King Uzziah and his intrepid wife

 And he did that which was right in the sight of the Lord

- 2 Chronicles 26: 4-5

Around the turn of the century, a few years before Norway gained its independence from Sweden, the great reconstruction programme at Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim began, and this programme lasted well into the mid-twentieth century. By the time of the beginning of the reconstruction, the cathedral was greatly damaged from ages of neglect, dilapidation and natural hazards. One of the leading figures of this reconstruction was the Norwegian architect Gerard Fischer (1890-1977). Fischer was also was one of the pioneers of Norwegian medieval archaeology, and his research on historical buildings was vital to the reconstruction of Nidaros Cathedral. I use the term "reconstruction" here advisedly, for it was not just a restoration of an existing structure, since most of the most recent parts of the church – the western front and parts of the nave and tower – were in a very bad state and not altogether extant. As a consequence, the part of Nidaros Cathedral most people are familiar with today is a modern edifice reconstructed from ideas of how the cathedral must have appeared based on 18th-century sketches and Fischer's knowledge of medieval architecture.

The west front of Nidaros Cathedral
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Photo credits: Morten Dreier

 One of the perhaps most famous features of this reconstruction is the three storeyed gallery of saints and biblical figures on the western front. The basis for this gallery is three statues that survived from the late medieval western front and are now at display in the former archiepiscopal palace. These statues portray St. James the lesser and the French saints Nicasius and Denis, a small glimpse of a long-standing relationship between Nidaros and France. The remaining statues that adorn the modern front are therefore educated guesses and medievalesque rather than medieval, and were crafted by the Norwegian sculptor Sivert Donali. As an hommage to the important work of Gerhard Fischer, he modelled the statue of King Uzziah after him, as can be seen below. Why Fischer's features were chosen for this particular king – one of about four Old Testament kings depicted on the front – I do not know, but it is a magnificent compliment. Uzziah is famous for being one of the greatest kings of Israel and is included in some of the medieval catalogues of paragons of kingship – for instance that put forth by Smaragdus of St. Mihiel (c.760–c.840).

There is a rather lovely story about Gerhard Fischer and his wife Dorothea Stoud Platou (1903-92). Dorothea, known by her nickname Tulla, was an art historian and like her husband she was a vital element in the establishment of a Norwegian medievalist environment which moved beyond the confines of the 19th-century archive-based history and towards a more interdisciplinary approach.  

King Uzziah
Courtesy of Wikimedia Commons
Photo credits: Morten Dreier

The story goes that Tulla's husband suffered from fear of heights, which was a severe impediment when he was required to carry out measurements high up on the western front or on the front's two towers which also are modern additions. The solution to this problem was that Gerhard was stationed down on the ground, while Tulla climbed up the scaffolding and took the measurements. The story of Tulla's dauntless love for the reconstruction has passed into the mythology of the cathedral, and today her name is also remembered by a restaurant in Trondheim's city centre.

Restaurant Tulla Fischer
Courtesy of this website

The Monk and the Mason

Last weekend a friend and I took a couple of guided tours around Nidaros Cathedral in Trondheim to see some of the less accessible sights in the church. The second tour took us up to the parapet of the west front where we came face to face with some of the stone carvings, executed by stone mason Gustav Vigeland around the turn of the 19th century. It was about this time that the cathedral was under a grand programme of restoration and reconstruction, and Gustav Vigeland started his work in 1898. In the course of this programme the west front with its two towers and its array of medieval saints were raised, which means that despite its medieval appearance, everything from this part of the cathedral is a modern imagination of what the late medieval front must have looked like. 

There are many stories surrounding the great reconstruction of the early 20th century, a programme that began only few years before Norway gained its independence from Sweden in 1905. One of these stories have been commemorated in the stone work up at the parapet and can be seen below. I can not say for certain whether these are Vigeland's creations or whether they came later.

The two figures, the monk and the mason, are found on the right tower and the left tower respectively. As can be seen in the pictures, their faces are very life-like and they were modelled on two workmen who took part in the reconstruction programme. The one rendered as a monk was a political conservative, while the one portrayed as a mason was a Communist. They would spend their hours working up by the parapet, and in the lunches they were known for their ideological discussions and bickering. Due to their difference of opinion - which seems to have cast no shadows on their relationship as fellow workers - they have been set on separate towers, each tower corresponding with their political persuasions.

The mason is significant for an additional reason. According to a prophecy of uncertain provenance, the cathedral will fall upon its completion. To avert such a brutal consummation of the long and arduous process of restoration and reconstruction, the petrified mason now holds the last brick in his hand, forever preventing the cathedral from being completed and thus - as the legend goes - keeping doomsday at a halt.

St. Michael contending with the devil - the stained glass of Nidaros Cathedral's chapel of St. Michael

Michael the archangel, when contending with the devil he disputed about the body of Moses- Jude 1:9

This afternoon a friend and I took a couple of guided tours in Nidaros Cathedral to see some of the areas not regularly open to the public. The first tour took us to three of the cathedral's chapels on the second floor, the chapel of St. Olav, the chapel of St. Michael and the chapel of St. Mary. We walked up those narrow stairs typical of a cathedral and navigated that semi-lit darkness which can be surprisingly comforting at times. The intended highlight of the tour - from the guide's perspective - were three sets of stained glass windows executed by the Norwegian artist Oddmund Kristiansen (1920-1997). 

Shutter from St. Michael's chapel
The text reads "this is the Lord's house" in Early Modern Danish

Oddmund Kristiansen started out as a pupil of Gabriel Kielland, who sought to give Nidaros Cathedral a series of stained glass cycles inspired by the medieval glass at the cathedral of Chartres. These can today be seen in the nave and choir of the cathedral, and are known for their dark hues. This owes to the fact that the windows at Chartres, which Kielland emulated, were darkened by centuries of soot, and serves as a good reminder that our view of a period is contingent in large part of remnants that have deteriorated through time. As a consequence, Nidaros Cathedral is informally known as the darkest church in Christendom.

Kristiansen was commissioned to decorate the chapel of St. Michael, and this was his first big job. In these windows, Kristiansen adhered to the scheme of his tutor, and the result is set of angels in which their tenderness and strength are emphasised at the same time through the sinuous movements of Michael's body and his sure-footed subduing of the beast. The almost clumsy faces and the illusion of movement are perfectly in tune with medieval stained glass, and is to my mind an excellent emulation of the medieval masters.

St. Michael contending

The weighing of souls

Eventually, however, Kristiansen grew displeased with his work and sought to move away form his tutor's medievalesque symbolism. He tried to have his glass in the Michael chapel redone, but this was - fortunately - denied him. In his later work, however, Kristiansen desired instead to explore the colour scheme of his Sami heritage. The result was a series of stained glass windows with very obscure symbolism, as can be seen below. I for my part prefer his first work.

Allegory of Venice

Venice is one of those cities whose mythology will captivate you, and whose place in history has ensured a rich cultural heritage that will continue to amaze and enthrall. I have never been to Venice, but my fascination for the city goes back a long way, ever since one of my mother's aunt told me - I must have been about seven - about the bridge of sighs, which featured on a piece of cloth she had bought there once. From then on, my fascination has increased with every new piece of information.

I'm currently reading Salley Vickers' beautiful novel Miss Garnet's Angel which is set in Venice, and which wonderfully weaves the plot into the very fabric of Venice, which is always half-legendary. In the course of this reading I as reminded of a painting by Giambattista Tiepolo, seen below, in which Neptune gives his gifts to La Serenissima, the city of Venice. It is a beautiful painting with that pale colouring so often seen in Tiepolo's paintings. It is a perfect allegory of Venice's lordship of the seas, Neptune, the ocean god, offering his cornucopia overflowing with pearls, corals and gold, while Venice arrogantly receives him in her bedchamber, flanked by the lion of St. Mark, the city's patron saint. But there is also a sinister undertone. Venice is pointing towards Neptune, almost to keep him at arm's length as if he is too eager, to unpredictable to embrace, and as she does this, her arm forms a shape reminiscent of the Venetian lagoon which is that borderland where sea and city meets. This serves, perhaps, as a chilling reminder that although Venice is the queen of the seas, she is also at the sea's mercy, which threatens to overflow the buildings and to force the structures underwater.

When first I saw this painting in 2010 I was amazed by the beauty and succinctness of the composition, and this as the time when I was just learning to appreciate Tiepolo's art. In response to this I wrote a poem titled Allegory of Venice, in which Tiepolo's allegory is further fleshed out, including a wider range of Venice's inhabitants. The poem takes its metre and rhyme scheme from Robert Browning's A Toccata of Galuppi's which also deals with Venice.

The pictures in this blogpost are all taken from Wikimedia.

Neptune bringing Venice his gifts

Giambattista Tiepolo, c.1750

Allegory of Venice

For Giambattista Tiepolo

Ah, dear Venice, noble city of the crystalline lagoon,

Once she ruled a splendid kingdom, fickle as the changing moon;

Hark to me, my dearest reader, as I sing her with my tune.

See her leaning on the lion, yet in truth she is the beast;

Of a thousand mundane vices love of gold is but her least,

Scores of servants, high and lowly, come to partake in her feast.

See there's Neptune, ancient sea-king, how he prances like a whore,

Gold and amber, pearls and jewels, taken from his ocean's store

While his pallid eyes are captive to the maid who asks for more.

Said I maid? Hah! Falsely spoken, she's a wench as Neptune is,

Kings and angels seek to please her, they would kill to catch a kiss

And then bring her spoils of slaughter, asking gently: “like you this?”

There's the pope in his tiara with a sceptre in his hand,

He attempts to be her master, catch her in a nuptial band

But his hopes will sift through fingers like the fine Venetian sand;

And the clergy, born of Venice, deacons, bishops, cardinals

Change their paraments for garlands, singing mundane madrigals,

All to please their mother city and her lavish festival.

Piazza San Marco and the Doge's palazzo

Now the Doge with his ringlet, followed by a train of ten,

Comes to wed the sea and city with the bravest band of men,

What a mistress is then Venice who must wed and wed again?

After him the six remaining of the city's oligarchs,

Chosen by the lesser council, wont to wander in the dark,

Rooting evil in the making, rarely do they miss their mark,

While the captain, Neptune's squire, master of the mighty fleet

Issues with his galeases from the Arsenal to greet

This the loveliest of cities where the water paves the street;

And from out the canalettos come gondolas one by one,

Bearing gifts of Eastern riches and the Oriental sun;

Each aspire to be greater than her other bastard sons.

Ponte di Rialto

Then the merchants, mundane monarchs, all emerge in rank and file,

Dressed in pomp, displaying riches, tossing ducats with a smile

And fair Venice feigns to love them with her maiden-mother guile,

While they tread on dead and dying to excel in tradesmen's art,

Blood and semen, knaves and merchants constitute a kingdom's heart,

They all hoard to last for ever, not preparing to depart.

And the women! Ah! The women! Decked with gems and rimmed with gold,

Wives and mothers, sisters, daughters, cheering Venice in her fold,

Both her children and her rivals, mistresses of bought and sold,

See their baubles and their trinkets, worlds have died to place them there;

If their faces are like suns, then all their jewels must be spheres,

Each a universe of vanity, greed, deception and despair.

Then the guilds with waving banners enter in the proud parade,

Bearing relics, sacred remnants, and the produce they have made:

Books and crystal, frail and fragile, doomed to wither, break and fade;

Much like Venice, situated, like all transitory things,

On a throne of brittle pillars in the fashion of a king

Whose good deeds are meant to shadow all the misery he brings.  

Grand Canal from Palazzo Flangini

Canaletto, c.1738

Here the painters, ah, the painters, lapdogs to the Ocean Queen

Dressed in colours gay and lively, golden, blood-red, blue and green,

Come to make their queen immortal, come to paint the festive scene.

Now the citizens in costumes, some like wild men of the woods,

Some with twigs stuck in their head-dress, some in grey monastic hoods,

Some like guildmen, some like brewers wont to taste their own sweet goods.

Ah, the masks, the men, the women! Fornicators hid in veils;

Painted in a crimson colour or a deadly tint of pale,

“Life is short, we must enjoy it, time is cruel, man is frail.”

There among them move the harlots, painted faces, verdant sleeves,

Who can tell them from the ladies masked and dyed, ah who will grieve,

It's the carnival, dear reader, tell a lie, it is believed. 

So they prance along the water mirroring the azure sky,

“Venice surely lasts forever, it will never fade or die,”

This they say and they believe it, as I said: tell but a lie.

But a black-cloaked ancient sire moves about them with a train

Of disciples dread and hoary, they know such a hope is vain;

It is Death and all his aspects come to shake the lion's mane. 

Here is Greed with gilded daggers, stabbing blindly in his rage, 

Here is Lust who pricks his arrow in the hearts of fool and sage,

Here is Plague with blots to blight them regardless of their name or age,

Here is Envy to consume them on his everlasting pyre,

Here is Hatred to destroy them and his twin named Blind Desire,

Here is Malice to corrode them with an inward kind of fire;

These and others, all Death's minions, come to take them, man or maid, 

Some will drown in crystal water, some will die at point of blade,

Even Venice, maiden-harlot, and her glories all will fade. 

- June 25 – August 09 2010

Canal Grande

Francesco Guardi, c.1760

Slayer without a dragon - Károly Lotz' frescoe of St. Ladislas of Hungary

But she was not the bishop's daughter

Sed illa filia episcopi non fuit
- Chronici Hungarici compositio saeculi XIV, printed in Scriptores Rerum Hungaricarum tempore ducum regumque stirpis Arpadianae gestarum, ed. by Imre Szentpétery, vol. 1: 369

In a recent blogpost I wrote about Hungary's three medieval king-saints, Stephen, Emeric and Ladislas. In this blogpost I will present a fresco of St. Ladislas, whose composition bears a striking resemblance to the dragon-slayer motif from late medieval Italian Renaissance paintings. The fresco in question was painted by nineteenth-century Hungarian painter Károly Lotz in the Matthias Church in Budapest. (My thanks to art-historian and blogger Nóra Vézpremy for helping me with the ascertainment of its provenance.)

The fresco depicts one of the most famous episodes from the hagiographical material of St. Ladislas. The legend takes as its starting point the Battle of Kerlés in 1068 which was waged against the pagan Cumans, and tells of a daring and chivalrous feat of King Ladislas. Although the story is set in the mid-eleventh century, the legend itself is significantly more recent. According to Gabor Klaniczay, the legend is a "thirteenth-century interpolation of the twelfth-century original" (Klaniczay 2002: 190), brought to us from a fourteenth-century source. Naturally, this story conveys the chivalric ideal of the 1200s rather than eleventh-century preoccupations.

The story goes that Ladislas spotted a Cuman warrior riding away with a beautiful Hungarian woman, whom he thought to be the daughter of the bishop of Várad. Despite being wounded in the battle, the chivalrous and saintly king set after the pagan and almost managed to get close enough to stab the fleeing pagan with his lance. The horse could go no faster, nor did the other horse slow down, and Ladislas then called out to the Hungarian lady to grab hold of the Cuman and to throw herself to the ground. When Ladislas made ready to lunge his lance into the unhorsed enemy, the girl pleaded for his life, and the chronicler comments that this was surely sign of some illicit love between the two. The Cuman is nonetheless killed following a fight with Ladislas, and the girl turns out not to be the bishop's daughter.

St. Ladislas and the Cuman Warrior

Károly Lotz, 19th century

The episode was very popular in the cult of St. Ladislas, and it has been the subject of several renditions in both text and image. One of the most important medieval examples is perhaps the fourteenth-century Angevin Legendary.

In terms of time, Károly Lotz's fresco is far removed from the origins of this legend, but as a Hungarian he must have been very familiar with the story, and he also had a long tradition of art to draw from in his depiction. As mentioned above, the fresco is remarkably similar to certain depictions of the legend of St. George as it was portrayed in late-medieval art. The poise of the knight in the saddle is the most obvious feature, while the defeat of the Cuman being positioned in the forefront of the scene makes for interesting parallels with the vanquished dragon from the legend of St. George.

There are, of course, also differences. In most of the depictions of St. George, the lady is situated comfortably a little way away from the main action, whereas Lotz has placed her in the forefront along with the Cuman warrior. This placement also draws the woman into the action itself, making her not only more visibly positioned, but also a vital part of the conflict itself.

I can not claim that Károly Lotz drew on this treasure trove of imagery in his composition of the St. Ladislas fresco, and even if he did, I can not with any certainty suggest from which images he drew his inspiration. However, to highlight the similarities between Lotz's fresco, I will present some late-medieval depictions of the famous scene of George fighting the dragon, and the readers can decide whether they agree or disagree. All pictures are taken from Wikimedia.

St. George (Sant Jordi) fighting the dragon

Bertan Martorell, 1434-35

Rogier van der Weyden, before 1464

Altar wing from a church in Praha, c.1470

Raphael, 1505-06

Goofy chivalry - A charming piece of mid-twentieth century medievalism

To be a medievalist means, in part, to be aware of how the period we call the Middle Ages has been understood, interpreted and re-enacted by later periods, and in many cases, being a medievalist entails to present a counter-narrative or a more nuanced understanding to this post-medieval view. The reception history of the Middle Ages is an interesting view into historical periods and will give a small glimpse of the history of the mentality of an age past, although not the Middle Ages themselves. Sometimes, the reception of the Middle Ages can be marked by an idealised view of the social order, as can be seen in the 19th-century depictions by Walter Scott in Ivanhoe or Alfred Lord Tennyson in Idylls of the Kings where the code of chivalry is one of the major currents. A more gloomy picture can be found in the late-18th-century Gothic literature, such as Horace Walpole's The Castle of Otranto or Matthew Lewis' The Monk, where darkness, evil monks and bloodfeuds are key elements. These elements are combined with a fundamental anti-Catholic tone of voice, which may stem more from Jacobean drama than anything else. The receptions are very interesting to a medievalist, but they can also be exasperatingly wrong.

Poster for Knight for a Day (1946), Walt Disney Productions

Courtesy of Wikimedia

Some receptions of the Middle Ages, however, are more entertaining than others, and in this blogpost I present to you a short cartoon released in 1946 by Walt Disney Productions. The cartoon, Knight for a Day, was directed by Jack Hannah and written by Bill Peet, and was one of the earliest cartoons I remember from my own childhood. This is the story of a squire-turned-knight in a tournament against the undefeated champion, set in Canterbury sometime in the 15th century

Knight for a Day

As in the case of most interpretations of the Middle Ages, anachronisms abound in this little piece, but unlike most of these cases, this is not a problem. While medievalisms often are political in tone or purpose, and often to such a degree that it becomes painfully obvious, this short cartoon is seemingly meant for pure entertainment, and the numerous anachronisms are deliberately used for comical purpose - such as a cigar and a jackhammer - while no pretension to accuracy is ever suggested. Even a grumpy historian like myself, ready to jump at the throat of anachronism whenever it rears its head, can relax and utterly enjoy a beautiful little piece of animated storytelling. It is also a pleasant reminder that the duties of a medievalist can take one into byways that can be surprising but wonderfully so. 

Hungary's Royal Trinity - a brief introduction to the cults of the Hungarian king-saints

By the mid fourteenth century, the three holy kings of Hungary ad come to forma a harmonious iconographic scheme
- Klaniczay, Gabor, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses – Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, translated by Éva Pálmai

Taken from Veszprémy 2006

The above frontispiece from the Missal of Esztergom, printed in Lyon in 1501, is a summary of Hungarian sainthood. Here we see the Virgin Mary as Patrona Hungariae together with the kingdom's three royal saints, Stephen, Ladislas and Emeric respectively, each carrying his main attribute while supported by a shield depicting the Hungarian emblem which also can be found in the modern flag. In this blogpost, I intend to take this frontispiece as a point of departure for a brief introduction to the cults of the three king-saints of Hungary.

Miniature of St. Stephen from Chronicon Pictum. 14th century

Courtesy of Wikimedia

Background

The medieval kingdom of Hungary was founded by King Stephen, or Istvan (c.975-1038). He became duke on the death of his father Geza in 997, and his accession as followed by a series of insurrections against his authority, which he successfully repelled. Having vanquished his rivals of power, Stephen asked for Pope Silvester II to acknowledge him as king of Hungary and to send him a royal crown. This was done, and Stephen was crowned in 1000/1001. By this time, Stephen had already established a number of monasteries, as part of his implementation of Christianity in the kingdom. During Stephen's reign, the dichotomy between pagans and Christians was upheld by law, since intermarriage between these groups were forbidden, and pagan customs were forbidden. The royal acts of Stephen fit the pattern of a founding Christian father, which was an important aspect of the cult of royal saints as it came to be formulated in the course of the 12^th century. Stephen was a church-builder, an alms-giver, a just king and a soldier of the faith.

Following Stephen's death in 1038, the kingdom of Hungary descended into chaos as rival factions within the dynasty vied each other for power, and this unrest continued throughout the 11^th century. It was not, however, a struggle between pagans and Christians, but rather between various members of the royal family. In 1074, King Solomon was ousted from his position after he was defeated in battle against his cousin Geza and then incarcerated. Geza's brother Ladislas (or Lázló) succeeded his brother to the throne in 1077.

King Ladislas' position was not very secure. His cousin had been the legitimate king of Hungary, and was furthermore married to the daughter of Emperor Heinrich III of Germany. To strengthen his position, Ladislas orchestrated the canonisations of five saints throughout the year 1083 – by which time he was still not crowned, a fact that made his position presumably more precarious – and these canonisations must be seen, as pointed out by Gabor Klaniczay, as political means to strengthen Ladislas' position. This perspective is strengthened by the fact that the imprisoned Solomon was set free following the canonisations, whereupon he fled the country.

Three of the five saints of 1083 were bishops and missionaries, the fathers of the Hungarian church who all had important positions in the conversion narrative of Hungary. These ecclesiastical saints were Andrew (Zoerard) and Benedict, both hermits, and Bishop Gerard. According to Klaniczay, only the latter can be said to have served political purposes, since, unlike the two others, he was a symbol of the struggle against the pagans. The remaining two saints were both royal saints, and their canonisations had strong political dimensions. These saints were King Stephen and his son Emeric (Imre), who had died before his father and had therefore never become king.  

Stephen and Gisela founding a church

From Chronicon Pictum. 14th century

Courtesy of Wikimedia

The Cult of Stephen

King Stephen was of course the most important of the Hungarian saints. He was the founder of the kingdom and he was the apostolic king who implemented the Christian religion, thus concluding the work of the ecclesiastical saints mentioned above. There is, however, no evidence of a spontaneous cult following Stephen's death, nor is it likely that the canonisations were carried out after an exhortation from the pope, as it has been claimed in the Legenda maior of St. Gerard, written most likely in the 14^th century.

The liturgical cult of Stephen came into being shortly after the canonisation and relied in the first stage on mass and office material from the Commune Sanctorum. A 13th-century liturgical fragment shows that the common material was to some extent replaced by rhymed antiphons during Lauds. These antiphons were most likely composed in the late 12^th century, and it is likely that there were rhymed antiphons composed for the other hours as well, at least Matins, the central point of the office cycle. In the liturgical material, Stephen's role as the apostolic king is emphasised through his namesake Stephen Protomartyr, who allegedly comes to his mother in a dream and exhorts her to give his name to his unborn son, a sequence clearly modelled on the episodes from the Gospels concerned with the births of John the Baptist and Christ.

The liturgical material proper to Stephen was to a great extent based on the Legend of St. Stephen written by Bishop Hartvic/Hartvik during the reign of King Coloman (1095-1116), and in this legend we encounter the claims of an early cult centered around the place of Stephen's burial, Székesfehérvár, where numerous sick and afflicted sought and found a cure for their sundry pains. As mentioned, such a cult can not be ascertained, and it is more likely that Hartvic projected the topoi of saints and their miracles onto history because since Stephen was a saint, it was logical to expect such thaumaturgical preludes to a canonisation.

Stephen's apostolic place in the Christian history of Hungary ensured him an elevated position in the country's religious observance. Interestingly, following a period of unrest in the 13th-century, Stephen was also recast as not only a founder of the Christian kingdom, but as a liberator of his people from the oppression of the pagans. This recasting of Stephen strengthened the existing characteristics and emphasised his role as a champion of Christ against the heathen descendants of Attila. The liturgical texts construed him as a new Samson who fought the lion of paganry, and whose faithfulness (credulitas) was superior to the cruelty (crudelitas) of the Hunnic tyranny.

Scenes from the Life of Emeric

From the Angevine Legendary, 1330s

Courtesy of Wikimedia

The Cult of Emeric

Emeric was set out to be his father's successor, but died in 1031 by which time he was in his late twenties. According to later legends, he was well-educated and the alleged addressee of Libellus de institutione morum, a prince's mirror ascribed to King Stephen. Of the five saints canonised in 1083, Emeric was perhaps the one who was most important to King Ladislas personally. The reason for this was that Emeric was said to embody all the virtues expected of a Christian prince – mercy, largesse, humility, justice, etc. - and according to the chroniclers, no other Hungarian king could display such a wealth of virtues except Ladislas himself. Emeric became, in a way, Ladislas saintly forebear. Another reason why Emeric was of great importance to Ladislas personally, was the fact that that he was the son of Stephen and Gisela. Gisela was a German noblewoman who belonged to the house of King Ladislas' father-in-law, Rudolf, who was at that time a rival of the German Emperor Heinrich III. By proclaiming Emeric's sanctity, the family of Ladislas' wife was given a saintly member, and this would strengthen both Ladislas' own position, and the position of his father-in-law. This need was all the more pronounced by the fact that Solomon, the king Ladislas had deposed, was the son-in-law of Emperor Heinrich.

The cult of Emeric was also important to the church. Through Emeric it transmitted the ideal of the virtuous prince, who was chaste even in marriage and who was educated in religion. As Gabor Klaniczay points out, the Hungarian church used Emeric to emphasise the didactic and moralistic aspect of sacral rulership. Because Emeric had died before he became king, it was easy for later chroniclers and hagiographers to emphasise his chastity and proclaim him, as the earliest 12th-century legend did, a scorner of the corruptible flesh and – similar to the beatus vir of Psalm 1 – a man meditating on the word of God.

Scenes from the Life of Emeric

From the Angevine Legendary, 1330s

Courtesy of Wikimedia

Miniature of Ladislas, from Chronicon Pictum (14th century)

Courtesy of Wikimedia

The Cult of Ladislas

Ladislas was canonised under the auspices of King Bela III in 1192, and must be seen in light of two important aspects of the political scene of 12th-century Hungary. The first aspect is King Bela's Byzantine background. He had been educated at the court of Emperor Manuel Comnenons, and it is likely that it was here Bela became exposed to devotion of Ladislas, especially since the Hungarian king had been the father of Emperor Manuel's mother. The sanctity of Ladislas thus provided an important link to the Byzantine royal family, as well as the Hungarian throne.

Another important aspect might be seen in the circumstances in which both Bela and Ladislas ascended to the throne. Like Ladislas, Bela had to fight for his position, and since Ladislas's brother had ousted his cousin Solomon in 1174 and thus given way to Ladislas himself, he was a natural model for King Bela who had been brought up in Byzantium and was something of an outsider. King Ladislas himself, introduced the idea that the right to rule should be founded upon a king's likeness to previous kings – an idea known as ius idoneitatis or the right of likeness – instead of the right of blood known as ius legitimum which looked at family ties, bloodline and proximity. It is not stated expressly to what extent this concern informed Bela in his devotion of Ladislas, but it is an interesting connection between the two kings.

While Stephen was an apostolic king and Emeric was a virtuous prince, Ladislas was cast as a chivalric king, a knight-king, which was a figure of increased popularity in the 12^th century, following the dissemination of the legend of St. Alexis and the crusader movement. This popularity also found its expression in reformulations of saints like Olaf of Norway and St. George. The extent to which Ladislas was formulated as a knight, can be seen in the early-13^th-century legend's claim that he participated in the first crusade. Since Ladislas died in 1095, the very year in which the crusades first were preached, we know this to be a fiction, but it is an important piece of evidence to the importance of the chivalric aspect in the cult of Ladislas.  

Ladislas fighting a Cuman warrior, similar to St. George killing the dragon

Fresco from the Matyas Church in Budapest, date uncertain

Courtesy of Wikimedia

Concluding Remarks: The Later Middle Ages

Towards the end of the 13^th century, these three king-saints had become an integral part of the history of Hungary, and from the end of the century they were often depicted as a saintly collective, appearing together as a joint force of sanctity interceding for the sake of Hungary. The first such depiction can be found in a diptych from the late 13^th century commissioned by King Andrew III. Here the three holy kings, together with Elizabeth of Hungary (d.1031) who had been the queen of the German Emperor, appear as a collective of saints. This collective was further cultivated in the iconography of Hungarian Christianity throughout the 14^th century, as witnessed by joint altar dedications – such as in the Chapel of the Virgin in 1355 – and a set of bronze statues erected in the 1360s by the cathedral o Nagyvárad.

That these three saints were grouped together into a unit appears to be a current of religious iconography common in 14th-century Europe. Similar triads could be found in Scandinavia and France, and in England we encounter frequent pairings of the saints Edmund and Edward the Confessor from the same period.

Literature

Dobszay, László, "From 'crudelitas' to 'credulitas': Comments on Saint Stephen's Historia Rhythmica", printed in Hankeln, Roman (ed.), Political Plainchant? Music, Text and Historical Context of Medieval Saints' Offices, The Institute of Mediaeval Music, 2009

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

Klaniczay, Gabor, Holy Rulers and Blessed Princesses – Dynastic Cults in Medieval Central Europe, translated by Éva Pálmai, Cambridge University Press, 2002

Veszprémy, László, "Royal Saints in Hungarian Chronicles, Legends and Liturgy", printed in Mortensen, Lars Boje (ed.), The Making of Christian Myths in the Periphery of Latin Christendom (c.1000-1300), Museum Tusculanum Press, 2006