In April 862, King Lothar II held a council at Aachen to seal his divorce with Queen Theutberga, on the grounds of her previous incestuous relationship with her brother, Hubert, which he argued made her incapable of marriage. But in June 863, the council of Metz instead seems to have justified the divorce on the grounds that Lothar had previously been married to Waldrada. Why had the justification changed? Why the tactical swerve?
The treatise provided here in a draft English translation for the first time gives us a clue. With great erudition, it mercilessly – we might say forensically – takes apart the 862 arguments for Lothar’s divorce. Fornication or adultery could be cause for separation, but never remarriage; and any sins committed by either partner before a marriage were not carried into it, provided they had been repented for. If a woman was chaste – ie, faithful to her husband – within a marriage, then her past no longer mattered, no matter how ‘polluted’ it was. Just because a woman had previously committed incest, that did not mean that a subsequent marriage was incestuous.
The treatise seems to have been written in response to the 862 Aachen council. Very likely its author was Ratramnus of Corbie, a brilliant monk-scholar. And after this treatise was received, Lothar’s advisors had to change tack. Their new argument, that a pre-existing marriage invalidated a subsequent one, was far stronger, but it was also unconvincing in being raised so belatedly. No wonder that Pope Nicholas I didn’t buy it, with all the consequences that flowed from there.
The title of this blog is perhaps somewhat hyperbolic. But it seems probable that Ratramnus’s superb handling of patristic commentaries, canon law and biblical passages brought home to Lothar’s court that their previous arguments were going nowhere: and the desperate U-turn in their position that ensued surely left Lothar’s kingdom, and his kingship, more vulnerable. Flip-flops are never a good political look.
But the treatise is also significant in its own right. It’s one of the most synthetic and developed commentaries on marriage from the Carolingian period (alongside Hincmar’s De Divortio, of course), and notable in particular for its depiction of marriage as representing a ‘fresh start’ for even the most sinful spouse, and for its emphasis on equality of treatment for both husband and wife. It’s an interesting example of how politics and intellectual enquiry fed off one another in Carolingian Francia.
changes in male fashion annoyed several clerics in 11th-century
Europe. Bishop Wulfstan of Worcester apparently waxed wrathful against English
male elites for what he considered their effeminate long hair, while the
Benedictine chronicler Raoul Glaber, writing around the 1040s, complained that
French lay elites had begun to wear ‘indecent hose and shoes’.
Perhaps the angriest cleric of all however was Abbot Siegfried of Gorze, as comes across in a letter Siegfried wrote to a fellow abbot, Poppo of Stavelot, in 1043. This letter is extremely interesting, but not quite as well-known to Anglophone audiences, probably because unlike Wulfstan and Glaber’s texts, it has not been translated into English before (a draft translation is provided below).
Siegfried’s monastery of Gorze lay in the western parts of the empire, but though it was therefore close to France, there was no question about Siegfried’s political or cultural allegiances. He linked changes in clothing in the empire to the growing influence of the French, and this he in turn associated with a general moral decline, and damage to the honour of the kingdom (honestas regni). Until the 11th century, emperors Otto and Henry had kept out this pernicious influence; now, Abbot Siegfried lamented, it was growing in strength. He noted changes in beards, and in the cut and tailoring of clothes, and suggested that they were associated with an increase in crimes of various kinds, and with a general abandoning of the empire’s cultural heritage.
Siegfried does not explicitly say why this was a pressing issue in 1043. One factor might have been the empire’s recent takeover of the largely Francophone kingdom of Burgundy which had taken place in 1033. But it’s probably relevant that most of Siegfried’s letter is an attempt to get the influential Abbot Poppo to prevent Emperor Henry III from marrying a French bride, Agnes of Poitou, the daughter of the duke of Aquitaine.
Siegfried was vehemently opposed to this marriage. He was determined to block it, and his chief tactic was to show that it would be incestuous, because Agnes and Henry were too closely related. He demonstrated this kinship with a now sadly lost figura, based on his extensive genealogical enquiries.
To hammer home the point, Siegfried drew on the Bible to argue that if they did marry, God would punish Henry’s incest, even suggesting that the king’s kingroup might die out. As such, the letter casts a fascinating light on 11th-century ideas about kinship.
With this in mind, it’s likely that Siegfried’s apparent tangent on pernicious French customs towards the end of the letter was not so subtly opening up another angle to persuade Emperor Henry not to marry a French woman, by drawing attention to the risks of introducing foreign customs into the empire. If incest wouldn’t put Henry off, maybe a bit of xenophobia might do the trick?
It was all in vain: Siegfried’s scaremongering didn’t work, and the marriage went through in November 1043. Agnes went on to become a truly remarkable empress – but that is a subject for another blog.
Notes: Thanks to Julia Hillner for suggesting a diagram would be useful. Image: Genealogical table from a Beatus manuscript (Morgan 429)
Abbot Siegfried of Gorze’s Letter to Abbot Poppo of Stavelot, 1043 – translation
Translation based on the edition and French translation by Michel Parisse, ‘Sigefroid, abbé de Gorze et le mariage du roi Henri III avec Agnès de Poitou (1043). Un aspect de la réforme Lotharingienne’, Revue du Nord 356 (2004), 543-566, available online here . The text is preserved in a single early modern copy, now in Austria (https://manuscripta.at/hs_detail.php?ID=13681). This was translated in some haste, so please do let me know if you spot any errors.
lord Abbot Poppo, who should be embraced with sincere love and perfect
reverence, brother Siegfried, unworthy servant of the community of Gorze,
wishes abundant happiness in this life and eternal beatitude in the next.
I have no
doubt that your Paternity remembers that recently, when we met at Thionville,
we greatly lamented the dangers of our age that the Apostle predicted – in
people’s customs and behaviour, the incest and perjury of many, the decline of
religion [religio] and the increase in perversity, and, to briefly sum
up, the various dangers of the Church. Amongst these things, daring in your
Kindness, I asked you why you had not told the king [Henry III] that the girl
[Agnes] he has decided to marry is so closely related to him that she cannot be
joined to him without grave offence to the Lord. You replied that you had not
been silent, and that he did not wish to act against the Lord, but rather had
many times asked you to look into the truth of the matter and give him certainty
before he did anything against divine right.
greatly reassured by his good intention, I told you everything which I had long
known about their kinship. But I could not tell you the names of two women who
at that time escaped my memory. So you asked that I should carefully look into
the certainty about these and other names of this kinship (cognatio),
and should take care to inform you in writing. To this request I obey readily
as I am concerned that such a great harm should not come about.
having left you, I learned from many people what I had not heard before, that
his first wife and she whom he now wants to marry are separated from each other
by no more than three or four generations. I omit to write out the kinship now,
because of the barbarity of the Danish or Northman names, and for precaution in
case things that have not been proven are taken as certain, and thereby false
things are taken as true.
Leaving these things aside, let us come to those things that are very well known to many. King Henry had three sons with Matilda: Emperor Otto, Archbishop Bruno, Duke Henry. And he had two daughters: Gerberga and Hadewida. Of these, one, Hadewida, married Hugh; the other, that is Gerberga, married Duke Gilbert, and bore him a daughter named Alberada. After Gilbert’s death Gerberga was joined in marriage to King Louis of the Franks, and had with him two sons, King Lothar and Duke Charles, and a daughter Matilda, later the wife of Conrad king of the Burgundians.
Later, from these sisters, born not from the same father but from the same mother, that is Gerberga, were born Ermentrude, daughter of Alberada, and Gepa known as Gerberga, daughter of Matilda. This was the first generation. Ermentrude bore Agnes, Gepa bore the august Gisela and her sister Matilda. This was the second generation. The son of Gisela, the lord King Henry, and the daughter of Agnes of the same name, that is the Agnes who this is all about, are in the third degree of the genealogy.
that it was told to the king that his grandmother Gepa was born not from
Matilda but from the first wife of King Conrad. This is not the case, as both
the account of truthful men and the naming of these women shows. For the
genealogical line passes from Matilda, the wife of the great King Henry, to
Matilda the aunt of this our king, through Matildas and Gerbergas, so that
Matilda, daughter of Gerberga and namesake of her grandmother, gave the name of
her mother to her daughter, and her own name to her granddaughter, as an
another line of kinship (consanguinitas) which no one of sound mind will
contradict, in this way: the great emperor Otto and his sister the
oft-mentioned Gerberga both had daughters, one Dudica, the other Alberada.
Alberada’s daughter Ermentrude bore Agnes, mother of the young Agnes. Duke
Otto, the son of Dudica, name-sake of his grandfather, had Henry, the father of
Emperor Conrad, who was the father of our Emperor Henry. And thus he is in the
fifth degree, and the girl Agnes is in the fourth degree of the genealogy.
these things may be clearer, I have provided a diagram, in which we have
written the above mentioned name and some other names of both sexes belonging
to this kinship. Please show this to the king, and advise him humbly that when
he finds the names of his kin written there and realises their danger, that he
should not harden his heart, but should be moved not to wrath, but rather to
regret and lament, lest the wrongdoings of his kindred should become his own –
may it not happen. For their fault and the blame for that fault will redound
upon him if he imitates them in wickedness. For God very terribly and
truthfully threatens those who follow the vices of their kindred, that he will
return the injustice of the fathers to
the sons and grandsons, to the third and fourth generation. Ask the king again
and again, and warn him patiently and impatiently, so that he has this very
fearsome declaration constantly in mind, and takes vigilant care to avoid such
peril. For this vengeance should be feared as not just on the soul but on the
body, since it is known for certain that the generation born from such an
illicit union will not be able to successfully thrive (succrescere). The
king can easily see that this is true, if he wishes to carefully consider how
few now remain from his most noble and once most ample kindred.
moreover hear and carefully understand from you that though infamy is to be
feared by all, it must be as attentively avoided by the royal majesty as that
majesty appears highly exalted over everyone. For like a city on the hill
cannot be hidden, as the Lord said, and just as the candle lifted up on the
candelabra gives light to everyone in the household, so the good reputation or
infamy of the king cannot be hidden from many people living both within and
outwith his kingdom. And, what is more serious, the customs of people are such
that such a shameful reputation very quickly grows and spreads day by day more
widely, and with growing wings, flies from mouth to mouth, ever increasing. A
good reputation runs more slowly and more narrowly, and finding many detractors
and few imitators, it quickly diminishes and fades away. If therefore the king
puts his will ahead of the canonical sanctions (may it not happen) and does not
fear to bring to completion what has begun, how many people who might have been
coerced by fear of him not to do what they wish, will rejoice in his example
and be emboldened, and will do similar and ever worse things – and if they
begin to be warned or called out by someone, then they will immediately point
to this deed of the royal highness in defence of their wickedness! We believe
to be certain that the fault and blame of those whom he could have helped to
salvation but instead made to sin and thus to perish by his example will
rebound upon him.
read if he wishes, or let him have read to him what holy Scripture says about
King Jeroboam, and he will find that the sins which Jeroboam made others commit
are more often mentioned than those he committed himself. About all the kings
who acted like him, it is read that the sons of Nabat did not step back from
the sins of Jeroboam – and it does not add ‘who sinned’, but rather it notes
explicitly ‘who made Israel sin’, so that we can clearly understand how
seriously we shall incur the wrath of God whenever we provoke others to sin by
our bad example.
the Generosity of our king pay attention to this, and carefully reflect on how
a manifold danger looms over him if he carries out the wickedness against the
canons that he is thinking about. And if for the fear and love of God he
renounces his desire and chooses not to follow his predecessors in their
illicit deeds, if he continues as a lover of justice and piety, if he maintains
his humility amidst his royal excellence and happy successes, if he seeks the
glory of God rather than his own, and if finally he energetically represses the
sins of not just himself but of others, and stimulates them to virtue – if, I
say, he perseveres with vigilance in such actions through to the end, then he
will not be bound by sin of his kindred and other people, but the grace of God
will precede and follow him, and he will be worthy to reign with Christ in this
life and in the future life. As it is fearsomely written about wicked sons that
the sins of their fathers will rebound upon them, so it is mercifully written
about good sons that ‘the son does not bear the iniquity of his father’.
King Josiah, born from very wicked parents, discovered and recognised their sin
from the book of divine law, and learned how great a vengeance loomed over him
and his people, he grieved and wept bitterly, and tore his clothing as was then
the custom to show his inner grief, and left behind his father’s wickedness and
sought the Lord with all his heart, and made sure to serve Him carefully and to
warn others in order to placate divine anger. Because of this, not only did the
fault of his predecessors not count against him, but he was worthy to hear
divine consolation in this way: ‘Because, said the Lord God Israel, ‘you heard
the words of the Book and your heart was terrified and you were humble before
the Lord, after you heard the sermons against this place and its inhabitants,
that they would become the object of amazement and cursing, and because you
tore your clothing and wept before, I heard you, says the Lord. Therefore I
will gather you along with your fathers and you will be placed in your tomb
peacefully, so that your eyes will not see the harm which I shall bring upon this
place’. I wanted to put these words about King Josiah here so that the lord
king, warned by you, will take care to imitate him; and when Henry holds in his
hands the diagram I have made and sees the names of his kindred (parentes
sui) there, he will be afraid for himself and for them, and to avoid
provoking the anger of God upon himself and the people subjected to him, he
will not act against the canonical decrees, but will decide to place the will
of God before his own in all matters, so that he will be worthy to rejoice with
Him now and always.
remember one other thing. When his father [Conrad II] wished to marry the
daughter of the king of the Franks, and decided to do this against divine
right, as can be seen in the diagram, there were many who wished to be pleasing
to the majesty of the emperor, and they competed to tell him that the marriage
could be well and usefully carried through, because they hoped that thanks to
it the two kingdoms could be joined in a single peace or brought into unity. And
I think that now too there are such people who similarly flatter and claim to
work for royal praise, and since they want to be pleasing to the earthly ruler,
they speak falsehoods and so do not care about displeasing the Lord, not
noticing or caring little about what is written, ‘He will dissolve the bones of
whose are pleasing to men’.
pleases me therefore to denounce the poisonous statement of those who promise
peace to him and others through a transgression of divine law, and to show how
much they are opposed to the truth. It is obvious and undoubtedly true that
canonical authority is the law of God. Whoever acts against the canons, acts
against the law of God. Who acts against the law of God, commits an impiety,
and is made impious. And it is written ‘There is no peace for the impious’,
says the Lord. From these things it can be gathered that the peace of those
prevaricators of the canons is not a true peace. We say true peace, since we
are not unaware that there is a false peace. For the reprobate and the
transgressors have peace, that is adulterers with adulterers, murderers with
murderers, and perjurers with perjurers. Sometimes these and others like them
have a peace between themselves, but it is a simulated peace, a deceiving
peace, a peace that is damaging to them and others. The Lord Jesus came to
destroy this peace, and said about it to those listening to him, ‘Do not think
that I came to bring peace upon earth. I came to bring not peace but the
sword’. And the Lord said to his disciples about the peace that the world
cannot give, ‘I leave my peace to you, I give my peace to you’, and the angels
announced it singing ‘Glory in excelsis to God and peace on earth to people of
goodwill’. As the Psalmist said, only the good and those who observe divine
precepts can have this peace, ‘Much peace is given to those who love your law,
O Lord, an it is not an impediment for them’.
is carefully to be noted that when the Psalmist says ‘peace’, he adds first
‘Much’, so that it is given to understand how those who do not obey the law of
God, even if they seem to have peace, do not have much peace, but only a short
and swiftly changeable peace. And whenever they seem outwardly to prosper and
relax, they are always inwardly agitated by all kinds of wickedness, and
whenever they devote themselves individually each to their own vices, together
they incur many occasions for sinning amongst themselves. But for those who
love the law of God there is much peace, and there is no occasion for sinning,
since even if they are outwardly disturbed by various storms of disorder, they
are inwardly fixed in the solidity of true faith, firmly rooted in love, and
they meet whatever adversities there are with tranquil mind in the hope of
eternal reward. They desire to have peace with everyone if possible. They do
not wish to risk falling into sin for any reason, nor do they wish to make
anyone else risk falling int sin, but rather they always hurry towards better
things, and reconcile themselves with the Lord and His angels, so that with
their help they may reach eternal peace. We wanted to offer this digression to
show that those who encourage their lords to do illicit things and promise them
a firm future peace deceive themselves and others. It is just as if they say,
‘Let us do harm so that good may come’. If you meet someone like this, manfully
resist them to their face, and beg our glorious king not to give his assent to
since the day fixed for the marriage is now approaching, I beg you, blessed
father, to go to the king and not to delay in showing him all this, since you
yourself asked for this investigation and a great peril looms over you if you a
great harm is carried out through your delay. Hurry then to show him this
letter with the diagram, and we steadfastly beseech him that his Highness will
not be angered by our Smallness because I have dared to say and write such
things, nor let him pay attention to the rusticity of our speech, but let him
consider the intention of my heart and recognise how much sollicitude I have
for him and the safety of his kingdom. From that day when first at Aachen and
then at Metz he humbly asked me to pray for him, he has never been absent from
the little prayers of myself and my brothers. We will regret that this will
have achieved nothing or little if we hear that he has fallen into this
wickedness. But if – and may it not happen – he grows angry that we have
written this, let him know that even if we honour him as is right, we must fear
and love God more, and therefore we cannot be silent about the truth. We think
it more appropriate to warn him humbly before the deed than to criticise him
more fiercely and thus more dangerously afterwards.
venerable father, press these and similar things without delay, as much as God
permits, since whatever you give in addition, the good Samaritan when He comes
to judgement will restore to you many times over. And if you can bring the king
back from what he has begun, you will receive a reward from the Lord. If not,
you will free yourself from the blame of keeping silent.
Moreover, I see may things which are displeasing and in need of emendation, but I keep quiet about them for the moment, so we do not annoy the king’s ears. But there is one thing which upsets me very greatly and which I cannot allow to pass over in silence, that is about the honour of the kingdom (honestas regni). In the times of previous emperors, this honour flourished very properly in clothing and comportment, in arms and horseriding. But in our days this has been put in second place, and the ignominious custom of French ineptitudes has been introduced, in the shaving of beards, in the shameful shortening and deforming of garments, and in many other novelties which it would take too long to list, and whose introduction was forbidden in the times of the Ottos and Henrys.
But today many people despise the honest customs of our fathers, and seek the clothing, and at the same time and very quickly, the perversities of foreigners. Through all this, they wish to be similar to those whom they know to be enemies and traitors. And what is be lamented even more, such people are not only not chastised, but are even treated as close companions by kings and other princes, and everyone received a greater reward the more promptly they copy these stupidities. The others see this and do not blush to copy them, and because they see the that they are tolerated and rewarded, they rush to think up even greater novel insanities. For these and other things, O father, I grieve very greatly, since with these foreign changes so too customs change, and we see in a kingdom hitherto more honourable than others that murders, rapine, perjury, betrayal and various deceptions are gradually increasing, and we fear that these are signs of greater ills. This is why we suppliantly beseech you, and in the name of God’s love, we ask you to take care to counter and cure these harms, through the king and through whomever you can. Farewell.
In the year 862, King Lothar II appeared before a group of bishops gathered in Aachen, in a state of high anxiety. Barefoot, and with quavering voice, the king asked for mercy, forgiveness – and a new wife. A previous council in 860 had separated him from Queen Theutberga. But it had not given permission for him to remarry, and Lothar declared this put him in an unbearable position. He was not permitted to take a concubine, but nor, he stated, was he ‘able to bear the ardour of his youth without conjugal union’.
The king’s speech can be read as a remarkably bold act of passive-aggression. By publicly emphasising the king’s human frailty, it compelled the king’s bishops, for reasons of pastoral care, to accede to his demand. As they observed, ‘we are not able to forbid him from marrying a wife and procreating children, lest he slip into worse things’.
Lothar hoped that a public display of royal weakness could be turned into royal strength – a king acting the part of the humble and penitent Christian, setting a moral example for his subjects. It’d worked for Emperor Louis the Pious in 822, after all. And at first sight, it worked again in 862. The bishops agreed that Lothar II could remarry, and his ‘concubine’ Waldrada was soon after formally accepted as his wife.
But the plans soon began to fall apart. To win over sceptics, Lothar was forced to hold yet another council in 863, where in a dramatic and rather unconvincing twist, he revealed that ‘actually’ he had been married to Waldrada all along. And even in 862, his court was so divided that the bishops could not agree on a single version of the Aachen meeting (something I’ve discussed at greater length elsewhere). No wonder that Pope Nicholas I was able to make Lothar yield.
And so in 865, Lothar was obliged to receive back his ex-wife, Theutberga, with all due ceremony. 862 may have been a sham humiliation, but it laid the foundations for 865, which was a very real one.
Here’s a translation of the three main documents from the Council of Aachen 862 – a glimpse of a desperately inventive early medieval royal court.
All historians, I think, are attracted to the gaps in the archive – the silences, the absences, the things that aren’t there. For historians of early medieval Europe, it can sometimes feel like there’s more gap than record, though really this isn’t such a poorly documented time and place, especially Carolingian Francia. But it’s the inconspicuous absence, not the glaring one, that’s often the most telling: and here’s a case in point.
On 17th January 866, King Lothar II granted his wife Queen Theutberga twenty estates in Francia, in a charter issued at the royal palace of Aachen. For kings to transfer lands to their queens was not itself unusual. But such transfers normally took place at the beginning of a marriage, as a dowry, not as in this case eleven years later, which makes this charter rather strange.
That’s not however the only remarkable thing about this charter. What’s also odd is how it describes Theutberga – or rather, how it doesn’t. She is described as dilectissima nostra, ‘our most beloved’. But ‘our most beloved’ … what? The adjective dilectissimus is quite common in royal charters from the ninth century, but it’s usually applied to a noun: ‘our most beloved’ sister, son, wife, daughter, mother, etc. In this charter, there is no noun, Theutberga is just ‘dilectissima’. Why?
Perhaps the context of the charter might help explain it. As all readers of De Divortio will know, in 866 Lothar was still grimly struggling to separate from Theutberga, and this charter has been interpreted as a pay-off or compensation in exchange for separation. In that context, he could hardly call her his ‘wife’ (coniunx, uxor). That would be an awkward acknowledgement of a status that he was insistently denying. To call her his ex-wife would however have been politically risky – he wasn’t quite there yet. Better perhaps just not to say anything at all.
In a later charter, it seems that Lothar applied similar discretion to Waldrada, his mistress, who is described as ‘our beloved’ with no further qualification – though in this case we cannot be entirely sure, because the key passage was later tampered with, when someone changed Waldrada’s name to ‘Rotrude’.
But Lothar’s grant to Theutberga has not been tampered with, and survives in its pristine original. And that allows us to see something rather peculiar – something that it’s tempting to ascribe to the hesitation of the scribe, identified by modern historian as a man named Rodmund (who had also worked for Lothar I, and who seems to have in practice run Lothar II’s chancery), in the face of this unusual phrasing.
Though it’s not marked up in the standard edition, Dupraz noted that there was a significant gap after Theutberga’s name. And on inspecting a facsimile, he’s right. There’s in fact a clear gap in both occurrences of the phrase “Theotbergae dilectissimae […] nostrae” in the charter. The first, at line 3, is this blog’s cover image. The second, at line 7, is visible here:
The intact ascender of the L reaching up from the line underneath suggests this gap isn’t an erasure (though one might need to check the original to be sure). But if the gap isn’t an erasure, what is it?
Dupraz suggested it was to enable a suitable noun to be added later. Perhaps, but I’m not quite sure the space is quite long enough for that. Rather, the little gap seems to express the uncertainties of Lothar and Theutberga’s circumstances, years into their relationship’s tragic breakdown. A moment when the scribe stopped, paused and moved on?
Image: Lothar II, D. 27. Original charter in Parma. It seems possible that Lothar II took this charter with him to Italy, along with a reissued version of 868 (a topic for another blog), and it was abandoned in Piacenza when he died there in 869. More research required…
*Updated 10 August 2018 in light of comments from Clemens Radl and Levi Roach (thanks to both).*
*Updated 4 Jan 2021 to add draft translation*
 Louis Dupraz, ‘Deux préceptes de Lothaire II (867 et 868) : ou les vestiges diplomatiques d’un divorce manqué’, Zeitschrift für schweizerische Kirchengeschichte 59 (1965), pp. 193-256.
Further reading. The charters are briefly discussed in Heidecker, Divorce of Lothar, p. 171, with n. 93. You can see a full facsimile in Chartae Latinae Antiquiores, vol. 93, no. 7, pp. 40-43, with useful technical commentary on the scribe. For helpful context, see Roberta Cimino, ‘Royal women and gendered communication – Female voices in Carolingian diplomas’, L’homme 26 (2015).
When did priests stop being allowed to marry in medieval western Europe? The question might seem recondite, but it’s actually of enormous importance. The prohibition of clerical marriage separated out priests from the laity in a very clear and obvious way, in parallel to their exemption from processes of secular justice (one of the focuses of my research at the moment). It meant that they couldn’t legally have heirs, which had a big impact on wider family strategies; and it was associated with changes in masculinity, too.
Establishing when this happened is however surprisingly difficult. The key texts are often ambiguous. And of course, for the early Middle Ages we don’t have enough evidence to be able to say for certain exactly what proportion of priests were married (though recent research on local priests by Julia Barrow and a team led by Steffen Patzold and Carine van Rhijn has moved things on here a lot).
Nevertheless, many historians would suggest that the history goes something like this. Early church councils were keen for clerics in general (and bishops in particular) to refrain from illicit sexual activity, and ideally from all sexual activity. But as good householders, it was expected that these leaders would be married men: they merely had to be continent after their ordination. That tradition was maintained for centuries – the classic illustration is that Pope Hadrian II (d. 872) was a married man, and no one at the time batted an eyelid. Only in the eleventh century did reformers, seeking to create an autonomous church free from secular control, develop a novel insistence on clerical celibacy (as opposed to merely clerical continence within marriage), leading to a formal legal prohibition in the 12th century.
In many ways this is a convincing and accurate narrative. Yet there are two problems. The first is that the narrative perhaps doesn’t take sufficiently into account regional diversity in the early Middle Ages. Ninth-century Italian clerics, in particular, seem to have treated clerical careers very differently from their Frankish colleagues, as Rachel Stone has shown – so we can’t necessarily generalise from the case of Pope Hadrian.
Perhaps an even bigger problem though is that we tend to approach the late antique councils directly, relying on the most recent editions and the sharpest-sighted interpretations to work out what the church fathers originally had in mind. That’s obviously a good thing. But it’s not necessarily how early medieval authors read them.
Here’s a case in point (brought to my attention by Helen Parish’s excellent book). In the late 860s, Pope Nicholas I and Photius the Patriarch of Constantinople became caught up in a fierce argument. It ultimately revolved around about the extent of papal authority, but as part of this argument, a Byzantine letter began to circulate that criticised western church customs. When he heard about this, Pope Nicholas called for Frankish backup. Of the several treatises that were written in response, perhaps the most interesting for our purposes is that written by Ratramnus of Corbie in 867, known as the Contra Graecorum opposita.
Ratramnus was a noted Carolingian intellectual who remains understudied, overshadowed by his (much less sympathetic) fellow monk Radbert. This work of his is no exception, and it languishes in an inadequate 18th-century edition to this day. Yet it’s of considerable interest for the relatively level-headed defence of western customs that occupies most of its fourth book (and Ratramnus’s emphasis on the western/eastern (orientalis/occidentialis) distinction is incidentally quite striking).
Ratramnus argues for instance that whether clerics shaved their beards (as the Romans did) or whether they didn’t (like the Byzantines) was just a matter of local custom, not of doctrine. There was a ritual logic to doing things the way people did in the western churches, but he didn’t think the Byzantines should necessarily follow suit. In the end it wasn’t that important.
On clerical marriage, however, Ratramnus was more intransigeant. He had heard that the Byzantines labelled the Roman church as anti-marriage because they would not let their priests marry. Nonsense, said Ratramnus – the Apostle Paul wasn’t married, yet that hadn’t stopped him telling people that they ought to marry.
But, argued Ratramnus, it was simply inappropriate for priests to marry, since they would inevitably become distracted by trying to please their wives rather than God (an indication perhaps of a typically Carolingian companionate view of marriage). And there was also the problem of ritual pollution, though Ratramnus seems much less bothered by this, consistent with his other work.
Not content with leaving matters there, Ratramnus declared that this was in fact the traditional position, and he cited the Council of Nicaea of 325 to prove his point. Now, modern scholars are unanimous that the Council of Nicaea did not ban clerics from being married. But that’s not how Ratramnus seems to interpret the key canon, canon 4. This canon forbade priests from cohabiting with women except for close family members. It doesn’t mention wives – but in a fascinating short passage (translated below), Ratramnus uses common sense to argue that this was implied.
Was Ratramnus arguing that priests once ordained should not marry, or that they should be actually not be married at all? Here there’s a touch of perhaps deliberate ambiguity to the Latin. He says that priests shouldn’t matrimonia sortiri (lit: ‘acquire marriages’) which implies a prohibition on becoming married after ordination. But he also says that uxoria copula (lit: ‘wifely bond/union’) is forbidden to priests. Now, this could in principle mean sexual contact with one’s wife – but the context, and the other occasions on which Ratramnus uses this phrase, strongly suggest he meant the state of being married. 
In arguing that the Nicene Fathers prohibited priests from being married, Ratramnus was almost certainly misrepresenting the Nicene council’s original intentions. But in a sense, that’s irrelevant. What matters is that for this ninth-century author, clerical celibacy was baked into the early church decisions – and moreover that this was a key factor in separating the laity from the priests.
Historians working on clerical celibacy and other related issues naturally tend to focus on new and dramatic texts produced in the eleventh century. But to what extent had the groundwork for these new texts already been laid by subtle, and much harder to discern, changes in how pre-existing texts were interpreted?
TRANSLATION: Ratramnus of Corbie, Contra Graecorum opposita, Book IV, c.6 (PL 121, 329, based on D’Achery’s Spicilegium) – extract (please note this is just a provisional translation, & suggestions for improvements are welcome).
But let us come to the ecclesiastical decrees, by which we may understand what they [the maiores] wished to decide about this. In the Council of Nicaea held under Emperor Constantine I, it was thus decided by 380 bishops: “The great synod stringently decreed that it was not permissible for a bishop, priest or deacon, or absolutely anyone else in the clergy, to have a woman living in (mulier subintroducta): except perhaps his mother, or sister, or aunt, or those women who escape suspicion”.
Let these Constantinopolitan emperors hear this, and judge whether those grades this canon concerns ought to obtain marriage (matrimonia sortiri) – grades to whom it is not permitted to cohabit with women, except only those persons whom no suspicion can stain. For whoever marries (duxerit) a wife is unable not to have other women in the household too apart from his wife, women through whom wifely necessity and domestic business (domestica cura) may be supplemented. In truth where the living-in (subintroductio) of all women is forbidden, except for those persons who lack all suspicion, it is clear that a wifely union (uxoria copula) is also forbidden, since this can in no way happen without contact (accessio) with other women.
 Earlier in the passage, R. wrote that Paul “significat se caelibem esse, nec uxoris copula detineri” – ie, that he was not married. Cf. his comment re: the 862 council of Aachen here: “quod autem opponitur non fuisse copulam illam legitimum conubium”
nec inter laicos et sacri altaris ministros ullam differentiam consistere.
Sed veniamus ad ecclesiastica tandem decreta, quo cognoscamus quid decernere super his maluerint. In Nicaeno concilio sub Constantino imperatore primo per trecentos octodecim episcopos sic decernitur: «Interdixit per omnia magna synodus, non episcopo, non presbytero, non diacono, nec alicui omnino qui in clero est, licere subintroductam habere mulierem; nisi forte matrem, aut sororem, aut amitam, vel eas tantum personas quae suspiciones effugiunt.» Audiant haec Constantinopoleos imperatores, et judicent, an debeant isti gradus, super quibus hoc capitulo decernitur, matrimonia sortiri, quibus non licet mulieribus cohabitare, nisi solummodo personis illis quas nulla suspicio possit commaculare. Nam quisquis uxorem duxerit, non potest praeter uxorem alias etiam mulieres in domo non habere, quibus uxoria necessitas, et cura domestica suppleatur. Ubi vero cunctarum interdicitur subintroductio feminarum, praeter omnino personas quae careant omni suspicione, manifestum est quod interdicatur etiam uxoria pariter copula, quae nullo modo potest fieri sine reliquarum accessione feminarum.
Today sees the publication of a book that we’ve been working on for almost a decade, The Divorce of King Lothar and Queen Theutberga. It’s an annotated translation of a long ninth-century Latin treatise written by Hincmar, the archbishop of Rheims in France. That might seem a rather obscure topic, but when we explain that the treatise is about a royal divorce scandal, and that it discusses witchcraft, kingship, incest and trial by ordeal, we hope you’ll see the interest. This blog is to explain our book’s cover picture – and why the author we’ve translated would have loved it, and the king he wrote about would have hated it.
The picture comes from the Stuttgart Psalter, a marvellously-illuminated ninth-century book that is now (as its name suggests) in Stuttgart, but that was originally made in Paris, at the monastery of St-Germain-des-Pres (you can see the whole manuscript here). The picture accompanies Psalm 45 (Psalm 44 in the Vulgate), and shows a king and queen embracing. The king and queen are both mentioned in the psalm, but the quizzical angel standing on the right (our favourite bit) is the illustrator’s artistic licence.
Because our text is about a royal divorce – King Lothar II’s scandalous attempt to rid himself of Queen Theutberga – this image of a royal couple obviously resonates. But we also chose this picture because the manuscript it comes from has some connections to our translation. The abbot of the monastery when it was made was a man called Hilduin: as it happens, Hilduin was the teacher and mentor of Archbishop Hincmar, the author of the treatise. Perhaps Hilduin might even have proudly showed the freshly painted manuscript to the young Hincmar.
In any case, we like to think that a thin smile might have played across the lips of the austere archbishop of Rheims if he could see our book cover, mainly because of the watching angel. As Hincmar explains in his treatise, King Lothar’s divorce case affected everyone, both because marriage was fundamental to society and because kings were supposed to set a moral example to their subjects. That meant that they were constantly being watched, both by their subjects and by God, who would condemn them more harshly for their lapses than mere ordinary sinners. And as the illustration shows, you can’t hide from God or his angels – who might not be very impressed by what they saw.
As for King Lothar II, the subject of the treatise, it’s just possible that he might have seen this image too. In the course of the Frankish civil wars of the 840s, it seems Abbot Hilduin left Paris to join Emperor Lothar I, whose kingdom was around Aachen. Perhaps he took the Stuttgart Psalter with him, which would explain how it ended up in Germany. We can’t of course prove that Emperor Lothar’s son, King Lothar II, saw the manuscript at some point during his reign (855-869), but it can’t be ruled out.
But we suspect that unlike Archbishop Hincmar, the king would not have been remotely amused by our use of this particular image for a text about his divorce. The psalm that the picture illustrates in the manuscript is a song of triumph to accompany a magnificent royal wedding. It promises the king a happy and glorious reign, and that his sons will succeed him as rulers. Unfortunately, this is more or less the opposite of what actually happened to King Lothar II, with enormous consequences for himself, his family (including his wives Theutberga and Waldrada), his kingdom, and indeed for Europe as whole – consequences that our new book explores.
Rachel Stone is a Visiting Research Fellow at KCL, and Charles West is a Reader in Medieval History at the University of Sheffield. The Divorce of King Lothar and Queen Theutberga, published by Manchester University Press, is available online for just £10 as part of the MUP sale, and at all good bookshops for £19.99.
What would the fifth-century writer and theologian Augustine of Hippo have said if consulted for his opinion on the results of Ireland’s recent same-sex marriage referendum? Augustine was seldom short of opinions, and given his known views on marriage, which helped shape the institution for centuries, we might suppose that he would have been shocked, vehement, and strongly condemnatory.
Little wonder then that the airwaves and newsprint have been full of commentary on how the referendum shows that Ireland is now rapidly secularising, breaking away from the grip of a Catholic Church whose official position remains in many ways still faithful to that set out so influentially by St Augustine over a millennium ago. The result has even been described as a ‘Copernican revolution’. Yet as so often with debates that revolve, implicitly or explicitly, around a concept of secularisation marking a break with tradition, things are not quite so clear-cut on closer inspection.
Marriage, for St Augustine, was defined by three things: children, loyalty between the spouses, and the sacramental bond that reflected Christ’s union with the Church. People on both sides of the Irish referendum seemed to take positions which reflected these concepts. Everyone accepted that marriage creates a family unit ideal for bringing up children, that it is designed to allow two people to commit to one another indefinitely, and that the institution says something about Irish society as a whole: that in other words, marriage represents a bigger reality.
All this suggests that the debate was conducted essentially within a Christian tradition: no one, for example, suggested that marriages should be possible between numerous people, or that it should be open to brothers and sisters, or that it should be time-limited, or that it should be abolished altogether.
As a result, the referendum’s outcome could be seen as an updating of that Christian tradition as much as a rejection of it. That a fifth-century Augustine would have been opposed to same-sex marriage seems quite clear: but which side of the referendum a twenty-first century Augustine would have stood is not quite so obvious.
In April 2014, Canon Jeremy Pemberton became the first priest in England to enter into a same-sex marriage. In September 2014 he filed a discrimination claim with an employment tribunal after he had been blocked from taking up a position as an NHS chaplain in Nottinghamshire because of his marriage.
The case is obviously personally difficult for Jeremy Pemberton and his husband, Laurence Cunnington. But for a historian it also offers some fascinating comparisons and contrasts with earlier church practice, and in particular how clergy have been disciplined over prohibited sexual behaviour. Legally, it is a relative novelty that Canon Pemberton is able to take his case to a secular employment tribunal at all. His case is complicated because of the question of whether he is employed by the NHS or by the diocese of Southwell and Nottingham (whose bishop removed his permission to officiate, which he needed for the NHS post). But employment tribunals have increasingly become willing to accept that in some circumstances ministers of religion do count as employees and thus have employment rights, although the Church of England still argues that their clergy are not employees. Secular jurisdiction over priests has historically been something that individual clerics have tried to avoid, seeking the ‘benefit of clergy’. Now, however, some of them are actively seeking it.
Canon Pemberton’s case shows more historical continuity in other respects, however. Partly this is because it raises interesting jurisdictional questions. His previous position as an NHS chaplain, which had not been threatened, was in the diocese of Lincoln, in the archdiocese of Canterbury. His new job would have been in the archdiocese of York. The implication is that different bishops and archbishops have chosen to enforce the Church disciplinary rules prohibiting same-sex marriage in very different ways. Such episcopal leeway would have seemed very familiar in the Middle Ages, where the zealous (or overzealous) enforcement of priestly good conduct by some bishops might be ignored by their successors or fellow-bishops.
And the case also displays the perennial difficulty for any Church on sexual matters: how far should it intrude into the bedroom? Sexual behaviour is by its nature private and the Church of England has stated that clergy can legitimately be in civil partnerships (and can even theoretically become bishops) provided that their relationship with their partner is celibate. There are intriguing parallels with priests in the pre-eleventh Catholic church, who could theoretically be married, though not sexually active within such a marriage.
Canon Pemberton’s offence, therefore, is not strictly speaking a sexual one, unless the bishop of Southwell and Nottingham has evidence to the contrary. Instead, it is a breach of the Church of England’s rules prohibiting clerics from entering same-sex marriages. The justification for this prohibition is taken from a canon that talks of the need for clerics and their families to be ‘wholesome examples and patterns to the flock of Christ’.
Such language concerning reputations would have been familiar to an early medieval bishop like Hincmar, Archbishop of Rheims (845-882). He wrote numerous episcopal statutes setting out how the priests and laity of his archdiocese should behave and the means for ensuring correct behaviour. His second episcopal statute from 852 gave instructions for archdeacons and rural deans as to how they should run regular investigations into priests’ behaviour. A long section is devoted to the need for priests to avoid too close contact with women, such as allowing unrelated women to live in the priest’s house.
Hincmar, however, was not concerned only with illicit sexual activity by such priests. Almost as important was the ‘evil reputation’ (mala fama) that such priests might gain within the community. As c. 21 (p. 56) of the statute points out, Hincmar’s concern is that such behaviour by priests ‘may damage the conscience of the weak by evil suspicion’ (mala suspicione infirmorum conscientias maculent). His statute details the procedure by which such priests could be removed from office if sufficient of their congregation were prepared to testify against them. Such witnesses did not have to prove immoral conduct by their priest. They had to swear only that they had seen or knew certainly that ‘women had such access or frequenting or cohabitation with that priest, from which there could be evil suspicion and an evil reputation could get out’ (c. 21, p. 58: si vidisti aut pro certo scis talem accessum vel frequentiam aut cohabitationem feminas habere cum isto presbitero , unde mala suspicio esse possit et mala fama possit exire).
In the modern Anglican church, similar principles seem to be at work, but on a much wider canvas. Public opinion and rumours about gay priests and sexuality more generally now extend not through a small rural parish, but across the globe. The archbishop of Canterbury, Justin Welby, claims that the Church of England accepting gay marriage may lead to attacks on African Christians, while another bishop reports that he was once asked in Central Africa why you now had to be gay to be ordained in the Church of England. Yet at the same time, the most common reason for people in Great Britain to have a negative view of the Church of England is that it is too prejudiced against women and gay people (as Linda Woodhead found in a recent survey). How can ‘scandal’ be avoided when different audiences are scandalised by diametrically different actions?
The Church of England may well be legally successful in Canon Pemberton’s employment tribunal. While exemptions from the law of the land for churches and their ministers are now far narrower than in the days of benefit of clergy, such exemptions are well-established and not under serious threat from secular politicians. But in an era of rapid global communication, it is far harder to ensure that either individual clerics or the Anglican church itself does not end up having ‘an evil reputation’ among many laypeople.
Today is the anniversary of the death of Queen Waldrada, 9 April.
Now, let me be the first to admit that hers is hardly a household name. At the time of writing, she does not even have an English Wikipedia page, a sure sign of the historical B-list (she does have a short one in German, and an inaccurate one in French). But her passage into obscurity was considerably pre-internet. Though we know the day of her death, no one recorded the year (presumably around 900). And in one document concerning her, some later medieval scribe even took the trouble literally to write her out of history, erasing her name and replacing it with a made-up ‘Rotrude’.
Yet in her own time, Waldrada was a powerful woman, who led an exciting and eventful life. The concubine of a Frankish king, Lothar II, she became his wife in 862, and participated for a while in the full theatre of medieval queenship. But in 863 the pope forbade the marriage, and forced them to separate. Even so, he thought that she was still holding the reins of power, and accused her of plotting the death of her rival, the king’s ‘other’ wife Theutberga. In the face of this papal onslaught (which included excommunication), King Lothar stuck by Waldrada so doggedly that some observers concluded that she was practising witchcraft, capable of inflaming him to lust merely by showing him enchanted clothing.
Though Waldrada ended her life peacefully in a convent high up in the Vosges above the Rhine, her children too led adventurous lives. One (Hugh) led a major rebellion before he was blinded, ending his life as a reluctant monk; another (Gisela) married a Viking, and witnessed her Scandinavian husband’s assassination, before becoming an abbess; a third (Berta) started a royal dynasty in Italy and (possibly) corresponded with the caliphs of Baghdad.
What, then, does it take to get a Wikipedia page? Why is Waldrada so little remembered today? It’s not a lack of sources as such. Waldrada was at the heart of continental politics in the 860s, and was much discussed by contemporaries like Hincmar of Rheims. Though we don’t have anything that she herself wrote, and despite efforts like those of the scribe mentioned above to remove traces of her, we have plenty of information about her role and activities (including this letter written to her by a pope).
At one level, the issue is simply that Waldrada was a woman. Despite decades of research, women are still less commemorated than men on public historical fora – one of the reasons for the emergence of various internet ‘edit-a-thons’ to give people like Waldrada the recognition they deserve.
But there’s a bigger problem too, one that’s more specific to Waldrada. Largely because of Lothar II’s failed efforts to have Waldrada publicly acknowledged as his queen, their kingdom, Lotharingia, died with him in 869. That failure was in fact a crucial factor in the emergence and stabilisation of the kingdoms to the west and the east: what would eventually become the kingdom of France and the Holy Roman Empire. The territory that had lain in-between, Lotharingia, became a ‘shadow kingdom’: remembered when it was helpful for political purposes – Lorraine has a claim to be the premier European battlefield – and forgotten when it was not.
Paradoxically, then, the very thing which made Queen Waldrada notorious in her day – her perceived relevance to royal politics – condemned her to obscurity thereafter. She lost her ‘relevance’ back in 869, along with her husband and the kingdom they had ruled together. As a result, no modern country claims to be the political heir of Lotharingia: so there were no 19th-century institutions whose task it was to order and represent Lotharingian history. And modern knowledge about the Middle Ages is based on 19th-century historical research to a degree that’s surprising (including Wikipedia – in fact especially Wikipedia: just see how many entries are based on out-of-copyright encyclopedias).
Like Lotharingia itself, then, Queen Waldrada has slipped between the cracks, and is largely forgotten today. It’s hardly novel to point out that commemoration is a political act, since choices have to be made (we can’t remember everybody and everything, least until someone finds a way of automating commemoration). But it’s worth considering the extent to which modern public commemorative activity, whether in museums, on Wikipedia, or indeed as ‘On this day in history’ blogs, is silently reproducing the political agendas of the past, whether medieval or Victorian. So on this day, spare a thought for Waldrada – or even better, go and write her a Wikipedia entry.
Charles West will be giving a talk about the case of Waldrada and Lothar II to the University of the Third Age, at the Showroom Cinema in Sheffield, Friday 17th April 2015, 10.30am. With Rachel Stone, he is translating a key source for the text, Hincmar of Rheims’s De Divortio, for Manchester University Press, due for publication in July 2016.
In 860, an archbishop of Rheims called Hincmar was asked whether a king, Lothar II, could divorce his wife, Theutberga, and marry someone else. Hincmar wrote an extremely long treatise in reply, which Rachel Stone and I have been steadily translating for the last few years for Manchester University Press, that dealt with all the aspects of the case. Amongst these was a hint from the king that if the answer was no, then he might choose what we would call the ‘Henry VIII solution’ – have Theutberga executed, then remarry.
Hincmar tackled this hint by quoting St Augustine of Hippo’s book, On adulterous marriages. He quoted Augustine to explain that the law of the Roman Empire and of the Old Testament both permitted a husband to execute his adulterous wife, while Christian morals taught that a husband could not marry again while his wife was still alive. It would obviously be best for a husband neither to kill his wife nor to marry again while she was alive: but if necessary, he could do what was permitted, which was execution. If he didn’t, then he could not remarry.
That all seems perfectly clear. The only problem is that this isn’t quite what Augustine said. Augustine thought in paragraphs, not sentences, and Hincmar ended his quotation before Augustine had concluded that in fact, it would be better to marry again than to spill blood, no matter what the law said (see below for the full Augustine text).
What’s more, in the bit that Hincmar does quote, there’s a slight but significant change in the text: the Latin ‘si licet’ (= if it is permitted) has become ‘scilicet’ (=that is to say, certainly). Augustine had reservations about the secular law’s permission to execute, a tone of doubt – “If it is permitted”. Hincmar’s version of Augustine had neither doubt nor reservation. (See the picture above for the text).
This tiny textual variant isn’t common in the transmission of Augustine’s work. It might be scribal error, but it does seem a rather convenient one. Wherever this extra letter ‘c’ came from, the Frankish prelate was evidently a little more relaxed about uxoricide than the African bishop had been. Hincmar had a different attitude to how Christian law and ‘secular’ law could fit together, which wasn’t too great for Theutberga.
In the end, though, the queen escaped execution. What happened next? Well, you’ll have to wait till the book’s out…
Hincmar, De Divortio, Appendix 5 ‘As Saint Augustine says (…), “Finally I ask of you, whether it is licit for a Christian husband, according either to the old law of God or by Roman laws, to kill an adulteress. That is to say [Augustine: If it is permitted], it is better that he should restrain himself from both, that is the permitted punishment for she who has sinned, and from an illicit marriage while she is alive. But if he insists on choosing one, it is better for him to do what is allowed, so that the adulteress may be punished, than to do that which is not allowed, that while she is alive he commits adultery. But if, as is truly said, it is not allowed for a Christian man to kill his adulterous wife, but only to send her away…”
Hincmar continues: ‘…it is on this condition, that he may either live in continence or be reconciled to her, since if while she is alive he marries another, he too will without doubt be guilty of adultery’.
Original Augustine continues: ‘… who is so mad who would say to him, “Do what is not permitted, so that what is not permitted to you will be permissible”? For since both things are illicit according to the law of Christ, that is to kill an adulterous wife or to marry someone else while she is still alive, both should be refrained from, rather than doing the illicit for the illicit. But if he must do what is not allowed, let him commit adultery and not murder, so that he shall marry someone else while his wife is still alive and not shed human blood. Yet if two things are nefarious, he ought not to perpetrate one for the sake of the other, but avoid both’. [Augustine, Adulterous Marriages, II, ch. 15, Wilcox trans.]
A research project blog by Charles West (Department of History, Sheffield)