Medieval Women: In Their Own Words @ the British Library

‘What I’m going to tell you now,’ he said, ‘may sound incredible. But then, when you’re not accustomed to history, most facts about the past do sound incredible.’
(The Director of Hatcheries and Conditioning in ‘Brave New World’, chapter 3)

In the memory of women alive today, ‘history’ was defined as the deeds of men, recorded by men, described in histories written by men, and taught by men. My mother remembers sitting through history lessons about the Crusades and the Second World War, both of which passed without mention of a single woman taking part.

When it comes to the Middle Ages, a handful of queens (Matilda and Eleanor), the egregious Joan of Arc, a handful of authors (Julian of Norwich, Margery Kempe, Christine de Pizan) and the composer Hildegaard of Bingen, have been known about, written about and studied for centuries, but that has tended to be your lot. The role of women in the broader life of medieval society – as not only rulers but aristocratic wives, as authors and intellectuals, as saints and visionaries, abbesses and anchorites, as merchants in towns and peasants in the fields – has been much less described and explored.

‘Medieval Women: In Their Own Words’ is a big, informative and artfully designed exhibition, full of priceless treasures, which is firmly rooted in the modern movement of women speaking up, speaking out, and reclaiming the stories of their past.

The Book of the City of Ladies in a manuscript made under the personal supervision of Christine de Pizan, the first professional women author in Europe. This illustration unexpectedly shows elegant ladies bricklaying © British Library

This is a very polemically feminist exhibition. The aim of reclaiming women’s stories and voices is front and centre of the curators’ stated aims, of the press promotion of the show, of all the wall labels and object captions. Here’s the opening of the British Library web page about it.

Narratives about the Middle Ages are dominated by men. Male authors recorded history and wrote great works of literature, male rulers commanded kingdoms and fought wars, male authorities controlled religion. In traditional histories, medieval women’s roles have often been side-lined and limited to a few stereotypes and generalisations.

This exhibition counters this narrative by revealing women’s contributions right across medieval society, in public, private and spiritual life, taking visitors on a journey through women’s healthcare, households, work, creativity and political and religious involvement.

It’s in this spirit that ‘Medieval Women: In Their Own Words’ brings together 140 or so objects in order, as far as possible, to quote women’s own words about themselves and their lives and experiences, sourced from authentic medieval letters, books, histories, works of devotion, poems, prayers and edicts written by women.

Signed letter from Joan of Arc to the citizens of Riom, requesting gunpowder and military equipment for a coming siege, 9 November 1429, from the Municipal Archives in Riom © Town of Riom, Municipal Archives

So all the manuscripts, books and other objects on display here have been chosen to give – wherever possible – first-hand testimony of medieval women authors and their range of writings, to shed light on women’s contributions to medieval social and economic life, culture and politics, their political, dynastic and diplomatic achievements as queens and empresses, their management of sometimes very large households and religious institutions, their work as doctors and midwives, and their roles as saints and visionaries, revered in the Catholic tradition.

It certainly achieves its aims, opening doors and shedding light on all aspects of women’s experiences, right across western Europe spanning a very large time period – roughly 1100 to 1500. The exhibition is divided into three main zones. These are:

1. Private Lives

This opening section tries to give a range of insights into the everyday lives and personal worlds of medieval women, covering subjects like family and domestic life, friendship and motherhood, love and sex. There are sections about medicine and herbal remedies, good luck charms to wear during childbirth – notably a birthing girdle from the early 15th century, inscribed with prayers and charms that promised a quick and painless delivery.

Birthing girdle, England, early 15th century, an amulet for protection during childbirth © British Library

There’s an edition of the letters between the ill-fated lovers of Heloïse and Abelard, and a copy of ‘the Passion of St Margaret’, the patron saint of childbirth, which has been smudged by devotional kissing. There are love letters written by women, including – as the curators repeatedly point out – the oldest surviving Valentine’s Day letter in the English language, written by Margery Brews to her fiancé John Paston in February 1477.

Actually there’s quite a lot from the Paston letters, at least 7 letters and a will. This makes sense to anyone familiar with Middle Ages as the Paston Letters are well known and have been available in a numerous printed editions for ages. To quote the curators:

The Pastons were a Norfolk family who climbed the social ladder from peasantry to landed gentry during the 15th century. The extraordinary survival of a cache of around a thousand personal letters sent to and from the family gives unparalleled insight into their everyday lives. Some of the most prolific correspondents were the women of the family, recording joys, sorrows, loves, rivalries, friendships and arguments that span several generations. Yet most of the Paston women could not write, and relied on scribes to write down their messages for them.

This section also includes the first known book in Europe printed by a woman under her own name. This was Jedaiah ben Abraham Bedersi author of ‘Behinat ha-‘Olam’ (The Contemplation of the World) printed in Mantua (Italy), around 1476. Its printer, Estellina Conat, is also the first known female printer of Hebrew texts. She worked in a family workshop in Mantua (northern Italy). The book contains a philosophical poem written after the expulsion of Jews from France in 1306.

It’s worth pointing out that the exhibition includes half a dozen objects relating to Jewish women, and overview panels explaining the role and significance and distinctive culture of Jews in medieval Europe.

An illustration of Margaret of York kneeling before the Resurrected Christ in the Dialogue de la duchesse de Bourgogne à Jésus Christ © British Library Board

There’s a copy of a unique treatise on women’s medicine actually written by a woman. Trota of Salerno was a physician who practised at the medical school of Salerno, southern Italy, in the 12th century. She gave her name to a widely consulted collection of texts on women’s health, the Trotula. Her medical works are notable for being less theoretical and more practical than those of her male contemporaries. Since male practitioners were not permitted to conduct intimate examinations, she was able to practise women’s medicine in a more hands-on way than they could.

Toxic men and the Patriarchy are represented by John Mirfield’s ‘Breviarium Bartholomei’, a medical compendium which includes procedures for testing virginity, making a woman appear to be a virgin, and even a section on contraception, partly written in ciphers to limit access.

2. Public Lives

The second section, ‘Public Lives’, tells the stories of a host of women who shaped medieval society through their work in areas as varied as agriculture, textiles, sex work, finance, writing and printing, politics and warfare. It’s subdivided into two specific areas: ‘Work and creativity’ and ‘Power and politics’.

The seal of Empress Matilda (Add Ch 75724) Foundation charter of Bordesley Abbey by Empress Matilda © British Library Board

Specific named women of power include:

  • Shajar al-Durr (d. 1257) a female ruler of Egypt who defeated Louis IX of France in the Seventh Crusade
  • Isabella of France (1295 to 1358) who, together with her lover, Roger Mortimer, led a successful rebellion against her husband, King Edward II of England
  • Margaret of Anjou (1430 to 1482) who is represented by the largest hoard of gold coins ever discovered in Britain, believed to have been part of her fundraising efforts on behalf of her husband, King Henry VI of England
  • Anne of France (1461 to 1522) Duchess of Bourbon, known to her contemporaries as Madame la Grande (‘the Great Lady’) one of the most powerful women in late 15th-century Europe as well as the author of ‘Lessons For My Daughter’) France
  • a tough-minded letter from Margaret Paston to her husband John, away on business in London, requesting a detailed list of military supplies to defend their manor which was under siege from jealous local magnates (!)

Women used letters not just for personal family correspondence but for more official purposes. This section includes letters and petitions to advocate for freedoms and equality. You can see a petition written by Maria Moriana to the Mayor of London, when her master, Philip Syne, tried to sell her as a slave and then imprisoned her when she refused.

There is a copy of what is thought to be the first public defence of women in Italy, written by Nicolosa Sanuti in 1453. When the Church in Bologna imposed laws restricting what women (but not men) could wear, noblewoman Sanuti wrote this treatise in protest. She argues that through their many contributions to society, women have earned the right to wear what they want. Although unsuccessful at getting the law repealed, Nicolosa’s book won respect in intellectual circles.

A page from the Luttrell Psalter with an illustration of three women bringing in the harvest © British Library Board

3. Spiritual Lives

Religion was an integral part of medieval life and this third and final section gives you a feeling for the many roles played by women in medieval Christianity, from managers and administrators of large religious houses, to visionary writers and poets, to revered saints.

Surviving accounts show that religion could be a significant source of power for medieval women. Some women dedicated their lives to God by joining a convent and becoming nuns, while others led a religious life within society. The show includes works by the notable English women visionaries:

  • Julian of Norwich (around 1343 to after 1416) represented by the only complete surviving copy of her masterwork ‘The Revelations of Divine Love’ (mid-15th century) – the first work in English known to be authored by a woman
  • The Book of Margery Kempe, written around 1438, the earliest known autobiography in English which chronicles her life as a female mystic, in the only surviving manuscript copy from 1445 to 1450

For women who felt a religious calling, nunneries provided them with opportunities for education, creativity and community. Some of the many works produced by these communities include:

  • works by Hildegard of Bingen (d. 1179) a Benedictine abbess in the 12th century, who is famous as being the first woman composer in the western tradition – including a copy of the proto-opera, Ordo virtutum (Play of the Virtues), which she composed around 1150 to be sung at her convent
  • a copy of The Rule of St Clare, the first set of monastic guidelines known to have been authored by a woman
  • an exquisite series of painted scenes from the life of St John the Baptist created between 1175 and 1200, thought to be the only surviving creation from the renowned workshop of Herrad of Landsberg (1130 to 1195) at Hohenburg Abbey in Alsace

Miniature showing nuns processing to mass, from La sainte abbaye (The Holy Abbey), France (1290s) © British Library Board

Medieval stats

I was intrigued by the way the exhibition curators have created special panels, separate from the object labels, devoted solely to statistics. Some of these are feminist in intention but others were just stats for the joy of stats – odd, thought-provoking numbers, which are enjoyable in the way that random stats often are. Here’s a selection:

  • In medieval France, roughly 1.5% of medical practitioners whose names survive were women.
  • Of these, around 36% were midwives, the rest included barbers, surgeons, trained physicians and untrained healers.
  • 48% of aristocratic women from England between 1350 and 1500 made bequests of books in their wills, compared with 18% of noblemen.
  • 44% of daughters mentioned in male Londoners’ wills from 1309 to 1468 received some form of real estate, compared with 60% of sons
  • 18% of legal cases in 14th-century York dealt with the dissolution of marriages.
  • 26% of women employees in Paris around 1300 worked in the production of silk.
  • 82% of slave contracts drawn up in Venice between 1360 and 1499 were for women, whose average age was 22.5.
  • About 10% of apprentices in medieval London were girls.

You get the picture. However, as with all blizzards of statistics they start out being fascinating, then become a bit of a chore, and at some point stop registering altogether.

Marriage chest or cassoni belonging to Elizabetta Gonzaga Mantua of Urbino, Italy (around 1488) Victoria and Albert Museum (photo by the author)

Medieval smells

And there are medieval smells! The Library has commissioned scent designer Tasha Marks to develop four ‘immersive fragrance installations’ (basically boxes or pots) – lift the lids and get a whiff of scents used (in probably wealthy) medieval households. The smells come in two of the zones: in the ‘Private Lives’ section there are two fragrances based on recipes from the 13th century text ‘De Ornatu Mulierum’ (On Women’s Cosmetics) for a hair perfume and a breath freshener.

The opening page of ‘De Ornatu Mulierum’ (On Women’s Cosmetics) © British Library Board

While in the ‘Spiritual Lives’ section there are two more scents, chosen for their associations with medieval understandings of the heavenly and demonic.

Are you a witch?

There are a couple of interactive screens scattered about the show and one of them is a brilliant interactive tool where you can find out whether you’re a witch! I immediately thought this should be a game show along the lines of Love Island or I’m A Celebrity Get Me Out of Here. The show would start with half a dozen women in a mocked-up medieval village (the kind used in Monty Python and the Holy Grail) who have to undergo a series of tests and trials to establish whether they’re a witch or not (seeing if they have a third nipple or whether they float in the village pond or have a black cat).

Obviously I took the quiz – I needed to know. The first question was ‘Are you a man or a woman?’ I clicked ‘Man’ and burst out laughing when the next screen told me I was off to ‘a promising start’. I know what they mean, the obvious intent – as is the intent of most of the show – is to ram home the point that men generally had a better time of it in the Middle Ages than women.

The interactive ‘Are you a witch tool’ in ‘Medieval Women: In Their Own Words’ at the British Library (photo by the author)

A few caveats

This is an excellent exhibition. All the exhibits are fascinating, well chosen, carefully explained, and there is lots of information and context. There are some unexpected and even bizarre objects, plus the funky elements I’ve just described, the scents and the interactive screens. But I have a few caveats. More accurately, maybe, trains of thought triggered by the exhibition.

Getting inside medieval Christianity

The most obvious challenger to our modern secular values is religion. In this exhibition religion is treated from a mostly secular perspective, as an area where women were allowed to exercise a surprising amount of agency and freedom. The decision to become a nun was respected, and Christianity allowed women to become visionaries and saints, to be venerated and worshipped. This was more than was available to medieval Islam, India or China.

But my issue is that the curators – obviously modern secular feminists – treat medieval Christianity as if it was a job opportunity scheme for women seeking to escape patriarchal medieval society rather than the worldview which dominated every aspect of medieval life.

What the exhibition can’t really take on board is the big question: What if Christianity is right? What if being a woman isn’t entirely about being a strong independent woman flexing her agency and kicking sand in the face of the Patriarchy? What if the world was made by God, and Jesus was the Son He sent to redeem humanity from the Fall, and those who believe in Jesus’s resurrection and atonement will go to heaven and everyone who doesn’t believe, and wilfully sins against the laws of God, will go to hell?

What if that is the only important question in any human’s life, because it affects the fate of their immortal soul? In which case the medieval pay gap and the injustice of making women stay at home to raise children and be deprived of education or access to any profession – all issues which the exhibition raises and illustrates – become secondary, modern and secular concerns; in fact compared to the life of the spirit, barely issues at all.

I’m not saying Christianity with its patriarchal ideology is ‘true’. I’m a fairly militant atheist and a strong believer in Darwinian materialism. I’m just pointing out that a sympathetic reading of medieval history is an opportunity to enter into a world of values completely unlike ours – and explore what it would be like to believe medieval Christianity with all your heart and soul.

How would the world look then – if you knew your place in society, knew your role in life, and your main concern (apart from the basics of food and health) was being pious, attending church and avoiding temptations, physical or spiritual? If you knew that God was your Creator, that Jesus died to save you from sin, that we live in a terrible world exposed to all kinds of fragility, plague, war, early death, that only our faith can make sense of anything in life, and only faith can help us endure the terrible, arbitrary contingencies of life?

Just for an hour imagine being alive in those terrible times, without any of the conveniences of modern life, with no modern medicines or understanding of how the body works, with a life expectancy of 30, at the mercy of any number of random disasters. Wouldn’t you throw yourself on the mercy of an all-powerful God?

An illustration of St Francis and St Clare in The Rule of the Minorite Order of Sisters of St Clare, painted by the German artist Sibylla von Bondorff © British Library Board

Also, stripped of it supernatural trappings, Christianity contains many moral or ethical truths: for example, it’s not all about you. That happiness and fulfilment might not come from focusing just on your needs and problems, but by helping others. Focusing inwards, in the self, concentrates our unhappiness. Focusing outwards, on others, makes us forget ourselves in helping others. It is better to give than to receive. Charity is defined by the Etymological Dictionary as ‘Christian love in its highest manifestation.’

The beauty of the medieval worldview

I studied medieval history and literature at university. What is vital to medieval studies – and not so obvious in this exhibition – is the absolute centrality of hierarchy, pattern and order.

In the medieval worldview God was in his heaven and a complicated hierarchy of archangels and angels cascaded down from him. He controlled the universe at the centre of which was the solar system, at the centre of which was the world around which the moon, the sun and the five plants orbited, each embedded in an invisible crystal sphere, hence the music of the spheres.

The world was governed by the passage of the seasons created by the changing angle of the sun moving across a sky which, at night, was filled with the signs of the Zodiac, which had a strong influence on the world and its inhabitants, for good or evil. These complex movements and their influence on human life could be studied through the science of astrology.

Within the world of living beings there was a strong hierarchy, with man at the top and then hierarchies of animals in each of the kingdoms of the air and earth and sea. Everyone could see how larger animals preyed on smaller ones according to the hierarchies created by God.

Within human society there were distinct and fixed hierarchies, the sacred and the secular. The key institution was the Church, with the Pope as God’s representative on earth and the Church hierarchy of cardinals, archbishops, bishops, priests and so on spreading its tentacles down to every parish in Christendom. Holiness entailed following all the edicts of the Church, attending Mass, keeping the fasts and feasts and countless saints’ days, worshipping and praying in the correct manner, and avoiding all temptations to sin, either physical or spiritual.

Paralleling this was the secular hierarchy which began with the king or emperor at the top of each realm, then his assembly of nobles, barons and so on, extending down through a complex hierarchy of social ranks and functions, eventually ending with the serfs or peasants in the field.

More germane to this exhibition, there were very fixed views about the hierarchy of the family, with the father as the head of the household exercising complete control over his wife, who had her role to play in controlling their children and the sometimes numerous servants. People talk about the patriarchy nowadays, but this really was a patriarchal society.

It followed from the obsession with hierarchy that the good society was one in which everyone knew their place in society, accepted this place and contributed to their community according to their place and role, respecting their superiors, acting appropriately to their inferiors, ensuring stability and prosperity.

Down below the human level, at a basic physical level, everything in the world was made up of a mix of the four elements: fire, air, earth and water. These corresponded to the four life-giving fluids in the human body, namely:

  • • Blood: associated with air
    • Yellow bile: associated with fire
    • Phlegm: associated with water
    • Black bile: associated with earth

In the medieval worldview everything was linked by connections between all these hierarchies and many more I haven’t mentioned (for example, the vast world of medieval theology with its seven sacraments, seven deadly sins, seven cardinal virtues and so on and so on).

The world was thus a vastly complicated place made up of overlapping matrices of hierarchies, structures and values, traditions, beliefs and practices. It was the complex correspondences between all these sets of values that enabled the characteristic medieval literary form of allegory where animated figures – humans or animals – stand for the abstract values within the complex value system, allowing for the creation of complex and sophisticated works of literature and visual art (such as Hildegard of Bingen’s work, Play of the Virtues, mentioned above, where a  female voice plays the role of the human soul and meets 17 virtues).

These complex correspondences also, of course, allow for magic, where objects – such as someone’s hair or clothes – stand in for people themselves or their qualities or powers. Magic is just a way of tapping into the immense system of correspondences between all aspects of the material world and the spiritual world which everyone knew lay all around them, a way of deploying occult forces to influence the visible world.

Put simply, my suggestion is that, in order to really understand and enjoy all this, you have to submit to it, swim in it, forget our modern world of subatomic particles and antibiotics, technology and individualism, modern secular liberal values, and imagine a world made up of four elements where the only medicine comes from plants with magical properties which must be taken at a full moon along with the right prayers or spells. Where the only thing which can save you from life’s endless tribulations is deep faith, faith in God, His Son and the Holy Blessed Virgin Mary. Where the way to be happy was to know your place in the world and behave accordingly.

To enter this world is, I suggest, fascinating and imagination-expanding. If you really go for it, immersing yourself in Chaucer or Langland, medieval saints’ legends or the Arthurian romances, you can recapture a real sense of magic and marvels, and what it could mean to be human in a larger, stranger, more mystical sense than the modern world of TikTok and Instagram allows, entering a world of hidden powers and spirits.

My reservation about this exhibition is that it sometimes felt as if the Middle Ages were being named and shamed for not being a woke 21st century university campus; that medieval people were being ticked off for allowing a medieval gender pay gap (as one of the exhibits is titled), for forcing women to be homemakers or be married off at 13; for the failure of people living in 1200 to understand the workings of the human body as we do in 2024; for a litany of our contemporary concerns which the curators use to judge and find wanting people who lived 800 years ago.

Maybe that’s the root of my objection. What medieval people believed was strange and wonderful and inspiring, and horrible and violent and terrifying, but seeking to explore and understand such a different worldview can be immensely liberating. All of it may have been, in a scientifically literal sense wrong, and wildly contrary to our modern sense of liberal freedoms, but that is like saying ‘Alice in Wonderland’ is ‘wrong’.

History is an imaginative artefact and can, on a personal level, be made to mean whatever we want it to. Sure, public historians have a duty to research and report the facts accurately, but most of us ordinary citizens have favourite periods or characters from history and enjoy fantasising and romanticising about them. Look at the evergreen popularity of historical novels and TV series. Every year there’s another series about the bloody Tudors which usually bears only the flimsiest relation to academic history. Or consider the way hordes of medieval trappings are imported into popular culture, in a twee way in Harry Potter, in a grim way in Game of Thrones.

I love lots of medieval art and literature, sculpture, tapestries and music, for its magic, its lightness, its symbolic way of thinking, its vision of the deep interpenetration of the natural and supernatural worlds; above all for the beauty and sweetness of its literature, from the full-bodied roistering of Geoffrey Chaucer to the sweet poignancy of medieval poetry. I don’t ‘believe’ any of the ideology underpinning it, but that doesn’t stop me immersing myself in it whole-heartedly for the duration of the reading.

Sorry to be so long-winded but I’m trying to identify why I reacted a little negatively to some aspects of this exhibition, admirable though it is in intent and execution. I recoiled a bit from the way the vast 400-year period it covers – of events, people, culture and meanings, hundreds of millions of human lives and stories and works and days, festivals, celebrations, communities, wars, pogroms, atrocities and carnivals – sometimes felt like it was being reduced to an all-too-familiar and modern shopping list of injustices and grievances, in which the weirdness, wonderfulness and otherness of medieval culture which I love so much sometimes felt like it had been lost.

Installation view of ‘Medieval Women: In Their Own Words’ @ the British Library

Explicitus est liber

Maybe you’ll have a completely different take on it. It really is a lovely exhibition and it really does open your eyes to the whole world of medieval women which has been so neglected for so long. Go and make your own mind up. And, of course, to find out whether you’re a witch. You never know…


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Investment in Blood: The True Cost of Britain’s Afghan War by Frank Ledwidge (2013)

Before the British burst onto the scene, Helmand was ‘stable’ in the sense that there was almost no Taliban presence and little prospect of any. After three years of British presence, the province was the most savage combat zone in the world. With British forces and their commanders out of their depth, it was only the intervention of a powerful US force of marines that brought some level of control to the situation.
(Investment in Blood, page 217)

This is by way of being the sequel to Ledwidge’s critically acclaimed book Losing Small Wars: British Military Failure in the 9/11 Wars (2011). Ledwidge is formidably well qualified to discuss the issues. He has had an impressively wide-ranging career both in and outside the military. He started life as a barrister, then served as an intelligence officer in the naval reserve in Iraq before going on to act as a civilian justice adviser in Afghanistan. These days he’s an academic.

The true cost

Nowadays you can just google ‘cost of Afghan war’ and get a host of topline figures. Delve into a few articles and you quickly get a sense of the quagmire of conflicting estimates and figures.

According to the top result, from Brown University, as of 2023, since invading Afghanistan in 2001, the United States has spent $2.313 trillion on the war, which includes operations in both Afghanistan and Pakistan.

As to the UK, I came across this BBC page ‘Afghan withdrawal a dark chapter for UK, says Defence Committee chair‘ which puts the cost to Britain of its Afghan adventure at nearly £30 billion. Everyone has an axe to grind, everyone has an angle.

So why read a book about a subject so readily available on the internet? Well, for two reasons: 1) because books give context, angles, interpretations and, above all, ideas, in ways which ‘objective’ sources like the BBC, Wikipedia, newspaper articles, generally don’t. And 2) for the style and personality and character of the author, enjoyable, fluent, enlightening or dim and patronising, as they may be.

Investment in Blood is in three parts.

Part 1. Casualties

Chapter 1. Why we went there

And why a small peacekeeping force found itself thrown into a full-scale war. For Ledwidge a leading reason the heads of the British Army wanted to deploy to Afghanistan had nothing to do with peacekeeping or tackling the opium trade, it was a self-interested wish to keep Treasury funding coming, to bolster the business case for maintaining the army the size it was, to hang on to battalions which were threatened with being disbanded, on the principle of ‘use them or lose them’ (pages 21 and 120).

Chapter 2. The human cost i.e. army casualties

Starting with the 454 British dead, then the thousands who suffered life-changing injuries, especially amputations, and then the psychological impact, especially the much-vaunted post-traumatic stress disorder.

Chapter 3. Afghan civilian casualties

Abdul Zia has been living for six years in the dirt-poor camp of Nasaji Baghrami, set in sea of mud, excrement and pathetic tarpaulins…It is located in Kabul’s particularly dirty and unpleasant fifth police district…There was a time when life for Mr Zia was much better: he used to have a small farm and seven children. That farm was in the Lashkar Gah district of Helmand. But then one day in 2006, shortly after the British entry into Helmand, for no reason that he can fathom his house was hit by a missile or a bomb from a NATO plane. Whatever it was, it killed six of his children. (p.94)

Afghan dead

Ledwidge explains his methodology which restricts itself to Afghan civilians killed by NATO forces according to reliable, certifiable sources then proceeds through each year, carefully accrediting the numbers. He reaches a total of at least 542 Afghan civilians killed by NATO forces. Compare and contrast with these figures from the US Institute of Peace: 70,000 Afghan military and police deaths, 46,319 Afghan civilians (probably a significant underestimation) and some 53,000 opposition fighters.

Afghan wounded (p.91).

He has no figures and so gives anecdotal evidence of the number of wounded civilians attending the NGO-run civilian hospitals. Other sources claim numbers to be in the hundreds of thousands.

Afghan refugees

Then there are the refugees forced to flee their homes (p.93). According to the UN Refugee Agency, as of December 2021, the total number of people displaced by conflict inside Afghanistan is 3.5 million.

Part 2. Financial costs

Chapter 4. The cost of the vast logistical effort of installing and maintaining a brigade in Afghanistan

The American government is admirably open about the money it spends on its military campaigns, the British government is secretive and hostile to researchers.

This turns out to be impossible to ascertain because of the byzantine and different methodologies used by the Ministry of Defence and the Treasury. Ledwidge quotes several army officers and civil servants saying nobody really knows the cost of a war like this. Instead there is a confusing range of estimates depending on accounting methods and definitions, but some of the figures cited are staggering.

According to the MoD’s own figures it costs about £400,000 to keep one soldier in the field for one year, plus about £60,000. In 2012 a parliamentary question revealed the ‘net additional cost’ of military operations since 2001 as £17.3 billion. Between 2006 and 2012 it cost about £15 million per day to maintain the UK’s presence in Afghanistan.

The most gobsmacking fact, for me, was the chief of logistics to General Petraeus saying the cost of air conditioning alone to all US army bases in Iraq and Afghanistan was over $20 billion.

He has a passage describing the scale of the vast Camp Bastion in Helmand which, at its peak, was home to 22,000 troops and support personnel for 12 different nations.

The blackly Catch-22 aspect of the war is that most of the supplies are not flown in but driven into landlocked Afghanistan by brave lorry drives, much of it contracted out to security companies. Much of this is through Taliban-held territory so many of the security companies have come to arrangements with local tribal and Taliban leaders, paying them retainers not to attack their convoys. So UK taxpayers money goes to the Taliban to bribe them into not attacking the supplies being sent to the British Army so they can carry on fighting them (p.113).

Billions of pounds were spent on kit – transport, guns, ammunition – which we handed over to the Afghan police and army and which, in 2021, they handed over to the Taliban without a fight. Ledwidge predicted this would happen in 2012 (p.117).

Chapter 5. The cost of caring for the wounded and the role of charities

There used to be a number of hospitals run by the armed forces solely for military casualties. One by one these have been closed due to government cuts and now there are none. Instead there are Ministry of Defence Hospital Units, or MDHUs, embedded within civilian National Health Service hospitals. Ledwidge explains why it is quite a loss in security and psychological well-being for veterans not to be treated in units entirely staffed by their own people, who understand what they’ve been through. Ledwidge repeats reports that some wounded veterans have been barracked by other patients in NHS hospitals.

A lot of care for wounded soldiers, whether physical or mental, has been funded by charities, especially the high profile and successful Help for Heroes, founded in 2007, which complements the work of older service charities such as the Royal British Legion.

In his Afterword, written in March 2014, Ledwidge explains his methodology for calculating that the cost of supporting the nearly 3,000 troops who were evacuated from Afghanistan and the thousands more who will apply for medical and psychiatric help, for the rest of their lives, will probably cost some £10 billion (p.238).

Chapter 6. The civilian efforts i.e. the cost of development: has it really gone to help ‘the poorest of the poor’?

An eye-opening account of the work of the Department for International Development which Ledwidge calculates to have spent over £2 billion in Afghanistan. The obvious problems are that the majority of that has gone to the Afghan government, which is a byword, both among its population and internationally, for corruption. In fact it’s debatable whether it is even a government at all in the normal sense of the word or a collection of regional warlords and narco-bosses (of ‘gangsters and warlords’, in Ledwidge’s words, p.170). So that, in the words or a security officer:

‘The only Afghan lives I’ve seen transformed by western aid agencies are warlords who’ve used siphoned funds to build mansions, amass huge overseas property portfolios and arm private militias.’ (p.148)

The other thing about aid money is the surprising amount of it which is spent on freelance aid consultants, earning £500 to £1,000 a day. Whenever these leave a fortified camp i.e. Camp Bastion, they must be accompanied by armed security guards who cost much the same amount, per guard, per day. The fatuousness of so many misguided ‘development’ projects is brought out by the next chapter.

Neocolonialism not colonialist enough

Ledwidge makes a point also made by Jack Fairweather, and quotes Rory Stewart among others making the same point: which is that, in imperial times, imperial administrators of a province would make it their life’s work, often stayed in post for a decade or more, learned the language, got to really know the local people, culture, religion, economy and maze of feuds and tribal allegiances. Slowly they built up a sense of what is possible and how to do things with the locals’ consent.

That entire approach has been lost. In modern ‘nation building’, advisers and consultants and experts are flown in for short-term placements, often with little understanding of the local culture, to implement off-the-peg ‘development projects’ which they’ve applied in Sierra Leone or Uruguay or some other completely different culture (p.157).

Thus Ledwidge gives the comic anecdote of a senior British woman official instructing a provincial governor what to do in front of his Pashtun colleagues, which amounted – in their culture – to a public humiliation and guaranteed that he would not do what she was telling him (p.153).

He also hints that so-called ‘experts’ hired for development and nation building don’t know what they’re talking about. He met experts in his own specialist subject, international law, who had never done a day’s work abroad i.e. hadn’t a clue (p.157).

To return to the first point: we laugh at them, we criticise them, we abhor them; but our imperial forebears were much, much better at this kind of thing than we are. The British government spent £40 billion, lost 440 soldiers and killed thousands of civilians and…for nothing.

Part 3. Assessment of what was won or lost

Chapter 7. What was achieved in Helmand?

Did the British Army presence bring peace and security? Did it eliminate the Taliban threat? Is the improvement, if any, sustainable? Did we eliminate opium as the mainstay of the economy, as Tony Blair promised we would? The answer to all these questions is a resounding no.

At the time of writing, Afghanistan had received tens of billions of dollars in international development assistance plus at least $900 billion from the international community and yet: according to the UN development index the country was ranked 181 out of 182; it was the poorest country for which reliable figures exist; it came bottom on lists for access to safe water and enrolment in all stages of education. It had the third highest infant mortality rate in the world and the lowest life expectancy, at 43.6 years. 42% of the population live on less than a dollar a day (p.168).

More importantly, the relentless focus on finding a military solution i.e. fighting the Taliban, has led to a new level of the militarisation of society.

The executive director of the charity War on Want believes that ‘Western intervention has managed to produce a country which, even after the 20 years of civil war which preceded it, is even more fractured and militarised than it was before’. (p.170).

One of the many reasons for the failure of Western efforts is because they were built around the idea that the central government was ‘elected’ and therefore had a ‘democratic mandate’, and all efforts flowed from this premise, two leading ones being a) training the Afghan police force and b) giving the majority of aid money to this government and training them how to run a country and disburse it responsibly.

Unfortunately, the ‘democratically elected’ government is little more than a bunch of ‘gangsters and warlords’ (p.170), who sent their aid money straight on to their Swiss bank accounts or to buy real estate in Europe or to pay their tribal supporters, while the Afghan police continued to be a byword for uselessness and corruption with a lot of rape and child abuse thrown in.

Afghan legal officers – Ledwidge’s area of expertise – had a habit of being assassinated (p.172). In practice, lots of local legal officers and enforcers quietly made deals with the Taliban about what they were or weren’t allowed to do i.e. in effect, the Taliban ran law and order (p.172).

Ledwidge says policy makers in theses nation building efforts bang on about building schools and hospitals to win over hearts and minds, but this policy has two very obvious flaws: 1) it’s relatively easy to build the buildings, but then who staffs them? Training doctors and teachers will take years and years. In fact, the allies had to stop building schools and hospitals in Afghanistan because there was no-one to man them, a problem euphemistically referred to as ‘overbuilding’ (p.173).

2) Northern Ireland had an insurgency for 30 years and it had all the schools and hospitals you can imagine. That wasn’t what the people needed. What they needed was a political settlement which would offer security for all. That’s what the people in all these trouble spots want first and foremost. Security. And that’s what the coalition forces failed to provide in either Iraq or Afghanistan (p.173).

Fascinatingly, the Soviets did understand the long-term nature of this kind of commitment and took tens of thousands of Afghan doctors, lawyers, soldiers, policemen, prison officers and so on back to Russia and trained them over many years. With the result that many of the current Afghan officials Ledwidge met as part of his work spoke fluent Russian. But none of the occupying powers were prepared to make that kind of commitment (p.174).

He tells a funny story about UK Foreign Secretary David Miliband visiting Helmand and inviting two Afghan ministers for dinner. In all innocence he asked these ministers how long he thought central government officials, civilian and military, would remain in the provincial capital, Lashkar Gah, after the NATO forces withdrew, and they replied…about 24 hours (p.174). Exactly. And this is indeed what happened when the Americans withdrew their last forces in August 2021. The security forces fled or melted away and the Talinan was back in power within days.

Opium

The Taliban almost completely banned Afghan farmers from growing opium (p.176). As the incoming NATO forces pushed the Taliban out, opium growing returned and, Ledwidge asserts, this time around the Taliban allowed it to and took a cut to pay for their weapons.

By 2007 Helmand, just one of Afghanistan’s 34 provinces, supplied over half the world’s poppy crop. He makes the basic point that, at the time of writing, a hectare of wheat was worth £475 to an Afghan farmer, whereas the same area of opium might be worth £6,500 (p.177).

Ledwidge has a good handle on this because when he served as a ‘justice adviser’ in Afghanistan he was actually paid out of the UK’s counter-narcotics budget (p.178).

Women’s rights

After the Soviet Union invaded Afghanistan they attempted to develop its economy and modernise its society. A key aspect was promoting women’s rights in this fantastically conservative, patriarchal society. By the time they quit the country in 1989, some 70% of teachers, 50% of government workers and 40% of doctors were women (p.184). The point is, the West armed the mujahideen for ten long years in order to overthrow the Soviet occupation and eventually succeeded. Whereupon the country collapsed into civil war, from which chaos emerged the Taliban who, as we all know, plunged the country back into the Dark Ages, part of which was sacking all women from all jobs and banning them from leaving the house unless accompanied by a male relative.

Which regime was better for women, Soviet rule or Taliban rule? Their Afghan adventure was seen as the Soviets’ Vietnam, and the long drag on their national resources, and the social unrest it caused contributed, maybe, to the final collapse of the Soviet Union. Still. It makes you wonder whether life for many Afghans, and pretty much all Afghan girls and women, would have been immeasurably better if the Soviets had been allowed to continue their rule of the country.

By the end of this withering chapter it’s hard to avoid the thought that Afghanistan exists as a kind of mockery of all notions of international development, state building, foreign aid and so on. Or, as Ledwidge puts it:

The attempt to impose Western-style government and legal systems on a country that has no real inclination to adopt either – and to do it a matter of a decade or so – was always doomed to failure. (p.187)

Poll results

Ledwidge shares the hilarious results of opinion polls which have been from time to time carried out on the Afghan population. In one just 8% of Afghans living in Helmand Province (Helmandis) had even heard of the 9/11 attacks in New York. This is really important because it indicates the way that hardly any of the population understood why the NATO forces were there; most of the population thought they were just the latest in a long line of murderous invaders. Further, only 30% believed that NATO protected the population from attack, while 65% believed NATO killed more of the population that the Taliban did. When informed that the main aim of NATO forces was to introduce democratic values, 72% of those polled couldn’t explain what that meant (p.188).

These and other stats help explain why so many young Afghan men didn’t understand any of our high-falutin’ ambitions about nation building and development and democracy and all the rest of it, and just thought of themselves as patriotic heroes combating the latest wave of brutal, destructive invaders, like their fathers and their grandfathers before them.

Chapter 8. Have we in Britain been made safer by both wars?

Are we ‘safer’ as a result of Britain’s involvement in the invasions of Iraq and Afghanistan, as Tony Blair and Defence Secretary John Reid claimed? Was it ever in out best interests to pursue these wars?

No. Ledwidge claims that most army officers know the simple truth: that both the wars, in Iraq and Afghanistan, were fought primarily to satisfy Tony Blair’s misguided wish to keep in with the Americans (p.205). The second campaign, in Afghanistan, was mainly fought because the army desperately wanted to rehabilitate itself in the eyes of our American masters after ballsing up big time in Basra. Neither had any relevance at all to Britain’s actual, present or future security needs. Fighting the Taliban was always a stupid, stupid thing to do. Ledwidge quotes a former NATO official at the time:

‘[The Taliban] pose no threat to Britain and not one Afghan has ever been involved in any terror attack in Europe or the US. It is simply rubbish to assert that British soldiers are fighting impoverished opium farmers and $10 a day gun-for-hire insurgents in Helmand Province to protect the British people from terror attacks. These Afghans are fighting our soldiers because they just don’t like foreigners and never will.’ (quoted page 198)

In the event, both Ledgwidge and Jack Fairweather give plenty of evidence that the British Army’s dismal failures in Basra and Helmand irreparably damaged the so-called ‘special relationship’ with America. Ledwidge cites former Chief of Staff of the US army, General Jack Keane, addressing a conference at the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst in 2013:

‘Gentlemen, you let us down; you let us down badly’ (quoted page 233)

And this is the view widely held in the US military. Then again this may be no bad thing if it forces the UK political and defence establishments to distance ourselves from America and think through our likely defence threats and strategies from a purely British position. Don’t hold your breath, though. The ludicrous embarrassment of Brexit was proposed partly by Conservative politicians convinced that our future lies with America, 4,000 miles away, rather than with the continent just 20 miles away.

The people who run the British establishments, in politics, the military, the arts and media and many other sectors, will continue to kiss American arse for the foreseeable future. As Ledwidge puts it: ‘The results of this are toxic and go far beyond the military’ (p.206).

The so-called ‘special relationship’ has led Britain into the invasion of two Islamic countries. Her confused and inconsistent strategy (or the lack of any strategy) in the ensuing wars and her over-enthusiastic and totally uncritical following of US policy have been intensely damaging to British (and Afghan) interests. The policies pursued have been entirely counter-productive and literally self-defeating. (p.208)

As a result of tagging along behind America on these two misguided interventions we in Britain have been made less safe in two ways. 1) We have generated a home-grown generation of angry young men here in the UK, outraged by our invasion of Muslim countries and killing of Muslim civilians. Some of these have carried out terrorist attacks on our own soil as a result of British intervention in Iraq and Afghanistan. As Pakistan and security expert Anatol Lieven puts it:

‘UK policy has been an absolute disaster in the perception of the Muslim population and has produced a significantly increased terrorism threat.’ (quoted page 210)

The second way in which these disastrous wars have made us less safe is we have wasted billions investing in the wrong kind of armed forces. In particular all the money has gone to the army (which, it turned out, was incapable of supplying its soldiers with the kind of equipment they needed) at the expense of the other two branches of the armed service, the navy and air force.

This explains why, when NATO wanted to support the anti-Gaddafi forces in Libya, it was the French who led the attacks – because they have a fully functioning aircraft carrier and lots of planes; we don’t.

By emasculating the Royal Navy to pay for the army and its operations in the Afghan desert, the UK has jeopardised the defence of our island nation’s vital interests. (p.213)

All the time, intellect, energy, money, material and resources ploughed into fighting badly organised peasants 5,000 miles away have completely distracted attention from the very real threats we face from a) larger, more conventional armies i.e. Russia, fighting in Europe and b) the serious emerging threat of cyber-attacks.

Thoughts

Out of date

The most obvious point is the book is fabulous as far as it goes, but is now out of date. Ledwidge wrote it in late 2012-to-early 2013 i.e 10 long years ago. Since then, residual units of the British Army racked up more time in Afghanistan alongside the much bigger US presence, and the fight against the Taliban ground on, with accompanying NATO losses and civilian collateral damage, for another 8 years. And it all led up, of course, to the humiliating US withdrawal which concluded in August 2021.

So most if not all Ledwidge’s figures are out of date. What remains valuable, though, on a procedural level, is his careful structuring of the entire subject and his explanations of the methodologies he used; and on a conceptual level, the questions he asks and the searingly critical conclusions he comes to. All of these shed new light and angles on the story of the war.

Slow starting, ferocious ending

The second point is that, at least to begin with, this is a less impressive book than its predecessor. It feels more hurried. In the first book he took the reader with him, his points were carefully argued, we shared his slowly growing sense of disgust and horror, so there was a dynamic aspect to the narrative.

In this book he takes his anti-war attitude for granted and so doesn’t so much take us on a journey but just restates his disgust. An example of this is the way he uses the same small number of negative quotes from people involved in the wars not as the punchline of extended arguments, but as short-hand, as quick reminders, and uses them repetitively. So he tells us more than once that the former UK ambassador to Afghanistan Sir Sharrard Cowper-Coles thought the war was a waste of time. These kind of quotes are used as a kind of shorthand, summarising the more extended forms of the arguments he gave us in the preceding book.

That said, the final two chapters, 7 and 8, finally become really angry, rising to the level of evidence-based excoriation found in the first book and leaving you shaking with fury at the idiocy and incompetence of British politicians and army leaders. What a shambles. As an Afghan friend of Ledwidge puts it:

‘We were promised good governance: where is it? We were promised economic growth: where is it? We were promised stability: where is it? (p.190)

454 British troops killed, thousands badly injured and crippled. Tens of thousands of Afghan dead. Tens of billions of pounds wasted. And a week after we left, the Taliban rolled back in and took power again, as if nothing had happened. It’s hard to think of a more complete definition of futility.


Credit

Investment in Blood: The True Cost of Britain’s Afghan War by Frank Ledwidge was published in 2013 by Yale University Press. References are to the 2014 YUP paperback.

Related links

New world disorder reviews

Posh historians

Jonathan Sumption

Jonathan Sumption, Lord Sumption, OBE, PC, FSA, FRHistS, was born in 1948 so is now aged 75. Lord Sumption attended Eton College and then Magdalen College, Oxford. He went on to become an adviser to Sir Keith Joseph, writing speeches and a book for him, which situates him politically on the right wing of the Conservative Party.

Sumption has had an extraordinarily successful career as a barrister, being at one time a member of the ‘million-a-year club’, and admitting in a letter to the press to earning £1.6 million per annum. In 2011 he was appointed to the Privy Council and in 2012 to the Supreme Court.

The way the Establishment works is that, once you have achieved a certain level of competence in a great profession – and are blessed with a maze of contacts of people at similarly elevated levels of society, many of whom, of course, you first met at your expensive public school – then you find yourself being offered directorships and governorships in which you are expected to deploy this ability and influence.

Thus Sumption is a director of the English National Opera and on the governing body of the Royal Academy of Music. After all, isn’t he the kind of person you’d like to appoint to your board, if you were running one: a highly successful lawyer to deal with any legal matters; well connected with the British government (who he has represented in court) to advise on handling politicians; eminently civilised, highly presentable at receptions for likely sponsors, and so on.

And Sumption is obviously also interested in history, which is why he is a FRHistS. This means Fellow of the Royal Historical Society, a title awarded to those who have made ‘an original contribution to historical scholarship’.

This distinction Sumption has achieved through the authorship of six big books about medieval history: one about medieval pilgrimage (1975), one about the Albigensian Crusade (1978), and then a multi-volumed history of the Hundred Years War. Volumes one to four of this are titled:

  • Trial by Battle (1990): from the funeral of Charles IV of France in 1329 to the surrender of Calais in 1347
  • Trial by Fire (1999): covering the years from 1347 to 1369
  • Divided Houses (2009): covering the years from 1369 to 1399 (the overthrow of Richard II)
  • Cursed Kings (2015): covering the years from 1399 to 1422 (year of the Battle of Agincourt)

A fifth and final volume is planned which will take us up to the peace of 1453 and the end of the war. I sincerely hope Lord Sumption lives to complete it.

Posh historians

Critics have compared this multi-volume history to the history of the crusades by Sir Stephen Runciman CH (Companion of Honour) FBA (Fellow of the British Academy), and to the three-volume history of Byzantium by John Julius Norwich CVO (Commander of the Royal Victorian Order), the latter of which I have reviewed in this blog:

Certainly, the medieval subject matter of their works and their multi-volume nature lead to the comparison. But to my eye, the most striking thing about these three award-winning historians is that they all went to Eton and are phenomenally posh.

Runciman (1903 to 2000) was the son of Walter Runciman, 1st Viscount Runciman of Doxford, and Hilda Runciman, Viscountess Runciman of Doxford. He attended Eton and Trinity College, Cambridge.

John Julius Cooper, 2nd Viscount Norwich, attended Eton, the University of Strasbourg and then New College, Oxford. He sat as a hereditary peer in the House of Lords from 1954 to 1999.

These kind of chaps come from highly networked families and recreate them in their children.

Norwich’s daughter, the Honourable Alice Clare Antonia Opportune Cooper, attended a private school in Surrey and then St Hugh’s College, Oxford. Rather inevitably, like daddy, she became an author and her early books documented the lives of her glamorous family (her grandmother was Lady Diana Cooper, a ‘famously glamorous social figure in London and Paris’).

Alice prefers to go by the name of Artemis Cooper and is married to the eminent historian, Anthony Beevor. Beevor himself attended the very posh Winchester College (the same school as Rishi Sunak) before attending the Royal Military Academy Sandhurst, and then on to a career writing a series of brilliant books about aspects of the Second World War (Crete, Paris, Stalingrad, Berlin, D-Day etc), plus a history of the Spanish Civil War. I’ve reviewed some of his books:

Why am I dwelling on these authors’ posh backgrounds? The point of this disquisition is to indicate how some of the great narratives of British and European history (Runciman’s history of the Crusades and Norwich’s history of the Byzantine Empire are both still in print in mass-market Penguin editions, and both are still the go-to accounts of their subjects; Sumption’s series has become the most thorough and complete account of the 100 Years War since the Victorians; Beevor has made himself into a leading historian of the Second World War) have been managed by authors from the very top of the British social scale, all from the same tiny group of premier league public schools and Oxbridge, mostly men, with the same set of values and social assumptions.

As it happens, I have just finished reading a one-volume account of the Hundred Years War by Desmond Seward. Seward was educated at the UK’s country’s leading Roman Catholic private school, Ampleforth, and then St Catherine’s College, Cambridge.

And I have lined up to read next an enormous account of Chivalry by Maurice Keen OBE, educated at top public school Winchester (like Antony Beevor and Rishi Sunak), before going on to Balliol College, Oxford.

It reinforces my point to learn that Keen is a lifelong friend of fellow historian Sir John Keegan OBE FRSL (Fellow of the Royal Society of Literature), author of 25 or so books of military history, who was educated at the private Wimbledon College and then Balliol College, Oxford; and it really reinforces my point to learn that Keen is married to Keegan’s sister, Mary.

I hope you’re beginning to get a feel for the small, interconnected, high-powered networks which control the commanding heights of history writing.

Some of Keegan’s attitudes to warfare have been critiqued by Sir Michael Howard OM (Order of Merit) CH (Companion of Honour) CBE (Commander of the Order of the British Empire) MC (Military Cross) FBA (Fellow of the British Academy) FRHistS (Fellow of the Royal Historical Society), described in the Financial Times as ‘Britain’s greatest living historian’. Howard was, of course, educated at an eminent private school, Wellington, before going on to Christ Church, Oxford.

You get the picture. Maybe it would be false and a bit paranoid to say that the writing of British, foreign and military history is controlled by a clique of like-minded, posh, private-school-educated men – not least because these days there are all kinds of younger historians, women historians, black and Asian historians, writing hundreds of books on all kinds of subjects, and working in local history, people’s history, ‘history from below’, women’s history, post-colonial history and so on.

But then, on closer examination, lots of these apparently ‘diverse’ young historians themselves turn out to have benefited from Britain’s systems of privilege. Take the eminent modern historian, Rana Mitter, whose book about Japan’s war with China I’ve reviewed. In this book Mitter mounts a sustained attack on Winston Churchill’s wartime leadership with all the confidence borne of someone who attended Lancing College (alma mater of Evelyn Waugh), and King’s College, Cambridge.

Or take Lucy Worsley OBE, a woman and therefore seen as adding to ‘diversity’, especially in the context of the umpteen TV series about history she’s presented where she relishes debunking old sexist myths about history with all the confidence of someone who attended a private preparatory school and Oxford.

Going back a couple of generations, I have on my shelves the works of two giants of history who dominated their respective fields from the 1960s to the 1990s – the ‘Marxist’ historians E.P. Thompson (historian of the English working classes) and Christopher Hill (historian of the civil wars). Both Thompson and Hill followed the old boy route of prep school, private boarding school, and Oxford, giving them the lordly confidence to write and speak as defining experts in their respective areas. Their books are still widely available as popular paperbacks (i.e. in Penguin editions).

To recap, it wouldn’t be entirely false to say that large areas of history (the crusades, Byzantium, medieval history, the British civil wars, the creation of the industrial working class, and accounts of the twentieth century’s main wars) have been dominated by these ‘old masters’, public schoolboys to a man, authors of large, scholarly, imposing works which defined their subjects for generations.

The advantages of poshness

So you can see why progressive commentators might well deplore the narrow social pool from which eminent historians past and present have, until recently, mainly been drawn, and may quote George Orwell’s minatory warning:

‘He who controls the past, controls the future; and he who controls the present, controls the past.’

They may applaud the fact that, these days, more histories are being published than ever before, with a vast industry now dedicated to restoring the role of women at every level of past society, alongside the work of black and Asian historians in ‘restoring the voices’ of, in particular, colonial subjects of the British Empire.

And yet, much though I cordially dislike the ongoing domination of their class and their privilege and their entitlements, still…it is possible to make a case that the dominance of these posh, white men in history writing has its advantages – that there is a positive merit in (some) history being researched and written by the phenomenally posh and upper class.

1. Insider experience

Take the examples I’ve cited – the Crusades, Byzantium and the Hundred Years War – the histories of these events largely consisted of political, military, diplomatic, theological and legal conflicts, and posh types are brought up a) in extended, well-connected, everso well-educated families; and b) inducted into the social networks based in their private schools which extend into the corridors of Whitehall, the Foreign Office and so on, contacts which give them insider experience of how these networks of power work in practice (‘Hi Boris. Hi Rishi’).

When it comes to recent (i.e. Second World War onwards) history, they are often related to family members who had direct experience of army or government, or have school chums from families which played important roles in these events. This gives much of their writing the insights of the insider.

2. Specialised experience

The root cause of the Hundred Years War was a legal dispute about the laws of succession to the crown of France and this was, as Sumption’s account shows in great detail, just one of a labyrinth of legal and constitutional problems / struggles / issues which bedeviled relations, not just between England and France but also with Scotland, Wales, Flanders, the Holy Roman Empire, the papacy, and so on.

So having a very experienced, senior lawyer, who really understand the legalistic nature of these conflicts, is a very big advantage in Sumption’s narrative of the war. Again, insider knowledge from the very top of the profession (the million-a-year club).

3. Suave

In the olden days the auction house Sothebys was nicknamed by others in the trade ‘Smoothyboys’, mocking their unctuous and slick employees. Another advantage of history written by the extremely posh is that their prose is often charmingly sophisticated, smooth and debonair. Norwich’s prose, in particular, is a joy to read, smooth and civilised and delicious.

There’s no denying that private school and Oxford taught these posh boys to write beautifully.

In addition to the prose itself, these smoothboys often display an entertainingly suave and sophisticated attitude to their subject matter. The very best public schools teach the aristocratic values of detachment, sang-froid, stiff upper lip and – I admit I may be exaggerating or over-noticing here, but – this superior air of civilisation and detachment, of sophisticated irony and so on, often gives the posh historians’ accounts a wonderful lightness and buoyancy, like its airbag lifts a hovercraft just clear of the sea.

Summary

I have no grand conclusion to make. These are just scattered reflections prompted by noticing how posh many of our most eminent historians are, how interconnected they are by family ties, how this may possibly be a cause for concern for those looking for an ‘Establishment’ which controls a master discourse of British history, but, on the other hand, how beautifully they often write, how measured, logically and clearly they treat their subjects, and what very enjoyable books they produce.


More medieval reviews

Byzantine emperors 1068 to 1453

This chronology is taken from John Julius Norwich’s 1995 book, Byzantium: The Decline and Fall, with additional details from some of the relevant Wikipedia articles.

Romanus IV Diogenes (1068 to 1071)

A highly successful general, Romanus is, however, mostly remembered for leading the Byzantine forces to catastrophic defeat against the Seljuk Turks at the Battle of Manzikert on 26 August 1071, defeat which left Anatolia – for 700 years the source of Byzantium’s grain and manpower – vulnerable to the Seljuk Turks’ slow but steady annexation.

Quite quickly central Anatolia became known as the Sultanate of Rum, a corruption of ‘Rome’, the name the Turks gave all the Greeks. This map from Wikipedia shows how the Sultanate slowly but steadily annexed Anatolia.

Expansion of the Sultanate 1100 to 1240 (source: Wikipedia)

Romanus and the Seljuk victor, Alp Arslan, got on well and Alp released Romanus to return to Constantinople. Had Romanus survived, something might have been salvaged from the defeat but he was promptly overthrown and blinded in a coup.

Michael VII Ducas (1067 to 1078)

Michael had been a boy when the usurper Romanus Diogenes made himself senior emperor. Soon after Romanus returned to Constantinople after the shameful defeat of Manzikert, he was blinded by partisans of the powerful Ducas family and power returned, at least in theory, to Michael. Michael was, however, weak and ineffectual, and his policies prompted several coup attempts, the successful one being led by…

Nicephorus III Botaneiates (1078 to 1081)

Nicephorus had risen to become military ruler of Anatolia. He rebelled against the bad rule and high taxes of Michael VII, leading his army into the capital where he was welcomed by the population (Michael wisely abdicated and went off to a monastery).

But Nicephorus, born around 1001, was now 77 years old and, having secured power, didn’t know what to do with it. While military threats mounted in the east and west, the young general Alexius Comnenos emerged as a rising star in the army, a general who never lost a battle. Learning that Nicephorus was about to have him arrested, Alexius rallied his troops and many supporters among the aristocracy and staged a coup. Alexius graciously allowed Nicephorus to retire to a monastery.

Comnenid dynasty (1081 to 1185)—

Alexius I Comnenos (1081 to 1118)

Alexius is one of the heroes of the book, a distinguished general who set about restoring military and political stability to the empire. His successes in Anatolia against the Turks had made Botaneiates jealous which is why Alexius staged a military coup before he himself was arrested. Pious and hard-working, Alexius had to fight wars against the Normans – who, led by their buccaneering leader Robert Guiscard, invaded from their base in south Italy in 1081 – and against the Seljuk Turks who continued their expansion into Anatolia.

Norwich’s account of the canny way Alexius handled the incursion of the various crusader armies into his territory is fascinating. After fifty years which had seen a dozen or so emperors come and go, Alexius was successful in establishing an enduring and (relatively) stable dynasty.

John II Comnenos (1118 to 1143)

Eldest son of Alexius I, John inherited the throne in a smooth transition, on his father’s death. His reign was dominated by wars – defending attacks by the Sicilian Normans, fending off a Venetian invasion fleet, dealing with the Hungarians to the North, and then campaigning against the Seljuk Turks and Armenians of Cilicia to the east, with the sometimes reluctant co-operation of the crusader states of Edessa and Antioch.

Manuel I Comnenos ‘the Great’ (1143 to 1180)

Manuel I Comnenos ‘the Great’ was the fourth and youngest son of John II. His two eldest brothers died before their father, who then chose Manuel over the surviving elder brother, Isaac. Manuel was an energetic ruler who launched campaigns against the Turks, humbled Hungary, achieved supremacy over the crusader states, and tried unsuccessfully to recover Italy. His extravagance and constant campaigning, however, depleted the Empire’s resources.

Alexius II Comnenos (1180 to 1183)

Alexius II Comnenos was born on 14 September 1169, the only son of Manuel I. In the years 1180 to 1182 i.e. aged 11 and 12, Alexius came under the regency of his mother, Maria of Antioch but, she was unpopular because a Latin, and was overthrown by Andronicus I Comnenos, who became co-emperor and finally had Alexius II deposed and killed.

Andronicus I Comnenos (1183 to 1185)

Born around 1118, Andronicus I Comnenos was a nephew of John II by his brother Isaac. A general in the army, Andronicus was imprisoned for conspiring against John II, but escaped and spent 15 years in exile in various courts in eastern Europe and the Middle East, where he acquired a reputation for his promiscuousness.

In 1182 Andronicus marched on Constantinople, capitalising on the unpopularity of Maria of Antioch. His arrival coincided with a city-wide uprising against the hated Venetians, who had been benefiting from trade and legal advantages. Having quelled the riots and established his authority, Andronicus had Maria strangled in prison and then overthrew his nephew Alexius II, who he had murdered, in 1183.

Andronicus’s campaign against the vast landowning aristocracy was justifiable from an economic point of view, but was accompanied by growing paranoia and tyranny, not a day going by without public tortures and executions. The Normans from Sicily took the opportunity of disorder in the Byzantine court to invade Illyria, and Andronicus’s abject failure to repel them clinched opposition to him at all levels of society, and he was overthrown and lynched in a popular uprising.

The Angelid dynasty (1185 to 1204)—

Of all the families who at one time or another wore the imperial crown of Byzantium, the Angeli were the worst… The three Angelus emperors – Isaac II, Alexius III and Alexius IV – reigned from first to last, a mere nineteen years. But each was in his own way disastrous, and together they were responsible for the greatest catastrophe that Constantinople was ever to suffer until its final fall.
(Byzantium: The Decline and Fall by John Julius Norwich, 1995, page 156)

Isaac II Angelus (1185 to 1195)

Born in September 1156, Isaac came to the throne at the head of a popular revolt against Andronicus I. His reign was marked by revolts and wars in the Balkans, especially against a resurgent Bulgaria. After ruling for ten years, he was deposed, blinded and imprisoned by his elder brother, Alexius III.

Alexius III Angelus (1195 to 1203)

Born in 1153, Alexius was the elder brother of Isaac II, who he deposed and blinded. His reign was marked by misgovernment and the increasing autonomy of provincial magnates. He was deposed by the Fourth Crusade and fled Constantinople, roaming Greece and Asia Minor, searching for support to regain his throne. He died in captivity in Nicaea in 1211.

Isaac II Angelus (18 July 1203 to 28 January 1204)

The armies of the Fourth Crusade arrived at the walls of Constantinople in 1203 and began besieging the city. Alexius III fled with his wife. The city council restored Isaac II (see two above) who, although blinded by his brother, was still the most legitimate ruler. Actual governing fell to his son, Alexius IV, but both of them failed to deal adequately with the crusader demands and Isaac was deposed by Alexius V Dukas in January 1204 and died on 28 January 1204, perhaps of poison.

Alexius IV Angelus (1 August 1203 to 28 January 1204)

The son of Isaac II, Alexius enlisted the Fourth Crusade to return his father to the throne, and reigned alongside his restored father. Due to their failure to deal with the crusaders’ demands, he was deposed by Alexius V Ducas in January 1204, and was strangled on 8 February.

Alexius V Ducas ‘Mourtzouphlos’ (5 February 1204 to 13 April 1204)

In Norwich’s view, Alexius V Ducas was the only Byzantine ruler of the time who was up to the crisis the empire now faced. Alexius was born in 1140, the son-in-law of Alexius III and a prominent aristocrat. In 1204 he deposed Isaac II and Alexius IV in a palace coup. He tried to repel the crusaders when they besieged the city, but they captured Constantinople, forcing Mourtzouphlos to flee. He joined the exiled Alexius III, but was later blinded by the latter. Captured by the crusaders, he was executed in December 1205.

Theodore I Lascaris (1205 to 1222)

Son-in-law of Alexius III, Theodore was elected emperor by the citizens of Constantinople on the day before the city fell to the crusaders. He fled to Nicaea, where he organized the Greek resistance to the Latins and was crowned emperor in 1208. Theodore managed to stop the Latin advance in Asia and to repel Seljuk attacks, establishing the Empire of Nicaea as the strongest of the Greek successor states.

John III Ducas Vatatzes (1221 to 1254)

Born around 1192, John became the son-in-law and successor of Theodore I in 1212. A capable ruler and soldier, he expanded his state in Bithynia, Thrace and Macedonia at the expense of the Latin Empire, Bulgaria and the rival Greek state of Epirus.

John Vatatzes had been a great ruler… one of the greatest, perhaps, in the whole of this history. (Norwich, p.203)

Theodore II Lascaris (1254 to 1258)

Born in 1222 the only son of John III, Theodore II Lascaris succeeded on his father’s death in 1254. His reign was marked by his hostility towards the major houses of the aristocracy, and by his victory against Bulgaria and the subsequent expansion of imperial power into Albania.

John IV Lascaris (1258 to 1261)

Born on 25 December 1250 as the only son of Theodore II, John succeeded on his father’s death aged just 8. Due to his minority, the regency was exercised at first by George Mouzalon until his assassination, and then by the successful young general, Michael Palaiologos who, within months, was crowned senior emperor.

After the recovery of Constantinople from its Latin crusader rulers in August 1261, Michael Palaiologos sidelined John IV completely, and had the 11-year-old boy imprisoned and blinded. John IV lived on in prison until around 1305.

Michael VIII Palaeologus (1259 to 1282)

One of the hero emperors, this confident young general campaigned against the Latins and Greek rivals. It was forces under his command who, in August 1261, discovered that Constantinople was virtually unguarded, the Latin garrison being away on a campaign against some island, and so sneaked in and took the city by surprise. Michael had to be woken up at his camp two hundred miles away to be told the city had been recovered for the Greeks. He quickly marched on the capital and was greeted with acclaim by the long-suffering Greek population.

Andronicus II Palaeologus (1282 to 1328)

Son of Michael VIII, Andronicus II Palaeologus was born on 25 March 1259, named co-emperor in 1261, crowned in 1272, and succeeded as sole emperor on Michael’s death in 1282.

Favouring monks and intellectuals, Andronicus neglected the army and his reign saw the collapse of the Byzantine position in Asia Minor. He named his son Michael IX co-emperor. In a protracted civil war, he was first forced to recognize his grandson Andronicus III as co-emperor, and was then deposed outright.

Andronicus III Palaeologus (1328 to 1341)

Son of Michael IX, Andronicus deposed his grandfather Andronicus II in 1328 and ruled as sole emperor until his death. He was ably supported by John Cantacuzenos. Andronicus’s reign saw defeats against the Ottoman emirate but successes in Europe, where Epirus and Thessaly were recovered.

John V Palaeologus (1341 to 1376) part one

John V Palaeologus was the only son of Andronicus III who neglected to crown him co-emperor or formally declare him his heir so that, at his father’s death, a destructive civil war broke out between his regents and his father’s closest aide, John VI Cantacuzenos, who ended up seizing power and being crowned co-emperor.

The conflict ended in 1347 with Cantacuzenos recognized as senior emperor, but he was then deposed by John V in 1354 during another civil war. Matthew Cantacuzenos, raised by John VI to the rank of co-emperor, was also deposed in 1357. John V appealed to the West for aid against the Ottomans, but in 1371 he was forced to recognize Ottoman suzerainty i.e. that Byzantium was now a tributary state of the Turks. He was deposed in 1376 by his son Andronicus IV.

John VI Cantakcuzenos (1347 to 1354)

A maternal relative of the Palaeologoi, John was declared co-emperor on 26 October 1341, and was recognized as senior emperor for ten years after the end of the civil war on 8 February 1347. Deposed by John V in 1354, he became a monk, dying on 15 June 1383.

Andronicus IV Palaeologus (1376 to 1379)

Son of John V and grandson of John VI, he was born on 2 April 1348 and raised to co-emperor in around 1352. He deposed his father on 12 August 1376 and ruled until overthrown, in his turn, in 1379. He was again recognized as co-emperor in 1381 and given Selymbria as an appanage, dying there on 28 June 1385. (An appanage is ‘provision made for the maintenance of the younger children of kings and emperors, consisting of a gift of land, an official position, or money.’)

John V Palaeologus (1379 to 1390) part two

Restored as senior emperor, John was reconciled with Andronicus IV in 1381, re-appointing him co-emperor. He was overthrown again in 1390 by his grandson, John VII.

John VII Palaeologus (April 1390 to September 1390)

Son of Andronicus IV, John was born in 1370, and named co-emperor under his father from 1377 to 1379. He usurped the throne from his grandfather John V for five months in 1390 but, with Ottoman mediation, he was reconciled with John V and his uncle, Manuel II. John held Constantinople against the Ottomans in 1399 to 1402, and was then given Thessalonica as an appanage, which he governed until his death on 22 September 1408.

John V Palaeologus (September 1390 to February 1391) part three

Restored to senior emperor, John ruled until his death in February 1391. If you count the time from his first ascension to the throne and exclude the interludes when someone else ruled, John V reigned longer than any other Byzantine emperor.

At one of the most desperate moments of its history, the Empire was governed by a ruler who was neither intelligent nor far-sighted, and who possessed virtually none of the qualities necessary to a successful statesman. (Norwich, p.347)

Manuel II Palaeologus (1391 to 1425)

Second son of John V, Manuel II Palaeologus was born on 27 June 1350. Raised to co-emperor in 1373, Manuel became senior emperor on John V’s death and ruled until his death. He travelled to the West European courts seeking aid against the Turks, and was able to use the Ottoman defeat in the Battle of Ankara to regain some territories and throw off his vassalage to them.

John VIII Palaeologus (1425 to 1448)

The Empire of which, on 21 July 1425, the thirty-two-year-old John Palaeologus became sole basileus, was effectively bounded by the walls of Constantinople; and Constantinople now presented a dismal picture indeed. (Norwich, p.388)

Eldest surviving son of Manuel II, John was born on 18 December 1392. Raised to co-emperor about 1416, he succeeded his father on the latter’s death. Seeking aid against the resurgent Ottomans, John ratified the Union of the Churches in 1439 i.e. in a desperate bid to secure help from the Pope and the Western powers, he promised to subjugate the Eastern Orthodox Church to Rome.

Constantine XI Dragases Palaeologus (1449 to 1453)

The fourth son of Manuel II and Serbian princess Helena Dragaš, Constantine was born on 8 February 1405. As Despot of the Morea from 1428, Constantine distinguished himself in campaigns that annexed the Principality of Achaea and brought the Duchy of Athens under temporary Byzantine suzerainty, but he was unable to repel Turkish attacks under Turahan Bey.

As the eldest surviving so of Manuel II, Constantine succeeded John VIII after the latter’s death. Confronted by the aggression of the new Ottoman sultan, Mehmet II, Constantine acknowledged the Union of the Churches and made repeated appeals for help to the West, but in vain. Refusing to surrender Constantinople, Constantine was killed during the final Ottoman attack on 29 May 1453.

So the city was both founded and lost under a ruler named Constantine (the emperor Constantine, who founded it in 330, and this Constantine Palaeologus, who was ruler when the city was overthrown in 1453). An epic 1,153-year-long history.


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The Struggle For Mastery: The Penguin History of Britain 1066 to 1284 by David Carpenter (2003)

This is Volume Three of the Penguin History of Britain and I’m afraid to say it’s pretty boring. It opens logically enough with chapters on ‘The Peoples of Britain’ and then on ‘The Economies of Britain’, which no doubt synthesise the latest findings in archaeology and textual analysis, and do shed light if you’re really paying attention (I had to read them twice) and are already familiar with the key historical events of the period, but are still, well…boring.

A major challenge is the way that, in order to make his thematic points, Carpenter’s narrative jumps all over the chronology, so that we skip from 10th century Scotland to mid-1100s England, there’s an anecdote from 1175 and then he’s summarising changes made in the early 13th century or the mid-13th century or the late-13th century, all in one sentence. These swooping leaps around the period make it hard to follow a lot of the analysis.

The Norman Conquest

I was looking forward to getting to Chapter Three, on the Norman Conquest when, as Carpenter promises, a more traditional chronological narrative of events kicks in, but I was disappointed. Key players, key relationships like Harold’s with Morcar or Tostig – are introduced mid-way through the narrative, and then only fleetingly. In fact, when he is first introduced into the narrative Carpenter doesn’t make it clear enough that Harold of England was the son of the Earl Godwin, who had risen to be the most powerful man in the land and threatened the reign of King Edward the Confessor. It feels like you have to figure out a lot of the relationships and jostling for power by yourself: I kept having to reread paragraphs to understand what he’d just said.

Same for the complex background which explains why Harold Hardrada, King of Norway, and William the Bastard, Duke of Normandy, both felt they were entitled to the English throne after Edward the Confessor died – I felt these situations weren’t conveyed thoroughly or powerfully enough.

Reading the Norman Conquest chapter reminded me just how complicated a business it was: all the main players were related to each other by marriages stretching back several generations. In fact to tell the story properly you have to go back to the reign of Ethelred the Unready (978 to 1013) and get a sense of the deeply destabilising impact of the Danish invasion of Sweyn Forkbeard, whose campaigns in the early 1000s led up to the reign over England of his Danish son, Cnut the Great (1016 to 1035), then the brief rule of his son Harthacnut (1040 to 1042), before the throne reverted to an Englishman, Edward the Confessor, himself married to the daughter of the overbearing Earl Godwin.

During this period the female relatives of most of these players were married off into each other’s families or into families in France and Normandy, creating a very complex web of alliances and relationships. You really need to have a good sense of these dynastic matrices in order to understand the constraints and pressures all the players were operating under.

The best book I know on the subject is ‘The Norman Conquest 1066’ by Marc Morris, because it does indeed require an entire book to fully describe the sixty years or so of complex warfare, invasion, foreign rule and dynastic intermarriages which lay behind the successful Norman invasion. Carpenter’s book touches on all this, of course, but doesn’t go anywhere near conveying the depth and complexity and fraughtness of the political situation. He conveys the facts with a kind of deadening punctiliousness, with no sense of the threat or risk or excitement.

Social history

This is chiefly because Carpenter is much more interested in social and economic history than in kings and conquerors. The opening chapters set the tone with their wealth of information about the fundamental social and geographical realities of 11th century Britain, and how it slowly, slowly evolved under the Norman kings. There is an awful lot about the way the country was defined, laid out, administered, farmed and taxed – a lot about nucleated villages and carucates (the extent of land which could be ploughed in a year and a day), demesnes (the land attached to a manor), sokes (an area overseen by a local court), sokemen (the peasant inhabitant of a soke), wapentakes (the northern equivalent of the hundreds which southern counties were divided into) and so on. A typical sentence runs:

Tax records from the end of the thirteenth century show that at Aberffraw wheat was grown extensively, indeed the balance between wheat and oats was better than in some parts of Oxfordshire. (p.39)

There are hundreds of snippets like this. Are you supposed to remember them all? True, they form the basis for and lead up to more graspable general conclusions, but still…

Wales

Wales was economically and socially undeveloped compared to England. The Welsh had no coins and no mint; any coins circulating came from England. There was no one central ruler but hosts of petty kings and princes and dukes who fought among themselves (this was to a large extent determined by the geography of Wales, divided by highlands and steep river valleys). This fighting was rarely what we would call a ‘war’, but more a life of constant raiding and plundering. Thus ‘the law’ was difficult to enforce, and mostly took the form of revenge and vendettas. There was a lot of murdering and maiming. Even Welsh writers lamented the violence and instability of their own society and looked with envy at the strong centralised organisation of England, which benefited from the rule of one strong king, with one set of laws, with a sophisticated system of regional courts, with a strong agricultural economy and one centrally controlled currency.

Ireland

Ireland was even ‘worse’, a land of unbridled internecine conflict between umpteen ‘kings’ – mostly just local warlords – lacking writing and so written laws, without courts or taxation, coinage, even settled towns, apart from Viking-founded Dublin – lacking everything, in fact, which the Normans defined as ‘civilisation’ (p.15).

One aspect of this was the practice of war: the Normans brought a new war-winning technology from the continent – heavy warhorses, crossbows and ‘the castle’ (there wasn’t a single castle in England in 1066; by 1100 there were an estimated 500!) But they also brought rules and a certain amount of ‘chivalry’ to the business of war. Most obviously this meant the aim of battle was to capture rather than just slaughter opposing nobles, and then barter them for big ransoms or land (p.126).

(According to one online definition, ‘chivalrous’ means: ‘gracious and honourable toward an enemy, especially a defeated one’.)

By contrast, a contemporary chronicler laments that the Irish and Welsh practice in battle continued to be to kill, mutilate and behead captive nobles, and take non-noble prisoners into lifelong slavery.

The ransom played a key role in chivalrous continental warfare and was dependent on the existence of money and coinage: a captured lord could be ransomed if you could muster £1,000 in money; but if – as in Wales and Ireland – there was no money at all, then you could only offer his holders… what? Cows, horses, sheep? Giving these would undermine the ability of the people dependant on you to eat and survive. So…Let him die.

So it is a fascinating insight that chivalry depended on the institute of ransom which itself depended on the existence of cash.

Scotland

Scotland is the exception to the Celtic rule due to the sweeping changes wrought under King David I (1124 to 1153). David had been brought up in the court of King Henry I and witnessed the fluency and power of a continental-style monarchy. When he ascended to the Scottish throne, he invited Norman and Flemish settlers to come and settle the Lowlands; he introduced written records for tax purposes, along with continental-style tax and coinage, land-holding patterns. He took wide-ranging steps to generally ‘civilise’ – certainly to ‘continentalise’ – Scotland.

Hence, where Carpenter describes the rise of Anglo-Norman ‘racism’ in the 1100s against the Irish and Welsh (because they were perceived as being illiterate, having no central court or authority, no taxation, no coinage, no modern economy, and because of their inveterate habit of mutilating and slaughtering each other) he also reports the Anglo-Normans were forced, in the 1200s, to concede that Scotland was different. ‘Savages’ though the Highlanders might be, the Lowlanders had more in common with their Anglo-Norman neighbours than with the Celts.

Conclusion

This is a very long book which trawls through the reigns of kings William, William Rufus, Henry I, Stephen, Henry II, Richard, John, Henry II and the start of the reign of Edward I. A lot happens at the level of high politics – successions and civil wars and battles – which Carpenter dutifully reports, but he tends to get these bits out of the way so he can get back to what really interests him, which is the social and economic developments during the period, the changing patterns of trade and agricultural practice, reforms to tax laws or the ongoing reforms to church regulation and monastic rule.

Though this is mostly rather dull, it does throw up a steady trickle of useful insights. But for the thrill of high political intrigue, and a sense of how the pressure of tumultuous events limited and determined the actions of successive kings, I would look elsewhere.

Insights

English or Norman?

It seems there was 150 years during which different writers, kings and nobles called themselves English or Norman or French, depending on the context. In the 1120s chroniclers still complained about having been defeated by the Normans. But from the start, the Conqueror described himself as king of the English. Carpenter quotes lots of evidence before summarising, uncontroversially, that by the 13th century England, Scotland and Wales all had a greater sense of national identity than in 1066.

Revolt

Carpenter makes the subtle point that England was so far in advance of the Celtic countries, politically, that by 1200 not only did it have a strong centralised unified monarchy, but the nobles and aristocrats had a highly developed sense of their rights, and what the kingdom should expect from its king. This was the point of Magna Carta, to define and circumscribe the rights and role of the English king, and the political history of the 13th century – as I know from Dan Jones’s rip-roaring history of the Plantagenets and from Marc Morris’s thorough history of King Edward – was the conflict between errant kings (John, Henry III) and rebellious nobles who tried to curb their power and hold them to account against written standards of behaviour.

1204

1204 is referenced repeatedly as the key date in the Englishisation of the Normans because it was the year King John lost the Duchy of Normandy to the French king. John, his court and senior nobles all stopped being able to shuttle between their Norman estates and their English estates and were henceforth bottled up in Britain. Carpenter downplays the ongoing holdings in Gascony in south-west France to emphasise that the loss of Normandy set the kings of ‘England’ on the path towards mastering the rest of Britain i.e. the loss of Normandy leads to the conquest of Wales, the Norman colonisation of Ireland, the invasion of Scotland. Maybe. Quite a long lead time, though – from 1204 until King Edward’s campaigns in Wales the 1280s. Also, this downplays the simple geographical logic: strong powers tend to attack their neighbours sooner or later. The Anglo-Norman invasion of eastern Ireland began much earlier, in the 1170s.

As it happens, 1204 was the year of the Sack of Constantinople by members of the Fourth Crusade, which led to the imposition of Latin control over the Eastern Empire. So a key year to remember.

Slavery

As with Robert Bartlett’s book on the Making of Europe, I was shocked at the extent of slavery in pre-Conquest Anglo-Saxon Britain and by the fact that it continued on into this period of the High Middle Ages.

It is estimated that a the time of the conquest about 10% of the rural population of Britain were slaves; Domesday Book mentions 28,000 slaves. You could become a slave by being captured in an armed raid (generally by the Scots or Welsh) but also for simply being unable to pay a debt. Carpenter claims one of the few trades we know about in 11th century Wales was the export of slaves to Ireland.

The Conqueror banned slavery but it lingered on into the 11th century. It was regularly attacked by the Church (although the Church itself owned slaves) but the reason slavery declined and disappeared in the 12th century is that it was uneconomic in a more advanced economy. Slaves have no land and have to be fed. Norman lords realised it was more effective to give slaves land and then extract routine work or produce from them. Thus slaves were converted into ‘villeins’, the precise category of what is more loosely called ‘serfs’ – peasants who were attached to estates and manors, and could be sold on with them. But the key legal difference is that a slave could be punished, physically mutilated and killed by their owner with no comeback. Serfs, on the other hand, as the new stricter laws of the Anglo-Normans insisted, belonged to the king; an attack on their bodies was an attack on the king’s property.

Not war but slave hunts

I was particularly surprised to read about the behaviour of the Scottish during this period i.e. they engaged in routine, large-scale invasions of northern England, during which they lay the country waste, murdered, raped and dragged off the survivors into slavery. Repeatedly. For example, contemporary chroniclers were appalled by the behaviour of the Scots army led into Northumbria by King David and eventually brought to battle at the Battle of the Standard on 22 August 1138. Richard of Hexham described:

An execrable army, more atrocious than the pagans, neither fearing God nor regarding man, spread desolation over the whole province and slaughtered everywhere people of either sex, of every age and rank, destroying, pillaging and burning towns, churches and houses.

The Scots were perceived as going beyond normal Norman ‘harrying’ by systematically carrying off women and children as slaves. In the contemporary Celtic world this was regarded as a useful source of revenue, and not significantly more reprehensible than cattle-raiding.

Then (horrible to relate) they carried off, like so much booty, the noble matrons and chaste virgins, together with other women. These naked, fettered, herded together; by whips and thongs they drove before them, goading them with their spears and other weapons. This took place in other wars, but in this to a far greater extent.

This testimony supports the chroniclers’ tales of sexual abuse of the slaves and the casual slaughter of unsalable encumbrances:

For the sick on their couches, women pregnant and in childbed, infants in the womb, innocents at the breast, or on the mother’s knee, with the mothers themselves, decrepit old men and worn-out old women, and persons debilitated from whatever cause, wherever they met with them, they put to the edge of the sword, and transfixed with their spears.

So the Anglo-Normans’ description of the extremely violent, cruel, enslaving Scots, Welsh and Irish wasn’t just prejudice. This wasn’t war as continental chivalry; it was war as slave-hunt and butchery. These tales influenced English attitudes to their neighbours for generations.

Poverty

Carpenter lays out very clearly the techniques and the source materials used by modern demographers to try and work out the population of Britain in 1066 and then calculate how much it increased in the following two centuries (this lays bare just how much guesswork is involved and why the estimates vary so much). Best guess is the British population was 2 million in 1086 and doubled to over 4 million by 1300, possibly as many as 5 million.

But the more powerful aspect of his account of the British population is the grinding poverty of most of the population. An elite peasant might have a pig, a few cows, some chickens for eggs; a basic ‘cottager’ might have a cow; but the majority of peasants only ate what they could grow, and mostly lived on an unchanging diet of bread and pottage (porridge of oats and corn).

Life still remained miserable and short. Most of the population lived right on the borderline of survival. If there was a bad harvest large numbers starved to death. A bad harvest in 1257 led to large numbers of starving peasants roaming the countryside in 1258, commented on by chroniclers and prompting the government to slacken the law on burying the dead without a full identification, because corpses were piling up so fast. In the second half of the 13th century life expectancy was 24. 24! In 1300 60% of the peasantry were too poor to be taxed.

So the population doubled, new towns were founded along with hundreds of new markets and fairs, a small new merchant class began to crystallise – but the vast majority of the population increase was in the shape of chronically poor peasants tied to the land, who, at a dip in agricultural yields, starved to death.

In 1066 there were no towns north of York, in either England or Scotland, and no towns at all anywhere in Wales! Britain was an almost unrecognisably underdeveloped and empty land.


Credit

The Struggle For Mastery: The Penguin History of Britain 1066 to 1284 by David Carpenter was published by Penguin Books in 2003.

Other medieval reviews

Byzantine Emperors 802 to 1081

By the tenth century to be a eunuch was, for a promising youth about to enter the imperial service, a virtual guarantee of advancement; many an ambitious parent would have a younger son castrated as a matter of course.
(Byzantium: The Apogee, page 130)

This is a timeline of Byzantine emperors between 802 and 1081, based on John Julius Norwich’s history of the period, Byzantium: The Apogee (1991).

The Empress Irene

Iconoclasm (the banning of religious images and icons) had been instituted by Leo III the Isaurian in 726. 80 years later it still divided the empire. The empress Irene had dominated her weak husband, Leo IV (775 to 780) and their son, Constantine VI (780 to 797) who came to the throne aged just nine and who, when he became a threat to her power, Irene had arrested and blinded, resulting in his death soon afterwards.

So then the wicked Empress Irene reigned by herself for five years, alienating most sections of the empire – by being a woman, by being an icon-supporter, and for the foul murder of her own son.

In 800 Pope Leo II crowned King Charles of the Franks as Holy Roman Emperor in St Peter’s Rome. This astonished the Byzantines who considered it an appalling assault on their power and prerogatives, but to both Pope and new Emperor, Irene, as a woman, simply did not count and so, for them, the throne of Roman emperor was vacant.

To seal the deal Charlemagne, in 802, sent Irene a proposal of marriage. This in fact struck her as a decent exit strategy to escape the gathering number of enemies to her rule. But her leading ministers rebelled. Led by the Logosthete of the Treasury (the minister of finance), they mounted a coup, and exiled Irene.

Nicephorian dynasty (802–813)—

Nicephorus I Logothetes (802 to 811)

The leader of the coup against Irene took the name Nicephorus. Irene had cancelled loads of taxes in a bid to be popular with the people and thus brought the empire to the brink of bankruptcy. The fact that Nicephorus had been finance minister meant he understood how important it was to revitalise the tax base, rebuild the city’s walls, and build up the army. In 803 an Armenian general in the Byzantine army, Bardanes Turcus, rebelled but his revolt was crushed, Bardanes being sent to a monastery where he was, in the traditional style, blinded to prevent him being any more of a threat.

Irene had tried to buy off both the Khan of the Bulgars (in the north) and the Muslim Caliph Harun al-Raschid (in the East) with gold tribute. Nicephorus immediately cancelled both these tributes, sparking war with both (although Raschid died in 809).

Nicephorus led initially successful campaigns against the Bulgars but was killed at the Battle of Pliska against the mighty leader of the Bulgars, Khan Krum. Initially, Nicephorus had successfully led raids into Bulgar territory and destroyed their capital city, but he and his army were eventually caught in a narrow defile and annihilated. Krum had Nicephorus’s skull encased in silver and used it as a cup for wine-drinking.

Staurakios (July to October 811)

The only son of Nicephoros I, Staurakios automatically succeeded on his father’s death but had been present at the Battle of Pliska and was himself severely wounded, left paralyzed and in constant pain. He was forced to resign within a year, and retired to a monastery where he died soon after.

Michael I Rangabe (811 to 813)

Son-in-law of Nicephorus I, Michael succeeded Staurakios on the latter’s abdication. A spendthrift in everything except defence, he wasted money on high living while Khan Krum devastated various Byzantine towns.

In late 812 Krum offered battle some miles from the capital and in June Michael marched out at the head of an army but, as battle began, the Anatolian wing of the Byzantine army, led by Leo the Armenian, deserted their posts. As a result the Byzantine army was decimated, Michael made it back to Constantinople where he abdicated (retiring to a monastery where he lived quietly for another thirty years). All four of his sons were castrated and his wife and daughters sent to a monastery – while Leo the Armenian returned to the capital and seized the throne.

Non-dynastic—

Leo V ‘the Armenian’ (813 to 820)

Born about 775, Leo joined the army and rose to become a general in which capacity he betrayed the army in a confrontation with Khan Krum of the Bulgars, leading to the abdication of Michael I.

Leo still had to deal with Krum and arranged a meeting with the Bulgar at which he treacherously set assassins to kill him. They failed and Krum made off, infuriated, destroyed all the buildings without Constantinople’s city walls – palaces and churches – then systematically destroyed every Byzantine town he could seize, murdering all the men and taking the women and children into slavery. Adrianople was burned to the ground and the entire population sent into slavery beyond the Danube.

Leo, for his part, mounted some sneaky raids into Bulgar territory where, the chroniclers report, his armies had instructions to kill all the children (dashing their heads against rocks and walls, is the precise description). It was a war of extermination on both sides. Then, just as Krum was supervising the siege engines rumbling up to the walls of Constantinople for a final siege, he dropped dead of apoplexy. To everyone’s surprise, peace had come.

Leo devoted the remainder of his rule to reviving Iconoclasm. The previous three ill-fated emperors had been icon-supporters and their reigns had coincided with financial and military disasters. Leo hoped to revive support for his rule by falling in line with the majority of the upper class, the army and many of the Eastern refugees (who now thronged the city, having fled the armies of the Arabs) who were all deep-rooted iconoclasts. (Iconoclasm feeling became stronger the further east you went.) In 815 Leo promulgated an edict against images which led to an orgy of destruction across the empire. So much beauty and art, silken vestments, gold icons, priceless statues – destroyed forever.

Something – the chronicles are unclear – led to a rift with his one-time good friend Michael from Armoria, who began speaking openly against the emperor and who Leo had imprisoned and ordered to be thrown into a burning furnace. Before this order could be carried out, Michael was freed by accomplices who went with him to the imperial chapel on Christmas Day 820, where they struck down Leo, first cutting off his sword arm, then his head. Leo’s corpse was paraded in ignominy around the Hippodrome. Leo’s four sons were castrated (one died during the procedure) and sent, along with his wife and daughters, into exile.

Amorian dynasty (820 to 867)—

Michael II ‘the Amorian’ (820 to 829)

Michael was an illiterate boor who made his son co-emperor in a bid to establish a settled dynasty. Almost immediately he faced a rebellion which evolved into a civil war, led by Thomas the Slav, a Byzantine general, who besieged Constantinople. However, Thomas’s army was unexpectedly attacked from the north by the Bulgars and massacred. The survivors retreated to a walled town, and Michael now felt confident enough to lead a Byzantine army to besiege them. Michael quickly persuaded the rebels to surrender with a promise of mercy, and to give up Thomas – who promptly had his hands and feet chopped off and his body impaled on a stake.

During Michael’s reign the empire lost Crete to Arab pirates, who ravaged all the towns and converted the entire population into slavery. Another band of Arab adventurers began the Muslim conquest of Sicily. Both islands became the home for Arab corsairs who preyed on shipping all over the eastern Mediterranean, despite Michael sending numerous fleets to try and stop them.

Michael died peacefully in his bed, the first emperor in a sequence of six to do so.

Theophilus (829 to 842)

Born in 813, Theophilus was the only son of Michael II, the illiterate Armorian. Co-emperor since 821, he succeeded on his father’s death aged 25 and was, according to Norwich, ‘magnificently qualified to take on the responsibilities of emperor’.

Theophilus had to deal with the aggressive campaigns from the Muslim East of Caliph Mutasim, who besieged and sacked Armoria, the second city in the empire: when some of the inhabitants took refuge in the town church, Mutasim burned them alive in it, the rest of the population was put in chains and taken back across the desert towards Syria but, when water ran short on this long trek, almost all of them were executed. Only 42 made it alive to Muslim territory. Years later the 42 were offered a final choice between converting to Islam or martyrdom. All 42 chose death and were beheaded on the banks of the River Tigris, thus entering the canon of saints of the Byzantine church. Burning, murdering, death.

Theophilus continued the iconoclastic policies of his father, but rather half-heartedly (with some notably brutal exceptions: he had two Christian writers who refused to renounce icons, tattooed across their faces with a long iconoclastic poem, and he had the greatest icon painter of the time, Lazarus, scourged and branded on the palms of his hands with red hot nails). Nonetheless, in Norwich’s opinion, when Theophilus died, aged just 29, from dysentery, ‘the age of iconoclasm died with him’ (p.52).

Interestingly, in response to the Muslim seizure of Crete and Sicily, Theophilus appealed to the son of Charlemagne, Lewis the Pious, to join forces and drive the Muslims from the Mediterranean. Interesting because, as Norwich points out, if Lewis had done so, the age of the crusades (i.e. armed Western Christian knights interfering in the Muslim Mediterranean world) would have come two and a half centuries early and, if it had become a sustained campaign uniting the Western and Eastern Christians, might have seized back more of the Mediterranean littoral.

Michael III ‘the Drunkard’ (842 to 867)

Born in 840, Michael succeeded on Theophilus was succeeded by his son Michael, born in 840 and so just two years old, with the result that the empire was ruled by his mother, Theodora, until 856. She called a Church Council in 845 which anathematised Iconoclasm, not without the usual fierce ecclesiastical in-fighting. (The fierceness of language and actual bodily violence involved in these Church disputes has to be read to be believed. Senior Christian opponents to imperial policy were often arrested, tortured, scourged and whipped, branded, blinded and exiled.)

The Logothete and eunuch Theoctistus manoeuvred his way to becoming co-ruler with Theodora. (Logothete: An administrative title originating in the eastern Roman Empire. In the middle and late Byzantine Empire, it became a senior administrative title, equivalent to minister or secretary of state.)

Theoctistus led a fleet which managed to recapture Crete, and another Byzantine fleet attacked and ravaged the Muslim naval base at Damietta. In other words, this period saw the start of a significant fightback against Muslim domination of the Eastern Mediterranean.

Theoctistus and the Empress adopted the ruinous policy the pair adopted of the systematic persecution of the heretics known as Paulicians. The Paulicians were Christians of a sort, but rejected large parts of the Old and New Testament and many of the practices of the Church. They were based in Armenia, a mountainous region far to the east of Anatolia. They were ordered to renounce their beliefs but refused, and so a vast military army set out to the East and, if the chroniclers are to be believed, massacred up to 100,000 of the Paulician community – by hanging, drowning, putting to the sword and even crucifixion. Not only was this a foul atrocity in itself, but strategically short-sighted in that it drove the entire community into alliance with the Muslim regime based in Baghdad.

Map showing the spread of the Muslim empire and how surrounded and embattled the Byzantine Empire became (and how foolish it was to drive the Armenians into alliance with the Muslims)

The Empress Theodora’s brother (Michael’s uncle) Bardas, overthrew Theoctistus, confronting him in the palace with a group of soldiers and the young emperor himself, who ran him through with a sword. That was in 855.

Bardas was raised to Caesar in 862. Norwich considers Bardas’s ten year-rule (855 to 865) one of unparalleled success, notable for his military victories over the Bulgars to the north and the negotiation of their conversion to Christianity, for the growing confidence and distinctness of the Eastern Church, and for Bardas’s personal sponsorship of learning – setting up schools and a university – and the arts.

In the last years of Bardas’s rule the monks and scholars, the brothers Cyril and Methodius, were invited by the Khan of the Bulgars to help convert his Slavic people to Christianity. (Formerly it was believed that Cyril, forced to invent new letters to convey Slavic speech sounds, invented the Cyrillic script which is named after him. Nowadays it is thought he and Methodius invented the Glagolitic script, and that Cyrillic was developed later by their students and followers.)

This story didn’t end well, though, because the Khan of the Bulgars wrote a long letter to the emperor complaining about the endless squabbles among the Byzantine Christian missionaries, and asking for clarification on various points of theology. The emperor Michael made the mistake of arrogantly dismissing it, with the result that the Khan turned to the Pope, who gave him a clear, thorough and polite response. The result was the Khan of the Bulgars gave his allegiance to the Pope in Rome and expelled all the Byzantine missionaries.

Meanwhile, Emperor Michael declined into alcoholism. In his last years he took a favourite, Basil, a strong, illiterate peasant from Armenia, talented with horses, and raised him to the level of Court Chamberlain. All kind of speculation floats around him, including the possibility that he was Michael’s gay lover. Michael ordered Basil to marry a young woman who was almost certainly Michael’s mistress, in order to give his mistress free access to the palace (and Michael), without scandalising the clergy. It is possible, then, that when Basil’s wife bore him children, they were in fact the children of the emperor…

Whatever the details, Basil tightened his grip on Michael’s affections, becoming a serious rival to Michael’s uncle, Bardas. On 21 April 866, on the eve of a naval expedition which he was meant to be leading to liberate Crete from the Muslims, Bardas was sitting next to Michael in the imperial pavilion, when Bardas stepped forward and assassinated him. The emperor was obviously in on the coup because he issued a statement declaring Bardas a traitor and exonerating Basil.

Macedonian dynasty (867 to 1056)—

Basil I ‘the Macedonian’ (867 to 886)

Having assassinated Michael’s uncle, Bardas, in 866, 18 months later, on 24 September 867, Basil and seven followers killed the emperor Michael as he lay in a drunken stupor in his bedchamber. Basil had himself proclaimed basileus.

Basil led successful wars in the East against the Arabs and the Paulicians, and seized back the entire Dalmatian coast, Bari, and all southern Italy for the Empire. He initiated a major review and digest of the laws (on the model of Justinian’s code) and also commissioned the building of new churches and palaces. He had four sons but one, young Constantine, was the apple of his eye. When Constantine died suddenly in 879, Basil went into a decline, becoming surly, reclusive and unbalanced. A later legend says he was killed by a stag while out hunting. We’ll never know for sure.

Leo VI ‘the Wise’ (886 to 912)

Instead of Basil’s favourite son, Constantine, it was his next eldest son, Leo, who succeeded, aged twenty. Already he has acquired the nickname ‘the wise’ for his scholarship, grace and deportment. But Leo VI’s reign saw an increase in Muslim naval raids, culminating in the Sack of Thessalonica, and was marked by unsuccessful wars against the Bulgarians under Symeon I.

Leo sparked a far-ranging religious dispute because he married a succession of wives, who all managed to die of illness or in childbirth. He kept at it because he was desperate for a male heir but when he married for the fourth time, to Zoe ‘Carbonopsina’ (of the black eyes), the church was outraged.

Orthodox theology disapproved of even one remarriage, only reluctantly admitted two – so long as the partners spent a good deal of time repenting and praying – but to remarry for a third time was completely forbidden and the Patriarch of Constantinople. Nicholas, was not slow to criticise and anathematise the emperor. So Leo had Nicholas exiled and appointed a new Patriarch who carried out his wishes. But Nicholas’s dismissal and the scandal of the four marriages split the church into fiercely opposing factions.

Alexander (912 to 913)

Leo had sidelined his brother, Alexander, during his reign. When Leo finally died his brother inherited and promptly set about undoing much of his brother’s work, starting by banishing Leo’s wife, Zoe, and ignoring Leo’s careful diplomacy with the ever-threatening Bulgars. He restored the troublesome patriarch, Nicholas, who Leo had dismissed and who returned from exile furious and determined to take his revenge on everyone in the hierarchy who had condoned Leo’s marriage.

Alexander was an alcoholic and died of exhaustion after a polo game, leaving the throne to Leo’s young son, Constantine, born in 905 and so aged just seven.

Constantine VII Porphyrogenitus (913 to 959)

At Alexander’s death there is a scrabble for power. When Zoe learned that Alexander lay dying she rushed back to the palace to protect her and Leo’s son, Constantine. On his deathbed Alexander confirmed Constantine as heir, but appointed a Regency Council led by Nicholas. And the first thing Nicholas did was order the empress to have her hair shorn and be sent to a nunnery, where she was renamed Sister Anna.

Within days the leader of the army, Constantine Ducas, mounted a coup against the regency Council, but as he snuck into the city, he and his conspirators (including his eldest son, Gregory) were caught and killed. Almost certainly Nicholas was in league with Ducas but, after the coup failed, it gave Nicholas the pretext he needed to launch a drastic reign of terror.

Whole companies were massacred, their bodies impaled along the Asiatic shore of the Bosphorus; others were flogged or blinded…. Ducas’s widow was exiled… his younger son… was castrated. (p.127)

Leo VI had wisely paid a tribute or bribe to Symeon the Great, Khan of the Bulgars, to stop him ravaging Thrace (the area to the north of Constantinople).

Constantine rashly stopped the payment with the result that Symeon led a Bulgar army right up to the walls of Constantinople. At this point the Patriarch Nicholas went out to see Symeon and did some kind of deal, so that the Bulgars went away.

But 1) Nicholas’s brutal treatment of the empress and 2) his brutal treatment of the army and 3) the rumour that he had sold out to the Bulgars, led to the collapse of the Regency Council. This triggered the swift return of ‘Sister Anna’, who reclaimed the role of Augusta and Regent and her true name of Zoe.

The next thing that happened was a coup organised by the admiral Romanus Lecapenos. He overthrew the empress (and sent her back to the convent again, hair shorn, Sister Anna once more) and quickly wedded his daughter to Constantine, thus becoming the young emperor’s father-in-law. Romanus worked to make himself invaluable and to seize all the levers of state. Eventually he got himself crowned senior emperor in 920.

Constantine was sidelined during the Lecapenos regime, but asserted his control by deposing Romanus’s sons in early 945. Byzantine forces helped an Armenian king against the Muslims in the East and destroyed an advancing Muslim army in south Italy, restoring a lot of the empire’s prestige. The Byzantines then caught an attacking army of Bulgars under Symeon I unprepared, forcing it to retire back over the Danube.

Constantine’s long reign also saw a flourishing of the arts known as the ‘Macedonian Renaissance’, with the emperor sponsoring encyclopaedic works and histories. He was a prolific writer himself, best remembered for the manuals on statecraft (De administrando imperio) and ceremonies (De ceremoniis) which he compiled for his son, Romanus II.

Romanus I Lecapenos (920 to 944)

This is the admiral, mentioned above, who seized power in 920 and ruled as the emperor Constantine’s ‘father-in-law’. After becoming the emperor’s father-in-law, he successively assumed higher offices until he crowned himself senior emperor. Like a previous Armenian emperor, Basil I, Romanus was keen to create a family dynasty.

His reign was marked by the end of warfare with Bulgaria and the great conquests of John Kourkouas in the East. Romanus promoted his sons Christopher, Stephen and Constantine as co-emperors over Constantine VII. Eventually Constantine VII threw off his rule and sent him to an island as a monk. He died there on 15 June 948.

Romanus II ‘the Purple-born’ (959 to 963)

The only surviving son of Constantine VII, Romanus was born on 15 March 938 and succeeded his father on the latter’s death in 959. He ruled for four years, although the government was led mostly by the eunuch Joseph Bringas. His reign was marked by successful warfare in the East against Sayf al-Dawla and the recovery of Crete by general Nicephorus Phocas.

Nicephorus Phocas (963 to 969)

The most successful general of his generation who restored Byzantine fortunes in the West and East, Nicephorus II was born around 912 to the powerful Phocas clan. The Phocas family were one of the leading powers in the state, having already produced several generals, including Nicephorus’ father Bardas Phocas, his brother Leo Phocas, and grandfather Nicephorus Phocas the Elder.

On the ascension of Emperor Romanus II in 959, Nicephoros and his younger brother Leo Phocas had been placed in charge of the eastern and western field armies respectively. In 960, 27,000 oarsmen and marines were assembled to man a fleet of 308 ships carrying 50,000 troops in a campaign against the Muslim Emirate of Crete. They besieged the capital, Chandax, till it fell in 961, and took back the island after 130 years of Muslim occupation. Meanwhile, another Byzantine force recovered Cyprus in 965.

Nicephorus was recalled to Constantinople by Constantine and sent to the East, where he defeated the governor of Tarsus, ibn al-Zayyat in open battle, before taking the major Muslim city of Aleppo. From 964 to 965, he led an army of 40,000 men which liberated Cilicia and raided in Upper Mesopotamia and Syria. Then Nicephorus led Byzantine forces which besieged and took Tarsus. In 968, Nicephorus conducted a raid through Syria into Palestine which reached the city of Tripoli, raiding and sacking most of the fortresses along his path and which finally managed to take the city of Antioch. It was a high summer for the empire.

However, to finance these wars Nicephorus had increased taxes both on the people and on the church at a time of poor harvests and general dearth, while maintaining unpopular theological positions and alienating many of his most powerful allies. This combination of policies led to a series of riots in Constantinople. These involved his nephew, John Tzimiskes, who, despite having played a key role in many of his military victories, Nicephorus banished to Asia Minor on suspicion of disloyalty.

Tzimiskes was a popular general and, rallying his supporters, was smuggled back to Constantinople. Fellow conspirators let him into the palace, where he and a gang of collaborators murdered Nicephorus in his sleep. Thus ended the life of one of the most successful emperor-generals in Byzantine history.

John I Tzimiskes (969 to 976)

Tzimiskes took over as regent for the young sons of Romanus II. As ruler, Tzimiskes crushed the Rus in Bulgaria and ended the Bulgarian tsardom, before going on to campaign in the East.

According to Norwich, travelling through Anatolia John was appalled to discover the vast extent of the lands acquired by the Imperial chamberlain Basil Lecapenos. Basil got to hear about the emperor’s anger and, fearing that he was about to lose his lands and position, paid servants to administer a poison to Tzimiskes. Taken very ill, John just about made it back to Constantinople before dying. He was, in Norwich’s opinion:

One of the greatest of Byzantine emperors (p.230)

Basil II ‘the Bulgar-Slayer’ (976 to 1025)

Basil was the eldest son Romanus II, born in 958 and, with Tzimiskes’ death, he now inherited the throne aged just 18. He was to have a long and successful reign but the first half was a struggle to establish his own personal rule.

The first decade of his reign was marked by rivalry with the powerful Imperial chamberlain, the eunuch Basil Lecapenos, who he eventually managed to overthrow, confiscating all his estates and having him banished. Then there was a prolonged attempt by two rival generals – Bardas Phocas and Bardas Sclerus – to overthrow him, though the generals spent as much time fighting each other as the emperor. Both eventually failed, though not after prolonged unrest and military campaigns.

Threatened by the rise of Thomas the Slav who revived the kingdom of the Bulgarians, Basil found it wise to form an alliance with Vladimir I of Kiev whose entry into the Church (the baptism of him and his court) Basil supervised, as well as marrying off his sister, Anna, to the new convert. Vladimir would, in time, be made into a saint by the Russian Orthodox Church, for his zeal in building churches, monasteries, and converting his people.

In his campaigns in the East against the Muslims, Basil had seen for himself the immense estates built up by the class of ‘nobles’ or ‘those with power’, and he determined to break their influence, confiscating all large estates, reducing much of the aristocracy to poverty, rejuvenating the peasant communities which the empire depended on for its manpower, and reverting large tracts of land to the emperor.

Basil then did a deal whereby Venice was awarded the coast of Dalmatia to rule under Byzantine suzerainty: this suited the Venetians for the area was rich in wood and grain, and they also wanted to campaign against Croatian pirates; and suited Basil because it left him free for his life’s work, a sustained campaign against Bulgaria. It took twenty years but he eventually defeated Thomas the Slav and his son, and the usurper who murdered the son. All Bulgarian territory and cities were seized, and all survivors of the royal family taken prisoner off to Constantinople. In fact Basil ruled wisely, keeping taxes deliberately low and assimilating leading Bulgar aristocrats into the Byzantine administration.

Basil II’s reign is widely considered the apogee of medieval Byzantium.

Map of the Byzantine Empire in the year 1025  most of present-day Turkey, Greece, the southern Balkans and south Italy

Constantine VIII (1025 to 1028)

The second son of Romanus II, Constantine was born in 960 and raised to co-emperor in March 962. During the rule of Basil II, he spent his time in dissipation. He was 65 when he came to power and managed, in three short years, to fritter away almost all of his brother’s achievements. Unsure of his powers, he became paranoid, suspicious of courtiers and plots, and hundreds of men arrested, tortured and blinded on trumped-up charges.

Only on his death-bed, aged 68, did he worry about the succession. He had three daughters, themselves now relatively old (in their 40s and 50s) and decided that the most presentable of them, Zoe, should be married off to continue the line. After some squabbling about who the lucky man should be, his civil service settled on Romanus Argyros to be Zoe’s husband. The fact that Romanus was already married was not a barrier, since Constantine said, Marry my daughter or I will blind you and your wife. So Romanus’s wife willingly divorced him, took the veil and disappeared to a convent. Next day Romanus married Zoe. Next day the emperor was dead.

Empress Zoe (1028 to 1050)

The daughter of Constantine VIII, Zoe succeeded on her father’s death, as the only surviving member of the Macedonian dynasty. She had three husbands – Romanus III (1028 to 1034), Michael IV (1034 to 1041) and Constantine IX (1042 to 1050) – who ruled in quick succession alongside her.

Zoe’s first husband: Romanus III Argyros (1028 to 1034)

Romanus was an ageing aristocrat, judge and administrator when he was chosen by Constantine VIII on his deathbed to become Zoe’s husband. He was educated but had an inflated opinion of his own abilities and led his army into a disastrous defeat against the Muslims in Syria. Realising his limitations he decided to make a name for himself by building an enormous church to Mary Mother of God, but taxed the population of Constantinople to the hilt to build it with the result that he became very unpopular.

Contemporary chroniclers also claim he had alienated his wife once he realised they were never going to conceive a child (despite both parties spending lots of money on amulets and charms and potions to restore fertility). He had her confined to her quarters and cut her spending allowance.

Gossip had it that Zoe took a young, handsome Greek lover, Michael, related to the most powerful figure at the court, the eunuch John the Orphanotrophos. The chronicler Michael Psellus suggests the couple poisoned Romanus who was discovered expiring by an imperial swimming pool.

Zoe’s second husband: Michael IV ‘the Paphlagonian’ (1034 to 1041)

Within hours of Romanus’s death, Zoe arranged to be enthroned alongside her 18-year-old lover Michael.

Michael quickly came to despise his aging wife and, once again, had her confined to her quarters. He was an epileptic when they married and his condition rapidly worsened, so that he had a curtain installed around the throne which could be quickly drawn by servants at the first sign of a fresh attack.

Aided by his older brother, the eunuch John the Orphanotrophos, Michael’s reign was moderately successful against internal rebellions, but his massed attempt to recover Sicily from the Muslims totally failed, not least because it was put under the command of John the Orphanotrophos’s sister’s husband, Stephen.

As he grew iller, Michael spent more time building churches and having masses said for his soul. His older brother, the by-now all-powerful John the Orphanotrophos, could see he was dying and cast around for ways to preserve the dynasty. His other brothers were eunuchs, so John’s search alighted on the son of his sister, Maria, and her husband Stephen, Michael.

Basil II had wisely decreed that the defeated Bulgarians should only pay tax in kind. John the Orphanotrophos unwisely revoked this and imposed tax demands in gold. This, plus the imposition of an unpopular Greek to rule their church, led to a revolt of the Bulgars. Michael amazed everyone by taking to his horse and leading the Byzantine army which successfully put the revolt down. He then returned to the capital and died.

Zoe’s son: Michael V Calaphates (‘the Caulker’) (1041 to 1042)

In the last stages of terminal illness, Michael IV was persuaded to adopt Stephen’s son (his nephew), also named Michael, as his own son and heir. Michael IV duly died, aged just 25, and was succeeded by this nephew and namesake, who became Michael V.

In time Michael would be nicknamed calaphates or ‘the caulker’ because this had been the humble shipyard profession of his father, Stephen, before John the Orphanotrophos had wangled him a job as admiral on the ill-fated expedition to reclaim Sicily. He certainly had a very tenuous claim to the throne.

No emperor in the whole history of Byzantium had less title to the throne than Michael Calaphates. (Norwich p.292)

Michael V immediately 1. mounted an assault on the court civil service, making widespread changes 2. removed John the Orphanotrophos from power, confiscating his property and sending him to a monastery. Next he tried to sideline Zoe, having her shaven and send to a convent, but, unexpectedly, this sparked a popular revolt which led to days of mass rioting – resulting in the largest casualties from civic strife the capital had seen since the Nika riots. Michael was forced to recall her and restore her as empress on 19 April 1042, along with her sister Theodora but this wasn’t enough. Norwich quotes the eye witness account of Michael Psellus who went with the mob to the palace chapel where Michael and his uncle, Constantine, were hiding, describes them being persuaded to leave, escorted by the City Prefect through a jeering mob, and then met by the public executioner sent by Zoe, who proceeded to blind them both in front of the baying mob. They were both sent to separate monasteries, Michael dying later that year.

Michael had managed to get himself deposed after a pitiful four months and 11 days on the throne,

Zoe had hoped the riots were solely in her favour but it became apparent that the city didn’t trust her, associating her too much with the ancient regime, and began clamouring for her sister, Theodora who had, fifty years earlier, been consigned to a convent where she had spent most of her life.

Zoe’s sister: Theodora (1042 to 1056)

Born in 984, Theodora was therefore 58 when she was raised as co-ruler on 19 April 1042. However, it quickly became clear that the sisters didn’t get on and that, worse, the court, civil administration, the army and so on were liable to divide into sects supporting one or other woman. The solution was to bring a man in to rule. Theodora, still a highly religious virgin, refused absolutely to be married, but Zoe, now 64, accepted with relish. (It is symptomatic of the name shortage in Byzantium that all three of the candidates which were considered for her hand were named Constantine.)

Zoe’s third husband: Constantine IX Monomachos (1042 to 1055)

Wikipedia tells the story:

Constantine Monomachos was the son of Theodosius Monomachos, an important bureaucrat under Basil II and Constantine VIII. At some point, Theodosius had been suspected of conspiracy and his son’s career suffered accordingly. Constantine’s position improved after he married his second wife, a niece of Emperor Romanus III Argyros. After catching the eye of the Empress Zoe, Constantine was exiled to Mytilene on the island of Lesbos by Zoe’s second husband, Michael IV.

The death of Michael IV and the overthrow of Michael V in 1042 led to Constantine being recalled from his place of exile and appointed as a judge in Greece. However, prior to commencing his appointment, Constantine was summoned to Constantinople, where the fragile working relationship between Michael V’s successors, the empresses Zoe and Theodora, was breaking down. After two months of increasing acrimony between the two, Zoe decided to search for a new husband, thereby hoping to prevent her sister from increasing her popularity and authority.

After her first preference displayed contempt for the empress and her second died under mysterious circumstances, Zoe remembered the handsome and urbane Constantine. The pair were married on 11 June 1042, without the participation of Patriarch Alexius I of Constantinople, who refused to officiate over a third marriage (for both spouses). On the following day, Constantine was formally proclaimed emperor together with Zoe and her sister Theodora.

During his thirteen-year rule Constantine supported the mercantile classes and favoured the company of intellectuals, thereby alienating the military aristocracy. A pleasure-loving ruler, he installed his long-term mistress, Maria, grand-daughter of the rebel Bardas Sclerus, in the palace with the apparent approval of the old empress, although this scandalised public opinion. He endowed a number of monasteries, chiefly the Nea Moni of Chios and the Mangana Monastery.

He had to cope with two major military revolts, of George Maniakes, the empire’s leading general who was rampaging across southern Italy in combat with the new power in the region, the Normans, and who, when recalled to the capital, was so angry that he had himself declared emperor by his troops in 1042 and marched on Constantinople, ending up killed in a skirmish with loyal troops in Thessalonica in 1043

The second revolt occurred three years later, led by Leo Tornikios, who raised an army in Thrace and marched on the capital, which he besieged. After two failed assaults Leo withdrew, his army deserted him and he was captured. At Christmas 1047, he was blinded and no more is known of him.

Though he survived these threats, Constantine’s rule saw the elimination of the Byzantine presence from Calabria and Sicily, the Seljuk Turks had established themselves in Baghdad and were planning their invasions of Anatolia, and the Danube frontier had been breached by a number of invading tribes – the Pechenegs, the Cumans and the Uz. Which leads Norwich to comment:

The Emperor Constantine IX was more confident than Constantine VIII, more of a realist than Romanus Argyrus, healthier than Michael IV and less headstrong than Michael V. Politically, however, through sheer idleness and irresponsibility, he was to do the Empire more harm than the rest of them put together. (p.307)

Norwich goes into great detail to describe the Great Schism between the patriarchates of Rome and Constantinople which climaxed in legates from Rome placing a grand bull of excommunication on the high altar of St Sophia cathedral during the Eucharist. It is a long, sorry, shambolic story of misunderstandings and animosity between bigots on both sides.

This was bad politics because both sides needed to unite to drive the Normans out of Sicily. Their disunity allowed the Normans to seize control of the island and part of southern Italy. Interestingly, Constantine set about restoring the Church of the Holy Sepulchre in Jerusalem, which had been substantially destroyed in 1009 by Caliph al-Hakim bi-Amr Allah, and endowing other churches in Palestine.

During Constantine’s reign, Theodora was again sidelined, but Zoe died in 1050, and Constantine himself followed her in 1055. At which point Theodora briefly assumed full governance of the Empire and reigned until her own death the following year (1056).

As both Theodora and Zoe had no children, the chronicler Michael Psellus describes the panic-stricken meetings in which senior officials cast around for someone to replace her. They finally settled on an elderly patrician and a member of the court bureaucracy, Michael Bringas, who had served as military finance minister (and hence the epithet Stratiotikos often attached to his name). The senior civil servants knew he was one of them, and thought he would be easily managed. The dying Empress was persuaded to nod her head in approval of the choice, just hours before she passed away.

Non-dynastic (1056 to 1057)—

Michael VI Bringas ‘the Old’ (1056 to 1057)

Michael was in his 60s, an ageing bureaucrat who had put up with years of low level abuse from military types. Now, as emperor, he took his revenge, spending money on the civil service and state officials, but underfunding the army. In his first review of the leading generals he amazed them by berating them in violent terms, and followed it up a few days later with more of the same.

They rebelled. A conspiracy of generals persuaded their leading figure, the tall, successful leader Isaac Comnenus, to lead the army of the East against Constantinople. Everywhere they went troops and citizens rallied to his flag, but nonetheless they were forced to fight a hard-fought battle against the army of Europe which Michael had summoned to his defence, just across the Bosphorus near Nicomedi. After a prolonged struggle, the eastern army triumphed and – after negotiations with Michael’s envoys – the emperor abdicated and was allowed to retire to a monastery where he died in 1059.

Comnenid dynasty (1057 to 1059)—

Isaac I Comnenus (1057 to 1059)

Born about 1005, Isaac was the empire’s leading general when he was declared emperor by his troops and led them against Constantinople in 1057. He reigned for just two years, during which he tried to fund and organise the army better, but alienated the church (by arresting Michael Cerularius, the Patriarch who had persuaded Michael VI to abdicate) and much of the population (rigorous collection of taxes, reduction in state salaries, confiscation of property from the mega-rich).

There are two stories about his death: either he simply abdicated, perhaps depressed by the scale of the problems he faced and the obdurate roadblocking of the civil service, and retired to a monastery. In the other version he caught a chill while out hunting which turned into pneumonia.

In both versions of the story Isaac needed to name a successor and ignored his daughter, brother and five nephews to choose Constantine Ducas, the most aristocratic of the group of intellectuals who had helped revive Byzantine learning a few years before.

Doucid dynasty (1059 to 1081)—

Constantine X Ducas (1059 to 1067)

There is no Emperor in the history of the later Roman Empire whose accession had more disastrous consequences. (p.337)

Constantine was a highly educated Greek aristocrat but he was also, in Norwich’s opinion, ‘a hopelessly impractical and woolly-minded bureaucrat’ (p.336) and ‘arguably the most disastrous ruler ever to don the purple buskins’ (p.338).

Why all the blame? Because Constantine wasted the imperial finances on high living and indulged in theological and philosophical speculation. Meanwhile he replaced standing soldiers with mercenaries and left the frontier fortifications unrepaired.

This led to mounting unhappiness within the army and an attempt by some generals to assassinate him in 1061 which was foiled. The result of running down the army was that under his rule the Empire lost most of Byzantine Italy to the Normans under Robert Guiscard, suffered invasions by Alp Arslan in Asia Minor in 1064, resulting in the loss of the Armenian capital, and by the Oghuz Turks in the Balkans in 1065, while Belgrade was lost to the Hungarians.

But it is the rising threat from the Seljuk Turks which Norwich focuses on. He describes the Turks as being a nomadic tribe of warriors, famed for their abilities firing a bow and arrow from the saddle, which originated in Transoxiana, and moved south, converting to Islam and slowly taking over Persia. They finally seized the capital of the old Abbasid Dynasty, Baghdad, in 1055. Meanwhile they also led expeditions against Armenia, which was by way of being a buffer state between the east and the Empire, and then pushed on into Anatolia, raiding as far as Ankara and Caesarea.

It is for Constantine’s systematic and deliberate running down of the Empire’s army and physical defences that Norwich names him worst Byzantine Emperor ever. In the same year that the Turks penetrated as far as Ankyra – with no army or force of any kind sent to prevent them – that Constantine died.

On his deathbed Constantine made his wife swear not to remarry and made all the senior officials sign a pledge that the succession could only go to a member of his family, the Ducases.

By his second wife, Eudocia Macrembolitissa, Constantine had the following sons:

  • Michael VII Ducas, who succeeded as emperor
  • Andronicus Ducas, co-emperor from 1068 to 1078
  • Constantius Ducas, co-emperor from 1060 to 1078

Michael VII Ducas (1067 to 1078) part 1

Born about 1050, Michael was the eldest son of Constantine X and succeeded to the throne aged 17 but showed little interest in ruling, leaving that to his mother, Eudocia, and uncle, John Ducas.

On 1 January 1068, Eudocia, having deceived the leading aristocrats about her intentions in order to get her deathbed promise to Constantine not to marry again annulled, married the general Romanus Diogenes, who now became senior co-emperor alongside Michael VII, and Michael’s brothers Constantius and Andronicus.

Romanus IV Diogenes (1068 to 1071)

If the Ducas family was one of the grandest, oldest and most illustrious parts of the courtly bureaucracy, Romanus hailed from the Anatolian military aristocracy. Eudocia, at least, appeared to realise that, with the pressing threat from the Turks, the Empire needed a strong military leader.

Michael VII had surrounded himself with sycophantic court officials, and was oblivious to the empire collapsing around him. In dire straits, imperial officials resorted to property confiscations and even expropriated some of the wealth of the church. The underpaid army mutinied, and the Byzantines lost Bari, their last possession in Italy, to the Normans of Robert Guiscard in 1071. Simultaneously, there was a serious revolt in the Balkans, where the Empire faced an attempt at the restoration of the Bulgarian state. Although this revolt was suppressed by the general Nicephorus Bryennius, the Byzantine Empire was unable to recover its losses in Asia Minor.

Struggling against this tide, Romanus immediately began to try and correct all the abuses which had built up around the army, to settle all arrears of pay, negotiate new contracts with mercenary soldiers, raise new levies from peasants in Anatolia, improve equipment and training.

In 1068, 1069, and 1070 he led raids into Turkish territory, seizing towns. The leader of the Turks by this point was Alp Arslan and the two leaders tried to negotiate a truce, but this was constantly broken by the Turcomen, lawless bandits related to the Turks who had not adopted Islam or any central authority.

Finally Romanus set off in the spring of 1071 with the largest army he could muster to crush the Turks. But – to be brief – it was he and the Byzantine army which was crushingly and definitively defeated, at a massive battle near the small fortress of Manzikert in August 1071.

There is reams of speculation about what exactly happened, but it seems certain that, having split his army in two due to uncertainty about the precise location of the Turk army, when Romanus located it and called for the other half, led by Joseph Tarchaniotes, to come to his aid, it didn’t. Speculation why continues to this day. After lining up for an engagement the Turks then retreated systematically, luring Romanus’s army towards mountains at the edge of the plain, where he feared getting trapped, so turned his forces. But some of them interpreted this as flight, rumour spread that the Emperor was killed, the Turks suddenly attacked in force, and the rearguard, led by one of the rival Ducas clan, fled. The remaining army was massacred by the Turks, Romanus fighting to the end, captured and brought before the Turkish leader.

The battle of Manzikert was the greatest disaster suffered by the Empire of Byzantium in the seven and a half centuries of its existence. (p.357)

Alp treated Romanus with respect, concluded a treaty with him, had him dressed, his wounds treated, and escorted back towards Constantinople: it would pay him to have a defeated Emperor in his power who would respect their treaty, rather than a new young buck who would ignore it. But Romanus’s fate was already sealed.

Michael VII Ducas (1067 to 1078) part 2

When rumours of a calamitous defeat reached Constantinople, the initiative was taken by Michael’s uncle John Ducas and his tutor Michael Psellus. They quickly proclaimed Michael VII Senior Emperor and he was crowned as such on October 24, 1071. Eudocia was quickly despatched to a convent.

Romanus seems to have mustered what remained of his army for the return march on Constantinople but was beaten in two consecutive battles with loyalist troops, after the second of which he gave himself up. Despite promises of a safe passage he was blinded and then paraded in rags sitting backwards on a donkey.

After Manzikert, the Byzantine government sent a new army to contain the Seljuk Turks under Isaac Comnenus, a brother of the future emperor Alexius I Comnenus, but this army was defeated and its commander captured in 1073.

The problem was made worse by the desertion of the Byzantines’ western mercenaries, who became the object of the next military expedition in the area, led by the Caesar John Ducas. This campaign also ended in failure, and its commander was likewise captured by the enemy.

The victorious mercenaries now forced John Ducas to stand as pretender to the throne. The government of Michael VII was forced to recognize the conquests of the Seljuks in Asia Minor in 1074, and to seek their support against Ducas. A new army under Alexius Comnenus, reinforced by Seljuk troops sent by Malik Shah I, finally defeated the mercenaries and captured John Ducas in 1074.

The net effect of these years of chaos was that the Turks established enduring control of a vast swathe of Anatolia, previously the main source for the Empire’s grain and manpower. The Turks named it the Sultanate of Rum (derived from ‘Rome’).

The economic upheaval caused by all these defeats added to widespread dissatisfaction and in 1078 two generals, Nicephorus Bryennius and Nicephorus Botaneiates, simultaneously revolted in the Balkans and Anatolia, respectively.

Bryennius raised the standard of revolt in November 1077 in his native city of Adrianople and marched on the capital. But, out east, Botaneiates gained the support of the Seljuk Turks, and he reached Constantinople first. They arrived as rising prices and food shortages led to riots and widespread burning and looting in March 1078. Michael abdicated on March 31, 1078 and retired into the Monastery of Studium.

Nicephorus III Botaneiates (1078 to 1081)

Born in 1001, Nicephorus rose to become the strategos of the Anatolic Theme, rebelled against Michael VII and was welcomed into the capital as a saviour to the rioting and anarchy. He had his rival Bryennius arrested and blinded.

Botaneiates was in his seventies when he came to power, old and faced with the breakdown of the civil authority (after the leading bureaucrat had been murdered in the riots) and the ongoing weakness of the army on all fronts, which led to uprisings, rebellions and invasions on all borders, Botaneiates struggled and failed to cope.

Alexius I Comnenus (1081 to 1118)

In the nick of time arrived a saviour. Exhausted, Botaneiates abdicated in 1081 and retired to a monastery where he died on 10 December of the same year. He abdicated in favour of an aristocratic young general who was to reign for the next 37 years with a firm hand and give the Empire the stability is so sorely needed.

He was Alexius Comnenus, nephew of Isaac Comnenus. His reign was to be dominated by wars against the Normans and the Seljuk Turks, as well as the arrival of the First Crusade and the establishment of independent Crusader states. But that is the start of a new era, and so here Norwich ends the second volume of his history of the Byzantine Empire.


Other Dark Age reviews

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See also my Saga and Viking reviews.

Saga and Viking reviews

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Exhibition

The Legend of Cleopatra by Geoffrey Chaucer (1386)

And as for me, thogh that I can but lyte,
On bokes for to rede I me delyte
And in myn herte have hem in reverence;
And to hem yeve swich lust and swich credence,
That ther is wel unethe game noon
That from my bokes make me to goon.

(The narrator describing his love of books in the Prologue to The Legend of Good Women by Geoffrey Chaucer, 1380s)

The Legend of Good Women is a long-ish poem by the medieval English poet Geoffrey Chaucer (1340 to 1400). Like so many poems from the period, it features a dream vision i.e. the narrator falls asleep and then has a supernatural fantasy (in this case of the god of Love) which is described in a naturalistic manner. Chaucer wrote three other dream vision poems (The Book of the Duchess, The House of Fame and The Parliament of Fowls) and it was a very popular genre for other poets of the period (for example, William’s Vision of Piers Plowman, written by William Langland about a decade earlier).

In the prologue to the poem, after he has fallen asleep, the god of Love appears to the narrator (pretty obviously Chaucer) and reprimands him for giving a negative image of women in a) his translation of the long French poem, The Romance of the Rose ‘that is an heresye ayeins my lawe’, and b) his portrayal of the fickle and inconstant Criseyde, in his very long poem, Troilus and Criseyde. The god of Love demands that Chaucer correct this breach of manners by depicting women from myth or legend who have lived well according to the medieval religion of courtly love i.e. lived and died for Love. Who have been ‘Cupid’s saints’.

This is meant to be a poetic version of the real-life story behind the commissioning of the poem, for it is said that Anne of Bohemia, the wife of King Richard II, expressed the same sentiments of gentle disapproval and so laid on Chaucer the commission of writing a poem in praise of women and hence The Legend. Nice, if it’s true.

Courtly love

In the Middle Ages the cult of Courtly Love arose, stemming supposedly from the south of France and spreading to all the courts of Europe. Courtly love wittily and sophisticatedly reworked the format and rhetoric surrounding Christian saints and, indeed, the Christian religion itself, into a mock-serious ‘religion’ centred around the adoration of a courtier knight or poet for his semi-divine mistress or Lady.

Courtly love, or the ars amandi, applied the same medieval technique of intricate elaboration which had produced scholasticism and the codes of chivalry, to relations between the sexes. To quote my review of Medieval English lyrics 1200 to 1400 edited by Thomas G. Duncan (1995):

The twelfth century saw the flourishing and spread of the poetry of courtly love pioneered by the troubadours in the south of France in the period from about 1100 to 1150. The feudal concept of service to a male lord was converted into the idea of service of a noble knight to an aristocratic lady in the name of love. The troubadours took the idea to extremes, claiming in their poems that service to the Lady was the only thing that made life worth living, while her disdain and scorn made a man want to die.

As it spread, the cult of Courtly Love grew into a highly complex, ritualised, ornate and delightful cornucopia, a delicate Gothic tracery of manners, behaviours and modes of address recommended to courtiers who wanted to play this sophisticated game. As the Dutch historian of the late Middle Ages, Johan Huizinga, put it, back in 1919:

Just as scholasticism represents the grand effort of the medieval spirit to unite all philosophic thought in a single centre, so the theory of courtly love, in a less elevated sphere, tends to embrace all that appertains to the noble life.
(The Waning of the Middle Ages by Johan Huizinga, Penguin paperback edition, page 105)

Works of courtly love grew bigger, longer and more complex as they redefined all aristocratic behaviour in light of the knight’s reverence for his distant and unattainable Lady. Thousands of books, tens of thousands of poems, were devoted to elaborating this one subject, the more elaborate it became the more remote from the often brutal reality of rulers selling off each other’s daughters in order to make strategic alliances.

And so Chaucer is reprimanded by the stern god of Love for having been discourteous to women as a whole in his portrayal of Criseyde, and must – by the rules of Courtly Love – atone to all noble women for this transgression.

A ‘legendary’

The structure of the poem is based on the ‘legendary’, a well-established medieval format of a collection of lives of saints. Thus each section of the poem is the courtly love equivalent of a saint’s life, except that these saints died not out of devotion to the Christian God, but as martyrs to the god of Love.

Thus, for example, the very title of the legend of Cleopatra invokes Christian rhetoric in a light, sophisticated play on ideas: Incipit Legenda Cleopatrie, Martiris, Egipti Regine, meaning ‘Here starts the legend of Cleopatra, martyr, queen of Egypt.’ She was, quite obviously, not a martyr to the Christian religion, which didn’t exist when she committed suicide (in 30 BC); but viewed through the prism of Courtly Love, she and any number of other fine ladies from pre-Christian myth and legend were martyrs to the religion of Love.

The Legend of Good Women devotes a chapter or legend to each of nine virtuous women from myth and legend, being:

  1. The legend of Cleopatra
  2. The Legend of Thisbe
  3. The Legend of Dido
  4. The Legend of Hypsipyle and Medea
  5. The Legend of Lucretia
  6. The Legend of Ariadne
  7. The Legend of Philomela
  8. The Legend of Phyllis
  9. The Legend of Hypermnestra

Unfinished

Like Chaucer’s most famous work, The Canterbury Tales, the Legend appears to be unfinished. The Retraction or Apology for the Canterbury Tales mentions 25 legends and we only have nine, so maybe some are lost or maybe he never completed it. The balade embedded in the prologue mentions several women — Esther, Penelope, Marcia Catonis (wife of Cato the younger), Lavinia, Polyxena and Laodamia — who don’t appear in the legends we have; were they meant to be included?

At the end of the Prologue the god of Love indicates that the nineteen women who are attending Queen Alceste must all be included in the poem (though he doesn’t name any of them):

Thise other ladies sittinge here arowe
Ben in thy balade, if thou canst hem knowe,
And in thy bokes alle thou shalt hem finde;
Have hem now in thy Legend alle in minde.

It’s discrepancies like this which lead scholars to conclude the poem was abandoned. Whether the poem’s state is due to Chaucer becoming bored with it is uncertain, but it is now regarded as very much a lesser work, despite being popular when first written. The legends are a bit repetitive, with the same high-minded behaviour tending to recur again and again, so that it lacks the drama of Troilus and and the wonderful variety and vivid characterisation which is key to The Canterbury Tales.

Iambic pentameter

The poem is among the first works in English to use the iambic pentameter, which Chaucer later used throughout The Canterbury Tales. A pentameter is a line with five beats:

When I consider how my light is spent

Lines of poetry can be divided up into units surrounding a beat. A long time ago, the Greeks categorised all this and called these units ‘feet’. When you write a line of verse it naturally has strong or emphasised or accented syllables, and weak or soft or unaccented syllables, and a moment’s reflection makes you realise there’s a certain amount of variety to these.

For a start, a ‘foot’ can have one, two, three or possibly more syllables. And the accented syllable can come first, second, third in the order of these syllables. All the possible permutations were defined and named by the ancient Greeks two and a half thousand years ago, which explains why we still use unusual (Greek) words to describe them.

A Wikipedia article lists all the possible permutations of beat within a foot, with their Greek names. By far the most common ‘foot’ in English is the ‘iamb’, where the unit has two syllables and the emphasis falls on the second syllable. If you emphasise the syllables in bold you’ll get it straightaway:

When I consider how my light is spent

Or just:

di dum di dum di dum di dum di dum

It is a pentameter because it has five beats. It is a iambic pentameter because each of the beats comes in a pairing with a softer, unaccented syllable, which comes before it. The accent falls on the second syllable of each unit or ‘foot’. di dum.

Anyway, the point is that, even if he didn’t introduce it to English poetry, Chaucer was the first poet to write extensively in this metre. With the vast examples of Troilus and the Canterbury Tales, he helped to establish it as the basic, default metre for English poetry, which it has remained ever since.

Reading Chaucer’s verse

The single most important thing to do when reading Chaucer’s medieval verse is to pronounce the final ‘e’ in every word – then the lines will scan as five-beat pentameters. Here I’ve bolded the e’s which need to be pronounced, not the beats.

The moste party of thy tyme spende

Don’t pronounce these e’s as eee, but as schwa, or ‘er’.

The most-er party of thy tym-er spend-er

Now the line has five regular beats and is a iambic pentameter (nobody minds that it has a final unstressed syllable dangling at the end, this dangling syllable is very common in Chaucer’s verse and gives it a nice bouncy feel).

If you do this with all the lines (unless the e comes before a vowel, in which case don’t pronounce it), they all become regular, and the thing comes into focus as a jolly rhythmic canter (s is pronounced as z in this excerpt) (and now I am bolding the syllables to emphasise):

Of good-er wommen, maiden-ez and wyv-ez,
That weren trewe [don’t pronounce the e because it is followed by a vowel: so true-win] in lovinge [omit the e] al hir lyv-ez.

Obviously there are other differences in pronunciation between Chaucer’s English and ours but I’m not writing a book. If you just pronounce the e’s, emphasise the beat and pause at the end of every line, it will start swimming into focus. Above all don’t worry if you don’t understand half of it. Don’t stop to look up individual words. Get into the swing and the rhythm first and the general gist will emerge. Years ago I was taught how to pronounce it and remember most of the principles but, listening to myself say it out loud, I suddenly realised I sound a bit like the Swedish chef from the Muppets, especially if you really pronounce those final e’s.

The prologues

Actually there are two prologues, one scholars think was the original (Prologue A), and a second one which survives in just one copy and critics think was a later version, maybe composed when Chaucer revised the poem some time in the 1390s (Prologue B).

There’s a lot of overlap but also passages unique to each prologue. The solution (well, a solution) is to have an edition like the old OUP Complete Chaucer which is big enough to print both versions side by side. To compare and contrast, if you’re feeling scholarly: or just to jump from one to the other to make sure you catch everything he wrote.

They both begin with a characteristically invocation of the importance of ‘olde bokes’ from which we study and learn. Book learning.

Than mote we to bokes that we finde,
Through which that olde thinges been in minde,
And to the doctrine of these olde wyse,
Yeven credence, in every skilful wyse,
And trowen on these olde aproved stories,
Of holinesse, or regnes, of victories,
Of love, of hate, of other sundry thinges,
Of whiche I may not maken rehersinges.
And if that olde bokes were a-weye,
Y-loren were of remembraunce the keye.
Wel oghte us than on olde bokes leve,
Ther-as ther is non other assay by preve.

Lightly translated:

Then must we to the books that we find
Through which the old things are kept in mind,
And to the doctrine of these old ways
Give credence in every skillful ways
And believe in these old approved stories,
Of holiness, or reigns, or victories,
Of love, of hate, of other sundry things,
Of which I need not make rehearsings.
And if that old books were put away,
Lost would be of memory the key.
Well ought we, then, in old books to believe,
Because there is no other way to prove.

In praise of the daisy

As soon as the poem has got settled in it turns into an extended passage in praise of the humble daisy.

Now have I than swich a condicioun,
That, of alle the floures in the mede,
Than love I most these floures whyte and rede,
Swiche as men callen daysies in our toun.
To hem have I so great affeccioun,
As I seyde erst, whan comen is the May,
That in my bed ther daweth me no day
That I nam up, and walking in the mede
To seen this flour agein the sonne sprede,
Whan hit upryseth erly by the morwe;
That blisful sighte softneth al my sorwe,
So glad am I whan that I have presence
Of hit, to doon al maner reverence,
As she, that is of alle floures flour,
Fulfilled of al vertu and honour,
And ever y-lyke fair, and fresh of hewe;
And I love hit, and ever y-lyke newe,
And ever shal, til that myn herte dye…

It barely needs translating, but:

Now have I then such a condition
That, of all the flowers in the meed,
Then love I most these flowers white and red,
Such as men call daisies in our town.
To them have I so great affection,
As I said before, when comes in the May,
That in my bed there dawns for me no day
But I am up and walking in the meed
To see this flower against the sun spread,
When it uprises early in the morrow.
That blissful sight softens all my sorrow,
So glad I am when I am in its presence,
To do it all manner of reverence,
As she that is of all flowers the flower,
Fulfilled of every virtue and honour,
And always alike, fair and fresh of hue,
And I love it and ever like new,
And always will until my heart dies…

Why is it so effective? Because it has a sweet and touching innocence without being naive or sentimental. Plus the language of Middle English has an intrinsic simplicity about it, a simplicity of vocabulary, for example, a pure English which was to become increasingly cluttered with new-fangled foreign imports and made-up words as we move into the Renaissance but, back in Chaucer’s time, feels simple and fresh.

But it’s also important to note that this passage is the product of tremendous poetic sophistication. Many Italian and French poets had already written poems in praise of various flowers – there is a vast epic poem named The Romance of the Rose – and Chaucer has read them and knowingly references lines and ideas from them. He tells us as much:

For wel I wot, that ye han her-biforn
Of making ropen, and lad awey the corn;
And I come after, glening here and there,
And am ful glad if I may finde an ere
Of any goodly word that ye han left.

For well I know that you have here-before,
Of making rope and led away the corn,
And I come after gleaning here and there,
And am full glad if I may find an ear
Of any goodly word that you have left.

If you think about it, praise of flowers is very compatible with the ideas of Courtly Love. It is a soft and beautiful subject very appropriate for a feminised court (as, for example, grittier stories of knights and wars, anything from the bloodthirsty ancient world, emphatically were not).

So popular did the cult of flowers as a kind of sub-category of Courtly Love become that we have records of courts dividing into factions who, in a witty, sophisticated spirit, staged debates about the relative merits of different flowers.

There are records of debates between defenders of the flour and defenders of the leaf. In the hands of this culture everything becomes allegorical, symbolic of something else, and so the flower came to be associated with beauty and sensual pleasure which is intense but, alas, fleeting; whereas the leaf symbolises fidelity and endurance – and so these debates and poems displayed the participants’ skill and graciousness, but always circled round to alight on a firm Christian moral.

An entire medieval poem survives on the subject – The Floure and the Leafe – and Chaucer references this cult, too:

Ye lovers, that can make of sentement;
In this cas oghte ye be diligent
To forthren me somwhat in my labour,
Whether ye ben with the leef or with the flour.

You lovers, that can write of sentiment,
In this cause ought you to be diligent
To further me somewhat in my labour,
Whether you are with the leaf or with the flower.

That poem is invoked half a dozen times, with Chaucer humorously clarifying that he is not coming down on one side or other of the Great Debate, but wishes to speak of ancient stories from well before the Great Strife began:

But natheles, ne wene nat that I make
In preysing of the flour agayn the leef,
No more than of the corn agayn the sheef:
For, as to me, nis lever noon ne lother;
I nam with-holden yit with never nother.
Ne I not who serveth leef, ne who the flour;
Wel brouken they hir service or labour;
For this thing is al of another tonne,
Of olde story, er swich thing was begonne.

And so the Prologue wends its lazy way, weaving a complex tapestry of references to ancient authors, to the cult of the leaf and the flower, praising the daisy but also praising a Grand Lady or muse figure to whom the narrator speaks.

The narrator describes rising early one May morning and going out into the fields to kneel down ‘Upon the smale softe swote gras’ and admire the sweet daisy (‘The Empress, and flower of flowers all’) and its lovely scent.

He hears the birds singing their songs and imagines they are taunting the hunters who hunted them in winter and lay traps for them. Some of the birds are singing lays of love in honour of their mates, some sing in praise of St Valentine, on whose day they met, and they nuzzle their beaks against each other. Any who have erred promise repentance. And the gods Zephyr and Flora give to the flowers their sweet breath.

This is all a magnificent preparation, sweet and sensitive and beautiful. For after this hard day admiring flowers and listening to the birds, the narrator makes his way home, has his servants rig up a couch in a little arbour, and there he falls asleep, and at this point the Dream Vision commences:

The Dream Vision

The narrator dreams he is in a meadow and sees come walking the god of Love, with two small wings and holding two fiery darts. He is holding hands with a queen, dressed in green with a fret of gold about her hair and a white crown, looking, in other words, very like his beloved daisy. The narrator says people say the god of Love is blind but this god of Love is looking at him very sternly and makes his blood run cold!

The queen is named ‘Alceste the debonayre’. Behind them come ‘ladyes nyntene’ in attendance, followed by a vast concourse of other women, making up maybe a quarter, maybe a third of the world’s population! (At the very end of the Prologue, the god of Love suggests that the figure is 20,000. Small world.)

It is at this point that the ladies spy the daisy the narrator is worshipping and stop to sing a ballad with a repeated refrain. Each verse lists a number of famously beautiful women from antiquity and tells them to hide or retire, because none of them can compare with the lady they are accompanying i.e. Alceste. In one version of the prologue the refrain runs:

Alceste is here, that al that may desteyne.

The other version has:

My lady cometh, that al this may desteyne.

Where I think ‘desteyne’ means ‘disdain’ in the sense of triumphs over or puts all that – all those other women – in the shade. The second version feels fractionally better, more powerful.

Now this entourage notice the narrator and call him over to them and the god of Love proceeds to reprimand him for translating the Romance of the Rose and writing Troilus and Criseyde and generally portraying women, and love, in a bad light. Why has he shown women in such a negative light?

‘Why noldest thow as wel han seyd goodnesse
Of wemen, as thow hast seyd wikedness?’

Couldn’t Chaucer find in all his fancy books stories of women who were ‘good and trewe’? After all, he has no fewer than sixty books in his library, telling of ancient Greeks and Romans, featuring many stories of women who preferred to die than betray their love, who preserved their virginity, or were faithful to their husbands, or were dutiful in their widowhood. This is a fierce indictment.

But then queen Alceste intervenes on the narrator’s behalf, reminding the angry god of Love (at great length) of the mercy of great kings and even of beasts, such as the noble lion. Such should be the mercy the god should show this errant servant who was only translating matter out of old books. (You can see how the intercession of a compassionate queen softening the wrath of a stern ruler echoes the role assigned to Mary in Catholic theology, interceding on the part of us poor sinners; a posture which could also be mapped onto countless medieval courts, where hard-headed kings and princes could (possibly) be softened by appeals for mercy from their queens.)

Alceste proceeds to plead the poet’s cause and it becomes clear (if it wasn’t before) that the sleeper and narrator of the vision is Chaucer himself, because she cites his many works which do speak favourably of love, to wit, The House of FameThe Book of the DuchessThe Parliament of Fowls, the story of Palamon and Arcite (i.e. the Knight’s Tale from the Canterbury Tales). And ‘to speke of other holynesse’ he has translated the popular medieval philosopher, Boethius.

Alceste concludes her defence of Chaucer by promising that, if the god of Love forgives him:

“Now as ye been a god, and eek a king,
I, your Alceste, whylom quene of Trace,
I aske yow this man, right of your grace,
That ye him never hurte in al his lyve;
And he shal sweren yow, and that as blyve,
He shal no more agilten in this wyse;
But he shal maken, as ye wil devyse,
Of wommen trewe in lovinge al hir lyve,
Wher-so ye wil, of maiden or of wyve,
And forthren yow, as muche as he misseyde
Or in the Rose or elles in Creseyde.”

Out of reverence for the queen (and obeying the Courtly Love injunction to cede to your Mistress’s requests), the god of Love quickly and graciously forgives the narrator, who promptly kneels and delivers his own justification. Chaucer grovellingly points out that he never meant to do any harm. He only repeated what his source authors wrote. His purpose was only ever to promote ‘trouthe in love’ and to warn his readers away from falseness and from vice. ‘This was my menynge’.

By which point I’m realising that this has turned into a court case, or a trial, comparable in structure to the debates about the floure and leefe. It has the same formal structure of accusation and two figures arguing for the prosecution and the defence.

Anyway, Chaucer is still wittering on when Alceste, rather winningly, tells him to shut up. No pleading can influence the forgiveness of a god, which proceeds by his own grace alone. And she then proceeds to itemise the penance Chaucer must undertake:

“Now wol I seyn what penance thou shald do
For thy trespas, and understond hit here:
Thou shalt, whyl that thou livest, yeer by yere,
The moste party of thy tyme spende
In making of a glorious Legende
Of Gode Wommen, maidenes and wyves,
That weren trewe in lovinge al hir lyves;
And telle of false men that hem bitrayen,
That al hir lyf ne doon nat but assayen
How many wommen they may doon a shame;

“For in your world that is now holde [considered] a game.
And thogh thee lyke nat a lover be,
Spek wel of love; this penance yive I thee.

“And to the god of love I shal so preye,
That he shal charge his servants, by any weye,
To forthren thee, and wel thy labour quyte.”

And she concludes his penance with a sudden surprising reference to the real world.

“Go now thy wey, this penance is but lyte.
And whan this book is maad, yive hit the quene
On my behalfe, at Eltham, or at Shene.”

Chaucer is grovellingly grateful. The god of Love is amused and tells him of the high ancestry of this forgiving queen, for the first time explaining why it is Alceste of all ancient women who accompanies him. It is because, according to legend, Alcestis was the wife of Admetus, king of Pherae in Thessaly. To prolong his life, she offered to die in his stead. Later she was rescued from hell by Hercules.

Thus she is an eminently fitting figure to herald a book about feminine loyalty and ‘trouthe’ unto death. What is not in any ancient version of the story is the association the poet goes on to make between Alceste, queen of women, and the daisy, queen of flowers whose colours, as we observed above, she is dressed in (green and white and gold).

The god of Love concludes the vision with two points: first, he indicates (as mentioned above) that all nineteen of the unnamed escorts of Queen Alceste should appear in this poem he has to write. Lastly, he tells Chaucer to start with Cleopatra. He gives no strong reason, just the general thought:

“For lat see now what man that lover be,
Wol doon so strong a peyne for love as she.”

‘Let’s see what man would ever suffer for love as much as she did!’ In other words, Cleopatra is arguably the most eminent example from the ancient world of a woman who died for love.

The Legend of Cleopatra, approach

And she hir deeth receyveth, with good chere,
For love of Antony, that was hir so dere.

Well, after all the buildup (the Prologue is about 800 lines long), the actual legend of Cleopatra is disarmingly short, a mere 126 lines long.

I’ve read the several Plutarch biographies which underpin modern knowledge of Antony and Cleopatra (Julius Caesar, Antony) and Suetonius’s life of Augustus, as well as half a dozen histories of the period but there’s not much point applying them here. This is an entertainingly cartoon version of the story, short and simple with sweet medieval details and phrasing thrown in.

In fact this lack of historical rigour is something the author was conscious of and expresses through the god of Love, who is made to explicitly order Chaucer to keep his legends short and sweet:

“I wot wel that thou mayest nat al hit ryme,
That swiche lovers diden in hir tyme;
It were so long to reden and to here;
Suffyceth me, thou make in this manere,
That thou reherce of al hir lyf the grete,
After thise olde auctours listen to trete.
For who-so shal so many a storie telle,
Sey shortly, or he shal to longe dwelle.”

“I know well that you may not it all rhyme,
What such lovers did in their time,
It were too long to read and to hear.
Suffices me, you write in this manner,
That you rehearse of all their life the great,
Following what those old authors liked to treat.
For whoso shall so many a story tell,
Should say shortly or he shall too long dwell.”

The Legend of Cleopatra, plot summary

After the deeth of Tholomee the king, regned his daughter, quene Cleopataras. Out of Rome was sent a senatour to rule Egypt and he was named Antonius. He abandoned his legal wife, the sister of Octavian, because he wanted another wife: ‘For whiche he took with Rome and Cesar stryf’.

Antonius was brought to such a rage and tied himself in a noose (the noose of fate), ‘Al for the love of Cleopataras, That al the world he sette at no value.’

Cleopataras loved this knight for his ‘persone and of gentilesse, And of discrecioun and hardinesse’. So they got married.

The narrator complains that, as he has so many stories to write, he doesn’t have time ‘The wedding and the feste to devyse’ so he’ll get right to the point:

And forthy to th’effect than wol I skippe,
And al the remenant, I wol lete hit slippe.

Octavian was infuriated by this marriage and so led a host of brave Romans against Antonius.

Interestingly, the longest passage in this short poem is a vivid if cartoony description of a battle at sea, the decisive Battle of Actium. The description keeps talking about ‘he’ as if referring to one person, but translations indicate it is a generic pronoun, like ‘one’, and best translated as ‘they’, thus describing the behaviour of countless sailors in incidents from the battle.

And in the see hit happed hem to mete —
Up goth the trompe — and for to shoute and shete,
And peynen hem to sette on with the sonne.
With grisly soun out goth the grete gonne,
And heterly they hurtlen al at ones,
And fro the top doun cometh the grete stones.

In goth the grapnel so ful of crokes
Among the ropes, and the shering-hokes.
In with the polax presseth he and he;
Behind the mast beginneth he to flee,
And out agayn, and dryveth him over-borde;
He stingeth him upon his speres orde;
He rent the sail with hokes lyke a sythe;
He bringeth the cuppe, and biddeth hem be blythe;
He poureth pesen upon the hacches slider;
With pottes ful of lym they goon to-gider;

And thus the longe day in fight they spende
Til, at the laste, as every thing hath ende,
Anthony is shent, and put him to the flighte,
And al his folk to-go, that best go mighte.

As:

And in the sea it happened that they meet —
Up sounds the trumpet — and to shout and beat,
And urged them to set on with the sun.
With grisly sound out booms the great gun,
And fiercely they hurtled all at once,
And from the top down came the great stones.

In goes the grapnel, so full of crooks,
Among the ropes, and the shearing-hooks.
In with the poleaxe presses one and another;
Behind the mast one begins to flee,
And out again, and drives him overboard.

One stabs himself upon his own spear;
One tears the sail with hooks like a scythe;
One brings a cup, and bids them to be blithe;
One pours out peas, so on the deck they slither;
With pot full of lime they fall together;

And thus the long day in fight they spend
Til, at the last, as every thing has end,
Anthony is beat and put to flight,
And all his folk run off as best they might.

Chaucer follows the sources so much as to say that it was the flight of Cleopatra’s fleet which plunged Anthony into despair but jumps over all the events which followed in order to get straight to his suicide. He laments the day that he was born and runs himself through the heart with his sword. Unlike Plutarch and Shakespeare’s Antony, Chaucer’s one conveniently dies on the spot.

Knowing she will get no forgiveness from Caesar, Cleopatra flees back to Egypt, ‘for drede and for distresse.’ And now we come to her suicide, but first Chaucer repeats the moral mentioned in the Prologue, that all men who make great boasts about the sacrifices they’ve made for love, should observe how it’s really done.

Ye men, that falsely sweren many an ooth
That ye wol die, if that your love be wrooth,
Here may ye seen of women such a trouthe!

Cleopatra is so bitterly pained with lost love and despair that she gets her workmen to build a shrine with all the rubies and fine stones of Egypt. She has Antony’s body laid in it, along with plenty of with ‘spycerye’. Then has a pit built next to it and gets all the serpents that she owns put into it.

And then Cleopatra delivers the point, the message, in an extended speech – for she says that on the day they were married she swore an oath to be with Antony night and day, and as he suffered wele or wo, to accompany him, to bear all with him, ‘lyf or deeth’.

“And this same covenant, while me lasteth breath,
I will fulfill, and that shall well be seen.”

She made an oath, a covenant, a promise and now – far excelling most women and all men – she will fulfil it unto death. And so she jumps naked into the pit full of snakes (!). Immediately the snakes began to bite her and she received her death ‘with good chere.’

“Was never unto hir love a trewer quene.”

Thoughts

It’s not worth wasting time pointing out the many facts Chaucer has simply dropped, he’s in a hurry to get to the only bit that matters for the purposes of his royal commission, the moment of Cleopataras’s outstanding fidelity to love:

And forthy to th’effect than wol I skippe,
And al the remenant, I wol lete hit slippe.

True to his commission, Chaucer has exonerated Cleopatra. She is not at all the wicked, oriental seductress, the Egyptian whore who seduced a noble Roman away from his family and duty, as depicted in Augustan propaganda and later male, Roman accounts.

On the contrary, in this brisk telling of her story Cleopatra emerges as an epitome, a role model of fidelity unto death, a type of fidelity no man could ever aspire to. And not just included in a collection of loyal women, but carefully and deliberately placed as the first in the list, the loyalest and truest of all the loyal and true women of antiquity. A role model for love.


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Lament For The Makaris by William Dunbar (1505)

William Dunbar

William Dunbar (1460 to 1520) was a Scottish poet active in the late fifteenth century and the early sixteenth century. He was closely associated with the court of the King James IV and produced a large body of work, distinguished by its variety of themes and literary styles. He wrote in the Scots dialect. His most famous poem is a lament for the ‘makaris’, which is the Scots equivalent of the English word ‘makers’ and which, in this content, was a common medieval term for ‘poets’. Which explains why the poem turns, at one point, into a list of poets he either respects or has known personally, who are all dead and gone, alas and alack (Chaucer died 1400, John Gower d.1408 and Robert Henryson d.1500 being the most famous names mentioned).

How to read a medieval poem i.e. out loud

The thing to do with older poems like this, in Middle English, Scots or even Anglo-Saxon, is not to be afraid – but to read them out loud and see what happens. See which bits you understand and which bits take a bit of decoding. Quite quickly dialect words which, on the page seem challenging, when read aloud start to make sense. For example, in the first two lines, ‘heill’ obviously means ‘health’, ‘wes’ means ‘was’, ‘trublit’ means ‘troubled’, ‘seiknes’ means ‘sickness’ and so on.

The repeated refrain of each fourth line, Timor mortis conturbat me, is Latin for ‘fear of death disturbs me’. As on many other occasions in literature, repetition of foreign words after a while begins to give them a charge and meaning which a one-to-one literal translation lacks. They become more powerful left in the original language, acquiring an aura and charge which a straight translation would lack.

Similarly, it is much more effective to read or say out loud ‘The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle’ than to translate it into: ‘the human body is fragile, the devil is cunning’. ‘Sle’ is obviously related to modern English ‘sly’ but isn’t the same. It is a different word with different, more flavoursome, resonances. This is why it’s best to read Chaucer in the original Middle English. Partly for the pleasure of doing something moderately difficult, but mostly because you enter into and acquire a new language, while you read and engage with it, and a different language is a different way of seeing the world.

Why bother to travel expensively and pollutingly abroad, when you can open a copy of Chaucer for free and enter a whole new world, a world of delight and sensual mental pleasure?

The simplicity of the poem’s rhyme scheme – aabb – contributes to its sense of plangency. Rather than triumphant lyricism, the rhythm of the verse enacts a mood of exhaustion, reduction to the bare bones, to a flat, unillusioned acceptance of the universal triumph of death. Which is entirely fitting because the poem is a ‘lament’. This was a formal genre or type of poem with its own rules and expectations and so the poet is using the conventions of the genre to produce a powerful poem of that type – repetitive, flattening, mournful, dirge-like.

Lament for the makaris

I that in heill wes and gladnes,
Am trublit now with gret seiknes,
And feblit with infermite;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Our plesance heir is all vane glory,
This fals warld is bot transitory,
The flesche is brukle, the Fend is sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

The stait of man dois change and vary,
Now sound, now seik, now blith, now sary,
Now dansand mery, now like to dee;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

No stait in erd heir standis sickir;
As with the wynd wavis the wickir,
Wavis this warldis vanite.
Timor mortis conturbat me.

On to the ded gois all estatis,
Princis, prelotis, and potestatis,
Baith riche and pur of al degre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He takis the knychtis in to feild,
Anarmit under helme and scheild;
Victour he is at all mellie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

That strang unmercifull tyrand
Takis, on the moderis breist sowkand,
The bab full of benignite;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He takis the campion in the stour,
The capitane closit in the tour,
The lady in bour full of bewte;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He sparis no lord for his piscence,
Na clerk for his intelligence;
His awfull strak may no man fle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Art-magicianis, and astrologgis,
Rethoris, logicianis, and theologgis,
Thame helpis no conclusionis sle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

In medicyne the most practicianis,
Lechis, surrigianis, and phisicianis,
Thame self fra ded may not supple;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

I se that makaris amang the laif
Playis heir ther pageant, syne gois to graif;
Sparit is nocht ther faculte;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes done petuously devour,
The noble Chaucer, of makaris flour,
The Monk of Bery, and Gower, all thre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

The gude Syr Hew of Eglintoun,
And eik Heryot, and Wyntoun,
He hes tane out of this cuntre;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

That scorpion fell hes done infek
Maister Johne Clerk, and Jame Afflek,
Fra balat making and tragidie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Holland and Barbour he hes berevit;
Allace! that he nocht with us levit
Schir Mungo Lokert of the Le;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Clerk of Tranent eik he has tane,
That maid the Anteris of Gawane;
Schir Gilbert Hay endit hes he;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes Blind Hary and Sandy Traill
Slaine with his schour of mortall haill,
Quhilk Patrik Johnestoun myght nocht fle;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes reft Merseir his endite,
That did in luf so lifly write,
So schort, so quyk, of sentence hie;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

He hes tane Roull of Aberdene,
And gentill Roull of Corstorphin;
Two bettir fallowis did no man se;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

In Dumfermelyne he hes done roune
With Maister Robert Henrisoun;
Schir Johne the Ros enbrast hes he;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

And he hes now tane, last of aw,
Gud gentill Stobo and Quintyne Schaw,
Of quham all wichtis hes pete:
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Gud Maister Walter Kennedy
In poynt of dede lyis veraly,
Gret reuth it wer that so suld be;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Sen he hes all my brether tane,
He will nocht lat me lif alane,
On forse I man his nyxt pray be;
Timor mortis conturbat me.

Sen for the deid remeid is none,
Best is that we for dede dispone,
Eftir our deid that lif may we;
Timor mortis conturbat me.


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