Amongst the many treasures of Bamberg’s city library, celebrated for its medieval book collection, is a manuscript shelved as Bamberg Msc. Can. 4. Made in the late tenth or early eleventh century in or around Milan, the manuscript is well known for its unique version of the ‘Donation of Constantine’, which has long been associated with King Otto I’s imperial coronation in 962. But in this blog I want to concentrate on an important yet mysterious text which was copied into the manuscript’s final pages around the middle of the eleventh century.
In the Bamberg manuscript, this text is labelled as ‘Letter of Pope Paschasius to the archbishop of Milan’. This is also the label that the text is given in many other manuscripts, and in some early modern editions based upon them. But looking closely, you can see that in the Bamberg manuscript, this title, or at least part of it, has been written over an erasure (see the blog’s cover image).
What was the original title of the letter written here? The question matters, because this is probably the earliest record of what was a very important text. The ‘Paschasius’ letter is generally thought to have been the very first text to argue that simoniacal ordinations were invalid – that in other words, priests and bishops who had paid money for their ordination were not bad priests, they were not priests at all. That was an argument that rocked the eleventh-century church, because it had enormous implications. Say a bishop had greased palms for his promotion – then any priests he subsequently ordained would not really be priests, and the sacraments they distributed would not really be sacraments either.
The ‘Paschasius’ letter’s dating and authorship are therefore crucial for an understanding of the arguments about simony in the 11th century. And whatever this and other manuscripts may say, we can be sure that the ‘Paschasius’ letter was not actually written by Pope Paschasius, because there has not yet been a pope of that name. So, who wrote it, and when?
In his edition of the text for the MGH in 1891, Friedrich Thaner attributed the letter to an Italian monk named Guido of Arezzo. He therefore labelled it the ‘Epistola Widonis’ (ie, Letter of Guido), and dated it to around 1031. But Thaner’s attribution has not gone entirely unchallenged. In 1941 Anton Michel argued that the letter had instead been written by Humbert of Moyenmoutier (or Silva Candida), on the basis of stylistic and content analysis, and also on the grounds that Guido of Arezzo showed no demonstrable interest in simony in any of his other work. In the 1980s, however, John Gilchrist dismissed Michel’s arguments and reasserted Guido’s authorship. Modern historiography has more or less followed Gilchrist’s lead. Yet Gilchrist was apparently unaware of arguments made in favour of Humbert’s authorship by Elaine Robison, arguments that were subsequently amplified by Margot Dischner.
Does it matter whether the ‘Paschasius’ letter was written by Guido of Arezzo, Humbert of Moyenmoutier, or any other author? Yes, very much so, for two reasons. Firstly, because as Michel, Robison and Dischner argued, the text is in some ways a précis of Humbert’s arguments in his ‘Three Books against the Simonists’ – but whereas the latter is known only from a handful of manuscripts, the ‘Paschasius’ letter was widely copied. Identifying Humbert as the author of the letter would change how we think about both texts. The letter would be the vehicle through which ideas elaborated at length in Humbert’s ‘Three Books’ were concisely disseminated.
Perhaps more importantly, though, the authorship has implications for the dating of the entire eleventh-century simony debate. If dated to 1031, the ‘Paschasius’ letter is the early opening salvo in a debate which then picks up speed in the 1040s. If however Humbert (or someone linked to him) was its author, the letter must have been written quite a bit later, most probably in the 1050s. In that scenario, the question of simoniacal ordinations may not even have arisen in Italy until the arrival of Pope Leo IX and his circle from Lotharingia, and the simony debate did not begin gradually in the 1030s, but with a bang in 1049.
The question of the original attribution of the text in its oldest witness, perhaps written not long after the text was first compiled, is therefore of considerable importance, and I hope at some point to visit the library in Bamberg to have a look at the manuscript myself, since sometimes it’s possible to see things in the flesh that can’t be discerned on the screen. If the erasure was thoroughly done, however, the manuscript may be able to hold onto its secret. Medieval history can, just sometimes, be a frustrating business.
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.
I’ve just finished teaching my module on Wikipedia and medieval history. It’s a short course for MA students, taught through five two-hour seminars. I started this module in early 2018, as I think the first of its kind in the UK; it’s now run three times, with the support and advice of the brilliant Wikimedia UK team.
It’s evolved quite a lot from where it started: from what was basically a ‘normal’ medieval MA course with a Wikipedia dimension, to a course that’s more squarely focused on Wikipedia itself, and its implications for those concerned with the (medieval) past.
There’s quite a lot of interest these days in teaching with Wikipedia, so in case it’s useful for anyone thinking of running such a module, I’ve attached my course guide. Comments and suggestions for improvement would be very welcome!
It’s with some hesitation that I write this blog. It’s not really my field, and the topic is angrily contested; many historians have chosen to keep their heads down and concentrate on their teaching and research at a busy time of year. But the ‘Anglo-Saxon’ debate raises important questions for those who study the medieval past, and for historians more broadly.
At its simplest, the debate concerns the value of ‘Anglo-Saxon’ as a label for the culture, society and politics of southern and eastern Britain before the Norman Conquest. It has been argued by scholars such as Dr Mary Rambaran-Olm (for instance, here) that the label is irredeemably racist and must therefore be abandoned, not just because of its modern appropriation by far-right groups, but because of its history since the Reformation. Proponents of this view add that its continued use actively discourages BAME scholars from entering and remaining in the field; some hold moreover that its abandonment should be merely the beginning of reforms required to dismantle a structurally racist system of knowledge production in the modern university.
Those making these arguments have met with awful racist abuse online, and I applaud the courage of Dr Rambaran-Olm and others in facing it.
Others in the debate have pointed out that the label ‘Anglo-Saxon’ was abundantly attested in sources from the time (especially those written on the continent) and so cannot easily be dismissed or ignored, have called for more thorough assessment of the term’s early modern and nineteenth-century use by specialists of these periods, and have raised concerns about abandoning commonly-used labels to extremists. (There’s a useful summary by Michael Wood here.)
One of the issues is a significant UK/US dissonance. In America and other English-speaking countries, the term ‘Anglo’ or even ‘Anglo-Saxon’ is often used as an ethnic label – indeed, that is apparently its normal usage outside the academy. In the UK, this usage can certainly be found; but it is a marginal one, and for the most part the label today is used with reference to the historical period, whose traces remain evident in place-names and even standing buildings. In standard UK usage, Hadrian the African, for instance, who came from North Africa and became abbot in Canterbury (d. 709), is just as much part of Anglo-Saxon history as the Venerable Bede.
To be clear, this does not mean that the UK is less racist than America, just that different countries with different histories are differently racist. Where the far right in America uses a language of ‘Anglo-Saxon’, the far right in the UK, and especially in England (the largest of the four nations of the UK), primarily employs a language of exclusionary Englishness (e.g. the English Defence League). It’s maybe partly for that reason that BAME people living in England are much less likely to consider themselves English than white people living in England, often preferring instead the label British. To talk about the ‘early English’ or the ‘Old English’ instead of the ‘Anglo-Saxons’, as has been mooted, might help combat racism in the US, but might inadvertently feed it in England.
There is a wider issue here, which is about the best way for historians to combat fascism in all its forms: an acute question in 2019. For me, the key is to write good, accurate and engaging history that does not oversimplify past complexities, that respects the integrity of the historical sources in the search to understand the past as best as possible for its own sake – and that challenges both the distant past’s direct relevance to contemporary politics, and anyone’s claim exclusively to own it.
When extremist groups appeal to the early Middle Ages in their efforts to reshape the contemporary world, historians should point out where they are wilfully and grotesquely misreading the evidence: after all, the appropriate and sensitive use of evidence is what historical training and historical ethics are all about.
But historians should also, and I would argue above all, point out that the past is not an instruction manual or a model for the present. Whatever your reading of it, early medieval history was a very long time ago: it is or ought to be largely irrelevant for contemporary political issues, whether in England or America or anywhere else. The main problem with 21st-century fascists pretending to be medieval Anglo-Saxons or Vikings is not that they have misread Bede or Gildas: it is that they are fascists.
Notes: Edited 11.11.19 to remove ‘if one looks hard enough’ after ‘this usage can certainly be found’, to avoid any unintended implication that racists need to be sought out.
In 1059, the campaign to rid the church of the evil of simony moved up a gear. Simony was the sin – contemporaries said heresy – of acquiring ecclesiastical office in exchange for gifts, or promises of favour. At a council in Rome, Pope Nicholas II declared that all priests who had secured their position in this way were now deposed.
But Nicholas went further than that. He not only deposed priests who had paid for their offices, he also targeted priests who had been ordained by such priests, even if their own ordination had been carried out for free (gratis). This was a radical and controversial measure, reminiscent, as Conrad Leyser has pointed out, of the Donatist schism in the fifth century, because it implied that the sacraments of simoniac priests were invalid. Its practical implications were so great that Nicholas accepted that priests already freely ordained by simoniacs might stay in their offices – but by merciful concession, not by the letter of the law.
Nicholas’s decree also dealt with matters of papal election, so it might be tempting to read its far-reaching statements about simony as primarily an act of dramatic rhetoric, aimed at a local, Roman audience. Was it really intended to have an impact in the Latin church as a whole?
Actually, the answer might be yes. There’s a clue in the manuscript transmission – ie, how the text was preserved in the Middle Ages. Nicholas’s decree was copied not in manuscripts written in Rome, but in manuscripts based on a compilation of Archbishop Lanfranc of Canterbury – and quite separately, in a manuscript now preserved in Vic in Catalonia. As Rudolf Schieffer pointed out, this suggests that Nicholas II took care to promulgate his decisions beyond Rome, sending out not only this decree, but also related material such as an oath sworn by the recanting heretic Berengar of Tours, which accompanies the 1059 decree in all manuscripts.
The Vic manuscript is especially interesting, however, since it also contains a copy of Humbert of Moyenmoutier’s 1058 treatise Three Books Against the Simoniacs. It’s long been debated how much this radical text spread, since not many copies of it now survive. But its proximity to the 1059 decree about simony in the Vic manuscript suggests not only that it might have spread more than we might think, but that it might even have been actively disseminated by the papacy as part of its anti-simony campaigns.
The mid-eleventh-century papacy is often overshadowed by Pope Gregory VII, but it’s becoming ever clearer how much he was the product, and not the cause, of ‘reform’.
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.
Since at least the early tenth century, the failure of the Middle Kingdom – the kingdom of Lothar II, Lotharingia – has been tied to the failure of the Carolingian empire, whose wider history has almost always been dominated by the trope of decline: the inability of Charlemagne’s successors to measure up. That’s lent the kingdom’s eventual fate – divvied up by rival kings in 870 – an air of inevitability.
But for all that a combination of bad luck and poor judgement landed King Lothar II into a very deep hole in the 860s, we must beware the historian’s besetting vice of teleology. Dramatic reversals in fortune were par for the course in ninth-century politics. Lothar was admittedly in a pickle from 863 onwards thanks to his marital problems, but had it been his uncle King Charles the Bald who’d succumbed to unexpected illness in 869, events would have taken a rather different turn. And this blog is about some evidence that, up to his death, Lothar’s embattled kingdom seemed to remain in working order.
Like other Carolingian kingdoms, Lothar II’s had been afflicted by Viking raids, though the absence of a Lotharingian equivalent of the Annals of St Bertin or Annals of Fulda mean that we’re generally less informed about them. Viking raids could be dangerous and destabilising, but they also offered rulers a chance to demonstrate their martial vigour against an unproblematically ‘othered’ enemy. The Franks had mixed feelings about “civil” war – i.e. killing other Franks – but fighting Vikings was a different matter.
That’s demonstrated by a letter that chances to survive from Bishop Adventius of Metz, one of King Lothar’s most important supporters, and which probably dates from the year 867. In it, Bishop Adventius gives notice that the ‘whole people’ in his diocese is to undertake a three-day fast to beseech God for Lothar’s victory in an upcoming confrontation with the Vikings (see translation below). This is, in a way, the staging for a holy war.
Without doubt there were genuine religious motives at work here. But Lothar II’s kingdom was under enormous external pressure, which had not been relieved by Lothar’s decision under compulsion to readmit Theutberga as his wife in 865. So the opportunity to bring everyone together in a set of religious ceremonies against a common enemy would have been a welcome fillip to the king and his supporters. Here everyone could see the God-given, traditional order being rehearsed by the Carolingian military-religious complex: bishops praying for kings to triumph in war, with the common people (vulgaris populus) doing as they were told by their local priests.
In 867, Lothar II could, then, still present himself as a traditional king doing traditional kingly things, despite all the problems he and his supporters were facing. Ironically, though, hewing to tradition was actually one of the causes of those problems, since his disastrous marriage politics can be read as an attempt to behave just as his predecessors had, without realising that the ground had moved beneath his feet. In the end, maybe Lothar II was just too traditional for his own good?
Much of what we know of early medieval high politics is based on texts written for public consumption: the final version of agreed charters, crafted formal records of meetings, or commemorative (or subtly critical) histories. It’s perhaps this slant of the evidence which has led some historians to emphasise the ritualised quality of those politics. Amidst the records of choreographed assemblies and ceremonies, the actual workings of political process are hard to discern: the surviving evidence appears all highly polished surface, with little indication of whirring cogs beneath.
But just occasionally a text survives, usually by the skin of its teeth, that seems to let us see (to mix metaphors) under the bonnet of the spluttering engine of Carolingian dynastic political manoeuvring. The text presented in this blog in translation for the first time, thanks to one of my former students, Hayley Harrison, is a good example.
It’s a letter sent in the summer of 862 by Bishop Altfrid of Hildesheim (†874) to his king, Louis the German (of East Francia). Altfrid had travelled to West Francia on his king’s behalf, to conduct diplomatic negotiations with the king’s brother, King Charles the Bald (of West Francia). He wrote this letter to let King Louis know how things were going. Although Altfrid was from a Saxon family, he had probably been educated in West Francia (perhaps at Corbie), and already had some experience of acting as an envoy between Louis and his royal relatives, so he was a natural choice for this embassy. His predecessor as bishop of Hildesheim was moreover the exiled Ebbo of Reims, so we can assume that Altfrid was quite well informed about wider Frankish politics.
The letter doesn’t explain the specific purpose of Bishop Altfrid’s mission to King Charles, but we do know it touched on the affairs (so to speak) of King Lothar II, Louis and Charles’s nephew, who had just recently divorced his wife Theutberga at the Council of Aachen in April 862, and was now gearing up to marry Waldrada. Indeed this was probably the embassy’s main focus: Louis wanted to reconcile Lothar and Charles, and to help draw a line under his nephew’s recent political difficulties. That was not, however, how things turned out.
As the letter explains, Bishop Altfrid first travelled to Lotharingia, picking up envoys from the young Lothar, before they all proceeded to King Charles’s court, at his grandest ceremonial centre, Compiègne. There, as Altfrid reported to Louis, the two embassies met with very different receptions. To Altfrid, Charles was gracious and cordial; to Lothar’s envoys, he was conspicuously cold and peremptory. Lothar was a king mired in sin, and Charles would have no dealings with him until he mended his ways. Charles did want to talk about Lothar’s case – but with Louis, privately, and in Lothar’s absence.
As Stuart Airlie has argued (1), we see in Charles’s public behaviour a message as clear as the words that were spoken (or written, if as seems possible the ‘Capitulary of Savonnières’ represents an echo of this meeting, perhaps even the ‘other record’ the letter mentions). Until Lothar had resolved his marital problems, his followers and clients were not welcome in Charles’s kingdom. And a king who could not ensure his followers were treated with public respect was a king seriously failing in his responsibilities.
If Lothar II had not yet grasped that the Aachen Council of 862 would not simply extricate him from the crisis engendered by his attempted divorce, he ought to have begun to realise it now.
1: Stuart Airlie, ‘Unreal Kingdom: Francia Media under the shadow of Lothar II’. In: Gaillard, M., Margue, M., Dierkens, A. and Pettiau, H. (eds.) De la mer du Nord a la Mediterranee: Francia Media, une Region au Coeur de l’Europe (c.840-c.1050). Centre luxembourgeois de documentation et d’etudes medievales, pp. 339-356
As the Carolingian empire grew in size, so its ‘stakeholders’ grew richer – kings, churches, and the highest-ranked Frankish aristocrats above all.
Few if any Carolingian aristocrats were higher-ranking than the couple who issued this will around 863, presented below in draft English translation for the first time (primarily to help students). Count Eberhard came from a well-established noble kinship group labelled by modern historians as the ‘Unruochings’, because many men associated with it were named Unruoch. Eberhard’s wife Gisela was the daughter of Emperor Louis the Pious and Empress Judith, no less. This was a family at the very top of the tree.
That position is evident from the document itself, in which Eberhard and Gisela distributed their possessions amongst their sons and daughters. A large part of the will reads like a treasure list: immense quantities of golden, silver and ivory objects, from swords to drinking vessels. Some of these were probably of recent manufacture, others may have been antiques already. The will is also famous for its dozens of books, which are individually divided up amongst the children too. Eberhard and Gisela had evidently built up a very considerable library.
Nevertheless, the bulk of their wealth was in land. The will does not give a precise value or acreage, but it is apparent that Eberhard and Gisela were seriously wealthy, with property in what is now Germany, Italy, Belgium and France. They were certainly part of the Carolingian 1%, busy with Piketty and Scheidel’s ‘capital accumulation’, and keen to pass it on to their heirs.
But the more you have, the more you have to lose, and Eberhard and Gisela clearly worried about that. Their will accounts for the possibility that a future king of the Franks, Lombards or Alemans will seize property from one of their heirs ‘by violence or without cause’. The Carolingian world of the 860s was one of kingdoms ruled by rival kings, which posed problems for those aristocrats whose property stretched over the old empire as a whole.
Indeed the will can be read as indicating that the couple were beginning to create separate ‘kernels’ of land, with, for instance, all their Italian estates passing as a bloc to their eldest son, Unroch. While kings were still aiming for the ultimate prize – to reconstitute the empire of Charlemagne – were their aristocrats already quietly but surely accommodating themselves to a new, more fragmented reality?
It’s long been emphasised by historians of the European Middle Ages that their subjects did not think of themselves as medieval, a periodisation that was only invented and imposed later. Less often discussed, but perhaps just as important, is that they would not usually have thought of themselves as ‘European’ either. There certainly was a medieval concept of Europe (Europa). But as Klaus Oschema and Marie-Céline Isaia have suggested, that itself means that we should be cautious about using the term when the people we are studying did not.
To avoid the risk of anachronism that the language of “medieval Europe” might bring with it, historians have sometimes instead talked of the Latin West to describe their focus of study. In many ways this is both understandable and justifiable. People living in Carolingian Francia, for instance, did think of themselves as western, and the widespread use of Latin in liturgical and learned contexts – no matter what the vernacular – eased cultural transfer across wide areas, from Ireland to Hungary, and from Iceland to Sicily. There is a real cultural network here to be studied.
However, this cultural network was not strictly bounded or contained, and in fact many of its most central ideas developed in and through dialogue with those living elsewhere. As Saba Mahmood has put it when talking of European encounters with the wider world, ‘These encounters did not simply leave Christianity untouched but transformed it from within…’
The text presented here in English translation is a case in point. It is a letter written on the theme of simony, that it is to say the purchase (or, according to this treatise, attempted purchase) of ecclesiastical office: paying to become a priest or bishop. Very likely this letter was written by Humbert of Moyenmoutier, since it seems in some ways a first draft of his much longer (and more celebrated) Three books against the simonists. This letter was therefore an important step in the elaboration of a key concept in medieval history.
Significantly, however, this “early draft” was written to a Byzantine governor in southern Italy – a representative of another socio-political complex, in which Greek, not Latin played the role of lingua franca, and in which ancient ideas of the state (and of office holding) seemed better preserved. In other words, we can see Humbert developing his ideas – ideas that proved central in the history of the Latin West – in dialogue with people located in overlapping but distinct cultural networks.
Encounters such as these were not marginal to the development of the cultural network we might label the Latin West: they were baked in.