Merovingians in the New World

 I've earlier discussed the Merovingian kings of the Franks, considered the first French dynasty, who ruled what is now France from the late fifth century to the middle of the eighth, when they were replaced on the throne by the Carolingians.  Although French students learn about them just as we learn about Columbus and George Washington, it's probably fair to say that not one person in America who is not a medievalist ever heard of them, or of the baptism of Clovis, considered a great turning point in the Christianization of the Germanic peoples.

But this was not always the case!  In the late eighteenth and early nineteenth centuries, American writers often discussed the Merovingians, as a foil to the new republic just being properly established, or even as a way to understand the French, who had been major allies during the American Revolution and who began their own French Revolution in the same year as the American Constitution was adopted (1789).

Even American school children learned about the Merovingians back then.  British accounts of what they called "universal" history (or, more accurately, western history) began their discussion of post-classical history with the "fall of Rome," with Anglo-Saxons invading Britain and Germanic peoples like the Franks becoming established in the old Roman Empire in Continental Europe.  These British accounts formed the basis of American history books.

(The mind boggles when one realizes how much more a twelve-year-old was expected to read, understand, and remember of historical events, two centuries ago.)

Writers and political theorists, including President John Adams, had much to say about the Merovingians.  Adams himself saw the consecration of Clovis with holy oil, as shown in the ivory carving above (note the dove bringing the ampoule), as an example of what the US had to avoid, in that he didn't want any divine aura hanging around our leaders.  Others however saw the mixing of Roman and Germanic in what is now France as a sign that people of different backgrounds and ethnic origins could work together in this new country.

In trying to understand France, some looked at the French Revolution as the final breaking away from tyrannical kingship, that had been holding the French back since the fifth century.  Others, on the contrary, saw the violence that grew out of the French Revolution as a sign that the French were just inherently violent, as they had been ever since the days of Clovis.  In any event, these writers had a lot to say about the Merovingians.

Merovingian-era documents could even be used to justify slavery.  After all, Roman slavery continued under the Franks until the sixth century, and household slavery for several centuries after that, with plenty of legal justification.  Slave-holders could try to pass off the relatively recent enslavement of Africans to work in the New World as just the continuation of a thousand-year-old practice.

In all of this, one can see that history is not simply events in the past, that stay where you put them.  History is a form of memory, and people are constantly making choices about what to remember and how to interpret past events in light of present concerns.

Gregory I. Halfond has recently published a book on how the Merovingians became a major topic of discussion in the new American republic, Writing about the Merovingians in the Early United States (2023).

© C. Dale Brittain 2024

The Chinese Lion of San Marco

 The cathedral of San Marco (Saint Mark's) in Venice, with its surrounding piazza, is decorated with art work taken from many other places.  The famous horses of San Marco, for example, came from Constantinople, when the Fourth Crusade raided this supposed ally of the Christian West at the beginning of the thirteenth century.

Less well known is the lion of Saint Mark—all four evangelists were associated with a symbol, and Saint Mark's was a lion.  This is not just an ordinary lion.  It's a Chinese lion.

A Chinese lion with wings.  So how, you ask, did a Chinese lion end up at the head of the Adriatic in the Middle Ages?

It's huge, made of bronze, thirteen feet long (without the tail) and weighing some three tons.  Venetian records note the lion's presence, atop a pillar of Egyptian granite, no later than 1293.  Recent studies of the isotopes in the bronze suggest that most of it dates to eighth-century China.  During the Tang dynasty, such enormous creatures, often winged, were erected as tomb guardians by the wealthy and powerful.  Such tomb guardians were more commonly ceramic, however, though at the same time small bronze creatures might be erected at Buddhist temples.  Whatever this lion might have stood for originally, the Venetians saw it and coveted it.

So this lion's presence at San Marco indicates that the trade routes that brought spices and silks from the far East to medieval Europe also brought larger and heavier objects.  Something this size would have had to have been cut up for transport and then reassembled on site.  The Venetians must have paid a whole lot to have something like this brought overland some 4500 miles.

But this was the era of Marco Polo, when Italians were very interested in the East.  The whole Italian peninsula thrived on trade that brought goods from very far away to Europe.  As well as objects to sell, the Venetians were eager to obtain goods they could display.

Much of the recent work on the lion of San Marco has been reported by Sarah E. Bond.

© C. Dale Brittain 2024

For more on medieval trade, see my ebook, Positively Medieval:  Life and Society in the Middle Ages. Also available in paperback.

Kindle Unlimited

 As I have discussed earlier on this blog, self-publishing ("indie" publishing) is a complicated process.  The author has to not only write the book, but themselves do (or hire) the editing, the formatting, the procuring of covers, and the actual publishing, to say nothing of keeping track of royalties.  And of course there's then advertising to make sure anyone knows your book exists.  Indie books almost never show up in stores, so no one is going to stumble across it wandering around Fred's Corner Bookstore.

The publishing platforms on which indie authors publish their books have issues of their own to deal with.  (Amazon's KDP has come to dominate the market, but Apple, B&N, and Kobo still have a decent share of e-readers.)  The whole idea is that there are "no gatekeepers," so they aren't going to check for quality of prose or story line or even basic sentence structure, but they don't want plagiarism or raw pornography or words sliding off the page of a paperback.  The platforms want to keep the best authors, those whose books are selling thousands of copies, and figure out how to maximize their own profits (harder when a number of indie books are, shall we say, a bit on the weak side).

Amazon has hit upon "Kindle Unlimited."  Indie authors can decide to enroll their ebooks in the program, in return for a promise to make sure their ebooks are exclusively on Amazon, no other ebook platform.  Voracious readers can then sign up for Kindle Unlimited, pay their $12 a month fee, and read as many ebooks from the program as they want.

These ebooks are officially borrowed, not bought, and the readers can only have ten of them "checked out" at once (and if they stop paying their $12 a month they all disappear from their Kindle).  The authors get paid, not the royalties they'd get from an outright sale, but a fee based on how many pages the KU borrower read.  (How do the bots know?  They know things.)

Romance readers especially, those who may read four or five books a week, love KU.  Why spend $3 or $4 to buy an ebook when for only $12 a month they can read a new book every day - or even more!  Find an author you like, and blast through their entire list.  Readers of other genres of fiction are often the same.

I've recently started an experiment, making my whole "Royal Wizard of Yurt" series available through Kindle Unlimited.  The series (6 novels, 3 novellas, 3 omnibus volumes) has been out for a while, so at this point my faithful fans have pretty much read them all.  So this is an experiment to see if I can get some new fans.  "A Bad Spell in Yurt," the first book in the series, is the gateway drug to all my fiction.

So far the experiment has been working well.  Even though I've done zero promotion, a number of KU members have found and read their way through the whole series.  An additional, unexpected but welcome result has been a number of people who have bought the whole series outright.  Can't tell if these are people who borrowed and read the books, then decided they wanted to have copies to keep forever, or if they're friends, ones who don't have KU memberships, and were told the books were Really Good by their KU friends (fine friends, there).  Either works for me!

So if you're a KU member who's been reading my blog for years but never got around to reading "Bad Spell," give it a try!  Here's the US link (also available in other countries).

https://www.amazon.com/dp/B004S2CPM2

The story is about a young wizard, fresh out of wizards' school, who becomes Royal Wizard in the tiny kingdom of Yurt. He has no idea what he's doing, being just glad to have graduated after all that embarrassment with the frogs, but he cheerfully rises to the challenges.  After all, he's not a very good wizard, but Yurt isn't a very big kingdom.

© C. Dale Brittain 2024

Women as Regents

 As I have noted previously, medieval aristocratic women had far more authority and ability to make major decisions than is often assumed.  One of the clearest examples of this is the role of powerful women as regents.

A regent is someone who rules, specifically in the name of someone else, awaiting the time when that person becomes an adult or comes back from far away.  If the lord of a castle headed off on Crusade, for example, his wife would normally act as regent until his return.  If the lord died and his children, his heirs or heiresses, were not yet old enough to rule in their own right, their mother would rule until they came of age.

The same was true of counts and dukes, even kings.  Marie de France, a French princess who married the count of Champagne, probably ruled longer than he did.  Adela of Blois, a member of the English royal family, similarly brought up her children and ran the county of Blois during her husband's repeated absences.  Sometimes powerful women ran the county for several generations, arranging the marriages of children and grandchildren.  Mathilda, countess of Nevers in the thirteenth century, guided her daughters. granddaughters, and great-granddaughters into advantageous marriages.

Eleanor of Aquitaine, duchess of Aquitaine, then queen of France, then queen of England during the final two-thirds of the twelfth century, did not keep having retired to a nunnery prevent her from emerging to make major decisions for her children or grandchildren or for that matter for England as a whole.

One of the most powerful regents was Blanche of Castile, queen of France (she was originally from Spain, hence called "of Castile").  Whe her husband Louis VIII died in 1226 after a short reign (you never hear much about Louis VIII, do you), she took over running the kingdom.  She proposed her oldest son as king of England (the English refused the offer), and kept busy for ten years as regent.  During this time, her oldest son, Louis IX, grew to adulthood and married.  Blanche was not at all happy about this, especially since it seemed to be a very happy marriage -- his wife was Marguerite, of the family of counts of Provence.  The story at the time was that Louis and Marguerite had to sneak around behind Blanche's back.  Finally after ten years she allowed him to start acting fully as king and husband.

Most of the women I mention above may barely have met their husbands before their wedding day, and often came from a different part of Europe, even speaking a different language.  But when they became regents they took a deep breath and did what needed to be done.

© C. Dale Brittain 2024

For more on medieval women, see my ebook, Positively Medieval:  Life and Society in the Middle Ages.  Also available in paperback.

 

The Murder of Charles the Good

 Charles the Good, count of Flanders, was murdered in 1127.  The details of the plot, the murder, and the consequences are told in several contemporary accounts.  The events reveal much about twelfth-century attitudes and social expectations, starting with the fact that the complicated alliances, betrayals, and plots seen in Game of Throne are mild compared to the real Middle Ages.

To start, Charles was only half Flemish (we would say Belgian, except that Belgium only became a country in the nineteenth century) and half Danish.  Members of great noble and royal families married members of similarly powerful families, meaning that in the twelfth century family ties stretched across all of Europe, even into Russia.

Charles was the son of Cnut, king of Denmark, and of the daughter of Count Robert I of Flanders.  The name Charles was certainly chosen to evoke Charlemagne, emperor three centuries earlier and still alive in epic and story.  The counts of Flanders actually were descended from Charlemagne, as they were very proud to tell anyone who would listen, and in naming his son Charles, King Cnut may have been hoping to gain some imperial cachet for Denmark.  His assassination ended that hope, however.

Although born in Denmark, Charles went with his mother back to Flanders after his father was assassinated.  Noble widows at the time usually left their children with their dead husband's family if they left, but Charles's mother may have feared Cnut's assassins might be coming for her son (she did leave her daughters in Denmark).  He was a toddler at the time, so he probably grew up with few memories of his native country.

His mother settled back in Flanders with her father (Count Robert) and brothers but soon left again, this time to marry the count of Apulia (southern Italy), leaving her son behind this time.  Charles was principally raised by his grandfather, Count Robert, and by his uncle (Robert's successor), also named Robert.  After Robert II's death, his son Baldwin succeeded as count of Flanders, and Charles acted as chief advisor for his cousin.  (Keeping up so far?)

So far everything looks fine, other than nothing matching our idea of a child being raised by a loving two-parent family.  And when Count Baldwin died in 1119, after only a short reign as count, he designated Charles as his successor.  But now the plotting and betrayals begin.  Robert II's widow, Clementia, daughter of the count of Burgundy, wanted a different cousin to succeed, the son of a younger brother of Robert II.  (Thus Burgundy and its alliances enter the picture, and I'm simplifying a lot.)  Everybody went to war with everybody.

But Charles eventually prevailed and settled down to try to be a just count, trying to find food for his subjects during a famine, seeking to pass fair judgments in legal cases.  He also proved himself a generous patron of the church.  When he was murdered, it was not by all his relatives and in-laws, but by his serfs.

In this period, the first quarter of the twelfth century, serfdom was rapidly disappearing in western Europe, as peasants asserted their freedom.  Erembald, who led the conspiracy against Charles, was said by contemporaries to have been born a serf but to be trying to hide his origins, and he decided it was better to kill Charles than to have the count reveal his true status.  This sounds rather implausible, but that contemporaries would say it is an indication of how sensitive an issue servile status was at the time.

Charles was murdered in church, something contemporaries stressed as making an evil deed even worse.  In fact, one chronicler said he was simultaneously praying, singing psalms, and distributing pennies to the poor when he was stabbed.  (Quite the multi-tasker.)  Such a description made Charles's death a virtual martyrdom; someone would have to be killed for one's faith to be an actual martyr, but the chronicler seemed to think this was close enough.

The murder was considered terrible and shocking, sending shock waves throughout Europe.  The Scandinavian royal families had been trying to kill each other off for generations, but further south aristocrats liked to believe they lived in modern, peaceful times, when noble violence was restricted to killing Muslims in the Holy Land (it wasn't).

Charles never became a saint, in spite of being killed in a church and designated "the Good."  Without an heir, he left Flanders in turmoil.  First of course the murderers had to be caught and hung.  Then a successor had to be found.  King Louis VI of France decided he should make the decision as to who succeeded, as Flanders was considered part of the French kingdom.  He settled on William Clito, grandson of William the Conqueror of England, whose wife had been a sister of Robert I of Flanders.  But William Clito had little support, and the county was taken within a year by Thierry of Alsace, whose mother was a sister of Robert II of Flanders.

Can't ignore the role of women in medieval inheritance.

The principal scholar now working on Charles the Good is Jeff Rider of Wesleyan University.

© C. Dale Brittain 2014

For more on medieval families, nobles, and inheritance, see my ebook, Positively Medieval:  Life and Society in the Middle Ages.  Also available in paperback.

The Hussites

 As I have noted before, the majority culture of Europe's Middle Ages was Christianity, but there was often strong disagreement over what Christianity entailed and which version was the correct version.  We are used to varieties of Christianity in the US, Catholicism, Greek Orthodoxy, Episcopalians, Baptists, Unitarians, Lutherans, and I'm just scratching the surface.  The difference is that for the most part people have a laissez-faire attitude these days toward other versions of religion, whereas for the most part medieval people found such variety deeply concerning.

(Though I should note that my mother, as a little girl in a nice Methodist household, was told rather triumphantly by her Catholic playmate that her parents weren't really married, that she was a bastard and not really baptized, and that she was going to Hell.)

The Hussites were a group of followers of John Hus in the late Middle Ages, labeled as heretics although, like all heretics, they asserted they were the true Christians and the others the actual heretics.  You can really only tell who was "really" the heretic by who ultimately won.  This isn't as cynical as you'd think.  Medieval Christians figured God would ultimately make sure the real Christians triumphed in the end.  It all made sense.

John Hus (1369-1415) was a theologian in Bohemia, in what is now the Czech Republic.  He became a professor at the University of Prague, then recently established.  He was perfectly orthodox, that is considered to have correct religious beliefs, though like many theologians arguing over doctrine he periodically got into trouble with his archbishop.  But he started questioning the church's practice of having lay people receive Mass with the wafer only, rather than both wine and wafer.  This had been established in the early Middle Ages out of fear that lay people might either spill or chug-a-lug the wine, neither appropriate for the Blood of Christ.  (Indeed, this continued in Catholicism until the Vatican iI council in the 1960s.)

Hus argued that the Bible showed Jesus urging his disciples at the Last Supper to partake of both bread and wine.  Those who agreed with him were called Utraquists, from the Latin for "both" (utraque).  Though Hus had been a respected theologian, this contrary teaching was considered deeply troubling.  Europe's bishops were at the time trying to resolve the Great Schism, where there were three different men all claiming to be pope (one each in Rome and Avignon, plus a third left over from a failed earlier council), and they called a council at Constance in 1415 to resolve this, and figured they'd start the council with something easier, like deciding what to do with the Utraquists.

Hus was invited to the council to present his arguments.  The emperor Sigismund said he'd guarantee his safety.  If you check Hus's death date, you can tell where this is going.  He was ruled a heretic, the emperor said he couldn't honor the safe-conduct he'd given a heretic, and Hus went to the stake rather than renounce his beliefs.  Even today, you do not tell Sigismund jokes in Bohemia.

(As I've noted before, I'd have made a lousy heretic, as at the first sign of burning at the stake I'd have renounced my "false" beliefs so fast it would make your head spin.  But that's just me.)

Hus's followers, now called Hussites, immediately rebelled against the emperor.  They carried out guerrilla warfare, dragging cannons through the woods to blast imperial soldiers.  At a certain point the organized church, which had in the meantime managed to resolve the schism and settled on having the pope just be one more Renaissance tyrant, basically decided to let the Hussites be heretics if they wanted to endanger their souls so badly, "see if we care."  Utraquists were still around as the Protestant Reformation got underway a century later, further complicating things.  But that story takes us out of the Middle Ages.

 © C. Dale Brittain 2024

For more on medieval Christianity and other aspects of medieval history, see my ebook Positively Medieval, available on Amazon and other ebook platforms. Also available in paperback.

The Ill-Born Prince

 I've got a new fantasy novel!  It's called "The Ill-Born Prince" (that's ILL-BORN, not three-times born or anything like that).  It's about a prince who has discovered he's actually not the son of the king but rather of the queen and the Royal Wizard, and he ends up off studying at the wizards' school.  (I was originally thinking of calling it The Bastard Prince but decided that would be too shocking.)

 

For those keeping score at home, it's number 4 in the "Starlight Raven" series.  That series is also known as the "Yurt, the Next Generation" series.  Here's the cover, and here's the link on Amazon.  It's available both as an ebook and as a paperback.

Like all the books in the Starlight Raven series, it's narrated by Antonia, daughter of the Master of the wizards' school, and the first young woman ever accepted to study there.  The male wizards are still not totally convinced that a woman magic-worker might not be some kind of dangerous witch, so Antonia has plenty of issues to deal with, not least her relationship to Walther, the ill-born prince.

I've tried to write it so people could enjoy the book without having read any of the others in the series, but you may pick up a few continuing sub-plots from earlier if you have.

Here's the beginning to whet your appetite.

PART ONE - Magical Problems

“Every spell in this book has an error in it,” the teacher told us.  “Something is left out, or steps are transposed, or the words in the Hidden Language are wrong.”
Our class of wizardry students looked at each other, startled, then again at the books on our desks.  This was not some ancient grimoire of half-understood magic scribbled down by an imperfectly trained magician whose wits were already going.  These were freshly printed, clean volumes, each copy identical, that we had just been told would be the fundamental text for our final two years at the wizards’ school.
There was a confused murmur while students tried leafing through the book, looking unsuccessfully for any clues.  Then Walther raised his hand and said, “Excuse me, sir, but why were the errors allowed to remain?  Or,” he hesitated a second, pushing a shock of black hair away from his forehead, “were they deliberate?”
The teacher smiled.  He was one of the older teachers; in the last few years a number of new, younger wizards had joined the school faculty, but he was still teaching.  Like all the older wizards, he always seemed to have a soft spot for Walther.
“Excellent question,” he said.  “And yes, it was deliberate.”  He scanned the room.  “Can any of you think why that should be the case?”
After a moment of uneasy silence, Chlodomer put up his hand.  “It’s an exercise for us.  If we can’t find the errors, it shows we aren’t as good at wizardry as we think we are.”
The teacher nodded, lips pursed.  No one on the faculty had ever had a soft spot for Chlodomer.  Even though he was no longer the awkward, easily startled young man he had been when first entering the school six years ago, even though he had become one of the best students in the technical wizardry division, he had never gotten the respect from the teachers he probably deserved.
For that matter, many of the older teachers were still reluctant to respect me either: the first girl the school had ever taken.
“It’s more than an exercise for you, though of course it could be that as well,” the teacher answered Chlodomer.
“This isn’t the way magic is supposed to work,” one of the students objected.  “This isn’t the way anything works.”
“Indeed,” said the teacher crisply.  “Since you have such a good idea of how everything works, this book will present no challenge for you,” which caused the student to slump back in his chair.
I was distracted, looking out the classroom window toward the school courtyard.  There, among the fountains and the rainbows, lay a crimson flying carpet, twitching as though eager to be off.  Two men were busily loading parcels onto it: a swarthy, enormously fat eastern mage, and with him the white-bearded Master of the wizards’ school.
I wished they were not going.
The teacher interrupted my thoughts.  “Miss Antonia, you usually are full of theories.  What do you think?”
I dragged my attention back to the room and tried not to appear irritated at his patronizing tone. “You’re keeping the most powerful spells from us.  Or if not from us, from the senior students, then from the more junior students.  You don’t want anyone using this magic unless and until you decide we’re worthy to have the missing parts of the spell revealed.”
Now the teacher looked surprised, even, I thought, a little guilty.  “Well, there may be something in that.  After all, it could be dangerous for some of the younger students to read and try to master a spell for which they were not ready.”
Another one of the students spoke up.  “What happens if we try the spell just as it’s written?  What is the danger, exactly?”  He and another young man bumped elbows and grinned at each other.  “Does something, well, inappropriate happen?  Does a winged gorgos appear?  Does the whole school collapse?”
“Not at all,” the teacher said reprovingly.  “If you tried one of these spells as written, it would have no effect.  Other than,” he added darkly, “perhaps blowing up in your face.  As would happen if a junior student tried to alter the spells unwisely.  These are errors that need to be considered carefully.”

© C. Dale Brittain 2024