The Odd Signature Stencil Stamp Of Emperor Justin I

Emperor Justin I of Constantinople had quite a rags-to-riches story. He was born into a peasant family around the year 450, but eventually left the life of a commoner behind to join the military. Upon enrollment, Justin was said to have had with him nothing but some bread and the clothes on his back. His fortunes would skyrocket, however, once he started down the path of the warrior; Justin became a member of the palace guard for Emperor Anastasius (r. 491-518) and ultimately became the commander of that force. When Anastasius died without a clear heir in 518, the unlikely Justin became a top contender for the throne. How exactly he cinched his claim to the throne is debated—some say he touted his respected status in the military, while others suggest he used of well-placed bribes—yet, whatever the case, Justin did indeed win the backing of the military and government officials, allowing him to become the next emperor of Constantinople.

Although Emperor Justin I (r. 518-527) had ample military experience, matters of war and national defense were not the only duties of an emperor. He was also expected to oversee the empire’s internal laws and external diplomacy. In these other aspects of government, the new emperor was less well-equipped. Whereas the elite families of Constantinople were educated in such matters and trained in proper calligraphy for legal and diplomatic documents, Emperor Justin did not have that upbringing. Instead, when Justin ascended to the throne, he was said to have been a poor writer, and the words he could write were not aesthetically pleasing. This was a problem, as the emperor was expected to write out a sign of approval on official government decrees and documents.

So as to not embarrass the emperor or the empire, Justin’s officials reportedly developed a way for their uneducated emperor to easily write a perfect signature. According to the historian Procopius (c. 490-565), a high official named Proculus took a small piece of wood and carved in it a regal-looking stencil of the word, “LEGI,” which meant “I HAVE READ.” With this stencil, Emperor Justin I needed only move his pen along the grooves of the wood to create a perfect, professional-looking stamp for state documents. Whether or not he always needed to use the stencil, or if he learned to sign without it is unknown, but it was reportedly brought back into frequent use when Emperor Justin I became too old and ill to function. Procopius unflatteringly described how the emperor’s nephew, Justinian (r. 527-565), and other government officials would help Justin use the stencil when he was too old to write on his own:

“Then they used to dip a pen in the special ink reserved for emperors and place it in the hands of Emperor Justin. Next they took the strip of wood I have described and laid it on the document, grasped the Emperor’s hand and, while he held the pen, guided it along the pattern of the four letters, taking it round all the bends cut in the wooden stencil. Then they went, carrying the Emperor’s writing, such as it was” (Procopius, The Secret History, chapter 6, section 15-16).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Blanche of Castile and King Louis IX of France, dated to 1220-1230, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Secret History by Procopius, translated by G. A. Williamson and Peter Sarris. New York: Penguin Classics, 1966, 2007.
• http://penelope.uchicago.edu/Thayer/E/Roman/Texts/Procopius/Anecdota/6*.html 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Justin-I  

The Wrath of Hardecanute Against The City Of Worcester

In 1040, King Harold Harefoot of England died, and the English throne passed to his estranged half-brother, King Hardecanute of Denmark. There was no love lost between Hardecanute and his late half-brother. Hardecanute thought he, himself, should have been king of England from the beginning, and Harold Harefoot’s successful ascendance to the throne was deemed unforgivable by the new king. Hardecanute was such a wrathful and vindictive man that when he finally inherited England in 1040, one of his first actions was to dig up his half-brother’s body and unceremoniously throw it into a sewer, river or wetland. This king—impulsive, unforgiving, grave-exhuming Hardecanute—is the monarch from which the city of Worcester decided to withhold their taxes in 1041. Even worse, the city announced its taxation rebellion by killing two tax collectors who had come with Hardecanute from Denmark.

The monk and chronicler, Florence of Worcester (d. 1118), described this event in great detail, no doubt benefiting from his personal connection to the city. According to Florence, two Danish tax collectors, whom he named Feader and Thurstan, arrived in Worcester to collect taxes and tribute for King Hardecanute. As the story goes, on May 4, 1041, the Danes were lured into a tower of the local abbey, where they were ambushed and killed by a group of citizens who did not want to pay taxes to Hardecanute.

It did not take long for King Hardecanute to discover that two of his Danish comrades had been killed, and that the city of Worcester was responsible. The king quickly called on all the earls of England to mobilize their troops for a great punitive campaign against the audacious tax-evading city. Florence of Worcester described the scale of mobilization for the mission and the drastic orders that were given to the army:

“This [slaying of the tax collectors] so incensed the king , that to avenge their deaths he sent Thorold, earl of Middlesex, Leofric, earl of Mercia, Godwin, earl of Wessex, Siward, earl of Northumbria, Roni, earl of Hereford, and all the other English earls, with almost all his huscarls, and a large body of troops, to Worcester…with orders to put to death all the inhabitants they could find, to plunder and burn the city, and lay waste the whole province” (Chronicle of Florence of Worcester, AD 1041).

Hardecanute’s punitive army was on the march by November, 1041, but the city of Worcester was fortunate enough to receive prior warning of the incoming force. Thankfully, by the time the army reached Worcester on November 12, 1041, a great majority of the city’s population had been evacuated. Yet, as with natural disasters, there are always a few who try to ride out the storm.

Those who did flee the city limits spread out in multiple directions, but a huge portion of these refugees apparently grabbed weapons, boarded boats, and sailed out into the River Severn. They reportedly anchored at a small island in the river and set up camp there while Hardecanute’s army occupied the city of Worcester. The king’s troops reportedly pillaged the city for four days and, according to Florence of Worcester, they even set it on fire. While this rampage was ongoing, the marauding army discovered the island of refugees in the Severn. Yet, the army was content to quarantine the armed refugees to that island while Worcester was ravaged. Hardecanute’s army reportedly withdrew on the fifth day of the occupation, allowing the refugees from the island and elsewhere to return to their pillaged and burned city.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Siege of Jerusalem from BL Royal 1 E IX, f. 222 (c. 1400-1425, [Public Domain] via picryl.com and Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester translated by Thomas Forester. London: Petter and Galpin, originally published 1854. 
• The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle translated by Benjamin Thorpe in 1861 and republished by Cambridge University Press, 2012. 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Harold-I 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Hardecanute

The Horrific 6th-Century Story Of Two Brothers Who Were Murdered During A Wedding Celebration

Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594) wrote the History of the Franks, an account of the rise of Frankish power in Europe, tracing its ascendance from the dying days of the Western Roman Empire to Gregory’s own time in the 6th century. Although the scope of Gregory’s text mainly rests on the lives of the infighting Merovingian monarchs of the Frankish Empire, the historian often digressed into tales about other subjects. As Gregory was the bishop of Tours, many such tales were religious in nature, featuring saints or saintly people. Yet, Gregory also had an eye for heroism and tragedy. If the gossip grapevine brought a particularly impressive noble deed or a dastardly crime to the ear of Gregory of Tours, he would find a way to file an account of the event into his text.

One especially heinous event reportedly occurred in Gregory’s own bishopric, in Tours, sometime during the last decades of the 6th century. As the story goes, a resident of Tours named Lupus lived an exceedingly sorrowful life—he had lost his wife and all of his children, perhaps to a deadly epidemic that struck the region in 580. After losing everything dear to him, Lupus began to increasingly feel a calling to abandon the material world and join a monastery.

Although Lupus’ wife and children had died, one of his brothers was still alive. The sibling’s name was Ambrosius, and although he cared deeply for Lupus, he greatly disagreed with his brother’s plans to become a monk. In Ambrosius’ mind, the best way for Lupus to move on in life and to find happiness was for him to remarry. Therefore, Ambrosius delayed Lupus from donating his property to the church or from joining a monastery, while also diligently scouring the country in search of a match for his brother.

Ambrosius’ matchmaking was a success, and he was able to find a potential wife for his brother before Lupus made his vow of celibacy. The couple got along quite well and around 582—two years after the deadly epidemic—Lupus decided to marry this new woman. As a show of thanks to his brother, Lupus went to visit Ambrosius, so that they could celebrate the marriage and exchange wedding presents. Yet, instead of a time of celebration, Lupus’ stay with Ambrosius turned into a scene of horror.

The matchmaker Ambrosius, ironically enough, was himself not in a happy marriage. His wife, according to Gregory of Tours, had long been having an extramarital affair with a devoted lover, to whom she vented all of the many reasons why she hated her husband.  Unfortunately for poor ill-fated Lupus, he arrived on his brother’s property the very day that Ambrosius’ wife decided to lash out against her husband.

During the wedding celebration for Lupus, Ambrosius’ wife did a zealous job keeping the brothers’ cups filled with drinks. Ambrosius and Lupus partied late into the night, both eventually collapsing from exhaustion and inebriation. Ambrosius’ angry wife, at this point, reportedly let into the home her clandestine lover, who was armed with a sword. As the wife watched on, the man with the sword tip-toed to where the brothers were asleep. With one strong chop, the man reportedly drove his sword into Ambrosius’ head, killing him instantly. The wife and her lover may have been trying to frame Lupus for the murder, but the blow of the sword caused such a loud impact that it awoke the unlucky brother. Lupus was still in a daze from his partying, and it took him no small amount of time to survey the scene of carnage and understand what the grisly sight meant.

The murderer and the now happily-widowed wife of Ambrosius had left the scene of the crime immediately after the murder. While Lupus, with his muddled mind, slowly began to piece together what had happened, the murderous lovers silently shuffled for the door. Nevertheless, before the killers could exit the home, Lupus—always the unlucky one—recovered from his shock and confusion and began screaming bloody murder. The shouting frightened the murderers, prompting the armed killer to rush back into the room, where he hacked at Lupus with his sword until the man stopped shouting and fell into unconsciousness. With the witness silenced, the widow and her lover fled from the city of Tours.

Although the murderers escaped, Lupus’ screams reportedly caught the attention of neighbors, causing concerned citizens to eventually wandered over to the home to investigate. There, they found the blood-spattered room where Ambrosius and Lupus had been partying. Ambrosius had instantly died from his head wound, but Lupus, sliced and stabbed an untold amount of times, miraculously was still alive by the time neighbors arrived. Lupus’ wounds, however, were fatal. After giving a statement of what had happened on that horrific night, he quickly died. Tragically, in an age without photographs, video surveillance or electronic tracking, the widow and her murderous lover apparently escaped capture and were never brought to justice.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (The Assassination painted by Charles Landseer (1799–1879), [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 Back-And-Forth Heists For Saint Olaf’s Cargo

Around 1015, Saint Olaf (King Olaf II Haraldsson) ended his career as a Viking and mercenary to proclaim himself ruler of Norway. His ascension ended fifteen years of foreign domination in Norway, as prior to Olaf’s appearance, the Norwegian jarls had been paying tribute to Denmark and Sweden. Therefore, Saint Olaf spent his inaugural year forcing the Norwegian jarls into submission or exile, and systematically rooted out foreign tax collectors from his lands. Yet, even after asserting Norway’s independence and gaining the title of king, Saint Olaf ‘s court was missing some final touches. It had been around fifteen years since Norway had last been ruled by its own king, and Olaf found the realm inadequately supplied with regal robes, rare pelts, fine tablecloths, and other such items that any self-respecting monarch might need. In order to obtain these goods, Saint Olaf was said to have partnered with a merchant by the name of Guthleik Gerzki, a prominent trader who knew his way around the Baltic Sea markets.

After forming a contract with Saint Olaf, Guthleik Gerzki set sail around 1016 to procure all the regalia and adornments that the Norwegian monarch desired. His first stop was the island of Gotland, but the merchant soon continued on his way, traveling across the sea and going inland to the trade hub of Holmgard, which is now called Novgorod. There, Guthleik Gerzki was able to find everything on his shopping list, so he began his return trip to Norway on a ship laden with robes, cloth and fur intended for Saint Olaf’s court.

Unfortunately for Guthleik Gerzki, he was living in the Viking Age, and the Baltic Sea was no less dangerous than the English Channel in regards to pirate raids. Furthermore, as Saint Olaf’s ascendance had annoyed the Danish and Swedish monarchs, Vikings were further incentivized to attack Norwegian ships, as they might be rewarded by their kings for damaging Saint Olaf’s interests. With this in mind, a certain Thorgaut Skardi, a Swede of uncertain rank, learned of Saint Olaf’s partnership with the merchant, and when he gathered this information, Thorgaut was determined not to let Guthleik Gerzki return to Norway. Through gossip and spies, Thorgaut was able to track down the merchant and intercepted him in the waters off the mainland of Sweden, presumably near the island of Öland. Guthleik was caught completely off guard by the attack, and he and his crew were quickly overpowered. Without much difficulty, Thorgaut slew Guthleik and stole the expensive cargo that was meant for Saint Olaf. After obtaining this loot, Thorgaut sailed back to Sweden, intending to give the best items of the haul to the Swedish king.

News of Guthleik Gerzki’s death, and the seizure of Saint Olaf’s goods, spread with incredible speed to Norway. The theft particularly infuriated a man named Eyvind Urarhorn, an able supporter of Saint Olaf who had a history of hunting down foreign tax collectors in Norway. As he was skilled at tracking foreign agents, Eyvind took it upon himself to recover his monarch’s stolen cargo. On his own initiative, he was said to have sailed to the island of Öland and there began tracking his prey along the coast of Sweden. As the story goes, Eyvind Urarhorn succeeded in intercepting Thorgaut Skardi before the pirate could reach the Swedish king. Eyvind reportedly killed Thorgaut, reclaimed the stolen cargo for Norway, and brought the merchandise back to Saint Olaf by the fall of 1017, finally uniting the king with his long-delayed royal robes, tablecloths and furs.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Norwegians landing in Iceland, painted by Oscar Wergeland (1844–1910), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.

Hernán Cortés’ Awkward Hug

On November 8, 1519, Hernán Cortés entered the Aztec capital, Tenochtitlan, a populous and bustling city, dominated by broad causeways and canoe-filled canals. The Aztec ruler, Montezuma II, managed his domain from the city, and various chieftains of the Aztec Empire gravitated there to attend the emperor’s court. As such, Tenochtitlan was a place of fashion, pageantry and courtly etiquette. Observing this political environment, Cortés wrote that the people of Tenochtitlan were “marked by as great an attention to the proprieties of life as in Spain, and good order is equally well observed” (Cortés’ Second Letter to Charles V).

Upon Cortés’ entry into the city, Montezuma II and his large entourage came out to greet the Spaniards. The Aztec emperor was carried to the spot on an ornate litter. When the litter came to a halt, a mobile canopy (decorated with feathers and precious metals) was prepared to shade Montezuma as he trekked on foot.  In addition to the elegant canopy, Montezuma’s every sandaled step was preempted by a cloak being ceremoniously laid before his path, so that the Aztec emperor’s footwear would not be dirtied by the earth.

As Cortés watched this pageantry, he must have known there would be—as with most monarchs—unspoken rules about how to act (or not act) when meeting with Montezuma. Unsurprisingly, these rules were still quite vague to Cortés and his fellow Spaniards when they had their first in-person meeting with Montezuma on November 8, 1519. Consequently, Hernán Cortés had a bit of a bumbling start in his navigation of Aztec pleasantries. Fortunately for him, Montezuma was apparently in a patient and forgiving mood, willing to overlook, or subtly correct, Cortés’ breaches of etiquette.

Hernán Cortés began with a safe bet—a deep and respectful bow. Montezuma approved this opener, and returned the bow in one way or another. Through interpreters, the two then exchanged greetings and wished each other good health. Next, Cortés reportedly made a slight misstep (or a bit of political gamesmanship) by taking the initiative to extend his hand to Montezuma. The Aztec emperor corrected the ceremony by waving off Cortés’ hand and then, more in keeping with propriety, held out his own hand for the Spaniard. Cortés soon presented a gift to Montezuma. It was a necklace of multi-colored elaborate beads, strung on a perfumed gold chain. The Aztec emperor graciously accepted the gift, and even let Cortés do the honor of placing the jewelry around the emperor’s royal neck.

Hernán Cortés succeeded in placing the necklace on Montezuma’s shoulders without causing any offense. Yet, right after bestowing this gift on the emperor, Cortés apparently tried to pull Montezuma into some kind of embrace. This move was too shocking a divergence from protocol for Montezuma’s relatives and guards to let occur, so they immediately sprang into action to save their liege from a perceived disgrace or embarrassment by blocking the Spaniard’s path and grasping hold of Cortés’ arms. With the hug thwarted, the ceremony returned to surer footing. The two leaders exchanged complimentary speeches, and, finally, Montezuma had the Spaniards shown to their lodgings.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Scene of Hernan Cortes and the Emperor of Mexico, painted by Carlos Esquivel y Rivas (1830–1867), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Conquest of New Spain by Bernal Díaz, translated by J. M. Cohen. New York: Penguin Books, 1963.
• https://sourcebooks.fordham.edu/mod/1520cortes.asp 
• http://www.bbc.co.uk/history/historic_figures/cortes_hernan.shtml 
• https://www.history.com/topics/exploration/hernan-cortes 
•   https://www.britannica.com/biography/Hernan-Cortes 
• https://www.biography.com/explorer/hernan-cortes

The Peculiar 12th-Century Tale Of A Subterranean People Living Under The Mountains Of Northern Russia

The Russian Primary Chronicle, alternatively known as the Tale of Bygone Years, was revised around the year 1118 under the direction of Prince Mstislav, who eventually became Grand Prince Mstislav I Vladimirovich of Kiev (r. 1125-1132). In the revision was a peculiar tale, sourced by the text to a certain 12th-century man by the name of Giuriata Rogovich of Novgorod. This Giuriata, it was said, sent a servant or slave to a mountainous region (left unspecified) on the northern coast of Russia. While traveling through this area, Giuriata’s unnamed agent began taking notes on tales told to him by the local populations. He had the good fortune to run into a trader from the folklore-rich Yūrã people (also called Iughra and Yughra), who had long hunted and fished in the arctic and subarctic regions of Russia. From the Yūrā merchant, Giuriata’s servant or slave heard a bizarre tale about a community of subterranean beings who lived in the seaside mountains of the north.

As the story goes, the Yūrā hunters and fishermen suddenly began hearing odd noises from the coastal mountains of northern Russia around the beginning of the 12th century. The noises apparently were eerily similar to the sounds of digging and talking, yet the Yūrā could not understand the language coming from the underground. While exploring the odd mountain, the hunters and fishermen were said to have found a small, inaccessible tunnel into the slope. Although the passage was too little to allow humans to squeeze through, it was wide enough for tools to be prodded inside. According to folklore, the mysterious creatures of the mountain one day appeared at the tunnel, and, using hand signals, began to communicate with the Yūrā. Before long, the hunters and fishermen began trading with the mountain beings. Ironically, although the mountain creatures lived underground, they apparently were in much need of metal tools, and were said to have eagerly exchanged furs for any metallic objects brought by the Yūrā. Supposedly quoting the Yūrā trader directly, the Russian Primary Chronicle had this to say about the odd mountain beings:

“There are certain mountains which slope down to an arm of the sea, and their height reaches to the heavens. Within these mountains are heard great cries and the sound of voices; those within are cutting their way out. In that mountain a small opening has been pierced through which they converse, but their language is unintelligible.  They point, however, at iron objects, and make gestures as if to ask for them. If given a knife or an axe, they supply furs in return” (Russian Primary Chronicle, trans. Cross and Sherbowitz-Wetzor, pg. 184).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Illustration of a troll by John Bauer (1882–1918), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Russian Primary Chronicle (Laurentian Text), translated by Samuel Hazzard Cross and Olgerd P. Sherbowitz-Wetzor. Cambridge, Medieval Academy of America and Crimson Printing, 1953.
• https://archive.org/details/TheRussianPrimaryChronicle/page/n193 
• https://www.britannica.com/topic/Rurik-dynasty 
• https://www.britannica.com/topic/The-Russian-Primary-Chronicle 
• http://expositions.nlr.ru/LaurentianCodex/eng/manuscript4.html  

Saint Olaf And The Assassination Of Eilif The Gaut

Saint Olaf (King Olaf II Haraldsson of Norway) was not a typical saint. Before becoming a supporter and spreader of Christianity, he was also a Viking and a conqueror who, around 1015, proclaimed himself king of an independent Norway. In the fifteen years prior to Saint Olaf’s bid for power, Norway had been divvied up between jarls who paid homage either to Sweden or Denmark. Saint Olaf, the battle-hardened and experienced Viking, beat these jarls into submission or exile, and toured his newly won kingdom, from region to region, forcing out foreign tax collectors and making sure all sections of Norway knew that they had a new king. Many regions submitted willingly to Olaf’s dominion, some needed coercion, while others wanted help ridding themselves of Swedish or Danish agents before they could openly join Saint Olaf’s cause. Of that latter category was a community in the southeast borderlands of Norway. This group, according to the Icelandic historian Snorri Sturluson (c. 1179-1241), lived in a location called Ranríki, which was at the time dominated by a Swedish nobleman by the name of Eilíf the Gaut. Saint Olaf, in order to gain the support of Ranríki, would embark on a formidable campaign of espionage, infiltration, and finally assassination.

When Saint Olaf arrived in the vicinity of Ranríki, he apparently found the inhabitants of the region split between those who wanted to remain under Swedish influence and those who wished to join Olaf. There was reportedly enough sympathy for Sweden in the region, or at least fear of the Swedish nobleman Eilíf the Gaut, that the local faction in favor of Norwegian independence was hesitant to voice open support for Saint Olaf. A region with such a split in allegiance could have been a problem for Saint Olaf if he had wandered blindly into that political quagmire. Fortunately for him, he had an effective system of spies and informants. Using those subtle assets, Saint Olaf was able to discover and contact Brynjólf “the Camel,” a leadership figure among the locals who were in favor of separating from Swedish influence. Eilíf the Gaut, in contrast, apparently did not know that Brynjólf supported Norwegian independence, much less that the man had made contact with Saint Olaf.

The secret of Brynjólf the Camel’s pro-independence sympathies was pivotal to Saint Olaf’s mission in Ranríki. Saint Olaf reportedly sent with Brynjólf twelve special warriors, who were led by a certain Thórir the Long. These warriors were said to have disguised themselves as farmers and, when Eilíf the Gaut began rallying his supporters in response to Saint Olaf’s arrival in the region, Brynjólf and the disguised agents infiltrated the pro-Swedish militia. As Brynjólf the Camel and Thórir the Long were both capable men, Eilíf the Gaut brought them into his inner circle and allowed them close access to his person. At this point, Saint Olaf’s agents could have assassinated poor, unsuspecting Eilíf at any opportune time. Yet, Saint Olaf apparently wanted the final, decisive blow to occur in a public and showy event.

As the story goes, Brynjólf the Camel and Thórir the Long were able to convince Eilíf to meet with Saint Olaf near a cliff for peace talks. Saint Olaf reportedly took up position atop the defensible cliff, while Eilíf the Gaut arrived with his militia of farmers, as well as a smaller loyal band of warriors from Sweden, and set up on the beach below the steep slope. Although the cliffside separated the two forces, both camps were within speaking (or shouting) distance, allowing for negotiations to occur. Saint Olaf, or his marshal, opened up the talks by delivering a speech, saying the typical things that would be expected if they were truly there to seek peace. When the speech was over, Eilíf the Gaut readied himself to deliver his own speech.

Unfortunately, Eilíf reportedly did not get a chance to utter a single line. According to Snorri Sturluson, “Eilíf arose and started to speak. In the same instant Thórir the Long stood up, drew his sword, and struck Eilíf on the neck so that his head flew off” (Heimskringla, Saint Olaf’s Saga, chapter 61). When Eilíf the Gaut was assassinated, Brynjólf the Camel and his pro-independence comrades showed their allegiance, attacking the Swedish warriors who had accompanied Eilíf to the meeting. Before long, the startled band off Swedes fled, leaving behind a shocked militia of Sweden-sympathetic farmers to the mercy of Saint Olaf and Brynjólf the Camel. As the story goes, Saint Olaf calmed the confused masses and convinced them to submit to him without any further bloodshed.

Brynjólf’s role in the successful operation in Ranríki did not go unnoticed by Saint Olaf. The saint-king reportedly gave the man a gold-inlaid sword as a gift, as well as a large manorial estate called Vettaland. The two reportedly remained life-long friends.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Saga of Olaf illustration, by Christian Krohg (1852–1925). [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Heimskringla, by Snorri Sturluson and translated by Lee Hollander. Austin: University of Texas Press, 1964, 2018.
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Olaf-II-Haraldsson  

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  

Bishop Edmund Of Lindisfarne Won His Bishopric With A Joke

The bishopric of Lindisfarne was one of the most beleaguered of the ecclesiastical seats of power in medieval England. It was directly pillaged by Vikings in 793 and 875—even worse, Lindisfarne and the Kingdom of Northumbria were conquered by the so-called Great Heathen Army of Vikings in 867. When, by 876, it became apparent to the clergy of Lindisfarne that the Vikings in Northumbria were not going anywhere anytime soon, they made the ambitious decision to relocate their bishopric to a safer location in the south. Packing up their most holy relic, the body of St. Cuthbert, the priests of Lindisfarne set off to find their new home. For the remainder of the 9th century and most of the 10th century, they favored Chester-le-Street. Yet, in 995, the long-wandering bishopric finally reestablished itself at Durham.

Bishop Aldhun was credited with moving the bishopric from Chester-le-Street to Durham. Given the recent relocation and the general chaos for the bishopric over the last centuries, it is little wonder that the bishopric in Durham fell into some confusion after the death of Bishop Aldhun around 1018. As the story goes, the clergy of Durham could not decide on Aldhun’s successor and the bishopric remained leaderless as the debates went on unresolved. For nearly three years, no leader for the bishopric was decided upon. That was about to change, however, when a group of priests met in Durham around 1020.

During the meeting, the subject of the long-delayed appointment of a bishop was discussed. As had happened at other such meetings over the last two years, the priests could not come to an agreement, and it seemed as if the bishopric would continue to be neglected. In that gloomy and indecisive atmosphere, a certain well-liked priest named Edmund was suddenly inspired to lighten the mood of the unproductive meeting with a joke. According to the monk and chronicler Florence of Worcester (d. 1118), “Edmund stood up, and said in joke, ‘Why do you not choose me your bishop?’” (Chronicle of Florence of Worcester, AD1020). This joke or jest made lightbulbs flicker on in the heads of the priests present at the meeting. They eyed Edmund as a shared epiphany spread over the room—Edmund was a pious, well-liked, ordained priest—in other words, he was an ideal nominee for bishop. Realizing this, the clergymen thanked Edmund for volunteering and vowed to support him in his bid for the bishopric. Soon after the meeting, Edmund reportedly was awarded with a supernatural show of support. According to Florence of Worcester and his contemporary chronicler Symeon of Durham (d. 1130), disembodied voices in the tomb of Saint Cuthbert were heard proclaiming Edmund as the rightful bishop.

Although this faction of clergymen apparently threw their support in with Edmund in 1020, and this date usually marks the start of his time as bishop, the campaign for the bishopric may have taken longer. According to the aforementioned Florence of Worcester, it was not until 1025 that Edmund became the undisputed bishop of Lindisfarne and Durham. Bishop Edmund would continue to rule the church of Durham until his death, which occurred sometime between 1041 and 1048.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (painting of a church council by Francisco de Zurbarán (d. 1664), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Chronicle of Florence of Worcester translated by Thomas Forester. London: Petter and Galpin, originally published 1854.
• The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle translated by Benjamin Thorpe in 1861 and republished by Cambridge University Press, 2012. 
• https://archive.org/details/historicalworks00simegoog/page/n274 
• http://www.catholic-hierarchy.org/bishop/bedmnd.html 
• https://www.durhamworldheritagesite.com/history/prince-bishops/early-bishops 
• https://www.oxfordreference.com/view/10.1093/oi/authority.20110803100106681