Medieval Ghost Stories: An Anthology of Miracles, Marvels and Prodigies

Medieval Ghost Stories Medieval Ghost Stories An Anthology of Miracles, Marvels and Prodigies Compiled and edited by...

Author: Andrew Joynes

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Medieval Ghost Stories

Medieval Ghost Stories An Anthology of Miracles, Marvels and Prodigies

Compiled and edited by ANDREW JOYNES

THE BOYDELL PRESS

© Andrew Joynes 2001 All Rights Reserved. Except as permitted under current legislation no part of this work may be photocopied, stored in a retrieval system, published, performed in public, adapted, broadcast, transmitted, recorded or reproduced in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner The right of Andrew Joynes to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

First published 2001 The Boydell Press, Woodbridge Reprinted in paperback 2003, 2006

ISBN 1 84383 269 0 Paperback ISBN 978 184383 269 0

The Boydell Press is an imprint of Boydell & Brewer Ltd PO Box 9, Woodbridge, Suffolk IP12 3DF, UK and of Boydell & Brewer Inc. 668 Mt Hope Avenue, Rochester, NY 14620, USA website: www.boydellandbrewer.com

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library This publication is printed on acid-free paper Printed in Great Britain by CPI Cox and Wyman, Reading

‘. . . The ghost is not simply a dead or missing person, but a social figure, and investigating it can lead to that dense site where history and subjectivity make social life . . .’ Avery F. Gordon, Ghostly Matters: Haunting and the Sociological Imagination (Minneapolis: The University of Minnesota Press, 1997)

Contents Preface

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Part One GHOSTS AND MONKS Introduction The Spirit of Paschasius the Deacon The Bathkeeper The Visions of Tortgith The Mission to Germany The Ghostly Gatherings The Domain of the Dead The Groaning Ghosts Wulferius and the Ghostly Martyrs A Demonic Visitor An Army of Wraiths The Burning Spear Herveus and his Debtor The Crying Child The Apparition of Bernard le Gros The Apparitions in Spain The Ghostly Chapter Meeting The White Lady of Stamheim The Spectre’s Warning The Load of Earth The Incestuous Ghost The Gift of Snakes and Toads The Devilish Tormentor The Shoes of the Hunted Woman Whispers in the Choir

3 9 10 13 14 17 18 19 22 23 24 26 28 33 37 39 44 48 49 49 50 51 51 52 53

The Brimstone Potion The Hair that Turned to Gold

54 55

Part Two GHOSTS AND THE COURT Introduction

61

The Priest Walchelin and Hellequin’s hunt The Dark Hunters of Peterborough The Witch of Berkeley The Jealous Venus The Two Clerks of Nantes The Tale of King Herla A Lady of the Lake The Wife of Edric Wilde The Sons of the Dead Woman The Demon at the Cradle King Arthur and the Butterfly Bishop The Fight with the Ghostly Army Dreams and Portents Eel Pie The Figure by the River-Pool The Child Tumbled from the Cradle The Cemetery of Aliscamps The Flying Mortar The Ghost of Beaucaire The Hand of Ryneke

66 75 78 80 83 87 90 91 93 94 97 100 100 104 105 106 107 109 110 116

Part Three THE RESTLESS DEAD Introduction

121

Grendel the Nightstalker The Defeat of Grendel The Burial of the Foster-Brothers The Buckinghamshire Ghost The Berwick Ghost

127 128 132 135 136

The Hound’s Priest The Ghost of Anant Hrapp’s Ghost The Ghost in the Doorway The Ghost of Thorolf Halt-Foot Thorgunna’s Supper Deaths at Frodis-water The Companies of the Dead The Ghosts on Trial The Tomb of Kar the Old Glam the Shepherd The Fight with Glam’s Ghost The Basket of Beans The Haunting of Snowball The Frightened Oxen The Silver Spoons The Howling Ghost The Child of Richard Rowntree The Sister of Adam de Lond

137 139 143 145 148 150 153 154 156 159 160 162 167 168 170 171 171 172 173

Part Four GHOSTS IN MEDIEVAL LITERATURE Introduction

177

Bisclavret the Werewolf The Vision of the Knight Lorois The Ghost of Guinevere’s Mother The Phantom Knight of Wandlesbury The Ghostly Butler The Demons’ Castle The Huntsman of Ravenna

183 189 195 199 202 203 207

Select Bibliography

213

Preface

T

he emergence of the ‘ghost story’ as a distinct genre is a relatively recent literary development. Medieval accounts of supernatural events were different in both style and function from those of modern times, and many of the stories I have brought together in this anthology were products of the encounter between the Church’s teaching and vernacular belief which characterised much of the culture of the Middle Ages. The book does not of course contain all the medieval texts which refer to ghosts and apparitions: such a collection would not only be unwieldy but repetitive, since many of the accounts which are modelled on hagiographical episodes closely resemble each other. It does, however, bring together a number of texts which are significant in that they indicate various aspects of medieval belief about the possibility of traffic across the mysterious border between the living and the dead. They are drawn from an extremely wide range of source material, from chronicle histories to Icelandic sagas, and the reasons which may have led the medieval writers to record them were as varied as the sources themselves. I hope the stories will prove useful as indications of some of the preoccupations and reference points (what today might be called the ‘agenda’) of the medieval mind. The definition of a ghostly occurrence which I have used as a criterion in the selection of these texts is a broad one. For the most part, the ghosts which walk through this anthology are the departed spirits of ordinary, rather than extraordinary, people. In other words, they are not saints, although in the case of monastic writings, the stories are often closely modelled on hagiographical accounts of saints’ miraculous doings. These

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MEDIEVAL GHOST STORIES

ghosts are spirits, or ‘undead’ corporeal presences, which come back across the border between the dead and the living and re-visit in an imploring or menacing fashion the communities where they once dwelt. They are not spirits glimpsed in revelatory visions of the afterlife, as in the Irish account of St Patrick’s Purgatory or in the Divine Comedy of Dante. Not all of these medieval ghost stories take as their subjects the spirits of the departed. I have felt it appropriate to include in this anthology accounts of Wild Hunts, shape-changers and monstrous nightstalkers, since many of these stories have their origins in the pre-Christian beliefs about the supernatural which continued to have currency throughout the Middle Ages. Although King Herla, Grendel and Bisclavret are not ghosts in the sense that we understand the term today, they crossed a border – which was clearly a significant one for medieval popular belief – between this world and a parallel existence, and their insistent presence caused, at the very least, unease among the living who came into contact with them. Most of these medieval ghost stories, however, were not intended in the first instance to chill the blood or entertain by frisson, as is the case with more recent examples of the genre. Today, the effect of a story of the supernatural is frequently enhanced by the fact that it runs counter to the supposedly rational tenor of modern culture. In the Middle Ages, a time of unquestioning religious faith, a ghost story often had an exemplary purpose and was intended to evoke a wondering response from its listeners. This is the main theme of the stories which I have grouped together in Part One of the anthology. In the centuries that followed the first Christian millennium, the nature of this wondering response to stories of the supernatural itself developed and evolved. From the twelfth century onwards, the increasingly sophisticated presentation of stories which drew upon folklore and popular legend prompted a sense of the marvellous which, although still some way from our own frisson-laden responses to the modern ghost story, might have begun to justify the much-quoted assertion by Hamlet, a product of the Renaissance, that there were ‘more


xiii

things in heaven and earth’ than could be encompassed by medieval philosophy. In compiling Part Two of this anthology, therefore, it has been one of my aims to bring together texts which may have provoked just such a response, and in which stories of ghosts and apparitions were perhaps used as a means of fostering philosophical speculation. The roots of vernacular culture during the Middle Ages thrust deep into the past of the peoples of Northern Europe, and nourished a continuing popular belief in the ghost as a grotesque corporeal revenant. The stories which figure in Part Three of this collection, many of them from Scandinavia where the connection with the Germanic Age of Migrations remained strongest during the Middle Ages, contain a robust image of the ghost which is far removed from the monastic vision of a pale spirit pleading for relief from the pains of Purgatory. The fact that a number of these stories of wandering, vengeful cadavers were recorded by churchmen (who tried, not always convincingly, to add a moralistic conclusion for exemplary purposes) perhaps reveals the cultural pressure upon the Church in its continuing encounter with the pre-Christian past of the laity. Finally, in Part Four of the anthology, I have brought together some examples of ghosts in medieval vernacular literature. The narrative formulation of these ghostly episodes is much more sophisticated than the accounts of ghosts in monastic chronicles and preachers’ manuals; for the writers of these stories, the ghost was a useful literary device which could provide coded support for particular cultural attitudes. The source of the wording of each text is cited at the end of the story itself. Many of the translations are my own, but in some instances I have had to abridge and fashion material to make the extracted account of a ghostly episode more of a story in its own right. For that reason I have used the phrase ‘re-told from the Latin’ in my source reference. To this end also I have given each of the accounts a title of my own invention which refers to the nub of the story, and I have used that title in the contents list and placed it in italics before each extract. I

xiv


hope this will have the effect of helping readers come to terms with material which is often unsophisticated from the point of view of developed narrative, and will be useful for subsequent reference. In those cases where I have reproduced material from earlier translations, I have often had to adapt the original English text to avoid the kind of arch phraseology with which earlier medievalists sprinkled their translations: in these instances I use the phrase ‘adapted from’ in my source reference. Wherever relevant, I have followed my source reference with details of recently published edited translations of the entire medieval work in which the story features. This will, I hope, assist readers who are interested in researching further the manuscript context in which the story first appeared centuries ago. Among the reference works listed in the bibliography, I should draw particular attention to the writings of the French scholars Claude Lecouteux and Jean-Claude Schmitt, which I found particularly useful when I set about the task of grouping texts for inclusion in this anthology. I am very grateful to my former tutors Professor Ian Short and Dr Alison Finlay of Birkbeck College, University of London, for their advice and comments on the draft text of this book, and to Dr Robert Ireland of University College London for his help in translating some of the more obscure passages of medieval Latin. I am obliged to the University of Minnesota Press for granting permission to use the epigraph quotation at the start of this anthology, and to Dr Richard Barber and his colleagues at Boydell & Brewer Ltd for their help in preparing the text for publication. Andrew Joynes

Part One

Ghosts and Monks

Introduction ‘The dead by their nature are not able to involve themselves in the affairs of the living . . .’1 It was by such adamant statements that St Augustine, one of the most influential fathers of the early Christian Church, rejected a central belief of the classical world about the afterlife and the spirits of the dead. For Augustine, writing in the fifth century in a Roman province in North Africa, and for many early medieval churchmen influenced by his teaching throughout the cities and provinces of Europe in the centuries following the collapse of the Roman Empire, the classical tradition of appeasement of the dead by elaborate funerary rites represented precisely the kind of pagan superstition which Christianity required them to ignore. This discrediting by the early Church of the Roman emphasis upon funerary ceremony carried with it an implicit rejection of the connected belief that unappeased spirits of the dead (those who had not been properly buried, or those like criminals or suicides who had died in exceptional or dishonourable circumstances) wandered restlessly at the margins of the living world. Stories of the uneasy dead, who made the living aware of themselves by sounds and apparitions, were commonplace in the classical world; at the same time, stories of ‘revenants’, corporeal ghosts who returned to mingle with the living, were likely to have been a mainstay of the non-Christian culture of the Germanic tribes which over-ran Northern Europe from the fifth century onwards. As we shall

1

St Augustine, ‘De Cura pro Mortuis Gerenda’ (‘On the care to be taken when dealing with the dead’); Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, XL, col. 607.

4


see in Part Three, many of the narrative traditions relating to such ghosts were later preserved in medieval Scandinavia. There were, however, remarkably few stories of apparitions of the dead recorded by Christian writers in the early middle ages, during the period, indeed, when these Germanic tribes were being converted to Christianity. This is not surprising, given that the recording function was carried out by monastic scribes who, whether or not they were familiar with the precise teaching of St Augustine, were operating within an ecclesiastical culture which would have been influenced by his overall contention that visions of the dead were illusory, mere phantoms of the imagination, of no more substance or significance than the images which occurred in dreams.2 It is likely also that, during the centuries when the political and cultural edifice of medieval Christendom was being built, little or no written credence would have been given to stories of restless ghosts returning from the world of the dead; for at a time when the church was refurbishing the cultural structure of the classical world before embarking on the conversion of the tribes who had over-run the Roman Empire in Northern Europe, such stories might have carried undesirable overtones of classical pagan superstition about the unappeased dead, or of Germanic beliefs about vengeful corporeal revenants. According to St Augustine, and to the early churchmen influenced by his teaching, it was the task of the Christian faithful simply to pray for the souls of the departed, and to leave their fate in the afterlife to the merciful wisdom and justice of God. Given such a relatively simple theological chart of the passage between life and death, there would have been no reason for widespread narrative accounts of the restless or returning dead. It was not until the onset of the first Millennium that accounts of apparitions and significant ‘inter-actions’ between 2

For a summary of St Augustine’s views on the illusory nature of visions of the dead, see C. Lecouteux, Fantômes et Revenants au Moyen Age, Paris 1996, pp. 53–4.


5

the dead and the living began to be written down on a regular basis. Before that time of course it is likely that, despite the teaching of the church, vernacular culture had continued to accord value to folktales and oral accounts of ghostly occurrences. With the looming millennial terrors of the year 1000, and the general expectation that, with the Second Coming, heaven and earth would pass away, vernacular belief seems to have irrupted into the citadels of Church teaching. Stories of restless spirits of the departed, of ghostly violations of the traditional boundaries between the living and the dead, began to be recorded even by eminent churchmen. At first such stories had the purpose of demonstrating the apocalyptic quality of the times, symbolising the perturbation of the natural order which was anticipated by the generations which had to take account of the approach of the first Christian Millennium. Soon, however, the stories began to be used specifically and discernibly for what today would be called ‘propaganda’ purposes. Most of them were told in such a way that they corresponded to hagiographic models by which the miraculous events of saints’ lives were traditionally recorded; and, as we shall see from a number of the stories that follow, the narrative structure of these Miracula (accounts of apparitions of the departed spirits of ordinary – and often decidedly unsaintly – people) served the institutional interests of the Church well. The stories invariably depicted the secular conduct of the knightly classes as requiring atonement in the afterlife; while actions which brought specific financial and territorial benefit to the monasteries where the stories were recorded resulted in a happy narrative outcome for the spirits of the deceased. Some medieval historians have seen the proliferation of such accounts, with the common theme of the ghost seeking the help of the living to lessen its suffering in the first stages of the afterlife, as representing the growing complexity of the theological charts, which now indicated a sojourn in Purgatory as part of the final journey of each departed soul.3 3

See J. Le Goff, La Naissance du Purgatoire, Paris 1981.

6


Others have linked the stories with the fostering, by a network of Cluniac monasteries, of the so-called Cult of the Dead, which resulted in the growth of suffrages, or endowments to provide for prayers for the deceased, as a source of monastic revenue.4 Undoubtedly such broad factors played a part in determining the narrative shape of these Miracula. However, it is also worthwhile reading them as ghost stories in their own right and not merely as monastic propaganda or naive examples of preachers’ theology. Some of them might even be considered as versions of the kinds of story which continued to hold sway in the vernacular imagination, albeit taken over, adapted and ‘controlled’ by the Church. This first section of the book, therefore, is made up of accounts of apparitions of the dead written by monks and churchmen from the sixth to the thirteenth centuries. It can be argued that in these stories are to be found details and embellishments which indicate that, beneath the ecclesiastical gloss, an older narrative pattern was operating. In Gregory the Great’s accounts of imploring spirits beside the clear waters of the public baths can be found perhaps an echo of pre-Christian classical beliefs. Thietmar of Merseburg’s story of the vengeful dead killing a priest in a ruined church might have come from a Scandinavian saga about marauding revenants. Rodulfus Glaber’s description of an army of wraiths moving across the Burgundian landscape has a resonance of the Wild Hunt folktales of the Germanic people (stories which, as we shall see in Part Two, were perhaps to surface later in twelfth-century accounts of Hellequin’s Hunt and the retinue of King Herla). Above all, in the fundamental narrative motif of many of these monastic ghost stories, where the apparition of a dead person implores the help of the living in order to mitigate and lessen its suffering in the afterlife, there is a strong resemblance to the classical belief in the importance of appro-

4

See J.-C. Schmitt, Ghosts in the Middle Ages: The Living and the Dead in Medieval Society, Chicago 1998, pp. 71–8.


7

priate ceremonial conduct by the living which might ease the passage of the departed: suffrage endowments or funerary rites – if these are omitted, the dead spirits will remain unappeased, and their ghosts will walk.

The ‘Dialogues’ of Gregory the Great The Dialogi of Gregory the Great, who was Pope from 590 to 604, was one of the most influential works of the early Middle Ages. It was written in the form of an instructive conversation with a junior colleague, and its purpose seems to have been to collect tales about the lives of the early saints which would be of benefit to the literate clergy. They were urged to emulate the moral examples it contained and to use them for the general edification of the faithful. Book IV of the work, however, is concerned less with the saints’ lives than with the souls of ordinary Christians, and it is in this book that two early examples are to be found which describe apparitions of the deceased to the living. The two stories are significant, and probably influential in terms of the later development of the Miracula strand of medieval ghost story, in that they are not hagiographic accounts of saintly episodes but stories which use the extraordinary – the appearance after their death of ordinary people – to uphold and exemplify theological or moral points which the writer wishes to emphasise. In the first story, the spirit of Paschasius the Deacon explains that he is being required to labour after death at the public baths so as to purge the minor sin of his support for a schismatic candidate for the papacy. In the second story the spirit of a former administrator of the public baths explains why it continues to frequent (in effect, to ‘haunt’, albeit in a non-threatening fashion) a place familiar to it in life. The common motif of the public baths as the scene to which the spirits of the Christian dead are attached might well be an extension of the belief in the classical world that sources of fresh water were numinous places, frequented by minor deities.


9

The Spirit of Paschasius the Deacon Book IV, Chap. XL

W

hen I was younger, and still lived a secular life, I heard from the older people about Paschasius, a deacon of the Roman church (whose sound and eloquent books of the Holy Ghost are still available to us). They said that he was a man who led a remarkably holy life. He was a marvellous giver of alms, a lover of the poor, and he did not hold himself in any high regard. During the heated dispute which, because of the emulation among the clergy, broke out between Symachus and Lawrence, Paschasius the Deacon supported Lawrence in his desire to be bishop of Rome; and although this candidate was afterwards ruled out by common consent, nevertheless Paschasius continued in his former opinion until his dying day. In other words, he persisted in loving and preferring him whom the Church, by the judgment of bishops, refused for her governor. A long time afterwards, Germanus, the bishop of Capua, went on the advice of his physicians to the public baths to recover his health. Entering the baths, he found Paschasius standing in the hot waters as though ready to do him service and attend upon him. Although Germanus was greatly afraid, he demanded what so worthy a man was doing in that place. Paschasius replied: ‘The only reason I am appointed to this place of punishment is that I took part with Lawrence against Symmachus. Therefore I implore you to pray unto the Lord for me. You will know that your prayers have been heard, if, when you come back, I am no longer here.’ Upon this, the holy man Germanus began to offer devout prayers as requested. And after a few days he went again to the same baths, and found that Paschasius was no longer there. Seeing that his fault proceeded not from malice but from ignorance, it is likely that after death he was swiftly purged of his sin. And we must also assume that the plentiful alms which he bestowed in this life obtained favour at God’s hands, so that he

10


might then deserve pardon, when he could work nothing at all for himself . . .

The Bathkeeper Book IV, Chap. LV

B

ishop Felix passed on a story which was told to him by a virtuous priest who died two years ago, who before his death was pastor of the church of St John in the place called Tauriana. The priest told him that he often used to go and wash his body in a certain place where there were hot waters. On one occasion he met there a man whom he did not know who was ready to do him service – that is, to help him pull off his shoes, hold his clothes, and to attend upon him in all dutiful manner. And when he had done this a number of times, the priest began to wonder how he might show his gratitude for such service by taking a present to the man. So he took with him two eucharistic loaves, and when he arrived he found the man waiting, and accepted his help as usual. When he had washed himself, put on his clothes, and was ready to depart, the priest offered the holy reward which he had brought, desiring the man to take in all goodwill the present which he had charitably brought. But then with a sad countenance the man said to the priest: ‘Why did you give me these, father? This is holy bread, and I cannot eat it. For I, whom you see here, was once the overseer of these baths, and am now after my death appointed for my sins to this place. But if you wish to please me, offer this bread unto Almighty God, and be an intercessor for my sins. And by this shall you know that your prayers have been heard, if when you come again you find me not here.’ And as he was speaking, he suddenly vanished; so that, although he had previously seemed to be a man, he showed by his manner of departure that he was a spirit. All the following week the good priest prayed fervently for


11

him, and daily offered up the holy sacrifice which the man had requested. Afterwards, returning to the baths, he found that he was no longer there. From this we can see what great profit the souls of the deceased receive by the sacrifice of the holy oblation, seeing the spirits of those that are dead desire it of the living, and even give certain tokens to let us understand how in this way they have received absolution . . . Source: Adapted from translations in The Dialogues of St Gregory, ed. and trans. E.G. Gardner, London 1911, pp. 234–5 and 248–50.

Bede’s ‘Ecclesiastical History of the English People’ The Venerable Bede (672/3–735), a monk at the monastery of Jarrow in Northumbria, finished his Historia Ecclesiastica Gentis Anglorum in 731. It was concerned with the development of Christianity in England from the arrival of the missionary St Augustine in Kent in 597 to Bede’s own day. The work was widely read all over Europe, and its general approach, by which it recounted the story of a people in parallel with the ecclesiastical events which bore upon their social and ethnic history, was emulated by later chroniclers and historians. The work contains only a few accounts of apparitions of the dead to the living, and these tend to follow the hagiographic model of earlier saints’ lives, whereby the spirits of the dead are emissaries from heaven, sent to convey the divine will to the living. Thus, in the first of the stories which follow, the nun Tortgith, whom Bede describes as having suffered from sickness for many years, has a vision which she links with the death of her abbess Ethelberga. When, three years later, Tortgith is herself close to death, Ethelberga appears to her, and the spirit of the dead abbess and the dying nun negotiate the exact timing of Tortgith’s release from her painful existence. In the second story, the spirit of the dead monk Boisil takes a keen interest in the itinerary of a missionary expedition, insisting through an intermediary that the preacher Egbert should go to ‘the monasteries of Columba’ in Ireland rather than to Germany. Perhaps significantly, the returning spirits in both stories are presented as having been, during their lifetime, the administrative superiors of those to whom they appear.


13

The Visions of Tortgith Book IV, Chap. IX

G

oing out of her chamber one night, just at the first dawn of the day, Tortgith plainly saw as it were a human body, which was brighter than the sun, wrapped up in a sheet and lifted up on high, being taken out of the house in which the sisters used to reside. Then looking earnestly to see what it was that drew the glorious body which she beheld, she perceived it was drawn up as though by cords brighter than gold, until, entering into the open heavens, it could no longer be seen by her. Reflecting on this vision, she had no doubt that one of the community would soon die, and her soul would be lifted up to heaven by her good works as though by golden cords. Which accordingly happened, for a few days afterwards the beloved of God, Ethelberga, mother of the community, was delivered out of the prison of the flesh; and her life is known to have been such that no person who knew her should question whether the heavenly kingdom was open to her, when she departed from this world . . . . . . Three years after the death of this lady, Tortgith was so far spent with the distemper that her bones would scarcely hang together; and at last, when the time of her dissolution was at hand, she not only lost the use of her other limbs, but also of her tongue. Having continued in this state for three days and nights, she was suddenly relieved by a spiritual vision, and opening her mouth and eyes, she looked up to heaven and spoke directly to the vision which she saw: ‘Your coming is very acceptable to me, and you are welcome!’ Then she was silent for a while, as though waiting for the answer of the person she saw and spoke to. Then she said: ‘I am not at all pleased with this.’ Then after another pause she said again: ‘If it cannot be today, I beg the delay may not be long.’ And again holding her peace for a short while, she concluded: ‘If it is positively decreed, and the resolution cannot be altered, I beg that it may be deferred no longer than this next night.’ When she was


14

asked by those about her to whom she talked, she said: ‘To my most dear mother Ethelberga.’ By which they understood that Ethelberga had come to acquaint Tortgith that the time of her departure was at hand. And indeed, after a day and night she was delivered from the bonds and infirmity of the flesh, and entered into the joys of eternal salvation . . .

The Mission to Germany Book V, Chap. IX

W

hen all things were provided for the voyage, there came to Egbert one morning one of the brethren, who had formerly been disciple and minister in Britain to the beloved priest of God Boisil, when the latter was superior of the monastery of Melrose. This brother told him the vision which he had seen that night. ‘When after the morning hymns, I lay down on my bed, and had fallen asleep, my former master and loving tutor Boisil appeared to me and asked whether I knew him. I said: “I do. You are Boisil.” He answered: “I have come to bring Egbert a message from our Lord and Saviour, which nevertheless must be delivered to him by you. Tell him that he cannot perform the journey he has undertaken; for it is the will of God that he should rather go to instruct the monasteries of Columba . . .’’ ’ . . . Egbert, having heard the vision, ordered the brother not to mention it to anyone else, in case it should happen to be an illusion. However, when he thought more deeply about it, he apprehended that it was real; but even so he would not desist from preparing for his voyage to instruct those nations. A few days afterwards, the brother came to him again, saying that Boisil had that night again appeared to him after matins, and said: ‘Why did you pass on my message to Egbert in such a half-hearted manner? Go now and tell him that, whether he likes it or not, he shall go to Columba’s monasteries, because they do not plough a straight furrow, and he is to bring them


15

back to the right way.’ Hearing this, Egbert again commanded the brother not to reveal it to any person. Though now assured of the vision, he nevertheless attempted to undertake his intended voyage with the brethren. When they had put aboard all that was required for so long a voyage, and had waited some days for a fair wind, there arose one night such a sudden and violent storm that the ship was run aground and part of what had been put aboard was spoiled. However, all that belonged to Egbert and his companions was saved. Then he said to himself: ‘This tempest has happened on my account,’ and he laid aside the undertaking and stayed at home . . . Source: Adapted from translations in Bede’s Ecclesiastical History of the English People, ed. and trans. J.A. Giles, London 1903, pp. 187–8 and 248–9. An edition of the Ecclesiastical History, ed. and trans. J. Mclure and R. Collins, was published by the Oxford University Press in 1994.

The Chronicle of Thietmar of Merseburg The Saxon bishop Thietmar of Merseburg (975–1018) was one of the principal historians of the Holy Roman Empire. His Chronicon was written between 1009 and 1018, and Book I, from which the following extracts are taken, gives an account of the expansion of Germanic power into the Slav lands of Mecklenburg and Pomerania, providing a frontier history as it records the ebb and flow of the possession of these territories under Christian and non-Christian rule. As a frontier churchman, Thietmar was concerned to refute what he maintained was the Slav belief that ‘everything finishes at the point of mortal death’, and to uphold and prove Christian belief in the existence of life after death. The stories that follow have as their core feature a notion of the spirits of the deceased forming a kind of parallel society to the living, even if in the defence of their territory the dead do not always behave in the spiritually uplifting manner of spirits in some other accounts of Miracula. The burning to death of the hapless priest of Deventer in the second story is the obvious example, and this account of the cruel behaviour of the deceased may have been influenced by ideas of the vengeful dead persisting from pre-Christian Germanic and Scandinavian society (see Part Three). The stories also have a strong millennial undercurrent, reflecting perhaps the readiness of Thietmar’s generation, whose lives bridged the tenth and eleventh centuries (and who therefore had to brace themselves for the approach of the year 1000) to accord significance to such perturbations of the natural order as the gathering of ghostly spirits or an outbreak of unearthly sounds to indicate the imminence of death.


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The Ghostly Gatherings Book I, Chap. VII

S

o that none of the faithful in Christ should doubt the future resurrection of the dead, but should eagerly desire the joys of blessed immortality, I will recount what I have discovered happened in the town of Walsleben after it was rebuilt following its destruction by the Slavs. The priest of the church was in the habit of going at dawn to sing matins in the church, but one day, passing the cemetery, he saw a great multitude offering prayers at the entrance to the holy chapel. Standing his ground, he prepared himself by making the sign of the holy cross, and then made his way apprehensively through the crowd. But then a woman whom he recognised, who had just departed this life, came forward and asked him what he wanted. When she had been informed by him why he had come, she told him they had prepared everything and made ready for his imminent departure from life. According to the story as told locally, this prediction was shortly afterwards fulfilled by the priest’s death. Indeed, during my own time of residence at Magdeburg, according to what I have been told by reliable witnesses, the custodians in the merchants’ church saw and heard happenings which were consistent with what I have already recorded. Standing some way from the cemetery one evening they saw lights placed upon the candelabra and at the same time heard two male voices singing the invitatory and morning lauds in the usual fashion. When they went to investigate, however, they heard and saw nothing at all . . .


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The Domain of the Dead Book I, Chap. VII

A

fter I was told of this occurrence, I related it to my niece iBrigid, the abbess of the monastery of Saint Laurent, who at the time was ill in bed. She was not at all surprised, and went on to tell me the following story about Bishop Baudry, who at one time was in charge of the see of Utrecht. The bishop arranged for the church at Deventer to be renovated and re-consecrated after its destruction [by the Slavs], and a priest was placed in charge. Early one morning the priest saw dead people inside the church celebrating mass and heard them singing psalms. When he told Bishop Baudry what had happened, he was ordered to sleep inside the church; whereupon the next night the priest, and even the bed on which he was resting, were thrown out of the church by the dead people. Thoroughly shaken, the priest went back to the bishop, who ordered him to equip himself with holy relics and sprinkle holy water around. On no account was he to leave the church which was in his charge. Obedient but fearful, the priest lay awake inside the church the next night until the dead, coming at the usual time, lifted him up and placed him on the altar. Then they killed him by kindling a fire and holding his body in the flames and embers. When the bishop heard this, he ordered that a penitential fast should be held for three days to obtain succour for the priest’s soul. My niece concluded that she would be able to say much more about these kind of occurrences if she were not afflicted by illness. ‘Just as the day is given over to the living,’ she said, ‘the night is the domain of the dead.’


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The Groaning Ghosts Book I, Chap. VII

I

t is not right and proper to dwell too much upon the affairs iof the dead, but rather, as St Paul reminds us [Romans XII, 3], to think soberly upon such matters. On the other hand, because the testimony of two or three witnesses is worth recording, I have written down accounts of events which have happened recently, in order that the unbelieving might know that the words of the prophets are true: ‘Thy dead shall live, O Lord’ [Isaiah XXVI, 19], and also ‘The dead arise, who are in their tombs; they will hear the voice of the Son of God, and abundantly’ [John V, 28]. It is noteworthy that, whenever such events occur and are witnessed by the living, they signify that something momentous is about to happen . . . For instance, I was myself in my courtyard at Retmerslevo one December when, as the cock crowed, a great light came from the church, filling the whole of the atrium, and an immense sound – a kind of groaning – was heard. My brother Frithericus witnessed this with his attendants and others who were gathered there, and a chaplain sleeping nearby heard the sounds. When I asked the next day whether similar phenomena had occurred in the past, I learnt from some old men that they had; and, sad to say, shortly afterwards there was a fulfilment of these events with the death of my niece and kinswoman, the blessed lady Liutgarde. Because they touched my own family and circle, I will tell more about these occurrences. It often happened that during the night I heard the sound of timbers being cut down, and on one occasion I and a companion became aware, as others slept, of the dead speaking to one another. By these signs I would learn of the imminence of yet another death. All of this provides a sharp and noteworthy lesson for the unlettered and the Slavs, who believe in their ignorance that everything finishes at the point of mortal death. On the contrary, for the faithful these kinds of events are a firm

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reminder of life after death and future reward for good deeds ... Source: Re-told from the Latin Thietmari Merseburgensis Episcopi Chronicon, Book I, Chap. VII; Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CXXXIX, cols. 1190–2.

The ‘Five Books of Histories’ of Rodulfus Glaber Like Thietmar of Merseburg, the monk Rodulfus Glaber (c.985–c.1047) was strongly influenced, in the writing of his Historiarum Libri Quinque, by cultural aftershocks from the year 1000. He began this chronicle account of the history of France and Burgundy in 1028 and continued to work on it during sojourns at various monasteries, including five years spent at the great Benedictine abbey of Cluny. Although the subject matter of much of his work pre-dated the Millennium, Rodulfus evoked, in his references to such events as the invasions of Northern Europe by the Saracens in the eighth century, a sense of the apocalyptic disturbances which the generation who lived through the transition from the tenth to eleventh centuries expected to accompany, and stem from, the Millennium itself. Thus, in the first of the stories which follow, the monk Wulferius is surrounded by a collective apparition of the spirits of Christian knights who had died in combat with the Saracens. In the story I have called ‘An Army of Wraiths’, the vision of the priest Frotterius of a ghostly army moving across the landscape refers to an event which, at the time of the vision, was still to come: the account of the vision is followed in Rodulfus’s text by a reference to the invasion of Burgundy by the French king Henry I in 1015. The portentous nature of these apparitions is underlined by the deaths soon afterwards of those to whom the ghosts appear. The other story, Rodulfus’s account of a visit to his bedside by the Devil himself, described one of three occasions when Rodolfus claims to have witnessed a demonic occurrence.


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Wulferius and the Ghostly Martyrs Book II, Chap. IX

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he monk Wulferius lived at this time in the monastery which is called Reomagensse in the region of Tarnoderensse [Réome in the county of Tonnerre]. He was a sweet-natured man, gentle in all his dealings, and a vision appeared to him one Sunday which is certainly worthy of belief. He happened to stay behind after matins to pray in the church, leaving the other brothers to return to take their rest. All of a sudden the entire church was filled with figures wearing white robes and purple stoles. As Wulferius watched, he was particularly struck by their stern bearing and demeanour. At their head was a figure carrying a cross in his hands, who announced himself as the bishop of many lands, who went on to say that it was fitting that he should celebrate mass that day in the monastery. With the others, he maintained that they had been among the monks that night as they celebrated matins, and that the service of lauds to which they had listened had been particularly fitting for that day. It was the Sunday in the octave of Pentecost, on which, in fulfilment of the joy of Our Lord’s Resurrection and Ascension, and of the approach of the Holy Spirit, it is usual in many lands to chant responses made up of beautiful words and sweet harmonies, as fitting for the celebration of the Holy Trinity as anything of human origin can be. The bishop who presided began to celebrate mass on the altar of the martyr St Maurice, solemnly chanting the Trinity antiphon. When Wulferius asked the figures who they were, and why they were there, they cheerfully replied to him: ‘We are all professing Christians, but as we defended our homeland against the Saracens, we were separated by the sword from our mortal flesh. A divine dispensation has been made to take us into the company of the blessed, and as it happens we were due to pass through this region because many from this region are shortly to join our company.’ When the bishop celebrating


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mass had finished saying the Lord’s Prayer, and had pronounced the blessing, he sent one of his companions to bestow the kiss of peace upon Wulferius. When he had done this, the companion gave a sign to Wulferius that he should follow him, but when he attempted to do so, they suddenly disappeared. In this way, Wulferius understood that he would soon depart from this life. And this is indeed what happened shortly afterwards . . .

A Demonic Visitor Book V, Chap. I

W

hile I was staying at the monastery of St Léger at Champceaux, just before matins one night a shrivelled little man of frightening appearance approached me from the far end of my bed. As far as I could tell, he was of medium size with a thin neck, a gaunt visage, eyes of the deepest black, with the upper part of his face furrowed and lined. His nose was pinched, his mouth was broad and his lips were slack. His beard was like that of a goat, spreading over a sharp chin, and his ears were hairy and pointed. His hair stood on end in a confused mass, and his teeth resembled those of a dog. He had a narrow head, an inflated chest, his back was hunched over and his thighs were quivering. He was dressed in filthy clothes, and his whole frame shook. Leaning forward, he grasped the bedhead and struck it sharply, saying: ‘You will not stay in this place any longer.’ I started awake in terror, and the apparition I have described remained with me, which often happens when we wake up suddenly. Grinding his teeth, he said again and again: ‘You will not stay in this place any longer.’ I jumped out of my bed and ran towards the monastery, prostrating myself in front of the altar of the blessed father Benedict. There I lay for a long while in great terror, attempting to recollect the grave sins which I had heedlessly committed since the days of my childhood; I was particularly concerned because I had

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rarely done penance out of love and fear for God’s divinity. As I lay there, miserable and bewildered, I repeated to myself: ‘O Lord Jesus, who came to save sinners, have pity upon me in your great mercy’ . . .

An Army of Wraiths Book V, Chap. I

I

t is worth recalling with particular attention that every time isuch prodigious occurrences manifest themselves before living men, whether through the agency of good or evil spirits, it turns out that those men do not remain alive much longer. We can give many examples bearing out what I have said, and from these I have decided to set down a few, so that when such things happen, men can be aware of the dangers of being deceived. For instance, at the time when Bruno was bishop of Langres, a pious priest called Frotterius was living at Tonnerre. One Sunday evening, he walked across to his window before dinner to pass the time, and looking out, he saw an enormous multitude of riders drawn up as though in a battle-line, moving steadily from north to west. After he had watched them closely for some time, he became alarmed and called out to a member of his household to come and see them, but as soon as he had called out, the figures dissolved and disappeared. He was so shaken by the sight that he was hardly able to keep from tears. Later that same year he fell ill and died, ending his life in the same godly manner that he had lived. He was taken away by the portent which he saw, and this has been attested by witnesses . . .

Source: Re-told from the Latin Rodulfi Glabri Historiarum Libri Quinque, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CXLII, cols. 640–1, 686–8. An edition of the Five Books of Histories, ed. and trans. J. France, was published by the Oxford University Press in 1989.

The ‘Book of Visions’ of Otloh of St Emmeram Otloh of St Emmeram (c.1010–c.1070) was a monk of aristocratic background who spent much of his life at German monasteries which were at the forefront of the eleventh-century movement for monastic reform. It was a movement which advocated renewed spiritual discipline on the part of those who had taken the vows of monks, as well as the freedom of the monastic community itself from secular interference with its institutional lands and economic possessions. Otloh’s Liber Visionum was written during the last five years of his life, with the aim of providing edifying accounts of the divine supervision of mortal existence, often by means of the intervention of spirits of the deceased in the affairs of the living. In the story which follows, many of the preoccupations of a monk of Otloh’s reforming generation are to be found. The father’s ghost announces it is having to expiate the sin of plundering the estates of a monastic institution; as a result of their dead father’s appearance to the two brothers, future benefit accrues both to them and to the monastery; while the story itself has, in Otloh’s eyes, the merit of having been told originally by the reforming pope Leo IX (1048–54). The story is noteworthy also for the incidental details it contains of the father’s torments. The armour which he wore in life, and the spear which he brandished, were knightly appurtenances of power which enabled him to act unjustly; now, after death, these martial possessions became a source of particular torment to him.

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The Burning Spear Vision VII

L

et me tell of another vision, which was related to me recently by one of the brothers, who said he heard it told by the holy Pope Leo. At the time of the pope’s visit to Germany, he wished to preach a sermon relating to the plundering of monasteries through unjustified depredation and seizures of land. He went on to tell this story, saying: ‘In order that you might recognise how great a peril hangs over those who seize monastic property, let me tell you a certain memorable story.’ Two brothers were journeying on horseback when they suddenly saw a great crowd of figures moving through the air not far above the earth. Finding this both marvellous and terrifying, they made the sign of the cross to themselves and, in the name of the Lord, asked the figures who they were. One of the figures, who was dressed in the garb of a knight, strode swiftly across to them and said: ‘I am your father, and I beseech you to return to the monastery those landed estates which you know me to have unjustly alienated from the community. Do this for the love of God, and for my own liberation. For if you do not return the land, neither I nor you nor any of our posterity retaining this land will escape perpetual hell-fire.’ His sons replied: ‘Father, how can we give up these possessions? You did not request this while you were alive, nor can we give the land back without impoverishing ourselves. In any case, you do not seem to be in any need, judging by the ornateness of your armour and clothing.’ Sorrowfully, their father retorted: ‘What is this quality of garment that I have been accustomed to wear? I must tell you that wherever my armour touches my flesh I burn with intolerable fire. I feel that everything that surrounds me, whether I perceive it through sight or hearing or touch, is consuming me. So that you might understand this properly, take hold of the spear which I am carrying.’ One of the sons, wishing to verify what they had heard, eagerly


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grasped the spear held out by his father. He immediately dropped it because of its tremendous heat. His father reached out to catch the spear as it fell and said: ‘You should know that if this spear had touched the earth, you would have made my torment even greater.’ And with the final words, ‘I beg you, my sons, fulfil your father’s wishes,’ the image of the knight disappeared without trace. Prompted by divine instinct, the brothers began to discuss what they had heard. ‘If we retain the estate which was unjustly seized by our father, we will undoubtedly perish. For what does it profit us, if we gain the whole world at the expense of our souls? [Matthew XVI, 26]. Let us return the land to the monastery from which it was taken. In this way we will both benefit our heirs and win the indulgence of grace for our father and ourselves.’ And as soon as they had reached this conclusion, the image of their father returned to stand before them, but in a different garb from that which he had worn earlier. ‘My thanks to you for this. You have lessened my burden of obligation by pledging to return these possessions. Now, by the grace of God, I am released from torment and can go to take my rest.’ Whereupon he disappeared once more, leaving the brothers to implement their promise the more willingly because they had heard of their father’s swift release from torment. Pope Leo testified that he had himself met the brothers, who had by then become monks themselves, and listened to their story. I have hastened to set it down for the edification of my readers . . . Source: Re-told from the Latin Liber Visionum Othloni Monachi Emmerami, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CXLVI, col. 360.

The Chronicles of Marmoutier During the eleventh century, an anonymous collection of miraculous stories, a number of which feature apparitions of the dead, was compiled at the Benedictine abbey of Marmoutier, near Tours. It is likely that the stories were intended to be used in an exemplary manner within the monastery itself, to foster the communal sense of institutional ancestry necessary for monastic harmony, and to emphasise the duties of fair treatment and brotherhood owed by individual monks to each other. The historical continuity of the monastic community, of which individual monks would have been encouraged to be continually aware, is apparent in the following story. The ghost of the dead priest Herveus makes an appearance not so much in a cautionary guise, to encourage a living colleague to change his manner of life, but to guarantee a debt arrangement and ensure that the repayment which he and the colleague agreed upon when they were both alive is honoured for the benefit of the Marmoutier community.

Herveus and his Debtor Tale VIII

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certain priest called Herveus, who came from a noble efamily, was greatly disposed to a worldly and voluptuous way of life. His wealth, which derived from interest-bearing loans, was constantly increasing. Nevertheless, he gradually came to realise that the only hope for his future health and salvation was to deal honourably with religious men, and in


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particular with the monks of Marmoutier. Finally, advanced in years but still physically sound, he gave himself and all his possessions over to them, although even then he was not entirely able to free himself of the chains of the secular world. At long last the greedy hand of death, which batters equally upon the cottages of paupers and the towers of kings [Odes of Horace I, 4, 13] reached out towards him. Sensing that the hour of his death was near, he hurriedly called the brothers of Marmoutier to him. Humbly confessing his sins, and with many bitter tears, he divided his possessions in an appropriate fashion between the brothers and the poor, making over the bulk of his moveable wealth and real estate to the monastery. He also made clear to all his debtors that, however much they owed to him, they thenceforth owed to the monks, and he set out a specified time for the repayment of these loans. Now among those who came to his bedside was his godfather and companion, to whom he had lent sixty pounds in an agreement known only to themselves. Sorrowfully, this companion said: ‘Lord, I am concerned by all this talk of wealth, and do not want anyone to know of the secret agreement we came to. I want you to know, by my faith and my sworn oath, that I am fully prepared to repay all that you loaned to me.’ The sick man replied: ‘It is not necessary for you to swear to me. I have every confidence in your good faith in this matter. Let us now confirm our agreement with the sweet kiss of peace.’ So the man faithfully promised, under the sign of holy orders, that the debt would be discharged at the end of a year, with the priest making clear to the debtor that the repayment should be to the brothers of Marmoutier. Whereupon Herveus was dressed in the holy vestments of his faith and transferred to the monastery, and there, sustained by the sacraments, he ended his sinful and worldly life in peace. The year passed, but the debtor neither discharged the debt nor sought an extension of the loan. And of course, since no-one else but the deceased Herveus had been aware of the loan agreement, it seemed likely that he would get away with this avaricious behaviour. But the deceased, aware even in

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death of an obligation of brotherhood towards the monks, became anxious lest the debtor’s fraudulent behaviour meant that they would lose what he had arranged should be repaid to them. Therefore he made an appearance, dressed in monk’s habit, to the chaplain of the church with which he had been associated, who was travelling on the road to Tours. When the chaplain saw, by the clear light of day, a man whom he knew to have died, he was at first terribly frightened. But the dead man made the sign of the cross and said: ‘Do not be afraid, but listen carefully to what I have to say. I have been permitted to appear not so as to bring you harm but to convey benefit upon you.’ He then went on: ‘You must know how I wasted my life, and how lost my soul would have been if it were not for the prayers of the brothers of Marmoutier, who rescued me by calling upon the immense pity of the Lord. Now, in the purgatorial fires I am discharging my obligations through torments which far exceed the pain of mortal life. Soon, beset with freezing cold, I shall stand ready and waiting for the greater bliss which will follow the universal judgment. But I am constantly held back by the deceit of that treacherous companion of ours. The term which I set out for the repayment of the debt has expired, and he should by now have paid the money he owed to the brothers of Marmoutier. You therefore will go to him on my behalf to ensure that there is no more prevarication. Tell him to pay what he promised under sworn oath and kiss of peace. If he does not do so, I will ensure that his soul is answerable at the Day of Judgment.’ With these words, the dead man disappeared. The chaplain immediately sought out the debtor and, recounting the vision, urged him to repay the debt. At first the defaulter contended that the chaplain had been deceived by a phantasm of his own disturbed mind, and said he would never feel himself under any obligation to follow the dictates of the dead. But almost immediately – in fact on the day after the apparition of the deceased man – the debtor was afflicted by a pain so great that he feared he was about to die. Whereupon he acknowledged his obligations, proving that, through the all-seeing power of God,


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no-one is able to escape judgment. He told the chaplain to call together the monks, paid the debt that he owed, and then transferred both his property and himself into their hands, thereby following in the holy footsteps of his first creditor Herveus. Through such outcomes does God give signs of both judgment and mercy . . . Source: Re-told from the Latin De Rebus Gestis in Majori Monasterio Saeculo XI, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CXLIX, col. 409.

The Autobiography of Guibert of Nogent Although the monk Guibert of Nogent (c.1064–c.1125) is best known as a chronicler of the First Crusade, his autobiography, De Vita Sua, which was written towards the end of his life in a conscious attempt to emulate the Confessions of St Augustine, contains many examples of the way the medieval mind tested every experience, however personal, against a theological model. The following story, however, is unusual in that it conveys the extent to which, even in the ‘theo- logically correct’ eleventhcentury, a strong-minded individual such as Guibert’s mother could take control of the spiritual and emotional pattern of her own life. The story is not a ghost story as such; the apparitions of Guibert’s father and his illegitimate child appeared to his mother in a kind of waking vision, which, significantly, occurred on the Sabbath so that its contents would have been interpreted as having heavenly authority. However, it does contain a strong suggestion that Guibert’s mother was in effect haunted, as by a piteously crying ghostly child, by the knowledge of her husband’s infidelity and its illegitimate outcome. Guibert describes how, with extraordinary self-denial, his mother adopted and cared for an orphaned baby in the belief that by doing so she was relieving the suffering that her vision had shown the spirits of her husband and his child to be undergoing. It was a process of symbolic transference (what Guibert calls ‘measure for measure’) which might have won the approval of a modern psycho-therapist as a means of laying the emotional ghosts of the past.


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The Crying Child Book I, Chap. XVIII

O

ne summer Sunday night, just after Matins, my mother lay down on her narrow bed and began to fall asleep, and it seemed to her that her soul was leaving her body, although she was still aware of what was happening. It seemed that she was being led along a kind of corridor, and at last she left it behind and came to the edge of a deep abyss. Suddenly from this abyss creatures with the appearance of ghosts jumped out, with worms in their hair, and made as if to grasp her and pull her down to them. She was greatly frightened, when suddenly from behind her a voice cried out: ‘Do not touch her.’ At the sound of that commanding voice, the creatures fell back into the abyss. I should note that, as she was being led along the corridor, she had prayed to God that she should be allowed to re-enter her body. After she had been saved from the creatures in the pit, she stood by its edge and suddenly saw my father, with the same appearance that he had when he was young. Peering closely at him, she tearfully asked whether his name was Evrard (as he had been called when he was young) but he denied this. It is of course not surprising that a spirit should not respond to the name which it was given when alive, for spirit can only respond in accordance with its spiritual nature [I Corinthians II, 12–15]. Furthermore, it is impossible to believe that spirits know each other only by their mortal names; if this were the case, we would not know anyone in the world to come except those already close to us in life. It is unnecessary therefore that spirits should have names, since all their awareness is of an internal spiritual nature. Although he did not respond to the name by which she called him, she sensed that it was her husband. She asked him where he was staying. He gave her to believe that the place was not far from there, and that he was compelled to stay there. When she asked him how he was, he revealed his arm and his

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flank, which were both so torn and wounded that she was horrified and aghast. In the same place there was the apparition of a little child, crying in such distress that she was greatly disturbed at the sight. She was so upset at the crying child that she asked him: ‘My lord, how can you stand this child and its crying?’ His reply was: ‘I have no choice. I must endure it.’ Now the following meaning can be attached to the crying child and the wounds on the spirit’s arm and flank. When my father was young, he had been prevented from making love with my mother through a malign spell which certain people had cast upon him; and at the same time he had been given the wicked advice that, as a young man, he should establish whether he was still able to have intercourse with other women. Young as he was, he followed this advice, and having committed the sin of attempting to lie with some immoral woman or other, he fathered a child which died before it was baptised. The wounds to his arm and side signified the breaking of his vows of marriage; the weeping of that troubled little voice was proof of the damnation of that misbegotten child. This, O Lord and Source of Abundant Goodness, was the punishment on the soul of a sinner . . . . . . My mother understood the meaning of the cries of the child, whose brief mortal existence she already knew about, from the precise manner in which the apparition corresponded to what she knew to be the facts . . . And being in no doubt about this, she gave herself over to providing help for my father. Providing measure for measure, she undertook to bring up a little child whose parents had died when it was just a few months old. But because the Evil One detests good intentions quite as much as loyal actions, the baby caused so much trouble to my mother and her household by its incessant screaming and crying at night that no-one in the same confined space could get any sleep. By day, incidentally, it was quiet and well-behaved, playing and sleeping in turn. I have heard the nursemaids that she employed say that every night they had to shake the baby’s rattle constantly, so restless was he


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– not that the child was badly behaved in itself, but was made so by the guile of the Devil, which not even a woman’s loving care could completely drive out. My worthy mother was severely pained and tormented by all this; as the child’s shrill cries went on, there was no way in which she could ease her aching head, nor could she look for sleep to bring any comfort in her trouble, since she was continually disturbed by the fury of the child. But although she went every night without sleep, she never gave the appearance of fatigue when it came to her nightly prayers. She was convinced that her suffering had the purpose of easing her husband’s troubles, of which she had become aware in her vision. She willingly underwent these troubles, because she believed, correctly, that by sharing in his suffering she was lessening the torment of the other. She never locked the door against the child, never cared for him any the less. In fact, the more she became aware that the Devil was wickedly attempting to undermine her resolution, the more resigned she was to any disturbance and inconvenience. Indeed, the more she sensed the Devil’s disruptive influence over the child’s behaviour, the more convinced she became that she was countering his wicked control over her husband’s spirit . . . Source: Re-told from the Latin De Vita Sua Guiberti Abbatis Sanctae Mariae de Novigento, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CLVI, cols. 876–9. An edition of the autobiography was published as Self and Society in Medieval France: The Memoirs of Abbot Guibert of Nogent, ed. J.F. Benton, trans. C.C. Swinton Bland, New York (Harper) 1970.

The ‘Book of Miracles’ of Peter the Venerable Peter the Venerable (c.1092–1156) was abbot of Cluny, the greatest monastic foundation of its time, from 1122 until his death. He was one of the most influential churchmen of the twelfth century, both in terms of his institutional power as head of a network of Cluniac monasteries (thereby representing the traditions of the ‘black monks’ operating within a reformed Benedictine rule at a time when the Cistercian ‘white monks’ were expanding their influence under his friend and rival Bernard of Clairvaux) and because of his extensive writings on theology. The accounts of various apparitions of the dead in Peter’s De Miraculis represent the pinnacle of the twelfth-century use of the ghost story for the specific institutional advantage of a monastic foundation. Many of these stories demonstrate Peter’s ‘external’ political concern to defend Cluny’s interests as a territorial and financial unit. The apparition of Bernard le Gros, for instance, relates to the perennial problem of baronial depredation from lands adjacent to monastic holdings. A significant detail is the fox-fur cloak which Bernard’s apparition is wearing: it has been permitted to retain the cloak as a reward for a good deed in life, and is one of its few sources of comfort amid the torments of Purgatory.


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The Apparition of Bernard le Gros Book I, Chap. XI

B

ernard le Gros, who was renowned both for his noble lineage and his secular power, owned a number of castles in the vicinity of Cluny. From these fortifications he carried out many raids against the monastic lands and other churches nearby. Finally, however, having undergone a spiritual conversion, he sought out the reverend father Hugo [St Hugh, a former abbot of Cluny] and told him of his wish to go to Rome to pray for his sins. He promised that if he came back, he would renounce the world and become a monk at Cluny. Bernard duly left for Rome, and there, among the holy relics of the apostles and martyrs, he made use of prayers and alms, attempting to expiate the crimes of his past life with all true remorse and penitence. After spending in this way the forty days normally assigned to sinners for the expression of due penitence, he left Rome on the homeward journey. While he was staying in the city of Sutri, not far from Rome, a sickness which he had contracted some time before grew worse. There, as his death approached in a foreign land, he was cared for and was finally buried by his companions. Some years afterwards, the steward of one of Cluny’s dependent lands was making his way, in the middle of the day, through a forest near the castle of Uxelles. This was one of the castles which had been built by Bernard le Gros, and it was from there that Bernard’s men-at-arms often sallied forth to ravage the surrounding districts and take everything which fell into their hands. While this steward was riding along, he suddenly found himself face to face with Bernard. When he saw the apparition, mounted on a mule and dressed in a cloak of new fox-fur, and remembering that Bernard was dead, the steward was at first struck with terror; but, overcoming his fear, he asked the apparition whether it was indeed the person whom it seemed to be, and why it had come back. This was the reply:

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‘You should know that I am indeed Bernard, the former lord of this region. As many people know, I was the cause of many misdeeds and because of them I am myself suffering greatly now. But what troubles me above everything else is the construction of the nearby castle, which, as you know, was built on my orders. Although it seems that, because at the end of my life I repented and did penance for my worst actions, I have escaped eternal damnation, I still have a great and present need of help to achieve a true liberation of my soul. For that reason, I have been given permission to come back to implore the forgiveness of the abbot of Cluny. For a long time, I have been following the abbot’s processional progress [through Cluny’s domains] and last week, while he was lodged near Anse, I actually spent the night among the members of his household. I beg you now to go and find him and implore him immediately to have pity on me.’ When the steward asked the ghostly speaker why he was wearing a cloak of fox-fur, the reply came: ‘When I was still alive, I bought this fur, and on the very day that I wore it for the first time, I gave it away to a poor man. Because it was new when I gave it away, it remains new even now. I cannot describe the comfort it brings me in the midst of my torment.’ With these words, the apparition disappeared, leaving the steward to fulfil the charge that had been laid upon him. He sought out the worthy abbot and told him everything that had happened. Abbot Hugh listened favourably to the supplication of the deceased and, full of the spirit of charity, busied himself with many oblations and offerings of the divine sacrifice which might come to the aid of a soul labouring under the eternal judgment. It seemed likely to him that, in this way, the soul would be freed of its torments, and brought to the repose of the blessed, according to the provisions of celestial providence. After all, it would have been very unlikely that a spirit which had been subject to the judgment of God would have been permitted to come back to implore help in its liberation if its return had not been of any conceivable use . . . And the spirit


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would not have asked to be succoured by the sacraments and by the performance of holy works, if it had not known that these would be worthwhile. By imploring help through such means, the spirit of the deceased demonstrated the efficacy of these holy works and proved that it merited help in this way. As for the man who had witnessed the vision, the holy abbot predicted that he would soon die. For indeed, in days such as these when apparitions of dead people occur quite frequently, one often hears that someone who has spoken to a spirit dies soon afterwards. The steward, struck by the horror of the ghostly vision and by the subsequent warning of the holy man, soon renounced the world, and ended his life as a monk shortly afterwards . . .

The Apparitions in Spain Book I, Chap. XXVIII

This lengthy account of ghostly visions given to Peter the Venerable in Spain by one Pedro d’Englebert of Estella was very timely from the point of view of the ‘external’ diplomacy of Cluny. As Abbot of Cluny, Peter had journeyed across the Pyrenees to meet King Alfonso VII of Leon–Castile to negotiate the settlement of arrears in the golden cense traditionally paid to Cluny by the Castilian monarchy. No doubt the satisfactory outcome of these negotiations when the abbot met the king at Salamanca in 1143 was helped by information Peter gave the monarch about the spiritual benefit accruing to the soul of the king’s grandfather Alfonso VI because of the prayers of Cluniac monks: this news had been obligingly relayed from the afterlife by the ghosts who appeared to the informant Pedro d’Englebert. This story is also noteworthy for the reference by the ghosts to the fact that they are travelling with a great army of the dead, a detail which is reminiscent of the Mirabilia accounts of Wild Hunts and spectral rabbles in Part Two.

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Peter the Venerable writes: . . . There is, in Spain, an illustrious stronghold which, because of its favourable situation, the fertility of the surrounding countryside and the number of its inhabitants, greatly surpasses the surrounding villages and which is called, not without reason, Estella [‘Star’]. In this place lived a gentlemen who came originally from Burgos, called Pedro d’Englebert. Celebrated for his valour and favoured with worldly riches, he lived in the world for most of his life until, touched in his old age by the Holy Spirit, he renounced the world and received the habit of a monk in the monastery of Najera, which was placed under the rule and jurisdiction of Cluny. When I arrived there, two years after Pedro had taken the habit, I learnt that he had recounted a memorable vision of which I had already heard without knowing its origin. Having eagerly enquired where the narrator of such a great report was to be found, I was told that he lived in a nearby hermitage, which was a dependency of the monastery of Najera. When my itinerary took me there, I met a man who seemed to merit total confidence by virtue of his mature years and the gravity of his demeanour, the sight of his snow-white beard and hair combining with the good report of others to invite our trust. However, wishing to rule out all suspicion of doubt, as much on my part as on that of others, I summoned him in the presence of the much-respected bishops of Orensa and Osma, as well as our colleagues, who were people of great religious and scientific authority. Emphasising that the truth sanctified those who forswore deceit, and adding many other remarks of this kind to prevent him from lying, I not only urged but commanded him, by virtue of the obedience he owed to me as a monk to an abbot, to tell us what he knew of this vision. Whereupon Pedro revealed what until then had been completely unknown. It is appropriate therefore that I should leave the words to him: The account of Pedro d’Englebert begins: ‘As for what you ask of me, I did not hear this from others, but actually saw all of this


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with my own eyes. At the time when King Alfonso of Aragon inherited the crown of the Spanish kingdoms on the death of King Alfonso the Old, he raised an army against those who resisted him in the region of Castile, and ordered that each part of his kingdom must send him either footsoldiers or knights. Compelled by this decree, I sent to the army one of my liegemen, called Sancho. A few days afterwards, when all of those who had taken part in the expedition had returned, he also came back to my house, but a short time afterwards, he was taken ill and died almost immediately. ‘About four months after his death, I was lying awake in bed one winter’s night near the fire in my house at Estella, when suddenly Sancho appeared to me. He was seated next to the fire, turning over the coals as though to poke the fire into flame or to shed some better light, and gradually his appearance became more and more clear to me. He was naked, without any clothing, except for a scanty piece of rag which covered his loins. ‘When I saw him, I asked: ‘‘Who are you?’’ To which he replied in a low voice: ‘‘I am Sancho, your servant.’’ And when I asked him what he was doing there, he replied: ‘‘I am going to Castile, and a great army is travelling along the same road as me so that we might be free of the punishment incurred by our sins, in the very place where we committed them.’’ When I asked him why he had stopped at my house, he said: ‘‘It is in hope of pardon. If you are prepared to have pity on me, you would help me gain solace more rapidly. For when I took part in that expedition that you sent me on, I attacked a church with several others and sacked it, even carrying away some of the sacred vestments. I have been particularly punished for this crime, and have been forced to undergo cruel tortures, and so I implore your help, as my former master, with all the prayers I can utter. It would be of great help to me, if you were to come to my aid with good works. I pray you also to implore my lady your wife not to delay in handing over the eight sous which she owed me for wages. In this way, the sum which she would have paid for the sustenance of my body while I was alive might be

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given for the benefit of my soul, which has still greater need of it, and the money distributed to the poor.’’ ‘As for myself, I was greatly moved by this conversation, and asked what had become of our countryman Pedro de Jaca, who had died recently. The reply came: ‘‘The good works which he frequently carried out for the benefit of the poor, and in particular his charity during the time of famine, have earned for him a blessed rest and enabled him to share in the life eternal.’’ Hearing this reply so promptly and easily given, I asked Sancho whether he knew what had become of Bernier, another of our countrymen who had just died. ‘‘As for him, he is consigned to Hell, since at the time when he was in charge of settling the legal disputes in this town, he delivered many false judgments in return for gifts and inducements. On one occasion, he did not hesitate to impound a pig belonging to a poor widow, who depended on it as her sole means of sustenance.’’ ‘I was so excited, and my spirits were so elated, at this opportunity to enquire about such important matters, that I went on to ask: ‘‘What about King Alfonso [Alfonso VI, who had died some years before], have you been able to find out what has become of him?’’ To this question another voice, which seemed to come from the casement of the window just above my head, replied: ‘‘Do not ask him what he does not know, for he has arrived so recently among us that he has not yet had time to find out. As for myself, a stay of five years in the company of the spirits has taught me far more than he yet knows. I have some knowledge of what you ask about this king.’’ ‘I was struck with amazement a second time at hearing this new voice, and, curious to know who was speaking, I turned my eyes towards the window. Aided by the light of the moon, which shone throughout the room, I saw a man, dressed in the same costume as the other apparition, seated on the inner frame of the window. I asked him who he was, and he replied that he was a companion of Sancho, and that with him and with numerous others he was journeying to Castile. ‘‘And did you say you knew what had become of King Alfonso?,’’ I asked.


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‘‘I used to know where he was, but have no idea where he is now. For indeed he was being cruelly punished with other sinners, until he was removed from that place of torment by the help given him by the monks of Cluny. I have no idea what became of him after that.’’ Then, turning to his companion apparition who was still seated by the fire, he said: ‘‘Come, we have begun our journey, and we must see it through to the end. The army of our fellows which was following us is on all the roads around the town, and they are now so far ahead of us that we must hurry to follow them.’’ Whereupon Sancho stood up and piteously repeated his request: ‘‘I beg you, master, do not forget me, and please ask my lady your wife to give to my unhappy soul what she owed when I was alive.’’ And with these words, both men disappeared. ‘I cried out to my wife, who was asleep at my side, and before I even told her what I had heard and seen, I asked her whether she still owed any wages to our communal servant Sancho. She replied that, if he had not died, she would still owe him eight sous. Hearing this, I could not doubt the veracity of all that the deceased spirits had told me. The next morning, taking my wife’s eight sous and adding a suitable sum of my own, I gave them to the poor for the salvation of the deceased servant’s soul, and had a priest say a number of holy masses for the complete remission of his sins.’ Peter the Venerable resumes: I have faithfully set down this significant and memorable account word for word for the edification of the faithful and for the benefit of present and future generations, since it shows clearly, in the very words of the dead, what prudence is required of men while they are still alive. In particular, the remarks of the deceased about the fate of King Alfonso, delivered from the torments afflicting his fellow sinners by the monks of Cluny, bear out the truth of the vision. Indeed, it is well known throughout Spain and France that this king was a great friend and benefactor of Cluny. Apart from his innumerable gifts to this monastery, for the love of Christ this illustrious and powerful monarch committed himself and his kingdom to helping the monks in their work

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for the poor. Each year he rendered to the church of Cluny the cense of 240 ounces of gold which had been established by his father King Fernando I. More than that, he refurbished two Spanish monasteries from his own purse, permitted others to be built and helped with their construction, and placed Cluniac monks there so that they might serve God according to the disciplines of their order, endowing them from his royal largesse. He rekindled in Spain the almost vanished flame of monastic religion, and his fervent zeal acquired for him, when he no longer possessed a temporal kingdom, another realm – a kingdom in eternity, we may be sure . . .

The Ghostly Chapter Meeting Book II, Chap. XXVII

This story about a ghostly visitation to a novice monk could be said to demonstrate Peter the Venerable’s ‘internal’ concern, as a reforming abbot of Cluny, to generate a sense of the incumbency of monastic tradition upon Cluny’s monks. The young monk observes, at the spiritual assembly to which he is taken, proceedings which convey a clear sense of order, continuity and hierarchy. Significantly, perhaps, there is a lineage theme deriving from the fact that the ghostly visitor is the spirit of the dead boy’s uncle.

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lthough it is common for more elaborate stories to be told iabout apparitions of the dead, let me tell you about something which happened recently, in the very year in which I am writing. On the night of the vigil of Our Lord’s birth, the night when ‘Sanctificamini Hodie’ is chanted, a young novice monk was lying awake, restless and unable to sleep, in the friars’ dormitory at Carumlocum [Charlieu]. Towards dawn, he suddenly saw an elderly friar coming up the steps of the dormitory towards him. He recognised him as Achardus, a former prior of the monastery who had died some years before, and who was in fact his own uncle: the novice was the son of Prior Achardus’s brother.


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The old man came straight towards him, and sat down on a bench beside the boy’s bed. With him there was another former prior, the much-loved Guillelmus, who was himself dead. Although the novice had never seen either of these men before, he recognised them without question from descriptions given to him by those who had known them when they were alive. They stayed talking, the boy listening to their amiable conversation, until the worthy Guillelmus suddenly disappeared, leaving only brother Achardus sitting beside the bed. Turning to the boy, he asked whether he wished to see something marvellous. If so, he was to get up and come with him to the friars’ cemetery. Fearfully, speaking in a whisper, the novice replied that he was supposed to remain within bounds, and that if anyone saw him going outside the confines of the dormitory, he was likely to be severely beaten. His uncle told him there was nothing to be afraid of, and to trust him, since he could foresee that nothing would happen to the boy and that he would be taken out and brought back safe and unharmed. Reassured, the boy got up, put on his habit and followed his uncle. They went through the main abbey cloister, past the infirmary, and through the open gates of the cemetery. The boy noticed that a large number of seats had been placed close together around the walls of the cemetery, and that on these seats were the phantom forms of men dressed in monastic habit. As he tells it, his uncle had said to him that a seat had been prepared for him among the others and he was to sit down immediately upon arrival. His uncle had also indicated that a complaint was likely to be made about their late arrival, and Achardus himself was likely to be summoned by the presiding dignitaries. Indeed, as soon as Brother Achardus and the boy entered the assembly and sat down, a clamour arose and one of those sitting near them complained about their late arrival. Immediately Achardus got up and went to the middle of the assembly and did penance, in accordance with monastic custom; the boy remaining quietly and humbly in his place as instructed.

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Now as it happens there is a raised stone platform in the middle of the cemetery, surmounted by an area large enough to bear a quantity of torches and lanterns, illuminating that sacred place as evidence of the faith that endures there. There is also a flight of steps leading up to a dais sufficient to accommodate two or three men sitting or standing. On this was placed an enormous throne, in which a great judge of venerable appearance was seated; the boy saw his uncle Achardus prostrate himself before him as if to ask for pardon. He could not hear what words were exchanged, but was able to see everything that was going on because of a powerful and unearthly light that shone throughout the cemetery without the aid of any human agency. After a while, Achardus returned to his seat and the boy made way for him, giving up his seat and placing himself at his uncle’s feet. Shortly after that, the entire assembly got up to leave, not by the entrance through which he and his uncle had arrived, but by another gate on the other side of the cemetery. On the threshold of this gate a great fire was burning, and as they took their departure the members of the assembly passed through it, some quickly, others lingering in the fire itself. He watched until all had gone and only he and his uncle were left in the cemetery. Then, as promised, his uncle led him safely back the way they had come, suddenly disappearing when they had reached the boy’s bed in the friars’ dormitory. I first heard about this vision from others, and afterwards from the boy himself. I judge him to be thoroughly trustworthy and incapable of deceit, and have set down his remarkable story so that it might be of benefit to all my readers . . . Source: Re-told from the Latin De Miraculis Petri Venerabilis Abbatis Cluniacensis, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CLXXXIX, cols. 874–5, 903–8, 941–3. An edition of the De Miraculis was published in French as Le Livre des Merveilles de Dieu de Pierre le Vénérable, ed. and trans. J.-P. Torrell and D. Bouthillier, Paris (Éditions du Cerf) 1992.

The ‘Dialogue on Miracles’ of Caesarius of Heisterbach Caesarius of Heisterbach (c.1180–c.1240) was a Cistercian monk who, after his education at the cathedral school of Cologne, spent the rest of his life at the convent of Heisterbach. He wrote extensively, upholding the preaching tradition of the Cistercians with a collection of sermons, collating a series of saints’ lives, and drawing together a history of the archbishopric of Cologne. His best-known work, however, was the Dialogus Miraculorum, a carefully selected collection of stories which had the function of illustrating points of Christian doctrine and morality. In the eleventh and twelfth books of this work there are numerous accounts of apparitions of the dead, but almost every one of the accounts is carefully crafted as an exemplum, a short essay of edification, whose purpose is to illustrate the dangers of sin during the mortal life leading to inevitable punishment in the hereafter; each story is presented in the Dialogue as being told by a senior monk to a novice as a preface to a brief conversation which emphasises the theological point being illustrated. Thus, with the exception of the first two of the following stories (which draw upon a long-established belief that apparitions herald the imminent death of those who witness them), all the other stories about the punishment undergone by ghosts and spirits relate their torments specifically and didactically to the sin being cautioned against. Thus, for instance, the load of earth with which Frederic of Kelle is encumbered symbolises the land he stole; and the brimstone potion which the knight Rudinger carries around in his goblet is a punishment for his drunkenness. It could be argued therefore that,

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in the writings of Caesarius, the medieval ghost story reaches its maximum point of ‘control’ by the church. Any sense of wonder, mystery or fear which might have been evoked by earlier monastic accounts of apparitions of the dead is almost entirely dispelled by the neat construction of many of these stories as devices for moral edification.

The White Lady of Stamheim Book XI, Chap. LXIII

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n the manor of Stamheim in the diocese of Cologne, there iwere two knights, Gunther and Hugo. One night when Gunther was away from his home, a maid took his sons, whom she was about to put to bed, into the courtyard to satisfy the needs of nature. As she stood with them, they saw a woman in a white dress with a pale face looking straight at them from beyond the enclosure. This alarming shape said nothing, but inspired fear in the maid because of her appearance. Then the creature went over to Hugo’s land, which lay next door, looked over the fence in the same way and then went back to the graveyard from which it had come. A few days later, Gunther’s elder child fell sick and said: ‘In seven days I shall be dead, and seven days after that my sister will die and then a week later my younger sister will be dead also.’ And this is how it turned out. Moreover, after the deaths of the children, the mother and the maid both died, while at the same time Hugo the knight and his son perished also. These facts were witnessed by our prior Gerlac . . .


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The Spectral Warning Book XI, Chap. LXIV

T

he same kind of thing happened in the churchyard at Bonn. After vespers had been sung one evening, the scholars were playing in the twilight in the cloisters when they saw a human shape leave one of the graves where the canons used to be buried. After walking about the churchyard, and crossing some of the graves, it descended into another tomb. A short while later a canon died in that church and was put into the very grave which the creature had entered. This vision was witnessed by one of our monks, Christian of Bonn. Through visions of this kind the future can sometimes be predicted . . .

The Load of Earth Book XII, Chap. XIV

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rkinbert, the father of our monk John, was a citizen of iAndernach who went out early one morning and came upon a figure on a coal-black steed which breathed fire and smoke from its nostrils. At first the figure was on the main highway, but after a while it left the road and cantered off over the fields in a different direction. At first Erkinbert was terribly afraid, because he had no idea what manner of creature it was and because he could not escape the encounter. But he steeled himself and, making the sign of the cross against the Devil, he took his sword in his right hand. As he approached, he saw that it was a famous knight named Frederic, from the manor of Kelle, who had just died. He appeared to be clothed in sheepskins and carried a great weight of muddy earth on his back. Erkinbert asked: ‘Are you the noble Frederic? Where have you come from and what does all this mean?’ The figure replied: ‘I suffer deeply. These sheep-skins were stolen by me from a widow and now they burn red-hot upon

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me. I also made an unjust demand for a portion of land, and now I am crushed under its weight. If my sons were to give back this property, they would lessen my suffering.’ And so the figure disappeared. But when Erkinbert told the sons the next day what their father had said, they preferred that he should remain forever in torment than themselves give up what had been left to them . . .

The Incestuous Ghost Book XII, Chap. XV

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n the diocese of Treves, where the former vision occurred, ithere was another knight named Henry Nodus. Now he was deeply mired in wickedness and sin, and regarded rapine, adultery, incest, perjury and other such crimes as deeds of virtue. When he died in the province of Menevelt, he appeared to many in a sheep-skin and kept frequenting the house of his daughter, as he had been wont to do when alive. Whether admonished by the sign of a cross or threatened with a drawn sword, he would not be driven away. Indeed, his spectre was often struck with a sword but could not be wounded, giving out the kind of sound that a soft bed makes when it is struck. His friends consulted John, the lord bishop of Treves, and he advised them to pour water on a nail which was a relic of the crucifixion and to use it to sprinkle the water around the house and on his daughter and on the man himself, if he was present. This was done, and he never appeared again. Although he was legally married, he had fathered the daughter on his maidservant, and, wretch that he was, he had debauched the daughter when she grew up. It is not long since these things happened . . .


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The Gift of Snakes and Toads Book XII, Chap. XVIII

W

hen he died, a certain knight left all the property he had amassed through usury to his son. One night he knocked boldly on his son’s door and when a servant came to ask why he knocked, he replied: ‘Let me in; I am the lord of this land,’ and he gave his name. The servant peeped out and, although he recognised him, refused to let him in, saying: ‘My master is dead.’ The dead man went on knocking, but the door stayed closed, and at last he said: ‘Take these fish, which are my food, to my son. Look here, I am hanging them on the door-handle.’ When the household went outside next morning, they found a quantity of toads and snakes tied together in a bundle. This, we should know, is the nourishment offered in Hell, cooked in flaming sulphur . . .

The Devilish Tormentor Book XII, Chap. XIX

N

ot so long ago, an extremely wealthy official at the court of the Bavarian dukes died. One night the castle in which his wife was sleeping was shaken as if there had been a severe earthquake. Suddenly the door of the chamber in which she lay opened and in came her husband, driven along by a gigantic black man who pushed him by the shoulders. Seeing and recognising him, she called him over to her and sat him down beside the bed. She was not at all afraid and, because it was cold, she threw a part of the bed-cover around his shoulders. When she enquired after his condition, he replied sadly: ‘I have been given over to eternal punishment.’ At this reply, she became exceedingly alarmed and said: ‘But did you not always give alms and did you not always keep your door open to pilgrims?’ He replied: ‘Such deeds were undertaken out of

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vanity and pride, not out of charity, and so they cannot give me eternal life.’ When she went on to ask him about other matters, he replied: ‘I have been allowed to appear to you, but not to stay on here. Outside my devilish tormentor waits for me. Even if all the leaves on all the trees were to become tongues, they could not tell you enough about my torment.’ After this he was called forth and driven away and, just as before, the whole castle was shaken as he left. For a long time afterward, his cries of sorrow could be heard. This vision came to be well known in Bavaria, as we have been told by Gerard our monk . . .

The Shoes of the Hunted Woman Book XII, Chap. XX

I

have been told by a pious man about the mistress of a priest iwho, when she was on the brink of death, demanded forcefully that the finest-quality pair of new shoes should be made for her. As she expired, she said: ‘Bury me in them. This is of the utmost importance to me.’ This was done, and the next night, in the light of the full moon well before dawn, a knight and his squire were riding along the highway when they heard a woman screaming. As they wondered what this might be, the figure of a woman came running towards them, crying for help. At once the knight dismounted and, brandishing his sword in a circle around him, took the woman under his protection. The woman, whom he recognised, was dressed only in a shift and the new shoes. Suddenly, from the distance there came a sound of a hunting horn, and the barking of a pack of hounds. When she heard this, the woman trembled greatly and, when he saw what was the matter, the knight handed his horse’s bridle to his servant, wrapped three locks of her hair round his left arm, and held his sword upright in his right hand. When the infernal huntsman drew near, the woman cried to the knight: ‘Let me go, let me go. Look: he is coming.’


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And although the knight tried bravely to hold her back, the poor creature resisted him, hitting at him with her fists and eventually she escaped by tearing her hair loose. Then the Devil chased her and caught up with her and threw her across his horse with her head and arms hanging down on one side and her legs on the other. The hellish horseman rode back past the knight as he carried his prey off into the darkness. In the morning, the knight returned to the manor, told the household all that he had seen and showed the handful of woman’s hair which remained in his grasp. When they would not believe his story, they dug open her grave and found that the woman had lost her hair. This happened in the archbishopric of Mainz . . .

Whispers in the Choir Book XII, Chap. XXXVI

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hree years or so ago, a little girl who was aged nine years died in Mount St Saviour, a house belonging to our order, at about the time of Advent. Shortly afterwards, the sisters were assembled in the choir when she entered in bright daylight and, bowing low before the altar, went to the place where she used to stand when she was alive. Another girl of almost the same age, seeing the dead girl take her place beside her, was struck with such dread that it was noticed by the lady abbess (who told me this story). When this girl was asked by the abbess why she was so frightened, she replied: ‘I have just seen Sister Gertrude come into the choir. At vespers, when mention was made of Our Lady, she prostrated herself.’ The abbess feared that she was being deceived by the Devil and said to the girl: ‘If Sister Gertrude should come back, bid her “Benedicite” and if she replies “Dominus”, ask her where she comes from and what she is looking for.’ Next day she came again, and, being greeted and giving the answer ‘Dominus’, she was asked why she had come. She

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replied: ‘I have come here to make redress, for I used to whisper with you in the choir. I have been ordered to seek atonement for this in the same place where I used to sin in this way. Unless you take care, you will suffer the same punishment when you die.’ When she had made atonement in this way on four separate occasions, she said: ‘Now my atonement is complete; from now on you will see me no more.’ And so it came about that, as her living companion watched, she went towards the cemetery, passing through the wall by supernatural power. Such was that little girl’s Purgatory . . .

The Brimstone Potion Book XII, Chap. XLI

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knight called Rudinger, from the diocese of Cologne, was iso taken up with wine-bibbing that he used to go to consecrations at manors throughout the diocese just so that he could quaff a good vintage. When he fell ill and was on the brink of death, his daughter asked him to come back and see her within thirty days. He replied: ‘I will do this if I can.’ After his death, he did indeed make an appearance to his daughter and said: ‘I have returned as you asked.’ In his hand he was carrying a little pottery mug like the one he used to drink from in taverns. His daughter asked: ‘Father, what is in that mug?’ and he replied: ‘My tipple, which is brewed from sulphur and brimstone. I am always sipping from it but I can never drain it completely.’ Then, as he disappeared, the girl understood (as much from his previous life as from his punishment) that there was little hope of his being saved. For in this life wine is sweet to sip, but eventually it carries the poison of a viper . . .

Source: Re-told from the Latin Dialogus Miraculorum Caesarii Heisterbacensis Monachi, ed. J. Strange, Cologne 1851, pp. 313–14 and 326–50.

The Book of the Preacher of Ely During the late Middle Ages, ghost stories were often recorded in manuals containing material that could be adapted for use by itinerant preachers. This story comes from a fifteenth-century manuscript which is likely to have been the commonplace book of a preacher who had connections with Ely and its cathedral, but whose travels took him much further afield (the inclusion of material relating to Lancashire may well have been a means of adding convincing local colour during a preaching journey to the north of England). Some of the details of the story – the journey by night along a lonely road, the looming shadow of a spirit suffering the tortures of Purgatory, the readiness of the living to finance the redemption of the dead – resemble those Yorkshire tales about the restless dead recorded by the Monk of Byland (see Part Three), but in its simple and touching conclusion this account falls firmly into the Miracula tradition of medieval ghost stories.

F

The Hair that Turned to Gold

rom Master Richard de Puttes comes a story dealing with the celebration of the Mass, in the year of the Lord 1373. A man from Haydock in the county of Lancashire kept a mistress with whom he had two sons; when she died, he married another woman. One day he went to a nearby blacksmith’s forge, which specialised in the preparation and sharpening of ploughshares, in order to obtain a coulter. The

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blacksmith lived at the estate of Hulme, two miles from Haydock. As he came back that night, the man had just reached the cross beside the road which is called Newton Cross when he was subject to the most terrifying experience. In his fear, he gazed around in the darkness and saw what seemed to be a dark shadow. He begged it not to hurt him, and asked who it was. From within the shadow came a voice: ‘Have no fear. I am the woman who was once your lover and I have been allowed to approach you and ask for help.’ When the man asked how things were with her, she replied: ‘Not well. But you can help me if you are willing.’ ‘Certainly,’ said the man, ‘I will do all that I can if you tell me how.’ She replied that she could be released from the punishment that she was undergoing if worthy priests celebrated masses on her behalf. The man promised that he would arrange for masses to be said for her even if it cost him his last penny. Whereupon she said: ‘Do not be afraid. Reach out your hand to my head and take what you find there.’ He placed his hand on her head and plucked a small handful of very dark hair. Now during her lifetime the woman had a beautiful head of golden hair. Then the spirit said: ‘If you arrange for as many masses to be said for me as the hairs you hold in your hand, then I will be released from my pain.’ When he agreed to this, she told him to come back at a particular time and he would learn what had happened to her. Then she disappeared. The man fastened the hair with a pin in a crevice of his door. Having straightaway sold a large part of his estate to raise money, he searched around for a priest and arranged for the celebration of a large number of masses. When this had been done, he went back to look at the handful of hair and found that, for every mass he had had celebrated, one of the hairs had turned to gold. So he had still more masses celebrated, until the whole handful had become gold. Later he went back to the cross at the specified time and, after waiting for a moment, he saw a resplendent light moving swiftly towards him. When it


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reached him, a voice came from within the light, thanking him and saying: ‘Blessings upon you among all men for freeing me from my terrible pain. Now I can go on my way rejoicing.’ And after speaking with him a little more, she swiftly departed . . . Source: Re-told from a Latin text transcribed in the English Historical Review XXXVIII (1923), pp. 85–6.

Part Two

Ghosts and the Court

MIRABILIA AND GHOSTS IN COURT WRITING

Introduction The twelfth century was a period of considerable cultural and intellectual activity throughout Northern Europe: so much so that the term ‘the Twelfth Century Renaissance’ has been used to describe the period.1 To some extent, this upsurge in cultural activity, and the accompanying growth of philosophy, literature, sculpture and architecture, can be linked with the expansion of what might be called ‘the European experience’ beyond the confines of Europe itself. Three crusades to the Eastern Mediterranean were undertaken during the twelfth century, and the resulting contact with Islamic civilisation (and indeed with the values of Hellenic philosophy which Muslim scholars had themselves encountered and incorporated into their own intellectual framework centuries before) undoubtedly provided a stimulus to medieval European thought and speculation.2 The cultural growth of the period can also be linked with the emergence of powerful, centralising monarchies which, in addition to vying with each other for territorial gain and sway throughout Northern Europe, competed in the sphere of cultural patronage. Perhaps the best example of this was the rivalry between Henry II, the Angevin king of England whose domains extended at one time from the Scottish borders to the Pyrenees, and Louis VII, the Capetian king of France; this tended to manifest itself as a kind of rivalry of splendour between their courts. In the Angevin domain the monarch and 1 2

See C.N.L. Brooke, The Twelfth Century Renaissance, London 1969. For a general summary of the impact of the crusading encounter on the culture of medieval Europe, see F. Heer, The Medieval World, 1100–1350, London 1962.

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his high-ranking officials were the patrons of the so-called ‘court clerics’, writers who, although they may have taken clerical orders, were less concerned than their monastic counterparts to draw moralistic conclusions from their stories. Indeed, it could be argued that the court clerics had a role as essayists, gossips and anecdotalists who wrote to divert, and thus to provide matter for relatively light-hearted philosophical and theological debate in court circles. Although it would perhaps be anachronistic to speak of ghost stories and accounts of supernatural events as ‘entertainment’ at this period, it is certainly the case that the principal aim of the court clerics was to amuse and amaze, rather than to edify in the manner of the monastic authors whose accounts of Miracula make up the first section of this book. As a consequence, there was a growing demand in the later twelfth century for ghost stories which were in effect tales of marvels, Mirabilia, which probably had a diversionary function in that they tended to fuel philosophical debate and argument. The definition of Mirabilia which Gervase of Tilbury gives in the preface to the third part of his Otia Imperialia (‘what constitutes the marvel is our inability to fathom the cause of a particular phenomenon’3) suggests that he may have seen their purpose as providing a stimulus to the kind of theological and philosophical speculation – attempts indeed ‘to fathom the cause’ – which the more cultivated patrons at the courts of Europe may have indulged in during their leisure hours. Gervase himself had extensive experience of such sophisticated courts during his travels, and must have been aware that the 3

‘. . . Mirabilia vero dicimus, quae nostrae cognitione non subiacent, etiam cum sint naturalia; sed et mirabilia constituit ignorantia reddendae rationis, quare sic sit . . .’: Otia Imperialia Gervasii Tilburiensii, ed. G.W. Leibnitz, Scriptores Rerum Brunswicensium I, Hanover 1707, p. 960. Gervase’s definition of marvels can be compared with that of Giraldus Cambrensis (‘. . . those things which, being contrary to the course of nature, call forth our wonder and amazement . . .’) in his introduction to Part II of the ‘Topo- graphy of Ireland’: The Historical Works of Giraldus Cambrensis, ed. and trans. T. Wright, London 1863, p. 57.


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intellectual climate of these courts favoured speculative debate, providing a ready audience for the kind of marvel-laden anecdotes about sprites, phantoms and ghostly nocturnal visitors with which he set out to divert his imperial patron and attendant courtiers. Similarly, as I have suggested in my introduction to the extracts from William of Malmesbury’s chronicle, there appears to be a common theme running through his ghost stories and accounts of the supernatural events, in that he regards soothsaying, augury and necromancy – activities which were, arguably, the extension of speculative theological and philosophical debate – as worthy of punishment. The very fact that William felt it necessary to condemn such frivolous practices may suggest that speculative debate itself was relatively commonplace. This growing cultural thirst for tales of wonder could be satisfied in part by tapping the aquifers of vernacular belief about the supernatural. As I have suggested in the introduction to the first section of this book, legends and folk-tales remained beneath the surface of the church’s concern to ‘control’ accounts of apparitions and channel any narrative dealing with supernatural events into moralistic form. At the end of the twelfth century, Gervase of Tilbury used the folklore of the Rhône riverbanks as a source for his tales of the supernatural, just as Walter Map and Giraldus Cambrensis used the legends of the Welsh borders and of Ireland to divert the Angevin courtiers, who were becoming increasing familiar with Celtic culture because of Henry II’s campaigns in the western territories of the British Isles. But even at the beginning of the century, a chronicler such as Orderic Vitalis, who could be said to have been writing within the Miracula tradition, and who was as full of censure for the luxurious life-style of the local aristocracy and ecclesiastical hierarchy as any monastic reformer, was prepared to include a form of the ancient Wild Hunt folk-tale in his narrative. Reading Orderic’s description of Hellequin’s Hunt, the spectral rabble of the dead which the priest Walchelin eventually recognises as a ghostly phenomenon about which he had heard local folktales being told

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(‘Without a doubt this is the retinue of Herlequin. I have heard from those who claimed that they had seen them’), one is struck by the extent of ‘extraneous’ detail in the account. Arguably, this is detail which in its colour and its quantity is surplus to Orderic’s concern for monastic censure. It is a debatable point whether some of the details with which Orderic embellishes his narrative (the grove of medlar trees where Walchelin hides, the spectral horse’s breath in the form of an oak tree, the barrel-shaped dwarves and the Ethiopian bearers) were included to further his aim of assembling a convincing account of punishment in the after-life, or whether by adding such details he was, like all keen tellers of tales, taking delight in the process of story-telling itself. Whatever the reason, the details in Orderic’s description of Hellequin’s Hunt verge upon the ‘marvellous’: that is, they resemble the later Mirabilia of the court writers in terms of their narrative character, even if Orderic’s disposition as a monastic chronicler was to convey censure in the Miracula tradition. With any period of history, and particularly with the Middle Ages, it is important to remember that there is rarely a linear progression by which one can trace the development of any specific cultural theme. Some of the tales of supernatural events and occurrences which have been grouped together in this section of the book may resemble in part the ghost stories of a later period in that they draw upon folk-lore, local legend and the fantastic. It is certainly not the case however that Mirabilia replaced Miracula as the ‘preferred’ form of medieval ghost story. Gervase of Tilbury’s stories of riverbank phantoms (stories which, by and large, lack the tone of doctrinal moralising which characterises monastic accounts of apparitions) were written at the same time as Caesarius of Heisterbach was assembling his doctrinally neat little tales of apparitions in the Dialogue on Miracles. Indeed, these two genres of medieval ghost story probably overlapped and complemented each other, for at a time when the realm of the supernatural was still regarded as wholly a province for divine disposition (with even the demons active only by the tacit


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permission of God) the amazement-bordering-on-fear instilled in an audience by a court writer’s anecdote about sprites or phantoms or nocturnal spirits could only prepare the ground for a reaffirmation in due course of the church’s teaching about the afterlife. In the medieval period, edification was the eventual, and only possible, outcome of amazement.

The ‘Ecclesiastical History’ of Orderic Vitalis Orderic Vitalis (1075–c.1142) was an Anglo-Norman monk whose thirteen-book Historia Ecclesiastica was an attempt to provide for the Norman people the equivalent of Bede’s earlier history of the English. The work was written at the abbey of Saint-Evroul in Normandy, and its author would have been acutely conscious of recent pressures upon the abbey arising from the rivalry between successive bishops of Lisieux, in whose diocese Saint-Evroul was situated, and leading lay barons of the region. In Orderic’s account of the reported vision of a local priest in the last decade of the eleventh century, many of the misdeeds which have led to the spirits of the dead being punished in the afterlife were committed in the context of local disorder. The priest Walchelin initially assumes that the ghostly army is a real troop of soldiers on their way to join the fearsome Robert of Bellême’s campaign against another warlord of the region, while Orderic’s monkish disapproval of the lifestyle of the local aristocratic families is apparent in the relish with which he describes the torments of the noblewomen who are being punished for their lasciviousness while alive. What makes this account different from other medieval examples of the morally instructive ghost story is the tacit acceptance on the part of the chronicler that the subject of his narrative was witnessing a troop of the dead, a ‘rabble’ or retinue gathered around a mysterious dark lord called Herlequin or Hellequin. This name may have derived from the Old French ‘hèle-chien’ – ‘hunting dog’ – or may have been a diminutive of ‘helle’, the German word for the underworld. In the first part of this book, there have been other references to spectral armies (see, for instance, Peter the Venerable’s ‘Apparitions in Spain’, and


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Rodulfus Glaber’s ‘Army of Wraiths’), but in the passage that follows the familiar monastic theme of purgatorial suffering for secular transgression is addressed in the context of a much older vernacular tradition of a Wild Hunt or troop of phantoms. This tradition is rooted in the folklore of Northern Europe, and derives perhaps from the popular concept of the pagan god Wotan as a wandering huntsman. From the twelfth century onwards, the theme of the Wild Hunt recurred as a Mirabilium, a supernatural phenomenon which offered both diversion – in that it was something to be marvelled at – and the opportunity for moral instruction.

The Priest Walchelin and Hellequin’s Hunt Book VIII, Chap. XVII

I

cannot ignore or remain silent about an event involving a ipriest of Lisieux diocese on New Year’s Day. The priest was named Walchelin, and he had responsibility for the church of St Aubin the confessor, a former monk who became bishop of Angers, in the hamlet of Bonneval. On the night of 1st January 1091, this priest was called out to attend a sick man, as was his duty, in an outlying area of his parish. He was coming back alone, through an isolated part of the country, when he heard the kind of sound that is made by the passage of a great army. He assumed it was the personal guard of Robert of Bellême, making a hurried approach to the siege of Courcy. The moon shone brightly under the constellation of the Ram, and the road was clear ahead. Walchelin was a young man, courageous and strongly built, but when he heard the kind of sound made by a rabble of soldiers, he became fearful. He remained there, uncertain whether to flee and so avoid being attacked and robbed by ruffians or to stand his ground and defend himself. He noticed four medlar trees standing in a group some distance away from the path and decided to hide in this little grove until the mounted horsemen had gone by. But a figure of

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enormous size, wielding a great mace, stood in his way and, holding the weapon above his head, shouted: ‘Stay where you are. Do not move.’ The priest immediately stood still, and supported himself on his staff. The grave figure who carried the mace took up position beside him, and together they waited for the army to pass. First of all a large crowd on foot appeared, bearing on their shoulders and draped round their necks the animals, clothes, furniture and household possessions that make up the plunder of every raiding army. However, they all complained bitterly and chivvied each other onwards. Walchelin saw among them many of his fellow-villagers who had died recently, and heard them lamenting the fact that they were in torment because of their sins. Next came a group of bearers, whom the giant suddenly joined, supporting the weight of some five-hundred biers, with two men carrying each bier. On these biers were seated dwarfs with huge barrel-shaped heads. One gigantic beam was carried by two Ethiopians, and a hapless man was tightly lashed to this beam, undergoing severe torture and screaming aloud in his pain. A terrible demon sitting astride this beam was digging into his back and thighs with red-hot spurs so that the blood flowed freely. This man was immediately recognised by Walchelin as the murderer of a fellow-priest called Stephen, and Walchelin understood that he was being tortured for the crime of spilling the blood of an innocent man only two years before, so that he had not had time to complete the penance for such a terrible misdeed. Next came a group of women, who seemed to the priest to be innumerable, riding side-saddle in the fashionable manner, but with their saddles studded with red-hot nails. As the gusts of night air caught them, they would be lifted a few feet out of the saddle, and would then drop back onto the pointed nails. In this way their thighs and buttocks were tortured by the burning nails, and so they loudly called out ‘O woe, O woe’ in lament for the sins which had caused them such punishment. It was because of the sensuous lechery in which they had indulged when they were on earth that they now underwent


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the flames and stench and torture, complaining of their punishment with such loud cries. Walchelin noticed a number of high-born ladies among this group, and also saw that there were horses and mules belonging to many who were still alive, drawing women’s carriages which were as yet empty. The priest remained there trembling and began to ponder the meaning of these awful visions. The next group to come along was an assembly of clerics and monks, and he could see their leaders, bishops and abbots, carrying their pastoral staffs. The clerics and their bishops wore black caps; the monks and abbots were dressed in black cowls. They moaned and complained, and some of them even hailed Walchelin and beseeched him to pray for them for old times’ sake. The priest said he noticed there many highly regarded figures, who, according to the respect in which they were held by their fellow humans, should have gone straight to join the saints in heaven. He even saw Hugh, bishop of Lisieux, and the famous abbots Mainer of Saint-Evroul and Gerbert of Saint-Wandrille, along with many others whose names I cannot remember. The estimation of humans is often wrong, whereas nothing can be hidden from the sight of God. Men’s judgment depends on external appearances; God searches the very heart of things . . . . . . Shaking with fear and amazement, the priest steadied himself by leaning on his staff and awaited further dreadful sights. Next to come along was a great troop of knights, with no colours except that of darkness and flickering flame. All the knights rode enormous horses, all of them were armed as if they were charging into battle and all of them bore pennants of deepest black. Among this troop were Richard and Baldwin, the sons of Count Gilbert, who had recently died, and many others whom I cannot name. Landry of Orbec, who had been dead less than a year, addressed the priest in a loud shout, gruffly ordering him to take a message to his wife. But the other soldiers around him in the troop shouted louder and said to the priest: ‘Do not listen to Landry; he is a liar.’ This Landry was once sheriff and advocate of Orbec, and he had risen from humble birth by virtue of his intelligence and

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personal qualities. But in the court-cases in which he was involved he decided the outcome according to his own advantage, and took bribes, being more committed to corruption and personal gain than to justice. Thus he merited the shame of open torment, and deserved to be called a liar by his companions in torment. That was a judgment in which there was no flattery or supplication for his clever casuistry; indeed, because he had closed his ears against the laments of the poor during his time of authority, now in his suffering he was not even accorded a hearing. After this great army, thousands upon thousands strong, had passed by, Walchelin began to tell himself, ‘Without a doubt this is the retinue of Herlequin. I have heard from those who claimed that they had seen them, but I used to mock those who told such stories and did not believe them because I had seen no firm evidence of such things. Now I myself can see the spectres of the dead with my very eyes, but no one will believe me unless I can take back some proof to show the living. I will seize one of the spare horses following the troop, and ride it home, so as to ensure that my neighbours believe me when I show it to them.’ At this he grasped the bridle of a jet-black horse, but it broke free and went galloping after the dark army as though it had wings . . . Nothing daunted, the priest stood in the middle of the track and held out his arm to stop another of the approaching horses. It paused and waited for him to mount, letting out a great breath of steam which formed the shape of a tree. Walchelin set his left foot onto the stirrup, and holding the reins, grasped the saddle. But immediately he had the sensation of burning fire under his foot, and the hand that held the reins sent a shiver of icy cold straight to his heart. At the same time, four dreadful knights approached and thundered at him: ‘Why are you troubling our horses? Come along with us. You have not been hurt by any of our companions, but you try to take what belongs to us.’ Dreadfully frightened, Walchelin released the horse, but as three of the knights were about to seize him, the fourth said: ‘Leave him alone and let me talk to him, so that I may send messages to my wife and


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sons.’ Then he addressed the frightened priest: ‘I pray you, listen to me, and take this message to my wife.’ Walchelin replied: ‘I do not know who you are, and nor do I know your wife.’ The knight said: ‘I am William of Glos, son of Barnon, who was well-known as steward of William of Breteuil and, before him, of his father William, earl of Hereford. I was responsible for unlawful judgments and seizures while I was alive, and have carried out more sinful actions than I can tell. But I am troubled most of all by the sin of usury. While I was alive, I made a loan to a poor man, and was given his mill as security for the loan. But he was unable to repay me, and so I kept the mill and displaced the lawful heir by bequeathing it to my heirs. You may see that in my mouth there is the burning shaft of a mill-wheel which weighs upon me more heavily than the fortress of Rouen. You must give a message to my wife Beatrice and my son Roger that they should bring me comfort by returning this security to the rightful heir. They have benefited from it far more than the amount of the original loan.’ The priest replied: ‘The death of William of Glos occurred a long time ago, and no-one who truly believes could carry a message such as this. I have no idea who you are, or who are your heirs. If I were to give such a message to Roger of Glos and his brothers and mother, they would mock me as a fool . . . Under no circumstances will I carry out your orders or take your message.’ Enraged, the knight reached out and seized the priest by the throat, pulling him along and making as if to attack him. The priest felt that he was being held by a hand that burnt like fire, and in great fear called out: ‘Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ, come to my aid.’ As soon as he implored the help of the glorious and compassionate Mother of the Son of God, help came to him . . . Another knight appeared, bearing a sword in his right hand; wielding the drawn sword as though he were prepared to strike, he said: ‘You miserable wretches, why are you threatening to kill my brother? Be off and leave him alone.’ When the other figures had departed, the knight stood alone with Walchelin in the midst of the trackway and asked:

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‘Don’t you know who I am? I am Robert, son of Ralph the Fair-Haired. I am your brother.’ As the priest stood there, astonished at this unexpected news, and troubled by all the sights and sensations of the evening, the knight began to recall their time together as boys and to bring forward many proofs that he was indeed who he said he was. The priest remembered everything that he spoke of, but did not dare to admit it, so that eventually the knight said: ‘I am astonished at your stony response. I raised you after our father and mother died, and took more care of you than anyone alive. I sent you to France for your education, I provided you with apparel and livelihood, and I helped you in many other ways. Now you will not recall any of this, and cannot even be bothered to acknowledge me.’ With such sincere truths being spoken to him, the priest tearfully acknowledged that it was indeed his brother, who continued: ‘It would have been right if you had died and been carried away with us to share our suffering, for you foolishly tried to take things that belonged to us. No-one else has ever attempted this; but your celebration of Mass earlier today has saved you. It is also the case that I have been allowed to appear to you and show you how wretched I am. After we spoke for the last time in Normandy, I departed for England without consulting you; there my life ended as my Creator ordained, and I have undergone severe punishment for the weighty sins which bore so heavily upon me. The weapons which we carry are burning hot, and they give off a terrible stench and bear down upon us with an unbearable weight, and smoulder on forever. Until this time, I have undergone terrible torment, but after you had been ordained in England and had celebrated your first Mass for those who had died in faith, your father Ralph was released from his torment and the burden of my shield, which had been a cause of great torment to me, fell away. You can see that I still bear this sword, but I faithfully await release from its burden in the coming year.’ When the knight had said all of this and more, and the priest had examined him closely, he noticed that there seemed to be a great clot of blood, shaped like a human head, attached


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to the spurs on the heels of his feet. The priest was horrified, and asked: ‘Why do you have that great mass of blood around your heels?’ His brother replied that it was not blood, but fire, ‘and it is heavier to me than if I were carrying the Mont-Saint-Michel. I am rightfully forced to carry this enormous weight on my heels, because I once wore shining pointed spurs in my eagerness to spill blood . . . Those who are still alive should always remember such things, and should take care not to risk such awful punishment for their sins. But I cannot speak with you any longer, my brother, for I have to hurry onwards with this troop of the damned. Pray for me, I implore you. Remember me in your prayers and your alms-giving. Exactly a year after Palm Sunday I hope I will be saved and freed from torment by the compassion of my Creator. Look to your own salvation. Amend your own way of life, for it is stained by many misdeeds, and you must surely understand that this cannot last. For the moment, you must not speak of this. Do not tell of all that you have heard or witnessed, or reveal it to anyone for the next three days.’ With these words, the knight rode off. The priest Walchelin was taken gravely ill and remained unwell for a whole week; as he began to recover, he went to Bishop Gilbert of Lisieux and told him of all that had happened to him, and was given by the bishop everything that he needed to restore him to health. He lived on for fifteen years or more, and I myself heard from him everything that I have written down and saw the mark on his face left when he was touched by the dreadful knight . . . Source: Re-told from the Latin Orderici Vitalis Historia Ecclesiastica, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CLXXXVIII, cols. 607–12. A six-volume edition of the Ecclesiastical History, ed. and trans. M. Chibnall, was published by the Clarendon Press, Oxford, between 1969 and 1980. For a review of the extensive bibliography relating to Hellequin’s Hunt in medieval literature and folklore, see H. Flasdieck, ‘Herlekin’, Anglia LI (1937), pp. 225–338.

The Peterborough Continuation of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle Although, as its title implies, the major part of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle contains records from the centuries before the Norman Conquest, when England was ruled by Anglo-Saxon and Danish kings, some regional continuations of the Chronicle were maintained well into the Anglo-Norman period. One of these was at Peterborough Abbey, which continued to record yearly entries during the first part of the twelfth century. This extract from the entries for the years 1127–28 is notable in that it uses the motif of the Wild Hunt of ghostly figures for purposes of what in a later age might have been regarded as political comment or even satire. To the twelfth-century chronicler and his fellow monks, the monstrous hunters who were seen stalking around their abbey deerfold would have signified the disruption of the natural order caused by what they evidently regarded as an inappropriate royal appointment to the position of abbot of Peterborough. The preface to this entry gives a disparaging description of the abbot in question, Henry of Poitou, and summarises his career as one of avarice and exploitative association with remunerative abbeys and monasteries in France and England.


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The Dark Hunters of Peterborough An. MCXXVII

T

hen Henry of Poitou thought that, if he could be established in England, he might have everything he wanted. He went to the king [Henry I] and said to him that, because he was old and helpless, he could not endure the great injustice and dissension in the land [France]. In his own name and that of all his friends, of whom he provided a list, he beseeched the king to give him the abbacy of Peterborough. The king granted it to him, both because he was his own relation, and because he had been of use as a sworn witness when the marriage of the son of the Duke of Normandy to the daughter of the Count of Anjou was ended on account of their consanguinity. In this disgraceful manner the abbacy was disposed of at London between Christmas and Candlemas. And so the new abbot went with the king as far as Winchester, and afterwards arrived at Peterborough. There he lived like a drone in a beehive: all that the bees in the hive are able to gather in, the drones devour and draw from them. So did he: all that he could take, within the abbey and outside it, from the clergy and the laity, he sent overseas. He did no good there, and he left no good there. Let everyone who hears this believe, and let them regard this testimony as true (for it soon became common knowledge throughout the country) that, as soon as he arrived there, which was on the Sunday when they sing ‘Exurge Quare O Domine’ [Sexagesima Sunday: 6 February 1127] then immediately afterwards a great number of people saw and heard many hunters hunting. The hunters were dark and huge and ugly and all their hounds dark and broad-eyed and ugly; and they rode on dark horses and dark stags. This was seen in the deerfold in the town of Peterborough itself, and in all the woods that lead from the same town to Stamford. The monks heard the sound of the horns that they blew in the night. Trustworthy men who were on watch that night said that, as far as they could judge, there were about twenty or thirty horn-blowers. This was seen

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and heard from the time that Abbot Henry came there, throughout Lententide to Easter. This was his entrance; of his exit we cannot yet say anything . . . An. MCXXVIII

A

nd in this year, the same Abbot Henry went home to his iown monastery of Poitou, by the king’s leave. He had originally given the king to understand that he would entirely leave that monastery and that land, and stay with him there in England, in the monastery of Peterborough. But nevertheless it was not so: he did it because, full of guile as he was, he wanted to spend twelve months or so [in Poitou] before coming back to Peterborough. May God Almighty have mercy over that wretched place . . .

Source: Adapted from Anglo-Saxon Chronicle II, ed. and trans. B. Thorpe, Rolls Series, London 1861, pp. 224–5. An edition of The Peterborough Chronicle, 1070–1154, ed. and trans. C. Clark, was published by the Clarendon Press, Oxford, in 1970.

The ‘Deeds of the English Kings’ of William of Malmesbury The monk William of Malmesbury (c.1090–1143) was both an historian in the tradition of Bede and a recounter of Mirabilia in the manner of later court writers. His De Gestis Regum Anglorum was begun in about the year 1125, and is largely a chronicle of the history of Britain from its earliest times. Among the historical references there are a number of anecdotal accounts of supernatural events in Britain and elsewhere, which William presents as being no less true than the achievements of the kings whose deeds he is chronicling. In the first of the extracts that follow, the spirit of a woman who has led an evil life is claimed by the same hellish emissaries who led her astray in her lifetime. The story that I have called ‘The Jealous Venus’ is a variation on ancient tales of statues which come to life; in William’s description of the bizarre procession observed by the young man there are strong overtones of the Hellequin’s Hunt motif. The final story presents a warning about the dangers of pacts with the dead and attempts to forestall divine judgment. Indeed, the common theme running through all three stories is William of Malmesbury’s disapproval of any activity which might involve the conjuration of spirits. The Witch of Berkeley is punished for sins which included the practices of augury and soothsaying; the Roman magician Palumbus who helps the young man regain conjugal bliss eventually dies a shameful death, punished for his necromancy; and the speculative philosophy in which the Two Clerks of Nantes indulge during their lifetime leads them to make an agreement which will eventually involve the raising of the dead.

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The Witch of Berkeley Book II, Sec. 204

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t this time an event occurred in England which was not a icelestial miracle, but an infernal wonder. I am sure none of my listeners will doubt the story, although they might in fact wonder at it. I heard of these events from a distinguished man who swore he had seen them for himself, and I would be ashamed not to believe him . . . . . . In Berkeley there was a woman who, so it was later said, was accustomed to wickedness and to the practice of ancient methods of augury and soothsaying. She was a creature of immodesty, who indulged her appetites. She had taken no heed of scandal throughout her life, but she was beginning to grow old and fearful of the battering footsteps of death. One day, as she was dining, a little crow which she kept as a pet uttered a cry that sounded like human speech. This startled her so much that she dropped her knife. Groaning sorrowfully, her face suddenly grown pale, she said: ‘Today my plough has turned its final furrow. I am about to hear and undergo great sorrow.’ At that moment, a messenger arrived, and hesitantly gave her the news of the death of her son, and the catastrophic annihilation of all her family’s hopes. Wounded to the very heart, the woman took to her bed and, pained by a deadly sickness, summoned her remaining children, a monk and a nun. In a gasping voice, she said: ‘My children, I have enslaved myself to the artifice of the devil and have been the mistress of forbidden things. But despite my evil doings, I have always been accustomed to hope that my miserable soul might be eased in the end by the comforts of your religion. In my desperate straits, I always thought of you both as my champions against the demons, and my guardians against a most savage enemy. Now, as I end my life, I am likely to face the prospect of being tortured and punished by those very beings who used to be my advisers in sin. I implore you, therefore – I who brought you into the world and suckled you


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– to do all that you can from faith and pity to alleviate my coming torment. I do not expect that you can deflect the true judgment from my soul, but perhaps you can help me by attending to my body in the following way. Sew me up in the hide of a deer, and then place me face upwards in a stone sarcophagus, the lid sealed with lead and iron. Bind the stone with three heavy iron chains, and let there be fifty psalms sung each night, and masses said each day to lessen the ferocious attacks of my enemies. When I have lain secure in this way for three nights, bury me on the fourth day – although, so grave are my sins, I fear the earth itself might refuse to receive me to its warming bosom.’ All was done as she directed, her children attending to the matter with great zeal and affection. But such had been her wickedness that no amount of piety and prayer availed against the violence of the devil. On the first and second night of the vigil, when choirs of clerics had gathered to sing melodious psalms around her bier, demons pulled apart the outer edges of the door of the church, which had been bolted with an iron bar (although the central part of the door, which was of more elaborate construction, held fast). On the third night, around cock-crow, the enemy arrived making the most terrible noise, and all of the monastery was shaken to its foundations. One demonic creature, larger and more terrible than the others, threw down the entrance door, which was shattered into fragments. The priests stood rigid with dread, ‘hair on end and voices stopped in their throats’ [Aeneid, III, 48] as the creature approached the sarcophagus with an arrogant swagger. The creature called the woman by name and ordered her to rise up, to which the reply came that she was unable to do so because of the chains that bound the sarcophagus. ‘By the power of your sins you will be unbound,’ said the demon, and at once pulled apart the iron chain as though it were no more than a cord of flax. The coffin lid was thrown off, and the woman was seized and dragged out of the church before the horrified gaze of the observers. Outside the portals of the church a fierce black horse stood neighing, with iron barbs protruding along

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the length of its back. Onto these hooks the woman was placed, and the entire demonic retinue quickly disappeared from sight, although their cries of triumph and the woman’s pleas for mercy could be heard up to four miles away. These events will not be thought incredible by anyone who has read the Dialogues of the blessed Pope Gregory, who tells of a wicked man who was buried in a church and who was then cast out of it by demons [Dialogues IV, Chap. 53]. Among the French also the story is often told of Charles Martel, a man of such great prowess during his life that he forced the Saracens to retreat to Spain after their invasion of Gaul. Ending his days, he was buried in the church of Saint-Denis, but, because he had plundered the estates of almost all the monasteries of Gaul to pay his soldiers, his body was snatched from his tomb, and has never been seen since. This was later revealed by the bishop of Orleans, and the story has become widely known . . .

The Jealous Venus Book II, Sec. 205

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n Rome a wealthy young man who came from a good family idecided to take a wife. Summoning his friends, he prepared a lavish banquet to celebrate his marriage and after they had drained the wine-cups of the very last of his hospitality, they all went cheerfully out into the public square to ease their aching stomachs by running, jumping, casting javelins and other forms of exercise. The young man himself led the way and, as king of the revels, proposed a game of football. In the meantime he placed his wedding ring on the finger of the outstretched hand of a golden statue which stood nearby. But as soon as they had started playing and had all become heated and out of breath, he was the first to withdraw from the game. Returning to fetch the ring, he found the finger of the statue curved back into its palm as though to clutch the ring, and so he stood there wondering what to do. Eventually, wishing


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neither to lose the ring nor to damage the statue, he went quietly away keeping the matter secret from his companions, since he feared they might laugh at his predicament or even attempt to make off with the ring itself. Later he came back at dead of night with his slaves, but was astonished to see the finger of the statue extended once more and the ring itself gone. He concealed the loss and returned to the loving arms of his young wife. But when they had retired to bed, and he made as if to embrace her, he sensed that some kind of indefinable presence, which it was possible to feel but not to see, had insinuated itself between the bodies of his wife and himself, preventing him from embracing her. At the same time, he heard a voice say: ‘Make love to me, because today you promised yourself to me. I am Venus, and it was on my finger that you placed the ring. I have it and shall never return it.’ Terrified by this extraordinary occurrence, the young man dared not reply, and lay awake all that night wondering what he should do. Time went on, and the same thing kept happening. However much he might wish to make love to his wife, he was prevented from doing so, although in all other respects his health was good. Finally his wife’s complaints forced him to refer the matter to their parents, and on their advice he took the matter to a certain priest of the town called Palumbus. This man was well-versed in the arts of necromancy, being able to summon spirits and demons by magic rites and send them forth on errands whenever he wished. The price of his help having been agreed upon, and in the knowledge that if he succeeded in uniting the newly-weds, his purse would become heavy with gold, Palumbus gave thought to his secret arts and gave the young man a letter which he had composed. ‘Tonight,’ he told him, ‘you must go to the crossroads where four paths meet, and wait there as a procession passes. There will be all kinds of figures, men and women of all ages and rank and social condition. Some will be riding, others walking. Some will be sad, their countenance dejected; others will be cheerful and even arrogant. Whatever their mood, you will know it by their face and gesture. Following behind this crowd,

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and towering above them, there will be the corpulent figure of an idol placed in a chariot, and to this you must quietly hand over the letter I have given you. Everything that you wish for will follow immediately upon this, but make sure you keep your wits about you. Hurry off now and do as I say . . .’ The young man set out as directed, and that night he stood beneath the idol and saw that everything was as Palumbus had predicted. Among those passing in the procession he saw a woman mounted on a mule and dressed in lavish garments which were not at all suitable for riding. Her long hair, bound with gold braid, flowed onto her shoulders, and she controlled her mount with a staff of gold. She seemed almost naked, so delicate was her clothing. What more need be said about the immodesty of her behaviour . . .? As the young man presented himself before the idol in its lofty chariot decorated with emeralds and pearls, it turned a terrible gaze upon him and asked why he was there. Silently he proffered the letter, and the idol, taking note of Palumbus’s seal on the letter, did not dare refuse it. Reading the letter, it raised its arms to the sky and roared: ‘Almighty God, how long will you overlook the misdeeds of the priest Palumbus?’ At once it sent its attendants over to recover the ring from Venus, and it was finally handed over with great show of difficulty and reluctance. And so the young man was able to fulfil his wedding vows and embrace his wife at last. But when Palumbus heard of the demonic complaint that had been made to God about him, he realised that his end was about to come. And in fact he was shortly afterwards put to death, dying with mutilated body and in repentance of his sins, making a full confession of his scandalous crimes to the pope and to the Roman people . . .


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The Two Clerks of Nantes Book III, Sec. 237

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here were in the town of Nantes two young clerks, not yet old enough to be priests, who expected to attain that office more by lobbying the local bishop than by leading a good and virtuous life; and at last the miserable fate of one of them taught the other that they had both been in danger of falling into the infernal pit. From the first stages of life, they were both friends and rivals and, in the words of the poet, ‘struggling with hands and feet, they would even have undergone death for each other . . .’ [Terence, Andria IV, I] As the years passed they became more learned and wealthy; their minds were stretched, but they were still unsatisfied, and they became more intent upon the paths of error than of rectitude. Among other matters, they speculated about the approach of that dreadful day which would inextricably sever the bonds of friendship; and they agreed therefore on an oath, which would bind them when they were alive, that after the death of the first their friendship should continue. They swore that the first of them to die should appear to the survivor, whether he was asleep or awake, within thirty days without fail. Thus they might learn whether, as the Platonists teach, death does not extinguish the spirit, but sends it to God in a new beginning, as though it were released from prison; or whether, as the Epicureans believe, the soul dissolves from the body to be dissipated in the air and carried away on the wind. Having sworn the oath, they often renewed the pact in their daily debates. Not long afterwards, death itself came crawling and snatched the last breath from one of the two friends. The one who remained alive thought gravely about the joint oath they had sworn, and waited somewhat apprehensively for the next thirty days. When the time had elapsed, and he had despaired of any contact from the other, he had retired to bed when suddenly the other appeared, with his face pale and his counte-

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nance that of one on his deathbed. ‘Do you recognise me?’ he asked his speechless companion. ‘I do,’ came the reply, ‘and as well as being astonished at your appearance I wonder why you have taken so long to return.’ The dead man apologised for his tardy arrival, and said: ‘I have come at last, having freed myself from all that was holding me back, but although my appearance will be useful to you, it is altogether unhelpful to me. For, by judgment pronounced and ratified, I am given over to eternal punishment.’ The living man protested that, to help his dead friend, he would spend all that he had on donations to monasteries and the poor, and that he would persist day and night in fasting and prayer, but the spirit interrupted him: ‘All has been decided. By the judgment of God, and without remission, I am sunk in the sulphurous abyss of hell. There I revolve endlessly, while the stars turn on their axes and the sea beats on the shore, because of my crimes. The rigour of the inflexible sentence remains, intermingling eternal and innumerable forms of punishment, so that throughout the entire universe there is no health or remedy for me.’ In order that his friend might learn from his countless torments, he held out a hand dripping with ulcerated sores and said: ‘See here, does this seem insubstantial to you?’ When his friend replied that the hand did indeed seem light and lacking in substance, the other bent his fingers and flicked three drops of pus onto him. Two of them struck his friend on the temple, and the other on the forehead, so that they pierced his skin and flesh like cauterising fire and made a hole the size of a walnut. When the living man gave a great shout of pain, his dead companion said: ‘This will mark you for as long as you live. It will serve as a proof of my suffering and, unless you ignore it, a special reminder of the need to look to your own future health. For this reason, while it is still possible . . . change your way of life and your spirit and become a monk at the shrine of Saint Malo at Rennes.’ When the living man remained silent, his companion fixed him with a piercing gaze: ‘If you are in doubt about whether I am indeed transformed, miserable wretch, read these letters,’ and at the same time he opened his


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hand to show a horrible inscription, in which Satan and his cohorts sent their thanks from the depths of Hell to the entire congregation of the church for its lack of pastoral care, which was allowing more souls to descend into hell than in any previous age. With these words, the apparition disappeared. His friend immediately gave away all his goods to the church and the needy and went to the shrine of Malo. There he advised all those who bore witness to his sudden conversion to say: ‘This change has been wrought by the right hand of the Almighty’ [Psalms 77, 10] . . . Source: Re-told from the Latin De Gestis Regum Anglorum Willelmi Malmesbiriensis Monachi, ed. W. Stubbs, Rolls Series, London 1887/89, Vol. I, pp. 253–8 and Vol. II, pp. 295–7. An edition with the title William of Malmesbury: Gesta Regum Anglorum, ed. and trans. R.A.B. Mynors, R.M. Thomson and M. Winterbottom, was published by the Clarendon Press, Oxford 1998.

The ‘Courtiers’ Trifles’ of Walter Map Walter Map (c.1140–c.1209) was one of the ‘court clerics’ who thrived at the Plantagenet court of Henry II. He was born near Hereford, on the Welsh border, and much of the material devoted to the supernatural in his De Nugis Curialium draws on Celtic traditions. Written in the 1180s, the work is a compendium of the kind of gossip, anecdotes and accounts of marvellous happenings that courtiers in the royal household might indeed trifle with during their idle hours. In the chapters where Walter Map tells stories of the supernatural, his apparitions and phantoms are not so much the returning spirits of the dead as the inhabitants of a parallel world which interacts with the real world on occasion to produce the kind of marvels which he recounts. One of his most significant distinctions is that a particular story is ‘not a miracle but a marvel’. Thus, in the tale of King Herla, the mortal king’s pygmy counterpart (perhaps one of the ‘little people’ of Celtic folklore) lures the protagonist and his companions away to a world where time has no meaning. When the royal retinue seek to return to their own time, they become lost wanderers, forming the basis of yet another version of the Wild Hunt legend. The stories which Walter Map tells about ghostly women reinforce this notion of a parallel world. ‘A Lady of the Lake’ and ‘The Wife of Edric Wilde’ are, according to his description, phantoms willing to take on physical form for as long as they are accorded honour by their mortal husbands; the tribute to Edric Wilde’s heir Alnodus, and the recording of the epithet ‘The Sons of the Dead Woman’, attest perhaps to the persistence of an ancient belief that it is possible for mortal men to sire children upon the women of a parallel world. In the last of these stories, ‘The Demon at the Cradle’ bears a


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gruesome and sinister resemblance to Gervase of Tilbury’s description of the ghostly creature known as the Lamia.

The Tale of King Herla Part I, Chap. XI

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e are told in old stories that Herla, the king of the ancient Britons, was enticed into an agreement by another king, who was a pygmy: his bodily height did not exceed that of an ape. According to the story, this dwarf approached King Herla sitting on a huge goat – resembling the depictions of Pan, with a glowing face, enormous head, and a red beard so long that it touched his chest (which was brightly decorated with a dappled fawn skin), a hairy belly, and thighs which tapered into goats’ feet. No-one else was present when they spoke. ‘I am the lord of many kings and chieftains,’ said the pygmy, ‘and of a people without number. I come to you willingly, sent by my people, and although you do not know who I am, I glory in the fame which has raised you above other kings. You are the best and nearest to me in place and lineage, and you are worthy of having me honour you as a guest at your wedding. Although you do not know it, the king of the French has given his daughter to you, and his messengers will arrive to announce it this very day. Let there be an agreement between us, that I shall attend your wedding, and you shall attend mine a year to the day later.’ With these words, he went away as fast as a tiger and vanished from the king’s sight. Then King Herla returned in amazement to his court, received the ambassadors from France, and accepted their terms. As he was sitting in high state at his wedding feast, the pygmy entered before the first course with so many of his subjects that the tables were filled. More guests had to be seated outside the palace than within, in the pygmy’s own pavilions, which had instantly been erected. From

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these tents servants sprang forth with vases made of precious stones, perfect in form and intricately worked, and they filled the palace and pavilions with gold and crystal vessels. The pygmy servants attended to every need, offering nothing from the royal cellars but plentiful hospitality from their own supplies, more than enough indeed to satisfy every guest’s need and desire. Everything which King Herla had prepared was untouched, and his own servants sat idly by. The pygmies were everywhere, winning every guest’s thanks, aflame with the glory of their garments and gems, like the sun and moon which outshine the other stars. As his servants busied themselves about him, the pygmy king said to Herla: ‘O best of kings, the Lord is my witness that, as we agreed, I am present at your wedding. If you desire anything beyond what you see here, I shall willingly supply it. But you must not fail to repay me this high honour when I require you to do so.’ Without waiting for an answer, he suddenly returned to his pavilion and departed with all his men about the time of cock-crow. Exactly a year later, he appeared to Herla, and demanded that the king should fulfil his side of the bargain. Herla agreed, and he and his retinue followed where they were led. They entered a cavern in a very lofty cliff, and after a space of darkness, they passed into light (made not by the sun and the moon but by many lamps) to the home of the pygmies. It was a glorious mansion, like Ovid’s account of the palace of the sun. Having celebrated the marriage in this place, and having discharged his debt to the pygmy king, Herla was allowed to take his leave, laden with gifts and presents of horses, dogs, hawks and everything necessary for hunting and falconry. The pygmy king conducted his guests as far as the darkness, and as he left he gave them a small bloodhound, which he insisted should be carried. He strictly forbade anyone in Herla’s retinue to dismount until the dog leapt out of the arms of the person who carried it. Then, having said farewell, the pygmy king went back to his own domain. Returning to the sunlight and to his own country, Herla approached an old shepherd and asked for news of his queen.


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The shepherd looked at him wonderingly and said: ‘My lord, I can barely understand you, for I am a Saxon and you are a Briton. I do not know such a queen, except that old men tell stories of a woman of that name, a queen of the ancient Britons, who was wife of King Herla. Legend says that he disappeared with a pygmy into this cliff and has never been seen again. The Saxons drove out the native people from this place over two hundred years ago.’ The king, who thought he had been gone for no more than three days, could scarcely remain in the saddle. Indeed, some of his companions, heedless of the pygmy’s warnings, dismounted before the descent of the little dog, and were immediately turned into dust. The king forbade anyone else to touch the earth, but the little dog remained where it was, and never descended to the ground. Legend has it that King Herla wanders endlessly, making wild marches with his retinue, never stopping or resting. Many claim to have seen them. But it is said that, in the first year of the coronation of our King Henry [Henry II], Herla’s troop finally ceased to visit our kingdom. It was seen by many of the people of Wales riding beneath the surface of the river Wye at Hereford. From that moment, it is said, the wild march ceased ... Later, in Part IV, Chap. XIII, Walter Map speaks again about Herla’s troop, and uses the description of the ghostly rabble to satirise the peripatetic nature of the Angevin court: . . . from that day the troop has nowhere been seen. They seem to have handed over their wandering to us poor fools, those wanderings in which we wear out our clothes, waste whole kingdoms, break down our bodies and those of our beasts, and have no time to seek medicine for our poor souls . . .

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A Lady of the Lake Part II, Chap. XI

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elshmen tell us of another thing, not a miracle but a marvel. They say that Gwestin of Ffestiniog kept watch near Brecknock Mere, which is also known as the Lake of Llangorse. It is about two miles in circumference, and there he saw, on three successive moonlit nights, bands of dancing women in his fields of oats, and he followed them until they sank in the water of the lake. On the fourth night, he detained one of these maidens. He was able to do so because on each of the previous nights after they had entered the water he had heard them murmuring below the surface, saying: ‘If he had done this or that he would have been able to catch one of us.’ Gwestin told how he had in this way been taught from her own mouth how to capture the maiden, who yielded to him and married him. The lady’s first words to her husband were: ‘I shall willingly serve you in all obedience and devotion until that day when in your eagerness to hasten beyond Llyfni you will strike at me with your bridle-rein.’ Llyfni is a river near the lake. And indeed this is what happened, for, after the birth of many children, she was struck by him with his bridle-rein, and when he returned, he saw her fleeing with all her children . . . Walter Map goes on to tell how Gwestin snatched back from the lady one of his sons, Triunein Nagelauc – Trinio Faglog – and devotes the rest of this chapter to an account of Triunein’s martial adventures. After a final account of his defeat in battle, the chapter concludes: But men say that Triunein was saved by his mother and lives with her in the lake. I think this is a lie, and a falsehood to account for his body not having been found. . .).


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The Wife of Edric Wilde Part II, Chap. XII

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similar story is told about Edric Wilde, a so-called ‘man iof the woods’ who was renowned for his physical strength and his gracious speech and works. He was lord of the manor of North Ledbury. One night when he was returning late from hunting, accompanied only by a boy, he lost his way. About midnight, wandering in search of the path, he came upon a great house on the edge of a wood. It was the kind of house which the English have in each parish for drinking, which they call in their language a ‘guildhouse’. When he drew near, attracted by a light in the house, he looked in and saw a band of many noble women. They were most beautiful in appearance and were elegantly clad in robes of the finest linen. They were taller and more stately than our women. They moved about with an airy motion, with pleasing gestures and hushed voices. The sound they made was melodious but faint, and he could not understand their speech. The knight noticed one among them whose beauty far exceeded the others. She was more to be desired than the mistresses of kings. At the sight of her, the knight received a wound in his heart. He found it hard to endure the pain of Cupid’s dart . . . . . . Edric had heard of the wanderings of spirits, the bands of dryads and spectres, and the troops of demons who appear by night, the very sight of them bringing death. He had heard of the revenge inflicted by offended divinities upon those who came upon them suddenly. He had heard too how they keep themselves chaste and pure, and how they secretly inhabit places unknown to men, and how they detest those who attempt to explore their counsels . . . He had heard of their revenge and of the men whom they had punished . . . But Cupid is blind, and Edric paid no heed to the danger of the ghostly company. He went around the house and, finding an entrance, rushed in and seized the lady whom he desired. He was immediately resisted by the others, who attempted to

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hold him back, and he only escaped by the greatest of effort and with the help of the boy. Although he bore on his feet and shins the marks of the teeth and nails of the other women, he carried away with him the lady of his choice. He took his pleasure with her for three days and nights, but in all that time, he was unable to get a word from her, although she passively submitted to his love. Finally, on the fourth day, she said: ‘My dear one, you shall be safe and joyful, and you will prosper, until the time when you reproach me because of my sisters, from whom you took me, or because of the place or the wood from which you carried me away. From that time onwards, your happiness will disappear. Having lost me, you will suffer many other losses . . . and you will die before your time.’ Edric promised to be firm and faithful in his love. From far and near, he called together the noblest of his countrymen, and, in the presence of a great throng of people, solemnly married the lady. William the Bastard, recently crowned King of England, was then reigning; and the monarch, hearing of this marvel, and wishing to test its truth, summoned both the man and wife to his court in London. They brought with them many witnesses, and also the evidence of others who could not be present. But the woman herself, who was of a beauty which had never been seen or heard of until that time, was the chief proof of her fairy nature. Amidst general astonishment, Edric and his wife were sent back to their home. After many years had passed, it happened that Edric, on his return from hunting late at night, could not find his wife and called for her. When, after some delay, she arrived, he looked angrily at her and said: ‘Did your sisters keep you?’ The rest of his angry words were spoken to the empty air, for she disappeared at the mention of the word ‘sisters’. Then Edric regretted his grave mistake, and went to the very place where he had made her captive, but for all his crying and lamenting, he could not win her back. Day and night he cried aloud there, and his life passed away in never-ending sorrow . . . Walter Map goes on to tell how Edric left an heir, Alnodus (Aelfnoth), who was his son by the mysterious lady. Alnodus was a


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man of great holiness and wisdom, who was healed of paralysis at the altar of St Ethelbert in Hereford, and left the Ledbury estate to the Hereford diocese. Map concludes: We have heard of demons, incubi and succubi, and of the perils of cohabiting with them, but we have seldom or never read in old histories that their offspring are happy in their end like Alnodus, who gave his whole inheritance to Christ in return for health, and passed in pilgrimages the rest of his life in His service . . .

The Sons of the Dead Woman Part II, Chap. XIII

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he word ‘phantom’ is derived from ‘phantasy’ – that is, a passing apparition. Those forms which demons sometimes assume by their own power before the eyes of men (the demons having first received God’s permission) pass either harmlessly or harmfully according to the will of the Lord. For He who permits the appearance of phantoms either protects the observers or abandons them and thus allows them to be tempted. On the other hand, what are we to say about those ghostly appearances which endure and are perpetuated through worthy descendants like Alnodus the son of Edric the Wilde? Another example is to be found in a story told by the ancient Britons. A certain knight buried his wife, who was dead without a shadow of doubt, but won her back again by snatching her from a band of dancers; and he was afterwards presented by her with children and grandchildren. Their descendants survive to this day – indeed, a great many people claim to be part of their lineage – and all of them are called ‘sons of the dead woman’ . . .


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The Demon at the Cradle Part II, Chap. XIV

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certain knight found that his first-born child, by a iworthy iand nobly born wife who was very dear to him, had its throat cut in its cradle on the first morning after its birth. The same thing happened with a second child a year later, and with a third child in the third year, despite the care and attention taken by himself and his friends. He and his wife therefore waited tearfully for the arrival of the fourth child with many fasts and alms and prayers. When a boy was born, they placed fires and lights all around and kept careful watch on the child. Just then a stranger arrived, weary from a long journey. Seeking hospitality in God’s name, he was welcomed most heartily and joined them to keep watch. Among them all, he was the only one remaining awake after midnight to see an old lady bending over the cradle and seizing the child as if to cut its throat. He jumped forward and grasped hold of her and, when the others gathered round, many of them recognised her as the noblest and most respectable woman in the city. But she refused to confirm her name or to answer their questions. The father of the child and others in the crowd interpreted this as evidence of her shame, and pleaded for her release. But the stranger would not let her go, declaring that she was a demon. Still holding her tight, he branded her face as a sign of her evil with one of the keys of a nearby church. He then instructed them to go and fetch immediately the woman whom she resembled and whom they had believed her to be. While he was still holding his captive, the lady was led forward and resembled her double in every way, even to the mark of branding. Then the stranger said to the others, who stood gaping with astonishment: ‘It is my opinion that the lady who has just arrived is both virtuous and beloved of God. By her good deeds she has provoked the envy of demons, and so this base messenger of theirs, this dreadful instrument of their wrath,


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has been moulded in the likeness of the good woman so as to cast the disgrace of wicked deeds upon her noble soul. But have faith, and see what happens when I release it.’ Then the creature flew away through the window with great weeping and wailing ... Source: Adapted from Master Walter Map’s Book: De Nugis Curialium, trans. F. Tupper and F.B. Ogle, London 1924, pp. 15–18, 91–9. An edition of the De Nugis Curialium, ed. and trans. M.R. James, revised by C.N.L. Brooke and R.A.B. Mynors, was published by the Clarendon Press, Oxford 1983.

The Chronicle of Lanercost Priory Lanercost Priory, near Carlisle, was an Augustinian community which was founded in c.1166, and at some later date this strange little legend about a meeting between the bishop of Winchester and the spirit of King Arthur was recorded in its chronicle. The entry date in the chronicle giving the year 1216 as the time of the meeting corresponds to a particularly chaotic year during the period when Peter des Roches held the see of Winchester. This bishop played a key role as an adviser to King John during the civil war which followed the king’s alienation from his barons. As we have seen in ‘The Dark Hunters of Peterborough’, supernatural incidents of this kind were often recorded as a means of highlighting the portentous implications of turbulent political events. Quite why the chronicle of a monastery near the Scottish border should record a legend about a churchman from the south of England is unclear, although both the border country and the district around Winchester itself had legendary associations with Arthur (there is a hilltop called Sleepers’ Hill near Winchester where the recumbent king supposedly lies awaiting the call of destiny). There are themes in this story – the palace in the woods, the attentive servants, the powerful monarch from another time who lives on in a dimension close to our own – which are reminiscent of Walter Map’s accounts of apparitions and the wandering of King Herla. The folk-tales connecting Bishop Peter des Roches with butterflies may have arisen from the tendency of ‘this kind of fluttering creature’ to hatch out from the crevices in his tomb when the winter sunlight fell on his effigy in Winchester Cathedral.


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King Arthur and the Butterfly Bishop AD MCCXVI

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t this point I will record the stories told to me by older imen about Peter des Roches, bishop of Winchester, to whom I have referred from time to time. He was a proud man, overly attached to secular affairs, in the manner of many of our churchmen. As he enjoyed pleasurable pastimes rather than the healing of souls, it is said that on one occasion he went off with some huntsmen on one of his frequent forays to pursue game in a nearby forest which was owned by his bishopric. When the huntsmen had been disposed at various points around the woodland to move the quarry through it, and were at some distance from him, the bishop was moving across a flat piece of ground when he caught sight of an elegant new mansion which he had never noticed before. He was full of admiration for its grace and proportion, and, astonished that anyone should come up with such a design, moved nearer to see it better. As he approached, a number of servants dressed in splendid apparel ran towards him, and immediately pressed him to attend the banquet of the king, who was waiting for him. He was reluctant to do so, and sent his regrets with the excuse that he had no clothes which would be suitable for a bishop to wear to a banquet. But then the servants dressed him in a suitable cloak and led him into the court before the king, who welcomed him as a guest. He was placed on the right hand of the monarch, and food and drink of the highest quality was set before him. During the meal he made so bold as to ask the king who he was, and where he came from. The king replied that he was Arthur, who was once the supreme ruler of the whole kingdom of Britain. Bishop Peter made as if to honour him and asked after his health. ‘Truly,’ said the king, ‘I wait upon the mercy of God.’ The bishop then asked: ‘My lord, who is there who will believe me when I tell them that today I saw and spoke with King Arthur?’

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‘Close your right hand,’ said the king, and when the bishop did so, the king said, ‘Now open it.’ When the bishop opened his hand, out flew a butterfly. ‘For the rest of your life,’ said the king, ‘you will have this to remember me by. Whatever the season of the year, if you wish to see this kind of fluttering creature, do as I have told you and your wish will be granted.’ This portent later became so well known that people often asked Bishop Peter for a blessing in the form of a butterfly, and he became known as the Butterfly Bishop. Let men reflect on what the spirit of King Arthur intended to tell us by this gesture: its relevance to the present day can only be guessed at ... Source: Re-told from the Latin Chronicon de Lanercost, ed. J. Stevenson, Edinburgh 1839, p. 23. For a detailed article about this legend, see the Winchester Cathedral Record 62, published by Friends of Winchester Cathedral 1993.

The ‘Conquest of Ireland’ of Giraldus Cambrensis Like Walter Map, Giraldus Cambrensis (c.1146–1223) drew heavily upon the Celtic traditions and folklore in which, through a cultural development linked with the extension of Norman and Angevin military power in Wales and Ireland, there was increasing interest to the court of Henry II. Giraldus was himself of Norman–Welsh descent, one of an extended family who formed a patronage network, styling themselves the ‘race of Nesta’ after one of their forebears, a Welsh princess who took a series of Norman lovers and husbands in the early twelfth century. The best-known works of Giraldus Cambrensis are a brace of topographies of Wales and Ireland as well as the Expugnatio Hibernica, an historical account of the invasion of Ireland in 1170–71 in which a number of his Norman–Welsh relatives played a prominent part. As a travel-writer Giraldus had a predilection for reporting upon the fantastic and outlandish. His topography of Ireland has an entire section devoted to the wonders and miracles of the country, which includes such chapters as ‘Of a fish which had three golden teeth’, ‘Of a woman who had a hairy crest on her back’, ‘Of the fleas which were got rid of by St Nannan’. Surprisingly, however, he tells very few anecdotes which could be categorised as ghost stories as such. In the following extracts from the Expugnatio, the first deals with an episode which reportedly occurred during the military campaign in Ireland itself: it has overtones of the Wild Hunt narrative motif which we have already encountered. The second extract is from a chapter in which Giraldus digresses briefly from his account of the military campaign to assess the validity or otherwise of premonitory


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apparitions, and does so by drawing heavily on allusions to antiquity and classical literature.

The Fight with the Ghostly Army Book I, Chap. IV

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t happened, while the army was in Ossory, that they iencamped one night on a certain old fortification, and these two young men [the cousins Robert de Barri and Meyler Fitz-Henry] were lying, as was their custom, in the same tent. Suddenly there was a great noise, as though many thousand men were rushing in upon them from all sides, with a great rattling of arms and clashing of battle-axes. Such spectral appearances frequently occur in Ireland to those who are engaged in hostile excursions. The alarm was so general that the greatest part of the army took flight and hid themselves in the woods and marshes; but the two cousins, snatching up their arms, ran to the tents of their leader Robert Fitz-Stephen, loudly calling on their scattered comrades to rally for the defence of the camp. Amidst the general confusion, Robert de Barri exerted himself bravely, to the admiration as well as the envy of many, and for the safety of any of his retainers who might happen to be there . . . In no attack, however unexpected, in no sudden surprise, was he ever known to fear or despair, or to flee shamefully, or to exhibit any consternation of mind . . .

Dreams and Portents Book I, Chap. XLI

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s there are many different opinions concerning visions, it imay be relevant on this occasion to introduce some true and authentic accounts of them which have been handed down to us. Valerius Maximus relates that two Arcadians were on a journey together, and when they came to a certain town, one of


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them lodged with a friend and the other went to a common inn. The one who lodged in his friend’s house dreamed that his fellow-traveller came to him and begged help against his host who was violently assaulting him. He woke up at this, but fell asleep again, and dreamed that his companion appeared to him a second time, and implored him that, although he would not come and help him while he was living, he might at least have him buried. He added that his host was then taking his corpse in a cart outside the town gate, to conceal it in a dunghill. The man’s friend woke up, and having searched around and found this account to be true, he caused the innkeeper to be arrested, condemned and executed. Arcerius Rufus dreamed that he was killed by a gladiator, a dream which came true the following day. The poet Simonides buried the corpse of a man which he found lying on the sea-shore, and was warned by the dead man in a dream the same night not to go to sea the next day. Accordingly he remained on shore, where he saw the sailors in the ship on which he was to have embarked set sail and then be overwhelmed by the waves. Calpurnia, Julius Caesar’s wife, dreamed the night before he was assassinated that he lay in her arms covered with mortal wounds: she was so terrified at this that she woke up and begged him not to go to the senate-house the next morning. But he put her off with excuses, not wanting to have it said that he put faith in any woman’s dream. We do not need to go so far for examples, for we can find them at home and in modern times. My brother, Walter de Barri, a man of status and a gallant soldier, made preparations for an expedition against his enemies. The night before he was due to set out, my own mother, who had died long before, appeared to him in a dream, and earnestly advised him to find some means of avoiding the next day’s expedition – I should add that she was not his mother, but his step-mother; but she loved him as if her were her own son. Walter related what had occurred to his father, who was mine also (we being his sons by different mothers and therefore half-brothers) and our father gave him the same advice [i.e. it is probable that Walter de

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Barri was the author’s eldest half-brother, and that he was killed before the expedition to Ireland; Giraldus’s mother, who ‘loved Walter as if her were her own son’, was Angharad, daughter of Princess Nesta by Gerald de Windsor]. However, he paid no attention to this advice, having all the arrogance natural to man, and being ashamed of appearing to be frightened by an idle dream. The next morning he went out on the expedition and was killed by the enemy the same day. We find also an example in which the outcome turned out to be otherwise. Valerius relates that on the eve of the battle between Augustus and Brutus, the goddess Minerva appeared in a dream to the emperor’s physician Artorius and urged him to prevent his master engaging in battle because he was sick. But although Augustus was informed of this, he had himself carried to war in a litter, and so won the battle. Again, shortly before our own times, it happened in the district called Kemmeis, in the province of Demetia in Wales, that a certain wealthy man, whose house stood on the north side of the mountains of Prescelly, had dreams for three successive nights, in which he was advised that if he went to a fountain in the neighbourhood called St Bernac’s Well and put his hand down to the stone which lay over the spring, he would draw out a collar of gold. On the third day, the man did as he was advised in the dreams, but when he put his hand into the hole it was bitten by a viper, and he died as a consequence. From these and other examples, whatever others may think of dreams, my opinion is that, like rumours, they may sometimes be believed and sometimes treated as idle tales . . . Source: Adapted from The Conquest of Ireland in The Historical Works of Giraldus Cambrensis, ed. and trans. T. Wright, London 1863, pp. 194–5 and 244–6. An edition of the Expugnatio Hibernica, ed. and trans. A.B. Scott and F.X. Martin, was published in Dublin in 1978; The History and Topography of Ireland, trans. J.J. O’Meara, was published by Penguin in 1982.

The ‘Imperial Diversions’ of Gervase of Tilbury Gervase of Tilbury (c.1155–c.1234), was a widely travelled cleric and lawyer whose career in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries took him to the most glittering courts in Europe. In the 1180s, Gervase was a confidant of Prince Henry, the eldest son of Henry II of England, before moving to southern Italy and the court of William II of Sicily. During the last decade of the twelfth century, he took service with the Emperor Otto IV of Brunswick and was rewarded by being made an honorary marshal of Arles, one of the Emperor’s domains on the river Rhône. There he wrote the Otia Imperialia, the third part of which consists of a collection of legends, marvels and anecdotes which no doubt provided fuel for speculative discussion about theology and philosophy at the imperial court. Like Giraldus Cambrensis, Gervase places his accounts of supernatural events in the context of the fantastic and the exotic. He attempts to divert his imperial patron with chapters devoted to the phoenix arising from the flames, and to women with boars’ tusks and men with eight feet and eyes. In the extracts that follow, all of which relate to events which Gervase heard about in the region of Arles, the accounts of ghosts and the activities of the dead, and of apparitions and fairy creatures from ‘parallel’ worlds, correspond to the definition of Mirabilia which Gervase gives in the preface to his work (see p. 46). The following stories relating to water-sprites, and to the marvellous selfpropulsion of the funerary barges approaching the cemetery of Aliscamps, are obviously based on local folklore relating to the river Rhône, while Gervase’s account of the mischievous activity of lamias or the spectres of the night is perhaps linked with Walter Map’s more bloodthirsty tale about the demon at the cradle. The

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last two stories, about the spirits of the recently deceased, most closely correspond to the modern notion of a ‘ghost story’. The account of the Ghost of Beaucaire, in particular, which attached itself invisibly to a young girl and provided a succession of visiting church dignitaries with insights into the nature of the afterlife, is one of the most celebrated of all medieval reports of returning spirits.

Eel Pie Part III, Chap. LXXXV

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ne of the questions relating to the marvels of this world concerns lamias and sprites. Lamias, it is said, are women who at night come into our houses to empty the barrels, peer into the baskets, pots and containers, throw infant children out of their cradles, light the lamps and sometimes importune the sleeping inhabitants. As for sprites, it is generally agreed that they can take human form and are often the first to appear in public places, without being recognised by anyone. It is said they have their dwelling-places in the depths of rivers, and that by taking on the appearance of golden rings or goblets floating in the water, they attract women and children bathing on the edge of the rivers who, when they try to grasp these objects, are seized and dragged beneath the surface. It is said this happens most commonly to women who are suckling. They are carried off so that they might act as wet-nurses to the sprites’ miserable progeny, and after seven years they come back into our world, well rewarded, and tell how they have dwelt in vast palaces with the sprites and their wives, in the depths and under the banks of rivers. We ourselves have seen a woman who was carried off in this way when she was washing laundry on the banks of the river Rhône. Trying to reach a wooden cup which was floating on the surface, she went into deep water and was carried off by the sprite. She became the wet-nurse of its son beneath the waves,


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and came back safe and sound at the end of seven years, but her husband and her friends had great difficulty recognising her. She told of truly extraordinary things, of how the sprites looked after the people they had abducted, and of how they transformed themselves into the appearance of human beings. One day, after the sprite had given her a piece of eel pie, the woman inadvertently rubbed her eye and part of her cheek with the grease on her hand, and this enabled her to see clearly through the water. When her time of service as a nurse had ended, and when she came back to her home, early one morning she met the sprite on the market-square at Beaucaire. When she recognised it, she asked after its wife and the child she had nurtured. Whereupon the sprite asked in astonishment: ‘What eye did you recognise me with?,’ and she showed it the eye she had smeared with the grease from the pie. At that the sprite dug its finger into the woman’s eye, and went off knowing that in future it could be neither seen nor recognised ...

The Figure by the River-Pool Part III, Chap. LXXXV

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oreover, on the banks of the Rhône, beneath the castle of ithe knights, near the northern gate of the city of Arles, there is a river pool . . . where, on clear nights, sprites often show themselves in human form far below in the depths. Some years ago at this place, just outside the gate of the city, many people heard, for three nights on end, a voice calling from the depths of the river. At the same time, it seemed that a human shape ran backwards and forwards along the river-bank, shouting: ‘The hour has passed but no-one has come!’ On the third day, around the time of the service of Nones, as this human shape cried still more bitterly, a young man arrived who, running into the river, was swallowed up in an instant. After that time, the voice was not heard again . . .

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The Child Tumbled from the Cradle Part III, Chap. LXXXVI

As though to excuse his subsequent recounting of hearsay about nocturnal disturbances, Gervase begins this chapter with a learned preface. He maintains that lamias are thought by physicians to be nocturnal visions which, ‘because of the thickening of the humours, disturb and weigh upon the spirits of sleeping people’. On the other hand, he says, quoting St Augustine, they are thought to be demons which, emanating from the souls of wrongdoers, take on a kind of floating substance. He suggests they are called ‘lamias’ or even ‘lanias’, in a derivation from the Latin verb laniare, ‘to tear to pieces’, because they dismember little children. Sometimes they are called ‘larvas’, which he maintains is a fantastic form of the Roman lares, minor household deities which had the semblance and appearance of humans. Gervase concludes his preface by maintaining that lamias are not in fact human but, through the secrets of divine permission, take on the deceptive appearance of being so. Demons cannot touch the actual body or the spirits or souls of humans, unless it be by divine permission.

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ut so as not to break with customary belief, let us suppose iit to be the fatal destiny of certain women and some men that they should fly rapidly through the countryside at night, entering into houses and pestering the sleepers, bestowing on them such weighty cares that they weep. Let us imagine them eating the food in the houses, lighting the lamps, making sleepers uncomfortable by rearranging their posture, moving little children from one place to another. This is what we were told by a most worthy and Christian prelate, Archbishop Humbert of Arles, a churchman of proven faith and exemplary manners. At the time when he was a little child, under the attentive gaze of his parents and in the care of a most Christian mother, he was placed one night in his cradle wrapped in swaddling clothes, beside his parents’ bed. At about midnight, a wailing was heard. Waking with a start, his mother


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put out her hand to the cradle but could not find her child. Fearfully she lit a candle and searched everywhere for her baby, finally finding the child in a muddy puddle left from the water with which she had washed her feet earlier that evening. The baby was lying there without crying, still wrapped up, and when he saw the light, he began to smile at his mother. She called the nurse and her husband, and nobody doubted that this had been the work of some kind of nocturnal phantom. Indeed, in places habitually frequented by such phantoms, many people are aware of occasions when infants have been found in the morning tumbled from their cradles outside their houses, despite the fact that the doors of the houses were closed. Moreover, it happened to us that, in our own cellar, it was not possible to draw off a single drop of wine from casks which had been full. Despite all our efforts, and with the spigot removed, nothing came out but air. Just one hour later, the casks were so full again that we lacked for nothing . . . Gervase then proceeds to discuss further the theories of St Augustine and other church fathers about the insubstantiality of the creatures which might have been responsible for such occurrences. He concludes: As for what these things mean, I can only reply: ‘The dispositions of God are unfathomable . . .’

The Cemetery of Aliscamps Part III, Chap. XC

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ost worthy prince, let me tell you about wonderful ievents, miracles indeed, deriving from the divine power of God. The capital of the kingdom of Burgundy . . . is the city of Arles, which has been favoured since ancient times. It was Trophimus, the disciple of Jesus, ordained by the apostles Peter and Paul, who converted the region to the Christian faith on the journey to Spain when he was accompanied by St Paul. Shortly afterwards Trophimus and other holy bishops resolved to establish in the southern part of the city a holy cemetery

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where the bodies of the truly faithful might receive burial. This was appropriate, since the conversion of the entire region of Gaul had its beginning with the church at Arles, and so all those who died in Christ, wherever they came from, might receive the grace of common burial. From that time, consecrated by these holy men and by Christ’s blessing, the custom arose among the princes and churchmen of Gaul that the greatest barons who died fighting the pagans in the Pyrenees and the mountains of the south should be buried there. Some of them were brought in chariots, some on wagons, others were transported on horseback: all of them were carried to the cemetery at Aliscamps, to join such gallant knights as Vivien, Bertrand, Aistulf and countless others. Many of the remains of such great barons were brought by river down the Rhône. And what was most marvellous, none of the dead men sealed in their coffins ever floated beyond the city of Arles, however strong the wind or the storms which propelled their craft. They simply halted their downstream course and revolved in the current until they came ashore to be transported to the holy cemetery. Still greater marvels occurred, which were witnessed by countless men and women. Custom required that the bodies of the dead should be transported down river in large casks coated with wax and with chests containing silver, by way of alms for such a sacred place. About ten years ago, a cask with its remains cleared the narrow passage between the two banks at the point where the castles of Tarascon and Beaucaire face each other. Some boys from Beaucaire leapt into the water, dragged the cask ashore and, without touching the corpse, stole the hidden silver. Pushed back into the middle of the stream, the cask remained there. Neither the force of the current, nor the efforts of the young thieves, could propel it downstream. Turning gently in the stream, it remained immovable, with the proof of its ransacking visible to all. Up in the fortress, the chatelain of the count of Toulouse guessed by divine inspiration that injury had been done to the corpse by the inhabitants of the town. He made enquiries in secret, and when the facts came to light with


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the help of God, the chatelain ordered the silver to be put back beside the corpse and fined the wrongdoers heavily. With the restoration of the treasure, the remains of the dead man continued its journey downstream unaided by any human hand, and arrived at the city of Arles less than an hour later, to be buried in all honour and glory . . .

The Flying Mortar Part III, Chap. XCIX

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e should know that not only the living, but the dead as well, can be jealous if their spouses look elsewhere. In your Highness’s kingdom of Arles, for instance, there was a man called William of Mostiers, who was distinguished by his lineage and notable for his courtesy and gallantry. He had married a woman of similar worth, who was kind and wise, by whom he had a number of children. On his death-bed he called upon his wife to swear that after his death she would not marry a man who had been his mortal enemy. He added that, if she did marry this man, he would kill her, and pointed to a nearby grinding-mortar which he said he would use as a weapon. Moved by despair, the woman was disposed to grant her dying husband whatever he wished, and promised to remain a widow. A few years after his death, however, on the advice of her friends she married the very knight who had been the sworn enemy of her husband. She had not forgotten her promise to her dead husband, nor the threat which he had made on his death-bed, but was forced into the marriage in spite of her doubts (when she had mentioned her dying husband’s threat, her friends had replied that the dead could do no harm). Returning from the church on her wedding day, and sitting for a moment among the other women, she suddenly gave a piercing cry: ‘Alas, wretch that I am, I have dared to break my marriage vow! And now my husband is coming to kill me with the mortar!’

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And indeed, before the very eyes of the wedding guests, the spirit of the dead man raised the mortar and brought it crashing down on his wife’s head. Although the crowd all wished to fend off the blow of the mortar, they could not see how it was lifted up to fly through the air. The woman’s dying cries were proof enough that she had been struck a mortal blow . . .

The Ghost of Beaucaire Part III, Chap. CIII

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t often happens that we have to endure the mockery of many ipeople when we tell them about infernal punishment. For them, any talk of the other world is pointless, and they ask, ‘How do they, who have neither seen nor undergone such experiences, know such things?’ It has all been made up, they say, because they do not believe what is to be found in the Scriptures. They would be prepared to listen only to the words of a dead person who had come to life again, or who appeared to the living after the point of death. To this I reply that in such unworthy times as ours, those who have been dead for just four days are not allowed to re-awaken and make known the condition of the dead. And even if some of the dead are allowed to come back and appear to us, not all of them have authority to reveal what they have seen. Even Paul, raised to the third level of Heaven, where he saw the mysteries of God, was not allowed to tell of them to men. As for Lazarus, he has been called the Witness of Hell because he wrote many things about the conditions in the infernal regions, although his book is often taken to be apocryphal and is not greatly esteemed. The reason he is given this title is not because he unveiled all that he saw but because from many things he chose to tell of a few, to the extent that the Almighty allowed him to do so. But in order to refute those who, in their ignorance, make their obstinate stand on the basis


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of the supposed impossibility of the dead returning, I am going to give a detailed account of an event which occurred recently near here. It is an event so unprecedented that our hearts and spirits should marvel at it, and our physical bodies tremble. It occurred during July 1211, in the thirteenth year of the pontificate of Innocent III and during the second year of Your Highness’s imperial reign. In the kingdom and diocese of Arles, in the town of Beaucaire, lived a young girl. She was a virgin, eleven years old, who came from an honest, pious and well-to-do family. She had a cousin, who came originally from the city of Apt; he was a charming, confident young man in his first years of adolescence, whose beard had not yet started to grow. He had been sent away from his own neighbourhood because of certain youthful excesses and had arrived in Beaucaire, where, through ill-fortune and through no fault of his own, he was mortally wounded in a fight. As his life ebbed away, he forgave his murderer and, having received the last rites in true contrition, died and was buried. Three to five days later, he appeared at night to the young girl, who had been very dear to him when he was alive, as she prayed in the lamplight. She greeted him, but fearfully – not just because she was naturally shy, but because it is normal for the living to have a heartfelt fear of the dead. But, in the manner of all those who are come back by divine permission, he calmed the young girl’s fear and said gently to her: ‘Cousin, do not be afraid. It is my deep and longstanding affection for you which has brought me back, by God’s will, and you must not think that I could do you any harm! I am only permitted to speak to you, and it is through you alone that I am allowed to reply to others who may question me.’ The girl asked how it was that a person who was dead had been able to return to this world. As soon as the spirit heard this, it groaned, and as though in particular affliction at the word ‘dead’, said: ‘O my dear, never let that word leave your lips again. For the bitterness of death is so great and so incomparable that, once one has experienced it, one’s tormented spirit cannot even bear to be reminded of it.’

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While the spirit and the young girl were speaking to each other, her parents, who were still awake, were able to hear the girl’s words, but not the voice of the dead man. When they asked their daughter who she was speaking to, she asked them in return: ‘Can’t you see my cousin William, who died the other day, speaking here in front of me?’ Fearfully, they made the sign of the cross, and the dead man went way. On the seventh day after his death, at about the hour of Tierce, he appeared once more to the young girl, who was alone in the family room. Her father and mother had gone with friends and neighbours to the monastery of Saint-Michel of Frigolet, which was a couple of miles away, to hear mass for his departed soul. When the girl saw him, she greeted him enthusiastically, and asked where he had come from and who had accompanied him on his return to this world. He replied that he dwelt among spirits in the air, undergoing the pain of the purgatorial fire, adding that the prior and the monks of Saint-Michel had at that very moment sprinkled him with gentle and refreshing water, and had brought great benefit to him by their masses and their prayers. The girl asked him to let her see his companion. He gestured to his left, and almost behind him there appeared a black horned devil, spitting flames and breathing fire. The girl quickly dipped her hand into the holy water which, according to Provençal custom, was always placed in the room. She flicked some towards the devil which disappeared as soon as the water touched it. The dead man said this sprinkling of holy water brought him great relief and relieved the pain of burning. St Gregory says [Dialogues IV, 30, 2] that the fire with which spirits are tormented is corporeal, that is to say physical: for if an incorporeal spirit, the soul, can inhabit and bestow life upon the physical body, why can that spirit not remain captive in order to undergo mortification after death? . . . Within a few days the rumour had spread throughout the neighbourhood, and people crowded in to see the young girl, wondering at such unprecedented events. A good friend of ours, a knight from the district of Saint-Gilles, set out to see for


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himself what was going on, and after addressing a good many questions to the dead man through the girl’s mouth, he said: ‘Now then, my dear, ask your cousin whether anyone has done him a good turn today.’ The dead man replied that, for the good of his soul, the knight had given two pence to a beggar as he left Saint-Gilles. Our friend confirmed that he alone knew this to be true. On another occasion, the Prior of Tarascon came to verify what was being said. When he asked the young girl whether she had seen her cousin recently, she replied that his spirit came at fixed and pre-determined times. She added that she could see him coming even as they spoke. When the Prior asked eagerly: ‘Where is he then . . . ?,’ the girl suggested that the Prior should move aside, since he had almost stepped on the dead man’s foot. As the girl relayed the Prior’s questions to the spirit, she saw the dead man’s head turned as though to await the answers of a counsellor whom she could not see. Eventually, prompted by this unheard voice, the dead man replied that he was still undergoing the torments of Purgatory in the air, although they were less severe than usual, and that he had an angel as his companion. The Prior asked him to reveal his companion to the girl, and she saw on his right hand a shining white figure with shimmering wings, and with a face full of a brilliant luminosity. The angel’s name, said the dead man, was Michael, and he was the guardian of many souls . . . Gervase goes on to give a lengthy account of the cross-examination to which local ecclesiastics subject the young man’s ghost, eliciting information about the afterlife which corresponds to descriptions contained in the Dialogues of Gregory the Great. At one point the ghost of the young man foretells the future, but Gervase deems it discreet not to divulge information which ‘might forestall the designs which God has ordained, and lead to idle speculation’. However, Gervase does send, secretly and by a trustworthy messenger, information obtained from the young man’s ghost which might help his imperial patron the Emperor Otto improve his standing in God’s eyes!

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Source: Re-told from the Latin Otia Imperialia Gervasii Tilburiensii, ed. G.W. Leibnitz, Scriptores rerum Brunswicensium I, Hanover 1707, pp. 987–96. An edition of Part III of the Otia Imperialia was published in French as Le Livre des Merveilles, ed. and trans. A. Duchesne, Paris (Les Belles Lettres) 1992.

The Chronicle of Henry of Erfurt Henry of Erfurt was a German Dominican who died in 1370, and who compiled his Liber de Rebus Memorabilioribus, or ‘Book of Remarkable Events’, as part of a Chronicle of his times. In this entry for the year 1349, the chronicler gives an account of the interrogation of a cheerful and lively ghost called Reyneke, or Reinhard, who seems to have come to town and taken up temporary residence in a house which, given the numerous references to an overburdened host, was probably an inn. The account is noteworthy both for the detail of the phantom hand with which Reyneke announces his presence, and for the impression that is conveyed of the dead leading an untroubled ‘parallel’ existence in the mountain ranges near the town where the conversation with Reyneke occurs. In the to-and-fro of the dialogue between the townspeople and the ghost, and in Reyneke’s apparent attachment to the serving maid in the house where he is staying, there are echoes of Gervase of Tilbury’s description of the interrogation of the Ghost of Beaucaire. The ejection from their makeshift accommodation of the importunate townspeople who insist on staying in the house resembles another of Gervase’s stories about mischievous nocturnal spirits causing havoc in wine-cellars, while the marvellous preparation by Reyneke of an impromptu banquet recalls Memorabilia accounts of attentive servants (‘The Tale of King Herla’ and ‘King Arthur and the Butterfly Bishop’) as well as the story of the Ghostly Butler in the Gesta Romanorum (see Part Four).

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I


The Hand of Reyneke

n 1349, the second year of the reign of Charles IV, another ighost revealed itself in the town of Cyrenbergh, part of the domain of the landgrave of Hesse. Although I am not sure whether it did actually occur, or whether it was a ‘fantasma’ or product of men’s imaginations, the occurrence was said to have been something quite remarkable: a little human hand, soft and elegant, allowed itself to be seen and touched, and perhaps as many as a thousand people did indeed touch and feel it. Nothing apart from the hand was visible or tangible, but one could also hear quite distinctly the hoarse whispering voice of a man. Someone asked this being who he was, and he replied: ‘Truly I am a man like yourself, and a Christian. I was baptised in the town of Göttingen.’ ‘But what is your name?’ ‘Reyneke’, came the reply. ‘Are you alone?’ ‘No, there is a great crowd of us. We eat, drink, marry, have children, arrange the weddings of our daughters and the marriages of our sons. We sow and we reap and we carry on our lives just like you.’ ‘But where precisely do you live? Is it here?’ ‘We live inside the mountain of Kyrkenbergh, which is next to the town of Cyrenbergh. Here, in the town, each of us is welcomed in turn at this house by the worthy fellow who is our host.’ ‘But do not some of you live in that other mountain which is called Berenbergh [the modern Dornberg]?’ ‘Yes, many do indeed live there. But my folk are well-established and noble: those people, by contrast, are bandits who cause great disturbances and invade their neighbours’ land . . .’ ‘Is it possible for others to stay in this house with you?’ The reply came: ‘We do not want this, lest our host be over-burdened. For the time being, it is enough that he should


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extend a warm welcome to us. It is, however, possible for him to receive others if they have a family or marriage connection.’ Nevertheless some of the townspeople wished to try, and despite the reluctance of the host, insisted on staying. Accommodation was prepared for them among the barrels of the wine-cellar, so that they might be as comfortable as possible in the circumstances. That night an indescribable tumult arose. Terrified, they shouted out for help, and were told by Reyneke: ‘All of this noise and disturbance was because you insisted so stubbornly on staying. But for the present learn from this and calm yourselves.’ Then, seating himself on a barrel, he carried on talking with them for some time. On another occasion a visitor turned up at the house unexpectedly, much to the consternation of the host, who had nothing to offer him. Reyneke said: ‘Do not worry, I have enough to give him,’ and immediately he prepared a bountiful spread of full-wheat bread, fine wine, good beer, roast and boiled meat and made it available to his host. Reyneke had no love for his host’s elderly mother, about whom he used to say: ‘That woman is evil.’ But he cared greatly for one of the household servants, a young girl called Styneken. One day Herman de Scardenbergh, another servant who was a particular friend of Reyneke, gave this girl an apple. Reyneke took offence at this, and told him not to do it again. When Herman protested that he had only given her an apple, Reyneke said: ‘I am fully aware of that, but you had a great deal more in mind!’ He assured another man, to whom he was also well-disposed, that he would in due course make him rich so that he could marry Styneken . . . Source: Re-told from the Latin in Liber de Rebus Memorabilioribus sive Chronicon Heinrici de Hervordia, ed. A. Potthast, Göttingen 1859, p. 279.

Part Three

The Restless Dead

REVENANTS, PRODIGIES AND THE RESTLESS DEAD

Introduction The word ‘revenant’ can have both a precise and a general meaning, In French it is the common term for a ghost, with its derivation from the verb revenir, ‘to return’, carrying the notion of the unexpected interruption of a journey on which the spirit has embarked at death. But in the context of medieval accounts of ghostly occurrences, it would be useful to use the term in a more specific fashion, and to apply it to those corporeal ghosts of Scandinavian and Northern European legend whose return has an insistent, repetitive, threatening nature. In these stories, the basic theme is of a return, not merely from death, but from a place of alienation and exile. In some cases the monstrous revenants return to make their nightly assaults on dwellingplaces which were once their homes, where their families and former friends still live. In this specific sense, therefore, revenants are dead people who come back in a recognisable physical form, but profoundly altered in that, for the most part, they are now enemies of the living. The Icelandic term for such a ghost is draugr, and it was in Iceland, in the centuries that followed the country’s conversion to Christianity in the year 1000, that heroic and family sagas were written down for the first time.1 These written accounts, compiled by Icelandic Christian authors raised in a tradition of literacy and pride in antiquarian research, drew heavily on the Germanic beliefs and legends which formed the basis of pre-Christian Scandinavian culture. In a number of the sagas, a draugr features prominently as an opponent of the hero of the narrative; its marauding activities provide scope for much dark 1

See E.O.G. Turville-Petre, The Origins of Icelandic Literature, Oxford 1953.

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detail on the part of the chroniclers, and the circumstances of its defeat allow for an affirmation of the physical strength and courage of the hero.2 But stories of such revenants are not confined to Icelandic literature and the period of the sagas. As we shall see from the extracts that follow, these corporeal ghosts are to be encountered looming out of the darkness in Britain and Denmark in Anglo-Saxon and Latin manuscripts dating from the tenth to the fourteenth centuries. The monstrous presence of these revenants in poems, chronicles and compilations written by medieval Christian scholars (and, it should be noted, the similarity between the scholars’ accounts of their depredations) may demonstrate the persistence of pre-Christian belief in the popular culture of Northern Europe during the Middle Ages. It is useful, for instance, to compare the nightstalker Grendel, from the eighth-century Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf, with Glam, the sinister draugr in the Icelandic Grettis Saga of the fourteenth century. The similarities between the two have often been noted; the Anglo-Saxon poet and the Icelandic author depict them as the key enemies of their respective heroes, and before their defeats they both seem to have a monstrous towering presence as they stride beneath the clouds on their nightly raids upon the living. Scholars have pointed out that the description of the way the moonlight glitters on the pale eyes of Grendel as he confronts Beowulf (‘from his eyes there came a horrible light, most like a flame’) is a ‘characteristic’ image which is developed to describe Glam in his moment of defeat by Grettir (‘at the moment when Glam fell, the moon shone forth, and he turned his eyes up towards it’).3 2

See H.R. Ellis, The Road to Hel: A study of the Conception of the Dead in Old Norse Literature, Cambridge 1943; and K. Hume, ‘From Saga to Romance: The Use of Monsters in Old Norse Literature’, Studies in Philology LXXVII (1980), pp. 1–25. 3 See N.K. Chadwick, ‘Norse Ghosts’, Folklore LVII (1946), pp. 50–65 and 106–27. See also M. Fjalldal, The Long Arm of Coincidence: The Frustrated Connection between Beowulf and Grettis Saga, Toronto, 1998, which sets out to disprove the connection between Beowulf and Grettis Saga and, in


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Both creatures threaten the very fabric of the buildings which they assail, tearing down doors and roof timbers, and until they are taken by surprise by the heroes waiting within, they behave in an arrogant and proprietorial fashion. The supernatural outcast Grendel standing invincible on the patterned floor of Hrothgar’s mead-hall, and the ghost of the ‘thrall’ Glam resting his arm on the crossbeam of his former master’s dwelling-place, are remarkably similar figures, who may have had their origins in some ancient Germanic belief in predatory revenant ghosts who threaten the prosperity of living communities by subverting the sources of authority. The twelfth-century Yorkshire canon William of Newburgh asserted that the Prodigiosa which he described – the unnatural marvels which resulted in dead men returning to animate existence – were unique to his own time. Yet his descriptions of the activities of ghosts in Buckinghamshire, Yorkshire and Scotland are virtually identical with Scandinavian accounts of dead men who leave their tombs and stagger around on the margins of life. He even has an anecdote about what he describes in Latin as a sanguisuga, a vampire or blood-sucking ghost. In this respect, William of Newburgh’s Ghost of Anant resembles, in its nightly return to prey on the flesh of living men, the behaviour of the dead Asvith in the Danish histories of Saxo Grammaticus, a contemporary of William who, by his own admission, drew upon the legends of former times. What is perhaps most remarkable about the ghost stories in this section is the extent to which they differ in their overall tone from the neat narrative constructions of monastic Miracula. The ghosts and apparitions which are described in the first section of this book often seem to have been fashioned to accord with the monastic vision itself, in order to uphold and exemplify the moral teaching of the church. By contrast, these restless dead and Prodigiosa of the Scandinavian tradition doing so, conducts an extensive review of the similarities between the two works. For a survey of Norse views of death and the afterlife, see E.O.G. Turville-Petre, Myth and Religion of the North, London 1964, Chap. XV.

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frequently seem to have an autonomous cultural existence of their own, with the Christian writers providing merely a dutiful theological ‘gloss’ on the narrative. Thus, the Beowulfpoet suggests that Grendel is part of the accursed lineage of Cain, and William of Newburgh links the nightly emergence of the Berwick Ghost to the prompting of Satan, despite the fact that both Grendel and the monster of Berwick have ‘classic’ draugr characteristics. Even the fourteenth-century Monk of Byland, who may have set out to record local stories about ghosts in order to compile a series of exemplary accounts of apparitions in the Cistercian tradition, ends up describing many of the traits of ghosts from the Scandinavian tradition, preserved perhaps in the folklore of a region of Britain subject to Danish and Viking influence centuries before. Indeed, one can go further and suggest that, in a number of these stories of revenants and the restless dead – in William of Newburgh’s accounts, for instance, and in some of the Monk of Byland’s fragmentary tales – the traditional responses of the church to the hauntings are ineffective by comparison with the decisive action of laymen who open up the tomb to which the draugr retires each night and burn and scatter the ashes of the cadaver. In Iceland, where pre-Christian beliefs and practices continued long after the introduction of Christianity, the churchmen whose help was sought by communities afflicted by revenants often seem to have responded pragmatically and in accordance with long-standing local custom. In the Eyrbyggja Saga, the landholder and priest Arnkel builds a high wall, perhaps a symbolic delineation of the boundary between the dead and the living, around the grave to which he has removed the body of Thorolf Halt-Foot. Later in the same saga, at the end of the sequence of chapters dealing with the hauntings at Frodis-water, Snorri the Priest advises the community to use an ancient legal device, the ‘door- court’, to arraign and banish the ghosts (admittedly the Frodis-water ghosts are a somewhat more amenable group than Thorolf and his wild hunt of local murder victims, and seem to accept that the rule of custom law applies to the dead as well as the living).


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Above all, perhaps, it is the consistency of these stories of the restless dead that indicates the influence of pre-Christian belief even upon narratives compiled by chroniclers of the Christian era. There are many common themes in the stories.4 The individual who becomes a draugr after death is frequently depicted as being alienated in some way from the community even when still alive. The tomb is the domain of the dead, to which the ghosts stumblingly return at dawn if they are wandering revenants, and where barrow-dwelling spirits assault the living. There is often something elemental about the ghosts’ behaviour: they consort with and madden cattle, and, like the winter storms, they batter the roofs of dwelling-places. When the draugr is vanquished – sometimes by main force in a wrestling-match with a hero who decapitates it, sometimes by sturdy members of the community who dig up and dispose of its body – the defeat is confirmed and reinforced by rituals such as the placing of the decapitated head between the knees, the opening of a tomb and the burning of the body (one might see many of these stories as implying a cultural tension between the ancient practices of burial and cremation) and the scattering of the ashes in a wild place or at sea. In the Scandinavian traditions which influenced much of the culture of medieval Europe, the ghosts often seemed to conduct themselves in accordance with ancient expectations about the behaviour of the malevolent dead. Similarly, it was by long-standing custom and practice that a community determined its ritual response to the ghosts which afflicted it.

4

For a useful review of the common traits of Scandinavian ghosts, see C. Lecouteux, Fantômes et Revenants au Moyen Age, pp. 171–85.

Beowulf The Anglo-Saxon heroic poem Beowulf, which is contained in a single manuscript from the tenth century but which may have been composed as early as the eighth century, contains both Christian and pre-Christian elements, forming two discernible strands which run through the entire narrative. It can be argued that the pre-Christian strand, which tells of episodes in the life of the hero Beowulf in terms which correspond to the code of the warrior tribes of Northern Europe and Scandinavia is by far the stronger, so that the theology of the early medieval Church provides a presentational gloss on a heroic tale which draws strongly on pre-Christian Germanic traditions. One of these traditions is to be found in the depiction of Grendel, the first and, in terms of the narrative, most memorable of Beowulf ’s opponents. The poet presents Grendel as a monstrous nightstalker of supernatural power and malignity, whose raids on Heorot, the feasting-hall of the old Danish king Hrothgar, are the cause of both terror and disgrace to the king’s warrior retinue. As we shall see from other stories in this section, Grendel bears a basic resemblance to the nightstalkers of the Icelandic sagas, and thus probably corresponds to an enduring pre-Christian stereotype of the corporeal ghost, a dweller in darkness, who prowls resentfully round the illuminated houses of living men. Superficially, however, and because of the Christian gloss which is placed upon the Beowulf narrative, Grendel differs from this stereotype in that he is set in a theological context as one of the monstrous descendants of Cain, dwelling in a hell of resentment, alienated by his evil lineage from the joys of the blessed and the laughter of the feast-hall.


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Grendel the Nightstalker Lines 85–127

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hen the mighty spirit who dwelt in darkness bore a grievous time of torment. Each day he heard loud revelry in hall – the sound of the harp and the clear-singing minstrel who, able to recount the first making of men from distant ages, spoke. The minstrel told how the Almighty made the earth, a fair and bright plain, which water encompasses, and, triumphant in His power, appointed the radiance of the sun and moon as light for land-dwellers, decking the earth-regions with branches and leaves. He fashioned life for every creature that lives and moves. So those brave men lived prosperously in joy, until one began to compass deeds of malice. That grim spirit was called Grendel, renowned for traversing the marches, who held the moors, the fen and fastness. Unblessed creature, he dwelt for a while in the lair of monsters, after the Creator had condemned them. On Cain’s kindred did the everlasting Lord avenge the crime of murder, the slaying of Abel. He had no joy of that feud, but the Creator drove him far from mankind for that misdeed. Thence all evil broods were born, ogres and elves and evil spirits – the giants also, who for a long time fought with God, for which He gave them their reward. So, after night had come, Grendel went to the lofty house, to find how the Ring-Danes had settled themselves after their ale-drinking. He found inside a band of noble warriors, sleeping after the banquet. They knew not sorrow, the sad lot of mortals. Straightway the grim and greedy creature of damnation, fierce and furious, was ready. He seized thirty thanes in their resting-place. Thence he went back again, exulting in plunder, journeying home, to seek out his abode with that fill of slaughter. Then in the light of the half-dawned day, Grendel’s strength in war was manifest to men. After the feast a lamentation, a great cry, rose in the morning . . . The poem goes on to tell how Grendel’s depredations against Heorot and the warrior retinue of Hrothgar become generally

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known ‘to sons of men . . . sadly in song’ [line 149], and how the Geatish hero Beowulf comes from across the sea to offer Hrothgar his services against the fiend. After a feast of welcome, when all the other warriors have fallen asleep, Beowulf lies awake in the hall waiting for Grendel’s approach.

The Defeat of Grendel Lines 703–823

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he nightstalker, the shadow-creature, came through the dusky night. The liegemen who had to guard that gabled hall slept – all except one. Men knew full well the demon foe could not drag them to the shades below when the Creator did not will it. But he, fiercely alert and waiting for the foe, prepared in swelling rage for the ordeal of battle. Then came Grendel, advancing from the moor under the misty slopes. God’s anger rested on him. The wicked foe thought to take by treachery one of the race of men in the high hall. He strode beneath the clouds until he clearly saw the wine-building, treasure-house of men, gleaming with plates of gold. Nor was that the first time that he had trespassed in Hrothgar’s home. Never in all the days of his life, before or since, did he come with worse fortune upon the guardians of the hall. Thus the creature, deprived of joy, came journeying to the hall. The door, fastened by forged bands, fell open straightaway when he touched it with his hands. Thus, bent on destruction, for he was enraged, he tore apart the entrance to the hall. Quickly then the fiend advanced across the many-coloured paving of the floor, stepping out in angry mood. From his eyes there came a horrible light, most like a flame. He saw many men in the hall, a troop of kinsmen, a band of warriors, sleeping all together. Then his spirit laughed aloud: he, the cruel monster, resolving to sever the life of every one of them from his body before day came. The hope of feasting full had come to him. But it was no longer his fortune that he should


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devour more of human kind after that night. Hygelac’s mighty kinsman [the warrior Beowulf] kept watch to see how the murderous foe would set to work with sudden attacks. The monster had no mind to put it off, but from the outset quickly seized a sleeping warrior, rent him greedily, bit his body, drank blood from his veins, swallowed bite after bite; and soon consumed every part of the dead man, even his feet and hands. Forward and nearer he advanced, and then tried to seize with his hand the valiant warrior on his bed. The fiend reached out towards him. Beowulf at once became aware of the enemy’s purpose, and sat up supporting himself on his arm. Instantly the master of crimes realised that never in this world, in all the regions of the earth, had he known a mightier hand-grip in any other man. His mind and spirit responded with fear, but did not help him to make his escape. In his mind he wanted to get away – he wished to flee into the darkness and go back to the swarm of devils. In all his lifetime, he had never been in a plight like this before. Then Hygelac’s brave kinsman remembered what he had said that evening. He stood erect and grasped him tight, so that his fingers were strained to bursting. The monster moved away: the chief stepped forward too. The infamous creature thought to slip away, to distance himself, to flee away thence to his fastland in the fen. He knew the power of his fingers was in the foe-man’s grip. What a sorry journey that terrible raider made when he approached Heorot! The warrior’s hall resounded. There was panic among all the Danes, the dwellers in the stronghold, nobles and the heroes every one. Both the raging guardians of the house were furious; the building rang again. Then was it a great wonder that the wine-hall stood fast against the mighty warriors – that the fair earthly dwelling did not fall to the ground. Yet it was made firm by iron clamps, inside and out, forged with curious art. There, where these foe-men fought, many a mead-bench adorned with gold, started from the floor, as I have heard. Until then the wise men of the Scyldings [Hrothgar’s Danes] never thought that any man could shatter it in any way, splendid and

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horn-bedecked as it was, or ruin it by craft, unless perhaps the embrace of fire should consume it with flame. A din arose, strange and mighty. A horrible fear came to the North Danes, to every one who heard the shrieking from the hall – heard the adversary of God chant his grisly lay, his song of defeat, a prisoner of hell wailing over his wound. He who was in might the strongest of men in this life’s day held him fast! By no means would the defender of nobles allow the murderous intruder to escape alive – he did not consider Grendel’s life to be of value to any people. Then many a noble of Beowulf ’s company brandished the well-tried weapon of his ancestors – they wished to protect the life of their lord, their famous chief, if they could. They did not know, brave-minded warriors, when they took part in the contest, and thought to hew at him on every side, hunting out his life, that no war-blade on earth, not the best of iron swords, could touch the cursed foe, who used enchantments against conquering weapons and every sort of blade. In this world he was to make a wretched departure from life – the cast-out spirit was to journey far into the power of fiends. Then he who for so long had been active in crimes, in wickedness of heart, against mankind: he, the rebel against God, discovered that his body and frame could help him no more, for the bold kinsman of Hygelac had him by the hand. While each of them lived, each was hateful to the other. The horrible monster suffered deadly hurt. On his shoulder gaped a mighty wound, with sinews springing asunder and tendons torn apart. Glory in the fight was granted to Beowulf. Grendel, sick and dying, had to flee thence into the fen-fastness and seek out his joyless dwelling. He knew full well that the end of his life had come, the number of his days . . . Source: Adapted from Beowulf and the Finnsburg Fragment: A Translation into Modern English Prose, J.R. Clark Hall, London (Swan Sonnenschein) 1911, pp. 13–15 and pp. 43–8.

The ‘History of the Danes’ of Saxo Grammaticus Not a great deal is known about Saxo Grammaticus, who seems to have been actively working on his history from about 1185 to 1208: the term Grammaticus means ‘man of letters’, and was applied to a ‘certain Zealander by birth, named Saxo’ by a fifteenth-century editor of his work. Saxo himself, however, tells us in the preface to his Gesta Danorum that he wrote his history at the behest of the powerful archbishop of Lund at the end of the twelfth century. He says the archbishop prevailed on ‘one of the least of his followers’ to assemble a history which would record the glories of Danish history, and chronicle the deeds of Danish warriors. The first nine books of the work are dedicated to legendary ‘prehistory’, and Saxo says that he assembled much of this material from the heroic poems of the Norse people and the antiquarian material gathered by Icelandic monks, whom he praises for their scholarship. His story of the foster-brothers who conclude a pact which will endure beyond death itself is to be found in a slightly different form in the Icelandic Egils Saga ok Ásmundar, where the Viking hero Asmund’s dead foster-brother is a Tartar prince named Aran. Although the notion of a pact against death which does not have the intended outcome has similarities to William of Malmesbury’s story of the Two Clerks of Nantes, the details in Saxo’s horrifying account draw primarily on the funerary practices of the Scandinavian world. The burial of horse and dog with their aristocratic master (in the Egils Saga a hawk is buried in the tomb as well, to be devoured along with the other animals); the depiction of the tomb as an underground domain which living men enter at their peril; and the gruesome evocation of the dead man coming to monstrous life each night

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and ravening after the flesh of his companion: in such vivid details there is both consistency with saga accounts of the activities of draugar and revenants, and basis enough for the wounded Asmund’s reiterated assertion, in the verses which conclude the passage, that ‘every living man fades once he is among the dead’.

The Burial of the Foster-Brothers Book V

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eanwhile Asvith died of an illness, and was buried with ihis horse and dog in a cavern in the earth. And Asmund, because of their oath of friendship, had the courage to be buried with him, with food being placed in the grave for him to eat. Now at this time, Erik [the leader of an invading Swedish army] had crossed the uplands and happened to draw near the barrow of Asvith; and the Swedes, thinking that treasures might be inside, broke the hill open with mattocks. They saw beneath them a cave which was deeper than they expected. To examine it, a man was needed who would lower himself on a hanging rope tied around his middle. One of the nimblest of the youths was chosen by lot; and Asmund, when he saw him lowered down in a basket into the grave, immediately threw him out and climbed into the basket himself. Then he gave the signal to draw him up to those above who were standing by and controlling the rope. They hauled up the basket in hope of a great treasure but when they saw the unknown figure of the man they had taken out, they were scared by his extraordinary appearance, and, thinking that the dead had come to life, they flung down the rope and ran away. For Asmund’s appearance was indeed ghastly, and his face was covered with blood. Asmund tried to call the men back, shouting that they were mistaken to be afraid of a living man. And when Erik saw him, he marvelled at the blood covering Asmund’s head, for Asvith the dead man had come to life each night, and in his continuous attacks upon his foster-brother had wrenched off his left


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ear; this had left him with a raw and unhealed wound. And when the bystanders asked Asmund how he had received such a wound, he replied: ‘Why do you stand aghast, you who see me colourless? For every living man fades once he is among the dead. Evil for the lonely man, a burden for the solitary, is found in every dwelling in this world. Helpless are they whom fate deprives of human help. The listless night of the cavern, the darkness of the ancient den, have taken all joy from my eyes and soul. The ghastly ground, the crumbling barrow, and the heavy weight of filthy things have marred my youthful grace, and drained my accustomed strength and power. Besides all this, I have wrestled with the dead, enduring the heavy burden and the grievous danger of combat. Asvith rose up and attacked me with his tearing nails, renewing with the might of hell a ghastly warfare in the midst of his own ashes. Why then do you stand aghast, you who see me colourless? For every living man fades once he is among the dead. By some strange permission of hell itself, Asvith was sent up from the world below, and with his savage teeth he attacked his fleet-footed horse and closed his terrible jaws around his hound. Then he reached out for me with his swift-slashing nails, tearing my cheek and wrenching off my ear. This is why I have such a terrible appearance, this is why the blood spurts from my ghastly wound. But the monstrous visitor did not escape unharmed: for quickly I cut off his head with my sword, and thrust a stake through his savage body. Why do you stand aghast, you who see me colourless? For every living man fades once he is among the dead . . .’ Source: Adapted from The First Nine Books of the Danish History of Saxo Grammaticus, trans. O. Elton, London 1894, pp. 200–201. An edition of the Gesta Danorum Books I–IX, edited by H.E. Davidson and translated by P. Fisher, was published by D.S. Brewer, Cambridge 1979.

The ‘History of the Events of England’ of William of Newburgh The Yorkshire canon William of Newburgh (1136–98) included in his Historia Rerum Anglicarum a collection of gruesome ghost stories – Prodigiosa, or ‘unnatural marvels’, is the way he describes them – which strongly resemble the accounts of monstrous revenants in the Scandinavian sagas. This can perhaps be explained by the fact that many parts of Britain (particularly the Scottish borders and the north of England, where William places the accounts contained in the second and third extracts from his history) were subject to Danish and Viking cultural influences. Similarly, as we have seen from Grendel’s appearance in the Anglo-Saxon epic Beowulf, there is likely to have been a general belief in monstrous nightstalkers in Anglo-Saxon England which persisted into the later medieval period. William seems to have no doubt about the veracity of these stories, as his self-justificatory preface to the story of ‘The Hounds’ Priest’ makes clear. His accounts are noteworthy for the active part played by ordinary people in ridding their afflicted communities of the ghostly nuisances: quite as much as the clergy with their scrolls of absolution, it is the sturdy commoners with their mattocks and bonfires who are the ‘heroes’ of these stories. In this respect, as in the monstrous and corporeal nature of the ghosts which William describes, these stories have much in common with saga accounts of the dead returning to threaten the communities where they formerly dwelt.


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The Buckinghamshire Ghost Book V, Chap. XXII

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t this time in the county of Buckinghamshire, a most iextraordinary thing happened. I was first told about it by the people of the neighbourhood, and afterwards more fully by Stephen, a venerable archdeacon of that district. A certain man died, and his wife, an honourable woman, and his family took care to bury him with full customary rites on the feast of the Lord’s Ascension. But the very next night he entered the bedchamber of his sleeping wife. She woke, greatly afraid, as he attempted to lie upon her in the marital bed. The same thing happened the next night, and on the third night the terrified woman struggled with her dead husband yet again before arranging for some of her family and neighbours to stay awake on watch with her throughout the night. When the dead man came back, he was greeted by the alarmed shouts of the watchmen, and, unable to cause any more mischief, went away. Repelled in this way by his wife, he became a nuisance to his brothers who lived in the same place, so that they, like his wife, arranged for companions to stay with them so as to fend off the danger. Still the dead man arrived each night, making as if to seize those who were sleeping, but the vigilance and strength of those on watch kept him away. Then he took to prancing among the animals in the byre and the fields around the house; this was known because of the restlessness and unusual movements of the beasts. The nuisance caused by the dead man’s nocturnal visits forced the entire community to set up groups of watchmen. By night every house kept vigil, with each of the villagers apprehensively waiting for his arrival. Then, in addition to these night-time revels, the ghost took to wandering by day as well, terrifying to everyone but seen by only a few in the full light of the sun (for if it met many people at a time, it was visible to only one or two of them, although the others were always aware of its presence). The terrified villagers debated as to what

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they should do, and having decided to take the advice of the church, they referred the whole affair to Archdeacon Stephen and his assembly. They in turn consulted the bishop of Lincoln, writing to him to seek his considered advice about such unprecedented events. The bishop was just as amazed as everybody else, but was told by some of his advisers that such things had often happened in England, and that the usual remedy (which gave comfort and reassurance to a frightened community) was to dig up the body of whichever miserable person was causing the nuisance and cremate it. Such a solution seemed to the bishop both unseemly and sacrilegious, and so instead he prepared a scroll of absolution and gave it to the archdeacon with the instructions that the dead man’s grave should be opened, the scroll placed on his chest, and the grave closed up again. In this way the dead man might have clear benefit from the actions of the faithful. All was done according to these instructions, and with the scroll placed upon the cadaver and the resting-place secured once more, the dead man never wandered again, and was kept from molesting and terrorising anyone else . . .

The Berwick Ghost Book V, Chap. XXIII

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n the northern part of England a somewhat similar event occurred, equal in its prodigious nature to what we have learned was happening elsewhere at this time. At the mouth of the river Tweed lies the well-known town of Berwick, which falls under the rule of the king of Scotland. There a certain wealthy man who, as it later transpired, had been given over to sinful behaviour, died and was buried. However, with Satan’s help he kept emerging at night from his tomb and wandering here and there to the sound of loudly barking dogs. Every night he was the cause of great terror to the townspeople before his return at daybreak to the tomb. This went on for some time, so that nobody dared go out of doors after nightfall for fear that


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they might meet the monstrous visitor, and everybody in the town, whether of high or low degree, asked themselves what was to be done. The simpler folk of the town feared that they might accidentally run into the lifeless creature and be physically attacked; the more thoughtful were afraid that, unless something were done quickly, the air circulating around the town would become infected by the corpse and so lead to general sickness and death in the town. It was apparent to all that something had to be done, and so they brought together ten sturdy young men who dug up the offending corpse, dismembered it and burnt the pieces in a fire. Once this had been done, the nightly perturbations ceased and people who had seen the monstrous creature (maintaining that it moved as though with the help of Satan himself) confirmed that only when the corpse had been consumed by fire were they able to rest quietly again. Later, however, a large part of the town’s population was carried off by a rising pestilence. Although the sickness was general throughout England at this time, in no other place was it so fierce or prevalent . . .

The Hounds’ Priest Book V, Chap. XXIV

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hat the corpses of the dead, moved by some kind of spirit, leave their graves and wander around as the cause of danger and terror to the living before going back to tombs which open up to receive them, is not something which would be easily believed, were it not for the fact that there have been clear examples in our own time, with abundant accounts of such events. Nothing of the sort is reported in books of former times, which those of us who are inclined to study might meditate upon, and surely, since these ancient books recorded the everyday and matter-of-fact events of former times, they would not have been able to suppress accounts of stupefying and horrible events if indeed they had occurred. As for myself, it would be extremely tedious for me to have to write down all

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those things I have heard of which happened in our own times. However, I will now give an account of two such recent events ... Some years ago the chaplain of a noble lady died and was buried at Melrose Abbey. Although he had taken holy orders, and should have been accorded a certain respect as a consequence, he tended to behave during his life in a secular fashion, playing down his role as the messenger of the divine. Such was his concern for hunting, and such was the vanity and indeed infamy of his way of life, that he was known to the people as ‘Hundeprest’ [‘The Hounds’ Priest’]. But if during his life he was smilingly tolerated for his human failings, the consequence of this indulgence became apparent after his death. By night, for instance, he would leave his grave and enter the very monastery itself, keeping people from benefiting from the holy place, and it was not possible to frighten or push him away. He also wandered around outside the monastery, groaning and murmuring in an alarming fashion outside the chamber of his former mistress. When this happened repeatedly, she confided anxiously in one of the brothers at the monastery, tearfully begging the monks through him to pour forth urgent prayers on her behalf. She was richly deserving of the help of that holy assembly because of her benevolence and generosity towards the monastery, and the priest promised to do what he could to help her. Returning to the monastery, he brought with him another priest of particularly doughty character and two stalwart young men, so that they might keep vigil in the cemetery where the miserable chaplain had been buried. Fully armed, these four prepared to spend the night confident in each other’s company. Midnight passed, but no monster appeared, and so the other three left the priest who had organised the vigil and went off to a nearby house to light a fire to allay the chill of the night. Seeing that the priest was now alone, the demon judged the time right to try and break his robust faith, and rose out of his tomb. Glimpsing the monster at a distance, the man at first froze with fear, but soon his courage returned and, with no


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prospect of escape, he prepared to resist the attack of the evil creature as it came towards him groaning terribly. He struck at it with the battle-axe he carried in his hand. Groaning still louder, the wounded creature turned round as suddenly as it had come and retreated while the heroic defender chased it back to its tomb. The tomb opened to offer the creature refuge from its assailant and then closed behind it. When the other three who had been warming themselves over their fire arrived, somewhat belatedly, and when they heard what had happened, they prepared themselves at daybreak for the task of digging up the cursed corpse from the depths of its tomb. As they cleared away the earth, they saw many traces of blood which had flowed from the wound inflicted on the creature, and finally reaching the body, they carried it outside the confines of the monastery to burn it and scatter the ashes. I was told this story by men from the religious community itself, and, having no doubts about its veracity, have set down the facts as simply as I can . . .

The Ghost of Anant Book V, Chap. XXIV

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similar occurrence, of a still more pernicious nature, ihappened at the castle of Anant. I was told about it by an elderly and distinguished churchman of that district who remembered the events themselves. These concern a certain man of poor conduct from the province of York who, whether out of fear of the law or of his enemies, approached the lord of the castle and sought refuge there. As it turned out, his character was such that he was thought suitable to act as some kind of official in the castle retinue, and so he set about enlarging his wealth rather than correcting his earlier misdeeds. He took a wife in marriage, and this turned out to be his undoing, for something she said to him led him to be vexed by jealousy. Wishing to know the truth about her fidelity, he arranged to be away for some days on business. Secretly, however, he came

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back again that night and, with the help of a maid-servant, hid himself in the bedroom of the house, lying out along a beam in the roof so that he could see for himself whatever offences his wife might be prepared to commit against her marital vows. When he saw his wife making love to their young neighbour, the man was so angry that he fell off the beam and crashed down between them. The young adulterer ran off, and the dissembling wife gently and craftily attended to her fallen husband. He coldly turned his back upon her, accused her of betraying him and threatened her with punishment. ‘But my lord,’ she said, ‘you are speaking nonsense. These are imaginings caused by a disease with which you have been afflicted.’ And so, shaking violently from the effects of the fall, and with his whole body numb, the man lay down seriously ill. He was visited by the priest who told me this story, who advised him to make confession for his sins and take the eucharist according to Christian custom. The man replied by telling the priest what his wife said had happened to him, and put off until the next day what he was advised to do for his own safety. But he was never to see the next day, for, bereft of the grace and merits of Christian solace, he drifted off into the final sleep of the dead and was given a proper burial. This turned out to be of no benefit to him whatsoever, for, prompted by the devil, his body left its tomb each night and circled round the houses, followed by the terrible howling of a pack of dogs. The doors of every house were bolted, and nobody dared go out to attend to any business from sunset to sunrise for fear of being attacked by the wandering monster. But even such a precaution as the bolting of doors was useless, since, by the circulation of air poisoned and infected by the corpse, the neighbourhood became filled with the sick and the dying who had inhaled the pestilence. Soon the town, which only a little time before had been well-populated, was almost empty and, for fear of sickness and death, the remaining townspeople were themselves preparing to leave. The priest who told me this story was dismayed at the desolation of his parish, and so on Palm Sunday he set about


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seeking advice from other religious men about the safeguarding of public health, which might reassure the few miserable individuals who remained in the town. Having addressed the people, and having celebrated the full religious rites appropriate to that sacred day, he called his honourable guests to table. Among those present at the banquet which the priest had prepared were two young brothers whose father had died from the pestilence. They urged each other to take action, saying: ‘This monster has destroyed our father and could well destroy us as well if we do not act. Let us do something worthy, which will both safeguard our health and avenge our father’s death. After all, there is no-one to stop us, for the banquet is being held in the priest’s house and the rest of the town is silent and empty. We must dig up the pestilential creature and burn its remains in a fire . . .’ Armed with sturdy mattocks, the two brothers went to the cemetery and began to dig. After a short while, they laid bare the corpse, which had not been covered to a very great depth, and which was grotesque and distended, with a swollen, reddened face. The fragments of a shroud, which had been wound round the body, were found inside the grave. Undaunted, driven by their anger, the young men struck at the lifeless corpse, from which such a continuous flow of blood gushed and soaked the earth that they realised the creature must have been a vampire, sucking the blood of many people . . . Then, dragging it outside the town, they quickly constructed a funeral pyre. One of them said the noxious corpse would not burn until its heart was removed, and the other opened up its side with blows from his mattock and reached in to seize the heart which had been the source of such harm and evil. Then, with the corpse finally dismembered and burnt, the two men returned to announce what they had done to the people present at the priest’s banquet, who ran outside to see for themselves. Thereafter, with the infernal heart removed and the dire cadaver consumed by the fire, the air was purged and the pestilence which had prowled around the town was finally allayed . . .

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Source: Re-told from the Latin Historia Rerum Anglicarum of William of Newburgh in Chronicles of the Reigns of Stephen, Henry II and Richard I, ed. R. Howlett, Rolls Series, London 1885, Vol. II, pp. 474–82.

Laxdœla Saga This Icelandic saga tells the story of seven generations of settlers in the valley of Western Iceland known as ‘Salmon-River-Dale’. The saga was written down in the late thirteenth century, but the contents relate to a much earlier period: the first chapters deal with the departure of Ketill Flatnose, the ancestor of the chieftains of the Salmon-River men, from Norway in AD 890, while the death of Snorri the Priest, mentioned in the saga’s last chapter, is dated to 1031. The early part of the work covers a time when, as with any period of settlement in new and unclaimed territory, fresh land is being opened up for farming and the landholders are zealous in the defence of their possessions against neighbours and new immigrants. It is in this context that one should read the saga’s account of the haunting of his former homestead by the curmudgeonly farmer Hrapp. The haunting follows his insistence on being buried in the farmhouse doorway so that, in death as in life, he might keep watch over his lands. Similarly, it is only when there is further expansion of cultivated land into the wilderness to which Hrapp’s body has been removed by the chieftain Hoskuld that Hrapp’s ghost begins to walk again and cause problems for the succeeding generation.

Hrapp’s Ghost Chap. XVII

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t is said of Hrapp that he became most violent in his behaviour, and did his neighbours such harm that they could hardly hold their own against him . . . but his power waned, in that old age was fast coming upon him, so that he had to lie in bed. Hrapp called his wife Vigdis to him and said, ‘I have never been of ailing health in my life, and it is therefore

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most likely that this illness will put an end to our life together. Now, when I am dead, I wish my grave to be dug in the doorway of my fire hall, and I want to be placed in it, standing there in the doorway. In that way I shall be able to keep a more searching eye on my dwelling.’ After that Hrapp died, and all was done as he said, for Vigdis did not dare do otherwise. And evil as he had been to deal with in his lifetime, he was even more so when he was dead, for he walked again a great deal after his death. People say he killed most of his servants in his ghostly appearances. He caused a great deal of trouble to those who lived near, and the house of Hrappstead became deserted, since Vigdis, Hrapp’s wife, had taken herself west to her brother’s house and settled there with all her goods. Things went on like this, until men went to find Hoskuld and told him all the things Hrapp was doing to them, and asked him to do something to put an end to this. Hoskuld said something should be done, and he went with some men to Hrappstead, and had Hrapp dug up, and taken away to a place where cattle were unlikely to roam and men unlikely to venture. After that Hrapp’s walking-about abated somewhat ... This chapter of the saga goes on to tell how Hrapp’s son inherited the estate of Hrappstead and died, ‘seized of a frenzy’, and how Vigdis, Hrapp’s widow, then inherited his wealth but refused to live at Hrappstead. A subsequent chapter tells of the establishment, twelve years later, of the estate of Hjardarholt by Olaf Peacock, the son of Hoskuld. It is not clearly stated, but the implication of the story is that the Hjardarholt lands lay in the former wilderness where Hrapp’s body had been buried on Hoskuld’s orders.


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The Ghost in the Doorway Chap. XXIV

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laf was considered the noblest of all Hoskuld’s sons. The first winter that he kept house at Hjardarholt he had many servants and workmen, and labour was divided amongst the farmhands. One looked after the dry cattle and oxen and another after the cows. The cattle-fold was out in the wood, some way from the homestead. One evening the man who looked after the dry cattle came to Olaf and asked him to make some other man look after them and to set apart for him some other work. Olaf answered: ‘I wish you to go on with this same work of yours.’ The man said he would sooner go away. ‘Then you think there is something wrong,’ said Olaf. ‘I will go this evening with you when you attend to the cattle, and if I think there is any excuse for you in this I will say nothing about it, but otherwise you will find your lot has taken a turn for the worse.’ Olaf took his gold-set spear, the king’s gift, in his hand, and left home with the farmhand. There was some snow on the ground. They came to the cattle-fold, which was open, and Olaf bade the man go in: ‘I will drive up the cattle and you tie them up as they come in.’ The farmhand went to the fold-door. And then, all unawares, Olaf finds him leaping into his open arms. When Olaf asked him why he was so terrified, the labourer replied: ‘Hrapp stands in the doorway of the fold, and reached out for me, but I have had my fill of wrestling with him.’ Olaf went to the fold-door and struck at the ghost with his spear. Hrapp took the socket of the spear in both hands and wrenched it aside, so that the spear shaft was broken. Olaf was about to run at Hrapp but he disappeared just where he stood, and there they parted, Olaf having the shaft and Hrapp the spear-head. After that Olaf and the farmhand tied up the cattle and went home, with Olaf now aware that the man was not to blame for his grumbling. The next morning Olaf went to where Hrapp was buried

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and had him dug up. Hrapp was found undecayed, and there Olaf also found his spear-head. After that he had a pyre made and had Hrapp burnt on it, and his ashes were flung out to sea. After that no-one had any more trouble with Hrapp’s ghost . . . Source: Based upon the accounts of Hrapp’s ghostly visitations in Laxdœ la Saga, trans. M. Press, London (Dent) 1899, pp. 41–2 and 77–8.

Eyrbyggja Saga The narrative of this somewhat complicated saga, which is likely to have been written at the Icelandic monastery of Helgafell about the middle of the thirteenth century, tells of the lives and deeds of several generations of immigrants and settlers in the peninsulas of Western Iceland. It spans the period from the late ninth to the eleventh centuries, dealing with the anarchic events of the so-called ‘Viking Age’ through to the arrival of Christianity in AD 1000. It traces the development, under the supervision of charismatic figures such as Snorri the Priest (an ancestor of two of the later abbots of Helgafell) of a body of laws which provided for a more orderly and settled society. The ghosts of the Eyrbyggja Saga have a mixture of characteristics. Thorolf Halt-Foot is a typical draugr, a frightening marauder who leaves his tomb to cause devastation in the neighbourhood where, even during his lifetime, he was known for his ill-humour; he leads a retinue of the dead which has overtones of the Wild Hunt legends, and is finally constrained by the device of a high wall which is erected by his son Arnkel. Thorgunna, the Hebridean woman whose death leads to a series of ghostly developments at the farmstead of Frodis-water, at first seems to be a somewhat homely phantom: during her lengthy death-procession to the Christian church at Skalaholt she gets up from her bier stark naked to cook a meal in symbolic reproach of the farmer who refuses hospitality to her coffin-bearers. Later, in a detail which is reminiscent of later Hebridean stories of ‘silkies’ or seal-people, she takes the form of a seal which tries to struggle up through the floor of the living-room at Frodis-water and can only be overcome by the young man to whom Thorgunna had taken a fancy when she was alive. The ghosts of the drowned crew of a fishing expedition continue to frequent Frodis-water as they did when alive, sprawling in front of the fire beside their surviving relatives and brawling with a rival band of ghosts. Significantly,

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however, they respond to the mixture of Christian ceremonial and Icelandic legal procedure which Snorri the Priest, whose advice is sought from his holy sanctuary at Helgafell, recommends as a means of ensuring their departure.

The Ghost of Thorolf Halt-Foot Chap. 34

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fter the death of Thorolf Halt-foot, many people were iafraid to be outside whenever the sun was getting low. As the summer wore on, men were aware that Thorolf did not lie quietly, and they might never be in peace out of doors after sunset. And it happened moreover that the oxen which had been yoked to Thorolf were ridden by trolls [demons], and all the cattle that came near his tomb went mad, and bellowed till they died. The herdsman at Hvamm often came running home as though Thorolf had given chase to him. In the autumn neither the herdsman nor the cattle came home, and in the morning men went to seek them and found the herdsman dead a little way from Thorolf ’s tomb; he was coal-blue, and every one of his bones was broken. He was buried beside Thorolf. Of all the cattle that had been in the dale, some were found dead, and some fled into the mountains, and were never found again; and if birds settled on Thorolf ’s tomb, they fell down dead. Such great trouble arose from this that no man dared feed his flocks up in the dale. Often there was a great noise heard outside the homestead at Hvamm, and men were aware that the roof of the house was being ridden. During the winter Thorolf was often seen around the house, causing most trouble to his wife, who was driven almost mad. The result of all this was that his wife died from the strain and was taken to Thorswater-dale and buried beside Thorolf. After that men fled from the homestead. Thorolf took to walking all over the dale, so that all the farms were laid waste. He killed some men, while others fled away, but all those who had died were seen in his company . . .


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Throughout the winter Thorolf and his wild hunt of ‘undead’ companions cause such terror in the community that representations are made to his son, the landholder and priest Arnkel. When spring comes, and the frost has thawed out of the ground, Arnkel forms a posse of local men, reminding them that it was the law that all must help bury the dead when asked for assistance. . . . He got ready to go and he and his group were twelve in all, and they had with them yoke-oxen and digging tools. They went first to Ulfar’s-fell and met there Thorod, Thorbrand’s son, and he and his group made a further three. They went up over the neck of the mountains and came down Thorswater-dale as far as Thorolf ’s tomb. They broke it open, and found Thorolf ’s corpse undecayed, and most evil to look upon. They took him out of the grave, and laid him on a sledge, and yoked two strong oxen to it, and drew him up to Ulfar’s-fell-neck, but by then the oxen were so tired that others were used to draw him further up the slope. Arnkel intended to bring him to Vadils-head and lay him in the earth there. But when they came to the brow of the hill the oxen went mad, and broke loose and ran away over the hillside of Ulfar’s-fell and so out towards the sea where they fell down exhausted. By now Thorolf was so heavy that they could bring him no further, so they bore him to a little headland nearby and laid him in the earth there, and since then that place has been called Halt-foot’s Head. Then Arnkel raised a wall across the headland on the landward side of the tomb, so high that nothing could get over it except a flying bird, and there are still signs of the wall today. There Thorolf lay quietly for as long as Arnkel lived . . . Later in the saga Thorolf ’s ghost becomes restless again after the death of Arnkel. His body is dug up and burnt, and a lengthy account is given of how a cow which grazes across the land near his funeral pyre, licking the stones and ingesting the ashes, gives birth to a monstrous bull which is the cause of further death and mayhem in the district. Before that, there has been a detailed account of the consequences for the people of the homestead of Frodis-water of the arrival from the Hebrides of Thorgunna, a

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middle-aged woman with a load of valuable possessions which provoke the envy of the wife of the landholder. Thorgunna works in the hay-fields of Frodis-water but, in the first of a series of ominous occurrences, becomes soaked in a shower of blood which falls from the sky during a storm. She takes to her bed, and Thorod the landholder and his wife Thurid soon become aware that she is dying. This sequential chapter series in the Eyrbyggja Saga traces the hauntings and disturbances which follow upon their failure to observe Thorgunna’s death-bed wishes.

Thorgunna’s Supper Chap. 51

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hen Thorgunna said: ‘This is what I want done: I am to be carried to Skalaholt if I die of this sickness, because my mind tells me that some day it will be the most worshipped place in the land. And I know also that there will be priests to sing masses for me, so I beg you to take me there. You will have enough of a share in my goods to ensure that you do not lose out. From my original estate Thurid shall have my scarlet cloak; and I am giving her this so that she shall be content with the arrangements I am making for my other goods. You are to take whatever you want, or whatever pleases her, from my other goods to cover any costs you incur. My gold ring shall go to the church with me, but I want my bed and bed-hangings to be burnt, for they will not be of any use to anyone. I am not saying this because I begrudge anyone their use: I am saying it because I do not want people to have the trouble that I know will arise if they neglect to do what I have ordained.’ Thorod promised to do as she bade him, and so her sickness grew and not many days later Thorgunna died where she lay. The corpse was at first carried into the church, and Thorod had a coffin made for her body, and the next day he had the bed-gear carried outside and fuel brought and piled into a bonfire. Then his wife Thurid went to him and asked what he


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intended to do with the bed-furnishings. He said he intended to burn them in the fire, just as Thorgunna had requested. She answered: ‘It disturbs me to think of such precious things being burnt.’ Thorod said: ‘She spoke a great deal about this, and about how it would not be right to neglect the arrangements she had made.’ Thurid said: ‘That was because of her envious nature. She begrudged anyone enjoying these things and so she laid this charge on you. But nothing evil will come of it if you do not do as she asked.’ ‘I am not sure,’ he said, ‘that things will go well unless we do as she asked.’ But then Thurid put her arms round his neck, and begged him not to burn the bed-gear, and pleaded with him so eagerly that he changed his mind. She brought matters about in such a way that Thorod burned the bolster and the mattress, but she took away the quilt and sheets, and all the bed-hangings. Even so, neither of them really liked what they had done. After that preparations were made for the burial journey, and it was arranged that trusty men should go with the corpse, taking some good horses that Thorod owned. The body was swathed in linen, but not sewn up, and then laid in the coffin. Then they set out following the road which heads south over the heathland. As they crossed some very damp bogland, the body was often overturned. They went south to Northwater, and crossed it by Isleford. The river was deep, and a storm came on with heavy rain. At last, they came to a farmstead that lay within Staffholts-tongue, called Nether-ness, and there they sought shelter, but the farm-owner would not make them welcome. Night was falling and they judged they could go no further, since it was unlikely that they would have been able to cross Whitewater at night. So they unloaded their horses, carried the corpse into an out-house and then went into the hall and took off their clothes, intending to remain there unfed for the night. The people of the homestead went to bed while it was still daylight, and when they were in bed they heard a great clattering sound from the storehouse behind the kitchen.

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When they went to see what was happening, and whether perhaps thieves had broken in, they saw a tall woman, completely naked and without any clothes, busying herself bringing out victuals. When they saw her, they were so afraid that they dared not go anywhere near her. When the corpse-bearers got to hear of this, they too went to see what was happening and realised the woman was Thorgunna. It seemed best to all of them not to meddle with her. When she had made everything ready to her satisfaction, she carried meat into the hall, laid the table, and placed the food upon it. Then the corpse-bearers said to the farm-owner: ‘Perhaps it will turn out before we part that you will pay dearly for not making us welcome.’ Then the farmer and his wife said: ‘We will certainly give you meat, and provide whatever else you need.’ And immediately, as soon as the farmer had given them good cheer in this way, Thorgunna went out of the hall and was not seen again. After that, light was brought into the hall, the wet clothes were pulled off the guests and dry clothes given them instead. They went to the table and blessed the meat, and the farm-owner had all the house sprinkled with holy water. The guests ate the meat, and it caused none of them any harm, even though it was Thorgunna who had set it out. They slept there through the night, and found it a most hospitable place. In the morning they got ready for their journey, which passed off well enough; and when these events became known about, it seemed best to most people to give them as cheerful a welcome as they needed. After this nothing of any note happened on their journey. And when they came to Skalaholt, Thorgunna’s precious gifts were handed over to the priests, who received them gladly along with the corpse. Thorgunna was laid in the earth there, and the corpse-bearers set off home. All went well with their journey, and they arrived back in good shape . . . When the corpse-bearers return to Frodis-water, an ominous portent, in the shape of a half-moon which keeps appearing on the


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panelled wall of the sitting-room, leads the family to conclude that there will be deaths at the homestead shortly.

Deaths at Frodis-water Chap. 53

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t happened next that the shepherd at Frodis-water behaved in a very withdrawn manner when he came home one day. He did not say much, and was irritable, so that men thought it most likely that he had been bewitched – particularly as he kept talking distractedly to himself. This continued for a while, and then, two weeks into winter, the shepherd came home and went straight to bed. In the morning when men came to him he was dead, so he was buried at the church there. A little while after this the great hauntings began. One night as Thorir Wooden-leg went out to attend to the needs of nature, he turned round to go back through the door when he saw the shepherd standing there. He made as if to go inside, but the shepherd would not let him through. Thorir tried to get away, but the shepherd went for him and, seizing him, threw him against the door of the house. He was terribly frightened by this, but managed to get back to bed, and by then he was coal-blue all over. The result of all this was that he fell sick and died, and was buried in the church. For a long time afterwards, the two of them, the shepherd and Thorir Wooden-leg, were seen in company. Not surprisingly, all this spread great fear throughout the neighbourhood. After Thorir’s death a house-carle [a servant or farmhand] of Thorod fell sick, and lay for three nights before he died. By then it was almost time for the Yuletide feast [the start of Advent] although at that time it was not the custom to fast in Iceland. The pile of dried stock-fish was heaped up in the larder so that it filled it and prevented the door from being opened. The pile was as high as the tie-beam of the roof, and a ladder was needed to fetch the stock-fish from the top of the pile. One evening when people sat by the fire eating their meal,

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they heard the skin being torn from the stock-fish, but when they went to investigate, they found nothing alive in the room. Then in the winter, a little before the Yule feast, Thorod went out to Ness to get more fish for his stock-pile. A crew of six were manning a boat with ten oars, and they were away all night. The same night that Thorod went away, it happened that, as the meal-fires were being lit at Frodis-water and men were gathering in the hall, they saw a seal’s head coming up through the floor of the fire-hall. One of the women servants was the first to see it, and she took up a club that lay in the doorway and aimed it at the seal’s head; but it actually rose under the blow, and glared up at Thorgunna’s bed-gear. Then one of house-carles approached and battered away at the seal, but with every blow it kept rising until its flippers were above the floor. The house-carle fainted, and everyone who was watching was filled with terror. In ran the young man Kiartan and, seizing a great sledge-hammer, he struck a great blow at the seal’s head, but the seal only shook its head and looked round about. Kiartan kept hitting one blow after another until the seal began to sink down as though it were a peg being knocked into the ground. He kept on striking at it until the seal had gone down so far that he was beating on the floor above its head. It later turned out, throughout that winter, that the portents and apparitions appeared to fear Kiartan most of all ...

The Companies of the Dead Chap. 54

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n the morning that Thorod and his men sailed westwards from Ness, they were all lost off Enni. Their ship and the catch of fish came ashore nearby, but the corpses were not found. When this news became known at Frodis-water, Kiartan and Thurid invited their neighbours to an arvale [a funeral meal], intending to use the Yuletide ale for the cere-


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mony. But on the first evening of the feast, when the guests had arrived and were taking their places, Thorod and his men came into the hall, all of them dripping wet. The company gave Thorod and his men a hearty welcome, for their arrival was thought to be a good portent: people believed they would have the favour of Ran [the goddess of the sea] if they came to drink their own burial ale. In those days very little of the old beliefs had been abandoned, although men had been baptised and called themselves Christians. Now Thorod and his men walked down the length of the sitting-hall, which had a double door, and went into the fire-hall. They did not acknowledge any of the greetings, and sat themselves down by the fire. The rest of the household fled from the fire-hall, but Thorod and his company stayed on there until the fires burned low and then they got up to leave. The same thing happened throughout the arvale. Every evening these men came to the fire, causing a great deal of talk among the company, with some guessing they would stop when the feast was over. Eventually the guests went home after the feast, and the household seemed rather dreary after they had gone. On the evening when the guests departed, the meal-fires were lit as usual, but when they were blazing away, in came Thorod and his company, all dripping wet. They sat down by the fire and started wringing out their clothes. Then, after they were seated, in came Thorir Wooden-leg and six of his followers. They were all muddy, and they shook their dirty clothes and threw mud at Thorod and his folk. Not surprisingly, the household stayed well away from the fire-hall, and were left without light or a warm hearth or any of the benefits of the fire. The next evening fires were lit in another room, since it was thought the two groups would be less likely to come in there, but it was not to be: exactly the same thing happened as on the previous night, and both companies [Thorod, Thorir and their ‘undead’ followers] came to the fires. On the third evening Kiartan thought it best to make a long fire in the fire-hall and light meal-fires in another room. This was done, and the result was that Thorod and his

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men sat by the long fire and the household by the little fire. So it went on till Yuletide was over . . . A sickness which accompanies the appearance of the ghosts and the decay of the food-stores at Frodis-water kills many of the servants and farm-hands. Eventually, however, the ghosts are banished with the help of Snorri the Priest, using an effective combination of Christian ritual and Icelandic common-law in the form of a ‘door-doom’ – a local court or tribunal which arraigns the ghosts for the trouble they have caused.

The Ghosts on Trial Chap. 55

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ow when all these strange things had been continuing for some time, Kiartan set off eastwards to Holyfell [the monastery of Helgafell] to see Snorri the Priest, his mother’s brother, and seek his advice about the unnatural events that had occurred. At that time there was a priest at Holyfell whom Gizur the White [one of the first Christian converts in Iceland] had sent to Snorri the Priest. Snorri sent this priest out to Frodis-water with Kiartan, along with his son Thord Kausi and another six men. In addition, his advice was to burn Thorgunna’s bed-gear, and to summon all those who ‘walked’ [after death] to a door-doom; and he instructed the priest to sing holy offices there, to provide holy water and take confessions. They invited people from the nearby farms to join them on the road, and they arrived at Frodis-water on the eve of Candlemas just as the meal-fires were being lit. By then Thurid had fallen sick in exactly the same way as those who had already died. Kiartan went straight into the house and saw Thorod and his company sitting by the fire as usual. So he took down Thorgunna’s bed-gear, went into the fire-hall and gathered up embers from the fire to take outside, and in this way burned all of the bed-furnishings that Thorgunna had owned. After that Kiartan summoned Thorir Wooden-leg, and Thord Kausi


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summoned Thorodd and they formally charged them with coming and going about the household without permission, and with despoiling men of their lives and their good fortune. Every one of those [the companies of the ‘undead’] who had sat by the fire was charged in this way. A door-doom was assembled, and the cases were put forward, and everything was done in accordance with the rules of legal assembly. Verdicts were delivered, cases were summed up, and sentence was pronounced. As soon as the sentence on Thorir Wooden-leg was given out, he got up and said: ‘Here I sat for as long as I was able,’ and after that he went out of the door around which the court had not assembled. Then the sentence on the shepherd was passed. When he heard it he stood up and said: ‘I am going away from here; and I think it would have been better if I had gone before.’ When Thorgrima Witch-face heard the sentence pronounced on her, she also stood up and said: ‘I stayed here as long as I should have done.’ They charged them all, one after another, and each of them stood up to hear sentence and say something as they prepared to leave. From the tenor of their remarks, it seemed that they were all reluctant to depart. The last of the judgments was pronounced on Thorod, and when he had heard it he stood up and said: ‘It seems to me there is little peace to be had here. Let us all go somewhere else.’ Then, as he walked out, Kiartan and his people came back in, and the priest took holy water and relics and blessed the house, and on the next day they sang the holy offices and mass was held with great solemnity. This brought an end to the walking of the dead and the hauntings at Frodis-water . . . Source: Adapted from The Story of the Ere-Dwellers, a translation of Eyrbyggja Saga by W. Morris and E. Magnusson, Vol. II, The Saga Library, London 1892, pp. 89–92 and 145–52.

The Saga of Grettir the Strong The Grettis Saga, which was written early in the fourteenth century, tells of the deeds of the outlaw Grettir Asmundsson, who is likely to have lived in Iceland during the early eleventh century. The saga tells of his travels across the North Atlantic to Norway, and of his many victorious encounters with his foes, whether living men or dead tomb-dwellers who had come back to life as revenants and draugar. Although Grettir is the hero of the saga, he is not a particularly admirable figure by the noble standards of late medieval chivalry. In his youth, he is a typical folk-tale ‘Bear’s Son’ character: he is lazy, quick to anger, and the basis for his outlawry is the crime of murder. Expelled from the company of law-abiding men, he subsists in the glacial wilderness of the Icelandic highlands by stealing sheep. There are times indeed in the saga when the figure of Grettir can almost be regarded as a kind of living counterpart of the predatory revenants whom he defeats by his quick wits and physical strength. At the end of his fight with the ghost of the shepherd Glam, which is one of the pivotal events of the saga, there is a kind of ‘recognition’ between himself and the defeated ghost, who curses Grettir and leaves him with a fear of the dark and a hunted sense of his own luckless destiny. Earlier in the saga, before Grettir’s luck has begun to turn, there is an account of his successful raid on the tomb of Kar in the island of Hamarsey. Grettir’s attention had been drawn to the likelihood that treasure was buried within the tomb by the sight of a fiery glow on the headland where the howe was situated. The description of the tomb-dweller’s existence within the ‘howe’ or tumulus, and his fierce defence of the possessions of this underground domain, convey a strong sense of Scandinavian notions of the after-life.


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The Tomb of Kar the Old Chap. XVIII

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rettir broke open the grave, and worked with all his might, never stopping until he came to wood, by which time the day was already spent. He tore away the woodwork; his companion implored him not to go down, but Grettir urged him to attend to the rope, saying that he meant to find out what it was that dwelt there. Then he descended into the howe. It was very dark and the odour was not pleasant. He began to explore how it was arranged, and found the bones of a horse. Then he knocked against a sort of throne in which he was aware of a man seated. There was much treasure of gold and silver collected together, and a casket under his feet, full of silver. Grettir took all the treasure and went back towards the rope, but on his way he felt himself seized by a strong hand. He left the treasure to close with his aggressor and the two engaged in a merciless struggle. Everything about them was smashed. The howe-dweller made a ferocious onslaught. Grettir for some time gave way, but found that no holding back was possible. They did not spare each other. Soon they came to the place where the horse’s bones were lying, and here they struggled for long, each in turn being brought to his knees. At last it ended with the howe-dweller falling backwards with a horrible crash, whereupon Grettir’s companion above bolted from the rope, thinking Grettir was killed. Grettir then drew his sword Jokulsnaut, cut off the head of the howe-dweller and laid it between his thighs. Then he went with the treasure to the rope . . . He was very stiff from his struggle with Kar, but he turned his steps towards Thorfinn’s house, carrying the treasure along with him . . . As the saga proceeds, Grettir gains a reputation for being a hero who, by his strength and cunning, is suited for the always-difficult task of ridding communities of ghosts and revenants. The central episode of the saga is his defeat of the ghost of the shepherd Glam, who is one of the most fearsome draugar in all Scandinavian

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literature, with a strong resemblance to Grendel in Beowulf. A key to the ghost’s later malevolence is given in the description of Glam before his death. His master, the bondi or landholder Thorhall, is struck by his sinister appearance as ‘a big man with an extraordinary expression of countenance, large grey eyes and wolf-grey hair . . .’ The living Glam’s surliness, his blasphemous contempt for Christian convention, and his deliberate seeking-out of employment as a shepherd in a landscape which is already haunted, seem to mark him out as an individual who is somehow pre-destined to become a nuisance to the community after his death.

Glam the Shepherd Chap. XXXII

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lam rose early and called for his meal. The mistress said: ‘It is not proper for Christian men to eat on this day, because tomorrow is the first day of Yule and it is our duty to fast today.’ ‘You have many superstitions,’ he said, ‘but I do not see that much comes of them. I do not know that men are any better off than when there was nothing of that kind. The ways of men seemed to me better when they were called heathen. I want my food and no foolery.’ ‘I am certain,’ she said, ‘that it will fare ill with you today if you commit this sin.’ Glam told her that she should bring his food, or it would be the worse for her. She did not dare do otherwise. When he had eaten, he went out, his breath smelling abominably. It was very dark; there was driving snow, the wind was howling and it became worse as the day advanced. The shepherd’s voice was heard in the early part of the day, but less later on. Blizzards set in with a terrific storm in the evening. People went to mass and so the time passed. In the evening Glam did not return. They talked about going out to look for him but the storm was so violent and the night so dark that no-one went. The night


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passed and still he had not returned; they waited till the time for mass came. When it was full day, some of the men set forth to search. They found the animals scattered everywhere in the snow and injured by the weather; some had strayed into the mountains. They came upon some well-marked tracks up above in the valley. The stones and the earth were torn up all about as if there had been a violent tussle. On searching further they came upon Glam lying on the ground a short distance off. He was dead; his body was as black as Hel [the goddess of the underworld] and swollen to the size of an ox. They were overcome with horror and their hearts shuddered within them. Nevertheless they tried to carry him to the church, but could not get him any further than the edge of a gully a short way off. So they left him there and went home to report to the bondi what had happened. He asked what could have caused Glam’s death. They said they had tracked him to a big place like a hold made by the bottom of a cask thrown down and dragged along beside the mountains which were at the top of the valley, and all along the track were great drops of blood. They concluded that the evil spirit which had been about before must have killed Glam, but that he had inflicted wounds upon it which were enough, for that spook was never heard of again. On the second day of the festival they went out again to bring Glam’s body to the church. They yoked oxen to him, but directly the downward incline ceased and they came to level ground, they could not move him; so they went home again and left him. On the third day they took a priest with them, but after searching the whole day, they failed to find him. The priest refused to go again, and when he was not with them, they found Glam. So they gave up the attempt to bring him to the church and buried him where he was under a cairn of stones. It was not long before men became aware that Glam was not easy in his grave. Many men suffered severe injuries; some who saw him were struck senseless and some lost their wits. Soon after the festival was over, men began to think they saw him

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about their houses. The panic was great and many left the neighbourhood. Next he began to ride on the housetops by night, and nearly broke them to pieces. Almost night and day he walked, and people would scarcely venture up the valley, however pressing their business. The district was in a grievous condition . . . Glam continues to rampage through the district for the rest of the winter, although as spring comes ‘and the sun rose higher in the sky’ the hauntings diminish somewhat. When autumn returns and the night-time disturbances increase once more, the landholder Thorhall asks for Grettir’s help in ridding his estate of the troublesome ghost of his former ‘thrall’, or bonded servant.

The Fight with Glam’s Ghost Chap. XXXV

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horhall was delighted that Grettir wished to remain, and received him with both hands. Grettir’s horse was placed securely under lock and key and they both went to bed. The night passed without Glam showing himself. ‘Your being here has already done some good,’ said Thorhall, ‘Glam has always been in the habit of riding on the roof or breaking open the doors every night, as you can see from the marks.’ ‘Then,’ Grettir said, ‘either he will not keep quiet much longer, or he will remain so more than one night. I will stay another night and see what happens.’ Then they went to Grettir’s horse and saw it had not been touched. The bondi thought that all pointed to the same thing. Grettir stayed a second night and again the thrall did not appear. The landholder became hopeful and went to see the horse. There he found the stable broken open, the horse dragged outside and every bone in its body broken. Thorhall told Grettir what had occurred and advised him to look to himself, for he was a dead man if he waited for Glam. Grettir answered: ‘I must not have less for my horse than a sight of the thrall.’ The bondi said there


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was no pleasure to be had from seeing him: ‘He is not like any man. I count every hour a gain that you are here.’ The day passed, and when the hour came for going to bed, Grettir said he would not take off his clothes, and lay down on a seat opposite to Thorhall’s sleeping apartment. He had a shaggy cloak covering him with one end of it fastened under his feet and the other drawn over his head so that he could see through the neck-hole. He set his feet against a strong bench which was in front of him. The frame-work of the outer door had been all broken away and some bits of wood had been rigged up roughly in its place. The partition which had once divided the hall from the entrance passage was all broken, both above the cross-beam and below, and all the bedding had been upset. The place looked rather desolate. There was a light burning in the hall by night. When about a third of the night had passed, Grettir heard a loud noise. Something was going up on the building, riding above the hall and kicking with its heels until the timbers cracked again. This went on for some time, and then it came down towards the door. The door opened and Grettir saw the thrall stretching in an enormously big and ugly head. Glam moved slowly in, and, on passing the door, stood upright, reaching to the roof. He turned to the hall, resting his arms on the cross-beam and peering along the hall. The bondi uttered no sound, having heard quite enough of what had gone on outside. Grettir lay quite still and did not move. Glam saw a heap of something in the seat, came farther into the hall and seized the cloak tightly with his hand. Grettir pressed his foot against the plank and the cloak held firm. Glam tugged at it again still more violently, but it did not give way. A third time he pulled, this time with both hands and with such force that he pulled Grettir up out of the seat, and between them the cloak was torn in two. Glam looked at the bit which he held in his hand and wondered who could pull like that against him. Suddenly Grettir sprang under his arms, seized him round the waist and squeezed his back with all his might, intending in that way to bring him down, but the thrall wrenched his arms

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till he staggered from the violence. Then Grettir fell back to another bench. The benches flew about and everything was shattered around them. Glam wanted to get out, but Grettir tried to prevent him by stemming his foot against anything he could find. Nevertheless Glam succeeded in getting him outside the hall. Then a terrific struggle began, the thrall trying to drag him out of the house, and Grettir saw that however hard he was to deal with in the house, he would be worse outside, so he strove with all his might to keep him from getting out. Then Glam made a desperate effort and gripped Grettir tightly towards him, forcing him to the porch. Grettir saw that he could not put up any resistance, and with a sudden movement he dashed into the thrall’s arms and set both his feet against a stone which was placed in the ground beside the door. For that Glam was prepared, since he had been tugging to drag Grettir towards him; he reeled backwards and tumbled out of the door, tearing away the lintel with his shoulder and shattering the roof, the rafters and the frozen thatch. Head-over-heels he fell out of the house and Grettir fell on top of him. The moon was shining very brightly outside, with light clouds passing over it and hiding it now and again. At the moment when Glam fell, the moon shone forth, and Glam turned his eyes up towards it. Grettir himself related that that sight was the only one which ever made him tremble. What with fatigue and all else he had endured, when he saw the horrible rolling of Glam’s eyes, his heart sank so utterly that he had not strength to draw his sword, but lay there between life and death. Glam possessed more malignant power than most fiends, for he now spoke in this way: ‘You have expended much energy, Grettir, in your search for me. Nor is it to be wondered at, if you should have little joy thereof. And now I tell you that you shall possess only half the strength and firmness of heart that were decreed to you if you had not striven with me. The might which was yours till now I am not able to take away, but it is in my power to ordain that never shall you grow stronger than you are now. Nevertheless


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your might is sufficient, as many shall find to their cost. Hitherto you have earned fame through your deeds, but henceforward there shall fall upon you exile and battle; your deeds shall turn to evil and your guardian-spirit shall forsake you. You will be outlawed and your lot shall be to dwell ever alone. And this I lay upon you, that these eyes of mine shall be ever before your vision. You will find it hard to live alone, and at last it shall drag you to death.’ When the thrall had spoken, the faintness which had come over Grettir left him. He drew his short sword, cut off Glam’s head and laid it between his thighs. Then the bondi came out, having put on his clothes while Glam was speaking, but he did not venture to come near until he was dead. Thorhall praised God and thanked Grettir warmly for having laid this unclean spirit. Then they set to work and burned Glam to cold cinders, bound the ashes in a skin and buried them in a place far away from the haunts of man or beast. Then they went home, the day having nearly broken. Grettir was very stiff and lay down to rest. . . . In one thing a great change came over him; he had become so frightened of the dark that he dared not go anywhere alone at night. Apparitions of every kind came before him. It has since passed into an expression, and men speak of ‘Glam’s eyes’ or ‘Glam visions’ when things appear otherwise than as they are . . . Source: The Saga of Grettir the Strong, trans. G.A. Hight, London (Dent) 1914, pp. 43–4, 89–90 and 95–100.

The Fragmentary Tales of the Monk of Byland At the end of the fourteenth century, a monk at the Cistercian abbey of Byland in Yorkshire wrote down a series of stories concerning ghosts and spirits which he had been told by local people, and set them in the villages and dales of the countryside around his monastery. The stories were written on a few blank pages in a collection of manuscripts dating from the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, and the anonymous monk must have intended them to be used as exempla in the tradition of Caesarius of Heisterbach. A number of modern scholars, including the antiquary M.R. James, who transcribed the Latin text of these stories in the early 1920s and who was himself a well-known teller of ghost stories, have detected overtones of Scandinavian folklore about revenants in some of the stories. For instance, in the story which I have called ‘The Frightened Oxen’, the wagon-team drawing the corpse of James Tankerlay almost drowns in panic, like the oxen which hauled Thorolf Halt-Foot’s remains in Eyrbyggja Saga. There are also resemblances, in the story which I have called ‘The Child of Richard Rowntree’ to Guibert of Nogent’s account of the ghostly crying child which appeared to his mother, and to the procession of the dead which Orderic Vitalis called Hellequin’s Hunt. Above all, it is worth noting that the monk of Byland seems to have been more concerned to record the eerie, grotesque, and fantastic details of ghostly occurrences than to draw moral conclusions from his stories. In that sense, these fragments of popular legend, written down by the person to whom they were recounted in the neighbourhood where the various spirits supposedly appeared, bear a basic resemblance to the modern notion of a ghost story as an entertaining narrative which can be both frightening and enjoy-


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able. Indeed, M.R. James himself used a motif common to a number of these tales – whereby the unquiet spirit takes on a number of guises, writhing into different physical manifestations as though trying to thrust its way through the barrier between the worlds of the dead and the living – in some of his best-known ‘Ghost Stories of an Antiquary’.

The Basket of Beans Story I

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man was riding home on his horse, which was also icarrying on its back a pannier of beans. Suddenly the horse stumbled and fractured its foreleg, so that the man had to dismount and shoulder the sack of beans himself. As he went on his way, he saw what appeared to be the phantom shape of a horse rearing up on its hind legs and striking into the air with its front hoofs. Terrified, the man invoked the name of Jesus Christ and forbade the horse to harm him in any way. Whereupon the phantom horse began to follow him, and after a while the ghost manifested itself in the form of a whirling heap of hay, with a light shining in the middle of it. At this the man said: ‘Begone, whatever or whoever you are that wishes me ill!’ With these words, a figure in human shape appeared, and this ghost addressed him with a solemn oath, giving its name and the reasons for its distress. The ghost then said: ‘Permit me to carry your load of beans and help you in some way.’ It carried the load as far as a nearby river, but did not wish to cross to the other side. Somehow – the living man was not sure by what means – the sack of beans was placed once more on his own back. Afterwards he made sure arrangements were made for masses to be sung so that the spirit which had appeared to him might be helped and absolved . . .

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The Haunting of Snowball Story II

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he story is told of how a tailor called Snowball was riding home one night from Gillyng to Ampleforth. As he went along, he heard the kind of sound that ducks make splashing in a river, and soon afterwards he saw something that looked like a crow whirling around in the sky and falling towards the earth. It struck the ground and shook so violently that it could only have been dying, so the tailor got down from his horse to try to catch the crow-shape, and as he did so, he saw sparks leaping out from its side. He crossed himself and forbade it in the name of God to harm him or bring any evil upon him; whereupon it flew off with a great wailing a stone’s throw away. He got back on his horse to ride on, but as he did so, the crow-shape flew up to confront him and strike at him, so that he fell headlong to the ground. He lay there for a moment, stunned and fearful, but then got up again and valiantly fought it off with his sword. Finally, exhausted, he once more invoked the name of God and said: ‘Begone, whatever you are that wishes me ill!’ Once more it flew off with a terrible wailing about a bowshot’s distance away. Fearfully, the tailor advanced holding the cross-shaped hilt of his sword against his breast, until it appeared to him a third time and barred his way in the form of a chained dog. ‘What is to become of me?’ Snowball asked himself fearfully, but then, summoning his faith, he resolved to conjure it in the name of the Trinity, and by virtue of the blood of the five wounds of Jesus Christ, so that he might speak with it and find out the reasons for its distress. And so, conjured in this way, the spirit said, with much wailing and groaning: ‘Thus and thus have I done, and have been executed for such and such a crime. Go therefore to such and such a priest requesting absolution for me.’ . . . And while it was speaking to him, it seemed to be almost on fire, and he could see through its mouth into its


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interior, so that it was forming its words in its intestines and not speaking with its tongue . . . The story then goes on to give a lengthy account of the spirit’s requirements, in the form of masses and prayers, for absolution. It points out that the reason it has been able to appear to Snowball is that he had not attended mass, taken communion or recited the creed on that particular day. Snowball does as he is asked and eventually secures an absolution for the dead man, which is contained in a scroll which he buries in the man’s grave. He then keeps a pre-arranged appointment with the spirit, which is accompanied by two other ghosts. . . . He came to the agreed location, carrying on his person the four texts of the gospels as well as other sacred texts, and made a great circle. He stood in the middle of the circle, having placed four reliquaries in the form of a cross on its edges . . . and awaited the arrival of the spirit. It came at length in the shape of a goat, and went bleating round the circle three times. When it was conjured to declare itself, it fell prone upon the earth and then re-formed into a huge and horrible figure of a man, cadaverous, like the depictions [in contemporary wallpaintings] of the kings of the dead. And as the tailor timidly advanced, the ghost said: ‘God be praised. I was standing behind you at the hour of noon when you so fearfully buried my absolution in the tomb. It is no wonder that you were afraid, because three devils were present at that place, punishing me with all kinds of torments on account of the absolution which you obtained for me, realising they would have me in their custody for only a short time thereafter. You may know that next Monday I and thirty others will enter upon eternal joy . . .’ The ghost is then asked about its companions, but declares that it cannot reveal their names. It says that Snowball will in due course see one of them, the ghost of a knight who had killed a pregnant woman, in the shape of a calf ‘without mouth and eyes and ears and in no way, however much it is conjured, will it be able to speak . . .’ The other, a former religious functionary, will take the form of a hunter with a horn carved of bone. Snowball

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then interrogates the ghost about his own prospects for punishment or redemption in the afterlife. The ghost reproves him for cheating a friend who was away on crusade out of a measure of cloth with which to make a cloak, and, so that Snowball might make the necessary recompense, tells him the friend is now living near the castle of Alnwick. . . . Then Snowball asked: ‘And what is my greatest sin?’ The ghost replied that it had itself been the cause of his greatest public offence, ‘because people mistakenly say of you that you go about consorting with the dead, and remark to each other: “It must be such and such a person that he’s summoning now” . . . But if you reside in a certain place, you will be rich, and in another place you will be poor, since in that place you will have enemies who will speak ill of you.’ At length the spirit said: ‘I can no longer stay with you’ and departed. The deaf, mute, blind calf then accompanied the living man as far as the village of Ampleforth, but however keenly it was addressed, it could not be persuaded to make any reply. Then the other spirit [the ‘hunter’] advised him to place the most sacred texts under his pillow as he slept. ‘And you should say no more nor less than what I have told you, and you should keep your eyes cast downwards, and should not look at the flames of a fire for tonight at least.’ And when the tailor at last got home, he remained sick for a number of days . . .

The Frightened Oxen Story IV

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he old people tell the story of a certain James Tankerlay, ithe one-time Rector of Kereby, who was buried by the chapter-house at Bellelande. His spirit began to wander at night as far as Kereby, and one evening he gouged out the eye of his concubine who still lived there. It is said that the abbot and chapter had his body in its coffin dug out of the grave and that they ordered Roger Wayneman to convey it to Gormyre.


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When he was about to throw the coffin into the water, the oxen drawing his wagon panicked and were almost drowned with fear . . .

The Silver Spoons Story VI

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t happened that a man was talking with his master ploughman as they walked together through the fields. Suddenly the ploughman ran away in great terror, leaving his companion to wrestle with a spirit which tore at this clothes. Eventually he overcame it and conjured it to reveal its identity. The spirit confided that it was a certain canon of Newburgh who had been excommunicated for the theft of some silver spoons. The spirit implored the living man to go to a certain place and take it upon himself to report the matter to his former prior and beseech him for absolution. This was done, and the silver spoons were found in the place indicated by the spirit. The necessary absolution was arranged and the spirit rested in peace thereafter. But the man involved in the incident (who later confirmed that the ghost had appeared to him in the guise of a canon) fell sick and was ill for many days . . .

The Howling Ghost Story VIII

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his is an account of how another spirit followed William of Bradford crying out ‘how how how’ on three successive occasions. And at about midnight on the fourth night, he was returning on the road to the new town of Ampleforth when he heard a terrible voice shrieking a long way behind him, as though it was on a hill. A short time afterwards it shrieked again, but closer to him, and on the third occasion he heard it calling at the cross-roads ahead of him. Eventually he

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made out the shape of a pale horse. His dog growled briefly but then retreated and hid itself behind its master’s legs, whereupon, in the name of the Lord and by virtue of the blood of Jesus Christ, William forbade the spirit to harm him and obstruct him on his journey. When these words had been spoken, it fell back and took on the appearance of a square piece of canvas with corners which flapped and rolled about. All of which might lead one to believe it was a spirit in dreadful need of recognition and help . . .

The Child of Richard Rowntree Story XI

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he story is told of a certain citizen of Cleveland called Richard Rowntree, who, leaving his wife pregnant, went on pilgrimage to the tomb of Saint Joseph [at Santiago de Compostela]. He and his companions spent a night in a forest near the royal road [the camino real across Northern Spain], each of them keeping watch for a time while the others slept. When Richard’s turn came to keep watch, he heard a great noise coming from the direction of the royal road. Then he saw several figures sitting astride the horses, sheep, oxen and other animals which had been used to pay their funeral expenses when they died. He noticed in particular what appeared to be a little child tangled up in swaddling clothes, and he asked who it was and what it might be seeking. It replied, ‘It is not appropriate for you to address me, for you were my father and I was your stillborn child, buried without being named and baptised . . .’ Hearing this, the pilgrim took off his own shirt and put it on the little child, naming it in the name of the Holy Trinity, and took with him the old swaddling cloth as proof. With its name bestowed, the child went off exultantly, walking upright instead of floundering along as before. When the pilgrim returned from his journey, he gave a feast for his neighbours and then, in front of them all, asked his wife where her infants’ clothes might be. She showed him one of the swaddling cloths,


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but found that another was missing. Then he held out the cloth in which the child had been wrapped when he first saw it, and everybody at the feast marvelled at the story. The midwives then confessed the truth about the premature death and burial of the child, and the husband proceeded to divorce his wife on the grounds that their son had been aborted. But I believe such a divorce caused great displeasure to God [perhaps because the wife had not been an accessory to the indecent burial of her child] . . .

The Sister of Adam de Lond Story XII

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egend has it that this woman was buried in the cemetery iof Ampleforth and was seen shortly afterwards by William Trower the elder. When she was conjured, she confessed that her ghost was wandering at night because of certain property deeds which she had made over unjustly to her brother Adam. From this a quarrel had arisen between her husband and herself, in that this transfer had given her brother a property advantage over her husband and her own sons, and after her death her brother had violently expelled her husband from their home, which was a croft with certain appurtenances at Ampleforth, and a bovate of land with appurtenances at Heslarton. She implored William Trower to go to her brother and tell him she wished the deeds to be returned to her husband and sons, so that their land might be given back to them. Otherwise, she said, she would find no peace until Judgment Day. Following her instruction, William went to Adam de Lond with her suggestion, but found him unwilling to restore the deeds. ‘I do not believe a word of what you are telling me,’ said Adam to William, who replied: ‘My story is true in every respect, and with God’s grace you will yourself hear from your sister about all this.’ A short time later, William saw the woman’s ghost again and took her to Adam’s house, where she

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spoke to her brother. He remained obdurate and told her she could wander around forever as far as he was concerned, but that he would not hand back the deeds. With a groan she replied: ‘May God judge us both over this matter. I will not rest until you have died, and then afterwards you will be forced to wander in my place . . .’ It is said that downy cobwebs hung in strands from her right hand, and that it had turned black, and that when she was asked why this was, she replied that she had often held up this hand to swear false oaths. Eventually her ghost was conjured [and thus constrained] to go to another place because of the terror it inspired in the inhabitants of the town. I crave indulgence if by chance I have offended by writing against the truth. It is said moreover that Adam de Lond the younger made partial restitution to her heirs after the death of Adam the elder ... Source: Re-told from the Latin texts of ‘Twelve Medieval Ghost Stories’, edited by M.R. James in the English Historical Review XXXVII (1922), pp. 413–22.

Part Four

Ghosts in Medieval Literature

GHOSTS IN MEDIEVAL VERNACULAR LITERATURE

Introduction The absence of any specific genre of ghost story during the Middle Ages means that there is perhaps the danger of ‘over-classifying’ the ghostly occurrences and supernatural incidents which feature in medieval literature. By the late Middle Ages, European literature itself consisted of a number of different strands which, increasingly, were being written in vernacular languages rather than in Latin, but all of which drew upon interlocking and related traditions. For instance, just as the fashion for verse romance developed in the twelfth century alongside an older tradition of epic poetry – romance certainly did not ‘replace’ epic by some neat process of literary evolution1 – so monastic chronicles came to be complemented by historical verses in the vernacular, and popular fable, written in the language spoken in the streets, overlapped more and more with the exempla contained in the Latin preachers’ manuals. Although what in retrospect have come to be seen as distinct forms of literary activity were all being practised at the same time, each of them is likely to have made its appeal to a different section of medieval society because of what might be called the ‘code’ in which it was written. This code governed the overall form of the work; it conditioned the audience’s response to the development of the narrative; and it drew upon the shared cultural assumptions of author and audience. It could often result in profoundly different expectations of the conduct of the principal figures in the work. For instance, a 1

‘. . . Humanity does not pass through phases as a train passes through stations: being alive, it has the privilege of always moving, yet never leaving anything behind . . .’: C.S. Lewis, The Allegory of Love, Oxford 1937, p. 1.

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baron and his retinue of warrior-companions listening to the recitation of epic verse in the hall of his castle would expect the knight who was the hero of an epic to conduct himself as a grim-faced warrior for Christendom, hewing with his sword at a mass of pagan enemies. At the same time, the baron’s wife and her circle listening to a verse romance in the upper chamber of the hall would be presented with an entirely different image of a knightly hero: a blithe, elegant, golden figure, cantering off in springtime to listen to the nightingale. Ultimately, of course, the code of the romance, with its frequent emphasis upon the agonies and complexities of courtly love, proved the more durable and influential in that it permitted the development of ‘character’ in literature. Given the complex code that underlay the genre in which they worked, the romance poets had the potential to explore intention, state of mind and conflict of emotion in a way that was not possible for the epic poets, who had to deal with a more restricted and stereotypical set of responses.2 In some of the extracts which follow, we can see how ghostly occurrences were used to reinforce the romance code, in a manner which is a striking development of the way in which other medieval accounts of ghosts were used to convey a monastic message. For the devotees of the cult of courtly love, for instance, the punishment of those who ignored the demands of the god of love called for exemplary accounts of their suffering after death. This called in turn for stories, such as the one that is told in the poem the Lay du Trot, of a witness to a ghostly procession. In this medieval French lay, the knight Lorois, riding through the early summer landscape to be confronted by alternating visions of loving and lovelorn ghosts, fulfils the same function as the priest Walchelin, trudging homeward in the account of Hellequin’s Hunt by Orderic Vitalis. Both Lorois and Walchelin are observers; both are instructed in the meaning of the ghostly visions which pass 2

See W.P. Ker, Epic and Romance: Essays in Medieval Literature, London 1931; and E. Vinaver, The Rise of Romance, Oxford 1971.


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before them by spectral participants in the processions; both are required to carry back a warning to their mortal companions. There is even a similarity between the punishment inflicted on the ghostly women riding in Hellequin’s procession (they are bounced along on red-hot saddles) and the uncomfortable jolting gait of the ghosts who have scorned love in the Lay du Trot. Significantly, however, the intention of this punishment is diametrically different: the monk Orderic deems this painful equestrian posture to be the wages of sin and sensuality, while the author of the lay depicts the second group of ghosts as being jolted around for failing to follow the dictates of love and eroticism. There are other examples of the ‘standard’ form of medieval ghost story being adapted for use as a device in romance literature. The spectral pursuit of a ghostly young woman by her scorned lover which is described in Boccaccio’s Decameron is similar to the story by Caesarius of Heisterbach which I have called ‘The Shoes of the Hunted Woman.’ So, too, the sufferings in the afterlife described in the Awntyrs of Arthure by the ghost of Guinevere’s mother resemble accounts given by spirits who appear in monastic Miracula to implore their relatives to make suffrage donations on their behalf to lessen their time in purgatory. What is perhaps different about these ghosts in medieval literature is the context in which they manifest themselves. The ‘sin’ for which the girl’s ghost is hunted in the Decameron is that of having scorned love – of having failed to yield to erotic desire – and her sufferings are cited as a warning to her living counterparts; while the grotesque apparition in the Awntyrs that approaches Guinevere and Gawain as they take their ease in a forest glade has the purpose – both instructive and entertaining in a shiversome way – of acting as a reminder of the briefness of life. In other words, by appearing when and as it does, the ghost of Guinevere’s mother has the literary effect of highlighting the Arthurian idyll which it interrupts, and whose demise it forecasts.3 3

‘Pride of life is confronted with its opposite, an image of death and after-

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It is worth noting, incidentally, that the code which underlies Marie de France’s story of the werewolf Bisclavret might even have contained a tacit message for its first listeners which related to political developments in the Angevin realm during the late twelfth century. In her preface to the poem, Marie says that the name she has given her supernatural creature is the Breton term for a werewolf. Stories of werewolves and shape-changers were common in the folklore of the Celtic lands: Giraldus Cambrensis, for instance, has an account in his Topography of Ireland of the ‘wonder and miracle’ of a wolf conversing with a priest.4 In Marie’s story, it is perhaps significant that, even in its non-human form, the focus of this Breton werewolf ’s loyalty and devotion is the king. This motif, whereby the monarchy is presented as inspiring awe even across a supernatural boundary, is perhaps a cultural expression of political trends in the Angevin domain at the time. As Henry II expanded his power and influence in the Celtic lands of Wales, Ireland and Brittany, the local cultures, rich in folklore, were being confronted with the reality of an external power. In another of Giraldus’s anecdotes – this time from his Conquest of Ireland – Henry II himself is said to have deliberately gone out of his way to cross a bridge in Wales which, according to a prophesy of the seer Merlin, would be associated with his death. ‘Who now will have faith in that liar Merlin?’ demanded the king emphatically as he crossed the bridge unharmed, giving the clear implication that strong monarchs made their own destinies.5 In other words, any use of legend in the late twelfth century was to be turned to the Angevin death . . .’: see an analysis of the Awntyrs in J. Speirs, Medieval English Poetry, London 1957, pp. 252–62. 4 See The Historical Works of Giraldus Cambrensis, ed. and trans. T. Wright, London 1863, p. 79. The identification of wolves with men in the medieval imagination may also have had a juridical basis, stemming from the legal requirement to treat outlaws and social outcasts as though they were wolves, to be hunted down and killed. One of the laws of Edward the Confessor required that a man who broke the peace of the Church should be treated as though ‘he bears the head of a wolf ’. 5 The Historical Works of Giraldus Cambrensis, p. 238.


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monarchy’s own advantage, and Marie’s engaging image of a werewolf slavering obediently at a king’s heels was entirely consistent with this trend. In terms of the later, post-medieval, development of the ghost story, the extracts which follow from the Gesta Romanorum are perhaps the most noteworthy. This is despite the fact that when the stories were first gathered together in this influential collection of folk-tales and fables, each of them was accompanied by a detailed examination of its allegorical significance in terms of Christian theology. Although some of this material was recorded originally by Gervase of Tilbury, it can be argued that it was the gathering together of stories from a variety of sources which made the Gesta collection significant from a literary point of view. The social context in which these tales were told can perhaps be gleaned from the reference, in the story which I have called ‘The Phantom Knight of Wandlesbury’, to a medieval household entertaining itself around the fire with folk-stories and local legends. This image has a resonance with the story-telling context of The Decameron (Boccaccio tells of a group of Florentine refugees from their plague-ridden city passing their time in a country villa by telling each other stories) and of The Canterbury Tales, in which Chaucer’s pilgrims tell each other stories on their journey to Becket’s shrine. It is an image indeed in which one can perhaps discern the emergence of a genre of ghost story which is beginning to free itself from the requirement to adopt a moralising tone. Certainly these three stories from the Gesta Romanorum – of a spectral warrior haunting an ancient hill-top, of a ghostly butler offering a jewelled cup, and of a child taken away by demons to an invisible palace – stand alone in a narrative sense, free from any theological or romance or political gloss, and they would certainly have held the attention of the wide-eyed listeners around the fire. Read on their own, without the moralising interpretations of each story on which the monastic theologians would have insisted, they have the compellingly eerie quality which characterised the development of a later genre of ghost story.

The Lays of Marie de France ‘Marie’ was the name by which an otherwise anonymous twelfth-century author of a series of lays, or narratives in verse, called herself in the introduction to one of her works; others later styled her ‘Marie de France’. The lays are likely to have been written by a woman who was high-born and of French origin living in England and in regular contact with the Angevin court, where her works were known and circulated. She has been variously identified as Marie, the Abbess of Shaftesbury and half-sister of Henry II; as Marie the daughter of the royal adviser Count Waleran de Beaumont; and as Marie the Countess of Boulogne. For the most part, her stories are concerned with the fashionable subjects of love and desire, but one of her lays addresses the theme of shape-changing. The nobleman who is the hero of the lay is able – or is perhaps compelled by some supernatural instinct – to change his form and become a wolf frequenting the forests which surround his home. Stories of werewolves were common in the medieval period, but these supernatural creatures did not always have the monstrous connotations later attached to them. The Scandinavian Saga of the Volsungs, for instance, tells how the hero Sigmund and his son become wolves for a time to enhance their power and defeat their enemies. For Marie de France, the shape-changer whom she calls Bisclavret (she tells us in her preface that this is the Breton term for a werewolf, and that the Normans called it a ‘Garwaf ’) is a rather amiable creature whose betrayal by his wife justifies his attacks upon her and her lover.


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Bisclavret the Werewolf

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n ancient days many stories were told of men who turned into wolves and made their dwelling in the wild. Each of them became the creature known as the werewolf. This is a savage beast which, as long as it remains in its animal form, goes around devouring people and causing harm, lurking in the depths of the forests. But let me tell you the particular story of the werewolf Bisclavret. In Brittany there lived a nobleman of whom many good stories were told. He was a handsome and courageous knight who always bore himself with honour. He was one of those closest to his overlord, and was much admired by all his neighbours. He had married a woman who was herself noble and beautiful: as he loved her, so she loved him in return. But she became greatly concerned about the fact that every week he went away for three full days without her knowing what became of him. During this time, no-one in their household knew what happened to him. And so one day, when he had returned home in great good humour, she broached the matter with him. ‘My lord,’ she said, ‘my own sweet love, I want to ask you something, if I dare; but I am afraid above all of your fury.’ When he heard this, he kissed her, folding her in his arms and pressing her against him. ‘Come, my sweet lady,’ he said, ‘ask away! There is no question you can put to me for which I shall not provide an answer, as long as I know it myself.’ ‘I am greatly relieved to hear this, by my faith,’ she said. ‘Indeed, my lord, I am so anxious on the days when you are absent, my heart weighs so heavy, and I am so afraid of losing you, that all of this will surely cause my death unless I soon get help. Do please tell me where you go off to and what happens to you. I fear you have another love and in going to her you are doing wrong.’ ‘My lady,’ he said, ‘for God’s sake, have pity! For if I tell you

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about this, it will cause me great sorrow, for I will surely lose your love and end up losing my life.’ Listening to him, the lady realised how serious the matter was. She kept on questioning him, cajoling him so effectively that at last he told her the truth, keeping nothing back from her. ‘My lady, I go off to become a werewolf. As Bisclavret I enter the depths of the forest and feed off whatever prey I can hunt down.’ When he had related everything to her, she asked him whether he went naked or kept on his human clothing. ‘My lady,’ he said, ‘I go about completely naked.’ ‘But for God’s sake, tell me where you leave your clothes.’ ‘I cannot tell you that, alas, for if ever I lost them and remained without them, I would have to stay forever in the form of Bisclavret. There would be no help for me until I retrieved my clothes, and that is why I cannot reveal this.’ ‘But my lord,’ the lady objected, ‘you are dearer to me than the world itself. You must not conceal anything from me or mistrust me in this way. After all, that is not how it should be between true lovers. What have I done that you should have such doubts about me? Give me at least some indication, for it would be more sensible if you were to do so.’ She kept on chivvying him in this way until at last he had no choice but to tell her. ‘At the edge of the forest, beside the path which I always take, there is an old chapel which often meets my need. There underneath a copse is a large boulder, with a hollow at the centre, where I always place my clothes until I come home.’ The lady reddened with alarm when she heard this astonishing news. She became deeply fearful, and started to think of different ways she might separate from him, as she no longer wished to share a bed with him. She sent a message to a knight who lived nearby who had always been in love with her, showing her his admiration by devoted and generous service. Until now she had never responded or given this knight cause for hope, but now she confided in him. ‘Rejoice, my friend,’ said her message, ‘without further delay, I am ready to give you that which I have refused you until now, so causing you great


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torture. Never again will you be rebuffed, for I pledge you my body for love, and wish to become your mistress.’ The knight sent his ardent thanks and accepted her pledge enthusiastically. She in turn received his oath of loving allegiance and went on to tell him about her husband and his wanderings as a wolf. She told him of the path leading into the forest and sent him off to fetch her husband’s clothes. In this way the werewolf Bisclavret was betrayed by his wife, who did him great wrong. Because he had been away so often in the past, everyone thought that this time perhaps he had gone away forever. A search was mounted, enquiries were made, but eventually, when no trace had been found of him for a long time, the matter was left alone. The ardent knight married the woman he had so long admired. An entire year later, the king went out hunting and rode towards the forest where Bisclavret had his lair. When the hounds were let off the lead to hunt, they soon found the traces of Bisclavret. Pack and huntsmen spent a whole day tracking him until they brought him to bay and were on the verge of ripping him to pieces and putting an end to him. But as soon as the werewolf caught sight of the king, he loped towards him and pleaded for mercy. He seized the royal stirrup and kissed the king’s foot. At the sight of Bisclavret, the king was terrified, and summoned his retinue. ‘Come here, my lords. Look at the marvellous way this creature abases itself before me! It seems to be as intelligent as a human and to be pleading for mercy. Keep the hounds away and see that no one injures it! The beast has both intelligence and comprehension, and I shall bestow my protection upon it. Hurry, let us away, for I have had enough of hunting for today.’ The king then departed with Bisclavret at his heels. The werewolf stayed very close to the king, having no wish to leave him and be set apart from him. The king took him straight back to his castle, and was filled with joy and delight at the day’s events, for he had never come across such a thing before. He considered the wolf to be a great marvel, and he cherished it deeply, giving orders that it should be protected by all his

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people, and commanding that no harm should come to it. No-one was to injure it and it must be provided with food and water at all times. The king’s servants were content to look after the creature, and everyday it slept among the royal retinue of knights, close beside the king himself. Everyone loved the werewolf, and so noble and docile was it that it never tried to cause any violence or harm. Everywhere the king went, the werewolf wanted to go also. It was his constant companion, and gave every sign of love and reverence for him. But listen to what happened next. The king held a great feast, summoning all the barons who held their fiefs by his permission to attend the celebrations and show by their presence their service to him. One of those who came, kitted out in magnificent apparel, was the knight who had married Bisclavret’s wife. He was completely unaware and unsuspecting that Bisclavret was so near to him. When Bisclavret saw him on his arrival at the castle, he raced towards him and mauled him with his teeth, dragging him to the ground. Bisclavret would have seriously injured the knight if the king had not called him to heel and menaced him with a cane. Twice more that day he attempted to take a bite out of the knight. Many at the court were amazed at this for never before had Bisclavret behaved like this towards anyone. Throughout the king’s household people said he would never have behaved like this without good reason. The knight must have done him some wrong or other, for he seemed to be determined to take revenge. But for a time that was the end of the matter. The feast ended, the fief-holders sought permission to depart, and it is my belief that the knight whom Bisclavret had mauled was among the first to go. It was hardly any wonder that Bisclavret loathed him so. As I heard the story, shortly afterwards the king in his wisdom and nobility went on a journey through the forest where Bisclavret had been tracked down. The werewolf went along with him, and on his return the king decided to stay for a night in that region. The wife of Bisclavret heard of this and, adorning herself with great elegance, set off next day to do


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homage to the king, taking him a costly gift. When Bisclavret caught sight of her, no one could hold him back. He lunged towards her as though he were insane. And listen to what vengeance he took upon her. He bit the nose from off her face. Was there a worse punishment that could have been inflicted on her? Everyone made as if to attack Bisclavret and he was about to be torn apart when one of the courtiers, a man of great wisdom, said to the king: ‘Your highness, listen to me. This creature has made its dwelling with you for a very long time, and all of us have consorted with it closely. Never before has he injured anyone or attempted violence except against this woman. I swear, by the pledges I have given to you, that he has some grievance against her and her present husband. She is the former wife of the nobleman whom you used to love so dearly, and who went away a long time ago without anyone knowing what happened to him. Ask this woman to tell you why the beast hates her. Get her to tell you everything she knows. After all, here in Brittany, we have been witness to many marvellous happenings.’ The king listened to what he said. Detaining the knight, he ordered the woman to be taken away and tortured. In her pain and terror, she revealed everything about her former husband: she told how she had betrayed him and stolen his clothing after he had given her an account of his wanderings as a werewolf. Since the theft of his clothing he had not been seen again in the region. She was absolutely sure that the creature was Bisclavret himself. The king ordered her to bring the clothes, whether she liked it or not, and give them back to Bisclavret. When they were piled in front of him, however, Bisclavret paid no attention to them. The wise man who had earlier given advice to the king called out: ‘Lord, this is not the way to do it. Nothing would persuade the creature to get dressed in front of you or change his shape in public. You do not realise the importance of this; it is a matter of great indignity for him. Take him to your chamber and give him the clothes there. Leave him in there for a time and let us see if he changes into the shape of a man.’

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The king himself proceeded to shut every door behind the wolf. After a while he returned, taking two companions with him. As all three entered the room, they found the nobleman fast asleep on the king’s bed. Rushing towards him, the king embraced and kissed him many times. Shortly afterwards he gave him back all his lands, bestowing on him more possessions that I can say. He also sent the woman into banishment, so that she was exiled from her country. The man who betrayed her husband with her also went into exile. She had many children afterwards who could always be instantly recognised. For it is the honest truth that many of the women in her family were born without noses and had to live their whole lives through with such an appearance . . . Source: Re-told from Les Lais de Marie de France, trans. P. Tuffrau, Paris (L’Édition d’Art) 1923, pp. 117–26. A translation of the Lais of Marie de France by G.S. Burgess and K. Busby was published by Penguin in 1986.

The ‘Lay du Trot’ This 300-line verse narrative in Medieval French (its title means in effect ‘the song of the jolting horse’) probably dates from the late thirteenth century. Its theme, the punishment in the after-life of those who disdain to love while they are alive, was taken up and developed across Europe throughout the late Middle Ages. There are variations on the theme in Latin, Italian and English literature, and such works reveal the formative influence of a twelfth-century treatise on courtly love written by Andreas Capellanus, which he called De Arte Honeste Amandi (‘The Art of Respectful Love’). In this treatise, the God of Love is depicted as a demanding deity with palaces and temples who requires all mortals to serve him; as the elaborate codes of courtly love developed still further, the convention was established that Love would take supernatural revenge upon those who refused to give their lives over to amatory pursuit. What is perhaps most striking about the Lay du Trot and its account of the two groups of loving and lovelorn ghosts is the narrative similarity to earlier medieval accounts of ghostly processions purporting to show conditions in the afterlife. The poem opens with the knight Lorois who, like the priest Walchelin in the account of ‘Hellequin’s Hunt’ by Orderic Vitalis, is to be the witness of the procession, setting off on a springtime quest.

The Vision of the Knight Lorois

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he knight mounted his horse and on his feet the squire placed spurs of gold. He took up his sword with its golden hilt, and then, in solitary state, Lorois left his home and cantered towards the forest. Along the river-bank, through the

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meadows that were filled with many flowers, cream-coloured, vermilion and blue, he rode fast without stopping. He had resolved that he would not return before he had heard the nightingale for the first time in an entire year. As he neared the forest, he saw in front of him some eighty women in stately procession emerging from the trees. They were of noble appearance, well-dressed and lovely. They were without capes and headgear, but wore flowered posies of roses and eglantine upon their heads to give off the sweetest perfume. Each of them wore a light gown, which was uncovered because of the warm weather. Some of them had girdles around their waists but others were without belts to give them comfort in the heat, and they had left their hair unpinned so that their tresses fell down past their ears and rested against their pink cheeks. They made a lovely retinue, with every maiden wearing ribbons in her hair. All of them rode on cream-coloured horses which bore them so steadily along that any person seated on one of these horses who was not watching its movement would have thought the mount was standing still. And yet they moved along more quickly than the highest, fastest horse from Spain. Indeed, in all the region from that land to Germany, I say in truth there is no duke or castellan who would not have paid good money for the bridle with which the least of these maidens had adorned her steed. Riding next to each of these young girls was her lover, noble in appearance, well-dressed and handsome, who sang and laughed at her side. Truly I tell you these men were very well turned out, with each of them sporting the finest silk on his cloak and tunic, lining them with furs and ermine, and adorning his heels with spurs of gold. Their steeds moved speedily but gracefully along, and the wealthiest monarch in all the world could not have bought their harnesses. There was no rivalry or competition between them. Each lover had his own beloved, and all of them rejoiced in harmony, embracing and kissing and holding each other, young girl and young man, lover and beloved. Some of them talked of love and knightly conduct and it was clear they lived a life of sweet pleasure. As


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he watched them, Lorois made the sign of the cross at such a marvellous sight, and declared he would never see the like again. And as he sat there in wonder, he saw another eighty women coming through the trees, lovely as the others, each with her admirer like the ones who had gone before, and passed in a carefree procession. But then, shortly afterwards, a tumult was heard in the forest, a groaning, moaning sound, and Lorois saw some hundred young women emerging from the trees. They made a sad spectacle, mounted on thin dark steeds, worn with fatigue, and these women moved forward at an uncomfortable pace, faster than walking speed. Each was alone, for they had no loving companions, and it was clear they were suffering great pain. Truly, however, I say to you they earned this fate – as you will learn in due course if you hear me out. They were suffering greatly and were trotting forward so uncomfortably that there is neither scholar nor fool in all this earth who could have put up with such an ungainly motion for even a league’s journey, not even if he were bribed with fifteen thousand silver pieces. They controlled their horses clumsily with reins made from the bark of lime-trees. Their saddles were full of a hundred holes covered with awkward patches, filled with straw, so that one could have followed them for ten leagues by looking for the wisps that dropped from beneath their seats. They were riding without stirrups, and their legs were bare without shoes or stockings. Their feet were sore and covered with cuts and they wore plain black gowns. Their legs were bare right up to their knees, and their arms the same as far as the elbow. They were entirely lacking in grace, and were undergoing tremendous pain. The weather was so stormy, with thunder and pelting snow, that it was beyond endurance to do anything but observe the great torment and suffering which these women were undergoing night and day – indeed, Lorois almost fainted as he watched them. A short time afterwards he caught sight of a hundred men whose suffering was just as great as that of the women, for their bodies were being jolted around with the

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clumsiness of their motion, and a short time after that he saw a woman approaching on a drab chestnut horse. Her gait was so awkward that her teeth jolted together as though they were about to shatter. Lorois decided to go over and ask this woman about the extraordinary sights that he had seen, and he urged his horse into a strenuous gallop towards her. He saluted her as he approached, and slowly and with great difficulty she returned the greeting, for the trotting motion of her horse meant she could hardly utter a word. Even if she had reined her horse in, she would have gone on shaking, for the horse continued to jerk around. No knightly horseman, young or old, could have held onto the saddle – or even the mane – of that horse if he had been mounted on it, and would have been thrown to the ground. But the woman was unable to fall off, and this was the cause of great torment to her. ‘My lady, if you will,’ said the knight, ‘please help me to know who these people are who have just gone by.’ ‘I will tell you as best I can,’ she replied, ‘but because my speech is impeded, I will have to tell you quickly. The first of the women who went past are taking such pleasure in their procession because each of them has at her side her best-beloved. She can kiss him, caress him and hold him in her arms. Throughout their lives these women were the loyal servants of Love, and they were passionately obedient to Love’s commands. Now their joy is their reward, and Love has given them joy in abundance. They take comfort among their pleasures, and it is always summer for them, unclouded by the storms of winter. They can rest whenever they wish, lying down at ease to sleep. ‘But the women who follow grieving and sighing behind them, trotting along so clumsily and in such deep pain, with faces pale and colourless, proceed without the company of men. I can tell you that they are the ones who never condescended to serve Love in any way, and now they are being forced to pay the price of their haughty disdain. O the woe of it, for it costs me much and causes such great pain never to


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have loved. Neither in winter nor in summer will we rest or take our ease. Never will we be free from constant sorrow. It was a dire fate that beset us at our birth when we did not become the companions of Love. To any woman who might hear of us, who might be told of our condition, I send the assurance that she will join our sorry company if she does not live a life of love. There is an old peasant saying, that anyone who is late in closing the stable door will suffer the distress of losing his horse. It is exactly the same with matters of the heart, and we have repented too late.’ When the lady had finished, she continued on her way, leaving the knight, who had listened closely to her, aware of the importance of her words. Without delay, Lorois returned to his castle and recounted all that had happened to him and all that he had been told by the woman. He spoke of her sorry harness, and he warned all virgins, ladies and young women in general to be on guard against her jolting gait. For it is better by far to ride along in comfort than to follow with those who trot in pain . . . Source: Re-told from the Medieval French text of ‘Le Lay du Trot’ edited by E. Margaret Grimes in The Romanic Review XXVI (1935), pp. 317–21. An edition of Three Old French Narrative Lays, including ‘Le Lay du Trot’, is available from the Liverpool (University) Online Series of Critical Editions of French Texts.

The ‘Awntyrs of Arthure’ One of the most impressive English alliterative poems of the fourteenth century is The Awntyrs of Arthure (‘The Adventures of Arthur’) at the Terne Wathelyne. The geographical setting of the poem is on the banks of the Wadling Tarn, a hill-loch in Cumberland. The poem may well have been written in the Scottish border-country, where there was a strong tradition of Arthurian folklore, and the anonymous author is likely to have borrowed from better-known alliterative poems such as Morte Arthure and Sir Gawain and the Green Knight. In the first part of the poem Arthur’s queen Guinevere and her hunting companion Sir Gawain are separated from the rest of the royal party. The sky darkens, pelting rain and drifting snow scatter the hunting party, and in a lowering atmosphere in which nature itself seems to share their apprehension, Guinevere and Gawain are approached by the ghost of the queen’s mother. In its exchanges with the queen, the ghost acts as a Memento Mori, a reminder of the transitoriness of life and beauty, and in its responses to Sir Gawain the ghost is cast in a soothsaying role, which links the first part of the poem to the second. The ghost’s warnings about the pride and arrogance of Arthur’s court, which it predicts will eventually end in internal strife and ruin, are a key narrative preparation for the appearance in the second half of the poem of the wronged knight Galeron with his demand for the restitution of land which the king had confiscated and given to Gawain.


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The Ghost of Guinevere’s Mother

hen there came from the loch a creature which seemed to have been fashioned in Hell, in Lucifer’s likeness, and glided screaming towards Guinevere . . . Its body was almost naked, for it was only partly covered with a shroud, and its dark bones could be seen, for it had no skin or living colour. It stopped and stood immovable like a stone, glaring, groaning and raving, awaiting the approach of the fearless Sir Gawain. A toad clung to the cheek of this grim and grisly ghost. In the depths of the hollow eye-sockets there was a glow like the embers of a fire. Its scant clothing was covered with writhing serpents. The hunting dogs scattered in terror, greyhounds trembled at the sounds, and even the birds in the trees gave out piercing shrieks of alarm when the phantom drew near. But as he drew his sword, Sir Gawain showed no concern, and addressed the ghost in Christ’s name: ‘By the King on the cross, the Cleanser of sin, tell us, weird stranger, why you have come here wandering through the wild forest.’ The ghost answered: ‘Once I was adorned in flesh, the fairest of all, baptised and christened, with kings for my kin. But now I have been placed here for penance through God’s grace, and I have come to speak with your queen. For I too was once of royal lineage and my brow shone brighter than the precious jewels on the face of Brangwain. I enjoyed even greater earthly delights and pleasures than Guinevere your queen. I possessed great sums of gold and my estates were huge – parks and hunting fields, lakes and farms, towered towns and castles across the land. Now I am cast out alone, grim and lamenting, to lie down in the cold clay. You may see, courteous knight, the sorrow that death has brought me to. But I beg you to let me have a glimpse of fair Guinevere.’ Then Sir Gawain led the ghost into the presence of the queen, and it said to her: ‘Welcome, Guinevere, worthy of praise. See what sorrow death has brought upon your mother!

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Once my cheek was redder than the blooming rose, a flower set upon my lily-white skin. Now I am a grim lamenting ghost haunting the margins of this loch, and you must all take heed of my fate. Fair as you are now, and however clear your complexion in the mirror, all of you – kings, dukes and emperors – will be as I am now. ‘Death will deal with you in just this manner, so heed what I have to say while you are still alive. When you ride out in rich procession, take pity on the poor and have care for their condition. Soon the only courtiers and ladies who will surround you will be mourners and the only procession will be that of your body to its grave. Then there will be nothing to help you but penance and prayer, and it may be that you will find relief in the piety of the poor. Whenever you feast and take pleasure in your stately palaces, remember the poor at the gate. ‘Your feasting-dishes may be rich with dainty food, but I am cast into a dungeon of misery, naked and needy, hideous to your living sight. The place where I must dwell is loathsome to me, and my torment tolls like a bell among the brimstone and molten metal. I know of no other being as unhappy as myself, and it is impossible to describe the full extent of my suffering. But before I leave, I will tell you more so that you might mend your ways and take heed of my warnings.’ ‘I grieve at your fate,’ replied Guinevere the queen. ‘But might not holy religion help you even now – matins and masses purchased with the wealth of this world? Might not the beaded rosaries of bishops, and prayers covenanted to be sung in cloisters, cure you of care? For you were once my mother, fair of body, and I am filled with grief at how barren you now appear . . . Tell me what might give you relief from your burdens. I’ll seek out holy men from the city to help you, and protect you from those writhing creatures that assail you, turning your blood black, so that I can hardly bear to look upon you.’ ‘These were once my lovers, the source of my earlier delight, but now they have brought me low and torment me as serpents. Now that all worldly wealth has deserted me, this is


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the punishment which I now suffer. But, sweet Guinevere, I beg you to have nine hundred masses said for me from each daybreak to noon. By this spiritual succour my soul will soon have been brought to bliss.’ ‘May He indeed bring you to bliss,’ said Guinevere, ‘He who bought us with blood, who reigned from the cross, all crowned with thorns. For, despite all your sorrows, once you were christened and baptised and bathed in a font, surrounded by the comforting flame of candles. And may Mary, the Mother of that Blessed Child in Bethlehem, in her mildness give me grace to help your soul, and protect you with matins and masses as soon as day breaks . . . I give you my hand as a promise of this, that I will win peace for you with a million masses. But tell me one thing: what is it that angers Christ most, what is the sin that causes Him most offence?’ ‘Pride, with all its panoply,’ came the ghost’s reply, ‘against which the ancient prophets preached. Its fruit is bitter, and you and all your knights must be aware that the sin of pride offends against God’s laws. Whoever is disobedient to God will be denied the bliss that is to come. Fair Guinevere, unless you change your ways before you leave this earth, you will be burdened with care as I am now.’ ‘And will you tell us also,’ said Guinevere, ‘what virtue it is that will bring us to endless bliss?’ ‘Charity and meekness,’ said the ghost, ‘are the first of all virtues, and most pleasing to our Lord. Pity for the poor man, and the giving of alms, lead the pure along their way. Such virtues are gifts of the Holy Ghost, who inspires every spirit. You must hold these words in your heart for the fleeting time that you remain on earth.’ The knight Gawain then addressed the ghost: ‘How will we fare when we go forth to fight, and conquer the people of many lands? We over-run many rich countries, perhaps unjustly, exacting obedience and winning treasure by the strength of our hand.’ ‘Your king is too greedy, and his knights are too keen, and although nothing may harm him while his luck holds, he will

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one day be brought low in all his majesty and lie helpless on the sea-shore. Such is the fate that awaits your chivalrous king, as fortune’s wheel spins to bring him down from the heights of his power . . .’ The ghost goes on to list Arthur’s future victories over France, Brittany, Burgundy and Rome, but then predicts the final battle between Arthur’s knights and the forces of his bastard son Mordred. ‘. . . On the coasts of Cornwall these valiant knights will strive and there the comely, steadfast, noble King Arthur will receive his death wound. And despite their brave deeds, all the royal companions of the noble Round Table, will die also, tricked by a traitor with a black shield and a silver saltire. The child who will one day betray you plays even now in King Arthur’s hall. But now I must leave you, and walk on my way throughout these woods. Think of me in my pain for the Lord’s sake, and succour my soul with some measure of good. Remember me in masses and measure out your beads for me, for such comforts are as sweet to the dead as morsels at the feasts of the living.’ The ghost glided away, dark and groaning. The wind died down, the sky lightened, the weather lifted, the tide turned, the clouds parted, and the sun came out. The King’s bugle summoned his companions across the fields and the royal procession turned towards the Queen to welcome her with joy and courtesy . . . Source: Adapted into prose from an alliterative verse translation by Jessie L. Weston in Romance, Vision and Satire: English Alliterative Poems of the Fourteenth Century, London 1912, pp. 112–20. A modern edition, Arthur’s Adventures at the Tarn Wadling, trans. H. Phillips, was published by the University of Lancaster in 1988.

The ‘Gesta Romanorum’ One of the most widely read works in the late Middle Ages was a collection of stories or fables with a Latin title which means, in effect, ‘The Deeds or History of the Romans’. There are many surviving manuscripts of the work, in English and German as well as Latin, and it was to have a considerable influence over writers such as Chaucer and Boccaccio, both of whom borrowed heavily from it. The title might have suggested that, in the manner of earlier medieval chronicles which told of the gesta (the history and deeds) of a people, the stories had an historical basis and that they were drawn exclusively from Roman classical sources. That might indeed have been the case with early versions of the work, but as its popularity grew during the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries, new and fanciful stories drawn from many sources were added to the collection. Two of those which are reproduced here, for instance, were recorded originally by Gervase of Tilbury, while it is thought that many of the other fables in the compilation came from the Middle East and the Orient. The collection of stories may have had the primary purpose of providing narrative entertainment: the secondary aim (perhaps a subsidiary one, judging by the often cursory manner in which a pious conclusion was added at the end) was to demonstrate points of morality and theology.

The Phantom Knight of Wandlesbury Tale CLV

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n the borders of the episcopal see of Ely, there is a fortified place called Cathubrica [the castle of Cambridge] and a little below this there is a place which is

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distinguished by the name of Wandlesbury – because, as they say, the Vandals, having laid waste the country and cruelly slaughtered the Christians, pitched their camp here. This place is situated on the summit of a hill, on a round plain surrounded by trenches and ramparts, to which there is only one entrance. According to many ancient legends, it was often reported that if any knight went there in the light of the moon at dead of night and called aloud, he was immediately confronted by another knight who rose up from the opposite side of the plain ready armed and mounted for combat. The encounter invariably ended in the overthrow of one or other of the combatants . . . There was once in Britain a knight called Albert, brave in combat and possessing every virtue. He happened to visit a nearby castle, where he was hospitably received. At night, after supper, as is usual in great households during the winter, the family and guests assembled round the fire and began to tell various stories and folktales. At last they referred to the extraordinary legend of Wandlesbury, and our knight, who did not entirely believe the story, determined to test the proof of what he had heard. Accompanied therefore by a squire of noble blood, he hastened to the spot, fully armed and clad in a coat of mail. Albert climbed the hill, dismissed his squire, and entered the round plain. He shouted a challenge and instantly an opponent who was himself fully armed and equipped sprang out to meet him. They held up their shields, levelled their lances at each other and urged their horses into the charge. Both knights were shaken by the shock of the collision. Their lances broke, but their blows had little effect because they glanced off the armour. Albert pressed so hard in the combat that his adversary fell and gave him the opportunity to capture his horse, but, on getting up again, the opponent seized a broken lance and threw it like a javelin. A severe wound was inflicted in his thigh, but, exultant at his victory, he did not notice the pain. At this point, his adversary suddenly disappeared, leaving Albert to lead away the captured horse and hand it into the charge of


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his squire. The horse was enormous, light in colour and of a beautiful shape. When Albert returned to the castle, the household crowded around him, applauding his courage and rejoicing at the overthrow of the hostile knight. However, when he removed one of the plates of armour that covered his thigh, they saw that it was filled with clotted blood. The family were alarmed at the appearance of the wound, and servants were summoned and set scurrying about. Those who had been asleep were woken up to marvel at the event. The proof of Albert’s victory was the horse, which was held by the bridle and closely inspected. Its eyes sparkled like fire, its neck was proudly arched, its mane and tail were of a lustrous jet-black colour and it bore a war-saddle on its back. It was already past daybreak, and the cock had begun to crow, when the horse broke free and escaped, snorting and furiously striking the ground with its hoofs. It was immediately pursued but disappeared in an instant. The knight retained a permanent reminder of his severe wound, for every year, on the anniversary of his combat at Wandlesbury, the wound broke out afresh. Some time after that, he went overseas and died valiantly in combat with the pagans . . . In the original text, this story was titled ‘Of the Christian discomfiture of the Devil’. A moralising conclusion followed the text, in which it was made clear that listeners were expected to apply the story in the following way: the brave knight is compared to Christ; the antagonist is the Devil, armed with pride; the castle where they fight is the world which Christ enters from the heavenly realms.

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The Ghostly Butler Tale CLXI

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n the kingdom of England there was a small mountain which rose up towards its summit in the shape of a man. The sides of the mountain were wooded and covered with forests where knights and huntsmen enjoyed their sport. But it often happened that, as they climbed the hillside, they became hot and thirsty and searched for somewhere to rest. Although each huntsman was usually alone because of the nature of the terrain, he would say out loud, as though to a companion: ‘I am thirsty.’ At these words, most unexpectedly, a figure with a smiling face and an outstretched hand would appear beside the weary man, carrying a large drinking horn ornamented with gold and precious stones and filled with a delicious and mysterious liquid. The horn was handed to the thirsty huntsman, and no sooner had he drunk from it than his thirst and fatigue were assuaged, leaving him feeling so refreshed that it was as though he had not undertaken any labours at all that day. When the contents of the drinking horn had been emptied, the attendant held out a clean napkin for him to wipe his mouth. Once he had completed his task, the figure would disappear without expecting any reward or answering any questions. This butler’s duty was carried out every day, and although the attendant seemed to be very old, he always moved remarkably swiftly. Eventually, however, a certain knight went up the mountain to hunt. He demanded a drink, the drinking horn was brought, but instead of returning it to the conscientious butler as tradition and politeness would have required, he kept it for himself. But the knight’s overlord found out about this and, censuring his vassal, presented the horn to King Henry of England so that he should not be judged to be a participant in this act of plunder . . . The original title of this story was ‘Of Gratitude to God’. A lengthy interpretation followed the original text, in which the


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mountain is compared to the kingdom of heaven, and the forests on its flanks to the physical world. The hunter is any man who is overly attached to the world and its ways. The thirst and fatigue which he experiences are induced by divine love, and the drinking horn, which is constantly being filled at the fountains of divine benevolence, ‘contains the refreshment of divine mercy . . .’

The Demons’ Castle Tale CLXII

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uring the reign of the emperor Otho, there was, in the bishopric of Girona in Catalonia, a very high mountain; its ascent was extremely arduous and, except in one place, inaccessible. On the summit there was a bottomless lake of black water. It is said that on this mountain there stood a palace of demons, with a large gate which was kept continually closed. The palace itself and its inhabitants always remained invisible, but if anyone threw a stone or solid object into the lake, the demons showed their anger by generating furious storms. In one part of the mountain there was perpetual snow and ice, and an abundance of crystal. At the foot of the mountain there flowed a river with a bed of gold, which common people referred to as its ‘cloak’. The mountain itself and the nearby districts provided silver, and the entire region was remarkable for its inexhaustible fertility. Not far away lived a certain farmer, who was greatly bothered by the incessant sound of his little daughter crying – so much so that in one moment of exasperation he wished the child to the Devil. No sooner had he uttered these incautious words than the little girl was seized by an invisible hand and carried away. Seven years later, a passing traveller at the foot of the mountain near the farmer’s house saw another man hurrying along at great speed, lamenting loudly. The traveller stopped to ask the other why he was complaining, and was told that for the previous seven years the man had been a prisoner of the

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demons on the mountain. Ever since he had made an unwary and inadvertent exclamation, the demons had ridden around on him daily as though he were a kind of chariot. The traveller, who was both surprised and disbelieving at this news, was told that the man’s neighbour had suffered the same kind of punishment, and that his daughter had instantly been carried away by the demons as soon as he had wished her into the Devil’s power. The man added that the demons had now wearied of keeping the girl and that they were prepared to hand her back as long as the father presented himself on the mountain to receive her. The traveller was amazed at what he heard and determined at last to tell the girl’s father about her situation. He made his way to the farm and found the father still bemoaning the loss of his daughter. The traveller told him what he had learned from the man who was ridden by demons, and urged him to demand, in the Lord’s name, the return of his daughter. The father took this advice and climbed the mountain and went towards the lake, loudly calling to the demons to return to him the girl whom his folly had committed to them. Suddenly he was swept by a violent blast of wind, and a tall woman stood before him. Her eyes were staring, and her skin was stretched tight over her bones and sinews. With her wild appearance, she seemed to be completely unaware of anything around her: indeed, she was unable to speak, and could scarcely be considered human at all. Her father was astonished at her strange appearance, and, uncertain whether he should take her back to his own home, hurried to seek the advice of the bishop of Girona, to whom he related everything that had happened. The bishop, taking his spiritual responsibilities very seriously, told his flock in the diocese all the details of what had happened to the girl. He warned them against rashly committing their fortunes to the power of concealed demons, and showed that our adversary the Devil goes about like a raging lion seeking whom he may devour . . . As for the man who was ridden incessantly by the demons, he remained for a long time in this miserable condition. But


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his faith at last freed him. He told how there was an extensive underground palace near the summit of the mountain, whose entrance was by a single gate surrounded in deepest darkness. Through this gate the devils who had been about their business in various parts of the world returned to tell their companions what they had achieved. No one could tell of what material the palace was constructed, except for the demons themselves and those who passed under their control to eternal damnation . . . By this story the listeners are advised to take heed of all the dangers to which they are continually exposed, and to take care about invoking the Devil’s name and committing their family into his power: ‘Of Avoiding Imprecations’ was the original title. Listeners are advised to keep their hearts pure, lest the Devil should catch the sinful soul and plunge it into the lake of everlasting misery, where there is perpetually frozen snow and ice, and crystal ‘that reflects back upon itself the thoughts of a conscience awakened to agony . . .’ Source: Re-told from the Latin in Gesta Romanorum, ed. H. Oesterley, Berlin 1872, pp. 533–5 and 542–4.

The ‘Decameron’ of Boccaccio Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–75) was the son of a prosperous Florentine merchant. After a brief apprenticeship in his father’s bank, and after giving up his studies of canon law, he devoted all his time to literature. As a young man he spent some years in Naples, which, under the rule of Robert of Anjou, was one of the major intellectual and cultural centres of Italy. He returned to Florence in 1341 and half a decade later witnessed the effects of the Black Death on the social structure of the city, which he was to describe in the introduction to his best-known work. The setting for the Decameron is a country villa in the hills outside Florence, where a group of ten young men and women have taken refuge from the plague which has begun to infect their city. To entertain themselves, it is arranged that each of them will tell a story every day for a period of ten days. The basic theme of the ghost story which follows (that it is an offence which is punishable in the afterlife to refrain from love during one’s brief mortal existence) corresponds to the philosophy of courtly love. In the same way that the anonymous author of the Lay du Trot used an earlier medieval motif of a sorrowful procession of ghosts to uphold the tenets of this philosophy, so Boccaccio adapted the story of a woman hunted inexorably in the afterlife to accord with the specific circumstances of a lovelorn suitor and a scornful mistress. The social context and physical setting of the story-telling process in the Decameron would have underlined the message: like all the other tales, this story is related to a group of youthful listeners who, as refugees from a city infected with the plague, would have been fully aware of the fragility of mortal existence and the necessity of seizing the chance of transitory pleasure.


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The Huntsman of Ravenna Fifth Day, Story VIII

I

n Ravenna, that ancient city of Romagna, there dwelt among the nobility a young man called Nastagio degli Onesti, who inherited great wealth after the death of his father and his uncle. Being without a wife, Nastagio fell in love, as young men do, with the daughter of Messer Paolo Traversaro. This girl was of much higher birth than himself, and he hoped to win her love by gifts and assiduous courting. But however much he tried to win her, his efforts seemed rather to have the contrary effect, so harsh and ruthless and unrelenting did the beloved damsel show herself towards him. Whether it was her uncommon beauty or her noble lineage that made her aloof, she was so haughty and disdainful that she took no pleasure in his company or in any of the things that pleased him. Nastagio found the burden of her disdain so hard to bear that he often wished to kill himself, but he refrained and resolved to give her up – or, if he was able, to hold her in the same contempt with which she treated him. But this was useless, for the more his hopes dwindled the greater became his love. As he continued to love and spend his fortune in such a lavish way, his family and friends, who were afraid that both he and his estate would waste away, implored him to leave Ravenna and travel for a time elsewhere to cool the flames of his love and reduce his costs. For a long time Nastagio replied to all this advice with jokes and banter, but as his friends insisted, he grew tired of refusing and agreed to take their advice. He prepared himself for a journey to France or Spain or other distant regions, mounted his horse and departed from Ravenna, accompanied by a number of companions. When they had come to a place called Chiassi, some three miles from Ravenna, he halted and sent for tents and pavilions. He told his friends that they might go back to the city, as he intended to stay there. Nastagio pitched his camp and began to live there in as fine and lordly a fashion as anyone could, inviting several of

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his friends from time to time to join him for breakfast or supper. One morning towards the beginning of May, when the weather was fine and mild, he began once more to brood on the cruelty of his mistress. Dismissing his servants, he sauntered slowly towards the pine woods deep in thought. It was well past the fifth hour of the day, and when he had gone about half a mile, he thought he heard the sound of a woman wailing and uttering the most piercing shrieks. As the sweet melancholy of his reverie was interrupted, he looked around and was surprised to find himself among the pines. Then he saw a beautiful young girl running towards him through a grove of trees, which was thick with undergrowth and brambles. She was naked, her hair was dishevelled and her skin was torn by the briars and she wept and cried for mercy. Running close behind her were two large fierce mastiffs which often caught up with her and bit her cruelly, and bringing up the rear Nastagio saw a knight on a black horse, dressed in dark armour and with a savage expression on his face. The knight carried a sword in his hand, and in blood-curdling words he threatened the girl with death. Nastagio was amazed and appalled at the sight, and, taking pity on the girl, he wondered what he might do to save her. Unarmed as he was, he ran and seized the branch of a tree to use as a cudgel, with which he prepared to confront the knight and his dogs. The knight saw what he was up to and called to him while he was still some way off: ‘Hold off, Nastagio, leave the dogs and me alone to deal with this vile woman as she deserves.’ Even as the knight spoke, the dogs bit the girl on either side and held her pinned there while their master dismounted. Nastagio went up to him and said: ‘I have no idea who you are – although you seem to know me – but I tell you it is a gross outrage for an armed knight to prepare to kill a naked woman and set his dogs upon her as though she were a wild beast. I will do all I can to protect her.’ The knight replied: ‘Nastagio, I was from the same city as


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yourself. You were but a small boy when I, Messer Guido degli Anastagi, who was far more in love with this young woman than you are with the Traversari girl, despaired of her haughtiness and cruelty and killed myself with this very sword which you see in my hand. For this I am condemned to eternal suffering. Not long after my death, in which the girl exulted, she herself died and because she showed no repentance at the cruelty she had displayed she was also condemned to the pains of hell. As her spirit descended, it was ordained that, for our joint punishment, she should flee from me, and I, who was once so much in love with her, should pursue her not as my beloved but as my mortal enemy. Whenever I catch up with her, I am to slay her with this same sword with which I killed myself. Having cut her open down the back, I take out that hard cold heart, which was never touched by love or pity, and cast it to these dogs to eat. And immediately after that, according to the just decrees of almighty God, she gets up as though she were alive and begins once more to fly in terror from me and the pursuing hounds. Every Friday at this time I catch her in this place, and slaughter her as you are about to see. On other days there is no rest for us, for there are many other places where I overtake her, those places indeed where she treated me so cruelly when we were alive. In this way, changed as you see from her lover to her foe, it is ordained that I should pursue her for as many years as there were months when she displayed such harshness towards me. I ask you therefore to stand aside and let me carry out the decrees of Divine Justice . . .’ Terrified at the knight’s words, Nastagio retreated, the hair on his head standing on end, and watched helplessly as the knight moved like a mad dog towards the girl, sword in hand. The two mastiffs gripped her tightly as she cried for mercy, but the knight thrust his sword at her with all his strength and ran her through the body. As the girl fell to the ground, shrieking and sobbing, the knight drew out a knife, opened her back and drew forth her heart and innards, which he threw towards the famished dogs. Shortly afterwards, the girl got to her feet as

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though nothing had happened and ran away towards the sea, pursued by the dogs which constantly savaged her and the knight who had remounted and followed them, sword in hand. They sped away from Nastagio and soon were lost to sight. Torn between pity and terror, Nastagio stood there a long time, musing on what he had seen. Then it occurred to him that, if this scene were re-enacted every Friday, it might prove useful to him. Having marked the place carefully, he went back to his servants and duly sent for some of his family and friends. When they arrived, he said to them: ‘It is now a long time since you urged me to give up loving the lady who showed herself to be so disdainful towards me, and to call a halt to my extravagant expenditure. I am ready to do so, as long as you do me this one favour. Next Friday you are to arrange for Messer Paolo Traversaro and his wife and daughter, and all their kinswomen and the ladies of their circle, to come to this place to breakfast with me. You will discover why when you come yourselves.’ His friends conveyed Nastagio’s invitation to his intended guests, and although she was reluctant to come, the girl whom Nastagio loved arrived with the others. Nastagio had a lavish breakfast prepared, and ordered the tables to be set among the pines near the place where he had witnessed the murder of the hard-hearted damsel. As he placed his guests at their tables, he arranged that the girl whom he loved should be seated immediately facing the place where the slaughter was due to be enacted once more. The last course had just been served when the despairing cries of the hunted woman became audible to all. Amazed and astonished, the guests all stood up to see what was happening, and instantly they saw the suffering young girl and the knight and his hunting dogs. They shouted at the dogs, and some of them went forward to help the girl, but the words of the knight – the same words that he had used when he spoke to Nastagio the previous week – caused them to fall back terror-stricken and amazed. And when the knight carried out the same bloody actions as he had before, all the ladies that were present at the breakfast, many of whom were related to the girl and her


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pursuer, remembered his love for her and his manner of death and wept bitterly. When it was all over, and the girl and the knight had disappeared once more, the strange scene caused many of the witnesses to ponder its significance. But among them none was so appalled as the hard-hearted young girl whom Nastagio loved; having seen and heard all that had happened, she was aware that it touched her more nearly by reason of the harshness with which she had always responded to Nastagio. In her imagination, she was already fleeing from her angered lover, with the pursuing mastiffs biting at her flanks. So great was her terror that, lest a similar fate befall her, her emotions changed from aversion to affection and that very night she took the opportunity to send a trusted maidservant to Nastagio with a request for him to come to her and take his pleasure with her. Nastagio replied that he sought no more than the honourable pleasure of marrying her. The girl realised that she alone was to blame for the fact that she was not already Nastagio’s wife, and sent her consent, at the same time telling her father and mother of her agreement to wed. With the approval of her parents, the couple were married the following Sunday and lived happily for many years afterwards. This girl was not the only one in whom terror was productive of benefit: on the contrary, it turns out that all the ladies of Ravenna have since then been much more compliant with men’s desires than they used to be . . . Source: Adapted from The Decameron of Giovanni Boccaccio, trans. J.M. Rigg, pub. London (Routledge) 1905, pp. 49–54. An edition of The Decameron, trans. G.H. McWilliam, was published as a Penguin Classic in 1972.

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