After having written a whopping 13,000 words this week for my dissertation, I’ve decided to cheat on this week’s blog and just focus on what I’ve been writing academically.
So my dissertation is about medieval anti-Semitism. The dictionary definition of this word simply says ‘hostility or prejudice towards Jews’. Everyone knows this term when used in the same sentence as ‘Hitler’ for example. After World War Two Christian historians tried to define anti-Semitism as a secular phenomenon that acted contrary to the faith. Thus anti-Semitism could be disapproved of, whilst anti-Judaism was theologically justified. Christians could believe that Jews were inferior because they did not believe in the divinity of Christ, because this was based upon the truth of Jewish practice. Anti-Semitism however was when Christians began to make stuff up about Jews that were not based upon actual Jewish behaviour. These have been rather snazzily termed ‘chimerical fantasies’. These fantasies included accusations of ritual murder, causing the plague by well-poisoning and attacking the Eucharist.
Okay there are a bunch of different arguments for why anti-Semitism developed which I won’t bore you with. But the thing to take note is the almost general consensus that anti-Semitism actually originated in the eleventh or twelfth century, not the nineteenth century. My particular interest in this debate is trying to explain how anti-Semitism came about by looking at medieval Christian behaviour, rather than looking at Jewish practices. It was after all the Christians in the medieval west who created and told the various tales about ‘the Jews’. By telling fantastic tales about Jews medieval Christians were constructing their own identity as a unified faith.
Chaucer’s Canterbury Tales is one of those books that pretty much everyone had to study at some point during school. The chivalry of the Knight’s Tale is well known, as is the bawdy humour of the Miller’s Tale. But how about the lesser-known Prioress’ Tale? In the course of my research I found that this was a fictional version of some of the anti-Semitic tales that actually circulated in the Middle Ages. The Prioress’ Tale ends with “O Hugh of Lincoln, likewise murdered so / By cursed Jews, as notorious.” Hugh of Lincoln was a Christian child who was popularly believed to have been murdered by Jews in 1255. A hundred years later and this tale was still well known enough to be included by Chaucer in his Canterbury Tales…
Sunday 24 April 2011
Sunday 17 April 2011
IX. A Monk’s Habit…
The sound of footsteps echoed around the shadowy undercroft. Hugh looked up and caught a glimpse of a hooded figure moving swiftly past the piers of rounded stone. He tensed expecting further trouble, his hand resting on the sword still at his side.
“Brother Robert tells me we have more guests, my child.” A disembodied voice cut through the darkness. Heloise turned toward it with recognition. The tension that had been evident in her features when talking to Philip disappeared and was replaced with a genuine smile of affection.
“Brother Benedict you’re back! Yes, two men were looking for a bed for a few nights. And as I knew there was space…”
“Quite right. Quite right.” The figure stepped forward into the light pushing the hood off as he spoke. “An unpleasant night to be outside. You’re most welcome.” Feeling somewhat foolish Hugh nodded to the monk in acknowledgement. He could see now that the man was wearing the dark brown robes of a Benedictine. Hugh was surprised by the youth of the figure, and supposed him to be around the same age as Richard. Yet they could not have been more dissimilar. Whereas Richard had the compact and hardened body of a warrior, Benedict was lanky and skinny, his movements almost clumsy. This caused Hugh to wonder if he had been a child oblate, promised to the church since birth. Despite his evenly cut tonsure, Benedict’s brown hair still managed to look wild as it stuck out at various angles. However the green eyes that returned his curious study were calm and unflinching. Though on outer appearances he seemed a youthful stray unsuited to the cloistered life, it appeared that his soul was well tailored to a monk’s habit. There was something reassuring in his frank green gaze and the crumpled Benedictine robes he wore. It was easy to see why Heloise had warmed to him.
With a pale arm Benedict gestured towards the back of the undercroft. “Some of my charges also sleep here. They were all monks at the cathedral before they grew to infirm to continue their duties. I look after them as best I can and keep them comfortable, but it is now simply a matter of time. There are also eleven of you pilgrims in total at the moment. You’ll be able to meet the rest of them later at supper in the refectory.” Hugh regarded the monk wearily, as he heard the slight amusement in his tone, and wondered if Benedict had witnessed the earlier scene between Richard and the relic-seller. His green eyes however remained steady and gave nothing away as he continued, “For now I suggest you unpack, rest and give thanks unto God for your safe arrival.” One of his charges gave a weak cough, and Benedict’s attention shifted. “You’ll excuse me,” he said softly as he hurried over to his patient, his long habit brushing across the stone floor.
“Brother Robert tells me we have more guests, my child.” A disembodied voice cut through the darkness. Heloise turned toward it with recognition. The tension that had been evident in her features when talking to Philip disappeared and was replaced with a genuine smile of affection.
“Brother Benedict you’re back! Yes, two men were looking for a bed for a few nights. And as I knew there was space…”
“Quite right. Quite right.” The figure stepped forward into the light pushing the hood off as he spoke. “An unpleasant night to be outside. You’re most welcome.” Feeling somewhat foolish Hugh nodded to the monk in acknowledgement. He could see now that the man was wearing the dark brown robes of a Benedictine. Hugh was surprised by the youth of the figure, and supposed him to be around the same age as Richard. Yet they could not have been more dissimilar. Whereas Richard had the compact and hardened body of a warrior, Benedict was lanky and skinny, his movements almost clumsy. This caused Hugh to wonder if he had been a child oblate, promised to the church since birth. Despite his evenly cut tonsure, Benedict’s brown hair still managed to look wild as it stuck out at various angles. However the green eyes that returned his curious study were calm and unflinching. Though on outer appearances he seemed a youthful stray unsuited to the cloistered life, it appeared that his soul was well tailored to a monk’s habit. There was something reassuring in his frank green gaze and the crumpled Benedictine robes he wore. It was easy to see why Heloise had warmed to him.
With a pale arm Benedict gestured towards the back of the undercroft. “Some of my charges also sleep here. They were all monks at the cathedral before they grew to infirm to continue their duties. I look after them as best I can and keep them comfortable, but it is now simply a matter of time. There are also eleven of you pilgrims in total at the moment. You’ll be able to meet the rest of them later at supper in the refectory.” Hugh regarded the monk wearily, as he heard the slight amusement in his tone, and wondered if Benedict had witnessed the earlier scene between Richard and the relic-seller. His green eyes however remained steady and gave nothing away as he continued, “For now I suggest you unpack, rest and give thanks unto God for your safe arrival.” One of his charges gave a weak cough, and Benedict’s attention shifted. “You’ll excuse me,” he said softly as he hurried over to his patient, his long habit brushing across the stone floor.
Sunday 10 April 2011
VIII. That Bastard Frenchman…
Hugh rubbed his eyes, in an attempt to push the impending headache back towards a dark recess, as fatigue had combined fatally with bleak remembrances and difficult introductions.
“I do not trust him either. I caught him attempting to look through Adele’s belongings, though he denied it of course.” He had almost forgotten Heloise’s presence in the undercroft after the altercation between Richard and the relic-seller. Her comment drew his attention back to her. Hugh noted that she was not shocked or offended by the physical violence or curses that had been bandied about. He supposed if she had been living alone with her father on the Welsh border then she had probably grown up in a fully male world. He thought back to their quick dash from the refectory to the undercroft and the easy way she had gathered her skirts, which suggested much practice.
“I agree.” The Frenchman’s quiet drawl interrupted Hugh’s thoughts.
“Then why intervene?” Heloise responded, heat colouring her words.
“It would hardly have been right to allow him to strangle the man half to death before he could even defend himself.”
“This is Philip D’Aubury, a vassal of King Philip.” Heloise made the curt introduction, and Hugh gained the impression that she did not like the Frenchman.
“Hugh Mansel. And it was my companion Richard Siward who you met earlier.”
“A pleasure of course…” He murmured amusement evident in his tone. Neither Hugh nor Philip needed to explain the reasons behind Richard’s explosion of temper. A Frenchman in England so soon after the battles of 1217 was bound to provoke a fierce reaction.
“And what brings you to Canterbury?”
“The indulgence, after all the Pope did offer it to everybody in Europe.” Hugh felt that his tone was too reasonable and his posture too relaxed. His dark eyes however were sharp and unreadable. Hugh could not help but question his motives for being in Canterbury, but quickly berated himself silently. He was no better than Richard in judging this man. His nationality did not necessarily make him the enemy.
“Did you not regret leaving your wife behind?”
“I am unmarried, Lady Heloise.” She seemed to regret once more the words that had escaped before she had fully thought them through. Hugh wondered curiously what had provoked such hostility between them. The Frenchman had the appearance and tone of one well versed in courtly affectation. The scarlet robe decorated with intricate embroidery that he wore marked him as a man of some status. If he was a vassal of King Philip, then he was probably land rich as well. Hugh could only suppose that some incident had occurred on the journey from London to Canterbury, or one had some knowledge of the other that made them uneasy.
Either way it was none of his affair. With Richard’s short fuse and his own melancholic memories coming to the fore, Hugh had enough to be dealing with. His fellow pilgrims’ business was their own and he intended to keep it that way.
“I do not trust him either. I caught him attempting to look through Adele’s belongings, though he denied it of course.” He had almost forgotten Heloise’s presence in the undercroft after the altercation between Richard and the relic-seller. Her comment drew his attention back to her. Hugh noted that she was not shocked or offended by the physical violence or curses that had been bandied about. He supposed if she had been living alone with her father on the Welsh border then she had probably grown up in a fully male world. He thought back to their quick dash from the refectory to the undercroft and the easy way she had gathered her skirts, which suggested much practice.
“I agree.” The Frenchman’s quiet drawl interrupted Hugh’s thoughts.
“Then why intervene?” Heloise responded, heat colouring her words.
“It would hardly have been right to allow him to strangle the man half to death before he could even defend himself.”
“This is Philip D’Aubury, a vassal of King Philip.” Heloise made the curt introduction, and Hugh gained the impression that she did not like the Frenchman.
“Hugh Mansel. And it was my companion Richard Siward who you met earlier.”
“A pleasure of course…” He murmured amusement evident in his tone. Neither Hugh nor Philip needed to explain the reasons behind Richard’s explosion of temper. A Frenchman in England so soon after the battles of 1217 was bound to provoke a fierce reaction.
“And what brings you to Canterbury?”
“The indulgence, after all the Pope did offer it to everybody in Europe.” Hugh felt that his tone was too reasonable and his posture too relaxed. His dark eyes however were sharp and unreadable. Hugh could not help but question his motives for being in Canterbury, but quickly berated himself silently. He was no better than Richard in judging this man. His nationality did not necessarily make him the enemy.
“Did you not regret leaving your wife behind?”
“I am unmarried, Lady Heloise.” She seemed to regret once more the words that had escaped before she had fully thought them through. Hugh wondered curiously what had provoked such hostility between them. The Frenchman had the appearance and tone of one well versed in courtly affectation. The scarlet robe decorated with intricate embroidery that he wore marked him as a man of some status. If he was a vassal of King Philip, then he was probably land rich as well. Hugh could only suppose that some incident had occurred on the journey from London to Canterbury, or one had some knowledge of the other that made them uneasy.
Either way it was none of his affair. With Richard’s short fuse and his own melancholic memories coming to the fore, Hugh had enough to be dealing with. His fellow pilgrims’ business was their own and he intended to keep it that way.
Sunday 3 April 2011
VII. The Relic-Seller…
Hugh followed Heloise down the steps which led to the hospital’s undercroft. After the warmth of the refectory’s blazing fire the undercroft felt cold and dark, lit only by a few rush lights. His eyes began to adjust to the gloom and the shadows cast by the flickering lights. A series of pallets stretched out between the supporting rounded pillars. The arrangement appeared temporary, undoubtedly due to the influx of pilgrims since the opening of St Thomas’ new shrine in July.
“Mind your own business you French bastard!” Richard’s harsh voice bounced loudly off the stone walls. Hugh felt impatience twist with anger in his gut. He had left his friend alone for less than five minutes and already he was in trouble again. Hugh swore that this was the last time he’d bail him out. Stepping around Heloise, Hugh strode towards the commotion, his tone even but commanding.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Richard stood muscles tensed and braced for a fight. One hand was clamped around the throat of a thin bird like man with a prominent nose. To his right stood a tall elegant figure that Hugh guessed to be the ‘French bastard’. His thick black hair and rich colouring spoke of possible Aquitanian roots. The tableau remained frozen as Hugh approached. “Richard.” Hugh snapped, exerting his position of authority over the younger knight.
“I caught this snivelling wretch searching through our belongings.” Richard indicated the man he had grip of, a globule of spit falling to the floor beneath his dangling feet.
“I tried telling him there were better ways of resolving this.” The Frenchman’s tone was smooth and reasonable.
“And I told you to mind your own business. I don’t need some cock-loving Frenchman telling me what to do.” Richard bellowed, his temper boiling over. The Frenchman merely raised an expressive eyebrow which infuriated him further. Letting go of the man’s throat Richard swung a fist at the Frenchman, only to be blocked by Hugh.
“Christ’s wounds Richard. Use that thick head of yours for five seconds and consider.” Richard straightened, his eyes remaining fixed on the Frenchman, hatred turning his blue gaze to ice. The calm and authoritative presence of Hugh in the undercroft was like a bucket of cold water thrown on the flames of Richard’s temper. Never one for backing down or apologising, he wheeled around muttering “I need a drink”. He left the undercroft barrelling into the startled but curious figure of Heloise.
Silence descended on the group, punctuated only by the raspy and gulping breaths taken by the hunched figure Richard had attacked.
“Did you do it?” Hugh asked wearily, “Did you search our bags?” The man looked up from beneath a fringe of lank greasy hair.
“No sir. I thought I had a placed something there earlier and that it might have gotten mixed in with your things.” It was a poor excuse and fooled nobody, which was clear even to him as his gaze nervously flicked from one silent figure to the other. Hugh had no wish to further exacerbate the situation created by Richard’s short temper. Their stay in the hospital and in Canterbury was to be short and he would keep a close eye on the man and his wandering hands. There was no need to do anything more for the moment. Hugh leant towards the man, the mundaneness of his words belying their threat.
“I hope you found whatever it was you had misplaced. I do not think it wise to look for it again. Do you?” The man shook his head uneasily. The quiet menace of Hugh was just as dangerous as the physical strength and brutality of Richard. “And what is your name? As we shall be staying here together it is best that we are acquainted with one another.”
“John. John of Tewkesbury.” Hugh studied the nervous figure before him. The hunched shoulders, thin limbs and sharp nose did give him a bird-like appearance, as did the voluminous grey robe he wore. John smiled ingratiatingly, revealing a set of blackened teeth. “I am a relic seller. Perhaps I could offer you something. At a cut-price rate, of course.” Hugh regarded him in distaste. Relic sellers, like pardoners, preyed upon the needy and desperate. People seemed willing to swallow whatever stories a relic seller concocted, but most relics he thought should have been approached with caution. If everyone possessed a true finger of Saint Peter, then Saint Peter had more than the requisite ten fingers. “Or perhaps you already possess a relic you’d like to trade?” John’s eyes were locked acquisitively on the amulet that hung around Hugh’s neck. “What does it contain? A piece of the Virgin’s shift?” He trailed off, noticing the tension that had infused Hugh’s body. John rubbed his hand across the red marks left by Richard’s chocking grip, he had no wish to repeat the experience. Shrivelling somewhat under Hugh’s narrow gaze, John stammered, “Yes…Well…I better…Yes.” With a last furtive glance around he sidled out of the undercroft, leaving a pungent smell of unwashed clothing in his wake.
“Mind your own business you French bastard!” Richard’s harsh voice bounced loudly off the stone walls. Hugh felt impatience twist with anger in his gut. He had left his friend alone for less than five minutes and already he was in trouble again. Hugh swore that this was the last time he’d bail him out. Stepping around Heloise, Hugh strode towards the commotion, his tone even but commanding.
“What in God’s name is going on here?” Richard stood muscles tensed and braced for a fight. One hand was clamped around the throat of a thin bird like man with a prominent nose. To his right stood a tall elegant figure that Hugh guessed to be the ‘French bastard’. His thick black hair and rich colouring spoke of possible Aquitanian roots. The tableau remained frozen as Hugh approached. “Richard.” Hugh snapped, exerting his position of authority over the younger knight.
“I caught this snivelling wretch searching through our belongings.” Richard indicated the man he had grip of, a globule of spit falling to the floor beneath his dangling feet.
“I tried telling him there were better ways of resolving this.” The Frenchman’s tone was smooth and reasonable.
“And I told you to mind your own business. I don’t need some cock-loving Frenchman telling me what to do.” Richard bellowed, his temper boiling over. The Frenchman merely raised an expressive eyebrow which infuriated him further. Letting go of the man’s throat Richard swung a fist at the Frenchman, only to be blocked by Hugh.
“Christ’s wounds Richard. Use that thick head of yours for five seconds and consider.” Richard straightened, his eyes remaining fixed on the Frenchman, hatred turning his blue gaze to ice. The calm and authoritative presence of Hugh in the undercroft was like a bucket of cold water thrown on the flames of Richard’s temper. Never one for backing down or apologising, he wheeled around muttering “I need a drink”. He left the undercroft barrelling into the startled but curious figure of Heloise.
Silence descended on the group, punctuated only by the raspy and gulping breaths taken by the hunched figure Richard had attacked.
“Did you do it?” Hugh asked wearily, “Did you search our bags?” The man looked up from beneath a fringe of lank greasy hair.
“No sir. I thought I had a placed something there earlier and that it might have gotten mixed in with your things.” It was a poor excuse and fooled nobody, which was clear even to him as his gaze nervously flicked from one silent figure to the other. Hugh had no wish to further exacerbate the situation created by Richard’s short temper. Their stay in the hospital and in Canterbury was to be short and he would keep a close eye on the man and his wandering hands. There was no need to do anything more for the moment. Hugh leant towards the man, the mundaneness of his words belying their threat.
“I hope you found whatever it was you had misplaced. I do not think it wise to look for it again. Do you?” The man shook his head uneasily. The quiet menace of Hugh was just as dangerous as the physical strength and brutality of Richard. “And what is your name? As we shall be staying here together it is best that we are acquainted with one another.”
“John. John of Tewkesbury.” Hugh studied the nervous figure before him. The hunched shoulders, thin limbs and sharp nose did give him a bird-like appearance, as did the voluminous grey robe he wore. John smiled ingratiatingly, revealing a set of blackened teeth. “I am a relic seller. Perhaps I could offer you something. At a cut-price rate, of course.” Hugh regarded him in distaste. Relic sellers, like pardoners, preyed upon the needy and desperate. People seemed willing to swallow whatever stories a relic seller concocted, but most relics he thought should have been approached with caution. If everyone possessed a true finger of Saint Peter, then Saint Peter had more than the requisite ten fingers. “Or perhaps you already possess a relic you’d like to trade?” John’s eyes were locked acquisitively on the amulet that hung around Hugh’s neck. “What does it contain? A piece of the Virgin’s shift?” He trailed off, noticing the tension that had infused Hugh’s body. John rubbed his hand across the red marks left by Richard’s chocking grip, he had no wish to repeat the experience. Shrivelling somewhat under Hugh’s narrow gaze, John stammered, “Yes…Well…I better…Yes.” With a last furtive glance around he sidled out of the undercroft, leaving a pungent smell of unwashed clothing in his wake.
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