Intellectuals: The Start of the Carolingian Renaissance

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In 780, Frankish King Charles might have been thinking about his realm’s long-term future and wanted to give his empire an intellectual foundation, one to associate Francia with ancient Rome and rival the Byzantines.

At that time, the man we today call Charlemagne had ruled for 12 years and had conquered Aquitaine and Lombardy. Although he was still warring with Saxon tribes, he had gained significant territory. The father of six (with No. 7 on the way) was 32, no longer a young man by medieval standards.

He and his queen, Hildegard, who was from a long-established, powerful family, started a journey to Rome, perhaps with empire-building on their minds, judging by what happened in Rome the following spring.

But first the royal family needed to spend the winter in Pavia. There, Charles might have met Paul the Deacon, a Lombard who wrote Historia Romana and other works and had taught in the overthrown court of Pavia, and Peter of Pisa, a deacon and poet who would later teach the king Latin grammar.

1499 depiction of Charles and Hildegard

1499 depiction of Charles and Hildegard (public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

 

When the Frankish royals resumed their journey in warmer weather, Charles met Alcuin in Parma. Alcuin, a Saxon from Britain, already earned a reputation as master of the cathedral school at York, and Charles invited him to lead the Palace School in Francia. Alcuin agreed, after he got permission from his superior upon his return to York.

In Rome, the pope anointed Charles and Hildegard’s three- and four-year-old sons as subkings, and their six-year-old daughter was betrothed to the child emperor of Byzantium. The Frankish king and the pope apparently discussed Charles’s uneasy relations with his cousin the duke of Bavaria, resulting in high-level diplomatic talks later.

After Easter, Charles and Hildegard returned to Francia in the company of intelligent men: Peter of Pisa; Paul the Deacon; Paulinus of Aquileia, who would later write about theology and play a role in converting the conquered Avars in the 790s, and Fardulf, a poet who in the 790s exposed a plot to overthrow Charles and was rewarded with the abbey of Saint-Denis.

Charles’s intellectuals would come and go in fulfilling their other roles, and his circle of scholars would expand to include other nationalities such as Theodulf, a Visigoth from Hispania and leading satirist, poet, author, and bishop of Orléans, and Dungal from Ireland. The circle had a few Franks such as Angilbert, Charles’s trusted aide, diplomat, poet, lay abbot of Saint-Riquier who would transform the place into a center for learning, and later almost-husband (technically a Friedelmann) of Charles’s daughter Bertha.

Charlemagne and Alcuin

1830 painting by Jean-Victor Schnetz of Charlemagne and Alcuin (public domain via Wikimedia Commons)

These thinkers and writers were sometimes rivals who were not above teasing and sniping at each other in their poetry. But thanks to them and others, Francia produced more literary work than before.

Charles’s own education level in the 780s is unclear, but it was higher than most of his illiterate countrymen’s. Likely, his mother taught him his first lessons, and she hired a churchman to tutor him as he got older. By the end of his life, he could read but not write. He could converse in Latin in addition to his native Frankish and understood Greek better than he could speak it. He enjoyed the liberal arts ranging from literature to math to music and astronomy, studied philosophy, and had his sons and his daughters educated.

He never stopped learning, and in old age, he tried his hand at writing. He didn’t need that skill. He had clerks for that as did the rest of the nobility. But this hunger for knowledge might been another reason he recruited intellectuals.

Originally published on Unusual Historicals.

Sources

Einhard’s The Life of Charlemagne translated by Evelyn Scherabon Firchow and Edwin H. Zeydel

Carolingian Chronicles, which includes the Royal Frankish Annals and Nithard’s Histories translated by Bernard Walter Scholz with Barbara Rogers

Daily Life in the World of Charlemagne by Pierre Riché, translated by Jo Ann McNamara

Poetry of the Carolingian Renaissance, edited with an introduction by Peter Godman

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Queen Hildegard: Short but Influential Life

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Queen Hildegard, Charlemagne’s third wife, is portrayed as beautiful, pious, intelligent, and benevolent. But don’t let those virtues mislead you into thinking she was a sweet, little flower. Although young, she knew how to wield influence and had savvy a veteran politician would envy.

I encountered Hildegard during research for my novels, and she has a presence in all of them. In The Cross and the Dragon, she is Alda’s friend. My heroine looks to Hildegard’s marriage as the way husband and wife should treat each other and envies the queen’s fertility while she struggles to conceive. My Saxon peasant family in The Ashes of Heaven’s Pillar watch her haggle with a merchant, and Deorlaf, my heroine’s son, entertains the royal family when he is part of a merchant party.

Queen of the Darkest Hour starts shortly after Hildegard’s death. My heroine, Queen Fastrada, compares herself to her predecessor, wondering if she’ll measure up and burdened with the knowledge that a woman she had admired would not approve of the marriage. The thoughts and feelings are my speculation, but Hildegard might have preferred her widower have concubines rather than marry again. Her reason is inherent to noble families: she wouldn’t want her husband to sire a rival to her sons’ inheritance, one she worked to secure.

Hildegard

19th century lithograph (public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

As with many early medieval queens, little is written about Hildegard. She was probably 13 or 14 when she wed Charles in 772. Although they were fond of each other, the marriage was foremost a political alliance. She came from the Agilolfing clan, one of the most established and prestigious in the realm, and was a kinswoman of the duke of Bavaria (who also was Charles’s first cousin). Hildegard’s family controlled lands in a part of the kingdom ruled by Charles’s brother, Carloman, who had died in the previous year. Charles took over his brother’s former kingdom, and his marriage to Hildegard made that possible.

No matter that Charles was already married to a Lombard princess. His repudiation of her enraged the Lombard king—and likely Queen Mother Bertrada, who had negotiated Charles’s marriage to the Lombard. Hildegard was joining a household with a (possibly) irritated and (definitely) strong-willed mother-in-law, a husband who had divorced two wives, a 3-year-old son named Pepin from Charles’s first marriage, courtiers like Adalhard who disapproved the repudiation and remarriage, war with the Saxons underway, and another war with the Lombards on the horizon.

She succeeded against all these obstacles. It helped that she conceived quickly and bore her first son, Charles (whom I call Karl in my novels), in late 772 or early 773. The birth of a healthy heir solidified her position as queen. During her 11-year marriage, she would bear nine children, six of whom—three sons and three daughters—survived to adulthood.

She and Charles might have been a like-minded couple. He certainly wanted her around. He would send for her to join him, even when he was at war in Lombardy, and she often traveled with him. Might they have shared aspirations for an empire? Did she play a role in bringing foreign scholars to his court? Maybe.

Charlemagne and Hildegard

By Karl Baumeister, 1895 (GFDL or CC BY-SA 3.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

In 781, we see Hildegard’s power. In Rome, she witnessed her middle son, 4-year-old Carloman, be baptized and renamed Pepin, even though Charles had a child by that name. The younger Pepin (whom I call Carloman in my first two novels and Little Pippin in Queen of the Darkest Hour) and her youngest son, 3-year-old Louis, were named subkings of Aquitaine and Italy. Her daughter Hruodtrude, was betrothed to another child, the Byzantine emperor (his mom was regent). Like most medieval noblewomen, Hildegard was ambitious for her children, making sure her offspring, and not another woman’s, would succeed her husband.

Hildegard’s life was short. Those multiple pregnancies might have taken a toll on her health. She was in her mid-20s when she died in 783, shortly after the birth of her ninth child. Charles would endure more personal losses that year. The baby, named after her mother, lived only 40 days, a death Paul the Deacon described as “stabbing your father’s heart with a dagger.” On top of that, Bertrada passed away.

No doubt Charles was heartbroken, but he could not take a break from his responsibilities. He was still at war with the Saxons to the east and needed to bolster alliances with that part of the realm, and a few months later, he married Fastrada, an East Frank.

Fastrada and Charles were fond of each other, even though she was controversial (the reason I wrote Queen.) Yet Charles maintained his alliance with his late wife’s family. Hildegard’s brother, Gerold, played an important role when Charles ousted the Bavarian duke and warred with the Avars. Hildegard’s influence lived on.

Grand Plantations Inspire Novels’ Setting

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I am pleased to host my friend S.K. Keogh as she launches The Driver’s Wife, a tale about the redeeming power of love for two outcasts in 1690s Carolina. I had the privilege of reading the novel before publication, and only the need to sleep forced me to stop turning the pages. What I particularly enjoyed was how Susan showed good and bad among all people, in all classes from slave to plantation owner. Here, she talks about the real plantations that inspired her vivid setting.—Kim

By S.K. Keogh

S.K. KeoghIf you’ve been to Charleston, South Carolina, no doubt you visited at least one of the famous plantations located in the region. Boone Hall, Magnolia Plantation, Middleton Place Plantation, and Drayton Hall are the four that I visited during a couple of research trips several years ago while writing my first three novels. The latter two plantations struck me the most, so much so that I patterned two of the plantations in my historical novels after them, albeit using a little cross-pollination.

Middleton Place, set on a rare prominence alongside the meandering Ashley River, is a true showplace. Not only does the plantation still grow the Carolina Gold rice which made the Middleton family wealthy in the 18th century, but it boasts an elaborately-designed garden encompassing several acres, including a large reflecting pool.

Middleton Reflecting Pool

Interpretative programs on subjects like rice cultivation and slavery are a staple. Middleton is also the annual site for the finale of the Spoleto Festival every summer, where visitors fill the large greensward for a concert and fireworks over the river. The building you see in the photo below is one of the surviving flankers and serves as a museum today. The manor home itself was larger and actually looked similar to Drayton Hall. The main house was burned down by Union troops during the Civil War.

Middleton Festival

Originally, the land belonged to an heiress, Mary Williams. In 1741, Mary married Henry Middleton, who already owned The Oaks plantation and 1,600 acres on the Cooper River, which flows on the opposite side of the Charleston peninsula from the Ashley River. (Charleston was known as Charles Town until 1783.) Henry represented South Carolina in the First Continental Congress and was later elected its president.

The gardens at Middleton are the oldest landscaped gardens in the country. The layout of the 65-acre gardens was inspired by the designs of Andre Le Notre, the principal gardener of King Louis XIV of France. Symmetry and geometry are the rule, balance, variety, and sculptures adding further elements. Hydrangeas, roses, magnolias, and azaleas are just a few of the flowers blooming at various times of the year at Middleton. A constant feast for the eyes and perfume for the nose.

Middleton Garden

The Mel Gibson movie, The Patriot, which took place during the Revolutionary War, has a scene shot on the grounds of Middleton.

Drayton Hall, shown below, is the earliest example of Palladian architecture in the United States. Like Middleton’s gardens, the design of Drayton’s wonderful, unrestored manor home is all about symmetry. If you split the house down the middle, each side would have equal numbers of rooms in the same location, equal numbers of windows, chimneys, etc. Also like Middleton, Drayton Hall was built in the 1700s.

Drayton Hall

Drayton is managed by the National Trust for Historic Preservation and was opened to the public in 1977. It was founded by John Drayton in 1738. The family also owned Magnolia Plantation, just next door, up the Ashley River.

If you visit Drayton, make sure you take a tour of the house. In the photo above, it looks huge, but when you go inside, it manages to have an intimate feel, a real lived-in atmosphere. The main floor has a central hall, off which the other rooms open. Broad window seats make it easy to imagine one of the Draytons seated there, reading a book on a chilly winter evening with a fire roaring in the fireplace. The second floor has a matching layout.

Drayton Hall Room

 

In the region’s early years, particularly during the timeframe of my novels, which take place in the 1690s, there were no roads leading from Charles Town to the interior plantations along the Ashley River or along the many other rivers in the area. The rivers served as the areas highways, where vessels large and small ferried people and commerce to and from the interior. Because of this, the front of the plantations faced the river, not today’s modern driveways bringing visitors to the sites. During the early days, the area was a vast wilderness, dotted with large plantations like the ones featured in this article, as well as the more common smaller plantations. Modern folks hear the word plantation and automatically picture something on the grand scale of Middleton Place, but the majority of the plantations were much smaller and certainly less grand affairs.

Rice was not the main crop of the region until the early 1700s. Many plantation owners made their money from cattle farming and producing Naval stores including timber for British ships, as well as tar and hemp. But once rice was introduced to the low country, where the abundance of water was ideal for its production, Charles Town and the region grew rich.

Rice Field

Rice is still grown today at Middleton, as shown in the above photo, and visitors can even help plant some of it, using the age-old technique of the thousands of Africans enslaved on the region’s plantations. Besides things like rice cultivation, visitors to these plantations today can learn about the history of these slaves. Without those slaves from the “rice coast” of Africa, places like Middleton Place would never have flourished. These plantations today offer valuable insight into their suffering and contributions to the region’s success, both then and now.

I hope the picture I paint of plantation rice culture in my novels offers a bit of insight and education for those who may read it. And I hope my novel as well as this short article will encourage you to visit these wonderfully preserved plantations.

Photos by S.K. Keogh and used with permission.

About The Driver’s Wife

A story of redemption and unconventional love.

The Driver's WifeLeighlin Plantation offers Edward Ketch a new life, an opportunity to forsake his violent, troubled past and become a man worthy of respect and trust. But when a slave named Isabelle arrives, Ketch is drawn into a turbulent relationship that threatens the very peace he has struggled to attain.

Isabelle has her own desires for a fresh start, but scurrilous gossip about her past undermines those hopes. She struggles to be accepted by Leighlin’s other slaves and hopes marriage to a popular man will aid her cause. But her situation worsens when her husband becomes abusive. She discovers, however, one unlikely ally—Ketch, who is as much an outcast among Leighlin’s white population as she is among her people.

A stranger to love, Ketch cannot recognize the true feelings that draw him to Isabelle. To rescue her from the dangers of her marriage, he risks losing not only his position at Leighlin but the affections of the woman he strives to save.

Set against the backdrop of 17th century Carolina, The Driver’s Wife explores the lives and relationships, from Big House to slave settlement, of those who labored upon the wilderness plantations near Charles Town. Rice cultivation and the task system of slavery provide a much different landscape from the aristocratic Old South of cotton plantations and gang labor familiar to most modern-day readers. The Driver’s Wife is a tale of the transcendent power of love.

To find out more about S.K. Keogh and her writing, visit her website skkeogh.com and look for her latest novel, The Driver’s Wife. You may also find her on Facebook and Twitter, as well as her blog.

Jack Mallory Triology

 

A Timeless Tactic: Trash Your Political Rival

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In Life of Alfred, Bishop Asser was supposedly trying to explain why kings of Wessex didn’t bestow their wives with the status of queen. Then he went on to recount a queen who lived decades earlier: Eadburh, who conveniently came from a family that had competed with Alfred’s grandfather for power.

Objective reporting of known facts is a relatively modern concept. Using the pen to trash your (or your master’s) rival isn’t, and medieval readers would have known that Asser had a definite point of view.

Asser tells a story of murder and justice, but I simply cannot believe him. His tale did inspire a post about Eadburh. See English Historical Fiction Authors for more.

Life of Alfred

Facsimile of Asser’s Life of Alfred (public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

Are We There Yet? Travel Times in the Dark Ages.

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One question constantly causes me to pause writing my novel set in eighth century Francia and do research: how long does it take to get from Point A to Point B?

The answer: it depends. Are the characters traveling by foot, horse, or ox cart? Are any of them sick or pregnant? At which cities or abbeys will they stop to rest their animals for three days? Does anyone break a wheel? If the characters are in a hurry (a rarity in the Middle Ages), are they changing horses? Can they afford to? And do they know how to get to their destination?

A journey in the Dark Ages was more miserable than the middle seat in coach. Travelers had no weather forecast, and they risked being waylaid by bandits. As they traversed wilderness, the folk would have been terrified of otherworldly creatures, especially at night. The food was awful, often a type of hard bread edible only when softened with water to the texture of leather.

On top of all that, progress was slow. Charlemagne’s armies typically went only 12 to 15 miles per day. The animals they used for transport would need to rest and eat around midday. Think of it as the equivalent of filling up the gas tank.

9th century Psalter

9th century Psalter (public domain, via Wikimedia Commons)

To calculate travel times in my novels, I use maps in my reference books and Google maps. Sometimes, I will redraw Google’s route so that it more closely resembles the roads and the cities that existed at the time. (Yes, Google, I know your way is faster, but I’m not interested in that right now.)

If the distance is great, the trek really is a combination of several trips, with three days at a civilized place to rest horse, mule, or ox. So a list for journey from Nevers to Le Mans—which my characters undertake in The Ashes of Heaven’s Pillar—reads Nevers to Bourges, three to five days; three days of rest; Bourges to Orleans, about five days; three days of rest. You get the idea.

Today, a drive between those two French cities might take less than four hours. In the Dark Ages, people could be on the road for almost a month. And that reality can lead to conversations like this from Ashes, where my heroine’s son is trying to get to Le Mans to rescue his family from slavery, but he is way off course at Saint Riquier Abbey:

“Where is Le Mans?” Deorlaf grumbled. “The guard at Orleans said to go to Paris. The guard at Paris said to go to Orleans, but we had just been to Orleans, so that could not be right. The priest at Reims said go to Laon. And no one here knows anything.”

“Perhaps we have not reached it yet,” Ives said.

“But my sister said it would take a month to reach Le Mans from Nevers. It’s been well over a month.”

Originally published Aug. 2, 2015, on S.K. Keogh’s The Jack Mallory Chronicles.

Elen of the Hosts: What’s Fact? What’s Fiction?

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In my research for “Betrothed to the Red Dragon,” I encountered a fascinating fourth century character, Elen of Caernarfon.

According to the “The Dream of Macsen Wledig” in The Mabinogion, the strong-willed Elen was married to the titular character, also known as Roman Emperor Magnus Maximus. She ruled with him and had roads built throughout Britain by men loyal to her. While I believe Elen existed, the poem is fiction, and the reality is more complex and more tragic.

Visit English Historical Fiction Authors for my post about who the real Elen might have been.

14th century manuscript

14th century manuscript (public domain via Wikimedia Commons)

The Legendary Siegfried

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The story of Siegfried is part dragon slayer and part tragic soap opera, and it’s deeply ingrained in the Germanic psyche. You only need drive along the Rhine and encounter Drachenfels, the high hill where he slew the beast, and Worms, the city where he was betrayed and murdered.

The roots in history are tenuous. Part of Siegfried’s story might be based on a fifth century slaughter of rebellious Burgundians by the Romans, and a supporting character has a similar name to the Burgundian Gundahar. But we don’t know if Siegfried or someone like him existed. Nevertheless, he captured the Frankish imagination, and the story spread to the north, where Siegfried is called Sigurd. In the 19th century, Wagner gave the tale new life in his Ring Cycle operas.

Like any legends, there are variations, but here are the basics. Siegfried, the son of a slain warrior, forges a sword from the pieces of his father’s blade, one that can split anvils. At the instigation of the dwarf Regin, he goes after a giant-turned-dragon, guarding a cursed, stolen treasure.

The hero has one chance. He digs a ditch and lies in it. When the dragon goes for a drink, Siegfried stabs it in the soft underbelly. The dying dragon warns him that Regin plans to kill him.

Siegfried slays the dragon

Regin emerges from hiding, cuts out the dragon’s heart, and begs Siegfried to roast it. While it’s on the fire, Siegfried burns his fingers and sticks them in his mouth. He understands the speech of birds, who also tells him of Regin’s treachery. This time Siegfried listens and kills Regin. He bathes in the dragon’s blood, which makes him invulnerable except for where the linden leaf falls between his shoulders.

His next quest: Rescue a maiden in an enchanted sleep. She isn’t the stereotypical Sleeping Beauty. She’s Brunhild, a warrior queen who will marry only a man who must prove he knows no fear by riding though a fire that surrounds her.

Siegfried makes it through the flames and cuts off her too tight armor, which revives her. They fall in love. If only the story ended here, we’d have a happily ever after and could forget about the curse on the treasure. But the story continues, and we come to the part that resembles a soap opera.

When Siegfried leaves to do heroic deeds, Brunhild pledges her troth, and he promises to remain faithful.

Siegfried and Brunhild

Siegfried arrives at Worms, and that’s when his troubles really begin. There, he meets the lord, Gunnar (one of two or three brothers), and his sister, the beautiful Gundrun (also called Kriemhild). Siegfried drinks a potion that makes him forget Brunhild and then marries Gundrun.

Then it gets more complicated. Gunnar wants to marry Brunhild, but he can’t get through her wall of fire. The solution: he and Siegfried change forms, then Siegfried rides through the flames and claims Brunhild on Gunnar’s behalf. Fooled by the ruse, Brunhild reluctantly agrees to marry Gunnar. Siegfried removes the ring he originally gave to her and replaces it with a ring from the hoard.

And this could have been a happy ending for both couples, sort of, except for one problem. Brunhild learns the truth. When the women were about to bathe in the river, Brunhild refuses to be downstream from Gundrun, claiming a better father and husband. Gundrun can’t stand it and tells her Siegfried was the one who braved the fire. Then, she shows her rival a ring—the original token of Brunhild’s betrothal to Siegfried—as proof.

This becomes a matter of honor of Brunhild. She can’t be married to two men and plots with Gunnar and his brother to kill Siegfried. While they are hunting, the hero is stabbed in his only vulnerable spot, between the shoulders.

Brunhild is overcome with remorse, stabs herself with a sword, and pleads to burn with Siegfried on his funeral pyre. The grieving Gundrun lives only for vengeance, one with betrayal, murder, and cannibalism.

Public domain images by Arthur Rackham via Wikimedia Commons.

Originally published Dec. 17, 2014, on Unusual Historicals.

Source

The Nibelungenlied, translated by Daniel B. Shumway (Houghton-Mifflin Co., New York, 1909)

Why was Abbess Cwenthryth Defamed?

While researching a different post, I stumbled upon the story of 9th century Mercian Princess Cwenthryth and her brother, Cynehelm. It’s got a lot of juicy stuff: lust for power, sibling rivalry, murder, and gruesome divine justice. And it’s simply not true.

Cwenthryth wasn’t a meek woman. In fact she defied a male authority. But she certainly wasn’t a killer.

Who was the real Cwenthryth and why was she maligned? Those are the questions I try to answer in my post on English Historical Fiction Authors.

Saint Kenelm

Cwenthryth’s sainted brother, Cynehelm (or Kenelm) (Image by Sjukmidlands, CC BY-SA 4.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

Why Was Queen Ælfflæd a Bride Worth Killing Over?

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Likely middle-aged, the widowed 9th century Mercian Queen Ælfflæd attracted a suitor, but there was one problem. Her son Wigstan, who gave up the throne for a religious life, forbid the marriage because of consanguinity—that she and the wannabe bridegroom were too closely related. Or Wigstan persuaded his mom to refuse the offer for that reason. Wigstan paid a high price as a result.

The story got me wondering about Ælfflæd and her circumstances and inspired a blog post on English Historical Fiction Authors.

Crypt for the Mercian royal family in Repton

9th-century burial crypt for the Mercian royal family in Repton (by James Yardley, CC BY-SA 2.0, via Wikimedia Commons)

Curses and Cures: Where Christian and Pagan Beliefs Intersect

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An eighth-century pilgrim on his way to pray before the relics of a saint might recite a charm to protect his horse from injury. A midwife might whisper spells in an expectant mother’s ear to hasten the birth, and if she feared the newborn was near death, she baptized the child. Such was the blend of Christian and pagan practices in the Dark Ages.

My Christian characters would insist the charms and spells were white magic, nothing to do with paganism, which they equated with devil worship. They weren’t cursing their neighbors with illness or inducing storms to destroy crops. Their intentions were good. They wanted a sick child to be cured or their fields to yield an abundant harvest.

Officially, the Church preached against magic and the people who practiced it such as enchanters, dream interpreters, and fortune tellers. But to the populace, magic was a tool that could be used for good or evil.

The penalty for magical bad deeds was high. In the Carolingian era, witches and sorcerers were sealed in barrels and thrown into the river, or they were stoned to death.

Medieval Phylactery

This phylactery (amulet) is from the 13th century, but they were commonly used in the centuries earlier for protection (public domain image provided to Wikimedia Commons by the Walters Art Museum).

However, the most popular uses of magic were beneficial and sometimes profitable. Amulets and their religious cousins, phylacteries, were sold to anyone who wanted to buy them. In Rome, the heart of Christianity, women tied phylacteries to their arms or legs.

Despite Church teachings, even clerics might ask an expert to interpret their dreams, or a manuscript copied by monks might contain a square to predict the course of an illness with the letters of the patient’s name and the number of the day they got sick.

Magic was so much a part of daily life that the Church realized it needed to take a different tack. If you can’t beat them, co-opt them. Want rain? Don’t use an incantation. Say a prayer instead. If you need to recite something while gathering medicinal herbs, try the Pater and the Credo.

Still, I can imagine desperate parents of a sick child praying to a saint and giving alms, then taking the child to the peak of the roof, where herbs were cooked while a spell was recited. Perhaps, they were appealing to any supernatural power who would listen.

Sources

Daily Life in the World of Charlemagne by Pierre Riché, translated by Jo Ann McNamara

Daily Life in Medieval Times by Frances and Joseph Gies

“Capturing the Wandering Womb” by Kate Phillips, The Haverford Journal, April 2007

This post was originally published Nov. 18, 2014, on Unusual Historicals.