The Murder Of Wine-Merchant Christopher And The Hunt For His Killers

Around the year 585, France experienced a severe famine, which the merchant class savagely used to their advantage. A man named Christopher was one such opportunistic trader who scurried to sell food and drink to the parched and starving people of France at a predatory price. He was apparently from a larger merchant family, and with him in France was at least one other brother who was helping to administer the family’s business interests in the Frankish lands. Their buying and selling schemes were aided by the family’s access to a network of ships that could navigate the rivers and seas of Europe. Christopher’s last known mission brought him to the city of Orleans, where he ensured that a shipment of wine was loaded onto boats and sent down river to its destination. Although the wine was being carried by way of the river, Christopher went in a different direction. Instead of hitching a ride on one of the ships, he hopped on a horse and traveled by road in another direction. His path brought him into a forested region, yet his next mission and intentions are unknown, for he was murdered during his journey and all of his effects were stolen.

Before long, Christopher’s body was discovered, and his brother made his way to the vicinity of Orleans to complete the morbid task of overseeing the funeral arrangements. Yet, the brother was likely not prepared for the gruesome nature of the crime. Wounds on the victim’s body told a foul tale—he had been stabbed in the back and mutilated by blows to the head and torso. The number and ferocity of the blows hinted at the murder being a crime of rage and hate instead of a robbery gone wrong.

Christopher’s wealthy family strove to avenge their kinsman’s death. The brother in Orleans gathered a posse to hunt down the killers, and he already had some persons of interest in mind. In Orleans, witnesses had seen Christopher traveling with two servant-slaves of Saxon origin. While the late merchant had been brutal on the prices of his wares for the starving, he was even more savage in his treatment of his slaves. Christopher’s brother knew the two Saxon slaves had been flogged many a time by their late master and that the two had unsuccessfully tried to run away in the past—leading to even more punishment. As the slaves in question had not been found dead, injured, or present at the scene of the crime, they became prime suspects for the murder. As such, Christopher’s brother had his mercenaries and bounty hunters search specifically for the missing slaves.

After the death of Christopher, whether or not the Saxons were involved, the two servant-slaves fled from the scene and split up. One of the two was unluckily caught by the manhunters, but the Saxon did not give up without a fight. In a second escape attempt from his captors, the unlucky slave killed one of the mercenaries and tried to run away. He did not get far, however, and was soon recaptured. Christopher’s brother had apparently, by then, moved to Tours, so the arrested Saxon slave was brought there by the mercenaries for punishment. Christopher’s brother was in a bitter and unforgiving mood, leading him to push for a merciless and brutal sentencing. When the bounty hunters arrived in that city with their prisoner, tales of the grisly events that they were all involved in reached the ear of Tours’ bishop, Gregory (c. 539-594), who was a historian as well as a clergyman. Gregory of Tours recorded the account of Christopher’s murder for posterity and wrote that the captured Saxon slave was “taken by the others to Tours, submitted to various tortures and mutilated: then his corpse was hanged from a gibbet” (History of the Franks, VII.46). As for the surviving Saxon fugitive, he apparently escaped detection and was not seen again.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration of the death of William the red, dated to c. 1864, by James William Edmund Doyle (1822–1892), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.

The Holy Or Mischievous Trap At Saint Vincent's

In 585, the forces of King Guntram of the Franks (r. 561-593) chased down and defeated a pretender (illegal/unrecognized claimant) to the throne named Gundovald. During the pursuit, Guntram’s forces passed by a town called Agen, where a church dedicated to Saint Vincent was located. The doors of this church were locked and barred, as were the other entrances to the holy sanctuary. Despite the barricades, Guntram’s warriors could see all sorts of treasures inside the church, presumably locked inside by locals who hoped the church would disincentivize looting by the roaming armies in the region. Not paying any respect to Saint Vincent’s church, the warriors decided to break into the place at all cost. To do this, they reportedly set fire to the doors, weakening the integrity of the boards and barricades. After letting the fire burn for a time, the looters were able to break into the church, where the treasures were there for the taking.

Unbeknownst to the looters, however, the wealth in the church was protected in some way. Whether by holy power, or by sabotage of the locals or the adventurer Gundovald, the treasure turned out to be a trap. As soon as the warriors touched the would-be loot, chaos broke out in the church of Saint Vincent. Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), holy man and historian, described the bizarre scene that reportedly took place in the church:

“Once the doors were burnt down, the soldiers looted all the property and all the equipment which they found there, and stole the church plate as well. The vengeance which God exacted gave them a severe fright. Many of their hands caught fire supernaturally and gave forth a great smoke, like the pall which rises from a conflagration. Some were possessed by a devil and rushed about screaming the martyr’s name. Others fought with each other and wounded themselves with their own javelins. A vast horde of troops continued to advance but with fear in their hearts” (History of the Franks, VII.35).

Despite the supernatural (or otherwise-devised) plight that this band of looters experienced, the rest of King Guntram’s army continued on their way in pursuit of the disruptive adventurer, Gundovald. They besieged the city of Comminges, where the pretender was staying, and looted (with more success this time) the countryside around the town. As the siege progressed, Gundovald was ultimately betrayed by his followers and, in the end, faced execution.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Lot leaving Sodom, painted by Kerstiaen de Keuninck (circa 1561 –circa 1635), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971

The Dramatic Love Story Of Pappolen And A Bishop’s Niece

Bishop Felix of Nantes led his bishopric from the year 547 to 582, and did an admirable enough job to be recognized as a saint by his countrymen and the church. Praise for Bishop Felix, however, was not unanimous. A contemporary saint, Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), decried Felix of Nantes as a long-winded, greedy and arrogant man. Such negative labels were no doubt influenced by a decades-long personal feud between St. Felix and St. Gregory, and they were known to send each other insulting letters from time to time. Unfortunately for St. Felix, Gregory of Tours wrote The History of the Franks, and between describing the actions of the lords and ladies of the realm, St. Gregory made sure to add some embarrassing stories and descriptions of his ecclesiastical rival. One such tale recounted the dramatic courtship of St. Felix’s niece by a persistent man named Pappolen.

As told by Gregory, Pappolen and St. Felix’s niece (left unfortunately unnamed) were madly in love and engaged to be married. Cruel uncle Felix, however, did not approve of the match and quickly forbade the marriage from going forward. The distraught niece was told never to see Pappolen again, and, as a more definitive move, she was summarily quarantined to a small chapel. In response to this, Pappolen, a man of unknown rank, gathered a militia of his friends and family, then marched to the chapel to rescue his beloved. The rescue mission succeeded, and the reunited couple fled to the church of Saint Albinus in Angers, where they sought sanctuary together.

Unfortunately for Pappolen and the niece, Bishop Felix was determined to separate the couple. The saint plied his influence in church and government to have his niece retrieved from the church of Saint Albinus. With his rebellious kinswoman back in custody, Bishop Felix immediately sent her back into confinement. Learning from the past, the saint decided a private chapel was not secure enough for his lovestruck niece. This time, he had her shipped off to the south and arranged for the niece to be placed in a convent at Bazas. With such distance and security separating the pair, Pappolen and the niece could only continue their relationship by smuggling letters to each other with the help of sympathetic couriers.

Fortune changed for the long-parted couple, however, when Bishop Felix of Nantes was stricken with disease and died in 582. When news of the bishop’s death became known to Pappolen and his detained beloved, their clandestine correspondence soon turned to thoughts of another prison break. Unfortunately, Gregory of Tours did not mention any detail of the escape, so whether Pappolen used stealth or force remains unknown. Yet, the mission, whichever way it was carried out, proved to be a great success. According to Gregory of Tours, “He [Pappolen] organized her escape from the nunnery, and married her. He had the King’s formal approval, so that she was able to disregard the threats of her relations” (The History of The Franks, VI.16). After their long-overdue and royally-backed marriage, Pappolen and the niece, as far as we know, lived happily ever after.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Tristan and Isolde painted by Edmund Leighton (1852–1922), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.
• http://csla.history.ox.ac.uk/record.php?recid=E02187 
• https://www.bartleby.com/210/7/075.html  

The Miraculous Prisoner Rescue Of Saint Eparchius

Saint Eparchius was an influential 6th-century priest from the region of Pèrigueux, France. He eventually moved to Angoulême, where, for a time, he lived as an isolated hermit. Before long, though, other monks gravitated toward the recluse and a cloistered community or monastery formed around the saint’s once-isolated haven. In the end, Eparchius became the abbot of the community of monks, although he reportedly still refused to end his reclusive lifestyle—he ran the monastery and lived his life from the confines of his religious cell.

One of the most prominent characteristics of Saint Eparchius’ life was his stalwart activism against capital punishment. Despite being personally a recluse, Eparchius kept informants out and about to listen for word of upcoming executions. When a scheduled execution came to the saint’s attention, he would promptly send out a monk to beg for a stay of execution. If Eparchius was particularly eager to keep a prisoner off an executioner’s block, the saint would invite local authorities to come and see him at the monastery, so that he could use his own eloquence to sway the law to a less deadly or painful punishment. According to the writings of Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), Saint Eparchius “begged so charmingly that when he asked for leniency they could refuse him nothing” (History of the Franks, VI.8).

Despite Eparchius’ smooth-talking talent and influence with the local authorities, he could not always have his pacifistic way, especially when the public was particularly riled up against a prisoner. Such was the case when a rabble-rouser was arrested in Angoulême. This unidentified prisoner was accused of various horrible crimes, and although Saint Eparchius had his doubts about the man’s guilt, the people of Angoulême were convinced that the detainee was responsible for all sorts of lawless deeds in the region. With their minds set, the public cried with fervor for the government to torture and hang the accused criminal.

Despite the public outcry against the accused, Saint Eparchius sent out his usual monk messengers, asking for the local count to spare the condemned man’s life. The shouts of the masses, however, drowned out the petitions of the reclusive saint. Under pressure from the masses, Angoulême’s count told the monks that there would be too much of a backlash from the city if the prisoner was released, and in fear of this upheaval, the count refused to grant the stay of execution that saint Eparchius had requested. Thus, when the monks returned to their reclusive master, they brought sad news—the prisoner had been “tortured on the rack, beaten with sticks and cudgels, and condemned to be hanged” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, VI.8).

Although Saint Eparchius was not able to spare the prisoner from torture, the reclusive monk was determined to save the man from execution. The account of how Eparchius sought to achieve this goal can be interpreted in various ways. Some could see it as a tale of opportune miracles, while others may consider it an account of a holy man’s masterful intrigues. Whatever the case, in the days before the prisoner’s execution, Saint Eparchius was a busy man, instructing his monks on various tasks that they would need to do on the day of the execution. The aforementioned count, too, may have also been roped into the saint’s ambitious plans.  

On the day of the execution, a loyal monk from the monastery was in attendance for the prisoner’s last moments. The already-tortured wretch was chained and eventually suspended by the neck from a gibbet or gallows for an undefined amount of time. Yet, either due to the powerful prayers of Saint Eparchius, or some connivance from the sympathetic count, or possibly due to sheer luck, the execution turned out to be anything but ordinary. According to Gregory of Tours, whose source reportedly was the count of Angoulême featured in this tale, “the gibbet collapsed, the chains were broken, and the hanged man fell to the ground” (History of the Franks, VI.8). When the prisoner fell, the awaiting monk launched into action and somehow was able to smuggle the fugitive to Saint Eparchius’ monastery. The prisoner’s condition at this point was left vague by Gregory, and few clues were given as to if the man hit the ground dead or alive. In the miracle version of the tale, the saint either kept the prisoner alive during the execution by means of health-sustaining prayers, or perhaps Eparchius resurrected the prisoner once his body was brought back to the monastery. Through the lens of intrigue, however, it could be proposed that the gallows were rigged to fail from the very beginning and that the count and saint worked together to fake the prisoner’s death.

Whether through a miracle or by clandestine action, the condemned prisoner apparently ended up very much alive and under the protection of Saint Eparchius. After the fugitive had been hidden away in the monastery, a monk paid a visit to the count and invited the nobleman to come and speak with Saint Eparchius. In the saintly version of the tale, Eparchius acted like a magician and shocked the count by showing off the resurrected prisoner. Skeptics, however, may interpret the scene as the saint and the count celebrating their successful operation.

Nothing is known of what became of the saved prisoner after he was presented to the count in the monastery of Saint Eparchius. Perhaps, he joined Eparchius and the monks in their religious community, or maybe he was given his freedom. Whatever the case, the accused criminal faded into obscurity after his escape from the gallows. Curiously, this was only one of many times Eparchius successfully saved condemned prisoners from punishment. When the saint eventually died around the year 581, these many freed people flocked to the street in a show of respect to their fallen hero. Gregory of Tours claimed, “A great crowd of people whom he had freed from the clutches of the law, as I have told you, walked in his funeral procession” (History of the Franks, VI.8).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (clash between monks and warriors, depicted by    James William Edmund Doyle (1822–1892), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.

The Brawl Of Noblemen Over Adultery, In The Tomb Of Saint Denis

According to the writings of Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), a dramatic family feud broke out between two noble Parisian families in the final years of the reign of King Chilperic of the Franks (r. 561-584). As with a great many conflicts, the feud began because of love, or, in this case, a lack thereof. The two families (which Gregory never named) had been linked together through ties of marriage, with a son of one powerful family marrying a daughter from the other noble line. The politically-arranged marriage, however, was a complete failure, and it did little to unite the two rival families, much less the impassionate bride and groom. Ultimately, the unhappy wife ran away, bringing the two families to the brink of war.

The husband’s family, out for revenge, accused the runaway bride of adultery and obtained several witnesses to back their claim. They confronted the wife’s father, who was harboring her or knew where she was hiding, and demanded that he hand his daughter over for execution. The wife’s father, to his credit, refused to surrender his daughter and decried the charges as malicious lies. He rallied his kinsmen to his side, forming a united front against the husband’s family.

Although the father of the runaway bride had protected his daughter from the clutches of her husband’s family, the concerned dad still needed to clear her name of the scandalous accusations. As a God-fearing, miracle-believing, 6th-century Christian, the father decided the most definitive way to vindicate his daughter was to swear to her innocence at an altar in the tomb of Saint Denis, with the implication being that God would smite him in some way if the oath was false. The husband’s family, also God-fearing Franks, agreed to the let the bride’s father testify to his daughter’s innocence before the altar of the saint. With the agreement made, the two sides appeared at the tomb in force, both well-armed and determined to win the dispute.

Both factions crowded into the tomb of Saint Denis as the father prepared to say his oath. In a dramatic display, the protective parent strode up to the altar, struck an impressive pose by raising his arms up toward the heavens, and boldly proclaimed before the attending masses that his daughter was innocent of the charges brought against her. To the father’s relief, he was not struck by lightning, nor stricken by blindness or made mute in the aftermath of his proclamation. Instead, nothing at all happened, giving the impression that God had fact-checked the statement and found it to be correct. Nevertheless, the husband’s stubborn family was determined to have their way.

When the oath at the tomb was completed, the husband’s supporters quickly accused the father of the bride with the crime of perjuring himself before Saint Denis and God. The bride’s family was infuriated by these new allegations and tempers flared on both sides. Before long, the armed factions began shouting and shoving and, finally, they drew their weapons to fight, then and there, in the tomb. Gregory of Tours vividly described the bizarre and chaotic skirmish:

“An argument ensued, in which they all drew their swords, rushed at each other and started killing each other in front of the altar. These men were of noble birth and among the leaders of Chilperic’s court. Many received sword-wounds, the holy church was spattered with human blood, the portals were pierced with swords and javelins, and weapons were drawn in senseless anger at the very tomb of Saint Denis” (History of the Franks, V.30).

No casualty count was recorded for the tomb-side brawl, but it must not have been too bad, for nobody involved faced serious punishment. King Chilperic imposed fines and threatened excommunication on the fighters, but as soon as the fines were paid, the excommunications were lifted. Unfortunately, the king decided to hold an official inquiry into the accusations of adultery that had been brought forward by the husband’s family. Faced with a trial, the runaway wife reportedly hanged herself.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.

The Dancing Plague Of Strasbourg

Both before and after the Renaissance, cities and towns in Europe were reportedly hit by epidemics of dance. Before you envision the scenes as something like a charming Broadway musical, know that the people affected by these odd epidemics truly believed themselves to be unwillingly forced to dance either by a supernatural curse or by some other strange disease. Of the areas affected by the peculiar dancing plagues, the city of Strasbourg suffered one of the worst cases and, thankfully for us, the bizarre event was well-documented and discussed by the historians and scholars of the time.

In July, 1518, the dancing plague of Strasbourg began when a certain Frau Troffea took to the street and spent the whole day in dance. She rested for only a few hours of sleep before continuing her dancing for another long day. She reportedly kept up this relentless schedule until her feet bled and she collapsed from exhaustion—and even then, she picked herself up and continued her dancing. Before long, other citizens of Strasbourg felt irresistibly drawn to the dance and they joined Frau Troffea in her daily routine. By August, there were reportedly no less than 400 people engaged in an endless dance on the streets of the city.

With hundreds of people dancing well past their physical limits, the leaders of Strasbourg knew their city was facing a major problem. At first, they thought that the epidemic could be brought to a quick conclusion by encouraging and supporting the dancers, hoping those affected would simply dance whatever was ailing them out of their systems. With this in mind, the officials of Strasbourg had a stage built, hired dance instructors, and even recruited musicians, turning the dancing plague into something like a music festival. Yet, as September neared and no end to the dancing was in sight, the leaders of Strasbourg began interpreting the dance in new ways. Some, through the ancient medical idea of bodily humors, believed that too much hot blood was the cause of the hysterical dancing. Others, inspired by the witch-crazed atmosphere of the Colonial Age, believed the dancing was the work of the Devil. Both sides, however, apparently agreed that the best way for the dancers to cool off their blood or rid themselves of demons was for the affected people to be forcibly sent off to a mountain shrine in order for them to pray for healing.

Either through prayer, or simply from the government crackdown on the dancers, the epidemic ended around September and the city finally returned to normalcy. The dancing fever, however, had by then taken a heavy toll. No formal death count was apparently recorded, but while the dancing plague was in full swing, several of the dancers were said to have dropped dead on a daily basis from over-exhaustion, heart failure or strokes.

Now that the understanding of medicine and psychology has progressed, several theories have been proposed to explain the bizarre dancing plague of Strasbourg. One of the early hypotheses was ergot poisoning. Ergot fungus, which can grow on cereals such as rye, can cause hallucinations and spasms when ingested. Yet, as the dancers showed no signs of bodily sickness or poisoning, this theory has been disregarded by many. One of the newest interpretations of the event is that the dancing plague was a case of mass-hysteria, or a psychogenic disorder, caused by an unhealthy atmosphere of stress and fear. The psychological pressures of famine, disease, and possibly the legend of St. Vitus (a saint who was said to miraculously make people dance), might have combined to produce the Dancing Plague of 1518.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Danse de noce, painted by Pieter Breughel the Younger (1564–1638), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• https://www.history.com/news/what-was-the-dancing-plague-of-1518
• https://www.britannica.com/event/dancing-plague-of-1518 
• https://listverse.com/2016/11/07/10-twisted-facts-about-the-dancing-plagues/ 
• https://www.pastmedicalhistory.co.uk/the-dancing-plague-of-1518/ 
• http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20161028-the-town-the-nearly-danced-itself-to-death  

The Horror Stories Of Duke Rauching And The Sad Tale Of His Runaway Servants

Duke Rauching was a leading Frankish nobleman of the 6th century who lived and died by the courtly intrigue of the Merovingian era. He was reportedly the type of noble who would thwart an assassination attempt against a king, only to organize his own plot against that very same king at a later point—something he unsuccessfully attempted to do with King Childebert II (r. 575-595). Yet, Duke Rauching was a man of his time, and, although he was no saint, many of the other nobles and kings of his day were equally as bloodstained. Nevertheless, the duke had the misfortune of leaving an extremely bad impression on Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), whose History of the Franks is the main source for 6th-century Frankish history. Gregory of Tours painted Duke Rauching as a villain among villains, and if Gregory’s reports were not exaggerated, then the duke must have been a vindictive, sadistic killer. Yet, as with Emperor Caligula, it is difficult to distinguish the difference between truth, exaggeration, and falsehood when it comes to Duke Rauching.

Gregory of Tours introduced Duke Rauching into his historical narrative as he described events around 575—a year when King Sigebert was assassinated during a civil war against his brother, King Chilperic, and a rebel army marched on Chilperic’s capital, Soissons. The rebellion was crushed and the rebel leader mysteriously died. Duke Rauching’s first recorded act in Gregory’s History was to marry the rebel’s widow.

After bringing Duke Rauching into the scope of the history, Gregory of Tours digressed into several tales about the duke’s abnormal sadistic depravity. According to Gregory, “his savage brutality went far beyond the bonds of human cruelty and folly” (History of the Franks, Book V, section 3). The list of horrible rumors descends further and further into barbarism as Gregory of Tours progresses with his story. First, Duke Rauching was accused of the stereotypical nobleman’s fault of treating his servants as if they were less than human. The next rumor, however, was dramatically more horrific. Gregory wrote, “Whenever, as the custom is, a serf stood before him with a lighted candle as he ate his meal, Rauching would make him bare his shins and grasp the candle between them until it burned out; and when a new candle was lighted, Rauching would repeat the trick, until the serf’s legs were completely scorched” (HF, 5.3). To emphasize the point that the duke was completely insane, Gregory added the line, “Rauching would be convulsed with merriment to watch the man weep” (HF, 5.3). The next tale presented by Gregory featured two servants who ran away from Duke Rauching. Like the serfs with the candles, the runaways would not be shown any mercy by the duke.

As the story goes, a charming tale of romantic love played out on Duke Rauching’s estate—one of the duke’s servants fell in love with one of the duke’s maids. The two lovebirds enjoyed their secret affair on the duke’s estate for over two years, at which point the couple decided to bring their relationship to the next level. They ran away from Duke Rauching and fled to a local church, where they were married by an understanding priest. In addition to performing the ceremony, the priest also gave the couple a place where they could live in secrecy and peace.

Duke Rauching, however, quickly discovered that two of his servants were missing, and he followed their trail to the local church. The duke must have also known that the priest was hiding the couple, for he demanded that they be retrieved. Yet, Rauching also tried to calm the clergyman by saying that he forgave the love-stricken pair and simply wanted them to return to his estate—no punishment, no burning of shins with candles. The priest, however, was not completely convinced and wanted the duke to swear before God that the newlyweds would not be separated. According to Gregory of Tours, Duke Rauching responded with the carefully crafted words, “I will never separate them. On the contrary I will make only too sure that they remain closely united” (HF, 5.3).

The duke’s slippery speech unfortunately fooled the priest. When the clergyman subsequently visited the newlyweds and delivered to them the duke’s words, they too were won over by the promise and agreed to return to the duke’s estate. With normalcy resumed, the priest in his church, and the newlyweds on the road, all were oblivious of what the future had in store—yet Duke Rauching (according to Gregory) had been planning his revenge ever since he formulated his loophole-riddled vow to God.

When the runaway lovers arrived at the duke’s estate, Rauching had them detained or distracted while he prepared their elaborate punishment. Gregory of Tours described the preparation and execution of the duke’s horrific plan in great detail:

“He [Rauching] immediately ordered his men to cut down a tree and then had a portion of the trunk split by wedges and hollowed out. Then he had a hole dug three or four feet deep in the earth and the hollowed-out tree trunk placed in it. He put the girl inside, as if she were already a corpse, had the young man thrown on top of her, fixed a lid over them and filed the grave with earth, burying them both alive” (HF, 5.3).

After a while, news of the duke’s latest villainous deed became the talk of the town and the hoodwinked priest finally learned the fate of the newlyweds. The brave clergyman reportedly sprinted to the estate of the duke, where he “upbraided Rauching bitterly” (HF, 5.3). After an epic bout of moral and theological debate, the priest convinced the duke to exhume the hollowed-out log. Nevertheless, the priest had not been quick enough. The male servant was pulled out of the grave alive, but his bride, on whom he had been tossed, was beyond help and already succumbed to suffocation.

Written by C. Keith Hansley.

Picture Attribution: (Scene of French noblemen and clergy from page 80 of “The Story History of France” (1919), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The History of the Franks by Gregory of Tours, translated by Lewis Thorpe. New York: Penguin Classics, 1971.