The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies - 005 - 2016 PDF

The Journal of
Medieval Monastic Studies

Editors
Janet Burton, University of Wales Trinity Saint David
Karen Stöber, Universitat de Lleida
Reviews Editor
Annejulie Lafaye, The Discovery Programme, Ireland
Advisory / Editorial Board

Frances Andrews, University of St Andrews
David Austin, University of Wales Trinity Saint David
Edel Bhreathnach, The Discovery Programme, Ireland
Guido Cariboni, Università Cattolica del Sacro Cuore di Milano
Megan Cassidy-Welch, Monash University
James Clark, University of Exeter
Albrecht Diem, Syracuse University
Marilyn Dunn, University of Glasgow
Sarah Foot, Oxford University, Christ Church
Paul Freedman, Yale University
Alexis Grélois, Université de Rouen
Martin Heale, University of Liverpool
Emilia Jamroziak, University of Leeds
William Chester Jordan, Princeton University
József Laszlovszky, Central European University Budapest
Julian Luxford, University of St Andrews
Colmán Ó Clabaigh, Glenstal Abbey
Tadhg O’Keeffe, University College Dublin
Jens Röhrkasten, University of Birmingham
Antonio Sennis, University College London
Orri Vésteinsson, University of Iceland
Kurt Villads Jensen, Stockholms Universitet
The Journal of
Medieval Monastic Studies
5
(2016)
Edited by
Janet Burton
and Karen Stöber
© 2016, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.
D/2016/0095/129
ISBN: 978-2-503-55985-8
ISSN: 2034-3515
Printed on acid-free paper

Contents
Illustrations ix
Fécamp, Cluny, and the Invention of Traditions in the

Later Eleventh Century
Benjamin Pohl and Steven Vanderputten 1
Scientific Renewal and Reformed Religious Life:

The Case of the Arnstein Bible
Michael Schonhardt 43
The Statutes of the Earliest General Chapters of

Benedictine Abbots (1131–early 1140s)
Steven Vanderputten 61
Aristocratic Networks and Monastic Communities:

The Case of the Dominican Convent of Sigtuna, Sweden,
and the Nobles of Uppland (Late Thirteenth–Early
Fourteenth Centuries)
Christian Oertel 93
Patronage and Function: The Medieval Wall Paintings at

Lacock Abbey in Wiltshire
Ellie Pridgeon and Susan Sharp 113
The Group Portrait in the Lincoln typikon: Identity and

Social Structure in a Fourteenth-Century Convent
Jennifer Ball 139
vi contents
Reviews
Petrarch’s Humanist Writing and Carthusian Monasticism:
The Secret Language of the Self
(by Demetrio S. Yocum)
Julian Luxford 165
Monasteries on the Borders of Medieval Europe:

Conflict and Cultural Interaction
(ed. by Emilia Jamroziak and Karen Stöber)
Colmán Ó Clabaigh OSB 169
Rewriting Saints and Ancestors:

Memory and Forgetting in France, 500–1200
(by Constance Brittain Bouchard)
Brian Golding 171
Amigos exigentes, servidores infieles:

La crisis de la orden de Cluny en España (1270–1379)
(by Carlos M. Reglero de la Fuente)
Karen Stöber 173
The Church and the Vale of Evesham 700–1215:

Lordship, Landscape and Prayer
(by David Cox)
Lynda Rollason 174
Reichsabtei und Klosterreform:

Das Kloster St Gallen unter dem Pfleger und
Abt Ulrich Rösch 1457–1491
(by Philipp Lenz)
Michael Hohlstein 176
The Prelate in England and Europe 1300–1560

(ed. by Martin Heale)
MICHAEL HICKS 179
Orthodox Monasticism Past and Present

(ed. by John A. McGuckin)
AUGUSTINE CASIDAY 181
contents vii
Prayer and Thought in Monastic Tradition:

Essays in Honour of Benedicta Ward, SLG
(ed. by Santha Bhattacharji, Rowan Williams, and Dominic Mattos)
Gregory Collins OSB 182
Reading Matthew with Monks:

Liturgical Interpretation in Anglo-Saxon England
(by Derek A. Olsen)
Daniel J. Heisey 185
A Listening Community: A Commentary on the

Prologue and Chapters 1–3 of Benedict’s Rule
(by Aquinata Böckmann)
and
Gregory the Great: Moral Reflections on the Book of Job,
vol. i: Preface and Books 1–5
(trans.by Brian Kerns)
AUGUSTINE CASIDAY 186
Historia Selebiensis Monasterii:

The History of the Monastery of Selby
(ed. and trans. by Janet Burton with Lynda Lockyer)
CONSTANCE B. BOUCHARD 188
Partners in Spirit: Women, Men, and

Religious Life in Germany, 1100–1500
(ed. by Fiona J. Griffiths and Julie Hotchin)
Jörg Sonntag 189
The Monks of Tiron: A Monastic Community and

Religious Reform in the Twelfth Century
(by Kathleen Thompson)
Katharine Sykes 192
Illustrations
Figures
Figure 1, p. 25. Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3.
Figure 2, p. 28. Ruling patterns of Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and

Archive, no. 3.
Figure 3, p. 30. Interpolation of Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and

Archive, no. 3
Figure 4, p. 31. Abbreviations in Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and

Archive, no. 3 (a) and Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime,
7 H 12 (b), 7 H 2151 (c), and 14 H 661 (d).
Figure 5, p. 32. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 12.
Figure 6, p. 33. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 2151.
Figure 7, p. 96–97. Genealogical table of a cluster of the aristocracy of Uppland,
Figure 8, p. 114. Cloisters, Lacock Abbey.
Figure 9, p. 115. Crucifixion, Lacock Abbey.
Figure 10, p. 115. St Andrew and St Christopher, Lacock Abbey.
Figure 11, p. 115. Chaplains’ Room, Lacock Abbey.
Figure 12, p. 117. Carved head on the vault above the chamber entrance,
Lacock Abbey.
Figure 13, p. 117. Carved head above the chamber entrance, Lacock Abbey.
Figure 14, p. 118. Ground plan of Lacock Abbey. Reproduced from: Harold
Brakspear, ‘Lacock Abbey, Wilts.’, Archaeologia, 57 (1900), 125–58, pl. XL.
x Illustrations
Figure 15, p. 123. St Christopher, Saint John’s church, Winchester.
Figure 16, p. 141. The Nuns of the Convent of the Virgin of Certain Hope,
Oxford, Lincoln College, MS Gr. 35, fol. 12r, c. 1330.
Figure 17, p. 141. Theodore Synadenos and Eudokia Synadene, Oxford, Lin
coln College, MS Gr. 35, fol. 8r, c. 1330.
Figure 18, p. 142. Theodule, Joachim and Euphrosyne, Oxford, Lincoln Col
lege, MS Gr. 35, fol. 7r, c. 1330.
Figure 19, p. 142. The Foundresses, Theodule and Euphrosyne, in dedication to

the Virgin, Oxford, Lincoln College, MS Gr. 35, fol. 1r, c. 1330.
Tables
Table 1, p. 68. Schematic overview of the hypothetical development of the

Reims Statutes as represented in T, Q, and M.
Fécamp, Cluny, and
the Invention of Traditions in the
Later Eleventh Century*
Benjamin Pohl and Steven Vanderputten
I n 1001, Duke Richard II of Normandy approached Abbot William of Saint-

Bénigne de Dijon, also known to scholars as William of Volpiano, and invited
him to install a community of regular clerics at Fécamp.1 A similar (albeit
*
Research on this article was supported by the Alexander von Humboldt Foundation, the
Research Foundation Flanders (FWO), the Ghent University project ‘Monastic Leadership in
the Post-Charismatic Age: Constructing a New Paradigm for the Study of Reforms before the
Emergence of the Great Orders (Western Europe, Tenth–Early Twelfth Centuries)’ and the
University of Bristol. In addition, the authors would like to express their thanks to the Institut
de Recherche et d’Histoire des Textes (IRHT) in Paris, particularly to Patricia Stirnemann.
1
The main narrative witnesses for these events are the vita written by Rodulfus Glaber and
the so-called Liber de revelatione, aedificatione et auctoritate Fiscannensis monasterii. See the
detailed account in Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 147–49. Also cf. the historical commentary in
Guillaume de Volpiano, ed. by Gazeau and Goullet, pp. 101–04. On William’s monastic life and
career, see Gazeau, Normannia monastica, ii, 101–05; Williams, ‘William of Dijon’.
Benjamin Pohl (benjamin.pohl@bristol.ac.uk) is lecturer in Medieval History (1000–

1400) at the University of Bristol.
Steven Vanderputten (steven.vanderputten@ugent.be) is Professor in the History of the

Early and High Middle Ages at Ghent University.
Abstract: In 1001 Duke Richard II of Normandy appointed William of Dijon as the first
abbot of La Trinité de Fécamp. Together with his patron, William initiated a programme of
monastic reform which scholarship has long seen as a deliberate imitation of Cluniac custom.
This equation has been based on a corpus of early Norman charters that are widely held to have
exempted Fécamp from Rouen’s episcopal authority as early as 1006, explicitly evoking Cluny
in an attempt to abolish the bishop’s rights in the election and blessing of abbots. Following a
comprehensive reassessment of the historical and diplomatic evidence, this article argues that
Cluny did not become a model for Fécamp before the second half of the eleventh century. It
questions notions of continuity by demonstrating that both the charters and the traditions to
which they pertain are in fact later eleventh-century inventions, which medieval forgers and
modern readers alike have projected back onto earlier periods.
Keywords: Monastic history; monastic exemption; reform; custom; bishops; abbots; charters;
forgery; Normandy; France
The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 1–41 BREPOLS    PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110837

2 Benjamin Pohl and Steven Vanderputten
unsuccessful) request had been made about a decade earlier, when the duke’s
father, Richard I, tried to recruit William’s teacher, Abbot Majolus of Cluny,
in order to implement the Rule of St Benedict in the collegiate church that
Richard I himself had founded within eyesight of Fécamp’s ducal residence
with much pomp and circumstance.2 When Majolus turned down the offer,
an act followed by Richard I’s untimely death in 996, the completion of the
task fell to the next generation. After some initial negotiation, William finally
accepted Richard II’s invitation and initiated the transformation of Fécamp’s
existing community, and many (but not all) of its secular canons were replaced
by monks.3 During his abbacy, William (1001–28) also turned his attention to
other Norman monasteries.4 At Fécamp and elsewhere, the legacy of William’s
efforts was kept alive by his pupils and former brethren from the abbeys of Saint-
Bénigne and Fruttuaria — arguably the two most important monasteries that
William had reformed manu propria between c. 989 and 1005.5 Several of them
later became abbots in one of Normandy’s reformed monasteries, and their
names figure prominently as witnesses in Normandy’s early diplomatic corpus.6
Scholarship has long seen the revival of Benedictine monasticism in
Normandy in the spirit of larger reform movements, particularly the so-called
‘Cluniac reform’.7 According to this view, William reorganized and restructured
— more or less single-handedly — Normandy’s desolate monastic landscape in
such a way as to place Fécamp at its epicentre, surrounded by other monasteries
that depended on its guidance, thus imitating and replicating, on a smaller
scale, the hierarchical relationship that existed between Cluny and its filiations.8
2
A vivid narrative account of Richard I’s decision to found the collegiate church of Fécamp
is provided by his biographer, Dudon de Saint-Quentin; Dudon de Saint-Quentin, De moribus,
ed. by Lair, pp. 290–91; translated in Dudon de Saint-Quentin, History of the Normans, trans.
by Christiansen, pp. 164–65. On Dudon and his work, see Pohl, Dudo of Saint-Quentin’s
Historia Normannorum.
3
Betty Branch argues that not all of Fécamp’s canons were expelled under William, as she
traces some of their penmanship in Fécamp’s early- and mid-eleventh century manuscripts,
particularly with regard to illuminations; Branch, ‘The Development of Script’, p. 44.
4
See Gazeau, ‘Guillaume de Volpiano’, pp. 39–40; Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 215–16.
5
Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 30–53, 115–46.
6
Gazeau, ‘Guillaume de Volpiano’, pp. 36–37; Bulst, Untersuchungen, p. 214. Also
cf. Gazeau, ‘Les abbés bénédictins’.
7
See the summary of previous scholarship by Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 10–21.
8
Such a simplified view of Cluny and its monastic networks is in itself rather problematic,
as has been shown by Constable, ‘Cluny in the Monastic World’.
fécamp, cluny, and the invention of traditions 3
Neithard Bulst, Cassandra Potts, and Veronique Gazeau have since offered more
nuanced interpretations. Their studies present compelling evidence that portrays
Normandy’s monastic renovation not as a centralized process informed by a single
authoritative model or adhering to a strict sense of institutional hierarchy, but as
a joint enterprise of several reform agents coming from various different parts
of medieval Europe.9 Bulst argues that William was in many ways not a typical
‘Cluniac reformer’, and that it was not his intention to duplicate the structural
model of the Cluniacensis ecclesia by establishing a tightly knit confederation of
dependent monasteries (Klosterverband) in Normandy.10 Indeed, William and his
successors can be seen as operating within a complex ecclesiastical and political
network that was marked by significant regional variation and identity.11
There are, however, some aspects that warrant further investigation. One is the
precise chronology of Fécamp’s relationship with Cluny, especially the question as
to whether or not Cluny provided a model of inspiration for Fécamp during the
formative period of William’s abbacy. Another concerns the continuity (or lack
thereof ) of this relationship during the later eleventh and early twelfth centuries,
specifically throughout the period known as the ‘Gregorian reform’, when existing
traditions were invoked (and new ones invented) in order to protect the churches
and monasteries from internal and external corruption. A third pertains to the
political constellation between Fécamp’s abbots, the archbishops of Rouen, and
the Norman dukes, including the different ways in which it has been interpreted
by both contemporaries and modern scholars, often to different ends. Still
today, the monastic custom established at Fécamp around the turn of the first
millennium is widely held to have been a wholesale imitation of Cluniac models,
particularly as regards its exemption from the episcopal authority of Rouen.12
What prima facie seems to support such interpretations is a specific sentence that
occurs in two of Fécamp’s earliest known charters, the first of which was issued by
Duke Richard II on 30 May 1006. In this charter, the duke decrees that:
9
Gazeau, ‘Guillaume de Volpiano’, p. 46 calls this process a ‘renouveau monastique […]
multiforme, entre les mains de réformateurs nombreux, issus de regions diverses extérieures au
duché’. Also Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 11–12.
10
Bulst, Untersuchungen, p. 208. On the Cluniacensis ecclesia, see Melville, Medieval
Monasticism, pp. 63–72. See also the various contributions to the special dossier ‘Guillaume de
Volpiano: Fécamp et l’histoire normande’.
11
Potts, Monastic Revival.
12
See, for example, Bulst, ‘La réforme monastique’, p. 319: ‘En 1006 Fécamp fut dotée de
facto, comme Cluny, de l’exemption’.
Et non solum in rerum ordinatione justicia, sed in restituendi abbatis electione,

ubi morte subtractus fuerit, a nobis iuste collata utantur libertate, ita dumtaxat ut,
in ipsa electione vel ordinatione abbatis, illa per omnia servetur consuetudo quae
hactenus in Cluniaco coenobiorum servata est illu[s]trissimo unde fons sanctae
monasticae religionis per multae iam longe lateque derivatus loca ad hunc usque
Deo profluxit propicio, cuius sanctae religionis observatio ut magis ac magis ad
profectum tam meae quam genitoris ac genitricis omniumque fidelium proficiat
animarum.13
(by our rightful assignment, it [Fécamp] shall enjoy, not only in matters regarding
the regulation of justice, but also as regards the election for reinstalling the abbot
(in restituendi abbatis electione), when he [the previous abbot] will be taken away
by death, the liberty according to which, insofar far as this election and ordination
(electione vel ordinatione) of the abbot is concerned, the custom (consuetudo) that
should always be observed is that which up to the present day is preserved at Cluny,
the most distinguished of monasteries (quae hactenus in Cluniaco coenobiorum
servata est illu[s]trissimo), from which the spring of holy monastic religion has
already flown forth in various ways into regions far and wide, spreading God’s
favour, and the observance of whose holy religion contributes ever more to the
salvation not only of my own soul, but also of those of my father and mother, and
those of all my subjects.)
The same sentence appears again, in slightly abbreviated form, in a charter of

King Robert the Pious, which is dated to the same day as that of Richard II:14
In abbatis autem electione, ordinatione, sive consecratione, illa apud istos con
suetudo sequatur quae hactenus in Cluniaco coenobiorum servata est illustrissimo,
unde fons sanctae monasticae religionis per multa iam longe lateque derivatus loca,
ad hunc usque divino profluxit principio.15
(As far as the election, ordination, or consecration (electione, ordinatione, sive con
secratione) of the abbot is concerned, the custom that should be observed amongst
13
Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3 (formerly no. 1bis), ll. 19–22.
This charter has been edited in Recueil des actes, ed. by Fauroux and Musset, pp. 79–81 (= no. 9);
a facsimile is provided in Haskins, Norman Institutions, pp. 380–81.
14
Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 1 (formerly no. 2), ll. 36–37:
‘Actum Fiscanni anno Dominicae incarnationis m vio indictione iiiia die tertio ante kalendas
junias v feria, Dominicae ascensionis gaudio celeberrima feliciter.’
15
Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 1 (formerly no. 2), ll. 22–24.
This charter has been edited in Gallia Christiana, ed. by de Sainte-Marthe and others, xi:
Instrumenta, cols 8–9; a facsimile is provided in Lemarignier, Étude, p. 334. Also cf. Catalogue
des actes de Robert II, ed. by Newman, pp. 32–33 (= no. 26).
them [= the monks of Fécamp] is that which up to the present day is preserved
at Cluny, the most distinguished of monasteries, from which the spring of holy
monastic religion has already flown forth in various ways into regions far and wide,
spreading the divine essence.)
It must be said that this short statement concerning abbatial elections and
blessings represents the only verbatim analogy between the two documents,16
and we will return to this below. In his seminal study on medieval monastic
exemption, Jean-François Lemarignier observes that the privileges granted
to Fécamp by Richard II, and confirmed by Robert the Pious, pertain to three
fundamental aspects of monastic life: temporal autonomy and free administration
of property; the election and blessing of the abbot; the prohibition for anyone
other than the abbot to rule over the abbey.17 Only with regard to the second of
these regulations do the two charters make explicit reference to Cluny. Indeed, all
they stipulate is that Fécamp’s abbots henceforth should be elected and ordained
in accordance with the custom (consuetudo) of Cluny, whatever that consuetudo
was held to be. In the past, this fairly unspecific declaration has been interpreted
as having constituted the monastery’s right to choose the consecrating bishop
from as early as 1006 (the date of the charters).18 But how strong is the basis for
this interpretation?
Traditionally, the blessings that were administered following the election
of a new abbot formed part of the potestas ordinis (or potestas ordinandi) of the
diocesan authority.19 In Fécamp’s case, this was the episcopal see of Rouen, which
at the time was held by Archbishop Robert (987/89–1037).20 Robert was a son
of Richard I and his second wife, Gunnor,21 and thus the brother of Normandy’s
16
The most accurate transcriptions of the two charters are those provided in Chartes
originales, ed. by Giraud, Renault, and Tock, nos 2662, 2663; electronic versions available
online at Traitement électronique des manuscrits et des archives.
17
Lemarignier, Étude, p. 34: ‘1o l’autonomie temporelle et la libre administration des biens;
2 la liberté d’élection de l’abbé, qui sera consacré suivant l’usage de Cluny; 3o l’interdiction faite à
o
qui que ce soit d’exercer sur l’abbaye aucun “droit de domination”, expression assez vague, mais qui,
par son imprécision même, pouvait favoriser les interprétations les plus favorables aux moines’.
18
Bulst, Untersuchungen, p. 150: ‘Die Gleichstellung [von Fécamp] mit Cluny bedeutete
die freie Wahl des konsekrierenden Bischofs’. Also cf. Gazeau, Normannia Monastica, i, 36.
19
Hilpisch, ‘Entwicklung’; also cf. Szaivert, ‘Entstehung’, p. 289. On the post-medieval
development of abbatial blessings, see Reinhardt, ‘Abtsweihe’.
20
Bouet and Dosdat, ‘Évêques normands’, p. 19.
21
On Gunnor, see van Houts, ‘Robert of Torigni’; White, ‘The Sisters of Gunnor’; Keats-
Rohan, ‘Torigny’s Genealogy Revisited’.
reigning duke, Richard II. By relating the charter’s regulations to the free choice
of the consecrating bishop, which supposedly was informed by the contemporary
custom of Cluny, scholarship has seen Fécamp’s privileges as a strategic means of
undermining — both de iure and de facto — the episcopal authority of Rouen
in general, and of Archbishop Robert in particular.22 Such an interpretation is
problematic for several reasons. First of all, it presupposes that around the year
1006 the established practice of abbatial elections and blessings at Cluny, and,
more specifically, the choice of the consecrating bishop, differed from that in
other monasteries to such an extent as to provide a unique frame of reference
and model of inspiration. Moreover, it is based on the assumption that the two
charters as they survive today are genuine documents, even though no detailed
codicological study has ever been undertaken. Finally, it situates the abbots of
Fécamp and the archbishops of Rouen in two opposing political camps during
the first decades of the eleventh century. As will become evident in the course
of this article, however, all three assumptions should probably be dismissed.
Of course, this is not to negate the possibility that the specific (if perhaps not
entirely unique) ways in which individual aspects of monastic life were practised
at Cluny at the beginning of the eleventh century might, on occasion, have served
as inspiration for other religious communities, if only implicitly or indirectly. For
this to have been the case more systematically, however, and for Cluny’s customs
to have claimed widespread (or even universal) currency in the Latin West
around the turn of the first millennium, the very notion of a Cluniac consuetudo
itself would have required explicit definition (by being set down in writing, for
example). However, neither the two Fécamp charters discussed above, nor any
other sources surviving from the period, offer such a precise definition — an
important observation that will be addressed in greater detail below.
Cluny as a Model?
It is not unlikely, of course, that William’s activity at Fécamp (and elsewhere) was
in some ways informed by personal experiences from his time in Burgundy and
Italy.23 Does the election and blessing of abbots form one of these experiences,
though? At Cluny, the privilege to choose freely the bishop who would bless a
22
For example, Lemarignier, ‘L’exemption monastique’, p. 302; Lemarignier, Étude, p. 35;
Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 150–51.
23
Having entered monastic life as a child oblate in 969, William had spent his formative
years as a young monk in the abbey of Notre Dame and Saint-Michel de Lucedio, before moving
new abbot had not been part of the abbey’s foundation charter, and neither did it
feature in the bull that Pope John XI issued on behalf of the community in 931.24
It has even been suggested that the primary purpose of Cluny’s foundation charter
was ‘to ensure its freedom from interference by all manner of external authorities
in temporal matters’, meaning that it claims ‘a relatively undistinguished place
in a long history of developments […] that went to shape Cluny’s liberty as the
eleventh-century reformers praised it’.25 The complete and effective liberation
of Cluny from all interference by its diocesan bishops — in practice rather than
in theory — was a much later development. As such, it was not invoked in any
significant capacity until the pontificate of John XIX (1024–32), who issued not
one, but a whole series of papal bulls for Cluny in the spring of 1027, including
one document that explicitly granted the monastery the right to choose any
bishop they pleased (‘qualiscumque illi placuerit’) for the ordination of their
future abbots (‘ad eum ordinandum’).26
It is true that Cluny had already been granted a similar privilege as early as
998 in a bull from Gregory V, which allowed the monks to choose any bishop
they wanted for the blessing of their abbots (‘ad eos consecrandum’).27 Rather
to Cluny under Abbot Majolus in 987; see Williams, ‘William of Dijon’, pp. 523–25. Also
cf. Gazeau, Normannia Monastica, ii, 103.
24
Cowdrey, Cluniacs, pp. 4–8. On the bull of John XI from 931, see Szaivert, ‘Entstehung’,
pp. 294–95; it has been edited as ‘Ioannis XI privilegium pro monasterio Cluniacensi (Anno
931)’, in Patrologia Latina, ed. by Migne, cxxxii (1853), cols 1055–58 (col. 1057). Similar
to Cluny, the ‘foundation charter’ of Fécamp also makes no mention of abbatial elections or
blessings; see Douglas, ‘First Ducal Charter’.
25
Cowdrey, Cluniacs, pp. 7–8.
26
‘Privilegium Ioannis papae XIX pro monasterio Cluniacensi (Anno 1027)’, in Patrologia
Latina, ed. by Migne, cxli (1853), cols 1135–37 (col. 1137): ‘Decernimus praeterea et
omnino constituimus ut, praedicti loci obeunte abbate, non ibi aliuscuiuscunque personae
violentia constituatur ordinandus, sed ab ipsa congregatione loci secundum timorem Dei,
et institutionem legislatoris Benedicti, pater qui sibi praeesse debeat eligatur, atque ad eum
ordinandum qualiscumque illi placuerit, advocetur episcopus.’ The bull no longer bears a date,
but must have been issued after 26 March 1027; see Hessel, ‘Cluny und Macon’, p. 518. Szaivert,
‘Entstehung’, p. 294, dates it to 28 March. The bulls issued in 1027 by John XIX in favour of
Cluny are discussed and referenced in Cowdrey, Cluniacs, pp. 35–36.
27
‘Privilegio pro monasterio Gregorii papae V Cluniacensi (Anno 990 [sic])’, in Patrologia
Latina, ed. by Migne, cxxxvii (1853), cols 932–35 (col. 935): ‘Abbates namque qui
consecrandi erunt, de ipsa congregatione cum consilio fratrum communiter eligantur, et ad
eos consecrandum quemcunque voluerint episcopum advocent.’ The bull of John XI from 931,
whilst granting the monks the right of free election (ordinatio), does not pertain explicitly to the
abbot’s blessing; see Szaivert, ‘Entstehung’, p. 294; Cowdrey, Cluniacs, p. 33.
than ushering in a new practice, however, Gregory V’s privilege seems merely to

have put the Curia’s formal seal of approval on an established custom.28 Indeed,
for the first one and a half centuries after the abbey’s foundation in 910, not one
of Cluny’s abbots was blessed by the diocesan bishops of Mâcon. This is true both
before and after the respective privileges of 998 and 1027 were issued. In fact, all
but three of the abbots who presided over Cluny in the period between 910 and
1156 were blessed by the metropolitan archbishops of Besançon — a relationship
which, due to its regularity and longevity, might well be interpreted as a custom in
its own right.29 The only exceptions to this customary relationship between Cluny
and Besançon are Abbots Aymard (942–64), Majolus (964–94), and Pontius of
Melgueil (1109–22), who received their blessings from the bishop of Autun, the
bishop of Chalon, and the archbishop of Vienne respectively.30 Evidently, both
Aymard and Majolus were invested as abbots well before the bulls of Gregory V
and John XIX were issued. Again, this strongly suggests that the papal privileges
played a confirmatory, rather than a formative (let alone an inaugural) function
within the history of abbatial elections and blessings at Cluny.
In practice, therefore, the privileges of Popes Gregory V and John XIX had
little legal validity. The fact that the papal documents essentially did little more
than to put a seal on an existing Cluniac custom also serves to explain why they
were never invoked explicitly in a legal argument before the third decade of the
tenth century. The first abbot of Cluny usually held to have made deliberate
reference to the popes’ formal approval of the abbey’s customary tradition was
Odilo who, in 1024, invited the then archbishop of Vienne, Burchard, into his
monastery in order to bless not the next abbot, but a number of monks who had
recently obtained higher orders.31 This choice might have created a precedent
for the blessing of Pontius by one of Burchard’s successors, Archbishop Guido of
Burgundy, about a century later, but this is by no means certain. After all, Cluny’s
relationship with the archbishopric of Vienne reached back as far as the abbacy of
28
Hessel, ‘Cluny’, p. 517, supports the hypothesis of Karl Friedrich Weiss, according to
which the privileges bestowed upon Cluny in 998 by Gregory V were motivated, in the first
instance, by papal politics, rather than monastic ones; see Weiss, ‘Die kirchlichen Exemtionen’.
29
See the respective entries in ‘Venerabilium abbatum Cluniacensium chronologia’, in
Bibliotheca Cluniacensis, ed. by Marrier and Du Chesne, cols 1617–28. On the relationship
between Cluny and the archbishops of Besançon during the period under consideration, see
especially Diener, ‘Das Verhältnis Clunys’, pp. 282–86.
30
There seems to be no reliable information as to the bishop who blessed Abbot Hugh II
(1122).
31
Cowdrey, Cluniacs, p. 34.
Berno (910–27), and it continued throughout the tenth century, before reaching
a new level of intensity during the second half of the eleventh century, when the
archbishops of Vienne begin to figure more prominently in Cluny’s diplomatic
corpus.32 It seems unlikely, therefore, that Odilo’s appeal to Burchard resembled a
strategic attempt to enforce a new regulation concerning abbatial blessings.
It is important, in this context, to distinguish carefully between the different
types of blessings that together constituted the bishop’s potestas ordinis: besides
the abbatial blessing, and perhaps of greater importance at the time, the diocesan
bishop’s potestas ordinis also comprised the blessing of priests and altars in the
different churches and monasteries within his jurisdiction, as well as, of course,
the blessing of new churches themselves.33 When, in 1024, Odilo of Cluny
provoked serious protest from Bishop Goscelin of Mâcon by reaching out to the
archbishop of Vienne, this probably had to do with the fact that he was perceived
as infringing on Mâcon’s prerogative to bless Cluny’s monk-priests, which, it
seems, was deemed of higher significance to Goscelin than the blessing of abbots.
The following year, Goscelin rallied his supporters at the Council of Anse.
Indeed, a closer look at the arguments put forward by Goscelin and his allies,
and at the confirmation that they obtained from the council, reveals that abbatial
elections and blessings were not at the heart of their grievances. Rather, by
evoking canonical authorities they condemned the archbishop of Vienne’s recent
activities at Cluny precisely because they saw in them a fundamental violation of
the diocesan privilege to undertake all the different ordinations and blessings in
that particular monastery (‘qui faceret ordinationes vel consecrationes in eorum
monasterio […] et ne episcopus in parochia alterius audeat ordinationes vel
consecrationes absque licentia ipsius episcopi facere’).34 Whilst the rather general
phrasing of this passage does not, of course, exclude the blessing of abbots, its
focus clearly lies elsewhere.
We should remember that the particular case that triggered Goscelin’s
complaint at the Council of Anse had nothing to do with the blessing of an
32
See Diener, ‘Verhältnis’, pp. 287–90, 338–46.
33
Szaivert, ‘Entstehung’, pp. 280–81.
34
Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, ed. by Mansi, xix, cols 423–24. As is
observed by Cowdrey, Cluniacs, p. 34, it was at Anse that ‘the question of the rights at Cluny
of the bishop of Mâcon came specifically into the open for the first time’. Together with his
supporters, Goscelin also implored the council to revoke the pope’s intervention into Mâcon’s
diocesan matters. The canonical basis for their stand was provided, in the first instance, by
the acts of Chalcedon and Orleans, as well as by the tenth-century Council of Chelles; see
Lemarignier, Étude, pp. 1–12.
abbot, but concerned the blessing of priests. Similarly, neither Goscelin nor
his predecessors are known to have launched a single complaint of this sort
concerning any of Cluny’s previous abbatial blessings during the period c. 910–94
— and this despite the fact that all of these blessings had been administered at the
hands of other prelates.35 Even the bull of Gregory V, which, as we saw earlier,
explicitly confirmed this practice, did not become a bone of contention with the
bishops of Mâcon until two and a half decades after it was issued. Throughout the
tenth and early eleventh centuries, the relationship between Cluny and Mâcon
was mostly amiable.36 The fact that, during this relatively long period, the practice
of abbatial blessings at Cluny never corresponded in practice to the potestas
ordinis that was theoretically held by the bishops of Mâcon seems to have been of
little or no relevance to this relationship. Until the mid-twelfth century, Cluny’s
abbots habitually received their blessings from the metropolitan archbishops
of Besançon — a relationship that, as we saw earlier, soon developed into a
customary tradition in its own right, one which also included the dedication
of Cluny’s abbey church in 981.37 Even when the monks of Cluny occasionally
turned to the bishops of Autun and Chalon for the blessings of Aymard and
Majolus in 944 and 954 respectively, this should not be interpreted as a strategic
move aimed at undermining more permanently the influence of either Mâcon or
Besançon. Indeed, the archbishops of Besançon soon resumed their position as
Cluny’s customary consecrators with the election of Odilo in 994 and that of his
successor, Hugh, in 1049.38 On the whole, therefore, the relationship between
Cluny and Besançon established during the early tenth century continued to
provide the default institutional framework for abbatial blessings at Cluny
throughout most of the eleventh and twelfth centuries.
Throughout the period examined above, the blessing that the abbot received
from the bishop, similar to his acclamation by the congregation of monks, was
35
Constable, ‘Cluny in the Monastic World’, p. 410, speculates that the bishops of Mâcon
are likely to have played at least some part or another during these ceremonies, but there is no
concrete evidence for this.
36
Hessel, ‘Cluny’, p. 517; also cf. Constable, ‘Cluny in the Monastic World’, p. 410;
Tellenbach, Church in Western Europe, pp. 115–17. On the relationship between Cluny and
Mâcon during the tenth century more generally, see especially Winzer, ‘Cluny und Mâcon’.
37
Bibliotheca Cluniacensis, ed. by Marrier and Du Chesne, col. 1619: ‘981 Hoc anno
Dedicatio sit Cluniacensis Monasterii, ab Hugone Archiepiscopo Bituricensi 16. Cal. Martii,
Lothario regnante’; see Diener, ‘Verhältnis’, p. 282: ‘Diese Aufgabe, als Konsekratoren in Cluny
zu wirken, wird für die Erzbischöfe von Besançon geradezu traditionell’. Also cf. the discussion
in Constable, ‘Cluny in the Monastic World’, pp. 409–10.
38
Diener, ‘Verhältnis’, p. 283; Constable, ‘Cluny in the Monastic World’, p. 410.
in essence a means of proclamation (Kundgebung), rather than an actual right of

approbation (Zustimmungsrecht).39 In a similar vein, Gazeau reminds us that ‘le
libre choix de l’evêque pour la bénédiction de l’abbé n’équivalait pas à un privilège
d’exemption’,40 and that the blessing of the abbot did not in itself constitute a
sacrament. Within the ritual that accompanied the election and instalment of
a new abbot, the episcopal blessing, which followed as a subsequent step upon
the candidate’s actual election and ordination, fulfilled an affirmative function,
rather than holding any proper legal or jurisdictional value in its own right — ‘ce
n’est pas la bénédiction qui fait l’abbé’.41 Until the second half of the eleventh
century, no formal oath was required on the part of the abbot in order to obtain
the bishop’s blessing. When bishops began to demand such oaths explicitly
from the designated candidates during the later eleventh century, this led to
unprecedented conflicts, including, for example, that between the archbishops of
Rouen and the Norman abbey of Le Bec, where new customs were drawn up by
the community’s scribes in order to protect the abbey’s independence.42
Fruttuaria and Beyond

As this examination of abbatial blessings at Cluny has shown, we must be careful
to distinguish the situation around 1006 from that of the later eleventh century.
‘The early history of exemption’, to borrow Herbert Cowdrey’s words, ‘must,
therefore, not be studied by reading into it the high medieval concept: to do so
would be to fall into anachronism’.43 With this important caveat in mind, the
notion that emerges is that, at the beginning of the eleventh century, the choice
of the consecrating bishop for abbatial blessings was less of a politically charged
issue than scholars have sometimes argued. The decision to choose, on occasion,
someone other than the traditional authority — which, in the particular case
39
Rothenhäusler, ‘Abtswahl’, p. 610.
40
Gazeau, Normannia monastica, i, 72. Also cf. the definition of blessing (bénédiction) in
Bergier, Dictionnaire de théologie, ed. by Migne, i, cols 424–25.
41
Gazeau, Normannia monastica, i, 75, who also points out that even though many of the
eleventh- and twelfth-century Latin sources frequently use the term consecrare when referring to
abbatial blessings, the modern French/English equivalent ‘consécration/consecration’ should
probably be reserved ‘pour l’évêque qui reçoit la plenitude du sacerdoce, quasiment un huitième
sacrement’ (Gazeau, Normannia monastica, i, 75 n. 233).
42
Three Treatises from Bec on the Nature of Monastic Life, ed. and trans. by Constable and
Smith; Constable, ‘Abbatial Profession’, pp. 109–12; Gazeau, Normannia monastica, i, 80. On
these developments, see also the forthcoming study by Vanderputten, ‘Monastic Customs’.
43
of Cluny, was never the diocesan bishop to begin with — appears to have had
much more to do with practical reasons than with enforcing radical agendas of
monastic independence and libertas ecclesiae. This also resonates well with Gerd
Tellenbach’s warning against ‘positing a general Cluniac anti-episcopalism, which
seems to be something of an invention of modern scholars’.44
Even though the monks of Cluny had been granted their first papal privilege
regarding abbatial elections and blessings as early as 998, it took an actual case
of political and legal confrontation with the bishops of Mâcon during the later
1020s for them to make explicit reference to it. Up to that point, established
custom in everyday practice appears to have provided sufficient legal validity
without having to rely on formal confirmation by the Curia. During the tenth
and early eleventh centuries, monastic liberty and exemption were in many ways
‘not a live issue’,45 but they gradually developed into a matter of great importance
over the course of subsequent decades, beginning with the events during
John XIX’s pontificate, and culminating in its status as a major political and
ecclesiastical issue during the second half of the eleventh century. It is precisely
at this point that the papal privileges were put forward as supporting evidence
for legal arguments for the first time. Now, the custom of choosing a bishop who
was not the diocesan authority responsible for the ordination and blessing of the
abbot was reinstated formally (that is, in writing). It was defined, however, as an
‘emergency right’ (Notrecht), of which the main raison d’être was to prevent the
desecration (and hence nullification) of the blessing itself through the hands of a
bishop who had unrightfully obtained his office by simony.46 This can be shown,
for example, in relation to William’s former monastery of Fruttuaria, where the
election of Abbot Guibert in 1080 set a historical precedent that later found
its way into the Consuetudines Fructuarienses under the heading ‘De electione
abbatis Fructuariensis’.47
According to the Consuetudines Fructuarienses, the fact that Fruttuaria’s first
abbot, the venerated John, had been blessed by an unknown bishop (‘ab ignoto
episcopo’) — that is, a bishop whose identity remained a mystery to the author of
44
Tellenbach, Church in Western Europe, p. 116.
45
46
This has been argued compellingly by Rothenhäusler, ‘Abtswahl’, p. 606.
47
Consuetudines Fructuarienses-Sanblasianae, ed. by Spätling and Dinter, pp. 15–16. Also
cf. Rothenhäusler, ‘Abtswahl’, p. 609; Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 124–25, 130–31. On Abbot
Guibert, see Un’antica Cronaca piemontense inedita (Chronicon Abbatiae Fructuariensis), ed. by
Calligaris, p. 101.
the Consuetudines — appears to have caused some retrospective concern amongst

the later members of the community.48 During the second half of the eleventh
century, the monks therefore went to great lengths to ensure that their future
abbots would always receive their blessing from a well-known (and, if indeed
‘ignotus’ also reflects a quality judgement, adequate) bishop, even if that meant
relying on a bishop from outside their own diocese. Similar to Cluny, Fruttuaria
also had received a privilege pertaining to such an ‘emergency right’ long before
it was first referred to in practice. In a comital charter dated 28 January 1005,
Margrave Arduin of Ivrea, who three years earlier had become king of Italy, had
granted the monks of Fruttuaria the right for their future abbots to be ordained
(‘ordinetur’) and blessed (‘consecretur’) wherever and by whomever they deemed
appropriate, even an external bishop, if necessary (‘si necesse est’).49 What is
important, in this context, is the parenthesis ‘si necesse est’ since it indicates
that such choices were never intended to be the norm, but were reserved for
emergency situations, when specific circumstances made it necessary to explore
alternative options. That this caveat was taken seriously at Fruttuaria, preventing
the monks from light-heartedly putting this privilege into practice, is suggested
by the complete silence about such matters that we encounter in the sources from
the subsequent decades. Of course, such an argument ex silentio must remain
tentative, its validity depending on our willingness to accept that the documentary
records made during subsequent decades provide an adequate representation of
institutional realities.
A charter issued by Emperor Henry II on 31 August of the following year
confirms the abbey’s independence from episcopal and secular jurisdiction, albeit
48
Consuetudines Fructuarienses-Sanblasianae, ed. by Spätling and Dinter, pp. 15–16. It is
not entirely clear whether ‘ignotus’, in this particular context, only has a contemporary meaning,
or whether it also potentially refers back to the time of the blessing itself. In the latter case, it
would mean that the consecrating bishop was unknown (that is, of little renown) in his own day,
whereas a more contemporary (and perhaps more likely) reading might suggest simply that the
later author(s) of the Consuetudines Fructuarienses could no longer identify him. Of course, a
combination of the two is also perfectly possible. Alternatively, ‘ignotus’ could also be translated
as ‘ignorant’, which would cast doubts on the qualification of the bishop and the validity of the
consecration itself.
49
Edited in Die Urkunden Heinrichs II. und Arduins, ed. by Breslau and others, pp. 711–13
(= no. 9) (p. 713): ‘Cuius monasterii abbas cum de hoc mundo migraverit, quem ipse vivens
cum timore dei designaverit et fratres eligerint, suscepto ab antecessore vel, si ipse defunctus
fuerit, a principali altari regiminis baculo, dignissime loco praecedentis subrogetur et ordinetur
et ubicumque et a quocumque sibi placuerit, etiam, si necesse est, sine ullius contradictione ab
extero consecretur episcopo.’
in rather general and unspecific terms.50 Unlike Arduin’s charter, however, that
of Henry II makes no mention whatsoever of the bishops involved in abbatial
elections or blessings, and the same also holds true for a bull that Fruttuaria
received from Pope John XIX later in 1006 (on 4 December), which simply
states that the members of the monastery should vote and elect their abbot free
of any external influence.51 Not before the second half of the eleventh century do
we hear again about the matter of abbatial blessings at Fruttuaria. It is probably
no coincidence that the first cases in which the monastery of Fruttuaria can be
shown to have insisted on its rights to choose freely the bishop who consecrated
and blessed a new abbot fell into the period c. 1070–90, when concerns about
episcopal (and in fact abbatial) leadership were expressed with increasing
frequency throughout Europe.52 In 1048, the great Council of Rouen, chaired
by Archbishop Malger of Rouen (1037–55), had officially condemned simony
throughout Normandy, whilst the Council of Poitiers decreed in 1078 that
abbots henceforth had to obtain priesthood in order to qualify as spiritual leaders
of their monasteries.53
Of similar, if not greater, significance was the precedent created by the Lateran
Council of 1065. Here, Pope Alexander II ruled in favour of the abbeys of Saint-
Denis and Corbie, both of which had sought to obtain exemption from their
respective diocesan bishops following a series of recent conflicts.54 In order to
convince the members of the council, the monks had prepared a comprehensive
dossier of both papal and royal documents from their abbey’s archives, few of
which were in fact genuine, whereas the majority consisted of pseudo-originals
that had been interpolated or fabricated specifically so as to support the case.55
50
Die Urkunden Heinrichs II. und Arduins, ed. by Breslau and others, pp. 146–47 (= no. 120).
51
Migne erroneously attributes the charter to Saint-Bénigne, rather than Fruttuaria:
‘Ioannis XVIII papae privilegium pro monasterio S. Benigni Divionensis (Anno 1006)’,
in Patrologia Latina, ed. by Migne, cxxxix (1853), cols 1485–86. A similar picture also
emerges when we turn to William’s other former monastery, Saint-Bénigne. The bull that Pope
Benedict VIII issued on behalf of the monastery on 1 December 1012 places Saint-Bénigne
under direct papal protection, however, without making any reference to the issue of abbatial
blessings; ‘Benedicti VIII papae privilegium pro monasterio S. Benigni Divionensis (Anno
1012)’, in Patrologia Latina, ed. by Migne, cxxxix (1853), cols 1581–82; also cf. Chartes et
documents de Saint-Bénigne de Dijon, ed. by Chevrier and Chaume, ii, 40–42 (= no. 247).
52
Relevant examples are discussed in Vanderputten, ‘Monastic Reform’ and Vanderputten,
Imagining Religious Leadership.
53
Gazeau, Normannia monastica, i, 35–36.
54
See Morelle, ‘Moines de Corbie’. Also cf. Geary, Phantoms, pp. 107–09.
55
Geary, Phantoms, p. 109. A new detailed study on the Saint-Denis dossier is currently
The success of this strategy, which resulted in the council’s approval, did not
go unnoticed by the ecclesiastical elites of Normandy, northern France, and
Italy. The deliberate invocation of hitherto dormant rights and privileges
concerning abbatial elections and blessings first granted to Fruttuaria as early
as 1005 during the period c. 1070–90 might best be interpreted in the context
of these developments — and the same is probably true of other communities,
too, including Fécamp (see our discussion of the Fécamp charters below). The
specific timing of these activities, both at Fruttuaria and elsewhere, indicates an
important change in circumstance, one brought about by a number of political
and ecclesiastical developments during the mid- and later-eleventh century.
In particular, this concerned the increasingly heated discourses surrounding
episcopal authority, libertas ecclesiae, and, perhaps most importantly, the fight
against simony, all of which gained unprecedented momentum during the
so-called ‘Gregorian reform’ movement.
During the second half of the eleventh and the first half of the twelfth centuries,
several Norman abbeys received royal and papal confirmations regarding their
right of free abbatial election, whereas few (if any) of these confirmations make
specific reference to the blessing of abbots, let alone to the bishops undertaking
such blessings.56 A possible exception, which is quoted frequently by studies
on medieval monastic exemption, is provided by a ducal charter for the abbey
of Montvilliers, located — like Fécamp — within the archdiocese of Rouen. In
this charter, which is dated to 1035, Duke Robert I is said to have granted the
church of Montvilliers, together with its dependencies, complete immunity and
freedom from all episcopal custom (‘ab omni episcopali consuetudine’) ‘sicut
tenet Fiscannensis ecclesia’ (in the same way as is held by the church of Fécamp).57
Even though the document makes no explicit reference to abbatial ordinations
or blessings, the fact that these were mentioned in the two Fécamp charters from
1006 (which also use the term consuetudo) has traditionally been taken as evidence
to suggest that this is what the 1035 privilege must have referred to as well, if only
under preparation by Robert Berkhofer, who was kind enough to provide us with a preview of
the contents to be published in Chapter 4 of his forthcoming monograph. For an early medieval
example, see the study of the ninth-century forgeries of Le Mans by Goffart, The Le Mans Forgeries.
56
Gazeau, Normannia monastica, i, 37.
57
Edited in Gallia Christiana, ed. by de Sainte-Marthe and others, xi, 326–30 (= no. XXII)
(col. 326): ‘Imprimis eamdem [sic] sanctae Mariae ecclesiam cum aliis subtus scriptis ecclesiis ab
omni episcopali consuetudine absolutam, immunem et omnino liberam constituimus in omni
tenetura, sicut tenet Fiscannensis ecclesia. Quod donatione, voluntate et concessione domini
Roberti Rotomagensis archiepiscopi constituitur et confirmatur.’
implicitly.58 Not only is such a backwards projection difficult to justify from a

methodological point of view, but it also flies in the face of the actual diplomatic
evidence. The Montvilliers charter does not survive in the original, and scholars
including Lemarignier and Marie Fauroux have been able to demonstrate that the
sentence pertaining to Fécamp is in fact a later interpolation, which subsequently
found its way into an early fourteenth-century vidimus that was long considered
as authoritative (and authentic) amongst modern scholars.59 In reality, however,
both this vidimus and the interpolation it perpetuated ultimately originate from a
now lost pancarte that was produced at Fécamp (presumably by a Fécamp scribe)
under William the Conqueror, probably during the years c. 1068–76.60
During the mid-1030s, when the Montvilliers charter was issued, Fécamp
evidently was not — or at least not yet — considered a shining example of
free abbatial elections and blessings. This appears to have changed gradually in
the course of the later eleventh century, and the diplomatic evidence will help
us to develop a better understanding of how and when Fécamp acquired this
reputation. It is true that in 1028, only a few years before the issue of Robert I’s
charter for Montvillier, Fécamp’s new abbot, John of Ravenna, was blessed by the
bishop of Avranches, rather than by the ruling archbishop of Rouen.61 Prima facie,
this could be taken as evidence to suggest that the monks of Fécamp habitually
made use of their right to choose their own bishops for abbatial blessings as early
as the late 1020s, thereby invoking the regulations from the two charters they had
received in 1006. Upon closer inspection, however, such interpretations must
be dismissed. First of all, the choice of the consecrating bishop in 1028 did not
remain with the monks, nor with the abbot, but solely with Duke Robert I. It
was probably Robert I’s uneasy relationship with his uncle, Archbishop Robert
of Rouen, whom he had exiled from Normandy, that made him approach Bishop
Hugh of Avranches instead. Robert’s episcopate has often been described in very
negative terms, perhaps most famously by Orderic Vitalis and Warner of Rouen,
but also by modern writers.62 This seems a little unjust, however, especially
with regard to his relationship with Fécamp, as well as with Normandy’s other
58
Lemarignier, Étude, pp. 56–58.
59
Lemarignier, Étude, p. 235.
60
Recueil, ed. by Fauroux and Musset, pp. 231–39 (= nos 90, 90bis, 90ter); Lemarignier,
Étude, pp. 237–39.
61
Bouet and Dosdat, ‘Évêques normands’, p. 22.
62
See the excellent discussion in Allen, ‘The Norman Episcopate’, i, 288–310, as well as the
sources and literature cited therein.
monasteries. Robert certainly was not an enemy of these abbeys. Rather, he took
an active and generous supporting role in their revival.63
Robert’s difficulties with Duke Robert I must not be projected back into the
reign of Richard II, and neither did they affect the archbishop’s dealings with
Fécamp. In the case of John’s blessing, the matter was decided simply through ducal
authority, rather than by invoking any kind of pre-existing privilege on the part of
the monastery aimed against Archbishop Robert.64 If anything, Duke Robert I’s
authoritative and single-handed decision in 1028 provides testimony that the
Norman rulers continued, well into the early eleventh century, to treat Fécamp as
if it was their family property (Eigenkirche). In this respect, abbatial elections and
blessings at Fécamp, at least during the first decades of the eleventh century, did
not constitute a precedent on which other Norman monasteries could base their
claims for exemption. In reality, Fécamp in 1035 offered no more of an explicit
model of inspiration for Montvillier than Cluny had done for Fécamp in 1006.
As far as the relationship between abbatial and episcopal leadership is concerned,
the customary tradition of abbatial blessings that connected Fécamp and Rouen
was just as intact in 1035 as was that between Cluny and Besançon in 1006 (see
above). The explicit reference to Cluniac custom in the two charters of Richard II
and Robert the Pious therefore appears extremely suspect. The charters’ other
contents, meanwhile, provide no similar cause for suspicion. Could it be possible,
therefore, that we are dealing with an interpolation that was inserted by later
copyists into what are otherwise faithful copies of the two documents?
The Fécamp Charters

The earliest document, which today survives only in a late twelfth-century copy,65
is a ducal charter that Richard I issued on 15 June 990, probably on the occasion
of the consecration of Fécamp’s abbey church by his son, Archbishop Robert of
Rouen.66 Richard, with the consent of Archbishop Robert, is said to have granted
Fécamp, together with twelve of its dependent churches, complete immunity
63
Allen, ‘Norman Episcopate’, i, 305.
64
Similar arguments have been presented with regard to the situation at Cluny during the
final years of the tenth century, stressing papal (rather than ducal) authority over monastic self-
government; see Hessel, ‘Cluny’, p. 517.
65
Rouen, Bibliothèque Municipale, MS 427/A 143, fol. 151v.
66
Edited in Recueil, ed. by Fauroux and Musset, pp. 72–74 (= no. 4). On the consecration
itself, see Dudon’s account in Dudon de Saint-Quentin, De moribus, ed. by Lair, pp. 291–92;
also cf. Bouet, ‘Dudon de Saint-Quentin: Construction’.
and freedom from all episcopal custom (‘ab omni episcopali consuetudine
immunes et liberas’).67 The wording of this clause, whilst not pertaining explicitly
to abbatial elections or blessings, echoes that which was inserted into the
Montvilliers charter of 1035 by the Fécamp scribe(s) who drafted William the
Conqueror’s pancarte in c. 1068–76. Similar to the Montvilliers charter, the
‘exemption clause’ found in Richard I’s foundation charter for Fécamp is now
commonly accepted as a later interpolation, despite David Douglas’s arguments
to the contrary.68 Lemarignier actually hypothesized that the interpolation in the
foundation charter is likely to have occurred in c. 1068–76, that is, during the
same period that the fabricated confirmation clause was inserted into William
the Conqueror’s pancarte.69 As such, it cannot possibly have provided a template
for the 1006 charters, unless these were also rewritten during the second half of
the eleventh century. Lemarignier’s arguments about the date of the interpolation
seem plausible, and the likelihood that we are dealing with a series of similar,
perhaps even related, cases of fabrication is made evident by comparing them
with the remaining eleventh- and early twelfth-century material.
The next piece of evidence is a bull of Pope Benedict VIII, written on Christmas
Day 1016,70 which, however, says nothing at all in relation to abbatial elections
or blessings. Moreover, the recipient named explicitly in the bull’s inscriptio is not
the abbey of Fécamp, nor its ruling abbot, but Duke Richard II, and scholars have
expressed reasonable concerns regarding the document’s authenticity.71 The bull’s
complete silence on the matter at hand is mirrored by the great confirmation
charter that Fécamp received from Richard II about a decade later (c. 1025–27),
which is usually referred to as Propitia, and which in itself is a pseudo-original.72
67
Recueil, ed. by Fauroux and Musset, p. 73.
68
Douglas, ‘First Ducal Charter’, pp. 46–48, 51. Studies arguing in favour of an
interpolation are Gallia Christiana, ed. by de Sainte-Marthe and others, xi, 203; Lemarignier,
Étude, pp. 50–63; Haskins, Norman Institutions, pp. 250–52.
69
Lemarignier, Étude, p. 62.
70
Edited in Acta pontificum Romanorum inedita, ed. by von Pflugk-Harttung, i, 10–11 (=
no. 13); Regesta Imperii, vol. ii. 5: Papstregesten 911–1024, ed. by Zimmermann, p. 353. Also
cf. Bulst, Untersuchungen, pp. 152–54.
71
The bull’s intitulatio/inscriptio reads: ‘Benedictus episcopus servus servorum Dei dilecto
in domino filio Richardo, gratia Dei illustrissimo comiti, quem apostolica auctoritatis ducem
Normannorum ex hoc iam appallari constituit, salute carissimam cum benedictione apostolica’;
Acta pontificum Romanorum inedita, ed. by Pflugk-Harttung, i, 10–11. For doubt concerning
the document’s authenticity, see Bulst, Untersuchungen, p. 153. For an argument to the contrary,
see Lemarignier, Étude, pp. 37–38 n. 38.
72
Edited in Recueil, ed. by Fauroux and Musset, pp. 124–31 (= no. 34); also Haskins,
Apart from the interpolation made to the Montvilliers charter in Fécamp’s

later eleventh-century pancarte, we hear suspiciously little about abbatial
elections and blessings until the beginning of the twelfth century. In 1103, Pope
Pascal II confirmed Fécamp’s right of free abbatial election by introducing into
Normandy a ‘standard formula’ commonly referred to by scholars as the Obeunte
clause (named after its opening words, ‘Obeunte te, nunc eius loci abbate’).73
In fact, Pascal II’s bull was the first papal document to mention explicitly the
community’s right to choose any bishop for the blessing of their abbot (‘Electus
autem ad sedem apostolicam aut ad quem malverit catholicum episcopum
benedicendus accedat’).74 This privilege was later reaffirmed by Popes Calixtus II
and Innocent II in 1119 and 1140 respectively.75 In addition, Calixtus II in his
bull from 2 November 1119 added a further clause that extended his predecessor’s
privilege in such a way as to allow Fécamp also to choose the bishop who would
bless not only their abbot, but additionally, and perhaps more significantly, their
abbey church, altars, and priests.76 As we saw earlier with regard to Cluny and its
troubled relationship with Bishop Goscelin of Mâcon, it was these latter kinds of
blessings, rather than the blessing of the abbot, which contemporaries regarded as
the most fundamental aspect of the bishop’s potestas ordinis, and which continued
to cause discord between the monasteries and their diocesan authorities.
What emerges from the diplomatic sources is a sense of the third and
final quarter of the eleventh century as a key period in Fécamp’s monastic
emancipation,77 which, at the same time as facilitating the formation of a distinct
monastic identity (or perhaps as the direct result thereof ), witnessed previously
unparalleled levels of fabrication and forgery. This trend coincided with a general
Norman Institutions, pp. 256–57.

73
Acta pontificum Romanorum inedita, ed. by von Pflugk-Harttung, i, 75–76 (= no. 83).
74
Acta pontificum Romanorum inedita, ed. by von Pflugk-Harttung, i, 76.
75
Innocent II’s bull has been edited in Papsturkunden in Frankreich, ed. by Ramackers,
pp. 69–70 (= no. 13) (p. 70): ‘Obeunte vero eiusdem loci abbate nullus ibi in abbatem
qualibet […] episcopum Romani pontifices licentia et mandato benediciendus accedat’.
76
Bullaire du pape Calixte II, 1119–1124: Essai de Restitution, ed. by Robert, i, 137–39
(= no. 96) (p. 138): ‘Crisma, oleum sanctum, ordinationes monachorum, consecrationes
ecclesiarum vel altarium a quocumque malveritis catholico accipietis episcopo, qui nostra fultus
auctoritate quod postulator indulgeat.’ Also cf. Gazeau, Normannia monastica, i, 37, 72 who,
however, seems to ascribe the first mention of the right to choose freely the bishop for an abbot’s
blessing to the bull of Innocent II, rather than to that of Pascal II.
77
Cf. Tellenbach, Church in Western Europe, pp. 114–15, who prefers to speak of
‘emancipation’, rather than ‘exemption’, terms first proposed by Schwarz, ‘Jurisdicio und
condicio’. See also Constable, ‘Abbatial Profession’.
increase in the scope and volume of the abbey’s scribal production, as has been
shown by Branch. According to Branch, scribal activity at Fécamp experienced a
rise during the abbacy of John (1028–78), leading to ‘a vast growth of the library’,78
as well as of the scriptorium. This provides us with the abbey’s first known book
inventory, which lists eighty-seven titles and which was drawn up during the third
quarter of the eleventh century.79 The interpolations that were introduced into
several of Fécamp’s early ducal charters during William the Conqueror’s reign
in the post-Conquest period confirm the verdict reached recently by Michaël
Bloche in his dissertation on the Fécamp cartulary.80 Bloche shows that the overall
number of forged charters from Fécamp increased drastically during William’s
reign; he also identifies the most common subject matter of these fabrications
as ‘l’immunité, l’exemption ou la franchise des coutumes épiscopales’.81 From a
historical perspective, too, the third and final quarters of the eleventh century
have been described as ‘notable for the frequent clashes between the archbishop
[of Rouen] and various monasteries over issues of exemption’.82 Similar to the
relationship between Cluny and Mâcon, then, that between Fécamp and Rouen
depended fundamentally on the policies of the reigning archbishop and the way
in which these affected the abbeys located in his diocese.
Perhaps the most critical period within this relationship occurred under the
archiepiscopate of William Bona Anima (1079–1106), a Norman aristocrat and
former abbot of Saint-Étienne de Caen, who had been appointed to the see of
Rouen by William the Conqueror.83 On one occasion, William Bona Anima
tried to force his way inside Fécamp’s monastic walls by invoking his authority
as head of the diocese so as to demand hospitality for both himself and his
entire entourage.84 According to a fragment from Fécamp’s chronicle, the monks
78
Branch, ‘Development of Script’, p. 71.
79
On Fécamp’s eleventh- and twelfth-century library, see Nortier, Bibliothèques, pp. 6–33;
Branch, ‘Inventories’. On the dispersal of the library’s contents during the early modern period,
see Lecouteux, ‘Dispersion’. The most recent treatment of Fécamp’s scriptorium during the
eleventh and twelfth centuries is the unpublished dissertation by Weston, ‘Spirit of the Page’.
80
Bloche, ‘Chartrier’. See also Bloche, ‘Suscription’. We would like to express our thanks to
Michaël Bloche for kindly providing us with access to his thesis, as well as to high-resolution
reproductions of some of the charters discussed in this article.
81
Bloche, ‘Chartrier’, i, 70. Also cf. Haskins, Norman Institutions, pp. 250–51.
82
Allen, ‘Norman Episcopate’, i, 379.
83
Bouet and Dosdat, ‘Évêques normands’, p. 20. On William’s life and career, see Spear,
‘William Bona Anima’.
84
In the past, this episode has sometimes been misattributed to William’s predecessor,
appealed directly to William the Conqueror, who forced the archbishop to

renounce any such claims on behalf of himself and his predecessors.85 What is
of particular interest here is the terminology used by the anonymous chronicler,
who was probably writing before the end of the eleventh century, and who is
thus likely to have been an eyewitness.86 In describing the conflict between the
members of his own monastery (‘abbatiae famuli’) and their archbishop, he says
that William Bona Anima had argued that ‘the abbot of Fécamp ought to receive
the archbishop [of Rouen] in his monastery at the occasion of Easter, and assist
him in everything, due to custom (ex consuetudine)’.87 Similarly, King William is
said to have ordered William Bona Anima to ‘consuetudinem exigeret aliquam’
(abandon this particular custom), and the latter is reported to have responded
by saying that ‘I declare to hold no custom (consuetudinem nullo) at Fécamp, and
neither did my predecessors, and that I must not seek or demand anything based
on such custom (per consuetudinem)’.88
This was not the only struggle that the monks of Fécamp had to wage with
William Bona Anima during the final decades of the eleventh century, however.
In 1089, they claimed exemption from an interdict that the archbishop had
placed over the whole of Normandy with the support of its reigning duke,
Robert Curthose, in which they were assisted by Pope Urban II, who, in turn,
excommunicated William Bona Anima.89 Throughout the later 1080s and early
1090s, the archbishop of Rouen continued to be at loggerheads with the monks
of Fécamp, as well as with those of Le Bec, and it was only during the closing years
of the eleventh century that these relationships gradually began to improve, and
William Bona Anima was welcomed into the two monasteries once again.90 The
1070s and 1080s thus represented a period when the abbey of Fécamp, for the
first time since its foundation, was forced almost constantly to define and defend
its rights against the authority of Rouen’s archiepiscopal see. As part of this
persistent conflict, the monks systematically copied and replicated key documents
Abbot John of Ivry; see the discussion in Allen, ‘Norman Episcopate’, i, 361 n. 105.
85
Edited in ‘Notules fécampoises: Fragments inédits des chroniques de Fécamp’, ed. by
Musset, pp. 596–97.
86
On the Fécamp chronicle, see Arnoux, ‘Before the Gesta Normannorum’, pp. 30–35. Also
cf. Lemarignier, Étude, pp. 255–63. On annalistic writing at Fécamp, see Alexander, ‘Annalistic
Writing’, pp. 183–85.
87
‘Notules fécampoises’, ed. by Musset, pp. 596–97.
88
‘Notules fécampoises’, ed. by Musset, pp. 596–97.
89
Gallia Christiana, ed. by de Sainte-Marthe and others, xi: Instrumenta, pp. 18–19.
90
See Allen, ‘Norman Episcopate’, i, 380–82.
from their monastery’s archive, several of which received interpolations that

served both to cement existing traditions and to establish new ones. With these
interpolated documents passing as authentic, which the monks now presented in
lieu of the originals, and which they had confirmed and perpetuated by subsequent
generations of secular and ecclesiastical rulers, Fécamp’s early eleventh-century
diplomatic corpus was reworked strategically during the later eleventh century in
such a way as to meet current political and ecclesiastical agendas. This sometimes
involved the creation of elaborate legal dossiers which combined a selection of
related charters (many of which were interpolated or even entirely fabricated).91
As will be shown below, such dossiers were by no means unique to Fécamp, but
find their parallels in other religious institutions, too, most prominently perhaps
at Saint-Denis and Corbie. In this respect, the Fécamp monks can be seen as
employing the same strategies as did their contemporaries at Corbie and Saint-
Denis during the mid-1060s (see above).
Is there concrete evidence to suggest that the two Fécamp charters issued by
Richard II and Robert the Pious in 1006 — in their present state of preservation
— might belong to this list of later eleventh-century fabrications, too? Is there
any chance that they once formed part of a dossier? So far, scholars have seen
little reason for questioning the documents’ authenticity, especially as far as
Richard II’s charter is concerned, which is considered to be genuine ‘beyond
dispute’.92 With regard to Robert’s charter, more doubt has been expressed.
Indeed, it has been suggested that certain contents might have been interpolated
at Fécamp at a somewhat later date, based primarily on arguments concerning
the phraseology and dating of the charter.93 The palaeographical evidence also
allows for such a possibility, and a careful analysis of the scribal hand seems to
point to a later eleventh-century date.94 What is more, the charter also exhibits
91
See Lemarignier, Étude, pp. 56–62, who shows that on several occasions the Fécamp
monks tried to substitute original documents with fabricated diploma in order to have them
confirmed by the popes and/or Norman dukes.
92
Douglas, ‘First Ducal Charter’, p. 47. Also cf. Brown, ‘Observations’, p. 152 n. 38. Chartes
originales antérieures à 1121 conservées en France, ed. by Giraud, Renault, and Tock, no. 2662
lists the charter as ‘non suspecté’.
93
Catalogue des actes de Robert II roi de France, ed. by Newman, p. 33, whose opinion is also
reflected in Chartes originales antérieures à 1121 conservées en France, ed. by Giraud, Renault,
and Tock, no. 2663.
94
What survives of the text appears to have been written by the hand of a single scribe. The
script is characterized by a certain level of angularity (for example, miniscule ‘o’, ‘m’, and ‘r’),
minims which reveal a tendency of curving to the right, several occasions of miniscule ‘d’ in an
a later eleventh-century dorsal note written on its verso, which identifies it as

‘Carta Romani monasterii’.95 The hand responsible for this dorsal note appears to
be contemporary both with the hand that wrote the charter itself and, moreover,
with that which wrote a strikingly similar note on the verso of Richard II’s charter
(see below). Today, Robert’s charter survives in poor physical condition. The
parchment has been torn in several places, particularly down the middle, and
there are thus significant textual lacunae. However, much of the missing text can
be reconstructed on the basis of Fécamp’s twelfth-century cartulary,96 as well as
from various later transcriptions, including that made by Dom Jacques-Louis Le
Noir in 1764 (BnF, MS Moreau 341, fols 4r–5v).97 Essentially, Robert’s charter
appears to have been designed as a confirmation of Richard’s act, whose main
contents (narratio, dispositio) are repeated in abridged and paraphrased form —
except for the sentence that refers explicitly to the custom of Cluny, which, as we
saw earlier in this article, was taken from the ducal charter more or less verbatim.
Ultimately, therefore, the decision as to whether this sentence represents an
authentic part of the agreement of 1006, or indeed a later interpolation, depends
on the authenticity of the ducal charter.
It is true that, from a formal point of view, Richard II’s charter for Fécamp
seems largely to confirm to what little we know with certainty about diplomatic
practice in Normandy around the turn of the first millennium.98 Its layout
and decorum are obvious imitations of Carolingian royal diploma, as was the
usual choice for both Richard I’s and Richard II’s ducal charters, even though
subsequent generations of Norman rulers soon emancipated themselves from
uncial form, and a cross stroke of miniscule ‘e’ which is sloping upwards. Whereas these features
might suggest a later eleventh-century date, there are also features which seem to point to the
middle of the century (for example, the missing feet on descenders, the round compartments of
miniscule ‘d’ and ‘g’, the absence of minuscule ‘s’ in uncial form, and, more generally, the lack of
fusion between letter forms). We would like to express our thanks to Jenny Weston for sharing
with us her knowledge about the scripts at Fécamp during the eleventh and twelfth centuries. Also
cf. the brief eighteenth-century description of the handwriting in BnF, MS Moreau 341, fol. 4r.
95
Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 1 (formerly no. 2), verso.
96
The transcription in Gallia Christiana, ed. by de Sainte-Marthe and others, xi:
Instrumenta, pp. 8–9 was made ‘Ex Cartulario eiusdem monasterii’. On the version of Robert’s
charter that found its way into the lost cartulary (sometimes referred to as the Livre rouge), see
Bloche, ‘Chartrier’, i, 220–25.
97
Catalogue des actes de Robert II roi de France, ed. by Newman, pp. 32–33; Omont,
Inventaire, p. 17.
98
Cf. the comprehensive discussion in Recueil, ed. by Fauroux and Musset, pp. 41–65.
this model and developed more eclectic diplomatic styles, leading to extreme
diversity in both form and content.99 The invocatio, intitulatio, and recognitio
(and what can still be made out from the date) are all written in elongated display
script, and the handwriting used throughout the remainder of the document —
which is that of a single scribe writing a stylized diplomatic minuscule with a high
frequency of ligatures — shows elaborate decoration in the form of dramatic
ascenders and descenders (Fig. 1).100 Whilst, therefore, the palaeographical
evidence alone does not necessarily indicate a later date of production than is
claimed in the charter, we nevertheless should allow for the possibility that a
skilled copyist working during the mid- or later eleventh century probably would
have been capable of reproducing the script from his exemplar faithfully in order
to lend greater authority to his reproduction. Upon closer examination, there are
in fact several codicological features that support such a hypothesis.
To begin with, there is the peculiar notarial formula that appears on two
occasions in the corroboratio and recognitio, and which ascribes the drafting of
the charter to a certain notary named Wido (‘Wido notarius’).101 Scholars have
noticed this formula before and commented on its nonconformity with the
majority of other early ducal diploma. Apart from the Fécamp charter itself,
Fauroux lists only two other ducal documents from the period 911–1066 that
include comparable ‘chancellery-type’ subscriptions. One of them is Richard’s
1025 charter Propitia — which as we saw earlier represents a pseudo-original (and
thus cannot be considered reliable as material evidence). The other is a charter
issued at Rouen in 1015 on behalf of the collegiate church of Saint-Quentin.102
99
See Potts, ‘Early Norman Charters’, pp. 30–31, who revises some of the arguments made
previously by Brown, ‘Observations’.
100
Characteristics of this script that reflect early eleventh-century conventions include the
feet on minims (many of which are still turning to the left), round compartments (which in the
course of the later eleventh century often give way to more angular forms), and the shafts of
miniscule ‘t’, which do not emerge through the cross stroke. Compared to this handwriting, that
of the scribe of Robert’s charter appears more like ‘a simple bookish minuscule’; Potts, ‘Early
Norman Charters’, p. 30.
101
Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3, ll. 25–27: ‘Ego autem,
RICHARDUS Norhtmannorum [sic!] dux […] per Widonem notarium meo […] EGO
WIDO NOTARIUS’. Also cf. Brown, ‘Observations’, p. 152 n. 38, who still considered it ‘an
original charter’.
102
Parts of the Saint-Quentin charter are written by the hand of Richard I’s biographer,
Dudon de Saint-Quentin. During the later years of his career, Dudon appears to have worked
as Richard II’s cancellarius and capellanus; see Pohl, Historia Normannorum, pp. 121–24. Also
cf. Fauroux, ‘Autographes’.
Figure 1. Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3.

Published by kind permission of the Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, Fécamp, France.
To these Potts has since added another three documents from the abbeys of
Fécamp, Saint-Ouen de Rouen, and Saint-Wandrille.103 However, not one of
these actually makes reference to a notarius in a way similar to the 1006 charter,
but they all were drafted by scribes who refer to themselves as cancellarius or, in
one case, capellanus. Indeed, the term cancellarius had become the predominant
designation for notarial scribes during the Carolingian period, whereas before
it had coexisted with other synonymous terms (including notarius).104 In post-
Conquest England, the title of notarius was applied more regularly to household
clerics, and it also appears in the context of the production of comital charters in
mid- and later eleventh-century Anjou,105 as well as in the Norman principality of
Salerno during the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries.106
In early eleventh-century Normandy, by contrast, the occurrence of the title
notarius in ducal charters represents a rarity, especially during the period before
1066.107 To the best of our knowledge, the only other example of a notarius
witnessed as having been active in Normandy during the first half of the eleventh
century is in a charter issued on behalf of the monks of Jumièges by Richard, count
of Evreux, in 1038, which was subscribed to and confirmed by Duke William II of
Normandy (the future Conqueror).108 This charter is now lost (formerly Rouen,
Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 9 H 29), and it has been suggested
that the notary who is referred to as ‘Willelmus, huius cartulae notarius’ might
in fact be the Norman historian and author of the Gesta Normannorum ducum,
William of Jumièges.109 Unless we accept Richard II’s charter as the absolute
(and only) pre-1038 exception to the rule, therefore, its use of the term notarius
should give us pause. It has sometimes been suggested that individual Fécamp
scribes might have fulfilled quasi-notarial functions on behalf of Richard II,
succeeded in these activities during later periods by the dukes’ household officials,
103
Potts, ‘Early Charters’, p. 33; These charters are Recueil, ed. by Fauroux and Musset,
pp. 86–89 (= no. 13), 93–96 (= no. 15), 100–02 (= no. 18), 124–32 (= no. 34), and 146–48
(= no. 42).
104
See Bedos-Rezak, ‘Secular Administration’, p. 199. On the use of cancellarius/notarius
during the early medieval period, especially during the tenth century, see West, Reframing the
Feudal Revolution, pp. 147–48.
105
Thomas, Secular Clergy, pp. 128–29; Bedos-Rezak, ‘Secular Administration’, p. 206.
106
Drell, ‘Family Structure’, pp. 87–88. Also cf. Witt, Two Latin Cultures, pp. 61–63.
107
Keynes, ‘Regenbald’.
108
Edited in Recueil, ed. by Fauroux and Musset, pp. 242–44 (= no. 92). Also cf. Brown,
‘Observations’, p. 152.
109
van Houts, ‘Hypothèse’.
but there seems to be little concrete evidence to justify such assumptions.110 The
explicit use of the term notarius as a means of scribal self-identification (or even
self-fashioning) thus makes much more sense in the context of Anglo-Norman
administrative custom developed during the later eleventh century (that is,
during the post-Conquest period) than it does with regard to early eleventh-
century Normandy, where hardly anybody is known to have used the term in that
sense. The notarial formula might thus serve as a first and tentative indicator of
a later reworking of the original Fécamp charter, a contention which additional
codicological evidence corroborates. To begin with, there is a dorsal note written
on the charter’s verso in a later eleventh-century hand which appears to be
identical with that which wrote a similar note on the back of Robert the Pious’s
charter (see above).111 The fact that the two charters received their dorsal notes
at the same point during the later eleventh century, and perhaps by the hand of
the same scribe, reinforces the aforementioned possibility that both documents
might once have belonged to a single dossier.
Upon closer examination, it turns out that the lower section of the charter’s
parchment was re-ruled — not just once, but in fact twice — in the course of the
writing process. Originally, the sheet of parchment had been cut to size (measuring
about 68.5 × 48 cm) and ruled on the verso using a dry point according to the
standard practice in eleventh-century Normandy.112 Following this original ruling
pattern, the charter would have contained a total of twenty-three lines with a
line spacing of ~2.8 cm (slightly larger than an inch). From ll. 19/20 onwards,
however, the remainder of the document was ruled a second time, adding two
more lines whilst reducing the line spacing to ~2.25 cm. Three lines further down
(ll. 22/21), this second ruling was superseded, in turn, by a third one, which
now added yet another line and minimized the line spacing to a mere ~1.65
cm (Fig. 2). Unlike the original ruling, the two subsequent rulings were clearly
made after the majority of the text (ll. 1–19) had been written, so that the new
lines were drawn with a dry point (presumably by the scribe himself ) straight
onto the recto of the parchment, rather than onto the verso. When relating the
different rulings to the charter’s textual contents, it soon becomes evident that
the beginning of the second ruling corresponds precisely to the insertion of the
sentence concerning Cluny (beginning in l. 19 with the words ‘Et non solum in
rerum ordinatione’), whilst the start of the third ruling actually marks the end
110
See Potts, ‘Early Norman Charters’, p. 33; Brown, ‘Observations’, pp. 151–52.
111
Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3 (formerly no. 1bis), verso: ‘Carta
quam fecit Ricardus comes’.
112
Potts, ‘Early Norman Charters’, p. 30.
Figure 2. Ruling patterns of Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3.
of the same sentence (l. 22, ‘omniumque fidelium proficiat animarum’). From

this point onwards, the average number of letters per line suddenly increases
significantly, from approximately 125 to 170 (+25%), whilst the space between
words is reduced to a bare minimum, thereby giving the handwriting a cramped
appearance that contrasts drastically with the earlier part of the document.
The most likely explanation for these observations is that the sentence
concerning Cluny is in fact a later interpolation, which was inserted into a copy
of the original charter and which, due to its length, forced the scribe to make a
number of drastic modifications to the copy’s layout as he went (Fig. 3). In an
attempt to replicate the exemplar’s appearance, to the point of imitating the
anachronistic early eleventh-century diplomatic minuscule, the parchment used
for the copy had been prepared carefully so as to match the original shape and
dimensions, as well as the ruling pattern. Initially, this template was followed
meticulously by the copyist, who made generous use of the writing space by
using large decorated letters to mark the end of a word or the beginning of a
new sentence — for example, ‘Sicut’ (l. 3), ‘bonorum’ (l. 4), ‘Cuius’ (l. 7),
‘partem’ (l. 12). Only after having copied the dispositio in its entirety (ll. 7–19,
‘cuiuscumque officii dignitatisve’) did the scribe diverge from this template. The
reason seems to have related to a concern regarding the available writing space,
probably based on a rough calculation of the number of additional lines required
for inserting the interpolation between the end of the dispositio and the beginning
of the sanctio. Upon reaching the end of the line he was working on, the scribe thus
paused the writing process and re-ruled the parchment for the first time in order
to gain two extra lines. Once this was done, he completed the interpolation with
the same number of letters per line as he had already been using. At this point,
the scribe stopped again to recalculate, realising that the parchment — despite
the re-ruling — still did not offer enough space for copying the remainder of the
original content from the exemplar (sanctio, corroboratio, witness subscriptions,
recognitio, and date). As a solution, the parchment was re-ruled a second time. As
this only resulted in one extra line, however, the scribe also increased the number
of letters per line and minimized word spaces, which together allowed him to
finish the task.
This reconstruction of events can be reinforced by reversing the process so as
to recreate the layout of the exemplar. The interpolation consists of 482 letters,
whereas the sanctio and corroboratio together comprise a total of 620 letters.113
The dispositio ends six words into l. 19, thus leaving just under five lines for the
completion of the text based on the parchment’s original ruling into twenty-
three lines. The witness subscriptions, recognitio, and date are not part of this
calculation, as they were designed, from the beginning, to be added below (the
latter two written in display script similar to the invocatio and intitulatio at the
top of the charter). With an average of 125 letters per line and a line spacing of
~2.8 cm, the 620 letters of the sanctio and corroboratio would have fitted perfectly
within the space that was available between the end of the dispositio and the final
line of the original ruling pattern (Fig. 3). In order to insert the interpolation’s
482 words comfortably, that is, without altering the charter’s layout, another
four such lines would have been required, but the parchment’s fixed dimensions
did not allow for this. This is why the layout had to be compromised further by
interfering with the numbers of letters per line, even though three additional
lines had been gained through re-ruling. The perfect correspondence between
these numbers, combined with the fact that the two re-rulings set in precisely at
the beginning and end of the sentence concerning Cluny, leaves little doubt that
we are dealing with an interpolation.
In order to determine the date of this interpolation, and of the charter as it
survives today, we must turn to an important clue that survives in the shape of the
113
These numbers are based on the edition of the charter, where abbreviations and ligatures
have been written out in full. In the actual manuscript, the interpolation consists of 432 letters,
thus accounting for a ratio of approximately 1.1:1, which also applies to the charter’s other
contents (including the sanctio and corroboratio).
Figure 3. Interpolation of Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3
witness subscriptions. As Potts has shown, Richard II’s ducal charters were typically
produced in two or three stages, with the text being written by the beneficiary
in advance of its presentation to the duke, who later added his ‘signature’ in the
form of a single cross.114 The names and signatures of the witnesses were included
either at this point or on a later occasion, written by themselves or, more likely, by
their personal scribes, usually adhering to the standard formula ‘signum + name
(genitive)’. In Richard II’s 1006 charter, by contrast, the names of the witnesses
are written by the same hand and in the same ink, and thus probably at the same
time, as the rest of the document. Only two names are included, namely Rodulf
(‘signum Rodulfi’) and William (‘signum Willelmi’), but the scribe also included
abbreviations of the word signum for at least seven more witnesses. It seems likely
that this lack of witnesses goes back to the original charter, where the names were
supposed to be added at a later stage, with the abbreviations included as mere
placeholders. What is interesting, however, is that in copying these placeholders
114
Figure 4. Abbreviations in Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive,

no. 3 (a) and Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime,
7 H 12 (b), 7 H 2151 (c), and 14 H 661 (d).
the later scribe seems to have replaced the original abbreviations with ones more
common in his own day. In the majority of early Norman charters (both ducal
and other diplomas), the abbreviation for signum commonly used in witness
subscriptions is a single ‘S’ with a short cross stroke.115 In the 1006 charter,
however, these abbreviations take the shape of a double ‘S’ (Fig. 4).
The earliest other examples of this ‘SS’ abbreviation to survive from eleventh-
century Normandy are in a charter issued for Fécamp by Count Ives II of
Beaumont in 1059 (Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 83),
and in two ‘sister charters’ (Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime,
7 H 12 and 7 H 2151) that were granted to Fécamp by William the Conqueror
in 1085 (Figs 5 and 6).116 The abbreviation also bears similarities to that used
115
See, for example, the various plates in Potts, ‘Early Norman Charters’, n. p., as well as
those in Haskins, Norman Institutions, n. p. Also cf. the corpus of Fécamp charters available
online at Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime and Traitement électronique des
manuscrits et des archives.
116
The two 1085 charters have been edited in Regesta Regum Anglo-Normannorum: The
Figure 5. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 12.
for subscripsi (preceded by the witness’s name in the nominative) in papal and
episcopal acta from eleventh- and twelfth-century Normandy, as well as from
eastern France,117 including a confirmation charter issued by Archbishop Hugh
of Rouen on behalf of the monastery of Saint-Ouen de Rouen in 1145 (Rouen,
Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 14 H 661).118 The dates of the
charters of Ives II of Beaumont and William the Conqueror referred to above,
as well as the fact that all three of them appear to have been drafted by Fécamp’s
Acta of William I (1066–1087), ed. by Bates, pp. 476–78 (= no. 144). Also cf. Traitement

électronique des manuscrits et des archives. The 1059 charter has been transcribed (including
the ‘SS’ abbreviations) by Dom Le Noir in MS BnF Moreau 341, fol. 31v. Unfortunately, we
have not been able to consult the original for this study. Capelli, Lexicon abbreviaturarum,
p. 362 dates the ‘SS’ abbreviation to the end of the eleventh century.
117
See the many examples in Parisse, ‘Croix autographes’.
118
This charter has been reproduced in Spear, Personnel of Norman Cathedrals, p. xxxviii.
Further examples can be found in MS BnF, Moreau 341, fols 60r–66v.
Figure 6. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 2151.
own scribes, sit comfortably within the period of increased forgery that has been
identified at Fécamp during the third and final quarter of the eleventh century.
The scribe who copied and interpolated the 1006 charter, whilst carefully
imitating the diplomatic minuscule found in his exemplar, occasionally (and
probably subconsciously) fell back into his own habits, most notably by using
contemporary abbreviations strikingly similar to those that are used for the first
time in later eleventh-century charters. We must be careful not to underestimate
the force of habit amongst medieval scribes, especially concerning the use
of abbreviations and other elements of their personal idiom, many of which
operated on a subconscious level and could resurface even during the most
carefully executed copying exercises.
Conclusion
Taken together, the historical and diplomatic evidence presented in this article
allows us to locate the origin of the interpolated charter somewhere between
the late 1050s and late 1080s, and probably closer to the latter. This corresponds
perfectly with the known interpolations in Fécamp’s foundation charter and
the Montvilliers charter from c. 1068–76. In reality, therefore, the copy of
Richard II’s charter that survives today, rather than representing ‘the oldest
original Norman charter in existence’ and serving as ‘a deliberate model for
later acts’,119 offers a skilful and deliberate (but ultimately imperfect) imitation
of early Norman diplomatic convention produced at a time in which current
political and ecclesiastical developments facilitated the invention of ‘new’
traditions. Needless to say that discourses surrounding the invention of tradition
(in the sense indicated by Eric Hobsbawm and others) are usually broader and
typologically more diverse than can be gauged solely on the basis of the surviving
diplomatic evidence discussed here. Nevertheless, reassessing the Fécamp charters
and identifying their hitherto unrecognized interpolations has provided us with
a unique window into central medieval cultures of authority and leadership that
were characterized through continuous processes of negotiation. The invocation
of Cluniac custom during the second half of the eleventh century (perhaps as late
as the final quarter) in an ex post facto attempt to justify Fécamp’s independence
from Rouen formed an important element within the invention of tradition
and authority in eleventh-century Normandy, and a powerful one at that. Its
intention, when approached from a later eleventh-century perspective, was to
fight the authority, not of the Rouen archiepiscopate in general, but of one
prelate in particular, namely William Bona Anima.
In order to strengthen his own community’s position against William Bona
Anima, the copyist interpolated Richard II’s charter with regulations that
employ terminology strikingly reminiscent of that used by the Fécamp chronicler
reporting on conflicts with the same archbishop during the mid-1080s. This
terminology did not have the same currency during the early eleventh century, let
alone in 1006. Indeed, the explicit reference to Cluny would have made little sense
during this early period, which was largely marked by a good relationship between
Fécamp and the Rouen archiepiscopate (regardless of the conflicts between Duke
Robert I and Archbishop Robert). It in fact needs to be contextualized within
the circumstances of the later years of William the Conqueror’s reign, which
gave rise to various clashes between Fécamp and Rouen’s reigning archbishop.
Seeking to protect and defend their own position against William Bona Anima,
the Fécamp monks followed the successful example of their contemporaries
from Corbie and Saint-Denis at the Lateran Council of 1065 and produced a
dossier of interpolated pseudo-originals based on exemplars from their abbey’s
archive. Fécamp’s foundation charter of 990 was one of these documents, as
were the Propitia charter of 1025 and, not least, the two 1006 charters. This
119
could also explain why the dorsal notes found on the verso of two 1006 charters
were written by what seems to be the same hand, whose features point to a later
eleventh-century scribe.
United between the covers of a single dossier, these different pseudo-originals
were interpolated with similar clauses — or, in the case of the two 1006 charters,
verbatim versions of the same clause — that employed specific terminologies in
order to obtain confirmation from an authority higher than, and thus able to
overrule and discipline, the archbishop of Rouen. The dossier prepared by the
monks of Corbie and Saint-Denis in 1065 had been designed to be presented to
Pope Alexander II. Our analysis has shown that the Fécamp charters might once
have formed part of a dossier not dissimilar to those which survive from Corbie
and Saint-Denis, one possibly drawn up with similar intentions. Who, then,
could have been the target authority of the Fécamp dossier? One possible answer
is, of course, the Roman Curia, namely Alexander II or his successor, Gregory VII
(1073–85), perhaps even Urban II (1088–99). However, no papal confirmation
of the dossier survives from either of these pontificates, and the earliest known
example of a bull explicitly pertaining to Fécamp’s exemption is that issued by
Pascal II in 1103 containing the famous Obeunte clause. A more likely possibility,
therefore, is that the Fécamp monks sought confirmation from a secular authority,
namely William the Conqueror. The lost pancarte that William issued on behalf
of Fécamp, tentatively dated by Lemarignier to c. 1068–76, might well have been
this piece of confirmation, especially if we allow for a somewhat more flexible
date of composition, probably one as late as the mid-1080s. Scholarship so far
has failed to acknowledge these possibilities, taking the interpolated charters at
face value and projecting them back into the earlier period of William of Dijon’s
abbacy. Based on Fécamp’s example, it would be tempting to undertake a broader
reassessment of monastic exemption around the year 1000, both in Normandy
and in other parts of medieval Europe.
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c. 1000–1200’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Leiden University, 2015)
White, Geoffrey Henllan, ‘The Sisters of Gunnor, Duchess of Normandy’, The Genealogist,
37 (1921), 57–65, 128–32
Williams, Watkin, ‘William of Dijon: A Monastic Reformer of the Early Eleventh Cen
tury’, Downside Review, 52 (1934), 520–45
Winzer, Ulrich, ‘Cluny und Mâcon im 10. Jahrhundert’, Frühmittelalterliche Studien,
23 (1989), 154–202
Witt, Ronald G., The Two Latin Cultures and the Foundation of Renaissance Humanism in
Medieval Italy (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2012)
Scientific Renewal
and Reformed Religious Life:
The Case of the Arnstein Bible*
Michael Schonhardt
B y the eleventh and twelfth centuries, all levels of medieval society and cul
ture had seen profound and dynamic change. Scientific knowledge was
no exception to this development. In cities like Paris or Chartres, secular ways
of acquiring knowledge became institutionalized at cathedral schools and
early universities. New disciplines emerged, such as law, medicine, and scientia
naturalis, while old disciplines like theology and philosophy were gradually
*
This article summarizes and further develops some of the core findings of my Master’s
thesis ‘Kloster und Wissen’ (published in German as Schonhardt, Kloster und Wissen.
Die Arnsteinbibel und ihr Kontext im frühen 13. Jahrhundert). In this I proposed a new
interpretation for the scientific diagrams of the Arnstein Bible, which led me to the idea of a
deliberate integration of scientific knowledge into the liturgical life of the abbey. The article is
based on two papers delivered in Leeds respectively at the ‘Medieval Monasticism’ conference in
2015 and the International Medieval Congress, also in 2015, where I was given the opportunity
to consider this idea in more detail and to embed it into its wider historical context, the religious
and spiritual reform movements of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries in particular.
Michael Schonhardt (michael.schonhardt@gmail.com) is a PhD student at the Department

of History, Albert-Ludwigs-Universität Freiburg, Germany.
Abstract: By the end of the twelfth century the scholar Eberhard had become a brother in the
Premonstratensian abbey of Arnstein. After studying at one of the cathedral schools in northern
France, he had eventually become interested in the new reform movements of the twelfth
century. With him and his manuscript collection a great deal of modern scientific knowledge
arrived at Arnstein. A series of mysterious scientific diagrams added to the splendid Arnstein
Bible (London, British Library, Harley 2799) shows an integration of this knowledge into the
religious everyday life of the abbey. The paper reveals the programme underlying these diagrams:
they brought together both scientific renewal and monastic reform by introducing scholastic
sciences into a monastic framework.
Keywords: Arnstein Bible, Arnstein, cosmology, diagrams, William of Conches, Premonstra
tensians, monastic science.

44 Michael Schonhardt
refined through the adoption of new methods based on reason and dialectics.1
At the same time, faith and religious life underwent profound change as well,
leading to what today we call the movement of monastic reform. This expression
not only refers to reforms of monastic life, but also to a monasticization of the
clergy and even laity by imposing on them ‘a standard of life previously reserved
for monks’, as Giles Constable remarked some time ago.2 In the twelfth century,
the religious landscape was shaped by a ‘diversity of types of religious life’, with
Benedictine monks existing next to Cistercians, and secular canons next to
canons regular, such as the Premonstratensians.3 Although these new forms of
monastically inspired religious life did raise some criticism, they proved quite
popular and attractive both to the clerics who joined them, and to local magnates
who provided them with land and wealth.
Even though both developments, the renewal of science and monasticization
of religious life, are linked by the same period of time, they have often been seen as
contradictory in nature. In his monograph The Love of Learning and the Desire for
God, Jean Leclercq, for instance, contrasted the spiritual approach to knowledge
he thought typical of reformed monasticism, as practised by the Cistercians,
with the scientific and rational approach typical of urban scholasticism.4 Modern
scholarship is increasingly sceptical about the postulation of such a strong
opposition. Constant Mews, for example, has recently emphasized the importance
of the monasteries of the Hirsau reform movement for the transmission of
scholastic texts.5 Today, scholars are well aware of the complexity of religious
reform and its geographical and institutional diversity, which gave rise to different
approaches towards intellectual and scientific knowledge. However, although a
contradiction as postulated by Leclercq has been questioned, scientific renewal
and religious reform have seldom been viewed as stimulating to one another.
1
These developments have been summarized under the buzzword ‘twelfth-century
renaissance’ since Haskins, The Renaissance of the Twelfth Century; fundamental research
on the various dimensions of this so-called renaissance is given in a number of important
anthologies: Renaissance and Renewal, ed. by Benson, Constable, and Lanham; Aufbruch -
Wandel - Erneuerung, ed. by Wieland; and monographs, such as Swanson, The Twelfth-Century
Renaissance; regarding scientific engagement in particular see Burnett, ‘The Twelfth-Century
Renaissance’.
2
Constable, The Reformation of the Twelfth Century, p. 6.
3
4
Leclercq, The Love of Learning.
5
Mews, ‘Monastic Educational Culture Revisited’; Mews, ‘Scholastic Theology in a Mon
astic Milieu’.
scientific renewal and reformed religious life 45
Using the Premonstratensian abbey of Arnstein as an example, I will argue in this

article that communities of regular canons could serve as an important contact
zone between new scientific knowledge and reformed religious life during the
twelfth and thirteenth centuries.
The Premonstratensian abbey of Arnstein, situated upon the River Lahn
between Limburg and Nassau, was founded in 1139 by a former robber knight
who, according to his vita, repented of his lifestyle and converted to faith.6
Premonstratensians are canons who live a vita mixta in accordance with the ordo
monasterii, a set of strict Augustinian rules with a strong focus on contemplation.7
Joining Arnstein therefore really meant a complete withdrawal from earthly life.
Thus, Constable writes: ‘the regular canons of Arnstein were said to observe
the monastic religion’.8 All in all, due to its contemplative isolation, Arnstein
Abbey does not really strike one as a suitable place for scientific renewal, which
entails a constant fluctuation and renewing of knowledge. In addition, clerics
were forbidden by papal decree in 1163 from studying ‘leges et physica’ (law and
medicine) for economic gain. The brothers were therefore barred from accessing
the focal points of scientific exchange, such as universities.9
However, it was precisely the confined way of life and the spiritual withdrawal
from worldly matters practised at institutions like Arnstein that made regular
life very attractive in its own way. A twelfth-century book list from Arnstein,
preserved today in the British Library, London, bears evidence to this attraction:
‘These are the books of the school brought to the abbey by our Abbot Richolf,
after his withdrawal from earthly life’.10 Not only did the nobility join the new
orders, but also a large number of clerics who had lived an active life in the
world. These people brought their specific qualities, their education, and their
belongings with them into the institutions they entered,11 thus becoming an
important catalyst for the circulation of knowledge in Europe during the higher
Middle Ages.12
6
The history of the abbey is very well researched thanks to Krings, Das Prämonstratenserstift
Arnstein a.d. Lahn im Mittelalter.
7
Bomm, ‘Augustinusregel, professio canonica und Prämonstratenser’, pp. 263–93.
8
9
Oediger, Über die Bildung der Geistlichen im späten Mittelalter, p. 29.
10
BL, MS Harley 3045, fol. 47v; for an edition see Gottlieb, ‘Cataloge des Praemonstratenser-
Klosters Arnstein’; the list might be examined online.
11
See for instance Egger, ‘The Scholar’s Suitcase’.
12
See Moeglin, ‘Träger und Modalitäten des Austauschs’.
By the end of the twelfth century, three such contributions had been made to
Arnstein’s intellectual profile: the first was made by Gottfried who came to the
newly founded monastery as abbot from another house in 1139.13 Before joining
the Premonstratensians around 1131, he had been master of the cathedral school
in Magdeburg, and he conveyed some of his books to Arnstein. Unfortunately,
there is neither a record of this stock, nor of his scientific expertise or his
scholastic profile. He died in 1151 on his way to Prémontré and was succeeded by
Eustacius, who presided over Arnstein for almost thirty years. Under his rule, the
later abbot Richolf entered the monastery and brought with him a large number
of books which were added to the library. A certain Magister Eberhard did the
same a few years later.14
We know about these donations because they are recorded in the book list in
BL, MS Harley 3045, mentioned above, which precedes the monastery’s library
catalogue. This list is very interesting, but due to its complex structure, it is open
to different interpretations. The book list is written in two columns and consists
of four different units which are separated from each other by different incipits.
It has been argued by Bruno Krings that these four lists relate to four different
stocks of books brought to the monastery on different occasions.15 I would like to
suggest, however, that the list only refers to two distinctive stocks as indicated by
the parallel titles of paragraphs one and four: the books brought by Richolf and
the books brought by Eberhard.
The first paragraph lists the books brought by Richolf. It is introduced as
‘Isti sunt libri scolarum quos contulit Richolfus abbas ecclesie nostre cum seculo
renuntiaret’ and written in a single hand. This hand can be identified as belonging
to Richolf himself, who refers to his own person as abbot. It can therefore be
dated before 1196, the year he died, and after 1180, the year he came to office.
This list consists of fifty-eight books meant for use at school — ‘libri scolarum’
— and accordingly mainly focused on the trivium.16 Directly after this, a second
paragraph opening with the words ‘Hic est liber’ has been added. This paragraph
is written in a different hand and is crossed out for unknown reasons. Between
the two parts, three additions were made by later hands. At the beginning of the
second column, medical books are listed as ‘Hic sunt libri de phisica’ in yet another
single hand. A fourth hand has recorded the books Magister Eberhard brought
13
Krings, Das Prämonstratenserstift Arnstein a.d. Lahn im Mittelalter, pp. 581–82.
14
Krings, Das Prämonstratenserstift Arnstein a.d. Lahn im Mittelalter, p. 583.
15
16
to the monastery: ‘Isti sunt libri quos contulit magister Eberhardus ecclesie
nostre cum seculo renuntiaret’. The list ends in the middle of the second column.
If the two smaller paragraphs in the middle of the list named books brought to
the monastery by certain people, these donors would surely have been mentioned
by name, as Richolf and Eberhard were. Also, there would have been no reason
to squeeze in three later additions between the paragraphs. In both paragraphs,
however, ‘Hic’ does not refer to a new list of books, as Krings thought, but is an
adverb denoting another location of books. I thus want to argue that the first
three paragraphs all refer to the single stock of books that Richolf brought to the
monastery before 1180, which were later distributed to the different locations they
were needed at, the school, the infirmary, and another, still unknown, location.
From this article’s point of view, the first fifty-eight books of this stock are not
relevant. The second paragraph, however, lists a certain ‘liber ecclesiastice censure
disceptatio’ which can very likely be identified as the Rhetorica ecclesiastica, a
work on canon law written in 1160 and based on the Decretum Gratiani. It is one
of the earliest examples of the reception of learned law in Germany.17 The work is
also mentioned in the list of Eberhard’s books. The so-called ‘libri phisici’ are also
noteworthy: mention is made of a ‘liber passionalium’ which has to be identified
as Gariopontus of Salerno’s Passionarius, a collection of practical medicine that
was popular from the tenth century onwards,18 but was still en vogue during the
scholastic period.19 Listed after it are the ‘libri Johanitii Alexandrini ysagoge
ad tegni galieni’, Constantine the African’s translation of Hunain ibn Ishāq’s
introduction to Galen.20 Both authors, Gariopontus and Constantine the Afri
can, belong to the school of Salerno, and the latter became a standard part of the
Articella during the twelfth century.21 It is apparent (from these book titles) that
even if the Premonstratensians were not allowed to study law and medicine after
1162, they were still able to benefit from the circulation of knowledge through
scholarly migration.
The second list of books also offers a good example of this circulation of
scientific knowledge: ‘Isti sunt libri quos contulit magister Eberhardus ecclesie
nostre cum seculo renuntiaret’. There is not much biographical evidence for a
17
For discussion and further literature see Weigand, ‘The Transmontane Decretists’, p. 180;
for an edition, Die Rhetorica ecclesiastica, ed. by Wahrmund.
18
Glaze, ‘Gariopontus and the Salernitans’.
19
Glaze, ‘Prolegomena’.
20
O’Boyle, The Art of Medicine, pp. 82–86.
21
O’Boyle, The Art of Medicine, p. 83.
brother named Eberhard, but we know that he died sometime before 1227, so the
books probably arrived at the monastery roughly around the year 1200.22 They
mainly differ from the stock mentioned above in their clear focus on scientific
topics. Next to traditional texts like the ‘computus helperici’ and Martianus
Capella’s book on the seven liberal arts,23 we find modern commentaries such as
‘Macrobius cum glossis’, which can most likely be identified as the as yet unedited
commentary by William of Conches, and ‘Plato cum glossis’, either by Bernhard
of Chartres or by William of Conches as well.24 These texts clearly display a pen
chant for innovative Chartresian natural philosophy. Yet, even more exotic inno
vations can be found. The ‘Questiones adelhardi’ testify to the openness of the
brothers even to Arabic scientific knowledge, ‘verum Arabicorum studiorum’,
as Adelard puts it in his famous preface.25 The anonymous ‘Summe plures de
compoto et algorismo’ mentioned in the catalogue is most likely to be identified
with a set of computistical, arithmetical, and astronomical texts which usually
accompanied Toledan tables.26
To conclude: the list clearly indicates an education at the scholastic centres
of northern France as well as a profound interest in the natural sciences and its
newest and most innovative texts and commentaries. This means that about
thirty years after Richolf ’s donation of books, the monastery’s knowledge was
updated by another scholar seeking a more spiritual lifestyle.
It is clear that the donation of books does not necessarily have to lead to
updated knowledge. As far as we know, the brothers of Arnstein Abbey did not
actively engage with these donations. The books may well have stood neglected
in their shelves for centuries. However, there are traces of an active but peculiar
integration of this knowledge into the monastery: the so-called Arnstein Bible.27
This enormous Bible in two volumes, now BL, MS Harley 2798 and 2799, covers
22
23
Helperic, Computus Helperici, ed. by Traube; Martianus Capella, De nuptiis Philologiae
et Mercurii, ed. by Willis. Interestingly, the proximity to these scientific texts shows a clear and
particular emphasis on the last four quadrivial books of Capella’s encyclopedia.
24
Bernard of Chartres, The Glosae super Platonem of Bernard of Chartres, ed. by Dutton;
William of Conches, Gvillelmi de Conchis Glosae svper Platonem, ed. by Jeauneau.
25
See a discussion of this text in Burnett, ‘Introduction’, pp. xxii–xxxiii; quotation from
Adelard of Bath, Conversations with his Nephew, ed. by Burnett, p. 90.
26
See Nothaft, ‘The Reception and Application of Arabic Science’, p. 40; Pedersen, The
Toledan Tables. Part 1, pp. 11–21.
27
I have described the codicological units elsewhere: Schonhardt, Kloster und Wissen,
pp. 33–37; both manuscripts are digitized and available online.
all the books of scripture. It was copied in 1172 by a canon called Lunandus and
is famous for its beautiful illumination. In the present context, however, it is more
interesting for its scientific diagrams and drawings at the very beginning and end
of the second volume.
The first volume, BL, MS Harley 2789, begins with some fragmented annals
and then transmits the text of the Old Testament from Genesis to Malachi. The
second volume, BL, MS Harley 2799, begins with a large computistical device
in the shape of a hand. It is followed by the text of scripture from the Book of
Job to the Apocalypse. The biblical texts are followed by a number of maps and
diagrams: (1) a diagram showing the branches of philosophy according to Hugh
of Saint Victor; (2) a map consisting of a zonal structure and including a detailed
T-O map, a common map type depicting the three continents Europe, Asia, and
Africa divided by a T-shaped Mediterranean Sea and surrounded by the O-shaped
ocean; (3) a sizeable map of the cosmos and (4 and 5) two minor rotae showing
the course of the seasons; (6) another zonal map; (7) diagrams showing the order
of Mercury, Venus, and the sun, as well as (8) solar and lunar eclipses. (9) At the
very end of the manuscript, a description of various marvels of the East is given.
Such diagrams are quite uncommon in liturgical manuscripts, which is why
their appearance has sometimes been described as arbitrary. Evelyn Edson, for
instance, writes: ‘How these diagrams found a home in the Arnstein Bible is not
known. Certainly their presence is unusual […] Perhaps they were drawn for some
other work, a computus book, which was never finished’.28 However, a holistic
approach to these enormous diagrams reveals an underlying programme that puts
scientific knowledge into a liturgical framework.
The diagrams are later additions to the manuscript’s flyleaves, done in a
single hand. This hand can be dated roughly to the first quarter of the thirteenth
century or shortly after 1200. It is quite a distinctive hand, different from the
typical writing at Arnstein, so the scribe in all likelihood was not educated there.
The hand can only be found in the diagrams and the short mathematical writings
in BL, MS Harley 3045. All this evidence points directly to Master Eberhard,
who can thus justifiably be identified as the scribe of the diagrams.29 The scholar
did not just add random diagrams to the Bible. He followed a sophisticated
programme based on William of Conches’ Philosophia mundi, an early scholastic
and innovative treatise on natural philosophy.
At the very centre of the codicological unit, the hand of God is depicted. The
writing above it reads: ‘Nemo Deum pingit cuius manus omnia f[ingit]’. Jeffrey
28
Edson, Mapping Time and Space, p. 94.
29
See Schonhardt, Kloster und Wissen, pp. 33–37.
Hamburger, who suggested this reading, has pointed out in a recent article that
this indicates a reflection on the work of an artist in comparison to the work of
God.30 Although that is an interesting dimension of the Bible, there is an even
deeper meaning behind this folio. In his prologue to the Philosophia mundi,
William gives an elaborate theory of knowledge:
Philosophia est eorum quae sunt et non videntur, et eorum quae sunt et videntur
vera comprehensio. […] Cum igitur in cognitione utrorumque sit philosophia, de
utrisque disseramus inchoantes ab eis quae sunt et non videntur. Sunt autem haec
creator, anima mundi, daemones, animae hominum.31
(Philosophy is about understanding the things that are but cannot be seen as well
as things that are and can be seen. […] The things which are but cannot be seen are:
the creator, the soul of the world, the demons, and the human soul.)
With regard to the creator, he states:

Sed quamvis sciamus deum esse, quid sit, perfecte non comprehendimus; quantitas
vero eiusdem, quia omnia implet, angustias nostri pectoris excedit; relationi
illius explicandae humana sapientia deficit; qualitates illius non comprehendit;
actionibus eius enarrandis infinitae linguae non sufficient; […] quid habeat, qui
omnia palmo continet, nullus perfecte explicare potest.32
(No matter how strongly we seek to know what God is, we cannot understand him
fully, because he, who contains everything, is so magnificent that he exceeds the
limitation of our mind. Human wisdom fails to explain him; it does not grasp his
nature; countless tongues would not suffice to describe his acts. […] Nothing can
fully understand him, who holds everything in his hand.)
However, what mankind can perceive is creation itself, which can then be used to
deduce information about its creator.
With this prologue in mind, the hand depicted on folio 1 clearly stands for
the creator who cannot be perceived directly by humankind, but only through his
creation. The organization of the Arnstein Bible around this hand symbolically
represents several orders of creation arranged around the Creator’s hand like the
layers of an onion. The history of salvation is represented by the books of the
Bible, human history by the annals at the beginning of the first volume, and the
30
Hamburger, ‘The Hand of God and the Hand of the Scribe’, reading on p. 150.
31
William of Conches, Philosophia, ed. by Maurach, i, 4, p. 18; my translation.
32
William of Conches, Philosophia, ed. by Maurach, i, 5, p. 18; my translation.
physical world is symbolically present through the scientific diagrams that are
based on the second book of the Philosophia mundi.33
The peculiar combination of a zonal map and a T-O map structure as shown
in diagrams 2 and 6 appears in another manuscript of the Philosophia — BL,
MS Egerton 935 — folios 23v and 27v. Other diagrams show a more complex
implementation of William’s ideas about cosmology. The three diagrams on
folio 242v, for example (3, 4, and 5), contain a map of the cosmos, and illustrate
the fundamental movements of the sun and their influence on time, the four
elements, and human conditions, as described by William in the second book
of the Philosophia mundi.34 Although no direct models for these three diagrams
can be found in copies of the Philosophia, some early manuscripts contain sets of
two diagrams or a single diagram which seem to have been derived from the set
used in the Bible. This could indicate that a very early copy of the Philosophia was
available to the scribe, maybe bound together with a volume with some of the
scholastic texts in Eberhard’s possession mentioned above.35
Overall, the modern knowledge presented in the Arnstein Bible clearly
focuses on the dimension of the divine creation of cosmos and nature. From
that perspective, it makes sense to include scientific diagrams in a Bible. It also
makes sense to include them in a Bible used for the liturgy, as the Arnstein Bible
was, judged by traces of candle wax and divisions into lessons by a hand of the
thirteenth century.36 Folio 243r shows a branch of philosophy according to
Hugh of Saint Victor’s Didascalicon (1). For Hugh,
Omnium expetendorum prima est sapientia, in qua perfecti boni forma consistit.
sapientia illuminat hominem ut se ipsum agnoscat, qui ceteris similis fuit cum
se pre ceteris factum esse non intellexit. […] summum igitur in uita solamen est
studium sapientie, quam qui inuenit felix est, et qui possidet beatus.37
(of all the things to be sought, the first is that Wisdom […] which illuminates men
so that he may recognize himself. […] The highest curative in life, therefore, is the
pursuit of Wisdom: he who finds it is happy, and he who possesses it, blessed.38)
33
For a detailed discussion of these diagrams see Schonhardt, Kloster und Wissen,
pp. 46–64.
34
Schonhardt, Kloster und Wissen, pp. 53–61.
35
Schonhardt, ‘Einige Thesen zur Diagrammatik der Philosophia mundi’. The manuscripts
are BnF, Lat. 6560, BnF, Lat. 11130, and Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, Car. C. 137 (299 Mohlberg).
36
37
Hugh of St Victor, Didascalicon de studio legendi, ed. by Buttimer, pp. 4 and 6.
38
Hugh of St Victor, The Didascalicon of Hugh of St Victor, trans. by Taylor, pp. 46–47.
Hugh outlines five steps which lead to wisdom:

De his quinque gradibus primus gradus, id est, lectio incipiendum est, supremus, id
est contemplatio, perfectorum. Et de mediis quidem quanto plures quis ascenderit,
tanto perfectior erit. Verbi gratia: prima, lectio, intelligentiam dat; secunda,
meditatio, consilium praestat; tertia, oratio petit; quarta, operatio quaerit; quinta,
contemplatio invenit. […] Rursus, quoniam consilium hominis sine divino auxilio
infirmum est et inefficax, ad orationem erigere, et eius adiutorium pete. 39
(Of these five steps, the first, that is, study, belongs to beginners; the highest, that
is, contemplation, to those who are perfect. As to the middle steps, the more of
these one ascends, the more perfect he will be. For example: the first, study, gives
understanding; the second, meditation, provides counsel; the third, prayer, makes
petition; the fourth, performance, goes seeking; the fifth, contemplation, finds. […]
Further, since the counsel of man is weak and ineffectual without divine aid, arouse
yourself to prayer and ask the help of him without whom you can accomplish no
good thing.40)
Wisdom cannot be obtained by reason alone, but has to be achieved through

contemplation.
However, at reformed houses such as Arnstein, contemplation primarily
meant liturgical contemplation. The occasions on which the brothers would
in this way perceive their creator were at Mass and during the Divine Office.
Although Arnstein was a Premonstratensian institution, the brothers did not
follow the liturgy of Prémontré before 1224.41 As members of the Magdeburgian
branch, they were allowed to celebrate their office according to the liturgy used
at Magdeburg, where Norbert of Xanten was archbishop after having founded
Prémontré.42 The liturgical books containing this liturgy have been lost, but
the liturgy can be reconstructed from Magdeburgian sources.43 Based on these
sources, it appears that the brothers were confronted with the creation of the
material universe through numerous psalms and lessons. Beside the daily singing
of Psalms 148–150, in which the creation was praised,44 this is true for two
occasions in particular, when the Arnstein Bible was used for reading lessons in
the Old Testament.
39
Hugh of St Victor, Didascalicon de studio legendi, ed. by Buttimer, p. 109.
40
Hugh of St Victor, The Didascalicon of Hugh of St Victor, trans. by Taylor, p. 132.
41
42
Bomm, ‘Anselm von Havelberg’, pp. 132–33.
43
See Kroos, ‘Quellen zur liturgischen Benutzung des Domes’; Willich, Wege zur Pfründe.
44
McCluskey, ‘Natural Knowledge in the Early Middle Ages’, pp. 289–290.
On the first Sunday of Septuagesima, the reading of the Bible during matins
began with the Book of Genesis:
Ad matutinum imponetur penthateucus, postea liber Josue et liber Iudicum et
Ruth. Isti durabunt usque ad dominica passionis domini historia In principio cum
suis laudibus. Cantatur duabus septimanis.45
Although the actual account of creation only makes up a small part of Genesis, its
importance is emphasized by the historia ‘In principio deus creavit’ which is sung
throughout the next two weeks in preparation for Easter.46 Readings of the first
chapter of Genesis were probably completed during the matins of the first Sunday
of Septuagesima, which the brothers would begin by singing the Invitatorium:
‘Adoremus dominum qui fecit nos’.47 They would then sing psalms in alternation
with antiphons and proceed to read lessons from Genesis, starting with Genesis
1. After the first lesson containing the creation of the world, they would sing
special responsories and verses according to the mentioned historia:
R In principio fecit deus caelum et terram et creavit in ea hominem ad imaginem
et similitudinem suam
V Formavit igitur dominus hominem de limo terrae et inspiravit in faciem ejus
spiraculum vitae
R In principio deus creavit caelum et terram et spiritus domini ferebatur super
aquas et vidit deus cuncta quae fecerat et erant valde bona
V Igitur perfecti sunt caeli et terra et omnis ornatus eorum
R Formavit igitur dominus hominem de limo terrae et inspiravit in faciem ejus
spiraculum vitae et factus est homo in animam viventem
V Igitur perfecti sunt caeli et terra et omnis ornatus eorum
Because the material creation covers only a small part of Genesis, it was short
enough to be read during the first nocturne of matins. This means that we can
narrow down the particular psalms sung on this occasion to Psalms 1 to 14.48
Among these is Psalm 8, which would have created an immediate connection to
the Bible’s diagrams:
45
Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz, MS theol. lat. qu. 113, fol. 65r.
46
Cantus ID 006925.
47
Cantus ID 001009.
48
Le moyen âge et la Bible, ed. by Lobrichon and Riché, pp. 546–47.
O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth! You have set your glory
above the heavens. Out of the mouth of babies and infants, you have established
strength because of your foes, to still the enemy and the avenger. When I look at
your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars, which you have set
in place, what is man that you are mindful of him, and the son of man that you
care for him? Yet you have made him a little lower than the heavenly beings and
crowned him with glory and honour. You have given him dominion over the works
of your hands; you have put all things under his feet, all sheep and oxen, and also
the beasts of the field, the birds of the heavens, and the fish of the sea, whatever
passes along the paths of the seas. O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in
all the earth!49
Interestingly, the Arnstein Bible seems to have had a full page IN-initial intro
ducing Genesis, and probably depicting scenes of the creation, which is now
missing.50
However, the Book of Genesis does not provide the only link to the diagrams.
In August the brothers would have read the books of Solomon, including the
Book of Wisdom: ‘In kalendis augusti imponentur libri salomonis, parabole
et ecclesiastes, et libri sapientie, et ecclesiasticus, cum historia In principio
deus’.51 The text is linked to creation by its accompanying historia (beginning
with ‘In principio deus antequam terram faceret priusquam abyssos constitueret
priusquam produceret fontes aquarum antequam montes collocarentur ante
omnes colles generavit me dominus’52) and could have served as a perfect
blueprint for the diagrams. This emerges particularly in chapter 7:
God grant that I may speak according to his will, and that my own thoughts may
be worthy of his gifts; for even wisdom is under God’s direction and he corrects the
wise; we and our words, prudence and knowledge and craftsmanship, all are in his
hand. He himself gave me true understanding of things as they are: a knowledge
of the structure of the world and the operation of the elements; the beginning
and end of epochs and their middle course; the alternating solstices and changing
seasons; the cycles of the years and the constellations; the nature of living creatures
and behaviour of wild beasts; the violent force of winds and the thoughts of men;
the varieties of plants and the virtues of roots. I learnt it all, hidden or manifest, for
I was taught by he whose skill made all things, wisdom.53
49
Translation according to the English Standard Version, Psalm 8. 1–9.
50
51
Berlin, Staatsbibliothek Preussischer Kulturbesitz, MS theol. lat. qu. 113, fol. 118r.
52
Cantus ID 006924.
53
Translation according to the New English Bible, Wisdom 7. 15–22.
From this point of view, the integration of cosmological diagrams into a liturgical
book does not seem odd at all. By integrating modern natural philosophy into
a liturgy that dealt with creation on several occasions, the brothers of Arnstein
Abbey were simultaneously seeking for something which was at the very core of
religious reform: spiritual wisdom that would eventually lead to salvation.
A peculiar phrase accompanying the zonal map on folio 242v supports this
theory. It has been transcribed by Evelyn Edson as ‘Ortus ventorum sunt conisi
phylosophorum’ and translated as ‘the place where the winds are produced
according to the philosophers’.54 However, this translation does not reflect the
peculiar grammatical structure of the sentence. Since being derived from the
deponent verb conitor (meaning ‘to strive’ or ‘to give birth’), ‘sunt conisi’ would
actually have to be translated as an active or reflexive verb in perfect tense. But
with ‘ortus ventorum’ being the subject, the sentence is then missing an object
in the accusative case. Also, the genitive ‘philosophorum’ is lacking any related
nouns. To conclude, such a sentence would have been a grammatical mistake by
the scribe that could not be translated reasonably.
Instead of ‘conisi’, however, I suggest the alternative reading ‘comfi’ (plural for
confus, an old Germanic loan word meaning chalice), which does actually better
reflect the palaeographic evidence.55 Such a sentence read as ‘Ortus ventorum
sunt comfi philosophorum’ (The origins of the winds are the chalices of the
philosophers) would be grammatically correct. ‘Comfi’ would also perfectly fit
into the metrical structure of a leonine hexameter, whereas ‘conisi’ with its three
syllables does not.
Although the meaning of this phrase remains somewhat obscure, I suggest
interpreting it as an early and erudite reference to Alain de Lille’s hexametrical
epos Anticlaudianus. In particular, it refers to Prudentia’s enquiry into the nature
of the winds. The south wind is said to bring fertility by filling the chalices
(however, here referred to as ‘pocula’) of earth with its fertile rain:
Cur Phebus sitiens estuque caloris hanelus,
Haurit ab Oceano potus, sua pocula uertit
In nubes, crasso suspendit in aere nimbi
Vasa, cyphos ymbris uarii pluuieque lagenas;
[…]
54
Edson, Mapping Time and Space, p. 94.
55
Mittellateinisches Wörterbuch, ed. by Prinz and others, ii, C, col. 1387.
Vnde trahunt ortum uenti, que semina rerum

Inspirent motum uentis causasque mouendi;
Cur Auster pluuias, pluuie pincerna, propinat
Terris et plene largitur pocula mundo.56
(why Phebus, thirsty and panting from the heat of fire, draws draughts from
Oceanus, turns his cup to spill on the clouds, hangs in dense air pails of rain-storms,
goblets of various showers, bottles of rain; […] from what source the winds arise,
what seeds of things breathe motion and the power of causing motion into them;
why Auster, the butler of rain, pours rain for earth and lavishly serves draughts to
the world.57)
Thus, the origin of the winds, a central issue of medieval cosmology,58 stands as
a pars pro toto for scholarly engagement with the material aspects of creation,
as the Arnstein Bible itself reflects liturgical engagement with creation. As the
chalice used during Eucharist grants salvation, so does an understanding of God
achieved through engagement with cosmic phenomena. The peculiar phrase
links a very modern theory of knowledge rooted in scholastic philosophy with
the traditional religious duty of performing the liturgy, thus imposing on this
theory a genuinely religious and liturgical framework of thought.
To conclude, reformed religious life and scientific renewal did not act as two
opposing forces in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries. Very much to the contrary,
they reinforced each other on two different levels: first, the attraction reformed
houses or orders held for clerics who had lived in the world led to an increased
fluctuation and renewal of a monastery’s knowledge. Scholars like Gottfried,
Richolf, and Eberhard served as vehicles for innovation when they joined
Arnstein Abbey. At the same time, this renewed knowledge was used to fulfil
the particular duties of religious communities, such as seeking a deeper spiritual
understanding of God, his creation, and the place of mankind within it through
liturgy. But not only did the renewal of knowledge change the intellectual profile
of a monastery; the religious and liturgical framework of these monasteries in
turn also changed the content and function of scientific knowledge.
56
Alain de Lille, Anticlaudianus, ed. by Bossuat, vv. 251–61, p. 114.
57
Alain of Lille, Anticlaudianus, trans. by Sheridan, pp. 126–27.
58
‘In comparison with other domains of the sublunary world—above all, the four elements
and seasons, which might be expected to have provoked equally diverse treatment—the winds
received the most developed attention.’ Obrist, ‘Wind Diagrams and Medieval Cosmology’,
pp. 34–35.
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—— , Lat. 11130
Zürich, Zentralbibliothek, Car. C. 137 (299 Mohlberg)
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The Statutes of the
Earliest General Chapters of
Benedictine Abbots (1131–early 1140s)
Steven Vanderputten
I n late October or early November 1131, a group of approximately twenty-

one leaders of Benedictine institutions, backed by a heterogeneous group of
supporters, gathered at the abbey of Saint-Thierry, in the city of Reims, to discuss
matters relating to internal discipline and establish a prayer community.1 News
of the meeting — an event known to scholars as the first ‘general chapter’ of
Benedictine abbots — and of the participants’ decision to reduce the liturgical
effort required of their monks, impose stricter rules as regards fasting and the
observance of silence, and convene on a yearly basis, sparked a vehement reaction
on the part of the Cluniacs. Writing in spring 1132, Matthew, cardinal of Albano
and a former monk of Cluny, expressed his dismay at the abbots’ obsession with
reducing the liturgy and promoting overly ascetic behaviour.2 Convening again
1
Ceglar, ‘William of Saint-Thierry’; Constable, The Reformation, pp. 181, 198, and 201;
Elder, ‘Communities’, pp. 117–29 and 182–88; and Vanderputten, ‘The 1131 General Chapter’.

This paper was written in the context of the research project ‘Ritual Scripting as Work
in Progress’, sponsored by Ghent University’s Special Research Fund. I wish to thank Melissa
Provijn for her comments on the draft version.
2
Edited in Ceglar, ‘William’, pp. 65–86. On Matthew, see generally Berlière, ‘Le cardinal
Steven Vanderputten (steven.vanderputten@ugent.be) is Professor in the History of the
Early and High Middle Ages at Ghent University.
Abstract: Using a hitherto-ignored version of the so-called Statutes of the first general chapter
of Benedictine abbots of 1131, this paper argues that the three manuscript witnesses of that text
reflect different stages in a cumulative process of legislation taking place presumably between
1131 and c. 1135 (with additions up to the early 1140s). It also attempts a reconstruction of
the complex relationship between the Statutes and contemporary legislative documents from
the Cistercian, Premonstratensian, and especially Cluniac movements. Appended is an edition
of the Statutes as documented in Douai, Bibliothèque Marcelline-Desbordes Valmore, 540,
folios 69r–v, with comparative notes on the previously edited version in BnF, MS Latins, 2677,
folios 83v–84r, and the retrievable fragments of a lost copy from Mont-Saint-Quentin.
Keywords: Benedictines, general chapters, monastic legislation, monastic orders, literacy,
papacy, Cistercians, Premonstratensians, Peter the Venerable, Bernard of Clairvaux.

62 Steven Vanderputten
in late 1132, the abbots, no doubt led by William of Saint-Thierry, an ardent

admirer of Bernard of Clairvaux, issued a rebuke of Matthew’s criticism, fiercely
defending their position and rejecting the Cluniac’s prerogative to judge their
interpretation of St Benedict’s Rule.3
Traditional accounts of the 1131 general chapter tend to explain this event
by referring to the Cistercians’ influence on progressive elements in Benedictine
monasticism; internal struggle in Cluniac monasticism between progressive and
conservative elements; or even abbots’ frustration at being unable financially
and logistically to sustain strict observance of the Cluniac customs. In a recent
article I was able to show that none of these viewpoints holds a satisfying answer
to questions relating to the specific timing of this event, its participants, the new
directives promulgated there, or, finally, the vehement reaction on the part of the
Cluniacs.4 The first general chapter was not a deliberate effort to set up a long-term
institutional alternative to the Cluniac or Cistercian systems, or even to make a
cohesive statement in favour of reform. Rather, it resulted from the convergence
of a number of regional and international developments taking place both within
the monastic sphere and outside, and bringing together individuals and interest
groups with widely diverging ideological, institutional, and political agendas.
Abbots’ resentment over Cluny’s perceived arrogance, in particular in trying to
claim as part of its congregational system institutions that had merely adopted
some of its customs; bishops’ and lay lords’ fears over losing these monasteries
to Cluny; peer pressure and encouragement from supporters and representatives
of the rapidly growing Cistercian and Premonstratensian movements; and an
ongoing campaign by Pope Innocent II, himself a critic of Cluny, to rally support
against his rival, Pope Anacletus: all of these and other factors converged in late
1131 and ultimately led to the meeting at Reims.
In the multiplicity of motives and circumstances that made the meeting pos
sible also lay its weakness. Over the next few years, several of the above issues were
resolved, making it hard to retain the interest of the abbots’ initial supporters. The
involvement of a broad range of interested parties keen to retain their customary
control over the participating monasteries, and an overall lack of vision on how
to proceed also led to a number of structural shortcomings, particularly a lack
of true legislative or executive power. Beyond the first years of its existence, the
Matthieu d’Albano’; and Freeburn, ‘A Great Honour and Burden’. On his reaction to the general
chapter, see Ceglar, ‘The Chapter of Soissons’; and Vanderputten, ‘The 1131 General Chapter’.
3
Edited in Ceglar, ‘William’, pp. 87–112; and discussed in Ceglar, ‘The Chapter’.
4
My own and previous scholars’ arguments are discussed extensively in Vanderputten, ‘The
1131 General Chapter’.
statutes of the earliest general chapters of benedictine abbots 63
general chapter most likely failed to function as an annual gathering,5 and as

early as the mid-1130s at least one key figure behind the meeting, Alvisus, former
abbot of Anchin and from 1131 bishop of Arras, seems to have given up on the
general chapter’s role as an effective means to organize Benedictine monasticism
in the region. By the middle of the decade, we know that Alvisus was busy setting
up his own regional modes for supervision and control, particularly through
influencing abbatial appointments.6
It is surprising that the sole document thought to result from the first general
chapter, a set of written statutes (henceforth Reims Statutes), has so far not been the
object of scholars’ detailed scrutiny. For this paper I rely on a comparative analysis
of the three known versions of the Reims Statutes to establish more securely the
processes behind their creation, transmission, and further development. In a first
part, I investigate how it is possible to reconstruct several versions of the Statutes
from their first drafting in late 1131 until the mid-1130s or even the early 1140s,
and to argue that this reconstruction reflects the abbots’ lack of adequate means
to sustain meaningfully their legislative action beyond one or two meetings.
A second part of this article looks at textual influences and references in the
Statutes, arguing that processes of mutual inspiration between different monastic
movements were more complex than so far has been suspected. Based upon these
two observations, I intend to argue that the Statutes shed new light on the role
5
There is some evidence of activity on the part of the ‘Reims group’ of abbots in 1134/35
and c. 1140; see further, respectively at nos 66 and 18. Other documented meetings from the
twelfth century took place in 1154/58, 1159/62, and 1169/70; see Documents inédits, ed. by
Berlière, i, 98 (which speculates upon this further, and Berlière, ‘Les chapitres généraux’ (1902),
pp. 385–86). The only topic known to have been discussed at the former two of these later
meetings is the allegedly corrupt behaviour of Abbot Gaufrid of Lagny-sur-Marne, an issue that
opposed the abbots to Bernard of Clairvaux; see the letters edited in Patrologia Latina, ed. by
Migne, clxxxii, cols 713–14 and 714–16. Nothing is known of the outcome of the 1169/70
meeting, except for a charter confirming the previous settlement of a dispute between the two
Ghent abbeys of Saint-Bavo and Saint-Pieters; on this highly significant document, which
reveals an attempt to ‘reform’ the general chapters, see Vanderputten and Belaen, ‘An Attempted
“Reform”’ (forthcoming).
6
On the efforts of Bishop Alvisus of Arras, former abbot of Anchin, to set up a regional
alternative to the Reims general chapter, see Vanderputten, ‘A Time’. For discussion of the general
chapters of Benedictine abbots in later centuries, see Berlière, ‘Les chapitres généraux’ (1891),
‘Chapitres généraux’, ‘Les chapitres généraux’ (1900), ‘Les chapitres généraux de l’ordre de St-
Benoît’ (1901), ‘Les chapitres généraux de l’ordre de saint Benoît dans la province de Cologne-
Trèves’, ‘Les chapitres généraux’ (1902), and ‘Les chapitres généraux’. For a comparative look at
the general chapters of the twelfth-century monastic orders, see in the first instance Cygler, Das
Generalkapitel.
of the written word in the emergence of supra-institutional bodies for legislation

and supervision in twelfth-century monasticism, a topic that is subject to a great
deal of debate due to considerable problems of chronology, transmission, and
attribution.7 I also hope to demonstrate that the interest of the Reims Statutes
for the study of the general chapter’s development in the 1130s and for that of
ongoing debates over monastic discipline is far greater than scholars have been
willing to admit. Appended to this paper is also an edition, with comparative
notes relevant to the versions previously used by specialists of the early general
chapters, of a significantly longer copy of the Reims Statutes.
The Reims Statutes as Text(s)

Two different versions of the Reims Statutes have been preserved in manuscript
form, alongside a handful of edited extracts from a now lost third variation. Of
the former two, the only one referred to in previous scholarship on the general
chapter is in a twelfth-century manuscript from the abbey of Saint-Martin in
Tournai, now preserved as BnF, MS Latins, 2677, folios 83v–84r (henceforth T).8
In 1890, Auguste Molinier edited all of folio 83v, comprising chapters 1 to 4 in
the edition appended to this paper, as well as chapter 5, the subscription by the
participating abbots.9 On two occasions, the great monastic specialist Ursmer
Berlière re-edited the same text, with minor variants to Molinier’s transcription.
7
For the purposes of this paper I have decided not to go into any kind of detail on the
implications of the recorded measures for the meaning and implementation of specific,
previously consolidated ritual and other practices. My focus here is on the role of the written
statutes in shaping a sense of collective purpose among the participating Benedictine monasteries
and their leaders. The substitution of written customs or statutes for oral ones in eleventh- and
twelfth-century monasticism was a significantly less straightforward process than has often been
thought. As an introduction to this emerging debate, see Cochelin, ‘Downplayed or Silenced’,
and Diehl and Vanderputten, ‘Cluniac Customs’. I wish to thank Isabelle Cochelin for kindly
sharing her unpublished work.
8
The most extensive description of this manuscript is in Sancti Hilarii Pictaviensis episcopi
opera, ed. by Doignon, p. xliv. Other texts included are Jerome’s commentary on the Song
of Songs; a few of his letters; the preface to his commentary on the Psalms; a letter by Ivo
of Chartres; Hilaire of Poitiers’s treatise on the Psalms; and a work by Pseudo-Bede. Abbot
Herman of Saint-Martin (1127–36) is not known to have attended the 1131 meeting or any
subsequent ones, but maintained close contacts with several abbots of participating institutions,
particularly Saint-Amand. By Herman’s own account the community of Saint-Martin was
one of the first in the Low Countries to have adopted Cluny’s customs; see the discussion in
Vanderputten, ‘Monastic Reform’.
9
Les obituaires, ed. by Molinier, pp. 288–89.
He also established, based upon his reading of contemporary commentaries and

his own editorial work on Matthew’s letter and the abbots’ 1132 rebuke, that the
Statutes derived from the 1131 meeting.10 Eventually, Stanislaus Ceglar edited
both pages of T, adding to the above chapters 6 to 11, alongside new editions of
Matthew’s letter and the abbots’ rebuke.11
While arguing that the related nature of the texts on folios 83v and 84r war
ranted editing them together, Ceglar did acknowledge that they seemed to have
originated separately. His solution to this problem was to suggest that the two
parts had been drafted by two different individuals attending the same session of
the general chapter, pointing out that chapters 7–8 repeat decisions recorded in
chapter 4, and stating that the ‘exact relationship between the two parts is still to
be established’.12 He did not, however, attempt to explain when, where, or even
why the two protocols might had been collated into one document. Ceglar also
did not speculate upon the relation of T to a now lost copy appended to a Rule by
St Benedict from the abbey of Mont-Saint-Quentin (henceforth Q). Excerpts of
that version of the Statutes are preserved in the eighteenth-century re-edition of
Du Cange’s famous Glossarium.13
By explicitly mentioning only matches for chapters 2 and 4 between T and the
excerpts of Q, Ceglar failed to alert his readership to the fact that the re-editors
of Du Cange had also reproduced the entire chapter 9 from Q. While this may
seem an insignificant detail, it is nonetheless important, as it suggests that the
latter manuscript contained at least part of the second half of the Statutes.14 Based
on this observation it seems reasonable to speculate that the collation of chapters
1–5 and 6–11 was not the product of a local scribe at Saint-Martin who wished
to retain two versions for his personal use, but that it had actually been circulating
within institutions associated with the original group of abbots gathered at Reims.
10
Berlière, ‘Les chapitres généraux’ (1891), pp. 260–61; and ‘Chapitres généraux’, pp. 92–93.
11
Ceglar, ‘William’, pp. 51–63.
12
Ceglar, ‘William’, p. 59.
13
The fragments from Q were added by the Benedictines of Saint-Maur to the 1733–36
edition of Du Cange’s glossary, where the text is identified as a carta; see the note below for
detailed references. Abbot Henry of Mont-Saint-Quentin (c. 1098/99–1133) participated in
the Reims general chapter; and his successor Roger (1133–40) was a former disciple of Abbot
Alvisus of Anchin, later bishop of Arras (Gallia Christiana, ed. by de Sainte-Marthe and others,
iii, cols 1104–05 and Elder, ‘Communities’, p. 123).
14
While Ceglar notes two matching passages with T in his edition, I was able to identify
one extra such fragment (Glossarium, ed. by Du Cange and others, ii, cols 130c and 141c, and
vi, col. 551b). All three are included in the notes to the edition appended to this paper.
Given the considerable amount of repetition between the two parts, however, it
also seems not unreasonable to suggest — or is at least necessary to consider the
possibility — that chapters 6 to 11 originated at a subsequent meeting, where
the 1131 statutes were both repeated in amplified form and expanded with the
addition of new material.
These observations bring the 1132 meeting into focus. All that scholars have
so far been able to ascertain about that year’s general chapter is that it led to
the abbots’ fierce reply to Matthew of Albano’s scathing criticisms. But there is
nothing that suggests the entire meeting was devoted to this one issue, and for
all we know, chapters 6–11 may in fact originate from that very session. The fact
that the body of ‘new’ statutes is considerably shorter than the section comprising
chapters 1–5, and that it repeats but also augments previously issued statutes (a
feature well known from conciliar legislation), is suggestive of a context where
the abbots had to divide their time between issuing new measures, refining
existing ones based on experience ‘on the ground’, and perhaps also formulating
the response to Matthew. In all likelihood, T and Q preserve a version of the
Reims Statutes where the decisions of the second general chapter meeting were
appended to those of the first, and subsequently copied for further transmission.
In other words, these versions of the Statutes preserve a cumulative record of two
different meetings.
One further stage in the development of the Reims Statutes seems to be attested
in a third version from the abbey of Marchiennes, now preserved as Douai,
Bibliothèque Marcelline-Desbordes Valmore, 540, folios 69r–v (henceforth
M).15 Datable to the 1130s–40s and written by two scribes, it is appended to a
largely unaltered copy of Bernard of Cluny’s customary.16 A comparison of the
shared contents and structure of M and T (and, to a lesser extent, Q) undeniably
shows that both derive from a common source, at least as far as chapters 1–4,
6–9, and 11 are concerned. Yet substantial interventions in syntax and word
order, none of which are especially important but do seem to make the text
15
The first publication to identify M as a copy of the Reims Statutes was Volk, ‘Der Rezess’,
pp. 380–84 (with an edition of the new text on pp. 381–84). To my knowledge Volk’s discovery
went unnoticed by subsequent commentators, including Ceglar. A more recent reference to M
is in Gerzaguet, ‘Les confraternités’, p. 315, with further discussion in Vanderputten, ‘The 1131
General Chapter’. Even though it is unlikely that Abbot Amandus of Marchiennes (1115–36)
participated in the 1131 meeting, his close association with several key individuals behind the
general chapter (particularly Alvisus of Arras) is well established; on this, see Vanderputten,
‘A Time’.
16
For a summary description of this manuscript, see Catalogue, pp. 341–42; on the
customary preceding the Statutes, Vanderputten, ‘Monastic Reform’, pp. 64–65.
somewhat more attractive stylistically,17 and the omission in M of chapters 5

and 11 all point towards a thorough revision of T’s (and, one assumes, Q’s) text.
This, and especially the additions and clarifications to certain chapters (especially
3 and 4), and the addition of two sections on the organization of the general
chapter (12 and 13), all suggest that M brings us one or several years forward in
time, following yet another meeting of the general chapter.18 The terminus ante
quem for this revision, and possibly also the meeting that led to its redaction,
can be established with some degree of certainty. In M, a second scribe added
chapter 14 in this edition, a protocol establishing a prayer fraternity between
the Reims abbots and the Premonstratensian order. While this text presumably
is an abbreviated notice of a longer agreement, in content it roughly matches a
similar, but much longer one concluded in 1140 between the Premonstratensians
and the Cluniacs.19 This reasonably places the contents of chapter 14 in the same
time frame, and allows the dating of the transcription of chapters 1–4, 5–9, and
11–13 in M to before c. 1140.
Taking all of these points into consideration, I suggest that the Reims
Statutes as preserved in T/Q and M represent different stages in the process
of cumulatively recording the abbots’ decisions following the 1132 meeting.
A schematic representation of all the stages represented and referenced in these
versions would be as follows:
17
The exact legal or ideological implications of subtle shifts in word use, particularly
constituta vs. T’s ordinata in chapter 1, and institutum vs. statutum in chapter 3, remain unclear.
18
Volk argues that the text is merely a longer version of the 1131 statutes, based on the
observation that the added parts complement the liturgical and disciplinary instructions in
the other versions with organizational decisions: ‘Der Rezess’, p. 381. This statement however
ignores the redrafting of the style and syntax of the older versions.
19
Bibliotheca Praemonstratensis ordinis, ed. by le Paige, i, cols 321–22; see Constable, ‘Com
memoration’, 330–31. The sole credible reference to a putative meeting of the general chapter
in the late 1130s and 1140s is a note in the eighteenth-century Gallia Christiana, claiming
that Abbot Gosuin of Anchin in 1139 attended a meeting of the coetus abbatum in Rebais
and received a letter of Pope Innocent II there; Gallia Christiana, ed. by de Sainte-Marthe and
others, iii, cols 411–12. There is also an agreement between the Premonstratensians and the
Cistercians dated 1142, but the authenticity of this piece is disputed; see Vanderputten, ‘The
1131 General Chapter’.
Table 1. Schematic overview of the hypothetical development of the Reims Statutes

as represented in T, Q, and M.
Development Contents Preserved Contents

of the Statutes witnesses
Version 1: Numbers 1–5: None Title of the statutes

late 1131? formal record of the Measures pertaining to the
1131 meeting commemoration of the dead from
institutions involved in the prayer
fraternity of the Reims monasteries
Instructions for simplifying the
liturgy
Instructions for fasting, silence
at the table and in the cloister,
abbots sharing meals with their
monks, the sending of monks to
other institutions belonging to the
fraternity
Notice listing the names of the
institutions involved in the
fraternity
Version 2: Numbers 1–5: T (and Q?) 1131 statutes (without changes?)
late 1132? formal record of the Further liturgical instructions
1131 meeting Repetition of the instructions
Numbers 6–11: formal for abbots in 4, with addition
record of one (?) pertaining to guests
subsequent meeting, Repetition of the instruction for
perhaps that of 1132 in silence at the table in 4, with the
Soissons exception of urgent matters
Measure prohibiting the use
of feathered cushions, except
(pending the prior’s decision) for
guests and the sick
Measure instructing the reclothing
of monks on major feast days
Measure for resolving disputes
between participating abbots
Version 3: Reworked edition M (scribe 1) 1–4 (reworked, with additions)
mid-1130s– of version 2, with 6–9 (reworked, with minor
c. 1140? additions and some additions)
omissions
Development of Contents Preserved Contents

the Statutes witnesses
Numbers 12–13 added (identical to T)

post-1132 (?) Further liturgical instructions
Instructions for the organiza-
tion of the general chapter:
finding a suitable location,
abbots’ obligatory presence,
instructions for the com-
memoration of the dead at the
general chapter’s meeting
Version 3a: Addition, early 1140s? M (scribe 2) 1. Prayer fraternity agreement
early 1140s? with the Premonstratensians
(14)
None of this invalidates contemporary (or, indeed, scholars’) comments on what

was decided at the abbots’ first gathering at Reims, as chapters 2–4 do contain
sufficient relevant information to date chapters 1–5 securely to late 1131. But it
does mean that the document at hand, in its two versions (T/Q and M), rather
than being a static document of one meeting, actually constitutes an evolving
record. It reveals how the abbots tried to maintain the momentum of their
first gathering, their symbolically potent act of issuing a written record of their
decisions over the course of several years, and how subsequent developments
impacted on their ability and willingness to effectively act as a legislative body.
While the putative 1132 addition in chapters 6–11 and the subsequent additions
in revised chapters 3–4 and new chapters 12–13 do suggest that the abbots tried
to maintain the momentum of the general chapter, the different strata in the text
suggest a decline in legislative activity. Whether this corroborates the general
impression one gets from other evidence of growing inertia, even redundancy, on
the part of the general chapter is difficult to establish with certainty.
But we do have some reason to see legislative activity come to a halt sometime
around the middle of the 1130s. Nothing at all is known of a putative meeting
of the general chapter in 1133. For 1134 the only indication we have of activity
on the abbots’ part is an allusion in the Anchin continuation of the chronicle of
Sigebert of Gembloux to an appeal they supposedly made to the archbishop of
Reims to discipline a recluse formerly from the abbey of Crespin.20 At the general
chapter of 1134 or shortly thereafter, the abbots also sent a request to the pope
20
See below, at n. 68.
for formal acknowledgement of their movement. It is possible that they prepared

M specifically for submitting it along with their request: the effort invested into
‘cleaning up’ the text, specifying its contents, removing the by then irrelevant
sections (notably chapter 5), and adding chapter 13 dealing with the organization
of the general chapters (an issue directly addressed in the papal response) may all
point in this direction.
In November 1136 the pope responded by approving both their initiative to
meet on a yearly basis, and their taking joint decisions. But he refrained from
referring to the statutes, or to the abbots’ assembly as a legitimate body for
legislation and supervision.21 His implicit rejection of the abbots’ documentary
and institutional aspirations may well have been the death knell for the statutes as
a living genre among the Reims assembly, and even for the general chapter as more
than a mere assembly of like-minded abbots serving under the same archbishop.
I have already referenced Alvisus of Arras’s apparent disappointment with how
effectively the general chapter was functioning;22 and in 1135, another of the
general chapter’s main protagonists, William, abandoned his abbacy of Saint-
Thierry to enter the Cistercian monastery of Signy.23 From that point onwards,
we have very little evidence of any significant activity. The c. 1140 agreement
with the Premonstratensians documents one final attempt to give the chapter
meetings a more auspicious character;24 but the fact that it was tagged onto a
document that was last redacted probably somewhere in the mid-1130s is telling
of the overall situation.
It is, however, all too easy to blame the statutes somewhat rough-hewn,
disorganized appearance on the inertia of the Reims group and the fleeting
nature of the alliances that led to the group’s first meeting. Research carried out
on the legislative behaviour of several major monastic movements of the time has
revealed that the early 1130s were a time when different monastic movements
were responding differently to the growing need to consolidate their identity
21
Edited in Patrologia Latina, ed. by Migne, clxxix, col. 253; for references to papal
approval of Cistercian, Premonstratensian, and Cluniac statutes, see Melville, ‘Regeln-
Consuetudines-Texte-Statuten’, pp. 17–18. Papal policy with regard to supra-institutional
modes of monastic organization, particularly general chapters, became consolidated only from
the early thirteenth century onwards; Berlière, ‘Innocent III’, and ‘Honorius III’, and especially
Dannenberg, Das Recht, pp. 122–30.
22
See above, at n. 6.
23
Ceglar, ‘The Chapter’, p. 104 and ‘William’, p. 37.
24
On the meaning of the term ‘ordo’ in the Statutes, see Vanderputten, ‘The 1131 General
Chapter’.
and activities in written form.25 The Cistercians, despite producing a growing

body of narrative and (semi-)normative texts, in the 1120s and 1130s were still
some way from consolidating their legislative activity in a typologically uniform,
systematically organized set of documents. The different recensions of the Carta
caritatis and the associated body of early foundational documents that emerged
in the middle decades of the twelfth century are revealing of a legislative (and,
as argued by Constance Berman, memorial) practice that was still very much
in a state of flux.26 In these circumstances it is hardly surprising to see that
documentary protocols for recording the activities of the Cistercian general
chapters were still in their infancy: the earliest written record of decisions taken
at a specific session is a document dated by Chrysogonus Waddell to c. 1136/37;
the earliest document to recapitulate decisions of previous meetings is a piece
dated by the same to c. 1135/36.27
For their part, the Premonstratensians were spurred by Norbert’s sudden
departure in 1128 to transition from a movement held together mostly by the
personality and abbatial agency of its leader to a formalized association — not
much later, an order — led by a representational, legislative body, and this
profoundly changed its documentary practices. Issued probably in 1130, the
Premonstratensians’ oldest statutes, the contents of which were heavily inspired
by the Cistercians’ Carta caritatis and other pieces of early legislation,28 are
reminiscent of the push within the Reims Statutes to combine the Cistercians’
foundational documentation with new ways of efficiently organizing a movement
in full transition. But the Premonstratensian texts reference change more because
of their sheer existence than because of their actual content: the version that is
still available for study suggests a deliberate emphasis on the foundational nature
of the document.
Finally, the Cluniacs’ response to external criticism and internal tensions came
in March of 1132, when Abbot Peter the Venerable organized the first general
chapter of his movement.29 On this occasion or shortly thereafter, he made a first
25
Melville, ‘Zur Funktion der Schriftlichkeit’; Cygler, ‘Ausformung’.
26
Berman, The Cistercian Evolution. On Berman’s debate with Waddell, see Newman,
‘Review’, and Holdsworth, ‘Narrative and Legislative Texts’.
27
Twelfth-Century Statutes, ed. and trans. by Waddell, pp. 56 and 505–16.
28
Les premiers statuts, ed. by Van Waefelghem; on dating, see Krings, ‘Zum Ordensrecht’,
p. 17 following ; Felten, ‘Zwischen Berufung und Amt’, p. 142, at n. 148; and Weinfurter,
‘Norbert von Xanten’, p. 77.
29
The event is described in Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, ed. and trans. by Chibnall,
attempt at issuing statutes; these were subsequently integrated in a systematic

collection in 1146/47.30 The defiant tone of some of the earliest chapters, and
their reference to how customary practices were eligible for critical adjustment,
cast a permanent record of Peter’s efforts to redirect legislative powers in his
movement while retaining the supremacy for his office. Most notably, they mark
a break with tradition in that they deliberately present themselves as the product
of a normative act, not as a record of existing customs, as had been the case with
the older Cluniac customaries.31 At the same time, they remain firmly rooted in
these customs, which are referred to constantly.
As we shall see further, the Reims Statutes also appear to refer to practices and
customs observed by the participating institutions, and as such consist, at least
in part, of ad hoc measures to specify, revise, or even correct existing practices.
The other parts, in particular the prayer fraternity between the participating
institutions and the measures taken to regulate the organization of the general
chapters, arguably reflect some of the foundational aspirations present in the
Cistercian and Premonstratensian material. As such, the Reims Statutes surface
throughout their different incarnations as one of several possible answers
formulated in the early-to-mid-1130s to the need to harmonize foundational
accounts with responding adequately to major challenges for contemporary
monasticism.32 The fact that this particular group of abbots was comparatively
small, that their association was comparatively short-lived, and that their
geographical range was limited, does nothing to diminish the significance of
their documentary output from this perspective. The key question, then, is to
what extent their specific answer to the above questions refers to previous such
attempts, and whether it influenced future ones.
pp. 425–26; see Constable, ‘Cluniac Administration’; Cygler, ‘Ausformung’, p. 23, and Das
Generalkapitel, pp. 319–27.
30
Peter’s statutes are edited in Consuetudines Benedictinae variae, ed. by Constable,
pp. 19–106; the parts dated by Constable to 1132 are chapters 10–15 (on fasting) and 19–22
(on silence). See also Cygler, Das Generalkapitel, p. 322.
31
Melville, ‘Handlung’, p. 36; also Barret, ‘Regula Benedicti’, pp. 72–74.
32
This juxtaposition of the Rule of St Benedict as stable ‘law’ and customs as a continuously
adaptable instrument for guaranteeing adequate observance of that law is explicitly thematized
in the abbots’ 1132 response; Ceglar, ‘William’, pp. 89–90. Such statements illustrate the
shifting meaning of ‘custom’ in this period.
Identifying Influences in the Reims Statutes

In his edition of the Reims Statutes, Ceglar presented an overview of texts that
served either as inspiration to the author(s), reflected similar ideas and practices,
or relied on similar vocabulary. These seemed to corroborate previous scholarly
assumptions that the Cistercians’ model of austerity and restraint had strongly
influenced the Reims abbots’ ideas,33 and that the abbots’ 1132 response derived
directly from polemic Cistercian literature. The most notable among these latter
texts is Bernard of Clairvaux’s Apology:34 this is perhaps no coincidence, as it has
been suggested that its addressee, William of Saint-Thierry, actually authored
the abbots’ response.35 Yet Ceglar’s somewhat random manner of presenting this
information hardly inspired other scholars to probe more deeply into the place
of this text in the overall history of the emergence of general chapters across
different monastic movements, the shifting emphases in monastic ideology and
ascetic practice, and the role of the written word in these processes. Like most
historians who have looked at this material, Ceglar also gave little thought to the
possibility that the Reims Statutes may have had an impact on the documentary
output of other movements of the time, and what (older or revised) practices
they represented as crucial to the ‘Reims group’s’ collective identity in the 1130s
and early 1140s.
As I argued in my study of the 1131 meeting, historians have overstated, or
at least focused too exclusively, on the Cistercians’ towering influence over the
Reims group of abbots.36 This has somewhat obscured the important observation
that the Reims Statutes first and foremost reference Benedictine, but particularly
Cluniac, customs. While there is repeated mention of St Benedict’s Rule as a
foundational text for the abbots’ preferred brand of monasticism, no direct
reference is made to Cluniac normative literature. Instead, the parts that do match
or reference Cluniac customs refer to living practice, bringing adjustments to
complex procedures and rituals that are not described in detail and are assumed to
be known by the communities to which the new decisions apply. A striking match
for this approach is found in the relevant passages in the Cluniac customaries,
where the same rituals are addressed in a highly allusive manner, with authors
33
Berlière, ‘Les chapitres généraux’ (1891), p. 259; Wilmart, ‘Une riposte’, pp. 299–301;
Bredero, ‘William of Saint Thierry’; Ceglar, ‘The Chapter’, and ‘William’; Piazzoni, Guglielmo
di Saint-Thierry, pp. 95–117.
34
Bernard’s Apologia is in Sancti Bernardi opera, ed. by Leclercq and Rochais, iii, 61–108.
35
Ceglar, ‘The Chapter’.
36
Vanderputten, ‘The 1131 General Chapter’.
spending much more of their energies on detailing exceptions and specific cases
than on describing the actual liturgies, as if to indicate that these were taken for
granted as part of the community’s customary modes of behaviour.37 This, of
course, is a phenomenon that has been observed earlier on by Isabelle Cochelin
for, respectively, the Cluniac customaries of the eleventh century, and by Giles
Constable for Peter the Venerable’s Statutes, which also lack any explicit reference
to written customaries but address custom as a living, orally transmitted prac
tice.38 But for the communities involved in the general chapter, this allusive
aspect to the Reims Statutes is highly revealing. The history of the introduction of
Cluniac customs in the Reims region, particularly in those communities that did
not formally associate themselves with the ecclesia cluniacensis, remains muddled
by a lack of reliable primary evidence and by narrative testimonies of questionable
worth.39 The Statutes’ indication that the communities involved in the Reims
meeting must have had intimate knowledge of the customs they addressed —
customs which could only have been acquired through the living example of
visiting Cluniac monks or through direct observation of Cluniac communities —
make the Statutes by far the most compelling piece of evidence for the notion that
the Reims group was criticizing Cluny’s modes of organizing monastic life not as
outsiders, but as participants in a broader community that was observing at least
some of its liturgical customs. Matthew’s and Peter’s reactions to the decisions of
the 1131 meeting additionally reveal that the liturgical practices referenced in the
Statutes, in spite of possible adaptations to local circumstances, remained easily
recognizable as having a Cluniac origin or inspiration.
These observations about the fact that the Statutes were composed in the
first instance in reference to non-written customs find confirmation in their
37
I refer to the footnotes in the edition appended to this paper. The abbots’ 1132 res
ponse clearly subordinates monastic customs to the Rule, adding ‘nos non in consuetudines
Cluniacenses iurasse, sed in legem et regulam sancti Benedicti’ (Ceglar, ‘William’, p. 89).
38
Cochelin, ‘Evolution’. Regarding Peter the Venerable’s Statutes, see Barrett, ‘Regula’, p. 73.
39
Recent scholarship for the early twelfth-century Low Countries has revealed that the hope
to impact on issues like abbatial authority, external patronage, and institutional management
were likely more important to reformers introducing the Cluniac customary in local institutions
than the hope that its contents would be strictly observed: see Vanderputten, ‘Monastic Reform’.
The customaries themselves reveal an extraordinary lack of initiative — more so than in any
other region of Western Europe — on the part of the recipients in adapting the contents of
Bernard’s customary to local realities and traditions. Admittedly the narrative evidence suggests
that the monks of these communities were instructed, mostly through the example of Cluniac
monks or individuals who had been trained in Cluniac centres, to adopt at least some of Cluny’s
liturgical and disciplinary practices: Vanderputten, ‘A Time’, and ‘Fulcard’s Pigsty’.
supposedly ‘Cistercian’ liturgical and disciplinary parts, very few of which have
any clear parallel in the early Cistercian normative documentation. Decisions
pertaining to the simplification of the liturgy, increased fasting, and silence
at the table and in the cloister all generally refer to the Cistercians’ general
example of moderation and focus on devotion, rather than to any specific textual
antecedents. Such ideas and notions could, of course, have easily been acquired by
the Reims abbots via non-written means, for instance by observing the behaviour
of the members at a Cistercian community, or listening to testimonies about how
they organized communal life. William of Saint-Thierry, but certainly several
other participants in the Reims meeting, unquestionably had access to first-hand
testimonies of this kind, and likely engaged actively with some of the earliest
Cistercian communities.40 The few likely echoes of an early Cistercian text in the
Statutes that seem to be an exception to this overall rule appear to derive from
chapter 119 of the Ecclesiastica officia, on the behaviour of abbots.41 But even
in these passages, a case could be made that the matches derive from a similar
inspiration in living practice, rather than a direct textual relationship.
The situation is somewhat more complex for the passages that directly
concern the organization of the general chapter, particularly chapters 11 (on
conflicts between participating abbots) and 13 (on suitable locations for future
general chapters). Chapter 11 seems to reference the Cistercians’ Carta caritatis
posterior, but that text can be dated at the earliest to the 1160s.42 Earlier, unknown
Cistercian texts may have been a source of inspiration; but once again, the living
example of the Cistercians themselves is just as likely to have been at the basis of
this chapter. For its part, chapter 13 contains a striking passage making abbatial
attendance at the general chapter compulsory, except in specific circumstances
such as illness or for reasons of obedience to an ecclesiastical superior. Here, the
Cistercians’ revised Carta caritatis, drafted according to Waddell in the 1130s
or 1140s, seems to be an obvious near-parallel, prohibiting an abbot’s absence
except in the case of illness or when blessing a novice.43 But the text is not
40
See the evidence presented in Ceglar, ‘William’; Elder, ‘Communities’; and Vanderputten,
‘The 1131 General Chapter’.
41
Ecclesiastica officia, ed. and trans. by Herzog and Müller, pp. 426, 428, 430.
42
Carta caritatis posterior, ed. and trans. by Waddell, 26, p. 383; previously also in Statuta,
ed. by Canivez, i, pp. xxvi–xxxi.
43
The relevant passage is as follows: ‘Nulla sane ratione nisi duabus ex casus annuo licebit
deesse capitulo: aut videlicet ob corporis infirmitatem aut benedicendi causa novicii’: Narrative
and Legislative Texts, ed. and trans. by Waddell, p. 184; also Les plus anciens textes, ed. by de la
Croix Bouton and van Damme, pp. 117–21.
identical to that of the Reims Statutes. The latter references ‘physical infirmity or
the obedience to a superior, or the loss of lands of the monastery or some other
major cause which cannot be changed or avoided’, and in reality comes much
closer to a segment — presumably inspired by the same Carta caritatis — in
the Premonstratensians’ earliest statutes, drafted c. 1130. Here, we can read that
abbots are to attend the chapter unless they are detained because of illness or the
‘inevitable obedience (due) to a bishop or an archbishop’.44 Thus at least some of
the Cistercians’ supposed influence may have been assimilated by the Reims group
through the filter or bias of the Premonstratensians. A good indicator of this is
the fact that both movements adapted the Cistercians’ clause regarding abbatial
absences to include a reference to obedience due to the local bishop. Whether
this would allow us to argue that the Reims abbots relied on the text of the
earliest Premonstratensian statutes is difficult to say, especially since the dating of
this latter document deserves further investigation. Given the numerous contacts
of certain abbots and certain of their patrons (in particular Bishop Bartholomew
of Laon) with the Premonstratensians, it would hardly be surprising to find that
the Reims group was very much aware of what was happening in these circles too,
and were paying close attention to how the latter were trying to set up their own
general chapter and normative framework.45
Identifying direct textual antecedents for the Reims Statutes in the legislative
output of contemporary monastic movements is impossible given our currently
limited understanding of the precise context in which these texts originated, how
they were disseminated, and even what they originally looked like. This is also the
reason why the present paper does not attempt to make definite statements on the
precise direction of influence between the different texts, assuming also that the
currently known ones are indeed those involved in this interaction. Nonetheless,
a good case can be made to support the notion that this document does show
that the abbots from the Reims group were acutely aware of what was going on in
these other movements. This awareness extended to knowledge of how legislative
action and text production organized these movements, both on the level of
individual communities and on that of the encompassing congregation or order.
Similarly, there is reason to speculate that the earliest redaction of the Reims
Statutes influenced Peter the Venerable’s own legislative action in his Statutes.
Scholars commonly interpret Peter’s text as a response to growing Cistercian
44
‘Nulla sane ratione nisi duabus ex causis annuo licebit deesse capitulo aut videlicet ob
corporis infirmitatem aut inevitabili episcopi vel archiepiscopi obedientia’: Les premiers statuts,
ed. by Van Waefelghem, p. 36.
45
Vanderputten, ‘The First General Chapter of 1131’.
criticism of the Cluniacs’ exuberant liturgy and lifestyle. But as I have suggested
elsewhere, besides internal tensions and Peter’s own attempt to firmly establish
abbatial authority in a context of shifting procedures of decision-making and
government, decisions taken at the meeting at Reims five months earlier may have
influenced his agenda as far as his legislative action was concerned.46 Of those
chapters in his Statutes that have been identified as stemming from the 1132
meeting at Cluny, all seem to respond directly to measures taken in the Reims
Statutes, with the notable addition of arguments to defend his position as regards
silence and fasting.47 In some cases, he adopts the exact same measures as the
Reims abbots, while in other cases he proposes a mitigated or adapted version of
current customs. Certainly it would be wrong to assume that the Cluniac general
chapter was held for no other reason than to rebuke the Statutes’s message.
Nonetheless, the observation that Peter is likely to have taken the Reims Statutes
seriously enough to warrant a formal response opens tantalizing perspectives for
new research on mid-twelfth-century Cluniac legislation.
It is very well possible that the Reims abbots learned of Peter’s counterargu
ments, and formulated new decisions or amplified previous ones as a response,
alongside their 1132 letter. For instance, chapter 6 in the Statutes, which likely
dates from another meeting (perhaps the one in late 1132), contains a passage
forbidding any chanting at night. And Peter may also have responded in turn: in
chapter 61 of his Statutes, a part that post-dates 1132, he fiercely dismisses exactly
this measure, adding to it a direct attack on those advocating it.48 Whether
there really is a dialogue that emerges from these texts will probably never be
established; and if it were to be shown that such a dialogue really existed, its full
scope and precise contents will also remain unknown to us.
46
Vanderputten, ‘The 1131 General Chapter’. Such influence is also intimated in Giles
Constable’s comments in The Letters of Peter the Venerable, ed. by Constable, ii, 117, and in his
edition of Peter the Venerable’s Statutes, p. 42.
47
Orderic Vitalis, Historia ecclesiastica, ed. and trans. by Chibnall, p. 426: ‘Ille vero subiectis
auxit ieiunia, abstulit colloquia, et infirmi corporis quaedam subsidia quae illis moderata patrum
hactenus permiserat reverendorum clementia’. Also see Constable’s introduction to Peter the
Venerable’s Statutes, in Consuetudines Benedictinae variae, ed. by Constable, pp. 22–23. I refer
to the footnotes of the edition at the end of this paper for specific instances where there seems to
be a response on Peter’s part to specific measures in the Reims Statutes.
48
Peter the Venerable’s Statutes, 61, ed. by Constable, pp. 91–93, esp. 93.
Conclusion
Stylistically the Reims Statutes are far less attractive than Matthew’s letter and
the abbots’ emotionally charged rebuke, and somewhat disappointing in terms
of length, content, and scope when compared with the early legislative output
of some of the better-known monastic movements of that period. Previously,
they were considered important primarily because they broadly corroborate
contemporary commentators’ notes on the decisions of the 1131 general chapter,
not so much because they were thought to offer any additional insight into
the influences and objectives of its intellectual authors. In this paper, however,
I have argued that the Statutes likely reflect the development of a small and
ephemeral monastic movement’s reliance on the written word as a means for
cohesion and recognition. Because of the remarkable echoes they contain of
what was happening in the contemporary Cistercian, Cluniac, and perhaps even
Premonstratensian movements, the Reims Statutes arguably deserve a prominent
place in discussions of institutional and ideological transformations in this
transitional phase of Western monastic history.
Appendix: Edition of the Statutes of the

First General Chapters of Benedictine Abbots (1131–c. 1135/40)
Based on Douai, Bibliothèque Marcelline-Desbordes Valmore, 540, folios 69r–v
(M), with notes on variants in Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, MS Latins,
2677, folios 83v–84r (T) and a lost manuscript from the abbey of Mont-Saint-
Quentin (Q). Previously edited in Paulus Volk, ‘Der Rezess’, pp. 381–84.
[1] Hęc est societas inter abbates Remis ordinataa:
(a) ordinata] constituta T.
[2] Ut pro fratribus defunctis qui sunt de istaa societate in Quatuor Temporibus
anni quatuor officia fiant in conventu, id est unoquoque tempore unum offi
ciumb cum collecta Deus veniae largitor, et prebenda49 una in refectorio, et ab
unoquoque sacerdote tres missę per annum persolvantur, quando eis visum fueritc.
Alii non sacerdotes psalterium unum persolvant, conversi Pater Noster centies
quinquagies vel Miserere Mei Deus, et absolutio eorum in capitulod communiter
in predictis terminis fiat.
(a) ista] illa T — (b) in Quatuor […] officium] quater in anno, id est, in Quatuor
Temporibus, unum officium fiat in conventu T — (c) fuerit] fuerit, cum eadem
collecta T — (d) eorum in capitulo] eorum T.
[3] Statutuma est etiam inter eos capitulum de diligentia psallendi: ut morose
et cum devota distinctione regulares horę dicantur. Ut autem tempus ad hocb
sufficiat, psalmi familiares aliquantumc brevientur, scilicet ut post Nocturnos
quatuor familiares psalmi50 omnino remaneant,51 et ad alias horas omni die duo
tantum per singulas horas dicantur, id est Deus in Adiutorem et Voce Mead. Ante
Nocturnos quindecim tantum in omnie tempore dicanturf.52 Adbreviatumg est
49
For another reference to prebends in the context of the commemoration of the dead, see
Peter the Venerable, Statutes, 32, ed. by Constable, p. 66.
50
For other references to the ‘psalmi familiares’, see for instance Bernard of Cluny’s
Ordo Cluniacensis, 2.13, ed. by Herrgott, p. 305, and Peter the Venerable, Statutes, 32, ed. by
Constable, p. 66.
51
Peter the Venerable would take similar measures to moderate liturgical excesses in his
Statutes. In chapter 31, he explains them as follows: ‘Causa instituti huius fuit, laboriosa immo
pluribus odiosa psalmorum familiarium paulatim multis de causis adaucta multiplicitas’; Peter
the Venerable, Statutes, 31, ed. by Constable, p. 66.
52
Compare with Ulrich, Customary, 1.5, ed. by Migne, col. 648.
etiam ut laudes omnium sanctorum cum Nocturnis beatę Marię dicantur, eo

ordine quo dici solebant, premisso Te Deum Laudamus, si duodecim lectiones
fiunt, et versus Elegit eam Deus et preelegith.53 Pneumata omnium antiphonarum
remaneant, preter ultimarumi. Ad suffragia sanctorum Per Christum Dominum
dicatur preter ad collectam sancti ipsius loci et ultimam. Ad Laudes et ad Vesperos
abbas dicat Pater Nosterj. Quo finito subiungat ebdomadarius sacerdosk Ego dixi
Domine, et finiat horam, ni domnus abbas ut in maioribus festis revestitus sitl
et per se eam finiri voluerit. Evangelium post Nocturnos, si presens fuerit,m non
revestitus legat pretern in principalibus festis, et de quibus ipse disposuerit in
ęcclesia sua ut totus conventus ad missam revestiatur. In his etiam festivitatibus
tantummodo feretur incensum ad Vesperos et Laudeso, et ad invitatorium
revestientur in aliis minime, nec ad responsorium vel alleluia seu tractum ad
missam canendump. Ille tantummodo qui chorum regit,q revestietur.54 Similiter
in Quatuor Temporibus nec lectores nec cantores revestiantur, nir tantum qui
chorum regit. Pueri numquam sine conventu revestiantur, ni ministrent altari.
Diversitas festivitatum que solebat fieri in cappis vel in albiss, ut duo vel tres
vel plures cantarent responsoriumt vel alleluia seu tractum, observabitur, sed
in froccis suis cantabunt,55 exceptis suprascriptis festisu; sicut ad Vesperos et
Matutinos. Omni tempore non alie preces quam Ego dixi Domine dicuntur.
In Quadragesima secundum usum generalem ęcclesie IIa, IIIIa et VIa feria
tractus Domine non secundum, Dominica et IIa feria ad horas beatę Marię Ad
Dominum cum tribularer, psalmi ad Primam non ni dominicav mutantur. Deus
auribus omnino remaneat in utraque missa. Novenariumw numerum collectę non
excedant, et offerenda a toto conventu, ni defunctus presens fueritx, remaneaty. Si
festivitas in Dominica evenerit, commemoratio semper de ipsa Dominica fiat et
collecta ad minorem missam.56 Pręfationes tantum canonice dicanturz.
(a) Statutum] Institutum T — (b) hoc] haec T — (c) aliquantum] aliquatenus
T — (d) aliquantum […] mea] Familiares psalmi aliquatenus breviabuntur,
53
Refer to the practices described in Ulrich, Customary, 1.5, ed. by Migne, esp. cols 649–50,
and in Bernard’s version, 2.32, ed. by Herrgott, pp. 353–54.
54
Compare with the instructions for changing liturgical vestments in Ulrich, Customary,
1.9, ed. by Migne, cols 654–55.
55
Numerous passages in Ulrich’s Customary refer to cantors singing in cappis, e.g. 1.7; 1.11;
and 1.33, ed. by Migne, cols 653, 655, and 680.
56
A similar effort to maintain the primacy of the Sunday office over all but the important
feasts drawn from the common of the saints is found in Peter the Venerable, Statutes, 2–3, ed.
by Constable, pp. 42–43.
scilicet omni die duo tantum dicantur, Deus in adiutorium meum, Voce mea
Q (via Du Cange, Glossarium, vi, col. 551b) — (e) in omni] not in T — (f )
nocturnos […] dicantur] nocturnos ex toto remaneant illi quatuor qui dici
solent. Ad ceteras horas omni tempore duo tantummodo dicantur. T — (g)
adbreviatum] abbreviatum T — (h) et preelegit] not in T — (i) Pneumata
omnium antiphonum […] ultimarum] Neumata omnium antiphonarum praeter
ultimarum remaneant. T — (j) Ad […] noster] Ad Laudes et Vesperos abbas
dicat Pater Noster, quamdiu in conventu est. T — (k) ebdomadarius sacerdos]
hebdomadarius sacerdos preces T; Domine, et] Domine, vel orationem pro
omni gradu et T — (l) ut […] sit] revestitus sit, ut in maioribus festis T — (m)
nocturnos […] fuerit] in duodecim lectiones semper, si praesens est T — (n)
preter] exceptis T — (o) Laudes] Laudes, sacerdote induto et converso T — (p)
aliis […] canendum] in aliis festis, cuiusque ordinis sit, minime, nec in dominicis,
nec in Quatuor Temporibus; neque ad responsorium, neque ad lectionem, seu
ad tractum, vel ad alleluia canendum. T — (q) Hic […] regit] ille tantummodo
revestietur qui chorum tenet. T — (r) ni] nisi T — (s) cappis […] albis] albis vel
in cappis T — (t) responsorium […] seu] responsorium vel alleluia sive T — (u)
exceptis […] festis] sicut ad Vesperos et Matutinos exceptis supra determinatis
festis T — (v) dominica] added in margine M; mutantur] Chapter 13 inserted
hereafter in M — (w) novenarium] noveniarum T — (x) ni […] fuerit] not in
T — (y) remaneat] remaneat. Praefationes canonicae tantum dicantur, remaneat.
T — (z) Pręfationes tantum canonice dicantur] not in T.
[4] Ieiunium secundum regulam sancti Benedicti ab idibus Septembris usque in
Pascha in omni die tentatur preter dominicam.57 A carnibus omnes abstineant
iuxta edictum regulę preter omnino debiles et egrotos.58 Abbates in cameris
suis absque necessitate congrua non comedant. Ad mensam eorum in suis
locis silentium teneatur, nisi congrua necessitas impedierit,59 et cum possibile
57
Reference to Benedict of Nursia’s Rule, 41. 6–7, ed. by de Vogüé and Neufville, ii, 582.
A strikingly similar passage may be found in Peter the Venerable, Statutes, 13–14, ed. by
Constable, p. 52. According to Constable, this chapter is part of a first group of statutes, issued
by Peter in all likelihood at the general chapter of 1132.
58
See the Benedict of Nursia, Rule, 36. 9, ed. by de Vogüé and Neufville, ii, 570 and 572;
see also Peter the Venerable, Statutes, 12, ed. by Constable, p. 51. According to Constable, this
chapter is part of a first group of statutes, issued by Peter in all likelihood at the Cluniac general
chapter of 1132.
59
Based on Benedict of Nursia, Rule, 38. 5, ed. by de Vogüé and Neufville, ii, p. 572 and
574. Compare with the Cistercians’ Ecclesiastica officia, ed. and trans. by Herzog and Müller,
p. 428: ‘Silentium ad mensam teneat in quantum rationabiliter poterit’. Peter the Venerable in
fuerita, lectionem habeant.60 In claustro vero a toto conventu omni temporeb

silentium teneatur.61 Liceat abbati, si necessitas vel ratio ingruerit, fratrem suum
ad quemlibet horum abbatum mittere, tantum ei in vestitu provideat. Si vero
paupertas exegerit, abbas, ad quem frater ille missus fuerit, vestitum ei prebeatc. Et
quamdiu ibi moratus fuerit, capitulum habeatd.
(a) Et cum possibile fuerit] Et (si) eis possibile fuerit T — (b) omni tempore]
not in T — (c) prebeat […] habeat] provideat T — (d) Liceat […] habeat]
Liceat abbati, si necessitas vel ratio ingruerit, fratrem suum ad quemlibet horum
abbatum mittere, tantum ei in victu provideat. Si vero paupertas exegerit, abbas
ad quem missus ille frater ierit, vestitum ei prebeat. Et quandiu ibi moratus fuerit
frater, capitulum habeat. Q (via Du Cange, Glossarium, vi, col. 141c).
[5] Isti sunt abbates qui hanc ordinaverunt societatem: Abbas <…>, abbas
S. Nicholai de Silva, abbas S. Quintini de Monte, S. Eligii Noviomi, S. Theoderici,
Caziacensis, Resbacensis, Latiniacensis, Letiensis, S. Vincentii Lauduni, de Orbaiz,
S. Michaelis de Terasce, Humolariensis, S. Lucani Belvacensis, de Alto Monte, <…>,
S. Sepulchri Cameracensis, S. Amandi, Hasnoniensis, de Sancto Iohanne Laudini.62
Sunt isti omnes numero <XXI>a.
chapter 22 of his Statutes also prescribes silence at the table, explaining his measure by saying
‘Nec honestum est Cluniacensibus videri minus religiosos, per quos in Gallis, Germania, Anglia,
Hispania, Italia, ac tota fere Europa, a multis annis arefacta refloruit, multorumque inveteratus
tepor, divine praeeunte et comitante gratia recaluit’; Peter the Venerable, Statutes, 22, ed. by
Constable, pp. 59–60. According to Constable, this chapter is part of a first group of statutes,
issued by Peter in all likelihood at the Cluniac general chapter of 1132.
60
Reference to Benedict of Nursia, Rule of St Benedict, 38. 1, ed. by de Vogüé and Neufville,
ii, 574.
61
Peter the Venerable would issue instructions on silence in his Statutes, 19–22, ed. by
Constable, pp. 57–60; according to Constable, these chapters are part of a first group of statutes
issued at the Cluniac general chapter of 1132. In chapter 19, which deals with silence in the
monastery, Peter justifies his measures by saying that ‘summe necessaria in omni religione silentii
utilitas, sine quo modis congruis observato, nec dici religio, nec esse potest […] Quod quia
Cluniaci propter frequentiam negotiorum et multitudinem supervenientium valde ex aliquanto
tempore corruptum fuerat, necessarium visum est, ut hic modus silentii, sicut supra distinctus
est, institueretur.’
62
Saint-Nicolas-aux-Bois (diocese of Laon); Mont-Saint-Quentin and Saint-Eloi (both
Noyon/Tournai); Saint-Thierry (Reims); Chezy-sur-Marne (Soissons); Rebais (Meaux); Lagny
(Paris); Liessies (Cambrai); Saint-Vincent (Laon); Orbais (Soissons); Saint-Michel-en-Thiérache
(Laon); Homblières (Noyon/Tournai); Saint-Lucien (Beauvais); Hautmont (Cambrai); Saint-
Sépulchre (Cambrai); Saint-Amand (Noyon/Tournai); Hasnon (Arras); and Saint-Jean (Laon);
the attending abbots are all identified in Elder, ‘Communities’, p. 22. While the Tournai
(a) Isti […] numero <XXI>] not in M. In T, the text contains three erasures,
making the name of the first and sixteenth participating abbots illegible, as well as
the Roman numerals at the end. While preparing his edition, Ceglar was able to
make out XXI on a photograph of the page.
[6] Evangelium nocte legatur super analogium sine stola, nisi in duplicibus
festis. Repetitiones autema antiphonarum super Magnificat et Benedictus, et
repetitiones duodecimi responsorii remaneant. Feriales processiones quartae
et sextę ferię remaneant, preter in capite ieiunii.63 Abbates cum prioribus in
omni processione ordine suum teneantb, videlicet ut iuniores precedant et isti
subsequantur. Prima numquam in nocte cantetur.64 In solo Sancto Sabbato ignis
cum processione benedicatur et in illa abbas praecedat. Dominicales collectę per
totam ebdomadam nisi festivitas interveneritc dicantur ad Vesperos et ad Laudesd.
In Completorio Miserere mei Deus solum dicatur, et Completorium sanctę Marię
non sequatur cum his Psalmis: In te Domine speravi, Fundamenta, Laudate
Dominum omnes gentese. In laudibus omnium sanctorum ad Benedictus Salvator
Mundi dicatur. Diebus Dominicis et a Pascha usque adf Pentecosten in conventu
genua non flectantur.65 Numquam de collationeg eatur in refectorium nisi in Cena
Domini. Abbas aliam lectionem non legat preter evangelium. Duodecimum
responsorium in duplicibus festis ad gradum cum sociis suis cantet. In eundo et
redeundo fratres ei non assurganth.
(a) autem] not in T — (b) teneant] teneat T — (c) festivitas intervenerit] ad
matutinos cum responsorio Volk, ‘Der Rezess’, p. 384. This passage in M is
extremely difficult to read, but Volk’s version seems unlikely. (d) Vesperos et
Laudes] Laudes et Vesperos. Praesente defuncto offerendae teneantur, alio
manuscript shows that two institutions have been erased from the list, Ceglar contends that the
leaders of at least three must have been among the participants: Lobbes (Liège), Anchin (Arras),
and Saint-Médard (Soissons); ‘William’, p. 58. Certainly the participation of the first two is
beyond reasonable doubt; Berlière, ‘Les chapitres’ (1891), p. 260.
63
A description of such a procession is in the Cistercian Ecclesiastica officia, ed. and trans.
by Herzog and Müller, pp. 80, 82.
64
This brief phrase forbidding chanting during night offices may explain the fiercely worded
passage advocating this very practice in Peter the Venerable, Statutes, 61, ed. by Constable,
pp. 91–93, esp. 93; also above, at n. 45.
65
Peter the Venerable would issue similar instructions (albeit with significant exceptions)
in his Statutes, at chapter 4. Constable details the many exceptions that Peter and his predecessor
had previously granted to this custom in Consuetudines Benedictinae variae, ed. by Constable,
pp. 43–44.
tempore remaneant T — (e) omnes gentes] The final two (abbreviated) words
of this sentence, n. g. or o. g., are difficult to read in M. Ceglar in his edition
lists Psalms 116, 146, 148, and 150 as possibilities for identifying this reference.
If correct, a reading of o. g. would indicate that the abbots meant Psalm 116,
Laudate Dominum omnes gentes. — (f ) ad] not in T — (g) collationem] collectis
T — (h) ei non assurgant] non assurgant ei T.
[7] Abbates sine congrua necessitate non comedant in cameris, et qui cum eis
comedunta ideo a conventu non excludantur.66
(a) comedunt] comederint T.
[8] Silentium in omnibus locis teneatur ab omnibus ad mensama, nisi aliqua
necessitas intervenerit.67
(a) teneatur […] mensam] ad mensam teneatur ab omnibus T.
[9] A plumisa praeter capitale omnes abstineant.
De hospitibus et infirmis in arbitrio sit prioris.
(a) plumis] plurimis Q (via Du Cange, Glossarium, vi, col. 130c).
[10] Quatuor diebus Natalis, Paschae, et Pentecostes, et in duplicibus festis conventus
revestiatura.
(a) Quatuor […] revestiatur] not in M.
[11] Si inter abbates huius societatis aliqua controversia orta fuerit, ad iudicium
fratrum referetur prius, quotquot haberi poterunt. Porro si per eos terminari non
poterit causa, tunc primum deferatur quo deferenda est.68
66
Possibly an allusion to Benedict of Nursia, Rule, 56. 1–2, ed. by de Vogüé and Neufville,
ii, 622. See chapter 4 of Peter the Venerable’s Statutes, above, and his Letter 28 to Bernard of
Clairvaux, Introduction and 12; The Letters of Peter the Venerable, ed. by Constable, pp. 55 and
74–75.
67
See chapter 4 of Peter the Venerable’s Statutes, n. 64 above.
68
At least in formal terms this is reminiscent of a passage in the Cistercians’ much
more recent (1160s or later) Carta caritatis posterior, 26, in Narrative and Legislative Texts,
ed. Waddell, p. 383. In the Reims Statutes, the phrase ‘tunc primum deferatur quo deferenda
est’ remains vague about whom to appeal to in case of dissension, either deliberately to keep
abbots’ options open or as a reference to the abbatial obligation of obedience to (archi)
episcopal authority (on this, see Vanderputten, ‘Abbatial Obedience’). In 1134, the Reims
[12] Quotienscumque in conventu cęlebrabuntur missę de sancta Trinitate, de

sancta Cruce, de sancta Maria dicantur pręfationes ad ipsas missas pertinentes. In
diebus praecipui ieiunii mandatum trium pauperum agatur antequam fratres ad
mensam sedeant. Dirigendi fratres in viam accipiant benedictionem ad Laudes,
etiam si Prima mox subsequatur. In ęstate si fratres ieiunant, post mensam
meridianam agant et ipso die secundum consuetudinem mane surgant.
[13] Si in civitate vel castello ubi sit abbatia, synodus aut conventus aliquis
advenerit, ut secundum apostolum ęcclesia non gravetur,69 abbates et monachi
si voluerint competentius intrabunt monasterium, famulis vero et egalis suis
de suo foris providebunt. Ut ab annuo conventu abbatum nullusa omnino se
subtrahat excepta corporis infirmitate aut obedientia maioris70 vel perditione
terrę monasterii sive causa grandiori que mutari non possit aut evitari. Ut, si fieri
potest, nunquam ni in aliquo competenti monasterio conventus ipse cęlebretur.71
In ipso conventu nomina fratrum eodem anno defunctorum a singulis recitentur
et generaliter in fine capituli cum psalmo L. absolvantur. Quotienscumque
tricenarius in monasteriis nostris constituetur, commemoratio omnium fratrum
defunctorum nostre societatis fiat.
(a) nullus] possibly written in an erased section in M
[14] Inter ipsos etiam et abbates Praemonstratensis ordinis statutum est, ut pro
fratribus utriusque ordinis defunctis premissa absolutione in capitulo officium
unum semel in anno in festivitate videlicet beati Crisogoni martyris cum
pulsatione signorum et prebenda in refectorio et collecta Deus veniae largitor
group of abbots appealed to the archbishop of Reims to discipline a recluse named Aichardus,
a former monk of Crespin (Sigeberti chronica continuatio Aquicinense, ed. by Pertz, p. 395).
And in 1154/58 and again in 1159/62, they appealed to the pope in an attempt to discipline
the allegedly corrupt Abbot Rodulphus of Lagny-sur-Marne. In two letters, they explicitly
acknowledged their subordination to the archiepiscopate of Reims (Patrologia Latina, ed. by
Migne, clxxxii, cols 713–14 and 714–16), a likely reference to the fact that the archbishop
was consulted beforehand.
69
Quotation from i Timothy 5. 16.
70
These instructions strongly resemble passages on the same topic in contemporary
Cistercian and Premonstratensian legislation: see the discussion above, at notes 43–44.
71
Compare with the relevant passage in the earliest statutes of the Premonstratensians:
‘abbates omnes ad colloquium pariter conveniant in loco competenti quem communi consilio
providerint’; Les premiers statuts, ed. by Van Waefelghem, p. 35.
alterutrum in conventu fiat et uniusquisque sacerdos missam unam ipsa die vel
quando placuerit ei, persolvata.72
(a) 91/95 Inter […] persolvat] written by a different hand in M.
72
This is an abbreviated notice of a longer original agreement, the contents of which
probably roughly corresponded with the measures recorded in a similar agreement between the
Cluniacs and the Premonstratensians. A relevant extract of that text goes as follows: ‘Quapropter
ego frater Petrus Cluniacensis abbas indignus, recogitans orationes religiosorum mihi et nostris
fore necessarias, concessi charissimo fratri nostri Hugoni de Praemonstrato, et omnibus abbatis,
ac praepositis eiusdem congregationis, ut defunctis eorum, officium et missa generalis singulis
annis crastina sancti Vincentii in nostris conventibus celebretur, et ab unoquoque sacerdote
missa privata eis persolvatur, eo videlicet tenore, ut et eorum congregationis nostris hoc idem
persolvant defunctis’: Bibliotheca Praemonstratensis ordinis, ed. by le Paige, i, 321.
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Aristocratic Networks and
Monastic Communities:
The Case of the Dominican Convent
of Sigtuna, Sweden, and the Nobles
of Uppland (Late Thirteenth–Early
Fourteenth Centuries)
Christian Oertel
T he Finnish medievalist Jarl Gallén, who during the last century conducted
extensive research into the medieval Dominicans in Scandinavia, called
‘En Scandinavie […] la seconde moitié du xiiie siècle […] l’âge d’or de l’Ordre
Dominicain’.1 Times such as these when monastic and religious communities
flourished usually saw intensive contact with the surrounding lay communities,
which showed their appreciation of the brothers or sisters by choosing their
churches as burial sites and by donating property to their convents. Such a
period is, therefore, well suited for a study that intends to analyse the contact
between monastic and lay communities in order to gain a better understanding
of the nature of their interaction and the implications of it. In this article, I argue
that cooperation among several people in terms of support of an ecclesiastical
1
Gallén, La province de Dacie, p. 58. The research on which this article is based was
facilitated by grants of the DAAD and the Svenska Institutet. I thank those institutions for their
generous support.
Christian Oertel (christian.oertel@uni-erfurt.de) is a postdoctoral researcher of Medieval

History at the University of Erfurt.
Abstract: The Dominican convent of Sigtuna, mid-Sweden, enjoyed close connections with the
surrounding aristocracy in the late thirteenth and early fourteenth centuries. This is particularly
well documented in a comparatively high number of donations to this convent that originated
from a genealogically connected circle within the aristocracy of Uppland. This article argues
that the joint support of an ecclesiastical community by a group of laypersons can hint at this
group’s collaboration in other societal or political fields. In the present case such other fields of
cooperation can be identified in the joint support of the cult of St Erik and the foundation of
the helgeandshus in Uppsala.
Keywords: Mendicants, Dominicans, medieval Sweden, aristocracy, networks.

94 Christian Oertel
institution can hint at a general bond between those people. This kind of support
should therefore be fully taken into account in the reconstruction of medieval
personal networks. This means that, in the reconstruction of medieval personal
networks, the joint support of an ecclesiastical community should be added to
factors like cognation, friendship, and patron-client relationships, or the shared
membership in a guild or an ecclesiastical order.2
The present paper discusses this general point using the example of the rela
tions between the Dominican house of Sigtuna, in mid-Sweden, and some of the
surrounding Upplandian nobility during the second half of the thirteenth and in
the early fourteenth centuries. The network of supporters of the Sigtuna convent,
which is analysed below, does not include all those who donated goods to this
particular Dominican house. It rather consists of a genealogically connected
subset of all the supporters plus some members of the royal house of Bjälbo and a
number of archbishops of Uppsala.3
The Supporters of the Dominicans in Thirteenth-Century Sweden

When Dominic, the founder of the Order of Preachers, held the first general
chapter of the order in Bologna in 1220, a Swedish priest named Geoffrey was
present.4 The Dominicans already had about sixty convents, mainly in Central
and Western Europe. Discussion with Geoffrey seems to have given Dominic the
2
As far as I know, the relationship between a monastery or convent and a surrounding lay
community has not yet been analysed using a network approach. There are, however, a great
number of studies which explore these interactions in a variety of aspects. Recent studies which
are methodically connected to the present one are Stoffella, ‘Il monasterio di S. Ponziano
di Lucca’, and the forthcoming doctoral thesis of Dominik Kaufner, ‘Kloster, Stadt und
Umland. Wirtschaftliche, memoriale und personelle Verflechtungen der Abtei St Emmeram in
Regensburg (975–1326)’.
3
For a list of all donations to the Dominican house of Sigtuna see the Svenskt Diploma
tariums Huvudkartotek (afterwards SDHK).
4
The story of the arrival of the Dominicans in Scandinavia is included in the Historia
ordinis predicatorum in Dacia, a Dominican chronicle from the mid-thirteenth century probably
composed at the convent in Reval (Tallinn). On the chronicle and its authorship, see Halvorsen,
Dominikus, pp. 223, 258. It was published in Scriptores minores historiæ Danicæ, ed. by Gertz,
ii, 369–74. Most recently on this subject, see Jakobsen, ‘Venerunt fratres predicatores’. On the
history of the Dominican Order see Hinnebusch, The History of the Dominican Order. The last
comprehensive account on the Dominicans in Scandinavia was written by Jarl Gallén in 1946
(Gallén, La province de Dacie). The Dominicans in medieval Denmark have been thoroughly
treated in the doctoral thesis of Johnny G. G. Jakobsen ( Jakobsen, ‘Prædikebrødrenes
aristocratic networks and monastic communities 95
idea of sending brothers to the north of Europe. Therefore, in the summer of the
same year, the brothers Simon and Nils arrived in Sigtuna with the intention of
founding a Dominican convent there. During the twelfth and early thirteenth
centuries the ecclesiastical landscape of Sweden was dominated by the Cistercian
Order, and the foundation plan of the two brothers also met with the opposition
of the ruling archbishop of Uppsala, Olof Basatömer (r. 1219–34).5 Therefore,
Simon and Nils withdrew to the mansion of the noble Knut the Long at Sko in
Uppland. After two or three years, during which they were unable to overcome
the obstacles to their foundation plans, they left Sweden and entered the newly
founded Dominican convent at the archiepiscopal see of Lund in the county of
Skåne which during the Middle Ages belonged to Denmark.
The second attempt to found a Dominican convent in Sigtuna was made in
1237 and this time it was more successful. Archbishop Olof Basatömer had died
in 1234 and was succeeded two years later by Archbishop Jarler (r. 1236–55) who
was probably one of the first Swedes to have studied in Paris.6 He was therefore
well placed to know of the advantages that the mendicant orders could bring to
ecclesiastical life, and seems to have furthered their introduction wherever he
could. He thus donated a parcel of land in Sigtuna to the Dominicans for the
foundation of their convent and chose their church as his final resting place.
Other members of the episcopate also promoted the Sigtuna convent. Many of
the archbishops who followed Jarler furthered the Dominicans of Sigtuna with
indulgences.7 In 1289 a Dominican brother, Johan, was elected archbishop,
but died in France in 1291 while obtaining his pallium. Johan also granted
indulgences to the Sigtuna convent — of which he had been prior for some time
before 1286 — and his dead body was returned to Sweden to be buried in his old
convent.8 It is noticeable that three archbishops between 1277 and 1289 (Folke,
Jakob, and Magnus) were members of the interconnected families depicted in
samfundsrolle i middelalderens Danmark’) in 2008 who has, moreover, written numerous

articles and papers on many different aspects of Dominicans in Scandinavia.
5
On the monastic landscape of medieval Sweden, see Nilsson, Sveriges kyrkohistoria,
pp. 114–31.
6
See Jakobsen, ‘Who Ordered the Dominicans?’, p. 251.
7
For example, the (Franciscan) Archbishop Lars (SDHK 787), Archbishop Jakob Israelsson
(Finsta) (SDHK 1191, 1192, 1193), and Archbishop Magnus Bosson (house of Bengt Bosson)
(SDHK 1405).
8
Indulgences: SDHK 1493, 1495. Death and repatriation: Annales Suecici, ed. by Paulsson,
p. 271.
96 Christian Oertel
Figure 7. Genealogical table of a cluster of the aristocracy of Uppland, drawn by the author.
* = Person connected to St Erik.
# = Person connected to the Dominican convent of Sigtuna.
98 Christian Oertel
Fig. 7.9 It thus seems that this family cluster had gained a decisive influence within
the cathedral chapter of Uppsala during the second half of the thirteenth century.
It may be that it is in the context of this — by then declining — influence that we
have to evaluate the (unsuccessful) appeal of the Uppsala canon Karl Erlandsson
(Finsta), nephew of Archbishops Jakob Israelsson (Finsta) and Folke Johansson
(Ängel), against the election of Archbishop Nils Allesson in 1292.10 If there had
been conflicts between the families of Ängel and Finsta and the new archbishop
in the early 1290s, they seem to have been settled during the next ten years.
When Archbishop Nils opened the shrine of St Erik in 1303, Israel Erlandsson,
Karl’s brother and prior of the Dominican house of Sigtuna, was among those
who were rewarded with relics of the saint.11 In addition, Nils collaborated with
members of those families in the foundation of the Hospital of the Holy Spirit
in Uppsala (see below). He and his successor as archbishop, Nils Kettilsson, were
also among those who granted indulgences to the Dominicans of Sigtuna.12
It was not, however, only the episcopate which furthered the mendicants.
Members of the new royal dynasty of Bjälbo also valued them. This new dynasty
had gained power during the rule of King Erik Eriksson at the expense of the
house of (St) Erik and after his death it was the eldest son of Birger Jarl, Valdemar,
who became the first king of the new ruling house in 1250. His firstborn son Erik,
who had already died in childhood, was buried in the church of the Dominicans
of Sigtuna.13 Birger continued to act independently from his son politically until
his death in 1266, and it is generally assumed that he was the real power behind
the throne.14 Birger Jarl used Dominican brothers for diplomatic missions.15
After Birger’s death a conflict arose between Valdemar and his younger brother
Magnus which led to Valdemar’s dethronement and Magnus’s royal succession
in 1275. Magnus (‘Ladulås’) reigned until 1290 and in his later years he was a
9
This genealogical table was created using the articles in Äldre Svenska Frälsesläkter, ed. by
Riddarhusdirektionen.
10
SDHK 1666–72.
11
SDHK 2021.
12
Nils Allesson: SDHK 1785, 1786; Nils Ketilsson: SDHK 1973 (as bishop of Västerås),
2348, 2350 (as archbishop of Uppsala). He also allowed the brothers of Sigtuna to preach and
hear confession within his church province (SDHK 2572).
13
Annales Sigtunenses, ed. by Fant, s.a. 1261.
14
See, for example, Harrison, Jarlens sekel, pp. 207–08; Engström, ‘Birger Magnusson’. On
the time of Birger Jarl as an age of changes, see the papers in Birger jarls tid — en brytningstid?,
ed. by Annerbäck.
15
Rymer, Fœdera, i, 325.
great supporter of mendicant ideas. He did, however, further the Friars Minor
rather than the Friars Preachers, standing ‘behind the foundation of at least four,
perhaps five, friaries as well as the convent of the Poor Clares in Stockholm’.16
He nevertheless also donated property to the Dominicans of Sigtuna and
remembered them in his testament.17
During the second half of the thirteenth century, society underwent many
changes to become what we might call a ‘Swedish’ society. Under the rule of
Birger Jarl and his sons a number of societal institutions were introduced that
paved the way for Sweden to become an equal among the European kingdoms.
Most important in the ecclesiastical field was the provincial council at Skänninge
in 1248 where — besides other innovations — it was decided to introduce
secular cathedral chapters. Reforms within the secular sphere were also enacted,
which included the development of a system of royal castles as military and
administrative bases, and the monetization of taxes. The first attempts were
made to establish a law that had validity in the whole kingdom and was based
on the will of the king; and several trade contracts were created with the North
German towns of Lübeck and Hamburg.18 Moreover, the Ordinance of Alsnö
(Alsnö stadga, 1280) and the Privilege of Söderköping (1281) defined the societal
groups of aristocracy and clerics. Within this context of societal reforms, the
coming of the mendicants played an important role, particularly by connecting
the developing Swedish kingdom and its society to the European mainland
and by the introduction of their new way of preaching as well as their general
affection for learning and literary culture. The introduction of these ‘soft skills’
made possible the changes and developments described above.
It was not only the archbishops of Uppsala and the royal family who showed
an interest in the mendicant orders: the new spirituality they offered was also
attractive to members of the secular elites. During the late thirteenth and early
fourteenth centuries this aristocracy in the region of Uppland consisted of
about twenty families who intermarried among each other and with aristocratic
families from other Swedish regions, from Denmark and Norway, and from
northern Germany. Among this network there existed factions which were —
up to the early thirteenth century — formed around the two royal families, the
houses of Erik and Sverker. The change from these two royal dynasties to that of
Bjälbo was not uncontested. Only after two battles, in 1247 and 1251, between
16
Nybo Rasmussen, ‘The Franciscans in the Nordic Countries’, pp. 9–10.
17
SDHK 1215, 1302.
18
On the reforms, see, for example, Bjarne Larsson, ‘Kunglig auktoritet i det medeltida
Sverige före 1280’; Strauch, ‘Birger Jarl’.
100 Christian Oertel
followers and opponents of the new dynasty was the power of Birger Jarl and his
sons consolidated. After the second of these battles a number of executions and
confiscations of property were carried out in order to prevent further resistance.
These measures seem to have been effective and there is no evidence of an
aristocratic challenge to the Bjälbo kings for the next thirty years. However, if
there were no nobles left who would rebel against the new kings, there nevertheless
existed factions and closely related clusters within the aristocracy of Uppland.
The cluster which is of interest in the present study is depicted in Fig. 7 and
consists of members of a number of intermarried families (Finsta, Ängel, Fånö,
Rumby, Bengt Bossons ätt, And, Sparrre av Aspnäs). We have already made the
acquaintance of the three archbishops Folke, Jakob, and Magnus, who originated
from this circle. Another politically important and powerful member was Anders
Andersson (And), provost at the cathedral chapter of Uppsala, member of the
council of the realm (riksråd) and of the commission which drew up the Law of
Uppland (Upplandslagen) in 1296. Other examples include Bengt Bosson (Bengt
Bossons ätt) and his son Magnus, both knights and members of the riksråd,
and Birger Petersson (Finsta), who was also both member of the council of the
realm and of the law commission as well as lawspeaker of Uppland. The person
of greatest interest in the context of this discussion is, however, Israel Erlandsson
(Finsta), who inhabited an important intermediate position within the network,
being a member of the family cluster depicted in Fig. 7 as well as of the cathedral
chapter of Uppsala and the Dominican convent of Sigtuna.
Given the scarcity of sources — which makes it hard for the modern scholar
to construct a coherent picture of actions and developments in thirteenth-
century Sweden — it is remarkable how many sources Israel Erlandsson appears
in. His actions documented by the charter material make it abundantly clear
that he frequently acted as intermediary between his family and his Dominican
convent. He was responsible for the conveyance of many of the contacts between
the aristocracy of Uppland and the Dominicans of Sigtuna. To name just a few
examples: in 1281 Archbishop Jakob Israelsson (Finsta), one of the brothers of
Israel Erlandson’s father, issued three indulgences on the same day to the brothers
of Sigtuna.19 The fact that there exists an autograph of one of those charters,
written by Brother Israel, implies his intermediation in the matter. A particularly
interesting example of how Brother Israel used his position among the nobles of
Uppland to further the cause of his convent is handed down in a charter in which
his cousin Birger Petersson (Finsta) and a certain Simon from Sundby settled
a conflict through the intermediation of Israel Erlandsson. The result of his
19
SDHK 1191–93.
mediation was that Simon had to pay thirty-eight silver marks to the Dominican
convent in Sigtuna in the name of Lawspeaker Birger.20 A charter by which Israel’s
brother-in-law Magnus Gregersson (of a side branch of the royal dynasty of
Bjälbo) conveyed one hundred silver marks to Sigtuna for a requiem for his son
Peter and as penance for a crime that was committed against that convent makes
explicit Israel’s role: the grant was made ‘de consilio Religiosi viri fratris jsraelis
Prioris sictuniensis’ (on the counsel of the religious man Brother Israel, prior
of Sigtuna).21 When reading the charters of this time, it is generally noticeable
in how many of them Israel Erlandsson appears as witness, testament executor,
mediator, or beneficiary, which signals how well connected he was within the
leading circles of the kingdom.
Analysis of testamentary evidence indicates that a testator usually reserved the
largest donation for the institution chosen for his/her burial place. If we look for
a concentration of people who chose interment in the church of the Dominicans
of Sigtuna, we find people who preferred the Dominicans before any other
ecclesiastical community. A group of people around Ragnhild Erlandsdotter
(Finsta) is most noticeable in this context. Ragnhild’s father Erland Israelsson
had already been buried with the brothers of Sigtuna, and her brother Karl had
specified that — in the event of his dying away from Uppsala — he too should
be buried there. If, however, he were to die in the archiepiscopal town he desired
burial in the cathedral there. This was, indeed, to be the case.22 Although another
of Ragnhild’s brothers, Israel, was not buried in the Dominican convent, there
can be no doubt that he, too, was a great promoter of its cause, as we have seen
above. Ragnhild married Johan Karlsson of the house of Fånö and both spouses
decided to be buried in Sigtuna. They had a son, Folke, whose wife, Ragnborg
Ingevaldsdotter, also chose burial with the Dominicans.23 Johan died in 1280 and
Ragnhild married again. Her second husband was Magnus Gregersson from a
side branch of the royal house of Bjälbo who also opted for the church of the
Dominicans as his final resting place when he died in 1319. Ragnhild had already
20
SDHK 2247.
21
SDHK 2391.
22
SDHK 1704; Johan Peringskiöld related a drawing of his, his brother Johan’s, and his
mother Katarina’s (Ängel) tombstone in the chapel of Saint Erik (Peringskiöld, Monumenta
Ullerakensia, p. 78).
23
In her testament (SDHK 3518) she mentions that all members of her own family were
buried in other ecclesiastical institutions, her father at the convent of the knights of St John
in Eskilstuna, her brother at the Franciscans of Stockholm, her mother at the monastery of
Varnhem. The fact that she chose her sepulture at the same place as many members of the family
of her husband implies that he rested there as well.
died in 1292 and so Magnus married a second time, too. His second wife was
Ingegärd Filipsdotter from the house of Rumby and she decided in turn to be
buried in Sigtuna. Although Ingegärd was through her father, Filip Finvidsson,
a member of the house of Rumby, her mother was a sister (name unknown) of
Johan Karlsson (Fånö). Thus, Johan, the first husband of Ragnild, was the uncle
of Ingegard, the second wife of Ragnild’s second husband, Magnus.
In the marriage of Ragnhild Erlandsdotter and Johan Karlsson two families,
Finsta and Fånö, met which were obviously both very closely connected to the
Dominican convent of Sigtuna. Besides Johan, also his brother Peter and a
number of his nieces and nephews received burial there. They were all children
of his two sisters (names unknown) who married Filip Finvidsson (Rumby) and
Johan Elofsson (Elofsönernas ätt), respectively. While Erland Israelsson’s line
of the family of Finsta had its own tradition of supporting the Dominicans of
Sigtuna, no such commitment can be discerned in the line of Erland’s brother
Peter. Tradition locates their burial places in St Nicolas’s chapel in the cathedral
of Uppsala. However, after Peter’s son Birger married his first wife, Kristina
Johansdotter (whose mother was one of the two unidentified sisters of Johan
and Peter Karlsson), he also started to support the Dominicans as did his second
wife, Ingeborg Bengtsdotter. One may also speculate that Erland Israelsson’s
sister (name unknown) brought the idea of supporting the Dominicans into the
family of And when she married Anders. Her son Anders Andersson as well as
her daughter-in-law Ragnfrid Gustavsdotter supported them. While in the latter
case it must remain a speculation that the impulse to further the cause of the
Dominicans of Sigtuna was introduced to a family by a woman who married into
it, it seems quite clear in the examples of the two unidentified sisters of Johan
Karlsson (Fånö). Both their children — in the case of the wife of Johan Elofsson
her only daughter Kristina and in the case of the wife of Filip Finvidsson three of
her children, Ingegärd, Jedvard, and Peter — received burial in Sigtuna (the latter
even entered the order and became prior of the convent in 1322), while both had
married into families (Rumby and Elofsönernas ätt) without visible connection
to the brothers in Sigtuna.
A family of the lesser nobility of which four members are known to have been
buried at the convent of Sigtuna is the family ‘de Ask’/’de Asch’ who resided in
the village of Ask in Håtuna parish, Uppland. The family of Ask was part of the
lower gentry of Uppland and only a few members of it are known to us. Our
information about that family consists of only seven charters within the time
frame from the middle of the 1270s to the middle of the 1320s.24 These charters
24
SDHK 953, 999, 1469, 1789, 2279, 2434, 3301.
enable us to identify three generations of this family starting with Matts, who is
only known through reference made to him as an ancestor in the charters of his
children, of which he had three: Bengt, Agnes, and Rörik. While the line of Rörik
is of no interest in the present context. Agnes was buried at the Sigtuna convent
of the Dominicans while Bengt and his wife Lucia gave a donation to the same
convent. Further generations are only known for the line of Agnes. Her son Jakob
married an unidentified woman with whom he had two or three children. Jakob as
well as his sons Harald and Birger found their sepulture with the Dominicans of
Sigtuna. The two charters that bear the name of Hemming ‘de Aske’ — probably
the third son — name none of this kin. Therefore, there is no precise evidence
for placing him within the genealogy. Nevertheless, his being a member of the
family of ‘de Ask’ makes it possible to connect this family with the aristocratic
network of Fig. 7. Hemming is called the ‘prouisore bonorum meorum’, that is,
‘the administrator of my property’, by Folke Johansson, the son of Johan Karlsson
and Ragnhild Erlandsdotter.25 It thus seems that this subordinate family tried to
imitate its masters in regards to their burial place and tried to found a family
mausoleum at the Dominican convent in Sigtuna where a number of their lords
were buried as well. Another example of those lower gentry families imitating
their superiors is stated by the charter through which a certain Margareta and her
husband Ragnar, administrators of the property of lawspeaker Birger Petersson,
bequeathed landed property to the brothers of Sigtuna and chose their burial
place in their convent.
To conclude our findings thus far: it can be demonstrated that the founda
tion of mendicant houses was supported by large numbers of the elites of the
(developing ) kingdom of Sweden during the second half of the thirteenth
century. The introduction of the new ecclesiastical orders formed one part of the
modernization movement going on in thirteenth-century Sweden. Research on
the charters of that time has made clear that the supporters of the Dominican house
of Sigtuna were not randomly distributed among the Upplandian aristocracy but
that many of them can be found within one cluster of genealogically connected
families. Within this cluster two ‘centres of gravity’ can be identified in the
line of Erland Israelsson within the house of Finsta and in the house of Fånö.
It has further been suggested that those who passed the tradition of supporting
the Dominicans to new families and to further generations were in many cases
the women of a family. The cases of the family of ‘de Ask’ and of Margareta and
Ragnar suggest that families of the lower nobility who were among the entourage
of a high aristocratic family may have imitated their superiors’ burial customs by
25
SDHK 2434.
choosing the same site for their own sepulchre. The hypothesis is now that the
joint support of the Dominican house of Sigtuna by this group of aristocrats can
be taken as a sign of their collaboration in other fields, too.
The Supporters of the Cult of St Erik

In order to prove this hypothesis, it would be necessary to find (at least) one
other field in which this group collaborated or another social or cultural activity
in which many of its members engaged. Such an activity can be found in the
promotion of the cult of St Erik. The veneration of this saint started sometime
in the second half of the twelfth century, probably not too long after his death
in 1160. Our knowledge of the historical Erik Jedvardsson hardly extends
beyond the certainty that he actually existed.26 Everything else which is ascribed
to this king rests on his legend, which was composed in the 1270s or 1280s at
the Dominican convent of Sigtuna and the cathedral chapter of Uppsala, and
the trustworthiness of which has been much disputed.27 Undisputed is the fact
that the cult of this saint experienced its first flourishing in the second half of
the thirteenth century when in 1273 St Erik became the (co-)patron of the new
cathedral in Uppsala (the former Östra Aros). Based on this event a legend as well
as a miracle collection and an office were composed.
As Erik was one of only two patron saints of the cathedral it is no wonder
that the archbishops and the cathedral chapter of Uppsala actively promoted
his cult, but it was also furthered by the new royal dynasty of Bjälbo.28 King
26
This certainty rests on the entry in a Danish chronicle, the Narratiuncula de Fundatione
Monasterij Vitæscholæ in Cimbria, ed. by Gertz, pp. 138, 141. There a story is related which
suggests that he was ruling in Västergötland in 1158. How far his influence stretched up to the
Mälar Valley is uncertain.
27
The debate was started by Knut Stjerna in his groundbreaking study Erik den helige. En
sagohistorisk studie in 1898. He was vigorously attacked by most of his contemporaries, first of
all by Carl M. Kjellberg (e.g. in ‘Erik den helige i historien och legenden’) but backed by Lauritz
Weibull (‘Erik den helige’). The discussion was renewed around the middle of the century by
Einar Carlsson (Translacio archiepiscoporum) and in the 1980s by Ralf Sjöberg (‘Rex Upsalie
et vicarius — Erik den helige och hans ställföreträdere’). Most recently, see Oertel, ‘Heiliger
Vorfahr und rex perpetuus?’ and Oertel, The Cult of St Erik in Medieval Sweden.
28
The cathedral chapter was the first institution which depicted St Erik in its seal (1275)
but the archbishops followed soon and after Archbishop-Elect Johann (r. 1289–91) all
archbishops during the time under discussion in this article had St Erik on their counterseal.
Three examples among many may suffice to show that the cult of St Erik was closely connected
to the archbishops: Archbishop Folke appears in one miracle of St Erik’s miracle collection as
the person who takes a vow to St Erik while in another he advises another person to do so (Vita
Valdemar Birgersson was kin to both former royal dynasties. Through his
grandmother, Ingrid Ylva, he was related to the house of Sverker and through
his mother, Ingeborg Eriksdotter, to the house of Erik. He (or rather his father
Birger Jarl) chose to focus on the connection to the dynasty of Erik through
the introduction of the name ‘Erik’ into the names given to sons of the house of
Bjälbo; through the usage of the burial site of the house of Erik (the monastery
church of Varnhem) by Birger Jarl;29 and by referring to St Erik as their holy royal
ancestor.30 Furthermore, it was Duke Erik Magnusson who initiated the opening
of the shrine of St Erik by Archbishop Nils Allesson in 1303 and he was also
among those who received relics of the saint.31 Thus, so far we can discern the
same supporters in the case of the cult of St Erik as in the case of the Dominicans
of Sigtuna: the leaders of the state and of the Church of Sweden.
It is striking that many members of the same families who supported the
Dominican convent of Sigtuna followed the lead of the Bjälbo kings and the
archbishops of Uppsala in fostering the cult of St Erik. Let us first take a look
at the donations made to the chapel of Saint Erik in the cathedral of Uppsala.
Magnus Johansson (Ängel) founded the first prebend of the choir of St Olaf and
St Erik,32 while Duke Bengt Birgersson, the youngest son of Birger Jarl, founded
a vicariate at this choir in 1304 into which donations from Karl Erlandsson
and Israel Petersson (both Finsta) were incorporated.33 In his testament Johan
Erlandsson (Finsta) donated property to the chapel of Saint Erik, where he
desired to be buried, and Anders Andersson (And) made a donation to the
same chapel in order to further its building process.34 Johan Erlandsson’s mother
Katarina (Ängel) and his brother Karl were also buried there. Johan’s wife,
Ingeborg Bengtsdotter, was the only layperson whose seal depicted St Erik.
et miracula S. Erici regis et martyris, ed. by Fant, nos 21, 23). Archbishop Nils Allesson decreed
that every priest in his archbishopric was obliged to celebrate one Mass (per year) for St Erik
and St Henrik (SDHK 1822). He was also the one who ‘rediscovered’ the grave of St Erik in the
church of Gamla Uppsala in 1302 and who opened the shrine of the saint in the following year
in order to extract relics.
29
Äldre Västgötalagens kungalängd, ed. by Wiktorsson, p. 199.
30
SDHK 901; Upplandslagen enligt Cod. Holm. B 199 och 1607 års utgava, ed. by Henning, p. 6.
31
SDHK 2021.
32
Dahlbäck, Uppsala domkyrkas godsinnehav med särskild hänsyn till perioden 1344–1527,
p. 132.
33
Dahlbäck, Uppsala domkyrkas godsinnehav med särskild hänsyn till perioden 1344–1527,
pp. 131–32; SDHK 1167, 1222.
34
SDHK 2598; 2758.
A unique source for the connection between the cult of St Erik and the nobles
of Uppland is the miracle collection of the saint, composed by Israel Erlandsson.35
In his own words:
Ego igitur Frater Israel, Erlandi Filius, Ordinis Praedicatorum Prior Sictoniensis,
rogatus a quibusdam Canonicis Ecclesiae Upsalensis, sede vacante, ut miracula et
beneficia, quae Beatum Ericum invocantibus, […] praestiterit […], quae relatu fide
digna ad meam pervenere notitiam, in predicatione fideliter enarravi, et simplici
stilo commendavi scripturae.36
(So I, Brother Israel, son of Erland, prior of the Order of Preachers of Sigtuna,
following the request of certain canons of the church of Uppsala during a vacancy in
the see, have faithfully re-narrated in preaching and entrusted to writing in simple
form, both the miracles and the help that were granted to those who invoked St
Erik […] that came to my knowledge through trustworthy statements.)
As in the case of the Dominican convent of Sigtuna, we meet Israel Erlandsson

in the intermediate position between two groups of people that supported the
cult of St Erik, the cathedral chapter of Uppsala and members of the Upplandian
aristocracy. What is more, as lector and later prior of his convent, he was in a
position in which he was (intellectually and institutionally) able to compose
writings such as the miracle collection and probably (at least as scribe) the legend
of St Erik.37 A number of nobles who have been discussed already in this paper
occur themselves in the miracles of the collection. Israel Erlandsson himself tells
in miracle no. 25 that in his youth he was healed of his quartan fever after he had
donated a wax candle and recited an antiphon with verse and collect which his
uncle Folke ‘who at that time was archdeacon and later became archbishop of
Uppsala’ had taught him for the occasion.38 Another uncle of Israel, the knight
35
It is unique in two ways. First, it is — at least in the Swedish context — the miracle
collection in which the largest proportion of miracles are worked in favour of nobles and
members of the high clerg y (see Myrdal and Bäärnhielm, ‘Miracles and Medieval Life’,
pp. 105–06). Second, the concentration of the cult of St Erik on the region of Uppland
confines the choice to nobles and clerics living in Uppland in the period under discussion in
this paper.
36
Vita et miracula S. Erici regis et martyris, ed. by Fant, Epilogue. (My translation.)
37
It was compulsory for the lector of a Dominican convent to study at the studium generale
of his province. Since the province of Dacia did not have such a studium in the late thirteenth
century, he most probably visited one (or several) of the schools of the neighbouring provinces
(Cologne, Paris, Oxford). On the authorship of the legend of St Erik, see Oertel, The Cult of St
Erik in Medieval Sweden, chapter 5.
38
Vita et miracula S. Erici regis et martyris, ed. by Fant, miracle no. 25.
Magnus Johansson (Ängel), profited from the intercession of St Erik when he fell
ill and could neither eat nor drink.39 Ragnborg, the daughter-in-law of Ragnhild
Erlandsdotter (Finsta) and Johan Karlsson (Fånö), discussed above, received the
help of God through the intercession of St Erik when delivering her daughter
Birgitta.40 Finally, mention may be made of ‘the noble maiden named Kristina,
daughter of Sir Harald Älg’ and granddaughter of Johan (Ängel) who was healed
of a severe sickness and quartan fever.41 A more unusual means of venerating St
Erik may be found in the naming of one of the sons of Filip Finvidsson and his
(unidentified) wife as ‘Jedvard’. The surname of St Erik, as reported by some Old
Norse sources, was ‘Jedvardsson’.42 It may be suggested that the reason why Filip
and his wife did not simply name their son ‘Erik’ lies in the meaning and usage of
the name which seems to have been reserved for royal families up to the middle
of the fourteenth century.43 The parents of Jedvard seem to have avoided this
problem by using Erik’s father’s name instead.
It has emerged that many of the people who furthered the cult of St Erik occur
also as patrons of the Dominicans of Sigtuna, discussed in the first part of this
study, providing rather compelling evidence for the existence of a connected group.
A final example of the collaboration between the members of this network is
discernible in the foundation of the Hospital of the Holy Spirit (Helgeandshuset)
in Uppsala and of a house for Dominicans on the adjacent plot of land that
came to be affiliated with it. In his testament of 1292 Magnus Johansson
(Ängel) made the first donation for a future hospital, to which further goods
were added in 1296 by Karl Erlandsson (Finsta) and 1298 by Nils Ubbesson.44
Anders Andersson (And) was in charge of the building of the hospital, which was
established in 1305 by Archbishop Nils Allesson who had also contributed to the
39
40
41
42
For example in Sverris saga, ed. by Den norske historiske kildeskriftkommission, 100.
43
The Old Nordic root of ‘Erik’ is given as *Ainarīk(i)az, which is supposed to be a
composite of two words: *aina = one/only and *rīkia = powerful/highborn/rich or *rīkaz =
ruler/chieftain (Petersson, Lexikon over urnordiska personnamn, p. 22). A similar exclusive usage
of the name Helena/Elin in royal families is reported by Pernler, S:ta Elin av Skövde. Kulten,
källorna, kvinnan, pp. 23–24. The material in which the name ‘Erik’ is used is collected in
Sveriges medeltida personnamn. Ordbok. Förnamn, i, cols 694–768.
44
SDHK 1573, 1704, 1777, 1787. Nils Ubbesson and his widow Juliana were buried at
the Dominican convent of Sigtuna (SDHK 1787), but their genealogical connection to the
Upplandian aristocracy is unknown.
foundation.45 Shortly after the foundation, Ragnfrid Gustavsdotter, the widow of

Israel Andersson (And), lawspeaker of Tiundaland — a part of Uppland — and
brother of Anders Andersson, donated a yard to the hospital except for premises
that she gave to the Dominican brothers of Sigtuna.46 Anders Andersson (And)
extended those premises by another donation and built a house on it, which he
also gave to the brothers of Sigtuna as their domicile in the archiepiscopal town
in 1310. It was affiliated with the adjacent hospital.47
Conclusion
During the second part of this study, it became clear that the same members of
the elite engaged in the veneration of St Erik and in the support of the Dominican
convent of Sigtuna. The evidence of the foundation of the Hospital of the Holy
Spirit suggests that there may have been more fields of collaboration than are
documented in the surviving sources. In the first two cases, the archbishops
of Uppsala and the kings of the new royal dynasty of Bjälbo took part in the
activities of the Fånö-Ängel-Finsta group and in both cases other contributors are
also known who did not belong to this circle. This does, however, not undermine
the argument of this paper, that is, that we may discern cohesion among that
group of nobles. Given the collaboration of these aristocrats with the spiritual
and worldly leaders of the kingdom in the cases that have been analysed, it seems
that they formed (parts of ) the aristocratic backing of those leaders’ politics and
that they were a part — if not the driving force — of the process of modernization
by which the kingdom of Sweden was formed in that period. After the findings
discussed in this paper, the initial hypothesis that the joint support of an
ecclesiastical community can be indicative of more far-reaching bonds between
those supporters can thus be answered in the affirmative.
The example of the Dominican convent of Sigtuna could most probably be
replicated with almost any other convent, monastery, or nunnery. It seems neither
to be a Dominican nor a mendicant phenomenon although further research will
be necessary to confirm this general assumption. It would be worth investigating
whether the same circles of people who supported the mendicants at a time when
they represented a ‘new’ reform movement within the Church also engaged in
other societal fields in more ‘modern’ ways than the supporters of the old orders
45
SDHK 2103, 2104.
46
SDHK 2105, 2106.
47
SDHK 2250, 2333.
like the Benedictines or the Cistercians. It would, for example, be an interesting

speculation if it was by accident that it was the noble Knut the Long with whom
the brothers Simon and Nils stayed for some years after they had failed to found
a Dominican convent in Sigtuna in 1220. Knut was a descendant of a side
branch of the royal house of (St) Erik. For the previous century or so his house
had been in constant quarrel with that of Sverker and the representatives of the
two houses had occupied the throne alternately since the mid-twelfth century.
The house of Sverker had died out with the death of King Johan Sverkersson
in 1222. The following king from the house of Erik is usually assumed to have
been a weak king during whose rule the jarls Ulf Fase and Birger Jarl from the
house of Bjälbo were the truly decisive forces. In 1229, Knut the Long gained
the Swedish throne, driving King Erik Eriksson into exile. Erik returned in 1234
when the throne became vacant through the death of Knut. Little is known about
the short rule of Knut, but it might not have been an accident that a noble with
aspirations to the throne was the one who accommodated the representatives of
the new ecclesiastical order on his premises; who had an interest in changing the
prevailing circumstances in their field as he intended to change them in his. This
must — of course — remain speculation. It would be interesting in future studies
to explore the underlying thought that promoters of the Dominicans may have
been more ‘modern’ than the supporters of older orders.
Works Cited
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Patronage and Function:
The Medieval Wall Paintings at
Lacock Abbey in Wiltshire*
Ellie Pridgeon and Susan Sharp
Introduction
Founded in the thirteenth century, the Augustinian abbey of Lacock (Wiltshire)
possesses a number of medieval wall paintings located in the cloister space. The
conventual complex boasts not only the sole surviving female stone cloister in
England, but also the only extant female religious devotional murals (Fig. 8). This
article focuses on the iconography, function, and patronage of the St Christopher,
St Andrew, and rarely discussed Crucifixion paintings located in the chamber in
*
We would like to thank Darren Beatson and Sophie Houlton, who kindly provided access
to the Lacock Abbey archive material at the National Trust, Swindon, and Lacock Abbey,
who provided access to the abbey site to view the paintings. We are also grateful to Professor
David Park (Courtauld Institute) and Katy Lithgow (National Trust) for permission to quote
unpublished correspondence, to Dr Miriam Gill and Roger Rosewell for discussions about the
Lacock wall paintings, and to Dr Tim Bowly for providing photographs.
Ellie Pridgeon (ep249@le.ac.uk) is a teaching fellow in history of art and architecture at

the University of Leicester. She is also Director of Consultant Archivist Ltd, an archive
consultancy company.
Susan Sharp (sharpsiamsue@aol.com) has submitted her doctorate entitled: ‘A View

through the Veil: Patronage, Piety, Devotion & Identity in the Later Medieval English
Nunnery, c. 1250–1540’ for Birkbeck College, University of London.
Abstract: This article focuses on the high-status medieval wall paintings depicting
St Christopher, St Andrew, and the Crucifixion, located in the ‘chaplains’ room’ in the cloister
range of the Augustinian nunnery of Lacock (Wiltshire). The study examines the iconography,
function, and chronology of these thirteenth-century images, and suggests that the founder
of the abbey, Countess Ela of Salisbury, was almost certainly the patron responsible for
commissioning the elaborate scheme. Rather than functioning as a living space for the abbey’s
chaplains as traditionally assumed, the chamber probably operated as a private devotional space
for the abbess and her community.
Keywords: Lacock Abbey, devotional, medieval wall paintings, nunnery, crucifixion, St
Andrew, St Christopher, Wiltshire

114 Ellie Pridgeon and Susan Sharp
Figure 8. Cloisters, Lacock Abbey. Photograph copyright Susan Sharp.
the south corner of the west cloister range, misleadingly known as the ‘chaplains’
room’ (Fig. 11). Far from functioning as living quarters for the abbey chaplains
as previously assumed, the chamber almost certainly served primarily as a private
space for the abbess and her community.
The Crucifixion painting fragment is positioned on the east wall of the north-
east bay. Perceivable are Christ’s head, halo, right arm, and hand, as well as the
horizontal bar of the cross (Fig. 9).1 The St Christopher and St Andrew murals are
located on the north wall (Fig. 10). Visible are the upper half of St Christopher,
who holds the Christ Child in the crook of his arm, and next to him St Andrew
on the x-shaped or saltire cross. Beneath are the indistinct remains of painted
furnishings or fictive architecture, including a roughly sketched pedestal with
scroll ends. All three murals are painted in the secco technique (applied directly to
the dry lime wash) using a combination of red earth, carbon black (St Andrew),
and possibly yellow ochre.2 Tristram indicated some form of tinting was visible on
1
Curteis Associates, Condition Survey of the Polychromy, p. 4.
2
Wall Paintings Workshop, Chaplains’ Room Conservation, pp. 3–4.
patronage and function 115
Figure 9. Crucifixion,
Lacock Abbey.
Photograph copyright
Susan Sharp.
Figure 10. St Andrew and St

Christopher, Lacock Abbey.
Photograph copyright Susan Sharp.
Figure 11. Chaplains’ Room,

Lacock Abbey. Photograph
copyright Susan Sharp.
the figures of the saints, which can be seen as a thin wash of colour in some areas.3
Stylistically, architecturally, and iconographically, the paintings are all dated here
to the last quarter of the thirteenth century.
The Chaplains’ Room: A Reassessment of Space and Function

The precise function of many of the Lacock Abbey cloister rooms remains
undetermined and conclusions must be based on common models and conjectures
— thus a fireplace may indicate a warming room, abbess’s/prioress’s lodgings, or
guest rooms. Yet the confusing term ‘chaplains’ room’ is based on a number of
fundamental misinterpretations. Traditionally, researchers have identified the
small carved youthful head on the vault above the chamber entrance as a chaplain
and concluded that this marks the function of the room beyond (Fig. 12).4
However, although the image is undoubtedly male, he does not represent a
tonsured priest in clerical vestments (Fig. 13). Rather, the covered head and high
collar with buttoned tunic can be compared with images of fifteenth-century
gentlemen in English manuscripts and on contemporary monumental brasses.
As males, chaplains were expressly forbidden access to the cloister, although they
were essential to nuns’ religious lives and were necessary to execute the various
sacerdotal functions females were not permitted to perform for themselves.
At Lacock the newer cartulary reveals that John de Ripariis gave lands for the
maintenance of ‘two chaplains singing for the faithful defunct to the end of
time’.5 Rules, regulations, inventories, and site footprints elsewhere indicate that
chaplains were commonly accommodated in the outer court. The 1538 inventory
for the Augustinian priory of Grace Dieu (Leicestershire), for instance, points
to their accommodation in the outer court or in chambers above a gatehouse,
designated ‘the knight’s room’.6 Similarly, the inventory for Benedictine
Wilberfoss Priory (Yorkshire) states ‘the pristes chamber w’oute the gates’.7
The protection and preservation of the nuns’ enclosed status was paramount.
In the 1298 papal directive Periculoso, Pope Boniface VIII transformed long-
standing attitudes into a universal church law that commanded that every nun in
Western Europe be restricted to her convent, never to interact with the world she
3
Tristram, English Wall Painting: The Thirteenth Century, p. 222.
4
Harcourt, Report on the Chaplains’ Room, n. p.
5
Bowles and Nichols, Annals & Antiquities, p. 315; BL, Add MS 88974, fol. 76v.
6
Nichols, History and Antiquities Leicestershire, pp. 653–54.
7
Brown, ‘Buildings of Small Yorkshire Priories’, p. 204.
Figure 12. Location of carved head above

the chamber entrance, Lacock Abbey.
Photograph copyright Susan Sharp.
Figure 13. Carved head on the vault

above the chamber entrance,
Lacock Abbey.
Photograph copyright Sue Sharp.
Figure 14. Ground plan of Lacock Abbey. Reproduced from:

Harold Brakspear, ‘Lacock Abbey, Wilts.’, Archaeologia, 57 (1900), 125–58, pl. XL.
had forsaken.8 Separation and isolation secured the nuns’ purity and chastity, and
reinforced the sacral nature of the convent. At Lacock one of the most basic and
functional constraints to the chaplains’ use of this chamber — toilets — required
water, which was unavailable this side of the abbey (Fig. 14). The main drain was
8
Makowski, Canon Law & Cloistered Women, p. 45.
serviced by a brook which was diverted to the mill in the north-east corner of the
complex, and ran past the infirmary (to the east) and the reredorter in the north-
east corner.9
Writing in 1997, Gilchrist claimed that the position of the Lacock chamber
was more appropriate for abbey corrodians (recipients of accommodation, food,
or care in return for money or parcels of land).10 Many years before, Talbot had
suggested that ‘it may have been part of the Abbess’s lodging. The existence of an
original fireplace appears to be an argument in favour of this view’.11 However,
the wall paintings indicate both a devotional and liturgical function for the space,
and a wealthy and royally connected patron. The most likely candidate is Lacock’s
founder Ela, suo jure countess of Salisbury, daughter and sole heiress of William,
earl of Salisbury, wife of William Longespée (a natural son of King Henry II,
and sheriff of Wiltshire).12 Ela granted manors and rights in 1229 to found a
community of nuns dedicated to God, the Blessed Mary, and St Bernard to be
called ‘locus beate Marie’.13 The dedication suggests her original intention was a
community of Cistercian nuns, but in 1228 the general chapter of Cîteaux had
reiterated its prohibition of responsibility for further convents of women, and
thus in 1230 when the bishop of Salisbury formally approved the foundation,
he specified that the nuns should follow the rule of St Augustine.14 Ela entered
the convent in 1238, assuming the role of abbess in 1240 on the Feast of the
Assumption, and after retirement from her post remained at the abbey until her
death — on the Feast of St Bartholomew — in 1261.15 As an aristocratic foundress
with royal connections, in retirement Ela needed somewhere appropriate to her
station to live and work whilst an abbess presided over her institution.
Both wall painting typology and the position of the chamber beneath (and
linked by a staircase to) the abbess’s private quarters suggest the room functioned
as a female-only space, most probably a private oratory or personal devotional
area — defined here as a private space without clerical supervision or celebration
of Mass. Abbesses’ and prioresses’ chapels were not unusual, and Lacock’s head
already had a separate, private chapel in the two western bays over the south
9
Brakspear, ‘Lacock Abbey’, p. 128.
10
Gilchrist, Gender and Material Culture, p. 117.
11
Talbot, ‘Notes on the Architectural History of Lacock Abbey’, p. 192.
12
Ward, ‘Ela, Suo Jure Countess of Salisbury’.
13
Lacock Abbey Charters, ed. by Rogers, p. 10.
14
Lacock Abbey Charters, ed. by Rogers, p. 10.
15
Ward, ‘Ela, Suo Jure Countess of Salisbury’, n. p.
cloister walk.16 Elsewhere, licences were granted for additional oratories. The
register of Bishop Fordham of Ely (1407) contains a licence to sub-prioress
Margery Harlyng of the Benedictine priory of Saint Radegund’s, Cambridge, for
a private oratory or chapel within the priory (probably located adjacent to the
prioress’s guest room).17 Likewise, at Godstow Abbey (Oxfordshire) the nuns
had a private chapel, distinct from their shared church, in the south east corner
of the inner court with a doorway to admit a priest from time to time.18 On
the Continent, certain hours could be celebrated in separate oratories: at Arles
a separation of public and private oratories was known (the rule of St Aurelian
specified matins, diodecima, vigils and nocturns took place in the basilica whereas
secunda, terce, sext and none should always be held in the inner oratory).19 That
such oratories had painted decoration may be evidenced by the oratory of the
convent of Sant’Anna at Foligno which was decorated with an ensemble of
painted murals for the religious of the order to meditate upon.20
Wall Painting: Chronology and Style

The Lacock chamber corbels and pier mouldings, which date from c. 1250,
provide an approximate terminus pro quem for the paintings.21 Conservation
reports confirm that the murals were painted onto the first layer of plaster, which
suggests they were executed relatively soon after the chamber was completed.22
Over the last century, authors have consistently disagreed about whether the three
extant figurative paintings are coeval. Brakspear suggested the St Christopher
was painted earlier, while Clive Rouse specified a fifteenth-century date for
the St Andrew mural.23 Tristram more convincingly argued that the figurative
paintings were the result of a single initiative or schema.24 Certainly, all three
paintings display homogenous visual features and iconographic choices which
16
Brakspear, ‘Lacock Abbey’, p. 156; Dingley, History from Marble, p. cccccv.
17
Gray, Saint Radegund Priory, p. 37.
18
Gilchrist, Gender and Material Culture, p. 120.
19
Muschiol, ‘Time and Space: Liturgy and the Rite in Female Monasteries of the Middle
Ages’, p. 198.
20
Rigaux, ‘Convent of Sant’Anna at Foligno’, pp. 92–98.
21
Harcourt, Historical Notes, p. 1.
22
Holford Associates, Condition Report on the Chaplains’ Room, p. 10.
23
Brakspear, ‘Lacock Abbey’, pp. 153–54; Rouse, Remains of the Wall Painting at Lacock
Abbey, n. p.
24
Tristram, English Wall Painting: The Thirteenth Century, p. 558.
suggest they were executed concurrently. Similarities between St Christopher

and St Andrew include the rendering of the drapery in realistic folds, the dotted
pattern around the haloes, and the execution of the hands with flat-ended fingers
(also visible in the Crucifixion fragment). Like St Christopher, the Crucifixion
is executed in red earth. Yet the St Andrew figure may indicate the presence
of another hand. The precision and accuracy of the lines and rendering of the
features on the St Christopher indicate a mural of exceptionally high artistic
quality. In contrast, St Andrew is executed in carbon black in a slightly less
elegant style using thicker lines. His hair is far less elaborate and much flatter, and
the face is rounder and rather more reminiscent of Romanesque — rather than
French-influenced — work.
Comparisons with illuminated manuscripts and monumental painting in
England and beyond can assist in placing the Lacock paintings into an approximate
chronology. In recent unpublished correspondence, Park convincingly proposed
a date of c. 1270 for all three figurative paintings.25 He draws attention to the
elegant, French-influenced style evident in the lost painted chamber murals at
Westminster (1260s), and the Douce Apocalypse manuscript (c. 1265–70).26
The French style is characterized by elegantly posed figures with heavy drapery
rendered in angular, cascading folds, pear-shaped heads, and tightly curled
heads and beards.27 These elements are visible in the Lacock St Christopher.
Comparisons with the Douce Apocalypse and Westminster painted chamber
murals include the elongated head shapes, the slim-shouldered figures, the broad
fold drapery, the curled hair piled on heads, exaggerated gestures, and the dotted
halos (evident for instance in the Douce Apocalypse Letter to Smyrna miniature).28
Stylistic and iconographic parallels can be drawn between the Lacock Cruci
fixion and manuscript Crucifixions such as the Křivoklàt Psalter (also known as
the Fürstenburg Psalter) (probably Worcester diocese c. 1280–90) and the Map
Psalter (possibly London or Westminster c. 1262–c. 1300).29 All three images
25
Tristram, Thirteenth Century English Wall Painting, p. 557; The National Trust Files, n. p.
26
National Trust Files, n. p.; Morgan, Early Gothic Manuscripts, pp. 141–45, ills 260–63;
Morgan, The Douce Apocalypse, pp. 9, 14.
27
Morgan, The Douce Apocalypse, p. 29.
28
Tristram, English Wall Painting: The Thirteenth Century, p. 557; National Trust Files,
n. p.; Oxford, Bodleian Library, MS Douce 180, p. 5.
29
Křivoklàt, Castle Library, MS I b 23, fol. 11r; Morgan, Early Gothic Manuscripts,
pp. 189–91, figs 12–20, ills 398–401; Naydenova-Slade and Park, ‘The Earliest Holy Kinship
Images’, p. 99; BL, Add MS 28681, fol. 6r; Morgan, Early Gothic Manuscripts, pp. 82–85, fig. 6,
ills 74–77, 84–86.
exhibit Christ figures with bowed heads inclined to the left, thickly lined hair
tinted yellow (browner in the case of the the Map Psalter where the figure also
wears a band wrapped around the head), and thickly outlined, muscular arms.
Although the precise form of the Lacock halo is unclear, the Křivoklàt Psalter
and the Map Psalter Christ figures both wear cruciform halos, and the latter is
also spotted — thus resembling the St Christopher and St Andrew paintings at
Lacock. The positioning of the hand and nail in the Lacock and Křivoklàt Psalter
are also similar.
The Lacock St Andrew also displays stylistic similarities to visual represen
tations produced in the mid-to-late thirteenth century. Although Park does not
refer to the different style of this mural, he does draw convincing comparisons
with the lost thirteenth-century St Andrew mural at Saint John’s, Winchester, as
well as the extant St Christopher figure (Fig. 15).30 Both paintings display broad
fold draperies, large, oval eyes, heavily executed eyebrows, stylized hair delineated
in black, and both figures are tied to an x-shaped cross (the Lacock St Andrew,
unusually, appears to be nailed as well as tied).
The discrepancy in size between the St Andrew and St Christopher figures
at Lacock can be explained by the latter being commonly depicted in medieval
literature as a giant.31 The arrangement also occurs at Troston (Suffolk), where the
fourteenth-century St Christopher towers over the coeval yet diminutive figures
of St George and St Edmund.32 Yet at Lacock, the dimensions and elaborate style
(as well as the fictive pedestal) also serve to provide St Christopher with a visual
prominence, which may indicate a deliberate promotion of the saint, designated
as ‘principal’ figure in the chamber.33
Wall Painting: Iconography

An examination of the Lacock murals reveals a visual culture rich in technique
and powerful expression. Yet owing to iconoclasm, deterioration, and neglect,
very little of the original scheme survives.
30
National Trust Files, n. p.; Tristram, English Wall Painting: The Thirteenth Century,
pl. 55.
31
Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, ed. and trans. by Granger Ryan, ii, 11.
32
Rosewell, Medieval Wall Paintings, p. 293.
33
Marks, Image and Devotion in Late-Medieval England, p. 167.
Figure 15. St Christopher, Saint John’s church, Winchester.

Photograph copyright Dr Tim Bowly.
St Andrew and St Christopher

By the twelfth century in England, St Andrew was commonly represented in
iconography on or with his cross of martyrdom, the x-shaped or saltire cross.34
Remarkably, no early medieval text refers to his crucifixion on such a cross, and
it is likely that the visual type emerged first in English depictions, dispersing to
the Continent by the end of the thirteenth century.35 St Andrew appears in the
twelfth-century wall painting at Ickleton (Cambridgeshire) where two figures
tie him to the x-shaped cross.36 By the thirteenth century, the saint is also
featured on a number of seal matrices, including that of the dean and chapter
of Wells Cathedral, and the counter-seal of Richard of Wendover, bishop of
Rochester.37
It is likely that Henry III (d. 1272), who married Eleanor of Provence in 1236,
was responsible for introducing the visual cult of St Christopher into England.38
Henry ordered St Christopher images for both the chapel of Saint Peter ad
Vincula (Tower of London) and the queen’s chapel in Winchester Castle. 39
Similarly, Henry probably commissioned the extant St Christopher image at
Westminster Abbey (recently reassigned to c. 1260–70).40 He also presented the
relics of St Christopher to the abbey.41
34
Hall, ‘St Andrew’, n. p.; Hall, The Cross of St Andrew, p. 118; Ash and Broun, ‘The
Adoption of St Andrew as Patron Saint in Scotland’, p. 16.
35
Hall, The Cross of St Andrew, pp. 118, 217.
36
Hall, The Cross of St Andrew, p. 106, fig. 16.
37
Hall, The Cross of St Andrew, pp. 76, 101–02, figs 18–20.
38
Maddicott, Simon de Montfort, p. 18; Pridgeon, ‘St Christopher Wall Paintings in English
and Welsh Churches’, p. 13; Pridgeon, ‘A Chronology of St Christopher Wall Painting’, p. 103;
Pridgeon, ‘The Function of St Christopher Imagery’, pp. 4–5.
39
Calendar of the Liberate Rolls, ii: Henry III, ed. by Chapman, p. 15; Calendar of the
Liberate Rolls, iii: Henry III, ed. by Chapman, p. 177; Pridgeon, ‘St Christopher Wall Paintings’,
p. 13; Pridgeon, ‘The Function of St Christopher Imagery’, p. 5; Pridgeon, ‘A Chronology of St
Christopher Wall Painting’, pp. 103–05.
40
Pridgeon, ‘St Christopher Wall Paintings’, pp. 216–17; Pridgeon, ‘The Function of
St Christopher Imagery’, p. 5; Pridgeon, ‘A Chronology of St Christopher Wall Painting’, p. 103;
Binski, Westminster Abbey and the Plantagenets, pp. 170–71, pl. 228; Howe, ‘Painting and
Patronage at Westminster Abbey’, p. 12.
41
Howe, ‘Painting and Patronage at Westminster Abbey’, p. 6; Pridgeon, ‘St Christopher
Wall Paintings’, p. 88.
Christological Themes
Despite the fact we are missing much of the original painted scheme, there are a
number of persistent theological themes which tie together the surviving imagery
in the chamber at Lacock. The two Crucifixion images — Christ and St Andrew
— clearly indicate a concern with Christological and Eucharistic themes, as well as
with redemption and salvation. The altar and altarpiece was first and foremost the
liturgical and sacramental centre of a church, but outside the context of the church
and Mass, images representing the crucified Christ invited the viewer to contem
plate the significance of the Eucharistic sacrifice, and aided private devotion.42
The presence of St Andrew parallels and augments the Christological, redemp
tive, and salvific themes. Medieval literature, including Jacobus de Voragine’s
Golden Legend (c. 1275), highlights the intimate relationship between St Andrew
and the cross of Christ. For the saint, the Crucifixion embodied the mystery of
redemption and the provision of immortality to men.43 St Andrew also states
his desire to emulate Christ when threatened with crucifixion by the proconsul
Aegeas: ‘The more bravely I bear suffering in his name, the more acceptable I shall
be to my king’.44
If St Andrew epitomizes Christ’s redemption on the cross, then St Christopher
represents Christ’s life on earth and mankind’s salvation through baptism in
crossing the river. St Christopher, the bearer of Christ, also parallels the Virgin’s
function as the mother who bore Christ. Adoration of the Virgin was probably
at the forefront of Ela’s spiritual leanings. Although there is no evidence that the
painted scheme (or related imagery) included Marian iconography, the abbey was
dedicated to St Bernard and the Virgin who both appear on the conventual seal.45
Wall Painting: Patronage and Function

Caution is needed when drawing conclusions about patronage, image selection,
and devotional activity from fragmentary remains of wall paintings. Only three
figures survive in the Lacock chamber and we simply do not know how extensive
the schema was originally. However, the paintings are in their original setting
42
Williamson, ‘Altarpieces, Liturgy and Devotion’, pp. 348, 361; Binski, ‘Thirteenth-
Century English Altarpiece’, p. 53; Williamson, ‘Liturgical Image or Devotional Image?’, p. 299.
43
Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, ed. and trans. by Granger Ryan, ii, 16–17.
44
Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, ed. and trans. by Granger Ryan, ii, 17.
45
‘Houses of Augustinian Canoness’, ed. by Pugh and Crittall, n. p.; Clark-Maxwell, ‘Earliest
Charters of Abbey of Lacock’, App. C, i; BL, Add MS 88973, fol. 7v; BL, Add MS 88974, fol. 1;
Maxwell-Lyte, A Descriptive Catalogue of Ancient Deeds, pp. 10–11.
which can only contribute to a greater understanding of context. Architectural

framework and painting subject matter can interpret space and function, and
provide a glimpse into the spirituality and likely intentions of the patroness.46
Patronage
As suggested above, high status artwork from royal circles in an area inhabited by
females strongly suggests that the foundress, Ela, countess of Salisbury, the king’s
daughter-in-law, was responsible for the painted programme. The scheme was
probably executed posthumously after her death in 1261, conceivably overseen by
her successor the second abbess, Beatrice of Kent. Ela explicitly named Beatrice as
her successor (election was more customary), perhaps to ensure the perpetuation
of her spiritual and material works.47 Such posthumous patronage was not
uncommon. Infanta Sancha of Portugal founded the female Cistercian monastery
of Cellas of Vimarenes but by the time of her death in 1228 construction had
only just begun. The direction of the convent was taken over by her sister Teresa,
who appears to have been Sancha’s heir. A cartulary fragment from Cellas records
a charter made by Teresa, probably soon after Sancha’s death, stating that ‘Queen
lady S. of blessed memory commanded and taught that the monastery of Cellas
of Vimarenes should be built and commanded that it should be established under
the rule of St Benedict’.48 Another possibility is that the execution of the Lacock
paintings was overseen by Agnes de Vescy (or Vesci), the widow of William de
Vescy and Ela’s daughter-in-law, who was a corrodian at Lacock.49
Devotional Function
There are a number of reasons why Ela may have commissioned the Lacock wall
paintings.50 Medieval images had multifarious roles, and objects of medieval
patronage were oblations to God and ultimately aids to salvation.51 The paintings
in the Lacock chamber almost certainly functioned primarily as a focus and aid
46
Gill, ‘Monastic Murals and Lectio’, p. 59.
47
Bowles and Nichols, Annals & Antiquities, p. 273.
48
Shadis, ‘The First Queens of Portugal’, p. 693.
49
Close Rolls of Henry III, ed. by Stamp, x, 198.
50
Ward, ‘Ela, Suo Jure Countess of Salisbury’, n. p.
51
Luxford, The Art and Architecture of English Benedictine Monasteries, p. 31.
to individual and private prayer and meditation during devotional routines.52

Whilst paintings could and did have a number of functions, none mutually
exclusive (liturgical, didactic, decorative, and mnemonic), the positioning of
these intimate images, just above eye level, attest to how they facilitated direct
access on behalf of the viewer, encouraging interaction and making tangible the
object of prayer and intercession.53 St Andrew and St Christopher are positioned
physically close to the standing viewer. St Andrew’s direct gaze invites the viewer
to meditate, while St Christopher’s gaze is focused on the Christ Child, thus
ultimately drawing the viewer’s eye to his precious burden.
The selection of saints at Lacock also indicates a devotional function for
the chamber space. A principal function of saints was to act as approachable
intercessors between man and God, a process by which sins could be forgiven and
ultimately salvation gained after death.54 St Christopher’s powerful intercessory
role during prayers is indicated by his intimate relationship with the Christ
Child, and therefore God.55 Likewise, textual sources highlight how St Andrew,
too, functioned as an intercessor. As an apostle with a personal relationship with
Christ, he was a potent saint ‘who turned upward towards heavenly things and
was lifted up to his Creator’.56 Both saints were particularly venerated at Lacock.
St Christopher later appeared in stained glass in the abbess’s private chapel, while
St Andrew’s feast day (30 November) was of some importance to the abbey.57
The obit of Amice (or Amicia), countess of Devon (d. 1283/84 or 1296) was
celebrated annually on that date, although it was not the anniversary of her
death.58 While never resident at Lacock, Amice’s heart was buried there, and her
daughter (Margaret) became a nun.59
Saints also provided a visual focus for viewers to invoke help in time of hardship
and need. St Christopher’s protective and paternal role in texts contributed to his
52
Goodson, ‘Devotional Paintings’, p. 152.
53
Goodson, ‘Devotional Paintings’, p. 115.
54
Kessler, ‘Turning a Blind Eye’, pp. 432–33.
55
Pridgeon, ‘St Christopher Wall Paintings’, p. 14; Pridgeon, ‘A Chronology of St
Christopher Wall Painting’, pp. 85–87; Pridgeon, ‘The Function of St Christopher Imagery’,
p. 10.
56
Jacobus de Voragine, The Golden Legend, ed. and trans. by Granger Ryan, i, 13.
57
Dingley, History from Marble, p. ccccciv.
58
Bowles and Nichols, Annals & Antiquities, p. 280; Richardson, Magna Carta Ancestry,
p. 455.
59
Bowles and Nichols, Annals & Antiquities, p. 280.
status as guardian against death, misadventure, harm, and fatigue.60 Saints also
functioned as models for ‘didactic’ emulation — exemplars of Christian and spiritual
virtue and moral development.61 Thus the Golden Legend tells of a sinful man who
calls on St Andrew for aid: ‘Let your prayer obtain my salvation’.62 The saint wept
and remained in prayer for hours, and after fasting for five days, a voice told him
that his prayer was granted, and that the man must likewise fast to win salvation.63
The Crucifixion was intended to create a very direct, personal, and interactive
relationship with the crucified Christ.64 The Lacock painting is set much lower
than its counterparts, perhaps to entice a kneeling or prostrate viewer. It also
functioned as a mnemonic trigger or teaching device so that the viewer could
recall, contemplate, and physically and emotionally re-enact or imitate the Passion
and ultimately, Christ’s suffering for mankind.65 Although the church provided
the most formal and distinguished place for prayer, both lay and religious were
encouraged to contemplate events from the life of Christ, the Virgin, and the
saints outside of this formal space, as if they had been present at such events. The
thirteenth-century Meditationes vitae Christi text suggests that readers should
imagine themselves following Christ within the narrative: ‘With your whole
mind you must imagine yourself present and consider diligently everything done
against your Lord’.66 Meditation with the aid of devotional imagery to achieve
mystical union with God is demonstrated in a French miniature from La Sainte
Abbaye (c. 1210).67 The page is divided into four tableaux, and begins with a
female religious kneeling before her confessor. Next she prays to an image of the
Coronation of the Virgin. In the third scene her meditations result in perceiving
in her ‘mind’s eye’ Christ as the Man of Sorrows bleeding into a chalice. In the
60
Pridgeon, ‘St Christopher Wall Paintings’, pp. 94–99; Pridgeon, ‘A Chronology of St
Christopher Wall Painting’, pp. 85–87; Pridgeon, ‘The Function of St Christopher Imagery’,
pp. 7–9.
61
Rosewell, Medieval Wall Paintings, pp. 176, 181; Gill, ‘The Role of Images’,
pp. 119, 122, 127.
62
Jacobus de Voragine, Golden Legend, ed. and trans. by Granger Ryan, ii, 14.
63
Jacobus de Voragine, Golden Legend, ed. and trans. by Granger Ryan, ii, 15.
64
Swanson, ‘Passion and Practice’, p. 14; Pridgeon and Rosewell, ‘The Miracle of the
Horseshoe’, p. 165.
65
Swanson, ‘Passion and Practice’, p. 204; Camille, ‘Mimetic Identification and Passion
Devotion’, p. 204; Gill, ‘The Role of Images’, p. 120.
66
Meditations on the Life of Christ, ed. and trans. by Green and Ragusa, p. 333.
67
Marks, Image and Devotion in Late Medieval England, pp. 17–18, pl. I; BL, MS Yates
Thompson 11, fol. 29v.
final scene the nun achieves mystical union with the Trinity, which takes the form
of God the Father holding the Crucifixion.
There is some uncertainty over the precise context of the Lacock Crucifixion
because of its asymmetrical positioning on the east wall of the north-east bay.
It is feasible that the painting formed part of a Christological narrative cycle
depicting the Life of Christ or the Holy Infancy, similar to the ensemble scheme
in the chapel of the abbey of San Sebastiano at Alatri (Italy).68 Equally possible
is that the Lacock image functioned as a stand-alone fictive retable or altarpiece,
demarcated by a painted or three-dimensional altar below. Extant examples
include the mural of St Faith in the eponymous chapel at Westminster (after
1300), and the thirteenth-century painted reredos set upon a painted plinth
on the east wall of the chapel of St Martin in Salisbury Cathedral.69 Whatever
the case at Lacock, it is clear that because of the absence of chaplains to perform
regular religious ceremonies in this space, the Crucifixion was designed to
function outside the liturgical setting as a votive image.70 As Williamson points
out, although the primary liturgical purpose of altars was to provide a focus for
the celebration of Mass, some may have been more associated with paraliturgical
or non-liturgical devotional activity (which could occur simultaneously) by
individuals to aid private contemplation and devotion.71 Devotional altars were
actively suggested in literature aimed at religious women. The twelfth-century
St Aelred of Rievaulx’s De Institutis Inclusarum or The Rule of Life for a Recluse,
addresses his recluse sister and describes imaginative and emotional involvement
in the events of Christ’s life and pursuit of private devotions and prayers: ‘your
altar should be covered with white linen cloths […] on your altar […] have a
representation of our Saviour hanging on the Cross’.72
Commemorative Function
Ela may have also intended the wall paintings as a commemorative, familial, and
personal mark on the institution she once governed and envisaged the images
68
Romano, ‘The Frescoes of the Church and Oratory’, pp. 122–23, pl. 54.
69
Howe, ‘Painting and Patronage at Westminster Abbey’, p. 12; Reeve, Thirteenth-Century
Wall Painting of Salisbury Cathedral, p. 54.
70
Binski, ‘The Thirteenth-Century English Altarpiece’, p. 57.
71
Williamson, ‘Altarpieces, Liturgy and Devotion’, p. 361; Binski, ‘Thirteenth-Century
English Altarpiece’, p. 53; Williamson, ‘Liturgical Image or Devotional Image?’, p. 299.
72
Aelred of Rievaulx, Treatises & the Pastoral Prayer, ed. and trans. by Macpherson,
pp. 72–73.
assuming a mnemonic function to record her deeds, encouraging intercessory

prayer from viewers for her soul after death. Even if the Lacock chamber was
inaccessible and remote to abbey visitors, chaplains, and servants, it was
accessible to the resident female religious from the cloister. Furthermore, the very
myth of the paintings — which served to beautify the buildings and transform
the chamber into a sacred and heavenly space — might still be discussed and
promulgated in the immediate community and beyond.73 That such dialogues
occurred is demonstrated by the case of Herman of Laon who visited the female
community at Benedictine Wilton Abbey (Wiltshire) in 1113, which held relics
of the Virgin. Although unable to witness them first hand, he was informed by
the sacrist of the great relics, altars, treasures, and tombs that were held in the
chapter house and church.74
Lying at the physical and spiritual heart of her foundation, the Lacock paintings
displayed Ela’s wealth, piety, and status. They may also have commemorated her
vocational pride, her temporal and spiritual authority, and provided an identity
for herself and the foundation — an inherited tradition of hope, virtue, and
kinship for the abbey and its community down the generations.75
The Lacock St Christopher mural is one of the earliest representations
of the saint produced outside the royal milieu of London and Winchester.76
Hence it is likely that Ela’s royal connections were influential in her selection of
this image. Documentary evidence reveals that Ela used her secular prestige to
advance her prosperous foundation, and her connections with the royal family
continued after she entered Lacock.77 Henry III’s generosity included the grant
of a number of fairs, markets, and rights of free warren on some demesne land,78
the contribution of a weekly cartload of wood from Melksham Forest for Ela’s
hearth (from 1242),79 and from time to time donations of oaks from the royal
73
Luxford, The Art and Architecture of English Benedictine Monasteries, pp. 31–34, 54–56;
Rosewell, Medieval Wall Paintings, pp. 150–53.
74
Hermanni Monachi, De miraculis S. Mariae Laudunensis, ed. by Migne, col. 983; Kerr,
Monastic Hospitality, p. 168.
75
Luxford, The Art and Architecture of English Benedictine Monasteries, pp. 31–34, 54–56;
Rosewell, Medieval Wall Paintings, p. 187.
76
Pridgeon, ‘St Christopher Wall Paintings’, p. 13.
77
Labarge, A Medieval Miscellany, p. 72.
78
‘Houses of Augustinian Canoness’, ed. by Pugh and Crittall, n. p.; Calendar of the Charter
Rolls, i: Henry III, ed. by Maxwell-Lyte, pp. 230, 274, 460; Calendar of the Charter Rolls, ii:
Henry III–Edward I, ed. by Crump, p. 29; Lacock Abbey Charters, ed. by Rogers, pp. 15–16.
79
‘Houses of Augustinian Canoness’, ed. by Pugh and Crittall, n. p.; Calendar of the Patent
forests.80 Similarly, St Andrew could feasibly represent and endorse her regional
loyalties as suo jure countess of Salisbury. The saint appeared to have some regional
significance. Pre-Reformation churches dedicated to St Andrew were particularly
numerous in the south-west (with the exception of Cornwall). Examples include
the cathedral church at Wells (Somerset) and the church at Yetminster (Dorset).81
Indeed, the seal of the prebendary of Yetminster and Grimstone (Dorset), in the
diocese of Salisbury, depicts St Andrew on the x-shaped cross.82 Ela’s concern with
all elements of her foundation, and therefore its future adornment, is evidenced
by her involvement in the architectural elements of her two foundations.
The annals of Lacock describe how she founded two convents in one day —
Lacock in the morning and the charterhouse of Hinton in Somerset (originally
established by her husband in Gloucestershire) in the afternoon.83 Hinton’s
chapterhouse and Lacock’s sacristy both feature similar chamfered ribs supported
on ringed corbels, and their eastern bays are both decorated to emphasize their
heightened importance to the rest of the chamber. That Ela was aware of the
latest architectural and decorative fashions at Westminster is demonstrated by
the Lacock chapterhouse corbels, which include the same crown of foliage below
a ring moulding used for the heads formerly decorating the prince’s chamber in
the old Palace of Westminster.84
Conclusion
The context of the Lacock wall paintings, as well as the position of the chamber
deep in the heart of the sacred cloister, indicates a predominantly devotional
function for the space and its imagery. Such persuasive evidence means we can,
at last, dismiss the fabricated and misrepresentative term the ‘chaplains’ room’.
Rolls, iii: Henry III, ed. by Maxwell-Lyte, p. 287; Calendar of the Close Rolls, xi: Henry III, ed.
by Stamp, pp. 22–23; Calendar of the Charter Rolls, ii: Henry III–Edward I, ed. by Crump,
pp. 25–26; Calendar of Inquisitions, Miscellaneous, ed. by Maxwell-Lyte, i, 243; London, The
National Archives, Ward 2/94C/7; Elphinstone, ‘Firewood for Lacock Abbey’, p. 47 and
following; Lacock Abbey Charters, ed. by Rogers, p. 16.
80
‘Houses of Augustinian Canoness’, ed. by Pugh and Crittall, n. p.; Calendar of the Liberate
Rolls, iii: Henry III, ed. by Chapman, pp. 69, 139; Calendar of the Close Rolls, xii: Henry III,
ed. by Stamp, p. 336.
81
Hall, ‘The Cross of St Andrew’, p. 102.
82
Hall, ‘The Cross of St Andrew’, p. 102; London, British Museum, 1875,0617.
83
Bowles and Nichols, Annals & Antiquities, App. I, iii.
84
London, City of Westminster Archives Centre, E133 (109), Box 57, figs 138–39; Gee,
Women, Art and Patronage, p. 95.
The stylistic superiority of the Lacock paintings, as well as their sense of personal
selection, strongly indicate a wealthy, royally connected, and powerful patron
such as Ela, countess of Salisbury, who could have provided for their execution
after her death in 1261. A date of c. 1270 for the paintings is suggested by stylistic
and typological comparisons with manuscripts and English murals. The Lacock
paintings are evidently coeval — although St Andrew may be by a different hand
— and together they formed an integral part of the chamber’s Christological and
Eucharistic thematic scheme, which was undoubtedly once rather more extensive.
The Lacock paintings had a number of devotional and commemorative
functions. Their salvific function was achieved through the deliberate selection
of saints with potency and institutional, regional, and personal familiarity for
guaranteed intercession. These saints were also ‘didactic’ models for devotion and
exemplars of spiritual virtue and moral development to remind and affirm the
nuns’ vocation and spirituality. Conversely, the Crucifixion painting functioned
as a mnemonic or didactic trigger so that viewers might emotionally re-enact
the Passion of Christ. The Lacock murals were also commemorative in function,
acting as mnemonic prompts to recall Ela’s devotion and encourage intercessory
prayer from viewers post-obit. Similarly, the paintings characterized Ela’s wealth,
piety, and status, and provided her and the foundation with an identity long after
her death. Though now mere shadows of their former glory, the Lacock wall
paintings point to a rich visual culture in thirteenth-century English nunneries,
and provide an insight into painting typology and function at other conventual
sites where image survival is limited.
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The Group Portrait in the
Lincoln typikon:
Identity and Social Structure in a
Fourteenth-Century Convent*
Jennifer Ball
T he fourteenth-century typikon of the Convent of the Virgin of Sure Hope

in Constantinople (Oxford, Lincoln College, MS Gr. 35), commonly
known as the Lincoln typikon, has attracted much scholarly attention due to
its unique evidence for three generations of family patronage of a Byzantine
monastic institution.1 The text contains 163 folios, including twelve full-page
illuminations, and stands today as one of only six surviving typika belonging to
a convent, compared to over fifty such charters in existence for male monastic
1
Early publications on the Lincoln typikon include Coxe, Catalogus, Delehaye, Deux
typica, and Bodleian Library, Greek Manuscripts in the Bodleian. The bulk of the discussion by
Spatharakis (The Portrait in Byzantine Illuminated Manuscripts), Cutler, and Magdalino (‘Some
Precisions on the Lincoln College typikon’), to be discussed later, has centred on dating and
pagination. More recently Hutter ‘Die Geschichte’, has revised the date for the manuscript
and also added some significant analysis, important for my argument. Hennessy, ‘The Lincoln
College typikon’, looked at the portraits in light of the founding family of the monastery. Talbot
translated and analysed the text (Theodora Synadene, Bebaia Elpis, trans. by Talbot) and has
completed a substantial body of work in the history of Late Byzantine convents (‘The Byzantine
Family and the Monastery’, ‘Women’s Space’, ‘Female Patronage’, and Women and Religious Life).
Jennifer Ball ( JBall@brooklyn.cuny.edu) is associate professor of Art History at the

Graduate Center and Brooklyn College, City University of New York.
Abstract: The fourteenth-century typikon of the Convent of the Virgin of Sure Hope in
Constantinople (Oxford, Lincoln College, MS Gr. 35) has attracted much scholarly attention
due to its rich illuminations and text, which provide evidence for life in a Late Byzantine
convent. This study concerns one of the most important artistic features of the codex: the
significance of the manuscript’s group portrait of thirty-five members of the convent (folio 12r)
which reflects, I argue, the social organization within the convent, giving further insight into
class systems and the role of work within Late Byzantine monasteries. It is argued that the group
and other portraits in the manuscript together express the hierarchy and purpose of the convent,
that is, to ensure the salvation of the convent’s elite patrons, a noble Byzantine family.
Keywords: Byzantine, art, monasticism, nuns, portraits.

140 Jennifer Ball
institutions of the Byzantine Empire.2 The opening of the manuscript boasts a

series of rich illuminations including portraits of the female founders and their
family members. These twelve, full-page illustrations offer the art historian superb
evidence for Late Byzantine portraiture, and especially for the pictorial repre
sentation of lay and monastic dress (Figs 16–19). This study focuses attention on
a subject, which has been little considered to date: the group portrait of thirty-
five members of the convent (fol. 12r) that I address as a reflection of an idealized
social organization within the convent (Fig. 16).3 The portrait, I argue, expresses
an inclusive and egalitarian view of the convent by including representative types
of all ranks and ages, from the hegoumene (abbess) down to orphans and servants
in keeping with the ideals of monastic reformers of the eleventh and twelfth
centuries, as these were understood in the Late Byzantine period. This ‘reform
movement’, really an informal set of prevailing trends in monasticism, insisted on
prayer as the primary purpose of monastics and promoted equality in privileges,
attempting to rid monasteries of paid lay servants. The Lincoln typikon group
portrait portrays an archetype of the convent’s membership in keeping with the
ideals of the reform movements of the previous centuries in which everyone,
choir nun, working nun, servant, and orphan, stand together. The primary
work of these women was to support the spiritual well-being of the foundresses,
Theodora Synadene and her daughter Euphrosyne, and their family, through
constant prayer, remembrances after death, and the reading of the typikon itself.
The text of the typikon makes clear that a much more complex system of work
and social hierarchy existed within the Convent of the Virgin of Sure Hope than
the image, at first, suggests. The nobility were allowed personal servants, the
literate were granted privileges over the illiterate and low-born, and the status
of girls in the convent was contested, to name a few examples.4 A close reading
of the portrait, especially of the variety of clothing represented, reveals a tension
between the unified and egalitarian sisterhood that appears at first glance in the
2
A thirteenth illumination of a small, half-page framed floral design is on fol. 13r. A
second copy of the typikon was made in Constantinople in 1640 and was not provided with
illuminations. It survives today in Berlin’s State Library (Phillippicus 1489). Theodora Synadene,
Bebaia Elpis, trans. by Talbot, p. 1512.
3
The top row is badly flaking, but when closely examined, the tops of nine separate heads
can be counted across the top row. The five figures in the bottom row are not nuns in terms of
rank as Hutter has argued (‘Die Geschichte’) but, as this paper demonstrates, they are members
of the convent.
4
While officially one became an adult at age twenty-five, around age sixteen or eighteen
one was permitted to take monastic vows at most institutions; I use the term ‘girl’ to refer to
female children up through their mid-teens. See Herrin, Kazhdan, and Cutler, ‘Childhood’.
the group portrait in the lincoln typikon 141
Figure 16. The Nuns of the Convent of the

Virgin of Certain Hope, Oxford, Lincoln
College, MS Gr. 35, fol. 12r, c. 1330.
Photograph by permission of the Rector
and Fellows of Lincoln College, Oxford.
Figure 17. Theodore Synadenos and

Eudokia Synadene, Oxford, Lincoln
College, MS Gr. 35, fol. 8r, c. 1330.
142 Jennifer Ball
Figure 18. Theodule, Joachim and

Euphrosyne, Oxford, Lincoln College,
MS Gr. 35, fol. 7r, c. 1330. Photograph by
permission of the Rector and Fellows of
Lincoln College, Oxford.
Figure 19. The Foundresses,

Theodule and Euphrosyne, in dedication
to the Virgin, Oxford, Lincoln College,
MS Gr. 35, fol. 1r, c. 1330.
block of identically uniformed nuns and the hierarchical divisions present in the
daily life of the convent. This tension between an idealized inclusive membership
and the desire for a servant class to support the noble nuns not only lends insight
into the operations of the convent of the Virgin of Sure Hope but also into Late
Byzantine monastic institutions more generally.
This paper begins with a review of the known history of the convent and the
making of the Lincoln typikon. Turning to the group portrait, it then argues for a
specific hierarchical structure that both mirrors the organization of the convent
and aims towards a monastic ideal of equality. Next it assembles the group portrait
with the monastic portraits in the manuscript, which I contend were made as a
group, separate from the secular portraits, which were added later. Finally, the
paper examines the wider social context of the group portrait image. This section
demonstrates that the portrait contains lay servants, orphans, choir and working
nuns, together representing a compromise between the desires for comfort by the
aristocratic nuns and the societal pressures on monastic institutions to embody an
ideal of coenobitic practice formed in the Middle Byzantine period (843–1204).
The Founding of the Convent and the Making of the Lincoln typikon
The typikon’s author, the convent’s primary foundress, was Theodora Komnene
Palaiologina (born c. 1268, died c. 1332). A descendant of the family ruling
Byzantium before the Latin Occupation of 1204, the Komnenoi, Theodora
was also a Palaiologina as the niece of Emperor Michael VIII Palaiologos (her
father, Constantine Doukas Angelos Komnenos Palaiologos, was half-brother
of Emperor Michael VIII, under whom he served as sebastokrator).5 The emperor
himself acted as Theodora’s guardian after the early deaths of her parents.6
Theodora’s noble lineage and imperial connections were further augmented
through her marriage to John Komnenos Doukas Angelos Synadenos, whose
membership in the Synadenos family added to her own elite status. It was some
time after John’s death c. 1290 that she founded the Convent of the Virgin of Sure
Hope in Constantinople, the institution which the Lincoln typikon governs.7
5
On Theodora Synadene (= Theodora Komnene Palaiologina?; the nun Theodoule), see
Prosopographisches Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit, ed. by Trapp, fasc. 9, no. 21381. For Theodora’s
father, the sebastokrator Constantine Doukas Angelos Komnenos Palaiologos (the monk
Kallinikos; d. before 1275), see Prosopographisches Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit, ed. by Trapp,
fasc. 9, no. 21498.
6
Theodora Synadene, Bebaia Elpis, trans. by Talbot, p. 1513.
7
On Theodora’s husband, the megas stratopedarches John Komnenos Doukas Angelos
144 Jennifer Ball
Theodora brought her eldest child, and only daughter, Euphrosyne, who
was around age fifteen at the time, with her to the convent around 1300, where
both assumed the monastic habit. The two women lived in the monastery until
their deaths and they served successively as abbess of the community, Theodora
from its founding until 1332, followed by Euphrosyne.8 Throughout the typikon,
Theodora takes care to provide in every way for her daughter, ‘the flame of [her]
heart, [her] breath and life’.9 For example, while she bequeathed half of her
lands to the convent, where her daughter resided, she reserved the other half for
Euphrosyne personally.10
Family is emphasized throughout the typikon, not only through Theodora’s
provisions for her daughter, but most especially in the prefatory portraits of
Theodora’s male children and her grandchildren. The extended family, including
spouses, is mapped out by generation and for the male family members, their
court rank is explicitly defined by precisely recorded titles and carefully rendered
dress. Theodora’s eldest son, Theodoros Synadenos, who was protostrator from
1328 to 1331, was also involved in the life of the convent, serving as the ephoros, a
lay financial administrator.11 (Fig. 17) Irmgard Hutter hypothesizes that these lay
portraits were not added to the typikon until 1330 when a luxury copy of the book
with the family portraits was given to him, making the Lincoln version an archival
version that was kept at the convent, a theory with which I am in agreement.12
The content of the typikon, as it has come down to us, can be divided into four
discrete sections: Theodora’s original rule (1300); a series of additions made by
Theodora (before 1332); additions made by her daughter Euphrosyne, as the
second foundress and succeeding abbess of the convent (c. 1332–35); and a final
list of commemorations for deceased patrons of the convent that extend up to the
Synadenos (the monk Joachim; d. late thirteenth century, before 1290?), see Prosopographisches
Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit, ed. by Trapp, fasc. 11, no. 27125.
8
Euphrosyne’s death date is not known, only that there is a new abbess at the convent by
1392. Her death would likely have been decades prior, as in 1392 Euphrosyne would have been
around 107 years old!
9
10
11
On Theodora’s eldest son, the protostrator Theodore Komnenos Doukas Palaiologos
Synadenos, see Prosopographisches Lexikon der Palaiologenzeit, ed. by Trapp, fasc. 11 no. 21373.
12
Hutter, ‘Die Geschichte’, p. 105. Hutter believes that all of the illuminations except for
the portrait of the foundress with her husband and daughter were added c. 1330. I argue that the
monastic portraits form a group that was in the original 1300 manuscript.
year 1402.13 This author finds most convincing the proposal, advanced by Hutter,
that the Lincoln typikon was a copy created c. 1330 and included Theodora’s
original rule, written c. 1300, along with her own later additions. Euphrosyne
wrote a second typikon that was added sometime between 1332 and 1335.14 A
later hand subsequently added short entries to the Lincoln copy, extending up
until 1402; in these were recorded new instructions for commemorating later
donors to the convent. The purpose of the Lincoln edition was to serve as a copy
to be kept safe by Theodora’s eldest son, as ephoros of the convent. The Lincoln
copy was to be kept secure outside the convent, should the original be lost, as in
fact it has been.
While there is scholarly agreement that the lay portraits were added later,
due to the ages of those pictured whose life dates are known, the dating of the
monastic portraits remains controversial.15 While Hutter believes that the original
typikon had only the image of Theodora with her husband and daughter (fol. 7r;
Fig. 19), I argue that the monastic portraits along with image of the Virgin were
copied from the original manuscript made around 1300.16 The two monastic
13
Theodora Synadene, Bebaia Elpis, trans. by Talbot, pp. 1512–78.
14
Hutter offers a terminus post quem based on the fact that Manuel Asanes (fol. 9r) lost his
title in 1335 and would not have been pictured as such after that date: Hutter, ‘Die Geschichte’,
p. 105.
15
Spatharakis, The Portrait in Byzantine Illuminated Manuscripts, pp. 202–03. Spatharakis
posited that the entire surviving Lincoln typikon is a copy, written sometime between 1328
and 1344, several decades after the c. 1300 founding of the convent and the composition of the
original (lost) typikon. As support for his hypothesis, Spatharakis uses the visual evidence of the
dedicatory portrait on fol. 11r. In it Euphrosyne stands alongside her mother Theodora holding
a text, presumably the typikon; both women are portrayed in monastic dress. Spatharakis claimed
that the Lincoln images were copied from the lost original, except for the dedicatory portrait
on fol. 11r, which he posited Euphrosyne added in her own edition executed c. 1328–44.
Magdalino and Cutler, ‘Some Precisions on the Lincoln College typikon’, pp. 179–98, agreed
that the Lincoln typikon is a copy of a now lost original, placing it more precisely between 1327
and 1335. They felt that all the lay portraits of the family were copies from the lost original.
In addition, they proposed that Euphrosyne added the dedicatory portrait (fol. 11r) after
Theodora’s death based on their assumption that Theodora is deceased in the image. As portraits
of deceased figures in Byzantine art do not typically subscribe to iconographical conventions
identifying them as such, this is a difficult case to make. Moreover, the depiction of Euphrosyne
in the dedicatory portrait follows the conventions for depicting children — she is smaller than
her mother; as Theodora died when Euphrosyne was an adult, it stands to reason that Theodora
is depicted as a living adult in this painting. For more on portraits of the deceased, see Brooks,
Commemoration of the Dead.
16
Cecily Hennessy and I have come to the same conclusions about the dating of the
146 Jennifer Ball
family portraits and the group portrait clearly work together and must have been
made before it was copied to produce the Lincoln edition, which contained four
painted pages total: the group portrait of the convent’s nuns (fol. 12r; Fig. 16);
the dedicatory image of the Virgin (fol. 10r); and the monastic portraits — the
mother and daughter facing the Virgin image (fol. 11r; Fig. 19); and the parents
with their child, all in monastic dress (fol. 7r; Fig. 18). In both paintings where
she appears, Euphrosyne is represented as smaller in scale than her adult parents,
clearly signalling that she is the age of a child.17 Such a portrayal for the young girl
was appropriate for the timing of the monastery’s foundation (and the drawing
up of its charter) and the child’s taking of monastic vows, during her adolescence.
It also fits well with Theodora’s devotion to her young daughter, demonstrated
throughout the foundress’s original text as well as in her additions.
One of the most important functions of the book itself was the regular
memorialization of the foundress’s family, which is another method by which
the typikon emphasized the family. Her parents are celebrated together on 25
October when a special candelabra was lit and eleven priests were brought in
to celebrate Mass and sing the parastasimon prayer for the nuns. The nuns were
expected to partake in an extravagant meal in their honour, for which additional
money was taken from the treasury. Finally, a commemorative meal was given
to the hungry who came to the gate of the convent.18 The text requires that the
nuns commemorate all of Theodora’s deceased relations on their saint’s day
and discusses the commemorations to be carried out for fourteen relatives in
total. Furthermore, on folios 143–47 the text includes plans for future com
memorations to be celebrated upon the eventual death of those relatives still alive
when Theodora authored her typikon.19 She even includes mention of her own
future commemoration and that of her daughter.
The instructions for commemoration specifically require that services for
Theodora’s daughter, Euphrosyne be ‘more lavish and splendid than those of
her parents’ described above.20 The continual prayer of the nuns for Theodora’s
family demonstrates that the primary reason for the existence of this convent was
manuscript and the inclusion of the four monastic portraits in the original version; however,
I was unaware of her article when I first presented this material in October 2010. Hennessy, ‘The
Lincoln College typikon’.
17
Here again Hennessy and I come to the same conclusion: Hennessy, ‘The Lincoln
College typikon’, p. 106.
18
19
20
to support and provide for their everlasting spiritual well-being. Understanding

the author’s connections to the tight-knit group of elite families of the period,
and the codex’s emphasis on familial memory, conditions the ways in which the
manuscript was read, viewed, and used by the convent’s nuns. Furthermore, the
author’s societal status directly relates to the social structure within the convent,
which is echoed in the group portrait.
The Question of Portraiture

Should this be deemed a portrait? Despite the seeming lack of interest in physi
ognomic likeness to our photographically attuned eyes, art historians will
easily understand the images of individuals in the Lincoln typikon as portraits,
due to their inscriptions naming the persons depicted. The image of the entire
convent, however, is problematic to consider as a portrait: the women not only
appear generic, they are also not named by inscription. I argue, however, that the
group of nuns be considered as a portrait of the convent as a whole even while I
acknowledge that it represents a collection of types. The artist included medieval
conventions of identifying persons, such as clues to their ranks seen in their dress
and their positions within the composition. Additionally, the artist included the
exact number of members listed in the convent’s typikon in the block of nuns at
the top of the image, a reference to the identity of the convent. It is furthermore
intended to be recognizable as a portrait of the convent because the nuns wear
their identifiable uniform, which while, perhaps, similar to other convents was
specific to their institution.21 Importantly, the Lincoln typikon group portrait
fits in with the understanding of medieval portraiture as described by Thomas
Dale and other scholars who have examined premodern portraiture in the past
three decades.22 Dale states that medieval portraiture needs to be understood
in premodern terms and not in our current understanding of portraiture,
which presumes physiognomic likeness. Instead, he argues that medieval artists
21
Evidence, largely from Byzantine typika, indicates that the monks and nuns wore a
prescribed uniform specific to their monastery: in Constantinople, for example, the nuns of the
Lips monastery wore white wool, while at Certain Hope they wore black. Ball, ‘Decoding the
Habit of the Byzantine Nun’, pp. 25–52.
22
While the bibliography on medieval portraiture is long, some articles of note are: Recht,
‘Philippe le Bel et l’image Royale’, pp. 189–201; Squatriti, ‘Personal Appearance’, pp. 191–202;
van der Velden, The Donor’s Image; Dale, ‘The Individual, the Resurrected Body, and
Romanesque Portraiture’, pp. 707–43; Seeing the Face, Seeing the Soul, ed. by Swain; Perkinson,
‘Rethinking the Origins of Portraiture’, pp. 135–58.
148 Jennifer Ball
sought to portray individuals not as unique persons with distinct physiognomic

characteristics but rather as ideals, whose character is revealed with stereotypical
features and conventions of dress and other attributes.23
The Lincoln typikon portrait, furthermore, is in keeping with the conventions
of the very few other surviving group portraits in Byzantine art. For example, the
Emperor John VI Kantakouzenos, presiding over the council of Constantinople
in The Theological Works of John VI Kantakouzenos (BnF, Gr. 1242, fol. 5v) of 1351
depicts the emperor, John VI Kantakouzenos, in the centre of the council. He
is clearly identified by inscription along with his central placement, his imperial
garb, and his larger scale. The others in the image are identified by their dress
and their placement in the image in relation to the emperor, with those of least
importance placed behind him rather than seated with him. He is flanked by four
bishops, while the monks fan out beside them. In the background the deacons
are clustered on the far left, while the soldiers and courtiers stand directly behind
him, all groups wearing distinct headgear, colours, and dress, when it is visible, so
that we can identify them. The Lincoln typikon follows this same system: dress
and placement identify the nuns, servants, and orphans, who will be discussed
later, while those of highest rank in the manuscript are additionally identified
with an inscription.
The Elements of the Group Portrait

The nuns’ portrait, the last of the full-page, prefatory images in the typikon, is the
only surviving monastic group portrait found in all of Byzantine art.24 Moreover,
the group portrait is the only portrait image in the manuscript, save for the
dedicatory image of the Virgin (fol. 10v), that does not apparently depict members
of the Synadene family. What has not been fully addressed is the significance of
the nuns’ group portrait (fol. 12r; Fig. 16) and how it functions in conjunction
with the family’s portraits. It is probable that unidentified family members are
present in the group portrait, but their visages are not individualized. Rather it
depicts the entire convent and functions in consort with the previous images of the
family in monastic dress to demonstrate pictorially the structure of the convent.
23
Dale, ‘Romanesque Portrait Sculpture’, pp. 101–20.
24
Besides the aforementioned portrait of John VI Kantakouzenos, there are some imperial
family groups, such as Heraclius and his family (Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale ‘Vittorio
Emanuele III’, MS.1.B.18, c. 615–29); Manuel II and his family in the writings of Dionysius the
Areopagite (Paris, Musée du Louvre, MR 416, fol. 2r, c. 1403–05). A few group donor portraits
exist as well, for example in Cappadocia in the eleventh-century Carikli church in Goreme,
Turkey, seen in Ball, Byzantine Dress, fig. 6f.
This image has been described as showing choir nuns across the top rows
and a group of novices below. Hutter amended this proposal, noting that the
figures across the bottom row were ‘Novizinnen und (Arbeits)Nonnen’ (novices
and working nuns). Hennessy has suggested that the women at the bottom are
instead orphans and novices.25 In what follows I posit that these figures are lay
servants and an orphan. The convent housed working nuns as well, but they are
pictured with the rest of the nuns in the upper portion of the portrait. First of all,
these so-called novices each wear something unique, pointing to various other
persons represented, not simply nuns. Most importantly — arguing against this
conclusion — is the fact that the convent, according to the typikon’s text, did not
have novices. Novices are generally people over the age of sixteen or eighteen who
reside in a monastery for a probationary period between six months and three
years before taking monastic vows. In general, novices do not wear the habit of
full monastics, but rather a uniform, modified version of this outfit.26
As described in the text of the Lincoln typikon, the women in the three top
rows all wear the habit of a nun who has taken her final vows: the brown-black
cloak over a black himation,27 and on her head, the black squared skepai.28 The
uniform of the nuns above was written into the typikon’s rule and served to convey
an idea of equality among the sisters. The prescribed nun’s uniform is described at
length by Theodora:
Every year each nun should receive two white tunics, worn next to the body, and
one black tunic, which we wear over the other clothes and usually call himation.
In the same way each nun is to be provided with shoes suitable for women like
25
Talbot, ‘Nun’ entry in The Oxford Dictionary of Byzantium, illustrates the entry with this
image, declaring the entire group nuns. Hutter is vague about the working nuns, something
which I clarify herein, ‘Die Geschichte’, p. 88. Hennessy refers to the nuns below as novices, and
then amends this to include orphans without specifying which figures across the bottom were
orphans, Hennessy, ‘Lincoln College’, p. 100.
26
For example at the convent of Kecharitome, the full nuns wear cloaks: Irene Doukaina
Komnene, Typikon of Empress Irene Doukaina Komnene for the Convent of the Mother of God
Kecharitomene, trans. by Jordan, p. 685.
27
Dye technology was such that clothes deemed ‘black’ by the Byzantines could range from
an intensely saturated blue, to a dark burnt brown; true black did not exist anywhere in Europe
or the Mediterranean basin until the sixteenth century. Anthony Cutler informed me that he
detected a blue tint to the black when he saw the manuscript in the 1970s. Spatharakis in his
1980 publication, Portraits in Illuminated Manuscripts, p. 199, refers to the clothing as simply
‘black’ in his description, but in 2011 the colour looked brown-black, which could be a result
of ageing.
28
150 Jennifer Ball
ourselves […] Every three years each nun should receive without fail, in addition to
the garments described above, a cloak and two vests thick enough to insulate and
warm the body and protect it sufficiently against the bitter cold of winter. Each nun
will receive not only these [items] from the common [stores], but everything she
needs to cover her head. I give the name of ‘skepai’ to these headcoverings which
you term ‘phakiolia’ and ‘magoulikia’ in the popular idiom.29
The nun’s garments, their colour, and even their weight are prescribed, as a uni
form. A uniform was common in Byzantine monastic institutions, despite the
fact that the uniform was not the same across institutions.30 The typikon’s text sug
gests that everyone in the community, from the hegoumene down to the illiterate,
working nuns, wore this same uniform.
Theodora also importantly underlines the traditional value of modesty inherent
in the nuns’ garments,
For just as each worldly rank and office has a distinguishing feature in its dress,
by which they are recognized, thus it is appropriate for the female disciples of
Christ to have a special character to their garments, a habit of frugal and modest
adornment that is at the same time inexpensive and dignified, by which they will
be recognized by those who see them (and perhaps also by those who wear them)
for what they are, that is to say female disciples of Christ, to the glory of our great
Teacher.31
Note that the author describes the nuns of the convent as being of one rank:
female disciples of Christ. Accordingly, they all wear the same garments, and
these are necessarily modest in keeping with what is appropriate for a female
follower of Christ.
One of the women in the third row from the top holds a staff or cane, which
likely distinguishes her rank among the full nuns. It is a safe assumption that the
staff-bearer is the hegoumene, that is, Theodora herself, though special insignia
for the superior is not mentioned in the typikon. Some images of monks from the
Late Byzantine period show monks of rank carrying staffs, for example in the icon
of the Death of St Ephrem of Syria now housed in the Byzantine and Christian
Museum in Athens. Three of the most distinguished mourners close to the saint’s
body hold staffs. Another possibility is that the stick is a cane, representing an
elderly nun, in keeping with the notion that this image represents all of the types
29
30
Ball, ‘Decoding the Habit’, pp. 25–52.
31
found at the convent. Theodora is already pictured in the dedicatory image to the
Virgin, so it may not have been necessary to show her again.
Below the nuns in the top rows are five females wearing other distinct types of
outfit, four different versions in total. The woman on the left wears a brown tunic
(or a brown cloak buttoned up) over a black under-tunic with a white diaphanous
veil on her head, revealing strands of her hair beneath. The woman third from
the left is dressed almost identically, suggesting that this is in fact a uniform that
distinguishes a further rank within the convent distinct from that of the nuns
above; however, this figure’s veil is white, not transparent, and we cannot see any
portion of her hair as we can with the individual at the left. The second woman
from the left dresses nearly the same as the nuns above who have taken vows:
in all black. But instead she wears an unstructured black veil, rather than the
squared skepai of the nuns above. Images of Late Byzantine nuns demonstrate
that the skepai has either a stiff inner structure, or it is wrapped like a turban to
create height and shape above the crown of the head.32 This contrasts with the
form of a veil, which is merely a draped cloth that takes the shape of the head.
The figure who stands fourth from the left wears a black tunic and notably no
headdress revealing her brown hair. This is very unusual given the importance
of head coverings in general in Byzantine women’s dress. Finally, on the far right
stands a woman with a brown himation, a black cloak, and an unstructured black
veil similar to the woman in the second position.
While it is possible that variance in the colour of these tunics on the bottom
row may be merely a compositional strategy of the artist to differentiate between
individuals, this is unlikely. The artist did not do this with the nuns at the top of
the frame who form a unified block, barely distinguishable from one another,
with only thin lines drawn between each figure. Rather, the discrepancies among
the figures in the lower tier imply that they wear variations in their uniform
that indicate membership in various lower ranks within the convent’s hierarchy.
While it is not possible to declare with certainty the position of each woman
in the foreground, it is safe to say that these garments demonstrate something
other than a hierarchy composed of novice and choir nun. Especially given that a
novitiate is not mentioned in the Lincoln College typikon, we should not jump to
that conclusion. The primary reason for the existence of this convent was to pray
for the foundress’s family, not to proselytize and educate a new cohort of nuns;
32
See for example the early thirteenth-century Icon of St Theodosia, Constantinople,
from the Holy Monastery of Saint Catherine, Sinai, Egypt, in Nelson and Collins, Holy Image,
Hallowed Ground, cat. 46.
152 Jennifer Ball
the convent was populated largely with women from the Constantinopolitan
nobility from which Theodora and Euphrosyne came, who required servants. The
text of the typikon itself offers a great deal of information concerning the ranks
that existed in the convent, which can serve as a foundation for understanding
this image.
Hierarchy within the Convent: Nuns and the Laity

The Lincoln typikon can significantly illuminate the existence of varying ranks
within the convent, for not only does it preserve an extremely rare group por
trait of the community (Fig. 16) but the manuscript also provides the text of
the typikon itself, both of which speak to the various roles within the convent.
According to the typikon, in addition to the hegoumene, the convent had several
nuns who held offices, which are listed in descending order: ecclesiarchissa, the
leader in charge of all church services; a steward, who oversaw the running of the
convent, its properties, and finances; a supervisor of the storeroom, which held
the clothing, bedding, and fruit of the convent; the cellarer who was charged
with the storage of food and wine; and a ‘guard and gatekeeper’. Interestingly, a
discussion of the duties of the literate choir nuns interrupts the descriptions of
the offices and their duties, with the storeroom supervisor, cellarer, and ‘guard
and gatekeeper’ listed after the choir nuns, implying that their rank is lower.
These officers perform manual labour, as opposed to the administrative work of
ecclesiarchissa and steward.
In addition to the hegoumene, the nuns who held offices, and the choir sisters,
the convent also included women who functioned as servants, among them both
nuns and laywomen. Some of the sisters are referred to as working for the convent
in a general sense, serving food and the like. Theodora refers to ‘the sisters who
wait upon you and serve you and are thus distracted and concerned for your
comfort, and for this reason are absent from communal offices’.33 In another
passage she entreats those who are ‘engaged in [physical labour] most of the time’
still regularly to attend services.34 Together these nuns, literate choir sisters, and
working (presumably illiterate) women, known as diakonetai, numbered exactly
thirty in Theodora’s time (Euphrosyne increased that number to fifty).35 While
this image contains thirty nuns, and five additional members of the convent
33
34
35
below, I do not contend that this is a portrait of thirty-five individuals. Rather
it is a portrait of the convent as a whole and the types therein, as is made clearer
when examining the figures in the bottom row.
The figures across the bottom, I argue, comprise another set of individuals
who are not properly speaking nuns, as they do not wear the habit. By inclusion
in this portrait, these individuals are marked as essential members of the larger
monastic community. At least one of these figures is a child: the unveiled girl
standing fourth from the left, who is represented in smaller scale than the other
nuns reflecting that she has not yet reached her physical maturity in adulthood.
A similar attention to realistic scale is observed in the portrait of Euphrosyne as
a child between her parents, where she too has a bare head to designate young
age (fol. 7r, Fig. 18). One possibility is that this young girl represents the small
population of orphans living in the convent since its establishment by Theodora.36
By Euphrosyne’s time, nearly three decades later, the number of orphans may have
increased significantly. Euphrosyne amended her mother’s typikon, insisting that
no lay children be allowed in the convent to learn to read, unless they planned
on becoming nuns in adulthood. She refers to the education of girls as having
a ‘pernicious influence’ on the nuns, with the education of orphans becoming a
distraction to the sisters.37
The status of these orphans is not totally clear. Talbot surmises that the orphans
were ‘recruited […] to staff the convent’,38 based on the belief that Euphrosyne’s
amendment to the typikon requiring that only girls who wish to become nuns be
allowed to enter the convent implies that the orphans in Theodora’s time were
there to serve. I would argue for the possibility that orphaned nobility were
brought in as companions for Theodora’s daughter, a teenager at the time of her
entrance. Theodora states:
Not only did I […] [bring] my cherished daughter, but I also enclosed in this
convent a few virgins who have the same purpose as I do in all things […] I have
cast all my thoughts, all my hopes, all my anxiety, all my concern for myself and my
orphaned children upon the Lord.39
Theodora’s primary purpose was caring for her daughter, so the orphans may have
been taken in so that Euphrosyne would not be the only youth in the convent.
36
37
38
39
154 Jennifer Ball
Orphans could be, of course, from any class and it was not uncommon for
convents to take them in. The Lips convent, also a Constantinopolitan institution
established by and for the nobility, notes in its fourteenth-century typikon that it
took in orphans of ‘noble or common birth’, for example.40
I contend that the remaining four figures across the bottom of the group
portrait — all of larger scale than the child, and all wearing veils — are adult
lay servants, rather than children or working nuns, as has been posited.41 While
Theodora prescribes in her typikon that some nuns (diakonetai), more likely
those of lower social status and illiterate, served the choir nuns, the foundress
also mentions the presence of personal servants who accompanied members
of the nobility when they entered the convent. ‘The superior should […] grant
permission if any of them should ask to have one servant only to provide a
modest amount of service and ease.’42 I will return to the status of lay servants
in the monastic setting below, but it is important to note here that the dress of
these women is distinguished from the nuns above as well as each other, denoting
that they are not in the uniform of the nuns of the Convent of the Virgin of
Sure Hope. The fact that they are pictured at all, however, suggests that they were
considered members of the convent in some sense.
The Monastic Portraits in the typikon

Crucial for our understanding of the function of the group image with the
other monastic portraits is that the images fit very closely with Theodora’s text,
and her thinking on the understanding of the convent as a whole depicted in
these paintings and outlined in the text of the typikon. The dating and order of
the images establish that the foundress Theodora, as opposed to her daughter
Euphrosyne, ordered all of the monastic portraits. There is no information on the
artist(s) who created the images of the original typikon or the Lincoln copy. In
this study I argue that the monastic images, especially that of the group portrait,
closely follow Theodora’s unique vision for the convent. The social hierarchy and
the function of the convent are conveyed in both image and text, suggesting that
the monastic images should be attributed to Theodora’s vision.
40
Theodora Palaiologina, Typikon of Theodora Palaiologina for the Convent of Lips, trans. by
Talbot, p. 1271.
41
Hennessy, ‘Lincoln College’, and Hutter, ‘Die Geschichte’.
42
The nuns’ group portrait, however, does not at first glance appear to fit
logically with the celebration of the founders and their family, which is perhaps
one reason why so many scholars presumed this page was a later addition to the
manuscript. However, if we see the order of the monastic images as: Theodora
and her husband and daughter (fol. 7r, Fig. 18) followed by the image of the
Virgin (fol. 10r) with Theodora and Euphrosyne on the facing page dedicating
their convent to her (fol. 11r; Fig. 19) and finally on the reverse, the group
portrait (fol. 12v, Fig. 16), without the current, intervening lay portraits, then the
logic of the images becomes evident. Theodora’s immediate family was supported
spiritually, and literally, through the positioning of the convent’s patron saint, the
Virgin, and the final group portrait of the convent’s nuns and their dependents
at the bottom of the frame. Theodora and her daughter dedicate the convent and
the typikon to the Virgin, facing her on the opposite page, while the nuns, who
appear on the reverse, back up Theodora and Euphrosyne in their dedication to
the Virgin, both metaphorically and in the literal position of the image. All point
through their gestures of intercession to the left side of the picture (their right) to
the preceding folios with the portraits of Euphrosyne and her parents. When the
lay portraits of Theodora’s children, grandchildren, and their spouses were added
later c. 1330, the notion of the convent of nuns supporting Theodora’s family
was further reinforced: these new paintings were added in between the monastic
images of Theodora with her husband, and the Virgin, so that they too would be
included visually and literally in this chain of spiritual support.
The Inclusion of Laity in the Group Portrait

The question remains as to why the lay servants and orphan were pictured with
the nuns in the group portrait when, according to the typikon, these people did
not take vows and were not properly speaking nuns. In the remaining section,
I argue that their inclusion was aligned with a concept of an ideal monastic
institution, formed out of reform movements of the Middle Byzantine period.43
Beginning in the eleventh century, many Byzantine monasteries moved towards
total independence from lay authority, most especially the charistikion system, in
43
John Thomas suggested that a reform movement swelled due to the spreading of
the Evergetis typikon (Thomas, Theotokos Evergetis, pp. 246–73) but Rosemary Morris and
Robert H. Jordan have argued against this (Morris and Jordan, Hypotyposis of the Theotokos
Evergetis, pp. 17–32). Dirk Krausmüller and Olga Grinchenko (‘The Tenth-Century Stoudios
typikon’) downplay the importance of Evergetis’s influence by arguing for the importance of a
tenth-century Stoudios typikon.
156 Jennifer Ball
which private individuals were given monasteries to serve as custodians in return

for profits from the landholdings of monasteries. These reforms, which were not
formally organized but rather a prevailing trend, coincided with other alterations
in monastic rules towards a more conservative approach to coenobitic practice.
They insisted on prayer as the primary purpose of monastics and promoted
equality in privileges, ridding monasteries of paid lay servants. The primary
‘work’ of monasteries became hymn singing.44 But with independence came the
necessity of supporting themselves and monasteries grappled with the manual
labour, such as farming, that had to be done to keep the monasteries solvent.
Labour had been lauded in monastic circles going back to the Basilian
tradition of the fourth century, so long as it was not aimed at commerce. There
is ample evidence that a Basilian view of labour continued until the fifteenth
century and beyond. Theodore the Stoudite who led the Stoudite reform
movement in the ninth century followed Basilian tradition, through the example
of Dorotheus of Gaza from sixth-century Palestine.45 The Stoudite reform called
for a return to the ideal coenobitic tradition of Late Antiquity in which labouring
monks supported themselves without venturing into commercial enterprise. At
the social level, Theodore’s Great Catecheses was most concerned with abolishing
slaves in monasteries.46 He encouraged slaves to be freed, implying that at least in
Stoudite monasteries slave labour was common before that time.
Slaves were also present in Byzantine monasteries despite efforts to excise
them and/or ban the practice. Youval Rotman in his book Byzantine Slavery
finds several mentions of slaves, especially at Athonite monasteries, well into the
twelfth century.47 He further points out that in cases where slave owners brought
their slaves with them to the monastery, they may have emancipated them first, to
follow rules prohibiting slaves. However, it seems unlikely that freed slaves were
treated equally to their masters within the monastery. There is no evidence that
the servants brought with the nobility into the Convent of Sure Hope were slaves.
But like slaves, it is difficult to tell if women of low status entered the monastery of
their own volition and, if so, for what reasons. The waves of monastic reforms in
the Middle Byzantine period suggest that among many other issues, the status of
workers, not only slaves, within monasteries was bubbling up as a sticky problem.
44
Byzantine Documents, ed. by Hero and Thomas, p. 447.
45
Rule of the Monastery of St John Stoudios, trans. by Miller, p. 87.
46
Theodore Studite, Great Catecheses, 2.109, ed. by Papadopoulos-Kerameus, p. 802 and
Leroy, ‘Réforme’, p. 191.
47
Rotman, Byzantine Slavery, p. 147.
In the twelfth century the role of labour increased in private foundations

because they no longer had servants to rely on for kitchen duties, farming, and
the like. Imperial foundations, however, continued to have servants in general
and did not embrace this aspect of the reform movement. By the thirteenth
century if not before, many monasteries, imperial ones and those who followed
the reforms just discussed, created two classes of monastics — those who
performed liturgical duties, the choir monks and nuns, and those who laboured,
known as diakonetai. Thus they kept the ideals of reform without having to give
up servants. Rather than using non-monastics as servants, these servant monks
and nuns, the diakonetai, took vows. The typikon for the twelfth-century imperial
monastery of the Pantokrator, for example, refers to two categories of monks:
those who fulfilled service functions and were thirty in number, and those who
performed liturgical duties, of which there were fifty. As in the Lincoln typikon,
the service group is also referred to as such in the Pantrokrator typikon: ‘There
will not only be bakers, gardeners, and cooks among the servants but also helpers
for the ecclesiarch and assistants to the steward and other such people.’48
The Convent of Sure Hope followed this tradition of having two classes
of nuns — diakonetai and choir nuns. However, corresponding to what was
typical in imperial monasteries, additional lay servants were also admitted with
noble nuns. While Theodora followed many reforms with respect to the nuns’
privileges and equality, even quoting (without citation) the Evergetis typikon,49
she took a decidedly aristocratic view of the membership of her convent and the
role of labour. Her approach cursorily mentions the importance of labour, but she
never wavers from her sympathy for the nobility and their needs. For example, if
a nun’s relatives sent extra food to the convent, she was allowed to eat it and was
only required to share if there was enough to go around. Also, nuns were granted
supervised visits from relatives and they were permitted to leave the convent
to see family, as a vacation of sorts, not just in times of bereavement or other
emergencies.50 These privileges seem by their nature designed for the nobility as
the families of poorer nuns may not have had extra food to send or the means
to visit. Furthermore, the nuns of the convent lived rather comfortably, with
only perfunctory nods to ascetic practices. For example, fresh food was brought
into the convent three times per week; nuns were given more than one change
48
John II Komnenos, Typikon of Emperor John II Komnenos for the Monastery of Christ
Pantrokrator, trans. by Jordan, p. 749. My italics.
49
Theodora Synadene, Bebaia Elpis, trans. by Talbot, p. 1522 n. 8.
50
Theodora Synadene, Bebaia Elpis, trans. by Talbot, pp. 1545–46, 1548.
158 Jennifer Ball
of clothes; and those who were high-born, including the foundress’s daughter
and other relations, were allowed further comforts as the superior saw fit.51 This
hierarchical view of how the convent should operate is laid out precisely in the
images of the typikon, where the portraits of the founders and their family are
honoured and supported by the portrait of the nuns who stand behind them in a
vertical arrangement according to rank.
Not surprisingly, the division of labour within any monastery often fell along
class lines that pre-existed entrance to the monastery. While work in the Basilian
model of monasticism was important for humility, to sustain the monastics on a
practical level and to avoid the pitfalls of being idle, the notion of work as an ideal
could not compete with the medieval view of manual work, made explicit in the
Pantokrator typikon: ‘From the category of servants there will be four together
serving all the brothers in the lowliest tasks, or rather the most important and godlike
ones, if the saying is true which says “whoever humbles himself will be exalted”
(Matthew 23. 12)’.52 Other authors refer to labouring monks in derogatory terms
calling them ‘simple’. This is a two-sided term because simplicity is a virtue for the
ideal monastic, but the tone of these remarks betrays the elitism present in the
words of these, often noble, monastics.53 The nuns at the Convent of Sure Hope
were no different. Their typikon demonstrates that while labour was important for
the functioning of the convent, the domestic nuns, ‘whose salvation depend[ed]
upon [the choir sisters’] prayers’, were second-class citizens in the eyes of God,
who could not successfully attain salvation without the prayers of the literate
choir sisters whose focus on God was greater.54
Distinctions between superior, choir monk or nun, and novice, had been made
since the beginning of coenobitic monasticism in the fourth century. I posit that
following the mores of Middle and Late Byzantine society more generally, further
distinctions had to be made between servants, those who worked with their
hands, and the upper echelons of the brethren. Middle and Late Byzantine typika
suggest that these divisions were clear in dress, as they were in the nuns’ other
privileges. For example, in the twelfth-century royal monastery of Kosmosoteira
near Bera, in western Thrace, only the choir monks received cloaks, despite the
fact that any work done outside would justify needing a cloak or other heavy,
51
52
Pantrokrator, trans. by Jordan, p. 749. My italics.
53
Neilos, Rule of Neilos, Bishop of Tamasia, for the Monastery of the Mother of God of
Machairas, trans. by Bandy, p. 1154.
54
protective garment.55 This suggests that at the Kosmosoteira monastery the cloak
served as a garment of rank. It was also common for monasteries to base the length
of the novitiate on social status. For example, the monasteries of Mamas, Heliou
Bomon, and Macharias tonsured ‘distinguished people’ after six months, but had
‘common’ people wear ‘the novice’s rags’ for two years before being considered
for tonsure. Some monks (never nuns) were given allowances for market days for
necessities; the sum was sometimes doled out by rank.56
Theodora’s stance on work and servants, as well as on children, had become
the norm in monastic life by the fourteenth century. Workers were necessary and
built into the evolving two-tier monastic system, the choir monks or nuns and
the diakonetai. In addition, many monastic institutions had manual labourers,
private domestic servants, and working orphans who were not formal members
of the institution in that they did not take vows, such as at the Lips and Anagyroi
convents. However, these servants resided at the convents and, functionally
speaking, were members of these institutions, though it is difficult to tell if the
prescriptions concerning what to wear, how to behave, when to go to Mass, and
the like, applied to these domestics. At the Convent of the Virgin of Sure Hope,
the inclusion of personal lay servants and orphans in their group portrait along
with the diakonetai and choir nuns suggests that at least in this institution they
were considered a part of the convent’s membership.
While the Lincoln typikon and its images are the most complete surviving
evidence for such attitudes, there is ample data from other typika, from literary
sources about monasticism, as well as from other imagery, that the monastic
project of Early Byzantine times underwent many changes beginning in the ninth
century. This change required an increase in the division of labour, and insisted
on an expanded hierarchical structure, most evident in dress and privileges
afforded the upper echelons of monastic institutions. By Theodora’s time,
monastic institutions demonstrate a greater stratification within their ranks,
while simultaneously becoming more inclusive by expanding their memberships
to groups who previously were employed by, but not a part of, the monastic life.
55
Isaac Komnenos, Typikon of Sebastokrator Isaac Komnenos for the Monastery of the Mother
of God Kosmosoteira, trans. by Sevcenko, p. 826.
56
On the novitiate, Byzantine Documents, ed. by Hero and Thomas, pp. 1000–01, 1057–58,
1111. The monastery of Pakourianos gave allowance by rank: Byzantine Documents, ed. by Hero
and Thomas, pp. 534–35.
160 Jennifer Ball
Conclusion
The group portrait of the Lincoln typikon presents both a monastic ideal of equality
among the sisterhood by depicting the entire membership of the convent — choir
nuns, diakonetai, lay servants and labourers, and orphans. The lay underclass
was depicted as integral to the convent, as evidenced by their being included in
the group portrait. Nevertheless, their status is unmistakable: they reside at the
bottom of the frame supporting the choir nuns and diakonetai above and the
foundresses and their family in the previous folios. Their dress, an assortment of
clothing, perhaps culled from storage at the convent,57 distinguishes them from
the nuns above.
The common purpose of the nuns in the group portrait was reinforced visually
not only by their lack of individuated features, but also by the block of uniforms
represented at the top of the frame. It is a portrait of the convent with each type
found there represented. The women at the bottom of the image represent the
non-monastic types found in the monastery, lay servants and orphans, most of
whom we can assume were illiterate. They support the sisters above who have
taken vows, choir sisters and diakonetai, who, physically closer to God, pray for
their salvation as well as for that of the foundress and her family. A range of ages
is, perhaps, also implied with the nun who carries a cane and the child in the
bottom register. Their respective ranks not only play out in the vertical placement
within the picture frame, but also in their clothing: the nuns of higher rank wear
structured skepai on their heads mirroring more elaborate secular hats seen in
courtly fashions at the time. The sheen of their cloaks suggests silk by comparison
to the mean cloth of the drab tunics and cloaks worn by the sisters below.58
In part the greater interest in showing the range of roles within a monastic
setting relates to shifts in the understanding of the role of work in a monastery. By
57
The typikon makes clear that some clothing was made in the monastery by the community
members while other items were acquired through pious donation (Theodora Synadene, Bebaia
Elpis, trans. by Talbot, p. 1551). Upon entrance to the convent, nuns were required to donate
all of their lay clothing (p. 1543). Given that the majority of the women in this convent came
from the nobility, these stores must have been filled with a large quantity of fine used clothing
as well as cloth from which to make garments. This system would have precipitated differences
in dress, likely based on status, and would account for the variation among the lay servants and
orphans at the bottom of the image, whose clothing was likely drawn from these used stores of
donated clothing.
58
Thanks to Tony Cutler for raising the possibility of silk when I first presented this
material at the Byzantine Studies Conference, Philadelphia, PA, October 2010: ‘Expressions of
Class in the Byzantine Monastic Habit’.
the eleventh century, many monasteries had become great landed, independent
proprietors.59 Waves of reform throughout the Middle period asserted the rights
of monasteries to self-govern, which both necessitated more work be done by
the monks in house as opposed to peasants for hire, and asserted a corporate or
group identity within single institutions. These monastic reforms also served to
complicate the status of workers in the monastic setting and there arose conflicted
attitudes surrounding work in the monastery. By the Late period we see one
solution in the form of new practices in the Lincoln typikon’s group portrait of
the monastic community. The practical solution to labour in the Late Byzantine
monastery — enlisting both lay servants and servant nuns — was also outlined
in many Late Byzantine typika. These sought to name all labours performed by
the monastery’s members, while at the same time clarifying the roles and status
of each category. Finally, it was mandated by the Lincoln typikon itself that the
choir sisters read the rule regularly, reinforcing not only the governing principles
of the community, but also the historical foundation of the convent itself.60 This
narrative is told in its opening lines, cementing the identification with the group,
and combined with continual commemorations of deceased members of the
family, served as the ultimate reason for the existence of the convent.
59
Kazhdan and Constable, People and Power in Byzantium, pp. 91 and 131.
60
*
My research began with an award from the Wolfe Institute for the Humanities, Brooklyn
College, CUNY in 2010–11. In 2011 the Claire and Leonard Faculty Travel Fellowship funded
my travel to the Bodleian Library. My work has benefited in numerous ways from discussions of it
with Thelma Thomas. Thanks also go to Sarah Brooks, Nancy Sevcenko, Alice-Mary Talbot, and
Vasileios Marinis, and to my anonymous readers, for their helpful comments at various stages.
162 Jennifer Ball
Works Cited

Naples, Biblioteca Nazionale ‘Vittorio Emanuele III’, MS. 1. B. 18
Oxford, Bodleian Library, Lincoln College MS Gr. 35: typikon of the convent of Bebaia
Elpis (The Lincoln typikon).
Paris, Bibliothèque Nationale de France, Gr. 1242
Paris, Musée du Louvre, MR 416
Primary Sources
Irene Doukaina Komnene, Typikon of Empress Irene Doukaina Komnene for the Convent
of the Mother of God Kecharitomene in Constantinople, trans. by Robert Jordan, in
Byzantine Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving
Founders’ typika and Testaments, ed. by John Thomas and Angela Constantinides
Hero, Dumbarton Oaks Studies, 35, 5 vols (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks
Research Library and Collection, 2001), iii, 649–724
Isaac Komnenos, Typikon of Sebastokrator Isaac Komnenos for the Monastery of the Mother
of God Kosmosoteira near Bera, trans. by Nancy Patterson Sevcenko, in Byzantine
Monastic Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’
typika and Testaments, ed. by John Thomas and Angela Constantinides Hero,
Dumbarton Oaks Studies, 35, 5 vols (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research
Library and Collection, 2001), iii, 782–858
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Foundation Documents: A Complete Translation of the Surviving Founders’ typika
and Testaments, ed. by John Thomas and Angela Constantinides Hero, Dumbarton
Oaks Studies, 35, 5 vols (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and
Collection, 2001), iii, 725–81
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ington DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and Collection, 2001), iv, 1254–86
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the Mother of God Bebaia Elpis in Constantinople, trans. by Alice-Mary Talbot, in
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hosiou Theodorou tou stouditou Megale Katechsesis (St Petersburg: V.Th. Kirsmpaoum,
1904), p. 802
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—— , ‘Decoding the Habit of the Byzantine Nun’, Journal of Modern Hellenism, 27
(2009–10), 25–52
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Thirteenth–Fifteenth Centuries)’ (unpublished doctoral dissertation, Institute of
Fine Arts, New York University, 2002)
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hodie adservantur, 2 vols (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1852), i
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Cahiers Archaeologiques, 27 (1978), 179–98
Dale, Thomas, ‘The Individual, the Resurrected Body, and Romanesque Portraiture: The
Tomb of Rudolf von Schwaben in Merseburg’, Speculum, 77 (2002), 707–43
—— , ‘Convention, Vision, and Real Presence in Romanesque Portrait Sculpture’, Gesta,
46 (2007), 101–20
Delehaye, Hippolyte, Deux typica byzantins de l’époque des Paléologues (Brussels: Lamertin,
1921)
Hennessy, Cecily, ‘The Lincoln College typikon: The Influences of Church and Family in an
Illuminated Foundation Document for a Palaiologan Convent in Constantinople’, in
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ischen Byzantinistik, 45 (1995), 79–114
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duction to Modern Byzantine Studies (Washington DC: Dumbarton Oaks, 1982)
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Österreichischen Byzantinistik, 63 (2013), 153–75
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mentary (Farnham and Burlington: Ashgate, 2012), pp. 17–32
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Sinai (Los Angeles: J. Paul Getty Museum, 2006)
Perkinson, Stephen, ‘Rethinking the Origins of Portraiture’, Gesta, 46 (2007), 135–58
Recht, Roland, ‘Le portrait et le principe de réalité dans la sculpture: Philippe le Bel
et l’image Royale’, in Europäische Kunst um 1300, ed. by Gerhard Schmidt, Akten
des XXV. International Kongresses für Kunstgeshichte, 6 (Vienna: Böhlau, 1986),
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nal of Medieval History, 14 (1988), 191–202
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44 (1990), 119–29
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—— , Women and Religious Life in Byzantium (Burlington, VT: Ashgate, 2001)
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Thomas, John P., ‘Documentary Evidence from the Byzantine Monastic typika for the
History of the Evergetine Reform Movement’, in The Theotokos Evergetis and Eleventh-
Century Monasticism, ed. by Margaret Mullett and Anthony Kirby, Belfast Byzantine
Texts and Translations, 6.1 (Belfast: Belfast Byzantine Enterprises, 1994), pp. 246–73
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trian Academy of Sciences, 1976–95)
van der Velden, Hugo, The Donor’s Image: Gerard Loyet and the Votive Portraits of Charles
the Bald (Turnhout: Brepols, 2000)
Reviews
Demetrio S. Yocum, Petrarch’s Humanist Writing and Carthusian Monas

ticism: The Secret Language of the Self, Medieval Church Studies, 26 (Turn
hout: Brepols, 2013), pp. xvi, 307, 18 B&W illustrations, €85.00. ISBN:
978-2-503-54419-9.
Demetrio Yocum’s book is primarily a reconsideration of certain themes in
Petrarch’s writings, and the habits of mind that underlie them, in light of Car
thusian monasticism. It has ultimately to be viewed as a contribution to the
history and analysis of humanism, specifically, the role of monastic thought in
foundational humanistic discourse. The impact of classical sources on a man who
borrowed from them ad libitum, and even drew little images of Roman busts
in the margins of his manuscripts, cannot be denied, but the assumption that
Petrarch somehow channelled the essence of his ancient sources independently
of any Christian mediation of them is obviously unstable, and Yocum questions
it effectively. One result of this questioning is to make the line drawn by early
modern scholars between themselves and the Middle Ages look even fainter than
it did before. In this way, Yocum’s study bears out Jacques Le Goff ’s parting shot,1
that the falseness of the medieval-Renaissance division is most strongly apparent
in literary and artistic culture.
Yocum’s book is more important for what it says about Petrarch than the
Carthusians. Given its focus, this is entirely to be expected, but the fact is worth
stressing with this journal’s readership in mind. In a basic sense, Carthusian monks
acted rather than being acted upon, and Petrarch was a willing vessel, his writing
‘not self-assertive but dispossessive’ (p. 267). As Yocum represents the matter
(convincingly, to my mind; but I am no Petrarch scholar), the powerful, primitive
impulses generated by the monks inspired Petrarch as they might have any other
sensitive, enlightened thinker (he cites Gerson, Ficino, Mirandola, and More as
comparable cases: p. 272). On the other hand, Petrarch cannot be shown to have
influenced Carthusian ideas in any pervasive way, notwithstanding the claim
that scholar and order were involved in a relationship of ‘mutual intellectual and
spiritual esteem’ (p. 5). Most late medieval Carthusians would never have heard
of Petrarch, let alone read any of his works. (In an ideal world, Yocum would
have found space for the issue of the ownership of these works by charterhouses.)
1
Jacques Le Goff, Must We Divide History into Periods? (Columbia: Columbia University
Press, 2015).

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Nevertheless, the study is still of considerable value for scholars of monasticism.

Not only does it contain a good deal of well-digested, general information about
Carthusian and patristic spirituality, it also suggests what a galvanic example the
Carthusian form of living could be, and how ascetic principles were reconstituted
and disseminated in the secular domain. While he represents the Carthusians as
‘the only contemplative order without a specific “mission” in the world’ (p. 131),
Yocum rightly identifies this example alongside text-dissemination as the order’s
chief contribution to religious ‘outreach’ (see pp. 189–90, 219, 234). Prior
Guigo I, who wrote the order’s customary in the twelfth century, recognized this
early on in styling his monks ‘veritatis praecones’ (heralds of truth), and it was
surely the main religious justification for the later medieval practice of establishing
charterhouses near cities and large towns. A manifestation of it survives in
the words of a contemporary of Petrarch’s, Michael of Northburgh (bishop of
London, 1354–61), whose argument for the foundation of a charterhouse near
his city included the claim that not one in a thousand Englishmen had heard of
an order hitherto buried in rural obscurity.
Of course, not all of Petrarch’s writings are involved in Yocum’s reassessment.
He focuses chiefly on three Latin treatises written in the 1340s, De vita solitaria, De
otio religioso, and Secretum. These exhibit a self-searching spirituality that has often
been interpreted through classical rather than Christian moral paradigms (see e.g.
pp. 256, 258). The alignment of these texts with Carthusianism is fundamentally
justified by the contact Petrarch had with the order. His brother Gherardo was
a Carthusian monk at Montrieux in Provence, Petrarch corresponded with a
Carthusian prior general ( Jean Birel), and he visited charterhouses and lodged on
their fringes. Yocum imagines that when Petrarch stayed at Montrieux, he even
joined in one of the monks’ weekly spatiamenta (vigorous, extramural walks),
conversing with the brethren the while (pp. 159–60). Manifestly, Petrarch
absorbed something of the spiritual atmosphere of Carthusian monasticism
from these contacts: De otio, which seems to be a literary reaction to his visit
to Montrieux, especially bears the stamp of his experiences. Carthusian rigour
impressed him as a sort of transferable skill, whose absorption could benefit the
committed scholar: this is discussed at some length in Chapters 2 and 5.
In all, there are five chapters, each dealing with a particular theme. The
argument is appropriately larded with illustrative quotations from the sources,
presented in both Latin and English. There is also a small but highly interesting
selection of plates, mainly from Carthusian manuscripts. It seems that Yocum’s
engagement with critical theory developed as he wrote. This may be wrong, but
trendy theoretical language is certainly more in evidence at the end of the study
than the beginning. It leads to occasional obscurities and (one feels) encourages
REVIEWS 167
some minor flights of fancy, particularly in the discussion of cura sui in Chapter 5
(e.g. pp. 265–67). Overall, however, he makes his case clearly and compellingly.
In Chapter 1, he outlines Petrarch’s historical and manifest literary associations
with Carthusian monks and charterhouses, and also the state of the order in the
fourteenth century. It is immediately clear that Yocum has a superior grasp of the
relevant literature on monasticism, something that presumably puts him at an
advantage over many Petrarch scholars. Chapters 2 to 5 take up major themes in the
three treatises that have parallels in monastic practice, and thus help to reinforce
the overarching argument for Carthusian influence on Petrarch’s imagination.
These themes are ‘rethought’, according to the title of each chapter. ‘Rethinking
Solitude’ comes first, and Petrarch’s own cubiculum emerges from the discussion
as a sort of transmogrified monastic cell. The flexible concept of the ergastulum
— at once asylum, prison, and locus laboris — might have been introduced here,
and seems anyway to be what Yocum has in mind. In Chapter 3, the topic is active
leisure, or otium negotiosum, and the salient focus is Petrarch’s self-documented
gardening activities, said to have ‘adhered to the Carthusian timetable of manual
work’ (p. 139). Carthusian liturgy is tackled next, with special reference to its
‘laicization’. Yocum seems least comfortable here, and some of his points look
correspondingly forced. For example, with the best will in the world, it is hard to see
how Petrarch’s bequest of an image of the Virgin Mary and a breviary demonstrate
fervent devotion in a man who was, after all, a cleric, and would thus have owned
such things as a matter of course (p. 143). Testators bent on expressing fervent
devotion typically bequeathed more and worded things more urgently. Monastic
practices and anti-practices such as fasting, sexual abstinence, reading, and
writing are not of themselves liturgical, nor are they necessarily rituals (compare
p. 147). Jean de Berry’s Belles heures may be textually and iconographically
unusual qua primer, but it is by no stretch of the imagination a breviary (p. 210:
in Chapter 5). In the end, Yocum’s reciprocal notions that the liturgy was (1)
something phenomenological rather than textually dependent and driven by
ideas (or, if one prefers, spirit), and (2) sensibly adaptable to non-ecclesiastical
contexts and the realm of private speculation (e.g. ‘the practice of writing as
the liturgy of the self ’: p. 144) are things no scholar of liturgy would endorse.
In view of the author’s ambitions, these quibbles may appear to miss the
point. The best thing is no doubt to allow Yocum his terminological elasticity
and follow where it leads, for the chapter certainly contains much of interest
and sense. For example, the discussion of hymnody as an intertextual strain in
De vita solitaria is impressive (pp. 164–73). But I suspect that, even if they make
this concession, many readers will still baulk at the claim that in Petrarch’s time,
the Seven Sacraments and other church rituals were ‘increasingly seen as empty
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signs unable to produce what they said they would do’ (p. 193). It is not obvious
that Yocum needs lay disillusion with the secular Church — effectively presented
as anticlericalism — to substantiate an argument for Petrarch’s writing as ‘an
alternative liturgy for the bestowal of the self ’ (p. 147). Positive, traditional,
congregational religion and an increase in evidence for personal, even interiorized,
piety are entirely compatible with one another. Eamon Duffy would be perplexed
to find himself conscripted here in support of Yocum’s claims (p. 194).
Chapter 5, dealing with reading and writing, will probably have the broadest
scholarly appeal, because its topics are of current and transdisciplinary interest.
In contrast with Chapter 4, it is relatively easy for Yocum to associate Petrarch’s
activities with those of Carthusians in a way that makes obvious sense. Vitally
important here are those economical but eloquent passages on book making
and use in chapter 28 of Guigo’s customary. On this basis primarily, reading is
represented as the main Carthusian activity: ‘Carthusians spent most of their
days with books in their hands’ (p. 217). Whether or not this is true — they must
have relied greatly on memory, and the role of bookless contemplation is rather
sidelined in all this — the strong identification of the monks (and, it might be
said, monks of all orders) with the activity of greatest importance to Petrarch
provides a fruitful basis for speculation on the scholar’s habits. His writing in
particular is presented as a method for generating insight and self-understanding
(what Yocum calls a ‘hermeneutics of the self ’), with the ultimate aim of moral
and intellectual improvement grounded in self-denial, as opposed to the classical
goal of self-mastery of mundane passions. If this makes Petrarch a little too much
of a para-Carthusian for some tastes, it is undoubtedly sensible from the monastic
point of view, where reading functioned by turns as ritual, devotional exercise,
time-filler, and defence against harmful thoughts. Yocum’s argument that it
worked this way for Petrarch, too, is sophisticated and ultimately persuasive, and
makes a significant contribution to his important, insightful book.
Julian Luxford
University of St Andrews
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Emilia Jamroziak and Karen Stöber, eds, Monasteries on the Borders of

Medieval Europe: Conflict and Cultural Interaction, Medieval Church
Studies, 28 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2013), pp. ix, 271, 17 b&w illustrations,
€80.00 hardback. ISBN: 978-2-503-54535-6.
This attractively produced and skilfully edited volume represents the proceedings
of a conference on ‘Monasteries on the Borders of Medieval Europe: New
Perspectives’ held in September 2008 at the University of Leeds. The editors
are to be congratulated for assembling a fine array of groundbreaking articles
by established and emerging scholars. The volume contributes significantly to
understanding how late medieval male monastic communities responded to the
challenges and opportunities in peripheral areas or in ethnic, linguistic, or political
borderlands. A noteworthy feature of the volume is its wide geographical range
with essays on monastic foundations in Catalonia, Croatia, Germany, Greece,
Iceland, Laon, Maine, Poland, and Wales. This concentration on peripheries
shifts the focus away from the traditional monastic heartland of France, England,
and Italy, and yields an impressive crop of fresh insights. A fluid definition of
monasticism allows for the inclusion of the mendicant friars in some of the
contributions.
In the Introduction the editors provide a deft survey of the current state
of border studies with particular reference to the work of Richard E. Sullivan
and to the classic thesis of Frederick Jackson Turner on the significance of the
frontier in American history. The latter has proved a highly influential paradigm
(if somewhat problematic in a medieval context) for over a century. Since the
1980s a number of significant scholarly publications have appeared and their
principal conclusions are presented in summary form (pp. 7–9). The discussion
of how modern historical events like the German occupation of Poland or the
Franco regime in Spain affected the historiography of the medieval frontier
in these areas is both interesting and insightful. The editors’ assertion that the
foundation of monasteries even in the most contested of border areas cannot be
regarded as a solely political phenomenon is particularly welcome. In countering
this reductionist approach they insist on the ‘cultural and religious significance
and function’ (p. 10) of frontier foundations, as well as on their geopolitical
importance.
The contributions are grouped into two categories: ‘Conflict and its Reso
lution’ and ‘Acculturation and Cultural Interactions on the Frontiers’. In the
opening contribution Brian Golding contrasts the very different manner in
which the Benedictine monks of Shrewsbury Abbey in England acquired from
Welsh churches the relics of St Winifred in 1137 and those of her putative

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uncle, St Beuno, two and a half centuries later. Far from being merely another
case of the ‘holy theft’ of relics he situates the translations in the ebb and flow
of Anglo-Welsh relationships. Ana Novak demonstrates how the foundation
in 1211 of the Cistercian monastery of the Blessed Virgin Mary at Toplica in
central Croatia was initially intended to help secure the vital routeway between
the territories of Pannonia and Dalmatia. Its strategic position meant that it was
further fortified in the 1520s as part of Croatian efforts to ward off the advances
of the Ottoman Turks. In her case study of Alvastra Abbey, the first Cistercian
foundation in Scandinavia, Marie Holmström assesses its role in legitimating
the emerging Sverker dynasty and providing it with administrative expertise. She
also argues that evidence for the large-scale production of parchment at nearby
Sverkerskapellet may indicate the presence of a monastic grange that provided the
raw material for Cistercian record-keeping and book production. Paul Milliman’s
chapter on the tensions that emerged in the early fourteenth century between
King Kazimierz of Poland and the Teutonic knights illustrates the difficulties
that ensued when the order attempted to assert its independence as a territorially
sovereign state just as the newly restored kingdom of Poland attempted to
establish its boundaries. Remaining in Central Europe, Hans-Joachim Schmidt
show how the friars’ administrative unit, the province, was exploited by secular
rulers keen to consolidate German colonization in thirteenth-century Silesia,
Pomerania, and Prussia.
Steinunn Kristjánsdóttir’s chapter on the fifteenth-century Augustinian
foundation at Skriđuklaustur in eastern Iceland is one of the most striking and
original contributions to the volume. Based on recent excavations at the site, she
demonstrates how the claustral complex was adapted to Icelandic conditions and
available resources, and convincingly suggests that the foundation functioned as
a hospital. The regular canons also feature in Karen Stöber’s analysis of the role
of the abbey of Santa Maria de Vilarbertran in Catalan affairs in the twelfth and
thirteenth centuries. She notes the multifaceted nature of the Catalan frontier
with its shifting religious, political, social, and cultural expressions and argues
that the Augustinians, with their close contacts with the laity, were particularly
susceptible to these external influences. Nicky Tsougarakis’s essay on the Latin
religious orders in thirteenth-century Greece is a welcome contribution to a
neglected field of research. Entirely dependent on Western patronage, these orders
made little impact on the lives of the Greek population but acted as important
mediators between Orthodox and Latin Christianity. Kathryn Dutton’s analysis
of twelfth-century Angevin patronage in Maine demonstrates how the cult of
local saints and the patronage of monasteries were harnessed to consolidate an
overlord’s grip on a newly acquired territory. Kati Ihnat extends the concept of the
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frontier to encompass mental and intellectual spaces through her analysis of the
liturgical drama Ordo prophetarum that may have been performed on the Feast
of the Circumcision of the Lord (1 January) in Laon Cathedral. She situates the
work’s anti-Jewish polemic in the flowering of exegesis and the burgeoning cult of
the Virgin at Laon in the twelfth century that led the Christian community there
to consolidate their own identity by focusing on the ‘otherness’, the ‘anti-example’
of the Jew.
This volume opens up many important perspectives and is a major contribution
to how cultural, social, political, and intellectual frontiers impacted the lives of
medieval monastic communities. Its wide geographical range means that the
topic is not dominated by the concerns and concepts of a conceptual ‘heartland’
at the expense of an imagined ‘periphery’ and the ability of medieval monastic
communities to adapt to all manner of situations is impressively demonstrated.
Colmán Ó Clabaigh OSB
Glenstal Abbey, Ireland
Constance Brittain Bouchard, Rewriting Saints and Ancestors: Memory and

Forgetting in France, 500–1200 (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania
Press, 2015), pp. xvi, 362, $79.95. ISBN: 978-0-8122-4636-0.
Memory ‘usually chronicles the things that have never happened, and couldn’t
possibly have happened’ (Oscar Wilde).
In spite of the very substantial growth of memory studies and the ground
breaking work of historians such as Mary Carruthers, Patrick Geary, and, par
ticularly relevant here, Amy Remensnyder, the role of memory in the generation of
monastic historiography has been largely neglected, particularly when compared
with hagiography, to which in some respects communal monastic histories
are analogous. Memory is malleable, both manipulated and manipulative. All
histories are founded on memories that are inevitably consciously or unconsciously
selective. Monastic memories were no different. Liturgical commemorative cycles
directed devotions; their reiterations through prayer and lectiones ensured the
merits and deeds of canonized founding fathers and mothers went unforgotten.
Charters encapsulated the memory of land transactions and the community’s
relationships with its lay benefactors and neighbours: they were intended as a
perpetual reminder of rights and claims to the temporal property on which its
survival depended. All these components intermeshed to create a canon of cor
porate commemoration. The eyes of an abbot meditating on a psalter might
pass from the calendar of saints, both universal and of local commemoration,
to miniatures illustrative of his house’s foundation: a liber vitae laid up on the

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high altar brought the monastery’s remembered donors and benefactors to the
physical and spiritual heart of the community, the core of the opus dei. Sometimes
monastic memory was literally enshrined; the venerated bones of the patron
saint protected and validated the foundation, and provided a visual, as well as a
conceptual, focal point and identity.
Yet, as Bouchard shows in this important and innovative study, these memories
were always fluid and open to revision. Her nuanced and wide-ranging analysis
of foundation narratives in early medieval France is a major and inspirational
contribution to the literature of monastic self-representation. She does not
confine herself to texts explicitly identified as historiae fundationis, but examines
the whole corpus of written material that made up the package of memories
from which histories were constructed and reconstructed. Perhaps even more
importantly, by setting her interpretation within the longue durée of Merovingian,
Carolingian, and early Capetian France, Bouchard reveals how shifting contexts
and demands, both external and within the community, political and cultural,
led to the reshaping (and fabricating) of histories, and the reworking, reordering,
and sometimes neglecting of the documentary record of charters, cartularies, and
polyptyques.
Monastic memory was accretional, built up in layers that might amplify, act
as a commentary on, or obscure an underlying tradition. Bouchard’s innovation
is to employ a ‘reverse chronology’, approaching the literature from its end point
(or at least the twelfth century!) and to unpeel the layers, not in a positivist
attempt to reveal the truth lying at the core, but to demonstrate how monks
responded to religious and political change and used sometimes anachronistic
texts to reinforce their legitimacy. Theirs was, in Bouchard’s apt phrase, a ‘creative
memory’. Memory, like tradition, is frequently invented.
However, there is one considerable lacuna in this study, which is otherwise so
concerned with the filling or creation of lacunae in the monastic record. Where
are the nunneries? Faremoutiers and Jouarre, for example, are mentioned once,
Chelles and Poitiers receive one paragraph. Did those nunneries, which were
so important in the secular as well as the religious life of early medieval France,
have no histories or charters to write, or rewrite? Were nuns also not involved
in the creative process? If they did not or were not, then why not? If they did,
then their absence from this analysis is distorting. One of the greatest strengths of
Bouchard’s thesis is its close attention to the written word. But this also inevitably
produces an imbalance. As she writes, she privileges ‘literacy over orality’. This
was after all what the monks and others were doing, as Michael Clanchy made
clear nearly forty years ago. But though she does briefly consider relics and tombs,
martyrologies and libri memoriales, for the most part the roles played by the
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liturgy, the disposition of architectural space, sculpture and painting (such as the
frescoes in the crypt of St Germain at Auxerre), to say nothing of music, in the
creation of identity are ignored. These are areas for further research. Meanwhile
Bouchard has provided a masterly and well-constructed analysis that should be
required reading for all historians of monasticism and of early medieval Europe.
This exciting book has strong claims to be the most important work published in
the field of monastic studies this year.
Brian Golding
taught medieval history at the
University of Southampton until his retirement.
Carlos M. Reglero de la Fuente, Amigos exigentes, servidores infieles: La crisis

de la orden de Cluny en España (1270–1379) (Madrid: Consejo Superior
de Investigaciones Científicas, 2014), pp. 416, €30.00. ISBN: 978-84-00-
09839-1.
With Amigos exigentes, servidores infieles. La crisis de la orden de Cluny en España
(1270–1379), Carlos Reglero de la Fuente has written an important book which
represents a very welcome contribution to recent work on the Order of Cluny, not
only in the context of the Iberian Peninsula, but in Western Christendom more
widely. This volume is in many ways a companion to his earlier study, published in
León in 2008, entitled Cluny en España. Los prioratos de la provincia y sus redes sociales
(1073–c. 1270), which similarly focused on the Cluniac communities in Spain and
their social networks, as well as the inner workings of Spanish Cluniac priories.
The two principal parts into which this book is divided treat, first, the relations
between the Spanish Cluniacs and the authorities (including the crown, the nobility,
diocesan authority, and the papacy), and, second, issues relating to the Spanish
Cluniac monasteries (such as their internal organization and administration,
their liturgy, and the relations between monks and priors). Following this,
Reglero de la Fuente introduces, in a prosopographical appendix, no fewer than
fourteen Spanish Cluniac priors from the thirteenth and fourteenth centuries.
As the title of the book suggests, the author here considers what he calls the
‘crisis of Cluny’ in the later Middle Ages, measuring this crisis in aspects such as
internal indiscipline and numerical decline in the Spanish Cluniac priories, as
well as economic decline, and the relations between the Spanish houses of the
order and the mother house at Cluny. In doing so, Reglero de la Fuente presents a
profound and thorough study of the Black Monks in the later medieval Peninsula
that takes into account the political, historical, social, and economic contexts of
their monasteries.

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It is crucial for our understanding of any monastic movement, but perhaps

especially relevant in the context of the Cluniacs, to consider the dynamics
between individual communities of the order, as well as between heads of
different houses, and the relations between monasteries and the society outside
their convent walls. By examining the many types of contacts between Cluniac
communities and the outside world — both secular and ecclesiastical — the
author helps us appreciate the constant need for negotiating authority.
Negotiating authority was a key factor also in the context of the internal life
of the Spanish Cluniac monastery, and the author again demonstrates this on the
basis of his rich documentary material. Confronting the oft-claimed ‘decline’ of
the Order of Cluny during the later Middle Ages, its increasing distance from
what is often regarded as its ‘splendid’ earlier period and the alleged lack of vitality,
Reglero de la Fuente demonstrates convincingly that this is in reality a much more
complex and less straightforward issue. Later medieval religious communities
always need to be considered in the context of a changing environment and the
changing circumstances of society, to which to a greater or lesser degree they had
to adapt, regardless of the monastic order to which they belonged.
Karen Stöber
Universitat de Lleida
David Cox, The Church and the Vale of Evesham 700–1215: Lordship,
Landscape and Prayer, Studies in the History of Medieval Religion, 44
(Woodbridge: Boydell, 2015), pp. xvi, 228, 14 illustrations, £60.00. ISBN:
9781783270774.
David Cox is well placed to write this book since he has produced, between 1975
and 2010, a series of articles on various aspects of the history and buildings of the
abbey of Evesham. In his preface, he asserts that Evesham is a good subject because
the abbey ‘governed the religious, economic and social life of the Vale of Evesham
[…] one could hardly find a more suitable part of England to observe the tense
interplay of lordship and prayer’ (p. x). One might then expect a book arranged
thematically in order to address the subjects of lordship, landscape, and prayer.
Instead, what follows is a much more conventional and largely chronological
account, dealing with the history of the abbey from its first foundation to the
beginning of the thirteenth century, divided into three parts. The first part
begins with the first foundation by King Æthelred and Bishop Ecgwine and
ends with the abbacy of the last Anglo-Saxon abbot, Æthelwig, who, like Bishop
Wulfstan of Worcester, ruled across the Norman Conquest, dying in 1078. The
second part deals more fully with the abbacy of the first post-Conquest abbot,

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Walter (1078–1104). The third part extends the story to the early years of
the thirteenth century, but treats the material thematically in a series of short
sections, for example, order and governance, economic realities, and worship.
The account is based firmly on documentary sources, but in certain places other
material is introduced, as in the section on Abbot Manni (1044–58), where the
archaeological and name evidence for the early precinct and town of Evesham are
briefly discussed (pp. 72–75).
The difficulties with this largely chronological approach are made acute
by the nature of the sources for the history of Evesham, which Cox himself
recognizes when he explains that ‘between the eleventh and thirteenth
centuries Evesham abbey used imagination and artifice to create documents
that were meant to represent its early history’ (p. x). Thus, that early history
has to be reconstructed almost entirely with reference to late forgeries, with
much qualifying of the account and occasional special pleading. The same
documents are then discussed again in the context of their fabrication, notably
under Abbot Walter and especially in relation to the ongoing dispute with
the bishop of Worcester. The importance of Abbot Walter in the creation and
transmission of the official history of Evesham for the purposes of defending
his abbey and community might have suggested an alternative approach to the
history, one which focused on the fabrication of the documents in their various
contexts, whilst admitting that the early history of the community is largely
obscure and unknowable. The archaeological and other non-documentary
sources could then have been used to much greater effect, and perhaps in more
detail, to elucidate aspects of that history.
As Cox himself recognizes, a general historical account is by its nature
wide-ranging, touching on themes and ideas which detailed treatments tend to
leave to one side (p. x). This account, however, seems to leave too much detail
to the side, so that the discussion can seem limited and bland. For example,
in outlining the developing mechanisms of governance of the abbey in the
thirteenth century, including the position and authority of the abbot, the
various monastic obedientiaries, and issues of accountability (pp. 141–48),
there is no comparison between the situation at Evesham and that pertaining
in other houses, which might point up differences or similarities between
them and help to contextualize the discussion. It also seems to be the case that
much that Cox knows about the abbey is not included in this account. He has
written on the estates of the abbey in the Vale of Evesham2 and extensively on
2
David Cox, ‘The Vale Estates of the Church of Evesham, c. 700–1086’, Vale of Evesham
Historical Society Research Papers, 5 (1975), 25–50.
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the physical remains,3 but little of that material is reused in this monograph.
Indeed, the discussion of the building of the new Romanesque church by
Abbot Walter is condensed into two and a half pages with a ‘partly conjectural’
plan that is largely unexplained (pp. 99–102).
In conclusion this is a nicely produced book, which those interested in
Evesham Abbey will find of value. It is disappointing, however, that it cannot be
recommended as either a full or a definitive account.
Lynda Rollason
Departments of History and Archaeology
Durham University
Philipp Lenz, Reichsabtei und Klosterreform: Das Kloster St Gallen unter
dem Pfleger und Abt Ulrich Rösch 1457–1491, Monasterium Sancti Galli,
6 (St Gallen: Verlag am Klosterhof, 2014), pp. 655, €98.00. ISBN: 978-3-
905906-10-3.
In his dissertation Philipp Lenz focuses on the famous Benedictine monastery
of Saint Gall during the second half of the fifteenth century, a time during which
Ulrich Rösch, the protagonist of this story, was first curator (from 1457), and later
abbot of the prestigious monastery (from 1463 until his death in 1491). Both for
the time period, which covers the late medieval monastic reform movement, and
for his focus on the impressive figure of Ulrich Rösch, Philipp Lenz succeeds in
adding to, and modifying, existing research.
Lenz approaches his topic in three stages. First, he addresses the background,
which allows for a detailed description of everyday life in a late medieval monastic
community. This part of the book makes it easy for the reader to emerge in the
second half of the fifteenth century and understand the mechanisms at work.
In his discussion of the efforts to reform the monastery (1417 to 1457), the
author convincingly illustrates why these were not specifically observant reform
endeavours, as was claimed by Gebhard Spahr, who referred to the connection
between Saint Gall and the reform monks of Hersfeld and Wiblingen and the
monastic reform centres of Kastl and Subiaco-Melk. Developments in the first
half of the fifteenth century had a limited impact, which is visible both in the
social composition of the monastic community and in the way in which the
3
David Cox, ‘The Building, Destruction and Excavation of Evesham Abbey: A Documentary
History’, Transactions of the Worcestershire Archaeological Society, 3rd ser., 12 (1990), 123–46;
‘Evesham Abbey: The Romanesque Church’, Journal of the British Archaeological Association,
163 (2010), 24–70.

REVIEWS 177
monks reacted to reform manifestos and materials coming from outside Saint
Gall — these were either not received or strongly altered to adjust to the local
traditions. Reform efforts were not observance-specific but rather an indication
of a total Benedictine reform that had formed through papal and conciliar reform
decrees and resolutions in the later Middle Ages and found their way into the
Mainz-Bamberg ecclesiastical province, which also included Saint Gall.
The author does not stop at these ecclesiastical aspects, but rather widens the
focus of the reform movement to include renewals in the more worldly spheres
of the monastery. This is a refreshingly clear statement and differs from other
approaches to (monastic) reforms that tend to stress either the temporalia or
the spiritualia. The author’s double perspective allows him in part two to take
a new look at the architectural and juridical properties of the abbey and in part
three to examine the situation inside the abbey during the rule of Rösch. While
these themes have been treated before, Lenz’s meticulous work and considerate
perspective provide new insights: Saint Gall in the context of a never before
sketched landscape of worldly rights. Within the context of the episcopacy we
can see a monastery that grew increasingly independent from the bishop from the
mid-thirteenth century onwards. Lenz focuses on the papal favours and privileges
to the monastery that limited the bishop’s authority. Furthermore, he examines
the monastery’s exemption and its subsequent problems both from a normative
and praxis-oriented point of view. Among the monastery’s rights was the right to
incorporate parish churches, chapels, and altars, and thus they reached far beyond
the monastic space in Saint Gall and influenced the city of Saint Gall. This was
political rather than religious, since the city had grown around the monastery but
had managed to free itself from the mighty abbey, leading to otherwise strictly
separated spheres of city and monastery.
While earlier research has stressed Ulrich Rösch as a worldly figure and ruler,
Lenz convincingly adds the role of a spiritual father to this portrait. He is neither
one nor the other, but emerges as a well-rounded figure, and both his political
and spiritual ambitions show in many aspects of his later life. Lenz manages to
read a lot in constructions and architecture initiated by Rösch in the second half
of the fifteenth century. Between 1487 and 1489 the abbot planned to build
a new monastery, but rather than seeing this as reviving the old monastery of
Saint Gall Lenz identifies a plan to separate the worldly tasks of a monastery
from its spirituality: Rorschach should have become the economic, military, and
administrative centre of the abbey. Rösch put a lot of careful planning into the
sacred spaces and strengthened the vita communis by changing the choir according
to the demands of the monastic reforms. In addition, he meticulously planned
for the local non-monastic laypeople with lay housing and farm buildings. The
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reorganization of the library also followed the ideas of the reform rather than the
blossoming ideas of humanism.
Everyday life in the monastery was shaped by a number of external and
internal factors such as monastic traditions, the demands of the reform, the
needs of a monastic familia, and the interest of laypersons who were connected
to the monastery. We can perceive this change in the monastery’s liturgy. The
altars and chapels offered a space for laypersons who formed brotherhoods.
Connected to the formation of different groups we can see a distinct separa
tion of conventual and lay memoria. During his abbacy of Rösch intensified
its perceived dignity by means of skilled staging, for example the translation
of the bones of Saint Gall or the erection of a pietà. Both the monastery and
the laypeople profited from these actions, the first by making money through
donations and indulgences, the latter by having a prestigious place of con
temporary piety, especially focused on Maria, her mother Anna and the Holy
Family, where they could worship.
Philipp Lenz’s contribution to the history of Saint Gall in the fifteenth cen
tury sheds light on many exciting and previously unknown aspects, both with his
focus on the Benedictine monastic reform and with Rösch as the protagonist of
his story. The relationship between the city and the monastery of Saint Gall has
to be revised, since it is usually a story of great conflict, but Lenz’s work shows
that this is not true in all regards. Among his new findings is the increasing
practice of juridical conflict management during the later Middle Ages, a
practice that is shown in the context of the removal from office of Kaspar von
Breitenlandenberg, Rösch’s predecessor. While this is important and well written,
it is also symptomatic for the problems of this book: the number of individual
findings and the reassessment of older research cost Lenz the much desired focus
on one topic and the stringency to tell a cohesive story. More restraint on Philipp
Lenz’s part would have made the book more concise. This is also reflected in his
use of terms and concepts: Lenz claims to present an interdisciplinary work but
his focus remains within the traditional fields of history and a study of liturgy. He
promises more than he can achieve in this regard. Even the established structural
and micro-historical approaches lack the necessary framework; neither of these
concepts are explained nor used transparently throughout his book. Structural
approaches rely on agency, which is fraught with tension in itself and his micro-
history is too heavily focused on normative sources. In addition to these problems,
he promises the reader a micro-history in a global perspective. This is misleading
at best, since the debates about combining micro-historical approaches with
global history and a history of the world are very hotly contested in modern
history at the moment and the book does not deliver on its promise.
REVIEWS 179
Nevertheless, Philipp Lenz’s book is a valuable contribution to the history of

the monastery of Saint Gall in the later Middle Ages. He adds greatly to the existing
research, both by providing new insights and modifying old views. Nobody
working on the late medieval monastic community of Saint Gall can ignore this
book and the rich source material it provides in the Appendix. Lenz allows future
generations of historians to work with edited and contextualized source material
such as regulations of the monastery and its offices, rules for the lay brothers
and Saint Otmar’s hospital of 1470, which were enforced during the abbacy
of Ulrich Rösch. A diligent index helps find persons, places, and items quickly.
Michael Hohlstein
Center of Excellence, ‘Cultural Foundations of Social Integration’
University of Konstanz
Martin Heale, ed., The Prelate in England and Europe 1300–1560 (Wood

bridge: York Medieval Press, 2015), pp. xiii, 321, £60.00. ISBN: 978-1-
903-15358-1.
This collection of thirteen substantial conference papers treats various aspects of
the prelates or promoted clergy of late medieval/Reformation England; actually
only two papers are European. There were so many French cardinals under
Francis I (1514–47) that three different categories are detected by Michon,
some aristocratic and indeed scarcely ecclesiastical at all. Jamroziak in contrast
demonstrates how Central European members of an international order (the
Cistercians) resembled their English counterparts. In England these centuries are
characterized as a ‘golden age of prelacy’ that witnessed monastic superiors ever
‘more heavily involved in public life’. Prelates, secular and monastic, became more
alike. Whether mentioned in the Bible (bishops, deacons) or not, all prelates
were scathingly criticized by the Lollards, as Hudson brilliantly demonstrates.
Several papers discuss how original ideals evolved — the introduction of bell
towers in Cistercian houses, for instance — and how Benedict XII’s monastic
reforms had real impacts in English monasteries. More complex realities are
revealed behind the commonplace orthodoxies about alien priories (Thompson)
and clerical chancellors (Dodd). Thompson shows how early and how consistent
was the episcopal recycling of alien priories although he fails to mention both
the Templar lands and Phillips’s article in Southern History.4 Strangely, he also
4
Simon Phillips, ‘The Recycling of Monastic Wealth in Medieval Southern England,
1300–1500’, Southern History, 22 (2000), 45–71.

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questions that Henry VI was personally responsible for his two colleges of Eton
and King’s. Church-state relations are another common theme. Only the cardinal
of Clermont put loyalty to the pope above that of the king of France and even
he, when pressed, gave way. What the English king willed for alien priories
could not be resisted. That fourteenth-century lord chancellors were clerics
was controversial, so Dodd argues. When Archbishops Stratford and Thoresby
refused to act against the Church, Edward III appointed laymen instead, but
his experiment failed, most obviously because chancellors had themselves to be
men of standing — Richard II’s chancellor Michael de la Pole was too obscure
a timeserver, it seems. Chancellors needed also to preach and to adjudicate in
matters of conscience which demanded the specialist skills not just of mere
churchmen and bishops but increasingly (from c. 1450) archbishops. That
bishops did have pastoral concerns emerges from Scase’s rather inconclusive
investigation of Bishop Carpenter’s new Carnary Library at Worcester and from
Heale’s study of episcopal use of the printing press, notably for sermons and for
the visitation questionnaires and circulars demanded by Reformation religious
policy. Scase does not consider Carpenter’s re-foundation of Westbury College.
Even monastic superiors had pastoral responsibilities that demanded learning,
for instance in the canons, and hence book collections, which Clark shows were
often reserved by the convent for future abbots. Such book collections were just
one aspect of the magnificence practised by prelates that enhanced the dignity
of their houses and monasteries: Carter’s assemblage of Cistercian art and
architecture parallels the Benedictine patronage documented by Luxford. An
increasingly common instance of corporate ownership was the right of abbots
and even priors to pontificalia that demanded the bejewelled mitres, staffs, and
rings that feature in the seals and derivative effigies examined by New. Woolgar
argues that such splendid trappings were effectively held in trust. Monastic
superiors trod a narrow line between such corporate action, which often they
determined and marked as their own, blazoning new buildings with their own
arms, initials, or rebus, and from diverting wealth from and detracting from the
proper operation of the convent. Controversially the pontificalia invested in by
Prior Gosenell of Wenlock were for his life only. Insight to what monks actually
thought is documented by Heale from numerous gesta abbatum. That Cistercian
abbots did not have a separate mensa, Carter shows, did not prevent them from
lavishing wealth on pet projects, often instead of works commenced by their
predecessors that were left unfinished. How much more can be learnt about
prelates and how fruitful is such study is the major achievement of this book.
MICHAEL HICKS
University of Winchester
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John A. McGuckin, ed., Orthodox Monasticism Past and Present (Piscataway,

NJ: Gorgias Press, 2015), pp. xii, 588, $227.50. ISBN: 978-1-4632-0530-0.
The Sophia Institute, a centre promoting the study of Orthodox Christian
thought and culture, hosted its fifth annual conference in early December 2013.
The volume under review publishes the scholarly papers that were delivered at the
conference. Under the leadership of John McGuckin, that institute is becoming
increasingly prominent for the deliberately broad range of research that it fosters,
signalled by its mandate to study thought and culture with respect to Orthodox
Christianity. These points are worth making because they bear on the contents of
this book, which include studies into various aspects of the institutional, practical,
intellectual, and artistic culture of Greek, Slavic, Arabic, Ethiopic, Coptic, and
Armenian monasticism. These chapters are found in the first section of the book,
which is dedicated to historical themes; the book’s second section is dedicated to
modern and contemporary receptions of ancient monasticism. Another principle
of the Sophia Institute that informs the contents of this book is its commitment
to encouraging the work of postgraduate students. As a consequence, many of
the chapters were contributed by junior scholars. The inclusion of their work is
commendable and it seems very likely that many of them will go on to distinguish
themselves through their research.
As with all such collections, some contributions are stronger than others.
Notable chapters in this collection include McGuckin’s overview of Eastern
Christian monasticism; Jill Gather’s ‘The Recitation of the Psalms among Early
Christian Ascetics’; Kevin McKeown’s ‘The Devil in the Desert’; Hannah Hunt’s
‘The Monk as Mourner: St Isaac the Syrian and Monastic Identity in the 7th
Century and Beyond’; Gregory Tucker’s ‘Converting the Use of Death: The
Ascetic Theology of St Maximus the Confessor in Ad Thalassium 61’; Zachary
Ugolnik’s ‘The Monk Philosopher in Yah.yā ibn ‘Adī (d. 974) and Severus Ibn
al-Muqaffa’ (d. c. 987)’; and Mary McCarthy’s ‘The 15th Century typikon of
Neilos Damilas for the Convent of the Mother of God on Venetian-Crete’. Of the
chapters published in the second part of the book, particularly noteworthy are
John L. Grillo’s ‘Psychic Crisis in Monastic Communities: The Ascetical Writings
of Evagrius of Pontus in the Light of Modern Understandings’, and Christopher
D. L. Johnson’s ‘The “Mystical Mundane” in Fr. Nikon of Karoulia’s Letters to
Gerald Palmer’. The relevance of the latter to readers of this journal might not
be immediately obvious from its title alone, so it is perhaps worth explaining
that Gerald Palmer was the leading figure in the English translation of a major
modern collection of Byzantine and patristic monastic texts, the Philokalia.
If this collection suffers from a problem, I fear that problem must be its price
which is prohibitively expensive. This is a pity, since the book is priced well

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beyond what any individual reader should pay for it. No doubt, research libraries
should acquire copies, which students and scholars will benefit from consulting.
AUGUSTINE CASIDAY
School of History, Archaeology and Religion
Cardiff University
Santha Bhattacharji, Rowan Williams, and Dominic Mattos, eds, Prayer

and Thought in Monastic Tradition: Essays in Honour of Benedicta Ward,
SLG (London: Bloomsbury T&T Clark, 2014), pp. 354, illustrations, £75.
ISBN: 978-0-567-08295-4.
Such an outstanding medievalist and monastic scholar as Sr Benedicta Ward SLG
surely merits the highest quality of scholarly contributions in a volume published
in her honour. That is precisely what she has received in this encomium from
colleagues, former students, and friends. A wide-ranging array of articles brings
us from the origins of monasticism to the work of John Wesley and William Law,
via English and French medieval monastic sources, hagiography, the omnipresent
Anselm, Peter Damian, and the crusaders in the Holy Land.
Columba Stewart OSB kicks off with a comprehensive review of the ori
gins of monasticism, in which he succeeds in summarizing more than a half-
century of scholarship, presenting it in a form both illuminating and at times
even entertaining. His contribution should be essential reading above all for
monastic formators, so that they can avoid the clichés and romantic mythology
still apt to appear in conferences to novices or in the footnotes of those who
are not specialists in the history of early monasticism. His essay is too modestly
titled ‘Rethinking the History of Monasticism East and West: A Modest tour
d’horizon’. A better description might be tour de force! This high standard is
maintained throughout the volume as Eamonn O’Carragain discusses chapter 26
of the Navigatio Sancti Brendani while Rowan Williams, in a dazzling display
of erudition, expertly demonstrates that the complicated calendar issues in
the era of Bede entailed much more than merely wrangling over dates: it was
also about the creative appropriation of Augustine’s theology of grace. In a
footnote Williams takes a much-needed swipe at current attempts to associate
a rehabilitated Pelagius with an imaginary ‘Celtic’ theology, an association
he describes as ‘fanciful and anachronistic’ (p. 37). Thomas O’Loughlin, in a
provocative exercise in deconstruction, examines the dark underbelly of liturgical
practice in the same era, arguing that over-emphasis on the edifying liturgical
witness of Bede’s writings risks underestimating the less agreeable developing
culture of devotional mercantilism which would so mark and mar the later

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Latin Catholic conception of the Eucharist. In a rather less polemical piece,

Sarah Foot offers fascinating insights into Bede’s views on women’s prayer and
preaching. Henry Wansborough OSB provides a good account of the life and
work of St Boniface, making a brave attempt to rehabilitate him as less tactless
and prickly and not the medieval monastic control freak that is his usual identikit
picture. I am not qualified to judge, but I do know that many of my German
monastic brethren would agree wholeheartedly when Wansborough asserts, ‘One
modification of the conventional picture of Boniface as the apostle of Germany
must immediately be accepted: he was not the first to bring Christianity to the
territories east of the Rhine’ (p. 121). A masterly contribution by Henry Mayr-
Harting examines psalter illustrations to investigate what was going on in the
heads of monastics as they chanted the Psalms and meditated on their verses
in the discipline of lectio divina. One of the most fascinating contributions
is Brian Patrick McGuire’s discussion of the new language of prayer in devo
tional literature between John of Fécamp and Anselm: it harmonizes well with
Renie Choy’s interesting reflections on the vexed question of a sense of self in
Carolingian private devotion. G. R. Evans gives us an analysis of St Anselm’s
‘tantalizing letters’ which are characterized as mixing pastoral intentions with
affection, within the controlling structures of epistolary tradition. One of the
most theologically interesting contributions is that of Rozanne Elder, writing on
the union of affective prayer and theology in William of St Thierry, increasingly
recognized as one of the greatest mystical theologians not only of the Benedictine
and Cistercian traditions, but of medieval Latin Christendom as a whole. Jay
Rubenstein, writing about monastic meditations on the fall of Jerusalem in 1099
shows that for the medieval monastic chroniclers the taking of the city was itself
the primary miracle, in that it ‘collapsed’ all levels of meaning into one, restoring
the literal Jerusalem to the heart of the Church, and supposedly ushering in some
foretaste of eschatological peace. But he also observes that this peace was bought
at a hard price for the city’s inhabitants, with crusaders stepping through blood,
and all in the name of Christ! It is a good reminder that religiously motivated
violence in the Middle Ages was not confined to Islam and that Benedictines
have no room to be smug in comparing their supposedly peaceful and non-
proselytizing tradition with orders such as the Dominicans and Franciscans.
Rubenstein refers to C. Tyerman’s designation of the chroniclers as ‘the northern
French Benedictine mafia’ (p. 198),5 a judgement he nuances considerably but
5
Christopher Tyerman, The Debate on the Crusades, 1099–2010 (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 2011), p. 9.
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does not substantially modify. Brian Golding discusses the interaction of

monks and laity in late medieval England, illustrating the paradox that despite
the monastic topos of separation from the world, the enclosure wall was a
‘porous border’. Monastic gatehouses reveal a ‘symbiotic relationship’ between
cloister and society (p. 256). ‘Prayers mattered’ (p. 270), observes Golding, but
having listed the financial transactions that the maintenance of the intercessory
cycle required, he also observes, ‘prayer came at a cost: increasing demands
for commemoration imposed a heavy liturgical, and in some cases, financial,
burden upon spiritual service providers’ (p. 266). It is hard to avoid seeing in
this the fruit of the development so ably exposed in Thomas O’Loughlin’s essay,
that is, the reduction of spiritual life to a system of ‘Kumulationserscheinung’
which he interprets as ‘a spiritual credit transfer system’ (p. 49). The world of
medieval mysticism is well represented in a beautifully crafted piece by Santha
Bhattacharji on visionary writing as a mode of thought. She argues convincingly
that although late medieval mystical writings, with their vision-filled emphasis
on experience, are not usually treated as part of the monastic world view,
they are in fact ‘a natural outgrowth of the monastic tradition of prayer and
thought’ (p. 289). Her contribution directs our attention to the importance of
the imagination in the Christian mystical tradition and to its roots in medieval
monastic contemplation.
An interesting subtext among many of the offerings in this volume is the
creative application of academic research and scholarship to the spiritual life of
contemporary Christians and monastics. For example, it is not hard to see that
Columba Stewart’s deconstruction of earlier (all-too!) ‘coherent narratives’
of monastic origins and supposedly definitive observances, is a timely plea
for recognizing the diversity of monastic traditions and a safeguard against
contemporary monastic fundamentalisms not grounded in historical evidence.
Thomas O’Loughlin’s devastatingly accurate full-frontal assault on the spiritual
commercialism of the age of Bede invites a critique of current Latin Catholic
practice regarding the priesthood and the celebration of Mass (although that
is probably rolling a boulder up the ecclesiastical hill!). Henry Mayr-Harting’s
examination of psalter illustrations as a commentary on spiritual processes has
much to teach contemporary monks and nuns about lectio divina and personal
prayer. All this is highly appropriate in a volume dedicated to a great scholar
who is also a recognized contemplative. Therefore it is appropriate too that the
final contribution by Dominic Mattos should be a brief affectionate account
of Sr Benedicta in her ‘trifold’ vocation, as ‘contemplative, scholar and teacher’
(p. 332). He acknowledges that she is not only a great scholar, with remarkable
achievements in research and translating, but also, ‘a highly successful and
REVIEWS 185
unanimously loved teacher of undergraduates’ (p. 329), a combination all too

rarely encountered in academic life. This is a splendid volume, fully worthy of its
distinguished honorand.
Gregory Collins OSB
Abbot of Dormition Abbey, Jerusalem
Derek A. Olsen, Reading Matthew with Monks: Liturgical Interpretation

in Anglo-Saxon England (Collegeville, MN: The Liturgical Press, 2015),
pp. xvi, 262, paperback $24.95. ISBN: 978-0-8146-8317-0.
This slim volume focuses on homilies by Ælfric of Eynsham (c. 955–1010), a
Benedictine abbot important to the monastic revival in Anglo-Saxon England.
The book consists of an introduction, four chapters, and a conclusion. Also,
there is a bibliography and indices of names, homilies, and biblical references. In
the Introduction, Derek A. Olsen explains that he seeks to start ‘a conversation
between interpreters of the modern American academic microculture and an
interpreter from the early medieval monastic microculture’ (p. 4). To that end,
‘Ælfric’s situation allows us to engage him as a discrete author working within
an identifiable embodied community whose educational and liturgical practices
can be accurately described even if they are not entirely recoverable’ (pp. 7–8).
Ælfric’s homilies on the Gospel of Matthew provide the basis for Olsen’s
scholarly conversation between Ælfric and four biblical commentaries from
the late twentieth century. By inviting medieval and modern discussion about
Matthew, Olsen proposes two goals: ‘first, to clarify the primary interpretive
contexts and methods of the early medieval monastic microculture; second, to
assess its usefulness as a foil for modern academic readings’ (p. 25).
Chapter 1, ‘How Monastic Living Shaped Reading’, describes the influence
on medieval monastic life of the Bible, the Church Fathers, and writings from
classical antiquity. The monastic appreciation of these three sources went beyond
intellectual curiosity to embrace a mimetic application. Monastic readers were
open to developing the virtues commended and avoiding the vices condemned
by biblical, patristic, and classical authors. Chapter 2, ‘How Monastic Praying
Shaped Reading’, reminds the reader that ‘The primary difference between
modern academic culture and early medieval monastic culture is liturgy’ (p. 75).
To explain how liturgy formed the daily and seasonal rhythm of medieval
monastic life, Olsen presents seven helpful charts outlining the monastic liturgical
routine known to Ælfric (pp. 80–87). The daily choral chanting of Psalms and
other biblical texts, as well as the public reading of patristic homilies, served as
the setting for the medieval monastic interpretation of scripture that is central to

186 REVIEWS
Olsen’s theme. Chapter 3 turns to particular pericopes from Matthew and their
interpretation by Ælfric and the four modern commentaries Olsen has selected.
Those recent commentaries are by Ulrich Luz, W. D. Davies and Dale C. Allison,
Douglas Hare, and M. Eugene Boring. In this chapter Olsen uses medieval and
modern interpretations to consider ways of understanding Matthew’s account of
the Beatitudes and the Temptation of Christ. Chapter 4 then applies the thought
experiment of Ælfric and his modern colleagues to interpretations of two of
Christ’s miracles of healing and Christ’s parable of the Wise and Foolish Virgins.
In his Conclusion, Olsen sums up the importance for scholars of engaging
Christian biblical interpreters from different centuries. Olsen encourages an open
mind, saying that ‘Strong readers of Scripture will seek to read with a diversity
of voices; by listening to others, we learn far more about the text and from the
text than we expect’ (p. 239). From a medieval monastic interpreter such as
Ælfric, Olsen argues, modern scripture scholars can see how prayer and liturgy
shed light on biblical passages. Olsen’s welcome and admirable approach suffers
only from the distraction of inconsistent editing, so that, for example, within a
few paragraphs the reader encounters Cernel Abbey and Cerne Abbey, Emma
Hornby and Emma Hornsby.
Daniel J. Heisey
Saint Vincent Seminary
Aquinata Böckmann, A Listening Community: A Commentary on the Pro

logue and Chapters 1–3 of Benedict’s Rule (Collegeville, MN: Liturgical,
2015), pp. ix, 227, $24.95. ISBN: 978-0-8146-4947-3.
Brian Kerns, trans., Gregory the Great: Moral Reflections on the Book of Job,
vol. i: Preface and Books 1–5, Cistercian Studies Series, 249 (Collegeville,
MN: Cistercian Publications, 2014), pp. ix, 393, $39.95. ISBN: 978-0-
8790-7149-3.
Each of the two volumes under review initiates a series of publications presenting
a major text from the early Middle Ages: the Rule of St Benedict and Gregory
the Great’s Moralia in Job. Aquinata Böckmann’s meticulous commentary on the
prologue and first three chapters of the Rule is profound and rich, the fruit of
reading and teaching the text for decades. The Rule is presented here in English
and Latin. Her approach is exegetical, beginning with a close analysis of the text
that often proceeds word-for-word, identifying structures — sometimes with
the support of illustrations and diagrams — and remarking on significant terms:
in a typical comment on verses 42–44 of the Prologue, she notes (p. 69): ‘The

REVIEWS 187
repetition of the demonstrative pronouns — adhuc, hoc, haec, hanc — sounds like
the crack of a whip’. Counterpointing the synchronic commentary are observations
about Benedict’s sources and uses of them, not least the Rule of the Master. Here
Böckmann documents literary references and incorporates recent scholarship.
The bibliography, divided into three sections, gives information about the Rule of
Benedict and the Rule of the Master; about patristic and monastic sources; and
about secondary sources and studies. Four indices — subjects, authors, works;
the Rule; Hebrew scriptures; and Christian scriptures — complete the scholarly
apparatus. The original German volume, Christus hören, was published in 2011.
A Listening Community reads beautifully in English, for which the translators,
Matilda Handl and Marianne Burkhard, deserve praise; if there is any perceptible
shortcoming, it is an altogether slight one: the bibliography of patristic and
monastic sources does not consistently provide references to English translations
of the sources quoted in Böckmann’s commentary. In any case, Böckmann’s
second volume (covering chapters 8 to 52) was published in 2013. We may hope
that a third volume will be forthcoming and indeed that Handl and Burkhard
will in due course bring out translations of the other volumes as well.
Brian Kerns has undertaken the translation of Gregory the Great’s sprawling
Moral Reflections on the Book of Job — the first such translation to appear since
1844, when it was published for the ‘Fathers of the Church’ series in four volumes.
That translation, as Mark DelCogliano observes in his excellent introduction
(pp. 1–45), was based on the Maurist edition of 1705 and is marked by the long
periods and florid style of early Victorian devotional literature; Kerns translates
from Marcus Adriaen’s edition for CCSL into a brisk, contemporary idiom.
DelCogliano also notes many efforts from the mid-seventh century to reduce
the six volumes of the Moral Reflections into manageable order (pp. 34–39). The
florilegia and excerpts are a monument to the esteem in which this work has been
held from its first appearance. They are also a testament to the complexity of
Gregory’s commentary on Job, which deploys multiple exegetical techniques in
close sequence. The publisher’s plan for the translation is to bring out six volumes,
one for each part in the Maurist edition. The completed translation will be a
welcome addition and credit to the distinguished Cistercian Studies Series.
AUGUSTINE CASIDAY
School of History, Archaeology and Religion
Cardiff University
188 REVIEWS
Janet Burton with Lynda Lockyer, eds and trans., Historia Selebiensis
Monasterii: The History of the Monastery of Selby, Oxford Medieval Texts
(Oxford: Clarendon, 2013), pp. xcvi, 178, £85. ISBN: 978-0-19-967595-1.
Selby was the first monastery founded in Yorkshire after the Norman Conquest.
Its founder was a monk from the monastery of St-Germain of Auxerre in
Burgundy, and the house’s most precious relic was a finger of St Germanus, the
fifth-century bishop and saint to whom St-Germain was dedicated. The historical
Germanus had made two trips to Britain to combat the Pelagian heresy — shortly
before the arrival of the Anglo-Saxons — so there was a long connection between
the saint and Britain, which continued at least intermittently throughout the
Middle Ages. A century after Selby’s 1069 foundation a monk wrote a chronicle
of his monastery’s history, here edited with facing English translation and an
extensive introduction.
The anonymous chronicler claimed to be no more than a youth, though he
had an excellent command of Latin and a lively narrative style. His Historia
gives an account of a hermitage transformed into a Benedictine house in the
great age of monastic reform and expansion, as well as the monks’ relations
with kings and archbishops and a whole series of miracles connected to the holy
finger, which the founder spirited away from Auxerre and brought to England.
The monastery and its chronicle have not been well known outside of its region,
which can only be called a deplorable oversight. That oversight is now corrected
with the first critical edition of the text; the only earlier edition was that of
Philippe Labbé in the seventeenth century (reprinted in more recent volumes).
The present edition is based on the unique surviving manuscript, which Janet
Burton argues was copied from the (now lost) original and sent from Selby to
Auxerre during the late twelfth or thirteenth century. There it was later bound
together with St-Germain’s manuscript account of its own history and is now in
the Bibliothèque nationale de France. The edition is careful and thorough, with
two sets of footnotes, one for features of the Latin text and Labbé’s variants, and
the other for commentary on the text and identification of people and places. As
with all Oxford Medieval Texts, the work is meticulous. Burton was responsible
for the edition and the long Introduction, while Lynda Lockyer assisted with the
serviceable and accurate translation.
The Introduction, roughly as long as the Historia itself, puts the chronicle
into its historical and cultural context, including information about Germanus,
other monasteries in Yorkshire, and what it meant for Selby to become a ‘royal’
monastery, as well as about the manuscript itself and the editing process. A whole
section of the Introduction is devoted to the miracles that recur repeatedly

REVIEWS 189
throughout the chronicle. Here Burton is especially interested in creating a

classification system for the various miracles. She also provides an extensive
discussion of the sources the anonymous chronicler would have used, including
oral tradition, precious gifts made to the monastery in its first years, and earlier
legends and miracle stories of St Germanus. Interestingly, the chronicler made
no effort to include copies of charters in his narrative, such as are found in some
other chronicles. In fact Selby does have a cartulary, the so-called Coucher Book
of Selby, edited at the end of the nineteenth century by J. T. Fowler. It would
have been helpful to have a bit more discussion of this cartulary (including its
manuscript tradition), even if the chronicler did not use it, because it will be a
necessary part of any future efforts to discuss the history of Selby, along with the
Historia itself.
This edition is especially welcome because it makes readily accessible a
monk’s recreation of his house’s history — and his efforts to shape how that
history should be remembered. As scholars have increasingly focused not on
antiquarian narratives of great men and events but rather on the ways that
medieval people themselves viewed their world, chronicles like this one have
taken on a new importance. Burton provides a brief but intriguing analysis of
the way that the chronicler presents his house’s origins, suggesting that he was
trying to shape his narrative to emphasize the topos of the wandering hermit
who finally finds a place to settle and found a house, and thus take it out of the
realm of political manoeuvring, even though his own account hints at some of
that. Similarly, one need not try to decide if the saint’s finger ‘really’ healed or
punished miraculously to appreciate, as Burton points out, how significant that
finger was to Selby’s identity.
CONSTANCE B. BOUCHARD
Department of History
University of Akron
Fiona J. Griffiths and Julie Hotchin, eds, Partners in Spirit: Women, Men,
and Religious Life in Germany, 1100–1500, Medieval Women: Texts and
Contexts, 24 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2014), pp. x, 430, €100. ISBN: 978-2-
503-54096-2.
Partners in Spirit is the title of a book that deserves attention. In it, Fiona J. Griffith
and Julie Hotchin, together with twelve other authors, address the communal life
of men and women in high and late medieval Germany. Indeed, in scholarship
on medieval religious life, the history of women has experienced somewhat of

190 REVIEWS
a boom in recent years. Alongside the established research of Mario Sensi6 as

well as the studies of Amalie Fößel and Anette Hettinger,7 or of Cordula Nolte,8
the ‘Arbeitskreis: Geistliche Frauen im europäischen Mittelalter (AGFEM)’,9
founded in 2011 and consisting primarily of German and Anglo-American
scholars, is a sign of this renewed interest in female religiosity.
The volume is not arranged in individual chapters. Instead, twelve contribu
tions — each thoroughly researched — follow a fundamental analytical overview
of the topic that leads to a general introduction. Each individual contribution
is rounded off by a helpful bibliography of primary and secondary sources. The
broad focus on as yet unedited sources gives witness to the high academic quality
of the contributions. English language translations testify to the work’s value and
the accuracy of its authors and editors. An index with names, places, and select
sources enhances accessibility.
Spiritual guiding principles are less at the centre of interest than the realities of
how we find such principles at work in religious communities. Elsanne Gilomen-
Schenkel investigates the female communities of south-west German double
monasteries. Despite the thin explanatory power of the early necrologies, she is
able to show the historical evolution and the immense significance of the women
in these convents with the examples of Engelberg and Interlaken. In the following
article, Susan Marti deals with the illuminations in such double monasteries and
elucidates the manner in which only a few sources from the rich spectrum of
book illustrations directly reflect the cohabitation of both genders. The majority
of the witnesses are from the twelfth century. Nevertheless, there are certain
stylistic elements which appear sporadically right up until the later Middle Ages.
Eva Schlotheuber’s contribution addresses the role of the provost in the female
cloisters of the twelfth and thirteenth centuries and evinces the profound impact
of noble networks and economic affairs among various other developments in
Germany (after the Investiture Controversy), Normandy, and England. Fiona F.
Griffiths turns attention to the disputes of the monks and nuns at Rupertsberg
6
See, for instance, Mario Sensi, ‘Mulieres in Ecclesia’. Storie di monache e bizzoche, Uomini e
mondi medievali, 21, 2 vols (Spoleto: Centro Italiano de studi sull’alto medioevo, 2010).
7
Amalie Fößel and Anette Hettinger, eds, Klosterfrauen, Beginen, Ketzerinnen: Religiöse
Lebensformen von Frauen im Mittelalter, Historisches Seminar, NF 12 (Idstein: Schulz-
Kirchner, 2000).
8
Cordula Nolte, Frauen und Männer in der Gesellschaft des Mittelalters, Geschichte Kompakt
(Darmstadt: Wissenschaftliche Buchgesellschaft, 2011).
9
Arbeitskreis: Geistliche Frauen im europäischen Mittelalter <https://agfem.wordpress.
com> [accessed 29 April 2016].
REVIEWS 191
and both principal protagonists, Guibert of Gembloux and Hildegard of Bingen.

Next, from a concentration on monasteries of especially Benedictine provenance,
Shelley Amist Wolbrink shifts the focus to the Premonstratensian women in
Füssenich and Meer and in particular to the cooperation of the women with their
priests and brothers in monastic administration as well as in communication
with the outside world. In the following article, Anthony Ray examines two let
ters from Thomas, cantor of Villers, to his sisters in Parc-les-Dames. Both let
ters demonstrate that, in contrast to a long historiographical tradition, many
Cistercians, indeed, viewed the provision of pastoral care to women as an
important part of their vocation. Jennifer Kolpacoff Deane analyses the pastoral
care of lay religious women in Würzburg and underscores the prominent role
played by these semi-religious women in intimate collaboration with monastic,
mendicant, and clerical brothers in the life of the city. While Wybren Scheepsma
discusses the important role of the Dominican Hendrik van Leuven as a spiritual
leader of the Beguines, Sigrid Hirbodian investigates the pastoral care of the nuns
by mendicant convents in fifteenth-century Strasbourg. Both authors emphasize
the active influence of the women on the spiritual care they received. In a further
step, Sara S. Poor points at the devotional imagination of the well-educated
woman teaching men. Her examples concentrate mainly on Catherine of Siena,
her female followers, and Dorothy of Hof. Sabine Klapp concludes the volume
with a plea for the so-called Frauenstifte and their immense religious and social
function during the Middle Ages.
The study of religious life is a cultural history and brings together numer
ous disciplines, such as the history of everyday life, finance, spirituality, gender,
and regionality. It may not be completely new to discuss male-female inter
actions in such a dedicated manner, yet the greatest merits of this volume are,
first, its presentation of such a broad field of religious history by means of the
communication of men and women within and beyond the convents and,
second, its further development of a once strongly regional field of study for the
international research landscape — including thereby international literature —
which also favours comparison. In the course of the volume, it becomes clear time
and again that religious women did not constitute a marginal fringe phenomenon
in the Middle Ages and were by no means perceived unanimously as a ‘problem’.
Rather, these women actively co-designed their life — frequently and perfectly
integrated into societal structures.
Jörg Sonntag
Sächsische Akademie der Wissenschaften
zu Leipzig/DFG-Netzwerk: Imitation
192 REVIEWS
Kathleen Thompson, The Monks of Tiron: A Monastic Community and Reli

gious Reform in the Twelfth Century (Cambridge: Cambridge University
Press, 2014), pp. x, 270, $99.00/£65.00. ISBN: 978-1-107-02124-2.
The Order of Tiron was one of a number of new foundations to emanate from
France in the late eleventh and early twelfth centuries. Like many contemporary
foundations, the Tironensians have long been overshadowed by the Cistercians,
who came to dominate the monastic scene in the twelfth century, and who have
subsequently continued to hog the historiographic limelight. Yet in their day the
Tironensians were anything but marginal players: they attracted the attentions of
many of the major Anglo-Norman chroniclers, and enjoyed considerable support
from lords and kings, most notably David I of Scotland.
One of the few areas in which the Tironensians have attracted considerable
interest is in discussions of what Henrietta Leyser termed the ‘new monasticism’,
a constellation of communities which combined the ascetic fervour of eremitism
with the communal surveillance and corporate identity of coenobitism. The life
of the Tironensians’ founder, Bernard, provides much of the material for the
stereotype of the wandering preacher, scruffy and intense, prone to displays of
ascetic fervour, and invariably unshod. One of the most important contributions
of this book is to demonstrate that the Vita Bernardis should be seen as the
culmination of a long process of institutional development, rather than as a
starting point for the order and its history. The first three chapters of this work
subject the Vita Bernardis to careful scrutiny (full details are supplied in an
accompanying appendix), supplementing and contrasting it with other important
narrative and documentary sources, the most important of which is a recently
discovered alternative version of the life. Chapters 4 to 6 present a revised picture
of the order’s development, moving outwards in concentric circles from the life
of the founder, to the creation of the mother house at Tiron, to the evolution of
a network of houses across France and the British Isles. Shifts in the way that the
order was structured and the ways in which it presented itself to the world are
seen not, as in many accounts of the development of twelfth-century monastic
orders, as evidence for decline and the routinization of charisma, but as signs of
an order in good health, and which was able to develop and to adapt to changed
circumstances.
Katharine Sykes
Oxford
The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 192 BREPOLS    PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110856

Submission Information
The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies seeks to fill a gap in current journal
provision. We anticipate this to be an annual publication of international,
interdisciplinary, peer reviewed articles on issues related to medieval monastic
history. It will include scholarly contributions on monastic history, archaeology
and architectural history, art history, literature, etc. We are keen to make this
a comprehensive publication, covering all of medieval Europe in geographical
terms. We also anticipate including relevant book reviews and shorter notices.
While the focus is bound to be on Christian monasticism, the journal will
welcome contributions on other religions as well. The language of publication
will be English, but abstracts in the original language of individual contributions
may be included.
Submissions are invited for future issues. Please contact the editors: Janet Burton
(j.burton@tsd.ac.uk) and Karen Stöber (karen.stober@historia.udl.cat). Sub
missions are double-blind peer-reviewed. Authors should follow the MHRA
Style Guide (available at <http://www.mhra.org.uk/Publications/Books/
StyleGuide/download.shtml>). For more information about JMMS, with
further details about submissions and peer review policy, please visit the journal’s
website: <http://www.uwtsd.ac.uk/research/environment-archaeology-history-
and-anthropology/journal-of-medieval-monastic-studies/>. For information
about subscriptions and orders, please contact periodicals@brepols.net.

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Medieval Monastic Studies

Advisory / Editorial Board

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

Printed on acid-free paper

Fécamp, Cluny, and the Invention of Traditions in the

Scientific Renewal and Reformed Religious Life:

The Statutes of the Earliest General Chapters of

Aristocratic Networks and Monastic Communities:

Patronage and Function: The Medieval Wall Paintings at

The Group Portrait in the Lincoln typikon: Identity and

Monasteries on the Borders of Medieval Europe:

Rewriting Saints and Ancestors:

Amigos exigentes, servidores infieles:

The Church and the Vale of Evesham 700–1215:

Reichsabtei und Klosterreform:

The Prelate in England and Europe 1300–1560

Orthodox Monasticism Past and Present

Prayer and Thought in Monastic Tradition:

Reading Matthew with Monks:

A Listening Community: A Commentary on the

Historia Selebiensis Monasterii:

Partners in Spirit: Women, Men, and

The Monks of Tiron: A Monastic Community and

Figure 1, p. 25. Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3.

Figure 2, p. 28. Ruling patterns of Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and

Figure 3, p. 30. Interpolation of Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and

Figure 4, p. 31. Abbreviations in Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and

Figure 5, p. 32. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 12.

Figure 6, p. 33. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 2151.

Figure 7, p. 96–97. Genealogical table of a cluster of the aristocracy of Uppland,

Figure 8, p. 114. Cloisters, Lacock Abbey.

Figure 9, p. 115. Crucifixion, Lacock Abbey.

Figure 10, p. 115. St Andrew and St Christopher, Lacock Abbey.

Figure 11, p. 115. Chaplains’ Room, Lacock Abbey.

Figure 15, p. 123. St Christopher, Saint John’s church, Winchester.

Figure 19, p. 142. The Foundresses, Theodule and Euphrosyne, in dedication to

Table 1, p. 68. Schematic overview of the hypothetical development of the

Benjamin Pohl and Steven Vanderputten

I n 1001, Duke Richard II of Normandy approached Abbot William of Saint-

Benjamin Pohl (benjamin.pohl@bristol.ac.uk) is lecturer in Medieval History (1000–

Steven Vanderputten (steven.vanderputten@ugent.be) is Professor in the History of the

The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 1–41 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110837

Et non solum in rerum ordinatione justicia, sed in restituendi abbatis electione,

The same sentence appears again, in slightly abbreviated form, in a charter of

than ushering in a new practice, however, Gregory V’s privilege seems merely to

in essence a means of proclamation (Kundgebung), rather than an actual right of

Fruttuaria and Beyond

the Consuetudines — appears to have caused some retrospective concern amongst

implicitly.58 Not only is such a backwards projection difficult to justify from a

The Fécamp Charters

Apart from the interpolation made to the Montvilliers charter in Fécamp’s

Norman Institutions, pp. 256–57.

appealed directly to William the Conqueror, who forced the archbishop to

from their monastery’s archive, several of which received interpolations that

a later eleventh-century dorsal note written on its verso, which identifies it as

Figure 1. Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3.

of the same sentence (l. 22, ‘omniumque fidelium proficiat animarum’). From

Figure 3. Interpolation of Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive, no. 3

Figure 4. Abbreviations in Fécamp, Palais Bénédictine Museum and Archive,

Figure 5. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 12.

Acta of William I (1066–1087), ed. by Bates, pp. 476–78 (= no. 144). Also cf. Traitement

Figure 6. Rouen, Archives départementales de Seine-Maritime, 7 H 2151.

The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 1–41 BREPOLS    PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110837

The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 43–60 BREPOLS    PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110838

The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 61–91 BREPOLS    PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110839

—— , ‘Honorius III et les monastères bénédictins (1216–1227)’, Revue Belge de Philologie

The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 93–112 BREPOLS    PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110840

The Journal of Medieval Monastic Studies, 5 (2016), 113–137 BREPOLS    PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.JMMS.5.110841