In this Kate Greenaway illustration from the 1888 version of Robert Browning’s poem, The Pied Piper of Hamelin (first published in 1842), one can see an accurate depiction of the pied piper, inexplicably not wearing the motley the poem’s title says he is wearing, luring away the children of the town of Hamelin because he is very angry about the town’s refusal to pay contracted wages. The children are also accurately depicted in their lovely late 18th century attire, which is just what they would have been wearing in 1284. This entire festival of anachronism is presented here because it terrified Anne when she was a child. Never got over those happy little children dancing off into an unknown oblivion.
In 1284, the children of Hamelin disappeared. Unless you translate the Latin differently, and they all died. Over the centuries, the story of what happened to them would get more and more intricate. Was there a Pied Piper involved? Probably not, though there may have been a musician. Were there rats? Nah. They don’t show up in the stories for a few hundred years. But something happened, as the Hamelin chronicles tell us. What the hell it was we don’t know. We explain the possible fates of the children of Hamelin, as invented over the centuries, and Michelle raves about the ways in which the town of Hamelin is currently cashing in on the legend.
The legends surrounding Leopold’s kidnapping of Richard the Lionheart are many. Nobody’s surprised by this. He WAS found, in an inn. Why? Oh, he was wearing his royal signet ring. Or, he had given gloves with royal insignia to some boy who was showing them off. We like to think that all his men were acting like he was the King of England, out of habit. But found he was. Despite, as later legend tells us, trying to disguise himself as the servant turning the spit. In this engraving from the early 17th century, we can see one version of why this might not have worked. Copper Enrgraving by Matthäus Merian the Elder, from: Johann Ludwig Gottfried, Historische Chronica, Frankfurt, 1630, p.559. Colourised later
Capturing an enemy and holding them for ransom, in the middle ages, wasn’t necessarily a crime. However, kidnapping a fellow crusader was not ok, since the pope has said that all the crusaders were supposed to treat each other well (by not capturing their lands and goods while they were off fighting, or kidnapping them and holding them for ransom), and also, there’s a difference between holding a fellow noble for ransom and kidnapping the king of England. To be truthful, as far as medieval crimes go, this one isn’t very criminal — just sort of dumb, and tacky, but it gives a chance to discuss the rehabilitation of Richard’s reputation (he wasn’t a horrible king! he was ok!) and the importance of historical fiction.
Here we see St. Maelog’s Cross, which is the very stone that Maud de Braose threw across the River Wye, when she got annoyed at it because it fell out of her apron onto her toe, when she was carrying stones to build Hay Castle, which she did all by herself all in one night. This is especially impressive since the stone had been in the churchyard of St. Maelog for at least 100 years before Maud threw it over the river. (St. Maelog’s Church, Llowes, Powys)
In 1210, King John of England left Maud de Braose and her son William in Corfe Castle and let them starve to death, either because Maud had been shirty with one of his messengers, or because John owed William money and didn’t want to pay it back, or because, well, who knows. John was like that. Maud, on the other hand, had, before getting thrown into the dungeon at Corfe Castle, had impressed the Welsh by defending a castle against them, and, apparently, or at least the Welsh said so, magically building a castle in one night all by herself. In this episode, we discuss the horrible badness of King John, and why it’s not a good idea to learn history from Disney movies.
This illustration of a judicial trial by combat is a German illustration from 1540 of a trial in Germany in 1409. So, it’s a few decades later than the French trial of 1386, and it’s in Germany, not France, and the combatants have no horses, and the dueling site is in a town square rather than the grounds of a monsastery. Other than those things, though, this is totally an accurate representation of our subject. ( Bayrische Staatsbibliothek Cod. icon. 393 — Jörg Breu der Jüngere and Paulus Hector Mair)
In 1386, Marguerite de Carrouges accused Jacques le Gris of having raped her, and though the French Parliament could not come to an agreement as to whether or not le Gris was guilty, we know that he was, because Marguerite’s husband Jean killed le Gris in a trial by combat, so that’s settled. Although le Gris’ descendants would keep trying to convince everybody that actually somebody else raped her. The evidence for this was either nonexistent or unconvincing. The case is currently known both because of the 2004 book The Last Duel, by Eric Jager, which was then made into a 2021 film, The Last Duel, directed by Ridley Scott. We discuss the historical record of the crime and the trials, and Michelle discusses the film (Spoiler Alerts!), which, as usual, she has a lot of opinions about. Oh, and by the way, it wasn’t actually the last French judicial duel. Near the end though, and the title is great!
The Book of Leinster, held at Trinity College, Dublin (this is f. 53) has lots and lots of information, of various sorts, and includes Irish Annals, which tell you such interesting things as, for example, the death of Bran and Eithne. They were burned to death! That’s it. That’s really all we know. The page above doesn’t have anything to do with Bran and Eithne, but it does give you an excellent example of why we said the illustrations in the manuscript are not as good as the illustrations in The Book of Kells. On the other hand, what illustrations are.
The Irish Annals are full — full, we tell you — of detailed histories of the kings of Ireland. Only mostly the details are their names, how long they ruled, and how they died. Though Bran Ardchenn and Eithne were burned to death in a church, we don’t know more than that. In this episode, we discuss early Irish history, the Book of Leinster, and Anne’s annoyance at not knowing exactly how Bran and Eithne died. Because “burned to death” doesn’t really explain much.
Leonardo da Vinci drew this nicely gruesome view of one of the Pazzi conspirators, Bernardo Bandini dei Baroncelli, hanging out of the city hall window, in 1479.
In 1478, in Florence, the banking family of the Medici was very powerful. Very powerful indeed. But another banking family, the Pazzi, were not happy with this. No, no! They wanted to be more powerful in Florence than the Medici were! So they created A Plan. Well, a few plans, really, but finally one of the plans was carried out, which was to kill two of the Medici at High Mass in the Cathedral, after which the citizens of Florence were going to say, yay! hoorah! Now the Pazzi will be our leaders! Only they didn’t, and all of the members of the Pazzi Conspiracy got hung from the windows of the city hall, and Lorenzo de’ Medici, who (unlike his brother) had survived the Conspiracy, continued to be Lorenzo the Magnificent. Michelle is Highly Scandalized by all this. Highly, I say.
Matthew Paris (13th C.) here illustrates for us the crowning of King Stephen of England. Thank you, Matthew! But which coronation is it? Cause there were two. (Bridgeman Art Library, Flores Historiarum, Ms 6712 (A.6.89), fol.133r)
In 1127, Stephen of Blois swore an oath that when Henry I, King of England, died, Stephen would support Henry’s daughter (and Stephen’s cousin), Empress Maud, as queen ruler of England. But in 1135, when Henry died, Stephen hightailed it to London and grabbed the throne. In this episode, we discuss the civil war that followed, and several interesting bits of it — Empress Maud escapes from Oxford by walking over the iced river in a blizzard; Queen Matilda, Stephen’s wife, manages to get the citizens of London to throw Matilda out, by playing the girl card; Stephen pays the wages of the mercenaries that Henry, Maud’s son, hired when he invaded Stephen’s kingdom; William of Blois, Stephen’s son, signs away the throne of England because really he has more sense than most of his family. Also, if that rapey song in Seven Brides for Seven Brothers bothers you — as well it might, even if the brothers do come to understand that just grabbing women is not the way to create marriages with them — Michelle has fixed this for you by writing a verse which is all about the awesomeness of Norman women. Which she sings. Life is good.
Hard to choose an image from among the many, no, really, many paintings of the murder of David Rizzio. This one, painted by Jean Lulvèsin 1868, shows Mary, Queen of Scots, being restrained from helping Rizzio, who is surrounded by several assassins, and the mayhem caused by all the supper falling onto the floor.The room’s not this big — but making the room large emphasizes the importance of the horrible event. It’s the beginning of everything falling apart, really.
One evening in March of 1566, Mary, Queen of Scots, was sitting with one of her half-sisters and her secretary David Rizzio, eating supper. Suddenly, the door slammed open; Henry Stuart, Lord Darnley, and his cohorts burst in, stabbed Rizzio, and pointed a gun at the Queen. Who was 6 months pregnant at the time, with the future James I/IV. Then the band of conspirators took Rizzio out, stabbed him 56 times, and threw him down the stairs. We’ll give you all the background to this, and also explain what happened to Darnley, but in essence, all the conspirators were in on a Stupid Plot, which was meant to get Darnley, Mary’s husband, declared King of Scotland. (That, by the way, did not happen.) So that was a very bad evening for Mary, Queen of Scots, though probably not the worst, since later on her cousin Elizabeth, Queen of England, was going to keep her in captivity and then cut her head off. Besides Rizzio’s demise, we discuss why the Nazis were all for Mary and not Elizabeth. Fun times!
In this 19th century engraving, we see a boy bishop in procession with his boy canons. They look very sweet, don’t they? And well behaved. And probably they were, for a while. Later, they will roam around the town, demanding money. Oh, and wearing masks. Winter Shenanigans often require masks.
It’s important, in the middle of the winter, to take part in raucous activities, and there were lots in medieval Europe. Boys being bishops, men and women switching clothes, parishioners gambling in the churches, and, unsurprisingly, most everybody drinking. Lots. Besides giving you the history, Anne explains a Christmas Celebration Gone Terribly Wrong, and Michelle tells you about that time that the Tudors used the Christmas celebrations as a prelude to an execution. Tacky.
Most of the images of Abelard available on the ‘net are either of him looking like a philosopher, or of him and Heloise. But here we have a French engraving from 1800, depicting The Assault. Abelard was really good at fights. As long as they were verbal.
One night, in Paris, thugs broke into the room of Peter Abelard, renowned theologian and philosopher, and beloved teacher, and castrated him. Because Fulbert, the uncle of Heloise, was REALLY annoyed that Abelard and Heloise were keeping their marriage secret. Which they had entered into so that Fulbert wouldn’t be so upset about the affair that they had been having. Also their son, Astrolabe, or, as Anne likes to think of him, Global Positioning System. Fulbert just had no moderation. Abelard went off to be a monk for while and then wander around, Heloise went off to run a nunnery, they both wrote lots of letters, and Astrolabe (after being raised by Abelard’s sister Denise) grew up to work in at least two churches. And then later Abelard and Heloise became very famous as tragic lovers. And you can go and leave letters on their supposed grave in Paris, asking them for help with your love affairs, though really that doesn’t seem like a great idea, given all that bad luck they had, and also they probably aren’t there. The end.
