Medieval Animals

Edited by Aleks Pluskowski Archaeological Review from Cambridge Volume 18

June 2002

Medieval Animals Edited by Aleks Pluskowski ______________ A few words on animals… Aleks Pluskowski 1-2 ______________ Medieval zooarchaeology: what are we trying to do? Terry O’Connor 3-21 ______________ King of all beasts – beast of all kings Lions in Anglo-Saxon coinage and art Anna Gannon 22-36 ______________ The role of zooarchaeology in the interpretation of socioeconomic status: A discussion with reference to medieval Europe Steve Ashby 37-59

A new interpretation of the Witham Bowl and its animal imagery Paul Sorrell 60-79 ______________ The Black Rat and the plague Graham Twigg 80-98 ______________ Love letters to bare bones: a comparison of two types of evidence for the use of animals in medieval Novgorod Mark Brisbane and Mark Maltby 99-119 ______________ Birds on the stream of consciousness: Riddles 7 to 10 of the Exeter Book Audrey Meaney 120-152 ______________ Hares with crossbows and rabbit bones: integrating physical and conceptual approaches towards medieval fauna Aleks Pluskowski 153-182 ______________ Book reviews Back issues and notes to contributors 183-213

ARCHAEOLOGICAL REVIEW FROM CAMBRIDGE The Department of Archaeology, Downing Street, Cambridge, CB2 3DZ, United Kingdom www.cam.ac.uk/societies/arc/ Volume 18 Medieval Animals Theme Editor Chairs Book Reviews Editors Treasurer Information Technology Publicity Officers Production Team

Cover Design and Layout

Aleks Pluskowski Aleks Pluskowski Mary-Cate Garden Susanne Hakenbeck Katy Serpa Miranda Semple Aleks Pluskowski Dave Barrowclough, Pip Patrick Aleks Pluskowski, Mary-Cate Garden, Pip Patrick, Susanne Hakenbeck, Katy Serpa, Sandy Pullen, Kevin Lane, Rachel Giraudo, David Beresford-Jones Aleks Pluskowski

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A Few Words on Animals… Aleks Pluskowski Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge

Recent issues of Archaeological Review from Cambridge have tended towards particular themes: presenting opportunities for integrating a range of sources and perspectives and to encourage the shift from the multi- to the inter-disciplinary. This is particularly important for those studying the Middle Ages where an immense body of data is subdivided amongst a host of disciplines. This issue is not interdisciplinary in the sense that it aims to reconstruct a particular medieval context from a unified perspective, but its spirit is certainly interdisciplinary. The articles therefore represent (with some bias!) the three basic divisions in medieval studies: archaeology, art-history and history (encompassing documentary and literary sources). Many of the articles integrate varying amounts from different sources and paradigms and my own contribution considers the problems and possibilities of integration in greater detail. The detailed study of medieval animals is becoming increasingly popular; human relations with the natural world have in the past been generally taken for granted: dogs and sheep fill the backdrops of farms and fields, people ride horses everywhere, wolves lurk in the misty fringes of dark woods and rats scurry about in wine cellars. Clichés aside, it is widely and implicitly acknowledged that animals are fundamental to all aspects of medieval life, whilst detailed natural histories of species or even ‘life histories’ of individuals in medieval contexts have yet to develop into a cohesive body of research (with some notable exceptions such as Yalden 1999). Invariably medievalists focus on human-animal relations, even when discussing natural history, but the two cannot be separated – particularly in the Middle Ages. This does not denigrate the importance of animals as ‘agents’ in their own right – as prime sources of inspiration, ecological catalysts and, in terms of physical remains, environmental indicators. To take a modern example, Alger

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and Alger’s (1999) ethnographic study of a cat shelter concluded that its social structure was ultimately determined by choices made by cats, set against a backdrop of human-cat and cat-cat relations. The combined evidence for reconstructing human-animal and animalanimal relations in medieval contexts is immense; ranging from discarded butchered carcasses and manufacturing waste through to heraldic emblems, manuscript marginalia and discussions of, or passing references to animals in theological texts. Combined with analogues from other spatial and temporal contexts, it is likely that studies of medieval animals can potentially draw upon the largest data set for any element of the Middle Ages. This volume is therefore an important contribution to the growing body of studies focusing on animals in the Middle Ages, presenting a variety of perspectives, deliberately not all ‘archaeological’, and will hopefully stimulate further discussion, experimentation, speculation and ultimately integration. Bibliography Alger, J. M. and Alger, S. F. 1999. Cat culture, human culture: an ethnographic study of a cat shelter. Society and Animals, 7(3): 199218. Yalden, D. W. 1999. The Natural History of British Mammals. London: Poyser.

Medieval Zooarchaeology: What Are We Trying to Do? Terry O’Connor Department of Archaeology, University of York

One particularly abundant source of information about medieval animals is their physical remains, the often copious quantities of bone fragments recovered, or at least potentially recoverable, from excavated deposits. This is not the place to reiterate the many lines of enquiry that can be based on animal bone evidence. Sources such as Chaix and Méniel (1996), Reitz and Wing (1999) and O’Connor (2000) give a general overview of the discipline. The aim of this paper is to discuss some of the research objectives that seem to have informed medieval zooarchaeology in northwestern Europe over the last few decades. I say ‘seem’, because much of what has been published is site-oriented reportage, where the main objective is to describe and interpret what has been found at a particular site. In that respect, the zooarchaeology of medieval sites does not differ from that of prehistoric sites, and one of the aims of this essay is to determine whether there is anything distinctive about medieval zooarchaeology, either in approach or in outcomes. In medieval archaeology, we often have a documentary record, and we might believe that the social and economic context is closer to that in which we live today than would be the context of, for example, a Neolithic assemblage. Does that influence our interpretation of the material? Does access to an often quite detailed documentary record pertaining to livestock, butchers, and other animal products incline medieval zooarchaeology towards a hypothetico-deductive paradigm? To set the parameters, this highly selective review is limited to Europe north of the Alps and west of the Oder. ‘Medieval’ is taken to begin as the Migration Period settles down and towns begin to reemerge, roughly in the late seventh century AD. The end of the medieval period is conventionally taken in Britain to be the military coup that brought the Tudors to power in 1485. For the present purposes, that is an unduly restricting and parochial end-point, and

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some later studies have been included. For reasons of linguistic competence, or lack of it, the study leans rather heavily on work published or abstracted in English, French, and Dutch. German colleagues, in particular, might feel that the substantial body of work published in that language has been under-represented. No slight is intended. The research topics that form the structure of this paper are not intended as a definitive or exclusive list. They are the topics that appear to me to be some of the major ones that medieval zooarchaeology either has sought to investigate, or has the potential to do so. The examples that are cited here are not intended to be a comprehensive review of the largest projects or of best practice, merely illustrative examples. The origin of medieval towns The late seventh century saw the re-emergence of nodes of population that we might call ‘towns’. Whether or not animal products were involved in the trade and exchange that was articulated through those emerging centres, their populations had to be fed, yet were mostly not directly engaged in agricultural production. An important question, therefore, is to determine how this most fundamental of resources was procured. This topic has been discussed with particular reference to towns in the south and east of England, in Jennifer Bourdillon’s exemplary studies of Southampton (1988), Pam Crabtree’s studies of East Anglia (1989; 1990; 1996), and the present author’s work in York (1994). On the whole, these studies have used zooarchaeological evidence to test, and for the most part to support, models of elite redistribution and provisioning. More recently, Roskams and Saunders (2001) have offered a different analysis, informed by an overtly Marxist view of the development of social and economic relations. The point to note is that these various authors have developed their analyses more from general economic models than from specific, historically-informed, ones. The theme of emerging urban systems and their provisioning has

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been less obviously a concern in studies of contemporary sites elsewhere in Europe, such as Dorestad (Prummel 1983), Hedeby (Reichstein and Tiessen 1974), and Ribe (Hatting 1991). Here, the concern has been to describe and discuss the site assemblages in their own right, more than to test different socio-economic models. In the case of Hedeby, the sheer scale of the assemblage, and the mode of publication in topic- or taxon-specific berichten, might have inhibited the articulation of a higher-level interpretation. In some cases, for example for Oslo (Lie 1988), the apparent lack of concern with interpretation beyond what was being eaten in different centuries is quite striking, and contrasts with Erik Schia’s (1994) insightful discussion of medieval Oslo and its relation to rural production. The substantivist economic emphasis seen in zooarchaeological studies of early towns in England, in particular, is probably in part a reflection of the influence of Richard Hodges (1989), whether one agrees with his particular analysis or not. Spatial detail within towns To stay with towns for the moment, large area excavations of streets and tenements offer the opportunity to investigate human activities on a small spatial scale. Contextual analysis is surprisingly rare, even where the quantity and quality of material would seem to indicate the potential. Obvious exceptions are the publication of individual pit-fills or other special deposits, often where these are the only substantial assemblages from a small excavation. For example, Quade (1984) reports in great detail a late medieval assemblage from a major sewer in Lübeck. Though the report is quite meticulous, it gives little discussion of the assemblage in the context of medieval Lübeck as a whole, and subsequent studies from Lübeck have tended to use the same highly descriptive report format (e.g. Rheingans and Rechstein (1991)). On occasions, contextual detail has obviously been overlooked. Wiig (1981), for example, differentiates fifteenth century material from Bergen only into ‘early’ and ‘late’ phases, despite the evident potential for within-phase analysis with respect to spatial divisions. A similar criticism could be made of the present author’s own work in York (e.g. see O’Connor 1989). Detailed contextual analysis requires a confident understanding of

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the taphonomic pathways by which the bone fragments reached the deposit in which they were encountered. Studies of bone taphonomy have not, on the whole, tackled urban deposits, beyond some fairly simple modelling of pathways and outcomes (e.g. O’Connor 1993). In a particularly detailed study of medieval assemblages from Marseilles, Audoin-Rouzeau (1997a) makes the point that different taphonomic processes will have acted, or acted with different intensities and outcomes, in contemporaneous areas of a site. Spatial variation in human activity across a complex settlement site therefore has to be discerned through a palimpsest of locally-acting taphonomic processes about which few generalisations can be made. Fortunately, some studies have shown that this situation is difficult, but not impossible. By linking zooarchaeology with records of urban social topography, Ijzereef (1989) showed that urban bone debris could reflect ethnic and status variants within a single neighbourhood in post-medieval Amsterdam. This observation is important for our understanding of urban bone taphonomy by showing that the processes of refuse deposition do not necessarily ‘homogenise’ assemblages at the expense of spatial detail, despite the impression that historians such as Sabine (1933) might give. The same point has been demonstrated by Bond and O’Connor (1999) in a comparison of twelfth and thirteenth century assemblages from York, showing that skeletal attributes specific to separate populations or demes can be detectable in discrete, nearcontemporaneous, deposits of bones. These few examples give cause for optimism: the information potentially survives, but we have to look for it. Methodological innovation will help to extract the information: Moreno Garcia and Rackham (2000) describe one such approach, though to date it has mostly been applied to Roman assemblages and has made little impact on the interpretation of medieval material. To digress for a moment, one of the parameters that Ijzereef sought to investigate was ‘status’. In the case of Waterlooplein, this evasive term could probably be equated with ‘disposable income’. In other medieval zooarchaeology studies, the term is used with abandon rather than definition. Site-to-site differences are discussed in terms of ‘high status’ or ‘low status’ without making clear the meaning that those terms have in the context of the specific project. To

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deconstruct an example, Serjeantson (2001) has reviewed the occurrence of small birds on late medieval sites in England, in a useful paper that seeks socio-economic meaning in zooarchaeological data that are often discussed solely in biogeographical terms. Her last paragraph refers to status, thus: “Records suggest that consumption of wild birds ... was confined to high status meals...” (ibid: 273). What is a high status meal? Is it the meal that is of high status (because of ingredients or occasion); the household in which it is prepared (because of social standing or wealth); or the guests to whom it is served (ditto)? And does that use of the term equate with its use at the end of the same paragraph: “Unlike fish bones ... bones of passerines and other small birds have been found more frequently on high status sites such as castles, manors and wealthy religious houses”? I intend no particular criticism of Serjeantson’s paper, but it illustrates the ease with which the slippery concept of ‘status’ has insinuated itself into medieval zooarchaeology. Animal-based craft and industry The development of regional economies in medieval Europe was accompanied by the large-scale extraction of animal-derived resources. Animal by-products such as hide and horn were extracted and processed on a large enough scale to generate a distinctive archaeological imprint. Horn extraction, in particular, has attracted the attention of zooarchaeologists, generally in the form of detailed studies of concentrations of cattle and goat horncores. In most cases, the focus of the study has been the processes involved in the accumulation, recovery, and working of the horn, as in Prummel’s study of medieval goat horncores from ‘s-Hertogenbosch, Netherlands (Prummel 1978), and the examples discussed by Bond and O’Connor (1999: 380-1). That there is considerable scope to extract information on horn-working is shown by Krausz’ (1992) excellent account of a cattle horncore deposit at the Gaulish settlement of Levroux. In general, accounts of medieval horncore deposits do not go into such detail, perhaps because we are less inclined to interrogate medieval data as closely or as freely as prehistoric data, a point to which this paper will return.

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Bone and antler were important raw materials in medieval Europe. The reporting of objects made of these materials straddles one of the tiresome lines of demarcation that run through archaeology. All too often, the artefacts are reported by a ‘finds’ specialist, with little more than a brief identification of element and species where possible, and scant discussion of the wider context of the raw material. As an example, Foreman (1991) describes a large assemblage of bone artefacts from medieval deposits in Lurk Lane, Beverley, (U.K.). There is a substantial zooarchaeology report in the same volume, but discussion of the bone artefacts is essentially stylistic. In contrast, worked bone objects from Dorestad have been published by a zooarchaeologist (Clason 1978; 1980), and a fine example of collaboration is Dijkman and Ervynck’s (1998) study of artefacts from Roman and early medieval Maastricht. Apart from considering the sources of raw material, the authors discuss diachronic changes in materials, objects, and working methods. Ulbricht (1982) also reviews working methods in her account of 11th to fourteenth century artefacts from Alt-Schleswig, and Lie (1988) includes some discussion of worked bone objects from Oslo. Although bone artefacts are not generally seen as the province of the zooarchaeologist, the use of skeletal materials in artefacts can be seen as a late stage in the butchering process (O’Connor 1993), and its study should, perhaps, be reclaimed by zooarchaeologists on those grounds. Less directly indicative of a medieval industry based on animal products is the zooarchaeological investigation of wool production. Here, the emphasis is on recognising the flock demography that ought to indicate a concentration on wool. Historical sources lead us to expect wool to have been an important product in at least the later medieval period in, for example, eastern England and the Low Countries. A combination of ethnohistorical evidence and firstprinciples argument allows us to propose that a wool flock will tend to have a particular demography. From that, we further propose a plausible pattern of mortality from such a flock, apply likely taphonomic filters, and then seek to recognise the resulting archaeological imprint. That complicated sequence of suppositions and linking arguments underlies studies such as Ervynck’s (1998) interesting account of material from late thirteenth and fourteenth

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century deposits in Ypres. Ervynck concludes that the evidence is at best not inconsistent with an economic strategy that is largely inferred, therefore, from the historical evidence. This shows the difficulty of convincingly investigating an industry that underpinned the prosperity of some parts of medieval Europe. The zooarchaeological evidence for wool production on an industrial scale is generally rather ambiguous, however firm the historical evidence. A different sort of animal-based industry that has attracted much attention is the development of offshore fishing, particularly around the North Sea. Historical documents show that by the late medieval period, ports all around the North Sea and North Atlantic supported highly organised fishing industries, and zooarchaeology has attempted to investigate the origins of this industry. Sten (1995) has shown that even the relatively sparse record from medieval Sweden can be historically contextualised. Some have taken the interpretation a step further, for example in Barrett’s (1997) linkage of intensified fishing in the Orkney Islands and Caithness with the emerging economic power of that region. Further north, Perdikaris (1996) has sought evidence for the emergence of commercial fishing in northern Norway, and she stresses the difficulty of recognising commercialisation with confidence: “A headache in need of a proper cure”. Much of the investigation of medieval fishing has started from a position of knowledge, albeit based on partial and ambiguous sources, and searched the zooarchaeological record for supporting material evidence. As Perdikaris points out, this is a difficult process if applied at a regional scale, though individual sites might show a good correlation between sources of evidence. At Eindhoven Castle, for example, de Jong (1994) was able to show strong similarities between the archaeological fish bone assemblages and expectations based on historical sources. This research paradigm is not so far from the testing of models discussed above. The documentary sources lead us to postulate a socioeconomic event or process, and we construct from that an hypothesis that can be tested against the available data. For the provisioning of early towns, we lack the quality and quantity of documentary sources, and therefore we construct hypotheses based

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on economic models that are not period-specific. Our investigation of that particular topic, therefore, proceeds along much the same lines as might an investigation of prehistoric economies, whereas the investigation of medieval bone-working or fishing proceeds in a manner that is specific to an historic period. Castles, manors, estates The importance of a priori knowledge is again apparent in studies of non-urban centres of power, wealth, and influence, such as castles (sensu lato), manors, and ecclesiastical houses and estates. With such institutions as these, we believe ourselves to be on familiar ground, and research questions tend to be posed on the basis of prior assumptions regarding the function and ‘status’ of the site concerned. To stay with fish for the moment, Van Neer and Ervynck (1994) consider castles and abbeys in their survey of fish from Belgian sites, and their discussion of abbeys centres on the abundance and diversity of fish in terms of the adherence to dietary rules. There is, of course, the danger of some circularity of argument, or at least of allowing our document-driven preconception to constrain what research questions we pose and therefore what conclusions we can reach. None the less, the background knowledge can enhance our interpretation. In Compiègne, for example, Yvinec (1997) was able to use the known history of the site to inform a comparison of seigneurial, ecclesiastical, and plebeian refuse within one part of the town. Without the historical record, an analysis of the bone assemblages would have found distinct spatial variation, but would have lacked grounds on which to base the interpretation. Yvinec has also conducted a regional survey of the role of hunted game in the diets of different social milieus (Yvinec 1993). Again, interpretation of the site-to-site variation benefits from the documentary historical sources, though the aims of this survey were quite particular, and the benefits might have been less evident in a more broadly-directed regional survey. Rural landscapes Medieval Europe consisted of more than towns and castles, yet the zooarchaeological record from farmsteads and other minor rural

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settlements is sparse. In part, this is a consequence of a lack of excavation on such sites: right across northwestern Europe, medieval archaeology has explored towns by excavation, and rural spaces between by field survey and documents. There is, too, a taphonomic reason, as rural settlements have little need to accumulate refuse. There are fields to manure, and probably a convenient river to carry away any surplus. Exceptions to this generalisation are few. One important study is Groenman-van Waateringe and Van WijngaardenBakker’s (1987) study of a Carolingian village, in which multiple lines of evidence are brought together to develop a model of the functioning of an early medieval rural settlement and its immediate landscape setting. The terp mound sites in northern Netherlands and adjacent parts of Germany (Boersma 1972) sometimes yield substantial bone assemblages from deposits accumulated in order to raise construction above the surrounding fields. Although the terpen have their origins in late prehistory, some can be described as medieval. For Schagen, for example, Prummel (1989) gives an overview of bones and marine shells from one of two terpen dated to the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. The bone assemblage was a little over a thousand specimens, including the complete skeletons of a newborn lamb and a cat. Despite the contribution that terpen have made to our understanding of rural settlement on the northern fringe of Europe, and to our knowledge of the livestock of the period (e.g. Reitsma 1932), the assemblages are generally one or two orders of magnitude smaller than those that typify urban medieval sites, so creating problems of comparability. Other instances of rural medieval assemblages occur around the margins of the northern North Sea and North Atlantic, generally in areas of mobile aeolian sand. However, important though sites such as Freswick Links, Caithness (Morris et al 1995), Skaill, Orkney (Buteux 1997), and Whithorn, Galloway (Hill 1997) undoubtedly are, they are marginal in every sense, and tell us little about the generality of the rural landscape in medieval Europe. A little more information about rural landscapes has been obtained by surveying the distribution of records of wild taxa such as wolves

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and bears. Although most of these records come from towns and other population centres, the premise is that they convey some information about the surrounding region. Surveys such as those compiled by Benecke (1999) contribute a little biogeographical information, and can at least serve to confirm the former presence of a species in an area from which it has since been extirpated, or to highlight a record that lies outside both the current, and apparent former, range of the species concerned. Given a known historical framework, some such surveys concentrate on specific historic events and processes, notably McCormick’s (1991) review of the Anglo-Norman impact on Ireland. In this case, a sweeping change in power relations brought centralised, feudal control to a previously decentralised, kin-based, rural society. A major, and therefore archaeologically highly visible, impact might be expected, though such visibility might not be typical of most historical events. Elsewhere in the British Isles, the Norman Conquest is remarkably elusive in the zooarchaeological record, even in the larger cities (e.g. O’Connor 1982). Discussion - whither medieval zooarchaeology? I stated at the outset that the aim of this brief review was to discuss some of the research objectives that have been most evident in the medieval zooarchaeological record. The development of a sweeping synthetic overview might be seen as a valid research objective in itself, particularly in a field that has generated numerous small acts of data collection (i.e. many published bone reports). It is a little surprising, therefore, that synthetic reviews have tended to be limited in their remit, either regionally (e.g. Noddle 1975) or by zoological Class (e.g. Van Neer and Ervynck 1994). Frédérique AudoinRouzeau has undertaken a number of Europe-wide surveys, including summaries of livestock size (1991a; 1991b), and a quite magnificent attempt to detect regional trends in assemblage composition across Europe (Audoin-Rouzeau 1993; 1997b). The latter undertaking, whilst valuable for the overview that it gives, is somewhat undone by its concentration on geography rather than social context, a point that the author also makes (Audoin-Rouzeau 1997b: 146, 149-53). As some of the examples cited above, and particularly the work of Yvinec, have shown, assemblage

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composition is a function of context far more than it is a reflection of major regional variants in production or consumption. Inter-regional comparisons therefore have to be based on samples of comparable social contexts. Despite these sweeping inter-regional comparisons, we have surprisingly little systematic information about intra-regional variation in livestock and husbandry practices. Site-to-site comparisons are made, and some contrasts are drawn, but information pertaining to, for example, herd-to-herd phenotypic variation and inferred gene flow over a scale of tens of kilometres is still lacking. Surely we must be close to being able to address such questions in some of the more intensively-studied regions, such as the Netherlands or lowland England? We have been similarly lax in tackling the question of what role different animals played in the lives of medieval people, beyond subsistence or basic utility. To a degree, that debate goes well beyond the remit of zooarchaeology, to consider the symbolic and iconic role of animals. However, a comparison of the frequency of occurrence of different species in texts and figurative art with their frequency in zooarchaeological assemblages may bring to light some informative disparities, as Audoin-Rouzeau (1994) has shown, in another grand survey that the author acknowledges is very sweeping (“Dans cette approche trés – trop- globale…”) (ibid: 13). Perhaps above all, what we lack at this point is a consensus view on the most constructive way to articulate the medieval historical record with the zooarchaeological record, paying due regard to both, but without undue reverence to either. For some of the topics outlined above, zooarchaeology has developed its own research agenda, whilst for others the questions that we have asked have been driven and constrained by the ‘known’ historical record. I would argue that, for the most part, the parallel existence of the historical evidence has inhibited medieval zooarchaeology, which risks becoming the last outpost of the traditional, descriptive (and proscriptive) ‘bone report’. Prehistoric zooarchaeology, lacking such inhibiting constraints, sometimes shows what some might think to be a surfeit of imagination, as in Andrew Jones’ (1998) challenging review of animals in Neolithic Britain. More often, though, the facility to

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argue primarily from the excavated evidence allows original questions to be asked, as in, for example, Sharples’ (2000) discussion of the place of red deer, dead or alive, in Neolithic Britain, or the important deductions drawn from a structural analysis of animal inclusions in Iron Age inhumations in east Yorkshire, (U.K.) (Stead 1991). That is not to say that we should completely disregard the medieval historical record and proceed inductively from the bones alone, but nor should we demote medieval bone assemblages to the role of giving evidential support to what we ‘know’ from the historical record. The ‘known’ history of a place or region gives a context in which to assess the zooarchaeological evidence. This is nicely demonstrated in McCormick and Murphy’s (1997) account of material from Dublin, which is essentially a bone report that begins with a few paragraphs that discuss the consequences for animal husbandry of a cash economy based on the manorial system. The immediate conclusion of that discussion is that the abundance of sheep in Dublin has to do with their role as a rural ‘cash crop’, and not with the culinary likes or dislikes of the city’s inhabitants. It is, perhaps, an unsophisticated point to make, but it immediately sets the context for subsequent discussion of the zooarchaeological data, without constraining the scope of that subsequent discussion. Some of the inferences made from the zooarchaeological data can then be referred back to the historical evidence. If the two sources are in conflict, a constructive dialogue can develop, with neither assumed to have priority. Animals were very important in the medieval world, and their physical remains are obviously a major source of information on many aspects of peoples’ lives. Medieval zooarchaeology has considerable potential, but has to be prepared to move beyond the routine ‘bone report’ to intra-site contextual analyses, intra-regional analyses of inter-site variation, and inter-regional syntheses. The published literature already includes some examples of all of these scales of analysis, but not enough. Above all, though, we have to engage in constructive dialogue with other medieval archaeologists and historians, and that might prove to be the greater challenge.

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Bibliography Audoin-Rouzeau, F. 1993. Hommes et Animaux en Europe de l’Époque Antique aux Temps Modernes – Corpus de Données Archéozoologiques et Historiques. Paris: CNRS, Dossiers de Documentation Archéeologique 16. Audoin-Rouzeau, F. 1994. Bêtes médiévales et familiarité: animaux familiers de l’esprit, animaux familiers de la vie. Anthropozoologica 20: 11-40. Audoin-Rouzeau, F. 1991a. La taille du boeuf domestique en Europe de l’Antiquité aux temps modernes. Fiches d’Osteologie Animale pour l’Archéologie. Serie B 2: 3-40. Audoin-Rouzeau, F. 1991b. La taille du mouton en Europe de l’Antiquité aux temps modernes. Fiches d’Osteologie Animale pour l’Archéologie. Serie B 3: 3-36. Audoin-Rouzeau, F. 1997a. La faune. In Marseille, les ateliers de potiers du XIIIe s. et le quartier Sainte-Barbe (Ve - XVIIe s.). (eds H. Marchesi, J. Thiriot and L. Vallauri). Paris: Éditions de la Maison des Sciences de l’Homme, pp. 93-104. Audoin-Rouzeau, F. 1997b. Élevage et alimentation dans l’espace Européen au Moyen Âge; cartographie des ossements animaux. In Milieux Naturels, Espaces Sociaux. Etudes offertes à Robert Delort. Paris: Sorbonne, pp. 143-159. Barrett, J. H. 1997. Fish trade in Norse Orkney and Caithness: a zooarchaeological approach. Antiquity 71: 616-38. Benecke, N. (ed) 1999. The Holocene History of the European Vertebrate Fauna. Rahden: Verlag Marie Leidorf. Boersma, J. W. 1972. Terpen – mens en milieu. Haren: Triangelreeks. Bond, J. M. and O’Connor, T. P. 1999. Bones from Medieval

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Deposits at 16-22 Coppergate and Other Sites in York. Archaeology of York 15/5. York: Council for British Archaeology. Bourdillon, J. 1988. Countryside and town: the animal resources of Saxon Southampton. In Anglo-Saxon Settlements (ed D. Hooke). Oxford: Blackwell, pp. 177-195. Buteux, S. 1997. Settlements at Skaill, Deerness, Orkney. Oxford: British Archaeological Reports British Series 260. Chaix, L. and Méniel, P. 1996. Elements d’Archeozoologie. Paris: Editions Errance. Clason, A. T. 1978. Voorwerpen uit been en gewei. Spiegel Historiael 13: 294-7. Clason, A. T. 1980. Worked bone and antler objects from Dorestad, Hoogstraat 1. In Excavations at Dorestad I, The Harbour: Hoogstraat I (eds W. van Es. and W. Verwers). ‘s-Gravenhage: Rijksdienst voor het Oudheidkundig Bodemonderzoek, pp. 238-246. Crabtree, P. 1989. Sheep, horses, swine, and kine: a zooarchaeological perspective on the Anglo-Saxon settlement of England. Journal of Field Archaeology 16: 205-213. Crabtree, P. 1990. Zooarchaeology and complex societies: some uses of faunal analysis for the study of trade, social status, and ethnicity. In Archaeological Method and Theory 2 (ed M.B. Schiffer). Tucson: University of Arizona Press, pp. 155-205. Crabtree, P. 1996. Production and consumption in an early complex society: animal use in Middle Saxon East Anglia. World Archaeology 28: 58-75. De Jong, T. 1994. Fish consumption at Eindhoven Castle: archaeological remains versus historical sources. In Fish Exploitation in the Past (ed W. van Neer). Tervuren: Annales du Musee Royal de l’Afrique Centrale, Sciences Zoologiques no 274, pp. 129-137.

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Dijkman, W and Ervynck, A. 1998. Antler, Bone, Horn, Ivory and Teeth. The Use of Animal Skeletal Materials in Roman and Early Medieval Maastricht. Maastricht: Archaeologica Mosana 1. Ervynck, A. 1998. Wool or mutton? An archaeozoological investigation of sheep husbandry around late medieval Ypres. In Ypres and the medieval cloth industry in Flanders. Historical and archaeological contributions (eds M. Dewilde, A. Ervynck, and A. Wielemans). Zellik: Archeologie in Vlaanderen Monografie 2, pp. 77-86. Foreman, M. 1991. The bone and antler. In Excavations at Lurk Lane Beverley 1979-82 (eds P. Armstrong, D. Tomlinson and D.H. Evans). Sheffield: Sheffield Excavation Reports 1, pp. 183-196. Groenman-van Waateringe, W. and van Wijngaarden-Bakker, L. H. 1987. Farm Life in a Carolingian Village. Assen: Van Gorcum. Hatting, T. 1991. The archaeozoology. In Ribe Excavations 1970-76 (eds M. Bencard, C.B. Jorgensen and H.B. Madsen). Esbjerg: Sydiysk Universitetsforlag, pp. 43-58. Hill, P. 1997. Whithorn and St Ninian. The Excavation of a Monastic Town 1984-91. Stroud: Sutton. Hodges, R. 1989. Dark Age Economics. London: Duckworth (second edition). Ijzereef, G. F. 1989. Social differentiation from animal bone studies. In Diet and crafts in towns (eds D. Serjeanston and T. Waldron). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports British series 199, pp. 41-54. Jones, A. 1998. Where eagles dare. Landscape, animals, and the Neolithic of Orkney. Journal of Material Culture, 3: 301-24. Krausz, S. 1992. L’exploitation artisanale de la corne de bovides a l’époque gauloise: le temoinage des chevilles osseuses de corne de Lavroux (Indre). Revue Archéologique du Centre de la France, 31:

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41-55. Lie, R. 1988. Animal bones. In De arkeologiske utgravninger i Gamlebyen, Oslo 5 (ed E. Schia). Øvre Ervik: Alvheim and Eide, pp. 153-196. McCormick, F. 1991. The effect of the Anglo-Norman settlement on Ireland’s wild and domesticated fauna. In Animal Use and Culture Change (eds P. J. Crabtree and K. Ryan). Philadelphia: MASCA Research Papers in Science and Archaeology 8, pp. 40-52. McCormick, F. and Murphy, E. 1997. Mammal bones. In Archaeological Excavations at Patrick, Nicholas, and Winetavern Streets, Dublin (ed C. Walsh). Dublin: Brandon, pp. 199-218. Moreno Garcia, M. and Rackham, D.J. 2000. Context level interpretation of animal bones through statistical analysis. In Taphonomy and Interpretation (eds J. Huntley and S. Stallibrass). Oxford: Oxbow, pp. 97-101. Morris, C. D. Batey, C. E. and Rackham, D. J. 1995. Freswick Links, Caithness. Excavation and Survey of a Norse Settlement. Inverness and New York: Highland Libraries and NABO. Noddle, B. A. 1975. A comparison of the animal bones from 8 medieval sites in southern Britain. In Archaeozoological Studies (ed A. T. Clason). Amsterdam: North Holland Publishing Company, pp. 261-4. O’Connor, T. P. 1982. Animal Bones from Flaxengate, Lincoln c. 870-1500. The Archaeology of Lincoln 18-1. London: Council for British Archaeology. O’Connor, T. P. 1989. Bones from Anglo-Scandinavian levels at 1622 Coppergate. The Archaeology of York 15/3. London: Council for British Archaeology. O’Connor, T. P. 1993. Process and terminology in mammal carcass reduction. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology 3: 63-8.

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O’Connor, T. P. 1994. 8th-11th century economy and environment in York. In Environment and Economy in Anglo-Saxon England (ed D. J. Rackham). London: Council for British Archaeology, pp. 136147. O’Connor, T. P. 2000. The Archaeology of Animal Bones. Stroud: Sutton. Perdikaris, S. 1996. Scaly heads and tales: detecting commercialization in early fisheries. Archaeofauna, 5: 21-33. Prummel, W. 1978. Animal bones from tannery pits of ‘sHertogenbosch. In Berichten van de Rijksdienst voor het Oudheidkundig Bodemonderzoek 1978. Amersfoort: ROB, pp. 399422. Prummel, W. 1983. Early Medieval Dorestad, an Archaeozoological Study. Amersfoort: Rijksdienst voor het Oudheidkundig Bodemonderzoek. Prummel, W. 1989. Resten van vee, vis en weekdieren uit een 12e 13e-eeuwse terp aan de Dorpen te Schagen. In Archeologica. De archeologie van het noorden van Noord-Holland in historisch en landschappelik perspektief (ed F. Diedreik). Schoorl: Uitgiverij Pirola, pp. 148-64. Quade, V. 1984. Die Tierknochen aus der Kloake der Lübecker Fronerei (15-17 Jahrhundert). Lübecker Schriften zur Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte 8: 105-167. Reichstein, H. and Tiessen, M. 1974. Untersuchungen an Tierknochenfunden (1963-1964). Ausgrabungen in Haithabu, Bericht 7. Neumünster: Karl Wachholtz. Reitsma, G. G. 1932. Het Schaap. Zoologisch onderzoek der Nederlandsche Terpen, eertse gedeelte. Wageningen: Fonds Landbouw Export Bureau. Rheingans, A and Reichstein, H. 1991. Untersuchungen an

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Tierknochen aus mittelalterlichen bis neuzeitlichen Siedlungsablagerungen in Lübeck (Ausgrabung Alfstrasse 36/38). Lübecker Schriften zur Archäologie und Kulturgeschichte, 21: 143181. Roskams, S. and Saunders, T. 2001. The poverty of empiricism and the tyranny of theory. In Environmental Archaeology: Meaning and Purpose (ed U. Albarella). Dordrecht: Kluwer Academic, pp. 61-74. Reitz, E. and Wing, E. S. 1999. Zooarchaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Sabine, E. L. 1933. Butchering in mediaeval London. Speculum, 8: 335-353. Schia, E. 1994. Urban Oslo and its relation to rural production in the hinterland - an archaeological view. In Urban-rural Connexions: Perspectives from Environmental Archaeology (eds A. R. Hall and H. K. Kenward) Oxford: Oxbow Monograph 47, pp. 1-11. Serjeantson, D. 2001. A dainty dish: consumption of small birds in late medieval England. In Animals and Man in the Past (eds H. Buitenhuis and W. Prummel). Groningen: ARC-Publicatie 41, pp. 263-274. Sharples, N. 2000. Antlers and Orcadian rituals: an ambiguous role for red deer in the Neolithic. In Neolithic Orkney in its European Context (ed A. Ritchie). Cambridge; McDonald Institute Monographs, pp. 107-116. Stead, I. M. 1991. Iron Age Cemeteries in East Yorkshire. London; English Heritage Archaeological Reports no. 22. Sten, S. 1995. Trading with fish in medieval Sweden. Some examples from archaeological bone finds. Archaeofauna, 4: 65-9. Ulbricht, I. 1982. Knochengerät aus Alt-Schleswig. Rohstoff und Verarbeitungsprozess. Schriften aus der AZA Kiel, 6: 5-32.

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Van Neer, W. and Ervynck, A. 1994. New data on fish remains from Belgian archaeological sites. In Fish Exploitation in the Past (ed W van Neer). Tervuren: Annales du Musée Royal de l’Afrique Centrale, Sciences Zoologiques no 274, pp. 217-229. Wiig, O. 1981. Faunal remains from medieval Bergen. Fauna Norvegica, Series A, 2: 34-40. Yvinec, J. H. 1993. La part du gibier dans l’alimentation du haut Moyen Âge. In Exploitation des Animaux Sauvages a Travers le Temps. Juan-les-Pins: Editions APDCA, pp. 491-504. Yvinec, J. H. 1997. Étude archéozoologique du site de la Place des Hallettes à Compiègne (Oise) du haut Moyen Âge au XIIe siècle. Révue Archéologique de Picardie, 13: 171-210.

King of all Beasts – Beast of all Kings Lions in Anglo-Saxon Coinage and Art Anna Gannon Department of Art History, University of Cambridge

The most commonly represented beasts in the art of the early Christian Anglo-Saxon period are lions. This is not surprising when one considers the role lions played in the iconography of power in the Ancient and the Classical world and in the imagery and exegesis of both the Old and the New Testament. Their paradoxical status as symbols of royal authority and even of Christ,1 ferocious avengers and protectors or destructive killers, would have appealed to a forma mentis delighting in ambiguity and layering of meanings. This is apparent in the surviving literature, both religious and secular2, and in designs which allow for discrete and complex readings.3 In Britain, lions would have been known to the Anglo-Saxons from the rich legacy of Roman and Romano-British art: statues, sarcophagi, mosaics, silverware, jewels, manuscripts, textiles, etc., some of these still extant, whilst others can only be postulated (see Potter 1997:passim and also Toynbee 1973: 61-90 on felines, pls. 189). To these must be added the new models that came as imports in answer not only to the specific needs of Christianity, as, for example, via Gospel books,4 but to what we might think of as a protoRenaissance in learning and interest in the Antique and exotic by the educated laity, of which King Aldfrith of Northumbria, vir bonus, et sapiens, et ... instructus, (Bede, HE V, 15: 315) was certainly not the only exponent.5 Lions also feature prominently among the iconographically-rich silver pennies of the early eighth century, the so-called sceattas. These coins are an invaluable repository of types, offering illuminating comparisons with the better-known examples from Gospel books and metalwork, and arguably a shadow of things now lost.

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It is now firmly established that the first silver coinage of Northumbria was produced by King Aldfrith.6 Uniquely at the time, but appropriately for such a cultured man and his entourage (Bede HE V, 12 and V, 15: 309-10, 315), the coins bear his name. On the reverse they portray a lion (fig.1).

Figure 1: Coin of Aldfrith (685-704); Fitzwilliam Museum, CM 2172-1997

The identification of the design has also been the subject of many debates, with the animal variously described as a ‘crude beast’ or a pantomime horse, and the tail mistaken for a tree.7 However, when considered individually, all the elements of the animal can be seen to be in the style of the type of prestigious classical model likely to have been known and admired by such a cultivated patron. The sinuous body of Aldfrith’s lion finds precedents in fine late Roman work such as the tigress from the Hoxne Treasure (Bland and Johns 1993), whose graceful leap is mirrored in the lion of St Mark of f. 75v of the Echternach Gospels.8 It is in classical rendering of living, active animals, running or jumping with both front paws pointing forward,9 that we can find the models for our energetic lions (see Henderson 1987:76)10. Although compressed by the roundness of the coin flan, the design still manages to convey the impression of an animal leaping forward, which must be understood entirely in the classical tradition. The triple-tufted tail and the long open snout are also common features of lions in the Classical world, especially of the schematic renderings of lions on textiles (Kitzinger 1940: 32, pl. 14; Kybalová 1967:e.g. nos. 30, 32, 36, 39, 43 and 44. See also Muthesius 1997: fig. 108a). As these are rather exaggerated features on our coins, one might postulate as prototype a model from a textile.

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If the animal on Aldfrith’s coin may be described in anachronistic heraldic language as a ‘lion courant’, those on the subsequent Northumbrian coinage,11 rigid and self-consciously formal, recalling a royal badge (Archibald (Archibald, Brown and Webster) 1997: 239; Henderson 1999: 50), could be called ‘passants’12 (fig. 2).

Figure 2: Coin of Alchred (765-74) (Series Y) Fitzwilliam Museum, MEC 1181

These animals, which remain remarkably constant throughout the Series, (Cf. Metcalf 1993-94: nos. 454-63 and 467-75, spanning a fifty-year period) have been described as horse-like (ibid: 576), and indeed the stiff mane and elongated ears combined with the long limbs justify such an interpretation. However, the tail remains leonine, as does the pose, which in its mannerism recalls classical compositions of lions/griffins or winged horses flanking a tree-oflife.13 The formality of the stance suggests the influence of new models, such as we find on the hieratic frieze of pacing lions with leafy tails at Breedon-on-the-Hill (Cramp 1977: 207, fig. 52b). A close parallel in Insular art can be seen in the winged lion of the Book of Armagh (See Whitfield 1995: 100, fig.16a),14 symbol of St Mark, an effete creature with elongated limbs, pointed ears and equine mane, but tip-toeing on the clawed paws of a lion,15 and with leonine tail and profile. Series Y, as well as Breedon and Armagh may draw their inspiration from models from the Christian East, perhaps from textiles (Cramp 1977: 207; Plunkett 1998: 218), or other portable objects.16

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Unlike the simple paddles of Aldfrith’s lions, the paws of the animal on the coins of Series Y have claws. They appear to be abbreviated versions of the detailed claws depicted on the lions of the manuscripts mentioned above, a reduction undoubtedly necessary because of the small size of the coins. The same solution is apparent in the representation of the claws of the addorsed lions guardians of the Ark of the Covenant in the Holy of Holies on the back panel of the Franks Casket.17 Similarities are apparent between the lion of the Book of Armagh and those (certainly more powerful) of the Franks Casket, particularly with regard to ears, heads, bodies and limbs. On the Franks Casket the lions’ manes are ambiguous.18 They may be horse-like, in the style we see in the Book of Armagh (see also Kells, e.g.: f. 27v: Meehan 1994: 4, fig. 46), or may be interpreted as standing upright, a feature of some of the lions in the Book of Kells (see f. 114r (top of arch) and f. 183r (in the initial E). See also Meehan 1994: 48 and 83, figs. 54 and 113) and, exaggerated and stylised, of those of Series Y. New lion models, distinct from that of Aldfrith’s coinage, probably of more eastern derivation, can be postulated to have served as prototypes for the Franks Casket, Series Y coins and the Book of Armagh. The lions on the Casket and those on the coins of Eadberht of Series Y, Class A,19 have prominent ‘lolling tongues’. Coins of Series Q, Types QIVA, QIVB and QIVC (Metcalf 1993-9:499), from East Anglia (ibid: 483-7), also share such a feature, but on a well-modelled and powerfully bodied lion. An extant Byzantine enamel disc from Risan, Montenegro, now in the Ashmolean Museum collection,20 gives a vivid idea of the sort of models behind this AngloSaxon renderings (fig. 3).21 Figure 3: Coin of Series Q, Type QIVA (Prof. de Wit, private collection, Rotterdam)

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Although in a stiffer manner (and omitting the tongue), other coins of Series Q also look at such eastern models as prototypes (Types QIIIIB, QIIIC and Q(R); Metcalf 1993-94: 496-8, nos. 386-8). Although they also show the tripartite tail and long muzzle that we saw on Aldfrith’s coinage, in stance and body mass they are distinct from the Northumbrian tradition. One wonders if through these we see the ‘ghost’ of the now lost East Anglia Gospel illumination tradition. Lolling tongues abound in Anglo-Saxon metalwork and manuscripts,22 and indeed also among the coins, where a counterpart is to be found among the coins of Series K (fig. 4).23

Figure 4: Coin of Series K, Type 32a (Prof. de Wit, private collection, Rotterdam)

We should make a distinction, however, between such tongues and representations of the salvific breath of the lion, which, according to the well-known Physiologus allegory24, on the third day breathes life into its ‘dead’ cub, recalling Christ’s Resurrection. The two lions on f. 124 of the Book of Kells might be equally differentiated, one forming the initial of the word Tunc (crucifixerant) and with a tongue interlaced around a snake, and the other with a full mane, roaring a flame-like issue (Meehan 1996: 55, fig.62)25. Arguably, the stately lion of the coin of Series Q illustrated in figure 3 is represented ‘breathing life’.

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A further Christological reading of the ‘natures’ of the lion in the Physiologus refers to its ‘ever vigilance’.26 Both concepts, of a liferestoring and vigilant lion are united in a miniature of the Liber Sacramentorum Gellonensis, a Carolingian manuscript of the second half of the eighth century (Dumas (ed) 1981: XVIII-XIX, fig. 79, f. 92v). On f. 92v a powerful lion is shown with his head framed by a wreath of leaves and interlace, his alert cub looking up. The imago clipeata recalls the lions’ muzzles on the doors of Charlemagne’s palace at Aachen (Hubert, Porcher and Volbach 1970: 223, fig. 205 and X, fig.1), with the additional iconography of the lion as protector, translating into a complex Christian context the classical image of the lion as the keeper of the Other World (Mende 1981: 142). The motif of a vigilant facing lion, wide-eyed and with prominent upright ears, framed by a contour of pellets, also appears on a group of Anglo-Saxon coins of the first half of the eighth century, generally referred to as ‘Animal Mask’ (fig. 5; Metcalf 1993-94: 446-8, nos. 354-6). Although no comparanda for the Carolingian lions survive from Anglo-Saxon England, a good case has been put forward for the Insular tradition having precedence over the Aachen lions for the early eighth-century sanctuary ring from the Donore Hoard in Ireland27. Perhaps the ‘Animal mask’ coins offer us a glimpse of similar artefacts from Anglo-Saxon England, albeit now lost. We may wonder if what is commonly hailed as Carolingian Renaissance is but a fortuitous survival of what was once common in the Insular context and kept the Classical legacy alive.

Figure 5: ‘Animal Mask’ (Prof. de Wit, private collection, Rotterdam)

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Abbreviations HE MEC

Historia Ecclesiatica Gentis Anglorum Medieval European Coinage (see Grierson & Blackburn 1986)

Bibliography Archibald, M. Brown, M. and Webster, L. 1997. Heirs of Rome: the shaping of Britain, AD 400-900. In The Transformation of the Roman World AD 400-900 (eds L. Webster and M. Brown). London: The British Museum, pp. 208-48. Backhouse, J. 1996. The Lindisfarne Gospels. London: Phaidon Press. Bailey, R. N. 1996. England’s Earliest Sculptors. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Medieval Studies. Beckwith J. 1989. Studies in Byzantine and Medieval Western Art. London: The Pindar Press. Bede, Historia Ecclesiatica Gentis Anglorum and Historia Abbatum. (ed C. Plummer) 1896. Venerabilis Baedae Opera Historica. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Bland, R and Johns, C. 1993. The Hoxne Treasure: an Illustrated Introduction. London: The British Museum. Booth, J. 1984. Sceattas in Northumbria. In Sceattas in England and on the Continent (eds D. Hill, and D. M. Metcalf). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports. British Series 128, pp. 71-111. Budde, L. and Nicholls, R. 1967. A Catalogue of the Greek and Roman Sculpture in the Fitzwilliam Museum Cambridge. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cramp, R. J. 1977. Schools of Mercian sculpture. In Mercian Studies (ed A. Dornier). Leicester: Leicester University Press, pp. 191-233.

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Curley, M. J. 1979 (trans). Physiologus. Austin: University of Texas Press. Dumas, A. (ed) 1981. Liber Sacramentorum Gellonensis (alias Sacramentarium Gellonense), Corpus Christianorum, Series Latina, vol. 159 A, Turnhout: Brepols. Dynes, W. 1981. Imago Leonis. Gesta, XX(1): 35-41. Gannon A. (forthcoming 2003) The Iconography of the Early AngloSaxon Coinage. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Grierson, P. and Blackburn, M. 1986. Medieval European Coinage 1, The Early Middle Ages (5th-10th centuries). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Haseloff, G. 1990. Email im frühen Mittelalter. Frühchristlische Kunst von der Spätantike bis zu den Karolingern, Marburg. Henderson G. 1987. From Durrow to Kells. London: Thames & Hudson. Henderson, G. 1999. Vision and Image in Early Christian England. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Henderson, I. 1996, Pictish Monsters: Symbol, Text and Image, H. M. Chadwick Memorial Lectures 7, Cambridge: Department of Anglo-Saxon, Norse and Celtic. Henderson, I. 1998. Primus inter Pares: the St Andrews Sarcophagus and Pictish Sculpture. In The St Andrews Sarchophagus (ed S. M. Foster). Dublin: Four Courts Press, pp. 97-167. Hicks C. 1993. Animals in Early Medieval Art. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Hubert, J., Porcher, J. and Volbach, W. F. 1970. Carolingian Art. London: Thames & Hudson.

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Jewell, R. H. I. 1986. The Anglo-Saxon friezes at Breedon-on-theHill, Leicestershire. Archaeologia 108: 95-115. Johns, C. 1983. The Thetford Treasure. London: British Museum Press. Kahn, D. 1992. Anglo-Saxon and early Romanesque frieze sculpture in England. In The Romanesque Frieze and its Spectator (The Lincoln Symposium Papers) (ed Kahn). London: Harvey Miller, for the Dean and Chapter of Lincoln Cathedral, pp. 61-74. Kybalová, L. 1967. Coptic Textiles. London: Paul Hamlyn Ltd. Kitzinger, E. 1940. Early Medieval Art at the British Museum. London: The British Museum Lang, J. 1990. The Anglian Sculpture of Deira: The Classical Tradition (Jarrow Lecture). Jarrow. Leigh, D. 1980. Ambiguity in Anglo-Saxon style I art. Antiquaries Journal, 64: 34-42. MacGregor, A. 1997. A Summary Catalogue of the Continental Archaeological Collections (Roman Iron Age, Migration Period, Early Medieval). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports, International Series 674. Meehan, B. 1994. The Book of Kells. London: Thames & Hudson. Metcalf, D. M. 1988. The coins. In Southampton Finds: the Coins and Pottery from Hamwic, 1 (ed P. Andrews). Southampton: Southampton City Museum, pp. 17-59. Mende, U. 1981. Die Türzieher des Mittelalters. (Denkmäler deutscher Kunst) (Bronzegeräte des Mittelalters; Bd. 2). Berlin: Deutscher Verlag für Kunstwissenschaft. Metcalf, D. M. 1993-94. Thrymsas and Sceattas in the Ashmolean Museum Oxford. 3 vols. London: Royal Numismatic Society.

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Muthesius, A. 1997. Byzantine Silk Weaving AD 400 to AD 1200. Vienna: Verlag Fassbänder. Panazza, G. & Tagliaferri A. 1996. Corpus della scultura altomedievale Italiana (vol. 3): La diocesi di Brescia, Spoleto: presso la Sede del centro di Studi. Peroni, A 1984. L’arte nell’età longobarda. Una traccia. In Magistra Barbaritas. I Barbari in Italia (ed G. Pugliese Carratelli). Milan: Scheiwiller, pp. 229-97. Plunkett, S. J. 1998. The Mercian perspective. In The St Andrews Sarcophagus (ed S. M. Foster). Dublin: Four Courts Press, pp. 20226. Potter, T. W. 1997. Roman Britain. London: The British Museum. Ryan, M. 1987. The Donore Hoard: early medieval metalwork from Moynalty, near Kells, Ireland. Antiquity, 61: 57-63. Salin, E. 1949-59. La civilisation mérovingienne (4 vols.), Paris: A. et J. Picard. Speake, G. 1980. Anglo-Saxon animal art and its Germanic background. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Stevenson, R. B. K. 1981-82. Aspects of ambiguity in crosses and interlace (the Oliver Davies Lecture for 1981). Ulster Journal of Archaeology, 44-5: 1-27 Swanton, M. (ed) 1996. The Dream of the Rood. Exeter: University of Exeter Press. Toynbee J. M. C. 1973. Animals in Roman Life and Art. London: Thames & Hudson.

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Webster, L. 1999. The iconographic programme of the Franks Casket. In Northumbria's Golden Age (eds J. Hawkes and S. Mills). Stroud: Sutton Publishing, pp. 227-46. Webster, L. & Backhouse, J. (eds) 1991. The Making of England. Anglo-Saxon Art and Culture AD 600-900, London: The British Museum. Webster L. and Brown M. (eds) 1997. The Transformation of the Roman World AD 400-900. London: The British Museum. Whitfield, N. 1995. Formal convention in the depiction of animals on Celtic metalwork. In From the Isles of the North: Early Medieval Art in Ireland and Britain (ed C. Bourke). Belfast: HMSO, pp. 89104. Whitehurst Williams, E. 1992. Sacred and profane: a metaphysical conceit upon a cup. Geardagum, 13: 19-30. Wilson, D. 1984. Anglo-Saxon Art: from the Seventh Century to the Norman Conquest, London: Thames & Hudson. Youngs, S. M. (ed) 1989. ‘The Works of Angels’: Masterpieces of Celtic Metalwork, 6th –9th Centuries AD. London: The British Museum. Notes 1

From Biblical readings, the Anglo-Saxons would have been aware of prophets comparing enemy kings to predatory lions (Jer 50.17; Ezek 32.2), and of Christ as the Lion of Judah (Gen 49.9). 2

See lines 28-30 in the Dream of the Rood, Swanton 1996; for riddles see Whitehurst Williams 1992 and Leigh 1980.

3

F or instance on f. 18b of the Lindisfarne Gospels forming the base of the letter M one can see either two confronted animal heads or a single one seen from above with wide nostrils ending in scrolls (see

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Backhouse 1996: 60, fig. 37. See also Stevenson 1981-82: 1-27 and Gannon (forthcoming) 4

For example, one might like to consider the different responses behind the naturalistic imago leonis (symbol of the evangelist St Mark) reproduced in the Lindisfarne Gospels (f. 93v) and the lions on the Monkwearmouth frieze (Bailey 1996: 33) and Hexam (Wilson 1984: 52, fig. 45 versus the ‘metallic’ lion in the Book of Durrow (f. 191v). The latter, besides the parallels discussed in Henderson 1987: 52, should also be compared to enamelled animal brooches, common in the late-Roman world. See also Lang 1990; Kahn 1992: 65; Henderson 1999: ch. 2. Coptic and Byzantine textiles are surveyed in Kybalová 1967 and Beckwith 1989: 1-70. 5

Aldfrith (685-704) is known to have owned a copy of the Cosmographers (Bede, Historia Abbatum: 379-80, par. 15) and an illustrated version of Adomnán’s Treatise on the Holy Places (Bede, HE V,15: 315). The St Andrews Sarcophagus gives an interesting insight into the animal models available in Britain to the Pictish elite. See Henderson 1998: 118-44. 6

The controversy over the attribution to Aldfrith of Northumbria (685-704) or to Aldfrith of Lindsey (786-96) was finally settled thanks to the finding of a coin in an early eighth-century wellstratified context at Hamwic (Metcalf 1988: no. 125). Metrology also confirms the earlier dating (Metcalf 1993-94: vol. 1: 118). 7

Various interpretations are discussed in Metcalf 1993-94: 118. Prof. Henderson (Henderson 1999: 50), however, does recognise it as a lion, albeit ‘wolf-like’, and compares it to that of the Book of Durrow (f. 191v); whilst Marion Archibald suggests that it represents a symbol of the dynasty or kingdom (Archibald, Brown & Webster 1997: 239). 8

The two images are conveniently juxtaposed in Webster & Brown 1997: pls. 31 and 32. The lion of the charred remains of Cotton MS

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Otho C.V, f. 27, now in the British Library (see Henderson 1987: fig. 112), is clearly related to that on f. 75v of the Echternach Gospels. On both animals the mane extends as an overall flame-like pattern covering the whole body. The same pattern (presumably rendering stripes) can be seen on the Hoxne tigress and several other classical representations of felines. 9

Examples from the Roman world abound in metalwork, textiles, glass, etc. See for instance the spoon from the late fourth-century Thetford Treasure (Johns 1983: 120, fig 34, no. 66). See also Dynes 1981: 38. 10

I do not believe, however, that representations such as the tamed, upright lions mastered on the ‘Shroud of St Victor’ were the sort of lion that these active Northumbrian beasts tried to imitate. Textiles, however, are certainly important in the transmission of the classical repertoire.

11

This coinage is classified as Series Y, and comprises coins of Eadberht (738-57), Æthelwald (759-65), Alchred (765-74), ÆthelredI (first reign, 774-9) and Ælfwald I (779-88). See Booth 1984: 71-111 and Metcalf 1993-94: 576-93. Continuing Aldfrith’s tradition, the reverses of these coins also have inscriptions with royal names, whilst the vast array of mint-marks differentiating issues on the obverses testifies to a well-organised output. 12

The heraldic definition of a beast ‘passant’ is of an animal walking, and looking towards the dexter side, with the dexter forepaw raised (The Oxford English Dictionary). 13

See for instance the child’s sarcophagus with griffins, now in the Fitzwilliam Museum, Cambridge (Budde & Nicholls 1967: 98, no. 160 and pl. 52) and the re-interpretation of the motif in Lombard Italy in the first half of the eighth century, where it was further enriched by the influence of eastern examples derived from textiles and metalwork (Peroni1984: 282, figs. 166 and 184).

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Trinity College, Dublin, MS 52, Book of Armagh, 807, f. 32v.

15

It must be noticed that whereas in the examples from other manuscripts ( e.g.: Durrow (f. 191v), Echternach (f. 75v), Lichfield (p. 219: Henderson 1987: 44, fig. 44), and Kells (e.g. f. 27v: Meehan 1994: 8, fig.5) the lions are leaping, the one from Armagh is standing, as the one on Series Y coins. 16

Jewell 1986 also stresses the importance of ivories, both for models and techniques. A good parallel for the style of the lion of the Book of Armagh can be found on an 8th/9th century tile from Brescia representing a griffin and also believed to be derived from textiles (Panazza & Tagliaferri 1996: pl 45, fig. 145). 17

The Franks Casket, British Museum (Webster & Backhouse 1991:101, no. 70). The lions might also allude to the leonine supports of the throne of Solomon (1 Kings 10: 18-20).

18

Hicks 1993; 117 sees the creatures as lions with manes. For a different interpretation of the Franks Casket animals as winged bovines: Webster 1999: 236-9.

19

Booth 1984: 76 considers Class A as an experimental prototype. For an example, see Metcalf 1993-94: no. 454.

20

See MacGregor 1997: 228, no. 112.1and Haseloff 1990: 22-3 and 49, no. 25. Although the date for this piece is debated (6th to late 9th century), a Sassanian influence, particularly strong in the 6th century (Haseloff 1990: 23), is apparent. 21

The lion on f.53 of the Vespasian Psalter also shows Eastern Mediterranean influences (Hicks 1993: 132, fig. 3.12). 22

For example, see the finial of a mount, now in the British Museum (Webster & Backhouse 1991: 225, no. 179) and the initial on f. 5v in the Lindisfarne Gospels (Henderson1987: 99, fig. 139), but the

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pedigree is much longer, going back, via Roman provincial insignia, to Han China (Salin 1949-59, vol. 4: 243; Speake 1980: 13-14). 23

Series K is believed to have been produced in Kent. Metcalf 199394: 384-405.

24

For the Physiologus see Curley 1979: 3, ff. For a discussion regarding the extent of the knowledge of the tradition in Insular context for representations of the motif in Pictish art, see Henderson 1996: 5-9.

25

Notice also the small lion head at the top of the frame of the letters ‘unccru’, perhaps the cub restored to life, prefiguring the Resurrection. 26

Behold, he that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber not sleep (Psalm 121, 4).

27

For the Donore lion, dated to the early eighth century, see Youngs 1989: 69, no., 64 and Ryan 1987: 63, who stresses its classical tradition but independence from Carolingian and later analogues.

The Role of Zooarchaeology in the Interpretation of Socioeconomic Status: A Discussion with Reference to Medieval Europe Steven P. Ashby Department of Archaeology, University of York

Introduction Social inequality is ubiquitous in human society, and the concept of social standing has been of fundamental importance throughout time (Price and Feinman 1995). The inference of social status has encountered problems in many areas of archaeology (see Orser 1990; Grenville 1997), and the use of zooarchaeology as part of an integrated approach may contribute to our understanding of important issues (Crabtree 1990). This paper reviews the various criteria used to infer socioeconomic status from faunal assemblages, taking examples from a variety of contexts, but concentrating primarily on medieval Europe, and England in particular. The problems associated with the application of zooarchaeological methods to this sphere of research are discussed, and some possible solutions proposed. It is suggested that zooarchaeology can play an important role in answering questions relating to socioeconomic standing, provided that it forms part of a wider archaeological strategy. What is Status? Social status is difficult to define (see, for example Wason 1994), but can be broadly described as perceived position within a community. It may be dependent on political or economic standing, gender, occupation, ethnicity, or religion, and may be either achieved or inherited (e.g. Wason 1994; Sweeley 1999). Physical and mental attributes are also important if we consider groups that may be excluded from normal society due to disability (Hubert 2000). Status exists within different forms of hierarchy: military (e.g. King 1984, Stokes 2000), and civilian (e.g. Albarella 1996), ecclesiastical (Ervynck 1997; Loveluck 1997) and secular (eg Albarella and Davis

Archaeological Review from Cambridge

18

2002

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1996). These many facets interact together, making it difficult to ascertain the most important factors (e.g. Crabtree 1990; Reitz and Wing 1999; Hubert 2000). It is important to make a distinction between wealth and social status, as the two are not synonymous (see Parker Pearson 1982). Clearly, it is possible that an individual or household may be socially powerful but economically poor. It is also plausible that the economically wealthy may fail to hold political or social weight. This difficulty of definition has led some (e.g. Wason 1994) to utilise vague, widely applicable terms such as ‘eliteness’. McBride and McBride (1987) propose that it was the development of world capitalism that led social and economic status to become intertwined, so that the term ‘socioeconomic status’ is only appropriate from the fifteenth century onward. In this paper I apply this phrase cross-culturally to mean an advantaged position within the community, whether that be based on social or economic factors. I use it purely as a classification tool, and do not imply any necessary link between the two factors. This facilitates its use in the following analysis of case studies from the Middle Ages. Zooarchaeology and Socioeconomic Status The fact that social differences are reflected in foodways is well established (e.g. Wason 1994; Gumerman 1997; Reitz and Wing 1999), and it is likely that the study of faunal remains and artefacts may tell us different things about status. For example, ceramic wares may indicate social aspirations as much as actual standing, although there is some doubt concerning their effectiveness in this capacity (e.g. Gibb 1996). Singer (1987) suggests that people are less likely to exhibit aspirations or social pretension through the medium of food, given its relative invisibility to other people when compared to ceramics, clothing, or jewellery. While those of lower status may occasionally procure food that is normally unavailable to them, generally people will not dine on prestigious foods on a regular basis unless to do so is

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within their means. While the display of aspirations of wealth through ceramics requires only the purchase of a few ornaments, to keep up the illusion of importance through food consumption requires the economically unsound continuous acquisition of high status products. However, at many times in the past, feasting was of great importance. Feasts were ritual events, and were used as an opportunity for social display and affirmation of status (see Hagen 1994; Enright 1996; Hammond 1998). Thus, while the approach discussed in this paper is primarily economic, the importance of the role of food in display should not be underestimated. Socioeconomic status may be expressed in a variety of ways. The identity and diversity of species exploited, the relative abundance of domestic and wild taxa in an assemblage, element distributions, and butchery marks may all reflect status-related practices. Meaningful conclusions may also be drawn from the age distribution and demographic composition of the assemblage. It is likely that in the future new techniques of analysis will be applied to the problem (Reitz 1987), but this paper reviews only the most frequently acknowledged techniques. One of the important features of complex society is the presence of a well developed social hierarchy (Crabtree 1990; Price 1995). Thus, it is in the archaeology of chiefdom and state level societies that faunal studies can probably make the greatest impact on the problem of status. This paper reflects the sizeable body of work that has been carried out on medieval European sites, but also considers case studies from Roman and postmedieval Europe, as well as prehistoric and historic North America. Most of the techniques reviewed can be applied cross-culturally, but are subject to qualification. That is to say that some animals will always be valued more than others, but the specific taxa will vary from society to society (e.g. Crabtree 1990; Albarella and Davis 1996). In particular, we might expect the hierarchical society of the Middle Ages to facilitate the laying down of recognisable indicators of social disparity (Mannell 1985). Although we should note that dietary

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excess was somewhat frowned upon by the medieval church, the importance of food in the reinforcement of social stratification is clearly evident in the historical record. The sumptuary laws passed by Edward III provide a good example, as they stipulated the kinds of food appropriate to the people of a given class (see PelnerCosman 1976). Much information relating to social stratification can be gleaned from the analysis of bones not explicitly related to culinary practice. For example, social differentiation may be apparent in the study of secondary products and crafts (e.g. MacGregor 1989). Animal products were a major component of trade in medieval societies, and the presence of workshops dedicated to the working of bone, horn, antler or wool may represent low to mid-status trades (see MacGregor 1989). The higher status members of society often wore furs, but evidence of cat skinning from cut marks on mandibles may indicate a trade to serve those that could not afford more expensive coats (Gidney 2000). However, these animal products may be subject to the same aspiration-related biases as other artefacts, and should be treated accordingly. In this paper, I am primarily concerned with assemblages that represent food remains. These can be analysed according to a number of criteria, the most important of which are reviewed below. Taxonomic Composition In medieval England, the ratio of wild to domestic taxa may be an indicator of status. Hunting seems to have been pursued chiefly by the upper classes, whereas the primary use of domestic taxa is generally indicative of low status, as it is more economical to spend time raising domestic livestock than hunting (Reitz 1987). Particular prestige could be assigned to wild animals that were dangerous, mobile or rare, and to animals that it was not energy efficient to pursue. Exotic animals might also have been coveted; a good example is the medieval importation of carp into western Europe (see Hoffman 1994). Ultimately what constitutes exotica is dependent on context, and we can never really be sure of how animals were classified in antiquity.

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However, where historical records are available, we may gain some insight into the importance of particular species (see, for example Grant 1992). Interestingly, in Anglo-Saxon England, mutton and lamb are rarely mentioned as feast day foods, while poultry, fish, game, pork and beef are all documented (Hagen 1994). Hunting seems to have been an important aristocratic sport in England before the Norman Conquest, and bear, boar, and deer were all esteemed animals in this period (Wilson 1973). The imposition of forest laws by the Anglo-Norman kings afforded the protection of noble game such as deer and wild boar (Manning 1993). Subsequent game laws also restricted the general availability of valued species (Manning 1993), and history consistently documents bacon as the staple meat of the peasant (e.g. Drummond 1957; Wilson 1973; Mannell 1985). By the end of the Middle Ages, meat was a little more widely available, and the control of forests was generally less brutally enforced than it was immediately following the Conquest (see Manning 1993). However, a survey of the historical evidence suggests that there was still a clear distinction between the foods of the rich and poor, both in England, and on the continent (see, for example Mannell 1985). Faunal assemblages from many of England’s high status medieval sites contain a high proportion of pig, deer and birds. These are animals from which meat is usually the most important product (Grant 1992). The rich could afford the luxury of non-working livestock, and could hunt for animals that may not have been nutritionally vital. Indeed throughout history the nobility have eaten the meat of animals that can have contributed very little to nutrition, but may have had prestige associated with them. The Romans imported thrushes, and if these were eaten it can only have been as a delicacy, as they do not afford much in the way of meat weight (Murphy et al. 2000). In the medieval period the meats of woodcock, partridge, plover and swan were all seen as high status products (Albarella and Davis 1996). Peacocks were often used as centrepieces of the feasting table, despite many references to the toughness of their meat (see Hammond 1998). However, the presence of domestic birds may not be a good indicator of status, as

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chickens and geese could easily have been raised by peasants, being relatively inexpensive and easy to care for, while providing eggs as well as meat (Grant 1992). Fish was an important component of the medieval diet, given the numerous fasting days imposed by the church (see Crossley-Holland 1996; Locker 2000). While eels, shellfish, stockfish, and herring may have been widely available (Crossley-Holland 1996), freshwater species such as carp and pike were primarily the food of the rich. Sturgeon, porpoise and whale were considered ‘royal fish’ in England, and though available on the open market, they had considerable associated prestige (Wilson 1973). Deer bones are often found in large quantities at high status medieval sites like Okehampton (Grant 1992) and Launceston Castle (Albarella and Davis 1996). They clearly indicate high status, given the restrictions on hunting noble game discussed above. However, antlers are poorer indicators of status, as they may have been collected following shedding, and even butchered antler may have been traded through noble estates to lower class craftsmen (MacGregor 1989). Cervid bone, particularly with butchery evidence, is a much more reliable indicator of social position. Interestingly, significant amounts of deer bones are found at sites that are assigned low status on the basis of other evidence (Grant 1992; Crabtree 1990), and so the presence of prestigious animal bone may indicate poaching rather than a high socioeconomic standing. Unfortunately, even when we are aware of the prestige associated with certain animals, high status sites may go unrecognised as there is always the possibility that people may not choose to display their status through the medium of food (Reitz 1987). Furthermore, increased wealth may merely be expressed as an increase in the quantity of low status foods rather than in the procurement of delicacies (Singer 1987). It is doubtful whether we could recognise assemblages from such households as pertaining to high socioeconomic status.

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Moreover, interpretation of the taxonomic composition of an assemblage is not always straightforward, as uniformitarian principles may not be applicable to food procurement and consumption strategies. We should remind ourselves that foods that we may consider delicacies may have been commonplace in different time periods or environmental zones. For example, it is clear that marine molluscs were extensively used in the medieval period, even at inland sites, and it appears that oysters were more freely available than they are today (Albarella 1996). Similar problems may occur when attempting to transfer our culinary preconceptions to other parts of the world, so a good understanding of the distribution and availability of a variety of animals is vital (e.g. Albarella 1994). Age Profiles We have seen how the economic means to keep livestock solely for meat is a good indicator of status. Thus, age profiles may be of use in the inference of socio-economic standing in a variety of cultures. Manorial accounts from medieval England provide documentary evidence that harvest workers were often fed on the meat of animals too old to perform any other use (see Dyer 2000). Similarly, peasants generally would not slaughter their animals until they had exploited them to the full and it was no longer economical to keep them alive (Grant 1992). Conversely, assemblages from some production sites suggest that the culled product from the herd included a significant number of sexually immature animals (See for example Bond and O’Connor 1999). Unless replacements were brought in, we may assume that the herd could only be sustained if it was large enough to renew itself. Such large herds probably held considerable value, and would also have required access to large areas of land for grazing. Thus, it may be possible to infer the presence of wealthy or powerful livestock owners. Age profiles may also help us to recognise high status consumers. Young animals such as goat kids were considered a delicacy by the medieval nobility (Albarella and Davis 1996; Albarella 1997a) whilst in twelfth to sixteenth century Zimbabwe the slaughtering of cattle during their prime was far more common at high status sites

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that at those of lower standing (see Rackham 1994). These examples demonstrate how the selective slaughter of young animals may be seen as a mechanism for the display of wealth and power. Species Diversity The diversity of an assemblage may also be indicative of status (Reitz and Wing 1999). Assemblages from medieval and postmedieval urban sites typically show a wider variety of species than those from rural sites (e.g. O’Connor 1982; Richardson in press), and the diversity evident at castles and important households is greater still. For example, the sixteenth century assemblage from the Earl of Huntingdon’s townhouse in Leicester makes a striking comparison with the material from other sites in the city. The Earl’s House assemblage showed similar proportions of pig, cattle and sheep material, but contained several species that were entirely absent from the other urban sites, notably game birds and deer (Gidney 2000). Often disparities become apparent after quantification, even when patterning is not clear in species richness (e.g. King 1984). However, interpretation based on the range of species in an assemblage should always be tempered by the knowledge that any measure of species diversity is fundamentally dependent on sample size and, especially in the case of birds and fish, recovery method (Reitz and Wing 1999). Bone Modifications and Body Part Representation Element distribution and the anthropogenic modifications made to bones may also give us hints as to the standing of the people utilising a site (e.g. Albarella and Davis 1996; Richardson in press). Butchery marks may tell us if meat was acquired whole or as a particular cut, and this may be related to cost (e.g. Singer 1987). However, we may have little idea of the relative value placed upon different meat cuts in antiquity, and we should exercise caution when applying modern analogies, as we do not always know the dietary requirements or cultural and religious beliefs of the people involved (e.g.. Crabtree 1990; Wason 1994). Grant (1992) claims that in medieval English society there is little evidence that cuts of meat were assigned

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different values, as a wide range of bones have been found at both high and low status sites. However, assemblages from castle sites often contain a preponderance of the bones from the hind quarters of deer, suggesting that the nobility were acquiring haunches of venison (e.g. Albarella and Davis 1996; Richardson in press). The differences between chopping, skinning, sawing, burning and boiling may also reflect social stratification, but these variations may be so subtle, and subject to so many other factors that attempts to draw inference from them may be unsuccessful (Reitz 1987). Complete exploitation of a carcass for meat and marrow, indicated by heavily butchered, fragmented skeletons may suggest an exhaustive, possibly low status use of animals (Albarella 1996). We should consider other possibilities though; the destruction of bones may be related to specialised marrow processing or, in more recent times, glue extraction (West 1995). It should also be noted that broad patterns of butchery have changed through time, and are often affected by cultural changes (O’Connor 2000), so measures of fragmentation should always be considered within their own chronological context. Important Considerations There are a number of problems that pervade this area of zooarchaeology, some relating specifically to the study of socioeconomic status, and others that hamper our interpretation of identity whether we are interested in social standing, cultural character, ethnicity or gender. They include cultural, taphonomic and analytical biases (Reitz 1987). Assemblage Formation Regional availability is a major factor in determining what is considered a high status food, as are other environmentally determined conditions such as technological capacity and the ability to trade (Reitz 1987). Thus, the presence of a prestige animal in an assemblage may not reflect high purchasing power, rather that the animal is more readily available in the area than elsewhere. The

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environment must also play a vital role in determining the possibilities of domestication of various species (e.g. Reitz 1999), and proximity to the sea is clearly a major influence on the perceived value of marine resources at a site (e.g. Crabtree 1990; Albarella and Davis 1996; Loveluck 1997). Significant differences may be seen between rural and urban settings throughout history (e.g. O’Connor 1982, 2000; Loveluck 1997), and although these may be related to social status, we should take care not to treat them as proxies for this, as social stratification is influenced by many other factors (Reitz 1987). It may become clear that meat and secondary products were being taken from rural sites to the towns, and often from there to important, high status sites such as castles (e.g. Richardson in press). In many cases, rural sites may have been largely self sufficient, acting as providers to nearby consumer towns (e.g. O’Connor 1982, 1992; Albarella 1996; Loveluck 1997). We must then ask whether the rural settlements were simply providing the towns with their excess, or whether the urban settlements were claiming the finest meats. The two scenarios clearly reflect different social relations and ideas of control and power, and so are important in the issue of social standing on a large scale. Town or regional scale restriction of access to foodstuffs may affect high and low status peoples alike. This may occur if there is some sort of ecological or geological catastrophe (e.g. Albarella 1994; Sandweiss 1996), or if urban settlements or castles undergo siege (eg Richardson in press). Although it is likely that even under these conditions there will be differences between the diets of those of high and low social standing, it is arguable whether or not we could detect what may be small variations, as they are subsequently affected by many other processes (Reitz 1987). On a smaller scale, the local environment and the nature of the deposit are important. An assemblage may represent refuse from a variety of sources including household, butchers’, or craft waste (e.g. MacGregor 1989; Rackham 1994; O’Connor 2000), and may also have a military or ecclesiastical source (e.g. King 1984; Ervynck

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1997). Clearly then, the context and nature of deposition must have some bearing on how we interpret an assemblage in terms of socioeconomic status. While butchery marks, species representation and taxonomic composition may be of use in this respect, the primary concerns must be an understanding of the context and cultures being studied (e.g. O’Connor 1982; Loveluck 1997). While large and small scale environmental factors clearly have an effect, so does human decision making. If the animals and animal products that were utilised by past peoples were consciously chosen, then those choices may reflect influences other than social or economic status (Reitz and Wing 1999). For example, ethnic and cultural preferences may be reflected in faunal remains, and while these may be closely intertwined with socioeconomic status and cultural identity, we cannot easily separate these factors. In addition, different interactions between the several components of choice may produce similar patterns. For example, different ethnic groups may consume particular foodstuffs (e.g. Ijzereef 1989; Stewart-Abernathy and Ruff 1987) and although in many cases ethnicity may be linked to social or financial standing, we should be cautious not to confuse these two facets of identity (Reitz and Wing 1999). The problem may be particularly acute when studying periods of social change. As King (1984) noted, the Roman invasion of Britain brought two separate systems of social stratification together; the indigenous tribal hierarchy and the Roman state economy. Thus, procurement preferences may reflect large scale trends as much as individual choices (Gibb 1996). Some sites may have a complex history of changing status. For example, after an early episode of high status, Launceston Castle went into a gradual decline, but its faunal record shows ambiguity, with occasional deposits of high status foods such as venison and plover persisting into later periods (Albarella and Davis 1996). This probably reflects the fact that the site retained an element of its original high standing, with guests feasting at the castle even as it fell into disrepair (Albarella and Davis 1996).

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Preservation, Recovery, and Analysis The complex relationships between the various cultural and environmental factors discussed above are rendered even more difficult to resolve by a series of preservational and analytical problems. As our subject of study is typically the altered remains of what was originally a meal, features of that meal that may vary significantly between social levels are now invisible to us (Reitz and Wing 1999; Crabtree 1990). These features include the method of food presentation, the way ingredients were combined, and the method of cooking (see Gumerman 1997). Although a little research has taken place into the detection of some of these facets of food consumption, such as the effects of different methods of cooking on taphonomy and preservation (e.g.; Lubinski 1996; Nicholson 1996; Speth 2000), thus far we are not close to being able to make inferences based on bone evidence alone. For example, cooking with imported spices such as ginger and cinnamon may be a reliable indicator of high status (Grant 1992), but this is only detectable in the documentary record, and we often need complementary ceramic evidence if we are to understand preparation and serving techniques (Crabtree 1990). Likewise, it would be very useful to be able to infer methods of meat preservation such as salting and smoking, as large quantities of salt would be required for the long-term preservation of beef, and this could possibly be considered a preserve of those of high status (Albarella 1999). However, although artefactual evidence may help, at present the only reliable record of this practice is likely to be documentary (Albarella 1999). In addition, many interpretative problems are caused by the differential survival of bone material, as chemical, biological, and physical processes act upon faunal remains inconsistently (Lyman 1994). For example, individual elements of one animal may be preserved to different degrees (Nicholson 1996), and bones of different species may show much variation. This gives rise to the problem of different taxa being differently amenable to

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identification. Some animals that may be of use in the inference of status (imported cyprinids, for example) have few diagnostic elements and are therefore difficult to identify (O’Connor 2000). Furthermore, deposition in different environments may lead to preservational disparities, and fundamentally different death assemblages may be rendered superficially similar by taphonomic convergence. This leaves inter-site comparison subject to uncertainty, as differences in burial environment may preclude the application of cultural or socioeconomic interpretations to faunal contrasts (Lyman 1994). Furthermore, comparison is only possible where recovery and analysis strategies are consistent between sites, and should only be made between samples of similar size. It is also fundamental that remains are recovered within a research strategy that is explicitly designed to include zooarchaeological analysis (Reitz and Wing 1999). Even when recovery procedures are adequate, misinterpretation may occur at the analysis stage. It is important to realise the limitations of analytical techniques, and to take the cultural, taphonomic and structural context of the site into account (e.g. O’Connor 1982). Quantification is an obvious problem, as it may affect estimates of diversity, age profiles and relative body part representations. The limitations of the various methods are well reported (eg O’Connor 1982, 1985; Barrett 1993), and it is not appropriate to discuss them in detail in the context of this paper. The application of minimum numbers of individuals (MNI), fragment counts (NISP) and other techniques such as biomass estimation all have their restrictions and complications, which may lead to error in interpretation. Before interpretation begins it is necessary to ascertain the risk of residuality by assessing how well sealed and tightly constrained in time and space the deposit is (Rackham 1994). In addition, the danger of interpreting a wild or intrusive animal as part of the cultural fauna is great, as the presence of just one or two examples of an exotic species may alter our perception of the status of a site (e.g. Albarella 1997b). We must also ensure that the deposits and structures under study are contemporaneous, as the status of a site

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may change greatly over time (e.g. Albarella and Davis 1996; Richardson in press). Where this is not considered, any conclusions as to the status of a site are open to doubt (e.g. Parker-Pearson et al. 1996). Discussion Some (e.g. Reitz 1987) have seen these problems as grounds for pessimism. However, one can learn about social status by examining faunal assemblages, subject to certain caveats. The point is not that it is difficult to infer socioeconomic standing, rather that it is necessary to do so where possible. Where a site has little or no documented historic record (e.g. Bogan 1983), we rely on archaeology to tell us about its former occupants. It is not sufficient to merely examine artefacts for this purpose, and the greater the number of effective techniques that can be applied, the more chance we have of being able to develop meaningful interpretations (Albarella 2001). Social inference is possible when carried out in conjunction with other areas of archaeology, anthropology, and history, but our efforts should always be that of a contribution towards understanding, rather than an attempt at cultural and social explanation in zooarchaeological isolation (Albarella 2001; Crabtree 1990). The most convincing work in this field integrates zooarchaeology, palaeoecology, artefact analysis, and structural archaeology, as well as documentary history (e.g. Welch and Scarry 1995; Loveluck 1996; Dobney et al 1998; Murphy et al 2000). Additionally, faunal evidence could be used in conjunction with art historical sources; the place of animals in iconography may tell us much about their relationships with humans, and thus their importance to society and associated prestige (e.g. Zimmerman Holt 1996). It is neither necessary nor desirable to have a negative attitude towards the inference of status using zooarchaeological material (Crabtree 1990). It is important that we accept that there are multifarious processes acting on the formation of any given faunal deposit, but this does not mean that interpretation is impossible. It

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simply necessitates a systematic approach whereby we control for every factor possible. For example, preservational and recovery biases may be controlled for by inter-site comparison and a knowledge of taphonomic and recovery processes (e.g. Barrett 1997). Documentary and artefactual evidence may be used to control for cultural bias; we should ask if the assemblage we are looking at might reflect a multi-ethnic community, and if any of our findings correlate with known characteristics of any ethnic or religious group (e.g. Ijzereef 1989). Control is more easily achieved if deposits are sealed and well constrained in time and space. In certain situations where this is not the case (e.g. Stewart-Abernathy and Ruff 1987), perhaps interpretation of social identity should not be attempted. Likewise, distinguishing social position from ethnic or cultural identity is likely to be speculative if we have no archaeological or historical record relevant to the site of interest. There are, however, many situations in which such interpretation can and should be attempted (e.g. Ijzereef 1989; Loveluck 1997; Dobney et al 1998). A useful way of testing the reliability of our assertions is to apply zooarchaeological methods to recent material, where the fragmentary nature of the archaeological record is less pronounced, and we have documentary evidence of food prices or known social classes. Work on American slave plantations is especially useful in this respect (e.g. Crader 1984; Reitz 1987; Singer 1987), and has shown that, at least for this time depth, our methods are reliable. While the fact that our theories are supported by case studies from recent capitalist societies does not necessarily mean that they can be applied to the study of ancient peoples, it does suggest that our methods may at least be feasible when used with care. Conclusions The inference of social status is possible if zooarchaeologists apply a logical method to control for cultural, taphonomic and analytical biases, so that interpretative problems can be negotiated. Wherever possible we must work together with researchers from other

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disciplines, as the use of documentary sources and complementary archaeological evidence is fundamental to our understanding of complex issues such as social stratification. Analytical techniques may improve in the future, and new criteria for the identification of socioeconomic differences may be discovered, but at the present time we should do what we can to advance the subject, rather than accepting defeat at the hands of multiple confounding factors. Zooarchaeology has the potential to contribute to the understanding of issues of past society and culture, and it is vital that this potential is exploited. Acknowledgements Many thanks for the ideas and inspiration of Terry O’Connor and James Barrett; extra thanks to James, and also to Aleks McClain for reading drafts of this paper. All errors remain my own. Thanks also to Umberto Albarella and Jane Richardson, who provided papers for this study. Bibliography Albarella, U. 1994. The animal economy after the eruption of Avellino Pumice: the case of La Starza (Avellino, southern Italy). In L’Eruzione Vesuviana delle “Pomici di Avellino” e la Facies di Palma Campania (Bronzo antico) (ed C. A. Livadie). Bari: Edipuglia, pp. 317-330. Albarella, U. 1996. The animal bones. In Excavations alongside Roman Ermine Street, Cambridgeshire (P. Ellis, G. Hughes, P. Leach, C. Mould and J. Sterenberg). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports British Series 276, pp. 99-104. Albarella, U. 1997a. Size, power, wool and veal: zooarchaeological evidence for late medieval innovations. In Environment and Subsistence in Medieval Europe – Papers of the ‘Medieval Europe Brugge 1997’ Conference (eds G. De Boe and F. Verhaeghe). IAP Rapporten, 9: 19-30.

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Albarella, U. 1997b. Crane and vulture at an Italian Bronze Age site. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 7: 346-9. Albarella, U. 1999. “The mystery of husbandry”: medieval animals and the problem of integrating historical and archaeological evidence. Antiquity, 73: 867-75. Albarella, U. 2001. Exploring the real nature of environmental archaeology: an introduction. In Environmental Archaeology: Meaning and Purpose (ed U. Albarella). Dordrecht: Kluwer, pp. 113. Albarella, U. and Davis, S. J. M. 1996. Mammals and birds from Launceston Castle, Cornwall: decline in status and the rise of Agriculture. Circaea, 12 (1): 1-156. Barrett, J. H. 1993. Bone weight, meat yield estimates and cod (Gadus morhua): A preliminary study of the weight method. International Journal of Osteoarchaeology, 3: 1-18. Barrett, J. H. 1997. Fish trade in Norse Orkney and Caithness: a zooarchaeological approach. Antiquity, 71: 616-38. Bond, J. M. and O’Connor, T. P. 1999. Bones from Medieval Deposits at 16-22 Coppergate and Other sites in York. York: Council for British Archaeology. Bogan, A. 1983. Evidence for fauna resource partitioning in an eastern North American chiefdom. In Animals and Archaeology, Vol 1: Hunters and their Prey (eds C. Grigson and J. Clutton-Brock). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports International Series 163, pp. 305- 24. Crabtree, P. J. 1990. Zooarchaeology and complex societies: some uses of faunal analysis for the study of trade, social status, and ethnicity. In Schiffer, M.B. (ed.) Archaeological Method and Theory, 2. Tuscon: University of Arizona Press. 155-205.

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Crader, D. 1984. The zooarchaeology of the storehouse and the dry well at Monticello. American Antiquity, 49 (3): 542-58. Crossley-Holland, N. 1996. Living and Dining in Medieval Paris: The Household of a 14th Century Knight. Cardiff: University of Wales Press. Dobney, K. Kenward, H. Ottaway, P. and Donel, L. 1998. Down, but not out: biological evidence for complex economic organization in Lincoln in the late 4th Century. Antiquity, 72: 417-24. Drummond, J. C. 1957. The Englishman’s Food: A History of Five Centuries of English Diet (Second Edition). London: Jonathan Cape. Dyer, C. 2000. Everyday Life in Medieval England. London: Hambledon and London. Enright, M. J. 1996. Lady with a Mead Cup: Ritual, Prophecy and Lordship in the European Warband from La Téne to the Viking Age. Blackrock: Four Courts Press. Ervynck, A. 1997. Following the rule? Fish and meat consumption in monastic communities in Flanders (Belgium), In Environment and Subsistence in Medieval Europe – Papers of the ‘Medieval Europe Brugge 1997’ Conference (eds G. De Boe and F. Verhaeghe). IAP Rapporten 9: 67-81. Gibb, J. G. 1996. The Archaeology of Wealth. New York: Plenum Press. Gidney, L. 2000. Economic trends, craft specialisation and social status: bone assemblages from Leicester. In Animal Bones, Human Societies (ed P. Rowley-Conwy). Exeter: Short Run Press, pp. 1708. Grant, A. 1992. Animal resources. In The Countryside of Medieval England (eds G. Astill and A. Grant). Oxford: Blackwell Press. 14987.

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Grenville, J. C. 1997. Medieval Housing. London: Leicester University Press. Gumerman, G. I. V 1997. Food and complex societies. Journal of Archaeological Method and Theory, 4: 105-39. Hagen, A. 1994. A Handbook of Anglo-Saxon Food: Processing and Consumption. Pinner: Anglo-Saxon Books. Hammond, W. J. 1998. Stroud: Wren’s Park.

Food and Feast in Medieval England.

Hoffman, R. C. 1994. Remains and verbal evidence of carp (Cyprinus carpio) in medieval Europe. In Fish Exploitation in the Past (ed W. Van Neer). Proceedings of the 7th Meeting of the ICAZ Fish Remains Working Group, pp. 139-50. Hubert, J. 2000. The complexity of boundedness and exclusion. In Madness, Disability and Social Exclusion (ed J. Hubert). London: Routledge, pp. 1-8. Ijzereef, F. G. 1989. Social differentiation from animal bone Studies. In Diets and Crafts in Towns (eds D. Serjeantson and T. Waldron). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports British Series 199, pp. 4153. King, A. C. 1984. Animal bones and the dietary identity of military and civilian groups in Roman Britain, Germany and Gaul. In Military and Civilian in Roman Britain (eds T. F. C. Blagg and A. C. King). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports British Series 136: 187-217. Locker, A. M. 2000. The Role of Stored Fish in England 900 –1750 AD; The Evidence from Historical and Archaeological Data. Ph.D Thesis, the University of Southampton. Loveluck, C.P. 1997. A high-status Anglo-Saxon settlement at Flixborough, Lincolnshire. Antiquity, 72: 146-61.

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Lubinski, P.M. 1996. Fish heads, Fish heads: an experiment on differential bone preservation in a Salmonid fish. Journal of Archaeological Science, 23: 175-81. Lyman, R.L. 1994. Vertebrate Taphonomy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. MacGregor, A. 1989. Bone, antler and horn industries in the urban context. In Diets and Crafts in Towns (eds D. Serjeantson and T. Waldron). Oxford: British Archaeological Reports British Series 199: 107-28. Mannell, S. 1985. All Manners of Food: Eating and Taste in England and France from the Middle Ages to the Present. Oxford: Blackwell. Manning, R. B. 1993. Hunters and Poachers: A Social and Cultural History of Unlawful Hunting in England, 1485-1640. Oxford: Clarendon Press. McBride, W. S. and McBride, K. A. 1987. Socioeconomic variation in a late Antebellum southern town: the view from archaeological and documentary Sources. In Consumer Choice in Historical Archaeology (ed S. M. Spencer-Wood). New York: Plenum Press, pp. 143-61. Murphy, P. Albarella, U. Germany, M. and Locker, A. 2000. Production, imports and status: biological remains from a late Roman farm at Great Holts Farm, Boreham, Essex, UK. Environmental Archaeology, 5: 35-48. Nicholson, R. A. 1996. Bone degradation, burial medium and species representation: debunking the myths, an experiment-based approach. Journal of Archaeological Science, 23: 513-33. O’Connor, T. P. 1982. Animal Bones from Flaxengate, Lincoln c.870-1500. London: Council for British Archaeology.

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O’Connor, T. P. 1985. On quantifying vertebrates – some sceptical observations. Circaea, 3 (1): 27-30. O’Connor, T. P. 1992. Provisioning urban communities: a topic in search of a model. Anthropozoologica, 16: 101–6. O’Connor, T. P. 2000. The Archaeology of Animal Bones. Stroud: Sutton. Orser, C. E. Jr. 1990. Archaeological approaches to New World plantation slavery. In Schiffer, M.B. (ed.) Archaeological Method and Theory, 2. Tuscon: University of Arizona Press. 111-154. Parker Pearson, M. 1982. Mortuary practices, society and ideology: an ethnoarchaeological study. In Symbolic and Structural Archaeology (ed I. Hodder). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 99-113. Parker Pearson, M. Sharples, N. and Mulville, J. 1996. Brochs and Iron Age society: a re-appraisal. Antiquity, 70: 57-67. Pelner Cosman, M. 1976. Fabulous Feasts: Medieval Cookery and Ceremony. New York: George Braziller. Price, T. D. 1995. Social inequality at the origins of agriculture. In Foundations of Social Inequality (eds T. D. Price and G. M. Feinman). New York: Plenum Press, pp. 129-51. Price, T. D. and Feinman, G.M. 1995. Foundations of Social Inequality. New York: Plenum Press. Rackham, D. J. 1994. Interpreting the Past: Animal Bones. London: British Museum Press. Reitz, E. J. 1987. Vertebrate fauna and socioeconomic status. In Consumer Choice in Historical Archaeology (ed S. M. SpencerWood). New York: Plenum Press, pp. 101-19.

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Reitz, E. J. 1999. Native Americans and animal husbandry in the North American colony of Spanish Florida. In The Prehistory of Food: Appetites for change (eds C. Gosden and J. Hather). London: Routledge, pp. 184-96. Reitz, E. J. and Wing, E. S. 1999. Zooarchaeology. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Richardson, J. in press for 2002. The animal bones. In Pontefract Castle (I. Roberts). Yorkshire Archaeology 8. Sandweiss, D. H. 1996. Environmental change and its consequences for human society on the Central Andean coast: a malacological perspective. In Case Studies in Environmental Archaeology (eds E. J. Reitz, L. A. Newsom and S. J. Scudder). New York: Plenum Press, pp. 127-46. Singer, D. A. 1987. Threshold of affordability: assessing fish remains for socioeconomics. In Consumer Choice in Historical Archaeology (ed. S.M. Spencer-Wood). New York: Plenum Press, pp. 85-99. Speth, J. 2000. Boiling vs. baking and roasting: a taphonomic approach to the recognition of cooking techniques in small mammals. In Animal Bones, Human Societies (ed P. RowleyConwy). Oxford: Oxbow, pp. 89-105. Stewart-Abernathy, L. C. and Ruff, B. L. 1987. A good man in Israel: zooarchaeology and assimilation in Antebellum Washington, Arkansas. Historical Archaeology, 23: 96-112. Stokes, P. 2000. A cut above the rest? Officers and men at South Shields Roman fort. In Animal Bones, Human Societies (ed P. Rowley-Conwy). Oxford: Oxbow, pp. 146-51. Sweeley, T. L. 1999. Manifesting Power: Gender and the Interpretation of Power in Archaeology. New York: Routledge.

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Wason, P. K. 1994. The Archaeology of Rank. Cambridge University Press.

Cambridge:

Welch, P. D. and Scarry, C. M. 1995. Status-related variation in foodways in the Moundville chiefdom. American Antiquity, 60 (3): 397-419. West, B. 1995. The case of the missing victuals. Archaeology, 29: 20-42.

Historical

Wilson, C. A. 1973. Food and Drink in Britain: From the Stone Age to Recent Times. London: Constable. Zimmerman Holt, J. 1996. Beyond optimization: alternative ways of examining animal exploitation. World Archaeology 28 (1): 89-109.

A New Interpretation of the Witham Bowl and its Animal Imagery Paul Sorrell

The Witham Bowl was an ornately decorated silver hanging-bowl of English manufacture and provenance, probably made around 800 AD. The bowl disappeared in the later nineteenth century, but its magnificent and mysterious traces survive in two meticulously executed sets of illustrations in the keeping of the Society of Antiquaries of London (fig.1). Despite this witness to its perceived importance as an artwork of exceptional quality, and Thomas Kendrick’s later description of the bowl as ‘the most remarkable piece of pre-Conquest plate ever found in England’, it has attracted remarkably little scholarly commentary. Indeed, the present article is the first devoted exclusively to the bowl.

Fig.1 Witham Bowl, Society of Antiquaries of London.

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The primary purpose of this study is to offer a reading of the Witham Bowl based on a new identification of the animal-figure that stands at its centre, and thus to indicate how the bowl interprets the relationship between an animal and its ecological environment that is more clearly discernible in other artworks and in the literature, both Latin and Old English, of the early Anglo-Saxon period (Sorrell 1994: 55-6). My approach to interpreting the bowl is thus an interdisciplinary one, based on the assumption that, provided that we ask the right questions, the surviving products of a culture, regardless of their media, will reveal a world-view that is unified and coherent in some significant ways. The coupling of artefactual with literary evidence produces interpretive results that could not be gained from art-historical analysis alone. Such an approach is particularly important in the study of early medieval culture, from which few material remains survive. Since the Witham Bowl is so little known, and the material about it speculative, scattered and patchy, I begin this study with a detailed summary of the bowl and its background. Few classes of object from early Britain have given rise to as much controversy as hanging-bowls. These hemispherical vessels of beaten or spun bronze are equipped with three or four suspension hooks mounted on decorated escutcheons, and often with further escutcheons mounted on either side of a countersunk base or omphalos, in a major sequence dated between the fifth and seventh centuries, but with later outliers (Brenan 1991; Bruce-Mitford 1987; Fowler 1968, Henry 1936; Kendrick 1932; Kilbride-Jones 1980: 236-57; Longley 1975).1 Although mainly of Celtic workmanship, most of the bowls have been found in pagan Anglo-Saxon burial contexts, or, in a later series of Irish manufacture, in the graves of Norwegian Vikings. The remains of over 150 bowls, 108 from Britain and Ireland, were known in 1993 (Bruce-Mitford 1993: 47). But having said that, almost everything about the hanging-bowls is uncertain or contested: their antecedents, their places and dates of manufacture, their function and their stylistic interpretation. Although earlier studies considered that the hanging-bowls had been manufactured wholly in Ireland or the Celtic areas of Britain, and looted or traded by Anglo-Saxons, scholars now point to evidence of

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interplay between Celtic and Germanic techniques and motifs in much early metalwork, and between the craftsmen who produced it (Brenan 1991: 133, 137-8; Bruce-Mitford 1993: 45; Ryan 1992: 9095). Many bowls may have been commissioned by Anglo-Saxon patrons, and some even presented as diplomatic gifts (Brenan 1991: 137-8). More controversial are the uses to which the bowls were put, a question complicated by the possibly different functions envisaged by their (mainly Celtic) manufacturers and (Germanic) acquirers. Both secular and ecclesiastical functions have been canvassed. Scholars have suggested that the bowls were used as lights or reflectors in churches (Henry 1936: 211-13), or as votive bowls to be displayed there (McRoberts 1960-61), as baptismal fonts (Vierck 1970) and liturgical lavabos (Liestöl 1953, Bruce-Mitford 1987: 31), as serving or mixing bowls for drinks (Brenan 1991: 54) or as finger-bowls for secular use (Haseloff 1958; Wilson 1973). More outlandish proposals have included their use as scale pans for weighing wool and, in the case of the large hanging-bowl from the princely burial at Sutton Hoo (c. 625), as a water-compass (Brenan 1991: 35)2. Puzzling as the hanging-bowls as a group may be, the Witham Bowl, a richly ornamented object of probable English provenance and probably dating from the early ninth century, and furthermore unseen for 130 years, is more curious still. The bowl was found in the River Witham just east of Lincoln, and the details of its recovery were reported in the Stamford Mercury on 19 April 1816: In carrying out the works for the improvement of the river Witham, many submarine articles have been thrown up: lately near Washingborough about 4 miles from this city, a complete canoe was found of the length of 30 feet 8 inches, 2 feet high at the sides and about 2 feet 6 inches wide, made out of a single tree: after being exposed to the air, it was found impracticable to remove this curiosity, the least movement causing it to break. A great number of trees, several yards underground, deer’s horns, some of them very large and human sculls, (sic.) have been found; but the object of greatest value is a beautiful cup or basin, richly ornamented with wild animals

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Paul Sorrell (sic), and having in the centre a small statue: this is now in the possession of a gentleman in the neighbourhood. The heavy rains at the close of last week have caused the rivers in this neighbourhood greatly to overflow, and the pressure upon the drainage banks, particularly in the parishes of Skellingthorpe, Bracebridge and Boultham has been such that those banks cannot resist. (Quoted in Bruce-Mitford 1993:59)

Last documented in 1868, when it was exhibited in the Celtic and Anglo-Saxon section of the National Exhibition of Works of Art in Leeds, the bowl’s traces survive in the form of a set of coloured drawings mounted in a scrapbook held in the library of the Society of Antiquaries of London, and still in the Society’s possession. These show views of the bowl from above and below, a side view, a sectional drawing through the middle of the object, and details of the millefiori decoration used on the escutcheons. A pair of woodcut blocks (one showing an exterior view of the bottom of the bowl and the other an interior, oblique view; fig.1), executed for the Society at an unknown date, but independently of the watercolours, were brought to light more recently by the Society’s Librarian, John Hopkins. They were presumably made in the nineteenth century for publication in the Society’s journal, Archaeologia.3 A pencilled annotation to the drawings—undated, like the drawings themselves—described the bowl as a ‘silver basin found in the River Witham, near Lincoln now in the possession of John Heywood Hawkins Esq. of Bignor Park, Sussex’. Hawkins, who died in 1877, was apparently a collector of some note and owner of the Bignor Roman Ring (Kendrick 1941: 162).4 The Witham Bowl was one of about 130 works he contributed to the Leeds exhibition (but the only Anglo-Saxon piece), and has a six-line entry in the catalogue.5 The two sets of illustrations taken together allow us to form a remarkably detailed impression of the bowl. The object is small by hanging-bowl standards, measuring about six inches across (Kendrick’s estimate, based on the assumption that the tinted drawings were full size), with a square-sectioned concave neck below a flat rim. The walls of the bowl appear thick, and it was probably cast rather than raised. Four large escutcheons, decorated

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with square panels of blue and white millefiori glass and coarse granulation set deep within recessed curvilinear segments, terminate in the necks and heads of animal-figures that bite onto the edge of the bowl and peer over its rim. Unusually, these escutcheons extend the full length of the bowl and terminate in studs shaped as small human heads at its base. A basal escutcheon is fitted onto the countersunk base of the bowl, and is decorated with filigree interlace and ‘tree of life’ motif in quadrants formed by cruciform dividing strips which terminate in gemstone settings, now empty. A matching interior escutcheon repeats this basic decorative scheme, and it is clear from the woodblocks that the filigree scroll-work is raised in high relief on ribbonlike supporting structures. Mounted on a raised circular base in the centre of this internal disc is a small quadruped of cast silver with blue glass eyes, its head raised slightly above the level of the bowl’s rim. A comparison of the three illustrations in which this creature figures shows it in at least two separate alignments and suggests that it is set on a revolving base. Four small cast animal-heads sit on the cross-arms of the interior escutcheon as if gazing at the centrally-mounted animal. Finally, the interior of the bowl is ornamented with twenty blue glass studs with twisted wire collars, which cover the escutcheon rivet-heads and match the cabochon studs which hold the two basal escutcheons in place. In the first published notice of the bowl, in 1941, Thomas Kendrick, Keeper of British and Medieval Antiquities at the British Museum, was impressed enough to describe it as ‘a supremely important and very precious antiquity ... the most remarkable piece of preConquest plate ever found in England’, and expressed the hope that it would soon be traced (Kendrick 1941). However, despite extensive enquiries made since the appearance of Kendrick’s note, the bowl’s fate has remained obscure. Perhaps unsurprisingly in view of its uncertain status, the bowl has generated little commentary and less than unanimous agreement on its date and provenance. Kendrick judged the bowl to be ‘Mercian or Anglian work of the ninth century’, and compared it to the Ardagh Chalice and the Ormside Bowl. David M. Wilson, in his study of the St Ninian’s Isle treasure, suggested a Mercian or Northumbrian origin and opted for a date in the eighth century (Wilson 1973: I, 111-12; see also Wilson 1964: 18-19). Dunning and Evison (1961: 151-52)

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concurred with Kendrick’s appraisal and drew comparisons, in style and technique, with the Ormside Bowl and with a bronze boss from Ribchester, Lancs. In a catalogue note on the Ormside Bowl, Leslie Webster compares ‘the striking use of prominent bossed rivets and filigree-decorated twin centre plates’ to the Witham bowl, which she tentatively dates to the first half of the eighth century. She considers the Ormside Bowl to date from the second half (Webster and Backhouse 1991: 173). In a regional study of hanging-bowls published in 1993, Rupert Bruce-Mitford (1993: 59) supported a late- eighth or early-ninth-century date and compared the bowl with the Ardagh Chalice, the lesser silver-gilt hanging-bowl from the St Ninian’s Isle hoard and, in respect of the elevated filigree scrollwork on the Witham Bowl, with the ninth-century Kirkoswald silver trefoil ornament.6 The early-ninth-century Derrynaflan chalice also uses this technique of ribbon-on-edge capped by filigree (Ryan 1983: 8-9, Youngs 1989: 130-131 and 161, (illus.)).7 However, some of the most valuable comparative material on the bowl appears in a non-Anglo-Saxon source. The description in the Liber Pontificalis (a series of early papal biographies compiled by officials in the Lateran vestiarium) of several Anglo-Saxon hangingbowls presented by Pope Gregory IV (828-844) to the Roman church of S. Maria in Trastevere between 835 and 837 (Davis 1995: 60), and first noted in connection with the Witham Bowl by Dodwell (1982: 205-8), provides a closer context for discussion of the bowl and confirms the suggestion of a date of manufacture in the early ninth century. The author informs us, in Latin that is poor even by the standards of this work that Gregory donated, among other treasures: an [Anglo]-Saxon bowl adorned with crosses, having a representation in the form of a maneless lion with various features of the purest gold, hanging from four chains and one hook; a gilded [Anglo]-Saxon bowl, having [representations] in the shape of four lions, with various representations of serpents with an upright pine-cone in the centre and four little lion cubs, hanging from three chains and one hook; also [four] [Anglo]-Saxon bowls, each of which has individual

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decorations worked in gold, hanging from three chains and hooks, and one of which has two glass gems ...8 Apart from general features such as the use of precious metals (exauratus can mean either ‘gilded’ or ‘made of gold’) and jewelled settings, the papal bowls display striking points of similarity with the Witham Bowl. Indeed, the second bowl, with its four animal-headed escutcheons (as we may suppose; ‘three chains’ is probably a mistake for four), serpentine interlace filigree, and four small animal-figures grouped about a central upright feature, is strongly reminiscent of our bowl. The ‘lions’ with which the bowls are decorated are just as likely to be other kinds of quadruped, fashioned in the English style and not easily identified by the papal clerks; the term ‘maneless lion’ (awkwardly expressed as ‘storiam in modum leonis incapillatam’) would be a good description of the beast in the Witham Bowl, or of some of the animals that inhabit the foliage on the outer shell of the Ormside Bowl. To the Anglo-Saxons, an actual ‘maneless lion’ would be a contradiction in terms; witness for example the prominently-maned leaping lion Evangelist-symbols of the Book of Durrow and the Echternach Gospels, the lion-images on the carved stone crosses of Iona, such as the late-eighth-century St Martins cross (Hicks 1993: 161-4)9, or the ‘rough-haired’ (setiger) lion in the ‘Leo’ riddle of the late-seventh-century Anglo-Latin author Aldhelm. Unfortunately, it seems that none of Pope Gregory’s bowls, or any other Anglo-Saxon hanging-bowls that made their way to Rome, have survived.10 There is one other extant hanging-bowl that does contain a threedimensional animal image, the large bronze hanging-bowl (no. 1) of Celtic manufacture, dated to c. 600, from the well-documented royal burial at Sutton Hoo. The bowl contains a small bronze fish, partially tinned, engraved with a crescentic pattern representing scales and marked with two rows of depressions that were probably originally filled with red enamel to imitate the markings on a trout or salmon. The fish sits loosely on a pedestal mounted at the bottom of the bowl, and can both swivel and tilt on this support. It is hard to believe that this arrangement was not meant to mimic a fish in its natural environment, a kind of artefactual goldfish bowl, and that the bowl was not filled with water to complete the illusion. When so

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filled and the contents stirred with the hand, the fish would move about on its column, its sleek metallic and enamelled body gleaming and shimmering beneath the surface. Alternatively, the iron rod whose traces are still detectable in the fish's mouth may have been attached to some device that allowed the model to be revolved from outside the bowl. The naturalistic effect is enhanced by the stylised animal heads (Bruce-Mitford (1975-83: III.1 240) identified them as seals or otters)—the terminals of the three hook-escutcheons by which the bowl was hung—that face inwards toward the fish from the bowl's rim.11 One other hanging-bowl provides evidence of a centre-mounted feature of this kind. The silver hanging-bowl (no. 8) dating from the late seventh or early eighth century from the St Ninian's Isle hoard is equipped with three full-length zoomorphic mounts (probably representing boars) terminating in stylised animal heads which, like those on the Sutton Hoo bowl, seem to peer into the vessel's interior. As with the Witham Bowl, the mounts are attached by rivets (in contrast to the soldered escutcheons found on the earlier, bronze bowls). Although no centre-mounted figure survives from the vessel, a fitting of some kind is missing from the raised circular setting at the centre of a circular gilt mount that is riveted to the omphalos inside the bowl.12 This arrangement can be compared to the device by which the pedestal is fitted to the basal escutcheon in the large Sutton Hoo bowl (Bruce Mitford 1975-83: III.1 222-24, esp. 223, fig.171). Along with the Witham Bowl, the St Ninian's Isle bowl is one of only three silver hanging-bowls known to survive; the third, which has lost its hook escutcheons but retained its filigreeornamented basal mounts, was excavated from the royal site of Lejre in Denmark (Wilson 1960). The Liber Pontificalis, however, mentions a number of silver Anglo-Saxon hanging-bowls (Dodwell 1982: 205-7). It is noteworthy that all three recorded silver bowls are small by hanging-bowl standards, that the Lejre bowl is a ‘bandbowl’ and that the other two examples recall such bowls in their elongated escutcheons (see Bruce-Mitford 1993: 45, 59). An intriguing parallel to the fish in the Sutton Hoo bowl is offered by the fragmentary bowl from Lullingstone in Kent, ‘the product of an Anglo-Saxon metalworker creating his version of a Celtic style’

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(Hicks 1993: 27) and probably dating from the second half of the seventh century. Although lacking an internal mount, the bowl was originally decorated with a frieze of animal appliqués in four repeated panels. The single fish image that now survives sits beneath a bird-figure and together they form an example of the motif of the bird of prey with victim originating in Eurasiatic art and widespread in the Roman, Celtic and Germanic art of the British Isles (ibid: 28; Thomas 1964: 70-74). Significantly, however, here the bird is mounted atop an enamelled bronze strip which could be interpreted as a pillar or pedestal and which terminates flush with the bottom of the bowl (Vierck 1970: 43). The evidence thus far collected suggests that the Witham Bowl, with its centre-mounted moveable animal-figure surrounded by other, lesser, beasts, is not an isolated phenomenon. Whatever their practical purpose, I believe that bowls of this type were intended to be filled with water, thus creating a three-dimensional conceit of an animal placed in its natural habitat that would have had a special resonance with Anglo-Saxon onlookers. As I have argued more fully elsewhere (Sorrell 1994: 34-36, 40-50), the early Anglo-Saxon understanding of a particular animal kind is based on three interlocking features: the animal’s ecological habitat (land, water, air), its organs of locomotion (legs, fins and scales, wings) and its mode of locomotion in its appropriate habitat (walk, fly, swim). A bird, for example, is an animal that characteristically uses its wings to fly through the air. This kind of taxonomy has much in common with the zoological classifications made by other pre-literate societies, both past and contemporary. Normative behaviour, including the possession of the appropriate physical attributes for an animal to function in its given environment, is of great importance here. In the course of a discussion of ‘the abominations of Leviticus’ social anthropologist Mary Douglas holds that conformity to specific means of locomotion in the appropriate element is the test of ritual uncleanness in animals: ‘Leviticus ... allots to each element its proper kind of animal life. In the firmament two-legged fowls fly with wings. In the water scaly fish swim with fins. On the earth four-legged animals hop, jump or walk. Any class of creatures which is not equipped for the right kind

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of locomotion in its element is contrary to holiness’ (Douglas 1966: 55-6). We can set this statement against a passage in the Old English verse translation of The Metres of Boethius (probably made by King Alfred himself in the late ninth century from his own prose translation of the Consolation of Philosophy), where the poet illustrates his contention that the various kinds of animal each have a different form and mode of locomotion (‘blioh and fær’) by explaining how the presence or absence of feet or wings assists the motion of these various kinds in their given habitats: ‘[Some] creep and crawl, their entire body in contact with the ground; they have no help from wings, nor can they walk by means of feet, make use of the earth—this is their lot. Some tread the earth on two feet, some are four-footed, others move beneath the clouds by flying’ (Metre 31: 6b-12a). The emphasis on the locomotive organs seems to reflect vernacular zoological tradition: the Latin source passage in Boethius’ work omits the reference to the lack of wings and feet in crawling animals and refers not to the numbers of feet possessed by ambulatory creatures, but merely to the imprinting of the ground with their uestigia (Stewart 1936: 396-8). Fish, then, use their fins and scales to propel them through water, their allotted element, as the Anglo-Latin riddler Eusebius notes in his ‘fish’ enigma, and they move in this environment in a thoroughly characteristic way, as the vernacular author of Maxims II notes in one of the gnomic statements that make up this poem: ‘the salmon habitually glides around the pool in company with the trout’ (lines 39b-40a). Fish and water belong together like host and guest or house and occupant, the metaphor used in the Old English ‘fish and river’ riddle, for example, and the Latin riddle by Symphosius on which it is probably based. A fish out of water is no longer capable of interacting with its environment, and is scarcely a fish at all. Other animals that occupy a watery habitat, but that lack fins and scales, such as the pond-skater of Aldhelm’s tippula riddle, are anomalous in a different way again, like the snake that moves on land without legs. This interest in the relationship between an animal and its ecological habitat, and its fitness for that particular environment, is sharpened when the animal in question is able to

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perform in two or more habitats. One well-known example is the swan of Old English (Exeter Book) riddle 7, which can move freely and gracefully between land, water and air, but seems fully at home only in the latter element, where it is a ‘travelling guest’. The mysterious eafix (‘riverfish’) of the riddle-like Old English Rune Poem also moves between two contrasting habitats, living in water but taking its food on land. This ‘fish’ may well be mammalian, as in the strikingly similar enigma by Eusebius on the ‘hippopotamus fish’, entitled ‘De y[ppo]potamo pisce’. Such behaviour calls for comment, as we find in the opening line of Aldhelm’s riddle on the luligo, a kind of fish (squid) that can apparently fly: ‘The spectacle offered by my life is a pleasing sight’. The beaver of Aldhelm’s ‘Castor’ riddle can move freely between its home on the riverbank, where it is a ‘guest’ (and presumably fully at ease), and the river’s depths, ‘where the wet fish swims’. The large hanging-bowl from Sutton Hoo, then, presents a threedimensional conceit that is the precise analogue, in the medium of metalwork, of the ecological conception of a fish exemplified in early Anglo-Saxon literature. How then is the Witham Bowl, with its central quadruped and other zoomorphic features, to be fitted into this conceptual framework? (Unlikely though it may seem, even the second of Pope Gregory IV’s bowls, with its upstanding pinea, may have been designed with a watery element in mind.)13 In his threevolume study of the Sutton Hoo treasure Bruce-Mitford identified the mounted beast as a dog, while acknowledging that this was problematic if, as he thought, the bowl was intended to be filled with water (Bruce Mitford 1975-83: II. 1 240, Hicks 1993: 75, follows his identification). He later added the suggestions of a horse or calf, symbol of St Luke14. One of the drawings shows that the animal’s head would stand just clear of the top of the bowl when filled in this way. My view is that the animal represents an amphibious mammal, and that the best candidate is an otter. Otters both in and out of water are glimpsed in a number of English place-names, given in Anglo-Saxon times: Otterbourne, Hampshire (‘otter stream’), Otterham, Cornwall (‘enclosure in marginal land frequented by otters’), Otterpool, Kent, and Ottershaw, Surrey (a shaw is a small wood) (Gelling 1984: 18, 46, 28, 209). ‘Otter-holes’

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are mentioned as boundary-markers in two Anglo-Saxon charters (see Bosworth and Toller 1898: svv. oter, oter-hola). The best-known otters from Anglo-Saxon England are those that figure in the charming story, recorded by two authors from eighthcentury Northumbria, of the pair of otters that came out of the sea to rub down the chilled body of St Cuthbert as he emerged from an allnight vigil in the North Sea. In the earlier version, recorded by an anonymous monk of Lindisfarne, the creatures, not identified as otters but only as ‘duo pusilla animalia maritima’ (‘two small seaanimals’), come ashore to rub and warm Cuthbert's feet. They are then said to return, on completion of their unusual mission, ‘ad cognatas undas maris’ (‘to the kindred waters of the sea’) (Colgrave 1940: 80 (Bk. II.3)). In the corresponding passage in Bede's prose Vita Cuthberti the two animals are identified as otters (lutraeae): ‘there came forth from the depths of the sea two four-footed creatures which are commonly called otters. These, prostrate before him on the sand began to warm his feet with their breath and sought to dry him with their fur, and when they had finished their ministrations they received his blessing and slipped back into their native waters [“patrias sunt relapsa sub undas”]’ (ibid: 190 (ch. X)). In their respective tellings of the story, both writers are careful to note the animals’ movement between two contrasting habitats. The adjectives cognatas and patrias suggest a very close affinity between the animals and their marine habitat and, at the same time, suggest that their excursion onto dry land is something of an aberration. Close scrutiny of the illustrations confirms that the Witham beast indeed makes a strange dog, furnished as it is with an elongated neck, short legs and a very long broad, flat tail that curls around its left flank to reach the base of the neck. The conceit of an animal placed in its natural environment demands, here as in the case of the Sutton Hoo bowl, a subject of aquatic habits, and it seems clear that the Witham specimen is meant to represent an otter, disporting itself in its ‘kindred waters’ in the company of its congeners.15 This ecological conceit confirms the suggestion of a dual purpose for splendidly-embellished bowls of this type. While the hookescutcheons indicate that the bowl was designed to be hung up,

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probably for display, the miniature human-headed studs on its underside form a stand, as David M. Wilson noted, and show that the bowl was intended to be set down to display its remarkable interior, while perhaps performing the practical office of a fingerbowl.16 The Witham Bowl will not give up its secrets easily, especially while it remains out of reach of detailed scholarly investigation—assuming it is not lost for good. Attempts to trace J. H. Hawkins’ descendants and so locate the object have come to nothing, despite the existence of a ‘fat file’ on the bowl in the Department of Medieval and Later Antiquities at the British Museum. As Rupert Bruce-Mitford expostulated: ‘It seems incredible that an object in such excellent condition, and recognised for what it was, and deemed important enough to record so carefully, should have vanished without trace since 1868’.17 Were the bowl to be recovered, it would be regarded as a national treasure, on a par with the Irish Ardagh Chalice with which it has sometimes been compared. In its sophisticated English craftsmanship—there are no distinctively Celtic ornamental features18—it stands alongside, and chronologically between, such treasures as the Sutton Hoo gold and garnet jewellery and the Alfred Jewel. One can only hope that continuing enquiry and publicity will one day reveal its fate.

Acknowledgements Fig.1 is reproduced by permission of the Society of Antiquaries of London. Bibliography Bosworth, J., and Toller, T. N. (eds) 1898. An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary. London/Oxford: Clarendon Press. Brenan, J. 1991. Hanging Bowls and their Contexts: An Archaeological Survey of their Socio-economic Significance from the Fifth to Seventh Centuries A.D. Oxford: Tempus Reparatum.

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Bruce-Mitford, R. 1975-83. The Sutton Hoo Ship Burial, 3 vols. London: British Museum Publications. Bruce-Mitford, R. 1987. Ireland and the Hanging-bowls—a Review. In Ireland and Insular Art, A.D. 500-1200 (ed M. Ryan). Dublin: Royal Irish Academy, pp. 30-39. Bruce-Mitford, R. 1993. Late Celtic hanging-bowls in Lincolnshire and South Humberside. In Pre-Viking Lindsey (ed A. Vince). Lincoln: City of Lincoln Archaeology Unit, pp. 45-70. Chanin, P. 1985. The Natural History of Otters. London: Croom Helm. Colgrave, B. (ed) 1940. Two Lives of Saint Cuthbert. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Davis, R. (trans) 1995. The Lives of the Ninth-Century Popes (Liber Pontificalis). Liverpool: Liverpool University Press. Dodwell, C. R. 1982. Anglo-Saxon Art: A New Perspective. Ithaca, NY: Cornell University Press. Douglas, M. 1966. Purity and Danger: an Analysis of Concepts of Pollution and Taboo. London: Ark. Dunning, G. C. and Evison, V. I. 1961. The Palace of Westminster sword. Archaeologia, 98: 123-58. Fowler, E. 1968. Hanging bowls. In Studies in Ancient Europe: Essays Presented to Stuart Piggott (eds J. M. Coles and D. A. Simpson). Leicester: Leicester University Press, pp. 287-310. Gelling, M. 1984. Place-Names in the Landscape. London: Dent. Haseloff, G. 1958. Fragments of a hanging-bowl from Bekesbourne, Kent, and Some Ornamental Problems, Medieval Archaeology, 2: 72-103.

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Henry, F. 1936. Hanging bowls. Journal of the Royal Society of Antiquaries of Ireland, 66: 209-46. Henry, F. (ed) 1974. The Book of Kells: Reproductions from the Manuscript in Trinity College, Dublin. London: Thames and Hudson. Hicks, C. 1993. Animals in Early Medieval Art. Edinburgh: Edinburgh University Press. Kendrick, T.D. 1932. British Hanging-Bowls. Antiquity, 6: 161-84. Kendrick, T.D. 1941. A late Saxon hanging-bowl. The Antiquaries Journal, 21: 161-62. Kilbride-Jones, H. E. 1980. Celtic Craftsmanship in Bronze. London: Croom Helm. Lasko, P. E. 1972. Ars Sacra 800-1200. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Liestöl, A. 1953. The hanging bowl, a liturgical and domestic vessel. Acta Archaeologica, 24: 163-70. Longley, D. 1975. Hanging bowls, penannular brooches and the Anglo-Saxon connection. British Archaeological Reports 22. Oxford: BAR. McRoberts, D. 1960-61. The ecclesiastical significance of the St. Ninian’s Isle treasure. Proceedings of the Society of Antiquaries of Scotland, 94: 301-13. Ryan, M. (ed) 1983. The Derrynaflan Hoard I: A Preliminary Account. Dublin: National Museum of Ireland. Ryan, M. 1990. The formal relationships of insular early medieval eucharistic chalices. Proceedings of the Royal Irish Academy, 90c: 281-356.

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Ryan, M. 1992. The Sutton Hoo ship burial and Ireland: some Celtic perspectives. In Sutton Hoo: Fifty Years After (eds R. Farrell, and C. Neuman de Vegvar). Oxford, Ohio: American Early Medieval Studies, Miami University, pp. 83-116. Sorrell, P. 1994. Like a duck to water: representations of aquatic animals in early Anglo-Saxon literature and art. Leeds Studies in English new series, 25: 29-68. Stewart, H. F. (ed.) 1936. Boethius, The Consolation of Philosophy. Cambridge, Mass: Medieval Academy of America. Thomas, C. 1964. The interpretation of the Pictish symbols. The Archaeological Journal, 120: 31-97. Vierck, H. 1970. Cortina Tripodis: Zu Aufhängung und Gebrauch subrömischer Hangelbecken aus Britannien und Irland. Frühmittelalterliche Studien, 4: 8-52. Webster, L. and Backhouse, J. (eds) 1991. The Making of England: Anglo-Saxon Art and Culture AD 600-900. London: British Museum Publications. Wilson, D. M. 1960. Irsk-britisk import i Lejre. Nationalmuseets Arbejdsmark: 36-7. Wilson, D. M. 1964. Anglo-Saxon Ornamental Metalwork 700-1100 in the British Museum. London: British Museum Publications. Wilson, D. M. 1973. In St. Ninian's Isle and its Treasures (eds A. Small, C. Thomas and D. M. Wilson) 2 vols. London: Oxford University Press for the University of Aberdeen. Youngs, S. (ed) 1989. 'The Work of Angels': Masterpieces of Celtic Metalwork 6th - 9th centuries AD. London: British Museum Publications.

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Notes 1

A posthumous catalogue by Bruce-Mitford, A Corpus of LateCeltic Hanging-Bowls, is due to be published by Oxford University Press c. 2002. I am most grateful to the Corpus’ editor, Sheila Raven, and to Oxford University Press, for allowing me to see a typescript of the Witham Bowl section.

2

Brenan surveys the literature on the function of the bowls at pp. 2741 and 133-38. For further discussion and speculation on the function of hanging-bowls, see Youngs 1989: 22. 3

The watercolour drawings are reproduced (in black and white) in Kendrick 1941: pls. XXXIV and XXXV, and again in Wilson 1973: II, pl. LI. For the woodblock showing an interior view of the bowl, see Dunning and Evison 1961: 152, fig. 8; it is reproduced again in Wilson 1964: pl. II (c); and Bruce-Mitford 1975-1983: III.1 240, fig. 182. The woodblock showing an exterior view is reproduced in Wilson 1973: II, pl. LII (a). Both woodblock illustrations are reproduced in Dodwell 1982: 206 and Bruce-Mitford 1993: 70. 4

I am grateful to Adrian James, Assistant Librarian, Society of Antiquaries, for information on the illustrations of the bowl.

5

National Exhibition of Works of Art, at Leeds, 1868. Official Catalogue (Leeds, 1869), Museum of Ornamental Art, Section A. Celtic and Anglo-Saxon, no. 19 (p. 182). The catalogue entry reads: ‘Anglo-Saxon silver-gilt bowl, ornamented outside with four raised scrolls, enclosing square mosaics of minute coloured tesseræ, ending on the lip in animals’ heads; at the bottom is a circular medallion and a cross with a blue stone in each of the limbs, the spaces between filled in with gold filigree knots and scrolls; on the interior is a similar medallion, but in the centre is a statuette of some animal. This unique vessel was found in the river Witham’.

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6

These conclusions are reiterated in Bruce-Mitford, A Corpus of Late-Celtic Hanging-Bowls (forthcoming). For a detailed comparison of the Kirkoswald trefoil and the Witham Bowl, see Wilson 1964:17-19. Both show an identical use of ‘heavy serrated band filigree’, where the band is soldered by one edge to a baseplate (p. 18). The Kirkoswald ornament, which was recovered from a mid-ninth-century hoard, is illustrated in ibid: pl. XIX (cat. 28).

7

Ryan (1990: 341) dates the Derrynaflan Chalice ‘probably’ to the ninth century. 8

‘ ... gabatam saxiscam signochristam, habentem storiam in modum leonis incapillatam cum diversis operibus purissimis aureis, pendentem in catenulas IIII et uncinum I; item gabatam saxiscam, habentem [historias] in modum leones IIII, cum diversas istorias serpentorum et in medio stantem pineam et IIII leoncellos modicos exauratam, pendentem in catenulas tribus et uncinum I; item [IIII] gabathas saxiscas, ex quibus habet singulis operibus exauratis pendentes in catenulis III et uncinos, ex quibus habet I gemmis vitreis II ...’ (Liber Pontificalis, ed. L. Duchesne, 3 vols. (Paris, 1884-1957), II, 79, quoted in Dodwell, 1982: 314). 9

According to Hicks, the lions are identified by their manes and their tails arched over their backs. 10

I am grateful for discussion on this point to Raymond Davis, Oxford (formerly of Queen’s University of Belfast) and Dr Maria Antonietta De Angelis, Monumenti Musei e Gallerie Pontificie, Rome.

11

For documentation of the bowl see Bruce-Mitford 1975-83: III.1 206-44, 264-82, 290-98 and 300-07. For the fish and its setting see ibid: 221-29 and 239-44, pl. 7a and figs. 170-75.

12

Wilson 1973: I 56. See also ibid., vol. II, pl. XXIV and fig. 23 (b). Another (silver) mount (now detached) was originally mounted

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outside the bowl, inside the omphalos and attached by the same four rivets that hold the inner mount. For further discussion of bowl no. 8 see ibid: vol. I, pp. 55-57, 108-12 and 134-37. The bowl from Manton Warren (also called Manton Common), Humberside, which may derive from the same workshop as the large Sutton Hoo bowl, may also have a fitting missing; it has what Brenan (1993: 248, pl. 41(e)) describes as a ‘small circular void’ at the centre of the internal basal disc. Bruce-Mitford (1993: 56), however, interprets this as an empty setting for a blue glass and millefiori inset. 13

The late-eighth-century bronze pine-cone in the vestibule of Charlemagne’s palace chapel at Aachen was originally designed as part of a fountain, in imitation of the ancient pine-cone fountain erected in the atrium of St Peter’s in Rome in the fourth century. The botched cast of the Aachen cone includes a base on the corners of which are set four small incomplete figures representing the four rivers of Paradise, and each scale of the cone is pierced at the tip to permit the flow of water. See Lasko 1972: 16 and pl. 17.

14

Bruce-Mitford, A Corpus of Late-Celtic Hanging-Bowls (forthcoming).

15

For a general description of the Eurasian otter (Lutra lutra), see Chanin 1985: 10-22. The only other Insular otter-image known to me is the tiny otter-and-fish image on the great Chi-Rho page of the Book of Kells, fol. 34r (see Henry 1974: pls. 29 and 107). 16 Wilson 1993: I 110-12. On the elaborate decoration found on the interior of many hanging-bowls, see Haseloff 1958: 74-5. Although it is not a hanging-bowl, the St Ninian’s Isle bowl no. 6 has an elaborate raised mount on the inside of the bowl, see Wilson 1993: I 133 and II, pll. XXII, XXVI.c, and Youngs 1989:108 and 153. 17

Rupert Bruce-Mitford, letter to Adrian James, Assistant Librarian, Society of Antiquaries, 1 December 1990.

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Bruce-Mitford, A Corpus of Late-Celtic Hanging-Bowls (forthcoming).

The Black Rat and the Plague Graham Twigg Centre for Metropolitan History, Institute of Historical Research

Although the Black Death of the mid-fourteenth century is a focal point of the period, it tends to draw attention from other epidemics labelled ‘plague’ during the medieval era. We have to remember that plague was a term that was almost certainly used synonymously with epidemic (Pye, 1721). Nevertheless in recent times it has come to mean bubonic plague, a bacterial disease whose aetiology is determined by rats, fleas and climate and which occurs in epidemic form only when certain stringent conditions are met. Most known plague epidemics in humans have been acquired from rats. When plague bacteria in a rat multiply to form an overwhelming septicaemia the rat dies. When this occurs widely throughout a rat population the mass deaths are termed an epizootic, the rodent equivalent of a human epidemic. With the necessary intermediary of a flea, and provided the ambient temperature is between 21C and 29C (to provide a constant supply of newly hatched fleas), then the infective blood taken in by these insects can be passed to man and the human epidemic can proceed (Twigg 1984: 15-22; Bacot and Martin 1914: 423-39). Much of the difficulty surrounding ‘plague’ stems from the discovery of the bacillus of bubonic plague in Hong Kong in 1894 (Yersin, 1894: 662-7). It was first named Bacillus pestis (now Yersinia pestis) and the label plague (pestis) for its species name led to the straight transposition of bubonic plague for all ‘plague’ outbreaks of the past. Furthermore, once the role of rats had been determined in the two decades after the discovery of plague, then it became fashionable to explain past epidemics in the light of supposed large rat populations. The fact that nowhere in contemporary accounts of plague either during the Black Death or in the many epidemics of London and elsewhere between 1350 and 1666 rats, much less rat epizootics, have ever been mentioned has not been deemed important.

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The Black rat was the only rat species present in Europe until the 1720s. This much we know from the animal remains recovered from archaeological studies at various sites and from the well-documented arrival of the Brown rat after 1720. What we need to know, if we are to identify earlier ‘plague’ outbreaks as bubonic plague, is whether the Black rat was widely distributed across the British Isles, whether human dwellings could have been suitable enough for it and whether it would have found enough food and shelter to maintain a continuous distribution across the countryside as distinct from a distribution that consisted of small, isolated pockets of rats. The natural environment, including climate, and the human built-up environment, are fundamental features of the equation, provided there were enough rats and fleas to initiate and fuel epidemics of plague. An understanding of the biology of the rat is central if we are to identify plague. Without this there is a frequent and variable adjustment of its biology to suit individual circumstances, however unlikely these may be, whereby a historical necessity is contrived out of a biological improbability. The Black rat is also known as the Ship rat, House rat and Roof rat, terms which tell us more about the animal than Black rat, which is only partly accurate since in most populations the colour of the pelage is polymorphic. The three forms that are evident are: all black (rattus type); brown with grey belly (alexandrinus type) and brown with creamy white belly (frugivorus type). The frequencies of these morphs vary geographically and in different habitats: in urban areas black is usually dominant and the others in rural areas, but they do not constitute geographically definable subspecies. Whilst Ship rat refers to the undoubted skill of the species in gaining access to ships via mooring ropes and thus being transported by boat, House and Roof rat clearly define its predilection for human dwellings, not only in cool temperate climates but also in warm ones. Its large, thin and almost hairless ears and a naked tail show adaptation to heat loss and indicate an origin in a warm climate, in marked contrast to the Common or Brown rat, Rattus norvegicus, which evolved in a cold climate, probably in central Asia.

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The Black rat was probably one of the first mammals to associate with early humans and it is believed to have spread from India to Egypt in the fourth century B.C. and then along trading routes into Europe. Until a couple of decades ago it was thought that this rat was not introduced into Britain until the late eleventh to twelfth century A.D., the following being commonly cited by zoologists and historians in support of this view: “There is no clear evidence of its presence in Europe…prior to the Crusades (1095, 1147 and 1191)…and there can be little doubt that it was imported from the Levant by the navies of the Crusaders” (Barrett-Hamilton and Hinton, 1914-21: 582). Then, in 1979, skeletal remains of Black rats were identified from a late Roman well in York (Rackham 1979: 112-120) and excavations in the City of London provided further proof of the presence of the Black rat in Roman Britain, with perhaps a well established population in London by the third to fourth century A.D. (Armitage et al, 1984: 375-83). The route to northern Europe was probably via Egypt in the first instance and thence in shipping to the ports of the northern Mediterranean. There were Black rats at Pompeii in the late second century B.C. and in Switzerland and West Germany by at least the first century A.D. They may have then reached Britain through trade with the Rhineland or even much earlier directly from the Mediterranean for it is recorded that at least one shipment of grain was imported to London from the Mediterranean or Near East in the first century A.D. and in the sixth century A.D. a ‘cornship’ from Alexandria reached Exeter at a time of famine (Frere 1966: 87-100). Either way, the Black rat was in place in the British Isles by the beginning of the medieval period and has probably been there ever since. By the end of the Roman period Black rats were established as far inland as Wroxeter in levels that were associated with the abandonment of the town in the fifth century A.D. With the end of the Roman urbanisation process the type of habitat favoured by the Black rat was removed and it is likely that the rat populations then faced a period of crisis.

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It may not be irrelevant, then, that the number of contexts in which Black rat bones were found fell to zero in the two succeeding centuries before peaking in the twelfth-thirteenth centuries (Armitage et al, 1984: 381). Since a high proportion of the sites were medieval castles this may be a reflection of archaeological activity. Furthermore this data has to be treated with caution since the recovery bias is not known. Nevertheless, the presence of Black rat in Roman towns and medieval castles points towards an animal that did not shun human presence. Modern members of the species can likewise live close by humans, especially in the overcrowded dwellings of India where rats, humans and domestic stock all live under one roof (Plague Reports, 1910: 446-82). Such proximity is of course a vital aspect of plague transmission and is one of the main reasons why plague was more effective in the East during the plague pandemic which went round the world in the decades following 1894. Yet, even in India the proportion of the total population killed by plague in the years 1896-1917 amounted to only 0.135% (Twigg, 1984: 196), a figure comfortably exceeded annually by cholera, malaria, tuberculosis and a variety of other endemic diseases. Overall figures are usually lower than those of local epidemics since they cover areas from which plague was absent but even individual towns such as Belgaum, with a population of 26,000, had a plague death rate of only 1.27% of the population in the epidemic of 190809. India can be regarded as providing optimum conditions for the dissemination of bubonic plague with rats and fleas widely distributed and numerous as well as in close contact with people, together with a climate that was suitable for flea breeding for a considerable part of the year. Despite this, plague made relatively little impact on the population. However, when the Black Death reached the British Isles in 1348 it is reputed to have produced a catastrophic population reduction, with estimates varying from 20 to 50%, between the autumn of 1348 and mid-1350.

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In A.D.1300 Britain was almost certainly more crowded than ever before in its history and a figure of 4.25 to 4.5 million would be consistent with the agricultural resources of the country (Campbell, 2000: 10-17) although some have argued that the figure was nearer 6 million. If we take the estimate of 4.5 million, then on the previous two mortality estimates of 20 and 50%, somewhere between 900,000 and 2,250,000 died. With a modern case mortality rate of around 60% for bubonic plague then the total number who had actually contracted the disease would have been, respectively, 1,500,000 and 3,750,000. Such contact figures in a largely agricultural population are, to say the least, extremely unrealistic for bubonic plague or any other known disease which is adversely affected in a cool climate. One should say especially for bubonic plague because of the situation regarding rats, fleas and temperature, the heart of the plague problem in a cool climate. Mortality figures of this order could only be achieved over such a wide area by the agency of something like nuclear warfare or the explosion of a super-volcano, neither of which are relevant. A more realistic alternative would be an unrestrained micro-organism of high toxicity. Nevertheless, these figures are still quoted by those who support the idea of the prevalence of plague and who attempt to avoid this awkward question in two ways. Firstly, by suggesting that the Black Death was an especially virulent form of plague. This seems an unnecessary assumption since modern plague, with a 100% case mortality rate in the pneumonic and septicaemic forms and 60% and over in its bubonic form seems virulent enough. Excessive virulence might actually hinder plague diffusion for instead of allowing the necessary septicaemia to develop in the rat it could kill it much earlier and thus prevent the flea from taking in enough bacteria. High virulence would also retard diffusion in pneumonic plague by reducing the already short period to death (1.8 days) and thereby restricting its spread even more. In any case, the concept of excessive virulence introduces into the biology a factor that is both unnecessary and for which there exists no evidence, nor any grounds for its presence. The second objection concerns the use of modern, i.e. post-1894, mortality data in relation to the medieval pandemic. However, all that we really know about plague has been gathered in recent years:

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the whole corpus of knowledge about the bacillus, its strengths and weaknesses in regard to the environment, its transmission, the rodent and flea hosts and the factors governing the epizootic and the epidemic have been acquired as the result of a great deal of dedicated work. It shows above all else that plague is a disease of more complexity than most other bacterial diseases and that its diffusion is neither simple nor speedy. This detailed biological information is not to be set casually aside in order to accommodate awkward features in the behaviour of the fourteenth century pandemic. Furthermore, there is an inconsistency in such criticism for whilst some facts can be ignored as irrelevant when it is convenient, the bubo for example can be seized upon as irrefutable evidence, as also can lung involvement and the spitting of blood, even though none of these can be used as guarantees of plague since they can also be found in other diseases. There are no grounds for the suggestion that Oriental plague in the fourteenth century was any different from the plague in Hong Kong 550 years later, a view expressed as follows: “Unless there is very persuasive, unassailable evidence to the contrary we must begin from the position that infectious diseases, including Y. pestis, in human communities of the European late Middle Ages are similar in both epidemiological and individual clinical presentation to analogous 20th century infections…Many epidemic crises of the late Middle Ages could not possibly have been due to plague alone” (Carmichael 1986: 8). There was no registration of deaths, either on a local or national level, in fourteenth century England. Therefore, with very few exceptions, authoritative statements of percentage mortalities have little value as they depend on extrapolations from small samples which themselves may be flawed. For example, it has been asserted that the obituary list of Canterbury Cathedral Priory shows that between 1349 and 1517, one-third of deaths among the monks were due to plague. However, an examination of the manuscript did not support this estimate (Bean 1962-3: 423-37). For one thing, a

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calculation for the whole period 1349-1517 could not be based on the details in the obituary because causes of death were not entered for large portions of the period. Also, there was only one period, 1395-1448, for which it was possible to make such an estimate. In those years, out of a total of 139 deaths, only 13 (9.4%) were due to plague. It was concluded, “such a proportion can hardly be considered remarkable or impressive in view of the fact that plague was a fairly common cause of death at this time” (ibid). And, of course, we have to bear in mind the use of plague as anything causing unusually high mortality. However serious the Black Death may have been it stands alone in the British Isles without any comparison with other years either before or after, so that we have little idea of epidemic potential at the time. In Italy there is good information on burials in the period and these show the Black Death in a quite different light. In Siena, about 50 miles south of Florence, burials in 1340 were about half the level of those in 1348 but clearly much higher, at just over 500, than the annual average of about 50-60. In 1348 around 1100 were buried but in 1363 burials totalled c.800, in 1373 c.600 and in 1383 c.700. There were epidemics at similar intervals until the mid-1420s. In Florence the Black Death peak was unremarkable at c.200, three times the annual average, whereas in 1340 c.700 had died and in 1400 there were c.1400 burials. (Figures estimated from graphs: actual number of burials not given). This places the Black Death in some perspective and shows that in that part of Italy at least it was part of a sequence of years of high mortality and not a solitary event of epic proportions. In view of the considerable fluctuations in annual burials that were seen in London after 1538, when parish registration began, it would not be surprising if the Italian pattern had been present in fourteenth century Britain as disease organisms and famine produced years of high mortality in a population at the mercy of both. There have been some attempts to calculate both the timing and the severity of the epidemic from the Institutions to vacant livings in the church and this material has been collated from the episcopal registers and used to indicate the mortality rate among beneficed

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clergy, the assumption being that vacancies were caused by the death of the previous incumbent from plague. Vacancies doubtless occurred due to other causes and illnesses but since clergymen were unlikely to catch plague directly from the sick they visited, although they might get a flea from his cottage, this is not a useful line of evidence so far as plague mortality is concerned: there are just too many unknowns in the equation. This leads to attempts to assess the risk of plague to a clergyman, a difficult question and one not helped by such comments as: “If his rectory or vicarage was of similar size and construction and was as heavily rat-infested as the cottages of his parishioners, he stood an equal chance of contracting bubonic plague in his dwelling as they did in theirs, after the bacterium had been introduced to his colony of house-rats” (Shrewsbury, 1971: 54). The assumption that all dwellings had severe rat infestations is yet another example of the way thinking has proceeded in this field. Starting with the uncertain fact that the disease was plague, then other features have to be accommodated, even though we have no evidence that rats were present, let alone numerous, in medieval cottages. As the data from the episcopal registers stands, it shows the number of institutions on a seasonal basis and this, together with contemporary accounts, shows a pattern of activity that is difficult to reconcile with the biology of plague. The Black Death is said to have arrived in Dorset in the late summer of 1348 and was active in the county for nearly 12 months, increasing in severity until the midwinter of 1349, after which it gradually declined. The autumn of 1348 was not only cool but said to have been exceptionally wet, providing conditions that would have been hostile to plague. In the dioceses of Salisbury, Exeter, Winchester, and Bath and Wells there were increased institutions during the autumn of 1348 and the winter and spring of 1349 (Shrewsbury, 1971: 59-66, 90-93). Neither the rapid diffusion to cover such an area nor the seasonal nature of replacements could have been due to bubonic plague and, for different reasons, pneumonic plague was almost as unlikely. Furthermore, the original data only shows replacements so that the deaths of clergy and the peak of the epidemic could have

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been at least a month earlier, if not more. In the Salisbury diocese that would have been February. There is an unjustifiable assumption that in a temperate climate the bubonic and pneumonic forms of plague would automatically alternate with the seasons, bubonic in summer and pneumonic in winter. An example of this is the statement that from January to March, 1349 there was “a strain of pulmonary plague” but in late spring and summer “pure bubonic plague came into its own” (Ziegler, 1969: 162). However, actual data from London tells a different story (Keene pers. comm.). The seasonal frequency of wills enrolled and dated in the London Court of Husting in 1348 and 1349 shows only a winter and early spring epidemic. The number of wills began to increase above normal by December 1348, reaching a peak by April of the following year. By June the level had fallen back more or less to the pre-epidemic level. The subsidiary peaks of enrolment in the autumn of 1349 reflect not another epidemic but the backlog resulting from the August-September vacation. The Black Death was active in every month of the year. This lack of any specific seasonality is curious since bubonic plague in a cool temperate climate would only be able to initiate epidemics in the warmest months of the year. Apart from seasonal objections, the speed with which the epidemic ‘took off’ as soon as it reached a fresh community was always too fast for true plague which has always been characterised by a slow progress that could be easily halted by gaps in the distribution of the rat population. The plague of Canton (the pandemic that began in 1894) took between twenty and thirty years to diffuse through India and its progress within a single locality was very slow. In fact during the first three years the disease was not able to extend and take a hold of the country in such a way as to seriously affect the ordinary death rate. When it reached South Africa it was even slower and also killed a smaller proportion of the population (Mitchell, 1927: 89-104). Between December 1347 and December 1348 the Black Death covered western Europe, southern England and part of South Wales. This was an extraordinary rate of progress and not one that could have been achieved by a disease that was dependent upon rat to rat

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diffusion and flea breeding, the latter being only possible in summer. The rat situation is crucial to plague in the British Isles and northwest Europe in the mid-fourteenth century and it is important to determine its potential in this respect. Unlike the hardy Brown rat, the Black rat has two characteristics which severely restrict its distribution. One is the fact that it is not able to withstand cold conditions and as a result is almost entirely restricted in a cool climate to living in buildings, especially those that are heated. The other is that even in warm climates it still has a need for the shelter of buildings and a strong reluctance to cross open ground. These two factors ensure that small groups of rats can spend their entire lives in one building without interacting with their neighbours in other dwellings and stores unless these are in urban surroundings where roof spaces are continuous or there is access by other structural means. Thus the idea that medieval rats moved freely across streets and open country, transferring plague fleas as they went, has no basis in the known biology of these animals. It is because the Black rat has been the main instrument of plague transmission to man since 1894 that we can be so clear about its capabilities in this matter. It is fairly clear, too, that in the British Isles the Black rat was never a part of the rural ecology although it would have been active in the ports and in some inland towns with strong trading links to ports. From what has been seen in recent times it now appears very likely that this rat species has been at its geographical limit in the British Isles. In order to maintain populations it needed ‘topping up’ by the regular addition of rats in cargo from the ports and this has gone on until the last fifty years, during which period changes have taken place that have weakened the supply lines. As a result of these events the species has declined to a very low level (Twigg, 1992: 33-42; Twigg et al, in press) and but for some colonies on western islands, where due to the Gulf Stream, it is warmer and there are also no terrestrial predators, there is a real risk that this rat will soon become extinct in Britain. If there was no sufficiently dense and widely distributed rat population, on which epidemic plague would depend, then it is

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difficult to see how plague could have affected people in the most remote villages and hamlets, especially in the mountainous parts where not even the hardy Brown rat exists today, in a milder climate than that of the mid-fourteenth century. Furthermore, this is not just speculation, for there are reliable indicators of the presence of rodents and other small mammals in the past from which we can build up a picture of their distribution. Avian predators such as owls eat small mammals up to and including those of rat size. They cannot digest the fur and bones and these are regurgitated in the form of pellets; the skeletal material within these can be used to identify the diet. The Barn owl hunts over open country, farmland and around farm buildings and if the Black rat had been widespread in the Middle Ages its remains should appear in pellets from archaeological sites. The examination of Barn owl pellets from thirteenth century levels at Caerleon, near Newport in Wales, where a Roman frigidarium, still a substantial ruin in the thirteenth century, had long been used by owls and a deposit of remains representing 100,000 individual animals had been built up, revealed that there were no rat remains, although the House mouse was present (O’Connor, pers. comm.). If there was no extensive rural rat population then there would be no widespread epizootics linking settlements. If the rat was at all present in rural areas it would have been confined to buildings: in that case it would still not be eaten by owls and again there would be no epizootic in the areas between buildings, hamlets and villages. We could argue that over the centuries the Black rat would have adapted to a cold climate. There is, though, no evidence to support this idea for all specimens seen in the last century have shown the characteristics of the three tropical forms of Rattus, namely R. rattus, R. alexandrinus and R. frugivorus, reflecting the areas from which they originated and came by ship. If there had been just one original founder population, even if it contained all three forms, then over 1600 years the interbreeding should have resulted in a single hybrid form. But the evidence is that only constant introductions have kept the Black rat going in the British Isles. From the physiological standpoint, too, all modern Black rats show the characteristics of rats adapted to warm climates that have been outlined earlier. Again, a

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founder population capable of maintaining its numbers without recruitment from abroad might be expected to have developed the obvious heat-retention mechanisms of cold climate animals such as the Brown rat. If there are objections to using the modern distribution of the Black rat as a model for its rural presence in the past there is the added evidence from vernacular architecture to support the argument. Two aspects in particular can be cited: upon the arrival of the Brown rat, between 1720 and 1730, owners of dovecotes faced severe depredations of their stock from this newcomer as it spread throughout urban, and especially rural, habitats. The whole design of these structures had to be changed fairly quickly in order to keep rats out for they ate not only grain but the pigeons as well. The problem was a new one, not because Black rats would not eat grain, but because up to then they were not a farm pest and hence almost certainly absent from rural areas (McCann, 1998: 21-22). If they had been present, being good climbers, they would certainly have invaded dovecotes. Furthermore, early farming literature shows that they were not regarded as a significant nuisance on farms (McCann, 1996:1-10). The second feature indicating that Black rats were not a part of rural ecology is the fact that as the Brown rat advanced it soon colonised corn ricks and destroyed them. Up to that point ricks had been immune from rat damage because the Black rat was not present: from now on ricks were protected by being placed upon mushroomshaped stone structures called ‘staddles’. A further point of some significance concerns grain storage. It is said that rats would have been regular dwellers in medieval granaries and that these would form a permanent source of infestation, their fleas being carried out from this focus. However, whilst manorial records make note of the grain losses from granaries during the winter storage period, these losses are never said to be due to rats (Prestwich, pers. comm.). This seems to be good evidence that rats were not generally present, since they would have been a good excuse for covering losses, especially if pilfering was rife.

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These features, along with the absence of Black rat remains in the diet of Barn owls, all add up to convincing evidence of a restricted and discontinuous distribution. The Black Death showed no such limitation in its range and this, along with the speed of diffusion, must be strong evidence against the presence of plague. Furthermore, there is the question of the total absence of sylvatic plague in Europe. When plague was carried to all continents after 1894 it quickly moved from the rats in which it had been transported into local rodent species and has not only remained in them but spread widely and permanently (Twigg, 1978: 77-110) thereby forming a sylvatic reservoir in which plague remains secure, unlike in rat populations which are liable to extermination as pests and therefore insecure. If it was plague that came to the British Isles in 1348 and remained there until 1666 it is curious that in all that time it never made the step into native rodent species. After 1896, when it arrived in Britain quite definitely in rats this time, it also failed to form a permanent sylvatic reservoir (H.M.S.O. 1911: 1-97). The tenuous nature of plague in these latitudes must lead us to conclude that plague in a cool temperate climate is at its biological limit and unlikely to become permanent. The fact that it is so successful in a continental climate is due to the long and regularly hot summers which enable the production of enough fleas for transmission. Contemporary writings provide little solid information on the rat and there is evidence that many reports of rats in the Middle East refer to Arvicanthis niloticus, a rodent species that is susceptible to plague and also carries the rat flea X. cheopis (Davis, 1986: 465). Boccaccio, interestingly, mentions the death of swine but fails to refer to rats. The word rat is not convincing evidence, either, for today it can be applied to many rodents, such as, muskrat and cotton rat, and the word ‘rat’, meaning rodent, was latinized to ‘Rattus’ to provide a technical name for the genus. Illustrations do not assist greatly since rats and other similar or smaller sized rodents are much alike and even their species-specific features are difficult to show. The rodents in the Book of Kells have

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been claimed as rats but they could have been Arvicola, the Water vole. However, whilst the size of the bodies could have fitted Rattus or Arvicola, the tails better fit Arvicola. The lack of any mention of a rodent epizootic prior to the human epidemic in northern Europe from the Black Death to 1666 is a significant omission in the evidence for plague. Elsewhere the two were connected: both Strabo and Avicenna were aware of the partnership and in ancient China the association of dying rats with forthcoming disease had been made. The twelfth century Bhagavata Purana advised people to leave their homes when rats fell from the ceilings. But medieval people neither took note of dead rats as an omen nor ruminated on the rat as a possible carrier of disease. Either way it seems a curious omission in the history of the pandemic. Summing up the rat situation one recent author was of the opinion that rats were either scarce or absent during the Black Death and that the spread and distribution of the pandemic did not match the ecological needs of rats. He concluded, “The accumulated evidence, interpreted by ecological and epidemiological methods does not support the traditional view that black rats were responsible for the Black Death” (Davis, 1986: 470). If rats were blameless and the pandemic was not bubonic plague then there is an epidemiological vacuum in the fourteenth century which has not yet been filled. Anthrax has been suggested (Twigg, 1984: 212-221) and whilst it may be easily confused with plague its diffusion is more suited to local outbreaks than regional ones. Even so, contemporary accounts of the concurrent deaths of men and animals cannot be easily dismissed. It is important to define the limit to the objection to plague for data from London in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries indicates that during the summer months there were at least three separate mortality patterns of deaths over time, one of which could have encompassed plague and other diseases with a similar

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incremental pattern of deaths (Twigg, in prep.). This would reduce plague to a minor role rather than that of the monocausal organism which it currently holds. In view of the general hygiene at the time it is clearly more realistic to view urban summer mortality as being due to a mixture of temperature-dependent organisms. The thinking on the Black Death has likewise been constrained by focusing on one organism, especially one whose transmission is so severely restricted by vectors and climate. Again, there has been no consideration of the presence of other opportunistic organisms which could have been more suited to current conditions than was plague. My thesis is not to deny the presence of plague in certain favourable environments but to contest its capacity to diffuse rapidly in epidemic proportions over large areas of northern Europe. It may have appeared in ports and may have been noticed as a new disease that enjoyed only very limited success, just as it did 550 years later when, after 20 years in the British Isles, it had still only killed just over 60 people. Along the northern coast of the Mediterranean, and inland, conditions doubtless would have favoured plague, if that was what had arrived from the Crimea. Recent work has discovered Y. pestis DNA in the teeth of six individuals from sixteenth eighteenth century graves in the south of France (Drancourt et al 1998: 12637-12640). In November 2000, the same research group reported the finding of DNA of the same organism from the dental pulp of only three individuals examined from a grave in Montpellier (Raoult et al 2000: 12800-12803). At the site there were 800 graves dating from the ninth to seventeenth centuries and four of these were deemed to be catastrophe graves since they contained multiple skeletons and were without shrouds. The four graves were dated as having been dug between the thirteenth and late fourteenth centuries due to their position in the cemetery. In the fourteenth century there had been a reduction in the population of Montpellier from 9,500 homesteads in 1348 to only 1000 in 1379, a fall of 89%. If all of this was due to disease and if, as surmised, it was the Black Death because no other epidemic or catastrophe was recorded, then it seems curious that there were only four catastrophe graves in the Montpellier cemetery.

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From the isolation of Y. pestis DNA in three probable fourteenth century skeletons the authors then make a huge leap in their conclusion: “We believe that we can end the controversy: Medieval Black Death was plague”. Eye-catching though this has proved to be for the popular press it has to be placed in perspective and in reality there are only two valid conclusions. Firstly, that it is possible to identify plague DNA from the dental pulp of human remains from the thirteenth - fourteenth century. Secondly, that three people in Montpellier had been infected with plague: it is not even sure that they had died of plague since the DNA recorded may have been from an earlier infection that they had survived, only to succumb to something else later. With a 60-70% case mortality rate, 30-40% of those who had contracted plague would survive and carry the evidence with them. Amongst many points of difference between the medieval pandemic and modern plague, the diffusion rate of the Black Death has always been a particular problem because of the lack of precise data on local outbreaks, but according to the overall picture it was much too fast for plague whose movement is restricted by its dependence on terrestrial and largely static vectors. This led me to conclude that: “the logistics of the epidemic in England support the hypothesis of an air-borne organism of high infectivity and virulence, having a short incubation period and being spread by respiratory means” (Twigg, 1989: 75-98). This is to go from the most complex transmission pattern to the simplest and although influenza might well fit the bill it would be too prosaic a solution for those who as late as 1999 were still writing of a disease “borne by migrating Asian Black rats” (Tritton 1999: 131).

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Acknowledgements Information cited as personal communications in the text is courtesy of D.Keene (Centre for Metropolitan History, Institute of Historical Research), M. Prestwich (Department of History, University of Durham) and T.P. O’Connor (Department of Archaeology, University of York). Bibliography Armitage, P. West, B. and Steedman, K. 1984. New evidence of Black Rat in Roman London. The London Archaeologist, 4: 375-383. Bacot, A. W. and Martin, C. J. 1914. Observations on the mechanism of the transmission of plague by fleas. Journal of Hygiene, 14: 42339. Barrett-Hamilton, G. E. H. and Hinton, M. A. C. 1914-21. A History of British Mammals, Vol. 3. London: Gurney and Jackson. Bean, J. M. W. 1962-63. Plague, population and economic decline in England in the later Middle Ages. Economic History Review, 2nd ser. XV: 423-37. Campbell, M. S. B. 2000. Britain 1300. History Today, 50 (6): 1017. Carmichael, A. G. 1986. Plague and the Poor in Renaissance Florence. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Davis, D. E. 1986. The scarcity of rats and the Black Death: an ecological history. Journal of Interdisciplinary History, XVI (3):465. Drancourt, M. Aboudharam, G. Signoli, M. Dutour, O, and Raoult, D. 1998. Detection of 400-year-old Yersinia pestis DNA in human dental pulp. An approach to the diagnosis of ancient septicaemia. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, U.S.A., 95 (21): 12637-12640.

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Frere, S.S. 1966. The end of towns in Roman Britain. In The Civitas Capitals of Roman Britain (ed J. S. Wacher). Leicester: Leicester University Press, pp. 87-100. H.M.S.O. 1911. Reports and papers on suspected cases of human plague in east Suffolk and on an epizootic of plague in rodents. Reports to the Local Government Board on Public Health and Medical Subjects, (New Series No. 52): 1-87. McCann, J. 1996. The influence of rodents on the design and construction of farm buildings in Britain, to the mid-nineteenth century. Journal of the Historic Farm Buildings Group, 10: 1-10. McCann, J. 1998. The dovecotes of Suffolk. Ipswich: The Suffolk Institute of Archaeology and History. Mitchell, J.A. 1927. Plague in South Africa: historical summary. Publications of the South African Institute for Medical Research, 3: 89-104. Plague Reports. 1910. XXXVI: Observations on plague in Belgaum, 1908-1909. Journal of Hygiene, Cambridge, 10: 446-82. Pye, G. 1721. A discourse of the plague: wherein Dr. Mead’s notions are consider’d and refuted. London: J. Darby for J. Roberts & A. Dodd. Rackham, J. 1979. Rattus rattus: the introduction of the black rat into Britain. Antiquity, 53: 112-120. Raoult, D., Aboudharam, G., Crubezy, E., Larrouy, G., Ludes, B. and Drancourt, M. 2000. Molecular identification by “suicide PCR” of Yersinia pestis as the agent of Medieval Black Death. Proceedings of the National Academy of Sciences, U.S.A., 97 (23): 12800-12803. Shrewsbury, J.F.D. 1971. A History of Bubonic Plague in the British Isles. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.

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Tritton, R. (ed.) The Hutchinson Encyclopaedia for the Millennium. 1999. Oxford: Helicon. Twigg, G.I. 1978. The role of rodents in plague dissemination: a world-wide review. Mammal Review, 8 (3): 77-110. Twigg, G. I. 1984. The Black Death: a Biological Reappraisal. London: Batsford. Twigg, G. I. 1989. The Black Death in England: an epidemiological dilemma. In Maladies et societe (XIIth – XVIIIth siecles) (eds N. Bulst and R. Delort). Paris: C.N.R.S, pp. 75-98. Twigg, G. I. 1992. The Black Rat Rattus rattus in the United Kingdom in 1989. Mammal Review, 22 (1): 33-42. Twigg, G. I. (in preparation) Epidemics and the plague: London 1540-1720. Twigg, G. I. Buckle, A. P. and Bullock, D. J. 2001. Ship rat, Rattus rattus. In The Handbook of British Mammals (ed S. Harris). London: Poyser (4th edition). Yersin, A. 1894. La peste bubonique a Hong Kong. Annales Institut Pasteur: 662-667. Ziegler, P. 1969. The Black Death. London: Penguin Books.

Love Letters to Bare Bones: A Comparison of Two Types of Evidence for the Use of Animals in Medieval Novgorod Mark Brisbane and Mark Maltby School of Conservation Sciences, Bournemouth University

Introduction The comparison of different sources of evidence is a regular theme in the study of the medieval period not least because of the oftencontradictory nature of the available archaeological and historical data. With regard to the study of the domestic economy and the relationship between humans and the animal kingdom, this theme has been noted and pursued by a number of recent authors (e.g. Albarella 1999; Coy 1996; Dyer 1997). This paper considers two distinct sources of evidence recovered from medieval Novgorod and its hinterland. The first is the faunal remains evidence recovered by the excavation of sites within the town (early eleventh to mid-fifteenth century) and its surrounding hinterland (eighth to eleventh century). The second is from the so-called birch-bark ‘documents’ or ‘letters’ found on excavations within Novgorod that date from the late tenth to fifteenth centuries. These record the everyday concerns of the townsfolk and traders who wrote laconic messages and letters to each other using the paper equivalent of its day, birch-bark. To date (end of 2001), 915 individual documents or fragments of documents have been found during the past fifty years of excavation within Novgorod (the first one was discovered on the Nerevsky excavation on 26 July 1951). Examples of what they refer to include tribute and payments due or paid; commercial instructions and political reports; concerns over legal matters; complaints from peasants; instructions from land-owners; messages written by both men and women; practice alphabets and drawings by children; love letters; instructions to artisans or relatives; records of commissions to artisans; texts of

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prayers and even incantations to ward off fevers. They occur predominantly in eleventh to fourteenth century deposits, becoming infrequent by the late fifteenth century with the greater use of paper (Yanin, 1992: 71). Archaeological background Novgorod is one of the most intensively and continuously studied urban sites in northern Europe. Systematic archaeological excavations began in 1932 and have continued almost every year since then, apart from the early to mid-1940s. The excellent preservation of organic and inorganic material, including the structural remains of streets, property boundaries and buildings, has made it possible to study many aspects of medieval town life that are simply not available to archaeologists elsewhere. Equally important, the well-preserved structural remains of timber streets and buildings have enabled the accurate dating of deposits through the extensive use of dendrochronology. This unique survival combined with the excavation of a number of large, open-area sites since the early 1950s, means that the potential to reconstruct the layout and development of the town and to study the activities of its inhabitants is without parallel. In addition, excavations have recovered many examples of birch-bark letters. These give further insights into the everyday activities of the people of the medieval town and indicate a level of secular literacy previously thought impossible. The survival of this evidence, together with the devotion of many Russian scholars to the study of Novgorod, has meant that a large number of inter-related research topics are being addressed. These include the origins of early medieval settlement in Novgorod and its surrounding area; early town layout; changes in property size and layout over time; workshops and craft specialization; the exploitation of the local and regional environment; provisioning of the inhabitants; trade and exchange; and various issues raised by the birch-bark letters themselves, such as who were the inhabitants of the medieval town (for a recent account of some of these topics in English, see Brisbane and Gaimster 2001).

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Archaeology of the hinterland sites The sites in Novgorod’s hinterland are vitally important to the study of the emergence of the town and as such are inextricably linked into the investigation of the impact of the Vikings on trade and town development. In this respect it may be justifiably claimed that this raises questions relevant to the wider issue of the origins of European urbanism itself.

Fig. 1. Map indicating the general location of Novgorod with an inset showing some of the places located within the town’s hinterland. After Brisbane and Gaimster 2001, Fig.1,6. Drawing by Jim Farrant, British Museum.

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This region (see fig. 1), centred on the fertile soil of the Lake Ilmen Basin and the upper Volkhov River, was the centre of Slavonic settlement at the end of the first millennium AD (Nosov, 1992: 5). Sites from this period in the immediate vicinity of Novgorod (i.e. within a 20 km radius) number around fifty, many of which have their origins in the mid-late eighth, ninth or tenth century. These include sites such as Kholopii Gorodok, 14 km to the north of Lake Ilmen (8 km north of Novgorod). This was a fortified settlement on a low rise, 5-7 m above the flood plain, which even today becomes an island for several months in the spring following the thaw. This temporary island quality of many of these sites obviously added to their defensive capabilities. Finds from here include scythes, axes, fragments of hoes, horse bits, and bronze penannular bracelets typical of those found in Norway, Sweden and Finland. There is also a large bronze bell, similar to ones found at Birka. Coin finds include 22 dirhams (AD 811 is the latest in the hoard) and 4 Sassanian drachmas, all serve to indicate the wide ranging trading contacts of the people who used the river systems of NW Russia during this period (Nosov, 1992: 19-24). One of the hinterland sites to have been investigated in recent years is that known as Georgii, located on the east bank of the Veryazha River, a tributary of Lake Ilmen, about 12 km SW of Novgorod. Cited on the northern part of a low hill, it too turns into an island during springtime. Here some 30 m of earthen rampart have been excavated by Nosov (1992: 16-19). He demonstrated that the bank was 12 - 14 m wide at its base with a substantial ditch outside. However, in its first phase in the ninth century, it was undefended, the defences being added in the tenth century. Of all the sites within the hinterland of Novgorod, perhaps the most important and well studied is that of Ryurik Gorodishche (hereafter Gorodishche). This hillfort, on the east bank of the Volkhov and only 2 km from what later becomes Novgorod, dominates the local topography by commanding the point where the Volkhov flows out of Lake Ilmen. It dates from the ninth century (based on C-14 and dendrochronology dates as well as coin finds) and contains ninth century brooches similar to ones from Birka (Nosov 1992: 25-65).

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An enclosed area of approximately one hectare on the hilltop was probably defended at an early date in site’s occupation. However, soon after the late-ninth century, if not before, occupation extends beyond this enclosed area and spreads over some four to seven hectares. Later the site became the residence of the princes of Novgorod, who moved to Novgorod in the early-eleventh century and occupied the area opposite the kremlin on the east side of the Volkhov. The first prince to reside here was called Yaroslav Vladimirovich, and he gave his name to the area still known as Yaroslav’s Court within the town. This however was not the end of the importance of Gorodishche as the princes moved back to Gorodishche around 1100 due to the increasing power in Novgorod of the boyars (aristocratic land owners) and the posadnik (originally the prince’s representative but later the elected head of the Novgorod state). Throughout the following centuries the prince’s palace was maintained at Gorodishche, along with associated administrative and domestic buildings and craft workshops. An important church (the Church of the Annunciation) was built here in 1103. This was only the second large stone church to be built in the Novgorod area, the first being St Sophia (built 1044-1050), the cathedral church of Novgorod. Archaeology within the town The specific results of archaeological investigations work within the town have been summarized elsewhere (e.g. Thompson 1965; Brisbane 1992; Brisbane and Gaimster 2001), but a short précis is included here in order to give a context for the study of the faunal remains. Fig. 2 is a plan of the town with the location of the excavations. The traditional date for the foundation of Novgorod according to the Primary Russian Chronicle is AD 859. However there is no archaeological evidence for settlement before the early to mid-tenth century. The first settlement is located on four or five low hills on either side of the Volkhov and gradually these merged to form the town which is bisected by the Volkhov flowing south to north. Each of these original foci of settlement become known as ‘ends’ or

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quarters of which Nerevsky, Lyudin and Slavensky have all produced evidence of tenth century occupation.

Fig. 2. Plan of Novgorod showing the location of the five Ends (or Quarters), the ramparts (cross-hatched), the street layout (known medieval streets in black and modern streets in grey), and the location of excavations undertaken from 1932 to 2000. Based on plans supplied by Novgorod State Museum. After Brisbane and Gaimester 2001, Fig 2, x.

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The other two, Plotnitsky and Zagorodsky Ends, appear to be somewhat later. Even when the whole area became occupied and is eventually enclosed by a bank and ditch, the ends were still important administrative areas, which held their own veche (meeting) and administered specific areas of land outside Novgorod. This last fact is relevant to the extent and organisation of exploitation of domestic and wild animals from the surrounding countryside. On the western side of the town where the cathedral church of St Sophia is located, a rampart with wooden palisade was constructed, enclosing some twelve hectares. This became the town kremlin. Unusually for a medieval Russian town, this was the base for the Archbishop and not the Prince, who resided either on the eastern side of the town or at Gorodishche. The outer rampart surrounding both the eastern and western sides of the town was constructed in the latetwelfth century enclosing a massive 200 hectares (500 acres). Communication across the river was carried out presumably first by vessel and later by bridge (the first reference to a bridge crossing the Volkhov and connecting the two sides of the town appears in a document of 1133). The medieval street pattern of Novgorod is well-documented on early maps and these have been confirmed by archaeological investigations. The modern day street pattern bears no resemblance to this earlier plan as the town was comprehensively re-designed in the late-eighteenth century under the decree of Catherine the Great. Turning to specific archaeological investigations, for the last twentyeight field seasons, the Novgorod Archaeological Research Centre has been carrying out excavations at the Troitsky site within the Lyudin End, immediately to the south of the kremlin on the western side of the Volkhov. The total area excavated here now stands at approx. 6350 sq. m, most of which has been excavated down to natural (a depth of between 4 and 4.2 m of medieval deposits at this site). In the medieval period, the Lyudin End was crossed by five EW streets leading down to the River Volkhov, two of which fall within the excavation area, as does the main medieval N-S street known as the Highway, which runs through the middle of the site heading towards the kremlin.

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Excavations on the Troitsky site have been extremely productive. For instance, on Troitsky site XII a very large property with an area of nearly 1400 sq. m was evidently an administrative centre. The range of artefacts deriving from the area distinguishes it from ordinary town properties. Excavations in 1998 revealed the fact that in the mid-twelfth century the town court was located there. An ensemble of administrative buildings was uncovered as well as a spacious paved area. The largest concentration yet found in Novgorod of over 100 birch-bark documents has been collected from the site. The texts deriving from one construction level refer to different conflicts requiring a trial. Many of them are addressed to the main functionaries of the court, namely the prince and the posadnik. In 1999 in eleventh century deposits underlying this complex, birch-bark letters referring to tax collecting together with 34 wooden cylinder locks were found. These locks were used to seal sacks containing tribute obtained by tax collectors. In some instances the names of addressees of the letters are identical to those marked on the wooden locks. The animal bone evidence The waterlogged deposits of Novgorod provide superb preservation conditions for animal bones, although they have rarely been collected systematically during the long period of excavation. Tsalkin (1956) provided a summary of the mammal bone evidence from Russian medieval sites including data from sites in Novgorod. Sychevskaya (1965) provided a list of fish remains identified from the earlier excavations. Since 1993 animal bones have been collected by hand from some of the Troitsky excavation sites (Maltby & Hamilton-Dyer 2001). Preservation conditions at the site of Gorodishche are more variable but they do include some wellsealed waterlogged deposits dating to the ninth - tenth centuries. These deposits have been extensively sieve-sampled for bones and other materials in addition to hand excavation. Work on identifying and recording material from both Novgorod and Gorodishche and other sites in the Novgorod region continues but examination of samples of over 10,000 bone fragments mainly from Troitsky sites IX-XI in Novgorod and over 13,000 from Gorodishche

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have produced evidence for the species listed in Tables I, II and III. These derive from contexts dating between the ninth and tenth centuries at Gorodishche and the tenth - sixteenth centuries at Novgorod, although most material studied from the Troitsky sites pre-dates 1400. Table I: Mammal Species identified from recent excavations in Novgorod and Gorodishche Domesticated Mammals Cattle Sheep Goat Pig Horse Dog Cat

Wild Mammals Wild Boar* Bear* Fox* Hedgehog* Rat* Wolf^ Stoat^ Field Vole^ Elk Beaver Squirrel Hare Reindeer (worked antler objects only) Red Deer (worked antler objects only)

* not found at Gorodishche; ^not found on Troitsky sites IX-XI, Novgorod

Table II: Bird Species identified from recent excavations in Novgorod and Gorodishche Domestic Fowl (chicken) Goose (probably mainly domestic) Mallard/domestic duck Medium-sized ducks (cf. pochard, wigeon, garganey) Small ducks (mostly teal) Swan Capercaillie Black Grouse Partridge Woodpigeon Eagle (cf. white-tailed) Raven

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Jackdaw Crane* Stork* Heron* Woodcock* Wader cf. Snipe Great-crested Grebe* Cormorant* Gull (cf. black-headed)* Tawny Owl* Buzzard* Hobby* Kite* Hen Harrier* Sparrowhawk* Goshawk* Crow* * not found at Gorodishche

Table III: Fish Species identified from recent excavations in Novgorod and Gorodishche Fish Zander Cyprinids (including bream, roach, dace/chub, and ide) Pike Wels Perch Whitefish Sturgeon* Common eel* * not found at Gorodishche

Discussion of the animal bone evidence Amongst the hand-collected material from the spits from Troitsky sites X-XI examined to date, over 98% of the identified mammal bones belong to domestic species. These include cattle (69%), pig (17%), sheep/goat (7%), horse (3%) and dog (2%) (Maltby and

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Hamilton-Dyer 2001). Although biased by retrieval practices and differential preservation, the dominance of cattle is clear and there can be little doubt that beef was by far the most important source of meat, particularly when carcass size is taken into account. Beef was commonly supplemented by pork, and both goats and sheep were exploited for meat albeit seemingly in much smaller quantities. There is little evidence for human consumption of horsemeat, although the presence of broken horse bones and the occasional butchery mark does suggest their carcasses were sometimes processed. The Gorodishche excavations have provided similar biases towards domestic mammals. Of the 3,140 bones identified, 98% belong to domestic mammals, with cattle (50%) again the most common but with pig (34%) much better represented. Indeed in one area of the site, pig bones outnumber cattle. The reasons for this variability lie in a combination of spatial variation in disposal of carcass waste and in the fact that sieving has enabled more small pig bones to be recovered than on the Novgorod sites (Maltby and Hamilton-Dyer (2001). Sheep/goat (4%) was poorly represented in the generally earlier deposits at Gorodishche, and was outnumbered by horse (8%). The wild mammal species listed in Table 1 therefore represent less than 2% of the identified mammal bones from both sites. They include several species most likely to have been mainly exploited for their skins, including beaver, squirrel and bear. Of these, only beaver bones appear in most assemblages from Novgorod. Only the claws (3rd phalanges) of bears have been discovered in Novgorod. Only one squirrel bone has been identified from recent Novgorod excavations. Eleven were identified from Gorodishche, again probably reflecting more efficient retrieval. This is also reflected by the higher number of hare bones (1%) retrieved from there. Similarly, bird bones are likely to be under-represented in handcollected material. They usually provided less than 5% of the identified species in the Troitsky assemblages. Although quite a wide range of species has been identified, most bones belong to domestic and various species of wild duck and domestic fowl, the

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latter possibly becoming more common in later deposits (Maltby and Hamilton-Dyer 2001). Other food species include large species, such as capercaillie, black grouse, swan, stork, crane and heron. Many of the geese may have been domestic birds. Smaller gamebirds such as partridge and woodcock are also present in small numbers. The presence of hawks suggests the keeping of birds used for sport. Other species may have been scavengers, although eagles may, for example, have been exploited for feathers. Gorodishche has produced a rather more restricted range of species (see Table II), despite sieving. This may reflect a greater diversity of exploitation of birds in Novgorod, particularly in later medieval deposits (Hamilton-Dyer, in press). Sieving experiments in Novgorod showed conclusively that fish were significantly under-represented in hand-collected material and biased towards the bones of larger pike and zander (Maltby and Hamilton-Dyer 2001). Sieving of the Gorodishche samples provided a large fish assemblage and identified fish bones provide 46% of the total number of bones identified. Such a high percentage of fish may also be expected if similar sampling was carried out in Novgorod. Cyprinids (carp family) and perch were also recovered. Examination of material from earlier excavations in Novgorod has produced a list of 23 species (Sychevskaya 1965). However, the impression from the Troitsky excavations and from Gorodishche is that the vast majority of the species represented could be locally available in the River Volkhov and Lake Ilmen. Bones of imported and/or prestige fish such as the sturgeon and whitefish have been rarely recovered. Finally, it is worth noting that floats, sinkers, and other objects related to fishing are found throughout all chronological phases on nearly all excavated properties, indicating the widely spread nature of this activity. The evidence from birch-bark documents As stated above, this synthesis of the birch-bark documents is based on the remains of 915 documents found to date (July 2001), some of which are complete but many are fragmentary. These have been researched and published by Zalisniak and Rybina, whose work is extensively cited here, especially Rybina (2001).

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References in birch-bark documents to domesticated and wild mammals and birds Many of the birch-bark documents refer to domestic animals, horse being the most common one. Horses are mentioned in thirty-two letters deriving from eleventh to fifteenth century deposits. Among other domestic animals cows are mentioned a few times with regard to different matters, including as a tribute. The words for heifer and dry cow are also encountered. The latter is referred to in a thirteenth century letter as a part of pogorodye, a duty imposed on towns. References to goat’s hair and kid’s leather occur in documents of the latter fourteenth century. The term vyzhlya (a hound) is encountered only once. The names of fur-bearing animals are diverse. Squirrel is the most common one, mentioned in many texts dating from the twelfth to the fifteenth centuries. However, the exact number of documents referring to squirrels is difficult to determine, since the term bela could mean either a squirrel or money and it is not always clear from the context which was meant. Beaver is referred to in five documents from the turn of the twelfth/thirteenth centuries onwards, and the word for a one-year-old beaver is also found. Marten is mentioned in seven letters of the fourteenth/fifteenth centuries, others being arctic fox (twelfth century), fox (turn of the twelfth/thirteenth centuries), otter (thirteenth century), sable (thirteenth century), seal (fourteenth century), wolverine (fourteenth century) and hare (twelfth century). Fur-bearing animals were an item of tribute or rent from the northern lands dependent on Novgorod boyar estates. Several documents refer to fur as an item of trade. For example, text No. 420, written in the thirteenth century, records the sale of forty beavers for ten silver grivnas equal to two kg of silver. On several occasions, hides of domestic and wild animals are mentioned as items of trade or household belongings, including those of sheep (fifteenth century), calf, elk (turn of the twelfth/thirteenth centuries), deer (twelfth century and again in the fourteenth century) and bear (thirteenth century and again in the fourteenth century).

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Names of birds associated with the collection of tribute occur three times, the earliest letter being a twelfth century document mentioning black grouse. Two fourteenth century birch-bark texts referring to tribute collection mention hunting birds: falcon and probably the most valuable species of falcons, gyrfalcon. References in the birch-bark documents to fish Fish occurs more frequently than other food in birch-bark texts of the twelfth to fifteenth centuries, which was evidently due to the developed fishing industry in Novgorod. References to fish first appear in birch-bark documents of the twelfth century. However, in most birch-bark documents of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries, the names of the species of fish are not given, the exception being a twelfth century letter featuring whitefish. Most commonly encountered are generic words meaning fish (both processed and unprocessed).

15

14-15

14

13-14

13

12-13

12

11-12

11

Table IV: Fish species referred to in birch-bark documents and the date range (in centuries) for these references

Fish

-

-

2

1

1

-

5

-

-

Salmon

-

-

-

-

-

-

5

-

-

Bream

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

1

-

Pike

-

-

-

-

-

-

-

1

-

Whitefish

-

-

1

-

1

-

2

-

-

Troutsalmon

-

-

-

-

-

-

1

-

-

Sturgeon

-

-

-

-

-

-

1

-

-

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It is not until the fourteenth century that these collective terms are superseded by the names of actual species of fish, such as salmon, bream, pike, whitefish, salmon-trout and sturgeon (see Table IV). Obviously, these fish do not represent the whole range of fish species in the rivers and lakes of the territory of Novgorod. As all the names of fish species that are mentioned in the birch-bark documents refer to the collection of tribute, those species were the ones preferred and deliberately selected as a means of payment. As a tribute, fish emerge for the first time in a letter of the midtwelfth century. By the fourteenth century, in the developed economy of the boyar estates, valuable species of fish apparently became an item of payment in kind, which was collected from dependent people and subsequently sold. Occasionally letters refer to specific varieties of processed fish: dried fish, mildly salted fish and strongly salted fish. Different fishing equipment referred to includes local types of fish traps versha and yunda, as well as fish measures known as lendom. Comparisons of the two types of evidence Comparisons of the zooarchaeological and birch-bark document evidence again demonstrate that, where both are available, documentary and archaeological evidence should be combined in the analysis of the exploitation of and cultural attitude to animals. The evidence from Novgorod provides a good illustration that neither approach individually provides the complete picture. This should not be seen in a negative light. Indeed, it is the contrast between the impressions gained from the two approaches that is the most illuminating. To take the evidence of mammals, of the eighteen species represented in the birch-bark documents, the following six have not been found in the recent extensive excavations on the Troitsky site in Novgorod: marten, sable, arctic fox, seal, otter and wolverine. It is also worth noting that in an earlier study Tsalkin (1956: 175) identified only eight bones each of marten and fox in a sample of over 37,000 animal bones from earlier excavations in Novgorod. As can be immediately seen, not only are all six of these wild animals,

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but they are also all valued for their fur. Similarly, the contrast between the frequency to references to squirrels in the birch-bark documents and their rarity even in sieved samples from recent excavations should be noted. The trapping and skinning of these animals would have taken place at some distance from the town, sometimes hundreds of kilometres away, leaving much of the animal bone evidence behind. Occasionally bones show evidence of the processing of wild animals, for instance cut-marks indicating skinning which have been noted on beaver. In addition there is evidence for the use of certain parts of wild animals, such as bear claws, as trinkets, amulets, necklace pieces, etc. However, it is likely that most furs would have been brought to Novgorod with few, if any, bones attached. Skinning would have taken place, and bones would have been deposited elsewhere. Indeed it could be argued that the few bones of beaver, squirrel and other fur-bearing mammals found in Novgorod and Gorodishche represent wildlife captured locally and processed for skins (and meat) at these settlements. In contrast, evidence for the import of furs from further afield has almost disappeared archaeologically, apart from in the birch-bark documents. Amongst the birds mentioned in the birch-bark documents, there has been no bone evidence found of either falcon or gyrfalcon from recent excavations at the Troitsky or Gorodishche sites. The gyrfalcon is the largest and most highly prized of the falcons, but is not a common bird (Hamilton-Dyer, in press). Its absence from the bone assemblage, which is largely derived from kitchen and butchery waste, is unsurprising. In addition, its present day distribution is confined largely to the north of Novgorod – again, like the fur bearing animals mentioned above, suggesting that its capture took place in the vast lands controlled by Novgorod that lay predominantly to the north and north east of Novgorod itself. Of the fish, the most noteworthy absence from the archaeological evidence is salmon, despite the fact that it occurs as a named tribute in birch-bark documents of the fourteenth century. While the reason for this absence is not certain, it is most likely due to the fact that salmon was an uncommon, high status fish, worthy of noting in

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birch-bark documents. It therefore had importance as a form of tribute, enhanced by its relative rarity compared to the abundant, everyday and unremarkable fish of the River Volkhov and Lake Ilmen, such as zander and perch, which are not specifically mentioned in birch-bark documents. These is in effect a negative correlation between the frequency of fish identified in the bone assemblages and those mentioned specifically in the birch-bark documents. The most common local fish in the bone assemblages are either absent from the documents (zander, perch) or mentioned only once in the documents examined thus far (pike, bream). Fish likely to have been imported via longdistance trade occur disproportionately commonly in the documents compared with their rarity or absence in the bone assemblages (salmon; whitefish; sturgeon). For the smaller species, the non-occurrence of certain types of small mammal, fish and bird may be the result of recovery techniques that militate against the recovery of small bones. However, the limited sieving experiments in Novgorod and the more routine sieving of deposits at Gorodishche have produced little evidence of these species. Even if new species are identified in future analyses of Novgorod assemblages, it seems unlikely that they will form more than a rare addition to the species list. It is also worth noting some other species that occur commonly in the bone assemblages, but are absent from the birch-bark documents. These include chicken and pig, although a recent birch-bark discovery mentions pork ‘ribs’. Presumably these animals were not noteworthy, nor of a high enough status to be recorded in lists of tribute, nor otherwise remarked upon by writers, despite a strong possibility that both chickens and pigs were commonly kept within household properties in Novgorod. Exploitation of domestic mammals The archaeological evidence shows that the residents of the Lyudin End of Novgorod and in the settlement of Gorodishche relied largely upon domestic mammals for their meat. Beef predominated but pork

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was also commonly consumed. Meat from goat and sheep was less frequently eaten. The birch-bark documents offer little information about the meat diet and references to cattle are not especially common. However, the reference to a dry cow does complement the archaeozoological mortality and sexing data, which suggest that cattle may also have been quite important for their diary produce. Calf and sheepskins are mentioned in the documents, but not especially frequently compared with wild species. Investigations have begun into the identification of leather products and offcuts in Novgorod and it is expected that these will be dominated by cattle hides (Serjeantson, 1989). In contrast, horses are the most commonly mentioned species in the birch-bark documents but only appear infrequently in the archaeological deposits. This is hardly surprising if they were not utilised for meat. In addition, horses were high status animals valued for riding in particular. Their importance lay in the realms of communications, trade, sport and warfare. This importance is reflected in the frequency of their inclusion in documents that largely served the elite. Conclusions and future research This paper has shown the complementary nature of the two types of evidence considered here. Sometimes the animal bone evidence confirms the documentary evidence, but mostly it indicates clearly the butchery, consumption and disposal of everyday animals, while the birch-bark documents record the more exotic species. Many of those recorded in the birch-bark documents also bare testament to the importance of the exploitation of wild species, especially those connected with the fur and pelt trade that was so crucial to the Novgorod economy throughout the medieval period and beyond (Veale, 1966). Future research, built upon a long-standing international collaborative project, will be examining sites beyond Novgorod’s immediate hinterland. This will include an area known as Beloozero, which lies over 400 km north-east of Novgorod on the extreme edge of its territory. Here the evidence for certain wild species (e.g. beaver) is expected to be found in large numbers located at settlement sites where the initial processing, skinning and

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pelt removal took place. By comparing the evidence from both far and near hinterland sites with that from Novgorod itself a better understanding of animal exploitation/husbandry and its relationship to craft production, trade and diet should be possible. Finally, this comparative analysis demonstrates that a fuller understanding of the complexity of production and consumption patterns can be obtained by integrating documentary sources and archaeological evidence and not by viewing them as separate and seemingly conflicting snapshots of the past. Bibliography Albarella, U. 1999. The mystery of husbandry: medieval animals and the problem of integrating historical and archaeological evidence. Antiquity, 73: 867-875. Brisbane, M. (ed.), 1992. The Archaeology of Novgorod, Russia. Recent Results from the Town and its Hinterland. Lincoln: Society for Medieval Archaeology. Brisbane, M. and Gaimster, D. (eds.) 2001. Novgorod: the Archaeology of a Russian Medieval City and its Hinterland, British Museum Occasional Paper 141, British Museum, London. Coy, J. 1996. Medieval records versus excavation results – examples from Southern England. Archaeofauna, 5: 55-63. Dyer, C. 1997. Do household accounts provide an accurate picture of late medieval diet and food culture? In La vie materielle au Moyen Age: L’apport des sources litteraires, normatives et de la practique (eds E. Rassart-Eeckhout, J-P. Sosson, C. Thiry and T. Van Emelryck). Louvain-la-Neuve: Presses Universitaire de Louvain, pp. 109-125. Hamilton-Dyer, S. (in press) The bird resources of medieval Novgorod, Russia. Acta zoologica cracoviensia, Proceedings of the IV meeting of the ICAZ bird working group, Krakow, Poland, 11-15 September 2001.

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Maltby, M. and Hamilton-Dyer, S. 2001. Animal bone studies in Novgorod and its hinterland. In Novgorod: the Archaeology of a Russian Medieval City and its Hinterland (eds M. Brisbane and D. Gaimster). British Museum Occasional Paper 141, British Museum, London, pp 119-126. Nosov, E.N. 1992. Ryurik Gorodishche and the settlements to the north of Lake Ilmen. In The Archaeology of Novgorod, Russia. Recent Results from the Town and its Hinterland (ed M. Brisbane). Lincoln: Society for Medieval Archaeology, pp. 5-66. Rybina, E.A. 2001 The birch-bark letters: the domestic economy of medieval Novgorod. In Novgorod: the Archaeology of a Russian Medieval City and its Hinterland (eds M. Brisbane and D. Gaimster). British Museum Occasional Paper 141, British Museum, London, pp. 127-131. Serjeantson, D. 1989. Animal remains and the tanning trade. In Diet and Craft in Towns (eds D. Serjeantson and T. Waldron). BAR British Series 199, pp. 129-146. Sychevskaya, E. K. 1965. Fish of medieval Novgorod. Soviet Archaeology 1: 236-256 (in Russian). Thompson, M. W. (ed.) 1965. Novgorod the Great: Excavations at the Medieval City 1951-1962 directed by A.V.Artsikhovsky and B.A.Kolchin, London: Evelyn, Adams and Mackay. Tsalkin, V. I. 1956. Material concerning the history of animal husbandry and hunting in medieval Russia, MIA (Materials and Investigations of Archaeology, USSR) 51, Moscow: USSR Academy of Sciences (in Russian). Veale, E. M. 1966. The English Fur Trade in the later Middle Ages, Oxford: Clarendon Press. Yanin, V.L. 1992. The archaeological study of Novgorod: an historical perspective. In The Archaeology of Novgorod, Russia.

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Recent Results from the Town and its Hinterland (ed M. Brisbane). Lincoln: Society for Medieval Archaeology, pp. 67-106.

Birds on the Stream of Consciousness: Riddles 7 to10 of the Exeter Book Audrey L Meaney

Most students of the Old English Riddles have been concerned with providing solutions for the individual conundrums (Fry 1981), or, more recently, with examining their composition and rhetoric (e.g. Nelson 1974). With the exception of Frederick Tupper (1910: lxiiilxxix), who mainly discussed the use of formulae and shared vocabulary, relatively few scholars have looked for links between riddles, even when there are similarities of theme. My aim in this paper, therefore, is to examine some successive riddles concerned with related topics, to see if there are stated and unstated links between them. I have chosen four to do with birds (Krapp and Dobbie nos.7-101), partly because of my own amateurish interests, and partly because natural history (as opposed to the environment) has not changed greatly over the centuries, so that what the AngloSaxon poet observed and recorded may also still be true today, and therefore some of the unstated links may be conjectured. There is also an opportunity for some guess-work which may go too far, and will be rejected by more conservative scholars, but which perhaps deserves an airing. There is nothing in the manuscript which sets these four riddles apart from those preceding and succeeding them. Each is marked by the large initial letter which in the Exeter Book signals the beginning of a short poem, and each ends with punctuation in the form of a colon followed by a 7-shaped symbol, part of the line being left blank (see facsimile in Chambers, Förster and Flower 1933). The first of these riddles (Krapp and Dobbie 7) starts on the third line of folio 103a, and the last (10) ends on line 8 of 103b. No.7 (which has no obvious links with no.6, whose topic is agreed to be the sun) begins Hrægl min swigað þonne ic hrusan trede, My clothing is silent, when I tread the ground

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By using the word hrægl, normally ‘clothing’, the poet implies that the subject is human, but instantly provides a puzzle: if clothing rustles, it is usually when the wearer walks about. oþþe wic buge, oþþe wado drefe or occupy a dwelling, or disturb the waters Wic is ambiguous; it can mean anything from one house to a ‘port, mercantile or industrial town’ (Bosworth and Toller 1898, Toller 1972, Smith 1956, Healey and Venezky 1980) and þa wic could be accusative singular or plural. Tupper (1910: lxii; but see Kitson 1994: 79) mentions as a peculiarity of the riddles ‘the repeated use of the article before terms of dwelling’, so that it may well be that þa wic is a singular. A very similar half-line is found in Riddle 15: þær ic wic buge bold mid bearnum where I occupy a dwelling, a house with [my] children Here the wic or bold is a den in a fox burrow (Meaney 2000: 98103), but the parallel establishes that, in the Riddles, a wic could be a place to nurture children. The second half of line 2 of Riddle 7 associates the creature with water; the second sentence of the poem is fortunately much more restricting: Hwilum mec ahebbað ofer hæleþa byht hyrste mine, and þeos hea lyft, ond mec þonne wide wolcna strengru ofer folc byreð. At times my garments and this high air lift me over the habitations of heroes, and the strength of clouds then carries me over the people.

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Ælfric’s Hexameron (lines 137-8; Crawford 1921: 44) also expresses the idea that the air carries creatures, and therefore the subject of Riddle 7 must be a bird, presumably (because of line 2b) a water bird. Frætwe mine swogað hlude and swinsiað, torhte singað, þonne ic getenge ne beom flode ond foldan, ferende gæst. My garments resound loudly and whistle, sing clearly, when I, a travelling spirit, am not in contact with water or earth. All earlier commentators have agreed that the solution is a swan, but not many have been concerned to decide the species. Tupper (1910: 82), and Williamson after him (1977: 152; 1983: 195-6), thought it the ‘wild swan (Cygnus ferus) also called the whistling swan’. This is wrong, as every birdwatcher knows, and Kitson (1994: 79) has argued in print: it is the Mute Swan (Cygnus olor) whose wings resound in flight most noticeably, and this is sober fact, not just folklore tradition (Cramp et al 1977: 377-8).

Fig. 1 Mute Swan (Cygnus olor)

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I regard the clause oþþe þa wic buge, ‘or occupy a dwelling’, i.e. ‘sit on a nest’, together with the fact that the voice of the creature is not mentioned, as confirming this identification, for though the Mute Swan is not really so, its voice is rarely heard. Two other swans are known in England: the Whooper (Cygnus cygnus), and Bewick’s (Cygnus columbianus bewickii) which is closely related to the American Whistling Swan (Cygnus columbianus). They both use their voices in flight and on the water, and their wing-beats are not as resonant as the Mute’s. Moreover, both the Whooper and Bewick’s are winter migrants, nesting respectively in Iceland and Siberia. Kitson translates þa wic as ‘the villages’, and cites the propensity of the Mute Swan to live near human beings. Indeed, in the later Middle Ages Mute Swans were semi-domesticated, and all were the property of some landowner (usually the Crown). It has even been conjectured that Richard I introduced them from Cyprus, but the species was probably indigenous from antiquity, at least in eastern England (Ticehurst 1957: 1-7; Parker 1988: 210; O’Connor 1989: 194; 1991: 261). Yet, since its bones have not been found in sufficient numbers on either Roman or Anglo-Saxon sites as to suggest it was a regular item of diet, it was probably still a wild bird (as it is yet in Eastern Europe), and may have been fairly rare until later in the Middle Ages. However, it may already have had no objection to living near humans, and therefore have been almost as familiar to the East Angles and even the Northumbrians as it is to us, whether swimming, flying, walking on the ground or sitting on a nest. The conundrum of this riddle, then, is based on the swan’s plumage, for which the terms used are those of human clothing; however, it not only helps lift the bird in flight, but makes beautiful music as it does so. At least one other Anglo-Saxon poet was aware of this music: the Old English poem on the Phoenix (line 137; Krapp and Dobbie 1936: 94-113, at 97-8) compares the mythical bird’s voice to the sound of the swan’s feahers, as among the loveliest of earthly sounds. It replaces Lactantius’ reference in De ave Phoenice (line 49; Brandt and Laubmann 1893: 138) to the legend of the swan singing only while dying (olor moriens, see Armstrong 1958: 48-61, 65). It may be no more than a remarkable coincidence (but is

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certainly worth mentioning) that a whistle found in AngloScandinavian York was made from the wing-bone of a Mute Swan.2 The next riddle begins in a way which suggests to me that a contrast is being drawn; that this is a bird which produces song in the more usual way: Ic þurh muþ sprece mongum reordum wrencum singe, wrixle geneahhe heafodwoþe, hlude cirme, healde mine wisan, hleoþre ne miþe. I by means of my mouth speak in many voices, sing with modulations, repeatedly change the sound from my head; cry out loudly, keep my own way, do not hide my song. Surely this emphasis on where the sound comes from is best explained by the theme of the preceding riddle. The swan has only one unusual kind of music, produced by its wing beats; this creature has many, and all come from its mouth. The compound heafodwoþe is unique in extant Old English texts.3

Fig. 2 Nightingale (Luscinia megarhynchos)

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Many solutions have been proposed for this riddle: most are birds -nightingale, woodpigeon, jay, chough, jackdaw, thrush and starling - but there are several other noisy objects or creatures -- pipe, bell, crying baby and frogs (Fry 1981) -- while Jember (1976: appendix) suggests as alternatives ‘devil as buffoon’ and ‘soul’. My preference is for the first (and most frequently proposed) of the solutions: the Nightingale (Luscinia megarhynchos), in part because of the similarity of the beginning of the riddle to other descriptions of this bird’s song (for example, in Pliny’s Natural History X.xliii.81-5; Rackham 1967: 344-7). The closest parallel is perhaps the start of Aldhelm’s Riddle 22, De achalantida: Vox mea diversis variatur pulcra figuris, raucisonis numquam modulabor carmina rostris. (Stork 1990: 124, also Trautmann 1915:71)4 My beautiful voice warbles diverse melodies; Never shall I sing poems with a raucous-sounding beak. The Old English, however, continues quite differently from Aldhelm, with the effect of the birdsong on its human listeners: eald æfensceop, eorlum bringe blisse in burgum þonne ic bugendre stefne styrme; stille on wicum sittað nigende. Saga hwæt ic hatte þe swa scirenige sceawendwisan hlude onhyrge, hæleþum bodie wilcumena fela woþe minre.

l.5

l.10

There is no doubting the difficulty of interpreting these lines (here quoted with emendations as in Krapp and Dobbie 1936: 185; siteð > sittað line 8, þa > þe line 9); difficulty compounded by the varying significance of the Nightingale’s song in medieval literature. Beryl Rowland (1978: 106) summarised: The love with which it is traditionally identified may be unhappy or happy. Associated with the ancient story of rape and revenge [of Procne and Philomela], the bird sings a lament;

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associated with the spring and the May morning, the nightingale sings simply of happy love; associated with the poet, it can express either personal ecstasy or pain; in a further meaning, exclusive to the Middle Ages and directly opposed to the secular interpretation, . . . the nightingale sings of Christ’s death and resurrection and is itself the symbol of the greatest love (see also Pfeffer 1985: 213). Moreover, partly because Philomela could be seen as a temptress rather than a victim, but even more because the love celebrated in later medieval poetry was so often adulterous, the nightingale became associated, certainly by the end of the twelfth century, with ‘illicit and frustrated love’ (Gellinek-Schellekens 1984: 119, see also p. 94).

Fig. 3 The song of the Nightingale brings Temptation

Which tradition, then, is operating in the Old English riddle? Two earlier Anglo-Latin poets wrote about the Nightingale: Aldhelm (ca. AD 700) appears to be concerned only with ‘natural history’, whereas Alcuin’s Poem LXI (ca. AD 800) complains of the loss of a bird which always directed its sweet song to God (Dümmler 1881:

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274-5; discussed by Pfeffer 1985: 32-3). It has been suggested that the Old English poem continues Alcuin’s idea of the nightingale as poet (Gellinek-Schellekens 1984: 7), but, however we interpret it, with the words scirenige and sceawendise Riddle 8 appears to introduce something different into the idea of this bird. The following translation is therefore offered, tentatively: Of old an evening minstrel, I bring joy to nobles in the towns, when I call out with varying voice; still in the dwellings they sit with head bowed. Say what I am called, who like a showgirl loudly imitate the fashion of a jester, offer to heroes many welcome things with my voice. This is more suggestive than most of the translations put forward -Tupper (1910: 84-6), indeed, rejected the Nightingale as the solution to this riddle, on the grounds that its song ‘is the reverse of scurrilous’. Yet two or three hundred years after the date of the Exeter manuscript the nightingale’s scandalous character is set out in The Owl and the Nightingale (Stanley 1960), where the owl claims that the nightingale is full of lechery in song and in deed (lines 497500): when she has glutted her lust, her boldness and her songs are gone (lines 501-22). She lives near the privy and among nettles (lines 588 and 936-7), and entices people to lusts of the flesh (lines 895-99). All this, like the details of the riddle -- even to the mistaken view that it was the hen bird which sang, since the sexes are alike in plumage -- could have been based on observation (Cramp 1988: 6278, 631-2), and the association of the nightingale with sexuality could, therefore, have been current in popular lore somewhat earlier than the twelfth century (Hume 1975: 16-18; Rowland 1978: 105-11, esp.107; Shippey 1970; Pfeffer 1985: 159-60).5 The translation of these lines of Riddle 8 is justified, then, on the following grounds: 1. Bugendre appears to be a dative feminine adjective applied to stefne; anything else would require yet more emendation of the text. Though in glosses (cited in Healey and Venezky 1980) bugend appears most frequently to be an agent noun meaning ‘dweller, native’, or an adjective meaning ‘bowing, submitting’, and though it

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is not elsewhere applied to music, it occasionally means ‘bending, deviating’, and therefore by extension could refer to the modulations of the nightingale’s song. 2. Nigende is most logically for hnigende ‘bowing’. Tupper argued that hnigan was always used to imply reverence, but there is a passage cited by Healey and Venezky (1980) from Solomon and Saturn (line 373): þa he to helle hnigan scolde, where the meaning is clearly ‘go down [to hell] in submission (humbly, bowed down)’, and the picture of men, sitting hunched up while affected by the suggestiveness of the bird’s song, is a vivid one. The aural and semantic links between bugendre and [h]nigende are certainly intentional. 3. The nightingale is recorded as an enthusiastic mimic, usually of single notes or phrases from other birds’ songs; but it can also repeat notes whistled or played on instruments. A caged bird might well pick up tunes which it heard constantly (Stadler 1957). Possibly, too, art sometimes copied nature; none of the spontaneous or comic music of the early Middle Ages has come down to us, but some popular airs may have imitated bird-song (Allen 1928: 13). 4. The poet shows by the language of the earlier part of the riddle that he did not approve of the nightingale. Compare this passage (noting the italicised words) from Guthlac A/B, line 898 (Krapp and Dobbie 1936: 75), describing devils: Þær hy mislice mongum reordum on þam westenne woðe hofun hludne herecirm. Where in the wilderness they variously in many voices raised a loud warcry. 5. Note the contrast between the words scop and scirenige as applied to the nightingale. Jeff Opland (1980: 187, 232-43 et passim) has discussed in detail what it meant to be a scop, and concludes that he was a poet, ‘a serious, respected member of the community whose role was more significant than that of

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entertainment’, sometimes performing at court, sometimes inciting armies to warfare, normally unaccompanied by instrumental music. That a scop might not always have been so official, however, is suggested by the fact that in Wulfstan’s eleventh-century ‘Canons of Edgar’ a priest was advised against being an ealuscop, ‘an ale-poet’ (Healey and Venezky 1980). It is possible that æfensceop ‘eveningpoet’ is ironic; at the least, nightingales and scopas were both performers. Scirenige appears to be a version of the word scericge which is found in the Old English Martyrology (Herzfeld 1900: 190-1): Sancta Pelagia. . . wæs æryst mima . . . þæt is scericge in urum þeode, ‘Saint Pelagia was at first an entertainer, that is scericge in our language’. Latin mima ‘vaudeville actress’ was probably often to be equated with prostitute. When converted, Pelagia confessed: Ic wæs synna georn ond in deadlicum lustum. Ic wæs beswicen ond ic beswac monige þurh me, ‘I was eager for sin, and with deadly desires. I was deceived, and I myself deceived many’. There are Old High German cognates (see also Cosijn 1898: 128; Allen 1928: 252-63). From the earliest extant glosses through to the latest ecclesiastical pronouncements, there are references to mimi in Anglo-Saxon England; they appear to have usually been travelling entertainers: singers, instrumentalists and acrobats. There are no contemporary descriptions of them, merely warnings to priests and ‘decent folk’ not to imitate or be seduced by them (Opland 1980: 105-6, 138-9, 143, 245). There is also the word sceawendwisan (presumably accusative singular and the object of onhyrge, ‘imitate’), which occurs only here. It has usually been interpreted with reference to sceawendspræc, which is glossed scarilitas (for scurrilitas), ‘buffoonery, scurrility’, from scurra ‘jester, buffoon’. Sceawendwise has therefore been taken to mean ‘jester’s song’ in context. However, wise usually means ‘way, fashion’, and this is how I have translated it. Moreover, it is hard to dissociate these rare words with sceawend, present participle of the verb sceawian, ‘look (at)’ (only later acquiring our meaning ‘show, exhibit’) from commoner words in sceand, ‘shame, infamy’, such as sceandhus, ‘brothel’, sceandword, ‘vile word’. The nightingale is evidently

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being compared to a show-girl putting on a suggestive performance (Bosworth & Toller 1898; Healey and Venezky 1980). Wulfstan, in the early eleventh century, chose to translate for himself a passage from Isaiah expressing the view that music is a distraction from God: Hearpe and pipe and mistlice gliggamen dremað eow on beorsele; and ge Godes cræfta nan ðing ne gymað (Homily XI; Bethurum 1957: 217). Lyres and pipes and various kinds of minstrelsy are pleasing to you in the beer-hall; and you do not care at all about God’s works. 6. The word cirm (l.3) does not denote a pleasant noise, and is often associated with doom and disaster; in riddle 57 it appears to be used for the screaming of swifts (Meaney 1996). In Cramp’s Handbook (1988:634; my italics), the nightingale’s song is described as remarkable for its richness, variety and vigour. . . . Many units have a clear, rich, liquid, bubbling or piping quality, other sequences a kind of musical chuckle, and even rather toneless or unmusical notes and variants of the alarm call occur. Most striking are the rapid loud sequence of ‘chooc’ units, and fluting, much higher-pitched ‘pioo’ repeated rather slowly in striking crescendo. In Shakespeare’s time the standard way of indicating a nightingale’s song was ‘jug, jug’, as in ‘Cuckoo, jug jug, puwee, towhit-awoo’, presumably for the cuckoo, nightingale, lapwing and owl. Schuster (1921, 1923: 357), an ornithologist who as a German soldier spent part of the First World War in north-eastern France, reported that sometimes he heard so many nightingales singing there that their song lost its beauty and even became quite hateful. Even in antiquity its song was not always loved, and some saints (notably Edward the Confessor) were reputed to have banished nightingales from their neighbourhoods because their prayers were disturbed (Armstrong 1958: 187).6 The contrast to the swan’s one melodious song, when detached from the earth, is great.

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Though the poet does not make an overt connection, the subject of the following riddle helps confirm the interpretation of no.8 as ‘Nightingale’, since it is universally interpreted as a bird often associated with the nightingale in folklore, as both are harbingers of spring (Swainson 1885: 19)7 Mec on þissum dagum deadne ofgeafun fæder ond modor; ne wæs me feorh þa gen, ealdor on innan. Þa mec an ongon, welhold mege, weddum þeccan, heold and freoþode, hleosceorpe wrah swa arlice swa hire agen bearn, oþþæt ic under sceate, swa min gesceapu wæron, ungesibbum wearð eacen gæste. Mec seo friþe mæg fedde siþþan, oþþæt ic aweox, widdor meahte siþas asettan.

l.1

l.5

l.10

In these days my father and mother gave me up as dead; nor was there a spirit for me as yet, a life within. Then a certain very faithful kinswoman began to cover me with garments, kept me and protected me, wrapped me in a sheltering robe as honourably as her own children, until I, under the garment, as was my fate, became enlarged in spirit toward those unrelated to me. The gracious kinswoman fed me afterwards, until I grew up, could set out further on my travels.

Fig. 4 Cuckoo (Cuculus canorus)

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Though, as in the swan riddle, the creature is described in human terms, the first lines establish its unhumanness. It is impossible to abandon a human baby before the quickening and for it to survive, as this one does, however good the care of a foster mother. An egglaying creature might well come to mind, and therefore most probably a bird, as in the two preceding riddles. The same imagery, more expanded, appears in Eusebius’ riddle 38, De pullo, ‘Concerning the chicken’: Cum corio ante meo tectus uestitutus et essem Tunc nihil ore cibi gustabam, oculisque uidere Non potui; pascor nunc escis, pelle detectus Uiuo; sed exanimis transiui uiscere matris (Glorie 1968: 248). At first I was clothed and protected in a shell. My mouth then tasted no food, my eyes saw nothing; but now, stripped of my skin, I eat and live, though lifeless I once left my mother’s womb. Exeter Book riddle 13, usually explained as ten chicks (presumably one brood), has some common elements, though it emphasizes different aspects of the transformation from lifeless egg to young bird. Though these ‘chicken’ riddles differ from the other bird riddles in their rather unspecific character -- the Old English riddle is most convincingly solved by its similarity to Eusebius’ titled Latin -they do help to establish riddle 9 as concerning a bird, and the obvious one, the Cuckoo (Cuculus canorus) is the only solution that has seriously been suggested for it. The Cuckoo’s peculiarities were well-known in antiquity. Tupper (1910: 86) compares a passage in Aristotle’s History of Animals: The cuckoo makes no nest, but lays its eggs in the nest of other birds. . . . It lays one egg, upon which it does not sit, but the bird in whose nest it lays hatches the egg, and nurses the young bird.8

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Marie Nelson (1987) pointed out that the middle line of a three-line riddle by Symphosius gives some of the same information as the Old English riddle, but from the point of view of the mother cuckoo: Desero quod peperi; hod tamen educat altera mater. I desert what I produced, but another mother raises it. The Old English riddle goes on to use the metaphor of a caring human foster-mother, nurturing a child until it is capable of independent life. She is described in approving terms: welhold mege, ‘very faithful kinswoman’, seo friþe mæg, ‘the beautiful kinswoman’. Her plumage is, like the swan’s, described as if it were clothing: its purpose, however, is not to make music, or to help the bird to fly, but for the comfort of the foster-child: ongan. . . wedum þeccan, ‘proceeded to. . . cover with clothes’, hleoscearpe wrah, ‘wrapped in a sheltering robe’, under sceate, ‘under a garment’. For those readers beginning to suspect that the riddle’s solution is a young cuckoo, there is a hint that all is not well in the term eacen gæste, meaning either ‘enlarged in spirit’, or ‘a grown-up guest/enemy’, for a cuckoo grows much faster and becomes much larger than a small song bird’s own fledglings. Ungesibb means ‘unrelated’ or ‘hostile’; I have translated it as dative plural, an adjective used as a noun, but it could also be understood adverbially ‘in a hostile way, as a stranger’. The really sinister comment, however, comes in the last line and a half: Heo hæfde swæsra þy læs suna ond dohtra, þy heo swa dyde.

l.12

She had fewer dear sons and daughters, because she did so. The naturalist knows that this is because the baby cuckoo not only usurps all the mother’s attention, but also tips his foster-siblings out of the nest.9 To the student of Old English literature, however, there appears to be a similarity between the situation in this riddle and in Beowulf at the

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Danish court: Wealhtheow seems apprehensive because her husband’s nephew Hrothulf, whom they had brought up, was older and bigger than her own children. Widsith hints that Hrothulf was ultimately triumphant, probably destroying his cousins on the way. The legend is only reconstructable with recourse to Norse sources, but the hints seem to show that it was familiar to Old English poets (Chambers 1959: 29-30). It is possible that this legend (or one similar10) was in the mind of the riddle poet, whose interest seems to be on the bird’s ingratitude, even more than on its strange nurturing. At any rate, the little poem is surely metaphoric in its implications for human life. The ‘thankless child’ is a powerful theme throughout literature, most strikingly in King Lear. The Cuckoo Riddle is therefore linked implicitly with the two which have gone before because of its distinctive voice; with the nightingale also because both are harbingers of spring, and with the swan in that the feathers of both are described in terms of human clothing. The most obvious unstated link between the cuckoo and the bird of the next riddle is that both are engendered in strange ways: Neb wæs min on nearwe -- ond ic neoþan wætre, flode underflowen, firgenstreamum swiþe besuncen -- ond on sunde awox ufan yþum þeaht, anum tenge liþendum wuda lice mine. l.5 Hæfde feorh cwico, þa ic of fæðmum cwom brimes ond beames on blacum hrægle; sume wæron hwite hyrste mine, þa mec lifgende lyft up ahof wind of wæge, siþþan wide bær l.10 ofer seolbaþo. Saga hwæt ic hatte. My face was imprisoned, and I beneath the water (with the flood flowing under, deeply sunk in the ocean currents), and I grew up in the sea, covered from above by the waves, touching some floating wood with my body. I had a living spirit when I came from the embrace of salt sea and wood in black clothing; some of my garments were white when the air, the wind, raised

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me living from the wave, afterwards carried me widely over the seal-bath. Say what I am called. Clearly the first few lines are meant to make the reader think of a sea-dwelling creature, perhaps a fish; most probably, since it is found on floating wood, some kind of shell-fish. The word neb, often translated ‘beak’, is a neutral term which can mean ‘nose’; in riddle 21.1 it is used for the point of a plough, in 31.6 for part of a bagpipe, in 34.3 for the head of a rake. It is only when the creature of riddle 10 emerges and is borne by the air over the sea that it becomes clear that the poet is once more thinking of some sort of bird, for which the strange birthing in the sea replaces the normal egg in the nest. The solution is first provided in Britain by Giraldus Cambrensis in his History and Topography of Ireland, written at the end of the twelfth century: Sunt et aves hic multæ quæ bernacæ vocantur; quas mirum in modum, contra naturam natura producit. . . . Ex lignis namque abietinis, per æquora devolutis, primo quasi gummi nascuntur. Dehinc tanquam ad alga ligno cohærente, conchilibus testis as liberiorem formationem inclusæ, per rostra dependent, et sic quousque processu temporis, firmam plumarum vestituram indutæ vel in aquas decidunt, vel in æris libertatem volatu se transferunt. . . . Non ex harum coitu, ut assolet, ova gignuntur; non avis in earum procreatione unquam ovis incubat; in nullus terrarum angulis vel libidini vacare, vel nidificare videntur (I.xv. Dimock 1867: 47-9). There are also many birds here, called ‘barnacles’, which nature, against nature, produces in a marvellous way. . . . Indeed, at first they are born as if from gum on pieces of fir wood rolled down along the surface of the sea. Next, as if from seaweed adhering to the wood (enclosed in shell-fish shells for freer development), they hang by their beaks. And so, in the course of time, having put on a strong covering of feathers, they either fall into the waters, or transfer themselves in flight to the freedom of the air. . . . No eggs are produced from their mating, as is customary. No bird ever incubates any

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egg in its procreation. In no corners of the lands are they seen indulging in lust or building nests (I.11; O’Meara 1982: 41-2). Alexander Neckam, writing about the same time, has a description of bernekke which could be abbreviated from Giraldus, except for his final sentence, which suggested that the birds might be produced also (or instead) from trees situated on the banks of rivers (I.xlviii; Wright 1863: 99-100).11 Tupper (1910: 88-90) commented that though our riddle is several centuries earlier than Giraldus’ account. . . this is just the sort of popular myth that might exist for hundreds of years before finding a scholar to record it. However, Armstrong (1958:225-237) has drawn attention to a description by an Arab diplomat, visiting the Emperor Otto in the later tenth century, of a marvel in Shashin (most probably Ireland), which has elements in common with the Old English riddle as well as with Giraldus’ and Neckam’s accounts: On the sea-shore grow trees, and from time to time. . . a tree falls into the sea. The waves toss it up and down so much that a white jelly is formed on it. This goes on until the jelly increases in size and assumes the shape of an egg. Then the egg is moulded in the form of a bird with nothing but both feet and the bill attached to the wood. When Allah wills the wind that blows on it produces feathers and it detaches the feet and bill from the wood. So it becomes a bird which scuttles in the sea about the surface of the water. It is never found alive, but when the sea rises it is thrown by the water on the shore, where it is found dead. It is a black bird similar to the bird which is called The Diver. Before bird migration was understood, much ingenuity was exercised in explaining their invisibility at some times of the year: swallows, for example, were believed to hibernate at the bottom of ponds or in caves.12 In the case of Arctic-breeding winter migrants to the British Isles, the problem was exacerbated by the need to

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explain how the species perpetuated itself. For some birds, their perceived similarity of colouring and shape to shellfish provided an imaginative solution (White 1954: 238, 267-8). The creatures involved are not molluscs, but crustaceans, called in English ‘Goose Barnacles’.

Fig. 5 Goose Barnacles (Lepas species)

When Linnaeus gave scientific names to the pedunculate Cirrepedia class, he showed he was aware of the legend: he called one species (which is only found in warm water) Lepas anserifera ‘goosebearing shellfish’; and another Lepas anatifera ‘duck-bearing shellfish’. Their adult form is immobile; part of the head becomes a blackish fleshy stalk, which cements itself at one end to floating timber. In Lepas anatifera the stalk can reach up to 25 cms long, and at its outer end the body is protected by five white translucent calcareous plates. The legs have been transformed into long tendrillike cirri, with feathery fringes, which can protrude through a slit in the shell and sweep through the water to capture minute organisms

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as food. The resemblance to a miniature long-necked black and white bird is uncanny. Lepas anatifera has a cosmopolitan distribution, and is to be seen on the English coast, for example, at Easter 2002, a pallet covered in these barnacles had been washed up to the tide’s edge, at Pegwell Bay in Kent).13 The precise identity of the birds involved is more doubtful. Giraldus’ bernacæ were to be found in and around Ireland, and this is correct for the birds we call Barnacle Geese (Branta leucopsis) which still winter in and around Ireland and Scotland. However, if the legend were current in Anglo-Saxon England at least two hundred years earlier than Giraldus, another bird may have been intended. Armstrong believed that the black, diving birds of the Arab account were Little Auks (Alle alle), whose breeding range is in the Arctic, and which (as recorded in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, before the climate began to grow warmer) were often found blown ashore in great numbers in stormy weather.

Fig. 6 Little Auk (Alle alle)

The same storms might have driven inshore flotsam timber with barnacles, which were then assumed to be ‘the early stages of these birds’. The description of the black and white plumage of the Old English riddle birds, Armstrong argued, ‘would apply more aptly to the little auk than to the barnacle goose’. Relevant, too, perhaps, is

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the fact that the Little Auk rises to fly directly from the water, without a splashing take-off. It was probably seen more frequently off the coasts of Britain in earlier times, but turns up even today, for example at Snettisham in north Norfolk (Cramp 1985: 220, 222; plates 20, 22, 23).

Fig.7 Barnacle Goose (Branta leucopsis)

However, the transference of the legend to winter-migrant geese, which were thereby made available for consumption in Lent as if they were fish, is understandable. Even after this transference, the species of goose involved is not entirely certain. Swaen (1946) pointed out that ‘before the days of Willughby and Pennant’ the name Barnacle Goose (now used strictly for Branta leucopsis) was probably also applied to the closely-related species Branta bernicla, now known (confusingly) as the Brent Goose. Brent Geese have an all-black head and are slightly smaller than barnacles (56-61 cms long, as opposed to 58-70 cms), but the two are very alike. Both have black necks, grey-barred wings and white underparts. Brent geese now winter in England in places along the southern, East Anglian and Northumbrian coasts, and in the Thames estuary, as well as in Wales and Ireland. It may well be, then, that strictly speaking, the bird the riddle poet envisaged was, if not the

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Little Auk as Armstrong suggests, Branta bernicla, the black-faced Brent Goose (Cramp 1977: 430-5, 436-41).

Fig.8 Brent Goose (Branta bernicla)

Tupper (1910: lxvii) has also remarked on the many similarities between the Swan Riddle (7) and this one (10), which help confirm the ‘Barnacle Goose’ solution: In both hyrste is used of ‘wings’ [7.4, 10.8] and hrægl of ‘coat of feathers’ [7.1, 10.7]; the air raises both birds and bears them widely [7.3-6, 10.9-11, compare 57.1]; and the word getenge is found in both problems [7.8, 10.4]. Solving riddle 10 is simple, then, if the reader knows the legend; the vocabulary offers little that is new, and the same metaphorical tricks are used as in the preceding bird riddles. Though the Cuckoo Riddle does not use the words hyrste and hrægl, it employs many others to emphasize the similarity between the fostering bird’s plumage and human clothing. Both the cuckoo and the sea-bird fly off on journeys when they are fledged, but whereas the cuckoo leaves destruction behind it, the air carries the sea-bird aloft like the swan.

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It is more difficult to find convincing parallels to the part of riddle 10 which is concerned with the sea bird’s birthplace in the sea. Tupper compares line 4a ufan yþum þeaht, ‘covered from above with waves’ with line 3a of the ‘anchor’ riddle, 16: yþum þeaht, but otherwise the two riddles have little in common. Lines 6-7 of riddle 10 are reminiscent of line 13 of riddle 2 (storm at sea), but perhaps only because of the context of both. Tupper also compares the first halfline of 10, Neb wæs min on nearwe, with the first half-line of the ‘plough’ riddle (21), with line 6a of the ‘bagpipe’ riddle (31), and with line 3a of the ‘rake’ riddle (34); however, the only real similarity is that all these objects have an element which could be described as a neb, a ‘nose’ or a ‘beak’. These four bird riddles, with their typically riddling element of paradox, hang together for reasons unstated as well as stated. There is a kind of ‘stream of consciousness’ such as Dawson (1962) has demonstrated for the Gnomic verses (Maxims I and II), leading from the Mute Swan which makes almost heavenly music with its wings, to the Nightingale which makes all too earthly music with its voice, and which announces spring and encourages lust, to the Cuckoo, which also announces spring, and which is in metaphor a seducer of married women (cf. the term ‘cuckold’ -- a man who has been ‘cuckooed’ -- for a deceived husband), and whose offspring destroys the children of a legitimate marriage, and finally to the sea-bird, which also appears only seasonally, but in winter, and whose birth is only explained as due to a strange, sexless mystery. Nevertheless, it is a bird which flies away like the Swan and the Cuckoo, but without music, and without leaving destruction behind. The sea-bird fittingly brings the group to a close and might almost be regarded as a type of Christ, with a kind of virgin birth, a baptism in the water, and an ascension. Giraldus himself appreciated the parallel to Christ, for the second half of his chapter is a diatribe against the Jews, who accepted the first generation of humankind (of Adam) without the involvement of man or woman, the second (of Eve) without woman, and the third, the common one, with both man and woman, but who refused to accept the fourth, without man -which is the one which brings salvation. For Giraldus, then, the

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generation of the barnacle goose provided confirmation of Christian belief. These four riddles concerning birds, the subject of one suggesting the next, might have been brought together by an editor, and perhaps emended to bring them closer together, though it is perhaps more probable that they were all the work of one person. If so, the author was characterised by an interest in birds, and the ability to observe them closely, to compose brief poems skilfully, and to incorporate into them contemporary ideas, both learned and popular. Are there any clues within these poems as to where they might have been composed? If the Mute Swan was an indigenous species, it seems most probable that it was originally to be found in East Anglia. The Nightingale is only heard today in midland, eastern and south-eastern England. Its restricted distribution was well-known to the author of the Owl and the Nightingale (Stanley 1960), for the bird is taunted (line 907) because it does not sing in Ireland or Scotland, where it might be appreciated. The Little Auk might appear almost anywhere around the coasts, in extreme cold and stormy weather. The Brent Goose, however, appears to occupy larger winter-quarters in England -- along the south coast, around the Thames estuary and the Wash -than anywhere else in mainland Britain. Another clue as to the place of composition might be in the (admittedly slight) similarities between the nightingale riddle (8) and the Guthlac poems. All this might point to an eastern rather than a western origin for these riddles if they were composed as a group. Like all except one of the Old English Riddles, these four are only found in the Exeter Book, which was apparently collected for the new see there by Leofric, the first bishop, in the later eleventh century. When and where it was originally copied out has been disputed, and has recently been the subject of a detailed study by Richard Gameson (1996: 166-7, 178-9) who declares that, on palaeographic grounds, ‘a date in the 960s or 970s seems most plausible’. The Square minuscule script was used quite widely in the south and the particular form of it found in the Exeter Book appears to be most closely connected with Christ Church Canterbury. However, since the most nearly related manuscripts turned up in the south-west, Gameson suggests Glastonbury as an alternative

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possibility. There is insufficient comparative material for certainty; the fact that the Exeter Book contains a group of four riddles about birds, three of which were perhaps more likely to have been seen and heard on the eastern side of the country than the west is, alas, merely, a tiny straw blowing in the wind. Acknowledgements I am grateful to Professor Malcolm Godden for the comments cited in footnotes, made on an earlier draft of this paper. More recently, I have much enjoyed discussing it with Professor Katherine O’Brien O’Keeffe, to whom I owe valuable references. The amount of careful work by Aleks Pluskowski to prepare this paper for inclusion in ARC is much appreciated. Figures All except 3 and 5 are After Bewick; 5 is After Darwin; 3 is late medieval. Bibliography Allen, P. S. 1928. The Romanesque Lyric: Studies in its Background and Development from Petronius to the Cambridge Songs, 50-1-50. Chapel Hill: The University of North Carolina Press. Armstrong, E. A. 1958. The Folklore of Birds: An Enquiry into the Origin and Distribution of some Magico-religious Traditions. London: Collins. Balme, D. M. (ed and trans) 1991. Aristotle: History of Animals III; Books VII-IX. Loeb Classical Library. London: Heinemann. Bethurum, D. 1957. The Homilies of Wulfstan. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Bosworth, J. and Toller, T. N. (eds) 1898. An Anglo-Saxon Dictionary. Oxford: Clarendon Press.

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Brandt, S. and Laubmann, G. (eds) 1893. L Caeli Firmiani Lactanti, Carmen De ave Phoenice. In Opera Omnia II: 135-51. Corpus Scriptorum Ecclesiasticorum Latinorum 27. Prague: Tempsky. Campbell, A. 1967 Æthelwulf’s De Abbatibus. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Chambers Encyclopedia III: Campulling -- Confession of Faith. 1966. Oxford: Pergamon Press. Chambers, R. W. 1959. An Introduction to Beowulf. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press (3rd edition). Chambers, R. W. Förster, M. and Flower, R. (eds) 1933. The Exeter Book of Old English Poetry. London: Percy Lund, Humphries and Co. Colgrave, B. (ed and trans) 1956. Felix’s Life of St Guthlac. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Cosijn, P. 1898. Anglo-Saxonica IV. Beiträge zur Geschichte der Deutschen Sprache und Literatur, 23: 109-30. Cramp, S. (ed) et al. 1977. Cygnus olor, Mute Swan: 372-9; Branta leucopsis, Barnacle Goose: 430-35; Branta bernicla, Brent Goose: 436-41. Handbook of the Birds of Europe, the Middle East and North Africa: The Birds of the Western Palearctic. I: Ostrich to Ducks. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Cramp, S. (ed) et al. 1985. Alle alle Little Auk: 219-229; Cuculus canorus Cuckoo: 402-16. Handbook of the Birds of Europe, the Middle East and North Africa: The Birds of the Western Palearctic. IV: Terns to Woodpeckers. Oxford: Oxford University Press Cramp, S. (ed) et al. 1988. Luscinia megarhynchos, Nightingale: 626-38. Handbook of the Birds of Europe, the Middle East and North Africa: The Birds of the Western Palearctic. V: Tyrant Flycatchers to Thrushes. Oxford: Oxford University Press.

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Crawford, S.J. (ed) 1921. Exameron Anglice. angelsächsischen Prosa 10. Hamburg: H Grand.

Bibliothek der

Darwin, C. 1851. A Monograph on the Sub-Class Cirripedia with Figures of all the Species: The Lepadidae or Pedunculated Cirripedes. London: The Ray Society. Dawson, R.M. 1962. The Structure of the Old English Gnomic Poems. Journal of English and Germanic Philology, 61: 14-22. Dimock, J.F. (ed) 1867. Giraldus Cambrensis: Opera V. Topographia Hibernica et Expugnatio Hibernica, Rolls Series 21: 8 vols, London. Dümmler E (ed) 1881. Alcuini (Albini) carmina LXI: Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Poetae Latini Aevi Carolini, I. Berlin: Weidmann: 160-351. Ehwald, R. 1913-19. Aldhelmi Opera. Monumenta Germaniae Historica: Auctorum Antiquissorum XV. Berlin: Weidmann Encyclopædia Britannica (New). 1997, vol. 16: Macropædia: Knowledge in Depth. Crustaceans. Chicago 15th edn: 840-59. Fry, D. 1981. Exeter Book riddle solutions. Old English Newsletter, 15.1: 22-33. Gameson, R. 1996. The origin of the Exeter Book of Old English poetry. Anglo-Saxon England, 25: 135-185.

Gellinek-Schellekens, J. E. 1984. The Voice of the Nightingale in Middle English Poems and Bird Debates. New York: P.Lang. George, J. D. and George, J. J. 1979. Marine Life: An Illusrated Encyclopedia of Invertebraes in the Sea. London: Harrap.

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Glorie, Fr. 1968. Variae Collectiones Aenigmatum Merovincigae Aetatis II: Aenigmata Eusebii, Corpus Christianorum Ser. Lat. CXXXIII. Turnholt: Brepols. Healey A. di Paolo, and Venezky, R. 1980. Microfiche Concordance of Old English. Toronto. Dictionary of Old English Project, Centre for Medieval Studies, University of Toronto. Heron-Allen, E. 1928. Barnacles in Nature and Myth. Oxford: Oxford University Press. Herzfeld, G. (ed.) 1900. An Old English Martyrology , Early English Text Society 116. London: K. Paul, Trench, Trübner & co. Hume, K. 1975. The Owl and the Nightingale: the Poem and its Critics. Toronto: University of Toronto Press James, M. R. 1928. The Bestiary, being a Reproduction in full of the Manuscript Ii.4.26 in the University Library, Cambridge, with Supplementary Plates from other Manuscripts of English Origin, and a Preliminary Study of the Latin Bestiary as Current in England. Oxford: Roxburghe Club. Jember, G. K. 1976. The Old English Riddles: A New Translation. Denver Kitson, P. 1994. Swans and geese. Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 7: 79-84. Krapp, G and Dobbie, E van K. 1936. The Exeter Book. AngloSaxon Poetic Records III. New York: Columbia University Press. Lapidge, M. and Rosier, J. L. (trans) 1985. Aldhelm, The Poetic Works. Cambridge: Brewer Meaney, A. L., 1996. Exeter Book Riddle 57 (55) -- a double solution? Anglo-Saxon England, 25: 187-200.

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Meaney, A. L. 2000. The hunted and the hunters: British mammals in Old English poetry. Anglo-Saxon Studies in Archaeology and History, 11: 95-105. Nelson, M. 1974. The rhetoric of the Exeter Book riddles. Speculum, 49: 421-440. Nelson, M. 1987. Plus animate: two possible transformations of riddles by Symphosius. Germanic Notes, 18: 46-8. O’Connor, T. P. 1989. Bones from the Anglo-Scandinavian Levels at 16-22 Coppergate. The Archaeology of York, The Animal Bones, 15/3. London: CBA O’Connor, T. P. 1991. Bones from 46-54 Fishergate. Archaeology of York, The Animal Bones, 15/4. London: CBA

The

O’Meara, J.J. (trans). 1982. History and Topography of Ireland: Gerald of Wales. Harmondsworth: Penguin. Opland, J. 1980. Anglo-Saxon Oral Poetry: A Study of the Traditions (New Haven and London: Yale University Press. Parker, A. J. 1988. The birds of Roman Britain. Oxford Journal of Archaeology, 7: 197-226. Peck, A.L. (ed and trans) 1970. Aristotle: Historia Animalium II. Books IV-VI. Loeb Classical Library. London: Heinemann. Pfeffer, W. 1985. The Change of Philomel: The Nightingale in Medieval Literature. American University Studies Series III, Comparative Literature 14. New York: P.Lang Pitman, J.H. (trans) 1925. The Riddles of Aldhelm, Yale Studies in English 67. New Haven: Yale University Press. Rackham, H. (ed and trans) 1967. Pliny. Natural History III: Libri VIII-XI. Loeb Classical Library. London: Heinemann.

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Robin, P. A. 1932. Animal Lore in English Literature. London: J. Murray. Rowland, B. 1978. Nightingale: 105-111. Birds with Human Souls: A Guide to Bird Symbolism. Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press. Schuster, L. 1921, 1923. Luscinia megarhynchus Nachtigall, no.172: 357-61. Beiträge zur Ornithologie Nordostfranfrankreichs. Journal für Ornithologie, 69: 153-200, 535-70; 71: 287-361, Shipppey, T. 1970. Listening to the Nightingale. Comparative Literature, 22: 46-60. Skeat, W. W. (ed) 1897. Chaucerian and Other Pieces: Being a Supplement to the Complete Works of Geoffrey Chaucer. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Smith, A. H. 1956. English Place-Name Elements. English PlaceName Society 25-6. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. Stadler, H. 1957. Das Lied von Nactigall und Sprosser, Luscinia megarhynchos und Luscinia luscinia. Larus 9-10: 193-207. Stanley, E. G. 1960. The Owl and the Nightingale. London: Nelson. Stork, N. P. 1990. Through a Gloss Darkly: Aldhelm’s Riddles in the British Library MS Royal 12.C.xxiii, Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, Studies and Texts 98. Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies. Swaen, A. E. H. 1946 RIDDLE 8 (10, 11). Neophilologus, 30: 1267. Swainson, C. 1885 The Folklore and Provincial Names of British Birds, Publications of the Folklore Society 17. London: Stock. Ticehurst, N. F. 1957. The Mute Swan in England: Its History, and the Ancient Custom of Swan Keeping. London: Cleaver-Hume Press.

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Toller, T. N. 1972. Supplement to Anglo-Saxon Dictionary, revised A Campbell. Oxford: Clarendon Press. Trautmann, M. 1915. Die altenglischen Rätsel. Heidelberg: C. Winter Tupper, F. (ed) 1910. The Riddles of the Exeter Book. Boston: Ginn. White, G. 1789. The Natural History of Selborne. London. White, T. H. (trans) 1954. The Book of Beasts, Being a Translation from a Latin Bestiary of the Twelfth Century. London: Cape. Williamson, C. (ed) 1977. The Old English Riddles of the Exeter Book. Chapel Hill NC: The University of North Carolina Press. Williamson, C. (trans) 1983. A Feast of Creatures: Anglo-Saxon Riddle Songs. London: Scolar Press. Wright, T. (ed) 1863. Alexandri Neckam, De Naturis Rerum libri duo: With the poem of the same author, De laudibus divinæ sapientiæ, Rolls Series 34, London: Longman et al.

Notes 1

Krapp and Dobbie 1936: 184-6 (notes: 325-7) is the text used unless otherwise stated. In Williamson 1977: 72-3 (notes: 151-3), the riddles discussed are numbered 5-8. 2

York Archaeological Trust, Coppergate Museum, ref. no 1978.7 sf 5316. I am grateful for information about this whistle in advance of publication. 3

I am grateful to Paul Sorrell, who has pointed out (pers. comm.) that in Latin writings there are similar references to birds singing with their beaks or throats, Aldhelm’s Carmen De Virginitate lines 14-16; Ehwald 1913-19: 350-471, at 353; Aldhelm’s Riddles 22 (nightingale, quoted above, line 2), and 47 (swallow); Stork 1990:

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124 and 157-8 (Riddle 46), translated in Lapidge and Rosier 1985: 74, 79, 103. See also Æthelwulf’s De Abbatibus lines 237-8, Campbell 1967: 21, and (in prose) Felix’s Life of St Guthlac, chs. XIX, XXXIX, Colgrave 1956: 82-3, 122-3. The usual word used in these texts for a bird’s beak is rostrum, which appears to cover the same area of meanings as OE neb, discussed above. 4

Pitman (1925: 12-13, 38-9, 70) pointed out that achalantida should properly mean ‘goldfinch’, but since Aldhelm equates Greek achalantida with Latin luscinia in his Riddle 68, he must have understood the bird to be the nightingale. 5

However, the owl goes on to tell a story: that when the nightingale led a wife to commit adultery, she was punished (lines 1045-66). Pfeffer (1985: 197 et passim) believes that his refers to the lai, Laustic, of Marie de France, supposed to have been written about 1165. Whether this is so or not (the details do not coincide exactly), Alexander Neckam in his De Naturis Rerum ch.51 (also apparently written in the late twelfth century; Wright 1863: 102-3) refers to a nightingale, suspected of inciting a wife to adultery, which was executed by four horses -- a ludicrous detail shared only by Neckam and the Owl and the Nightingale. Malcolm Godden (pers. comm. 10/9/1998) comments ‘I wish there were better evidence for the negative view of the nightingale -- the attack on it in the O&N seems so obviously to grow out of the story which Marie de France tells that one wouldn’t feel at all confident that it was evidence for an earlier association with wayward sex’. Yet that connection could always have been made from the fact that the nightingale’s singing coincides with the breeding season. 6

The use of the term wrencum in riddle 8 for the modulations of the nightingale’s song may also imply some criticism, as it usually means ‘deceits, tricks’; however, the only other bird said to use wrencas in its song is the legendary phoenix, in line 133 of the OE poem, (wynsumra wrenca gehwylcum, Krapp and Dobbie 1936: 97), where it cannot be derogatory.

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7

A further traditional pairing of the two birds is perhaps expressed in the late Middle English poem ‘The Cuckoo and the Nightingale’, lines 46-50 (Skeat 1897: 349): But as I lay this other night waking I thoghte how lovers had a tokeninge, And among hem it was a commune tale, That it were good to here the nightingale Rather than the lewde cukkow singe. 8

When attempting to identify the quoted passage, there were certain difficulties, as the reference given did not accord with that in the most readily available edition, in the Loeb Classical Library; indeed there are two passages with some resemblances, in Peck 1970: 250-1 (VI.vii), and Balme 1991: 290-3 (VIII (IX).xxix). 9

Though he does not kill the mother-bird herself, as some early writers claimed: that would not have been in its own interest; see Cramp 1985: 411. 10

Malcolm Godden comments: ‘I’ve never felt very convinced that Wealhtheow is fretting about Hrothulf ousting her sons; she seems to be complaining about Hrothgar’s plan to get Beowulf to do some ousting, and to be taking it for granted that Hrothulf will otherwise become king and hoping that he will be nice to her sons when he does so. But it would surely be an enormous coincidence if the cuckoo riddle were alluding to a story in the one AS epic that happens to have survived. There must have been thousands of ousting experiences’ (pers comm 10/xi/1998).

11

Robin (1932: 31-6) argues that Neckam gives the earliest evidence for a distinct variety of the legend. Certainly, later illustrations always seem to show the geese hanging from trees, even when Giraldus’ account is quoted. See, for example, the illustration from Manuscript British Library Harley 4751, which contains a version of the Latin Bestiary interpolating three chapters from Giraldus (James 1928: 15 and Supplementary Plate 12). There is

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only one other Latin Bestiary, and one in French, which include this material. A later, clearer but no less fabulous account of the generation of barnacle geese, locating them (on the evidence of his own eyes) on the Lancashire island called Pile of Foulders, is given in English in the last chapter (167) of John Gerard’s Herball (London 1597, facsimile, 2 vols, Amsterdam etc 1974), II, pp. 1391-2. 12

See, for example the musings of White 1789: 27, 35-36, 65-66, 95, 98,138-140,147-8. (Lettters X, XII, XXIII, XXXVII and XXXIX to T Pennant; Letters IX and XII to D Barrington).

13

Lepas anserifera has a shorter stalk and furrowed plates. This simplified, layman’s description of goose barnacles has been put together with the help of Chambers Encyclopedia. 1966. III: 591; George and George 1979: 67-8, colour plates 60.8, 61.1; and Encyclopædia Britannica. 1997. 16: 849-54. See also Darwin 1851. For a full account of the barnacle legend see Heron-Allen 1928.

Hares with Crossbows and Rabbit Bones: Integrating Physical and Conceptual Studies of Medieval Fauna Aleks Pluskowski Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge

Fig.1 Hare hunting with crossbow in manuscript margin, Bodleian Library

Introduction The study of animals in the Middle Ages is immensely varied and multi-disciplinary1; from detailed examinations of bestiary illuminations to analyses of faunal remains from urban rubbish pits, medievalists are presenting valuable insights into human-animal relations and the evaluation of animals within the complex medieval paradigm. Unfortunately, these studies are polarised into their specialist areas and rarely brought together as inter-disciplinary projects. This is hardly surprising since the immensely varied range of responses to an individual species in one region, let alone a country or across a broad time span, can present a shattered and incomplete picture of inconsistency and contradiction. Little wonder that within broader studies of medieval life or even the natural world, scholars frequently retreat behind generalisations: the wolf is evil (a statement from bestiaries), the rabbit and pig are economic resources (general conclusions from zooarcheological analyses) and so on. The images above and below (figs. 1 and 2) present different perspectives on the treatment of the medieval leporids. Are these perspectives compatible?

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Fig.2 Rabbit skull from the Grahame Clark Laboratory for Zooarchaeology, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge

The answer is clearly ‘yes’ for these sources (in appropriate medieval contexts) represent comparable fragments. It should be possible to combine these into a single, coherent narrative. Studies of medieval fauna can be roughly subdivided into three broad disciplinary categories: history (focusing on documentary sources), art-history (focusing on iconography) and zooarchaeology (focusing on faunal remains recovered from archaeological excavations). Additional research areas not central to the main body of medieval animal studies include place-name studies (Aybes and Yalden 1995), folklore and the utilisation of perspectives ranging from ethnographic (Schofield and Vince 1994: 193) to ecological and ethological analogues. The full range of studies is impressive and not as disjointed as may be suggested by the enormity and diversity of the subject. Nonetheless, a large proportion of studies tend towards either ‘physical’ interpretations – examining the utility and economic function of animals within medieval society (what, from the medieval perspective, Oggins (1993:47) labelled ‘practical’); or ‘conceptual’ interpretations – examining how people have used animals in art and literature and how these ideas were projected onto other elements of society. Oggins (ibid) included

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‘artistic’ as a separate category from ‘conceptual’ as reflecting medieval ‘points of view’, however this article will limit itself to the broader definitions of ‘physical’ and ‘conceptual’ suggested above. This article is primarily concerned with the high and later medieval periods; research on animals in the early medieval period is just as extensive with an equally broad spectrum of varied topics and perspectives subdivided into the disciplinary categories discussed below (e.g. Cameron 1998; Crabtree 1989; Hicks 1993, Speake 1980). The main components pertinent to medieval animal research will now be briefly surveyed. Source for, and categories of research into medieval fauna Documents The range of documentary sources concerning medieval fauna is staggering, so it is unsurprising that the majority of conventional texts on the Middle Ages, as well as a large proportion of specialist works, draw their examples for animals from this resource. Studies focusing on documentary sources, often complemented by archaeological and/or iconographic data, cover a range of topics from general approaches (Berlioz and de Beaulieu 1999; Giese 1994; Klingender 1971; Ridyard and Benson 1995; Salisbury 1994; Salter 2001) through to specific topics such as hunting (Cummins 2001; Dalby 1965; Rooney 1993), skinning (Martin 1986; Veale 1966), diet (Harvey 1995: 34-71) and individual species (Gladitz 1997; Hewitt 1983; Hoffmann 1995, Wilson 1977). Specific literary topics such as beast fables, animal epics and poetry range from the general (Honegger 1996; Rombauts and Welkenhuysen 1975; Rowland 1971, Ziolkowski 1993) to translations of individual texts (Barber 1999; Kitchell and Resnick 1999; Owen 1994) and folkloric studies (Porter and Russell 1978). A few detailed studies incorporate a wider range of evidence and perspectives such as Schmitt’s (1983) work on St. Guinefort which includes historical, iconographic, archaeological and ethnographic (folkloric) data.

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Iconography Iconographic studies of animals tend to be channelled into a limited number of spectacular topics; spearheaded by bestiaries. However the full body of research into medieval animal iconography has a range comparable to documentary studies, from general works (Benton 1992; Debidour 1961; Friedmann 1980; Gathercole 1995; Zarnecki 1990; see also Friedmann and Wegmann 1998: 247-339) to specific topics such as bestiaries (Baxter 1998; Clark and McMunn 1989; George and Yapp 1991; Hassig 1995, 19992) individual artefacts (Backhouse 2000; Drake 2002: 42-43; Dunning 1979, Yapp 1987), motifs (Malcolm 1991) and individual species (Jones 2001; Varty 1967, 1999; Yapp 1981). Some of the recent debates in studies of medieval animal art have been concerned with the following issues: •

Naturalism Vs. Realism. To what extent were depictions of animals in sculpture, illuminations, wooden carvings and heraldic emblems based on observation rather than copying preexisting models from exempla (schematic books)? What can this tell us about how medieval artisans perceived the natural world? To what extent do these depictions reflect real life situations in the medieval world – are they ‘realistic’ as opposed to ‘naturalistic’? Opinions are heavily divided on these issues depending on the specific context of individual depictions (Camille 1998: 253). The generally accepted pattern is that art becomes more naturalistic throughout the medieval period, however many depictions of animals (across the whole span of the Middle Ages) are frequently cited to both support the prevalence of real activities (Backhouse 2000) and to illustrate the differences between depiction and reality (Rackham 1997b: 41, 58).

•

The Multiplicity of meaning. A lot of medieval art, particularly illustrating a textual narrative, is thought to contain different levels of meaning which could be chosen to be interpreted by a variety of different audiences. The various ‘meanings’ of medieval animal depictions and their audiences are an area of

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current debate, including the idea that some elements of medieval art have no meaning beyond decoration. •

The relationship between images and texts. This is being explored in all areas of medieval art, particularly in the context of illuminated manuscripts and not specifically related to animals. However, animals are found in a whole range of textual contexts, ranging from initial decoration to disjointed illuminations in manuscript margins and are clearly an important element. Camille (1998: 253) recently proposed an alternative approach towards the illuminated animals in the Luttrell Psalter: ‘Itself constructed out of animal flesh, the parchment pages of the psalter are full of animal signs whose significance cannot be reconstructed through texts’

Perhaps ‘alone’ should be added to the end of this remark, since documentary sources can provide an incredible background of detail which many scholars take for granted. Faunal remains Zooarchaeological analyses of medieval faunal remains are primarily concerned with: • • •

•

•

What parts have survived – what parts were used and how. How these have been modified by human activity. Pathology - such as arthritis in cattle and horses suggesting their use as draught animals. The age of individuals and collective groups, through indicators such as bone fusion. This may suggest what animals were predominantly used for meat as opposed to other products, such as wool from sheep. Sexing of animals – for example, whether breeding animals are being slaughtered.

All this can provide information about:

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•

Species indicators: the faunal assemblages of related sites are used to refer to species present in the surrounding locality as well as those imported in from outside the immediate hinterland. The ‘size, shape and general appearance’ of domestic animals can be reconstructed in some detail (O’Connor 1982: 48). Food webs with predator and prey relationships can be potentially reconstructed (Armitage and West 1985: 120-122; O’Connor 1998: 5), whilst the relative, dynamic importance of different species in particular spatial and temporal contexts is a vital balance to studies based primarily on documentary sources.

•

Environment: faunal assemblages have been used to make inferences about the surrounding environment through ‘indicators species’ (primarily based on modern ecological analogues), for example; the presence of bats in archaeological contexts has been linked to fluctuations in local woodland (Yalden 1999: 119-123).

•

Animal-related activities: hunting (related to wild animals) and animal husbandry (related to domesticates).

•

Diet of the local human and animal populations: wild and domestic species of mammals, birds and fish are discussed in typical site reports (e.g. Barber 1998: 192-193; Price and Ponsford 1998: 223-4). Discussion of the consumption of exotic or unusual species occurs from time to time (e.g. Swans; Gidney 2000: 175).

•

Specific contexts: Comparing the faunal assemblages from a variety of controlled and fully researched contexts within the same town or region can illuminate patterns of differential use (e.g. the use of animals by a priory as opposed to a manor or castle reflecting, amongst other things, varied socio-economic status; see Ashby this volume).

•

Manufacturing: An immense range of manufactured, animalbased products can be recovered from excavations: leather, (shoes, belts) bones (handles, buttons, beads, belt buckles, pins, needles, styli, whistles, dice, casket ornamentation), teeth (for

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burnishing), more rarely antler (combs), ivory (game pieces, rings) and horn (beakers, lantern panes) as well as a large amount of waste material. Occasional objects are also found during excavation or have survived in private collections. Depending on the amount and distribution of any given type, various things can be said about the activities, e.g. in medieval urban contexts, the sparse number of worked bone fragments combined with the general distribution of offcuts suggests this activity was restricted to personal users rather than professional craftsmen. However most analyses have been restricted to typologising the surviving material. Published zooarchaeological studies are numerous (see also Marinval-Vigne and Thiebaut 1996) and as with the previous perspectives range from the general (Albarella 1999; Bartosiewicz 1995; Bergquist and Lepiksaar 1957; Bond and O’Connor 1999, O’Connor 1982) to specific topics such as individual species (Aston 1988; Bartosiewicz 1993; Clark 1995; Lloyd 1977-78) and associated activities (Dobney, Jacques and Irving 1996; Gidney 2000; MacGregor, Mainman and Rogers 1999). Aside from these specialist texts, the majority of medieval archaeological site reports contain a section on faunal remains ranging from brief statements (Bourdillon 1986) to more extensive analyses (Noddle 1975; O’Connor 1982) depending on the surviving evidence. Studies incorporating zooarchaeological perspectives of medieval fauna are mainly concerned with economics (Schofield and Vince 1994: 195) human activities associated with the deposited remains, and with ecology - zoological analysis ranging from the pathology of individuals (O’Connor 1991: 267-269) through to reconstructing the associated environment (Armitage and West 1985:127-132; Griffith et al 1983: 347), often coupled with palaeobotanical analyses. One particularly interesting application of zooarchaeological analyses of medieval faunal assemblages is illuminating cases where people seem to have eaten cats (Luff and García 1995: 107-108), dogs and horses (Lovett 1993: 234; Smith 1998) contrary to more generic understandings of how these animals were valued in medieval Christian society.

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Mixtures of the above categories are found in a number of edited works such as Cameron (1998: literature, iconography, zooarchaeology – focusing on early medieval examples), Davies and Jones (1997: archaeology, literature, iconography, folklore), Flores (1996: literature and iconography), Houwen (1997: literature and iconography), Salisbury (1998: literature and iconography) and Yalden (1999: literature, iconography, zooarchaeology and place name studies). Wolff’s (1985) volume in particular deals with documentary (Zink 1985), iconographic (Durliat 1985) and archaeological (Audoin 1985; Beck 1985) sources and perspectives. The International Reynard Society3, publishes numerous articles in its journal Reinardus, frequently combining documentary and iconographic sources. In addition, studies on composite creatures, fabulous beasts (e.g. Einhorn 1996, Freeman 1976) and the ‘nature’ of monstrosity in medieval culture (Friedman 1981; George 1968; Husband 1980; Olsen and Houwen 2001; Otten 1986; Williams 1999; Yamamoto 2000) should also be included within the body of literature addressing human-animal relations in the Middle Ages. Problematic categories: ‘physical’ and ‘conceptual’ Different types of evidence for a single type of animal, bird or fish are typically segregated into their respective discipline areas, and without detailed commentary may suggest a disjointed and occasionally inconsistent multiplicity of meanings. Yet medievalists have been able to focus on specific contexts and sidestep the modern inability to grasp these contradictions. To return to the example of leporids, briefly mentioned at the start of this article as juxtapositions of both different sources and interpretative paradigms, and to temporarily generalise, iconographic hares or rabbits have been interpreted in roughly ‘conceptual’ terms, whilst the bones of these animals have been used to discuss their ‘physical’ or economic functions. If the questions behind any holistic study of a particular animal are ones of uncovering its contemporary status or value, they tend to diverge into a multitude of threads. For example, faunal analysis of rabbit bones from excavations in related medieval contexts from monasteries (Bond 2001: 83) to castles (Groenman-van Watteringe and Wijngaarden-Bakker 1990: 294)

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reveals activities associated with skinning and eating, which, as is always noted in relation to a synthesis of a variety of documentary sources, are identified with élite society; both secular and religious (Rackham 1997a: 293). Medieval rabbit warrens - artificial constructs (see Germond, Champême and Fernandez 1988), are typically associated with high-status sites throughout north European landscapes from the remote Waddeneilanden in the north Netherlands (Van Dam 1999: 12) to the Brecklands of East Anglia (Bailey 1988). The immense body of iconographic sources suggest a range of utilitarian uses for rabbits as well as their importance in contexts typically interpreted through conceptual terms (Abraham 1963), such as romance or allegory (e.g. marginal rabbits in the Romance of the Rose4). The location of these is incredibly variable: from the restricted viewing of a manuscript (e.g. the Luttrell Psalter5 and the Remede de Fortune6) to the relatively frequent and public viewing of a church doorway (fig. 3) window, or roof boss (Cave 1948: 71). Other contemporary documents suggest that rabbits are linked with clothing, land ownership and hunting (Cummins 2001: 236-7). Some documented individuals have names meaning ‘rabbit’ and in late medieval/early modern contexts, rabbits appear as heraldic elements (e.g. Coningsby), whilst their less frequently cited presence in alchemical texts (e.g. the Iconologia of Cesare Ripa and the Aurora consurgens7) and medieval Jewish sources (e.g. the Rothschild Miscelany8) presents further variation. At this stage, the discussion is still very much on ‘rabbits’ rather than a particular rabbit or hare. Yet this is not about attributing postmodern concepts of agency to individual animals, but rather attempting to draw splintered sources and interpretations into a single cohesive statement. In an integrated study, individual rabbits are dragged together across different spatial and temporal contexts and the resulting interpretation provides a somewhat fragmentary yet stable perspective. This is an incredibly generalised example and makes no provision for a host of additional variables such as place-names, and changes over time relating to any one (and all) of the sources mentioned above. Additional questions need to be incorporated into the research agendas of future warren excavations and landscape interpretations.

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What about the physical environment associated with any particular warren? How does other fauna and flora fit into the picture both ‘physically’ and ‘conceptually’? How do local trends compare to national or international patterns? Is it possible to generalise at all about rabbits in the Middle Ages? The designation of ‘physical’ and ‘conceptual’ as isolated categories is problematic, yet clearly consideration of the wider context from an interdisciplinary perspective is necessary for any holistic understanding.

Fig. 3 Rabbit Pilgrim from Beverley Church.

Integration Each specialist perspective examining what can be a fragmentary source from a potentially incomplete context, opens a window into the Middle Ages and accordingly attempts to draw as many threads together as possible. Recently, Sidell (2000: 285) outlined the future

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for environmental archaeology including as broad themes, the evolution of landscapes and the interaction of their inhabiting communities – however still focusing on the human utilisation of biological organisms and materials. Armitage (1982: 105) on the other hand had previously suggested that work on animal remains from urban sites should encompass both zoological aspects and ‘cultural implications’. Whilst animal economics are clearly a vital element of our medieval reconstructions, they should not be ultimately separated from interpretations suggested by the wider range of sources. A number of examples illustrate varying levels of integration with differing emphases on ‘physical’ and ‘conceptual’ elements. In the case of rabbits, many studies focus on economics and ecology (e.g. van Dam 1999; Yalden 1999: 158-161) whilst Camille (1995: 118) in his study of marginal medieval art briefly links the widespread appearance of rabbit depictions with both their economic and metaphorical (i.e. erotic) significance. Passing references to rabbit management are found throughout studies focusing on more conceptual elements such as romance literature or iconography. Yet these relationships are rarely explored in any detail. The drive to integrate a range of sources seems to have become increasingly important in predominantly archaeological studies, and particularly those from early medieval contexts where evidence of any sort is limited (e.g. Prummel 2001). A brief list of examples from later contexts follows: the socio-economic status of animals in relation to different spatial contexts is discussed by Albarella and Davis (1996) from documentary and zooarchaeological perspectives, whilst Ashby (this volume), O’Connor (this volume) and Reitz and Wing (1999: 240, 329-30) suggest increased collaboration with other disciplines, in order to expand our understanding of medieval fauna beyond conventional zooarchaeological frameworks. Grant (1995: 160) hints at the physical and conceptual factors motivating changes in élite responses towards animals in the Middle Ages but does not expand her ideas. Coy combined documentary and archaeological evidence in a survey of the uses of fish in central southern England; Gardiner (1998) presents a comparable study for sea-mammals, whilst Lampen (1996) combined the evidence of charters and

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archaeology to illuminate the construction and use of medieval fish weirs. In the context of hunting and diet, a core of documentary and iconographic sources are becoming increasingly popular within integrated works: Smith (1998) draws evidence from a range of archaeological, documentary and iconographic sources in her study of cats, horses and dogs in Scottish medieval towns. Soderburg (2001) recently presented a paper on deer in medieval Irish monastic contexts, combining documentary, iconographic and archaeological sources. Schofield and Vince (1994: 192) and Harvey (1995: 39) refer to the spiritual elements dictating medieval diet, Neer and Ervynck (1996) attempt to relate documented monastic food rules to archaeological consumption patterns, whilst Lovett (1993:235) concludes her analysis of faunal remains from an industrial complex associated with Bordesley abbey, by suggesting that it may be possible to distinguish ‘secular’ and ‘spiritual’ space through the discrepancy in specific species. The relationships between animals and landscapes cannot be properly investigated without an interdisciplinary approach, and in the context of medieval hunting, an immense amount of work has been done on the hunting landscape (e.g. Grant, Young 1979), but very little on the animals within its context (Pluskowski 2002). In his study of medieval southern Scandinavian deer parks combining archaeological, documentary and folkloric evidence, Andrén (1997) suggested that an interdisciplinary approach was essential for a holistic understanding of the hunting landscape. Yet studies of the ‘cultural landscape’ have been inter- or at least multi-disciplinary for some time (see Birks 1988) and this is reflected in the increasing tendency to incorporate a wider range of evidence in medieval landscape studies. For example, in his sketch of medieval wasteland and its ‘resources’, GroenmanVan Waateringe (1996) draws upon documentary sources and ‘ecoarchaeological’ research incorporating palaeobotanical and zooarchaeological data. An interdisciplinary case study: the medieval wolf My own research explores the complicated changing human responses to wolves in medieval England, Scotland, Wales and southern Scandinavia from A. D. 750-1300 through both modern and medieval understandings of the ‘threatening wild’9. The core of this

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research is based on archaeological, iconographic and documentary data whilst the full range of sources and perspectives includes psychology, geography, ecology, zoology, conservation-studies, anthropology and folklore. Data has been integrated in the following ways: • • •

Using multiple sources to ‘fill in the gaps’ where other data was limited, in addition to supporting larger bodies of data where appropriate. Using appropriate analogues to extend the discussion of the wolf beyond the isolated animal to include its environment. Forming an inter-disciplinary conclusion drawn from the full combination of sources rather than a series of separate multidisciplinary conclusions.

In the case of the medieval wolf, there is only limited and fragmentary evidence from the chosen study areas before the fourteenth century and as a result, certain sources tend to dominate individual sections. A strong ecological element has been maintained throughout the study by situating the wolf within its changing environmental setting, whilst acknowledgement of the multiple forms of the neo-medieval wolf has provided both an interesting window into potential future human-wolf relations. Conclusion: towards an interdisciplinary approach ‘Modern medieval studies are either interdisciplinary or in danger of extinction’ 10 Medieval inter-disciplinary projects are becoming increasingly popular and it seems that the artificial boundaries separating history, archaeology and art-history (Wicker 1999) are blurring more than ever before. Inter-disciplinary projects focusing on medieval fauna (e.g. ‘Reconstructing the medieval environment and its impact on the human mind’ by the Oswald von Wolkenstein - Gesellschaft) incorporate both human-animal relations as well as relations between animal species (within a single ecosystem) and between animals, people and landscapes. There is of course, relatively more evidence for some animals than others: the faunal remains and iconographic

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examples of medieval dogs and foxes for example, outnumber wolves (Pluskowski forthcoming11) and lynx (Bartosiewicz 1993). This type of disparity presents problems for any broader reconstruction of animals within ‘medieval society’ but also forces scholars to look through a broader range of sources for any scrap of information. Conceptual interpretations of the relationships between medieval society, the surrounding landscape and its inhabiting fauna (based on, for example, romance literature; Le Goff 1992: 47-59) are polarised against more utilitarian/economic interpretations (based on for example, archaeological reconstructions of land use: Bond and O’Connor 1999). Studies of the former category (conceptual) are sometimes more mindful of the latter (Saunders 1993). In the case of the latter, whilst there is a tendency to cite a number of sources (as suggested by the examples above) there is usually (but not always) only a limited attempt to incorporate conceptual elements within the wider interpretation. In the light of increasing integration, sweeping conclusions based on single sources should be re-assessed. However, a cautionary distinction should be made between specialist reports or studies, such as those focusing on a particular text, the iconography of a church arch or the faunal remains from a particular archaeological context, and cohesive works examining more generic topics such as ‘nature’ and ‘animals’ in the medieval world. Although the latter draws heavily upon the former, both invariably make statements and conclusions about a particular site, artefact or the behaviour of a particular group of people: more often than not there are statements about animals in relation to ‘medieval society’. Fortunately, medievalists are increasingly diversifying their sources for comparable analogues from ethnography to psychology, with repeated cautioning about understanding the specific paradigms of individual disciplines present within general archaeological interpretations (Dincauze 2000: 21; Wicker 1999). This article has presented generalisations with the aim of illustrating a wide range of problems and possibilities for integrating different perspectives in the study of medieval fauna. It is hoped that this will encourage further discussion. Detailed case studies are at the heart of all research into the Middle Ages, and comparisons between different spatial and temporal contexts cannot always be readily made. One unusual example is the phenomenon of late medieval/early modern

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animal trials, (primarily documentary with some iconographic sources) which seem to be concentrated in parts of the continent, especially southern France, and are virtually unknown in Britain (Evans 1987, see also Agnel 1858 and Beirne 1994). This seems to be related to local factors ranging from animal value systems through to specific legal and religious traditions. Where does this leave the interdisciplinary approach towards medieval fauna? Aside from incorporating a wide range of sources to both support ‘physical’ analyses and integrate them with ‘conceptual’ interpretations, a number of issues can be explored in any ‘conclusive’ study of medieval human-animal relations: utility (both physical and conceptual from the human perspective), ecology (from both human and animal perspectives within a series of physical and conceptual spatial contexts) and cosmology. This last category; discussing animals and medieval ‘Christianity’ – the cosmological framework underpinning the majority of medieval societies12, is particularly complicated. The endless local variations of Christian cosmology seem to correspond with variations in animal value systems and methods of representation; for example the virtual uniqueness of dog and horse-headed saints in Orthodox iconography (Newall 1978: 191-196). Above all, an awareness or discussion of the perceived medieval boundaries between humans and animals is particularly important in both studies of natural fauna and monstrous or composite creatures. Finally modern questions need to be incorporated: the juxtapositions between our animal value systems and those of medieval societies should be engaged and discussed (but not simplified) whenever possible. It is extremely difficult to relate to the intimate connections between medieval people and animals in the modern western world, particularly since there is no unifying cosmology guiding the way we value other organisms. In order to further our understanding of how and why people responded differently to different animals, it is useful to reflect on how and why we respond to these animals. In many ways western society has retained a legacy of mixed attitudes from the Middle Ages and this is often encapsulated by the Media – particularly cruel treatments of animals are associated with bygone ‘dark ages’ and their instigators with ‘medieval mentalities’. The complex relationships between people and animals and between different groups of animals both

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today and in the Middle Ages are simplified and subsumed: this is the final and some may argue, the ultimate motivation for integrating our studies and broadening our horizons more than ever before. Acknowledgements I would like to thank Dr Catherine Hills, Professor Joyce Salisbury and Dr Preston Miracle for their comments, suggestions and support. Images Fig. 1. MS. Bodl. 264. fol. 81v. reproduced with the permission of the Bodleian Library, University of Oxford. Fig. 2. Photograph by A.G. Pluskowski. Fig. 3. Reproduced with the permission of the Vicar and Wardens of St Mary's Church, Beverley. Bibliography Abraham, C. K. 1963. Myth and symbol: the rabbit in medieval France. Studies in Philology 60/4, October: 589-597. Audoin, F. 1985. L’animal et ses représentations sur le site dunisien de la Charité-sur-Loire du XIe au XVIIe siècle. In Le monde animal et ses representations au Moyen Age (Xie-Xve siècles). Actes du Xvème congres de la Société des historiens medievistes de l’enseignement superieur public. Toulouse, 25-26 Mai, 1984 (ed P. Wolff). Toulouse: Universite de Toulouse-Le Mirail, pp. 95-102. Agnel, E. 1858. Curiositiés judiciaires et historiques du Moyen Age: Procès contre les animaux. Paris: Dumoulin. Albarella U. and Davis S. 1996. Mammals and birds from Launceston Castle, Cornwall: decline in status and the rise of agriculture. Circaea, 12/1: 1-156.

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Zink, M. 1985. Le monde animal et ses représentations dans la literature française du moyen age. In Le monde animal et ses representations au Moyen Age (Xie-Xve siècles). Actes du Xvème congres de la Société des historiens medievistes de l’enseignement superieur public. Toulouse, 25-26 Mai, 1984 (ed P. Wolff). Toulouse: Universite de Toulouse-Le Mirail, pp. 47-71. Ziolkowski, J.M. 1993. Talking Animals: Medieval Latin Beast Poetry, 750-1150. Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press Notes 1

See Wicker’s (1999: 169) clarified definitions of multi-, cross- and inter-disciplinary.

2

For a full bibliography see The Aberdeen Bestiary website: http://www.clues.abdn.ac.uk:8080/besttest/alt/comment/biblio.html 3

http://www.hull.ac.uk/Hull/FR_Web/fox.html

4

E.g. MS fr. 25526. fol.84v. (dated to 1330s) A marginal miniature of a rabbit ringing bells – an erotic symbol – beguiled by a lion and dog mimics human actions in the text (Huot 1993:287). See also MS Bibl. Nat. fr 1565 (Nd) f. 127v where Nature’s association with sexual reproduction is indicated by the rabbit she holds. 5

British Library Additional MS 42130 f. 176 v.

6

Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris; MS Fr. 1586, f. 103. By Guillaume de Machaut. Mid- fourteenth century. 7

Plate 28 of the Aurora consurgens (MS. Ferguson 6) depicts amongst other things a man holding a limp dead hare. The numerous editions of the Iconologia of Cesare Ripa contain both hares and rabbits. 8

Isreal Museum, MS. 180/51. There are numerous depictions of rabbits; but one reproduced in Herrin 1999:190 (f. 339.B) depicts an

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allegorical scene where rabbits represent ‘a judge and eloquent ministers’. 9

Forthcoming Ph.D. thesis: ‘Beasts in the woods: medieval responses towards the threatening wild’. Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge. See www.beasts-in-the-woods.org for more details. 10

Taken from the first point of the ‘theses for discussion’ of Whither Medievalists? presented by the Utrecht Centre for Medieval Studies on Monday 9th July 2001 at the International Medieval Congress, Leeds. 11

Forthcoming Ph.D. thesis, ‘Beasts in the woods: medieval responses towards the threatening wild’. This is an inter-disciplinary study focusing on human-wolf relations in medieval Britain and southern Scandinavia from A.D. 700-1300. Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge.

12

Although Christianity is treated as the generic medieval religion, it is important to note that parts of Eastern Europe such as Estonia and Lithuania were not officially ‘converted’ until the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries respectively, whilst an understanding of the interplay between Jewish, Muslim and Christian cultures is essential to any study of medieval Spain, north Africa and the Near East and should be at least considered when researching other regions. In addition, scholars researching the early medieval period in northern Europe are concerned with the interaction between a host of pagan and Christian paradigms through the slow and stumbling process of religious conversion.

Book Reviews Short Reviews Later Anglo-Saxon England: Life and Landscape by Andrew Reynolds 1999 Stroud: Tempus Publishing Hbk 192pp; 84 text figures, 25 colour plates ISBN 0752414321 Reviewed by Philippa Patrick, Institute of Archaeology, University College London. When I studied Anglo-Saxon England as an undergraduate, very little emphasis was placed upon the later phase. There is a notable lack in accessible literature on the later Anglo-Saxon era, and this gap led to Andrew Reynolds, notable for his research into the period’s administrative and judicial systems, being invited to take on the task of writing an accessible introduction to the later Anglo-Saxon period. Reynolds has succeeded in producing a very useful guide to many of the more neglected issues concerning the period; he only briefly mentions art, burial and religion, which are generally more focused upon by other scholars, rather choosing to look at the basics of everyday life. Unfortunately, the omissions are also neglected in the rather weak ‘further reading’ section, which Reynolds states is meant to put the subject matter of the book in its “broader historical context”. This perhaps compromises the book’s usefulness as a student reader. In-text and bibliographic referencing are generally lacking, so the reader cannot follow up anecdotes. The book is organised into five main thematic sections: ♦ ♦ ♦

England in the seventh century, and the early Anglo-Saxons The people: social scales and social relationships The landscape: territorial arrangements and the governance of the realm

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2002

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The landscape: settlements in the countryside Marketing, manufacture and trade: the development of towns

There are also sections on the sources and approaches available to scholars studying the period, and a useful postscript on England after the Norman Conquest. The main chapters are subdivided into clear sections. The presentation is generally good, with many illustrations, including site plans, maps and artefacts, to accompany the text. The colour plates are each accompanied by ample explanatory text, but are all clustered in one section and placed in the middle of a paragraph, which is rather offputting. The volume hints strongly at being designed as a text-book for students. The thematic arrangement, detailed case-studies and vast quantity of maps and site plans show a level of detail that perhaps the ‘lay’ reader would not demand. However, the introduction incorporates a very detailed description of archaeological terminology, classes of evidence, and the range of historical sources available. To an archaeologist, this section may appear cumbersome, yet it caters for a wide reader-base; the explanation of terminology and sources ensures that the content of the text should be understood even by people who have not studied or practised archaeology and history. The content of this volume lends itself more to use as a reference text than for reading cover-to-cover; the tirades of Old English terms can at times prove somewhat overpowering. The subject matter is also rather Wessex-oriented, neglecting Northern England, in spite of the Viking activity in that area, causing it to be perhaps the most socio-politically dynamic regions at that time. Overall, the usefulness of ‘Later Anglo-Saxon England’ as a student text-book cannot be denied, but we still await a holistic guide to the era; Reynolds’ version portrays a bland, sterile and rather bureaucratic society by overlooking people’s faith and superstitions and the artforms of the time.

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Traces of the Templars by George F. Tull 2000 Goldthorpe, Rotherham: The King’s England Press Pbk 192pp, 50 text figures, 1 colour plate. ISBN 1 872438 16 4 Reviewed by Aleks Pluskowski, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge. The Knights Templar have maintained their popularity in the west since the publication of Malcolm Barber’s The Trial of the Templars (1978) and The New Knighthood (1994), more recently in both the core of the academic tradition with Read’s The Templars (1999), Selwood’s Knights of the Cloister (2001) and Nicholson’s The Templars (2001) as well as the fringe with books such as Picknett and Prince’s The Templar Revelation: Secret Guardians of the True Identity of Christ (1998) Sinclair’s The Sword and the Grail (1998) and Hopkins, Simmons, Wallace-Murphy and Hopkins’ Rex Deus: The True Mystery of Rennes-le-Chateau (2000). Tull’s Traces of the Templars, combining archaeological, iconographic and textual evidence, places itself firmly in the prior camp, presenting a gazetteer of both surviving and obscure English Templar sites but also including controversial examples such as Royston Cave. The book is divided into two sections. After a brief introduction, Tull launches into a list of English sites, accompanied by photographs and occasional plans. The gazetteer is subdivided into counties, enabling quick and easy location of specific sites for the reader. The second section presents a brief and selective but useful discussion of the logistics of the order, everything from architectural detail through to the character of individuals referring back to the distribution of English sites. Littered throughout this discussion are several unanswered questions and the beginnings of threads awaiting future research. Appendices provide a list of the Masters of the Temple in England and a brief mention of churches of the Holy Sepulchre whose design may have been influenced by the Order.

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There are minor mistakes; for example, Tull has used slightly dated sources when he states that ‘in the Middle ages a large part of the country, perhaps as much as 75%, was covered with forests’. Research in the last decade has demonstrated this traditionally held view to be inaccurate, although in this particular case, it does not damage the coherence and usefulness of the whole book. Compared to Gilchrist’s treatment of Templar sites (Contemplation and Action: The Other Monasticism, 1995), there are some disagreements and inconsistencies. For example, Gilchrist classifies Temple Manor at Strood in Kent as a preceptory whilst Tull does not, due to the absence of a chapel. Gilchrist however, suggested the possible existence of a chapel yet Tull rarely cites such academic controversies. Overall, Tull’s gazetteer is more complete than Gilchrist’s which also includes Hospitaller sites, nunneries and hospitals. Since Tull’s gazetteer of sites is filled with detail, it presents some interesting and specific conclusions about the nature of the order in England. Although not as wide ranging and intricate as Barber’s works nor as spectacular or fiercely controversial as Sinclair’s, Tull’s Traces of the Templars is an excellent introduction to anyone interested in tracing the distribution, organisation and ultimately, purpose of the Knights of the Order of the Temple of Solomon in England. European Paganism: The Realities of Cult from Antiquity to the Middle Ages by Ken Dowden 2000 London and New York: Routledge Hbk 367pp, 36 text figures. ISBN 0-415-12034-9 Reviewed by Aleks Pluskowski, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge. ‘European paganism’ is an extremely ambitious title, and its scope all the more so, encompassing the beginnings of historical Greek civilization through to the ‘official’ end of European paganism in fourteenth century Lithuania and peripheral survivals. Dowdell confesses that he has not researched the latest details in archaeology

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and uses old sources out of respect for their original authority and influence; his aim is to survey the ‘actual evidence for statements about pagan religions’. This is therefore intended as a fresh compilation of sources on the varying aspects of paganism in Europe. The overall layout of the book is clear and concise; footnotes and references are fully explained and other conventions such as author comments and questions are also clearly marked. Chapters, divided thematically and categorically, are clearly presented with individual contents lists. Subsections of chapters are typically characterised by further, clear categorisation. The clarity of the layout is complemented by a highly selective and ultimately generalising approach. From the onset, Dowden limits his categorisation and analysis, although his introductory definitions provide a consistent framework for the rest of the book. The origins and inadequacies of the terms ‘pagan’ and ‘heathen’ are explained and Doweden settles on the problematic definition of paganism as the antithesis of Christianity which is maintained throughout the book. As such, there is only limited discussion of syncretism, pluralism and varying spatial and temporal forms of Christianity, however the potential for variation (drawing on modern analogues such as Latvian folklore) is acknowledged. Greek and Roman material is used where Dowden believes it is comparable with other European paganism; hence mystery religions such as the cults of Isis and Mithras are not included, and there is no mention of philosophy and mysticism and no real use of Oracles or the cult of the Emperor. By ignoring such details from individual religious systems, any comparisons are potentially over-generalising and simplistic. Having narrowed the focus to ‘cult’, there are refreshingly no ‘lists’ of gods, however their limited treatment, primarily in a chapter entitled ‘a few aspects of gods’ is again characterised by narrow selection, categorisation and generalised conclusions. Despite these limitations, Dowden’s approach towards his chosen themes in pagan religion is interesting and stimulating. The chapter headings clearly illustrate both the range and level of categorisation: 1) Approaching paganism 2) Dividing the landscape 3) Focus I: spring, lake, river

Book Reviews 4) 5) 6) 7) 8) 9) 10) 11) 12) 13) 14)

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Focus II: stone and tree Area I: land Area II: growth Technology: statues, shrines and temples Christian paganism Pagan rite Pagan time A few aspects of gods Priests Cradle to grave Unity is the thing

Each chapter encompasses a series of (sometimes not directly connected) themes drawing on a number of case studies. For example, his categorisations of religious space explore the interplay between the physical and conceptual construction of this space; definitions range from physical landscapes and buildings through to persistence of worship and ‘religious memory’. A number of statements invite exceptions, but are extremely useful in forcing us to think about religious space; his categorisations will likewise stimulate further interesting and useful discussions. Dowden approaches the foci of religious practise in a similar way, examining the details of natural and artificial features in a categorical manner. Throughout these thematic chapters, numerous links are drawn between different geographical regions and societies and these can be frustratingly brief and generalised. To conclude, Dowden’s book is not a comprehensive source book, nor an updated synthesis of scholarly work on European paganism. However, it is a good stimulator for further thought and debate, providing numerous suggestions, potential frameworks and fresh perspectives on approaching both pagan and Christian religious paradigms.

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Review Articles An end to prejudices, stereotypes and simplifications about German Archaeology Archaeology, Ideology and Society. The German Experience. (Gesellschaften und Staaten im Epochenwandel, volume 7) Edited by Heinrich Härke 2000 Frankfurt: Peter Lang. Hbk 432pp; 40 b/w figs. ISBN 3-631-36707-4. Reviewed by Cornelius Holtorf, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge. This book is the first full-length overview in the English language of what German archaeology (Pre- and Protohistory) actually is, how it developed and what characterizes it today. As such it fills a huge gap and will hopefully contribute to a better international understanding of an important and powerful archaeological research tradition. The book starts with an introduction by Härke and is then divided into four sections: I.

From Nationalism to Nazism

II.

Post-War West Germany

III.

East Germany and Reunification

IV.

International Perspectives

In his introduction, Heinrich Härke sets out important parameters of both these main themes and of German archaeology as a whole (complementing Härke 1991, 1995). He emphasises the complexity of ‘archaeology and politics’ and the need to be more thoughtful and understanding towards cases of compliance and collaboration both in the National Socialist and in the East German communist state. Even in our present Western democracies there are, Härke argues, enormous influences of politics on archaeology, not only in the five new States of the Federal Republic of Germany where former easterners have been

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fearing for their future employment (many were made redundant, directly or indirectly because of the political changes). But also in the British system Härke finds power structures within Departments and the role of control bodies like the Quality Assurance Agency and the Research Assessment Exercises deeply worrying, claiming that they would probably be unconstitutional in Germany. Härke also comments on the difficulties for an international understanding of German archaeology that are simply inherent in the German language and the way it is used in academic archaeology. Not only provide certain key terms in German impossible challenges to the English translator but there is also a particular and untranslatable way of putting an argument in convoluted Wissenschaftsdeutsch which Härke describes as a ‘scholarly dialect’ of the German language. I remember that my own writing in German, which has never been inspired by Wissenschaftsdeutsch, was once dismissed by my supervisor as resembling ‘newspaper-language’ and that was certainly nothing to be proud of. By the same token, English translations of contributions by German authors to two books I recently co-edited, caused us the most horrible headaches for weeks on end. In this light, I have the greatest admiration for Härke’s achievement as an editor! The first section of the book (From Nationalism to Nazism) begins with a paper by Ulrich Veit on Gustav Kossinna. Even though Kossinna is probably the best known German archaeologist in the UK, the significance of his work is still very little understood and it is probably a tell-tale sign that most of my British and American colleagues cannot even spell his name correctly (Kossina is the form used most commonly). Veit’s chapter about the significance and intellectual origin of Kossinna and his ‘settlement-archaeological method’ is therefore very welcome. He points out (p. 55) that Kossinna was well ahead of his time and even close to aspects of the New Archaeology, not only in his firm conviction that we can know the past and that archaeology can become both scientific and relevant for society, but also in his commitment to an explicit discussion of methodological principles. Henning Haßmann discusses German archaeology in the ‘Third Reich’. This is by far the longest chapter in the book, but there is nothing redundant here. Only recently has German archaeology begun to study critically its involvement in the National Socialist state and project – here we have a nice summary of the first set of results (see also Schülke

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2000, Halle and Schmidt 2001). Haßmann’s account will hopefully add badly needed complexity to the reductionist understanding of Nazi archaeology in many anglophone histories of archaeology. One thing that may be worthwhile repeating here in brief is Haßmann’s argument that very little or no discontinuity can be seen in the work of some German archaeologists associated with the SS-Ahnenerbe (the SS organisation for Ancestral Heritage) during and after the ‘Third Reich’ (pp. 121-122). This is not because they were still practising Nazi archaeology but because it was precisely the scholarly rigour and seemingly ideology-free content of their work that contributed to the reputation of the SS-Ahnenerbe in the National Socialist state. Also interesting is to consult Sommer’s Figure 18 when reading this chapter (esp. pp. 87-88); it illustrates just how many German (or formerly German) Departments of Pre- and Protohistory owe (or owed) their existence to the National Socialist state (17 out of 30). The final chapter in this section is Frank Fetten’s discussion of the relations between archaeology and anthropology in Germany before 1945. It is often forgotten that the German tradition of pre- and protohistory with its strong culture-historical paradigm had originally firm links to its anthropological sister disciplines of social/cultural and biological/physical anthropology. One of the current discussions among German archaeologists is how these links and an anthropological paradigm for archaeology in general could and should be made fruitful again in the future (Veit 2000). But make no mistake, this discussion is of a rather different nature than its 1960s American counterpart about ‘archaeology as anthropology’ and could perhaps for that very reason be interesting to follow for anglophone archaeologists with a command of German. Fetten’s discussion adds considerable historical detail to our understanding of German archaeology during the first half of the twentieth century and indeed beyond, nicely complementing Veit’s and Haßmann’s earlier discussions. I sincerely hope that these three contributions will become required reading for all future historians of European archaeology. The second section in the book deals with post-war West Germany. Sabine Wolfram begins with a by now familiar analysis of the lack of archaeological theory in German archaeology (see also Sommer 1990; Härke 1991, 1995). She specifically points to the works of Hans Jürgen Eggers and Günter Smolla and regrets that their ‘theoretical potential’

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was ‘wasted’ in the anti-theoretical climate of post-war German archaeology. In particular, Eggers’ textbook Einführung in die Vorgeschichte (Introduction to Prehistory), first published in 1959, is still required reading for all German students of Pre- and Protohistory and arguably the best general archaeological textbook available in German. I firmly believe that an English translation of this book would be a splendid way to introduce British and American undergraduate students to a long-standing approach that is probably the most widespread in Europe and possibly the world, yet notoriously neglected in our current curricula. The fact that such a translation does not exist is no doubt partly due to the major publishing companies fearing to lose out on profits when publishing non-mainstream texts, and that is deeply worrying for academia at large. Wolfram concludes with an outlook on the significance of theory in future German archaeology. Although there are some signs that there is considerably more interest now in theory, of which the book under review is only one symptom (and Bernbeck 1997 is another), she also points to a number of specific factors that have recently put in jeopardy any sustained and wideranging changes in this direction (pp. 194-195). Ulrike Sommer deals with the teaching of archaeology in West Germany. This is possibly the most shocking chapter for an anglophone audience. Largely due to Wilhelm von Humboldt’s legacy of the early nineteenth century, the entire set-up of the universities and their courses as well as what is expected of students and how they are examined is completely different than what we are used to in the UK for instance. Sommer states (rightly, in my experience) that “the German university system favours not necessarily the most interested or gifted students, but the most resilient, those most resistant to frustration, and those who are prepared to accept the wisdom of their elders and betters” (p. 235). It is not surprising then when Sommer cites the former president of the German Wissenschaftsrat (Science Council), D. Simon, who wrote in 1993 that “the German university system is rotten to the core” (p. 206). Martin Schmidt discusses the relations between archaeology and the public in Germany. He examines how the image of prehistory and archaeology that is prevalent among the German public is shaped by particular characteristics of school curricula, museum exhibitions, the non-fiction book market, and the media, amongst others. This is an interesting paper which makes a valuable contribution, and adds some

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new figures, to already existing debates in the anglophone literature about aspects of public archaeology. I particularly enjoyed Schmidt’s illustrations showing advertisements using archaeological themes, but it helps if you can read the German text. Bettina Arnold contributed in a later chapter an illuminating commentary on Schmidt’s paper from an American perspective (pp. 408-412). The following two chapters discuss the situations of female archaeologists and gender archaeology in Germany. Although it is undoubtedly the case, and nothing to be proud of, that there are too few women working as archaeologists, Eva-Maria Mertens does not go much beyond documenting and lamenting this fact. Sigrun Karlisch, Sibylle Kästner and Helga Brandt describe the achievements of an ‘underground’ movement of feminist and gender archaeology in Germany. Together with others, they have been working very hard for over a decade in the ‘Network of Women in Archaeology’. This organisation has undoubtedly succeeded in getting heard both nationally and increasingly also internationally. But even so, the network has to operate ‘in the underground’ of German archaeology. This may not be a bad thing for archaeologists in principle, but it is not an encouraging sign for the state of current archaeological theory in Germany, if even a long-standing, well organised and highly productive initiative of young archaeologists cannot get a piece of the cake. The third section of the book is about ‘East Germany and Reunification’. Werner Coblenz was an established yet independent (party-less) member of East German archaeology for the entire time of its existence. His comprehensive account of forty years of archaeology under the socialist regime is a very important document and will be instrumental for an anglophone audience to understanding better the characteristics and achievements of archaeology in the GDR (see also Starling 1985). Looking at other chapters in this book, it is tempting to compare and contrast how archaeology and archaeologists fared in the GDR and in National Socialist Germany. Such comparisons have in the past led to bitter controversies among German archaeologists. Suffice to say that both sides’ standpoints can only be appreciated and evaluated if their arguments are known in considerable detail. In this sense, Coblenz’s paper, which presents his personal view on GDR archaeology, makes a very valuable contribution to the history of European archaeology.

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The chapter by Jörn Jacobs on East German archaeology during and after German unification is likewise written by somebody with firsthand experience (see also Reinecke 1990; Gringmuth-Dallmer 1993). Jacobs rejects the term ‘reunification’ since the new configuration has not existed before in any shape or form (a view I sympathise with). He accuses West German archaeologists of blatant triumphalism and active involvement not only in the Abwicklung (‘processing’, in practice: closure) of most GDR archaeological institutions after 1990 but also in the personal evaluation of all public servants, which resembled similar processes after the end of the National Socialist state in 1945. In effect, many East German archaeologists lost their jobs and were replaced by West German colleagues who often displayed superiority even though they were ignorant about the local conditions and, in the eyes of some, represented those West German academics that had not succeeded in securing positions in the West, i.e., they were seen as second choice. Jacobs also resents the fact that some of his new colleagues consider Marxist theory as having become obsolete with the end of the GDR. In conclusion, he is not hopeful for the future of German archaeology and fears (p. 351) that ‘the intellectual stagnation of West German archaeology’ has now extended to the east. Maybe the most interesting chapters for a wider audience, excluding Härke’s very readable introduction, are the international perspectives assembled in the final section of the book. John Kinahan assesses the impact of German archaeology on the former German colony of Namibia. He comes to interesting conclusions about German scholars and institutions, which played a dominant role in the development of Namibian archaeology. In his view, they have until very recently transferred not only a particular research tradition that focuses exclusively on meticulous documentation, but also a political position that disadvantages the indigenous Bushmen population by disenfranchising them from their own heritage (see also Kinahan 1995). If confirmed, this unwelcome consequence for Namibian archaeology is indeed a somewhat unexpected, yet no less serious consequence of the German ‘theory-vacuum’ in archaeology (Kinahan 1995: 87). The Dutch archaeologist Tom Bloemers gives an interesting assessment of current German archaeology based on his extensive ‘insider’s’ experience. Bloemers offers his comments as a friend, because “your best friend is a critical friend” (p. 375). What he says is, in parts, critical

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indeed. He diagnoses (p. 379), for example, that “there is in German archaeology a clear lack of understanding of the importance of theory and conceptualisation, and [that] there is almost no serious reflection on the foundations of archaeology as a discipline”. Bloemer’s assessment that German archaeology has sufficiently confronted its Nazi past is, however, more problematic and, for instance, disputed by Bettina Arnold in the next chapter. After some wider deliberations including an illuminating comparison with current Dutch archaeology, Bloemers concludes (p. 388) that “[t]he organization of German archaeology as a whole, and its internal and external functioning are not optimal because its elements are not geared towards cooperation, evaluation and innovation in a long-term, structural way”. After the growth of heritage management since the 1970s has effectively been altering the character and role of archaeology in Germany (as elsewhere), it now needs urgently, Bloemers argues, a number of structural changes, especially in aspects of research design and University education. Finally, Bettina Arnold contributes a ‘transatlantic’ perspective from the United States. Many of her points and observations are original and thought-provoking, although not all are equally convincing. I am, for example, not convinced that the emphasis on scientific techniques, objectivity, and value-free research in West German archaeology after 1945 resembles even superficially that of the anglophone New Archaeology of the 1960s and 1970s (except that sometimes both employ similar words). The former was largely based on ill-understood common sense notions, while the latter was highly self-conscious and firmly grounded in a particular philosophy of science. Similarly, Arnold’s fear that the relativist position of the ‘post-processualists’ could destroy archaeology, is insufficiently argued and, as it stands, anything but compelling. A belief in objective science is not necessarily the only or the best way to counter racist, Nationalist or anti-intellectual positions (Lampeter Archaeology Workshop 1997). Strange, to say the least, is also Arnold’s concern (p. 407) that German archaeology “is in danger of diving head first into post-processual archaeology without ever having actually gone through a true processual phase”. Neither are there any indications whatsoever that German archaeology as such is currently ‘diving head first into post-processual archaeology’, nor is it clear why ‘a true processual phase’ should be a necessary prerequisite for any such event. Surely German archaeology during the second half

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of the 20th century has got to be the best example for a tradition of archaeology that did (and does) not follow the contemporary paradigms and trends of anglophone archaeology. *** It may be a curious outcome of Härke’s recent writing - and now editing – that we may easily know more about German Archaeology than we know German archaeology (see also Härke 1991, 1995). But maybe this is not a bad thing and maybe even now we still don’t know enough about it, for as Tom Bloemers points out (p. 391), “Western Europeans, in particular, should realize how onesidedly Atlantic our perspective has been during the Cold War, and to what degree we have lost contact with Central and Eastern Europe. Consequently, we must avoid prejudice, stereotypes and simplifications … We should show curiosity and respect in order to find out what is valuable and what may be shared. Ultimately, this is in our own interest since there can be no European archaeology without German archaeology.” In Britain, the vision of a ‘European archaeology’ may not sound as unequivocally positive as it does on the continent but Bloemer’s statement is true nevertheless and could, arguably, even be extended to world archaeology. And yet, to the present day, German archaeology is notoriously unknown, disliked, and ignored among the vast majority of anglophone archaeologists. For example, when I approached Antiquity Reviews Editor Nicholas James whether he would want me to review Härke’s book, I was given to understand, after many weeks, that this book was not deemed relevant enough to be worthy of review at all (things have changed since Starling 1985). In sum, this book is a thorough and historically well-grounded presentation of the German tradition of archaeology (Pre- and Protohistory). I can only hope that it will gain the international attention and critical readership it deserves, so that it may help making an end to the prejudices, stereotypes and simplifications about German archaeology that abound widely. But at the same time this book is more than a presentation of a specific research tradition: it is also a textbook

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on the interrelations of politics, ideology and archaeology, using a range of detailed case-studies from 20th century Germany which demonstrate in all desirable detail the enormous complexity that such interrelations tend to have. Härke remarks (p. 21) that some of the chapters dealing with the recent history and current state of German archaeology are themselves documents as much as documentations: documents of frustration, bitterness and maybe even here and there a touch of self-pity. As such these chapters are tremendously important and it is valuable that their content is now on record. Possibly, their writing (and publication) will also have a therapeutic effect for the authors. The volume has been a long time in the making, ten years to be precise. It was originally based on a TAG conference session in 1990, and published just in time to count for the 2001 Research Assessment Exercise in the UK. Ten years are a long time, especially in Germany where effectively a new Republic emerged during that period. There are eleven chapters written by German authors in the book: two of these authors have since then left archaeology, while another one died six years ago. Härke and his contributors have tried hard to bring all the papers up to date but this has been successful only in parts. Several chapters appear to have an ‘up-date’ glued on to them at the end but are substantially unchanged. It seems particularly odd to see Eva-Maria Mertens discuss 1988 (i.e. pre-unification) statistics about the number of women in West German universities. Sommer’s statistics go at least as far as 1991, 1995 and 1996 respectively. Five of the original papers, including two by East German authors who were not willing or able to submit chapters to the book, had already been multiplied and have been circulating in Germany since 1991. It is to Härke’s and his contributors’ credit, and for the benefit of a much wider, international audience, that they eventually found the time and energy to see the English book through to publication.

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Bibliography Bernbeck, R. 1997. Theorien in der Archäologie. Tübingen and Basel: Francke. Eggers, H. J. 1986. Einführung in die Vorgeschichte [1959]. München: Piper (third edition). Gringmuth-Dallmer, E. 1993. Archaeology in the former German Democratic Republic since 1989. Antiquity 67, 135-142. Halle, U. and Schmidt, M. 2001. Central and East European prehistoric and early historic research in the period 1933-1945 (Berlin, 19-23 November, 1998). Translated by Neal Ascherson. Public Archaeology, 1:269-281. Härke, H. 1991. All Quiet on the Western front? Paradigms, methods and approaches in West German archaeology. In Archaeological Theory in Europe (ed I. Hodder). London and New York: Routledge, pp. 187-222. Härke, H. 1995. “The Hun is a Methodical Chap”: Reflections on the German tradition of pre- and protohistory. In Theory in Archaeology: A World Perspective (ed P. Ucko). London and New York: Routledge, pp. 46-60. Kinahan, J. 1995. Theory practice and criticism in the history of Namibian archaeology. In Theory in Archaeology: A World Perspective (ed P. Ucko). London and New York: Routledge, pp. 76-95. Lampeter Archaeology Workshop 1997. Relativism, objectivity and the politics of the past. Archaeological Dialogues, 4:164-184. Reinecke, A. 1990. The chances and risks for East German Archaeology. Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 9:163-166. Schülke, A. 2000. Conference Review: “Die Mittel- und Osteuropäische Ur- und Frühgeschichtsforschung in den Jahren 1933-45”, Berlin, 19-23 November 1998. European Journal of Archaeology, 3:417-429. Sommer, U. 1990. Frontiers of discourse: the nature of theoretical discussion in German archaeology. Archaeological Review from Cambridge, 10:202-216.

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Starling, N. 1985. Review of H. Behrens, “Die Ur- und Frühgeschichtswissenschaft in der DDR 1945-1980, miterlebt und mitverantwortet”. Antiquity, 59:229-230. Veit, U. 2000. Kulturanthropologische Ansätze in der Ur- und Frühgeschichtsforschung des deutschsprachigen Raumes: Ein Blick zurück nach vorn. Archäologische Informationen, 23:77-98.

It’s About Time: The Concept of Time in Archaeology Edited by Håkan Karlsson 2001 Göteburg: Bricoleur Press. Pbk. 72pp. Illus. ISBN 91-973713-1-9. Reviewed by Adam Gutteridge, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge. For many years time has been dormant inside the inner reaches of archaeological theory. Time, in terms of chronological (or chronographic) dating was conceived of as spatial, in so far as it had a specific ‘location’ in the past. This past was the container of all found and identified objects of the past (actions, events, trends, societies, epochs). It succeeded in storing them objectively and in ordering its contents. These contents could be mapped chronologically, by means of writing a narrative account of the events inside our ordering timeframe (all archaeology is narrative) or by charts such as typologies, which ‘tell’ the passage of time to be appreciated by the reader. With the rise of the belief that although all actions are meaningful, they may be multiplicitous in meaning, and so may be impossible to decipher with any certainty, a post-processual archaeology was born. Initially, the only action that remained a certainty, inside our new paradigm of barbarous hermeneutics, was of a movement through time. Over the last ten years, however, archaeological theorists have broadened their scope of uncertainty, spreading from the minutiae of ‘mat. cult.’ and its multiple readings, to the very ground we walk on (Tilley 1994) and the time it takes us to do it (Bradley 1991; Gosden 1994; Thomas 1996). Much of this work attempts to address the results of a Cartesian

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dualism between subject and object and mind and body. It aims to relocate the individual not as a distinct and corporeal entity in opposition to space and time which are ‘out there’, but instead to entities which somehow reside inside ourselves, and that we have recourse to in creating and recreating our cultural relations. In the past, therefore, we might have located these relationships in time and space; now we are more inclined to see them as the locus in which time and space are created, mediated, and culturally understood. Broadly speaking, these previous investigations have been concerned with the sociality of time (in its broadest sense, as a condition and creation of the social), but this book attempts to address newer ground, in so far as it steps one rung further up the ladder of abstraction. We have become familiar enough with the ways in which we can think about ‘time’ in the past (about social memory, monument reuse, artefact biographies, ‘the past of the past’ and so forth), in a similar way to which we have been educated to think about ‘landscape’ in the past, but we are now faced with a sterner challenge: how can we think about time more abstractly, as something that is part of the ‘us’, and therefore, the way in which we do archaeology? The book is a collection of four papers, disparate in content and style, which were presented at a session of the fourth European Association of Archaeologists meeting, in Gothenburg in 1998. From the outset, the basic assumption and key thread of the book is essentially this: time can no longer be seen as an objective, singular, uniform entity. We must move on to think in ways which construct time as something other than a container of past activity. From the start we are neither offered new sets of case studies about the ‘social dimension of time in the past’, nor are we shown the outcome of intense theory. Instead, the papers in this book try to elucidate new ways of thinking about time: it is a book about the processes we might choose to employ ourselves when we address these questions, and as such, it is refreshing to be confronted by papers which are, in essence, experimental methodologies in action. Artelius’ opening paper is broken into two clear parts. The first briefly dissects the differing ways in which a variety of investigative disciplines (sociology, anthropology, religion, archaeology) have attempted to deal with time as a construction. We are by now quite used to seeing these kinds of comparisons made in our literature:

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archaeology has for many years engaged in theoretical and methodological interaction with other disciplines in the social sciences, at times most profitably, but it seems to me that when we come to address such monumental issues as time, we should cast our nets further afield, to literature and art for example. It seems strange, but dispiritingly familiar, that even now archaeologists are utilising anthropological examples of encounters with “Traditional societies “ [sic] culled from early twentieth century accounts, in order to tell us that, experientially, nothing is uniform in society. Artelius uses the different approaches of the disciplines to highlight the different levels of time that one might encounter in a society, and the society’s expression of these times (a ‘ritual time’, a ‘symbolic time’ etc.); he argues that the danger of being ignorant of these factors is that archaeology has the potential to confuse and conflate these various notions, and most importantly of all, that we must be aware of the difference between a conceptual understanding (e.g. a cosmology) and its potential manifestation (e.g. a burial rite.) A taxonomy of the temporal is something that has a heritage in various literature (e.g. Gurvitch 1964), and is broadly based on anthropology in varying guises. Yet if we begin from a standpoint that denies the objective status of time, then attempts to shoehorn the nature of a society’s understanding of it will not only be overly generalistic, but will prove fruitless, as we move towards realising that expressions of time are not only contingent, they are subjective. Artelius moves on to use the specific archaeological example of an area of burial activity in SW Sweden. Offering a palimpsestic interpretation of the area, he neatly telescopes down from the landscape, to a mound, to an individual grave, and to the seasonal oat seeds in it, illustrating as he goes the pervasive nature of the temporal in the aspects of the activities involved in these burial rituals. The second paper, by Damm, is a brief, thoughtful, study of what might be seen as a political conundrum in twenty-first century archaeology. How, she asks, can we represent the histories of non-western developing societies in the terms of western discourse? By exporting conceptual elements that are the foundations of our western cultural narratives, such as linearity and causality (both very basic keystone elements of western time), we may succeed only in interfering with the fundamental nature of these stories themselves, which may not share

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our culturally-specific formulae. This issue is thornier than it may at first seem, as western archaeologists might want to help communities, in this case the Bugakhwe in Botswana, by establishing narratives which document historical use of land, in such a way so as to match criteria of western scientific-esque discourse, and so to argue for land rights that are currently denied to them. Damm argues that these narratives have a fragility that means that social perceptions of time itself (so contingent and specific to an individual story, let alone a culture) may be irrevocably damaged by western retellings that will only serve to further hasten their demise by infecting them with our dominant discourse parameters. The paper by Karlsson is the most searching of the collection, and leaves a deep impression. Drawing heavily on Heidegger, Karlsson begins with a description of time today, as we have been driven to perceive it: total measurability due to increasing technology, where we see time as the fleeting move of a second-hand, a linear progression of the perishable ‘now’. This is viewed as having an effect on our archaeological time, as we slice and dice the past into periods whose only true quality is their (false) sucessivity. Here, a reified structure has been erected, into which we pour new dates and shuffle existing ones. The search for ‘when’ has come to override ‘how’ and ‘why’. The contention of the paper is that we should renovate the ways in which we think about time, and move from framed structures towards interwoven horizons of possibility, where, in the terminology familiar in Heideggarian archaeology, our Being becomes a referential doing, rather than a thing. Karlsson is plain about the reasoning behind this. If we begin to restore our own personal temporality into the archaeological narratives that we produce, not only will this make them more meaningful in an existential fashion, but it builds a bridge between our lives and the ones that we are writing about. Olivier ends the book with a brief paper, again suggesting a way in which we can change the way we think about time, and again drawing on a Continental philosopher, in this case Bergson. One of Bergson’s most famous discussions of time centred around an attempted refutation of Zeno’s paradox of Achilles’ run defeated by the necessity of passing a halfway point, and the halfway point of that distance, and on ad infinitum. Bergson’s contention was that time is not in any sense made

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up of individual instants, but is, more basically, a continuous stream of progression that Achilles’ staccato run cannot divide. Archaeologically this means that the past, or a moment/period of it, is not a unique slice like a thin-section, but is rather an accumulation of all its changes, and therefore, of all its pasts. Indivisible, it is duration, existing as a multitemporal present which doesn’t just preserve all of its pasts: it actually is them, or more accurately, the past is constantly in the present. Therefore, in any investigation of the past, we must come to realise that it is not successive or unique, but is a non-discrete palimpsest. As should be immediately clear from reading this review, there appears little except the front and back covers which holds these papers together. They are wildly different in scope and scale, style and content. But together they do ask us serious questions about the complacency that threatens to creep into our attempts to understand the temporal aspect of the past in our investigations. Perhaps disappointingly, none of them attempt to tackle what might be said to be the biggest question in this dimension: what are the effects of being uniformitarian enough to utilise present assumptions about experiential time in describing past ones, but not so uniformitarian as to accept cross-cultural generalisations? (Murray (1999) opens his paper with a discussion of difficulties connected with this point). That aside, Karlsson’s enquiry is the highpoint of a good book, and his points stay long in the mind: what are the connections between what we do, and what we are, in archaeology, and in the world? We are indeed uniquely placed individuals to attempt to construct narratives about the human condition that span the aeons. Time is, perhaps, the fulcral part of this experience, and to shape our words can help us shape our lives. Ours might be an altruistic discipline, in the broadest sense of the word, for narratives can help people to order the world around them in ways that make sense to them, and come to terms with the experience of being human, of being in time and in the world. Bibliography Bradley, R. 1991. Ritual time and history. World Archaeology, 23.2: 209-219. Gosden, C. 1994. Social Being and Time. Oxford: Blackwell.

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Gurvitch, G. 1964. The Spectrum of Social Time. Dordrecht: D. Riedel. Murray, T. 1999. A return to the ‘Pompeii Premise’. In Time and Archaeology (ed T. Murray). London: Routledge, pp. 8-27. Thomas, J. 1996. Time, Culture and Identity. London: Routledge. Tilley, C. 1994. A Phenomenology of Landscape. Oxford: Berg. Cultural Identity and Archaeology: The construction of European communities Edited by Paul Graves-Brown, Siân Jones and Clive Gamble 1996 Routledge: London. 284pp; Illus. ISBN 0-415-10676-1 Reviewed by Stella Souvatzi, Department of Archaeology, University of Cambridge. This volume consists of seventeen papers originally presented at Southampton Theoretical Archaeology Group (TAG) conference in 1992 in two sessions, one entitled The Identity of Europe which examined the role of archaeology in the construction of European identities, and another entitled Multicultural Communities in European Prehistory which aimed to explore the possibility of multiple, coexisting ethnic identities in prehistory. It is worth noting that while these sessions were organised 'no one could have predicted the horror of what would occur in former Yugoslavia' (Editors' Note - referring to the political events of 1992). It is ironic that a similar horror that occurred in the very same part of Europe (now called Serbia and Kossovo) in 1999 should contribute to the timeliness of this book. In the 'Preface' and especially in the forceful 'Introduction' the Editors set out the aims of the book in interesting detail. The following sentences epitomise it all:

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…this book outlines the current status of archaeological theory and practice with respect to the study of ethnicity and the construction of European identities. We do not see it as offering simple recommendations or solutions…(p. xx). …in order to address issues concerning archaeology and cultural identity in Europe, it is important to consider contemporary and historical socio-political contexts. Thus,…[the] book is concerned…with prevailing discourses of identity in Europe today, and the use of the past in construction and legitimisation of cultural identity (p. 2) This volume, thus, seeks to move away from the common practice of projecting modern concepts of culture, identity and ethnicity onto the past, and tries to locate itself on new ground as a cohesive treatise on the role and contribution of archaeology at periods of rapid social and political change and of shifting power relations such as those taking place in Europe since 1989. In this respect Cultural Identity and Archaeology certainly achieves the aim by embracing these concepts as matters of research rather than as a set of self-explanatory values and by illustrating their historically contingent nature in reference to a variety of archaeological, historical and political contexts. In merging papers from two different sessions for the purposes of publication the volume has lost some valuable contributions and perspectives such as the one on Islamic archaeology, and it also shows a clear imbalance in the national origins of contributors, as the editors, to their credit, acknowledge (Preface): the majority of papers included involve Western Europe (Britain, Germany, France and Spain), whereas other areas are either under-represented (2 contributions from Eastern Europe and 2 from Northern Europe) or absent (e.g. Central and Southern Europe). Whether this imbalance does not inevitably undermine the aims of the book is to the reader to decide. More on this point later. Seven chapters are more theoretically-centred. Two of these focus on the concepts of 'culture' and 'identity' and examine the relationship between their archaeological interpretation, on the one hand, and their popular and political use on the other, drawing on Foucault's epistemological analysis of history from the Renaissance to post-

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Modernity (Hides, chapter 2) or through semantic analysis of the concept of 'culture' (Díaz-Andreu, chapter 3). A further two contributions (Jones and Graves-Brown, chapters 4 and 5) include the concept of ethnicity and argue against the traditional archaeological assumption that there is a universal and one-to-one relationship between cultural and ethnic groups in favour of the view of either entity as context-specific, unbounded and polythetic. Graves-Brown’s argument, in particular, is predicated on the timely premise that ''biology' and 'culture' are inseparable as components of human life' (p. 81) and that the tendency to reiterate the assumed dichotomy between them (but also the attempt to impose biological concepts on social and historical analysis) is erroneous and counter productive. He approaches the problem through reconsideration of the more dynamic, materialist notions of Darwin's theory of natural selection (e.g., its emphasis on history and concept) and proposes that when it comes to identity the notions of 'species' and 'ethnic group' should be treated as similar: neither can exist 'except as dynamic, historically and physically situated entities' (p. 86) and both are compatible with human agency and the contingent nature of identity. Kristiansen's forceful paper (chapter 9) provides a significant outlook on the deeper political and ideological structures behind archaeology's research notions and objectives, with the example of the ways in which European myths of origins have been manifested in and constructed through archaeology. He argues that the 'civilisation/barbarism' dichotomy, which has dominated these myths ever since Classical times, represents an 'ethnocentric categorisation of the dominated by the dominant' (Kristiansen quoting Harbsmeier 1985) which has shaped both the political ideology of modern European states and archaeology's aims and interpretations. For instance, European imperialism during the 19th century was paralleled by an 'archaeological imperialism' (p. 139), one form of which can be seen in the rapid establishment by Western European nations of archaeological institutes in the Mediterranean and the Near East. The sense of (Western) European 'superiority' and of its 'special tradition' still remains strong in archaeological discourse, as can be seen, for example, in Renfrew's Archaeology and Language (Kristiansen (pp. 141-142); and, I would add, in the subtitle and opening paragraphs of Renfrew's contribution to the present volume). Kristiansen is to be congratulated

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not only for demonstrating that archaeology, far from being apolitical, is 'ideologically biased from top to bottom' (p. 143), but also for calling for interdisciplinary action and institutional reorganisation of the social disciplines in order to confront attempts at political and ideological manipulation. Incidentally, Shore's (chapter 6) anthropological perspective of European Community discourses and the construction of the 'new' Europe provides an equally forceful critique of the manipulation by EC politicians and officials of culture and cultural heritage in order to construct and make authoritative a 'European consciousness'. Starting from the very important questions of 'what kind of Europe is being 'imagined'' and whose 'images' prevail Shore's significant contribution demonstrates that the cultural construction and representation of the 'new Europe' are both essentialist and instrumentalist, as they are based on exactly the same rationale and symbolic terrain as the 'old Europe'. For example, 19th century social evolutionist thinking is reproduced in the portrayal of Europe as a force of rational and scientific progress logically developed from the Enlightenment, while Europe's cultural heritage is treated, on the one hand, as a well established and static object and on the other hand, as vulnerable and in need of protection from dangerous foreign influences (e.g., Americans and Japanese) (Shore, pp. 102-103). Finally, Janik and Zawadzka (chapter 7) offer a useful, if somewhat short and mostly descriptive, overview of the perceptions of Western Europe by Eastern Europeans and vice versa in the light of recent political developments, illustrating the problems caused by the long-held East/West division and the ways in which differences in methodology, terminology and preferred periods for study are perpetuated. Of the more archaeological-evidence-oriented contributions, the four chapters on the 'Celts' (Renfrew; Collis; Ruiz Zapatero; Fitzpatrick) convincingly deconstruct the unproductive 'Celtic' narrative, arguing that this excessively romanticised (often to the point of caricature, e.g. see Collis, p. 172) vision of a 'Celtic' Europe is merely a pastiche formed by the conflation of archaeological, historical and linguistic data. Those still believing that this myth is tenable should particularly consider Collis' stimulating opening tale of ethnicity and nationalism in Britain over the past 2,000 years, and Ruiz Zapatero's important point that the distinctive socio-cultural development of the Mediterranean world has not been taken into account and that 'to some extent

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Mediterranean Europe has been 'hijacked' by the Hallstatt and La Tène framework of Northern Europe' (p. 192). Similarly, Fleury Illet's (chapter 13) and Zvelebil's (chapter 10) contributions develop alternative perspectives on the 'Gallic' identity of France and on the 'Neolithic Revolution' respectively, both criticising the selective emphasis and archetypical value given to certain archaeological and historical periods for political and ideological purposes. Solli's (chapter 14) explicitly post-processual paper draws on her ethnoarchaeological work among rural and urban communities in north-western Norway and explores the ways in which archaeological knowledge about identity and the past becomes intertwined with local oral historical narratives. Bursche’s (chapter 15) paper on the 'ethnic determinants' in the Eastern Vistula Mouth, on the other hand, is explicitly more 'traditional' and calls attention to archaeological evidence rather than to pure theory. Overall, what I would have liked to have seen in addition to what the book contains is a more congruous view forward. Critical discussions of archaeology's biases and illustrations of the mechanisms by which the past is socially constructed in order to aid the dominant political powers are not enough if we are to move beyond an 'internal' understanding and critique of our work and towards suggestions of changes that can be made in an attempt to reach new levels of historical understanding and to resist attempts of political manipulation. Kristiansen's and Shore's papers stand out in these terms. Given also the variety of notions that the book addresses ('ethnicity', 'culture', 'race', 'nationalism' and 'memory' rather than 'cultural identity' alone), as well as the varying emphasis on and definition of each of these in the different papers, a Concluding chapter summarising the points of consensus and pointing out the way forward would have helped. Furthermore, as with any book that aims to question the dominant (political and archaeological) assumption of compatibility between ethnic, national, cultural and European constructions of identity and to bring forth the diverse, and often conflicting, ethnic and national constructions of the past, Cultural Identity and Archaeology would have gained more, had it actually included a plurality of local alternatives as well as views on the role of gender, of which, surprisingly, there is no mention whatsoever. However, the politics

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both of knowledge and of the social construction of the past with its underlying conceptualisation of the world in terms of domination and subjugation have been, and still are, not only ethnocentric and Eurocentric, as the book rightly points out, but also essentially androcentric (e.g. Rapp 1978; Gero 1996). Such plurality is essential if a dominant Western and masculinist unitary cultural-historical discourse is to be challenged. In this sense, it is a bit ironic that a book about the power relations underpinning the 'imagined' European unity, should be written in its majority by Western Europeans (and males), even though on the premise that other perspectives are relatively few or 'almost totally lacking' ('Preface') (but see, for example, Fotiadis 1993). On the other hand, this very imbalance serves to emphasise the book's general points that the New Europe is in truth not imagined as a pluralistic and culturally diverse haven and that, consequently, the need for development of multiple, alternative discourses is pressing. But on the whole, the book's weak points are counteracted by three strong elements: its explicitly theoretical, interpretative and diagnostic rather than prescriptive character; the diversity of periods and examples covered (ranging from hunter-gatherer communities to modern European Community documents); and the high quality of the contributions which represents a daring tackling of such timely and sensitive issues. Despite the fact that it is not in its composition as best an example of multiculturalism as I would look forward to, Cultural Identity and Archaeology is definitely a salient and timely production and would be an ideal acquisition for both junior and senior researchers. In an increasingly rationalistic, intolerant world, such books that move away from perceptions of the past in terms of monolithic, objective entities and stress the importance of cultural variability, the right of ethnic groups to self-definition and the need for academic interaction are extremely welcome. Bibliography Fotiadis, M. 1993. Regions of imagination: archaeologists, local people, and the archaeological record in fieldwork, Greece. Journal of European Archaeology, 1: 151-170.

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Gero, J. M. 1996. Archaeological practice and gendered encounters with field data. In Gender and Archaeology (ed R. P. Wright). Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, pp. 251-280. Rapp, R. 1978. The search for origins: unravelling the threads of gender hierarchy. Critique of Anthropology, 3: 5-24.

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Back Issues available Those issues not indicated as Out of Print can still be ordered. For volumes 1-10, £5 per issue. For volumes 11-14, £6 per issue. For issue 15 onwards, £8 per issue. 1.1 The founding issue with contributions by Moore Braithwaite and Haselgrove. Out of Print 1.2 Contributions by Sheridan and Gosden.

7.2 Archaeology and the Heritage Industry. Out of Print 8.1 Dangerous Liaisons? Archaeology in East and West. Out of Print

2.1 Archaeology and the Public. 8.2 Writing Archaeology 2.2 Ethnoarchaeology. Out of Print 3.1.The History of Archaeology. Out of Print

9.1 Technology in the Humanities Out of Print 9.2 Affective Archaeology

3.2. Archaeology and Texts. 4.1 Surface Archaeology 4.2 Aesthetics and Style Out of Print 5.1 Archaeology and Politics Out of Print

10.1 Interpreting Archaeological Science Out of Print 10.2 Archaeology in Context 11.1 The Archaeology of Death 11.2 Digging for a Laugh

5.2 Creating Space Out of Print

12.1 General Perspectives

6.1 Time and Archaeology Out of Print

12.2 The Hierarchy of Being Human

6.2 Archaeology as Education Out of Print

13.1 Archaeology Out of Africa

7.1 Women in Archaeology. Out of Print

13.2 Perspectives on Children and Childhood. Out of Print

ARC 18 14.1 History and Archaeology 14.2 An Archaeological Assortment

212 17.1. New Approaches to the Palaeolithic and Mesolithic Out of Print 17.2 Early Medieval Religion

15.1 The Archaeology of Perception and the Senses 15.2 Disability and Archaeology 16.1/16.2 Contending with Bones (to be published)

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Notes to Contributors ARC acts as a forum for debate and the interchange of ideas arising from the study of archaeology and its related disciplines. We welcome relevant contributions from workers in any field - interdisciplinary contributions are particularly welcome. Such contributions might include critical essays, interviews, commentaries and discussions. Please refer to guidelines provided by individual editors. Article lengths and the number of permitted illustrations may vary. For a list of current editors, please contact ARC. Bibliography. Citations should follow the World Archaeology style-sheet. Bibliographic references within the text should list the author's last name, date of publication and number of page (e.g. Smith 1999:37). Where an author's name has just been cited in the text, references need be made only to the date of publication and page, e.g. (1999: 37). Extended references should be listed alphabetically under the heading ‘bibliography’ at the end of the article in the following way: Brumfiel, E. M. and Earle, T. K. 1987. Specialization, exchange and complex societies: an introduction. In Specialization, Exchange, and Complex Societies (eds E. M. Brumfiel and T. K. Earle). Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, pp. 1-9. Casey, J. 1986. Understanding Ancient Coins. London: Batsford. Grant, A. 1995. Taming the wild: encroachment and control of animal space. Anthropozoologica, 21: 157-161. Notes: Footnotes and endnotes should be kept to a minimum. For further details on styles please consult World Archaeology or http://www.tandf.co.uk/journals/authors/r-authors/warauth.html llustrations: ARC does not reproduce colour illustrations. Contributors must own the copyright to any images they include, or must have permission to reproduce them from the relevant sources. Illustrations should be provided in appropriate digital format (bmp, jpeg) and printed copies should also be sent to ARC. A full list of captions must be provided on a separate sheet. Copyright and authorship should be acknowledged in a separate section at the end of the paper, before the bibliography entitled ‘acknowledgements’.