The apocryphal saint-king and the king who never was

When researching the cult and literature of saints, one is very often dealing with figures whose historicity is doubtful, and sometimes even figures that clearly have not existed. In some cases, the non-existent figures were not the saints themselves, but instead people featuring in the stories about them. These secondary figures of historical non-existence very often contribute to obscuring that kernel of the saint's legend which does seem to have some historical basis. This is the case with Saint Richard and King Otto of England.

In my research I recently came across the story of Saint Richard in an incunabula housed at the university library of the University of Southern Denmark (Syddansk Universitetsbibliotek). According to the front matter of the book, replicated by hand after the original printed front matter was somehow lost, the book is a collection of saints' lives in German called Dat Leuend der Hÿlghen, or The Lives of the Saints, printed in Lübeck in 1492.

Saint Richard, son of King Otto of England

Dat leuend der hÿlghen, a collection of stories about saints, Lübeck, 1492

Incunabula RARA M 15, Syddansk Universitetsbibliotek

I was quite intrigued to see this story of Saint Richard. I had never heard of him, and since I have been working quite a bit with English saints I was excited to learn of one more. As the vignette to the story indicates, Richard was noted as a pilgrim, shown by the pilgrim's hat and the pilgrim's badges of the scallop, which is the symbol of Santiago in Compostela, but which is also seems to be used as a shorthand for denoting the pilgrim in medieval iconography. I was, however, very surprised to read that he was the son of King Otto of England, because there has never been any such king in the history of the kings of England.

As for the historical nature of Saint Richard, this is, according to David Farmer, a name that is given to the father of Saint Willibald, Saint Winnibald, and Saint Walburga, three figures whose historicity is certain, and who were Anglo-Saxons pilgrims who became important ecclesiastical figures in Germany. The story of their pilgrimage were written down by the nun Huneberc of Heidenheim (fl.780) in the book Hodoeporican, and Reginald of Eichstatt (d.991) appears to be the one responsible for introducing Richard as their father. According to the legend, Richard died at Lucca where his relics were venerated "at least from the twelfth century" (Farmer 2004: 454).

Accordingly, Saint Richard is a figure of dubious historicity, woven around the possible fate of the historical father of the three Anglo-Saxons who became saints in their turn. It seems clear, however, that Richard was not at any point a king. What then, of the mystical King Otto of England?

It is possible that Otto is here the result of an intended German translation of Offa. This is a name of two historical kings, the eldest being a king of the East Saxons who was active around 709, the youngest being the more famous king Offa of Mercia (d.796). Chronologically speaking, if Otto is indeed Offa, it is likely to be Offa of the East Saxons. But even if this is the intended identity of Richard's father, it is safe to say that Richard himself does not appear to have ever been the son of Offa, and that this is rather a product of later legends accrued around the cult of Saint Richard who was venerated not only in Lucca but also in Eichstatt where Reginald wrote his legend.





Bibliography

Farmer, David, Oxford Dictionary of Saints, Oxford University Press, 2004

Huneberc's Hodoeporican:  https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/basis/willibald.asp

Dat leuend der hÿlghen, a collection of stories about saints, Lübeck, 1492 (Incunabula RARA M 15, Syddansk Universitetsbibliotek)

Cosmas and Damian in Anglo-Saxon Literature

 

 In a recent blogpost I introduced the legend of SS Cosmas and Damian, and their place in the Collegiate Church in Covarrubias. In this blogpost, however, I want to revisit the two twin-brother physician saints and look at how they appeared in Anglo-Saxon literature. The summary of their legend in the earlier blogpost relied chiefly on the version in Legenda Aurea, written in the 1260s by Jacobus de Voragine. As with all legends, the story of Cosmas and Damian was constantly in development, some elements being added, others subtracted and yet others altered.

The main story remains the same, however. Cosmas and Damian lived during the persecutions of Diocletian. The two brothers – two out of five born by a devout Christian woman in the city of Egea – were doctors who took no fee for their work as it was seen as unchristian to charge for help. Once Cosmas was told that his brother had accepted a fee from a grateful man, and although this was in reality a gift which the man had pressed Damian to receive, Cosmas thought this to be a breach of their principles and declared that he did not want to be buried next to his brother in death. After a while all the five brothers were summoned, tortured and – when the torture proved unfruitful – beheaded. After the beheading, the bodies of the martyrs were taken by the Christians and prepared for burial. They then remembered that Cosmas had said he did not want to share the burial site of his brother, but as they were discussing what to do there entered a camel on the scene and, in a human voice, spoke to them and told them to bury all the brothers jointly.

Cosmas and Damian

Avignon - BM - ms. 0136, f.273, Roman missal, c.1370

Courtesy of Enluminures

The cult of Cosmas and Damian was long-lived and seems to have been very successful, although the extent of their cult is – as far as I know – not thoroughly mapped. In the following, I will present two renditions of the story from two Anglo-Saxon texts. The oldest of these is the prose De Virginitate by Aldhelm of Malmesbury (d.709/10), abbot of Malmesbury and bishop of Sherborne, who wrote a two-fold work on virginity with exempla from virgin saints intended as educational literature for a community of nuns at Barking Abbey. Aldhelm was an influential figure in Anglo-Saxon literature, and I have written about his prose De Virginitate elsewhere.

XXXIV. But I think it worthwhile that we do not in any way exclude from (our) historical account of virgins – as if unworthy of the company of the others – COSMAS and DAMIANUS, the most famous warriors of spiritual warfare and arch-physicians of celestial medicine. We confidently trust that these two, predestined to citizenship in the heavenly Jerusalem and inscribed in the register of celestial writing, will rejoice with their aforementioned colleagues. For in the times of Diocletian and Maximian , at the two hundred-and-sixty-seventh Olympiad, when as a result of cruel edicts the followers of the catholic faith, whom they called ‘Christians and ‘cross-worshippers’, were compelled to burn incense at the petty little statues of the pagans, and those not wishing to apostatize, that is, to revert to (wallowing in) the more of apostasy, were compelled to undergo capital punishment – at this time a devout mother gave birth to twins, the aforementioned novices of Christ (Cosmas and Damianus). (These twins), gradually instructed in medicinal treatments from the beginnings of their adolescence, were able to cure by means of celestial poultices both the diseases of dropsical persons and (other) internal discomforts and spiritual disorders as well: imparting sight, that is, to the blind and emollients to the one-eyed, opening the door of silence in the dumb, renewing the harmonies of the outside world in the ears of the deaf, granting correctness of speech to stutterers and stammerers, restoring the lame and the maimed to their former healthiness, reviving through the grace of their merits those possessed by devils and the short-sighted, and even recalling to earthly life those overthrown by the accidents of fortune. Nevertheless, enriched by the munificence of powers of this kind, they conferred the wished-for health on the infirm, not for the traffic of avarice but out of a freely-given generosity, (thus) conforming to the message of the Gospel: ‘Freely have you received; freely give’ [Matth. X. 8]. Meanwhile, at the time of the aforementioned persecutors (Diocletian and Maximian), when holy martyrs were being sacrificed ‘like sheep for the slaughter’ [Psalm. XLIII. 22] by the bloody swords of butchers, and these athletes of church in no sense terrified were struggling, as if they were in a wrestling-arena, who would be able to describe the many great instruments of punishment with which the aforesaid confessors were tortured at the jurisdiction of the tribune Lysias? Since indeed, with their arms bound and the shanks of their legs tied together, they were cast into the depths of the sea; but, sustained by angelic intervention, the wild ferocity of the waves, not daring to touch them, returned them unharmed to the shore. Again the savage governor, confounded and put to silence by so brilliant a triumph by the holy soldiers, orders them to be cruelly thrust into a furnace which was stoked up by much tinder of brushwood and crackling with diverse flaming logs. But in no way did the conflagration of the raging furnace burn (the twins), who were as salamanders which, by nature, burning lumps of coal are unable to scorch or consume. Next, the patronage of angels protected them (while they were) tormented by the anguish of the rack and suspended from the fork of the gallows, and in addition buried under the dreadful blows of arrows. In the end they were sentenced to be beheaded: with their palm of virginity they earned a martyr’s triumph.
- De Virginitate, Aldhelm of Malmesbury (translated by Michael Lapidge and Michael Herren, D. S. Brewer, 1979: 95-96

Cosmas, Damian and an unknown beast

Chambéry - BM - ms. 0004, f.624, Franciscan breviary, c.1430

Courtesy of Enluminures

Châteauroux - BM - ms. 0002, f. 343v, Breviary, Use of Paris, c.1414

Courtesy of Enluminures

We don’t know which text was the basis for Aldhelm’s account, but there are some significant differences when compared with the story as rendered in Legenda Aurea. Since the latter is a very conservative body of work, it is not sufficient to ascribe these differences solely to the near half-century that separates these two books. Although we have no clear-mapped account of the legend’s development and therefore must be alert to changes in texts separated by so many centuries, it is also important to note that the authors had different purposes with their respective texts. Aldhelm wrote to educate a specific nunnery, and it is interesting to note that the story of Damian’s gift and the consequent confusion concerning their burial, the intermediation of the camel, and their posthumous miracles are not included. It might of course be that these elements were unknown to Aldhelm, but the explanation might rather be sought in Aldhelm’s focus on their healings – emphasised with great detail and with overt references to the Gospels through the nature of the cures (cf. Matthew 8) – and his emphasis on their fervour for Christ. Aldhelm portrays these saints as champions of Christ, athletes of Christ, confessors and martyrs, typical sobriquets that are here applied with great frequency. Interestingly, Aldhelm calls them virgin saints, although this is not specified anywhere in the legends as far as I know. It might be, therefore, that Aldhelm emphasises their holy works to persuade his audience that the holiness of their works – and the miracles surrounding their martyrdom – is evidence for their virginity.

MS Royal 19 B XVII, Legenda Aurea translated by Jean de Vignay, Central France, 1382

Courtesy of British Library

The next rendition of the story is found in The Old English Martyrology, written c.900 and containing the stories of the saints according to the calendar. As in the case of Aldhelm, we don’t know exactly which texts provided the compiler with material.

On the twenty-seventh day of the month [i.e. September] is the feast of the holy brothers St Cosmas and St Damian; they were expert doctors and they cured any human illness, and they received nothing from anybody, neither from the wealthy nor from the poor. When they cured a woman of a great illness, she secretly brought St Damian a small gift; the texts say that it was three eggs. And she begged him for God’s sake to accept them. He then took them. Then [his] brother Cosmas was very sad because of that, and therefore he asked that their bodies should not be buried together at the end of their lives. Then during the same night our Lord appeared to Cosmas and said: ‘Why would you talk like that about the gift which Damian received? He did not receive it as payment, but because he was asked in my name.’ These brothers suffered a great martyrdom in the days of the emperor Diocletian at the hands of the governor Lysias. They were stoned, and the stones turned back and hurt the ones who were stoning the saints. They were shot at with arrows, but the arrows turned around and killed the pagans. But through beheading they gave up the ghost to God. Then the men who collected their bodies were wondering whether they should be buried together, because Cosmas had earlier prohibited that. Then a camel came running there, and said in a human voice: ‘ Do not separate the saints’ bodies, but bury them together.’ Then they did as the dumb animal had told them, and yet heavenly miracles happened after that through the saints’ power.
- The Old English Martyrology, translated by Christine Rauer, D. S. Brewer, 2013: 193

Cosmas and Damian carrying their palms of martyrdom

Orléans - Musée hist. et arch. - inv. 6988, liturgical fragment, c.1440

Courtesy of Enluminures

 

As we see, the dramaturgical focus is different here than in Aldhelm’s De Virginitate. We might speculate on the reason for this, but although we know the addressees of Aldhelm’s book, the audience of the Martyrology is a slightly more difficult matter. Aldhelm wrote an educational book, while the Martyrology probably had as its main purpose to provide material for the homilists when writing the texts of the days, so that they could address topical problems, such as suspicion against brothers, or perhaps the miraculous intervention of dumb animals speaking like humans. We can’t say for sure, especially since so much uncertainty still surrounds the genesis of the Martyrology, but the shift in focus is interesting as should not merely be ascribed to the possibility of Aldhelm and the martyrologist working from different sources, or that the legend had changed that radically in just two hundred years (a short period in the evolution of saints’ cults before c.1050). The martyrologist refers moreover to a plurality of texts, suggesting that these elements are found in at least two sources available at the period. Although we can’t say much about these differences, we see at least that the legend of Cosmas and Damian were known in the Anglo-Saxon literature, and that there were several sources available.

Humilitas Christi - the washing of feet in medieval hagiography

Christ washing the feet of his disciples

Royal 2 B III, psalter, Netherlands, minatures from 2nd or 3rd quarter of 13th Century

Courtesy of British Library

Today I have been teaching on Sulpicius Severus’ Life of Martin, and we had a look at the ways in which Saint Martin imitated Christ. One of these ways was Martin’s performance of humility by washing the feet of his visitors, thus imitating Christ’s humility as he washed the feet of his disciples (cf. John 13:1-17). Martin performs this imitation Christi in two ways. The first episode we encounter is where he, while still an unbaptised soldier, reverses the hierarchy in the relationship between him and his slave, and Sulpicius Severus tells us that “it was usually Martin who pulled his slave’s boots off and cleaned them, and when they took their meals together it was often Martin who served at table” (II.5, translated by Carolinne White). Towards the end of the book, Sulpicius tells of his own meeting with the aged Martin, then bishop of Tours, and the link with Christ becomes clearer as we are told that Martin “himself brought water to was our hands. In the evening he washed our feet himself and we did not have the courage to resist or refuse” (XXV.3, translated by Carolinne White).

Christ washing the feet of his disciples

Egerton 1139, Psalter, Jerusalem, between 1131 and 1143

Courtesy of British Library

The washing of feet is in Christian thought seen as one of the ultimate signs of Christ’s humility. In medieval monasteries, it entered the liturgy during the Easter celebration. The liturgical calendar, strictly observed at all monasteries, is divided into the sanctorale, the celebration of saints, and the temporale, the commemoration of the life and times of Christ. These two liturgical layers run parallel, and the tempora Christi are re-enacted in the monastic liturgy. As part of this re-enactment it was customary to invite twelve beggars into church and feed them and to have the high clergy wash their feet.

Christ washing the feet of his disciples

Harley 1810, Eastern Mediterranean, last quarter of 12th century or first half of 13th Century

Courtesy of British Library

This ritual of imitation is sometimes also found in hagiography, where the washing of feet is used to illustrate the virtue of humility, a virtue expected of all Christians and all saints, but perhaps particularly from the more high-born, in keeping with the Gospel text from Luke stating that those who put themselves high shall be brought low and vice versa.

Christ washing the feet of his disciples

Lansdowne 420, psalter, England, 1st quarter of the 13th Century

Courtesy of British Library

One example of this episode in a hagiographic context can be found in Bede’s life of St Cuthbert of Lindisfarne. In chapter five Bede recounts how Cuthbert performed his office as guestmaster at the monastery of Ripon, and how Cuthbert had been tested by God in the following way:

Going out in the early morning from the inner buildings of the monastery to the guests’ chamber, he found a certain youth sitting within, and, thinking that he was of the race of men, he speedily welcomed him with accustomed kindness. He gave him water to wash his hands; he washed his feet and wiped them with a towel and placed them in his bosom so as to chafe them humbly with his hands; and asked him to wait until the third hour of the day and be refreshed with food”
- Bede, Vita Sancti Cuthberti, translated by Bertram Colgrave (Colgrave 1969: 179)

Cuthbert washing the feet of an angel

Yates Thompson 26, Prose life of Cuthbert, Durham, last quarter of 12th Century

Courtesy of British Library

The guest turns out to be an angel of the Lord, and for his kindness in his imitation Christi, Cuthbert is rewarded with loaves of heavenly bread which “excel the lily in whiteness, the rose in fragrance, and honey in taste.”

The exercise of humility was, as stated, a highly valued virtue in the saints. In the case of royal saints, the humility and the spurning of the world were emphasised with a typical monastic flair for irony. In the case of Louis IX of France (d.1270, can.1297), his humility was one of the primary virtues for which he was praised during the long canonisation proceedings. In his proper imitation of humilitas Christi, Louis washed the feet of three poor men. This episode can be found in one of the earliest hagiographies about Louis, written in the 1270s by the royal confessor Geoffrey of Beaulieu:

It was his practice on any given Saturday to wash the feet of the three of the poorer and older men who could be found, which he did on bended knee, humbly, piously, and in a most secret place. After washing, he dried their feet and humbly kissed them. In similar fashion he brought water to wash their hands, which he kissed in the same way. He then provided a certain sum of money to each, and he himself waited upon them as they ate.
- Geoffrey of Beaulieu, The Life and Saintly Comportment of Louis, Former King of the Franks, of Pious Memory, translated by Larry Field (Gaposchkin and S. Field 2014: 77

Louis serving the poor

Royal 16 G VI, Chroniques de France ou de St Denis, France, between 1332 and 1350

Courtesy of British Library

Geoffrey then adds another episode to the chapter:

[O]nce on a certain Sabbath, when he was at the Abbey of Clairvaux, he desired to take part in the washing of the feet of the monks, which they call the “mandate.” That is, according to the custom of their order, after Vespers, the monks wash each other’s feet with solemn devotion. The king himself, out of humility, many times wished to lay aside his cloak and humbly wash the feet of the servants of God with his own hands, on bended knees.
- Geoffrey of Beaulieu, The Life and Saintly Comportment of Louis, Former King of the Franks, of Pious Memory, translated by Larry Field (Gaposchkin and S. Field 2014: 78

Geoffrey here hammers home that Louis was a man of exceptional humility, and he concludes his chapter by saying “I do not know if there was another person of his station who was his equal in all the world.”

These episodes are just a few of the many examples of the importance of the foot-washing ritual in Christian hagiography, and the primacy of humility that was one of the many constants in medieval moral theology. The case of Louis IX also illustrates that to the persons of royal birth, it was necessary for them to subvert that hierarchy by which they were given the power to rule if they were to be worthy of a place in the sanctorale.

Guthlac and the demons - the importance of liturgy in the Middle Ages

The legends about St Guthlac of Crowland and his encounters with demons are well-known to medievalists, and in a previous blogpost I drew the attention to the iconographic similarities between the struggles of Guthlac and the temptations of St Anthony, the latter being a saint whose vita by Anasthasius influenced the eighth-century life of Guthlac written by the monk Felix. In this blogpost I will return to the topic of Guthlac’s encounter with demons. However, while his most famous episode is where the demonic host brings him to the gates of Hell where he is saved by St Bartholomew, this episode takes place in Guthlac’s hermitage at Crowland.

A few prefatory words are, however, needed to put this anecdote in a wider hagiographical context. Guthlac (674-715) was born into the royal dynasty of Mercia, and showed early signs of maturity which foreshadowed his later embrace of the monastic life. As a young man he learned of the martial deeds of his forefathers and decided to emulate them, taking up arms and ravaging the lands of the enemies of his house. The chronicler Felix makes sure, however, to tell the reader that although a heathen soldier, Guthlac never showed signs of greed and always returned a third of what his men had captured. At the age of twenty-four, the young soldier reflected further on his forefathers and found that they had all come to violent ends thanks to their violent lives. He then repented his former life and left for the monastery of Repton in order to receive the tonsure. At Repton he showed such diligent abstemiousness towards alcohol that his fellow brethren began to hate him, an episode reminiscent of Benedict of Nursia as described in Gregory the Great’s Dialogi. Shortly afterwards, after having read about the desert fathers, Guthlac leaves for the fens in order to become a hermit of the desert, and on the remote island of Crowland he establishes his cell. Since he arrives at the island on the feast of St Bartholomew (then celebrated at 25^th of August), Guthlac commends himself to the saint and is later aided by him as mentioned above. It should be noted that Bartholomew’s gift of the scourge does not appear in Felix’ Vita Guthlaci, but is a product of a later local tradition at Crowland Abbey. 

Guthlac receiving the scourge from St Bartholomew

MS Harley Roll Y.6, England, turn of the 12th Century

Courtesy of British Library

Even though Guthlac is brought back from the mouth of Hell, he is still troubled by demons, even in his own hermitage, and in chapter 34 we are told of a trick the demons played on him, pretending to be British marauders:


Now it happened in the days of Cænred King of the Mercians, while the Britons the implacable enemies of the Saxon race, were troubling the English with their attacks, their pillaging, and their devastations of the people, on a certain night about the time of cockcrow, when Guthlac of blessed memory was as usual engaged in vigils and prayers, that he was suddenly overcome by a dream-filled sleep, and it seemed to him that he heard the shouts of a tumultuous crowd. Then, quicker than words, he was aroused from his light sleep and went out of the cell in which he was sitting; standing, with ears alert, he recognized the words that the crowd were saying, and realized that British hosts were approaching his dwelling: for in years gone by he had been an exile among them, so that he was able to understand their sibilant speech. Straightway they strove to approach his dwelling through the marshes, and at almost the same moment he saw all his buildings burning, the flames mounting upwards: indeed they caught him too and began to lift him into the air on the sharp points of their spears. Then at length the man of God, perceiving the thousand-fold forms of this insidious foe and his thousand-fold tricks, sang the first verse of the sixty-seventh psalm as if prophetically, ‘Let God arise’, etc.: when they had heard this, at the same moment, quicker than words, all the hosts of demons vanished like smoke from his presence.
- Felix, Life of Guthlac, translated by Bertram Colgrave (1956: 109-11)

The first two verses of  psalm 67 (68 in the modern numbering) are rendered thus in the Vulgate:

[E]xsurgat Deus et dissipentur inimici eius et fugiant qui oderunt eum a facie eius
sicut deficit fumus deficiant sicut tabescit cera a facie ignis pereant impii a facie Dei

In the English translation:

Let God arise, and let his enemies be scattered: and let them that hate him flee from before his face.
As smoke vanisheth, so let them vanish away: as wax melteth before the fire, so let the wicked perish at the presence of God.

While Felix tells us that Guthlac only sang the first verse, I have included the second verse here because Felix obviously draws on that verse for his comparison with the demons to vanishing smoke.

There are many significant things to comment on here, but my focus now is the martial aspects of the episode, and indeed in the whole text itself. Throughout the work, Felix refers to Guthlac as the soldier of Christ, a sobriquet based on St Paul’s letter to the Ephesians where his listeners are asked to put on the armour of God. This title is not merely a play on Guthlac’s military past, it is also a very apt description of how monks were seen in medieval theology: They were soldiers of God whose weapons were prayer and song, and through their asceticism and their mortification of their own flesh, they kept the devil away. In this episode, Guthlac does not physically drive away the demons as he will do in later traditions using the scourge of St Bartholomew. Nor is he here saved by the apostle’s intervention, but through his faithful incantation of the psalm. Through his arms of faith, the weapons of song and prayer, Guthlac overcomes the phantasmal spears of the demonic army and emerges victorious, a miles Christi faithfully resisting against the soldiers of Satan. When we consider this episode, therefore, we get a better understanding of why the daily performance of the office was such an important aspect of medieval religious life: Not only was it a way of strengthening the religious community through a mystic experience, it was also a feat of spiritual arms that kept the devil’s army away from the soul, and which could allow the faithful to withstand the phantasms coaxing it to fear and loss of faith in God’s protection. Guthlac's struggle with the demons, in other words, allows us to grasp the rationale of medieval liturgy as something more than mere music, and we understand that the office is not just an ornament in the church service, it is part of the arsenal which St Paul included in his letter to the Ephesians.

The Psalter of Quendrada - a miracle of St Kenelm

Kenelm holding a virginal lily

From the Digby Chantry, St Augustine's Church Ramsgate, John Hardman Powell, mid-19th century

Courtesy of this website

The elusively historical Kenelm of Mercia was the head of the Mercian kingdom for some time at the turn of the 8th century, at least according to his legend. Little is known about his life, and what appears in later texts is the stuff of saint-biographical legend, cultivated especially at Winchcombe Abbey, which was the centre of his cult. From documents and charters we know that a royal person by this name existed in this period, but little can be suggested beyond this. The first tokens of a liturgical cult can be found almost two centuries after his death, a time when many royal figures were the subject of new cults, such as Ethelreda, Edward Martyr and Sexburga, to mention only a few.

This flourishing of English royal saints has been treated in great detail by Susan J. Ridyard in her Royal Saints of Anglo-Saxon England, where she distinguishes between king-saints and royal women who became saints by virtue of their monastic pursuits. Ridyard's study was published in 1988, and was a counterargument against the beliefs that royal women in the convent abandoned their roles as royal patrons (hagiography shows this not to be the case), and that these saints were cultivated to protect weak royal houses. In fact, the royal houses benefitting from these cults were all very strong at this time.

Kenelm's role as a saint, therefore, fits into a larger historical canvas, and like the other royal saints boosted by the Benedictine reform movement, his cult enjoyed a perhaps surprising longevity, as can be seen by his inclusion in the 13th-century South English Legendary, and even in Chaucer's Canterbury Tales. Traditions belonging to the cult of Kenelm have endured for a long time, as suggested by a certain piece of folklore expounded by Eleanor Parker in this blogpost I have given some details about his cult and iconography in an earlier blogpost, so I will avoid undue repetition. In this blogpost, however, I will present a miracle of Kenelm which is reported by Gerald of Wales in his Journey through Wales, a work completed at the turn of the 1180s. This miracle is one among many reported by Gerald in chapter 2 of Book 1. The text quoted is taken from Lewis Thorpe's translation published in Penguin Classics (reprinted in 1984).

Kenelm's dream by H. A. Payne

From The Artistic Crafts Series of Technical Handbooks edited by W. R. Lethaby, plate 71

Courtesy of Project Gutenberg

Before presenting the miracle, however, a brief summary of Kenelm's legend might be appropriate. Kenelm was a child-king of Mercia c.800, and he had a wicked sister Cwenthryth, or Quendrada, who plotted against him. She ordered a huntsman to slay him during the child-king's hunt, and although forewarned by a vision given to his nurse, the boy accepted his death with the stoicism so typical of martyrs. After he had died, his body was discovered by the aid of a cow who began to feed at its burial-place, while the pope had been alerted of Kenelm's death by a dove. Kenelm's body was exhumed and taken back to the royal palace, and upon seeing his brother return, Quendrada's eyes fell out of her head and onto the psalter she was reading (backwards, because she was so very evil). The miracle reported by Gerald concerns this psalter:


In our days another great miracle has caused quite a stir. This had to do with the psalter of Quendrada, the sister of Saint Kenelm, at whose instigation he was murdered. In Winchcombe, on the vigil of Saint Kenelm, when, at the invitation of the monks, a great crowd of women from the neighbourhood had congregated for the celebrations, as their custom was, the assistant cellarer had intercourse with on of them inside the precincts of the monastery. The next day he had the audacity to carry this psalter in the procession of the relics of the saints. When the solemn procession was over, he made his way back to the choir. The psalter stuck to his hands and he could not put it down. He was greatly astonished and confounded by what had happened. Then he remembered the crime which he had committed the previous eveing. He confessed his sin and did penance. His repentance was sincere enough, and he was helped by the prayers of his fellow-monks. In the end, by divine intervention, he was able to free himself from the psalter and so was liberated. The book in question is held in great veneration in the monastery, for, when the dead body of Kenelm carried out and the crowd shouted: 'He is God's martyr! There is no doubt about it! He is the martyr of God!' Quendrada, who was guilty of her brother's murder and had it very much on her conscience, replied: 'He is indeed God's martyr, as truly as my eyes are resting on this psalter!' By chance she was reading the psalter at the moment. Thereupon, by divine intervention, her two eys were torn from her head and fell plop on the open book, where you can still see the marks of her blood to this day.
- Thorpe 1984: 85-86

Carving of St Kenelm at the gateway to Romsley Church

Photograph by Pollyanna Jones

There are several interesting iconographical details to pick up on in this anecdote. First, it should be mentioned that although a seemingly novel grisly detail, the loss of eyes is also found in the legend of St Alban, protomartyr of Britain together with his companion Amphibalus. Like the wicked Quendrada, Alban's murderer lost his eyes after killing him, as depicted in gory detail by Matthew Paris in the St Alban's Psalter (as seen below). On the obverse side of the coin we find a story - mentioned by Benedicta Ward in her book on medieval miracles - in the legends of St Cuthbert (if I remember correctly) where a man who had lost his eyesight and was healed by the saint, told a miraculous tale of how birds had carried his eyes away, but that they were returned after he had prayed for healing.

The prototype of British eye-losses: St Alban's beheader

Royal 2 B VI, English psalter, c.1246-c.1260

Another interesting feature is the immediate recognition by the populace of Kenelm's status as martyr. Although we have no information about the death of the historical Kenelm and how his subjects reacted, Gerald's description - perhaps drawn from William of Malmesbury's record, or the anonymous 11th-century vita - invokes a trait typical of Northern European royal cults, namely the immediate canonisation by the vox populi following the trauma of the death of a leader-figure. André Vauchez, in his study of saints' cults, has marked this as an aspect common to several English leaders in the Middle Ages, for instance Simon Montfort and Edward II.

A final aspect I want to draw your attention to in this case, is the punitive nature of Kenelm's miracle. By way of an overly adhesive psalter, Kenelm makes the assistant cellarer's guilt obvious to everyone and forces him thus to repent his crime. Punitive miracles could take many forms, either in a mundane manner or more severely through disfigurement, disablement or death. The assistant cellarer might be grateful that his punishment was not more severe than this.

Kenelm guarding his well-head

From the chapel at the Well-Head of St Kenelm's Well, by J. D. Wyatt, 1887

Courtesy of this website

Literature

Gerald of Wales, The Journey Through Wales, (trl. by Lewis Thorpe), Penguin Classics, 1984

Love, Rosalind, Three Anglo-Saxon Saints' Lives, Clarendon Press, 1996

Ridyard, Susan J., Royal Saints of Anglo-Saxon England, Cambridge University Press, 1988

Vauchez, André, Sainthood in the Later Middle Ages, (trl. by Jean Birrell), 2005

Ward, Benedicta, Miracles and the medieval mind, 1982

A poem for Harold Godwinson

Harold Godwinson is among the most maligned rulers of pre-norman England and his role as antagonist was an important element in the Normans' strategy of legitimisation in the years following 1066. In a sense Harold was the mirror-image of Edward the Confessor, whom the Normans revered as the man who had bequeathed the throne of England upon William of Normandy. For while Edward quickly rose to a prominent position in Anglo-Norman hagiography, Harold were to become a traitor, usurper and a son of a man who displayed Judas-like features. In a future blogpost I hope to expand more upon this treatment of Harold Godwinson, but for the time being I merely put up a short poem written with some sympathy for Harold as a ill-treated figure of Anglo-Norman historiography.

Harold Godwinsson

If, in the likeness of a black hound,

you come to revisit the ground

which gave you death and shelter

while the world was ravaged by winter storms,

come quietly, as in your regal form,

not in the helter-skelter

of the living, who do not yield their land,

or the light of day, by a king's hand

and therefore know not peace,

while you, pressed heavenward by the frost,

whom the living proclaimed as lost,

cast your patient shadow upon the binding seas.

- July 27 2013

The Battle of Hastings, Harold to the right with an arrow in his eye

From MS Ee.3.59, Estoire de Seint Edouard le Rei, England, mid-13th century

Courtesy of Cambridge University Library

The Tree and the Rod - Common elements in the vitae of Kenelm of Mercia and Edward the Confessor

        

            St. Kenelm, from MS Royal 2 B VII, England, c.1330-40

Introduction

Medieval hagiography is a literary category marked by stock characters, types and repetition. In today's world of individualism these are qualities that are not always well-received by the reading public. In the Middle Ages, however, the situation was very different. Hagiography as a category of literature was modelled on the Gospels, in that its structure was episodic and its protagonist imitated Christ through his or her life, actions and death. This is known as the imitatio Christi and was perhaps the most important feature of the hagiographic literature. As the centuries progressed and the catalogue of saints expanded, a range of different saint-types developed, such as the virgin martyr, the martyr and the confessor. These were ranked in a hierarchy, arranged in accordance with the degree to which the type came close to the imitation of Christ. Because of the veneration of the modl inherent in hagiography, the authors sought to connect the saint in question with people from the Bible, the classical literature or Christian history. Conformity was, in other words, the ideal, since it reassured the devotees that the saint had powers similar to saints higher up in the hierarachy or had a particular relationship with them. For instance, Edward the Confessor was said to be considered by St. Peter and John the Apostle as their equal, according to Aelred of Rievaulx (d.1167). The supreme model was of course Christ, but His life could not be imitated in every way by those who became saints. For instance, some people, like Edward the Confessor, proved their faith not through death but through their living and were thus known as confessors. Others, such as those who died in battle, gave their life for the faith, but because of their warlike path also came a bit short in fully embracing the imitatio Christi.

Because of these features of hagiography, it is of course unsurprising to encounter similarities between somewhat disparate saints, and finding such similarities need not suggest connections. However, exploring such similarities may nonetheless alert us to how widespread or popular certain elements were in a certain period, or a certain geographic location. In this blogpost, therefore, I will look at some similarities between the life of St. Kenelm or Cynehelm (supp. fl. 803x11) and the lives of Edward the Confessor (d.1066). The purpose of this juxtaposition is to draw attention to elements shared by these two royal saints, and how these elements differ. I have not included all the similarities, and there are some interesting cases to be explored in the healing narratives of both saints, but these are less surprising and more easily detected, so I have left them out here. 


Background

Kenelm's martyrdom, from MS Royal 2 B VII, England, c.1330-40

 

Kenelm of Mercia

Before embarking on the comparison we must first take a brief look at what we are dealing with. St. Kenelm was a - probably apochryphal - martyr who died in the early 9th century. According to his vita from the mid-eleventh century, he was the son of the king of Mercia and was killed by his tutor on commission from his evil sister Cwenthryth. Through a number of miracles the sanctity of his resting-place became apparent, and when the pope received a message from dove containing the details of his story, he ordered Kenelm venerated. As the translation of Kenelm's remains was carried out, the wicked Cwenthryth sat in her chamber reading the psalter backwards. When she saw the holy relics of her brother, her eyes fell out of her head and onto the page.

Although the anonymous author of Kenelm's vita refer to old English songs as his source for the legend, this may merely be the invocation of ancient authority so dear to medieval scribes, or it may accurately reflect how the legend was disseminated. In any case, Rosalind Love states that the cult of Kenelm "only took on a coherent form" at about 969 (Love 1996: cxi), and from the evidence available there is little to suggest "any formal, liturgical, veneration of Kenelm before the middle of the tenth century." The early ecclesiastically sanctioned cult of Kenelm was, in other words, closely connected to the Benedictine reformers of that age.

The earliest extant evidence of liturgical commemoration of Kenelm's dies natalis, his heavenly birthday, can be found in calendar from south-west England dated to the second half of the 10th century, and his name can be found "in virtually all the calendars surviving from the eleventh century" (Love 1996: cxiv). Furthermore, books of hours, litanies and similar liturgical evidence point to Kenelm's enduring popularity well into the 15th century. This is underscored by the Middle English life of Kenelm in the 13th century South English Legendary.

Death of Edward the Confessor, the Bayeux Tapestry

Edward the Confessor

Edward the Confessor is better known than Kenelm and presumably requires less introduction. Those who are interested, however, may find blogposts about him here, here and here. As a confessor, Edward ranked below Kenelm in the saintly hierarchy, but because of Edward's attachment and appropriation by the English monarchy, he enjoyed a more ostentatious veneration, at least in periods. Nonetheless, despite the billowing trajectory of his cult, he remained an important presence in the world of medieval England.

The first biography of Edward was written by an anonymous Flemish monk in the third quarter of the eleventh century (c.1065-75), commissioned by the king's widow, Edith. This was, however, not a hagiography, but part family chronicle, part religious biography, yet it was the foundation on which the later hagiographic literature on Edward was based. The first proper hagiography was written c.1138 by Osbert of Clare, prior of Westminster, and this was rewritten by Aelred of Rievaulx in 1163 on the occasion of Edward's translation. However, while not a hagiography, Vita Ædwardi was heavily influenced by this category and uses a wide range of hagiographic elements, so although Edward is not considered a saint in this biography - unlike Kenelm whose sainthood is asserted repeatedly - he comes very close.

The reason why a comparison between Kenelm and Edward is of interest, is that both their first biographies, Vita et Miracula Sancti Kenelmi and Vita Ædwardi qui apud westmonsteriam recquiescit, came about roughly in the same period, i.e during the queenship or retirement of Edith (1045-75), the Confessor's wife. We don't know either of the authors, but evidence suggests that the author of the former may have been English (due to his purported knowledge of old English songs), while the latter is now accepted to have been a Flemish monk.What is most interesting, however, is that both these work refer to Edith as an active force in their creations. Vita Ædwardi is dedicated to the queen and the monk refers to his commission several times, while the author of Kenelm's vita expresses his gratitude to Edith for having "revealed to us the remarkable documents of proof which she said she had herself read about him" (Love 1996: 53). This snippet of information confirms the claims of the Flemish anonymous of Edith's passion for reading and the fine arts.

Comparing the vitae of Kenelm and Edward, in other words, is not merely a juxtaposition of two completely unrelated texts, but texts which came about in the same period and were ostensibly influenced by Queen Edith. In the case of Edward, I will also draw on Osbert of Clare's vita, which is a pure hagiography, and later than the two primary texts, but heavily influenced by Vita Ædwardi.

The shared features of Kenelm and Edward

The dream of the tree

Both saints have ominous dreams in which a tree plays a significant part. Kenelm, a young child, recounts to his nurse how a tree stood before my bed, so high that it reached right up to the stars, and I saw myself standing in its lofty top, from where I could see everything for miles around. The treee was very beautiful and spreading, with wide-stretched branches, filled from bottom to top with all kinds of flowers. I saw also that the whole thing blazed with countless lights and lamps, and what is more three parts of this land were bending low in devotion to me. As I marvelled at the view from such a great watch-tower, some of my men rushed up below and cut down the tree and it fell with a great crash. And I was straightaway turned into a little white bird and soared into the heavens with easy flight.
- Love 1996: 57.

The dream is then woefully interpreted by the nurse, but Kenelm - called a second Joseph - receives these tidings with saintly serenity. As Rosalind Love points out, one source of this dream is probably the Book of Daniel: I saw, and behold a tree in the midst of the earth, and the height thereof was great. The tree grew, and was strong, and the heigth threof reached unto heaven, and the sight thereof to the end of all the earth: The leaves thereof were fair, and the fruit thereof much, and it was meat for all (...) I saw in the visions of my head upon my bed, and, behold, a watcher and an holy one came down from heaven; He cried aloud and said thus, Hew down the tree, and cut off his branches, shake off his leaves, and scatter his fruit.

- The Book of Daniel, 4:10-14, KJV

Dream of Nebuchadnezzar

MS Sloane 346, Speculum Humanae Salvationis, England, c.1330-40

However, there is also a touch of Joseph's dream of the sheaves of corn, which bend to him in devotion, a touch strengthened by the overt reference to Joseph, which may also serve to distance Kenelm from the wicked Nebuchadnezzar:

For, behold, we were binding sheaves in the field, and, lo, my sheaf arose, and also stood upright; and, behold, your sheaves sttod round about, and made obeisance to my sheaf.

- Genesis 37:7, KJV

Edward the Confessor, however, experienced a different dream on his deathbed. After a period of heavy sickness followed by his consecration of Westminster in 1065, Edward awoke and told how he was visited in his sleep by priests he had become acquainted with during his exile in Normandy. The priests told him that after his death England would fall into great distress on account of the wickedness of its priests (many of whom were Norman). Edward is greatly pained by this and asks for some consolation, a promise of divine alleviation. To this the priests reply:

When a green tree, having been cut from its trunk and set apart from its own root at the space of three yokes, returns to its trunk and is restored to its old root - compelled by no human hand, driven by no necessity - and, with its sap restored, flowers again and bears fruit, then some comfort in this tribulation and a remedy for the trouble we have foretold is to be hoped for.

- The Life of Saint Edward, King and Confessor, Aelred (translated by Jane Patricia Freeland), printed in Dutton 2005: 205-06

Although Edward's dream is also ominous, it is very different from the dream of Kenelm. First of all, it contains a parable of a tree, not the tree itself. Secondly, while Kenelm's dream foretells the young king's death, the dream of Edward foretells the disasters that will befall England. Furthermore, while Kenelm is compared with Joseph the dreamer, Edward receives the role of admonitor, the prophet who warns his people in the manner of Elijah threatening Ahab. Nonetheless, I find it interesting that the tree is found as an important metaphorical element in the dreams of both Kenelm and Edward, and this may point to a topos of 11th century literature, for although the quote above is taken from Aelred, the story first appears in the anonymous Vita Ædwardi (which I do not have available right now). It is rather tempting to suggest that the authors may have drawn some inspiration from the Dream of the Rood. However, considering the author of Vita Ædwardi was Flemish he may not have been familiar with this work, and the biblical nature of Kenelm's dream does not suggest any other sources - though they may exist. It is, therefore, an open question, whether the tree imagery draws on the same topos, or whether there are parallel traditions in use.

The miracle of the rod

The second feature is not to be found in Vita Ædwardi, but in Osbert's c.1138 hagiography. This text is from another century, but it relies heavily on the 11th-century work and therefore makes for an interesting comparison.

First, however, we must start with Vita Kenelmi. After having fallen asleep while hunting with his evil tutor, the little boy wakes up to find his soon-to-be murderer preparing his grave. Since Kenelm has been warned of this he expresses little concern about the murder, but states that he shall be buried elsewhere. To prove that this was the will of God, he plants his rod in the ground and it blossoms into an ash tree, which, according to the scribe, is still standing as evidence of this miracle.

Edward the Confessor's miracle is posthumous and is included in the lengthy catalogue of such miracles written by Osbert of Clare, which are not included in the Vita Ædwardi. The miracle in question concerns Bishop Wulfstan of Worcester (c.1008-95), himself canonised in 1203, and probably recounts what happened at the legatine council at Westminster in 1070. Osbert states that Wulfstan was asked to give up his baculum, his bishop's rod of office, presumably due to controversy over cathedral reform. To this Wulfstan replied:

What you ask of me is not within your right, nor is the care of the church granted to me by you, neither do I hold the holiness and discipline of the house of God in debt to you.
- Vita Beati Edwardi Regis, Osbert of Clare, edited by Marc Bloch, printed in Analecta Bollandiana 41, 1923: 117. My translation.

Since only he who has given something can take it back, Wulfstan goes to the tomb of Edward the Confessor, who was king when Wulfstan was installed as bishop. Wulfstan then places his baculum on the Confessor's tomb and asks someone to remove it. If it can be removed, the Confessor has relieved him of his office. As it turns out, no one can remove the baculum and Wulfstan keeps his position. This story appears to have been invented by Osbert as it does not appear in the biographical material relating to Wulfstan, and may possibly be one of the sources inspiring the sword in the stone of Arthurian mythology. Emma Mason claims that Thomas Becket, out of devotion to the not-yet-canonised Wulfstan, brought with him to Canterbury the part of the tombstone in which his staff had been planted (Mason 1990: 284). Frank Barlow, however, states that Becket took the Confessor's right arm (Barlow 1962: 132-33).

Arthur receiving the sword

MS Additional 10292, Le Estoire de Merlin, France, c.1316

The two miracles in question are from different eras and of different natures, yet the pivotal aspect is nonetheless the same: a rod that cannot be removed from where it has been planted unless by divine mandate. Due to the temporal gap between the texts it is doubtful if any direct link should be suggested, but they may point to a common source. In the cultural lexicon of the Middle ages, two such sources stand out as the most likely candidates, namely the rods of Aaron and Moses as described in Exodus. According to Jewish Encyclopedia, there is an haggadic tradition stating that before the rod of Aaron came in his possession, it had belonged to Joseph who in turn had received it as an heirloom. After Joseph's death the rod was taken by the soon-to-be father-in-law of Moses, Jethro or Raguel, to the following effect:

Jethro planted the staff in his garden, when its marvelous virtue was revealed by the fact that nobody could withdraw it from the ground; even to touch it was fraught with danger to life. This was because the Ineffable Name of God was engraved upon it.

- Jewish Encyclopedia, Isidore Singer (ed.), 1901 (http://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/articles/5-aaron-s-rod)

If this story was known to the monks of the 11th and 12th centuries, it may well have served as the model for the rods of the Kenelm and Edward legends. Whether this was the case, however, I can not state with any certainty, and it may well be that the topos originated in the Norse legends later recorded as the Volsungsaga.

Moses with the staff handing over the stone tablets

MS Harley 616, France, last quarter of 13th century

Enemies in the home

The third and final feature I will look at here concerns conflicts between the saint/protagonist and a close member of the family. In the case of Kenelm it was, as stated, one of his sisters who proved to be the problem. In Vita Kenelmi the role of Cwenthryth is unequivocally to be the antagonist bringing about the king's death, the vehicle of his martyrdom, so to speak. She is described very vividly as "goaded by savage envy and an ambition to rule" (Love 1996: 55), and compared with such famous biblical types as Herodias, Jezabel and Cain, thus encompassing the wicked female royal and the fratricide. The scribe wryly states "there is no more baneful pest than an enemy in th home". Cwenthryth is of course duly punished, as recorded above, when the sight of her brother's remains being paraded into view makes her eyeballs literally pop out of her head.

Cain slaying Abel
MS Royal 2 B VII, England, c.1330-40

Edward the Confessor, on the other hand, faced a much less dramatic conflict, but nonetheless a kind of discord alien to the Christian ideal of harmonious family relations, an ideal cherished by the hagiographers of the Middle Ages. The conflict in question arose between Edward and his mother because of the problem of succession following Edward's exile into Normandy and his mother's marriage to King Canute, who gave her Edward's half-brother Harthacnute. When Edward came to the throne in 1042 upon the death of Hartacnut - some say he drank himself to death - the new king was angry with his mother (an anger perhaps aggravated by his brother Alfred's death at the hands of Danes), confiscated her properties and shut her up in a nunnery, according to William of Malmesbury. This animosity was left out of the hagiographies as it reflected very badly on Edward, the paragon of mildness and generosity. However, it was retained by historiographers long after Edward's canonisation in 1161, and as late as the 1390s Richard of Cirencester included this feature in his near-hagiographic historical account of Edward's life (Mayor (ed.) 1863, vol 2: 211 ).

Family disputes are not uncommon in hagiographies, but what is interesting here is that although the feature of family discord appear in texts pertaining to both saints, they are also different on a very fundamental level. On the one hand, the nature of the discords differ greatly in seriousness. Kenelm's sister commissions his death and reads the psalter backwards as cursing. The scribe's juxtaposition of her and a minor catalogue of deceitful characters leaves no question as to her nature, and her horrible end underlines this very vividly. Edward's dispute is a matter of distrust and it does not result in deadly retaliation, nor are any of the sides in the dispute portrayed as personifications of good and evil, since Edward is not yet called a saint.

Another important aspect is how this discord relates to sainthood. In the case of Kenelm, Cwenthryth's betrayal is an elemental part of the young boy's martyrdom and is therefore crucial to the hagiographic narrative. In the case of Edward the Confessor, on the other hand, the family quarrel becomes an embarrassing element for his hagiographers and is therefore omitted. In fact, Kenelm has more in common with Edward Martyr who was killed in 978 on behest of his stepmother Ælfthryth.


Conclusion

As we see there are certain interesting elements which feature in the literature of both saints. However, not all these elements belong to hagiography, and through this comparison we have seen that although the elements are similar, there are certain crucial differences which decide which category of literature they belong to. We may speculate to what degree the two literary traditions have influenced each other and we will probably never find a satisfactory answer, but it is interesting to note that Queen Edith has played an instrumental role in the crafting of both these traditions. Although, as we have seen, there are certain topological resemblances between the two saints, their differences are more numerous. I will therefore not draw any conclusions beyond the tantalising idea that having been brought about in the same period and perhaps in the same intellectual milieu, the traditions of these two saints are to some unknown degree intertwined.

Literature

Barlow, Frank, The Life of King Edward who rests at Westminster, Thomas Nelson and Sons Ltd, 1962

Bloch, Marc (ed.), “La Vie de S. Edouard le Confesseur par Osbert de Clare,” Analecta Bollandi-ana 41, 1923

Dutton, Marsha (ed.) and Freeland, Jane Patricia (transl.), Aelred of Rievaulx: The Historical Works, Cistercian Publications Inc., 2005

Hart, Cyril, ‘Edward [St Edward; called Edward the Martyr] (c.962–978)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004

Love, Rosalinda C., Three Eleventh-Century Anglo-Latin Saints' Lives, Clarendon Press, 1996

Mason, Emma, St Wulfstan of Worcester, Oxford 1990

Mason, Emma, Mason, ‘Wulfstan [St Wulfstan] (c.1008–1095)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004

Mayor, John E. B. (ed.), Ricardi de Cirencestria Speculum Historiale de Gestis Regum Angliæ, London, 1863

Mynors, R. A. B., Thomson, R. M., Winterbottom, M., William of Malmesbury: Gesta Regum Anglorum, The History of the English Kings, Clarendon Press, 1998

Rollason, David, ‘Cynehelm (supp. fl. 803x11)’, Oxford Dictionary of National Biography, Oxford University Press, 2004

Websites

http://www.jewishencyclopedia.com/