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Medieval influencers: 4 women who brought change to the Middle Ages
Medieval women rarely wielded political or economic power – yet, a little like the most persuasive doyennes of social media today, their words could shape minds and lives far beyond their own circles. Hetta Howes introduces four female literary and spiritual trailblazers
Christine de Pizan: the trailblazer who used her literary brilliance to wage a war on misogyny Christine de Pizan (1364–c1430) was the definition of a hustler. One of the most prolific writers of the Middle Ages, with a career spanning almost four decades, her poems and books are still enjoyed today. Christine grew up in luxury. Her father, astrologer to King Charles V of France, moved the family from Venice to France when she was just a little girl. She had a happy childhood and was pleased with the husband her father chose for her, Etienne du Castel, whom she married when she was just 15. But disaster struck when Etienne died of the plague a decade later. Finding herself the sole provider for her children, Christine refused to remarry but instead picked up a quill. In doing so, she became the first known woman in European history to make a living as a writer. Read more | The gender pain gap: perceptions of women's health through history Christine was not only a talented author but an astute businesswoman. She became expert in book production, and leveraged her networks to ensure that her writing ended up in the hands of the highest echelons of French society. She started her career writing love poetry, but switched gears when she began to attract the attention of a wealthier audience. She wrote political treatises for princes and other nobility, including a manual on how to be the perfect knight. She strategised, often choosing to write in French, a language “more common throughout the world than any other”, so that her books didn’t become “useless and forgotten”. She was even commissioned to write a biography of the late Charles V. With her readership secured, Christine set out to effect change. In her political works, she called for an end to the in-fighting then plaguing the French nobility. She devoted a poem to Joan of Arc, confident that the peasant girl would lead the French to victory against the English in the Hundred Years’ War. Most famously, she wrote back against the misogyny of her time, paving the way for later feminist writers. Considered to be the first proto-feminist tract in Europe, her Book of the City of Ladies begins with Christine in her study. She is frustrated by the “pack of lies” male authors peddle about women. She falls asleep and has a dream in which she builds an allegorical city, populated by inspirational women from throughout history. She tells of Empress Nicaula, better known as the Queen of Sheba, who was “more skilled in politics, statesmanship and justice” than any king, and of Queen Hypsicratea, who dressed as a male knight to help her husband achieve victory on the battlefield. Christine uses these heroines to rebuff the vicious stereotypes about her sex – that they nagged their husbands, and were weak, unfaithful and incapable of leadership. She presented a copy of this book to the Queen of France herself, a lavish manuscript known as The Book of the Queen. Margery Kempe: the holy woman who faced accusations of heresy and death threats to spread God’s word It was hard to miss Margery Kempe (c1373— after 1438). Even though she was married and had given birth to at least 14 children, she would often appear dressed all in white, a colour then reserved for virgins. She was prone to disrupting church services and local events with loud and noisy outbursts of crying, and she rebuked anyone who swore an oath within earshot. On pilgrimage, her fellow travellers, weary of her holier-than-thou attitude, exiled her to the end of the dinner table and refused to speak to her. Some loved Margery, but still more loved to hate her. It wasn’t until after she was married that Margery decided she wanted to become a holy woman. Her dictated autobiography, The Book of Margery Kempe, tells us that she experienced the first of many visions from God after the traumatic birth of her first child. Some years later, after a couple of failed business attempts in milling and brewing, she converted to the religious life and travelled all around the world, meeting with other holy people and following in the footsteps of saints. She even negotiated a celibate marriage with her husband because she considered herself married to God instead. Because she was just an ordinary woman rather than a nun or an anchoress, some accused her of being a hypocrite and even thought her visions were sent from the devil. However, her book describes the positive influence she had on many others. A sinful woman on the point of death was “granted mercy” in the afterlife because Margery prayed for her soul. Another, tormented by visions of devils after the birth of her child, underwent a miraculous recovery when Margery paid her a visit. And in 1420, when a fire threatened her hometown, Margery’s prayers helped to bring about a snowstorm to quench its flames. Read more | The medieval mystics with a hotline to God An outspoken woman who made her presence known and who refused to enclose herself in a convent or anchorhold, Margery often found herself in trouble with the authorities. Christian women in medieval Europe were forbidden from preaching and Margery’s readiness to talk about God, in public, led to serious accusations of heresy. She was hounded to the outskirts of Canterbury by an angry mob who claimed they had a “cartful of thorns” ready to burn her with, and she was even put on trial in front of the Archbishop of York. Margery managed to talk her way out of execution, rightly asserting that she had never spoken from any pulpit, but her run-ins with the law remind us that women could find themselves in real danger if they attracted the wrong attention. Marie de France: the poet fired by a thirst for glory – and sympathy for the sufferings of women “The one who forgets herself is foolish,” wrote Marie de France. “Here I write my name, ‘Marie’, so that I will be remembered.” We know little of Marie, a 12th-century French writer who spent time in England – we believe in the court of Henry II and his wife, Eleanor of Aquitaine, both of whom were energetic patrons of the arts. She is undoubtedly the most enigmatic of the four women on this list. Read more | Eleanor of Aquitaine’s female power network But what we do know, thanks to a collection of lais – short poems that were most likely set to music to be performed at court – is that she challenged perceptions of female writers, and women more generally, in a deeply patriarchal society. Marie was well educated, leading historians to speculate that she must have been a noblewoman and perhaps even a nun. We also know that she was successful. The prologue to her lais offers insights into her experience of entering a male-dominated profession. Anyone who has received the gift of eloquence, she insists, has a duty not to remain silent. She describes how she worked on the lais “late into the night”, hoping that they would win her “glory”. She set her sights high, dedicating the collection to the king himself. Although many of the lais were translations of Breton stories, Marie put her own spin on them, populating them with resourceful heroines instead of damsels in distress. In Lanval, a fairy queen rescues her lover from execution. In Les Deux Amanz, a young maiden, hoping to ensure her lover’s success in a trial set up by her father, sends for a magic potion from her mysterious, powerful aunt. Marie also offers sympathy to women who are trapped in unhappy marriages, forced to look for love elsewhere, or have sex outside of marriage. In Milun, a noblewoman uses her female network to hide her illegitimate child, and protect both his reputation and her own. Read more | The Wife of Bath: how Chaucer's character gives a voice to medieval women Marie complains that anyone of “great renown” is bound to become the victim of jealousy, and certainly at least one of her contemporaries, Denis Piramus, was critical of her. Although he tells us that she was “much praised”, he ultimately dismisses her lais as frivolous fodder (“wont to please ladies”) rather than serious art. Marie refused to let such talk stop her, and we can discern her influence today in modern updates of folk tales and legends, from Angela Carter’s The Bloody Chamber to Karrie Fransman and Jonathan Plackett’s Gender Swapped Fairy Tales. Julian of Norwich: the lockdown saint whose words of religious fervour have carried down the years When Julian of Norwich was 30 years old, in 1373, she lay in her sickbed, convinced she was going to die. Instead, something miraculous happened. The crucifix placed before her by a priest came to life, and she saw Jesus hanging on the cross, fresh blood dripping from his wounds. This was the first of a series of visions in which God appeared to, and spoke with, Julian. After she had recovered from her illness, she felt compelled to write them down. She hoped her Revelations would bring comfort and inspiration to others. In her first account of these visions, known as the ‘short version’, Julian excuses herself as “a woman, ignorant, weak and frail”, a mere messenger for the word of God. Read more | Julian of Norwich: Janina Ramirez hails 'the female Chaucer' But in her second, more celebrated version, this reference to her gender has been erased. It is possible that Julian removed mention of her sex because she feared she would be accused of heresy. Few women were writing religious texts and those who did often found themselves under serious scrutiny. However, the fact that the ‘long version’ was written after Julian became an anchoress raises another possibility. Anchoritism was one of the most esteemed vocations of the Christian church available to a woman. A would-be anchoress had to petition the church, and they needed to have enough money to support themselves for the rest of their lives. If their petition was accepted, they would have the funeral rites read over them by a priest before being imprisoned in a small room (or series of rooms) called a ‘cell’, usually adjoined to a church. Here they would pray, fast, reflect on God and live out the rest of their days. We don’t know what happened to Julian after she died, but many other anchoresses were destined never to leave their cells, their bodies being buried in the dirt beneath. People came from far and wide to seek the blessing of an anchoress. We know from Margery Kempe’s Book that she went to meet Julian and to ask for her advice. After listening to Margery’s account of her visions, Julian told her to trust God and not to fear “the talk of the world” because, the more slander Margery experienced in life, the more reward she would receive in heaven. This encounter suggests that Julian was a renowned holy woman. Perhaps her reputation as an anchoress gave her the confidence to remove some of the caveats from her Revelations? As far as we know, no one read Julian’s Revelations in her own time, but it has been rediscovered and is beloved by many readers today. Hailed as the ‘lockdown saint’ during the Covid-19 pandemic, she is remembered with a sculpture at Norwich Cathedral. Ironically, her internment gave her the time, space and freedom required to create one of the most moving and poetical texts of the Middle Ages. She hoped her Revelations, which characterise God as kind, gentle and motherly, would bring comfort and inspiration to others. Thanks to the love of God, she reminds us, “all shall be well”, no matter how much suffering we experience on earth. Read more | Doctors, playwrights and feminists: meet 6 trailblazing medieval women The lives of Christine, Margery, Marie and Julian reveal that, despite the challenges they faced, ordinary women could – and did – influence the world around them in the Middle Ages. Julian might have asked her readers to “forget” her name and think only of God. But by committing her experience to paper (or, rather, parchment), she ensured that she would be remembered centuries later. This article was first published in the December 2024 issue of BBC History Magazine
Tails from the deep: separating the real folklore of mermaids from Disney stories
Mermaids are beautiful, benevolent and captivating – or at least that is the Disneyfied version. Writing for BBC History Revealed, Dr Hetta Howes separates the real-world legends from the fishwives’ stories...
What image comes to mind when you hear the word ‘mermaid’? For many people, it will be Ariel, the redheaded Disney princess who trades her tail for legs and her voice for a chance to win herself a life on land. For others, the word will conjure the wan heroine of Hans Christian Andersen’s original fairytale who, unlike her Disney counterpart, is rejected by her prince and dissolves into sea foam, losing the chance to gain an immortal soul. It’s largely thanks to the popularity of Andersen’s fairytale that mermaids have become standardised in the west over the past two centuries. Like Ariel, they are depicted as hybrid creatures, with the torso and head of a beautiful woman and the tail of a fish. They often carry a mirror and a comb, and have the speech and personality of a human woman. On the podcast | Sirens, succubi & sex symbols: a history of female monsters However, the history of the mermaid myth, and its many manifestations across the globe, reveals a far more complex picture. Mermaids transform depending on which seas we find them in. Sometimes beautiful, sometimes monstrous, sometimes seductive, sometimes maternal – and oftentimes all of these at once – these enchanting entities can be a far cry from the tragic victim of Andersen’s influential tale. Mermaids, regardless of where they call home, are persistently contradictory, ambivalent and powerful figures, used to represent the unknown and the undiscovered. Were mermaids and sirens one and the same? The origins of mermaids are difficult to trace. While some cultural historians believe that fish goddesses in early religions were their ancestors, others consider sirens to be the first models for mermaids. Made famous by Homer’s epic poem the Odyssey, sirens are bird-woman hybrids who lure sailors to their deaths through song and who may eat the flesh of men who do not please them sexually. In the 13th century, writer Richard de Fournival recorded three kinds of sirens, two of which are actually half woman and half fish. This helps to explain why sirens and mermaids became interchangeable in Renaissance Europe. Both were consistently associated with fertility, seduction and the dangers of sexual encounter – and people really did believe in their existence. Tales of mermaids and sirens were spread by travellers from sea to land, and sightings are recorded by sailors from the Middle Ages right through to the 18th century. In 1608, explorer Henry Hudson wrote that on one morning “one of our companie looking over board saw a mermaid”, reportedly with the tail of a porpoise and long dark hair. In 1493, near the Rio del Oro (on what is present day Haiti) Christopher Columbus recorded a disappointing encounter with three sirens, describing them as “not so beautiful as they are painted, though to some extent they have the form of a human face”. According to legend, sirens haunt Haitian waters to this very day. Lasirèn, a beautiful woman with a fish tail, is a Haitian spirit summoned by the blowing of a conch. A symbol of wealth and seduction, she bestows prosperity on those she favours, but angers easily. Carrying a mirror to represent the portal between the human and mystical worlds, she might visit you in a dream and take you down to her underwater realm, to teach you sacred secrets. Folktales and Victorian freak shows During the Renaissance, cosmographers often marked unexplored waters with the phrase Hic sunt sirenae – here be sirens/mermaids. As mermaids often represent the mysterious unknown, it is unsurprising that anyone who managed to get their hands on one was eager to show it off, and to turn the public’s fascination to their own financial gain. One of the most famous examples of this phenomenon is the Feejee Mermaid, which made its way from Nagasaki to London in 1822. In Japan, instead of mermaids an explorer might find ningyo. Literally translated as ‘human fish’, these are more varied, and often more monstrous, than European mermaids. All have fish bodies, but some have a horned human head, others a monkey-like head or a scaled face. According to legend, eating the flesh of these creatures will elongate the life of the consumer. The folktale Yao Bikuni tells of a young girl who does just that, and becomes immortal. After outliving several husbands she seeks solace in a convent, but suffers so much ennui that she eventually takes her own life. Another tells of a fisherman who manages to catch a ningyo and feeds its flesh to his children. However, instead of gaining eternal youth, they immediately grow scales and die. Both tales warn us that encounters with Japanese mermaids might have devastating consequences. In 1854, when Japan opened more widely to trade, exportation of ningyo to sideshows in America and Europe, where they were rebranded as mermaids, became a prosperous business. Captain Samuel Barrett Eades bought one from Dutch sailors, for a vast sum of money. He seems to have been convinced that his Feejee Mermaid, with the head of a monkey, the bottom of a fish and a face contorted in pain and terror, was not only worth the expense, but real – despite the expert opinion of various naturalists who deemed it a fabrication. Read more | Is the Fountain of Youth real? The advertisement for its London exhibition declared Eades’ mermaid “The wonder of the World, the admiration of all ages, the theme of the Philosopher, the Historian, and the Poet”. Apparently, the general public were as convinced as Eades, or at least very curious: the Mirror estimated that 3,000- 4,000 people per day paid their shilling to visit the mermaid. Eventually, as new marvels were brought to shore by other explorers, interest in the Feejee Mermaid waned and the exhibition shut down. It eventually ended up in the hands of ‘greatest showman’ PT Barnum, who successfully toured the creature around America. The mermaids of Africa Rivers, lakes and seas have been crucial historically in African regions for trade, food, communication and transport. However, bodies of water also have far darker associations due to the Transatlantic slave trade, which transported millions of enslaved people across the Atlantic, a journey during which many died. African mermaid lore therefore represents both the dominance and ambivalence of water in the continent’s culture. Water spirits, which had long been honoured and celebrated in Africa, become entangled with European iconography of mermaids from the 15th century onwards, as Euro-African contacts increased. In the Yoruba tradition, saints and spirits called orishas are sent by Olodumare, the origin of virtue and morality, to rule the forces of nature. The orisha Yemonja is mother of the oceans and is often visualised as a siren or mermaid – a beautiful woman with the tail of a fish – holding a conch shell. Temperamental and associated with fertility, Yemonja is worshiped as a protector of women and children and a champion for justice. She increased in prominence in the Caribbean and Americas when enslaved survivors of the Middle Passage began petitioning her for alleviation of their suffering. Another Yoruba water deity is Oshun. Goddess of sensuality and fertility, she reigns over the Osun-Osogbo Sacred Grove in Nigeria. Folktales describe her spiteful temper and the sinister smile she reserves for those who have wronged her. Three memorable mermaids from around the world Atargatis Thousands of years ago, so legend has it, an egg fell from the sky into the Euphrates river. A fish, realising it had found something special, nudged the egg to shore where it hatched a goddess. Thought by many to be the first mermaid, Atargatis (also known as Dekerto) was a Semitic goddess, worshipped in northern Syria 3,000-4,000 years ago. Associated with the Moon and fertility, Atargatis reigned over the sea and controlled its waters. However, her story is a tragic one. She fell in love with a shepherd, but ended up killing him after bearing his child. Consumed with guilt and shame she jumped into the sea, where she acquired the lower body of a fish and where she is said to remain to this day. Mélusine According to medieval French legend, a beautiful fairy named Mélusine was singing by a fountain when she met a nobleman, Raymond. She agreed to marry him, on one condition: he must leave her alone on a Saturday. The couple enjoyed a happy marriage for many years, and Mélusine used her powers to build the powerful fort of Lusignan. But, one fateful Saturday, Raymond spied on Mélusine. He found her bathing – and spotted that she had the tail of a ‘serpent’. Mélusine was transformed into a dragon by Raymond’s betrayal and flew away. Some say that Mélusine’s cries still haunt Lusignan. But those seeking the mermaid today are more likely to find her on their Starbucks coffee cup, as the company’s logo is reportedly based on a 16th-century depiction of her likeness. Sedna Inuit mythology tells of a girl who refused to take a husband and instead, married a dog. Furious, the girl’s father took her out to sea in a boat and threw her overboard. When she tried to climb back in, he cut off her fingers to drown her. But her fingers changed into seals – or whales, according to other versions of the legend – and she survived. The girl became Sedna, a sea goddess who guards the oceans. With sea creatures entangled in her hair, Sedna is half woman and half fish, and is often depicted with the bottom half of a killer whale. During the 20th century, local water goddesses became increasingly homogenised under the general name of Mami Wata, pidgin English for ‘Mother Water’. While her name seems to have emerged with the slave trade, the concept of Mami Wata can be traced right back to the earlier African orishas and other indigenous water spirits. A powerful and contradictory figure, she is always attractive, with the torso of a woman and the bottom half of a fish tail, often accompanied by a snake. While she is known to be seductive and dangerous, Mami Wata is also associated with fertility (although, ironically, it is believed that her followers can’t bear children). A liaison with Mami Wata often requires a significant sacrifice – perhaps celibacy, or even the life of a family member – but she can bestow great wealth in exchange; known as a “capitalist” deity, she is materialistic and associated with social mobility. Mami Wata is traditionally worshipped in trance dances, a practice that slave owners tried to curb. A symbol of female liberation and empowerment, the deity allows women to become powerful priestesses and healers in return for their devotion. Mermaids, from the waters of Haiti to the sacred groves of Nigeria, continue to seduce us. Disney’s The Little Mermaid is about to get a live-action reboot, Beyoncé dressed up as Oshun in her music video for the single ‘Hold Up’, and Monique Roffey’s The Mermaid of Black Conch was awarded Costa Book of the Year for 2020. Mysterious and powerful, forces for destruction and protection, mermaids not only hold up a mirror to the mystical, the supernatural and the unknown, but also to our own societies – and to ourselves. What to read about more fantastical creatures? Here are some of our most popular articles… Basilisks, manticores and more: medieval fantastic beasts (and where to find them) From dragons to unicorns: finding fantastic beasts in ancient history 5 facts about the Loch Ness Monster This article was first published in the May 2021 issue of BBC History Revealed
The real magic of Harry Potter: 15 details the wizarding world borrows from history
HistoryExtra Academy history of witchcraft course
To mark the 20-year anniversary of the release of the film Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone, Dr Hetta Howes investigates the real history that inspired JK Rowling’s magical world…
Since the publication of The Philosopher’s Stone in 1997, the Harry Potter franchise has exploded globally. Harry, Ron and Hermione are some of the best-loved characters from children’s literature, and their adventures in the Wizarding World have even reached the big screen and stage – with November 2021 being the 20th anniversary of the first film in the series being released. The Potterverse is one of staggering imagination, though that’s not to say it is devoid of truth. From fantastic beasts to the mysterious science of alchemy, JK Rowling’s world of witchcraft and wizardry is filled with historical and mythological influences just waiting to be uncovered… Spoilers ahead for both films and series Nicolas Flamel was a real person In the first book (and film) of the series, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone – Sorcerer’s Stone in the US – Harry eats his first chocolate frog on the train to Hogwarts and discovers a ‘Famous Witch and Wizard’ card, which describes a man called Nicolas Flamel. In the books, Flamel is a friend to Hogwarts headmaster Albus Dumbledore, and the man responsible for creating the titular Philosopher’s Stone. Flamel is not Rowling’s invention, however – he really existed. Born in Pontoise, France, in around 1330, he was a successful scribe and bookseller. After his death in 1418, rumours began circulating that he had learned alchemical secrets on a pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela, in north-western Spain. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2021/11/GettyImages-526776510web_readyl-e650c0e.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="Coloured engraving depicting French scrivener and manuscript seller Nicolas Flamel, who developed a posthumous reputation as an alchemist due to his reputed work on the Philosopher's Stone" title="Coloured engraving depicting French scrivener and manuscript seller Nicolas Flamel, who developed a posthumous reputation as an alchemist due to his reputed work on the Philosopher's Stone. (Photo by adoc-photos/Corbis via Getty Images)" /> Alchemy was considered to be one of the highest arts in the medieval and Renaissance periods, and many people did study it. It is a kind of medieval chemistry, concerned with the transformation of matter (for example, turning base metals into gold). Alchemists believed that nature had secrets to reveal, which could be discovered through careful experimentation. The practice taps into humanity’s desire to seek more knowledge, and is now considered to be part of the history of science. But despite the rumours, there is no real evidence that the real Nicolas Flamel had anything to do with alchemy. The Philosopher’s Stone Not only was it believed that the real Nicolas Flamel was an alchemist, it was also believed that he had discovered the legendary Philosopher’s Stone. It is ruby red stone, so the first Harry Potter story has it, that can turn metal into gold and can also produce the elixir of life, and it is something that scientists really did quest to discover in the Middle Ages and beyond. In the 13th century, a vast number of Arabic works reached England and were translated into Latin, including treatises on alchemy, which told of an unrecognisable substance they called the Philosopher’s Stone. The search continued well into the 17th century – we now know that Isaac Newton secretly dabbled in alchemy – and although the Philosopher’s Stone was never discovered, the science did lead to other significant discoveries. Distillation, laudanum, oil paints and inks were all discovered thanks to alchemy. Broomsticks Harry Potter, we discover in The Philosopher’s Stone, is a natural when it comes to flying on a broom – and that broom-flying is an essential skill in the game of Quidditch, the wizarding world’s preeminent team sport. Listen | Archaeologist and author Chris Gosden explores delves into the history of magical beliefs and practices from ancient times until the present day The image of a witch flying on a humble broomstick has become an archetypal one, dating back to the 15th century, when it was believed that witches summoned demons that could enchant their broomsticks into flight. The records of French magistrate Claude Tholasan, who was involved in a series of witch trials spanning some 20 years in the early 1400s, are particularly illuminating. They reveal that the witches on trial claimed (under torture) that they went out at night in the company of devils and strangled children. They would then smear their broomsticks with the fat of their victims and fly to a banquet with the devil. In the Harry Potter canon, the fact that witches and wizards fly on broomsticks is their worst kept secret, popular as magical transport because they are portable, cheap and require no explanation to muggles – non-magic folk – as to why they were in possession of a broom. Familiars Early on in The Philosopher’s Stone, Harry is taken to Diagon Alley – the wizarding equivalent of Oxford Street – where among other things he acquires his own owl, Hedwig. Elsewhere we see students with cats, rats and, in the case of another character called Neville Longbottom, a toad. But these are not akin to familiars as our medieval forbears would have understood them. The Oxford English Dictionary defines a familiar as “a spirit, often taking the form of an animal, which obeys and assists a witch”. Alongside their broomsticks and pointed hats, witches and wizards have been associated with familiars from at least the 16th century; the earliest recorded usage comes from one of French reformer John Calvin’s sermons in 1583. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2021/11/GettyImages-534340048_web_ready-adc433d.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="This illustration from the Compendium Maleficarium shows witches in the form of their animal familiar showing their allegiance to the Devil" title="This illustration from the Compendium Maleficarium shows witches in the form of their animal familiar showing their allegiance to the Devil (Photo by Historical Picture Archive/CORBIS/Corbis via Getty Images)" /> It was believed that these animals were actually demons who sucked blood from the witches in return for service, and it was common practice to search accused witches for teats as a sign of their guilt. In the Salem witch trials, one accuser claimed to have seen a woman sitting on the beams of the church, suckling a yellow bird, and the accused girl Dorothy/Dorcas Good confessed to having and suckling a little snake. Whilst familiars of this kind don’t appear in the world of Harry Potter, there are plenty of animals, from Crookshanks to Mrs Norris, who share an affinity with their owners and seem to have their own innate powers and abilities. Dont miss our brand new podcast series: Investigating the Salem witch trials, episodes available now Episode 1: introduction Episode 2: How events spiralled out of control Episode 3: A ‘new Jerusalem’ on the edge of a wilderness Episode 4: The pervasive power of puritanism Episode 5: Satanic sabbaths and supernatural sins Episode 6: Chaos in the courtroom Episode 7: Quarrelsome neighbours & family tensions Episode 8: Willful, weak-minded women? Episode 9: conclusion Basilisk versus phoenix – a medieval legend made flesh By the 12th century, bestiaries – a type of medieval encyclopaedia – were the ‘bestsellers’ of the medieval world. In these works, cats, pigs and rabbits rub shoulders with fantastical, mythological creatures such as the phoenix, the unicorn and the basilisk. The manuscripts are a mix of fact and fiction that blend religious writings and folklore with hyperbolic accounts from returned travellers – at a time when far less was known about the world. As well as describing these animals, authors would use them as a form of moral instruction – warning against the hypocritical tears of a crocodile, for example, or encouraging readers to imitate the industrious bee. Read more about the (tall?) tales of medieval traveller Sir John Mandeville A number of animals found in medieval bestiaries can also be found in the Potterverse – including centaurs, giants, werewolves and the three-headed guard dog, Cerberus. In the second instalment in the series, The Chamber of Secrets, two of these fantastical creatures go head-to-head: the basilisk sealed inside Hogwarts by Salazar Slytherin and Dumbledore’s pet phoenix, Fawkes. According to medieval legend, the basilisk – also known as king of the serpents – is a cockerel with a snake’s tail. It can kill birds with the fire from its mouth, and any human who locks eyes with the creature will drop dead. The phoenix, in bestiaries, is a purplish-red bird that is sometimes described as being the size of an eagle. The bird is immortal – every 500 years, it will build a pyre for itself and set itself on fire using the sun. Nine days later, it will rise again from the dead. Although both animals will be familiar to Harry Potter fans, Rowling’s creations are slightly different to their medieval counterparts. Her basilisk can also kill with a glance, but it is more like a giant snake than a snake-cockerel hybrid. According to medieval bestiaries, only a weasel can defeat a basilisk, but in Harry Potter and the Chamber of Secrets, Fawkes helps Harry to destroy the creature by pecking out its eyes. <img src="https://images.immediate.co.uk/production/volatile/sites/7/2021/11/GettyImages-1157996767web_ready-dc3cb1c.jpg" width="620" height="413" alt="Illustration of a basilisk, a legendary reptile reputed to be king of serpents. It has the body of a cockerel and possesses the power to cause death with a single glance" title="Illustration of a basilisk, a legendary reptile reputed to be king of serpents. It has the body of a cockerel and possesses the power to cause death with a single glance (Photo by Sepia Times/Universal Images Group via Getty Images)" /> Bezoar stones really were regarded cure-all, but not just for poison Bezoar stones act as an antidote for a wide range of poisons in the wizarding world. Professor Snape writes “just shove a bezoar down their throats” across a list of antidotes in his copy of Advanced Potion Making, and Harry finds this advice to hold true when he saves Ron’s life with a bezoar stone in the sixth instalment, Harry Potter and the Half-Blood Prince. Rowling takes her inspiration for this antidote directly from history. Bezoar stones were one of the most desirable objects for European collectors in the 16th and 17th centuries, due to their reputation as an effective medicine, believed to help treat range of illnesses from melancholia to the plague. According to the 16th-century natural historian Nicholas Monardes, the stones were formed from the tears of goats, shed after eating poisonous snakes. Although by the 18th century they were largely disregarded, in 2007 the auction house Christie’s sold a bezoar stone for a whopping €33,600, suggesting that they still hold some power over our imaginations. Runes The study of ancient runes at Hogwarts introduces students to a subject that has long been associated with magic. Evidence of runes inscribed on ordinary objects as charms to protect the wearer has been discovered all over Europe, and the ancient Goths used the word haliurunnae (Hell-runer) to refer to a sorceress. The Germanic word rune translates as ‘mystery’ or ‘secret’, and the origins of this ancient written communication are similarly mysterious. Whilst many believe they were inspired by ancient Greek and Roman alphabets, Norse mythology tells a more compelling story, in which the god Odin sacrifices himself in return for the knowledge of the runes: he injures himself with a spear and then hangs on a ‘windy tree’ for nine days and nights without food in return for their secrets. A history of magic – from witchcraft to shamanism Divination and oracle bones Whilst divination teacher Sybill Trelawney claims that divination is “the most difficult of all magical arts”, her students are less impressed by the subject. Hermione calls the art of foreseeing the future “woolly”, whilst Harry and Ron make up outlandish prophecies, tinged with tragedy, to pass their exam. The fact that their fictional prophecies turn out to accurately predict the trials Harry will face in the Triwizard Tournament during the fourth instalment The Goblet of Fire may well be Rowling’s comment on how dismissive we can be of a practice that is thousands of years old. In the 2017 Harry Potter exhibition at the British Library, the oldest items on display were Chinese oracle bones, also known as dragon bones, more than 3,000 years old. Questions about topics as various as the weather to the outcome of major battles were engraved on the bones and then heat was applied with metal sticks. The bones cracked under the heat and ‘diviners’ could then interpret the patterns for answers and predict the future. Seers and sibyls The aforementioned Trelawney, descended from the famous (in the wizarding world) seer Cassandra Trelawney, is the professor of divination at Hogwarts. Despite this, she only makes two true predictions that readers ever know of. Yet her name is a historical nod to that latent talent, as is that of her grandmother. Cassandra was a Trojan priestess of Apollo, the Greek god of truth and prophecy, who would grant the gift of prophecy to women as a sign of his favour, but then punish them if they refused his sexual advances. For Cassandra, that punishment was that she was cursed never to be believed, even when she predicted the destruction of Troy during the Trojan War. Sibyll is another allusion. In Greek legend and literature, sibyls were prophets, strong female seers who had great influence over their communities and rulers. They too were usually associated with Apollo. Read more about the Greek gods and their whims Quirinus Quirrell, the Roman god The denouement of The Philosopher’s Stone – in which Voldemort is revealed to be living on the back of Professor Quirinus Quirrell’s head – is perhaps predictable if you have a strong grasp of Roman deities. His very name references the Roman god of doorways, transitions, and new beginnings: Janus Quirinus. Janus is famously depicted as having two faces, one looking into the past and one looking into the future, much like Quirrell when he reveals Voldemort’s face from under his turban. We also have Janus to thank for the month of January, the entryway into the new year. Cedric Diggory, best friend of Achilles Quirrell is not the only character with a direct analogue in mythology – the same could be said of Cedric Diggory, who is killed towards the end of The Goblet of Fire. Rowling has revealed that the moment in which Harry retrieves Cedric’s body is inspired by a series of events in Homer’s famous epic The Iliad. In this account of the Trojan war, Patroclus – the best friend and, many believe, lover of Achilles – is killed by Hector. Achilles retrieves Patroclus’s body from the Trojans and takes it back to his tent, where he delays the funeral for as long as possible because he is too grief stricken to let go of his friend’s body – something nodded to in the film when we see Harry clinging to Cedric’s body until he is forcibly removed. Mandrake was considered a cure, but not for ‘petrification’ Herbology is one of the many classes taught at Hogwarts, in which students learn about the properties of both mundane and magical plants, and how to care for them and use them properly. One of these plants, which appears in almost every book, is the mandrake. The plant has a root that looks like a human and, when it matures, its cry can be fatal to anyone that hears it. Mandrakes pop up first in classical literature and are then documented in medieval herbals, in illustrations which depict a man-shaped root. Medieval herbals are a certain type of manuscript, which collect together the medicinal, culinary, aromatic and magical properties of different plants and, like bestiaries, they are a mix of fact, fiction, and folklore. In one herbal from the 12th century, now housed in the British Library, readers are instructed on how to collect real mandrakes, which are allegedly very useful in medicine, without damaging their hearing or losing their lives. In the wizarding world, mandrakes are used as a restorative draught for those who have been ‘petrified’ (stunned into a comatose state by a creature such as a basilisk). In medieval herbals, however, they are recommended for pre-operative patients, to make them soporific and minimise their pain. Want to learn more about medieval medicine? Here are some of our most popular articles... 9 weird medieval medicines Could medieval medicine help you survive the Black Death? Medieval medicine: killer or cure? Magic was used as medicine (in a fashion) A number of healing practices used in the medieval period sound suspiciously like ‘magic’ to us, and were even described as such at the time. For example, sympathetic magic, a type of ‘natural magic’, was used in the medieval period to cure various ailments. For eye problems, a doctor might prescribe the eye of a vulture, wrapped in the skin of a wolf, to be worn around the patient’s neck. Plant-based poultices, meanwhile, would be coupled with a charm, or spell, to increase the chances of success. Although some of these practices were labelled as ‘superstitious’ in the later Middle Ages, they weren’t associated with demonic magic until the dawning of the witch hunts in the 15th century. Similarly, many of the plants that Hogwarts students learn about in their Herbology lessons are used for medicine as well as in potions and spells. Rowling’s exploration of plant-based healing, and the blurring of magic and medicine, therefore has a direct relation to medieval ‘natural magic’, which was considered at the time to be a branch of science. View Riddle on the source website Horcruxes may not be real, but people believed in magical objects Much of the adventure and intrigue in the Potterverse revolves around magical objects. Examples include the Goblet of Fire, an innocuous looking cup which acts as an impartial judge; the Mirror of Erised, which offers the gazer a glimpse of their heart’s deepest desire; and, of course, the horcruxes in which Voldemort conceals parts of his soul. In medieval legend, objects are equally central and often have magical or miraculous properties. One of the most famous Arthurian legends is the quest for the Holy Grail, a cup that Christ drank from at the Last Supper, and which could give its owner eternal life. In medieval Christianity, too, objects are often imbued with special powers. Relics of saints in particular were often believed to have the power to heal illness or help fertility. Many people – including the fictional pilgrims of Geoffrey Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales – went on pilgrimage to the shrine of St Thomas Becket, who before his death had been Archbishop of Canterbury, where they would buy a vial of his watered-down ‘healing blood’ as a souvenir. The milk of the Virgin Mary and the tears and blood of Christ were also advertised and available for sale at various sites of pilgrimage. Abracadabra, the killing curse, and a cure for malaria Avada Kedavra, the killing curse, is supposed to inflict instant, unavoidable death – which is what makes Harry Potter so famous. ‘The Boy Who Lived’ is the only person known to have survived it. Speaking at the Edinburgh Book Festival in 2004, Rowling revealed that the curse is inspired “by an ancient spell in Aramaic […] which means ‘let the thing be destroyed’”. However, the Aramaic spell she refers to is one of healing and protection rather than one of destruction. Read more about medieval spells: 7 charms our ancestors used It is also one of the possible sources for the magical phrase abracadabra – although the phrase could also be derived from the Hebrew ab, ben, and ruach hakodesh (father, son, and holy spirit) or even from the magical word abraxas whose letters, in Greek numerology, add up to 365, the number of days in a year. The first recorded use of abracadabra can be found in a 13th-century manuscript copy of Quintus Serenus’s Liber medicinalis (Book of Medicine), where it is written out five times as a charm to cure malaria. It is still used in the present day to invoke a sense of magic. Discover more learning from week four of the HistoryExtra Academy course on the history of witchcraft Video lecture: Witches in popular history, with Professor Marion Gibson – watching time 15 mins Wicca and modern witchcraft: a history – reading time 3 mins Zombies of the Caribbean: your guide to zonbi spirits – reading time 6 mins 5 books about witchcraft, selected by Professor Marion Gibson – reading time 3 mins Witches, werewolves and vampires: the Nazi's quest for the supernatural – reading time 13 mins Free download: Your essential guide to the history of witchcraft
The medieval mystics with a hotline to God
They ate lepers' scabs, starved themselves to the brink of death, and had themselves permanently bricked into solitary cells. Hetta Howes gives six examples of the extreme lengths to which some believers were prepared to go to get closer to Jesus in the Middle Ages...
This article was first published in the April 2018 issue of BBC History Magazine Pleasures of the flesh For many medieval mystics, the key to spiritual ecstasy lay in degrading acts such as drinking the pus from wounds In the 1360s, a young woman called Catherine of Siena experienced a vision from God during which – according to her biographer, Raymond of Capua – she drank the water from the wound in Christ’s side. Catherine’s vision proved a life-changing experience. From that day, she was in an almost constant state of contemplation. She no longer menstruated, or defecated. She refused food and drink, and began substituting it with other, more revolting liquids. Raymond tells us that Catherine drank the pus from the cancerous wound of a nun in her care – imagining that she was ingesting the fluids of Christ. To the 21st-century eye, this was a bizarre – and repulsive – way of displaying your devotion to God. But it was far from unique. Catherine was one of a new breed of medieval women who rejected the everyday temptations of the material world and gave themselves over to the life of the mystic. They were determined to communicate with God more directly, and fervently believed that degrading themselves before him, and propelling themselves into a state of ecstasy, was the best way to do it. Catherine of Siena – who died in 1380, aged 33 – certainly found fulfilment in establishing this new hotline to the divine. She told Raymond that she had never tasted any food and drink sweeter or more exquisite than the leaking emissions of this wound. Men, too, could choose the life of the mystic. But the vast majority were women, and this emphasis on fluids – the water and blood from Christ’s side, the pus from the nun’s wound – goes some way to explaining why. While medieval Europeans thought men to be hot and dry, women were considered cold and wet. While men’s bodies were regarded as strong and intact, women’s were, it was believed, more susceptible to external influence, more likely to leak and more prone to excess. But by ingesting liquid from wounds, women could recast this negative view of their bodies in a new light. They could use their fluidity to help them connect more closely with the divine. Holy bathwater Angela of Foligno ate a leper’s scab in a bid to experience the suffering of the sick and the poor Angela of Foligno, in central Italy, was an unlikely mystic. Before dedicating herself to God, she was a wife, a mother and a social climber, pursuing wealth and status rather than mystical experience. But at the age of 40, something changed. Following the death of her husband and children towards the end of the 13th century, she dedicated her life to poverty and hardship in imitation of Christ. We know from an account of her visions that many of Angela’s mystical experiences were a direct result of interaction with the sick and the poor. One of the most famous of these involves Angela’s care of local lepers. She would bathe their suffering bodies as part of her penitential practice – and then she would drink their bathwater. When a scab from this water got caught in her throat, she imagined that it was the Holy Communion, the body and blood of Christ. She forced herself to swallow it, and as a result experienced a moment of mystical union with Christ. By imagining that the suffering flesh was the same as Christ’s flesh, she turned her bodily revulsion into religious ecstasy. This sensory act offers another clue as to what made mysticism attractive to women. In medieval Europe, reason and intellect were a man’s domain. Women were associated with the flesh; intellectual contemplation, it was believed, was beyond them. But, at the same time, more attention was being paid to the suffering body of Christ, as well as the physical practices that could spark a mystical state. This allowed women to use their connection with the physical to access something previously denied to them. They could now speak to God using their bodies and their senses as well as their minds. The gift of tears Some mystics displayed their devotion through prolonged bouts of hysterical crying In her memoirs, Margery Kempe recalled a monk telling her that he wished she was locked up in a house of stone. Pilgrims and archbishops were also, it seems, irritated by the 15th-century English mystic, declaring their desire that she go elsewhere to practise her devotion. But why? The answer appears to lie in the sheer fervour of that devotion. When travelling with her fellow pilgrims, Margery chastised them for talking about frivolous things instead of God. In response, they made her sit alone on a small stool at the end of the table – and later, they tried to ditch her entirely. She insisted on wearing white, a custom usually reserved for virgins, even though she had given birth to 14 children. Above all, Margery’s visions of Christ were repeatedly punctuated by crying fits so long and loud that it’s said they were more like “roarings”. Margery tells us that often she could barely breathe for crying, and she could not control or contain them – try as she might. Any small reminder of Christ and his suffering could set off these fits, from the sight of a small boy being hit by his father, to a horse being struck when ridden. According to the Book of Margery Kempe, many of Margery’s contemporaries doubted whether her visions were genuine. However, her tears did have a precedence that was sanctioned by the church. Male ecclesiastical authorities understood the ‘gift of tears’ to be a sign of devotion sent by God, which the recipient could neither control nor prevent, but which would help facilitate mystical experiences. The ultimate isolation chamber Anchoresses retired from the world in order to discover a new, mystical one While mystics such as Angela of Foligno chose to get closer to God by becoming prominent, active members of their community, others disappeared from their communities altogether. Women who did this were called ‘anchoresses’ (after the ancient Greek verb anachoreo, which means ‘to retire’ or ‘to withdraw’), and their particularly extreme brand of mysticism saw them enter self-imposed solitary confinement for the rest of their lives. To become an anchoress, you first had to have enough wealth and status to persuade a bishop to support you. Once you’d done this, you would enter a small cell, usually adjoining a church. As you did so, a priest would read you the death rites (after which you were considered metaphorically dead). And here you would remain, with the cell sealed up behind you, until your death. Sometimes, the anchoress’s grave would be prepared during the ceremony and kept open in the cell, a reminder of her mortality. Her life would now follow a strict religious timetable, involving cycles of prayer and penitence. To most people today, this may sound like a vision of hell, but it had its attractions back in the 14th and 15th centuries – perhaps because it offered an alternative to the perils of marriage and childbirth. And while anchoresses condemned themselves to extreme isolation, such enclosure could act as a gateway to another world – that of mystical experience. A number of anchoresses recorded vivid visions which came to them in their tiny cells, visions which could feel more real to them than their everyday life. Julian of Norwich (1342–c1416), one of the most famous medieval anchoresses, spent most of her enclosed life (in a cell next to St Julian’s Church, Norwich) recording and interpreting a series of visions in which she not only saw Christ bleeding on the cross but also conversed with him about theology. In one particularly evocative moment, she records Christ opening up the wound in his side and showing her the cavernous space inside – big enough to fit all of mankind within. Dusty feet and scarlet ribbons The only way to feel at one with Jesus was to imagine you were present at his death In the 12th century, the Yorkshire monk and writer St Ælred of Rievaulx chastised his readers for not being more active when visualising Christ’s suffering. He told them to imagine that they were licking the sweat from Christ’s dusty feet, and kissing his wounds one by one until their lips became stained red with blood, like a scarlet ribbon. Mystics such as Margery Kempe, Julian of Norwich, Catherine of Siena, Marie d’Oignies and Angela of Foligno followed this advice, recording visions of the crucifixion, which helped catapult them into mystical states. St Ælred’s words capture perfectly the essence of Passion Meditation, a devotional craze that swept the Christian world in the Middle Ages. The idea was that, if you wanted to deepen your faith, you needed to do more than think about the suffering of Christ during his torture and death. You needed to imagine that you were actually there, watching events unfold, even becoming involved in the action. This was the best way, many believed, to feel closer to God. Believers were encouraged to imagine what Christ’s fluids might taste like, what sounds they might hear as Christ was tortured, what it would feel like to have their hands and feet pierced through with nails. For all that, of the many practices recorded here, Passion Meditation was the most accessible and the least dangerous. Ordinary people didn’t need to drink the bathwater of lepers, or be blessed with the gift of tears. They could gain a deeper connection with their God simply by imagining, and trying to identify with, his suffering on the cross. Divine anorexics Mystics refused food and drink in a bid to mimic Christ’s suffering The phrase ‘holy anorexics’, coined by the historian Rudolph Bell in the 1980s, describes Christian women – including a number of mystics – who starved themselves into meditative, even ecstatic states where they might experience visions of God. This was partly a severe form of imitatio Christi, which involved imitating Christ and his suffering during the Passion in order to feel a deeper connection with him. Some understood this practice as a restitution for the sins of others: by punishing their bodies, they could do penance on the behalf of weaker sinners. More recently, it’s been suggested that the visions starving mystics claimed to experience were caused by the physical impact of denying their bodies food for extended periods of time. However, the visions were also seen as a sign of potential sainthood. If a mystic was apparently surviving on little, or no food at all, then their very bodies were a kind of miracle. According to legend, Catherine of Siena survived for years on nothing but the Eucharist, while Marie of Oignies and her fellow mystic Beatrice of Nazareth claimed that the smell of food repulsed them entirely. Many of these women were celebrated, even – as in the case of Catherine of Siena – canonised. However, by the 15th century, the church had started to prescribe moderation. It feared that their practices had gone too far and were having a detrimental effect on the devoted. The medieval mystics’ extraordinary displays of self-sacrifice would soon fade into history. To listen to Hetta discuss medieval ecstasy on BBC Radio 3’s Free Thinking, click here.
When we think of the Middle Ages, what comes to mind tends to include epic battles, knights and their ladies, a lack of hygiene and perhaps even brutality. However, scholars like Johan Huizinga have painted a contrasting picture, describing medieval people as wracked with uncontrollable emotion...
So did people really cry in the Middle Ages? And if so, what did they cry about? Hetta Howes investigates… Real men do cry The idea that ‘real men’ don’t cry permeates modern culture, but some of the most heroic fictional medieval characters don’t just get teary – they weep. In the Anglo-Saxon poem Beowulf, one of the main characters, King Hrothgar, sheds tears of gratitude when Beowulf rescues his people from an evil monster. At the end of the poem, when a dragon kills Beowulf, his warriors are “disconsolate/and wailed aloud for their lord’s decease”. Their communal tears become a sign of their love for him, and proof of his virtuous character. Nevertheless, it is clear that outpourings of emotion have their time and place, and should be limited. Earlier in the poem, when King Hrothgar mourns the death of one of his friends, Beowulf warns him: “It is always better/to avenge dear ones than to indulge in mourning.” When it becomes excessive, crying is self-indulgent and prevents proper action – in this case, violent vengeance. King Arthur, another famous British king and hero, cried often. Medieval printer William Caxton published Thomas Malory’s Le Morte D’Arthur in 1485, which records the mythical adventures of Arthur, Guinevere and the Knights of the Round Table. Tears flow freely in this book, soaking it in nostalgia for a better time. Arthur weeps when he goes to war against his old friend Sir Lancelot (who, unfortunately, has slept with his wife); Sir Gawain cries “heartily” when Arthur announces that Guinevere must be executed for this transgression, and when she is led to her execution (spoiler: Lancelot will save her), there is “weeping and wailing and wringing of hands” from both lords and ladies. There is more of the same when King Arthur’s dying body is taken away to Avalon. These are, of course, fictional tears, but they reveal something about actual medieval readers, too. King Arthur and his knights were national legends; clearly Malory didn’t think that describing their emotion would detract from their status. Rather, the tears in the book are testament to the deep feeling and sincerity of the protagonists, as well as King Arthur’s popularity. Le Morte d'Arthur, novel by Thomas Malory c1405. Caption reads: Arthur and the strange Mantle. Illustration by Aubrey Beardsley. (Photo by Culture Club/Getty Images) Tears of devotion Tears are not only spilled from grief, joy and gratitude; they are also shed for love in literature of the Middle Ages – the best and most enduring medieval romances are peppered with emotional outbursts. Marie de France was a female poet who lived in England during the 12th century, and she penned a number of fictional knightly adventures. In one of her poems, Milun, two lovers are separated for years and can converse only by letter. When Milun’s lover receives one message from him, she cries so much that she can no longer read the words: “And when she saw her lover’s name/she kissed it a hundred times, crying,/before she could read further.” Similarly, in Chaucer’s poem Troilus and Criseyde, the lovers cry continually (and excessively) both from joy at being together and sorrow when they are apart. Tears are a way of signalling to readers that the love being described is the real deal. However, one of the most documented causes for crying in the Middle Ages centres on a slightly different type of devotion. According to early Christian authorities, the ‘best’ type of tears by far were those shed for God: St Bernard of Clairvaux, a 12th-century French abbot, felt he had to excuse his copious tears when his brother died, because such tears suggested a lack of faith in God and heaven. In a sermon addressed to his fellow monks he asked them to excuse his tears, for he feared withholding them would make him bitter: “Flow on, flow on my tears, so long on the point of brimming over […] let my tears gush forth like fountains, that they may perchance wash away the stains of those sins that drew God’s anger upon me.” This taps into the idea that tears can purge our negative feelings – the ‘have a good cry’ philosophy. Jesus himself, according to the Bible, shed a tear when his friend Lazarus died. This became a famous relic of the Middle Ages – numerous churches claimed to possess the tear by the 13th century. c1140, St Bernard of Clairvaux (1090-1153), a Cistercian monk who commanded great influence in 12th-century France. (Photo by Hulton Archive/Getty Images) Gift of tears Tears can also “wash away the stain of sins”, according to medieval Christian theology. Priests were carefully schooled on how to provoke tears from people giving confession, as proof that their guilt was real and that they deserved forgiveness. ‘The Gift of Tears’ was a religious phenomenon of the Middle Ages, whereby a good Christian might be overwhelmed with tears when thinking about Christ’s suffering on the cross. This gift allowed its recipient to feel closer to God, and marked them out as special. One famous beneficiary of this gift was Margery Kempe: born in Norfolk in 1373, Margery dictated her religious life into a spiritual autobiography – one of the first of its kind in English. According to The Book of Margery Kempe, Margery’s crying was “so loud and so wonderful” that it made people astonished – in fact, sometimes it was closer to wailing or roaring, and Margery is chastised by a priest for disrupting a church service with the noise. Because of the frequency (and volume) of Margery’s crying, it received mixed reviews: “And as soon as she perceived that she should cry, she would keep it in as much as she might, so that the people should not have heard it, for it annoyed them. For some said it was a wicked spirit vexed her; some said it was a sickness; some said she has drunk too much wine […] Other spiritual men loved her and favoured her the more.” Not everyone believed that Margery’s tears were real. They thought she might be faking for attention, purposefully setting herself apart as chosen by God. This was a real concern for Christians in the Middle Ages, for, as St Peter Damian said in the 11th century, artificial tears “did not come from heavenly dew, but had gushed forth from the bilge-water of hell”. How could you tell if tears were really from God, if someone was faking or, worse, if their tears actually came from the devil? Sinful woman wiping Jesus's feet with her tears. (Photo by: Leemage/UIG via Getty Images) Crying certainly had its place in medieval culture, but it was thought that tears should have a limit – excesses of emotion were perceived as self-indulgent, even blasphemous. However, acts like communal mourning allowed people an emotional outlet, and symbolised love and respect for the person being grieved. As today, medieval people were well aware that tears could be feigned, and were not always trustworthy. However, medieval literature and theology continued to portray tears as proof of sincerity – real love, real grief, real joy, real faith and real guilt. Tears of pure, true feeling were not scorned but rather idealised as the ‘dew’ of heaven’s garden.
From Narnia to Harry Potter, so many modern manifestations of magic come from the Middle Ages. Hetta Howes investigates...
Want to get rid of an unwanted husband? Coat yourself in honey, roll naked in grain and cook him up some deadly bread with flour milled from this mixture. Want to increase the amount of supplies in your barn? Leave out child-sized shoes and bows-and-arrows for the satyrs and goblins to play with. If you’re lucky, they might steal some of your neighbour’s goods for you in return. These unusual charms and medical tips, which featured in medieval books, sound suspiciously like magic. But alongside these weird and wonderful spells and superstitions, medieval history paints a picture of a people actually more enlightened than their Renaissance successors. So what was medieval magic really like? Season of the witch The now all-too-familiar figure of the ‘witch’ – that frightening old hag with warts on her nose and curses at her fingertips – didn’t appear until the 15th century. Despite being dubbed ‘The Renaissance’ and ‘The Age of Discovery’, the centuries that followed [the Renaissance lasted from the 14th to the 17th century] were witness not only to ruthless witch-hunts, but also to a new belief in the reality of magic. In the Middle Ages, the practice of magic was not yet imagined to be essentially ‘female’. In fact, according to court records from the first half of the 14th century, the majority of those tried for maleficium (meaning sorcery, or dark magic) were men. That was because the most troubling form of magic – necromancy – required not only skill, learning and preparation, but above all education, which was less readily available to women. Necromancy involved conjuring the dead and making them perform feats of transportation or illusion, or asking them to reveal the secrets of the universe. Because many books describing necromancy were Latin translations, anyone wanting to practise the craft would need a good working knowledge of Latin. It wasn’t until the publication of Heinrich Kramer’s Malleus Maleficarum (or, Hammer of Witches) in 1487 that the specific connection between women and satanic magic became widespread. Kramer warned that “women’s spiritual weakness” and “natural proclivity for evil” made them particularly susceptible to the temptations of the devil. He believed that “all witchcraft comes from carnal lust”, and that women’s “uncontrolled” sexuality made them the likely culprits of any sinister occurrence. Black sabbath Hand-in-hand with this increased emphasis on women came a shift in the perception of magic. Evidence suggests that medieval church authorities (whose successors would later spearhead the witch-hunts) didn’t really believe magic was real – although they still condemned anyone who claimed to practise it. The 10th-century canon, Episcopi, describes women who, seduced by illusions from the devil, believed they could fly on the backs of “certain beasts” in the middle of the night alongside the goddess Diana. The canon dismissed these women as “stupid” and “foolish” for actually believing that they could accomplish such things. They were criticised in the text for being tricked rather than for practising any real, magical mischief. In the 15th and 16th centuries, however, inquisitors seemed to believe that women really could make magic happen by entering into pacts with the devil. It was thought that at sabbaths – nocturnal meetings with other witches – women renounced their Christian faith, devoured babies, participated in orgies and committed other carnal and unspeakable acts. Afterwards, the devils worshipped would watch their women for signs, and then do their bidding. For example, if a witch put her broomstick in water and spoke certain words, a devil might cause a storm or flood. Magic of this kind wasn’t always harmful, however. Witches might be able to heal as a result of a pact, or perform other kinds of positive magic. But, because of their fundamental belief that all magic was carried out by demons and devils, inquisitors condemned it just the same. Magic or medicine? Certain practices – which sound to us very much like magic – would have been classed as science or medicine in the Middle Ages. William of Auvergne, a 13th-century French priest and bishop, certainly condemned most magic as superstition. However, he admitted that some works of “natural magic” should be viewed as a branch of science: as long as practitioners didn’t use this “natural magic” for evil, they weren’t doing anything criminal. Sealskin could quite happily be used as a charm to repel lightning; vulture body parts could be used as a protective amulet; and gardeners could get virgins to plant their olive trees without any anxiety – this was, after all, a scientific way of promoting their growth. A number of healing practices from the Middle Ages also sound very much like magic to a modern reader: one doctor instructed physicians to place the herb vervain in their patient’s hand. The presence of the herb would, it was thought, cause the patient to speak his or her fate truthfully, offering the physician an accurate prognosis. Sympathetic magic was another well-known technique – it used imitation to produce effective results. For example, liver of vulture might be prescribed as medicine for a patient suffering from liver complaints. Meanwhile narrative charms – a complex version of sympathetic magic, hinged on the belief that telling a particular story could help channel healing power to the patient – were usually accompanied by a more ‘medical’ application, like a poultice. According to one medical treatise, wool soaked in olive oil from the Mount of Olives could staunch blood when coupled with a spoken story about Longinus, a man who was famously healed of his blindness by the blood of Christ. Religious elements were blended with the magical. Although some of these methods were considered superstition by the Christian church in the Middle Ages, they were never associated with demonic magic until the dawning of the witch hunts. Even though women tried for witchcraft were accused of much more diabolical doings than using charms or stories to heal, many women became afraid of carrying out such practices, for fear of attracting suspicion of darker deeds. Medieval history offers us a magical potion of stories and practices infused with charms, herbs and superstition. While some of the examples might seem curious to us, they are evidence of a people trying to make sense of and control their surroundings – just as we do today. This article was first published by HistoryExtra in 2015