The Battle Between A Crime-Fighting Prophetess And A 6th-Century Bishop Of Verdun

Around the year 585, a curious woman was making a name for herself through interesting means. One part psychic, and the other part private detective, this woman (whose name has unfortunately been lost to history) was reportedly able to solve crimes and locate criminals with little difficulty. As she charged a fee for her services, or at least expected a reward for her skills, she became quite wealthy from her impeccable sleuthing. Yet, her accomplishments, reputation and riches drew suspicion and jealously among the men who held power in her home region. Such men accused her of using divination, witchcraft or other supernatural or diabolical talents to achieve her craft.

On the other side of France, the exploits of this crime-fighting woman reached the ear of Bishop Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), who was a historian as well as a clergyman.  He wrote down the story of the anonymous psychic, and commented on the effect that her skills had on the population:

“If anyone had been the victim of a robbery or any other disaster, she would immediately announce where the thief had fled, to whom he had handed over his ill-gotten gains, or what else he had done with them. Every day she acquired more and more gold and silver, and she would walk about so loaded with jewellery that she was looked upon by the common people as a sort of goddess” (Gregory of Tours, History of the Franks, VII.44).

Whereas Bishop Gregory of Tours was content to read and write about the woman’s deeds, his clerical comrade in Verdun, Bishop Ageric, felt more threatened by the crime-fighting prophetess and decided to launch an investigation. Ageric ultimately had the woman arrested and during the course of his interrogations, the bishop became convinced that the psychic was possessed by a demon. He even tried to perform an exorcism to prove his theory. Yet, as Bishop Gregory of Tours was informed, “Ageric was not successful in freeing the woman of this devil, and she was allowed to depart” (History of the Franks, VII.44).

Despite winning her battle of wits against Bishop Ageric, the psychic woman no longer felt at home in the bishopric of Verdun. Not wanting to put up with any further harassment from the local clergy, the prophetess decided to pack up her bags and relocate. As the story goes, she found a place for herself in the entourage of Queen Dowager Fredegund, mother of King Chlotar II (r. 584-629).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Sources:

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

Halphas Or Malthus—A Demon Of Construction, Logistics, And Requisition

According to occultists and demonologists, Halphas (also known as Malthus) is a spirit who has powers quite unique from his supernatural comrades. Halphas appears in the Shemhaphorash of the Lemegeton (or the Lesser Key of Solomon), a peculiar renaissance-age text which purports to list seventy-two demons or spirits which, according to legend, were summoned and controlled by the biblical King Solomon. Halphus is the thirty-eighth spiritual being named in the text’s list, and is described as preferring to take the shape of a dove, but can transform into human form and speak with a hoarse voice. Unlike most of the other spiritual beings listed in the text, poor Halphas was said to have virtually no offensive capabilities in his demonic repertoire. Whereas his brethren could supposedly do such flashy things as smite cities, spread disease, and cause lightning storms and rogue waves, Halphas instead reportedly specializes in more mundane abilities.

As stated earlier, Halphas supposedly can transform into a dove, and this may be judged as one of his most stylish abilities. Using this form, Halphas can get a lay of the land and set the blueprints for his next talent—construction. Using either magic or supernatural knowledge, this demon knows how to build one hell of a tower. But wait, there’s more: Halphas’ job description says he will not only build the tower, but also do the requisition work to stock the new defensive feature with weaponry and ammunition. If that were not enough, this peculiar demon can also serve in the role of a recruiter and strategist, garrisoning the newly built tower with warriors and sending them where they need to go. So, instead of all the pieces being sold separately, Halphas apparently offers a bundled deal. For those who wish to read the original description of Halphas’ peculiar abilities in the original grimoire tone, the Lemegeton stated: “His Office is to build up Towers, and to furnish them with Ammunition and Weapons, and to send Men-of-War to places appointed” (Lemegeton, Shemhaphorash, #38).

Despite Halphas’ fairly undemonic and mundane abilities, his skills in architecture, requisition and logistics have apparently gained him an admirable following in the spiritual world. He supposedly rules over twenty-six legions of lesser spirits and is considered a nobleman with the rank of earl in the demonic hierarchy.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Sketch of a Gargoyle in Paris, by Charles Meryon c. 1853, [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Three Magical Books of Solomon by Crowley, Mathers and Conybear. Vega Publishing, 2019 (original publications c. 1888, 1898, 1904.
• https://www.sacred-texts.com/grim/lks/lks05.htm#fr_20  

The Witch Hunt Of Queen Fredegund In Paris

The death of a child is one of the most painful experiences imaginable. In 584, Queen Fredegund and King Chilperic experienced this grief when their two-year-old son, Theuderic, died of dysentery. The royal couple had experienced the loss of a child before—a son named Samson had died around 577—but the death of Theuderic hit the couple, particularly Queen Fredegund, especially hard. As can be common with those experiencing grief, Fredegund began lashing out in anger, and she scapegoated others for her son’s natural death. Fredegund’s paranoia infected King Chilperic, and unfortunately for the city of Paris, the royal couple’s grief-stricken outbursts would reportedly lead to the deaths of several Parisians.

According to the 6th-century bishop and chronicler, Gregory of Tours (c. 539-594), Queen Fredegund somehow became convinced that a coven of Parisian witches were in some way responsible for young Theuderic’s death. As dysentery was prevalent at that time, folk healers apparently flocked to the city to provide dubious potions and herbal remedies for the illness. The existence of these healers was brought to the attention to the royal court by a certain Mummolus, a Parisian prefect, who in a conversation with some courtiers admitted to buying an herb or potion that could cure dysentery. When news of this folk cure began circulating around the royal court, a dastardly conspiracy theory emerged that accused the healers of creating or spreading the dysentery outbreak in order to create a demand for their curative product. Queen Fredegund was said to have full-heartedly embraced this theory and, in her hysteria, she reportedly began rounding up suspicious Parisian women for questioning under torture. As would happen in later witch-trials, many of the tortured people confessed to whatever the torturers asked, just to make the pain stop.

Gregory of Tours’ description of what happened in this bizarre witch hunt ranks among the most gruesome passages in his war-riddled and execution-filled text. On the fates of the women who confessed to being witches, Gregory stated that “Fredegund then had these poor wretches tortured in an even more inhumane way, cutting off the heads of some, burning others alive and breaking the bones of the rest on the wheel” (History of the Franks, VI.35). The prefect, Mummolus, who had brought the healer women to the attention of the court, was also brought in for questioning. He was charged, first, with buying potions from the folk healers, but as the torture continued, the inquiry eventually evolved into accusations that he was a sorcerer.  According to Gregory of Tours, “Mummolus was extended on the rack and then flogged with treble thongs until the torturers were quite exhausted. After this splinters were driven beneath the nails of his fingers and toes” (History of the Franks, VI.35).

Despite the excruciating tortures that he experienced, Mummolus apparently confessed to nothing but buying remedies from the healers. As they did not have an admission of sorcery, his life was subsequently spared. Yet, just because he was allowed to live does not mean he was treated well after being let go by the torturers. Instead, according to Gregory of Tours, poor Mummolus was informed that “his property was sequestered; and he was placed on a cart and packed off to Bordeaux” (History of the Franks, VI.35). As a tragic end to this dark tale, the tortured and banished man reportedly died of his wounds not long after reaching Bordeaux.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Inquisitors and torturers depicted in the Story History of France by John Bonner, published c. 1919, [Public Domain] via flickr.com and Creative Commons).

Sources:

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

One Folkloric Way King James I Thought A Murderer Could Be Caught Red-Handed

King James I (c. 1566-1625), when it comes to odd folklore, is best known for his ideas on witchcraft and evil forces. Yet, while studying and writing about these topics, King James also stumbled across topics that had nothing to do with demons or witches. He slipped a few these gems of non-witch folklore into the pages of his Demonology (published 1597), often using them to explain or elaborate on other theories that did pertain to witchcraft. One instance in which James did this was during his discussion of the infamous witch swimming (or dunking) trials, where the accused would be thrown into water and condemned if they floated. After elaborating on how a witch’s body supposedly interacted with water, King James segued to what folklorically would happen if a murderer came into contact with a victim’s blood.

According to King James, the body of a murder victim could provide investigators with more than mere forensic evidence. In his opinion, to solve the crime of murder, the authorities would need only to have all of the possible suspects touch the victim’s body and a miraculous sign would appear to pin the crime on a specific person. Regarding this peculiar sign, King James I wrote, “in a secret murder, if the dead carcass be at any time thereafter handled by the murderer, it will gush out of blood, as if the blood were crying to the heaven for revenge of the murderer” (Demonology, Book III, Chapter VI). Hopefully, few murder trials were solved through such evidence.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Image of King James I meeting with Puritans, from a book by Henry Davenport Northrop (1836-1909), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Demonology of King James I (Book III, chapter VI), edition of Donald Tyson (Llewellyn Publications, 2011).

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 Tragic Battle Of Two Witches During The Pontificate of Nicholas V

A certain Germanic bishop arrived in Rome during the pontificate of Pope Nicholas V (r. 1447-1455) and had quite an adventure while he stayed in the holy city. His story was recorded by the Inquisitors, Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, in their infamous Malleus Maleficarum (published around 1487). According to the Inquisitors, the German bishop reportedly fell in love with a Roman ‘girl’ (their description) and he decided to make her his concubine. In exchange for accompanying him back to the seat of his German bishopric, he offered to house her somewhere with nice accommodations and access to servants and wealth. When the bishop shared this plan with his lady love, the girl agreed, but made one condition—she wanted her mother to be allowed to live with her in the bishop’s diocese. The bishop and his paramour came to an agreement and the girl (and her mother) apparently set off for German lands while the bishop finished his business in Rome.

Although the bishop likely wanted to keep a low profile at this point, it only took one day for his life to erupt into scandal and drama. On the next night after the holy man and his concubine had made their arrangement, the bishop fell seriously ill. He was in great discomfort, and felt so hot in the throat and chest that he constantly requested chilled water to cool himself down. The bishop’s advisors and caretakers were shocked by the suddenness of the ailment and they quickly became convinced that something nefarious was afoot. If the illness was not caused by poison, then they were sure the only other cause could be witchcraft. When the bishop was still ill after three day’s time, and normal medical practices were showing no signs of bringing him back to health, the bishop’s servants began to consider more radical methods for a cure. According to the Malleus Maleficarum, the bishop’s servants brought in a local healer, who was considered a benevolent witch.

The healer examined the sickly bishop, and, according to the Malleus Maleficarum, she told her patient, “Your illness has been caused by a spell of witchcraft, and you can only be healed by another spell, which will transfer the illness from you to the witch who caused it, so that she will die” (Part II, question 2, intro). The healer-witch’s words apparently convinced the bishop, and, as he evidently did not think that, nature, medicine, or God would protect him from his illness, he decided that the good witch’s counterspell was his only option. Yet, as the bishop was still in Rome, he resolved to leave his fate in the hands of the pope. Therefore, the bishop sent word to Pope Nicholas V, informing him of his situation and the possible magical cure. The Malleus Maleficarum described the pope’s alleged reaction: “Now the Holy Father loved him [the bishop] very dearly, and when he learned that he could only be healed by the death of the witch, he agreed to permit the lesser of two evils, and signed this permission with his seal” (Part II, question 2, intro). With the support of the Vicar of Christ on his side, the bishop eagerly hired the services of the healer-witch and allowed her to cast her counterspell.

Unfortunately, the aforementioned young concubine had apparently caught whatever illness was plaguing the bishop, and her symptoms began to show at this very inopportune moment. The phrase, ‘correlation does not imply causation’ was incredibly underutilized by witch-hunters, and, unsurprisingly, everyone privy to the bishop’s condition and cure quickly came to believe that the girl was made ill by the healer’s counter-spell, and therefore had to be a witch. When the bishop recovered enough strength to travel, he went to meet with the sickly girl he once intended to have as a concubine. Now, however, he was convinced that she was a witch, and his ultimate goal in meeting with her was to convince her to repent for her alleged witchcraft. As the bishop’s illness and the healer-witch’s convincing words had brought her life to ruin, the Roman girl understandably was irate when she saw the bishop—after all, her short time spent with him had given her a deadly illness and a scandalized reputation. The Malleus Maleficarum described the tense interaction: “the Bishop went out of compassion to visit the girl; but when he entered the room, she received him with horrible execrations, crying out: May you and she who wrought your cure be damned for ever!” (Part II, question 2, intro). The illness, unfortunately, affected the girl much worse than it had the bishop. She reportedly did not recover from whatever it was that afflicted her and faced an unpleasant death. As the Malleus Maleficarum unpityingly stated, she “died miserably. But the Bishop returned home with joy and thankfulness” (Part II, question 2, intro). The bishop did, however, die at some point before the publication of the Malleus Maleficarum around 1487.

Interestingly, Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger realized that others might use this story as an excuse to make contracts with witches. Therefore, at the end of the story, they were obligated to remind the reader that witchcraft is bad, and that holy water, blessed salts, and exorcisms are better cures than the practices of folk healers. Ultimately, however, they could not come up with a convincing reason as to why the pope and a bishop could hire a witch without consequence, whereas a peasant might hire a witch and face severe or fatal repercussions. Nevertheless, they did attempt an explanation, which resulted in this awkward passage: “Here it is to be noted that a privilege granted to one does not constitute a precedent for all, and the dispensation of the Pope in this case does not argue that it is lawful in all cases” (Part II, question 2, intro).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Combination of a painting with Pope Nicholas V by Antonio Montúfar (active 1614-1629) with a painting of Shakespearean witches by Daniel Gardner (1750–1805), both [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Malleus Maleficarum by Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, translated by Montague Summers (Dover Publications, 1971). 
• https://www.britannica.com/biography/Nicholas-V-pope 
• http://www.newadvent.org/cathen/11058a.htm 
• https://www.encyclopedia.com/people/philosophy-and-religion/roman-catholic-popes-and-antipopes/nicholas-v

The Mass-Murdering Convulsions Of John Smith Of Leicester

In the early 17th century, a young boy named John Smith stirred up fears of witchcraft in the town of Husbands Bosworth, in Leicester, England. His condition, possibly epilepsy or hystero-epilepsy, manifested in his childhood and his convulsions were visibly shocking to his family and their friends. These worrying parents and guardians, however, were no common folk. John Smith came from a prominent family—his father was Sir Roger Smith; his uncle was the silver-tongued sermonizer, Henry Smith; and his grandfather, Erasmus Smith, was Bosworth’s Lord of the Manor. As the boy was of noble blood, his concerned family friends also were prominent figures. One such acquaintance was Sir Henry Hastings, who took special interest in defending the boy against a perceived demonic threat.

Sir Henry Hastings was the High Sheriff of Leicester between 1607-1608. While Sir Henry was serving in that capacity, John Smith (reportedly four or five years old at the time) began behaving oddly and started to suffer afflictions that resembled seizures. The possibility of witchcraft quickly came to people’s minds, and Sir Henry Hastings questioned several suspicious persons in that regard. Yet, no known convictions for bewitching the boy were brought about during Sir Henry’s term as High Sheriff.

Although Sir Henry Hastings could not convict any witches between 1607 and 1608, the idea that witchcraft was involved must have festered in him and the boy’s family for years. Their fears could only grow as young John Smith’s condition persisted during his childhood, and the family apparently reached a breaking point in 1616, when the boy was 12 or 13 years old. A certain alderman named Robert Heyrick described the hysteria caused by John Smith’s disorder in Bosworth. In a letter dated July 18, 1616, Heyrick claimed that the boy would fall into fits where he loudly struck his own chest hundreds of times. Many of the well-to-do citizens of the town witnessed the episodes, and the aforementioned Sir Henry Hastings tried to stop the boy from causing any self-harm. Heyrick wrote (in ye olde English, mind you), “Sir Henry Hastings hath doon what he colld to hold him in his fit; but he and another as strong as he could not hold him; yf he might have his arm at liberty he woolld stryke himsellfe suche bloes on his brest, being in his shirt, that you myght here the sound of yt the length of a long chamber” (Letter of Alderman Heyrick to Sir William, July 18, 1616).

The family of John Smith was apparently so desperate to cure the troubled boy that they brought in several so-called Wise Women, or rural healers, whose knowledge of herbal and folk remedies made them frequent targets of witch-hunters. Alderman Heyrick, in his letter, mentioned the visits of these Wise Women, writing “When he [John Smith] was in his fyt, they [the Wise Women] were soomtymes brought to him, and then they were chardged to speake sarten words…at the end of the last he woolld fall out of his fit as quyetly as if one did lay him doune to slepe” (Letter of Alderman Heyrick to Sir William, July 18, 1616). Although these healers were apparently able to bring the boy out of his fits, their cures were not permanent. The failure of the women to totally cure the boy no doubt frustrated and angered the fearful family, yet, for the healers, it was their patient, John Smith, who would be the most dangerous foe.

Sometime during the first months of 1616, likely after being treated by some of the Wise Women, young John Smith began accusing the healers and their associates of being the cause of his affliction. The boy’s family and the local judicial system agreed with the accusation and the Bosworth Witch Trials were begun. By the time that Alderman Heyrick began writing his letter on July 18, 1616, the witch-hunt had been in full swing for four or five days. In that time, the authorities had filled their jails with suspected witches, and “9 of them shal be executed at the gallows this fornone, for bewitching of a younge gentellman of the age of 12 or 13” (Letter of Alderman Heyrick to Sir William, July 18, 1616). Unfortunately, the nine women mentioned here were indeed executed by hanging because of the boy’s claims.

Ironically, it was the witch-obsessed King James (VI of Scotland, I of England) who put an end to the Bosworth Witch Trials. The king arrived in the chaotic town in mid-August, 1616. At the time, the first nine women had already been executed, but six more were still imprisoned on suspicion of witchcraft.  During his short stay in town, King James took interest in the trial and interviewed John Smith. Yet, the king had encountered false charges from children before, and when he watched and listened to the troubled boy, something caused James to be skeptical. Believing either the witchcraft accusations, or the fits, themselves, were completely fraudulent, King James sent John Smith to be interrogated by Archbishop Abbot of Canterbury. The archbishop came to the same conclusion as the king, and young John Smith eventually confessed that he had falsely accused all of the women. When the confession was brought to King James, he had the imprisoned women released without a trial. Tragically, one of the six captive women died before she could be released, bringing the deaths resulting from John Smith’s accusations to a total of ten.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Scene of a witch trial by Joseph E. Baker (1837-1914), Public Domain via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Demonology of King James I (introduction), edition of Donald Tyson (Llewellyn Publications, 2011).
• https://www.jstor.org/stable/pdf/3693732.pdf 
• https://husbandsbosworth.info/historical-information/bosworth-witches 
• https://www.britannica.com/science/hystero-epilepsy

The Bizarre Tale Of A Coblenz Man Who Was Allegedly Bewitched With A Pelvic-Thrusting Curse

Tall tales and stories from folklore can always be a bit peculiar, but the stories become even more bizarre when they are interwoven with supernatural themes and ideologies. Such is the case with tales formed by medieval witch-hunters, whose stories of nefarious sorceresses and powerful wizards (presented in a matter-of-fact way) often leaves the modern reader quite befuddled. Yet, some tales are stranger than others, and even the most desensitized perusers of witch stories can come across tales so odd that it shocks them out of their scholarly trance. Thankfully, not all of these shocking stories have to be tragic or bloody—some of them can be stupefying through sheer weirdness. One odd tale of a cursed man from Coblenz (modern Koblenz, Germany) fits that latter category perfectly.

The 15th-century Inquisitors, Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, recorded the peculiar story in their influential text, The Malleus Maleficarum (published around 1487). Unfortunately for us (but fortunately for those involved), the Inquisitors systematically kept all names in their record of the event anonymous. The only thing that the authors labeled in their telling of the story was the name of the town in which the incident took place—Coblenz. A fair warning: the witch tale is quite sexual in nature, as was hinted in the title of this article. We will, however, try to present the untasteful aspects of the story as tastefully as possible.

As the story goes, a local man of Coblenz developed an incredibly embarrassing condition—the poor fellow somehow became a compulsive pelvic-thruster. This was not, so they said, some innocent dancing or suggestive teasing. Instead, the man would apparently just drop his trousers without any forewarning and start shagging the empty sky. Such adultery with the atmosphere and fornication with the firmament reportedly became a frequent habit for the man, and it no doubt greatly distressed his wife. The wife (also left unnamed) was said to have tried to intervene, but her efforts were to no avail. According to the Inquisitors, “he continues to do this repeatedly, nor have the cries and urgent appeals of his wife any effect in making him desist” (Part II, Qn 2, ch 1).

Although the episodes were reportedly habitual, one particular night saw the man’s incorporeal copulation reach a new level of strangeness. To his wife’s horror, the man apparently one evening made continuous love to the late-night air for as long as he had enough energy to keep his hips gyrating. The Malleus Maleficarum described the scene after he ended his uncanny orgy with the void: “after an incredible number of such bouts, the poor man at last sinks to the floor utterly exhausted” (Part II, Qn 2, ch 1). With the man’s state becoming worse, the wife or other concerned friends decided to bring in outside help in the form of witch-hunters and Inquisitors.

The afflicted man and the Inquisitors developed an odd theory about his condition. Both parties were convinced that witchcraft or demonic forces were afoot. Church authorities investigating his case proposed that he had been the victim of a succubus demon, and believed that a witch may have cast a spell on the man to help the demon reach its target. This theory was embraced by the Coblenz man, and he quickly accused “a certain woman” (again left unnamed) of casting a malignant spell on him. Fortunately for the woman, the Inquisitors apparently could not find any corroborating witnesses or evidence to substantiate the Coblenz man’s claim. She was lucky, for the authors of the Malleus Maleficarum seemed convinced of her guilt. To explain why the woman was not punished for witchcraft they wrote: “there are no laws or ministers of justice which can proceed to the avenging of so great a crime with no other warrant than a vague charge or a grave suspicion; for it is held that no one ought to be condemned unless he has been convicted by his own confession, or by the evidence of three trustworthy witnesses” (Part II, Qn 2, ch 1).

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (Peasant Wedding Dance painted by Pieter Brueghel the Younger or workshop (1564–1638), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Malleus Maleficarum by Heinrich Kramer and James Sprenger, translated by Montague Summers (Dover Publications, 1971).

The Battle Of The Einars In the Snæfellsnes Peninsula

According to the Book of Settlements (Landnámabók), a man named Sigmund Ketilsson lived on the southwestern end of the Snæfellsnes Peninsula in Iceland. He lived during the Age of Settlement (approximately 860-930) and claimed for himself the land between what the Landnámabók calls Hellishraun and Beruvikurhraun. Within his territory, he chose Laugarbrekka as his seat of power and built a farm there, where he lived with his wife, Hildigunn, and three sons, Einar, Breid and Thorkell. The eldest son was Einar and, as he inherited control of his father’s farm, he became known as Einar of Laugarbrekka. Unfortunately, little is known about the lives of Einar’s brothers, Breid and Thorkell. Besides his family and his farmhands, Sigmund was fairly isolated in his section of Snæfellsnes. Yet, he did sell some land to a neighbor named Lon-Einar, who lived nearby. Sigmund and Lon-Einar both had sizable parties of loyal farmhands, but there seemed to be peace between the neighbors while Sigmund was alive.

When Sigmund died, however, Lon-Einar began to encroach on his neighbor’s territory. At some point after Sigmund’s death, Lon-Einar gathered a crew of six henchmen and traveled to Laugarbrekka, where the widow Hildigunn was still living. What Lon-Einar did there is vague, but perhaps he made some sort of pass at Hildigunn, or as the Landnámabók curiously stated, he “summoned Hildigunn for sorcery” (Landnámabók, Stulubók manuscript, chapter 75). Whether or not he genuinely needed her help with magic, or if he wanted to make a different kind of passionate magic with her, Hildigunn was stricken with disgust by his proposal. When she later told her sons of Lon-Einar’s request, they, too, were outraged. The new head of the late Sigmund’s household, Einar of Laugarbrekka, promptly rounded together a warband of farmhands and slaves and set out with his well-armed party to hunt down Lon-Einar.

Lon-Einar was still accompanied by his six companions when he was confronted by the group from Laugarbrekka. The meeting between the two parties did not go well and words quickly turned to blows. Soon, there was a full-blown battle between the sides of the two Einars. Yet, the fight was apparently one-sided. After four of Lon-Einar’s companions were slain, his last two henchmen fled from the scene. Yet, Lon-Einar, himself, reportedly stood his ground and dueled Einar of Laugarbrekka. The two were evenly matched, but Lon-Einar was wearing loose pants that day and, while trying to pull up his falling breeches, he received a fatal blow from Einar of Laugarbrekka. Meanwhile, the two men who had fled the scene of the battle were hunted down and killed.

Einar of Laugarbrekka returned home with a complete victory. The Landnámabók, unfortunately, did not record Hildigunn’s reaction or what her life was like after the battle. The book did, however, claim that a slave named Hreidar distinguished himself during the Battle of the Einars, and that Einar of Laugarbrekka gave Hreidar freedom, as well as ownership over however much land the freedman could fence off in three days.

As for Einar of Laugarbrekka, he married a woman called Unn, and they had two daughters, named Hallveg and Arnora. When he eventually died, Einar of Laugarbrekka was buried in a grave near the burial mound of his father, Sigmund. Plant life around Einar’s grave, the Landnámabók insisted, always remained green in both summer and winter.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (A scene from Njal's Saga, by the artist Andreas Bloch (1860–1917), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• The Book of Settlements (Sturlubók version) translated by Hermann Pálsson and Paul Edwards. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba Press, 1972, 2006.

The Fatal Bad Luck Of Kotkel And His Family In 10th-Century Iceland

According to the Laxdæla saga, a man named Kotkel moved with his whole family from the Hebrides to Iceland sometime during the 10th century. Kotkel had a wife named Grima and two sons, Hallbjorn Slickstone-eye and Stigandi. These new immigrants brought with them some covetable skills—Kotkel was apparently a masterful horse breeder, or at least had an instinctively keen eye for choosing the best horses out of a herd.

Kotkel attempted to set up a new life for his family in the region of Skalmarfjord. There, the immigrants gained the support of a local leader named Hallstein the Godi and, with his help, they were allowed to settle in Urdir. Although Kotkel and his family were given protection by Hallstein, other settlers in the Skalmarfjord region never warmed to the newcomers. A contributing factor to the region’s cold reception of Kotkel (at least in the family’s portrayal in the Laxdæla saga) was the stereotype that Hebrideans were mischievous and treacherous people, often with nefarious knowledge of sorcery. With this stereotype always on their minds, the people of Skalmarfjord used the Hebridean immigrants as scapegoats for any famine, bad weather, or sudden and unexpected deaths in their region.

The downfall of Kotkel and his family began when a prominent lawyer named Thord Ingunnarson began to boast to his fellow Icelanders that he planned to try the Hebridean family with charges of theft and sorcery during the next Althing (the national assembly of Iceland). Yet, before Thord could bring his case to court, his ship sank during a storm and he drowned.  The Icelanders, rather than attributing Thord’s death to faulty shipbuilding, poor seamanship or horrid luck, claimed that the cause of Thord’s death had to be the sorcery of Kotkel and his family.

Hallstein the Godi, who had long been a protector of the Hebridean immigrants, began to waver in his support of them after the death of Thord Ingunnarson. As public pressure mounted, Hallstein eventually banished Kotkel and his family from the Skalmarfjord region. Forced from their land, the refugees fled to the Hvammsfjord communities of Laxardal and Kambsnes in Iceland. According to the Laxdæla saga, they finally found shelter with the well-connected Thorleik Hoskuldsson, who was impressed by Kotkel’s talent with horses. In exchange for Kotkel’s impressive animals, Thorleik let the Hebrideans settle in Leifdolfsstadir, Laxardal.

In Leifdolfsstadir, the sad cycle began to repeat for Kotkel. The locals distrusted the new Hebridean settlers, but put up with their presence because Kotkel had an influential patron—Thorleik Hokuldsson. Yet, although Thorleik was powerful and well-connected, he was also known to feud from time to time with other members of his wealthy family. As Kotkel was now in Thorleik’s entourage, he was in danger of being drawn into the family drama of the Laxardal region. As it happened, relations broke down between Thorleik and his uncle, Hrut, soon after Kotkel settled in Leifdolfsstadir. Thorleik’s prominent half-brother, Olaf Peacock (so-called because of his pride and gilded clothing), backed Hrut in the dispute and family tensions heightened to threatening levels. Yet, before kin began to attack kin, tragedy struck and diverted Hrut’s wrath away from Thorleik.

In the midst of the feud between the prominent men of Laxardal, Hrut’s beloved twelve-year-old son, Kari, died suddenly without any forewarning symptoms, and the 10th-century Icelanders could find no explanation for his unexpected death. The grief-stricken Hrut and his nephew, Olaf Peacock, came to believe that Kotkel had killed young Kari with sorcery on behalf of Thorleik. Spurred on by this theory, Hrut and Olaf gathered a posse and invaded Leifdolfsstadir to capture the Hebrideans.

Kotkel and his family were able to see the posse of Icelanders approaching in the distance and the hunted Hebrideans attempted to run away toward the mountains. Nevertheless, Hrut and Olaf intercepted them and only one of Kotkel’s sons, Stigandi, was able to escape capture. The rest of the family suffered horrid fates. According to the Laxdæla saga, the less fortunate son, Hallbjorn Slickstone-eye, was caught first. Hrut and Olaf reportedly tied a stone around his neck, rowed him out to sea and pushed him overboard to drown in the dark, cold depths. As for Kotkel and his wife, Grima—the two were reportedly stoned to death and buried in a shallow grave, which was covered in rock and called the Sorcerers’ Cairn.

Stigandi, the only survivor of the ill-fated family, understandably had a grudge with Iceland and the prominent local families for the rest of his life. After successfully escaping from Hrut’s posse, Stigandi reportedly became a bandit based out of Hundadal, Iceland. There, he became something of a Robin Hood figure, stealing from the landowners and giving away his loot to slaves and other less fortunate inhabitants of the region. According to the Laxdæla saga, Stigandi fancied a slave-woman in Hundadal, and much of his stolen wealth ended up in her hands. Unfortunately for Stigandi, the news of banditry had caught the attention of Olaf Peacock, who then came to the region to investigate.

After hearing from witnesses, Olaf was convinced that the bandit was none other than Kotkel’s last surviving son. Therefore, Olaf Peacock tracked down the slave-woman who had come into unexplained wealth and he offered to buy her freedom in exchange for her help in capturing the bandit. She agreed to the proposal, and the next time Stigandi arrived at her home with more gifts, he was immediately arrested by Olaf Peacock. As had happened with his parents, Stigandi was reportedly stoned to death and buried in a shallow grave. His fate was remarkably different than Kotkel’s patron, Thorleik Hoskuldsson, who was forgiven by Olaf Peacock and allowed to go into exile.

Written by C. Keith Hansley

Picture Attribution: (A scene from the Laxdæla saga by Andreas Bloch (1860–1917), [Public Domain] via Creative Commons).

Sources:

• Laxdæla saga by an unknown 13th century Icelander, translated by Keneva Kunz. New York: Penguin Classics, 2008.