicle of Hydatius) and were the fulcra of both the political expansion of the regnum, and of the opposition to this expansion. This is confirmed from late antiquity onwards by archaeology, both in Galicia and in areas more closely linked to the north-west corner of the Meseta – and, indeed, in the whole of the north-west. 13 The Parrochiale Suevum14 – a late sixth-century list of thirteen episcopal sees and their dependent churches – reveals in the north-west a complex process of regulation which implies the establishment of central places. These relate both to local centres, briefly mentioned in the sources, and to the centres of extensive territories. 15 Thanks to their inclusion in an official document such as the Parrochiale, together with the fact that they occasionally coincided with mints, it is clear that they were the basis of political articulation in the north-west. 16 They formed a network that combined not only former civitates such as Bracara, Lucus or Asturica, but also castra or fortified sites, as well as smaller places. The implementation of earlier networks of control based on civitates, which had already articulated indigenous structures within channels of Roman power, is also detectable in the Asturian interior. This is a good example of the exploitation of these areas for geo-strategic reasons, such as minting, in the context of the expansion of the Visigothic regnum.17 Some of the places that appear as ‘churches’ in the Parrochiale were to lose their importance with time, but others grew as hubs of articulation of local power. A case in point is Senimure (present-day Zamora18), which appears as a dependent ‘church’ of the see of Asturica, and to a lesser extent of Senabria (present-day Sanabria). Both centres played an organizational role not only in late antiquity but also in the Middle 13

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Novo Güisán, Los pueblos, p. 106 ff; J. López Quiroga and M.R. Lovelle, ‘Poblamiento rural en el Noroeste de la Península Ibérica (ss. V–XI): una introducción al estudio del poblamiento rural entre la Antigüedad tardía y la Alta Edad Media en Galicia a través de un análisis microregional’, Boletín de Arqueología Medieval 7 (1993), p. 13; and ‘Castros y castella tutiora de época sueva en Galicia y norte de Portugal: ensayo de inventario y primeras propuestas interpretativas’, Hispania Antiqva 23 (1999), pp. 355–74; Gutiérrez González and Benéitez González, ‘Los tiempos oscuros’, p. 109. CCSL 175 (Turnhout, 1965). P.C. Díaz, ‘El Parrochiale Suevum: organización eclesiástica, poder político y poblamiento en la Gallaecia tardoantigua’, in Homenaje a José Mª. Blázquez, VI (Madrid, 1998), pp. 35–47. P.C. Díaz, ‘Consideraciones sobre las cecas de la Gallaecia visigoda’, in III Congreso Peninsular de Historia Antigua, Preactas, II (Vitoria, 1994), pp. 642–8. This is true of the mint at Pesicos, cf. N. Santos Yanguas and C. Vera García, ‘Las acuñaciones monetarias de Pesicos y la conquista de Asturias por los visigodos’, Hispania Antiqva 23 (1999), pp. 375–400. J.A. Gutiérrez González, ‘La ciudad de Zamora entre el mundo antiguo y el feudalismo: morfología urbana’, IV Congreso de argueologia medieval española 2 (1993), pp. 243–50.

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Ages, having received in the post-Roman period a political imprint from the ecclesiastical network linked to central power. Nonetheless, within this complex dynamic were several sources of conflict. Our principal texts, the Chronicle of Hydatius and the Parrochiale, give the impression of tension between central aspirations and local interests. Resistance is evident in certain local areas or regions of the north-west, based around specified castra. Hydatius tells how, around 430, the Suevic king Hermeric launched an offensive against the central part of Gallaecia, meeting with forceful resistance from people who lived in castella.19 The expansionist policies of the Sueves in the northwest reveal, thanks to Hydatius’s testimony, the appearance of the names of communities which we may conceive of as ‘peoples’. Such is the case of the Auregenses, c.460, in the reign of Rechimund,20 and of the Aunonenses a few years later.21 A century after Hydatius the Suevic Parrochiale also provides information that seems to reflect the presence of named human communities, that is to say, specific ‘peoples’, in the north-west.22 Another example, described by John of Biclar, is the campaign of Leovigild in 573 against the Sappi, of Sabaria, probably in the west of the present-day province of Zamora. 23 This is a zone for which we have scanty but important testimony from the Roman period, which points to the presence of indigenous structures which were incorporated into the network of Roman political control. This latter development may above all be traced in the intensification of production and its inclusion in networks of commercial activity, in peripheral zones such as Tras-os-Montes in present-day Portugal, and the Zamoran districts of Aliste and Sayago.24 Resistance to the expansionist intentions of central power came also from groups further north, such as the Ruccones. In 572 the Suevic king, Miro, began a campaign against them and, 25 half a century later, in c.613, the Visigothic king, Sisebut, embarked on an 19

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Hydat. 81. We have used the edition of R.W. Burgess, The Chronicle of Hydatius and the Consularia Constantinopolitana. Two Contemporary Accounts of the Final Years of the Roman Empire (Oxford, 1993), which differs from the traditional numeration. Hydat. 197. Hydat. 229; 235. On this topic, P.C. Díaz, ‘Gallaecia: de reino suevo a provincia visigoda’, in G. Pereira Menaut (ed.), Galicia fai dous mil anos, I, Historia (Santiago de Compostela, 1997), p. 266. John of Biclar, 573.5 (ed. Th. Mommsen, MGH AA 11, pp. 211–20). P.C. Díaz, ‘El territorio de la actual provincia de Zamora en el contexto de la Antigüedad tardía (siglos IV–VI)’, in I Congreso de Historia de Zamora I (Zamora, 1990), p. 375. At the textual level, the ‘Pacto de los Zoelas’ stands out: see an edition in G. Bravo, Hispania y el Imperio (Madrid, 2001), p. 192. At the archaeological level, see F. de Saude Lemos, Povoamento romano de Trás-os-Montes oriental (Braga, 1993). See in addition the reflections of I. Sastre Prats, ‘Estructura de explotación social y organización del territorio en la civitas Zoelarum’, Gerión 17 (1999), pp. 345–59. Bicl. 572.3; Isidore of Seville, Historia Gothorum (hereafter Isid. HG ), HS 91. HS and HG ed. C. Rodríguez, Las Historias de los godos, vándalos y suevos de Isidoro de Sevilla (León, 1975).

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important offensive in the north, in which the Ruccones were again mentioned.26 Recently the area of the Ruccones has been located to the Cantabrian coast. These episodes, together with Leovigild’s campaign of 574 against Cantabria27 (its southern part, where there is evidence for a landed aristocracy, as we shall see), show that this area was by now fully part of the framework of the Visigothic regnum, especially after the consolidation of the duchy of Cantabria.28 Therefore the largest units of human association in this region were either foci of resistance to attempts to expand or maintain central power, or the bases of the organization of central power itself. In the north-west, the Suevic polity had to adapt to the existence of established aristocracies. These had parallels in the rest of Hispania, but this area presented certain social peculiarities which can be detected in monastic documentation of the sixth and seventh centuries, which begin in the Suevic period and continue after the region’s inclusion within the orbit of the Visigothic kingdom after 585. Family ownership of property found in monasticism a new form of expression, 29 which both safeguarded earlier practices and preserved a degree of autonomy with respect to the structures which central powers (first Suevic, then Visigothic) tried to impose. Monastic observance was not uniform: alongside private and family foundations there existed regular communities following a rule, as in the foundations of figures such as Martin of Braga in the sixth century and Fructuosus in the seventh, and also the individual routes followed by intellectual ascetics such as Valerius of Bierzo at the end of the seventh century. 30 Large-scale private property can sometimes clearly be seen as well, both in the archaeological record31 and in written sources, especially in the unusual documentation associated with Valerius of Bierzo. The phenomenon of private chapels represents a change of direction for the political structure, for it was a 26 27

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Isidore has ‘Roccones’: see Isid. HG 61–2. Bicl. 574; Braulio, Vita Aemiliani 26.33, ed. J. Oroz, ‘Vita Sancti Aemiliani. Hymnus in festo Sancti Aemiliani Abbatis’, Perficit 9 (1978), pp. 119 –20, 165–227; Isid. HG 49. On these aspects, see J.J. García González and I. Fernández de Mata, ‘La Cantabria trasmontana en épocas romana y visigoda: perspectivas ecosistémicas’, Estudios sobre la transición al feudalismo en Cantabria y la cuenca del Duero (Burgos, 1999), pp. 7–35. P.C. Díaz, ‘Comunidades monásticas y comunidades campesinas en la España visigoda’, Los Visigodos. Historia y Civilización, Antigüedad y Cristianismo 3 (1986), pp. 189–95; idem, ‘El monacato y la cristianización del NO. hispano. Un proceso de aculturación’, Cristianismo y aculturación en tiempos del imperio romano, Antigüedad y Cristianismo 7 (1990), pp. 531–39. A. Ferreiro, ‘The Westward Journey of St. Martin of Braga’, Studia Monastica 22 (1980), pp. 243–51; idem, ‘The Missionary Labors of St. Martin of Braga in 6th. Century Galicia’, Studia Monastica 23 (1981), pp. 11–26; R. Frighetto, Panorama económico-social del Noroeste de la Península Ibérica en época visigoda. La obra de Valerio del Bierzo, Tesis Doctoral, Universidad de Salamanca (1997). For the region of León, see J.A. Gutiérrez González, ‘El Páramo Leonés. Entre la Antigüedad y la Alta Edad Media’, Stvdia Historica. Historia Medieval 14 (1996), pp. 47–96.

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move towards the segregatio of local areas from episcopal power. This strengthened the position of those local magnates upon whose support the central authority depended, especially in peripheral areas. In the second half of the seventh century, Valerius mentions such chapels in the territorium of the diocese of Asturica.32 At that period, Gallaecia had been within the political orbit of the Visigothic kingdom for almost a century, and we can apply to it the general statements about private chapels in sources deriving from central authorities (especially church councils33). Nevertheless, chapels had already appeared in Suevic church records. The Acts of the second council of Bracara (572) show that private chapels were already a common feature of the landscape. The figure of the fundator of this kind of church was distinct from the official ecclesiastical bodies, although the bishops attempted to ensure that there was a landed endowment of such basilicae before their official recognition through consecration.34 This occurrence must have been frequent, if epsicopal legislation had to cover it. It was precisely the question of economic control that most exercised the bishops: ecclesiastical authorities were exhorted to be alert to those foundations attempting to make a profit from donations made to churches on private property, for this was a way in which the landowners sought to control the income of bodies which lay in terra sua, on their land.35 In this part of the north-west, civitates such as Bracara, Asturica or Lucus were the key to the exercise of central power. The latter depended on the collaboration of officials (comites and iudices at the local level in the Visigothic period), and above all on the bishops. The complexity of the dialogue between central initiatives and local realities crystallized with the emergence of a series of reference points for the local articulation of power. This is represented by the association of mints and churches in these central points, as we have already seen, 36 although we should note that such an institutional equivalence hides a great diversity in which civitates and castra could coexist, and in which both could operate as foci for private or extended-family communities, ‘peoples’. The basis of the restructuring of central power remained highly diverse. We have now considered the basic factors in the political situation of the north-west at a time when the episcopal sees took on, in addition to 32

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P.C. Díaz, ‘Iglesia propia y gran propiedad en la autobiografía de Valerio del Bierzo’, in I Congreso Internacional Astorga romana (Astorga, 1986), pp. 297–303. M. Torres, ‘El origen del sistema de “iglesias propias” ’, Anuario de Historia del Derecho Español 3 (1926), pp. 307–475; R. Bidagor, La lglesia propia’ en España. Estudio histórico canónico (Roma, 1933); G. Martínez Díez, El patrimonio eclesiástico en la España visigoda. Estudio histórico-jurídico (Comillas, 1959). Conc. II Brac. c. 5, ed. J. Vives, Concilios visigóticos e hispano-romanos (Barcelona and Madrid, 1963). Conc. II Brac. c. 6. See above, p. 6.

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their religious functions, an active role as the representatives of central power. The Acts of the Suevic councils in Gallaecia (the councils of Braga in 561 and 572) confirm the link between central power and the church – the latter being not only a universal institution but also a network of local bodies (as we have seen) which thus gave it political significance. The Suevic Parrochiale shows the coincidence of the ecclesiastical framework with political and administrative centres, subsequently (from 585) preserved by the Visigothic kingdom. 37 The association between the Catholic church and the kingdom was, of course, an institutional necessity, but it had also to function at the local level. As far as the former is concerned, it is very clear that it was the monarchy that promoted the episcopal assemblies in Galicia: according to the Acts, Ariamir and Miro summoned the councils of 561 and 572. The workings of the episcopal structure are also visibly hierarchical; this can be seen in the leading role of Lucretius, the metropolitan of Bracara, in the first council and of the metropolitans of the same see (Martin) and of Lucus (Nitigius) in the second, a division that seems to represent a bipartite structure at the heart of the Galician Catholic church. The conciliar Acts of 561 and 572 also give us a glimpse of the shape of political structures at the regional and local level. Economic factors, notably landowning were important in the dialogue between local and central power; both levels were taken into account in the apportioning of ecclesiastical wealth between bishops, clergy and churches. Issues of physical upkeep illustrate the versatility of the system. To take one example, the section of the Acts dealing with the maintenance and illumination of churches shows dispersal of rights and resources at the level of the various loca scattered over the territory of each diocese. 38 At the same time, the management of such resources had implications for the workings of local power, since local administrators had to appear before the bishop.39 Another important aspect of this dynamic was the peripatetic character of the bishops, who travelled round their territoria on visitations40 which, judging from the provisions of the Suevic councils, sometimes included the seizure of surplus resources. 41 In this way, the dioceses on the periphery of Hispania, which included most of the northern third of the peninsula, took on a 37 38

39 40 41

Cf. above, p. 7 and n. 22, Diaz, pp. 253 –78. The connection between such apparently trivial matters as the illumination of churches and the basic structures of political and economic articulation has been demonstrated for the Merovingian world by P. Fouracre, ‘Eternal Light and Earthly Needs: Practical Aspects of the Development of Frankish Immunities’, in W. Davies and P. Fouracre (eds), Property and Power in the Early Middle Ages (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 53–81. Conc. I Brac. c. 7. Conc. II Brac. c. 1. Conc. II Brac. cc. 2, 3, 5.

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particular character. We have already considered the north-west; let us now turn to other areas. In the northern part of the Meseta, the collapse of Roman order at the end of the fifth century provided the impetus for local political change.42 The Duero valley provides a high percentage of the material evidence for local power structures, even if it is now clear that similar features are found elsewhere. A number of sites here, especially cemeteries, have been dated to the late Roman period; more important for us is that others are post-Roman, from the Visigothic period. We cannot here discuss the classification of these finds, nor enter into archaeological debates on this matter; 43 what interests us here is their local significance. Firstly, there is a connection, in many instances, with large estates, probably the main social focus in the northern Meseta in the post-Roman period. That these landed estates were so characteristic of this area does not mean, however, the complete breakdown of centralized political power. Current archaeological scholarship has suggested that such a breakdown had occurred, 44 but it has recently been convincingly argued that the supposed weakness of central power in the Duero valley has been overstated. 45 We suggest that, in practice, the nature of political power is more complex than simple labelling suggests: historians’ use of concepts such as ‘the public’ to denote central power and bureaucratic control are in our view not applicable to late antique societies. In the case of the northern Submeseta, the tracing of each political centre as evidence of organized power, based on episcopal sees and mints, shows that they were widely 42

43

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Bearing in mind that this zone was not rich in civitates, and that even some of its most important political centres, such as Clunia, practically disappeared in late antiquity; cf. P. de Palol et al., Clunia O. Stvdia varia cluniensia (Burgos, 1991), p. 17 ff. For a recent archaeological overview of the urban centres of the northern Submeseta see J.A. Abásolo, ‘La ciudad romana en la Meseta Norte durante la Antigüedad tardía’, in L.A. García Moreno and S. Rascón Marqués (eds), Complutum y las ciudades hispanas en la Antigüedad tardía (Alcalá de Henares, 1999), pp. 87–99. For the problems posed by these sites, see, amongst others L. Caballero Zoreda, La necrópolis tardorromana de Fuentespreadas (Zamora). Un asentamiento en el valle del Duero (Madrid, 1974); idem, ‘Zamora en el tránsito de la Edad Antigua a la Edad Media’, in Historia de Zamora, I, De los orígenes al final del Medievo (Zamora, 1995), pp. 339–430, esp. p. 352 ff; A. Fuentes Domínguez, La necrópolis tardorromana de Albalate de las Nogueras (Cuenca) y el problema de las denominadas ‘necrópolis del Duero’ (Cuenca, 1989); G. Ripoll López, La ocupación visigoda a través de sus necrópolis (Hispania), Col.lecció Tesis Microfitxades n˚ 912, Universitat de Barcelona (1991); G. Ripoll López, ‘The Transformation and Process of Acculturation in Late Antique Hispania: Select Aspects from Urban and Rural Archaeological Documentation’, in A. Ferreiro (ed.), The Visigoths. Studies in Culture and Society (Leiden, Boston and Cologne, 1999), pp. 263–302, esp. p. 277 ff; A.Mª. Jiménez Garnica, ‘Consideraciones sobre la trama social en la Hispania temprano visigoda’, Pyrenae 26 (1995), pp. 189–98. E. Pastor Díaz de Garayo, Castilla en el tránsito de la Antigüedad al Feudalismo. Poblamiento, poder político y estructura social del Arlanza al Duero (siglos VII–XI) (Valladolid, 1996), p. 36 ff. J.J. García González and I. Fernández de Mata, ‘Antropología, arqueología e historia. La desestructuración de la cuenca del Duero en la transición de la Antigüedad a la Edad Media’, Estudios sobre la transición al feudalismo en Cantabria y la cuenca del Duero (Burgos, 1999), p. 94.

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scattered, and suggests that each of the places which had some form of political importance controlled a wide area. 46 The dispersal of the centres of political power is the main characteristic of the northern zone of the Meseta. Episcopal organization in the northern Meseta was undergoing consolidation in the post-Roman period.47 A clear example of this is the emergence of the province of Celtiberia. When Toledo became important, even before it became a royal capital, it was a focus for political affirmation in this area. The letter collection of the sixth-century bishop Montanus of Toledo describes a series of changes in Toledo’s ecclesiastical fortune, such as the loss of some areas (such as Segovia and Coca) from the diocese, the mission of Toribius to Palencia, and the formation of Celtiberia as a diocese.48 Montanus’s letters give a glimpse of a process of rapprochement between the church and the domini, the large landowners who, in the Meseta (or at least in the Tierra de Campos, for which both documentary and archaeological evidence survives), constituted the main local focus of political power. 49 This information is significant, because its date (c.530) coincides with the first steps towards the consolidation of the Visigothic kingdom in Hispania. From Toledo, Montanus supported the dealings between Toribius and the local aristocracies. These helped to cement the mechanisms of political power over a vast territory where the collaboration of the bishops was vital to the interests of the incipient kingdom; it formed a channel of communication between the centre and the locality, and vice versa. It is highly significant that Montanus could count on the support of the Visigothic monarchy to maintain his authority in the face of the upheavals glimpsed in the sources. This support was, of necessity, reciprocal, since the monarchy itself had been established in Hispania for less than a quarter of a century, and Montanus’s activities were essential in furthering links with the north. In the area where Toribius had been active, another see, Osma, emerged, probably between 589 and 597. 50 Local dynamics and the attempt on the part of central power to assert political control make up a double game, which can again be seen 46

47

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49 50

P.C. Díaz, ‘La ocupación germánica del valle del Duero: un ensayo interpretativo’, Hispania Antiqva 18 (1994), p. 471. For the area to the east of the one we are considering here, see S. Castellanos, ‘La implantación eclesiástica en el Alto Ebro durante el siglo VI d.C.: la Vita Sancti Aemiliani ’, Hispania Antiqva 19 (1995), pp. 387–96. For the framework of this problem, see the recent work of C. Martin, ‘Las cartas de Montano y la autonomía episcopal de la Hispania septentrional en el siglo VI’, Hispania Antiqva 22 (1998), pp. 403–26. Vives, Concilios visigóticos e hispano-romanos, p. 50 ff. This area also seems to have been the boundary of an ecclesiastical province, eliminated only by Gundemar’s decree of 610. P.C. Díaz, ‘La diócesis de Osma en la Antigüedad’, in Arte e historia de la diócesis de Osma (El Burgo de Osma, 1998), pp. 215–25.

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in the case of a very unusual see, that of Auca (near Villafranca de Montes de Oca, Burgos). This see, attested from 585, did not correspond to a civitas.51 It lay in the transitional zone between the valleys of the Duero and Ebro and the mountains of the north. Here there seems to have been a convergence of interests between the local aristocracies and the political aspirations of the Visigothic regnum.52 The see of Auca established the basic structure of this strategic territory through its role in the foundation of churches. These, in addition to their religious function, acted as a conduit between local and centre, via the episcopal see itself. An inscription from the church at Mijangos, recording its dedication by Asterius, the first known bishop of Auca, illustrates this situation.53 The surroundings of the sea of Auca contributed further to the complexity of local territorial structures. The fortress of Tedeja undoubtedly functioned as a political centre,54 as did castros such as Amaya and Monte Cildá for their immediate surroundings; the first of these two was probably an episcopal see from the end of the seventh century or the beginning of the eighth,55 and the second had obvious strategic value for central power.56 The hill of the present-day city of Burgos first became important at the end of late antiquity and especially at the dawn of the early Middle Ages, when it evolved into a fortification of the first rank.57 In the hinterland of modern Burgos, in Lora and Valdivielso, castros also functioned as the main ‘hierarchical spatial element’.58 In the post-Roman period, a number of loca also formed points of reference at the micro-regional or local level. Some of these, and not just the principal oppida, have been excavated, revealing such features as churches, hermitages, cemeteries and inhabited caves, either grouped together or isolated find-spots. In the see of Auca, for example, at San 51

52

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54

55

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Bishop Asterio attended the third council of Toledo (Vives, Concilios visigóticos e hispanoromanos, p. 31). I. Martín Viso, ‘Organización episcopal y poder entre la Antigüedad tardía y el Medievo (siglos V–XI): las sedes de Calahorra, Oca y Osma’, Iberia. Revista de la Antigüedad 2 (1999), p. 159. The inscription dates to the reign of Reccared: cf. J.A. Lecanda, ‘El epígrafe consacratorio de Santa María de Mijangos (Burgos). Aportaciones para su estudio’, Letras de Deusto 65 (1994), pp. 173–95. J.A. Lecanda Esteban, ‘De la Tardoantigüedad a la Plena Edad Media en Castilla a la luz de la arqueología’, in VII Semana de Estudios Medievales (Logroño, 1997), p. 314. J.J. García González, ‘Iglesia y religiosidad en Burgos en la Alta Edad Media’, in II Jornadas Burgalesas de Historia, Burgos en la Alta Edad Media (Burgos, 1991), p. 290. The mint of Mave was nearby; cf. on this site M.A. García Guinea, J. González Echegaray and J.A. San Miguel Ruiz, Excavaciones en Monte Cildá. Olleros de Pisuerga (Palencia) (Madrid, 1966); R. Bohigas Roldán and A. Ruiz Gutiérrez, ‘Las cerámicas visigodas de poblado en Cantabria y Palencia’, Boletín de Arqueología Medieval 3 (1989), pp. 31–51, esp. p. 42 ff. J.J. García González, ‘Del castro al castillo. El cerro de Burgos de la Antigüedad a la Edad Media’, Cuadernos Burgaleses de Historia Medieval 2 (1995), pp. 71–166. I. Martín Viso, Poblamiento y estructuras sociales en el Norte de la Península Ibérica (siglos VI– XIII) (Salamanca, 2000).

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Juan de la Hoz (Cillaperlata), cave dwellings coexisted with a church of probable late antique origin and a necropolis that continued in use into the early Middle Ages.59 Similar loca have been excavated in this area.60 A diachronic study of these micro-regional points of reference is occasionally possible, and allows us to visualize them as sites of continuous use at least from the Roman to the early medieval periods, some of which were endowed with an ecclesiastical function at a post-Roman date.61 The see of Auca in particular needed a strong dynamism, given the complexity of its territorium. The leading role played by castros and other smaller units combined with that of other long-standing sites, the villae, where late antique aristocratic organization, based on the ownership of land and personal dependence, was focussed. Both in the countryside close to the valleys of the Arlanzón, the Arlanza and the Duero,62 and in the Rioja east of the diocese of Auca, these local aristocracies appear in the archaeological and textual sources. 63 Aristocratic collaboration proved of fundamental importance in upholding de facto episcopal power, something of which Montanus and Toribius in the northern Meseta were aware, as we have seen. The processes of convergence between the aristocracy and central power had a wider framework that was integrated with local and regional patterns. In this wider context, the potential of the monarchy as an institution was both dependent upon, and limited by, collaboration with local aristocracies: a state of ‘constant tension’.64 It is clear, however, that an association developed between the Catholic church and central political power, which was to the advantage of both. In addition, the monarchy tried to maintain its territorial base through the collaboration of the aristocracy. Thus in our view, there were two main networks of central political power, expressed 59

60

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J. Andrio Gonzalo et al., El conjunto arqueológico de San Juan de la Hoz en Cillaperlata (Burgos) (Burgos, 1992). For example, the site of San Nicolás at La Sequera de Haza, with a hermitage and necropolis which have late antique and early medieval material, cf. F. Reyes Téllez and Mª.L. Menéndez Robles, ‘Excavaciones en la ermita de San Nicolás. La Sequera de Haza (Burgos)’, Noticiario Arqueológico Hispánico 26 (1985), pp. 163–213. Another interesting case is the church of San Pedro in Hortigüela, with material from the Visigothic and post-Visigothic periods; cf. L. Caballero Zoreda et al., ‘La iglesia prerrománica de S. Pedro el Viejo de Arlanza (Hortigüela, Burgos)’, Numantia 5 (1991–2), pp. 139–65. See the methodological arguments of J. Escalona Monge, ‘Problemas metodológicos en el estudio de los centros de culto como elemento estructural del poblamiento’, in III Jornadas Burgalesas de Historia, Burgos en la Plena Edad Media (Burgos, 1994), pp. 573–98. In certain cases, archaeologists have provided broad chronological contexts; see for example J.L. Argente Oliver, La villa tardorromana de Baños de Valdearados (Burgos) (Madrid, 1979). For references and discussion, see S. Castellanos, ‘Aristocracias y dependientes en el Alto Ebro (siglos V–VIII)’, Stvdia Historica. Historia Medieval 14 (1996), pp. 29–46. P.C. Díaz, Mª.R.Valverde, ‘The Theoretical Strength and Practical Weakness of the Visigothic Monarchy of Toledo’, in F. Theuws and J.L. Nelson (eds), Rituals of Power. From Late Antiquity to the Early Middle Ages (Leiden, Boston and Cologne, 2000), p. 90.

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in terms of its local political articulation. 65 The church supplied an ideological framework, which could also use propaganda to salvage any position of de facto weakness. One example of this was the emergence of royal anointing, which set up the sacrality of the monarchy in the context of the crisis of hereditary accession or the problems of the electoral system in the selection of kings. Apart from its ideological role, the church also gave the regnum a local territorial access, which was essential to the articulation of political power. The network of ecclesiae was, by definition, a system of basic reference with their hinterlands, especially in the periphery of the peninsula where central power was less directly present. We have seen that in the north-west the equation between political-administrative and ecclesiastical centres was already significant in the Suevic period, and was maintained under Visigothic rule from the end of the sixth century. A dynamic two-way channel of communication was established in which both central power and the localities continued in dialogue. Ecclesiastical assemblies represented the apex of this system, with the clearest links to central power, but with a local aspect provided by the participation of the bishops, the true rulers of their territoria. Partnership with the church was balanced by collaboration with the aristocracy. Landownership was in our view the defining feature of social hegemony, and it gradually permeated not only social and economic structures but politics, ideology and psychology as well. This role was linked with changes in tax structures, one of the turning points of the transformation of late antiquity.66 The tributary system of appropriating surplus goods was modified under the influence of, among other factors, new power relations.67 In spite of this, as we have seen in the north-west of the peninsula, the presence of local hegemonies did not undermine the workings of central power. We want to stress this point. Aristocratic decision-making in the political sphere could manifest itself as a centrifugal force. While Visigothic Hispania provides some good examples of this,68 it nevertheless was not always the case. The data we have presented for the north-west, the northern Meseta, and the Upper Ebro, seem to point to the existence of two-way political channels that 65

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R. Collins, ‘Julian of Toledo and the Royal Succession in Late Seventh-Century Spain’, in P.H. Sawyer and I.N. Wood (eds), Early Medieval Kingship (Leeds, 1977), pp. 30 –49; P.C. Díaz, ‘Rey y poder en la monarquía visigoda’, Iberia. Revista de la Antigüedad 1 (1998), pp. 175–95. C. Wickham, ‘The Other Transition: From the Ancient World to Feudalism’, Past and Present 103 (1984), pp. 3–36; idem, ‘La transición en Occidente’, in C. Estepa and D. Plácido (coordinators.), J. Trias (ed.), Transiciones en la Antigüedad y Feudalismo (Madrid, 1998), pp. 83–90. J. Haldon, ‘El modo de producción tributario: concepto, alcance y explicación’, Hispania 58, 3 (1998), pp. 795–822. This is Collins’s view for Mérida; cf. R. Collins, ‘Mérida and Toledo: 550–585’, in E. James (ed.), Visigothic Spain: New Approaches (Oxford, 1980), pp. 189–219.

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were more or less dynamic. The fundamental basis of the structure of post-Roman political power in Hispania, we believe, was not the antagonism between central power and the aristocracies, but the construction of avenues of collaboration. Whether or not the majority of these were successful is another matter, but without at least their existence, it would be impossible to account for the survival of the regnum over two centuries. It was clearly a question of give and take in which factors such as royal donations on the one hand, and fidelitas to kings on the other, played a major role.69 It is not possible to draw a map for the Visigothic kingdom of the frequency of royal donations to local aristocracies,70 and this might anyway be too rigid a way of analysing these processes. But cooperation with central power brought not only economic benefits to local aristocracies, but also political-administrative ones, such as the conferring of local (comes civitatis) and regional (dux provinciae) political office. The construction of consensus lent versatility to the mechanisms of central power in a local setting. It allowed the regnum local territorial access (which helps to explain its survival 71), but at the same time impeded direct control in many areas, as is shown by the absence of real territorial divisions which would have enhanced its functioning at the regional level (Fig. 2). 72 One other important factor in political articulation should be briefly mentioned: the use of force. Opinion on this subject is, speaking very generally, divided between those who see the army as belonging to the Visigothic regnum as a whole, sometimes defined in ‘public’ terms, 73 and those who regard military obligations as related to aristocratic patronage.74 The Leges Visigothorum, our chief source on this, suggests that a ‘public army’ as it has been represented by ‘fiscalist’ historians did not exist. The laws of King Wamba (672–80) and King Ervig (680 –7) are conclusive here.75 They represent the central power’s drive towards 69

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74 75

For different approaches, see C. Sánchez-Albornoz, En torno a los orígenes del feudalismo, I, Fideles y gardingos en la monarquía visigoda. Raíces del vasallaje y del beneficio hispanos (Mendoza, 1942); A. Barbero and M. Vigil, La formación del feudalismo en la Península Ibérica (Barcelona, 1978), pp. 126 –54, 170 –86. Such as the work of J. Barbier, ‘Aspects du fisc en Neustrie (VIe–Xe siècles). Résultats d’une recherche en cours’, in H. Atsma (ed.), La Neustrie. Les pays au nord de la Loire de 650 à 850 (Sigmaringen, 1989), pp. 129 –42. For the Merovingian world, see P. Fouracre, ‘The Nature of Frankish Political Institutions in the Seventh Century’, in I. Wood (ed.), Franks and Alamanni in the Merovingian Period: an Ethnographic Perspective (San Marino, 1998), pp. 285 –301. This impossibility has already been demonstrated by I. Wood, ‘Kings, Kingdoms and Consent’, in Sawyer and Wood (eds), Early Medieval Kingship, pp. 6 –29. J. Durliat, Les finances publiques de Diocletien aux Carolingiens (284–889) (Sigmaringen, 1990), p. 123 ff. D. Pérez Sánchez, Ejército y sociedad en la sociedad visigoda (Salamanca, 1989). LV 9.2.8, 9. ed. K. Zeumer, MGH Legum Sectio I, 1, Leges Visigothorum, (Hannover and Leipzig, [1902] 1973).

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Fig. 2 The articulation of the power in the north of the Iberian Peninsula (seventh century).

collaboration with the aristocracy in military affairs, which we mentioned earlier. The formal swearing of oaths gave this collaboration a quasi-religious tone.76 Documents emanating from the monarchy show how dependent it was on the goodwill of local magnates, whose own networks of dependants had a military component. 77 These dependants nevertheless made up only a minority of the permanent military units, 78 and the frequent references in the legislation to military organization have to be understood as just that, rather than read as the local basis of the contribution of men to the exercitus. The army relied on goodwill and the functioning of the mechanisms of consensus rather than legal prescription. An additional factor, sometimes overlooked, must be stressed: the promulgation of laws was closely related to the ideological projection of central political aspirations. 79 Abels has emphasized with regard to Anglo-Saxon England that the concept of lordship was more important than kingship in accounting for the fyrd, the army led by the king.80 We can see a clear parallel with the Visigothic kingdom: the 76

77 78

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D. Claude, ‘The Oath of Allegiance and the Oath of the King in the Visigothic Kingdom’, Classical Folia (1978), pp. 3–26. See Pérez Sánchez, n. 74 above. This is one of the main criticisms of Durliat’s line of argument on the armies of the Germanic kingdoms; see C. Wickham, ‘La chute de Rome n’aura pas lieu’, Le Moyen Age 99 (1993), p. 119. The work of P. Wormald in this area is particularly useful, including ‘Lex Scripta and Verbum Regis: Legislation and Germanic Kingship, from Euric to Cnut’, in Sawyer and Wood (eds), Early Medieval Kingship, pp. 105–38; and Legal Culture in the Early Medieval West: Law as Text, Image and Experience (London, 1999). R.P. Abels, Lordship and Military Obligation in Anglo-Saxon England (Berkeley and Los Angeles, 1988), p. 36.

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king was the military supremo; an exercitus existed; military command structures and organization are detailed in the official sources. But the makeup of these forces depended on the participation of the magnates and the involvement of areas under the control of local aristocrats. Julian of Toledo’s narration of Wamba’s campaign against the revolt of Paul (673) is an excellent example of the way these matters functioned in practice, and at the same time, of disfunctions and tensions. 81 Once again in the make-up and operation of the army we find channels of political articulation between centre and periphery which explain both the existence of the power of the regnum, but also its limits. Locally, this convergence between centre and periphery may perhaps have been behind the events that already in the middle of the fifth century had forced Pope Hilary to pronounce on the uncanonical ordinations which, according to the bishops of Tarraconensis, Silvanus of Calagurris had carried out. Honorati and possessores from the middle and upper reaches of the Ebro, some from the area around Auca (such as Virovesca), had written to Hilary in support of Silvanus. 82 Another striking feature of the Upper Ebro area is the cave dwellers that archaeologists have identified in large numbers in late antiquity and the early Middle Ages. This phenomenon cannot be explained simply as a result of eremitical religious practices: some of the cave dwellers were hermits but others were members of the general population. 83 Even where hermits are known from the written sources such as the Vita Aemiliani, the seventh-century life of Aemilianus (d. c.575) by Bishop Braulio of Saragossa, the social panorama seen from the locus of the hermit is of a stratified society, identified by the hagiographer with illlustrative terms such as senatores or servi.84 In this complex network, the principal expressions of political power were two-fold. On the one hand there was the military element, which is mentioned specifically with respect to Leovigild’s campaign of 574. Later in the course of Visigothic expansion towards the Cantabrian coast, this eventually gave shape to an administrative territory, the duchy of Cantabria. On the other hand, the implementation of the aims of central power remained in the control of its local agents, above all of the see of Auca. We can see the 81 82

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Julian of Toledo, Historia Wambae, ed. J.N. Hillgarth, CCSL 115 (Turnhout, 1976). On these episodes, see U. Espinosa, Calagurris Iulia (Logroño, 1984); K. Larrañaga, ‘En torno al caso del obispo Silvano de Calagurris. Consideraciones sobre el estado de la iglesia del alto y medio Ebro a fines del imperio’, Veleia 6 (1989), pp. 171–91. For the Upper Ebro and the south of the Basque country, see A. Azkarate, Arqueología cristiana de la Antigüedad tardía en Alava, Guipúzcoa y Vizcaya (Vitoria, 1988); L.A. Monreal Jimeno, Eremitorios rupestres altomedievales (el Alto Valle del Ebro) (Bilbao, 1989). On the social structure revealed by this text and its ideological implications, see S. Castellanos, Poder social, aristocracias y hombre santo en la Hispania visigoda. La Vita Aemiliani de Braulio de Zaragoza (Logroño, 1998).

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actions of the see both in its participation in central officialdom (taking part in councils of the regnum in Toledo), and in the transmission of its local presence in the complex territory south of the Cordillera Cantábrica and further south still. The mixture of spheres of influence of castros and the successors of villas made for a complicated scenario. The archaeological record of the sixth and seventh centuries provides ever more detailed information, not only about castros and villas, but also about the emergence of other loca which were spatial reference points and which probably had some relationship with political interests. The bishops were a central channel of power; even though they had to deal with the so-called segregationes (i.e. chapels and private monasteries), the church also had at its disposal a network of local churches which were responsive to its own interests, as the dedicatory inscription from Mijangos demonstrates.

The end of Visigothic power and its reorientation The existence of varied channels of communication between local powers and the central political apparatus was altered in form, but not in content, by the destruction of the Visigothic regnum and the brief period of Berber domination that followed. The Islamic invasion of the Iberian Peninsula, initiated in 711, introduced a new apparatus of political control in place of the Visigothic. This does not seem, however, to have been the original intention of the Muslims, which was rather to channel outwards the tensions existing in the recently conquered North Africa.85 This accounts for the lack of any clear idea at the outset of how to organize a new central power. It is also to be explained by the presence of a considerable number of Berbers among the conquerors, including Tariq, who led the first expedition. It is interesting that the apparatus of Visigothic power fell apart without any preconceived plan to substitute a new framework for the old regnum. Yet the defeat of the Visigoths did not result in the breakdown of the nucleii of local power. The Muslims tried on several occasions to reach agreements with local leaders,86 or with important aristocrats such as Theodomir, who controlled seven cities in the south-east of the peninsula (in the south of the modern province of Alicante and the region of Murcia, which then formed the district or qura of Tudmir, the Arabicized version of Theodimir). Theodomir made a pact with the invaders in c.713, by 85

86

P. Chalmeta, Invasión e islamización. La sumisión de Hispania y la formación de al-Andalus (Madrid, 1994). This is shown by certain local leaders who, emerging from the disasters of Guadalete and Écija, formed pacts with the invaders, thus taking the place of the Visigothic administration. Chalmeta, Invasión e islamización, pp. 151–2.

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which the Muslims allowed him to hold on to power, and the inhabitants of the region to keep their religion, in return for loyalty to the new rulers and the payment of an annual tribute. 87 His resolute support was given in exchange for a certain share of power. The new masters of the situation thus sought to uphold their unstable dominion over the local societies formerly subject to the Visigothic regnum. This process was repeated in the north of the peninsula. Around 714, without meeting any resistance, Muza subdued the region of Gilliqiya, roughly the north-west of Spain.88 Dominion over the north, too, was generally achieved through the collaboration of local leaders. During this period, the Berbers were used as the Muslims’ shock troops. They were in a position of subordination to the Arabs. It has been thought that they were settled in the areas of the peninsula of lesser economic and political interest, the richest areas being reserved for the Arabs. At the same time, it is believed that they attempted to find ecological niches that offered living conditions like those they had left behind.89 This would explain why they settled in the north, especially in the Duero valley. To the north of the Cordillera Cantábrica, the Berbers were practically non-existent. It is possible that this reflects the distribution of natural resources, but it may also reproduce the relationship between central power and local agencies in existence at the end of the Visigothic period. The economically active sectors of the Cantabrian coast probably suffered a decline since they had been dedicated to maritime commerce, which, with the notable exception of Gijón in the Asturian future kingdom, was reduced to a minimum after the breakdown of the commercial network sponsored by Rome. 90 Sparsely populated, they posed problems to the establishment of central power. They could supply little in the way of tribute, and in the Visigothic period control of these regions had already amounted to little more than a recognition of superior authority and the payment of a small levy. Other groups survived that were relatively autonomous. A similar situation probably existed in the most peripheral areas of the Duero valley, such as the Zamoran west or the highlands. 87 88 89

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J. López Pereira, Crónica mozárabe de 754 (Zaragoza, 1980). Barbero and Vigil, La formación, p. 211. T.F. Glick, Cristianos y musulmanes en la España medieval (711–1250) (Madrid, 1991), p. 48; Chalmeta, Invasión e islamización, pp. 160 –2. The presence of numerous ports on the Atlantic and Cantabrian coast has been confirmed by archaeology, which links them with maritime trade. The collapse of the commercial networks of the Roman period, although this was gradual, resulted in the withdrawal of the inhabitants to other areas and the abandonment of these sites or, at least, a considerable reduction in their population, which did not recover until the early Middle Ages, with the exception of Gijón. See Tabula Imperii Romani. Hoja K-29, Porto (Madrid, 1991); Tabula Imperii Romani. Hoja K-30: Caesaravgvsta-Clvnia (Madrid, 1993); C. Fernández Ochoa (ed.), Los Finisterres atlánticos en la Antigüedad. Época prerromana y romana (Gijón, 1996).

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However it was elsewhere, there was certainly a nucleus of power in the centre-west region of the present-day Asturias based on a group of landowners, who considered that integration into the new polity would be prejudicial to their interests, and who rebelled against the Muslim governor of Gijón: this was the core of the emergent kingdom of the Asturias. The development of social hierarchies, including aristocratic groups, was greater here than elsewhere in the north, and coincided with agricultural expansion.91 The opposition of the leaders of this area to the new rulers was not inevitable; the Rioja, where a similar aristocracy existed,92 collaborated with the Muslims. It was more an issue of local choices, which led to resistance against the new rulers by leaders who, at least at the beginning, were not seeking to create centralized power. Asturian propaganda of the ninth and tenth centuries was to create an image of state foundation in order to justify the expansion of the monarchy, but everything appears to indicate that initially the sole object was to resist Arab–Berber supremacy. The battle of Covadonga in 718 later became the paradigm of the crystallization of Asturian power, although the account given by the Asturian chronicles is closely linked to a myth of Gothic continuity of the end of the ninth century. 93 In any case, in the 720s an autonomous Asturian power emerged with an organizational capacity superior to that of the other local magnates of the Cantabrian area,94 which had been practically abandoned by the Muslims. In the Duero valley and in Galicia, by contrast, the Berbers remained in control for some time, based on local power structures, especially the civitates. Their control was tenuous there, and life continued with little change from the way it had been in the Visigothic period. In fact, the weakness of Berber dominion and their unfamiliarity 91

92 93

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Menéndez Bueyes, ‘Algunas notas’; P. Caldentey et al., ‘Relaciones entre la nobleza territorial del reino de Asturias y la geografía de la romanización’, Lancia 2 (1997), pp. 165–80. S. Castellanos, Poder social. The Christian chronicles – the Crónica de Alfonso III, versión Rotense (=Rotense), 9 –10 as well as the Crónica Albeldense (=Albeldense), XV, 1 – set this event in a pro-Asturian perspective. (We are using the edition of both chronicles in J. Gil et al., Crónicas asturianas (Oviedo, 1985.)) Muslim historians, however, make no mention of the incident; and neither does the Chronicle of 754, the closest to the events and compiled by a Mozarab opposed to Muslim domination. The figure of Pelagius (Pelayo), quite apart from his actual existence, can best be seen as a political archetype engendered by a real event, later embellished with legendary elements. See A. Dacosta Martínez, ‘Notas sobre las crónicas ovetenses del siglo IX. Pelayo y el sistema sucesorio en el caudillaje asturiano’, Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 10 (1992), esp. pp. 13–24; and idem, ‘Pelayo vive! Un arquetipo político en el horizonte ideológico del reino asturleonés’, Espacio, Tiempo y Forma. Historia Medieval 10 (1997), pp. 89 –135; A. Isla Frez, ‘Los dos Vitizas. Pasado y presente en las crónicas asturianas’, in Mª.J. Hidalgo, D. Pérez and M.J.R. Gervás (eds), Romanización y Reconquista, pp. 303–16. This explains the alliance between the Asturians and Peter, Cantabrorum dux in Rotense, 11 andCantabrie in Albeldense, XV, 3. This shows local leaders seeking the support of an emergent power, the Asturians; such leaders were perhaps earlier linked to the Visigoths, but had a less developed organization than the Asturians.

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with the terrain would have meant that the former civitates and other local powers had to play a greater role in central politics. But anyway, the Berbers revolted in the 740s, affecting the whole of the northern third of the Iberian Peninsula, which ceased to be effectively controlled by the Arabs.95 In these circumstances the involvement of local power structures increased, illustrative of the way in which they responded to the needs of their communities. The campaigns upon which Alfonso I and his brother Fruela embarked around the year 750 illustrate the situation in the north of the peninsula. Their principal objective was a series of civitates in present-day Galicia and along the whole of the Duero valley. 96 These localities formed the principal units of authority for the whole of this region and had developed out of the close links between local and central power discussed earlier. The weakening of the latter resulted in the gradual increase in the autonomy of the civitates and in their organizational power at a local level. Lacking the support of a strong central apparatus, however, they were attacked by a new power which saw in them a possible competitor. Nevertheless, the civitates, although the most powerful political foci, were not the only ones, for the Rotense chronicle makes it clear that there were also incursions against ‘castris et villis et vinculis suis’. This shows that there was a hierarchy of political structures of lesser importance, prominent among them castros and villas (lowland settlements of some significance), with their subordinate territories. These centres of local power had existed for some time; certainly in the Visigothic period, and sometimes perhaps with their roots in earlier epochs, Roman or pre-Roman. The chronicle thus reveals the great variety that characterized the local situation in the north of the peninsula. We need to look more closely at which regions were the focus of attacks by the Asturian leaders. The list of civitates in the Rotense chronicle may not be accurate, given its late redaction, at the end of the ninth or beginning of the tenth centuries, but it is still valuable, and coincides in part with the information given in another version of the ‘Chronicle of Alfonso III’, the Albeldense. The list covers the Galician north-west, the whole of the Duero valley and the Rioja, while other regions such as present-day Asturias and Cantabria, which formed the nucleus of 95

96

E. Lafuente Alcántara (ed.), Ajbar Machmuâ (Colección de tradiciones) (Madrid, 1867), p. 66 and ff. Barbero and Vigil, La formación, pp. 213–15. Rotense, 13: ‘Qui cum fratre Froilane sepius exercitu mobens, multas civitates bellando cepit. Id est, Lucum, Tudem, Portugalem, Anegiam, Bracaram metropolitanam, Viseo, Flavias, Letesma, Salamantica, Numantia qui nunc vocatur Zamora, Abela, Astorica, Legionem, Septemmanca, Saldania, Amaia, Secobia, Oxoma, Septempublica, Arganza, Clunia, Mabe, Auca, Miranda, Revendeca, Carbonarica, Abeica, Cinisaria et Alesanzo, seu castris cum villis et vinculis suis. Omnes quoque arabes gladio interciens, christianos autem secum ad patriam ducens.’

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Asturian sovereignty, the northernmost sector of the province of Burgos and the Basque country, were left out. It was precisely these latter regions that were the principal areas of ‘repopulation’ by the Asturians in this period, as the Rotense states, together with the coastal area of Galicia.97 This ‘repopulation’ was thus carried out in territories that had never been depopulated, indicating the political character of the process.98 Its significance lies in the articulation of central political power and its relation to the units of local power. We could hypothesize an integration of the political structures of these territories, which, being mainly small castros and weakened civitates,99 lacked the organizational capacity of the Asturians; they thus came to be part of a new political system. The Asturian leadership therefore gained a certain superiority in these regions, but not an unproblematic one. Probably the socioeconomic development of the Asturian heartlands was not yet sufficient to sustain a central apparatus capable of controlling the whole of this wide area. Rebellions are recorded during this period affecting these ‘peripheral’ areas which had the greatest socio-political development. 100 It is possible that, after a brief period of domination during the reigns of Alfonso I and Fruela, some more marginal areas regained a certain degree of de facto autonomy from the Asturians, and simply stopped paying tribute to them because the Asturians were unable to make their 97

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Rotense, p. 37: ‘Eo tempore populantur Asturias, Primorias, Livana, Transmera, Subporta, Carrantia, Bardulies, qui nunc vocatur Castella, et pars maritimam, et Gallecie.’ The same text adds later: ‘Alabanque, Bizcai, Alaone et Urdunia, a suis reperitur senper esse possesssas, sic it Panpilonia, Degius atque Berroza’. These latter areas were under the control of their own leaders. R. Menéndez Pidal, ‘Repoblación y tradición en la cuenca del Duero’, in Enciclopedia Lingüística Hispánica (Madrid, 1955), I, xxix–lviii; Barbero and Vigil, La formación, pp. 226 – 7; J.Mª. Mínguez, Las sociedades feudales, pp. 74–5. The example of the part of Castille in the Ebro valley, identified with the Bardulies, seems to make this clear, since this was a zone, at least in its most northern part, organized around this kind of castros and also former civitates, which were sometimes the same places. Area Patriniani is described in 800 as a civitas, surrounded by a wall, and also as ‘desolate’ (‘in civitate Area Patriniani . . . et fecimus culturas et laborem et cum illa omnia hereditate quam cludit muris circuito de ipsa civitates . . . Et in Area Patrinaini ad Sancti Martini invenimus ipsa civitate ex ruina desolata’); A. Ubieto Arteta, Cartulario de San Millán de la Cogolla (759 – 1076) (Valencia, 1976), doc. 2. This site is to the north of Burgos, in the present-day Merindades, possibly in San Martín de Agüera (Merindad de Montija); R. Bohigas Roldán, J. Campillo Cueva and J.A. Churruca Pérez, ‘Carta arqueológica de la provincia de Burgos. Los partidos judiciales de Sedano y Villarcayo’, Kobie 14 (1984), p. 68. Although this text was copied into a document in which information from different periods was inserted to form a narrative, it is possible that there was actually a civitas there and that the text corresponds with ninth-century reality. In Cantabria the situation was very similar, although there were also other forms of organization there such as the ‘valley communities’; C. Díez Herrera, La formación de la sociedad feudal en Cantabria. La organización del territorio en los siglos IX al XIV (Santander, 1989). Thus, before the reign of Alfonso II (791–842), which marks the reorganization of the Asturian kingdom: during the reign of Fruela I (757–68) there was a rebellion of the Basques, who identified themselves with the territory of Álava; and during the reign of Silo (774–83) there was a rebellion in Galicia.

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dominion effective. Indeed, it is likely that in such areas there was a tendency to reproduce a form of loose political organization already visible in earlier periods, given how difficult these areas were to subjugate and how little reward they offered to the central apparatus. Nevertheless, in other areas, such as in Alava or in parts of Galicia, where the principal rebellions against the Asturian leadership of the second half of the eighth century are recorded, there were aristocratic groups capable of generating political frameworks of some importance. 101 It is not surprising, therefore, that a number of different structures of local power emerged at the end of the eighth century, some of which provided the impetus for the political patterns which crystallized in the ninth century and which were the target of frequent attacks by the Muslims.102 Importance of the regions The destruction of the central political apparatus of the Visigothic period and the inability of the Asturian leadership to establish a new one, thus favoured the local activity of an extremely heterogeneous set of political units. The model of the civitas, closely linked to the presence of central power, was seriously weakened, although it did not necessarily disappear; castros, villas and monasteries must have continued to play a role, however, because their economic and social organization was more closely identified with the self-regulation of local communities. 103 101

102

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The central area of the county of Álava, which crystallized in the ninth century, is the valley of the Zadorra, where numerous Roman remains have been found, and where the former civitas of Veleia (Iruña de Oca) remained occupied; A. Llanos (ed.), Carta arqueológica de Álava, 1 (Vitoria, 1987), pp. 174 – 6. The county of Álava is made up of a network of smaller territories, reflected in the so-called ‘Reja de San Millán’, in which several appear: see G. Martínez Díez, Álava Medieval (Vitoria, 1974), I; J. Caro Baroja, ‘Álava en la llamada Reja de San Millán’, in J. Caro Baroja (ed.), Historia General del País Vasco (San Sebastián, 1983), III, 109 –49. In Galicia, the revolt that followed the ‘repopulation’ of the Miño was caused by groups of leaders who were insufficiently integrated into the Asturian monarchy. C. Baliñas, Defensores e traditores: un modelo de relación entre poder monárquico e oligarquía na Galicia altomedieval (718 –1037) (Santiago de Compostela, 1988), pp. 24–6; and idem, Do mito á realidade. A definición social e territorial de Galicia na Alta Idade Media (séculos VIII e IX) (Santiago de Compostela, 1992), pp. 84–8. The Muslim campaigns against the north are described in E. Lévi-Provençal, España musulmana hasta la caída del califato de Córdoba (71–1031 de J.C.). Historia de España Menéndez Pidal. IV (Madrid, 1982). The aim of these attacks was both to weaken centres of political articulation which were autonomous from the power of al-Andalus and to capture booty; locally, they must have favoured the development of a political organization that was independent of the Asturian leadership, one of aristocratic groups capable of defending the territory. ‘Self-regulation’ is defined as the capacity of a certain form of social and spatial organization to maintain itself over time owing to the ability of the model to reproduce itself, since it adapts itself to the needs of the inhabitants and to geographical factors. See D. Pumain and S. Van der Leuw, ‘La durabilité des systèmes spatiaux’, in F. Durand-Dastès (ed.), Des ‘oppida’ aux métropoles. Archéologes et géographes en vallée du Rhône (París, 1998), pp. 13–44.

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The lack of reliable information for the eighth and ninth centuries is a problem here; written documentation is practically non-existent except for a few chronicles and heavily interpolated documents, and the archaeological record is opaque and difficult to interpret. 104 A brief analysis of several different zones will demonstrate the political situation and its heterogeneity before the ‘repopulations’ of the second half of the ninth century, based on retrospective readings of tenth-century data. The absence of a strong central power, which was not established until the first half of the ninth century with the formation of the Asturian monarchy, put into relief the diversity of local power bases and of the socio-economic structures that sustained them. This can be clearly seen along the Cantabrian coast. In regions such as the Cantabrian Basque country the mechanisms of power were only weakly consolidated and remained small-scale; they were in the hands of indigenous leadership groups who probably did not have a strong grip on local communities. It has been proposed that Guipúzcoa was organized in valles which only much later (in the middle of the eleventh century) crystallized into a greater unity: Ipuscoa.105 In central Vizcaya and in Orduña, which seem to have been separate and controlled by their own inhabitants, a larger scale political structure does not seem to have been created either. It is possible that the spatial logic of indigenous political organization survived here (castros, valles), but it was not the basis of any wider or more substantial structure.106 Only in the tenth century, in c.925, is there a reference to a certain Momo, count of Vizcaya, whom some scholars have identified as an independent local ruler. 107 It is possible that this was a person of local standing to whom the Navarrese chronicles gave a spurious title in order to boost his position and link him to the royal house. The difficulty in establishing a central political apparatus in these areas is explained by socio-economic conditions which militated against the development of a strong aristocracy: demographic weakness; the suitability of small-scale units for the exploitation of their economy 104

105

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The presence of local ceramics, which replaced Roman industrial production, is generalized throughout early medieval Europe and makes this period hard to interpret. C. Wickham, ‘Overview: Production, Distribution and Demand’, in R. Hodges and W. Bowden (eds), The Sixth Century. Production, Distribution and Demand (Leyden, 1998), pp. 279 –92. M. Achúcarro, ‘La Tierra de Guipúzcoa y sus “valles”: su incorporación al reino de Castilla’, En la España Medieval, IV. Estudios dedicados al profesor D. Ángel Ferrari Núñez (Madrid, 1984), I, 13–46; E. Barrena Osoro, La formación histórica de Guipúzcoa. Transformaciones en la organización social de un territorio cantábrico durante la época altomedieval (San Sebastián, 1989). J.A. García de Cortázar, ‘La sociedad vizcaína altomedieval: de los sistemas de parentesco de base ganadera a la diversificación y jerarquización sociales de base territorial’, in Vizcaya en la Edad Media (Bilbao), pp. 63–81; J.A. García de Cortázar et al., Vizcaya en la Edad Media (San Sebastián, 1985), I, 25–49; A. Azkarate Garai-Olaún and I. García Camino, Estelas e inscripciones medievales del País Vasco (siglos VI–XI). I. País Vasco occidental (Bilbao, 1996). A. de Mañaricua, ‘Momo, conde de Vizcaya. A propósito de un texto del Códice Rotense’, Estudios Vizcaínos 3 (1972), pp. 249 –301.

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(mainly a pastoral one); limited opportunities to levy tribute; and so on. This had the effect of limiting local power, which impeded the development towards centralized political structures. A very different situation seems to have developed in Alava, where in the ninth century a county formed as a result of the political growth of the ruling groups of the valley of the Zadorra, particularly the Vela family which was based around the old civitas of Veleia.108 This variability is also evident in Cantabria, if we consider the differences between the Liébana and the Trasmiera. 109 Both regions followed a similar pattern, with the territories being structured by castros110 and, above all, by the presence of monasteries (Santo Toribio and Santa María de Puerto111). Yet their political activity was very different, since the Liébana was to develop a strong relationship with central power and saw the rise of important ruling groups; whereas the Trasmiera remained on the margins. Even sharper were the variations in presentday Asturias, where the most important polity of the north of the peninsula was based. In the eastern mountains particular castros maintained themselves, with strategies of spatial organization which went back a long way, which were perfectly adapted to the needs of local communities, and which represented a political self-regulation to a large extent marginal to the Asturian monarchy. 112 In all these regions, local forms were still a fundamental element of political articulation, although it is also clear that these were not always linked to central power. The castros were one of the most important of these local forms, and survived in many areas. It is not surprising that when Mahamut, an Andalusian prince taking refuge in the Asturias, rebelled in Galicia during the reign of Alfonso II, he occupied the castro 108

109

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M. de Meñaca, ‘El linaje vasco de los Velas y la Castilla primitiva’, in II Congreso Mundial Vasco. II. Instituciones, economía y sociedad (siglos VIII–XV) (San Sebastián, 1988), pp. 161–80. J.A. García de Cortázar and C. Díez Herrera, La formación de la sociedad hispano-cristiana del Cantábrico al Ebro en los siglos VIII a XI. Planteamiento de una hipótesis y análisis del caso de Liébana, Asturias de Santillana y Trasmiera (Santander, 1982). The presence of castros is visible in numerous sites in present-day Cantabria. In Trasmiera there was early medieval occupation at ‘Pico Mizmaya’ (Hoznayo), and ‘Pico del Castillo’ (Solares y San Miguel de Arás); this situation is replicated, perhaps with less intensity, in Liébana, at ‘Pico del castillo’ (Piasca) and at Castro Cillorigo. See R. Bohigas Roldán, Yacimientos arqueológicos medievales del sector central de la montaña cantábrica (Santander, 1986); and idem, ‘La organización del espacio a través de la arqueología medieval: veinte años de investigaciones’, in Primer Encuentro de Historia de Cantabria (Santander, 1999), I, 401–41. L. Sánchez Belda, Cartulario de Santo Toribio de Liébana (Madrid, 1948); M. Serrano Sanz, ‘Cartulario de Santa María del Puerto (Santoña)’, Boletín de la Real Academia de la Historia 73 (1917). M. Fernández Mier, Génesis del territorio en la Edad Media. Arqueología del paisaje y evolución histórica en la montaña asturiana (Oviedo, 1999); F.J. Fernández Conde, M.J. Suárez and J.A. Gutiérrez González, ‘A transición en Asturias. Aproximación historiográfica e percepción do territorio astur na Alta Idade Media’, in Pereira (ed.), Galicia fai dous mil anos, pp. 391–412.

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Sancte Cristine as his headquarters.113 The castros were not only defensive, but also foci for political control over local territories. They continued to function even in the tenth century, for example the castrum Baroncelli, near Verín (Orense), which continued to be the focus of a territory even though it was probably no longer inhabited. 114 Indeed, in present-day Galicia, there appears to have been a dense network of castros,115 which probably survived into the early Middle Ages as the defining elements of small territories which became mandaciones from the middle of the ninth century, as a result of the intervention of the Asturian kings.116 This evolution was not uniform; several castros with few links to central power survived in the most peripheral areas. Castros also survived in other regions along the north coast, as has already been remarked for parts of the Asturias. In present-day Cantabria a model of ‘valley communities’ has been proposed, 117 but other analyses reveal the presence of castros as well, many of which were reconverted into castillos.118 At the beginning of the eleventh century some of these would become the centres of alfoces, small territories based on local indigenous power, which would be recognized as such by central authority. 119 Another local unit that survived was the monastery, whose importance grew in this period; indeed, late ninth- and tenth-century evidence indicates the height of their power, by comparison with other forms of religious organization. The monasteries were the centres of indivisible blocks of landowning, and, at the same time, they were the foci for the small territories that surrounded them, in which local communities were subsumed. Their widespread leadership may have responded to initiatives from the whole community, or else from ruling groups,

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Albeldense, XV, 9. This site was probably the castro of Santa Cristina in Sarria (Lugo). This event galvanized the Galician aristocracy in favour of the Asturian monarchy; Baliñas Pérez, Do mito, p. 93. Mª.C. Pallares Méndez and E. Portela Silva, ‘Galicia, á marxe do Islam. Continuidade das estructuras organizativas no tránsito á Idade Media’, in Galicia fai dous mil anos. O feito diferencial galego, I. Historia (Santiago de Compostela, 1997), pp. 444 – 6. A. Isla Frez, La sociedad gallega en la Alta Edad Media (Madrid, 1992), pp. 142–3; López Quiroga and Rodríguez Lovelle, ‘Poblamiento rural’ and ‘Castros y castella tutiora’. The earlier ‘repopulations’ such as that of the Miño during the reign of Fruela (Rotense, p. 39), probably did not produce so strong a central influence over local power. The strengthening of the Asturian monarchy made this influence possible, and it can only be shown in our documentary sources. Díez Herrera, La formación; E. Blanco Campos, ‘Valles y aldeas: las Asturias de Santillana’, in J.A. García de Cortázar (ed.), Del Cantábrico al Duero. Trece estudios sobre organización social del espacio en los siglos VIII a XIII (Santander, 1999), pp. 157– 87. Bohigas Roldán, ‘La organización del espacio’, pp. 417–20. The case of Cutelium Castrum, identified as the castrum of ‘Pico del Castillo’ (Solares) is interesting as a step towards the geographical demarcation of power; Bohigas Roldán, Yacimientos, pp. 127– 9. The example of the alfoz of Camesa Castro is the most relevant, since it appears as early as 1022. See Bohigas Roldán, Yacimientos, p. 157.

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particularly in later periods.120 In general, the active involvement of monasteries is seen in nearly all areas, including the most peripheral, such as Santa María del Puerto (Santoña). Monasteries also provide most of our evidence for the late ninth and tenth century, and frequently illustrate their own importance in local political relationships. 121 By contrast, the structures most closely linked to central power (especially civitates and bishoprics) suffered a sharp decline. Either the urban centres of the region collapsed, particularly those on the coast, or were restructured, as happened in Lugo.122 Such restructuring required a local aristocracy of some prominence, capable of commanding a wide area, unified with the active participation of the central political apparatus. When the latter was weakened, the survival of urban centres was seriously damaged, although this did not entail the depopulation of these sites. Not until there was a new implantation of Asturian power could urbanism regenerate itself, although before the intervention of central power, towns were able to survive as places that dominated their immediate surroundings. Some bishops were able to maintain local power bases too, as happened in parts of Galicia (the diocese of Iria), but in much of the Cantabrian coast they were either absent or ‘bishops without a see’, usually abbots.123 Once again, it was the reconstruction of the central political apparatus that revitalized episcopal authority, even though, as we have seen, that authority survived in certain areas. 124 In the Cantabrian region a new apparatus of central power emerged, the Asturian monarchy. During the eighth century it may have been little more than a chiefdom, although it had a strong socio-economic base in the central areas of its rule. Only in the reign of Alfonso II (791– 842) was a clear central mechanism of power consolidated. Before this date, as we have seen, attempts at political reorganization can be 120

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On the role of monasteries as a focus for local communities, see J.Mª. Mínguez, ‘Ruptura social e implantación del feudalismo en el Noroeste peninsular (siglos VIII–X)’, Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 3 (1985), pp. 7–32; and I. Álvarez Borge, ‘El proceso de transformación de las comunidades de aldea: una aproximación al estudio de la formación del feudalismo en Castilla (siglos X y XI)’, Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 6 (1987), pp. 145–60. These monasteries were fundamental elements in areas such as Galicia, el Bierzo or the Asturias. See Isla Frez, La sociedad gallega, pp. 105–28; Mª.C. Rodríguez González and M. Durany Castrillo, ‘El Bierzo en la época de Alfonso III’, in Fernández Conde (ed.), La época de Alfonso III, pp. 151–63; F.J. Fernández Conde and Mª.A. Pedregal Montes, ‘Evolución histórica del territorio de Santo Adriano y génesis del poblamiento medieval’, Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 16 (1998), pp. 129 –72. López Quiroga and Rodríguez Lovelle, ‘Ciudades atlánticas en transición’. Martín Viso, ‘Organización episcopal’, pp. 172–3. The formation of the Galician sees was part of the new political structure sponsored by the Asturian monarchy and it is thus not surprising to find a biased account emphasizing the existence of an earlier ‘depopulation’ and the disappearance of the sees; Isla Frez, La sociedad gallega, pp. 69 –71. On the other hand, there is little doubt that the dioceses were one of the ‘islands of authority’ that the Asturians implanted in Galicia, as seems clear in the case of the see of Iria; Baliñas, Defensores e traditores, p. 28.

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identified in certain areas, through what would be known in the tenth century as ‘repopulation’. The kings also exercised some influence over relatively distant areas, but the framework of dominion was in no way homogeneous. In the course of the first half of the ninth century, Alfonso II implemented a policy directed towards imposing a monarchy, to a large extent utilizing familiar mechanisms. The king, who at the beginning of his reign had to flee to Alava (a sign of the limited ability of the Asturian power to control peripheral areas), 125 created a new sedes regia in Oviedo, which from this moment became the seat of government. In order to raise the status of Oviedo, which lacked an earlier tradition of authority, Alfonso founded a brand new diocese, and called on the bishops to confirm his decision and to recognize the superior authority of the new prelate. 126 Thus Alfonso reproduced the diocesan hierarchy of the Visigothic kingdom, which was closely linked to royal power. At the same time, he built churches and palaces with the aim of projecting the new monarchy outside the sedes regia.127 It was at this point that there developed a policy of strengthening the links between local power structures and the centre. Santa María del Puerto had links with Alfonso’s successor, Nepotiano; 128 and a similar pattern holds for Galicia, where the ruling parties integrated themselves into the structures of the regime in exchange for institutional protection, recognition of their property and social status, and the donation of land and honours.129 This consolidated a political situation which allowed for expansion in the second half of the ninth century, during the reigns of Ramiro I (who is documented as in control of Lucense civitas, Lugo130), Ordoño I and Alfonso III. The basis of this political development may be found in the socio-economic dynamism not only of the central zones of the Asturian kingdom, but also in other areas. Such circumstances meant that there were more resources to be channelled towards the central apparatus, which in turn enabled more efficient means of levying tribute. It was necessary to create a common interest for the monarchy and the ruling aristocracies, because in the absence of competitors for power the latter had previously been prominent. This development did not pass unnoticed by the Muslims, who began to make more 125 126

127

128 129 130

Rotense, 41. Rotense, 43. Its foundation should be dated between 791 and 812; see A. Floriano Cumbreño, Diplomática española del período astur. Estudio de las fuentes documentales del reino de Asturias (718– 910) (Oviedo, 1949), I, 118–22. For an analysis, see D. Mansilla Reoyo, Geografía eclesiástica de España. Estudio histórico-geográfico de las diócesis (Roma, 1994), II, 24 –30. M. Núñez Rodríguez, ‘La arquitectura como expresión de poder’, in F.J. Fernández Conde (ed.), La época de Alfonso III y San Salvador de Valdediós (Oviedo, 1994), pp. 113–26; C. García de Castro Valdés, Arqueología cristiana de la Alta Edad Media en Asturias (Oviedo, 1995). Serrano Sanz, ‘Cartulario de Santa María del Puerto’, doc. I (863.12.13). Baliñas, Defensores e traditores, p. 28. Rotense, 47.

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frequent incursions with the sole aim of preventing the rise of this new authority, which might alter the balance of power in the Duero valley. It is the region of the Duero valley that poses the greatest problems. The long held conviction that there was a depopulation here as a result of Alfonso I’s campaigns, with the formation of a ‘strategic desert’, 131 has complicated our understanding of early medieval political structures. Various studies have by now highlighted demographic continuity in these areas,132 while continuing to stress its marginality, which it would not lose until the ‘repopulation’ of the tenth century. A theory of colonization has also been developed, which minimizes the capacity of the inhabitants for political organization outside the limits of their own small communities.133 Here too, although starting from differing assumptions, recent studies are modifying this position. 134 It is clear, all the same, that this wide area remained at the margins of political structures, and constituted a political ‘no man’s land’. 135 This situation allowed the emergence of new chiefdoms, possibly linked closely to military elements, in a context of instability and competition. 136 Some earlier political units also seem to have continued to function, which were the basis of the later ‘repopulation’. 137 Conversely, structures of local implementation of central power, such as bishoprics and civitates, 131 132

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135 136

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C. Sánchez-Albornoz, Despoblación y repoblación del valle del Duero (Buenos Aires, 1966). Barbero and Vigil, La formación, pp. 220 –3; Caballero Zoreda, La necrópolis; Á. Barrios García, ‘Toponomástica e Historia. Notas sobre la despoblación de la zona meridional del Duero’, En la España Medieval, II. Estudios en memoria del profesor D. Salvador de Moxó (Madrid, 1982), I, 115–34; Reyes Téllez and Menéndez Robles, ‘Excavaciones en la ermita de San Nicolás’; F. Reyes Téllez and Mª.L. Menéndez Robles, ‘Aspectos ideológicos en el problema de la despoblación del valle del Duero’, in J. Arce and R. Olmos (eds), Historiografía de la arqueología y de la Historia Antigua en España (siglos XVIII–XX) (Madrid, 1991), pp. 199–207. Despite many differences, this is now a commonly held position. See J.Mª. Mínguez, ‘Innovación y pervivencia en la colonización del valle del Duero’, in Despoblación y colonización del valle del Duero. Siglos VIII–XX. IV Congreso de Estudios Medievales (León, 1995), pp. 45– 79; and idem, ‘Vellas e novas formas da organización productivo ó norte do Douro’, in Pereira (ed.), Galicia fai dous mil anos, pp. 359 –89; J.Á. García de Cortázar, ‘Del Cantábrico al Duero’, in J.Á. García de Cortázar et al., Organización social del espacio en la España medieval. La Corona de Castilla en los siglos VIII a XV (Madrid, 1985), pp. 43– 83; and idem, ‘Las formas de organización social del espacio del valle del Duero en la Alta Edad Media: de la espontaneidad al control feudal’, in Despoblación y colonización, pp. 11–41; J.J. García González and I. Fernández Mata, Estudios sobre la transición. J. Escalona Monge, ‘Algunos problemas relativos a la génesis de las estructuras territoriales de la Castilla altomedieval’, in II Jornadas Burgalesas de Historia. Burgos en la Alta Edad Media (Burgos, 1991), pp. 491–506; and idem, ‘Acerca de la territorialidad en la Castilla altomedieval: tres casos significativos’, in Mª.I. Loring García (ed.), Historia social, pensamiento historiográfico y Edad Media. Homenaje al profesor Abilio Barbero de Aguilera (Madrid, 1997), pp. 217–44; Pastor Díaz de Garayo, Castilla en el tránsito. Mª. Mínguez, Las sociedades feudales, pp. 92–4. C. Díez Herrera, ‘La organización social del espacio entre la Cordillera Cantábrica y el Duero en los siglos VIII al XI: una propuesta de análisis como sociedad de frontera’, in J. García de Cortázar (ed.), Del Cantábrico al Duero, pp. 129 –36. Thus the monasteries and, to a lesser extent, some castros, served to implant Leonese power in the Leonese uplands. See Gutiérrez González, ‘El Páramo leonés’, pp. 69 –80.

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were visibly weak. The first seem not to have survived, although their rapid restoration allows one to suppose that some degree of ecclesiastical organization was maintained, perhaps outside canonical frameworks. As for the civitates, it seems that the fortresses (where the functions of the central apparatus had been concentrated since Suevic and Visigothic times) were abandoned, although the urban sites were still inhabited, 138 in some cases moving towards the fertile plains by the rivers. 139 It is possible that local powers used the old walls for defence, but the difficulty in obtaining resources prevented the carrying out of improvements. A specific case illustrating some of these factors is that of the area around Zamora, in the valley of the Duero. 140 Zamora had risen to prominence in the Visigothic period and was one of the civitates attacked by Alfonso I. Neither written evidence nor the archaeology are very informative for the eighth and ninth centuries, but several hypotheses may be put forward. Firstly, we are looking at a continuously inhabited region. Proof of this is the large number of Arabic toponyms, generated by an autochthonous Mozarab population. 141 To these may be added the persistence of pre-Roman toponyms 142 and, above all, the coincidence between the former sites of local power in the Visigothic period and those of the tenth century: Zamora, Sanabria, Tábara and perhaps Polvoraria. Surveys of zones such as Lampreana reveal demographic continuity.143 There is evidence from the tenth century of a network of castros that functioned as local power centres, including Castrogonzalo, Polvoraria, Camarzana de Tera, Alba de Aliste, Sanabria and Peñausende. The archaeological record confirms that they were occupied, but, because of the dearth of material datable to other periods and the lack of evidence for rebuilding, this survival is usually explained by the reoccupation by the Leonese monarchy (the successor to that of 138

139

140

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142 143

P. Barraca Ramos, ‘La ciudad de Ávila entre los siglos V al X’, in IV Congreso de Arqueología Medieval Española, II, 29 –46. The same may also be seen in Salamanca, according to N. Benet and A.I. Sánchez Guinaldo, ‘Urbanismo medieval de Salamanca: continuidad o reconstrucción?’, in El urbanismo de los estados cristianos peninsulares (Aguilar de Campo, 1999), pp. 133–4. See I. Martín Viso, ‘La articulación del poder en la cuenca del Duero: el ejemplo del espacio zamorano (siglos V–X)’, Annuario de Estudios Medievales 31.1 (2001), pp. 75–126. Toponyms of this type make up 21.7% of the names documented before 1125, concentrated in certain areas (the lower Tera, around Zamora and Tierra de Campos). See C. Estepa Díez, Estructura social de la ciudad de León (siglos XI–XIII) (León, 1977), p. 65 ff.; Á. Barrios García, ‘Repoblación de la zona meridional del Duero. Fases de ocupación, procedencias y distribución espacial de los grupos repobladores’, Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 3 (1985), pp. 45–6 and 58–9; E. Manzano Moreno, La frontera de al-Andalus en la época de los omeyas (Madrid, 1990), pp. 161–3; V. Aguilar, ‘Onomástica de origen árabe en el reino de León (siglo X)’, Al-Qantara 15:2 (1994), pp. 351–64; F.R. Mediano, ‘Acerca de la población arabizada del reino de León (siglos X y XI)’, Al-Qantara 15:2 (1994), pp. 465–72. Making up 12.4% of all the toponyms known before 1125. E. Rodríguez Rodríguez, ‘El poblamiento medieval del entorno de las lagunas de Villafáfila’, Anuario del Instituto Estudios Zamoranos Florián de Ocampo (1996), pp. 227–77.

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Asturias) after centuries of abandonment. 144 Nevertheless, both these factors may be the result of the difficulty in interpreting the archaeological record. Early medieval ceramics can be confused with those of the Iron Age, which present the same typology. Similarly, the absence of rebuilding can be explained as being because the castros were adequate for local needs, and because of the expense of the work. It is easier for us to envisage the continuity of some castros, whose existence served to organize land at the sub-county level; some of these were to emerge as territories in the tenth century. A large number of monasteries in this area were once assumed to be of Visigothic origin, although it is now difficult to be certain of this. 145 Certain indications, such as their dedications or the use of non-canonical formulae, taken together, suggest an autochthonous expansion that preceded the ‘repopulation’. In fact, the latter seems merely to have introduced canonical organization to the monasteries, with the appointment of several Mozarabic abbots closely linked to the monarchy. 146 The Asturo-Leonese monarchs recognized the potential of the monasteries to structure local power relationships, as happened in the territory of Tábara. Here two monasteries were founded, at Tábara and Moreruela de Tábara, reflecting the previous division of the zone between two castros, and they included a large number of local inhabitants. 147 San Pedro de la Nave may be another example. This has traditionally been considered of Visigothic origin, but recent investigations have redated the building to the early medieval period. 148 Nevertheless, this may have been a later building on an earlier cult site, which was maintained throughout the eighth and ninth centuries as a centre of power, and was quickly recognized by the Leonese kings. 149 144

145

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J.A. Gutiérrez González, Fortificaciones y feudalismo en el origen y formación del reino leonés (siglos IX–XIII) (Valladolid, 1995), pp. 28–9. A. González Blanco, ‘La cristianización de Zamora’, in Primer Congreso de Historia de Zamora (Zamora, 1990), II, 267–99. This is true of San Martín de Castañeda, where an earlier monastery was refounded by an abbot coming from Córdoba, according to the dedicatory inscription; M. Gutiérrez Álvarez, Corpus Inscriptionum Hispaniae medievalium, I/1. Zamora, (Turnhout, 1997), pp. 17–18. Traces survive of a church dating to the ninth century, according to F. Regueras Grande and L.A. Grau Lobo, ‘Nuevas evidencias sobre una vieja iglesia mozárabe: San Martín de Castañeda’, Brigecio 3, pp. 83–113. ‘Vita Sancti Froylani episcopi’, in M. Risco, España Sagrada (Madrid, 1784), XXXIV, 424, gives an account of Froilán’s foundation of the two monasteries by order of Alfonso III, with 600 and 200 monks respectively. L. Caballero Zoreda and F. Arce, ‘La iglesia de San Pedro de la Nave (Zamora). Arqueología y arquitectura’, Archivo Español de Arqueología 70 (1997), pp. 221–74. Emergency excavations of the original floor of this church have revealed the remains of a beam dating from the fourth century, hinting at the presence of an earlier building on the site. L. Caballero Zoreda et al., ‘San Pedro de la Nave (Zamora). Excavación arqueológica en el solar primitivo de la iglesia y el análisis por dendrocronología y carbono-14 de su viga’, Anuario de Estudios Zamoranos Florián de Ocampo (1997), pp. 43–57. In 907, scarcely fourteen

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Castros and monasteries were the main centres of local power in the Duero valley, and they survived the collapse of the central political apparatus because they met the needs of the local communities. There were also villas, probably including Villafáfila, which controlled a small territory, Lampreana. The fortress of Zamora, in contrast, situated on a low hilltop dominating the Duero, seems to have been abandoned, although the settlement may have moved down to the plain, to Olivares. In any case, it was still a site of some importance that would become the focus of the Leonese ‘repopulation’. Such local centres remained active, and defined the communities that continued to inhabit the lands around Zamora. Yet their actual role in this period is unknown, and one must rely upon evidence dating from after the tenth century. The Leonese ‘repopulation’ of the tenth century occurred at a moment of expansion of Asturian-Leonese society. A new central power structure was established in the Duero, at León itself, thanks to the impetus of the monarchy after Alfonso II’s reorganization. Ordoño I (850–66) was responsible for the occupation of civitates such as León, Astorga, Tuy and Amaya, as well as many smaller castros.150 The civitates were former centres of power which had retained some functions, which also explains why they were the object of Muslim attacks before their ‘repopulation’ – for example, Astorga in 796, León in 845 and 846. The reign of Alfonso II was the period of greatest expansion, reaching the River Duero and thus creating a boundary for the new political structures. To consolidate their authority, the Leonese monarchs took control of the castros and monasteries. The former appear at the head of royal territories and underwent a series of transformations of their defensive structures,151 whilst Mozarabic abbots were appointed to the monasteries to implement reforms designed to subordinate them to royal power. Other nuclei acquired the status of civitates, awarded not so much because of their urban activity, but because the apparatus of central power was once again based in them. In order for this to occur, there must have been a pre-existing infrastructure with both a military and a tributary aspect. It is striking that one of the Leonese kings’ first actions was the restoration or creation ex novo of episcopal sees, a

150

151

years after the ‘repopulation’ of Zamora, the monastery received the villa of Valdeperdices from Alfonso III, an acknowledgement of the monastery’s important role in the political structure of the territory. Its relatively rapid appearance also suggests that it had survived through the eighth and ninth centuries. J.M. Andrade, O Tombo de Celanova (Santiago de Compostela, 1995), doc. 429. Albeldense, XV, 11: ‘iste christianorum regnum cum Dei iubamine ampliavit. Legionem atque Asturicam simul cum Tude et Amagia populavit multaque et alia castra muniuit.’ See P. Martínez Sopena, La Tierra de Campos occidental. Poblamiento, poder y comunidad del siglo X al XIII (Valladolid, 1985), pp. 118–25; Gutiérrez González, Fortificaciones y feudalismo, pp. 99–121.

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Fig. 3 The articulation of power in the north of the Iberian Peninsula (tenth century).

cornerstone of closer ties between the central apparatus and local interests.152 In fact, the few civitates of the tenth century coincide with episcopal and military centres, two fundamental elements, to which should be added the presence of a hinterland which was capable of sustaining their local hegemony (Fig. 3).153 A further look at the case of Zamora may be useful here. The castros were the dominant element in the Zamoran countryside, even though outnumbered by villages. Some castros functioned as territorial centres, although they do not seem to have been controlled directly by the Leonese monarchy, and are not identified as mandaciones.154 These were nuclei from which power was exercised over the surrounding area. Their defences arose partly in response to possible external threats, but above all as a result of the monopolizing of these sites by a militarized aristocracy. These places were in fact chosen not for their geo-strategic capabilities, but because they were the principal nuclei of communities, 152

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León, for example, a new see created to strengthen this centre, emerged in 860 with a donation of Ordoño I. Astorga seems to have been restored between 852 and 854, when the bishop, Indisclo and the count Gatón repopulated the city. Mansilla Reoyo, Geografía histórica, I, 37–8. C. Estepa Díez, ‘La vida urbana en el norte de la península ibérica en los siglos VIII y IX. El significado de los términos civitates y castra’, Hispania 139 (1978), pp. 257–73, Diéz Herrera, ‘La organización’, pp. 137–8. E.g. Castrogonzalo, Polvoraria or Camarzana de Tera, all centres of territories lacking royal representatives, which suggests that it was the local ruling groups that exercised the functions of central power. Sanabria is an obvious example, since there are references to its territory in the tenth century, but a count was not documented in the valley until 1033. See I. Martín Viso, ‘La feudalización del valle de Sanabria (siglos X–XIII)’, Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 11 (1993), p. 41.

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and as such, their domination was a precondition for taking control of these communities.155 A series of tributes, possibly of a military nature, was channelled towards them, as in Alba de Aliste. 156 The monarchy’s control of resources other than tributes is not so visible, although the castros seem also to have acted as places where legal processes and the payment of fines were enforced, moderated by the presence of local ruling groups who exercised effective power there. Although monasteries, such as Tábara,157 might also have a defensive function, the principal source of their power derived from their role of controlling religion over the greater part of the territory. As such, they received numerous donations from their protectors, some of whom established ties of patronage with them as a result. In order to exercise control, in some of these monasteries the monarchy imposed abbots tied to the king. At other times the kings resorted to generous donations which enabled them to exercise influence through patronage. 158 It should be noted that in some areas monasteries seem to have substituted for the former castros as the foci of local power structures; this is symptomatic of their importance. Central power was mediated through the filter of local structures. Although there is no concrete evidence, it is likely that the intensity of control varied from area to area. The heterogeneity of local conditions affected the monarch’s ability to exercise his prerogatives. 159 The locus of greatest control must have been the civitas of Zamora. Situated in a fertile area, heavily colonized by Mozarabs, in 893 it was ‘repopulated’ with the help of Mozarabs from Toledo. 160 From this date, until Almanzor’s attack of 986, it became the key stronghold of the Duero frontier. This status may be attributed not only to its military importance, but to its central role in a frontier territory opposite the ‘no man’s land’, 155

156

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Thus in the territory of los Valles several castros are documented, some of them quite close together, which represented the needs of local communities rather than geo-strategic considerations. Sancho I gave to Sahagún the villa of Pensum in the territory of Zamora, which ‘nunc adiuncta est deserviendi ad Alba Castello’; J.Mª. Mínguez, Colección diplomática del monasterio de Sahagún (siglo X) (León, 1976), doc. 175 (960.04.26). This expression must imply the presence of obligations, perhaps military, destined for the castle of Alba de Aliste, a former castro. F. Galtier Martí, ‘O turre tabarense alta et lapidea . . . Un saggio d’iconografia castellologica sulla miniatura della Spagna cristiana del secolo X’, in XXXIV Corso di cultura sull’arte ravennate e bizantina (Rávena, 1987), pp. 253–89. The king gave villas (villages) to particular monasteries, which should be interpreted as the ceding of some of his rights over these communities. Apart from the example of San Pedro de la Nave, already mentioned, in 940 San Martín de Castañeda received the locality of Vigo de Sanabria; A. Rodríguez González, El tumbo del monasterio de San Martín de Castañeda (León, 1973), doc. 3. Thus, the lawsuit concerning the fishing rights and villa of Galende, between San Martín de Castañeda and Ranosindo and his gasalianes, was resolved in 927 by a tribunal at which no representative of the king was present. L. Anta Lorenzo, ‘El monasterio de San Martín de Castañeda. En torno a los orígenes y la formación de la propiedad dominical’, Studia Zamorensia, 2ª etapa 3 (1996), pp. 31–52. F. Maíllo Salgado, Zamora y los zamoranos en las fuentes árabes (Zamora, 1990), p. 20.

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closely integrated with Leonese power. This situation could only have developed where a pre-existing local centre of some importance retained some of its capacity for organization. Alfonso founded a see ex novo, in order better to connect the area to central power. The example of Zamora clarifies the way central power developed out of local structures in the tenth century. The local institutions in the Duero valley had survived the collapse of the previous regime and now they were determining factors in the composition of a new power structure. This new authority had to yield to the particular and different conditions of each place; the lack of interest in more ‘peripheral’ zones, such as Aliste and Sayago within the Zamoran region, is striking. The localized institutions filtered central power, which developed its ability to obtain tribute, exercise justice and organize the army in different ways in different places. The situation in Castille was similar in many respects, but with one qualification: in the Duero, the reassertion of central power emerged from the communities themselves. It has generally been thought that the plain of Castile suffered a process of depopulation similar to that of the rest of the Duero basin. Only the most northern areas, in the north of the modern province of Burgos, supposedly retained their population and social organization, constituting the original Castile, the al-Qila of the Muslim sources. From this nucleus, there was a gradual migration towards the south, following the routes of repopulation, which would crystallize as the county of Castile in the tenth century. This view, however, is now in doubt.161 It is certain that the name Castella Vetula refers to the northern sector mentioned above, but this does not necessarily imply that political activity was carried out only in this area, but rather that a pre-existing name was given to it. In fact, it is striking that the family that would eventually rise to be counts of Castile came from the south, from Lara. The scanty evidence for the ninth century nevertheless documents a plurality of political units. Counts are mentioned on several occasions, in connection with political structures of greater than average complexity.162 One of these seems to have been at Mijangos, near Tedeja, in the north of Castile, the Castella Vetula. In the Visigothic period the Mijangos–Tedeja axis had been the main political focus in the north. This suggests its continuity as a political unit, even 161

162

See Pastor Díaz de Garayo, Castilla en el tránsito; and Escalona Monge, ‘Acerca de la territorialidad’. Ibn Idari’s account of the campaign mounted by the Muslims in 865 is very interesting. C. Sánchez-Albornoz, ‘La campaña de la Morcuera’, Anales de Historia Antigua y Medieval 1 (1948), pp. 31–2, cites the translation by E. Fagnan: ‘il ne resta plus intact un seul des châteaux forts appartenant à Rodrigue, prince des Forts, à Ordoño [d’Alava], prince de Toûk’a, à Ghandelchelb, prince de Bordjia, à Gomez, prince de Mesâneka’; i.e. Álava, Oca, Burgos, Mijangos and ‘Los Castillos’ (not identified).

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though it will have been transformed by the vicissitudes related to the collapse of the central political apparatus. 163 Other foci of local power were Lantarón (which was a county at the end of the ninth century), the area around Burgos, and Lara. In spite of Asturian propaganda, Castile remained outside the orbit of the monarchy. Documents are not dated with Asturian regnal years, except in texts that are interpolated or clearly falsified. Continuity with the earlier period may be observed, since some of the civitates that had been attacked by Alfonso I in the middle of the eighth century were close to the new centres of power: Revendeca, Miranda, Arganza and Clunia. Nevertheless, the shifting of such centres is noticeable, and also the development of new ones, such as the hill of Burgos.164 The second half of the ninth century and the beginning of the tenth witnessed different types of ‘repopulation’, sponsored by men described as counts.165 This phenomenon was concentrated in local political units, many of which had existed previously. In reality, this was a reassertion of authority by the most powerful ruling groups of the period. Local infrastructures had continued to function after the collapse of Visigothic power; they were affected but not destroyed by that event. This explains the importance that the region of al-Qila acquired from the outset, whilst at the same time, that name ‘the castles’ implies the absence of a central power. Of course, not all the local political units were the same: different socio-economic development produced different patterns. The areas where there had been civitates, that is, those areas with an aristocracy capable of maintaining this type of power structure, suffered most from the disappearance of central authority, but were able to create new political formulae, which crystallized as counties. Their emergence in the second half of the ninth century brought with it a stronger internal complexity, together with the struggle 163

164

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Excavations at Tedeja and Santa María de los Godos (Mijangos) have found traces of continuous occupation from the Visigothic to the early medieval periods. See Lecanda Esteban, ‘De la Tardoantigüedad’, pp. 316 –20 and idem, ‘Mijangos: arquitectura y ocupación visigoda en el norte de Burgos’, in II Congreso de Arqueología Peninsular (Zamora, 1999), IV, 415–34. Burgos was ‘repopulated’ in 884 by Count Diego Porcelos. However, it appears that in 865 there was already an established power structure, if one accepts the existence of the counts referred to by Ibn Idari (see above n. 162). This would suggest a political unity in the area prior to the integration of Burgos into the county of Castile. J.J. García González, ‘Construcción de un sistema: la ciudad de Burgos en la transición al feudalismo’, in García González and Fernández de Mata, Estudios sobre la transición, pp. 155–324. The Anales Castellanos Primeros mention the ‘repopulation’ led by Count Rodrigo de Amaya in 860. Count Diego Porcelos ‘repopulated’ Burgos and Ubierna by order of Alfonso III in 884; and in 912 Count Muno Núñez ‘repopulated’ Roda, Count Gonzalo Téllez ‘repopulated’ Osma, and Count Gonzalo Fernández repopulated Haza, Clunia and San Esteban de Gormaz. M. Gómez-Moreno (ed.), Anales Castellanos Primeros (Madrid, 1917), pp. 23 –4. The Asturian chronicles give a larger role to the Asturian kings, e.g. Ordoño I led the ‘repopulation’ of Amaya (Rotense, 49; Albeldense, XV, 11).

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to attain greater power, so that some centres, the strongest militarily, politically and economically, swallowed up others. This explains the process of ‘repopulation’, carried out by various counts, which did not follow a north–south route, but coincided instead with the spheres of influence of the stronger centres. A later phase, at the beginning of the tenth century, was the rise of one of these units, and of a single family, uniting the different counties under Count Fernán Gonzalez. 166 All the same, internal diversity was still the norm throughout the tenth and eleventh centuries. The larger units, based on places with previous status, coexisted with other, smaller, political units, primarily castros and monasteries. This typology seems to have survived in later political structures: an analysis of the alfoces of the tenth and eleventh centuries confirms that we are looking at the territorial development of castros, closely linked to communal relationships. 167 Many alfoces documented in this period in fact had fortified centres, 168 often evolving out of primitive castros. This has been characterized by some as a pattern generated in the Iron Age, although with clear modifications. 169 Other scholars see it as the evolution of Roman or Visigothic models, with strong ties to the central political apparatus. 170 It is most helpful, however, to see this pattern as a set of local political units, smaller than those that gave rise to counties and subordinate to them, but which had a capacity for self-regulation that met the needs of their communities. Their origin may be deduced from the pre-Romance toponyms that the majority bear, and they continued to be the principal units of control in Castile until the twelfth century. 166

167

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169 170

There are important parallels with the formation of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms; see S. Bassett (ed.), The Origins of Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms (Leicester, 1986); and S. Keynes, ‘England, 700 – 900’, in R. McKitterick (ed.), New Cambridge Medieval History, II, c.700 –c.900 (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 18–42. The mechanism is also similar to ‘peer polity interaction’, which allows change to take place within states, although the theory does not adequately explain the social forces which upheld such changes. C. Renfrew, ‘Introduction: Peer Polity Interaction and Socio-Political Change’, in C. Renfrew and J.F. Cherry (eds), Peer Polity Interaction and Socio-Political Change (Cambridge, 1986), pp. 1–18. J. Escalona Monge, ‘Poblamiento y organización territorial en el sector oriental de la cuenca del Duero en la Alta Edad Media’, in III Congreso de Arqueología Medieval Española (Oviedo, 1989), II, 448–55; and idem, ‘Algunos problemas’; J.Á. García de Cortázar and E. Peña Bocos, ‘De alfoces, aldeas y solares en la Castilla de los siglos IX a XI: una formalización – feudal – del espacio?’, in Miscel·lània en homenatge al P. Agustí Altissent (Tarragona, 1991), pp. 183– 202; I. Martín Viso, ‘Poblamiento y sociedad en la transición al feudalismo en Castilla: castros y aldeas en la Lora burgalesa’, Studia Historica. Historia Medieval 13 (1995), pp. 3–45. However, territorialization did not necessarily demand the presence of castros, even if it is certain that most territories had them. See C. Estepa, ‘El alfoz castellano en los siglos IX al XII’, En la España Medieval, IV. Estudios dedicados al profesor D. Ángel Ferrari Núñez (Madrid, 1984), II, 305–41; I. Álvarez Borge, Monarquía feudal y organización territorial. Alfoces y merindades en Castilla (siglos X–XIV) (Madrid, 1993). The existence of these fortified centres is made clear by Pastor Díaz de Garayo, Castilla en el tránsito, p. 20 ff. Escalona Monge, ‘Algunos problemas’; Martín Viso, Poblamiento y estructuras sociales. Pastor Díaz de Garayo, Castilla en el tránsito.

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The reorientation of central power from the localities: the example of Castile The internal society of the castros was multifaceted, but their incorporation into the county of Castile implies a link with central power. This was structured in various ways, reflecting the heterogeneity of the local conditions. Whilst in some places control by a landowner was established, in others collective rights remained dominant. One has also to appreciate that it was in these latter units that local ruling groups developed, as in the case of the infanzones of Espeja.171 Thus, comital power was filtered through the concrete power relations of each castro, which modified the actions of the central political system. With regard to military organization, it is probable, as the fuero of Castrojeriz implies, that these centres were responsible for military levies, which varied from one area to another and were, once again, controlled by local ruling groups.172 Tribute would have been different for each territory too, reflecting earlier patterns. The acquisition of resources was also affected by the unequal composition of the comital patrimony, much more abundant in the central parts of their dominions (especially the counties between the Arlanzón and the Arlanza), but less in the parts added to this central area.173 One can see, all the same, a general development in Castile, the substitution of rent for tribute. The weakness or disappearance of central power after 711 entailed an alteration in the gathering of tribute, with the retention of the part that was collected and managed by the local aristocracies and justified by specific needs of their communities, such as military operations. The formation of the new political power structure in the tenth century did not centralize all tribute, but left some of it to magnates and local elites; the latter turned tribute into rent, as was appropriate to the new social situation, where social differentiation of a feudal or feudalizing nature had emerged, protected by 171

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A. Ubieto Arteta, Cartulario de San Juan de la Peña (Valencia, 1962), doc. 54 (h. 1017). For Álvarez Borge, Monarquía feudal, pp. 20 –4, this is an example of the count of Castile’s recognition of the power of an emerging local aristocracy. Pastor Díaz de Garayo, Castilla en el tránsito, pp. 147–54 argues for the supposed fiscal origins of the counts’ holdings. The fuero of Castrojeriz, dated 974, recognizes the social and political role of the local aristocratic groups; G. Martínez Díez, Fueros locales en el territorio de la provincia de Burgos (Burgos, 1982), doc. I and I. Álvarez Borge, Poder y relaciones sociales en Castilla en la Edad Media. Los territorios entre el Arlanzón y el Duero en los siglos X al XIV (Salamanca, 1996), pp. 34 –6. J. Escalona Monge, ‘Las prestaciones de servicios militares en fortalezas y la organización de la sociedad feudal castellana: los infanzones de Espeja’, Castillos de España 94 (1987), pp. 55– 60. On the typology of military service, see E. Peña Bocos, La atribución social del espacio en la Castilla altomedieval. Una nueva aproximación al feudalismo peninsular (Santander, 1995), pp. 185–200. In the area where the comital family originated, the central political apparatus had land and relatively extensive rights, based on local units called alfoces. I. Álvarez Borge, Monarquía feudal, pp. 17–54.

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an ever-growing aristocratic landed patrimony. In the exercise of justice, comital tribunals seem to have acted only in particular cases, especially those involving monasteries with close ties to central power. It was normally persons of some local prominence who undertook this task, but some places were covered by immunities, such as those of the potestates of a number of places in Lantarón.174 These were vestiges of local organization that the new central power had to accept. The panorama we have surveyed was not a centrally designed power structure. The castros had functioned as local units of power during the eighth and ninth centuries, based on an earlier model. The new Castilian polity recognized their existence and, rather than destroying them, simply sought the recognition of its superiority and the handing over of resources, especially in the form of tribute. The other major point of reference was the monasteries, which feature in all the Castilian documentation of the ninth and tenth centuries. These monasteries reached a zenith in this period, helped by the destruction of most of the framework of episcopal organization. The bishopric of Oca would not appear again in the sources until the tenth century. Nevertheless, that of Osma probably survived the preceding period, in spite of the theory that the latter was moved to Valpuesta. The formation of Castilian power did not entail the construction of a network of dioceses subject to central power. The see of Oca certainly re-emerged at this period, and was later moved to Burgos and subordinated to the counts of Castile, at least until 1037. However, other foci of episcopal organization survived as well, some of which, such as Valpuesta, were not linked to the count of Castile, but perhaps to the count of Lanzarón, and remained at the margin of the power of the former during the tenth century. Valpuesta was also the site of a monastery, which likewise suggests the formation of a new centre. Conversely, it is possible that in the tenth century Osma lost its bishop, who had previously been at the head of that political unit. Perhaps the ‘repopulation’ of 910 marked the end of the latter as a political force, maintaining episcopal tradition but without a bishop. 175 The weakness of the distribution of sees is an indication of the difficulty we have if we seek to visualize the county of Castile as a strong and consolidated political unit. On the contrary, the counts were forced to resort to the foundation of monasteries or the control of the

174

175

Ubieto Arteta, Cartulario de San Millán, docs 67, 144, 145. On justice in this period for the León region, we can accept the conclusions of J.Mª. Mínguez, ‘Justicia y poder en el marco de la feudalización de la sociedad leonesa’, in La giustizia nell’alto medioevo (secoli IX–XI). XLIV Settimane di Studio del Centro Italiano di studi sull’alto medioevo 1 (Spoleto, 1997), pp. 491–546. Martín Viso, ‘Organización episcopal’, p. 169.

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latter via patronage in order to create new foci of local power tied to their own.176 This was the case at San Pedro de Cardeña, San Pedro de Arlanza, Covarrubias and San Salvador de Oña. The policy was an adaptation to the fact that monasticism was locally very strong. Numerous small monasteries covered Castilian territory, organizing and colonizing local territories.177 Their origin may have been in peasant communities, but, by the time they were recorded, they were normally under the control of single named individuals. Control of these small monasteries by the count of Castile may have been signs of former communal control. On the other hand, others emerged as a result of an initiative of a local aristocrat, who sought to generate a focus of patrimonial and social control over a given area. This situation was more common in the central, more developed, zones. In any case, these monasteries were certainly centres of local power, from which a policy of appropriation of the landscape, in the form of presuras, could be organized. Their large number and sudden appearance in the sources after 900 indicate their importance in the eighth and ninth centuries, an importance which is newly visible in the tenth century, when they had come under aristocratic domination and had become political elements in the hands of these leading groups. Analyses of monastic buildings suggests in some cases continuity with earlier religious foci. Some were built over Roman constructions, perhaps villas, in a process that began in late antiquity.178 The remains of other monasteries can be dated to the Visigothic period, or to the eighth and ninth centuries. 179 In the tenth century, these monasteries experienced their greatest expansion, and it is at this period that we can see patrimonial control being added to religious dominion. They were also significant organizational centres for village communities. The monasteries received immunities, especially from the counts, which suggests that the latter had to adapt to the reality of local situations in order to make their control effective. Thus the monastic establishments also acted as a filter of comital powers. 176 177

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Álvarez Borge, Monarquía feudal, p. 26. The documents for the foundation of Santos Emeterio and Celedonio de Taranco, and Santa María de Valpuesta, are problematic. They are dated 800 and 804 respectively, but they are made up of a set of different texts written much later. This does not totally invalidate the information given, only the chronology and details. The role assigned to the presuras is striking. Ubieto Arteta, Cartulario de San Millán, doc. 2 and Mª.D. Pérez Soler, Cartulario de Valpuesta (Valencia, 1970), doc. 1. See A. Azkarate Garai-Olaun, ‘Aportaciones al debate sobre la arquitectura prerrománica peninsular: la iglesia de San Román de Tobillas (Álava)’, Archivo Español de Arqueología 68 (1995), pp. 189 –214. This is true of San Juan de la Hoz de Cillaperlata and of the monastery of Valeránica in Berlanga del Duero, and, above all, of Quintanilla de las Viñas, a Visigothic building that survived throughout the early Middle Ages.

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Conclusion This review of the concrete processes of political articulation in the north and centre of the Iberian Peninsula throws up many questions and a few answers, and allows us new avenues of investigation. Political power is always a dynamic phenomenon, not an abstract or monolithic entity. This dynamism was expressed through the dialogue that power established with the local scene, which allowed for both opportunities and limitations. There is no doubt of the importance of the relationship between local powers and the central political apparatus. It generated various channels of communication, which were very diverse, as much in the mechanisms employed (bishops, castros, monasteries, civitates) as in the typology of the links established (resistance, peaceful integration, forced integration). The collaboration of local ruling groups enabled the central apparatus to survive, but also imposed and defined limits, and provided, within the dynamic that characterizes the dialogue between the two sides, possible transformations, as well as breakdown. It is thus important to note the presence of central zones, which created complex political structures, and peripheral zones, normally resistant to the development of those structures. This disparity of basic social conditions resulted in the non-uniformity of central power, with the expression of central authority being profoundly affected by the local context, even if local restraints on central power are not always successful. The heterogeneity seen in specific local areas thus invalidates the monolithic impression the sources seem to convey. This impression comes from the elites most closely linked to central power, who sometimes managed to obscure real social diversity in favour of a monolithic, public image of power, based on Roman traditions. A diachronic survey, extending from the sixth to the tenth centuries, reveals the complicated play of continuities, transformations and ruptures in the channels of dialogue between central and local, in which all the protagonists were involved. But to pose this period as one of either continuity or rupture would be to create an artificial problem, since a continuity of the basic elements of central–local relationships (castros, monasteries, dioceses, civitates) coexisted with a transformation, moving towards feudalism, which in the end encompassed all other social changes. There was neither violent rupture, nor a nebulous continuity, but a complicated intertwining which, like Ariadne’s thread, serves us, once it has been disentangled, to comprehend better the articulation of political power in the north and centre of the Iberian Peninsula. University of León University of Salamanca Early Medieval Europe   ()

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Folcwin of Rankweil: the world of a Carolingian local official K  B 

This article examines charters from the St Gall archive which are valuable for the light they throw on the secular society of the settlement of Rankweil in Rhaetia and the surrounding area. The centrepiece is the rare collection of early ninth-century grants and sales made to the centenarius Folcwin and the article uses these and other related documents to examine the workings of Carolingian local society, the activities of local officials, and the patterns of landholding and transfer amongst secular individuals of relatively modest standing. In the eastern half of the Carolingian realm, early in the ninth century, there lived a man called Folcwin. His home was in the district of Rhaetia, which lay within the greater territory of Alemannia. His family, background, and the dates of his birth and death will always be unknown. What we do possess, however, is a rare collection of documents spread over a period of a decade detailing the making over of property to Folcwin by his neighbours. Through these documents we may catch glimpses of the activities of a man of some importance within his local community – for one thing that we do learn about Folcwin is that he was a local official, a scultaizus. Through the charters also we can discover something about the society within which Folcwin lived and acted, about the people who had dealings with him and the property they owned. The particular value of Folcwin’s archive is that it not only allows us to study one individual in the process of building up an estate, but also to make some study of a community as it appears in a number of documents over a relatively short period of time. If they do not yield information about Folcwin as an individual, or about the nature of his duties as a local official, they may nevertheless throw light upon the *

I would like to thank Chris Wickham, Katy Cubitt, Helena Carr and the anonymous EME readers for commenting on an earlier draft of this article.

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relations between a local official and his neighbours, and about the world in which he lived and acted. From these, and from other charters from the same area preserved in the St Gall archive, we learn something of life and landholding in local society. The men – and a few women – who appear in these charters are, for the most part, strictly local figures of very moderate social standing. The charters are remarkably free of aristocratic individuals or ecclesiastical institutions. This is secular society in action at a local and relatively lowly level, something which can seldom be seen at this period. Studies of local societies tend to be, of necessity, dominated by their dealings with the church, meaning that this look at a local society seen largely through secular documents is therefore rare and valuable. It may also provide grounds for looking beyond the particular society in which Folcwin himself lived and acted and examining how the conclusions that emerge from these documents fit with, and perhaps even influence, our knowledge about the workings of local society in general, and in particular of local officialdom, within the Carolingian world. Folcwin’s world may be seen as a vignette of how Carolingian society worked on the level of smallscale landowners and lesser officials. Twenty-six of Folcwin’s charters, in what are either their original forms or very early copies, have survived within the archives of the monastery of St Gall,1 whilst fragments of one other, possibly a St Gall stray, became part of the binding of a fifteenth-century codex at Zürich.2 How these purely secular documents came to be preserved in a monastic archive is not known. It is all the more puzzling because, although it was only some twenty-five kilometres north-west of Rankweil, the monastery does not seem to have owned much property there in the ninth century. As far as they can be dated (not all have dating clauses) the first of these documents dates from 817 and the latest from 1

2

The early charters of the monastery of St Gall are edited and printed in Urkundenbuch der Abtei St Gallen, ed. H. Wartmann, vol. 1, 700 –840, vol. 2 840 –920 (Zürich, 1883 –86). I follow usual practice in listing the charters by their Wartmann (W) number. Charters appearing in Wartmann’s Appendix A are listed as W A followed by the appendix number. Revisions to some of Wartmann’s dates and places of redaction have been made by Michael Borgolte and are to be found in ‘Chronologische Studien zu den alemannischen Urkunden des Stiftsarchivs St Gallen’, Archiv für Diplomatik 24 (1978), pp. 54–202; and ‘Kommentur zu Ausstellungsdaten, Actum- und Güterorten der ältern St. Gallen Urkunden’, in M. Borgolte, D. Geuenich and K. Schmid, Subsidia Sangallensia I, Materialien und Untersuchungen zu den Verbrüderungsbüchern und zu den ältern Urkunden des Stiftsarchivs St Gallen (St Gall, 1986), pp. 323–476. The charter fragments are contained in Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, Ms. C 35, and are reproduced along with other early St Gall charters in Chartae Latinae Antiquiores: Facsimile Edition of the Latin Charters prior to the Ninth Century. Part II: Switzerland: St. Gall – Zürich, ed. A. Bruckner and R. Marichal (Zürich, Olten and Lausanne, 1956), no. 178, p. 134. The charter was drawn up by the scribe Andreas and concerns a grant of land at Schlins by Estradarius and (probably) Solvanus.

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828.3 Just over half of the Folcwin documents were ratified at a township now known as Rankweil, although in his day its name was Vinomna, which is on the east side of the Rhine (see Fig. 1). It is on the opposite river bank from the monastery of St Gall, and is also separated from it by the mountain range known as the Alpstein, which is on the Rhine’s west bank. Of the documents not ratified at Rankweil nine were ratified at the nearby township of Schlins, one each at the settlements of Nüziders and Bürs, also nearby, and one at an unnamed site. Folcwin, then, was probably based in Rankweil but had interests in the surrounding area, particularly in Schlins, which is some eight kilometres south-east of Rankweil. The land around Rankweil is mountainous, and this is reflected in the documents, which include occasional references to mountains and to terraced strips of land, revealing the steepness of the ground. The district would have been dominated by the mountains, and by the River Rhine, which flowed some eight kilometres west of Rankweil and further from the other sites mentioned in the Folcwin charters. All of these places lie within Rhaetia, which formed a distinctive territory within Alemannia. Rhaetia retained more Roman influence than the rest of Alemannia, its inhabitants lived under Roman law and the Folcwin documents themselves testify to the large numbers of Roman names in the area. The centre of Rhaetia was at Chur, the site of a major bishopric, well to the south of Rankweil and separated by another range of high ground. Even within Rhaetia, then, the Rankweil area is physically separate. The bare record of the land transactions reveals practically nothing about Folcwin himself. None of the documents mention any relatives and no conclusions can be drawn about his background. He bears a Germanic name at a time and in a region where most names are Roman; this may or may not be significant. From one of his charters we do learn that Folcwin held the position of scultaizus,4 a term used interchangeably with that of centenarius. Centenarii are somewhat elusive figures: it is known that they were local officials, and that they had a connection with a local territorial district, the centena, or hundred, an area that normally included several settlements. 5 In the later medieval 3

4

5

The Folcwin charters are: W 224, W 235, W 243, W 247, W 248, W 250, W 253, W 254, W 255, W 256, W 258, W 259, W 260, W 261, W 262, W 264, W 265, W 266, W 267, W 270, W 289, W 290, W 293, W A4, W A5, W A6. W 224. Scultaizus was the usual form in Alemannia of a word that is elsewhere written scultetus and survives in modern German as Schultheiss. See H. Dannenbauer, ‘Hundertschaft, Centena und Huntari’, Historisches Jahrbuch 62–9 (1949), pp. 155–219 and H.-J. Krug, ‘Untersuchungen zum Amt des “centenarius” – Schultheiss’, part 1, Zeitschrift der Savigny-Stiftung für Rechtsgeschicte 87 (1970), pp. 1–31, part 2, no. 88 (1971), pp. 29–109 for discussions on the role of centenarii and also the identity of the term scultaizus with that of centenarius.

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Fig. 1 Rankweil and related settlements. Early Medieval Europe   ()

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period the hundred was a basic administrative unit, but it is not certain how formalized the system was at this date. 6 Centenarii were certainly subordinate to the local counts; and in theory were selected by them with the consent of the leading men of the district. They were intended to act as counts’ deputies on a local level, and therefore have a hand in all aspects of local administration. How this worked out in practice is not easy to determine. Carolingian legislation implies that the role of the centenarius included policing duties, the mustering of troops and fiscal responsibilities; also participation in court cases, although at this date they were not supposed to preside over cases that involved capital offences, personal liberty or landownership. In practice the roles of individual centenarii may have been more fluid and varied, dependent on local standing and tradition.7 On the face of it, Folcwin’s own charters do not show him in an official role; a single, passing allusion is the only direct reference to his rank. Nonetheless we might expect his office to find some reflection in the land transactions he engaged in; and therefore it is probable that an analysis of the documents will tell us something about the position and role of the Rankweil scultaizus. Other records from the period do not add much to our knowledge of Folcwin as an individual. The St Gall archive contains only two other documents that might possibly include a mention of Folcwin of Rankweil. They are charters from Grabs, a settlement opposite Rankweil on the other side of the river Rhine, but the same side of the Alpstein.8 In the earlier of the two, dating from 847, the first name on the list is ‘Folcarin’ and another man named Folcarin appears in third place. In the later charter, dated about 858, the name Folcarin appears again, but well down the list and, therefore, more likely to belong to the second Folcarin of 847, who may perhaps have been a son of the first Folcarin. First place in a local witness list would fit well with Folcwin’s status as centenarius, and it is quite plausible that he should have acted as a witness in Grabs, which was reasonably close to Rankweil and can be linked to Rankweil society by witness names. Nevertheless the identification cannot be relied on. There is, however, a strong possibility Folcwin of Rankweil is the Folhwin laicus who is named in the St Gall necrology;9 and it is highly probable that he is the Folcwin centenarius who appears in the confraternity book of the monastery of Reichenau, a major establishment situated on a island in Lake 6

7 8 9

M. Innes, State and Society in the Early Middle Ages: The Middle Rhine Valley 400–1000 (Cambridge, 2000), pp. 126 –7. Innes, State and Society, pp. 127–9. W 401 and W 458. ‘St Galler Totenbuch und Verbrüderungen’, ed. E. Dümmler and H. Wartmann, Mitteilungen zur Vaterländische Geschichte 11 (St Gall, 1869), pp. 25–124, 25 November.

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Constance, north-west of St Gall.10 If these identifications are right, then Folcwin had links with the two most important monasteries in the area he lived in. What the nature of these links were there is no means of knowing, nor does the reference in the St Gall necrology take us any closer to knowing how the Folcwin documents got into the St Gall archive. The simplest explanation would be that Folcwin had given his land to the monastery, however the extensive charter collection contains no record of such a gift. The Folcwin collection of documents is unique in the St Gall archive, but does not exist entirely in isolation. St Gall did preserve eighteen other documents from Rankweil and the surrounding area and twelve of these also concern individuals, not ecclesiastical institutions. It is a curious fact that not only do the majority of the documents from the area surrounding Rankweil concern transactions between secular individuals, with no apparent connection to St Gall, but that the Rankweil area charters comprise the vast majority of purely secular, nonroyal documents in the St Gall archive. To judge from surviving charters the monastery did not receive many donations from this area in the ninth century, yet at some time a whole collection of secular documents from the area were included in the archive. Apart from their geographic closeness there is no obvious unifying factor that applies to those documents from the Rankweil area that are not part of the Folcwin collection. They may perhaps have been preserved in some local archive and transferred to St Gall when the monastery later acquired property in the area, but this is pure speculation. The charters of the Folcwin collection record grants or sales of small amounts of property, most typically a single field, by people who appear to have been his neighbours. They, and most of the other charters from the Rankweil area, tend to be short, spare documents giving a bare minimum of information. Grants were most often made to, and received by, individuals. However, it was also reasonably common for small groups of people, usually but not always stated to be close relatives, to act together. Other than their names, and occasionally a territorial designation, virtually no information is given about the people who appear in the documents. These transactions do not tend to concern large amounts of land; most often the grant is of a single field. The document frequently includes the names of the people who own bordering territories; however there are no detailed descriptions of the land or elaborate boundary clauses. We do, however, learn a little about the settlements at which these documents were drawn up. Rankweil was 10

Libri confraternitatum Sancti Galli, Augiensis, Fabariensis, ed. P. Piper, MGH Necrologia Germania VI (Hannover, 1884), p. 264.

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a vicus, or township, as was Schlins; and both possessed a fundus, a surrounding territory.11 Nüziders and Bürs, not known to have been described in these terms, were probably lesser settlements. One of the first questions which arises in connection with the Folcwin documents is why the transactions were made in the first place. It is all the more intriguing because only nine of the documents mention a monetary return, in the others the land appears to have been given rather than sold. Why did so many people make gifts of land to this local official? One possibility is that the ‘gifts’ were in fact what James Campbell described as concealed sales, 12 and that there were returns being made. It is therefore interesting to note that all the payments mentioned are in cash, so perhaps there might have been a tradition of not mentioning payments in kind. However, the archive includes a document in which a man named Latinus sells one field to Folcwin and gives another.13 Unless this was mere carelessness of wording, it seems that some of the gifts were indeed gifts and not sales. It is also possible is that the ‘gifts’ were in fact part of exchanges of property and that there were counter gifts made by Folcwin, records of which have not survived,14 or even that they were part of a process of dispute settlement.15 Another, and especially interesting, possibility is that the gifts were made in return for services, either already given by or expected from Folcwin, perhaps in his capacity as scultaizus. As scultaizus Folcwin would be the major local representative of official government authority. Despite the uncertainty over the exact nature of such an official’s authority, there can be no doubt his position would have carried with

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For example Rankweil is named as vicus in W 290 and the fundus is named in W 224. Schlins is a vicus in Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, Ms. C 35 and the fundus is named in W A6. In this article references to the Rankweil district mean the immediate vicinity of the township, and references to the Rankweil area are to a larger territory, including Schlins and other settlements which can be linked to Rankweil through witness lists. J. Campbell, ‘The Sale of Land and the Economics of Power in Early England: Problems and Possibilities’, in J. Campbell, The Anglo-Saxon State (London and New York, 2000) pp. 229– 30. See also F. de Fonette, Recherches sur la pratique de la vente immobilière dans la région parisienne au moyen âge (Paris, 1957), pp. 15 –20. W 255 dating from 820. Wickham found such exchanges of property frequent in the Italian area of the Casentino in the eleventh century (although sales were common there also) and suggested that they were aimed at cementing social ties rather than being made for economic reasons. C.J. Wickham, The Mountains and the City: The Tuscan Appennines in the Early Middle Ages (Oxford, 1988), pp. 214 –15. Warren Brown found in his study of Carolingian Bavarian society that gifts could be made for this reason. However, Brown’s evidence related almost entirely to ecclesiastical records; that a lay person would be involved in so many disputes seems unlikely. W. Brown, Unjust Seizure: Conflict, Interest and Authority in an Early Medieval Society, (Ithaca and London, 2001), pp. 126 –39.

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it a fair degree of power, and his neighbours might therefore have found it useful to secure his good graces with property grants. Frankish capitularies contain repeated cautions about local officials who misused their powers.16 This could include both straightforward bribery and exploitation of the vulnerable. Evidently this was an ongoing problem, and the possibility is raised that Folcwin was just such a corrupt official, and the charters are evidence of his corruption. However, without more information about the circumstances in which the grants were made this must remain speculation; moreover, as will be seen below, such an explanation would most probably be too simplistic an interpretation of Folcwin’s relations with his neighbours. A combination of these factors could have been involved: not all the grants need have been made for the same reason and some may have been made for more than one reason. As will be seen, there is no evidence that the people who gave land to Folcwin came from any single section of local society, a point which may favour there having been a variety of motives for the transactions. Although most of the grants are, as already mentioned, small, Folcwin must have built himself up a sizeable estate, mostly at Rankweil and neighbouring Schlins. Sometimes the document states that the land given borders land already held by Folcwin himself, but more often the neighbouring property is owned by others. Folcwin’s holdings must, therefore, have been fairly scattered. We cannot be certain as to whether or not he was typical of the local landowners in this respect, but there are some indications that he was. A later Rankweil charter, dating from 844, records the grant by a couple named Joabo and Andustria of their land at Rankweil to St Gall.17 This is our only glimpse of a complete Rankweil estate, for the property is detailed by individual fields. Joabo and Andustria owned five fields in all, at five separate locations and with different owners of neighbouring property cited at each. In one case the owner of the adjoining property was St Gall: this is the earliest evidence that St Gall held land at Rankweil. The complete absence of St Gall from the boundary clauses of the Folcwin archive, as well as any earlier grants of land at Rankweil or Schlins to St Gall, may mean that the monastery had only recently begun to acquire land in the area. The documents quite often give a named location as the site of the property; these are sometimes references to particular landmarks or areas of land, and sometimes words of obscure meaning that may be local place names. Occasionally such sites are described as part of a larger district; for example, Spinacula was in Rankweil fundus, Isola in 16

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F.L. Ganshof, Frankish Institutions under Charlemagne, trans. B. Lyon and M. Lyon (Providence, 1968). W 391.

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Schlins fundus.18 Sometimes there is a further geographical reference, ‘subtus Riva’, ‘supre [sic] via’.19 Road names such as Via Barbaresca 20 feature quite often; probably roads were the most common and readily identifiable landmarks, although mountains (alpes) are also mentioned.21 Bergune is the location name most often given, perhaps because it was a particularly large site; it certainly gave its name to a road, Via Bergunasca,22 and to what was apparently a subordinate site called Cajolas Bergunas,23 which may have been a settlement too small to be used as a place of charter redaction. That some of the people in the charters owned land at more than one of these places supports the theory that landholdings were typically scattered. For example, a woman called Leuta gave Folcwin one field at Vedece and one at Fascias (a word for a terraced strip of arable), in both cases one of the owners of adjoining property was a man called Aloinus who also owned land at Isola.24 Majo, another donor who sold Folcwin some land at Bergune, is known from a boundary clause to have owned land at Postes also; and Starculf, who did not give to Folcwin, is named in boundary clauses at both Praadurene and Spinacula.25 Even individual fields could be divided, as was the case when Donatus gave three-quarters of a field at Frugala to Folcwin and one-quarter to Sulvanus and his brothers. 26 The documents also demonstrate that landholding in Rankweil was by no means static. The amount of land transactions Folcwin was concerned in may well have been unusual; nevertheless, land transactions in Rankweil must have happened fairly frequently, and Folcwin’s archive testifies to a flourishing custom of land transfer. Scanty though the information contained in them is, the charters allow glimpses of the society to which Folcwin belonged and the people who were his neighbours, glimpses which allow some deductions about the local community to be made. In addition to the donors (and sometimes close relatives who gave consent) there are three other categories of people who appear in the documents: landowners whose property borders that in the document; witnesses; and scribes. Of course some of these categories overlap. For example Aloinus is the donor in three charters, two grants and a sale, as well as appearing several times in

18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25 26

W 256, W A5. W 270, W A5. W 253, W 391. For example the property in W 173 and W 174 is between two alpes called Suniu and Caviu. W 293. W 254. Leuta W 258; Aloinus W 247, W A5. Majo W 235, W 262; Starculf W 250, W 256. W 264.

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boundary clauses and witness lists.27 Although he is once described as ‘of Nüziders’ his three transactions are all of land at Schlins, and it is there that he appears as a property holder in other documents. Aloinus comes across as a relatively substantial landowner in the small community, and a person of some importance. On the other hand some of those mentioned may make only a single appearance, whether as donor, boundary landowner or witness. Nonetheless most, although not all, of the male donors in the Folcwin documents do appear in the witness lists and several of the donors, including a woman named Bona, are recorded in the boundary clauses. 28 Lubucio, one of the men who made a grant to Folcwin, was a priest; and another of the donors, Estradarius, regularly headed Schlins witness lists, sometimes with the title of prepositus.29 There seems a case for thinking that many of the people who gave land to Folcwin were of at least moderate social status within the local community. That is significant, as it shows that not all of the people who made gifts to Folcwin were vulnerable individuals looking for protection from an official. Some may have fallen into this category, but other cases seem more likely to have been intended to confirm good relations amongst people of relatively equal standing. Not that all people who were of some standing in the community gave land to Folcwin. For example Onoratus, who was another regular witness leader, is not recorded as giving land to Folcwin; nor is Sejanus, who to judge from his appearances in boundary clauses and witness lists was quite a prominent figure at both Rankweil and Schlins.30 The witness lists in the Folcwin archive provide a useful opportunity for studying men who appear as regular witness leaders. Rolf Sprandel in his study of the St Gall documents drew attention to the existence in Alemannia of men who regularly acted as leaders when witnessing the charters of a particular area, and who, at least in some cases, bore what looks like a formal title – prepositus, suggesting they had some kind of official standing within the community. 31 Two of these men are identifiable in the Folcwin charters. Estradarius regularly witnessed charters at Schlins and is styled prepositus several times. He also witnessed the two documents from Nüziders and Bürs (which may possibly have lain 27

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Aloinus’s grants are W 247, W 266 and W A4. He appears in boundary clauses in W 258 and W A5 and witnesses W 258, W 261, W 270, W A5 and W A6. Bona is a donor in W 253 and appears in a boundary clause in W 264. W 243; Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, Ms. CA 35. Sejanus appears in the boundary clauses of W 253, W 258 and W 259; and the witness lists of W 235, W 253, W 260, W 262 and W 289. R. Sprandel, Das Kloster Sankt Gallen in der Verfassung des karolingischen Reiches, Forschungen zur Oberrheinischen Landesgeschichte 7 (Freiburg, 1958), pp. 110 –27.

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within the fundus of Schlins) and appeared once as a witness leader at Rankweil itself.32 However, most of the charters drawn up at Rankweil have their witness lists headed by a man named Onoratus, who is described as prepositus once.33 Since Onoratus never appears at Schlins and Estradarius appears only once at Rankweil (on a list in which Onoratus does not feature) the activities of witness leaders in the Rankweil area would appear to have been extremely local, perhaps confined as a general rule to a single vicus and its fundus. This is striking, because the Rankweil area prepositi appear to differ from others identified and discussed by Sprandel, whose activities often extended over a much larger area, and also from similar witness leaders whose activities have been traced in the middle Rhine region north of St Gall.34 Whereas witness leaders in other places were often men of relatively high, even noble, status; in the Rankweil area they appear to have been minor, local figures. Another argument put forward by Sprandel, that prepositus was actually a synonym for centenarius, certainly does not appear to fit the Rankweil documents. Folcwin, described as scultaizus in W 224, was fairly certainly the centenarius for the Rankweil centena, but Onoratus, the regular Rankweil witness leader, is specifically named as prepositus in W 253.35 There does, however, remain the possibility that the system was not wholly formalized in this period, and there might, perhaps, have been more than one centenarius present at Rankweil. The presence of the prepositi in the Folcwin charters is extremely consistent. Only two Schlins documents are not headed by Estradarius: the witness leader in both of these is a man named Rafald. 36 The only Rankweil documents not headed by Onoratus 37 are: W 224, headed by Estradarius; W 256 (probably a scribal error 38 ); W 290 (possibly a scribal 32

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The charters which name Estradarius as prepositus are W 247 (Nüziders), W 248 (Bürs), W 261, W A4, W A5, W A6. The other charters in which he appears as witness leader are W 224 (Rankweil), W 265, W 266 and W 270. Onoratus is named as prepositus in W 253. The other charters in which he appears as witness leader are W 235, W 250, W 254, W 255, W 259, W 264, W 289 and W 293. Sprandel, Das Kloster Sankt Gallen, pp. 110 –27. F. Staab, Untersuchungen zur Gesellschaft am Mittelrhein in der Karolingerzeit (Wiebach, 1975), pp. 427–31. Sprandel, Das Kloster Sankt Gallen, pp. 110–27. Sprandel’s theory was adopted by Staab in his study of the middle Rhine witness leaders (Untersuchungen zur Gesellschaft, pp. 427–31). W 258, W 260. Rafald also witnesses behind Estradarius in second place in W A5 and in third place in W A6 behind a certain Victor, who appears behind Rafald on other lists. Most of the witness list of the fragmentary charter Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, Ms. C 35 is missing; this is a pity as Estradarius was one of the donors and it would be interesting to see who witnessed his donation. Apart from W 235, which is a clear case of scribal error with Onoratus written in above the regularly written first name, Stephanus. Another charter, W 267, is damaged with both the witness list and the place of redaction missing. W 254 and W 255, which were both drawn up at the same meeting as W 256, list Onoratus first followed by Lubus, who is first in W 256, a list in which Onoratus does not appear.

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error 39); and W 262. The last of these lists a certain Flavinus first, followed by Onoratus; perhaps this was again a scribal error, but Flavinus, who does not appear in any other witness list, could conceivably have been a man of higher rank than Onoratus, possibly a temporary visitor to Rankweil or else a prominent local who witnessed only rarely. It is a surprising fact that neither Onoratus nor Estradarius appear in boundary clauses. Possible explanations of this could be that their holdings were more compact than most, and therefore less likely to appear, or that prepositi did not necessarily need to be substantial property owners. In the latter case there would have had to be some other reason for selecting them, such as seniority within the community. In this they might resemble the Breton peasant judges and ‘impartial witnesses’ who were found by Wendy Davies to be invariably landowners but not necessarily from the uppermost strata of society. 40 Estradarius certainly did own some property as he made a donation of land to Folcwin with a man probably named Solvanus, most likely the same one who shared the grant of a field with his brothers and Folcwin. 41 Other men prominent in the witness lists who did not give to Folcwin and do not appear in boundary clauses include Stephanus, the most prolific witnesser who appears in eleven charters, and Lubus who regularly, although not invariably, appears in second place behind Onoratus on the Rankweil documents.42 However Rafald, who headed the two Schlins documents not witnessed by Estradarius, did make a grant to Folcwin and appears in the boundary clause of another document. 43 This seems to confirm that men who played a prominent role in local affairs might not be important landowners, and also that some, but not all, of these individuals participated in land transactions with the scultaizus Folcwin. A little can be deduced from the charters about another aspect of local administration, the public meetings at which charters were drawn up.44 If all the charters were redacted at public meetings these must have been relatively frequent. Three Rankweil meetings are attested within the space of a month in 820, on 7 May, 15 May and 5 June; if 39

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Onoratus is listed first in W 289, drawn up at the same meeting; however W 290 (which does not include Onoratus) does have a different scribe and several different witnesses. W. Davies, Small Worlds: The Village Community in Early Medieval Brittany (London, 1988), pp. 155–6. Grant of land by Estradarius and Solvanus, Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, Ms. CA 35. Solvanus’s name is damaged in the text and reconstructed by Bruckner and Marichal, (Chartae Latinae Antiquiores, p. 134). Grant to Folcwin, Sulvanus and Sulvanus’s brothers, W 264. Stephanus witnesses W 235, W 243, W 250, W 253, W 254, W 255, W 256, W 259, W 264, W 289 and W 290. Lubus witnesses second on W 250, W 253, W 254, W 255 and W 264, first on W 256 and fourth on W 243. W 270, W A5. For theories on the meetings at which charters were redacted see Sprandel, Das Kloster Sankt Gallen, pp. 87–8; Borgolte, ‘Chronologische Studien’, pp. 92–134; R. McKitterick, The Carolingians and the Written Word (Cambridge, 1989), pp. 94–115.

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this was at all typical then such local meetings were regular events. 45 There is always the possibility that meetings might be called specifically in order to witness a land transaction, but even so the apparent frequency of the meetings is striking. The archive also includes two documents both written by the scribe Andreas and with the witness list headed by Estradarius, both dated 28 March 820, but one apparently drawn up at Nüziders, which lies about eight kilometres from Schlins, and the other at Bürs, three kilometres from Nüziders. 46 It looks as though at least some of those concerned made the three kilometre journey from one site to the other – another indication that local business was plentiful. It is also possible to learn a little about another important feature of local society: the religious establishment. The charters record two priests who owned land at Rankweil, Johannes and Lubucio, whilst another, Saro, appears at Schlins. Lubucio was the son of a man called Dominicus who consented to his grant, and so was presumably local in origin.47 In addition there were the priests Andreas and Drucio, who wrote documents, and the deacon Valerius and ‘cleric’ Vigilius, who also acted as scribes under the authority of Andreas. 48 Vigilius might be the same man who gave some land, apparently at Schlins, to Folcwin, along with men named Marcelinus and Goncio; 49 however, this is not certain as witness lists make it clear there were at least two men of that name in the area at that time.50 Documents refer to the bounds of the territory of St John in Rankweil, the territory of St Peter in Rankweil, and the territory of St Elarius in Schlins. 51 These must have been either local churches or holdings of other ecclesiastical institutions. It has been said that the prepositi regularly witness in only one district, but this does not necessarily apply to other witnesses, some of whom, such as Orsicinus and Victor, are found witnessing at both Rankweil and Schlins.52 However, ownership of property in more than one district may be relatively rare; apart from Folcwin himself only three men, Lubucio, Solvanus and Sejanus, can be plausibly identified 45 46

47 48

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W 250, W 253, W 254 and 255. W 247, W 248. The two documents have one other witness in common, a man called Baldvaldus. Johannes W 224 (boundary clause); Lubucio W 243, Saro W 247 (boundary clause). Valerius W 259, W 289, W 293, the last of these refers to Andreas as his ‘master’. Vigilius W 290, referring to Andreas as his ‘master’. Drucio W A4, W A5, W A6. All other documents in the Folcwin archive were written by Andreas. W 265. Two witnesses named Vigilius are found in W 224 and W 290. W 224, W 256, W 267, W A4. These references can be compared with a reference to the territory of St Gall in W 705, on which more below. Orsinicus at Rankweil W 235, W 259, W 293; at Schlins W 260, at Nüziders W 247. Victor at Rankweil W 264, W 289; at Schlins W 258, W A4, W A5 and W A6.

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as owning land at more than one settlement site. 53 This evidence should be used with caution as there is no way of knowing what proportion of landowners are represented in the boundary clauses; however, it is notable that of these four men Folcwin was a scultaizus and Lubucio a priest. It may be that landholding in more than one fundus was largely confined to the more important members of local society. This can be paralleled in Breton society. Wendy Davies in her study of the Redon cartulary found that only a relatively low proportion of non-aristocratic landowners had land in more than one plebs and that many of those who did were priests.54 There is also some evidence for regional specialization by the scribes. Andreas wrote documents at both Rankweil and Schlins, as well as at Nüziders and Bürs. However his deputy, Valerius, appears only at Rankweil (as does Vigilius who, however, wrote only one document), and Drucio appears only at Schlins. It is difficult to be sure whether scribes ever acted as witnesses to documents they did not draw up; Vigilius and Valerius may have done so, but the witnesses named Vigilius and Valerius who appear in some lists could have been other men of the same name, as both names appear to have been very common in the Rankweil area. Before moving on to compare the Folcwin archive with other Rankweil area documents we may look once more at the question of why people did give land to Folcwin. It is still not possible to give a clear answer. The people who gave seem to have been of varying status. Obviously all were landowners, but some may have owned more land than others, and some possessed a local status which others did not have. Folcwin himself was the representative of external authority, the local deputy of the count, who in turn was the deputy of the emperor, Louis the Pious. This does not mean that his standing was entirely derived from external authority, but it does put him in a somewhat different category from the prepositi, whose position was probably derived strictly from their standing within the local community. The workings of local society in Rankweil, as will be seen, do not appear to have been markedly affected by aristocratic or ecclesiastical influence, and it is quite possible that this would have enhanced the standing and power of the local scultaizus. Folcwin was the representative of a higher authority in a way that other laymen, and perhaps even local priests, were not. Perhaps his probable appearances in the St Gall necrology

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Lubucio: W 224 and W 443 (Rankweil), W 248 (Bürs). Solvanus: W 264 (Rankweil), Zürich, Zentralbibliothek Ms C 35 (Schlins). Sejanus: W 253 and W 259 (Rankweil), W 258 (Schlins). Davies, Small Worlds, pp. 92–3, 145.

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and Reichenau confraternity book reflect this. Perhaps the property transactions do also. Folcwin had powers that were open to abuse. Was he openly exploiting them? Or was the situation more subtle and complicated? The vulnerable may have been straightforwardly hoping for protection, those in a stronger position perhaps looking to establish a more complex relationship of give and take. This would not necessarily have been an equal relationship, for Folcwin still had a position which the others did not, but there may still have been more to his relationships with men like Estradarius and Lubucio than the simple granting of land in return for favours. There is undoubtedly a local network involving power and property here, but we can see it from only one angle; which makes interpretation difficult. The question of what to make of the archive is inextricably bound up with the question of what to make of Folcwin himself. Who was he, and did he owe his position to local standing, external favour or a combination of the two? This question is in turn bound up with the history of Rhaetia at this date.55 The period of the Folcwin charters was in some respects an era of upheaval in Rhaetia. The district had previously been governed by the bishop of Chur, acting with the additional rank of count, but about 806 a secular count named Hunfred had been installed. Across the period covered by the Folcwin documents there may have been frequent changes of count. A clash is recorded between Adalbert, son of Hunfred and a certain Ruadpert, apparently appointed by Louis the Pious. By the mid 820s a Count Roderich was in charge of the area and apparently disputing with the current bishop of Chur. 56 How did Folcwin, a man who would have functioned as a deputy to the counts, fit into this picture? It has been suggested that he was an outsider, a man appointed by one of the counts of this period and part of an ongoing attempt to bring Rhaetia under closer Carolingian control.57

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The most recent exploration of this subject is R. Kaiser, Churrätien im frühen Mittelalter: Ende 5. bis Mitte 10. Jahrhundert (Basel, 1998), see especially pp. 53–65. Examinations of Rhaetian counts in this period can also be found in M. Borgolte, Geschichte der Grafschaften Alemanniens in fränkischer Zeit, (Sigmaringen, 1984), pp. 219–29 and K. Schmid, ‘Von Hunfrid zu Burkard. Bermerkungen zur rätischen Geschichteaus der Sicht von Gedenkbucheinträgen’, in U. Brunold and L. Deplazes (eds), Geschichte und Kultur Churrätiens. Festschrift für Pater Iso Müller (Disentis, 1986), pp. 193–207. Borgolte, Geschichte der Grafschaften Alemanniens, pp. 219–29 argues for a total of five counts in Rhaetia in the period covered by the Folcwin charters. A simpler model is proposed by Schmid, ‘Von Hunfrid zu Burkard’, pp. 193–207. Borgolte, Geschichte der Grafschaften Alemanniens, p. 226 associates him with Ruadpert on the basis that they appear in Rhaetia at about the same time. B. Bilgeri, in Geschichte Vorarlsbergs 1, Vom freien Rätien zum Staat der Montforter, (Vienna, Cologne and Graz, 1971), p. 67, with Hunfred on the grounds that the names Hunfred and Folcwin appear close together in the St Gall confraternity book. See also H. Fichtnau, Das Urkundenwesen in Österreich vom 8. bis zum frühen 13. Jahrhundert (Vienna, Cologne and Graz, 1971), pp. 38–42.

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Yet the evidence for this is slender. In fact the chief argument is Folcwin’s own, Germanic, name, which it has been suggested brands him an incomer amongst the people of Rankweil, whose names were usually Roman. As will be seen below, however, names are a most uncertain guide to ethnicity in Rankweil and the surrounding area. A stronger argument might be the lack of other individuals bearing that name in the Rankweil area documents, for Rankweil society had a strong tendency to repeat names, both Roman and Germanic, and an unusual name may therefore have been recently introduced. The only other mentions of the name in the area are in the Grabs documents, and it is possible that one of the men named Folcarin who appear there was Folcwin himself, whilst the second could have been his son. However, this is still not a conclusive argument. There is no certain evidence as to whether Folcwin was an incomer or not. Of course, if he were a local, he could still have been attached to one of the counts of this period, who might have chosen to favour and promote a local man as a means of influencing local society. Did he, then, owe his position to external favour, rather than previously existing status within local society? It is impossible to draw any firm conclusions on this point from Folcwin’s charters, which contain no obvious reflection of the changes in local counts. No count is as much as mentioned in any of the documents. Yet could this in itself be significant? If Folcwin was an incomer, appointed by one of the various counts who ruled Rhaetia in the period, if there were indeed such rapid changes at the top as Borgolte has argued, Folcwin’s position in Rankweil would have been rather precarious, at least some of the time, and we might expect some reflection of that in the documents. Yet there is none, unless the very frequency of land transactions is itself such an indication, and the lack of comparative material makes that impossible to judge. At no point is there any reference to higher authority or indication that Folcwin’s position was in any way difficult or questionable. If he had come under threat in any way, then he might well have found it prudent to take precautionary measures, such as getting the approval of a new count for his transactions. Still, given the bald nature of the documents, an argument from silence is precarious. The question has a bearing on the archive: are we to see it as a normal set of transactions, or an unusual burst of activity such as might be caused by a newcomer attempting to consolidate his position? Or perhaps something in between – a man who was not an incomer, but had been promoted by an outside authority, attempting to build on that promotion? There are no certain answers. All we know is that the charters tell us nothing directly about wider political events in Rhaetia. If Folcwin owed his standing to a count, then the fact left no trace on his charters. Early Medieval Europe   ()

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The Folcwin documents can, however, be compared with eleven other documents from Rankweil and seven others from the surrounding area, which can be used further to develop knowledge of the community within which Folcwin and his neighbours lived and acted. It happens that one of these documents, a sale by Lobo of Rankweil of a field to a man named Ropert,58 dates from 825 or 826, the same period as the Folcwin documents. Lobo could just possibly be the Lubus who witnesses six charters in the Folcwin archive, 59 but Ropert is otherwise unknown. The scribe in this case was called Edalicus, and of the eight witnesses five were not regular witnesses of the Folcwin archive. This suggests that groupings could form even within a relatively small community like Rankweil, and that not all of the people with the status to act as witnesses chose to witness for Folcwin. 60 It is also noticeable that the prepositus Onoratus did not witness this charter, the first witness is a man named Aunolf who is known from no other document. Of the eleven documents from Rankweil itself that are not in favour of Folcwin, four – two grants, a sale and an exchange of property – concern St Gall.61 The rest, including a dispute decision, are secular documents.62 Other charters not (or not stated to be) from Rankweil can nevertheless be connected with the Rankweil area through the names which appear in them, names which are common in the Rankweil charters. It has already been pointed out that the greater Romanization of Rhaetia can be detected in the large numbers of Roman names which appear in these documents, whereas charters from elsewhere in Alemannia are dominated by Germanic names. Even aside from this, however, there is a striking amount of consistency in names from the Rankweil area. The latest of the secular Rankweil area documents dates from 891,63 and contains a number of names which occur repeatedly in the documents of the Folcwin collection: among them Madorninus, Valerius, Solvanus, Gajo, Dominicus and Victor. Similarly the earliest Rankweil document, W 187, which dates from about 806, includes names such as Valerius, Stefanus, Victor, Quintellus and Orsicinus which occur again later. Names also appear in both male and female form, such as Quintella and Quintellus, Andustria and Andustrius, Fonteja and Fontejanus. Owing to the relatively small number of 58 59 60

61 62 63

W 296. W 243, W 250, W 253, W 254, W 255, W 256. The name of Landulf appears in just one other document, W 259. The names of Aunolf, Lovald, Justinus and Campanus do not appear in the witness lists of the Folcwin documents at all. W 72, W 391, W 501, W 705. W 165, W 172, W 173, W 187, W 296, W 415, W 421. W 683.

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female names this pattern is not so easy to trace, but it is still striking. There is repetition also amongst the comparatively few Germanic names, such as Baldfred and Landulf. Charters which include a large number of Rankweil style names are therefore likely to come from a place with links to Rankweil. Of the documents that can be linked to the Rankweil area in this way two are from Grabs (both secular) and one from Gambs (in favour of St Gall), 64 both sites opposite Rankweil on the west bank of the Rhine and the east side of the Alpstein range. The sites of the other charters in this category are not known, although one of them, W 707, was drawn up at a place called Roncale, which could possibly be a site named Rungäll near Schlins. 65 All of these places were within the district of Rhaetia, which had a distinct identity from the rest of Alemannia. However, since they all come from a relatively small area within the larger territory of Rhaetia, it may be best to refer to them as being from the Rankweil area. One question which is hard to answer from the witness lists alone, is whether the occurrence of names in charters from other sites that are also in the charters from Rankweil, itself points to individuals being active in more than one place, or just to certain names being popular in the area. In the case of Schlins it is certain that at least some local residents, most notably Folcwin himself and the scribe Andreas, moved between the two sites quite regularly. No doubt others did also. It is less easy to be sure with the charters from the more distant settlements of Gambs and Grabs. However, that people from the Rankweil area might travel quite long distances to participate, even only as witnesses, in property transactions is established by another document that can be linked by witness names and which is said to have been drawn up at St Gall itself.66 This means that a group from Rankweil must have made the journey there on at least one occasion, pointing to a reasonable degree of mobility in the area. Nonetheless, in general, Rankweil and the other settlements described in this sector do not seem to have been closely associated with St Gall. Their links were with each other, not with monasteries or settlements on the east side of the Alpstein. It appears that it was the mountains that formed regional barriers at that time and not, as is the case today, the River Rhine. The Rankweil area documents which are outside the Folcwin archive therefore allow the picture built up from the Folcwin documents to be 64 65

66

W 401 and W 458 (Grabs), and W 353 (Gambs). Wartmann, Urkundenbuch, II, 310. The other documents from unlocated sites are W 354 and W 683 which concerns property at an unlocated site, Aqua Rubia. W 180. See McKitterick, Carolingians and the Written Word, pp. 98–103 for a more general discussion of local mobility.

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extended, both geographically and chronologically. Unfortunately they do not provide much further information about the local officials and prepositi. A Selbo prepositus witnessed the Gambs document, W 353, in second place behind one Jordaimes, and two documents show a man named Onoratus (most probably either the same man who appears in the Folcwin archive or a relative of his) still acting as a witness leader at Rankweil in the 850s.67 However, in the remaining charters there is too much variation among leading witness names to identify prepositi with confidence. The amount of variation is in itself interesting since it is a striking contrast with the Folcwin documents, almost all of which were witnessed by a prepositus. This suggests that prepositi did not necessarily witness all documents, and the very high proportion of Folcwin documents that were so witnessed may be rather unusual. Perhaps it was Folcwin’s own status as a scultaizus that led to his securing prepositi as witnesses for nearly all his documents. These charters do record several more scribes who do not appear in the Folcwin archive, and a little more information about those who did. Andreas, the scribe of most of the Folcwin documents, was still writing in the 850s, and his deputy, Valerius, was still writing in 844 (by which time he was styling himself priest rather than deacon), assuming these were the same and not other men of the same name. 68 The Rankweil sale of 825 or 826 was drawn up by a scribe named Edalicus, who did not write any of the Folcwin charters. Eberulf, operating in the 890s, wrote five documents at Rankweil and one at St Gall; and single documents were written by scribes named Bauco (c.806) and Wilimann (c.864).69 An Orsinicus wrote W 421 at Rankweil in the 850s, and may have been the same as the Horsicinus responsible for the document recording W 683, the unlocated sale of 891. There also exists a manuscript of the Lex Romana Raetica Curiensis drawn up by Orsinicus, not necessarily for official purposes.70 Rosamund McKitterick, in her analysis of charter production as it can be deduced from the St Gall archive, established that all of these priests wrote a Rhaetian hand distinct from the script used by the St Gall monks. 71 The priests of the Grabs and Gambs documents, Priectus, Laveso and Cianus may have belonged to a slightly different scribal tradition, but one that is still distinctively Rhaetian with no sign of St Gall training, and the same applies to

67 68 69

70 71

W 391, W 415. Andreas W 421; Valerius W 391. Edalicus W 296; Eberulf W 72, W 165, W 173, W 174, W 180, W 705; Bauco W 187; Wilimann W 501. McKitterick, Carolingians and the Written Word, pp. 109 –110. McKitterick, Carolingians and the Written Word, pp. 109 –110.

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Johannes, who drew up the Roncale document in 896.72 Of these four, only Laveso and Johannes are described as priests. Priectus describes himself in one document as cancellarius which suggests he may have been a public notary.73 As McKitterick has argued, this implies a selfsufficiently literate community with a school of writing independent of the monks of St Gall.74 There is some very intriguing evidence that some of the scribes who appear in the Rankweil area documents may have been related, which would imply that the position of scribe was, to some extent, a familial one. In 896 a priest named Valerius exchanged land for life use of the property of the church of St Victor, which was at Victorsberg just over four kilometres from Rankweil. 75 (If he was the same as the Valerius of the Folcwin documents he would have been very old, but he may have been a different man.) The charter makes reference to brothers of Valerius called Maurentianus and Orsinicus (see Fig. 2); it will be remembered that there was a priest named Orsinicus who wrote a document about 852, as well as the (perhaps identical) Horsicinus writing in 891.76 The document written by Orsinicus around 851 was W 421, in which a Vigilius handed over three-quarters of his property to his son, Johannes, and two priests of that name appear in the area: one mentioned in the boundary clause of a Folcwin charter of 817 and the other the scribe of the Roncale document of 896.77 Although neither of these men is necessarily the same as Johannes, son of Vigilius (neither Johannes nor Vigilius is called priest in W 421), the impression of a family connection is reinforced. Also of interest is a Grabs document, from about 847, in which some land was sold by a group of people who include three brothers, Vigilius, Orsinicus, and Valerius. 78 Finally, in the undated dispute document two brothers named Edalecus and Vigilius appear79 – thus also drawing the scribe Edalicus, who drew up

72

73 74

75 76 77 78 79

McKitterick, Carolingians and the Written Word, pp. 111, 117, 122–3, n. 104. Priectus, W 353 and also W 354; Laveso, W 401; Cianus, W 458; Johannes, W 707. Bruckner and Marichal (Chartae Latinae Antiquiores II ) consider W 354 to have been drawn up by a different Priectus to the scribe of W 353, but McKitterick (p. 117, n. 72) accepts them as the same whilst arguing that only W 354 is an autograph. If they were the same then he must have been active over a period of some thirty years. W 353. See McKitterick, Carolingians and the Written Word, p. 117 ff. McKitterick, Carolingians and the Written Word, pp. 109–12. However see also the criticisms of McKitterick in M. Richter, ‘ “. . . quisquis scit scribere nullum potat abere labore” zur Laienschriftlichkeit im 8. Jahrhundert’, in J. Jarnut, U. Nonn and M. Richter (eds), Karl Martell in seiner Zeit (Sigmaringen, 1994), pp. 393–404. W 705. W 421, W 683. W 224 and W 707. W 401. W 354.

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Fig. 2 Possible connections between Rankweil area scribes and priests.

Lobo’s charter, into the family grouping. As the charters show Valerius and Vigilius to be common Rankweil names, the family relationships between the various scribes cannot be constructed with any confidence, but there is enough evidence to argue that such relationships existed. There do remain Rankweil scribes that cannot, on existing evidence, be linked with the family group. They are: Bauco, the earliest recorded; Andreas, the leading scribe of the 820s; the late appearing Eberulf; and finally Wilimann (the first and last of these appear once only). There is also Drucio, who wrote documents only at Schlins: he at least may have © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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been a local man for it is possible that he was related to, or even the same man as, Drucio the son of Joabo and Andustria, who was associated with his parents in a grant of land at Rankweil to St Gall about 844.80 The only other Rankweil area priests to appear are Saro, who is known only from a Schlins boundary clause; 81 and Lubucio, who was certainly local, as he not only owned land in the area but alienated it with the consent of his father, who is probably the same Dominicus who appears in Schlins and Nüziders witness lists. 82 The scribe Priectus, who wrote at Gambs, can perhaps be linked to Rankweil also, since there was a man of the same name who owned property there in the 880s. Cianus, one of the two Grabs scribes, also shares his name with a donor of one of the Folcwin documents. 83 The impression is that the scribes and priests of the Rankweil area tended to be local men and were quite often related. Almost all the scribes which appear in these documents can be argued to have had local connections. Many of them also appear to have been local landowners with property of their own possessed by right of inheritance. The documents include several in which three or more people make a joint grant. The connection between them is not necessarily defined, but it is likely that they were usually, if not always, related. The number of such cases suggests the extent to which joint family ownership of property was practised in the area. One document that illustrates this particularly clearly is W 401, dating from about 847. It involves a sale of land at Grabs, to a man named Alderam of Salez, by vendors who are described as the children of Pocianus (named as Vigilius, Orsicinus, Valerius, Autropia and Veranda) and the children of Fonteja. The children of Fonteja are not named and their connection with the children of Pocianus is not defined, but it seems likely that Fonteja was another child of Pocianus, in which case property had become divided among two generations of relatives. Land could also be jointly obtained by means other than inheritance, as illustrated by Donatus’s gift of threequarters of a field to Folcwin and one-quarter to Sulvanus and his brothers.84 However the tendency to hold land jointly should not be stressed too far, for about half the documents relate to a single donor, and almost a quarter to a compact family group of husband and wife, or parents and children. In other cases of joint ownership the land is 80

81 82 83

84

W 391. A Drusio also appears in the witness lists of W 165, W 173 and W 174; all Rankweil documents. W 247. W 243 for Lubucio’s grant; W 247, W 261 for other references to Dominicus. The landowner Priectus appears in W 165 and W 173. Cianus and his wife Valencia appear in W 267. W 264.

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owned by siblings or by people whose relationship to one another is not defined, which suggests it was probably rare for land to remain jointly owned through more than one generation. The boundary clauses tend to mention single individuals; it can be assumed wives and children were not included as joint owners in these clauses. There are, however, occasional cases of an adjoining property being owned jointly by siblings, for example the ‘children of Pavaricus’ in W 293, as well as the ‘children of Domnia’ and ‘children of Audomar’ both mentioned in W 391. One slightly curious document describes a man named Valerius granting property to his own son, Johannes. 85 Whether such grants happened often cannot be known, but two men, Lubucio (a priest) and Quintellus, gave land to Folcwin with the consent of their fathers. 86 There may have been something of a custom by which fathers handed over a portion of property to adult sons. The Rankweil area charters establish that women participated in private transactions. Four women acting alone gave land to Folcwin: their names were Bona, Valencia, Joanna of Bürs and Juliola of Rankweil. 87 Bona is mentioned in the boundary clause of another of the Folcwin documents, W 264, but apart from that nothing is known of any of them. The grants by Bona and Valencia are described as gifts, those by Joanna and Juliola as sales, none of them differs in any perceptible way from the grants made to Folcwin by men. Four women donors among the twenty-six charters in favour of Folcwin is quite a high proportion; how this is interpreted depends on the wider interpretation of the Folcwin archive. As has been seen, some of the people who gave land to Folcwin were of moderately high status within the local society and, therefore, are unlikely to have been vulnerable individuals looking for protection. However, not all the grants need have been made for the same motives, so it remains possible that protection was the reason for some, or all, of the grants made by women. The grants do establish that the Rankweil area included female landowners as well as male, and this is confirmed by the boundary clauses, which bear witness to a small number of female landowners, such as Bulienga at Rankweil and Puvana at Schlins.88 Women landowners were evidently a recognized and unexceptional part of Rankweil society, although judging from the boundary clauses they owned only a small proportion of the available land. In addition to the small number of individual female landowners there are a number of joint donations in which women appear acting 85 86 87

88

W 421. W 243, W 256. W 248 ( Joanna, Bürs, 820); W 253 (Bona, Rankweil, 820?); W 260 (Valencia, Schlins, 820?); W 293 ( Juliola, Rankweil, 825). W 259, W 261.

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alongside men – most often with husbands but sometimes in larger groups. Five, perhaps six married couples made donations to Folcwin, in one case acting together with a son, and in another with the consent of their children.89 The donation of a field by Cianus and his wife, Valencia, is of interest because Valencia may be the same woman who gave some land to Folcwin without mentioning a husband. 90 If that is so then it is possible she was not married to Cianus at the time of her grant to Folcwin, but it is also possible she made the grant independently. There are also three instances of groups of three or four people, both male and female, making grants to Folcwin. 91 Finally a woman called Leuta, her son, Isinrih, and a woman named Isinberga (possibly Leuta’s daughter), gave two fields to Folcwin. Children, usually sons but occasionally daughters, sometimes appear as either joint participants or consenters in transactions by their parents. 92 All of this establishes that joint landowning by men and women was common in the Rankweil area. Husbands and wives formed the largest group, but other forms of joint ownership were also known. It is particularly interesting that such forms of joint ownership are attested in a secular archive. In grants made jointly to a religious institution there is always a possibility that the charter does not reflect genuine joint ownership, but rather a desire to share the spiritual benefits of such a grant. Any benefits expected from the transactions in the Folcwin archive would presumably be of a practical nature. A small number of other secular charters from the Rankweil area also reflect joint landownership by men and women. In 891 a married couple named Valerius and Agina bought a meadow at Aqua Rubia from Madorninus and Malesa, who may well have been husband and wife also, although this is not stated.93 In a Rankweil document from either 851 or 858 a couple named Baldfred and Evalia sold some property at Segaviae to Wachar and his daughter, Odalsind, for twelve solidi.94 This short document takes on extra interest because of the connection of Baldfred and Evalia with another family which appears in three closely 89

90

91 92 93

94

The married couples who gave land to Folcwin are Maurus and Audoara (W 259, the grant was made with the consent of their children); Cianus and Valencia (W 267); Libucio and Ampelia, together with their son, Berfred (W 289); and Maurelio and Lovacia (W A6). There is also a sale of land made by Onorius and Valeria (W 224) who are not stated to have been married but may well have been. W 260. Since the grant made by Cianus and Valencia jointly is undated it is not possible to tell whether it came before or after Valencia’s solo grant. W 258, W 262, W 290. Sons: W 165, W 259, W 289, W 391. Son and daughter: W 458 and probably W 258. W 683. A curious feature is that the document does not end with the joint signum of Madorninus and Malesa, as would normally be the case, but of one Solvanes (who is not mentioned in the text of the document) and Madorninus. W 415.

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Fig. 3 The family of Priectus.

linked documents.95 These all involve purchase of land by the same three people: Otolf, his wife Rathsind, and their son Thiotenzo. The first of these purchases was made from a man named Priectus and his two sons, Balfred and Onoratus; the second was made the following year from the same Priectus and his mother Scolastega; and the third on the following day from the brothers, Balfred and Onoratus, who appear in the first charter (see Fig. 3). The land in the last of these is stated to have been inherited by Balfred and Onoratus from their grandparents, Balfred and Evalia; that these were the same couple who appear in the earlier sale to Wachar and Odalsind is confirmed by a clause in the earlier document forbidding Odalsind from selling the property to anyone except ‘Priectus and his children’. We therefore have a rare example of a family which can be traced over three generations. Onoratus was, of course, also the name of the prepositus who witnessed so many of the earlier Rankweil documents, including the sale by Baldfred and Evalia. It would be tempting to identify him as Priectus’s father, but there is not enough evidence for this. At the least, however, he was probably connected with the family. Priectus himself may have been related to the scribe of that name who drew up two Rankweil area documents. All of this suggests the family were people of at least moderate local status and had many links with the local community. The witness lists for the three later documents included another Balfred and another Onoratus; again these men were probably relatives. Further information about both the local community and the people who held positions of authority within it comes from two of the Rankweil area documents, both dated some years before the Folcwin archive, which deal with dispute settlements. The earlier of the two which seems to belong to the earliest years of the ninth century, involved two probable members of the scribal family group, Edalecus and Vigilius, opposing two otherwise unknown individuals, Constancius and Maxemus. 96 The location is not named but the names included in the charter are 95

96

W 165, W 173, W 174. The three charters probably date from the years 883 and 884. (Borgolte, ‘Kommentur zu Ausstellungsdaten’, pp. 360 –1). W 354.

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typical of the Rankweil area. This dispute is not specifically said to have been settled at a mallus, or public court, but there does appear to have been some kind of public hearing before the ‘lord’ Remedius, judges Teudo and Vigilius, and scultaizus Aurelianus, all of whom seem to have had a role in passing judgement. Aurelianus is the only scultaizus other than Folcwin to be mentioned in the documents from the Rankweil area. Unfortunately he does not appear in any other charters and it is not certain whether this settlement took place at Rankweil itself (in which case he would have been a predecessor of Folcwin), or merely somewhere in the same area. However this record does establish that scultaizi in the Rankweil area had judicial powers, which fits with what is known about the role of centenarii in the Frankish kingdoms.97 The fact that the record begins ‘next judgement’ suggests it was one of a series of judgements, perhaps all given at the same meeting, and that the roles of all those involved were, therefore, quite routine. The ‘lord’ Remedius can be assumed to be Remedius, bishop and count of Chur, who is here seen fulfilling the kind of judicial role appropriate to his status. Teudo and Vigilius cannot be otherwise identified with any certainty although Vigilius was, of course, a common name associated with scribes and priests. The second settlement dates from 806 and is a boundary dispute held at a public court in front of Count Unfred and some scabini, that is local expert judges, and settled in favour of two men named Hrothelm and Flavinus.98 Scholars have generally accepted that the meeting took place at Rankweil,99 which is significant as the charter states that the dispute was heard in mallo publico, thus establishing Rankweil as the site of a public court. Unfred, or Hunfred as he is more usually known, can be traced, rather sketchily, in other sources; he had apparently become count for Rhaetia when Charlemagne separated the offices of count and bishop early in the ninth century. 100 The proceedings were, as might be expected, conducted by Hunfred: he heard the testimony of witnesses, asked questions of the scabini and walked the boundary in person. Six scabini are listed, headed by Flavinus (not necessarily the same as the plaintiff ) and including the name Orsinicus, which is found in the scribal family grouping. Virtually nothing can be said about these men, but Flavinus, the name of the man who heads 97

98 99 100

See Krug, ‘Untersuchungen zum Amt des “centenarius” – Schultheiss’, part 1, pp. 22–31; also A.C. Murray, ‘From Roman to Frankish Gaul: Centenarii and Centenae in the Administration of the Merovingian Kingdom’, Traditio 44 (1988), pp. 93 –8. W 187. Wartmann, Urkundenbuch, I, 177–8; Borgolte, ‘Kommentur zu Ausstellungsdaten’, p. 364. See Kaiser, Churrätien im frühen Mittelalter, pp. 53 –65; Borgolte, Geschichte der Grafschaften, pp. 219 –29 and Schmid, ‘Von Hunfrid zu Burkard’, pp. 193 –207.

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the list, was also the name of the only person to appear ahead of the prepositus Onoratus on a later witness list. There is also a separate witness list: the last name on it is Stradarius, probably the future prepositus. This is the only time that any of the documents from the Rankweil area mention a count. The only other charter from the Rankweil area which contains any reference to an individual of more than moderate status is a tantalizing mention in the boundary clause of W 264 of the ‘land of the lord’. In this instance ‘lord’ might be used in a religious sense, but it might also be a reference to either the bishop of Chur or the current Rhaetian count. If it does mean an individual, secular or religious, then the fact that he is mentioned in only one boundary clause means that either his property holdings were very compact, or else the greater part of his property was somewhere other than Rankweil. There is no other evidence in the charters that individuals of aristocratic status held land in Rankweil. There does exist, however, one apparently contradictory piece of evidence from another source. In 823 Lothar I, then ruler of the area, issued a diploma in which he referred to Uenomnia villa Unfredi comitis.101 This is assumed to be either the Unfred/Hunfred of the Rankweil dispute document or else a son of the same name. 102 According to this document, then, Hunfred was closely associated with Rankweil. Yet the charters, many of them dating from this precise time, contain not the slightest hint of such a thing. Apart from the one dispute settlement counts do not appear in the documents at all, and they certainly do not appear in the boundary clauses. This is a puzzle: all that can be suggested is that whatever Hunfred’s position in Rankweil entailed, it did not lead him to impinge much on the business of land transfer. Rankweil emerges from the charters as a society in which there was little aristocratic influence. Either the charters must be misleading – they do, after all, record a severely circumscribed picture – or Hunfred’s position was a largely formal one, and did not have much impact on the actual day-to-day workings of Rankweil society. Any property that he possessed at Rankweil must have been compact, unlike the scattered ones that seem to have been typical of the local landowners, otherwise he would appear in boundary clauses. A fact that deserves some further comment is that the district of Rhaetia was, or at least was considered to be, a more Romanized area than the rest of Alemannia. This is attested to by the Lex Romana Raetica Curiensis, which seems to be a Frankish influenced collection of 101

102

Die Urkunden Lothars I. und Lothars II., ed. T. Schiffer, MGH, Die Urkunden der Karolinger 3 (Munich, 1995), No. 2. Borgolte, Geschichte der Grafschaften, p. 221 argues for a son; Schmid, ‘Von Hunfrid zu Burkard’, pp. 200–4 assumes it was the same.

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extracts from the Lex Romana Visigothorum designed for active use, and certainly used in Rhaetia during the ninth century. 103 Rhaetia therefore used ‘Roman’ law, unlike the rest of Alemannia which used the Lex Alamannorum. However, not much of the ‘Roman’ character of Rhaetia can be detected in the charters, apart from the notable preference for Latin names. One charter does attest to the existence of ethnic distinctions by including the phrase nec ad Romanos nec ad Alaemannos;104 however, there is no clue as to which of the individuals mentioned in the charters were considered Romans and which were considered Alemannians. The distinction was not necessarily reflected in names as the documents reveal families with names of mixed origin: for example two brothers named Balfred and Onoratus, and a husband and wife called Libucio and Ampelia with a son named Berfred. 105 Quite probably we have evidence here of intermarriage – Balfred is known to have been called after his grandfather of the same name – however that would still mean that ethnic identity was not necessarily clear cut. This evidence that Germanic names did not necessarily belong to recent immigrants, or even distinctively German families, establishes that Folcwin cannot be certainly considered an outsider on the basis of his name alone. There are some detectable differences between the Rankweil area charters and the charters from elsewhere in Alemannia preserved in the St Gall archive, which may perhaps reflect that documentary practices in Rhaetia varied from those elsewhere in Alemannia. 106 The Rankweil area charters differ from the majority of St Gall charters, in that they generally give not only a statement of the land given but also some idea of its size (expressed in terms of onora or modia), a statement of the names of the people who own bordering territories and often a specific description of the location of the property. By contrast the bulk of the St Gall charters simply use the formula ‘my property at X’, giving the name of a relatively large settlement. What is apparent from this is that the Rankweil area documents required greater precision than the normal monastic grants. The basic unit of land in the Rankweil area transactions was the field. The St Gall transactions, in contrast, normally concerned larger estates; furthermore while the St Gall donors usually gave all their land at a specific settlement, the Rankweil donors may 103

104 105 106

E. Meyer-Marthaler, Rätien im frühen Mittelalter. Eine verfassungsgeschictliche Studie (Zürich, 1948). W 415. W 165, W 289. For a detailed study of landholding in the St Gall charters see K.J. Bullimore, ‘Carolingian Women and Property Holding in the St. Gall Archive 700 –920’, Ph.D. thesis, University of York (2001), Chapter Two.

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well have been giving (or selling) only a portion of theirs. The small plots of land which typically changed hands in the Rankweil area documents, needed identifying more specifically than was usual for the larger estates typically given to St Gall. On the other hand, the Rankweil area charters do not usually include elaborate lists of the kinds of property included (‘woods, pastures, meadows, roads’, etc.), which the majority of St Gall charters do include. Again this is probably because of the type of property involved; Rankweil grants are usually of one, or occasionally two, fields or meadows. The question that needs to be asked here is whether these contrasts are due to differences in landholding, to different styles of charter writing, or just to the Rankweil area charters dealing with a different kind of transaction and/or a different stratum of society. One possible way of answering this is to compare the secular documents from the Rankweil area with the grants made from the same area in favour of St Gall. Of the Rankweil area documents concerning St Gall three follow the general style of the St Gall charters, including descriptions of the type of property included but not boundary clauses nor a statement of the size of the property.107 The other three show precisely the opposite characteristics, which means they resemble the Rankweil secular documents more closely than the bulk of the grants to the monastery. 108 In two of the documents, W 391 and W 705, this is particularly striking because the donors are giving all of their property in the area to St Gall, and there is therefore no obvious need for detailed descriptions. Moreover, a fairly significant collection of land was exchanged with St Gall in one of the documents from a Rankweil area donor, the priest Valerius,109 so it appears that the size of grants was not a crucial factor in the drafting of charters. The conclusion must be that the Rankweil area scribes could adapt their style to the St Gall charters, but did not necessarily do so. Do the descriptions, then, represent simple regional fashion, or something more significant? That in the entire St Gall archive there are, apart from royal documents, only three other purely secular grants of land 110 emphasizes how unusual the Rankweil collection of documents is, but makes it difficult to know how many of the differences between the Rankweil area documents and St Gall documents in general are due to regional variation, and how many to the fact that most Rankweil area documents represent secular transactions. Moreover, these three charters show a certain variation. None of the three contains boundary clauses, perhaps because 107 108 109 110

W 72, W 180, W 353. W 391, W 501, W 705. W 705. The other secular documents are W 106 (c.786); W 125 (790); W 658 (888).

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they all refer to complete estates rather than single fields, but one, W 106, does give a measurement of size. All include some description, although rather more briefly than in many of the grants to the monastery. On the whole it looks as though some of the variations were determined by the type of property that was granted, and perhaps also the type of grant that was being made, but others, in particular the inclusion of boundary clauses, were a particular feature of Rankweil area documents. One possible explanation would be that small properties were particularly common in this area. If the properties which appear in the Rankweil area charters are generally modest, the same can be said of the people. The individuals who appear regularly in the Rankweil area charters seem not to have belonged to the highest stratum of society. Bishop Remedius and Count Hunfred make one appearance each, and only in a judicial capacity. All the other individuals appearing in the charters about whom it is possible to say something are men of moderate status: scultaizi, prepositi, priests and scribes. This does not, of course, mean that none of those who appear were of lesser standing; the local officials are naturally the type of person about whom most information would remain. The more obscure names may be obscure precisely because the owners were of lesser status. It can be said that many of the people who witnessed charters came from the landowning class, on however small a scale. Quite possibly they all did, but there can be no certainty on this point. Nor indeed can there be any certainty as to whether there was a substantial class of free people who did not own land, although it is possible. The documents do not record unfree labourers but there can be no doubt they existed. However, it does seem that the people who appear in these documents (with the exception of Hunfred and Remedius) were not, in any sense of the word, ‘aristocratic’, nor did their activities extend over a wide area. How typical of its time and place was the township of Rankweil? Suitable comparisons are not easy to find. Probably the bestdocumented township from the East Frankish realm in this period is that at Dienheim, which lies in the middle Rhine between Mainz and Worms and has been studied by more than one historian. 111 Although the documents relating to Dienheim are almost all ecclesiastical they are unusual in being divided between two monastic archives, those of Lorsch and Fulda, which means the evidence is not dominated by the interests of a single institution. There are many more documents 111

For information on Dienheim see M. Gockel, Karolingische Königshöfe am Mittelrheins (Göttingen, 1970), pp. 184–203, 222–7; Staab, Untersuchungen zur Gesellschaft, pp. 262–78; and E. Freise, ‘Studien zum Einzugsbereich der Klostergemeinschaft von Fulda’, in K. Schmid (ed.), Die Klostergemeinschaft von Fulda in früheren Mittelalter II, 3 (Munich, 1978), pp. 1003–269.

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available for Dienheim than Rankweil and rather more details can be drawn from them. Unlike at Rankweil, the Dienheim documents include donations from members of the high-ranking aristocracy, even including the king as well as the powerful Count Rupert, who may even have had his residence there. Moreover, many of the donors who are otherwise unknown demonstrably owned large amounts of property. 112 It is difficult to say whether this is a contrast with Rankweil or simply a contrast with the nature of the Rankweil documents. It is quite possible, even probable in the case of Hunfred, that there were highranking landowners in Rankweil who happen not to be recorded in the charters, although it is hard not to get the impression that land transactions in Rankweil were far less aristocratically dominated than those in Dienheim seem to have been. The Dienheim documents, unlike the Rankweil ones, do feature regular witness leaders whose activity was not confined to Dienheim and its immediate area, men like Zeizo, perhaps an associate of Count Rupert, who witnessed on two banks of the Rhine. 113 If there is any kind of parallel to these individuals in the Rankweil charters then it is Folcwin himself, who may have acted as witness on the opposite bank of the Rhine to Rankweil and probably had connections with two large monasteries which lay some distance to the north-west. Conversely, the majority of the Dienheim witnesses seem to have been local men who seldom, if ever, appear outside the vicinity of Dienheim itself and who, if they made donations at all, limited themselves to small gifts, often of a single field.114 These individuals do seem to resemble the people recorded in the bulk of the Rankweil charters, small-scale landowners with local interests. Another similarity with Rankweil is that holdings were typically of scattered fields rather than being grouped together in one place. There is unfortunately little evidence concerning activities of local officials at Dienheim and it is not even entirely certain that dispute settlements were ever heard there, although one charter does record the existence of a man with the title of iudex.115 On the whole it seems that Rankweil society resembled that at Dienheim, although quite likely with fewer aristocratic landowners and less association with large ecclesiastical institutions. Looking at local Carolingian society outside the Rhine valley, the evidence that land transactions were relatively common fits in well with 112 113 114

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Staab, Untersuchungen zur Gesellschaft, pp. 262–78, also Innes, State and Society, p. 126. Staab, Untersuchungen zur Gesellschaft, p. 263. Freise, ‘Studien zum Einzugsbereich’, pp. 1187–98; also C. Wickham, ‘Rural Society in Carolingian Europe’, in R. McKitterick (ed.), The New Cambridge Medieval History II, c.700–c.900 (Cambridge, 1995), pp. 521–2. See Staab, Untersuchungen zur Gesellschaft, p. 429.

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the conclusions drawn by Chris Wickham in his study of the Tuscan Appennines. He found that land transactions were a social force, that they were used to establish and reinforce social connections, including patronage networks, but might also be used by individuals to expand their landholdings.116 Wickham was able to identify local elites, whose activities and property holding were confined to a fairly narrow area, although not necessarily as narrow as the activities of the individuals recorded at Rankweil.117 He also found fragmented landholding, and established that witnesses tended not to be aristocrats, although they were not usually small-scale peasant landowners either. 118 This model seems strikingly similar to that found at Rankweil. Although at Rankweil it is impossible to tell whether most of the active witnesses held land on a small or medium scale, they were not aristocrats, and it certainly appears likely that land transactions, both gift and sale, were used as part of the social networks which existed within the area, and were used and developed by individuals like Folcwin. However, Wickham found far more evidence for aristocratic landholding in the areas studied than appears in the Rankweil area charters; although he also argued that a high percentage of villages were not dominated by aristocratic, or ecclesiastical, landowners.119 The material found in the Redon cartulary in Brittany also echoes the Rankweil area material in some respects. 120 Here also there is evidence for mobility of property, although perhaps of a limited nature. Property holders in general had holdings only in one district, although there were exceptions (especially priests, who also tended to be local men and fully a part of local society), and people did sometimes act as witnesses in more than one area.121 All of this can be paralleled in the Rankweil area. Also in Brittany lesser aristocrats can be found participating in property transactions but, with the exception of the local officials known as machtierns, seem not to have mixed much in village life except for the hearing of judicial cases. Davies regards machtierns as having relatively high social status, and notes that their influence often extended over quite a wide area.122 In this the Redon material bears less resemblance to the Rankweil material, as the officials appear to be persons of somewhat higher standing than is the case in the Rankweil 116

117 118 119 120

121 122

Wickham, The Mountains and the City, especially pp. 214–15, 254–7. Note that although this study includes the Carolingian period it also covers much later material. Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 41– 6, 52, 242–50. Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 27, 258. Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 97–104, 269 –79, 348 –53. For the Redon material see Davies, Small Worlds, also J.M.H. Smith, Province and Empire: Brittany and the Carolingians (Cambridge, 1992). Davies, Small Worlds, pp. 53–7, 92–5, 100 –2, 111; Smith, Province and Empire, pp. 26 –31. Davies, Small Worlds, pp. 175 –83.

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area documents, but the fact is notable that aristocrats who were not machtierns participated little in village life. In general, the Rankweil area documents contain few, if any, features that cannot be paralled elsewhere; however, there is nowhere else known at present that displays all of these features. This suggests a certain degree of local idiosyncrasy – not just that Rankweil itself was idiosyncratic, but that there was variation throughout the Carolingian Empire, and what held true in one region would not necessarily be true in another. However, it is likely that any feature marked in one area could be found somewhere else as well. If there is anything unique about Rankweil it lies not in any single feature, but in the particular combination of characteristics that existed in that place at that time. In this respect at least, what was true of Rankweil is likely to have been true elsewhere also. There may never have been any standard form of local society, but there were broad patterns, not universal but recurring. It seems, then, that the Rankweil area can reasonably be used as a case study of the workings of local society, and local officialdom, on the modest level of the small-scale landowners, although always with the proviso that local variation is inevitable. Some of the variation in this instance may have been due to the nature of the territory. Rankweil was a mountainous area, and Wickham found in Italy that mountain communities could be decidedly idiosyncratic, although not necessarily in predictable ways.123 What can be concluded about the people of the Rankweil area charters? Compared with the information that has been derived from cartularies in other areas the Rankweil evidence looks scanty, but within limits it is still informative, and the fact that so many of the charters are secular gives it the value of rarity. There was an undoubted class of local people with official status, reasonably large amounts of property, or both, although they are all decidedly shadowy figures. The only officials regularly attested were the prepositi, whose particular function seems to have been to act as witness leader. The rank of centenarius / scultaizus appears in the documents, but not frequently, and the only other local ranks attested are the judges found in W 354 and the scabini referred to in W 187. It is not possible to conclude much from the charters about the responsibilities of local officials except that here, as elsewhere in the Carolingian world, judges, centenarii and scabini participated in dispute settlement. Local counts also took part, which is as would be expected, for this was part of their office. However, it was customarily the people of moderate status that participated in the 123

Wickham, The Mountains and the City, pp. 360 –1.

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business of ordinary public meetings, even the prepositi did not always witness charters and many documents do not include any mention of rank or official status. ‘People’ in this context means men; women did not appear as officials or witnesses. What we see in these documents is an impression of modest, local people, some with a kind of official standing, many not, going about the business of transaction on a fairly humble level. These were modest, local landowners, trading property on a modest, local scale. Land transactions were relatively common in the area, although also usually relatively small-scale. Women landowners did exist, although not in great numbers, and could appear as principals in land transfers. Joint ownership of land was common, but not as common as ownership by either a single individual or a married couple. Local individuals could show reasonable mobility, travel between Rankweil and Schlins was common and settlements across the river had Rankweil connections. St Gall owned land at Rankweil from quite an early stage, but the monastery was only one of many landowners and Rankweil’s connections with the monastery on the other side of the Alpstein must have been limited. The township had its own priests and also its own scribes: two categories which overlapped but were not necessarily identical. Both priests and scribes were typically local men and property owners. A notable feature of the Rankweil area charters is the lack of aristocrats. The vast majority of the people who appear in the documents, including the prepositi and the scultaizi seem to have been individuals of strictly local standing. Only Count Hunfred and Bishop Remedius can be identified as coming from a higher social stratum and both these men are found in the specific context of dispute settlements. The witness lists and boundary clauses contain no evidence of aristocrats (with the possible exception of the single reference to ‘land of the lord’); and all of the people who are recorded as participating in land transactions in this area appear to have been local figures. Despite the reference to Rankweil as villa Unfredi in Lothar’s diploma, the impression of the charters is that aristocrats seem not to have played much part in Rankweil affairs, except for the settlement of disputes. The documents may be creating a misleading picture, but even that would be noteworthy since it contrasts sharply with evidence from other areas. Ecclesiastical influence also appears to have been relatively slight. Ecclesiastically held territory existed, so did priests; but there is not much evidence for largescale landowning or influence from large ecclesiastical institutions. Even the monastery of St Gall is remarkably absent from most of the Rankweil area documents preserved in the St Gall archive. The fact that the surviving evidence from Rankweil does not point to a settlement heavily dominated by aristocratic or ecclesiastical interests makes it a highly Early Medieval Europe   ()

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interesting case study, despite the slender nature of the evidence. Essentially the picture that emerges from the documents is of a community dominated by small-scale landowners; however, that picture is inevitably limited by the nature of the evidence – Count Hunfred, for instance, may well have loomed larger in daily life than he does in the documents. Although the information on local society that can be gathered from the Rankweil area documents is scanty, it is remarkably fortunate that even so little has been preserved. The large number of documents recording grants of land to one man, the scultaizus Folcwin, is highly unusual. Not only that, but the majority of the other charters from this area are also secular documents, a fascinating contrast with the norm for this period. The gleanings of information from these documents allow for deductions on the workings of secular society which cannot be drawn from the ecclesiastical documents that comprise the vast majority of land records from this period. Admittedly only fragments can be discovered about the individuals who appear in the documents, but it is still possible to draw valuable, and tantalizing, conclusions about Carolingian local society in the ninth century. Independent Scholar

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Texts, topoi and the self: a reading of Alfredian spirituality S   D  G 

Challenging the allegation that Alfred’s spirituality as Asser presents it is no more than a string of textual fictions, this article outlines a context for understanding Alfred’s spirituality as a functional process of living texts, or of ‘textualizing’ the self. The discussion first draws support for this view from the history of early medieval spirituality and then demonstrates the theme’s relevance both to Asser’s representation of Alfred and to the king’s own writings. Attention is given especially to the congruence between Alfred’s depiction in the Life and Gregory the Great’s teachings on the ideal rector as propounded in the Pastoral Care, a text carefully read and famously translated by Alfred himself. The comparison suggests that the main spiritual models for Alfred’s kingly piety may be understood to reside in, and to involve assimilation of, this work of Gregory, making it possible to conceptualize the king’s self-presentation in terms of a conscious project to ‘live’ Gregory’s text by bringing the ideals of the Gregorian rector to life in his own person. Such an argument helps to explain Alfred’s interest in Gregory, to account for his concern to translate the Pastoral Care, and to legitimize the predominant images associated with the king’s spirituality as indicative of a kind of functional piety grounded in the reading of texts, rather than simply reflected, perhaps falsely, in Asser’s Life.

Asser’s Life, Alfred’s spirituality: problems and perspectives The Life of Alfred the Great, probably written at the king’s court in 893 by Asser, a Welsh churchman and later bishop of the West Saxon diocese at Sherborne, comes down to us as the first biography of an *

The groundwork for this article was completed in 1998 and first presented in May of that year at the 33rd International Medieval Congress, Kalamazoo, Michigan. Revisions since then have benefitted from the advice of Allen Frantzen, Brian Stock and Paul Kershaw, for which I remain grateful. I would also like to thank Catherine Cubitt and the anonymous reader for EME, both of whom provided helpful suggestions for improvement.

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English king, yet neither this nor any other remarkable feature of the work accounts for its notoriety in modern times. For over a century now, claims for or against the Life ’s authenticity have dominated scholarly discussion.1 A cornerstone of this debate has been the portrayal Asser gives us of Alfred’s spirituality, a topic treated with disdain in the most recent assault upon the Life ’s authenticity, conducted by Alfred Smyth in his contentious book King Alfred the Great.2 While many of the claims Smyth makes to support his forgery theory have since been challenged and successfully dispatched, 3 his attack on Alfred’s purported piety has only recently begun to meet resistance. 4 Because the terms in which that attack are couched relate directly to the thesis of this article, Smyth’s remarks provide a convenient starting point for the reflections on Alfred’s spirituality I shall offer here. In a chapter entitled ‘Neurotic Saint and Invalid King’, Smyth states flat out that ‘it is impossible to accept anything which is written in the Life of King Alfred relating to the alleged illness of the king or his ascetic practices’.5 Two reasons are adduced to support this conclusion. The first is that the ‘author of Alfred’s Life was writing in a strictly hagiographical and monastic tradition’ whose saintly commonplaces are held to be ‘inconsistent with the author’s claim to be writing the biography of a friend who was still living’. 6 The second reason is the Life ’s depiction of Alfred’s piety, which Smyth equates with ‘neuroses’ and 1

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For a concise summary of views up to 1959 see D. Whitelock’s ‘Recent Work on Asser’s Life of Alfred’, in W. Stevenson (ed.), Asser’s Life of King Alfred, 2nd edn (Oxford, 1959), pp. cxxxii–clii. Whitelock does not mention M. Schütt, ‘The Literary Form of Asser’s “Vita Alfredi ” ’, English Historical Review 62 (1957), pp. 209–20, which accepts the Life’s authenticity. In 1964, V.H. Galbraith, ‘Who Wrote Asser’s Life of Alfred’, in An Introduction to the Study of History (London, 1964), pp. 88–128, challenged the Life’s authenticity, but his suggestion that it was written by Bishop Leofric was refuted by Whitelock in her 1967 Stenton Lecture The Genuine Asser (Reading, 1968). Since Whitelock’s lecture the authenticity of the work has been defended by D.P. Kirby, ‘Asser and his Life of Alfred’, Studia Celtica 6 (1971), pp. 12–35; S. Keynes and M. Lapidge (eds), Alfred the Great (London, 1983), pp. 48–58; J. Campbell, ‘Asser’s Life of Alfred ’, in C. Holdsworth and T.P. Wiseman (eds), The Inheritance of Historiography: 350–900 (Exeter, 1986), pp. 115–35; and D. Howlett, The Celtic Latin Tradition of Biblical Style (Dublin, 1995). Alfred Smyth, King Alfred the Great (Oxford, 1995). See S. Keynes, ‘On the Authenticity of Asser’s Life of King Alfred’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History 47 (1996), pp. 529 –51; M. Lapidge, ‘A King of Monkish Fable’, Times Higher Education Supplement 8 (Mar. 1996), p. 20 as well as his more recent remarks in ‘Asser’s Reading’, in T. Reuter (ed.), Alfred the Great: Papers from the Eleventh-Centenary Conferences (Aldershot, 2003), pp. 27–47, at. pp. 44–7; J. Campbell, ‘Alfred’s Lives’, Times Literary Supplement 26 ( July 1996), p. 30; D. Dumville, Review of King Alfred the Great, by Alfred Smyth, Cambridge Medieval Celtic Studies 31 (1996), pp. 90 –3; and D. Howlett, Review of King Alfred the Great, by Alfred Smyth, English Historical Review (1997), pp. 943–4. See the recent insightful articles by P. Kershaw, ‘Illness, Power, and Prayer in Asser’s Life of King Alfred’, EME 10 (2001), pp. 201–24; and D. Pratt, ‘The Illness of King Alfred the Great’, Anglo-Saxon England 30 (2001), pp. 39 –90. Smyth, King Alfred (n. 2 above), p. 203. Smyth, King Alfred, pp. 213, 271.

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doubts entirely because, were it factual, it would have done little else besides earn Alfred the reputation of a madman. The roles of warrior and ascetic are for Smyth incompatible; and since the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle bears out the fact that Alfred’s skill as a soldier and a ruler can hardly be denied, it follows that his ‘outlandish piety’ 7 must be dubious, an invention of the Life. One could object to this interpretation on any number of grounds, but I shall target just one issue that bears directly on the thesis I wish to pursue. The fact that Asser drew on other texts in writing the Life signals for Smyth that the work is fictional. In his words, ‘we need to be constantly on our guard not to accept everything that is said of Alfred’s piety or scholarship, since his biographer had Einhard at hand as a model, offering a mine of plausible information on these subjects’. 8 Alfred’s dubious piety is thus explained away as nothing more than a string of textual fictions that reflect little upon real life and all too much upon conventions of literary representation. Yet such a view is problematic. To begin with, the idea of an autonomous notion of ‘literary’ experience gained currency only in the fourteenth century, with writers such as Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, and Chaucer.9 During the early Middle Ages, the boundaries between self and text, between life and literature, were more fluid and hence harder to separate from each other. This was due to the ancient and medieval idea that what I hear – including for the medievals what I hear through reading – is not something separate from my experience but is my experience. A classic medieval formulation of this notion occurs in the first book of Gregory the Great’s Moralia in Job: ‘We ought to transform what we read into our selves, so that when our mind is aroused by what it hears, we may hasten to accomplish in our lives what we have heard.’10 Gregory is here chiefly synthesizing the views of Augustine and Benedict, developing an idea that would in turn be developed by later monastic writers such as Hugh of St Victor – namely, that reading or hearing a text (lectio) is only the first stage of a process whose end is the internalization of the text into one’s memory, language and behaviour. 11 In other words, only when it had been habitualized 7 8 9

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Smyth, King Alfred, p. 202. Smyth, King Alfred, p. 201. On this point, see the nuanced essay of B. Stock, ‘Reading, Writing and the Self: Petrarch and his Forerunners’, New Literary History 26 (1995), pp. 717–30. Gregory, Moralia in Job 1.33 (CCSL 143: 43, lines 16–18): ‘In nobismetipsis namque debemus transformare quod legimus, ut cum per auditum se animus excitat, ad operandum quod audierit vita concurrat.’ My translation. There are numerous excellent studies on the topic: e.g., B. Stock, Implications of Literacy: Written Language and Models of Interpretation in the Eleventh Century and Twelfth Centuries (Princeton, 1983); idem, ‘The Self and Literary Experience in Late Antiquity and the Middle

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into a programme for life was the reading of a text considered complete. The boundaries between self and text were consequently fluid not only in the sense that texts could furnish applications for behaviour. There was also a sense that the self could in part be structured around, and so gain a sense of identity from, a text. That Asser had other texts at hand need not mean, therefore, that he was merely spinning out topoi upon which to model Alfred. There is the possibility that, in the saintly commonplaces he encountered in his reading of and listening to texts, Alfred himself may have recognized apt crystallizations of spiritual possibilities upon which to model himself, as a king, as a warrior, as a Christian. And that possibility, I shall argue, can enable a very different understanding of the claim that Alfred’s ‘most characteristic habit’ was ‘either to read books aloud himself or to listen to others doing so’; 12 or that he collected ‘certain psalms and many prayers’ in a book which he carried around with him everywhere ‘for the sake of prayer’;13 or that it was his habit to gather ‘the finest timbers’ 14 from the patristic forest; or that he translated Gregory, Boethius, and Augustine; and that he knew the vitae of pious lay rulers, kings like himself who sought to live righteously. My thesis is that the formation of Alfred’s spirituality lies within this textual confluence, in its underlying narratives and existential possibilities, and for this purpose I should like to dwell on – and bring together – select passages from the Life and from Alfred’s own writings. For whether Alfred is conceived as a writer/reader of books or as the subject of them, his is a spirituality that can be understood as one shaped and informed by texts.

The use of texts: the shape of Alfredian spirituality In Chapter 21, the Life momentarily abandons its account of the Viking wars and takes up its alleged task of detailing Alfred’s life. The four

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Ages’, New Literary History 25 (1994), pp. 839–52; and M. Carruthers, The Book of Memory: A Study of Memory in Medieval Culture (Cambridge, 1990). On Augustine’s role as the foremost developer of this theme, see B. Stock, Augustine the Reader: Meditation, SelfKnowledge and the Ethics of Interpretation (Cambridge, MA, 1996), esp. pp. 1–42. Benedict’s notion of lectio divina was crucial in giving the theme a more practical turn; on his contribution, see J. Leclercq, Love of Learning, trans. C. Misrahi, 3rd edn (New York, 1994), pp. 15–17, and A. De Vogüé, ‘Lectiones sanctas libenter audire: lecture et prière chez saint Benoît’, Benedictina 27 (1980), pp. 11–27. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 81, lines 14–15: ‘. . . aut per se ipsum libros recitare, aut aliis recitantibus audire’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 97. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 24, lines 2, 5: ‘. . . psalmos quosdam et orationis multas’, ‘orationis gratia’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 75. Alfred, King Alfred’s Version of St Augustine’s Soliloquies, ed. T. Carnicelli (Cambridge, MA, 1969), p. 47, line 3: ‘pa wlitegostan treowo’. Hereafter, this edition will be cited as Soliloquies.

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ensuing chapters, dependent not upon the Chronicle but upon Asser himself,15 offer a brief sketch of Alfred’s boyhood interests and his favoured position at the royal court. Though brief, that sketch sets forth a constellation of interrelated themes amplified and developed in later chapters. Central amongst these is Alfred’s desire for wisdom. Asser tells how, in the absence of any formal instruction, the young Alfred fulfilled this desire early on by memorizing English poems recited by others. The emphasis on memory is indeed crucial for what follows, as we are told the famous story of Alfred’s winning the book of English poetry. Here, too, we first learn of Alfred’s book of psalms and prayers, which, we are told, ‘he kept by him day and night . . . [and] took it around with him everywhere for the sake of prayer, and was inseparable from it’. 16 The account of Alfred’s florilegium breaks off at this point as the narrative turns to his unfulfilled desire to pursue the liberal arts; but it is resumed later and in much fuller detail in Chapter 88. For my purposes, the crucial point about this episode is the kind of reading Alfred’s book presupposes. Although variable in length and style, early medieval florilegia ( flos ‘flower’ + legere ‘to gather’) had one basic purpose: to act as a kind of storehouse, as it were, of things worth remembering. 17 In this they were designed to supplement lectio, the initial reading of the text, with meditatio, the subsequent process of repeated reflection aimed at internalizing the meaning into one’s behaviour, thereby integrating self and text.18 By providing the memory with what we today would call ‘food for thought’, florilegia were thus to provide it with the means necessary for meditatio and the benefits to be gained thereby. As Mary Carruthers has put it, focussing on these interdependencies, a florilegium is nothing less than ‘a promptbook for memoria’.19 That Alfred’s book belongs to this genre of memorial prompts is clear from the specifics of the account given in Chapters 88 and 89. The opening details of the episode are crucial: One day when we were sitting together in the royal chamber discussing all sorts of topics (as we normally did), it happened that I was reading aloud some passage to him from a certain book. As he was listening intently to this with both ears and was carefully mulling it 15

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On Asser’s use of and departures from the ASC, see Stevenson, Life, pp. lxxxv–lxxxix; Whitelock, Genuine Asser, p. 4; and Campbell, ‘Asser’s Life of Alfred ’, pp. 124–5 (all cited above, n. 1). Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 24, lines 3–6: ‘. . . in sinu suo die noctuque . . . secum inseparabiliter, orationis gratia, inter omnia praesentis vitae curricula ubique circumducebat’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 75. R. Zupko, ‘Florilegia’, in J. Strayer (ed.), Dictionary of the Middle Ages, 13 vols (New York, 1982–89), V, 109 –10. Leclercq, Love of Learning (n. 11 above), p. 16. Carruthers, Book of Memory (n. 11 above), p. 176.

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over in the depths of his mind, he suddenly showed me a little book which he constantly carried on his person, and in which were written the day-time offices and some psalms and certain prayers which he had learned in his youth. He told me to copy the passage in question into the little book.20 The initial atmosphere of dialogue in which Asser and Alfred discuss certain topics cedes to Alfred’s personal desire for meditation as Asser begins to read aloud, presumably from a devotional text. The shift from dialogue to meditative reflection has aural repercussions: Alfred listens intently, focussing his attention and ruminating on the text. The function of the libellus in this context is to make it possible to extend the process of rumination indefinitely; the goal is not the text itself but an improved person. As a kind of surrogate memory, the book will store the passage in an inscripted form so that it can be easily retrieved, meditated upon, and in this way habituated into practice. In the context of the episode, this practice sets a precedent: as the reading continues Alfred selects other passages and has them copied into the libellus, augmenting his meditational script. More crucial still in this context is Alfred’s attitude toward the book: from the beginning Asser emphasizes the king’s inseparability from it. Thus in Chapter 24, when the libellus is first mentioned, we are told that Alfred kept it by him ‘day and night . . . [and] took it around with him everywhere for the sake of prayer, and was inseparable from it’ (‘die noctuque . . . secum inseparabiliter, orationis gratia, . . . ubique circumducebat’); in Chapter 88, it is said that he carried the book with him ‘constantly’ (sedulo); and finally in Chapter 89, it is stressed yet again that he ‘conscientiously kept it to hand by day and night’ (‘ad manum illum die noctuque solertissime habebat’).21 So consistent an emphasis is hard to dismiss as coincidental or meaningless. What it suggests is that spiritual selfhood for Alfred was evidently in part a process of reading and internalizing texts. In the preface to the Soliloquies, we find ample corroboration for this claim in Alfred’s own remarks on how he viewed texts. Via an elaborate metaphor of woodcutting and housebuilding, Alfred makes it clear that the texts of the past are to be used to textualize the present: 20

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Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 88, lines 1–10: ‘Nam cum quodam die ambo in regia cambra resideremus, undecunque, sicut solito, colloquia habentes, ex quodam quoddam testimonium libro illi evenit ut recitarem. Quod cum intentus utrisque auribus audisset et intima mente sollicite perscrutaretur, subito ostendens libellum, quem in sinum suum sedulo portabat, in quo diurnus cursus et psalmi quidam atque orationes quaedam, quas ille in iuventute sua legerat, scripti habebantur, imperavit, quod illud testimonium in eodem libello literis mandarem’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 99. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 24, lines 4–6; c. 88, line 7; c. 89, lines 21–2; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, pp. 75, 99, 100.

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I then gathered for myself staves and props and tie-shafts, and handles for each of the tools that I knew how to work with, and cross-bars and beams, and, for each of the structures which I knew how to build, the finest timbers I could carry. I never came away with a single load without wishing to bring home the whole of the forest, if I could have carried it all – in every tree I saw something for which I had a need at home.22 On the level of allegory, the forest stands for the works of the Latin Fathers; the trip to the forest to gather materials thus symbolizes Alfred’s reception and assimilation of their ideas. Just how their ideas are to be used Alfred then specifies via an injunction to a putative audience whom he calls to join him in plundering the forest: Accordingly, I would advise everyone who is strong and has many wagons to direct his steps to the same forest where I cut these props, and to fetch more for himself and to load his wagons with well-cut staves, so that he may weave many elegant walls and put up many splendid houses and so build a fine homestead, and there may live pleasantly and in tranquillity both in winter and in summer – as I have not yet done!23 As Gatch has noted, Alfred’s emphasis falls here ‘not upon the act of gathering from the Fathers but upon the uses to which the building materials are put’.24 This world, Alfred envisages, is a ‘temporary dwelling’ (lænan stoclife);25 while in it, man’s task is to use the forest ‘to set up’ (settan) and ‘to build’ (timbrian).26 According to Alfred, this hermeneutic 22

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Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 47, lines 1–6: ‘Gaderode me ponne kigclas and stupansceaftas, and lohsceaftas and hyfla to ælcum para tola pe ic mid wircan cu∂e, and bohtimbru and bolttimbru, and, to ælcum para weorca pe ic wyrcan cu∂e, pa wlitegostan treowo be pam dele ∂e ic aberan meihte. ne com ic naper mid anre byr∂ene ham pe me ne lyste ealne pane wude ham brengan, gif ic hyne ealne aberan meihte; on ælcum treowo ic geseah hwæthwugu pæs pe ic æt ham beporfte’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 138. Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 47, lines 6–12: ‘Forpam ic lære ælcne ∂ara pe maga si and manigne wæn hæbbe, pæt he menige to pam ilcan wuda par ic ∂as stu∂ansceaftas cearf, fetige hym par ma, and gefe∂rige hys wænas mid fegrum gerdum, pat he mage windan manigne smicerne wah, and manig ænlic hus settan, and fegerne tun timbrian, and pær murge and softe mid mæge on-eardian æg∂er ge wintras ge sumeras, swa swa ic nu ne gyt ne dyde’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 138. M. Mc Gatch, ‘King Alfred’s Version of the Soliloquies’, in P. Szarmach (ed.), Studies in Earlier Old English Prose: Sixteen Original Contributions (Albany, 1986), pp. 17–45, at p. 24. Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 47, line 13; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 138. Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 47, line 10; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 139. Alfred may have derived the metaphor of building from Boethius: cf. Wisdom’s lay, King Alfred’s Old English Version of Boethius De consolatione philosophiae [hereafter OE Boethius], ed. W. Sedgefield (Darmstadt, 1968), p. 26, lines 23–6: ‘Se pe wille fæst hus timbrian ne sceal he hit no settan up on ∂one hehstan cnoll, 7 se ∂e wille godcundne wisdom secan ne mæg he hine wi∂ ofermetta; 7 eft se pe wille fæst hus timbrian ne sette he hit on sondbeorhas.’

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activity carries a two-fold purpose: to provide self-knowledge in this world, and to make possible the visio Dei in the next. The act of reading the Fathers should, in others words, lead to an application of their ideas to the reader’s life – in building a ham, it should, by implication, also build a righteous Christian self to inhabit it. 27 Or, to put it conversely in terms of Alfred’s metaphor, the reader’s earthly life will be made ‘better’ (gelimpfulran) and set on course ‘to the eternal home’ (to pam ecan hame)28 by virtue of its being constructed out of the Patristic forest. The preface to the Soliloquies and the libellus episode thus suggestively gloss one another. Read together, they reveal that Alfred consciously ‘gathered’ (gaderode) texts to adapt to his life, that he, like Gregory, believed that ‘we ought to transform what we read into ourselves’.29 To reinforce the applicability of this Gregorian theme to Alfred, I should like now to bring together select episodes from the Life and another Alfredian work, the king’s translation of Gregory’s Pastoral Care. Recent scholarship has done much to highlight the considerable pull Gregorian authority exerted on Alfred’s court, and discussion has even telescoped Asser’s use of the Pastoral Care.30 But whereas scholarship thus far has concentrated on the impact Gregory’s thought had on Alfred’s political ideas, I intend to probe the question of Alfred’s Gregorianism from a different angle, defined by the transformative role of reading and texts in shaping Christian identity. By highlighting some of the basic tenets Gregory sets forth in the Pastoral Care and juxtaposing them with segments from Asser’s Life, what I hope to expose is the significant degree to which Alfred’s spirituality involves a steady process of internalizing of Gregory’s text. Four points deserve attention here: Gregory’s delineation of the rector’s character, his remarks on the active and contemplative lives, the role he allots to reading, and his discussion of the ruler as judge. I shall discuss these in turn.

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Cf. A. Frantzen, ‘The Soliloquies: Translation of Augustine’, in King Alfred (Boston, 1986), p. 72. Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 47, line 17; p. 48, line 2; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 139. For the full quote, see n. 10 above. In addition to the recent articles by Kershaw and Pratt (n. 4 above), see A. Scharer, ‘The Writing of History at King Alfred’s Court’, EME 5 (1996), pp. 177–206; idem, ‘The Gregorian Tradition in Early England’, in R. Gameson (ed.), St Augustine and the Conversion of England (Stroud, 1999), pp. 187–201; and M. Kempshall, ‘No Bishop, No King: The Ministerial Ideology of Kingship and Asser’s Res Gestae Aelfredi ’, in R. Gameson and H. Leyser (eds), Belief and Culture in the Middle Ages: Studies Presented to Henry Mayr-Harting (Oxford, 2003), pp. 106 –27, who employs the same strategy I use here of comparing Asser’s Life to the Pastoral Care. Although Kempshall and I do treat some of the same intersections between these texts, our overall concerns remain very different, he being interested in political ideas, I in models of spirituality and particularly their construction through texts.

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recerras sceolan . . . : living a Gregorian topos

A considerable part of Gregory’s task in the Pastoral Care concerns explaining both the character and the conduct of those who would rule. Because ruling invariably entails heavy burdens only a few are fit to bear, the ruler will possess a certain kind of character. Thus, a short way into Book I Gregory dwells at length on the ideal ruler’s character, offering the following remarks: But every effort is to be made to induce him to undertake the office of bishop who mortifies his body with many hardships, and lives spiritually (gæstlice liofa∂ ), and regards not the pleasures of this world, nor dreads any worldly trouble, but loves the will of God alone. 31 Following Gregory, Alfred explains that to live gæstlice or ‘spiritually’ means to act with humility, piety, and generosity in all things. He stresses that this applies equally to exterior as well as interior behaviour, to ‘action’ (weorce) as well as to ‘prayer’ (gebedum).32 Rulers must lead lives ‘worthy of being imitated by other men’ 33 because, unless they remain spotless, they are hardly fit to admonish others. Thus, Alfred adds, to live gæstlice must include constant self-examination, 34 lest a ruler ‘presume to undertake the office of instruction whilst any vice prevail within him’.35 Even in this brief summary, we can, I think, already see that Gregory’s view of the rector has strong affinities with how Alfred appears in Chapter 76 of the Life.36 There, we recall, Asser records (amongst other things) how Alfred would listen to Mass both day and night, how he would apply himself attentively to charity and distribution of alms, and how, at night, he would go to various churches to pray without anyone knowing. One could, I suppose, read all this as mere hagiographic embellishment; but in light of Alfred’s familiarity with the Pastoral Care, and of what we have seen concerning his predilection to live texts, 31

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Alfred, King Alfred’s West-Saxon Version of Gregory’s Pastoral Care [hereafter PC ], ed. and trans. H. Sweet, EETS, os 45 (London, 1871), p. 61, lines 6–9: ‘Ac ∂one monn scyle ealle mægene to bisscephade teon, ∂e on monigum ∂rowungum his lichoman cwilm∂, & gæstlice liofa∂, & ∂isses middangeardes orsorgnesse ne gim∂, ne hi nane wi∂erweardnesse ne andræt ∂isse worolde, ac Godes anne wilan lufa∂.’ Throughout this article, modern English translations are taken from this edition. Alfred, PC, p. 61, lines 17–21. Alfred, PC, p. 61, line 18: ‘∂æt him o∂re menn onhyrien’. Alfred, PC, p. 63, line 18: ‘pinsige ælc mon hiene selfne georne’. Alfred, PC, p. 63, lines 18–19: ‘∂ylæs he durre underfon ∂one lareowdom ∂æs folces ∂a hwile ∂e him ænig un∂eaw on ricsige’. For a compelling analogous argument that Alfred’s depiction as rector in the Life was intended in the vein of a speculum principis, see Scharer, ‘Writing of History’ (n. 30 above), pp. 185–206.

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one could also see in Asser’s representation not a mere string of topoi which bears no relation to life, but Alfred’s internalization of Gregory’s teachings on how rulers ought to behave. Indeed, Gregory’s main criterion for rule – that a ruler live gæstlice (with all that this entails, i.e., humility, piety, generosity, etc.) – materializes concretely in Alfred, in terms so similar as to be almost identical. Note, for instance, that Asser attests in Chapter 76 to Alfred’s humility, his generosity, and above all his piety – the very values Gregory links with living spiritually. 37 Particularly striking in this connection is Alfred’s effort to balance an active life of charity and public worship with an interior life of contemplation. In his more extensive discussion of the theme in Book II this is precisely what Gregory recommends: Let not the ruler forsake the inner care of the divine ministration for the occupation of outer works, nor let him diminish his care of inner government for outward occupations; lest he be hampered by the outer or engaged too much in the inner matters, so that he cannot accomplish the exterior duties which he owes to his neighbours. 38 Inner and outer forms of faith should counterpoise each other to create an equilibrium. Good works are necessary both for the instruction (lar) of one’s subjects as well as for helping them in their need. 39 But knowledge of what and how to teach and help them is derived from contemplation: The rulers ought to be before the people as a man’s eye before his body, to see his path and steps. So it is necessary that the eye of the ruler be not obscured by the dust of earthly cares, because all those in authority are heads of the subjects, and the head has to guide the feet and make them step in the right path; the head above must take care not to let the feet slip in their course, for, if the feet fail, the whole body is inclined, and the head comes to the ground. 40 37

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Gregory especially underscored the ruler’s need for humility, e.g., Moralia in Job 21.15.22 (CCSL 143A: 1082, lines 17–21): ‘Sancti autem uiri cum praesunt, non in se potestatem ordinis, sed aequalitatem conditionis attendunt, nec praeesse gaudent hominibus, sed prodesse. Sciunt enim quod antiqui patres nostri, non tam reges hominum quam pastores pecorum fuisse memorantur.’ Cf. Regula pastoralis 1.1 (PL 77: 14B) and 2.6 (PL 77: 34B–38C). Alfred, PC, p. 127, lines 11–16: ‘Ne forlæte se reccere ∂a inneran giemenne ∂æs godcundan ∂iowdomes for ∂ære abisgunge ∂ara uterra weorca, ne eac ne gewanige he na ∂one ymbhogan ∂ære innera scire for ∂ære abisgunge ∂ære uterran; ∂ylæs he sie gehæft mid ∂am uterran, o∂∂e eft mid ∂am inneran anum abisegad, ∂æt he ne mæge ∂urhteon his niehstum ∂æt he him utan don scolde.’ Alfred, PC, p. 137, lines 3–4: ‘gefultuma∂ . . . his hieremonna nied∂earfe’. Alfred, PC, p. 131, lines 20 –5; p. 133, lines 1–3: ‘Îa recceras sceolon bion beforan ∂æm folce sua sua monnes eage beforan his lichoman, his weg & his stæpas to sceawianne. Îonne is ∂earf ∂æt ∂æt dust ∂isse eor∂lican giemenne ne a∂is∂rige ∂æt eage ∂æs recceres, for∂æm ealle

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Because ‘the dust of earthly cares’ (∂æt dust ∂isse eor∂lice giemenne) can cloud the mind and distort perception, the ruler, being charged with the care of others, must see to it that he does not lead anyone astray. As the head of the social body, his are the eyes which guide all else. 41 To ensure that he acts rightly, he must therefore turn frequently to contemplation, especially to contemplation of ‘the commands of holy scripture’.42 Thereby his eyes may be purified so that, seeing clearly, he can attain the self-knowledge needed to rule both himself and others. 43 In such a context, the function of contemplation is eminently practical: to provide the ruler with the wisdom necessary to live and rule properly. The mention of meditation on the Scriptures reintroduces the theme of reading, which I have already examined above. My concern here is to underline briefly this theme’s connection to Gregory’s ideal rector, in order to provide a context for Alfred’s reading habits as the Life relates them. The key section here is Regula pastoralis 2.11, in which Gregory emphasizes the rector’s need for continual and intensive reading of the Scriptures. Since the rector’s calling necessitates incessant involvement with the world, he must, as noted, always seek to purify and strengthen his mind with thoughts of the celestial. To this end, the rector must direct his mind to the Scriptures, reading and meditating upon them carefully: But the ruler arranges all this very rightly, when he does everything for the fear and love of God, and daily meditates zealously on the commands of the holy Scriptures, that in him the power of the provident care of heavenly life be exalted, which the habit of this earthly life is ever about to destroy, unless the admonition of the holy Scriptures inspire him; since earthly companionship draws him to the love of his former bad habits, he must ever strive to be inspired and regenerated for the heavenly regions. But his mind fluctuates greatly and is disturbed by the words of earthly men, because it is openly known that the outer occupation with worldly matters disturbs the mind of man, and drives it hither and thither, until he falls

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∂a ∂e ofer o∂re bio∂, bio∂ heafda ∂ara ∂e ∂ærunder bio∂, & ∂æt heafod sceal wisian ∂æm fotum, ∂æt hie stæppen on ryhtne weg; ufone sceal ∂æt heafod giman ∂æt ∂a fet ne asliden on ∂æm færelte, for∂æm, gif ∂a fet weor∂a∂ ascrencte, eal se lichoma wier∂ gebiged, & ∂æt heafod gecym∂ on ∂ære eor∂an.’ Cf. Gregory, Moralia in Job 11.13.21 (CCSL 143A: 597, lines 2–3): ‘Qui membrorum suorum motus bene regere sciunt, non immerito reges uocantur.’ Alfred, PC, p. 169, line 5: ‘∂a bebodu halegra gewrita’. C. Straw, Gregory the Great: Perfection in Imperfection (Berkeley, 1988), p. 227: ‘The internal truths apprehended in contemplation become the regulae the Christian needs to govern his life.’

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of his own will; but he must always collect himself and rise again by the study of the holy Scriptures.44 Through reading, the ruler’s mind is brought back to itself and is freed from the perpetual turmoil of the world. The wisdom gained thereby acts both as a bulwark against sin and, on the other hand, as the requisite foundation for teaching others. The link with teaching is brought out more fully later in the chapter. Like the golden poles Moses built to carry the ark, the mind of the rector must be fortified ‘with the instruction of holy books’45 so that it can help bear the weight of the church.46 In them, rulers discover the ‘doctrine’ that allows them to ‘instruct other men with their discourse’ and lead them ‘to righteous belief ’; and it is in holy books that rulers also discern the principles for guiding their own lives, so that what they teach in word will match how they act in deed.47 Strengthening the tone of Gregory’s Latin, Alfred thus stresses that rulers must never ‘swerve from the desire of reading and learning the holy Scriptures’,48 lest they lose sight of the teachings they are called to live by. Indeed, Alfred brings out just this connection between books and behaviour in an earlier passage near the beginning of Book I, when, tellingly, he renders Gregory’s ‘qui uiuendo non perficiunt quae meditando didicerunt’ (‘those who do not fulfil by living what they learn through meditating’) as ‘∂a swa nylla∂ libban swa hie on bocum leornedon’ (‘those who are unwilling to live as they have learned in books’).49 44

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Alfred, PC, p. 169, lines 1–15: ‘Ac eall ∂iss areda∂ se reccere sui∂e rythe, ∂onne he for Godes lufum & for Godes ege de∂ ∂æt ∂æt he de∂, & ælce dæge geornfullice smea∂ ∂a bebodu halegra gewrita, ∂ætte on him sie upparæred se cræft ∂ære giemenne ymbe ∂a foresceawunga ∂æs hefonlican lifes, ∂onne singallice ∂isse eor∂lican drohtunge gewuna wile toweorpan, buton hine sio myndgung ∂ara haligra gewrita onbryrde; for∂æm se eor∂lica geferscipe hine tieh∂ on ∂a lufe his ealdan ungewunan, he sceal simle higian ∂æt he weor∂e onbryrde & geedniwad to ∂æm hefonlican e∂le. Ac his mod bi∂ sui∂e ie∂egende & sui∂e abisgad mid eor∂licra monna wordum, for∂am hit is openlice cu∂ ∂ætte sio uterre abisgung ∂issa worold∂inga ∂æs monnes mod gedref∂, & hine scofett hidres ∂ædres, o∂∂æt he afiel∂ of his agnum willan; ac him bi∂ ∂earf ∂æt he hine genime simle be ∂ære leornunge haligra gewrita, & be ∂am arise.’ Alfred, PC, p. 171, line 9: ‘on pære lare haligra boca’. Cf. Alfred, PC, p. 171, lines 24–5; p. 172, lines 1–2, where unlearned teachers are castigated. Alfred, PC, p. 171, lines 11–17: ‘Îæt is ∂onne ∂æt mon ∂a earce bere on ∂æm sahlum, ∂æt ∂a godan lareowas ∂a halgan gesomnunge beo∂ lærende pa niewan & pa ungeleaffullan mod mid hiera lare gelæde to ryhtum geleafan. Îa sahlas is beboden ∂æt sceoldon bion mid golde befangne. Îæt is, ∂onne pa lareowas mid wordum o∂re men læra∂, ∂æt hie eac selfe on hiera agnum weorcum beorhte scienen.’ Alfred, PC, p. 171, lines 20 –1. The full sentence (17–21) reads: ‘Be ∂am saglum is sui∂e gesceadlice gecueden ∂æt hie sculon simle stician on ∂am hringum, & næfre ne moton him beon ofatogene, for∂æm is micel nied∂earf ∂ætte ∂a ∂e beo∂ gesette to ∂ære ∂enunga ∂æs lareowdomes ∂æt hie næfre ne gewiten from ∂ære geornfulnesse ∂ære rædinge & leornunge haligra gewrita.’ Alfred, PC, p. 29, lines 18–19.

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Finally, Gregory insists that it is the ruler’s duty to act as a judge. The Life, we recall, concludes with an account of Alfred presiding over ‘judicial hearings for the benefit both of his nobles and of the common people, since they frequently disagreed violently amongst themselves at the assemblies of ealdormen and reeves, to the point where virtually none of them could agree that any judgment reached by the ealdormen or reeves in question was just’.50 Early on in Book II of the Regula pastoralis, while laying out the proper conduct of the ruler, Gregory touches briefly on just this prerogative of the rector. The ruler must, he says, exhibit a ‘zeal for correction’51 which must be neither too lenient nor too severe. The next few chapters abandon the theme, but it is picked up again and elaborated at length in Chapter 6. The central point of this section is the ruler’s need to exhibit both discipline and compassion, so that sin may be rooted out, and humility and charity preserved: The ruler (ealdormon) must put himself on a level with his subjects: he must be the companion of well-doers from humility; he must be severe with the faults of sinners from righteous zeal, and must not exalt himself above the good; and yet, when he perceives the sins of the perverse, let him consider the authority of his office. 52 The implications Alfred saw in this section for secular authority appear in his translation of rector with ealdormon ‘nobleman, secular ruler’. As judge, the ruler must never forget that he is a man amongst men, sinful like the rest.53 He must beware lest pride ensue from his perceived status and power to discipline others. Paraphrasing a key passage from the Moralia, Gregory thus reminds the ruler that ‘all men are born alike’, 54 urging those in power ‘not to think too much of their own authority, but of how like they naturally are to other men’. 55 Yet the ruler’s 50

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Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 106, lines 1–2: ‘Studebat is in iudiciis etiam propter nobilium et ignobilium suorum utilitatem, qui saepissime in contionibus comitum et praepositorum pertinacissime inter se dissentiebant, ita ut pene nullus eorum, quicquid comitibus et praepositis iudicatum fuisset, uerum esse concederet’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 109. Alfred, PC, p. 79, lines 10 –11: ‘geornfulnesse ∂ære ryhtinge’. Alfred, PC, p. 107, lines 8–13: ‘Se ealdormon sceal lætan hine selfne gelicne his hieremonnum: he sceal bion hira gefera for ea∂modnesse ∂ara ∂eah ∂e wel don; he sceal bion wi∂ ∂ara agyltendra un∂eawas upahæfen for ∂æm andan his ryhtwysnesse, & ∂ætte he on nænegum ∂ingum hine beteran ne do ∂æm godum; & ∂æh ∂onne he ongiete ∂a scylda ∂ara ∂weortiemena, ∂onne ge∂ence he ∂one ealdordom his onwealdes . . .’ Alfred, PC, p. 117, lines 11–24. Alfred, PC, p. 107, lines 18–19: ‘æghwelc mon wære o∂rum gelic acenned’. Alfred, PC, pp. 107, lines 23–5; p. 109, lines 1–2: ‘For∂æm ealle ∂a ∂e fore o∂rum bieon sculon ne sculon hi na sua sui∂e ne sua oft ge∂encean hiera ealdordomes sua hie sculon ge∂encean hu gelice hie beo∂ o∂rum monnum on hira gecynde.’ Gregory here invokes Moralia in Job 21.15.22, part of which is quoted in n. 37 above.

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recognition of human equality must not keep him from punishing vice. Peter recognized Cornelius as his equal when the centurion bowed down before him, and thereby revealed his humility; but ‘on the other hand, he showed his zeal and authority in the punishment of Ananias and Saphirra’.56 So too, while preserving humility ‘internally’ (innan), the ruler must utilize his ‘authority and power’ 57 to extirpate vice now to lessen the consequences of divine retribution later. In this way, he will mirror the Divine Judge, mingling ‘gentleness and severity’. 58 These passages, then, establish a rationale for Alfred’s ‘listening eagerly and attentively to Holy Scripture’, 59 for his always reading ‘books aloud himself ’ or to listening ‘to others doing so’,60 for his looking carefully ‘into nearly all judgments which were passed in his absence anywhere in his realm’,61 for his ‘going (without his household knowing) to various churches to pray’, 62 and for his decision, made later in life when the war against the Danes began to subside, to ‘render to God . . . one half of his mental and bodily effort both by day and by night’.63 When viewed in light not merely of Asser’s desire to represent Alfred as pious, but of a quest for the wisdom which Alfred himself everywhere speaks of in his own writings, 64 and which he found mapped out in Gregory as being nothing less than his kingly duty, such behaviour becomes intelligible as something other than mere hagiographic padding. Gregory’s text established the protocol for the ideal rector, requiring above all that he live ‘spiritually’ (gæstlice). In translating the work, one can be sure, given what has been said about the 56

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Alfred, PC, p. 115, lines 21–2: ‘eft on Annanian & on Saffiran gecy∂de his ni∂ & his onwald mid ∂ære wræce’. Cf. Acts X.26. Alfred, PC, pp. 117, 119, lines 24–5: ‘Îonne ealdordom & ∂æt riceter’. Alfred, PC, p. 125, line 13: ‘∂a lie∂nesse wi∂ ∂a re∂nesse’. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 76, lines 26 –7, 29: ‘Divinam . . . scripturum . . . audire sedulus et sollicitus’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 91. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 81, lines 14–15: ‘per se ipsum libros recitare, aut aliis recitantibus audire’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 97. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 106, lines 17–19: ‘. . . omnia pene totius suae regionis iudicia, quae in absentia sua fiebant’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 109. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 76, lines 14–16: ‘ecclesias . . . orandi causa clam a suis adire solebat et frequentabat’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 91. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 103, lines 6 –11: ‘. . . dimidiam partem servitii mentis et corporis, diurno scilicet ac nocturno tempore, suapte totisque viribus se redditurum Deo spopondit’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 107. On the theme of wisdom, see especially OE Boethius, c. 16, lines 10–27; c. 17, lines 28ff; c. 27.2, lines 24–9; and the Preface to the Pastoral Care, where Alfred connects divine retribution with the demise of wisdom. For illuminating discussion on this theme, see esp. Bately, The Literary Prose of King Alfred’s Reign: Translation or Transformation (London, 1980); T.A. Shippey, ‘Wealth and Wisdom in King Alfred’s Preface to the Old English Pastoral Care’, English Historical Review 94 (1979), pp. 346–55; P. Szarmach, ‘The Meaning of Alfred’s Preface to the Pastoral Care’, Mediaevalia 6 (1980), pp. 58– 9; and T. Hill, ‘The Crowning of Asser and the Topos of Sapientia et Fortitudo in Asser’s Life of King Alfred ’, Neophilologus 86 (2002), pp. 471–6.

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textuality of the medieval self, and about the application of the Pastoral Care to secular authority, that Alfred would have realized that here especially was a text which he should transform into himself by making its tenets take shape in his own life – and so the Life attests. Here, the task of translation was far more than a process of turning the text into Alfred’s own language; it was ultimately one of turning it into himself.

Texts, wisdom and spirituality What then is to be said about a spirituality grounded in this idea of living texts? The idea is not, of course, wholly novel. Monastic spirituality from its beginnings in the deserts of Egypt had emphasized reading as a necessary askesis, an idea subsequently transmitted to the west by writers such as Cassian and especially Benedict, whose notion of lectio divina so greatly influenced the tradition of later medieval spirituality.65 As I have tried to show, a basic assumption of such spiritual reading, that a text should penetrate the self and thus come to serve as a model for behaviour, constitutes a helpful frame for understanding Alfred’s approach to texts, as depicted in Asser’s Life and as exemplified by the king’s own writings. The Life recurrently presents Alfred as immersed in texts and topoi, and I have analysed some of the more clinching moments where the interconnection between self and text in Alfred’s spiritual formation can be readily discerned. Further examples from the Life are easily multiplied. Chapter 99 tells us that Alfred’s decision to devote one half of his service and riches to God came in response to his ‘once hearing a passage in scripture to the effect that the Lord had promised to repay His tithe many times over, and had faithfully kept his promise’.66 Three chapters later we learn that the king’s allotting one-fourth of his riches to the poor was prompted, revealingly, by his recalling a passage in Gregory’s Regula pastoralis,67 while the very next chapter relates that his decision to make an offering to God ‘in the way of service of his own body and mind’ stemmed

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See n. 11 above. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 99, lines 5–8: ‘iamdudam in lege scriptum audierat, Dominum decinam sibi multipliciter redditurum promisse atque fideliter seruasse, decimamque sibi multipliciter redditurum fuisse’. Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 102, lines 5–14: ‘. . . in quator partibus aequis etiam curiose suos ministros illam dividere imperauit, ea condicione, ut prima pars illius diuisionis pauperibus uniuscuiusque gentis, qui ad eum ueniebant, discretissime erogaretur. Memorabat etiam in hoc, quantum humana discretio custodire poterat, illius sancti papae Gregorii observandam esse sententiam, qua discretam mentionem diuidendae eleemosynae ita dicens agebat: “Nec paruum cui multum, nec multum cui paruum, nec nihil cui aliquid, nec aliquid cui nihil”.’ The quotation is paraphrased from Regula pastoralis 3.20 (PL 77: 84A).

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similarly from Augustine’s Enchiridion.68 In these examples, as in those considered above, Alfred’s behaviour is, quite simply, governed by texts. They orient, by providing a structure for, his actions. The text is not merely read but recalled and then performed – and so in a sense completed. On this view, texts are meant to be lived, and selves, conversely, to be constructed through texts. What is unique about the way this view of text and self takes shape in both the Life and Alfred’s writings is the links therein forged between texts, wisdom, and spirituality. The configuration may pervade much Christian literature, but Alfred’s treatment is noteworthy in the way it maps out the precise relation of the three. The conceptual connections between them are established most clearly in Alfred’s writings. It is perhaps best to begin with the middle term, wisdom. In his Boethius, Alfred lays out the orthodox Christian conception of man as reflecting (though only dimly due to sin) God’s image by virtue of his reason and as destined through faith and good works to one day dwell with Him in heaven. As he has Wisdom explain, clarifying his source in demonstrably orthodox directions: But man alone has reason, not any other creature. Therefore he has surpassed all earthly creatures by virtue of his thought and understanding . . . You, Lord, have given to souls a dwelling in Heaven, and on them you bestow worthy gifts, to each according to its merit, and you cause them to shine very bright . . . You, Lord, gather the heavenly souls and the earthly bodies, and unite them in this world. As they came hither from you, so too shall they return to you hence.69 But to come thither, while on earth men must Leornia∂ . . . wisdom (‘learn wisdom’).70 As Alfred makes clear both in his Boethius and his Soliloquies, wisdom is man’s highest good.71 In its perfect state, it is 68

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Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 103, lines 1–5: ‘His ita ordinabiliter ab eodem rege dispositis, memor illius diuinae scripturae sententiae, qua dicitur: “Qui uult eleemosynam dare, a semet ipso debet incipere”, etiam quid a proprio corporis sui et mentis seruitio Deo offerret, prudenter excogitauit.’ As Stevenson points out (Life, p. 89), Asser mistakenly attributes the quote from Augustine’s Enchiridion, c. 20 to Scripture. Alfred, OE Boethius, pp. 81–2, lines 21–3, 32–5, 2–5: ‘Ac se mon ana hæf∂ gesceadwisnesse, nalles nan o∂ru gesceaft; for∂i he hæf∂ oferpungen ealle pa eor∂lican gesceafta mid ge∂eahte & mid andgite . . . Hwæt pu, Drihten, forgeafe pa sawlum eard on hiofonu, 7 him pær gifst weor∂lice gifa, ælcere be hire geearnunge; & gedest pæt hi scina∂ swi∂e beorhte . . . Hwæt pu, Drihten, gegæderast pa hiofonlican sawla 7 pa eorlican lichoman, 7 hi on ∂isse worulde gemengest. Swa swa hi from pe hider comon, swa hi eac to pe hionan fundia∂.’ Alfred, OE Boethius, p. 35, line 18. For discussion of the philosophical Augustinian background to Alfred’s view, see Szarmach, ‘Meaning of Alfred’s Preface ’ (n. 64 above), pp. 63 –70. See also Kempshall, ‘Ideology of Kingship’ (n. 30 above), pp. 112–15.

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synonymous with God. On earth, man cannot attain it perfectly. 72 The best he can do is to strive after wisdom as best he can, so that ‘all who are on this earth might love it and search after it, indeed, find it, and then use it’.73 This, indeed, is man’s God-given duty. Consequently, to neglect wisdom is to act wretchedly and even to jeopardize the hope of salvation.74 Yet those who do strive for it now ensure that they will receive it fully later: ‘. . . as he works harder here and more eagerly strives after wisdom and righteousness, so he has more of it there, and so too greater favour and greater glory’. 75 But where is this wisdom to be found on earth? This Alfred makes clear in his Preface to the Pastoral Care : it is to be found in those books which are ‘the most necessary for all men to know’. 76 The argument of the Preface turns on the correlation Alfred develops between wisdom, the texts of the past, and spiritual prosperity. Alfred’s ancestors, because ‘they loved wisdom’77 and ‘perfectly learned all the books’, 78 were blessed by God with ‘happy times’.79 His contemporaries, however, paying no heed to the past, ‘did not cherish learning nor transmit it to other men’,80 and so were punished for not fulfilling the divine command to cultivate wisdom: ‘We were Christians in name alone and very few of us possessed Christian virtues.’ 81 The force of the argument is clearly rhetorical, setting book learning and wisdom in the distinct relation of means to end. Wisdom is to be cultivated, in other words, through an understanding of the texts of the past. The view is unique, as Janet Nelson has recently noted. ‘Alfred’, she writes, ‘rejected the notion that wisdom in the world and book-learning are quite separate spheres, or exclusive categories. In Alfred’s book, they were compatible, and could overlap, just as worldly goods and heavenly rewards could go together.’82 72 73

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Cf. Alfred, OE Boethius, p. 145, lines 7–13; also Soliloquies, p. 78, lines 3–24. Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 76, lines 21–3: ‘ælc man pe on pis myddangearde wære hine lufode, and hym æfter spirede, and hyne æac funde, and hys sy∂∂an bruce’. Cf. p. 75, lines 16 –19. Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 97, lines 14–16: ‘Îi me pinc∂ swi∂e dysig man and swi∂e unlæde, pe nele hys andgyt æcan pa hwile pe he on pisse weorulde by∂, and simle wiscan and willian pæt he mote cuman to ∂am æcan lyfe pær us nanwiht ne by∂ dygles.’ Alfred, Soliloquies, p. 94, lines 11–13: ‘swa ær he hær swi∂or swinc∂ and swi∂or giorn∂ wisdomes and rihtwisnesse, swa he hys pær mare hæft, and æac maren are and maren wuldor’. Alfred, PC, p. 7, line 7: ‘niedbe∂earfosta sien eallum monnum to wiotonne’. Alfred, PC, p. 5, line 14: ‘hie lufodon wisdom’. Alfred, PC, p. 5, line 20: ‘∂a bec eallæ befullan geliornod hæfdon’. Alfred, PC, p. 3, line 4: ‘gesæliglica tida’. Alfred, PC, p. 5, line 6: ‘hit . . . ne lufedon ne eac o∂rum monnum ne lefdon’; trans. Keynes and Lapidge, p. 125. Alfred, PC, p. 5, lines 6 –7: ‘∂one naman anne we hæfdon ∂ætte we Cristene wæron, & swi∂e feawe pa ∂eawas’. J. Nelson, ‘The Political Ideas of Alfred of Wessex’, in A. Duggan (ed.), Kings and Kingship in Medieval Europe (London, 1993), pp. 125–58, at p. 157.

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If it was a task of Alfred’s writings to clarify the proper relation between texts and wisdom, it was a function of Asser’s Life, finally, to present a model of the spirituality derived from the pursuit of wisdom through texts. As king and scholar, Alfred lived with the notion of being an example for others. His ‘devout enthusiasm for the pursuit of divine wisdom’83 through texts, vividly illustrated by Asser in the Life, enacts the plan for cultural renewal envisaged in the Preface to the Pastoral Care, bringing that text to life, so to speak. By mimetically representing Alfred’s quest, Asser’s biography aims not just at documenting the past for history’s sake. The past it records is offered as an example for present and future readers of the text, showing them what goods should be imitated, and what evils avoided. The Life’s depiction of Alfred’s spirituality must be seen within this discursive framework. Here, the function of the text is not so much to chronicle the king’s spirituality, as to package it as a model of spiritual selfhood anticipating and expecting future instantiation by others. It demonstrates the role books played in Alfred’s own spiritual development, how a spiritual self can be created in textual terms. Just as Gregory’s and Einhard’s texts mapped out narratives as models for incorporation into Alfred’s own life, in the same way Asser’s text, by showing how Alfred himself internalized these and other texts, furnishes its readers with a narrative for imitation. In this connection the Life performs an important cultural function, not just of promoting the value of literacy, as Lerer has argued,84 but of illustrating the spiritual value of texts in man’s journey to wisdom. Indeed, like the tracks left by Alfred’s ancestors, texts can guide man to wisdom and should be appropriated for this purpose; for by pursuing wisdom, man is pursuing the course God meant him to pursue – he is pursuing God.85 University of Michigan, Dearborn

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Asser, Vita Alfredi, c. 88, lines 12–13: ‘devotam . . . studium divinae sapientiae voluntatem’. See. S. Lerer, Literacy and Power in Anglo-Saxon England (Lincoln, NE, 1991), pp. 61–96. As Alfred’s Augustine puts it in the Soliliquies, p. 85, lines 3–7: ‘hwæt is se hehsta wysdom æalles buton pæt hehste good? o∂∂e hwæt is pæt hehste good buton pæt ælc man on pisse wurlde swa miclum lufa∂ go∂ swa wisdom lufa∂? Sam he hine miclum lufige, sam he hine lytlum lufige, sam he hine mydlinga lufige, be pam dæle he lufa∂ god pe he wisdom lufa∂.’

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Review article: On farmers, traders and kings: archaeological reflections of social complexity in early medieval north-western Europe A  R 

The Making of Kingdoms. Edited by Tania Dickinson and David Griffiths. Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History 10. Oxford: Oxford University School of Archaeology. 1999. viii + 215 pp. + 120 illustrations, 4 tables. ISBN 0 947816 93 3. Farming in the First Millennium AD. By Peter Fowler. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2002. xviii + 393 pp. + 53 illustrations. ISBN 0 521 89056 X. Wics: The Early Mediaeval Trading Centres of Northern Europe. Edited by David Hill and Robert Cowie. Sheffield Archaeological Monographs 14. Sheffield. 2001. xi + 143 pp. + 19 illustrations, 16 tables. ISBN 1 84127 286 8. Catholme: An Anglo-Saxon Settlement on the Trent Gravels in Staffordshire. By Stuart Losco-Bradley and Gavin Kinsley. Nottingham Archaeological Monographs 3. Nottingham. 2002. xi +135 pp. + 114 illustrations, 7 tables. ISBN 0 904857 13 1.

Introduction Over the last thirty years, archaeology has revolutionized our understanding of early medieval societies in north-western Europe and beyond. Social and economic networks have been reconstructed using archaeological evidence alone, while a conscious stress on the methodological concerns of working in a period where written sources are available is now a commonplace in medieval archaeology; for many years archaeological interpretations were largely dictated by documentary evidence, a Early Medieval Europe   () – © Blackwell Publishing Ltd ,  Garsington Road, Oxford OX DQ, UK and  Main Street, Malden, MA , USA

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feature now taken into account by those working from the perspective of physical remains.1 A notable and regrettable feature, however, is that the various sub-disciplines within archaeology are all too infrequently combined, with the result that wide-ranging book-length syntheses, based largely on archaeological evidence, are rare. 2 With the exception of Denmark, Germany and the Low Countries in particular, 3 early medieval rural settlement studies have been pursued by a valiant few, while rather more is known, or at least written, about urban-type settlements and high-status sites across Europe. Meanwhile, cemetery studies of the migration period remain the mainstay of early medieval archaeology in England and in Europe.4 Material culture is on the whole relatively well understood throughout much of the period in England and in Europe, while the considerable amount of environmental data from archaeological excavation remains without substantial overview. The books collectively reviewed here contribute to remedying the lacunae highlighted above and were chosen to explore how the different topics and themes addressed in each of the volumes could be linked to each other with an eye to comparing interpretations from micro to macro level. The volumes between them present an individual site, a national study, a thematic European survey and a substantial collection of north-west European syntheses on a wide range of topics. The format of this article, then, is determined by the geographical and topical remit of each of the four volumes. The Anglo-Saxon settlement at Catholme is dealt with first, followed by Peter Fowler’s new review of the English rural scene in the first millennium. The collection of papers on the wic sites of north-western Europe links England with the continent and Scandinavia, while the proceedings of the 1996 Sachsensymposium in York provide an array of case studies of kingdom formation, providing a wider social and political context again. 1

2

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D. Austin, ‘The “Proper Study” of Medieval Archaeology’, in D. Austin and L. Alcock (eds), From the Baltic to the Black Sea: Studies in Medieval Archaeology (London and New York, 1990), pp. 9–42, at p. 9. One notable exception being K. Randsborg, The First Millennium A.D. in Europe and the Mediterranean (Cambridge, 1991). See also now H. Hamerow, Early Medieval Settlements: The Archaeology of Rural Communities in North-West Europe 400–900 (Oxford, 2002). W.A. Van Es, ‘Wijster: A Native Village Beyond the Imperial Frontier’, Palaeohistoria 11 (1964); D. Gerrets, ‘Evidence of Political Centralization in Westergo: Wijnaldum-Tjitsma in a supra-regional Perspective’, in T. Dickinson and D. Griffiths (eds), The Making of Kingdoms (Oxford, 1999), pp. 119–26, at p. 119; W. TeBrake, ‘Early Medieval Agriculture in Coastal Holland: The Evidence from Archaeology and Ecology’, in K. Biddick (ed.), Archaeological Approaches to Medieval Europe (Kalamazoo, 1984), pp. 171–89; idem, Medieval Frontier: Culture and Ecology in Rijnland (College Station, 1985); Hamerow, Early Medieval Settlements. W. Janssen, ‘Current Research Concerns in Medieval Archaeology in West Germany’, in Biddick, Archaeological Approaches, pp. 281–300, at p. 281; S. Lucy and A. Reynolds, ‘Burial in Early Medieval England and Wales: Past, Present and Future’, in S. Lucy and A. Reynolds (eds), Burial in Early Medieval England and Wales (London, 2002), pp. 1–23, at p. 1.

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Catholme Catholme is an important if, until now, neglected site that bridges the divide between the well-known settlement archaeology of early AngloSaxon England and the relatively clear view that we have of the appearance and function of the medieval countryside: comparable sites are few, but not unknown. The period of occupation revealed by extensive C14 dating makes it a key excavation for our understanding of early seventh- to later ninth- or tenth-century rural settlement in England, that poorly understood yet crucial period out of which the medieval and modern landscape emerged. The settlement lay on the Trent gravels in Staffordshire on the northern edge of what later became known as the ‘Champion’ agricultural region of medieval England. The pattern of medieval and later settlements in the immediate vicinity indicates dense and potentially mobile settlement, a topic to which we shall return below. The Catholme excavations took place between 1973 and 1980 and those with nostalgia for such large-scale field projects will find in the Preface a warm account of archaeological fieldwork on a research excavation. The authors and contributors are to be congratulated for bringing the fieldwork to publication in such a user-friendly way, although some readers might have appreciated rather more quantified data. The area investigated measured c.220m × 180m, which is substantial in comparison with most other excavated English settlements. Three prehistoric circular features were identified at the south-eastern edge of the site in an area largely devoid of Anglo-Saxon features. Remnant ridge and furrow apparently respected the largest of these features and a barrow is suggested to have been visible throughout the lifetime of the settlement. These monuments, however, appear to have had little influence otherwise on the morphology of the settlement or the alignment of individual buildings. Roman pottery, limited to ninety-four sherds, indicates a lack of Roman occupation within the excavated area. Fieldwalking immediately to the south of the excavation revealed rather more Roman material, but also handmade Anglo-Saxon pottery in quantities indicating that the settlement of that period was extensive, a contention borne out by aerial photographic evidence. Archaeological features relating to the Anglo-Saxon settlement comprised both ditched and fenced boundaries, some forming trackways, pits, including fire-pits and probable latrines, sixty-five structures (thirteen Grubenhäuser and fifty-two ‘hall-type’ buildings) and four burials (three human and one cow). In no instance did boundary features cut structures, and the authors draw attention to the presence of pottery in many of these early boundaries attesting to planned occupation from © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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Fig. 1 Catholme, Staffordshire: Plan of middle Anglo-Saxon structures and features. Note the ‘central farm’ with a trackway to the west and a high frequency of superimposition of buildings. PM = Prehistoric features. (Reproduced by kind permission of Gavin Kinsley, Trent and Peak Archaeological Unit.)

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the outset. Most notably, the plan shows a ‘central’ enclosure (of course, a function of the limits of excavation) approached by a long-lived trackway leading from the west (see Fig. 1). Parts of further enclosed areas lay on all sides of the ‘central farm’, with buildings in particular concentrations in the central area and to the north, west and south. In terms of orientation, the structures take two alignments (broadly speaking N–S and W–E), with little deviation. Several of the Grubenhäuser appear to have been floored, two possibly with organic material, and in two cases with sand and gravel spread over the base of the pit (structures AS50b, AS32 and AS62a and b). Two locales revealed rare evidence for re-cutting of Grubenhäuser (AS50/51 and AS64). Numerous pits were distributed fairly evenly over the site. Housed latrines are suggested by green-stained pits, in some cases with postholes at either side and comparisons can be drawn with a number of other sites of the period with similar features including North Elmham (Norfolk) and Cheddar (Somerset).5 The structures are clearly reported upon with two plans of each, one showing the excavated evidence, the other an interpretation depicting depths and profiles of features. Overall, the range of building types falls well within the repertoire of Anglo-Saxon timber structures, with both earthfast and wall-trench foundations. The buildings tend to be smaller than others of seventh century and later date, but compare well with those from early Anglo-Saxon settlements including Bishopstone (Sussex) and Mucking (Essex). 6 Evidence for internal partitions was found in many of the buildings. Four structures had annexes of which three of these are rather short in comparison with buildings elsewhere (structures AS38, AS42 and AS61). Philip Dixon’s excellent discussion of the structural evidence notes that ‘there can be no certainty that these annexes were a roofed component of the building, rather than an attached enclosure’; could they be stairwells to an upper floor or loft? Besides the presence of an annex on the south side of the west end, the main part of structure AS42 was a square, each side measuring 6m and such buildings are rare. More notable, however, is the ‘L’-shaped structure AS43, an impressive building of two phases with the main compartment measuring 12.5m × 6m and the smaller element 3.75m × 6m in its final form (see Fig. 2). The building is stratigraphically one of the latest and lies within the ‘central farm’ area. The total floor area compares with the Period 1 Long hall from Cheddar,

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P. Wade-Martins, Excavations in North Elmham Park, 1967–72 (Gressenhall, 1980), p. 128, Fig. 113; P. Rahtz, The Saxon and Medieval Palaces at Cheddar (Oxford, 1979), p. 152, Fig. 52. M. Bell, ‘Excavations at Bishopstone, Sussex’, Sussex Archaeological Collections 115 (1978); H. Hamerow, Excavations at Mucking Volume 2: The Anglo-Saxon Settlement (London, 1992).

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Fig. 2 Building AS43 from Catholme, Staffordshire. This unusual structure is paralleled at North Elmham and appears to foreshadow the more complex architecture of late Anglo-Saxon thegnly residences. (Reproduced by kind permission of Gavin Kinsley, Trent and Peak Archaeological Unit.)

which is slightly larger.7 Direct comparisons are rare but include the tenth-century Building P from North Elmham. 8 Three human burials (all very poorly preserved) and part of a human skull were recovered from different parts of the site. Two of the burials lay adjacent to entrances to enclosures, while in each case the remains are associated with enclosure boundary features. A cow burial was located at the south-eastern edge of the site and is paralleled at Cowdery’s Down (Hampshire).9 The human remains reflect a general background noise of isolated burials in middle and late Anglo-Saxon settlements, including Bramford (Suffolk), Cheddar, Cottam (East Yorkshire) and 7 8 9

Rahtz, Saxon and Medieval Palaces, p. 101, Figs 30 and 31. Wade-Martins, North Elmham Park, p. 140, Fig. 122. M. Maltby, ‘The Animal Bone’, in M. Millett with S. James, ‘Excavations at Cowdery’s Down, Basingstoke, Hampshire, 1978–81’, Archaeological Journal 140 (1983), pp. 151–279, at p. 258.

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Hamwic (Southampton), among many others. 10 The presence of a human skull fragment is reminiscent of the remarkable finds from the ninth- to twelfth-century settlement at Baston in Lincolnshire. Here two fragments of human cranium, one cut to a ‘mask-like’ shape came from boundary ditches, in this case associated with other ‘non-domestic’ features including a boat-shaped pit with burnt contents and a similarly shaped stakehole setting.11 The material culture of the Catholme settlement is poor. There are no sceattas, pins, or brooches, those hallmarks of the better known highstatus ‘productive’, minster and/or secular sites such as Brandon and Flixborough.12 Sherds from only three vessels bore simple decoration, while the entire assemblage comprised handmade wares of local origin with the exception of sherds containing granite derived temper, probably from North Leicestershire. As Alan Vince’s discussion notes, this latter pottery may have been made at or near Catholme but using imported temper. The Catholme residents seem not to have engaged in the procurement of higher status materials. In fact, the extent of exotica amongst the early medieval population appears to have been limited to [a predilection for] sherds of oxidized Roman pottery, presumably picked up in the fields, perhaps with an amuletic function (as suggested by Ruth Leary in her report). Economic poverty seems an unlikely reason for the absence of imports as the settlement exhibits remarkable stability during its lifetime (i.e. it is successful). A more convincing explanation is that of the role of the settlement in social terms. The Catholme farms, for example, need not have been actually owned by their occupiers who are equally as likely to have been tenants or even slaves. That such low-status settlements formed a distinct component of the early medieval English landscape is indicated, for example, by the numerous place names of ‘Charlton’ (ceorl’s tun) and related type. Widespread smithing activity indicates a lower status settlement. Acidic soils have ensured very poor preservation of organic remains, especially of plants and animals. The 10

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A. Reynolds, ‘Burials, Boundaries and Charters in Anglo-Saxon England: A Reassessment’, in Lucy and Reynolds, Burial in Early Medieval England, pp. 171–94; idem, ‘Boundaries and Settlements in later Sixth- to Eleventh-Century England’, in D. Griffiths, A. Reynolds and S. Semple (eds), Boundaries in Early Medieval Britain, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History 12 (Oxford, 2003), pp. 98–136 at p. 132; idem, Anglo-Saxon Law in the Landscape (forthcoming). M. Jarvis, ‘Baston, Hall Farm (TF 114138)’, Medieval Settlement Research Group Annual Report 8 (1993), p. 61. R. Carr, P. Tester and P. Murphy, ‘The Middle Saxon Settlement at Staunch Meadow, Brandon’, Antiquity 62 (1988), pp. 371–6; C. Loveluck, ‘Wealth, Waste and Conspicuous Consumption: Flixborough and its Importance for Middle and Late Saxon Rural Settlement Studies’, in H. Hamerow and A. MacGregor (eds), Image and Power in the Archaeology of Early Medieval Britain (Oxford, 2001), pp. 78–130.

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faunal remains are few but pig, cow and horse are represented. Several four-post structures may be prehistoric, although granaries might be expected at a farm of this period as at Wicken Bonhunt. 13 What of Catholme’s wider significance? The period of occupation is of the greatest importance, while the archaeology indicates a stable settlement with, as far as can be judged, little evidence for significant expansion or contraction at any time up to the abandonment of the site. The beginning and end of Catholme’s middle Anglo-Saxon sequence compares well with horizons observed at other English settlements with seventh-century origins, such as Raunds (Northamptonshire), where the seventh-century settlement became the site of a typical ‘thegnly’ residence in the late ninth century. 14 At Wicken Bonhunt (Essex) the seventh and tenth/eleventh centuries are the significant horizons, as they are at North Elmham.15 Recent archaeological work at an increasing number of places is indicating sixth-/seventh-century origins for settlements that then persisted or developed into later times, for example at Lechlade, Gloucestershire and Raunds as noted above. 16 The major difference, of course, is that Catholme does not survive much beyond AD 900 and explanations for this must be sought. Viking activity is a possible explanation but, more likely, the settlement was a casualty of changing economic regimes and the reorganization of town and country that seems to have taken place in the late Anglo-Saxon period.17 Urban growth begins in the region in the ninth century 18 and the occupants of Catholme may have either migrated into one of the expanding towns of the region, like Derby or Tamworth, or become tied or relocated into a manorial context. Helena Hamerow’s wide-ranging discussion of the character of, and comparisons with, Catholme focusses on both the scale and period of occupation and on the possibility that ethnic aspects, namely British and Viking influence, might be found. The site lies both on the western edge of the known distribution of early Anglo-Saxon material culture and well within the later Danelaw. Ultimately there is little to tie the 13

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K. Wade, ‘A Settlement Site at Bonhunt Farm, Wicken Bonhunt, Essex’, in D. Buckley (ed.), Archaeology in Essex to AD 1500 (London, 1980), pp. 96 –9. A. Boddington, Raunds Furnells: The Anglo-Saxon Church and Churchyard (London, 1996), at p. 5. Wade, Wicken Bonhunt; Wade-Martins, North Elmham. M. Gaimster and J. Bradley, ‘Medieval Britain and Ireland in 2001’, Medieval Archaeology 46 (2002), pp. 146 – 64, at p. 160. T. Brown and G. Foard, ‘The Saxon Landscape: A Regional Perspective’, in P. Everson and T. Williamson (eds), The Archaeology of Landscape (Manchester, 1998), pp. 67–94; D. Hooke, The Landscape of Anglo-Saxon England (Leicester, 1998). A. Vince, ‘The Growth of Market Centres and Towns in the Area of the Mercian Hegemony’, in M. Brown and C. Farr (eds), Mercia: An Anglo-Saxon Kingdom in Europe (London and New York, 2001), pp. 183–93, at p. 192.

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archaeology to either of these ethnic scenarios, while the place name is composed seemingly of an English personal name ‘Catta’ and ‘Old Norse ‘holmr’ (island). Scandinavian place names are rare in Staffordshire, thus the potential that a Scandinavian element might be detected in either the structural or artefactual record at the site indeed demanded close attention, yet nothing of this nature was revealed. Parallels with middle Anglo-Saxon Yarnton (Oxfordshire) and Riby Cross Roads (Lincolnshire) are drawn and each of these sites exhibits a common settlement module comprising enclosures measuring c.60m across and noted at an increasing number of sites (see for example the latest phases of West Stow, Suffolk).19 Hamerow concludes with the important observation that Catholme should not be seen as an ‘exceptional settlement’ and that regional variation is still an issue about which we know very little. There is one aspect, however, where the discussion might have been significantly advanced; the relationship between the excavated settlement and the framework of medieval and later settlement. Local settlement names provide an important source for developing our understanding of the local context of the site. A brief comment on the ‘deserted’ settlement of Catton, one kilometre south of Catholme, suggests that it may be either one of its successors or an indicator of a lost estate with little relation to the later administrative geography. The distribution of the numerous ‘cat’ names in the vicinity compared with the pattern of parish boundaries supports such a view. Further place names in the area include Walton, Barton and Burton and very probably indicate a complex chronological layering of names. Catholme evidently did not fit into the tenth-century settlement framework of the region, which suggests a reorganization of lands, perhaps contemporary with the shiring of the region.20 An essay on Catholme and its relationship to later settlement by a later medieval specialist would have rounded off this otherwise excellent volume rather neatly.

Farming in the First Millennium Peter Fowler’s book fills a yawning gap in the literature in his survey of the nature of agriculture and settlement throughout the first millennium AD. At once one is struck by (or rather reminded of ) Fowler’s impressive command of his subject, and the present volume is intended to follow on from his The Farming of Prehistoric Britain published some 19

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S. West, West Stow: The Anglo-Saxon Village (Ipswich, 1985), Fig. 300; Reynolds, Boundaries and Settlements. The shiring of Northamptonshire in the late ninth or tenth century is discussed in G. Foard, ‘The Administrative Organisation of Northamptonshire in the Saxon Period’, Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History 4 (1985), pp. 185–222.

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twenty years ago.21 Fowler’s previous essays on Anglo-Saxon agriculture remain core reading on the subject.22 While many archaeologists work on settlement remains, few consider the full range and nature of the potential agricultural functions of the sites they study. Fowler’s new book, therefore, deserves a much wider readership than its title suggests and should be found on the bookshelf of anyone with an interest in early agriculture. Fowler does not attempt a detailed synthesis of every aspect of Roman and early medieval rural life, but instead chooses select case studies to illustrate the variety of farms and farming throughout the period. After introductory material, the chapters cover Environment, Land, Settlements, Farms, Fields, Technology, Ard and Plough, Arable, Livestock and Food and Diet; the book concludes with two chapters, one on ‘Agrarian Society’, the other on ‘Farming’. The wide remit of the main contents of the book is reflected in four appendices: the principal printed sources; a glossary of terms; a select list of sites and museums; and a list of herbs and medicinal plants. Following a few comments on ‘Settlements’, we shall comment on the two concluding chapters to examine their broader interpretations. The discussion of landscape is wide-ranging and provides a suitable backdrop for the settlement material. Five of the six ‘selected’ sites in the settlements chapter exhibit early medieval occupation (Cadbury Congresbury, West Heslerton, West Stow, Flixborough and the Brough of Birsay on Orkney). The selection might have included one of the late Anglo-Saxon manorial sites given the key significance of this type of settlement to the development of the lowland English landscape into the Middle Ages and beyond. West Heslerton is also chosen despite the fact that so little information is previously published – not least a clear plan. Powlesland’s interpretation, of a zoned settlement with a high degree of social complexity at such an early date, makes West Heslerton rather difficult to place alongside what is known from other excavations. While this makes West Heslerton interesting, it does not yet provide a widely applicable model, despite attempts to argue that it should. 23 The discussion of West Stow omits the implications of the re-dating of Ipswich Ware, which extends the occupation sequence there by at least eighty years. The varying chronologies exhibited by first millennium settlements lead Fowler to conclude that ‘no particular merit seems 21 22

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P. Fowler, The Farming of Prehistoric Britain (Cambridge, 1983). P. Fowler, ‘Agriculture and Rural Settlement’, in D. Wilson (ed.), The Archaeology of AngloSaxon England (Cambridge, 1976), pp. 23–48; idem, ‘Farming in Early Medieval England: Some Fields for Thought’, in J. Hines (ed.), The Anglo-Saxons from the Migration Period to the Eighth Century (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 245–68. D. Powlesland, ‘Early Anglo-Saxon Settlements: Structures, Form and Layout’, in J. Hines (ed), The Anglo-Saxons from the Migration Period to the Eighth Century (Woodbridge, 1997), pp. 101–24.

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to exist in considering farms in historico-racial terms’ and, while Catholme appears to support his ‘racial’ point, it cannot be denied that documented processes can be identified in individual landscapes. There is a very much a stress on long-term tradition in rural life and Fowler is keen to emphasize that circumstances documented in the tenth and eleventh centuries most probably reflect practices with much earlier origins. Beating the bounds of estates, for example, is not explicitly documented before the Conquest, while few would doubt that the nature of such an event is likely to reflect the way that landscapes might be remembered back into prehistory. The detailed nature of the later Anglo-Saxon boundary clauses shows an intimate degree of mental mapping of lands, yet ferocious source criticism by historians has discouraged those interested in topography. This writer has argued elsewhere that the approaches of landscape archaeology to charter bounds is long overdue if we are to understand what is ultimately the subject matter of these documents; the landscape. 24 Fowler’s chronological development of English, and to some extent British, landscapes identifies the following periods: the mid-fifth to early seventh century, characterized by continuity and ‘some disruption’; the early seventh and eighth centuries, when land and settlements were consolidated; the ninth and tenth centuries, when the ‘manorial’ landscape emerged; and the eleventh century, which is seen as a further period of consolidation. There is little to disagree with in terms of the principal horizons identified. Many might read greater disruption and dislocation into the earliest phase and it remains that archaeology is less than forthcoming to support the view that little changed. Fowler’s eleventh-century phase in reality sees little if any development in the rural scene; even the suggested proliferation of manors, some fortified, is a well-attested feature of the settlement record of the late AngloSaxon period. Overall, the lasting contribution of this exciting and masterly book will be to encourage scholars to think about what actually happened at settlements, alongside the useful but sometimes abstract construction of classifications and typologies of buildings that normally form the core of settlement excavation reports.

Wics Wics: The Early Medieval Trading Centres concerns a special kind of settlement which also illustrates the magnitude of social change during 24

A. Reynolds, Review of D. Hooke, Warwickshire Anglo-Saxon Charter Bounds (Woodbridge, 1999), Medieval Archaeology 45 (2001), p. 432.

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the seventh century, particularly the second half. The growth of wics in the later seventh century has been termed the ‘rebirth of towns in the west’.25 Their decline in the ninth century is one of the principal features used by archaeologists to define the end of the middle AngloSaxon period in England. While I do not intend to become bogged down in a search for the defining characteristics of wics, it is worth noting that the sites so termed are in reality extremely varied in both extent and archaeological character.26 The basic attributes that they share, however, are coastal or riverine locations and evidence for international commerce in the form of ceramics and coins. Given local and regional variations in social organization between north-western European societies during the period of wic settlements, differences in both function and scale should be expected. The volume reviewed here is a collection ‘loosely based’ on a conference held in York in 1991. Certain of the papers have been substantially revised since, others not so, while further contributions were solicited after the conference. The academic climate within which individual contributions are framed is therefore quite variable and the book should not be seen as representative of scholarly thinking either at the time of the 1991 conference or at eventual publication in 2001. Rumble and Hill discuss the terminology and previous study of wics, followed by Saunders and then Cowie who review theoretical approaches and interpretations. Material culture has dominated discussion of wic sites and is well covered by chapters on pottery (Blackmore), glass (Stiff ), coins (Metcalf ) and faunal remains (O’Connor, Riddler). David Hinton is a notable absence and those interested in metalwork must turn to his recent publications on the Hamwic material. 27 The penultimate chapter on burials at wic sites (Scull) represents an important first attempt at synthesis, while the volume is concluded by Hill with appendices listing ‘known’ and ‘possible’ wic sites (curiously termed ‘English’ in the first list and ‘Anglo-Saxon’ in the second). A gazetteer of continental (and Scandinavian) wics is followed with extracts from contemporary written sources including the Life of St Anskar. Following the first three introductory papers, Cowie emphasizes the exceptional scale of the English wic sites (Ipswich, London, Southampton), which are on the whole larger than their continental counterparts with the exception of Birka, Dorestadt and Quentovic. Further comment is 25 26

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R. Hodges and B. Hobley (eds), The Rebirth of Towns in the West AD 700–1050 (London, 1988). See, for example, the areas of wics compared in D. Hill, M. Worthington, J. Warburton and D. Barrett, ‘The Definition of the Early Medieval Site of Quentovic’, Antiquity 66 (1992), pp. 965–9. D. Hinton, The Gold, Silver and Other Non-Ferrous Alloy Objects from Hamwic (Stroud, 1996); idem, ‘Metalwork and the Emporia’, in M. Anderton (ed), Anglo-Saxon Trading Centres: Beyond the Emporia (Glasgow, 1999), pp. 24–31.

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made on the potential scale of production at English wics, noting that the evidence is surprisingly limited; to pottery production at Ipswich, boneworking at Hamwic and, possibly, metalworking and weaving at London. Cowie’s discussion of sampling, chronology, preservation and recovery should be a prerequisite for students new to the subject matter and essential for those working from the perspective of other disciplines. Pottery, arguably our most important source for studying trade in northwestern Europe between the seventh and ninth centuries, is ably considered by Blackmore in a detailed and scholarly essay that brings a clear chronological and geographical dimension to the material and demonstrates an impressive command of the data. Blackmore notes the importance of considering ceramics alongside other materials, namely glass and metalwork; her contribution is also one of those updated since the 1991 conference and may be read as an account of current knowledge. Stiff considers vessel glass from selected English, Continental and Scandinavian wics, with a stress on the recovery rates from excavations and the partiality of assemblages, the latter being interpreted as an effect of careful recycling. Building on earlier work by Harden and Näsman, Baltic trading networks are identified as crucial to the distribution of glassware. Metcalf ’s essay on sceatta coinage in the wics is a highly personalized account written without references, which argues for a highly monetized economy not restricted to the wics but thoroughly embedded in local and regional networks. O’Connor and Riddler address the consumption of meat products and the processing of bone and antler respectively. O’Connor confirms Bourdillon’s earlier work at Hamwic noting the ‘distinctively dull’ assemblages of selected wic sites in comparison to inland central places, such as (in England) Flixborough and North Elmham. Countering Clarke and Ambrosiani’s comment that zoning of crafts and other materials is not to be found at Hamwic, Riddler identifies bone-working at several locations on the periphery of the settlement (for example at Cook Street). In common with West Heslerton, conscious zoning of economic activities is suggested, although such patterning may result as much from the continuance of a family craft/trade as from a conscious ‘top down’ exercise in town planning. Scull’s résumé of the burial evidence concentrates on the largest of the English wic sites and outlines the various comparisons that can be drawn between the different sites. At Hamwic and Ipswich the evidence is rather more extensive, although the limited material from London would appear to compare well with that from the other sites. Overall, it is possible to draw comparisons between the burial repertoire of the wics and contemporary rural settlements. Despite the widespread existence of minster churches in the landscape (and also at each of the English wic sites), there is every indication that local communities © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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maintained control of aspects of burial customs well into the Christian period. The Catholme evidence and comparisons noted above tallies rather well with that from the wics. Scull notes that were it not for the intimate relationships between the various cemeteries and wic-type settlements, then it would be impossible to distinguish the cemeteries from their rural counterparts. It is interesting to note in this context that although the Hamwic cemeteries do not seem to possess a uniquely ‘wic-like’ character, they do attest to changing social conditions at large. The number and type of Hamwic cemeteries is of considerable interest for our understanding of the changing nature of English society during the seventh and eighth centuries. For the new ‘urban’ dwellers, who can only have migrated from rural settlements to the new wics (in both English and Scandinavian contexts), there was a new geography to relate to and the rapid demise of these cemeteries arguably reflects a severing from the cultural tradition of burial in long-lived community cemeteries. John Blair’s Bampton model views small churchless burial grounds as under the control of local minsters, 28 but Hamwic seems different. Perhaps the archaeology is indicating instead a steadily eroded retention of control over burial within individual sub-communities. Zoning at wics has usually been sought in an economic sense (i.e. craftworking areas). At Hamwic, the varying burial customs (for example the eighth-century ring-ditches at Cook Street, 29 certain of which might be consciously aligned on St Mary’s Church) appear to provide rather stronger evidence for zoning, in this case as expressions of identity and status between individual sub-communities within the settlement. Given variations in burial customs within southern England during the seventh century we should not necessarily suppose that foreign enclaves determined such signalling. The two burials from Melbourne Street in Hamwic, for example, need not be seen as foreigners as initially suggested,30 as they can now be seen as part of the recently discovered Stadium cemetery that includes a number of high-status burials. 31 Wics very probably succumbed to the marked urban transformation experienced in England, on the Continent and in Scandinavia during the course of the later ninth and tenth centuries. Their decline should perhaps be read more positively as the rise of the borough, a form of 28 29

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J. Blair, Anglo-Saxon Oxfordshire (Stroud, 1994), at p. 73. M. Garner, ‘A Middle Saxon Cemetery at Cook Street, Southampton (SOU 823)’, Proceedings of the Hampshire Field Club and Archaeological Society 56 (2001), pp. 170 –91. P. Holdsworth, Excavations at Melbourne Street, Southampton. 1071–76 (London, 1980), at p. 39. N. Stoodley, ‘The Origins of Hamwic and its Central Role in the Seventh Century as Revealed by Recent Archaeological Discoveries’, in B. Hårdh and L. Larsson (eds), Central Places in the Migration and the Merovingian Periods (Stockholm, Almqvist and Wiksell International), pp. 317–31.

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settlement that proved widely successful into the later Middle Ages and beyond. Overall, the level of international trade throughout north-western Europe between the tenth and twelfth centuries has been underplayed, largely because it has been overshadowed in archaeological and written sources by the wics and later by the Hanseatic and other trading networks of the later Middle Ages. Even though many of the wic sites were relocated during the tenth century, in many cases there is continuing mercantile activity in the vicinity, particularly in England. Ultimately, one is left with the feeling that our understanding of wics is set to be revised in fundamental terms as we begin to appreciate the variety and complexity of settlement as a whole during the early medieval period.

The Making of Kingdoms A collection of this breadth and depth deserves rather more room for discussion than is available here and this review focusses on the papers that can be related more readily to the central theme of the development of more intricate social systems during the seventh century. In the Introduction, Dickinson notes how attention has moved away from identifying the location and physical extent of individual kingdoms towards a focus on the archaeology and history of their internal structures. There are twenty-two contributions dealing mainly with England and the Scandinavian world, but with papers on Frisia and the Low Countries. Overall, the academic standard is high and the book represents an important statement about the current research climate in Scandinavia for those unfamiliar with that region. The volume provides broader European frameworks within which to place the subject matter of the other books reviewed in this article. The volume opens with reviews of the formation of the Danish kingdom by Näsman, and of the complexities involved in the identity and nature of the Frisians by Heidinga. The formation of the Danish kingdom is read at varying social levels with special reference to settlement archaeology, and thus provides a useful case study for the purposes of this review. In Jutland significant chronological horizons are identified at the end of the seventh century and during the tenth century, ones that we have noted above in an English context. In fact, even the agricultural expansion identified in the second century AD is paralleled in much of lowland England in the Roman period. 32 The c.AD 700 horizon sees the advent of larger and more complex farms with greater numbers of buildings and new styles of house construction 32

P. Fowler, Landscape Plotted and Pieced: Landscape History and Local Archaeology in Fyfield and Overton Down, Wiltshire (London, 2000), at p. 92.

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set within apparently planned and regulated hamlets; this might well be a description of developments in the contemporary English rural scene. Näsman draws comparisons with regulated Carolingian rural settlements, such as Kootwijk,33 in the Netherlands in the northern part of that empire, while recent excavations in the Ille-et-Vilaine département in Brittany,34 for example, reveal that this form of settlement was widespread throughout north-western Europe at this time, including in England. Näsman states that ‘central places’ were widespread in southern Scandinavia by c.700 and that they fulfilled a range of social functions beyond that of trading. Parallels with the English scene are again apparent at both wic and royal/secular centres. Axboe, however, in relation to early Denmark later in the volume, warns against the smoothing out of archaeological and political narratives, noting that the source materials do not allow the punctuation of the trajectory towards kingdom formation to be read in detail, thus underemphasizing the roles of individuals and specific events. The pivotal role played by Frisia in north-western European trade is well known and Heidinga emphasizes its ‘maritime cultural landscape’, noting in particular the social effects determined by the wetland environment of the region and the need for archaeologists to apply different approaches than they might in other regions. The lack of documentary evidence relating to the Frisians and their ‘kingdom’ is noted by Gerrets, who summarizes important work on the terp site at Wijnaldum-Tjitsma in the west of the so-called ‘terp region’. The issue of migration into the region in the later fifth century is a paramount concern of current research, while seventh-century contacts with England are significant given the role of Frisian merchants in the later wic trading networks and the long-known linguistic relationships between Old Frisian and Old English. Scull, Yorke and Higham all consider material at the core of their own research interests, moving respectively from a theoretical discussion of Anglo-Saxon kingdom origins, to a refined and careful review of the documentary evidence for early kingship in Wessex and a commentary on the nature of Gildas and Bede as primary sources. Yorke makes the crucial observation that kingdom origins are likely to be varied, while emphasizing that even the earliest documentary sources remain to be fully exploited. A wealth of papers cover English material. Stoodley demonstrates the importance and usefulness of a regional approach, arguing that 33

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H. Heidinga, Medieval Settlement and Economy North of the Lower Rhine (Assen and Maastricht, 1987). I. Catteddu, Les Habitats Carolingiens de Montours et La Chapelle-Saint-Aubert (Ille-et-Vilaine) (Paris, 2001).

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decreasing expressions of gender in the structure of households during the seventh century is a response to the emerging West Saxon kingdom. Richards considers ‘productive sites’, while Leahy comments on the formation of the Anglo-Saxon kingdom of Lindsey, seeing the large cremation cemeteries of the region as focal burial places for ‘folk groups’, which were replaced by a multiplicity of smaller burial grounds as the earlier groups coalesced and the kingdom emerged. Quensel-von-Kalben concludes that the British church was probably constituted of members of an elite that would have succumbed quickly to ‘Anglo-Saxon’ influence, being one of the first targets of an external attempt at domination. Hines reviews the archaeology of the Cambridge region and its special character, notably the Cambridgeshire Dykes, of which the Fleam Dyke is now shown to have been constructed in the late fourth or fifth century. Material culture, including swastika-type and ‘Kempston’ type brooches from early Anglo-Saxon cemeteries, is noted along with other classes of object to describe a common cultural zone in the Cambridge region and the central and south Midlands. The role of Cambridge itself in the middle Anglo-Saxon period is sketchy and the town is generally considered to have experienced marked urban growth in the tenth and eleventh centuries having been refounded in the late eighth century. While this may be so, a newly discovered execution cemetery of at least eighth- to ninth-century date on the corner of Chesterton Lane and Magdalene Street is an important find. 35 The cemetery lay both on the line of the Roman Road into Cambridge from the north-west and on the boundary of the Domesday Hundred of Cambridge, indicating a judicial function during this poorly understood period of the town’s history. The region apparently lost its distinctive character during the seventh century and Hines notes that the flowering of an early polity was no guarantee of future success. Fabech and Ringtved consider individually the organization and conceptualization of landscape in early Scandinavia. Fabech draws attention to long-term continuity of ‘central-places’ (in this case manorial residences) where High Medieval manors are argued to be rooted to late Iron Age arrangements and not a product of the Viking Age. Here is a different trajectory to that observed in the English landscape, although there are fundamental differences in the nature and potential of settlement and land use between the two regions. Fabech’s subtitle ‘A matter of production, power, and religion’ highlights the importance of a holistic approach to landscape in Scandinavian studies, while English scholars 35

R. Mortimer and R. Regan, Chesterton Lane Corner, Cambridge: Archaeological Excavations at Anglia Water Shaft M5, Cambridge Archaeological Unit unpublished assessment report No. 420, (2001).

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have only recently begun to consider the possibility that early medieval cosmologies might be embedded in the landscape, and there are interesting possibilities here, not least due to the wealth of place name and charter material in England. Schauman-Lönnqvist’s study of early Finnish society concludes that the concept of kings and kingdoms was not a feature of that region during the migration and Merovingian periods, providing a contrast with the other regions that feature in the collection. Lidén and Götherström describe the methods and intent of a DNA based project in central Svealand in Eastern Sweden, concentrating particularly on the material from Vendel and Valsgärde; preliminary results of analyses of horse-burials indicate regional differences. The last six papers concern details of artefact typology and the meaning of art styles and material culture. Hedeager links the authority and expression of kingship to migration period iconography, while Lamm presents a new bracteate find from Söderby in Uppland, Sweden, with complex Odin-inspired motifs. Magnus discusses ethnic and gender issues in the portrayal of identity in art, focussing on relief brooches; followed by Watt who reports on the remarkable hoard of 2,345 miniature gold foil figures of sixth- and seventh-century date from the settlement site of Sorte Muld on the Baltic island of Bornholm. The complexities of decorative art of the migration period in Europe attest the social and ideological depth of the societies who produced it, and indeed the application of post-processual approaches to early medieval archaeology in Scandinavia is clearly in evidence in several of the papers. Reflections of Odin-inspired cults and a related world-view are explored in the iconography of bracteates and the directions of Style I art in a number of the contributions. Such developments are to be welcomed as a natural progression from purely typological and chronological studies. English material is dealt with using correspondence analysis by Høilund Nielsen, who argues for both East Anglian and Kentish traditions in Style II art, while Helen Geake tackles the succeeding Conversion period, restating her well-argued case for a (re)entry into the Roman (and Byzantine) sphere of interaction. A further expression of the fundamental significance of the seventh century in the formation of early medieval England can thus be observed.

Discussion: models and contexts: a unified view It is of interest to note the interpretative emphases of each of the four books. With Catholme the principal concern was with issues of ethnicity and settlement, while Peter Fowler’s thoughtful book speaks very much from a functional perspective. Wics focussed on ‘commodities’ in an almost purely economic paradigm, but with reference to the work of Early Medieval Europe   ()

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anthropologists otherwise largely ignored in early medieval studies. Kingdoms reflects the flowering of a concern with state formation that began afresh in the 1980s,36 although there is a wide range of approaches amongst the various studies. There is clearly a need for a holistic, interdisciplinary, approach to our period and for an attempt to be made to accommodate the various aspects of archaeological material into a common interpretative framework for the development of early medieval societies throughout Europe. Archaeologists still have much basic work to do with their source materials, not least tackling the mass of unpublished excavations. This should be seen as a matter of some excitement and not as a weakness and there is every likelihood that the expanding archaeological database, if queried and synthesized (and funded!), will produce yet further revisions of our understanding of early medieval Europe and narratives that, perhaps one day, might be taken on by those working in other fields as a context for their own studies. A preliminary overview: England in north-western Europe Ultimately, it remains to consider what common themes may be drawn from the volumes under review. It is becoming increasingly clear in archaeological terms that the seventh century was a pivotal era in England. The major documented process of the seventh century is, of course, the conversion to Christianity; about which there has been a long-running and complex debate concerning the relationship between the conversion as described in written sources and the archaeological evidence for burial customs and religion. 37 Yet during this period there were also major changes in the nature and character of settlement at the level of the individual household and in the wider landscape. Catholme reflects this (multifarious) social change just as dramatically as any cemetery. Bounded space at Catholme begins in the seventh century with the enclosure features and is also reflected by a further archaeological signature of spatial restriction – pits. The more or less even distribution of pits is reminiscent of Hamwic where social groups apparently deposited waste materials largely within their sphere of influence, in pits within the physical confines of the household plot. Zoned pits, on the other hand, are likely to indicate concentrated craft or industrial activity. The increasing physical boundedness of early medieval populations can be linked to changes in agricultural practices, where stock farming 36

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R. Hodges, Dark Age Economics (London, 1982); idem, The Anglo-Saxon Achievement (London, 1989); S. Bassett, The Origins of Anglo-Saxon Kingdoms (Leicester, 1989). A. Boddington, ‘Models of Burial, Settlement and Worship: The Final Phase Reviewed’, in E. Southworth (ed.), Anglo-Saxon Cemeteries, A Reappraisal (Stroud, 1990), pp. 177–99; H. Geake, The Use of Grave-Goods in Conversion-Period England, c.600–c.850 (Oxford, 1997).

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perhaps takes on a greater significance, while the need to formalize and regulate both the rural environment and determine places of commerce can be read as a response to the growth of a monetary economy and the levying of taxes by the emergent polities of the seventh century. The development of judicial administration is also likely to have had a particular influence on the physical form of both wic and farm. Among the earliest English laws, for example those of Æthelberht and Ine at either end of the seventh century, are a well-known series of prescriptions regarding the importance of fencing property in relation to legal responsibilities.38 It is thus arguable that the evidence from written sources for divisions in the landscape of settlements can be seen in the physical record, although it is of no small importance that archaeology indicates bounded space in rural settlements from the later sixth century, in other words prior to the legal evidence. The generally perceived model for rural settlement in lowland England from the fifth to the ninth centuries is that of dispersed hamlets and farms grouped together within larger estates. 39 A view of impermanence of settlements during this period prevails, 40 although it must be said that there is an increasing corpus of sites where longevity of occupation is apparent. It is still fair to say, however, that the attention directed to the centuries immediately prior to the Norman Conquest is rather limited in comparison to the great volume of research and synthesis concerned with the post-Conquest period. Upon closer inspection, however, the immediate post-Conquest settlement ‘repertoire’ has little if anything to add to what was already in existence 41 and a period division based on the evidence of a documented event (the Conquest) does not stand in the light of archaeological scrutiny. In their detailed research and review of medieval settlement in the east Midlands, Lewis et al. view the fifth to ninth centuries as a relatively homogeneous period of rural settlement followed by the increasing predominance of the nucleated village from the ninth century onward. 42 Clearly, however, Catholme and similar sites, and certainly the wic type settlements, can only be described as nucleated settlements. Indeed, with the exception of features representing later historical processes, such as the origins of the manor and the development of parish churches, there can 38

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40

41 42

See for example Abt 27 and 29, I 40 and 42 in F.L. Attenborough, The Laws of the Earliest English Kings (Cambridge, 1922). C. Lewis, P. Mitchell-Fox and C. Dyer, Village, Hamlet and Field (Manchester, 1997), at pp. 92–4; D. Hooke, ‘Landscape of Anglo-Saxon England ’. H. Hamerow, ‘Settlement Mobility and the ‘Middle Saxon Shift’: Rural Settlements and Settlement Patterns in Anglo-Saxon England’, Anglo-Saxon England 20, pp. 1–18. Reynolds, Boundaries and Settlements. Lewis et al., ‘Village, Hamlet and Field ’, at pp. 24–6.

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have been little difference in visual terms between middle Anglo-Saxon Catholme and many settlements of the later Middle Ages, for example the recently published occupation at Dorney, Buckinghamshire. 43 Although problems of dating are paramount in rural settlement archaeology throughout Europe, it is possible to argue, in England at least, that three major periods can be discerned: from the fifth to late sixth/seventh centuries (unbounded settlements, set within existing field systems); between the seventh and ninth centuries (settlement hierarchy; emergence of linear, enclosed and high-status settlements); and from the ninth to the twelfth centuries (the consolidation and amplification of the nucleated village and the origins of manorial settlement). The emergence of planned and physically delineated wic settlements, whose material culture signifies an explicit and formalized contact with north-western European trade networks, mirrors the regulation of people that occurred from the later seventh century in the countryside. England, Scandinavia and much of continental Europe experienced a genesis of towns and a reorganization of rural areas centring on the seventh century, while the tenth century is a common horizon again bearing witness to the rise of manorial style settlement and a sharpening, acceleration and proliferation of urban settlement. 44 The period between the seventh and ninth centuries also saw increasingly dramatic forms of expression in the burial repertoire in England and across many parts of Europe and Scandinavia that reflect the emergence of increasingly formalized and regulated societies. Kings had arrived, and the control of increasingly large territories necessitated new forms of administration and governance as a response to new situations, using a combination of existing ancient practice and innovative social organization. Although rural settlements, towns and social institutions are normally studied in isolation, this review has hopefully succeeded in highlighting some of the themes that unite all three phenomena; namely, the fundamental importance of the seventh century. Rural sites appear to reflect the developing organization of society prior to the emergence of the wics, yet the latter settlements should be seen as a component of social complexity that emerged toward the end of the process of the origins of kingship. By the tenth century hierarchy was manifest throughout society in a form which facilitated the rise of medieval feudal society. 43

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S. Foreman, J. Hiller and D. Petts, Gathering the People, Settling the Land: The Archaeology of a Middle Thames Landscape Anglo-Saxon to Post-Medieval (Oxford, 2002), Fig. 6.1. G. Bois, The Transformation of the Year One Thousand: The Village of Lournand from Antiquity to Feudalism (Manchester, 1992); A. Verhulst, The Rise of Cities in North-West Europe (Cambridge, 1999).

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While scholars of the burial archaeology of the migration period, and those working on urban development, have long taken a broad geographical perspective, settlement and landscape studies remain largely isolated. The way forward is surely a comparative approach to the development of settlement structure, urban growth and social institutions between the British Isles, continental Europe and Scandinavia. University College, London

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Urban Growth and the Medieval Church: Gloucester and Worcester. By Nigel Baker and Richard Holt. Aldershot: Ashgate. 2004. xviii + 413 pp. £75. ISBN 0 7546 0266 4 (hardback). In this important work Nigel Baker and Richard Holt assess the influence of major churches upon medieval urban planning. They have chosen Gloucester and Worcester for a detailed comparative case study. The authors have used a wide number and mixture of documentary, topographical, archaeological (and occasionally architectural) source materials for a study that benefits greatly from true interdisciplinarity. Gloucester Abbey’s and Llanthony Priory’s abundant documentation, including the detailed rental of 1455 (edited by W.H. Stevenson in 1890); Worcester cathedral’s long run of charters (from the end of the seventh century) and rentals (from the mid-thirteenth); and the largescale Ordnance Survey maps of both cites, published in the nineteenth century, form the basis for much of this research. All of these are summarized in the introduction. In Chapters 2 and 5 the authors survey the, sometimes complex, evidence for the pre-1100 period. In the post-Roman period both towns appear to have contained very early churches (the forerunners of St Mary de Lode, Gloucester and St Helen’s, Worcester), each with very large parishes. In the seventh century Osric, king of the Hwicce, established a monastery at Gloucester for his sister Cyneburh. This was to be the predecessor of St Peter’s Abbey. At almost the same time Osric moved to create a bishopric for the Hwicce at Worcester. But the true urbanization of both began at the end of the ninth century with the building in Gloucester, by Æthelred of Mercia and his wife, of the New Minster (later known as St Oswald’s) and the foundation of the burh there; and with the (unusually well-recorded) building of the burh in Worcester, the sharing of lordship of that city (between Æthelred and the bishop) and the development of the riverside site for commercial exploitation. Both towns grew significantly in the tenth and eleventh centuries, although Worcester less so (whilst simultaneously experiencing diminishing episcopal Early Medieval Europe   () – © Blackwell Publishing Ltd ,  Garsington Road, Oxford OX DQ, UK and  Main Street, Malden, MA , USA

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seigneurial control and increasing royal administration). After the Conquest both cites became the seats of royal castles. Of note here are Chapters 3 and 6 that, with painstaking thoroughness, examine the topographical, metrological and archaeological evidence for the two cities. The cities are divided into plan-units using large-scale maps, burgage plots are measured and analysed to arrive (in Chapter 14 in particular) both at a chronology for the various planning stages and a detailed assessment of the impact of the various churches and religious houses upon these intra and extra-mural developments. Where this work scores highly over studies written either by geographers, skilled in plan analysis but reliant upon translated or edited sources, or historians, with masterful documentary skills but only a passing familiarity with topography, is that the authors come from historical and archaeological/ topographical backgrounds. This allows their expertise to be very effectively and collectively brought to bear on both sides of the analysis. The remaining eight chapters cover other important topics. These range from the formation of parishes in the early Middle Ages; the impact of ecclesiastical precincts upon the micro landscape; the development and role of the lesser churches in the two cities (the inclusion of which once again confirms the authors’ thoroughness); religious institutions’ relationship to secular authority; an important chapter on the churches’ role in the development of the suburbs; to the particularly penetrative historical analysis of the major institutions’ acquisition and management of urban property in the later Middle Ages. This is not just a history of two important English medieval towns. It reinforces and extends recent scholarship on the church as a prime mover in the process of urbanization. It provides readers with an in-depth, interdisciplinary, understanding of this subject in a wider comparative context. As such it is a magnificent addition to the study of urban history and thus greatly to be recommended. School of History, University of Nottingham

RICHARD GODDARD

Christians in al-Andalus (711–1000). By Ann Christys. Richmond: Curzon Press. 2002. xiv + 231 pp. £55.00. ISBN 0 7007 1564 9. The Christian communities of al-Andalus (Muslim Spain) have not received the scholarly attention they deserve. The relative paucity of written sources produced by Christians, either in Latin or Arabic, in the centuries after the eighth-century Islamic conquest has much to do with it, as does the fact that Muslim historians evinced precious little interest Early Medieval Europe   ()

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in the native population. Besides, many modern scholars would subscribe to the view, articulated by Bulliet, Guichard, Epalza and others, that as a consequence of a process of mass conversion or emigration Christian society had all but disappeared by the end of the eleventh century. The cumulative result, Ann Christys comments in this revealing study, is that the Christians ‘seem to have been consigned to a footnote to the history of al-Andalus’. Christys seeks to give new voice to the Andalusi Christians by scrutinizing a number of texts produced by the Christians themselves, both in Latin and Arabic, between the eighth and the eleventh centuries. After an introductory chapter, which discusses earlier historiographical approaches to the Andalusi Christians, Chapter 2 examines the extent to which the Christian church in Toledo preserved its Visigothic heritage in the period after the Islamic invasion; Chapter 3 explores the ideological purposes that underpinned the Chronicle of 741 and the Chronicle of 754; and Chapter 4 casts a critical gaze on the martyrs of Córdoba and argues not only that historians have been guilty of exaggerating the movement’s importance, but also that the attitudes expressed in the writings of Eulogius were far from being representative of the Christian community at large. Chapter 5 then analyses two martyrdom accounts, the Passion of Pelagius and the Passion of Argentea, and puts forward the view that both texts exaggerated the perils faced by Christians in Córdoba; while Chapter 6 attempts to untangle the complex web of evidence surrounding the figure of the Christian Recemund, bishop of Elvira, and argues that although Recemund may not have been the author of the celebrated Calendar of Córdoba, his career demonstrates the extent to which leading Christian churchmen, ‘bicultural as well as bilingual’ could flourish under Islamic rule. Chapter 7 portrays the Arabic translation of Orosius’s History as a product of a growing demand for Christian texts in Arabic among the Christian community of al-Andalus during the tenth century. Finally, Chapter 8 scrutinizes the work of Ibn al-Qutiya and demonstrates that for all its shortcomings as a reliable narrative of the Muslim invasion, his History of the Conquest of al-Andalus reflects a desire by Muslims of HispanoGothic origin to demonstrate the role their ancestors had played in the Islamic conquest of the Visigothic kingdom. Drawing together the threads of this disparate yet illuminating collection of essays, Christys demonstrates that even as al-Andalus was steadily being transformed into a fully-fledged Islamic state Christian culture continued to display considerable vitality and that accordingly it would be rash to assume that the widespread adoption of Arabic by the conquered peoples of Hispania went hand in hand with conversion to Islam. To view Christian–Muslim relations simply in black and white terms of ‘conversion’ or ‘resistance’, as many historians have done, is to oversimplify © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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what was without question a far more complex social and cultural dynamic. Historians of medieval Spain will find much to ponder here. Department of Hispanic Studies, University of Exeter

SIMON BARTON

Literacy in Lombard Italy, c.568 –774. By Nicholas Everett. Cambridge Studies in Medieval Life and Thought, Fourth Series 53. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 2003. xiv + 382 pp. £50.00. US $75.00. ISBN 0 521 81905 9 (hardback). Nicholas Everett asks a question fundamental to our understanding of the transition from late antiquity to the Middle Ages: What was the fate of the written word in Italy under barbarian rule? His approach is to ‘focus on the evidence for the uses of script and [to] attempt to draw out the implications of its existence: who used it, how they used it and why they used it’ (p. 6). The first three chapters examine the state of literate culture in pre-Lombard Italy, the establishment of the Lombard kingdom, and the relationship between spoken and written language in the sixth and seventh centuries. The next four consider in turn the evidence that law codes, charters, inscriptions, and manuscripts provide concerning the context and social function of writing in the Lombard kingdom. The society that emerges from Everett’s study had long since abandoned the pursuit of belles lettres. Nevertheless, for roughly two centuries Italo-Lombards continued to deploy writing when confronting property ownership and transfer; the exercise of justice, civil administration, border control, and diplomacy; the commemoration in stone of one’s achievements, life and deeds, or devotion; and, of course, in the monastic scriptorium. The interest of this ambitious and wide-ranging study thus lies not so much in the indisputable fact that the written word continued to be used in Italy between the sixth and the eighth century, but rather in Everett’s exploration of the diverse circumstances of its use, particularly in Chapters 2 and 4–7. For example, the analysis of the graffiti at Gargano (pp. 265–74), the process of learning to write cursive (pp. 215– 21), and Lombard documentary practice surrounding the manumission of slaves and the administration of the kingdom (pp. 177–80 and 186– 94) offer fascinating insight into just how pervasive the use of writing must have been in the Lombard kingdom. Indeed, the ordinariness of functional, written documentation is one of Everett’s central themes. In its exposition, he has brought together in a systematic way for the first time a diverse and comprehensive array of evidence surrounding the use of writing in the Lombard realms. The study is well grounded in wide Early Medieval Europe   ()

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reading, both in the primary sources and in the secondary literature. Everett’s style is lucid and lively, and the chapter introductions and conclusions are excellent, preventing the copious information presented in the book from overwhelming the reader. The details to which Everett treats us are so interesting that at times I would have liked to see him set aside the ‘empiricist approach’ that guides his inquiry (p. 6), and tease out still further some of the broader implications of what he has found. What does it mean for a society to be literate, but not particularly literary? What does scratching one’s name (or hiring someone else to scratch one’s name) into the walls of the grotta di San Michele on Monte Sant’Angelo tell us about early medieval attitudes to things holy, the sacrality of writing, and even eternity? In a similar vein, Everett adduces considerable evidence to suggest that the ability to write – as distinct from the use of written documents – may have been fairly widespread among not only the clergy but also the laity of Lombard Italy (see e.g. the discussion of the charter evidence at pp. 9 and 207, and of the Gargano graffiti at p. 271). However, given its significance this point deserves both to be articulated as a more explicit argument and to enjoy a more prominent position in the study as a whole. Finally, a somewhat fuller discussion in the general introduction both of the nature of the sources from Lombard Italy and of the historiographical debates that frame the inquiry would have helped orient the non-specialist to the parameters of the study. This is surely the place to explain, for example, that Lombard Italy was not immensely productive of theological treatises (on which see e.g. p. 318) and to explain why, say, coin legends are not considered (on which see p. 235 and p. 274, n. 133). All in all, however, Nicholas Everett has produced a lively and engaging study of this important topic. His book represents a solid contribution to the scholarship surrounding the uses of writing in the early Middle Ages, which will doubtless prove stimulating to students of literacy, early medieval Italy, and the transformation of late Roman practices and institutions. Columbia University

JONATHAN P. CONANT

Warfare and Society in the Barbarian West, 450–900. By Guy Halsall. London and New York: Routledge. 2003. xix + 320 pp. ISBN 0 415 23940 0. Historians have long recognized that early medieval Europe was a society geared for war. It is therefore surprising that scholars often have neglected © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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the study of early medieval military history. Guy Halsall rectifies this situation with his important Warfare and Society in the Barbarian West, 450–900, which covers the history of warfare in western Europe from the end of the western Roman empire to the early tenth century. After introductory chapters on violence, warfare, and society, Halsall dedicates the rest of his book to specific military matters: raising armies, mercenaries, the training of troops, the size of armies, campaigning, weaponry, battle, fortifications, and siege techniques. Halsall’s book is a major achievement: it is scholarly, insightful, and well written, offering the best survey of early medieval warfare in any language. Halsall begins with an important insight about sources. Unlike Greco-Roman or later medieval historians, early medieval chroniclers offer frustratingly little information about the nuts and bolts of warfare. Instead, early medieval writers sought to convey the role of God in earthly politics. This difference in the sources reflects the ‘different military rationality’ of early medieval people, who believed that fasting, relics, and miracles shaped the outcome of military campaigns. As a result, military historians must engage with the minds of early medieval authors, not just scour their works for ‘facts’. Here Halsall shies away from the dominant ‘normalist’ school of military history that assumes eternal principles of warfare, strategy, and tactics. Halsall does readily admit the importance of strategic planning, cunning, and rational thinking in early medieval campaigns. Nevertheless, he takes a ‘substantivist’ or ‘social constructionist’ approach that views warfare in terms of the norms, values, and mentalities of early medieval society. To accomplish this, Halsall proceeds from what is well documented (social structures, politics, aristocratic culture, economic organization, and demographics) to what is less well known: the nitty gritty of warfare. Halsall’s book has many strengths, a few of which should be highlighted. Throughout, he is sensitive to the complex changes in military practices as well as regional variations, thereby rejecting the notion that early medieval warfare was static and dictated either by an enduring ‘Germanic’/‘heroic’ ethos or by unchanging Roman military institutions. One important development that had a broad impact on early medieval society was how armies were raised. Between c.450 and c.700, the basis of military service evolved from paid regular armies, to barbarian ethnic groups, and then, by the seventh century, to ties of lordship between wealthy landowners and their retainers and dependants. Between 700 and 900, aristocratic retinues and royal bodyguards remained the backbone of European armies, although the Carolingian and Anglo-Saxon rulers attempted, with different degrees of success, to reintroduce more ‘horizontal’ military service by lesser landowners. The Vikings precipitated other important developments, forcing the Franks Early Medieval Europe   ()

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and Anglo-Saxons to initiate significant tactical changes such as the building of fortifications. In a book of this impressive scope, it is inevitable that there are a few shortcomings. Halsall supports his arguments with numerous examples culled from a wide range of narrative sources. Yet one wishes he had given more sustained analysis to a few well-documented campaigns (such as Belisarius’s wars in Italy, Pippin III’s siege of Bourges in 762, Charlemagne’s conquest of Saxony, or Alfred the Great’s campaigns against the Vikings) to give a more nuanced picture of how warfare unfolded in response to immediate political, military, diplomatic, logistical, and geographic challenges. Moreover, although Halsall claims to use all available written, artistic and archaeological evidence, he neglects two important sources for the study of logistics and siege warfare: royal diplomas and monastic charters that shed valuable light on military organization, supplies, and lines of march; as well as the archaeology of Slavic fortified centres that demonstrates the wealth, power, and defensive military strength of the Slavic rulers the Franks faced in the east. But these minor criticisms should not detract from Halsall’s impressive achievement. Warfare and Society in the Barbarian West succeeds in bringing military history back into the study of the early Middle Ages, and it establishes the basis for all future debates about early medieval warfare. Williams College

ERIC J. GOLDBERG

The Blickling Homilies: Edition and Translation. By Richard J. Kelly. London and New York: Continuum. 2003. lx + 232 pp. £45.00. ISBN 0 8264 6785 7. The collection of anonymous homilies in Princeton University Library, Ms. 71 contains passages of great vigour and drama and deserves a more prominent place in Old English courses. However, the standard edition, that of Morris, is unsatisfactory in many ways (EETS os 58, 63 and 73, London, 1874–80). Apart from an extensive glossary, Morris offers a minimum of apparatus; moreover, he had to contend with the profoundly disordered state of the manuscript, which has since been rearranged and rebound. It is to be hoped that the publication of this beautifully presented new edition will encourage more to read and study the Blickling Homilies. Richard Kelly provides an attractively uncluttered text with facing page translation. Comments on insertions, corrections and the like are printed in the body of the text; such comments are kept to a minimum and the strategy is convenient rather than distracting. Punctuation and © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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paragraph breaks have been supplied and expanded abbreviations are unmarked. This is very much a text designed for easy reading. Accordingly, the translation is kept literal while largely avoiding awkwardness. Sometimes the punctuation seems a little over-enthusiastic, as on p. 68, l. 10 ff. (Homily for Rogation Monday), where what I take to be a series of indirect questions (following hwæt is pæt pæm men sy mare pearf to pencenne ponne) are split into separate direct questions by the insertion of question marks. There is also the occasional obvious misprint (e.g. p. 68, l. 21 is for ic ; p. 110, l. 295 min for mid ). These will doubtless be corrected in a future impression. The apparatus consists of an introduction, plates illustrating the different contents of the manuscript, ‘Textual Notes’ (in fact short commentaries on each homily), a bibliography, index and some tables relating to punctuation, scribal input and other features of the manuscript. This edition is not concerned with detailed comment on linguistic features; rather, it prepares the ground for a literary appreciation of the homilies as examples of vernacular preaching. The first part of the introduction is a general essay on the history of preaching in the Christian church; it places the Blickling Homilies in a tradition that looks to back to Carolingian exemplars and forward, above all, to Ælfric. For each homily, the Textual Notes list probable sources, provide information about the feast in question and its place in the liturgical year and comment briefly on theme and style. The edition certainly has its faults. The second part of the introduction, dealing with the contents and appearance of the manuscript, is extremely closely dependent on the introduction to Rudolph Willard’s 1960 facsimile (Early English Manuscripts in Facsimile 10, Copenhagen, 1960). Kelly acknowledges the criticisms of Willard made by Clemoes and others, but in fact departs from Willard’s account scarcely at all. (Compare, for example, Kelly pp. xxxi–xxxiii, Willard pp. 38 and 24–5; Kelly pp. xxxiii–xxxv, Willard pp. 21–3; Kelly pp. xxxv–xxxvi, Willard pp. 25–6.) Kelly’s prose is sometimes baffling. For example: This hagiographical text uses a clear and direct style and its continuous use of direct speech would facilitate its audience to have a personal affinity with its content – encouraging the need for mimesis. (p. 193) All in all, there is room for another edition that would engage more rigorously with recent scholarship on the language and makeup of the manuscript, and the details of the relationship between the homilies and their sources. But Kelly offers the student of the Blickling Homilies a useable text and translation and a wealth of contextualizing comment. University of St Andrews Early Medieval Europe   ()

ALICE COWEN © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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Late Roman Warlords. By Penny MacGeorge. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2002. xiv + 345 pp. £55. ISBN 0 199 25244 0. This book has been criticized for indulging the biographical fallacy of history in a period during which the sources make biography impossible. In fact, MacGeorge’s brave attempt to search out individual impact on history is her book’s principal strength. Secular, non-imperial biography is entirely viable in the fifth century if the right controls are placed on the evidence: its transmission, the derivation of its sources, its biases must all be accounted for. Ricimer, the object of this study’s third part, is a ripe subject for just such an approach, though he does not really get it. The problem is not so much that MacGeorge has not read the sources – she has done so, and thoroughly, if largely in English translation and without always recognizing what constitutes an independent witness. Rather, her understanding of the sources is so completely conditioned by standard modern interpretations that all her conclusions lead straight back down the well-worn tracks hewn by her scholarly forebears. On the career of Marcellinus, for instance, MacGeorge accepts the (late and in this case wholly derivative) testimony of Procopius and uses it as the framework for her narrative, even while claiming to use the contemporary sources to frame her discussion before bringing them into dialogue with Procopius. The section on Aegidius and Syagrius is considerably better, as the book generally is where Greek sources play little or no part. There is a judicious sorting of the evidence for the battle of Orleans, while MacGeorge rightly questions the commonplace identification of Gregory of Tours’s Adovacrius, leader of Saxon raiders, and the Odoacer who became king of Italy in 476; her triage on the discussions for the origins of the latter Odoacer is similarly competent. Most importantly, she is surely correct in her insistence on separating the character of Aegidius’s career from the later ‘kingdom of Soissons’ ostensibly ruled by his son Syagrius. Yet throughout MacGeorge draws peculiar conclusions from the sources: thus she seems to believe that the later fifth century was unusually fertile in celestial prodigies that filled the population with a sense of doom, rather than concluding that nervous chroniclers felt that the unpleasant political disturbance around them was accurately reflected in the unnerving heavenly activity which they duly went on to record; again, although she recognizes the tendentiousness of Ennodius of Pavia’s hagiography, she prints large parts of his invented exchanges between Epiphanius and the emperor Anthemius as if they were historical, rather than rhetorical, witnesses to their era. She also rather overestimates eastern emperors’ interest in and influence on western affairs in the later fifth century. © Blackwell Publishing Ltd 

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The book claims to ‘reconstruct as common sense dictates’ (p. 2). This is a perfectly defensible approach and it does sometimes work here. Yet the exercise is not helped by a shaky command of the ancient languages and a familiarity with German literature only as it is described at second hand in Anglophone authors. Although this book’s contribution to the debate does not perhaps justify its length, it remains a painstaking and more or less sound reworking of the conventional narrative of the period. University of Tennessee, Knoxville

MICHAEL KULIKOWSKI

Early Medieval Art. By Lawrence Nees. Oxford History of Art. Oxford: Oxford University Press. 2002. 272 pp. £12.99 (paperback). ISBN 0 19 2842439. Early medieval historians have been slow to accept that art is the most immediate, if the most difficult, of the sources they interpret. Though German exhibitions of early medieval art remain open and crowded all night, this journal has not yet published an article on the topic, and the most recent treatment of early medieval culture in English is a catastrophe. There is no good introduction in English: Nees includes in his bibliography the excellent little book by Ernst Kitzinger, first published as a guide to objects in the British Museum in 1940. Kitzinger’s teacher, Wilhelm Koehler, died in 1959 with his Bollingen volume on early medieval book illumination unfinished; surviving fragments were published in 1972 and remain one of the most thought-provoking treatments of the early Middle Ages. (On Koehler see now Zeitschrift des Deutschen Vereins für Kunstwissenschaft 52/53 (1998/99) pp. 9–23.) Nees’s volume belongs on all our shelves because it has 139 plates, mostly in good colour. Students have no excuse for not knowing what the liturgical diptych with pictures of Jerome, Gregory and Augustine, or the Maaseik silk with David enthroned, look like (Plates 43 and 76). Indeed, pen-wielding students are shown slaying their teacher in a littleknown page from the Bern Prudentius, and Nees’s discussion of ‘the highly personal and strongly affective style’ of this ‘teacher’s nightmare’ is a model of concise suggestion. The bibliography provided by OUP is for monoglots; it is supplemented by the works cited in the notes of pp. 245–9 and by the website addresses (a first, sadly not including the outstanding Erlangen medieval history site or online digitized images of Celtic manuscripts in Oxford). Nees offers an account of ‘The Roman Language of Art’, conversion, patronage, craftsmanship, saints and images, courts and ‘Towards a Early Medieval Europe   ()

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New Age’ – a rather hasty nod to Vikings, St Foy and Egbert of Trier. But this book is an introduction, not a survey, and must be judged by the categories it uses. Because he focusses on individual objects and topics to show how ‘the early medieval artistic tradition literally invents a tradition upon which it founds itself ’, Nees is an eloquent advocate for a period many art history departments are proud to ignore. His subject is the ‘work of art’, though Augustine’s distinction between corporeal, spiritual and intellectual vision (De Genesi ad litteram 12.3.6) reminds us that few Christians ever regarded a picture as a ‘work of art’. The discussion of Christian art is helpful: would that more of us believed that a textbook should identify biblical quotations and discuss Adoptionism! But the repeated stress on ‘veneration for tradition mixed with the search for ever better responses to the needs and demands of a changing world’ as the achievement of early medieval art risks an unintended banality: surely such appropriation has always characterized figurative art. In exploring non-Christian objects Nees is helpful about craftsmanship and technique. He sees their significance in terms of ‘secular prestige’, but writes of an ‘aesthetic game’ and accepts a single master in charge of the work in his discussion of Sutton Hoo. The implications of this approach deserve more space: I have found no discussion of a style or a workshop (as in the manuscripts from Charlemagne’s court). Those trying to assimilate ‘works of art’ into their understanding of the early medieval west need guidance in three main areas. They need to learn how to reconstruct the functions of these objects, and Nees says too little about the liturgical use of his Biblical manuscripts. They need to appreciate the history of style, whether illusionistic, ornamental or abstract. And lastly, they need to accept what Jonas of Orleans asserted: ‘it is human nature to be touched less by hearing than by seeing’ (PL 106, 368). By exploring the universal appeal of exquisite objects, and the richness of their implications (notably in his accounts of the Susanna crystal or Psychomachia illustrations) Nees offers students and their teachers a more direct contact with the early Middle Ages than most textbooks can attain. King’s College, London

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DAVID GANZ

Early Medieval Europe   ()