Thomas the fugitive, run to ground

Well. Not quite. But I know where he was in February 686 years ago. That counts for something, right?

So, part of trying to understand the history and composition of a manuscript I'm working on involves tracing the Engayne family and trying to ascertain just what they were doing in the Lancastrian rebellion of 1321-22. John Engayne, the head of the family, was the patron of the priory that wrote the chronicle, and it's probably safe to say that he (or his heir of the same name - he died sometime in the second half of 1322[1]) gave the priory the documents which it appended to that chronicle, and (most likely) contributed to their opinions, knowledge and loyalties about the events in question. Unfortunately, I can't say for certain that he even participated. However.

Going through the Patent Rolls, I find passing references to various other members of the family - mostly uninformative notices such as their signatures as witness on various grants and so forth, not enough to say which Engaynes were about at the time, especially since many of them shared names. But even without knowing which is which, many of the references are suggestive. In 1326, for example, while Edward is a little busy with a certain invasion, two different Engaynes are among those listed as committing acts of violence against the lands of men who are away in the King's company, armed in his service. There are similar moments leading up to the battle of Boroughbridge in 1322. Nothing that one could cite as definite evidence of the activities of John Engayne, but certainly suggestive of the loyalties of some other members of his family.

However, I am most fond of one Thomas Engayne. I have no idea how he is related to the others, but I like him most of all because he is absent from the Fineshade manuscript. Absent, that is, from the list at the end of the chronicle of those who have fled overseas following Boroughbridge, even though the only other extant witness of this list includes his name. Omission, possibly, but is it likely that one could accidentally forget to copy the name of one's patron's family?

Sadly, I could find nothing more about this Thomas - until yesterday.

January 30, 1323. Stow Park. Writ of aid for John le Barber, Andrew Roskyn and Richard de Mereworth appointed to arrest Nicholas de la Beche, knight, Jakemin de Darynton, John de Hereford, parson of the church of Depeden, Robert de la Lee, Walter de Brawode, John de Goldyngton, knight, Thomas Rocelyn, knight, Robert de Burter, John de Rothyng and Thomas de Engayne. By K. (Edward II vol. 4, p. 238)

He's back in the country! And they don't want him. The Engaynes, by the way, have a manor at Darington, so there is a connection there with at least one of the other knights in company with him.

I thought I would hear no more about this fugitive band, but apparently they were more sneaky than expected! Almost a year later, they are still at large, and their hunter is very belatedly uncovering their tracks:

January 6, 1324. Henley. Writ of aid for John de Weston, commissioned to arrest Walter de Lutz, now prior of Bermundeseye, Bartholomew de Whytsand, his fellow monk, Jacominus Darynoun called James de Darynton [Jakemin from the previous writ?] and Percival his brother, and Peter de Mountmartyn, brother of Sir Ponsard de Mountmartyn and Thomas Rosselyn and Thomas Dengayn; it having been found by inquisition made by John de Weston and Hamo de Chigwell that the said prior and his fellow monks Bartholomew de Whytsand and Godfrey de London had received the said Jacominus, Percival and Peter and other persons adherents of the rebels, and especially of Thomas Rosselyn and Thomas Dengayn, knights, in the priory of Bermundeseye, co. Surrey, and aided them from the feast of St. Nicholas 16 Edward II [6 December 1322], until Shrovetide [8 February 1323], when they permitted them to go away at the expense and mounting of the said prior. By K. (Edward II vol. 4, p. 358.)

This sounds like the stuff of a Walter Scott novel. Roving bands of fugitive knights, outlawed for their part in fighting for the cause of (today's flavour of) justice, hunted by authorities, sheltered in secret by small, sympathetic convents. Just don't mention that little cote you raided for poultry (and/or women) last Sunday.



[1] He died sometime during that regnal year, ie, between July 1322 and June 1323, but we have a presentation dated January 4 1323 of a new rector to a church in his estate, performed by Edward II because John Engayne is dead and his heir is underage. I think it's probably safe to say that he didn't die on January 1, 2 or 3.

The Tale of Zeus and Dame Ragnelle

No, it will make sense. Bear with me.

So, I’ve a conference next week at which I’m speaking on The Weddynge of Sir Gawain and Dame Ragnelle, a mid-15C analogue of the Loathly Lady tale that also appears in, for example, Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale. The fact that the conference theme is “Intimacy: Family, Friendship and Fealty” means that I can’t just go haring off after the diversion that occurred to me last night, so: once more unto the blog!

The history of the Loathly Lady figure relative to Irish sovereignty tales (in which the lady represents the country) has been well established.  I have no citations by me, as I am writing this on the bus, but I believe Frederick Madden had something to say about it in his collection of Gawain stories, and it goes on from there according to the usual patterns of late 19-early 20C myth-discovery.  That is, therefore, the accepted mythical ancestor of the figure, and as hunting out mythological precedents is rather out of fashion and the genealogy is well traced I don’t believe  anyone has thought to dispute it, or posit any additional ancestor.

But surely the obvious classical precedent is the god-who-comes-to-dinner? Zeus, or some other god (usually Zeus as the patron of hospitality), disguises him/herself as some ugly, poor old beggar and asks for shelter and food. Or, of course, for help crossing a river, etc.  This is a test, the protagonist responds according to their moral stature, and the god suddenly sheds his unprepossessing exterior to reveal himself in all his glory to pass judgement on the protagonist, along with appropriate reward or punishment.  I don’t recall offhand whether any examples of that trope appear in Ovid, but it’s entirely in keeping with the system of virtue and reward evident in the Aeneid, to consider just two of the most culturally influential classical texts extant in the Middle Ages.

The main linking device is, of course, the transformation: a disguised stranger who appeared unworthy according to the ideals of the genre – poor and old and helpless in Greek mythology, disgusting and unmannerly and often old in romance – is suddenly transformed into the epitome of those ideals. In addition:

• the transformation is in direct response to the actions of the protagonist towards the stranger,
• in entering the narrative, the stranger will, explicitly or otherwise, initiate a kind of test for the protagonist, in which their response demonstrates (and thereby establishes) their virtue,
• the stranger retains to him/herself the authority to pass judgement on the protagonist’s actions after the return transformation (rather than delegating that task to the narrator), claiming the status of moral arbiter of the narrative,
• similarly, the stranger him/herself dispenses punishment or reward.

The trouble with this is that it’s a bit of a jump from Greek mythology to mediaeval romance.  And there is a good deal of cultural filtering and reconditioning that must take place there to make any Greek story (or figure) have any relevance to a late-mediaeval audience.

So where else can we find a more immediate precedent to this figure, a precedent that provides a type of bridging device between classical myth and late-mediaeval readership? a precedent in a tradition that is entirely accustomed to absorbing classical and/or pagan stories and recasting them to its own set of moral values?

Well:

... whanne Seint Iulian reste hym aboute midnyght al forweried [weary] and the wedyr colde and a gret froste, he herde a vois that wepte piteously and cried: 'Iulian, helpe me ouer for Goddes loue or ellis I perische for greuous colde.' And whanne he herde that voys he arose al sodenly [immediately] and passed the colde water and founde that pore creature that deied nigh for colde, toke hym up and bere hym to his hous and light the fere and dede al his diligence to warme hym. And as he myght in no wise make hym take warmthe he toke hym in his armes and bare hym to his bedde... And a litell after he that apered to be so sike and as a foule lepre stied vp shinyng into heuene, saieng to his oste: 'Iulian, oure Lorde hathe sent me to the, sendyng the to saie that he hathe receiued thi and ye bothe shull reste in oure Lorde witheinne a litell tyme' And anone he vanished awaye... (Gilte Legende, ed. Richard Hamer, EETS 2006; v. 1, 144)

Appropriately enough, that comes from the story of St Julian Hospitaller, Zeus’ descendant in the role of protecting the sacred laws of hospitality and defending the safety of guests.  But it works perfectly well in a Christian context, thus refigured – well enough that throughout the Gilte Legende (and elsewhere), saints and even Jesus himself regularly pop up where they’re not expected, mysteriously disguised, usually as someone helpless, and initiate a test of some kind or another.  Quite of a piece with the popular belief that saints really could interfere in a very material way with everyday life – all your big brothers are watching you.

So, if Dame Ragnelle has cross-genre precedents in, for example, St Julian and others, can we expect that her contemporary audience might have recognised them and picked up on the currents? I think so – if nothing else, Ragnelle seems to deliberately play with the collision of genre, pushing herself forcibly into society, conscious of her own incongruity and playing it for all it’s worth with her fine clothes and horse.  If so, the audience could expect her at her appearance to make demands which would set up a challenge as a moral test – apparently for both Arthur and Gawain. And she does, tests which Gawain passes and Arthur fails (largely by fobbing responsibility off on his nephew).

But if she refers to or recalls testing figures in hagiography, does this have an effect on what is being tested? Courtly virtues? Christian ones?  The story of St Julian explicitly opposes the life of the court (and its values) with the humble Christian values that  attend helping mysterious sick strangers (for which you have to live in an isolated hut beside a ‘flode’). The Wife of Bath’s nameless loathly lady gives a pillow-lecture that could be read as being in opposition to ‘courtly’ virtues. And Gawain, when his ugly wife has become beautiful, thanks God for her deliverance from a curse (and presumably for his from the equally horrible fate of having to look on her all the time). Perhaps Arthur’s failure is that he tries to adhere to courtly virtues which are (or could be read as) so dependent on appearance as reflective of personal status.