Piers Gaveston's cups and Edward II's incontinence

So, yesterday I was browsing through the indices to various issues of the journal Northamptonshire, Past and Present to see if Fineshade Priory (or, failing that, Castle Hymel or John Engayne) got even a passing mention anywhere (they didn't), and I found something completely different, and rather entertaining.  The index to the 2008 issue pointed to one reference, on page 20, to a certain Piers Gaveston.  Naturally I went to investigate, and then almost embarrassed myself with laughing too loudly in the stacks.

The article was a guide to the various chronicles known as belonging to, written by, edited by, derived from or possibly misattributed to Peterborough (Nicholas Karn and Edmund King (and what a perfect name), "The Peterborough Chronicles", pp. 17-29).  And Walter of Whittlesey, writing early in the fourteenth story, includes what Karn and King call "the abbey's 'Piers Gaveston story'" (20).  Translation is mine, because I am picky:

And in the thirty-fourth year of the reign of that King Edward [I, so c. 1306]... the abbot Godfrey also received at the Borough lord Edward, son of that king, and lord Piers Gaveston, and to these he sent gifts as is here narrated: When the abbot's messenger reached lord Edward with a certain cup to the value of 50 pounds[1], he asked intemperately ('petiit idem Eduuardus incontinenti') if a gift had also been sent to lord Piers. When the messenger replied that he had not, he disdained the cup and would not receive it: the messenger then seeking out the lord Piers upon the abbot's command bearing a cup valued at 40 pounds, he was granted admission and the abbot's gift was joyfully received with thanks ('gratanter donum abbatis recepit, gratias agens quam facere'). The messenger was also sent on the abbot's behalf as if to beg the advice of lord Piers on the question of whether the other cup would now prove pleasing to the lord Edward, and he replied that it would; the messenger then revealed that he had not wished to receive it, and the lord Piers summoned his chamberlain to say to him, 'Go to the lord Edward and tell him that I would like him to receive the abbot's gift'.   Upon their returning to the said lord Edward with the said cup as directed, he received them gladly, bestowing thanks on the abbot ('gratias conferens abbati') for his gifts.  [2]

But the thing is, this isn't a Piers Gaveston story - it's an Edward story. It isn't Gaveston's behaviour that's the problem here, but that of the future king.  Not only does he insist on putting Gaveston on a similar status to himself, as a guest in his own right rather than part of the future king's train, but he sends the Abbot - the Abbot of Peterborough, no less - supplicating to an untitled knight for the favour of the prince.  The prince who is his guest.  Gaveston's reception of his gift actually shows Edward up - he 'gives thanks' to the abbot (using 'agere', which is to the best of my knowledge the usual verb coupled with 'gratias'[3]), and even has an adverb to emphasise his gratitude, while Edward, when he gets around to deigning to accept the gift, seems to give his thanks as a favour ('conferre'). The difference in Walter's word choice there could be due to the difference in their rank, but given the exasperation (and, I think, glee) of the narration, I suspect he's playing the two scenes up in deliberate contrast.

Of course, I understand what Karn and King mean when they call this "Peterborough's  'Piers Gaveston' story" - everyone had one, I'm sure, just as many later had a 'Hugh Despenser' story. He lent himself to flamboyant stories, and Edward certainly wasn't one for being diplomatic about it (although, honestly, Edward, Abbot of Peterborough + host). But Piers Gaveston is never just Piers Gaveston.  He's a metaphor for what Edward does wrong - just as the whole sodomy thing in contemporary accounts is never about sodomy, but about the imbalance of power that was perceived to be threatening the entire structure of the state[4]. The abbot is denied access to the prince who is his guest, in stark contrast to the civil visits and interactions with his father narrated immediately before this tale. The abbot is forced to almost double the value of the polite gift-giving he expected on the occasion of a royal visit.  The abbot is humiliated, via the messenger, and not only the messenger but the whole monastery are clearly destined to know about it, and probably recount it in gleeful detail.  The vividly imagined little scenes, even the snippet of direct speech from Gaveston, savour to me of repeated retellings and scandalised delight.

I'm assuming, on those grounds, that the story is at least a little exaggerated, possibly embellished with details from other similar 'Piers Gaveston stories'.  But even in its bare bones, it's interesting, firstly (and most reliably) as witness to the types of stories people were telling and relishing at this point, but also for the hazy glimpse it affords us of the actors within it.  Even if only a little of the story is true, Edward is becoming increasingly defensive about people's reactions to Gaveston at this point, and making it worse with his own behaviour.  I'd say he's 'acting out' in a teenage way by taking advantage of those times when he's away from his father to enforce his opinion of the proper order of things - and it is completely characteristic of him at this period, to be recognising only in his father any kind of restraint, or constraint, to the extent that he does not feel the need to be bound by usual codes of polite social interaction.

Well, why should he.  He's the prince.  And people just keep slighting his Piers.  They deserve a little tetchiness.


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[1] Karn and King say 100, but Sparke's Latin clearly reads L, not C.  They may have silently corrected this in consultation with manuscript sources; but I am translating Sparke's edition.  In light of the value of Gaveston's cup, it's not an insignificant question - is the knight worth 4/5 or 2/5 of the prince?
[2] Walter of Whittlesey's continuation of the Peterborough Chronicle; ed. Joseph Sparke, Historiae Coenobii Burgensis Scriptores Varii, London 1723, 171-72.
[3] Cf the Latin of the Gloria in the mass - 'Gratias agimus tibi propter magnam propter magnam gloriam tuam'.

A study of Cleopatra D IX: MS IV, ff. 90-115. Epistola ad regem Edwardi III.

A manuscript of the Epistola ad regem Edwardi III, by William of Pagula (?-1332), written c. 1331, complaining of the practice of purveyance. The manuscript dates from the late fourteenth century (or early fifteenth), attributes the work to Archbishop Islip, and is unique in the volume in being the only manuscript in paper.

 

Description.

Paper, 26 ff. No description of the manuscript has been published.

 

Contents.

A long complaint and advice tract against the practice of purveyance, particularly as it is imposed on the surrounds of Windsor Forest. Addressed to the young Edward III, it is in the form of a long list developing a formal argument, with most points beginning with the formula “O domine mi rex...”. Similar to the slightly later Speculum regis Edwardi III, it is sometimes referred to as Recension A of the Speculum. This label derives from Moisant, who published both works in 1891 and decided that the Speculum proper was merely a later revision of this Epistola. In labelling it the Epistola, I follow Boyle, whose work establishing the authorship, relationship and differing intents of both tracts is now considered definitive (Boyle, “Oculis Sacerdotis” & “Speculum”).

 

Date.

Judging by internal evidence - allusions to Edward’s youth, his sister, his recent assumption of full authority, recent treaties with France, contemporary local events and the author’s statement that forty years have passed since Edward I instituted the laws of purveyance in the eighteenth year of his reign – Tait and Boyle both judge that the Epistola was written early in 1331 and its companion Speculum a few months later (Tait 112-13; Boyle, “Oculis Sacerdotis” 107). William of Pagula died in 1332 (Boyle, “Oculis Sacerdotis” 100; Nederman, “William of Pagula”).

This particular manuscript, however, has not been the subject of discussion by either (or later by Nederman, who approaches the text as a legal historian and not a codicologist). Boyle mentions it in passing as a fourteenth-century witness (Boyle, “Speculum” 330), but specifies neither a more precise window of production, nor his reasons for judging it so. If he is correct, however, two things would point to a later date within that century:

-The attribution to Archbishop Islip dates it firmly after 1349 (the date of his provision to the see), and suggests a date still later, as the venerable blur of time obscured the fact that the Epistola had already been in circulation for some years, and possibly heightened the prestige of Islip’s name to the point where it would improve the reception of a text credited to him. I would tentatively suggest that this manner of attribution would increase in likelihood with the natural reverence following his death (1366).

- This manuscript is written on paper. According to Thompson, the first paper mills in France were those in Troyes, not built until 1348. England did not follow suit until shortly before 1490, although some paper made its way to the island via Gascony, largely from the mills of Bordeaux (634-35). Although Thompson gives dates neither for the earliest English uses of paper, nor the establishment of the earliest Bordeaux mills, this suggests that a date before the last quarter of the century would be very unlikely.

More precise dating could be achieved by consulting the manuscript, as a manuscript of 26 folios ought, by means of watermarks, to reveal at least a tempus a quo and place of origin for its primary materials.

 

Origin and authorship.

The Epistola was written by William of Pagula, as Boyle has established (“Oculis Sacerdotis”), though later manuscripts attribute it to Archbishop Simon Islip. Boyle calls it a “localized appeal from the location of Windsor Forest for letters of protection” against the practice of purveyance, written during William’s time as vicar of nearby Winkfield (Boyle, “Oculis Sacerdotis” 99 & 107).

The origin and scribe of the present manuscript, however, are unknown. Knowledge of the paper’s watermarks, in consultation with paper supply routes (if that information is available) could indicate some of the most likely centres of production, but is unlikely to yield any definite evidence due to the quantities of French-imported paper swamping the English paper market until halfway through the sixteenth century (Shorter 16) . A Gascon origin is perhaps more likely in any case, as paper was in commoner use in England’s continental holdings than on the island well into the fifteenth century (Thompson 634-35).

Whether the manuscript was made on the continent or in England, the use of paper (as expensive as parchment due to rarity) and the fact of its preservation long enough to be bound with the other manuscripts in this volume may suggest a reasonably high level of production, possibly for presentation or gift. The level of professionalism, of course, could be quickly determined by consulting the manuscript.

 

Later provenance and position within codex.

Whatever the date of the Epistola manuscript, it is undoubtedly the youngest in the codex, grouped with them and ordered according to its contents rather than its own age. While the concerns the Epistola expresses are tantalisingly similar to those of the chronicler of the previous manuscript, and the town of Pagula (Paull) is also in the Yorkshire region, there is no evidence to connect the two. Certainly the style of the short chronicle bears no resemblance to the formal, didactic Latin of William of Pagula. Given the discrepancy in their age, any thematic similarities are likely to be due to Cotton’s judgement, and their juxtaposition in the codex is adequately explained by the approximately chronological ordering of its contents up to this point.

 

Lacunae and potential.

The majority of the lacunae, in this case, can be filled by consultation with the manuscript, as they are largely codicological and a good deal is known about the circumstances of its contents’ composition. Such an examination would narrow, though not eliminate, the broader gaps in our knowledge of the origin and history of the manuscript itself, shedding light on the circulation and popularity of both the text and the medium of paper in fourteenth-century England, together with the social implications of both.

 

 

Cited.

Boyle, Leonard E. “The Oculis Sacerdotis and some other works of William of Pagula.” Transactions of the Royal Historical Society 5th series 5 (1955): 81-110.

----- “William of Pagula and the Speculum Regis Edwardi III.” Mediaeval Studies 32 (1970): 329-36.

Moisant, Joseph (ed). De speculo regis Edwardi III, seu tractatu quem de mala regni administratione. Paris, 1891.

Nederman, Cary J. & Cynthia J. Neville. “The origin of the Speculum Regis Edwardi III of William of Pagula.” Studi Medievali 3rd series 38 (1997): 317-329.

Nederman, Cary J. “Pagula, William (d. 1332?).” Oxford Dictionary of National Biography. Oxford UP, 2004.  (03 Dec 2009).

Shorter, A. H. Paper making in the British Isles: An Historical and Geographical Study. Devon: David & Charles, 1971.

Thompson, James Westfall. The Medieval Library. 1939. New York: Hafner, 1957.

The Air-brush and Red Blaming Pen of History

I've never read Froissart start to finish, only dipped into bits depending on what I'm researching at the time. And now that I've set out to read his Chronicles as a whole, I'm becoming increasingly relieved that I only ever quoted his version of Edward II's reign and deposition to demonstrate "tales that were told later about these events", rather than "how these events happened, no really, and this is crucial to my argument". I'm going to assume his 'historical' value rises as he gets closer to his own time and events that he witnessed, but the way he conflates certain characters and events and smooths over others is, in the light it sheds on the transmission and construction of history, more fascinating than accuracy.

Edward II, he claims, is "no part of our subject" (5)[1]. Still, he spends a few chapters narrating his reign - primarily, it seems, to provide contrast with those of his father and his son. For "it has often been observed that between two valiant kings there has most commonly been one less sufficient both in wit and valour" (4). When the recent family history of your (erstwhile/occasional) patron includes events like, oh, said patron's mother overthrowing his father with the help of her lover and setting the patron up as king in his father's place and then being overthrown by the new king who then hangs her lover like a thief, there's some delicate narration to be done, and this is probably going to necessitate finding a few scapegoats to shoulder all their own blame and as much as possible of everyone else's. Edward II is definitely one of Froissart's scapegoats. Positive references back to Edward I ("valiant, prudent, wise and bold" (5)) prove that Our Hero did come of good, strong lineage: his father was just an aberration.

Another scapegoat is Hugh Despenser, who takes the blame for his own deeds, most of Edward II's worst behaviour (as opposed to his simple incompetence), the entirety of the disputes between king and barons, the death of Thomas of Lancaster ("a wise and saintly man" (7)), and, obligingly, the role of Piers Gaveston. Gaveston doesn't appear in Froissart's history at all; instead, we are told that Edward II "truly governed his country with great cruelty and injustice, by the advice of Sir Hugh Despencer, with whom he had been brought up since childhood" (ibid). Now, on the face of it, this could be absolutely correct. He was, in the latter and most notorious part of his reign, strongly influenced by Despenser. And Despenser was one of the ten pueri in custodia hand-picked by Edward I as suitable companions to his growing son in the 1290s. But so was Piers Gaveston (Edward I really knew how to pick them), and it was he to whom the young Edward most adhered, he who was to influence the formation of his personality, political attitudes and developing relationship with his father and barons and his own crown until well after Gaveston was murdered in 1312. Despenser, by contrast, wasn't really in Edward's favour until 1316 at the earliest, and doesn't appear to have substantially affected his decisions before his appointment as chamberlain in 1318[2]. And that's without even considering all the lesser favourites in between and around those times, like Roger d'Amory and Arundel.

But that's complicated, and creates an unnecessary duplication of the main villain of the piece, which, as any film writer will tell you, confuses the audience. There was always a favourite, and he was someone who'd been raised with the king since childhood, and Edward's government was strongly influenced (or just carried out) by him. And Hugh Despenser fits that description, is easiest to villainise (Gaveston gave half the barons insulting nicknames, which is funny), is most memorable and got executed in a horrible way, so he's much the best candidate for the scapegoat hat.

However, there's absolutely no way we can make his hat big enough to take the blame for Isabella invading England, the dubious legality of deposing a king (or forcing him to abdicate, if you prefer). So we need scapegoat #3. The obvious candidate? Roger Mortimer.

Unexpectedly, then, he barely appears at all in the account of the invasion. Edward II takes all the blame for this one. Isabella escapes his tyranny, fleeing to France with her son[3]. She hears the pleas of the oppressed English, wishes to help them, pleads with king of France and count of Hainault for help (on her knees, weeping, because this is proper and appropriate and very touching), Sir John of Hainault swears to her that "you may count on me as your own knight" (12), which is all very admirable, and he helps her enter England. Naturally, the country rises up to meet her and rejects Edward. Mortimer appears once, just after the queen has (independently) decided to answer her people's call:

Then she left her lodging as quickly and quietly as she could, with her son, who was then about fifteen years old, the Earl of Kent, Sir Roger Mortimer and all the other English knights that had come away with her. They passed right through France... (11)

So right now, Mortimer's function is to avoid stealing Isabella's glory (er, sorry - piety). We need Isabella to be a hero for now, and we don't need him as a villain yet, not until after Edward II and Despenser are out of the picture and we come to the awkward question of Isabella's tyranny. At that point, he will be necessary not only evilly convince Edward III to kill his uncle Kent and to be the focus of Edward III's coup, but also to retrospectively take the blame for any doubts still lingering about Isabella's actions in and after the invasion.

And then, of course, there's the awkward question of adultery. The woman in question is, remember, Froissart's patron's mother, and possibly the most influential woman in the country's memory. Froissart does his best to side-step it - largely by the simple expedient already mentioned, of leaving Mortimer out of the history altogether. If one were to try to pair Isabella's name with that of any man over the course of the campaign, it would be Sir John of Hainault: but he firmly defined their relationship at the outset as a very proper lady-and-her-champion courtly trope. There is a hint of adultery, or rather of some vague inappropriateness, before Mortimer's name is ever mentioned, when Isabella in France is warned that "in all truth, if she did not behave discreetly, the King her brother would have her sent back to her husband in England, and her son with her" (11). But this is muddied by context: it is preceded by Isabella's distress at hearing of England's unhappiness, and followed by "because it did not please the King of France that she should stay away from her husband" (ibid). So the indiscretion is there, if one knows the story, but it's as far from suggestive as he can manage.

Similarly, the only hint we have before the denouement of any relationship between Isabella and Mortimer is painted primarily as mutual interest and influence, and it comes on the very verge of their catastrophe, when Froissart is piling up the tension against them:

The young King of England was ruled for a long time by the advice of his mother and of Edmund Earl of Kent and Sir Roger Mortimer, as you have heard. At length jealousy arose between these two lords, to the extent that Sir Roger Mortimer, with the connivance of the Queen Mother, advised the King that the Earl of Kent was going to poison him... (51)

Leaving aside what Froissart may or may not have known about the actual accusations against Kent[4], this neatly places the Blame of Evilness on Mortimer, while allowing Isabella's "connivance" to the extent that it shows a powerful bloc working against young Edward taking on the full robe of government, elevating Edward III while demeaning his mother as little as possible. Where there is glory to be seen in the actions of Isabella's party, she is allowed to take full responsibility, adorned in the robes of chivalry's belle dame; where something unsightly peeks through, she is, naturally, a woman, and is absolved from true responsibility by the weakness of her sex.

But then, of course, came the part that Froissart couldn't ignore: that little detail where Isabella was suspected of being pregnant with Mortimer's child, and Mortimer's downfall. What he can do, of course, is a) assert that it was all rumour and he can't speak to its truth, and b) shift the focus away by using that as a prologue to AND THEN EDWARD REALISED MORTIMER WAS EVIL AND SMOTE HIM MIGHTILY. And to accentuate this MIGHTY SMOTIFYING, how was Mortimer killed? Not merely hanged as Murimuth and pretty much every contemporary source would have it, oh no:

[The barons and nobles] replied that Mortimer should suffer the same fate as Sir Hugh Despenser, and this sentence was carried out without delay or mercy. Mortimer was dragged through the streets of London on a hurdle, and then tied to a ladder in an open square. His private parts were cut off and thrown onto a fire, as were his hearts and entrails, since he was guilty of treason in thought and deed. His body was then quartered and sent to the four largest cities in England, the head remaining in London. Such was the fate of Sir Roger Mortimer; may God forgive him his sins. (52)

And so all the evil people were punished evilly for their evil, and the rest of them lived happily ever after.

Now, I don't suggest that every instance in which Froissart varies from what we (more or less) know to have happened is a deliberate and conscious attempt on his part to wrest history into a more fitting course. I haven't yet managed to track down a copy of Jean le Bel's chronicles, which I understand Froissart was to a large extent following (alright, copying) for the earlier books. So for some of the "Froissart"s above one perhaps ought to read "Jean le Bel" - and for some, one must surely read "rumour, folklore, that old bloke in the pub and Everyone Knows".

I skimmed through a high-school or undergrad level book yesterday on the events of the English Civil Wars (it had diagrams!). One phrase caught my eye - it said something about "to understand this period, one must..." Well, why must I? Why can't I just take the facts and - well, turn them around my way and make my own understanding of them?

To understand, one must make history into a story in one's mind. Froissart, and the people around him, had certain tropes and shapes into which the facts and events and clouds of history had to fit to become a good, coherent story. It can't be a story until it has meaning - and sometimes it needs to take a few hammer-blows first.


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[1] All quotes are from the edition of the chronicles trans. and ed. John Jolliffe (New York: Modern Library, 1968). Eventually I will get around to reading them in French.

[2] Adam Murimuth doesn't find it necessary to refer to him before his first exile in 1320.

[3] In itself another example of simplifying events by placing blame and telescoping the sequence. Isabella went to France on Edward's instructions to negotiate terms with the king, her brother, who eventually agreed to receiving homage (for the French lands held by the English crown) not from Edward II but from his son the prince. Edward II was reluctant to send his heir over into the custody of his wife and her family, but eventually consented, sending a large loyal retinue with him. Isabella managed to manoeuvre people and events such that the retinue was sent home, and she was left holding the baby, as it were.

[4] Though if he had heard that the charge was actually about trying to help his brother (former Edward II, officially dead) escape from the place where he had been firmly assured by many notable and trustworthy people that he was, in fact, still being held prisoner, and should probably still be king... well, that was probably a good version of the story to leave out, because there's a whole mess of nasty legitimacy business there that I can't imagine Edward III would have wanted him to drag out. Come to that, I translated Kent's answer to the charges the other day: maybe I should post that.

Edward the First, rex Edwardus quartus

It's interesting, while reading Adam Murimuth's account of 1307-09, to see him struggling with the necessity of repeatedly comparing two men, both kings of England named Edward. Though the convention of numbering popes was clearly well-established (he refers to them readily as Bonifacius octavus, Clemente quintus, etc), he doesn't apply this apparently obvious solution to the Edwards. Even referring to Henry III, Edward I's father, he calls him simply "re[x] Henric[us]"- perhaps because there had been a generation neatly separating each Henry from the next, reducing the possibility of confusion. Context also helps Murimuth there: King Edward is "fili[us] regis Henrici", therefore the Henry in question is the one who fathered King Edward, the one in most recent memory. It's possible that in other places, where necessary, the Henrys are distinguished by number at this period.

But the odd "primus" or "secundus" would certainly come in handy for Murimuth when he has to discuss two Edwards at once; so why not use them? Well, the obvious answer is that the convention didn't exist, as it applied to English kings. Even if it was being used for the Henrys (and I'll have to look into that, because I don't know), that's only one precedent, and one point does not make a line. Since the Conquest, there had only been one Matilda, one Geoffrey, one Richard, one John; though there had been two Williams, they were well in the past, and easily distinguished by descriptors: "the Conqueror" and "Rufus".

So someone writing about Edward I and needing to distinguish him from other Edwards (which was, of course, not a necessity at all until his son became king) could have done so by a descriptor - say, Edward Longshanks - or by a number - Edward the First. The problem was, of course, that he wasn't. His namesake, Edward the Confessor, died months before William became the Conqueror; Edward the Martyr was easily confused with him, having similar mutable stories of sainthood and invasion hovering around his mild-mannered, ineffective and above all brief reign in the late 900s; and Edward the Elder had reigned 899-924.

Marc Morris has this to say on the subject, in the preface to his recent biography of Edward I:

At the time of Edward's accession in 1272, even his most recent royal namesake, Edward the Confessor, had been dead for more than two centuries. Everyone in the thirteenth century remembered the Confessor, for by then he had become the patron saint of the English royal family. But when it came to the other King Edwards, people were altogether more hazy. Towards the end of Edward I's reign, for example, some of his subjects felt compelled to chronicle his remarkable deeds, and decided that they needed to distinguish the king by giving him a number. Unfortunately they miscounted, including in their tallies the Confessor ... and also the celebrated tenth-century king, Edward the Elder (899-924), but overlooking entirely the short and unmemorable reign of Edward the Martyr (975-78). For this reason, at least two thirteenth-century writers referred to Edward I as 'Edward the Third'. Had they counted correctly, they would have called him 'Edward the Fourth'.
Fortunately for us, such early and inaccurate numbering schemes did not endure. In general, when his contemporaries wished to distinguish Edward, they called him 'King Edward, son of King Henry'. The need for numbers arose only after his death, when he was succeeded by a son, and then a grandson, both of whom bore his illustrious name. By the middle of the fourteenth century, Englishmen found themselves having to differentiate between three consecutive, identially named kings, and so unsurprisingly they started referring to them as the First, Second and Third. Anyone troubled by the recollection that once upon a time there had been other kings called Edward could salve their historical conscience by adding 'since the Conquest'. Thus the Norman Conquest became the official starting point for the numbering of English kings. [1]

Murimuth should have read that passage, because he uses neither of those methods to distinguish Edward I. Writing some decades later, he must not have noticed - or perhaps chose to disregard - Edward's contemporary chroniclers who did give him a number, and apparently was not writing late enough for the presence of a third Edward to have solidified the need for ordinals. And so far, he's only referred to Edward I as "son of King Henry" once: not to distinguish him from any other Edwards, but simply on his first introduction, on page 2.

So, how does Murimuth refer to Edward I, after the accession of Edward II? He can't call him "rex Angliae" anymore, or "rex Edwardus". He can't call his son "Edwardus de Carnervan" now that he's king; nor can he call the man who was king "Edwardus de Wyntonia". The solution is to refer to him as Edward II's father, handing the title from one to the other in a sentence in which each is referred to by their familial relationship to the other:

Cui successit Edwardus de Carnervan, filius suus, statim post mortem ejusdem patris sui. (11)

The odd thing about the way Murimuth uses "pater suus", however, is that as Edward II takes over the signifiers "rex Angliae" and "rex Edwardus", "pater suus" becomes so closely associated with Edward I that Murimuth will use it in sentences where Edward II, the target of "suus", never actually appears, where grammatically "suus" could refer to Archbishop Robert, to Boniface VIII, to William Langton, Piers Gaveston, Robert Bruce or any of several people named in the course of a convoluted paragraph. And yet, even in the absence of his son, it retains its meaning: Edward I.

It never becomes quite dissociated from its technical meaning, not quite enough to be called a proper noun in its own right; but it does edge in that direction. And at the same time, the meaning of "Edward I" moves - naturally enough - from the actual king and his historical actions to an exemplar of fatherly almost-perfection against which to judge the actions of "filii sui".

Perhaps I'm reading too much if I see hints of "Pater Noster" there; but that is the main traditional use of "pater" as a proper noun, and makes even common-noun "pater" a very laden word; especially, surely, when used of a king.



[1] Morris, Marc. A great and terrible king: Edward I and the forging of Britain. London: Hutchinson, 2008. xv-xvi.

A verray, parfit gentil king (part 3): Froissart, Edward III’s public relations manager.

Part the third of a three-part post on The Perfect King and his Eyes of Flash, and the reason why I started them in the first place. Here are parts one and two.

So, if it’s all about the PR, Froissart was doing Edward III a good service. He was working for Edward III’s decidedly less martial grandson, in a court that was arguably falling away from the Arthurian ideals that Edward III had seemed to realise:

His Scottish and Irish campaigns notwithstanding, Richard was seen as a military failure in comparison to his father, the Black Prince, and, more especially, in relation to his grandfather, Edward III. Unlike Edward, who had painstakingly developed support for the war in France – and thus political support for himself – Richard embarked on a quest for peace … But the virtues of peace were contrused by Richard’s detractors as symptoms of the failures of warriors; as many chronicle accounts have it, in Richard’s court, a chivalric knight was not a fighting knight. Instead, the king was said to surround himself with his friends and favourites, with ladies, and with foreigners ... Ricardian knights are still vigorous and powerful, but this energy is misdirected toward the wrong place, the bedroom rather than the field, and deployed in the wrong way, with language rather than deeds. [1]

It was therefore very much in Froissart's interests as an employee (in the loose sense) to present his patrons and the whole Ricardian court with an image of the past that was at once perfect and glorious, and recognisably real. Ideals must be upheld, but they must also seem attainable, and not contradict the memories of anyone who still remembered the events recounted. Froissart’s Edward III fits perfectly into his world of martial prowess and honour, heraldry and chivalry and national (or bi-national) glory. In fact, I think it’s fair to say that he emerges as the epitome of this world, simultaneously held to and upholding a higher standard of it than anyone else. Froissart’s pen creates a chronicle, but also an adventure story, and a world that can contain and exult it. Every age, every social group, perhaps every person, has a similar world: a reflection of what the world in which we wish we could be set. Froissart creates that for Richard II’s court, creates a worthy setting for the king’s legend of a grandfather, and a grandfather worthy of that setting.

So, Froissart could do the PR gig with no problems. But the portrayal of Edward III as the epitome of Arthurian ideals wasn’t his idea. It was Edward III’s[2]. The man who created the Order of the Garter, who managed at age seventeen to not only draw together the support to overthrow his mother and Mortimer but to actually keep hold of those threads and build the support base that he did, who dealt with such sleight with the lingering shadow of his father’s deposition and possible murder, who combined the arms of England and France, was no amateur at self-representation. And remember whose son he was[4]:

... when the king sent his son to France, he ordered his wife to return to England without delay. When this command had been explained to the king of France and to the queen herself by the messengers, the queen replied, ‘I feel’, she said, ‘that marriage is a union of a man and a woman, holding fast to the practice of a life together, and that someone has come between my husband and myself and is trying to break that bond; I declare that I will not return until this intruder is removed, but, discarding my marriage garment, shall put on the robes of widowhood and mourning until I am avenged of this Pharisee.’ [5]

This accusation and the complementary image of Isabella as suffering widow were developed in various speeches and proclamations. By appearing to embrace gender norms, even as she took a lover of her own and led an army against her husband, she effectively turned the blame for the breakdown of the royal marriage on Edward and his (arguably) more scandalous affair[7]. And throughout her time in France and the subsequent invasion, she showed flare for public relations that tends to be obscured nowadays by the absolute debacle that arose when she and Mortimer were secure and appeared to forget that they had any need of it. Isabella’s mourning weeds, her care to keep her adulterous relationship with Mortimer out of sight, to identify her cause with Thomas of Lancaster (killed in 1322 for rising against Edward and the Despensers, but now widely regarded as a saint), to visit shrines as she travelled “as if on pilgrimage” [8], to stay on the right side of the populace and to present herself as a rejected wife anxious to save the country for its rightful heir, formed masterful and effective propaganda. And the boy who was to be Edward III was there, saw it all, and – clearly – learned.

So, Edward III seems to have been just as capable as Froissart at presenting an inspiring vision of reality and of himself. The idea of his reign as a golden age of chivalric perfection (at least prior to the return of the Black Death) was not purely Ricardian nostalgia – although that probably helped – but was an image that Edward III conceived of and worked for. How much artistic licence do we allow Froissart, then, in his depiction of individual scenes like the aftermath of the siege of Calais? Is the scene he depicts the sort of scene Edward was likely to have enacted? In its general scope? in precise details? at that time and place? If so (to any of those), how much was it embroidered or altered in the telling? Because it isn’t the historical accuracy of the scene that matters so much as the story: what people heard, how they heard it, whether the audience is Froissart’s or the people to whom it may have been recounted in Edward III’s time. It is a display and a fantasy, power designed to be seen and recounted, an allegorical enactment of the theoretical process of justice, whether or not he and Philippa actually performed this in real life. It is how he (or Froissart, or Richard II) wanted the process and the nature of kingship to be understood, perhaps in order that they might understand that this is what happens in the arena of justice, this is what kings are, even if they never actually see this for themselves. A way to read their own experiences of the actual king, perhaps.

So the question is a fairly straightforward one: how far was this image of kingship deliberately constructed according to existing tropes of idealised majesty? The complication lies in trying to find a subject, to turn that sentence into the active voice. I think it wouldn’t be too controversial to say that Froissart was intentionally portraying Edward III’s actions and manner in this way; but to what extent was Edward himself doing the same thing?


[1] Federico, Sylvia, “The Place of Chivalry in the New Trojan Court: Gawain, Chaucer and Richard II,” Place, space, and landscape in medieval narrative, ed. Laura L. Howes (Knoxville: University of Tennessee Press, 2007), 172. Incidentally, a page earlier she makes a similar comment about the bedroom, with reference to Sir Gawain and the Green Knight and Troilus and Criseyde: “…the intersections of historical place and chivalric identity ... [are] two of the main issues of concern in the chronicles of the late fourteenth century. These texts identify martial failure as a central element of Richard’s rule and further assert a relationship between the misdirection of knightly prowess and the physical site of its occurrence: the bedroom is where Ricardian chivalry is lost.” (171) I’d qualify this with a resounding “Step forward, Erec and Enide”, which rather stars the emasculating bedroom some time before anyone could possibly have been concerned about Richard II (or even Richard I), but it is an interesting point which is certainly not invalidated by the fact that Chrétien de Troyes got there first. Suddenly I have an urge to explore every bedroom scene in Ricardian literature. I imagine the Wife of Bath’s bedroom and the wedding bed of her fictional knight would both contribute to and cheerfully twist any conclusions I could make.
[2] Actually, one could blame Roger Mortimer for the magnificent Arthurian-themed tournaments he held while he was ‘regent’ at Isabella’s side, at which he actually represented Arthur himself at least once[3]. One can always blame Roger Mortimer for anything. Someone usually does.
[3] Cue vague, incomplete citation: I read this either in the first chapter of Ian Mortimer’s biography of Edward III, or the last few of his biography of Roger Mortimer. As I have access to neither now, I can’t check page references, but: The greatest traitor: the life of Sir Roger Mortimer, 1st Earl of March, Ruler of England, 1327-1330 (London: Jonathan Cape, 2003), and The perfect king: the life of Edward III, father of the English nation (London: Jonathan Cape, 2006).
[4] No, not Edward II’s. Well, indisputably Edward II’s, unless you buy into the theories that he was actually Edward I’s bastard after a really, really long pregnancy, or that Roger Mortimer was hopping into Isabella’s bed a lot earlier than is in any way feasible. But Edward II, whatever his other qualities, was resoundingly rotten at public relations.
[5] Vita Edwardi Secundi: the life of Edward the Second: re-edited text with new introduction, new historical notes, and revised translation based on that of N. Denholm-Young, eds. Wendy R. Childs and N. Denholm-Young (Oxford: Oxford UP, 2005). 243.
[7] Ormrod hints at this when he argues that both Edward II and Edward III worked to “rehabilitate [Edward II] both as heterosexual and king... through the representation of the marriage of Edward II and Queen Isabella as a normal and functional relationship, disrupted not by the intervention of Piers Gaveston and the Despensers but by the queen’s own adultery with Roger Mortimer and by her usurpation of kingly power and prerogative”. (27) (“The Sexualities of Edward II”. The Reign of Edward II: New Perspectives, eds. Gwylim Dodd & Anthony Musson (York: York Medieval Press, 2006. 22-47.)
[8] “... quasi peregrinando” Annales Paulini, in Chronicles of the reigns of Edward I and Edward II, ed. William Stubbs, (London: Longman, 1882). 314.

A verray, parfit gentil king (part 2): The comparative bit.

Part the second of a three-part post on The Perfect King and his Eyes of Flash.
Part one.
Part three.

Following on from this post, there are a few points I want to pick out with regards to the construct of the perfect king in the passages I quoted (the scene with the Roman ambassadors in the alliterative and Malory’s Morte d’Arthur; Theseus’ condemnation of Palamoun and Arcite and the women’s intervention in The Knight’s Tale; Edward III’s reception of the burghers of Calais at the end of Froissart’s account of that siege). Each of these stories follows the same pattern, with a few – but remarkably few – variations. Within that pattern, details recur: the effect of the king’s eyes, and his criticism of the words of his opponents, for example. But there are three threads in this story (and it is, essentially, one story) that I find particularly interesting in their reflection on contemporary notions of kingship.

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Firstly, in each case the voice of the narrator or the king takes pains to keep us from sympathising too much with the king’s opponents, placing him on a higher moral plain. There is a particular emphasis on making us feel that he is acting justly in responding with anger to the challenge, especially in the two instances when this leads to death sentences.

In the Mortes, the king takes no action and says not a word against the messengers: he merely glares, and their cowering reaction both elevates him (in the power of his gaze) and diminishes the messengers, that they would respond with grovelling terror to a look. Sympathies and admiration shift firmly towards the king – of whom, after all, an unjust and insulting tribute is being demanded (at least from our partisan perspective). Linking this symbolic victory to moral qualities, the king highlights the difference between his behaviour and that of the messengers when he characterises their words as “brym”, but denies their ability to affect his decision. In considering his response to the demand, he declares (in Malory) that he “woll nat be to over-hasty” and he will take “avysement”, implying both careful judgement and proper consultation with trusted advisers. In the alliterative version this becomes a less open reprimand which nevertheless contrasts his judgement with their discourtesy: “Thow has me somonde... and said what the lykes; / Ffore sake of thy soueraynge I suffre the the more”. This Arthur also goes on to say that he will consult with his nobles before reaching a decision. In courtesy, his behaviour is more proper to the situation than that of the representatives of his rival power, while the skin-saving emphasis of those representatives on the emperor’s “commaundement” gives the impression of a far less consular and more tyrannical model of royalty at the foreign court than at Camelot.

In the Mortes, the king’s anger serves as a deserved rebuke, but the spectre of physical punishment is evoked only by the fearful ambassadors when they plead that he “misdoo no messangere”. In Froissart and Chaucer’s stories, however, he passes a sentence of death himself. The balance of sympathy is therefore more easily tipped towards the victims, and as a result the king’s justice in this particular instance is emphasised, rather than his superior adherence to social codes of behaviour overall. Both stories allow the legitimacy of sympathy towards the condemned – in fact, they dramatise it. The “tears of pity” of the nobles in Froissart, and of the ladies in The Knight’s Tale, heighten the emotional stakes and encourage a stronger engagement with the eventual outcome.

Theseus, however, seems to have no personal emotional involvement in the situation. In the only instance in these examples devoid of eye-flashing, the duke pronounces a dispassionate “conclusioun”, in which “youre owene mouth, by youre confessioun” is the instrument of the sentencing. The unemotional precision of his response is his legitimacy as a just ruler[1]. It characterises him in this moment as the stern, clear-headed judge, looking down from his horse on the two sweating, bleeding, sulking young men whose emotions rule their judgement. To condemn to death two men who have previously been banished on pain of the same and discovered again in the country forbidden them is perfectly logical, and the duke determinedly keeps it on a logical footing until the ladies unbalance it with their emotional pleas. The only reference to the kingly wrath so emphasised in the other three extracts is the narrator’s “at the last aslaked was his mood”: previously, we had not been aware that he had a mood to slake.

By contrast, in the second extract, the king’s reaction is justified entirely by his anger against the citizens of the town in question. “He hated” them, we are told, and he looks at them with his heart “bursting in anger”. Hardly an impartial judge, to modern eyes; but the reason for his hatred? “Because of the losses they had inflicted on him at sea in the past”, the narrator tells us, and the king himself says “The people of [this town] have killed so many of my men that it is right that these should die in their turn”. This is not, then, the anger of a man on a private vendetta, but the righteous wrath of the king of sword and sceptre, defending his people and enforcing justice. In retrospect, this is probably the ‘mood’ that we are meant to understand was “aslaked” in the duke.

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The second, and perhaps the most important point that I want to pull out of these pieces is the importance of balancing justice with compassion – and vice versa. If the king did not make a display of anger and authority in each case – and I call it a display though there is no indication in any of the texts that the king is insincere in making it – his power and image would be significantly lessened. In two Mortes, he would be losing face diplomatically, in an international negotiation; in The Knight’s Tale and Froissart’s account, the power at stake is the king’s ability to enforce internal justice in his realm (despite the fact that the defendants in both cases are foreigners). In any of these cases, he could have his opponents put to death. We have seen the authors justifying the king in each case, and it would take little effort to exaggerate the behaviour of the messengers in the Mortes so that even the execution of diplomats wouldn’t be viewed too harshly by the audience. Even more so in Froissart and Chaucer, the king/duke would be well within his rights to pursue justice and the full extent of the law – but he does not.

To make a point, I shall quote (slightly anachronistically) a political tract written for the education of princes which was written in 1365, but not translated into English until the mid 1400s:

Mercy is a vertue greetly necessarye to every man, ffor it is a vertue that moch causeth the sauftie of the werkys of oure lorde God... And the wise man seith that mercy with oute justise is no verrey mercy, but rathir it may be seid folye and symplesse. And also justise with oute mercy is crueltie and felonye, and therfore it is convenient that these II vertues be ever ensembled, soo that the oon may at alle tymes attempre the othir. [2]

In all four passages, and particularly the ones in which the possibility of death is raised by the king himself, this tension between mercy and justice is played out. Where punishment is deserved, it must be a real possibility: the king cannot grant justice immediately and without deliberation, or he gives in to “folye and symplesse”. But nor can he carry out the sentence in all cases with no possibility of reprieve and – perhaps more importantly – without heeding the advice of his court and the voice of compassion, or he turns to “crueltie and felonye”. Mercy must therefore be hard-won, but won nonetheless. To this end, the voice of compassion is externalised – and feminised. The call for clemency is led in both these instances by the women. This does not represent a disowning of that aspect of royal power – on the contrary, there is a repeated emphasis on how well it befits a king. I believe that it has more to do with the developing role of the queen in embodying that royal power[3]. To allow her to intercede visibly (as Philippa does with Edward III) is not to set her up against the authority of the king, but within it. She is performing within a formalised role, embodying the mercy of the crown in her own (movingly pregnant, and thus extra-feminine) body, allowing the king to concede while retaining his authority and the fear aroused by his wrath. The queen, then, becomes the feminine embodiment of mercy to the king’s masculine justice, marriage keeping them “ever ensembled” as the above passage recommends, while the separation across two bodies prevents either from eroding the other.

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Nevertheless – and this is the third point I wanted to make – note the flourish with which each passage ends. Rather than petering off in clemency, the king takes another step and provides a demonstration which combines (feminine?) generosity inextricably with a politically advantageous display of power. In the Mortes, the ambassadors are treated with extravagant hospitality, no “spycerye” is spared, and the representatives of the rival power find themselves cowed by merely by the spread of expensively exotic dishes on Arthur’s table. Edward III presents each burgher with new clothes, “an ample dinner”, a large noble entourage and the means to set himself up in some comfort and style in Picardy. And Theseus, of course, subsumes the petty personal duel of Palamoun and Arcite in a massive monument to his own wealth and power, in the dual form of the physical structure of the arena and the international social significance of the tournament.

So, a good king is one who can act with force and decision in the interests of his kingdom, but knows how to listen to advice, and can turn a challenging situation to a resounding demonstration of his own power. And above all, he knows how to make a good show. Acting out the drama of justice and mercy before the court, cowing messengers with a glare, positioning himself to be physically as superior as he (would like to prove that he) is morally, casting himself as the bastion and centre of civilisation, from which he may distribute mercy or more physical tokens of generosity... it’s all about the PR. And that is what I will consider tomorrow!


[1] Although, of course, one can’t take Theseus as a pure and sincere representation of the perfect monarch without acknowledging the presence or proving the absence of Chaucerian irony. Theseus has reasons selfish as well as disinterested for acting as he does; but setting the question of sincerity aside, Chaucer is using a standard trope here, and audience expectations formed by previous settings of similar scenes do play a part in how we are to understand, if not the private motivations, at least the public behaviour of the characters involved.
[2] “The III Consideracions Right Necesserye to the good governaunce of a prince.” Four English political tracts of the later middle ages. Ed. Genet, Jean-Philippe. Camden fourth series 18. (London: Royal Historical Society, 1977). 100.
[3] I know I've read an article putting forward the idea of this gendered division of royal power in the reign of Richard II, but can't quite work out where. I blame this on being in Adelaide with my parents for Christmas, hampered by my inability to check sources. My hunch is that it was one of the chapters in Cullum, P. H., and Katherine J. Lewis (eds), Holiness and masculinity in the Middle Ages (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 2005).

A verray, parfit gentil king (part 1): Pick the history from the hoax.

Part the first of a three-part post on The Perfect King and his Eyes of Flash.
Part two.
Part three.


This was going to be one post, but it turned into three. These things just happen in my life.

Firstly, consider the following four extracts, all written in the fourteenth century (or fifteenth century, following a fourteenth century text, in one case), all narrating a similar test of royal authority. Three are fiction - chivalric literature, the pinnacle of idealised knighthood and kingship - and one is history. Pick which is which.

1. So hit befelle that the Emperour ... sente unto [the king] messyngers commaundynge hym for to pay his trewage that this auncettryes [ancestors] have payde before hym. Whan [the king] wyste [understood, had heard] what they mente he loked up with his gray yghen [eyes] and angred at the messyngers passyng sore. Than were this messengers aferde and knelyd stylle and durste nat aryde, they were so aferde of his grymme countenaunce.... Than one of the knyghtes messyngers spake alowde and seyde,
'Crowned kynge, myssedo [mis-do, harm] no messyngers, for we be com at his commaundemente, as servytures sholde.'
Then spake the Conquerrour, 'Thou recrayed and coward knyghte, why feryst thou my countenaunce?'
.... 'Sir,' seyde one of the [messengers], 'so Cryste me helpe, I was so aferde whan I loked in thy face that myne herte wolde nat serve for to sey my message....'
'Thow seyste well,' seyde [the king], 'but for all thy brym [rash, fierce] wordys I woll nat be to over-hasty, and therfore thou and thy felowys shall abyde here seven dayes... and whan we have takyn our avysement [come to a judicious decision] ye shall have your answere playnly, suche as I shall abyde by.'

2. [At the surrender of a town who has dared defy our Idealised King.] The King was in his chamber with a large company of earls, barons and knights [when the deputation from the town was brought to him].... The King kept quite silent and looked at them very fiercely, for he hated the people of [the town] because of the losses they had inflicted on him at sea in the past. The six burghers knelt down before him and, clasping their hands in supplication, said: 'Most noble lord and king, here before you are we six citizens of [Mystery Town].... We surrender to you the keys of the town and the castle, to do with them as you will. We put ourselves as you see us entirely in your hands.... We pray you by your generous heart to have mercy on us also.'
None of the brave men present, lords, knights or men-at-arms, could refrain from shedding tears of pity when they heard this....
But the King continued to glare at them savagely, his heart so bursting with anger that he could not speak. When at last he did, it was to order their heads to be struck off immediately.
All the nobles and knights who were there begged the King to have mercy, but he would not listen.... At this the King ground his teeth and said: 'That is enough... my mind is made up. Let the executioner be sent for. The people of [this town] have killed so many of my men that it is right that these should die in their turn.'
Then the noble Queen... pregnant as she was, humbly threw herself on her knees before the King and said, weeping, 'Ah, my dear lord, since I crossed the sea at great danger to myself, you know that I have never asked a single favour from you. But now I ask you in all humility, in the name of the Son of the Blessed Mary, and by the love you bear me, to have mercy on these six men.'
The King remained silent for a time, looking at his gentle wife as she knelt in tears before him. His heart was softened, [and he granted her request].... They were given new clothes and an ample dinner. Then each was presented with six nobles and they were escorted safely through the English army and went to live in various towns in Picardy.

3. [Our perfect king (well, duke, in this instance, though his wife is still called a queen) comes across two young men duelling in the forest, both of them banished from his realm. They confess their identity and their transgression, and eagerly dob each other in.]
This worthy duc answerde anon agayn,
And seyde, "This is a short conclusioun.
Youre owene mouth, by youre confessioun,
Hath dampned [damned] yow...
Ye shal be deed, by myghty Mars the rede!"
The queene anon, for verray wommanhede,
Gan for to wepe, and so dide [another woman],
And alle the ladyes in the compaignye....
And alle crieden, bothe lasse and moore,
"Have mercy, Lord, upon us wommen alle!"
And on hir bare knees adoun they falle
And wolde have kist his feet ther as he stood;
Til at the last aslaked [slaked, calmed] was his mood,
For pitee runneth soone in gentil herte.
[He declared them pardoned, but ordered that they resume their duel in a year's time in the context of a highly organised tournament, to be arranged and paid for by himself, where each of the two young knights will lead a team of the mightiest warriors in the land and certain measures will be taken to reduce actual fatalities.]

4. [Two ambassadors arrive and demand that the king swear allegiance to their emperor.]
The kynge blyschit one [looked at] the beryne [man] with his brode eghne [eyes]
That fulle brymly [fiercely] for breth brynte [burnt] as the gledys [hot coals]...
Luked as a lyone [like a lion, or as a lion would], and on his lyppe bytes!
The [ambassadors] for radnesse [dread] ruschte to the erthe [rushed to the ground, ie, fell on their faces/knees, quailed]...
Thene couered vp a knyghte [one of the ambassadors rose], and criede ful lowde,
"Kynge corounede [crowned] of kynd [by/in/above all nature/race], curtays and noble,
Misdoo no messangere for menske of thi seluyne [honour of yourself, ie, by (or for the sake of) your honour]...
We come at his [our lord's] commaundment; haue vs excusede" [pardon us].
Then carpys [speaks] the conquerour crewelle [hard] wordez, -
"Haa! crauande [craven] knyghte! a cowarde thee semez!..."
"Sir", sais the [messenger], "so Crist mott [might] me helpe, [ie, may Christ help me, an intensifying oath]
The voute of thi visage has woundyde vs alle!
Thow arte the lordlyeste lede [lord] that euer I one lukyde [that every I looked on, saw];
By lukynge [by looking, ie, to the eye], with-owttyne lesse [truly], a lyone the semys!" [you seem to be a lion!]
"Thow has me somonde [summoned me]," quod the kynge, "and said what the lykes [said what you would];
ffore sake of thy soueraynge [for your lord's sake] I suffre the the more [I grant you greater license]...
[The king says that he will take counsel with his dukes, etc, while the ambassadors stay a week and are entertained with great extravagance, treated royally:]
"Spare for no spycerye [spices], bot spende what the lykys,
That there be largesce one lofte [largesse on high, ie, great largesse], and no lake foundene [and no lack be found]."

And of course, even if you recognised none of those, it’s obvious that when I used the word ‘history’ to describe one of them (the second, Froissart’s account of the siege of Calais[1]), I did so reservedly. It’s less obvious, though equally true, that I used ‘fiction’ in the same way. There is, of course, a genre division between the chronicle and such a poem as the Knight’s Tale[2]; but the division is far from distinct, and the boundaries are blurred by the insistence on historical and literary authority in the latter (Chaucer claims to be recounting his own experience of hearing a knight recite a tale he in turn insists is not his invention but drawn from “olde stories”) and the influence on the former of the shape that the author feels a story ought to be - not to mention the distortion to the same effect imposed by his sources, be they written or oral, and the expectations of patrons or audience. The first and fourth extracts are from two different versions of the Morte d’Arthur, Malory’s first[3] and the anonymous alliterative version[4] (his source for that particular scene) last[5], and they also straddle the boundary between romance fiction and chronicle to an extent that modern readers don’t always appreciate. Geoffrey of Monmouth’s history of England, after all, was the literary source of the vast bulk of Arthurian romance that blossomed in the following centuries, and Arthur stalked through his pages alongside kings that we would nowadays regard as perfectly historical. This is a familiar topic to anyone accustomed to the literature (of any sort) of the fourteenth century, so I won’t labour the point.

In any case, the passages above rather speak for themselves in their similarity. According to them, the perfect king:
- has really flashy eyes
- is fierce and furious in his defence of his kingdom, his people and his own authority
- cuts a fine figure of dignity and power (and theatricality) in front of his court
- looks like a lion, especially with those flashy eyes
- is not afraid to temper justice with compassion, and compassion with justice
- knows the political value of generosity, and of making shows of largesse
- did I mention the flashy eyes?
- is far, far more civilised than you, especially if you’re the emperor of Rome or a pair of hormonal teenagers scrapping in the woods
- would happily sing along with the chorus of Sir Joseph Porter’s ode to the common British tar:

His foot should stamp and his throat should growl,
His hair should twirl and his face should scowl;
His eyes should flash and his breast protrude,
And this should be his customary attitude -- (pose). [6]

Post #2 tomorrow. More actual content guaranteed.


[1] Froissart, Jean, Chronicles, ed. Geoffrey Brereton (Harmondsworth: Penguin, 1978), 108-09.
[2] The third extract - The Knight’s Tale 1742-1761, from the Canterbury Tales, in Chaucer, Geoffrey, The Riverside Chaucer, ed. Benson, Larry D. (3rd ed). (Boston: Houghton Mifflin, 1987). 48-49.
[3] Malory, Thomas, Le Morte Darthur: the Winchester manuscript, ed. Helen Cooper, (Oxford: Oxford UP, 1998). V.6..36
[4] Morte Arthure, ed. Edmund Brock, EETS OS 8 (London: Oxford UP, 1961), 116-165.
[5] I originally had the order of all four extracts in chronological order, but it occurred to me that starting with the alliterative Morte, the hardest of all four in terms of language, was an excellent way to befuddle anyone not entirely with alliterative Middle English. It is much easier to read after reading three scenes all essentially saying the same thing – so the temporal order was reversed.
[6] HMS Pinafore, Gilbert & Sullivan.