After the Romans were expelled from Britain at the start of the 5th century CE, Britain entered a kind of Dark Age that is not well documented. One of the few figures whom we know a little about from this period is a religious leader named Germanus of Auxerre. He was sent on a mission to Britain to deal with the spread of a doctrine called Pelagianism. His activities are described in a document known as the Vita Germani (The Life of Germanus), written by Constantius of Lyons in about 480. In at least one modern film based on the Arthurian legends, Germanus of Auxerre is made a contemporary of King Arthur, but can the historical figure be connected to the legendary king?

Who Was Germanus of Auxerre? Bishop from Arthurian Legend

Germanus of Auxerre really was a Gallic man born into one of Gaul’s noblest families. He studied eloquence and civil law as a youth and made a name for himself at the imperial court. This resulted in the emperor making him one of the six dukes of the Gallic province. However, he earned the ire of the local bishop Amator for hanging hunting trophies on a tree previously associated with pagan worship. Amator cut down the tree but then feared repercussions, so he sought permission to strip Germanus of his dukedom and force him into the clergy by performing tonsure – the ceremonial shaving of the head – on him against his will. Germanus was just as successful in the church as he was in politics, and he succeeded Amator as bishop.

In the year 429, bishops in Britain sent an appeal for help to deal with the spread of a doctrine called Pelagianism, which they viewed as heretical. Spread by the British monk Pelagius, the doctrine denies original sin, and therefore that man can achieve salvation through their own moral acts, and that it does not require the grace of God.

In response to their request, Pope Celestine sent Germanus and another bishop called Lupus to Britain. Allegedly, their mission was largely successful, with Germanus winning over the community with his superior eloquence. They also helped to lead the Britons in a successful battle against an army of Picts and Saxons. Germanus gave thanks for his victory at the grave of a holy person, where he claimed to have a dream in which the man revealed that he was Saint Alban and the details of his martyrdom. He had the account written down and engraved on the walls of the church site, where he also deposited some of the saint’s bones, establishing the Church of Saint Alban.

Germanus returned to Gaul shortly after this, but years later, Pelagianism began spreading again. Therefore, in about 447, he was sent back to Britain. This campaign was also apparently highly successful, stamping out this doctrine once and for all. He swiftly returned to Gaul again, finding his province in political turmoil, and then died in 448.

Germanus’ Connections to the Arthurian Legends

Germanus’ first appearance in the Arthurian legends comes from the Historia Brittonum, written in about 828. In this text, Germanus leads the rebellion against wicked King Vortigern, which results in Vortigern dying as his tower burns to the ground. However, the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle records that Vortigern was alive at least as late as 455, which is later than Germanus of Auxerre’s death date of 448.

Germanus is also connected to various “saints,” or prominent religious figures in early Dark Age British history. For example, one of the most prominent bishops of southeast Wales was Dubricius, allegedly bishop of Llandaff. He appears in the Arthurian legends as King Arthur’s chief bishop. The 12th-century Book of Llandaff claims that Dubricius had been appointed by Germanus. However, virtually all authorities place Dubricius’ birth no earlier than about 460.

The Life of St Illtud claims that Illtud, the supposed cousin of King Arthur, was a disciple of Germanus. Another alleged disciple of Germanus was Paulinus, a bishop who taught Teilo (a thoroughly mid-6th-century figure). Paulinus was also active at the Synod of Brefi, dated to c. 550 or 560.

The Impossible Chronology of Germanus and the Arthurian Legends

Clearly, it is not possible for Paulinus to have really been a disciple of Germanus of Auxerre, seeing as Germanus died in 448. Chronology also completely rules out Dubricius having really been his disciple. The chronology involving Vortigern is also impossible, assuming the entry in the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle mentioning Vortigern alive in 455 is accurate.

However, the connection to Illtud is sometimes accepted by modern authorities. Some of them state that Illtud was a 5th-century religious figure, and that he may have died right at the start of the 6th century. This, however, is in direct conflict with the earliest records concerning Illtud. The earliest record in which he appears is the Life of St Samson, which may have been written as early as the 7th or 8th century. This record shows that Samson lived beyond the death of a king of Brittany named Conomor, which occurred in 560. Meanwhile, it makes Samson and Illtud contemporaries, as does the later Life of St Illtud.

Another religious figure associated with the Arthurian legends who simply could not have genuinely been connected to Germanus of Auxerre is Brioc. He is said to have been sent to Germanus, along with Illtud, as a fellow pupil. As we have seen, Illtud lived in the 6th century, not the 5th. Interestingly, Brioc is also said to have been a contemporary of Samson, and he visited the Frankish king Childebert, who reigned between 511 and 558. Therefore, the evidence is clear that Brioc was a 6th-century religious figure, not a 5th-century religious figure. How, then, can he have been educated by Germanus, given that Germanus died in 448?

The reality of the era that gave rise to the Arthurian legends is that many people had the same names. Therefore, it could be that there was another prominent religious figure called Germanus at large at the time. Many scholars believe so, but is there any evidence to support this theory?

The Other 5th Century Germanus

Of course, the very fact that there are several records of “Germanus” that do not fit the chronology of Germanus of Auxerre is evidence that there was another person by that name. However, direct references to a distinct Germanus would be very helpful. As it happens, there are such references. For example, the late-12th-century writer Jocelyn of Furness wrote about Patrick, the famous preacher in Ireland. He wrote that Patrick had a disciple named Germanus. According to this record, Patrick set Germanus over the church that he had just established on the Isle of Man. Patrick himself had learned from Germanus of Auxerre, according to Muirchú, a writer in the 7th century. Therefore, this Germanus recorded as a disciple of Patrick is a different person.

The existence of this younger Germanus is supported by the writings of Óengus of Tallaght. He wrote that Patrick’s sister, Lupita, had several sons, one of whom was called MoGorman. The idea that this nephew of Patrick, named MoGorman, was also his disciple, recorded as “Germanus,” is perfectly plausible.

How Germanus of the Isle of Man Explains the Arthurian Legends

What we can see so far is that there was a prominent bishop of the Isle of Man named Germanus. He was the disciple and possibly the nephew of Patrick. Since Patrick was active in the mid-5th century, his disciple Germanus would logically have been active in the mid- to late-5th century. This fits perfectly with the Germanus who appears in the Historia Brittonum as a contemporary of Vortigern.

There is another piece of the puzzle from the Arthurian legends that this later Germanus may explain. In a medieval record called The Life of St Nennocha, we are told that Germanus was sent from Ireland by Patrick to King Brochanus of Britain. This king can only be King Brychan, a monarch mentioned in numerous medieval texts concerning Wales. He is mentioned in one 11th-century tale as an opponent of Arthur very early in his reign. Thus, we can see that the Germanus mentioned here as being sent to “Brochanus” must have lived close to the year 500. Given the chronology and the fact that he is recorded as being sent by Patrick, this Germanus is the disciple of Patrick, not Germanus of Auxerre.

The Historical Germanus of Paris

It is likely that the bishop of the Isle of Man was also the Germanus who ordained Dubricius, given that Dubricius was born in c. 460. However, this bishop of the Isle of Man cannot explain all the references to Germanus in the Arthurian legends. For example, even this disciple of Patrick surely lived too early to have been the teacher of Illtud. Nor could he have been the Germanus who taught Brioc, a thoroughly mid-6th-century figure.

However, the record concerning Brioc provides an explanation. It says that Brioc was sent (along with Illtud) by his parents to be educated by Germanus in Paris. It does not say that he was sent to Auxerre. Significantly, it is known that there was a bishop of Paris by the name of Germanus (usually spelled “Germain” in modern sources) who lived in the 6th century. He was born just before the start of that century and died in 576. Therefore, this record about Brioc being sent to Paris to be educated by Germanus is a reference to this historical figure, not to the earlier Germanus of Auxerre.

Germanus in the Arthurian Legends

In summary, we can see that the various references to Germanus in texts related to the Arthurian legends are not all about the same person. A few of them refer to Germanus of Auxerre, the most famous person by that name, who came to Britain in the 440s to deal with Pelagianism. But they also refer to Germanus, a disciple of Patrick, who was a bishop of the Isle and Man is probably the Germanus who campaigned against Vortigern and ordained Arthur’s bishop Dubricius. Arthur’s cousin, Illtud, was then sent to study under another Germanus in Paris.

King Arthur, according to medieval legend, was a powerful ruler who lived in the 6th century AD. He ruled over the Britons and fought against the “invading” Anglo-Saxons. There is plenty of ongoing debate about whether or not he really existed, but the medieval Britons certainly believed that he did. Interestingly, some scholars have noted that the Britons appear to have stopped using the name “Arthur” after the time of King Arthur. They suggest that this may have been due to a superstition or intense reverence for the famous king. But the evidence actually suggests that the name Arthur may have been more commonly used among the Britons than previously suggested.

Use of the Name “Arthur” After the Time of King Arthur

Historians of Dark Age Britain agree that in the era immediately following the time in which King Arthur supposedly existed, the name “Arthur” suddenly surged in popularity. Although we do not have many contemporary records from the 6th and 7th centuries, there are manuscripts from later centuries that contain genealogies of numerous different dynasties. While their relatively late date obviously makes their accuracy open to question, it is equally obvious that they were not created for the sake of deceiving later historians about King Arthur.

What these medieval genealogical lists reveal is that several dynasties around Britain started using the name “Arthur” in the late 6th and early 7th centuries. This corresponds to the generations immediately following King Arthur’s supposed rule. Many scholars have used this phenomenon as evidence that Arthur really existed. After all, names often surge in popularity due to being used by prominent, famous, or popular individuals. We see this same phenomenon today, and there is no reason to think that it would have been different in the past. Indeed, there are plenty of examples of this from ancient and medieval history.

Where the Name “Arthur” Appears

Two of the most notable examples of the name “Arthur” being used after the time of King Arthur come from Dyfed in southwest Wales and Dal Riada in western Scotland. In the case of the former, it was used by the individual known as Arthur ap Pedr. He seems to have been born near the beginning of the 7th century. In the case of Dal Riada, there was a member of this dynasty known as Artuir mac Aedan. He was born around the middle of the 6th century. These two dynasties were geographically very far apart, which supports the idea that whoever popularized the name “Arthur” was known throughout most of Britain.

A minor example is Arthur, son of Bicoir. He is mentioned in Irish annals, which refer to him killing Mongan mac Fiachna of Ulster in the 620s. On this basis, he was probably born towards the end of the 6th century or right at the beginning of the 7th century. Another example is Artuir, the grandfather of Feradach, a cleric known for signing the Cain Adomnan in 697. This Arthur was probably born near the beginning of the 7th century. The Cain Adomnan itself also refers to another Artuir, the grandson of the aforementioned Aedan of Dal Riada. Hence, he was presumably a nephew of the Artuir mac Aedan mentioned previously.

One final example, noted by historian Ken Dark, is an Arthur mentioned on an inscribed stone found in County Tipperary in Ireland. This seems to date to the 7th century.

The Issue of King Arthur and the Irish

The evidence from this, as explained and emphasized by Ken Dark, strongly indicates that there really was a famous figure in the preceding generation who popularized the name “Arthur.” However, there is an important observation to make. According to some scholars, all of these appearances of the name “Arthur” are seen among Irish dynasties or individuals. In contrast, there is no evidence for Arthur’s name being used among the Britons in the generations after King Arthur. The name certainly doesn’t appear in the Welsh genealogies, even though Arthur was a Welsh figure, not an Irish one.

Since Arthur was a king of the Britons, not the Irish, this has led to some interesting speculation. Why would the Britons have avoided using the name “Arthur,” while the Irish appear to have been perfectly happy to use it for their princes? Scholars such as Peter Bartrum and Oliver Padel have argued that the Britons avoided using the name because he was actually a folkloric figure, not a historical person. They had some kind of superstition or reverential awe surrounding the figure of Arthur. In contrast, the Irish settlers in Britain did not have this same superstition or reverential awe. Therefore, when they arrived in Britain and became aware of the stories about the folkloric Arthur, they began using the name for their princes.

According to this idea, the timing of the use of the name among the Irish does not coincide with the era after King Arthur really existed. Rather, it coincides with when the Irish arrived in Britain, when they first became aware of this folkloric figure.

Were These Arthurs Really Irish?

Despite this intriguing argument, there are some significant objections to it. For one thing, there is good evidence that the Kingdom of Dyfed in southwest Wales was not an Irish kingdom. There are only two bases for the idea that it was ruled by the Irish. One is the testimony of a single record, the Expulsion of the Déisi. The second is the fact that there are numerous stones inscribed in Irish Ogham (along with Latin) in Dyfed in the 5th and 6th centuries.

However, all other records about the descent of the kings of Dyfed give them a Romano-British lineage, not an Irish one. Furthermore, even in the Expulsion of the Déisi, the Irish names in the supposed genealogical list end abruptly and are replaced by Romano-British ones in about the year 500. This strongly indicates that the Irish dynasty was expelled and replaced with a Romano-British one in about that year. While the inscribed stones show that there were many Irish settlers in the region, this does not tell us the ethnicity of the kings.

Furthermore, there is good evidence that the dynasty of Dal Riada intermarried with a Brythonic dynasty from southeast Wales. Medieval records claim that a daughter of Brychan, a king of Brycheiniog, was the mother of Aedan of Dal Riada. This would make Aedan half Brythonic. Furthermore, an Irish hagiography refers to a daughter of Aedan as the granddaughter of a king of Britannia. This would mean that Aedan married a Brythonic princess, making Artuir the son of a Brythonic queen and a half-Brythonic king.

In addition, the mention of Arthur, son of Bicoir, in the Irish annals explicitly refers to him as “the Briton.” Whether this designation refers to Arthur himself or his father Bicoir is debatable, but it makes little difference to the matter at hand.

Britons Named Arthur

Based on the aforementioned evidence, we can actually see that the use of the name “Arthur” after the alleged time of King Arthur was not something that was avoided by the Britons. The case of Arthur, son of Bicoir the Briton, is the clearest example of this, but we can see it in the case of others as well. Contrary to popular belief, Dyfed was probably not an Irish kingdom after the end of the 5th century. Therefore, Arthur ap Pedr was probably a Brythonic prince, not an Irish one. While Artuir mac Aedan was from Dal Riada, an Irish kingdom, his mother and grandmother were both Brythonic princesses. The significance of this would also apply to Aedan’s grandson Artuir, mentioned in the Cain Adomnan. Therefore, it is clear that there was no superstition among the Britons preventing the use of the name “Arthur” after the time of King Arthur.

Furthermore, the idea that the timing of the surge in popularity of the name could be tied to when the Irish settlers arrived in Britain is severely flawed. The Irish started arriving in Dyfed in the late 4th century. The Irish settlers in Dal Riada arrived towards the end of the 5th century. Yet, it is not until after the supposed lifetime of King Arthur that they started using the name “Arthur” for their princes. This argues against the notion that they picked up the name after being exposed to a pre-existing folkloric tradition about a hero called Arthur.

Did the Britons Really Stop Using the Name Arthur?

In conclusion, what does the evidence really show regarding the use of the name “Arthur” among the Britons after the time of King Arthur? Did they really stop using it due to reverential respect, awe, or even a superstition surrounding this king? Does this indicate that Arthur was a folkloric figure among the Britons, and that the Irish adopted the name of this figure because they did not have the same superstitious or reverential view of him? As we have seen, the evidence clearly shows that the name “Arthur” was used among the Britons in the period following King Arthur’s supposed lifetime. Most of the Arthurs who appear in that period were either fully or mostly Brythonic.

Interestingly, at least three of these four Arthurs can be specifically connected with southeast Wales. This was the region most closely associated with King Arthur in medieval tradition. Brychan, the grandfather of Aedan of Dal Riada, was from the kingdom of Brycheiniog, just above the kingdoms of Glywysing and Gwent. Interestingly, he was the cousin of Athrwys ap Meurig, a candidate for the historical King Arthur. As for Arthur ap Pedr, his kingdom bordered Glywysing, making contact and even intermarriage plausible.

As far as religious movements go, Protestantism and the European Reformation tend to get the most attention, while movements like Catharism often go unnoticed. Despite this, Catharism was one of the biggest thorns in the side of the Catholic Church between the 12th and 14th centuries, even provoking a Crusade against the movement in the early 13th century. Read on to find out all about Catharism and why it was so important to the Catholic Church to shut it down and kill its followers, the Cathars.

The Origins of the Cathars

The Cathars, or Albigensians, have an unusual origin story, insofar as there is no set moment or piece of evidence that historians can pinpoint as the beginning of the Cathar movement.

Some theories presume that the Cathars originated from the Byzantine Empire, and that radical beliefs from an Eastern Orthodox sect of Christianity developed into what came to be known as Catharism. Others believe that it originated sometime in the mid-12th century in regions of southern France and northern Italy.

It was around 1145 that the Cathars began to appear around southern France, and not long after their first appearances, their teachings began to spread by word of mouth.

The Inherent Beliefs of Catharism

There was one principal belief in Catharism, which was that there were two “gods”: a good God, such as the God that the Bible teaches about, and an evil “god,” or Satan, who created the material, physical world. It was this belief in Satan as a god that was seen as heretical. In the Bible, Satan is described as Lucifer, a fallen angel, but to put him on the same level with God was deemed heretical by the Catholic Church, as was the idea that Satan could create anything other than pure evil.

As such, the Cathars sought to separate themselves from the material world because they saw it as an inherently evil place. Cathars wanted to restore their souls to divine purity, and the only way to do so was to reject as much of the physical and material world as possible. This belief that the Cathars were trapped angels led them to be known among each other, and their critics, as “the pure ones,” a notion that the Catholic Church simply refused to accept.

Interestingly, the Cathars rejected the material and physical elements of the Catholic Church, something that King Henry VIII would adhere to almost four centuries later when he undertook the Dissolution of the Monasteries, stripping Catholic churches and monasteries of their gold and other wealth. While Henry VIII primarily did this for economic gain and to fund his wars on foreign soil, it is still interesting to compare the two. The Cathars were criticizing the wealth of the Catholic Church almost 400 years before the European Reformation had its first stirrings in Bohemia.

The Cathars believed that Catholic priests were corrupted by the material world, and as such, their views could not be taken seriously. Because of all the glitz and glamor surrounding priests in the Middle Ages, this feeling was stronger the higher up the Catholic Church hierarchy one traveled. The pope was not seen as God’s representative on Earth by Cathars but arguably closer to Satan’s, because of how much he had been corrupted by the physical and material world.

This was treasonous and blasphemous language. Cathars had not just become a mouthy sect of the Church; they had become heretics. And as such, strong action had to be taken by the Catholic Church against the Cathars.

First Measures Against the Cathars

Despite Catharism only originating around the mid-1140s, by the 1160s, it had become a strong sect and had gained numerous followers. This was when the Church began to condemn Catharism, or at least acknowledge it as an annoyance.

In the early 1160s, the Church attempted to suppress the heretical teachings of Catharism, with little success. Popes and archbishops worked together with local clergymen to send out missionaries to southern France and northern Italy in an attempt to convert the Cathars back to Catholicism, but this was of little avail.

In 1167, the Council of Saint-Felix was held, which established who the senior bishop figures were to be in Cathar Churches. The only evidence we have of the leader of this Council is a man referred to by the name Papa Nicetas, who was presumed to have been the Bogomil Bishop of Constantinople. He had been sent to Lombardy and ended up heading this landmark council.

Very little else is known about what went on at the Council, save that seven bishops were appointed, and that they were not to interfere with each other’s bishoprics; much like how the Seven Churches of Asia did not interfere with each other’s independence.

Just before the turn of the 13th century, this had become too much for one of medieval Europe’s most formidable popes, Innocent III, to bear. An iconic pope who was unafraid to call for crusades (he also called for the Fourth Crusade), he decided that enough was enough and called for a crusade against the Cathars.

The Albigensian Crusade

In a moment that shocked Christendom, Pope Innocent III had called for a crusade against fellow Christians. This was unheard of and showed how damning Innocent’s views of the Cathars were. He was prepared to give them the same treatment given to Muslims, or the “Infidel,” as they were commonly referred to.

This new crusade, which became known as the Albigensian Crusade, started the downfall of Catharism.

Following the murder of a papal legate, allegedly by a Cathar, the Albigensian Crusade was launched in 1209. It would rage on until 1229, with the final aim of ending Catharism once and for all.

It is important to remember that Europe was high in the midst of crusading fever at this point. As such, when a Crusade to put heretics down much closer to home arose – with far fewer risks and at far less cost than travelling halfway across the known world—it was simply too good to turn down.

The French Crown openly supported this crusade. Interestingly, what may have swayed the French Crown to become so openly involved in the crusade was that participants were promised remission of sins from the Papacy if they were to take part and help finance it.

The Massacre of Béziers

Perhaps the most notable event of the Albigensian Crusade came in the first few months. Following the Siege of the French town of Béziers, the infamous Massacre of Béziers took place.

Béziers was seen as a stronghold of Catharism, and after a siege, the town walls were breached, and the carnage began. It was not just the known Cathars that were butchered, but almost everyone in the town. One source claims around 20,000 were killed, rightfully giving this military event the name the “Massacre of Béziers.”

Like many other medieval crusades, the Albigensian Crusade was also very stop-start in its nature, and depending on funding, finances, manpower, and a multitude of other factors. So while it seems that two decades was an awfully long time for a crusade in a small region of southern France, the reality was that it did not take that long.

The formal end to the Albigensian Crusade came when the Treaty of Paris was signed at Meaux on April 12, 1229. This Crusade had done what Innocent III had set out to do over two decades prior – eradicate the Cathar movement. Although this was not to be the complete end, the Cathars still faced persecution in later years.

Further Persecution and the End of the Cathars

Following the military defeats that the Cathars faced during the Albigensian Crusade, the majority of their support base was wiped out.

However, as sects popped up every now and then in the latter half of the 13th and early 14th centuries, a Medieval Inquisition, similar to the later Spanish Inquisition, was set up to target and kill Cathars. This attack against the Cathars was ultimately successful in its goal and eradicated Catharism from France by the end of the 14th century.

Any Cathars that were left did not rise again as a movement, but instead joined other sects or kept their teachings beyond the reach of contemporary chroniclers.

The Lollards, a proto-Protestant movement that developed in the mid-14th century in England, would hold sway on the teachings of the Protestant and Catholic Church for the next two centuries. Calling for the reform of Western Christianity, the Lollards were one of the first Protestant movements in the world, and their efforts undoubtedly contributed to the philosophy of later figures such as Martin Luther. Read on to find out all about the history of Lollardy in later medieval Europe.

The Origin of the Lollards

While John Wycliffe is credited with starting the Lollard movement in the 14th century, where did his ideas actually originate from?

It was through Wycliffe’s teachings and philosophy that the Lollard movement sparked. Wycliffe was a scholar at Oxford University, and he believed that everybody should have access to the teachings of the Bible, not just those who could read Latin.

As such, Wycliffe began the arduous task of translating the Bible into vernacular English, thus making it accessible for more and more people, who could understand its teachings and read it for themselves.

Because of this, people who could read and understand English—such as townspeople, merchants, and others lower down the social classes than the clergy—could now have access to the teachings of the Bible, instead of hearing it from a Catholic priest.

The Catholic Church looked down upon this practice, even before it condemned Wycliffe as a heretic. But perhaps the biggest reason for the Lollards being seen as a disruptive group was due to their “involvement” in the Peasants’ Revolt of 1381.

Lollardy and the Peasants’ Revolt

During the reign of King Richard II of England, many common people had had enough with the king’s incessant taxes and marched to London to protest them.

Unfortunately for the Lollard movement, one of the leaders of the Peasants’ Revolt was a known Lollard, John Ball. Ball had been preaching against the Catholic Church for at least a decade before Wycliffe began developing the early stages of Lollardy, but because he agreed with much of Wycliffe’s teachings, he was grouped in with him as a Lollard.

When Richard II’s forces brutally put down the Peasants’ Revolt, Ball was seen as a ringleader of the cause, and as such, was hanged, drawn, and quartered, with his body parts being displayed across 14 different parts of the kingdom. This may have seemed like a nail in the coffin for Lollardy, but it was far from over.

Wycliffe’s Next Steps

A year after the Peasants’ Revolt, Wycliffe was dismissed from his position at Oxford University and deemed a heretic by the Catholic Church at the Council of Constance.

Instead of ending the movement completely as the Catholic Church had hoped, Lollardy grew amongst the common people; the Church had spurred the movement on, changing it from a heretical branch of Catholicism to a full-blown underground religious movement.

The English-printed Bible was distributed throughout the kingdom among Lollards, and it was at this point that it really began to take off.

Political Rebellion and Lollardy

Following Wycliffe’s death in 1384, Lollardy did not die with him. On the contrary, it seemed to gain more traction than ever, and began to worry English monarchs by the turn of the 15th century.

In 1401, during the reign of Henry IV, a new law was enacted that essentially redefined the term heresy. Previously, heresy was defined as an error in theological belief, but this new law, called De heretico comburendo, equated heresy with sedition (speaking out) against public rulers. As such, Lollardy was driven underground.

However, it was the burning of John Badby in 1410 that, much like the dismissal of John Wycliffe, helped to grow the movement even more. Badby was a tailor from the West Midlands and an open Lollard. Once again, this went to show how common tradespeople were adopting Lollardy from a theological point of view. Bandby refused to denounce his Lollardy, citing his denial of transubstantiation (the Catholic belief that the bread and wine at Communion are the literal flesh and blood of Christ).

When Badby was burned at the stake for his views, he became two things: the very first Lollard martyr, and the first layman in English history to suffer capital punishment for the crime of heresy.

Lollardy in the Medieval English Court

Badby’s brutal execution only served to inspire the growth of Lollardy, but not just among the common people – many nobles were taking it up, too.

While there had been some names mentioned in the chronicles of Henry Knighton and Thomas Walsingham as early as the reign of Richard II (1377–99), as Lollards, there was little concrete evidence to say that they were. Some of the men mentioned included Thomas Latimer, William Nevil, John Clanvow, Lewis Clifford, John Trussell, Richard Storey, Reginald Hilton, and Sir John Peche.

These men were known as the Lollard Knights, and the evidence for this was that there was some Lollard-inspired language in their wills, such as how they wished to be buried in the earth to return from whence they came.

However, there was no hint of these men being Lollards during their lifetime. They were senior figures in the court of Richard II, who had executed and condemned Lollards, and this language could simply be a coincidence.

By the time John Oldcastle came along, the view was completely different.

The Oldcastle Revolt

John Oldcastle, a close and personal friend of King Henry V (r. 1413–22), was brought to trial in 1413 after evidence of his Lollard beliefs had been uncovered.

While he was being held in the Tower of London as both a religious and a political prisoner while awaiting his sentencing, he managed to successfully escape, and even began to organize an insurrection with a long-term plan of kidnapping Henry V.

The rebellion was ultimately a failure, and Oldcastle was captured and summarily executed. When it was deemed by the Crown and the Church that Lollards would go so far as to make their movement political and personal as well as religious, persecution of the Lollards became even more severe. It is not wrong to suggest that Lollardy in the early 15th century was seen in as negative a light in England as groups such as ISIS and Al-Qaeda are today.

Lollardy and the Reformation

By the time the Reformation had reached English shores at the turn of the 16th century, Lollardy was firmly absorbed into the English iteration of the Protestant movement.

Because Lollardy had been an underground movement since Henry IV’s reign, it is hard to pinpoint where Lollardy formally ended and when it simply became a part of the English Reformation.

Theologically, Lollardy and Protestantism were similar enough to be absorbed together, as they were championing the same larger causes, such as the reformation of the Catholic Church and doctrine within the Church.

Interestingly, critics of the Protestant Reformation—in particular, men like Thomas More—equated Protestants with Lollards, which went to show how seriously anti-Lollard rhetoric was used and taken in England during the Reformation. On the other hand, one of the key leaders of the English Reformation, Archbishop Thomas Cranmer, referred to Lollardy in his sermons in a positive light.

Because Lollardy had evolved in the two centuries since Wycliff’s teachings, it is also hard to ascertain whether late Lollardy and early Protestantism could be lumped together.

The Later Lollard Years

The persecution of Lollards was also recorded in the early 16th century, suggesting it was still seen as its own movement. For example, in the Diocese of London, there are records of 310 Lollards being prosecuted or forced to denounce their faith between 1510 and 1532, while in the Diocese of Lincoln, 45 cases were heard against Lollardy in 1506-07.

Unsurprisingly, Bloody Mary, better known as Queen Mary I of England (r. 1553-58), was a key figure in the persecution of the Lollards, who fell under the Revival of the Heresy Acts of 1554.

Representations of Lollardy in Art

Due to the heretical nature of Lollardy—or at least heretical by the standards of the later medieval Catholic Church—they became a target for negative representations in artwork.

Lollards were seen, in modern terms, as turkeys voting for Christmas. Representations of Lollards and Lollardy in general can typically be seen in old churches, sculpted into woodwork. A common depiction is a fox dressed as a monk or a priest preaching to geese. In other words, the fox (a Lollard preacher) is an evil being, while the innocent geese (common people) think that they are a true preacher (like a priest or a monk), and have their best interests at heart.

Another way that this art is interpreted is that the fox, with its wily words, grace and eloquence, is easily able to draw in its audience—geese and chickens—before violently snatching them to devour them.

Final Thoughts

The Lollards were more than a typical heretical movement, as many modern historians lump them in as. They were also more than simply a precursor to the Reformation.

The Lollards should be looked at as perhaps the biggest inspiration behind the English Reformation, because without Lollardy, Protestantism would never have taken off in the way that it did under Henry VIII in the 16th century.

Calling for the reform of the Catholic Church centuries before the Reformation landed on English shores was arguably the beginning of the downfall of trust in the Catholic Church in England, when people began to see the Church overreaching its power.

Combine this with brutal executions of Lollards, who ultimately became martyrs, and the Lollard movement was one of the most influential religious movements in English religious history.

From mighty trebuchets to cannons, medieval siege weapons were some of the most dramatic and powerful weapons that warfare has ever seen. Indeed, if you were inside a castle and a trebuchet pulled up outside, loaded with huge rocks, your time was just about up. But were medieval siege weapons so effective because of the psychological damage that they caused, or was it simply down to sheer power? And could they be attacked by defenders? Read on to find out.

Why Was the Trebuchet the Most Feared Siege Weapon?

Perhaps the most famous of all medieval siege weapons, the trebuchet was a formidable sight to behold rolling up to the walls of a castle.

Capable of firing huge lumps of rock, bricks, and even human beings—dead and alive—the trebuchet, essentially a mighty catapult, was arguably more psychologically damaging than any other medieval siege weapon.

A prime example of this was during the Black Death, when Mongol forces besieged the Port of Kaffa on the Black Sea in 1347. The Mongols used trebuchets to fire plague-ridden dead bodies over the castle walls, which is often cited as the reason that the Black Death spread into Europe, and an early example of medieval biological warfare.

The sight of it alone would have been enough for the majority of men to raise the white flag of surrender, but for those who stayed to defend the castle, they knew their time and their chances were limited.

However, this was not always the case. During the First Barons’ War (1215-17) in England, King John’s forces used a trebuchet to attempt to besiege the defenders in Dover Castle. This was actually the first recorded use of a trebuchet in English history, and the garrison successfully managed to resist the siege.

The main problem with a trebuchet was that while it was psychologically damaging to see such a powerful weapon rolling up to the castle gates, it also tended to be a last resort for most sieges. This is because of the sheer amount of destruction that a trebuchet could cause. For example, castle walls were destroyed much more quickly than they could be rebuilt, especially when many medieval castles had outer walls that were anywhere from nine to twelve feet thick.

As such, unless it was in the besieger’s best interests to completely destroy the castle of the defenders, using a trebuchet to take huge chunks out of the castle was economically nonsensical, as many of the leading figures in sieges were knights or lords who would expect to be rewarded with castles as part of their land rewards after a successful battle or war.

As such, the trebuchet was a mighty medieval siege weapon, but was not as commonly used as previously thought during medieval warfare.

How Did a Battering Ram Break Down a Gate?

One of the most famous battering rams that many people are familiar with is the huge dog’s head battering ram used by the orcs in The Lord of the Rings movie trilogy, and it is a fairly accurate representation of what the battering ram was used to do during a medieval siege.

Usually made from strong and large tree trunks, the battering ram relied on basic engineering, physics, and manpower to break down a siege. It was generally suspended on either ropes or chains to give more leverage when being used to break down an entryway.

Operated by anywhere from ten to over 50 men, the battering ram was an effective medieval siege weapon for a number of reasons.

Unlike the aforementioned trebuchet, the battering ram caused far less damage, and what damage it did cause was generally much less severe than that caused by a trebuchet.

Battering rams were primarily designed to break down huge wooden doors at the main gates or beyond the drawbridge. To enhance their abilities, the penetrating end of the battering ram was typically covered in metal for a more direct and effective hit. As such, these metal-tipped battering rams could often be used to cause damage to metal gates, as well as wooden doors.

The purpose of a battering ram was to give the besiegers easy and direct access to the castle, such as through its main doors, where the rest of the infantry could pour through (these soldiers were known as the “storming party”). They could then take down the defenders with relative ease, particularly if they were unarmed or unprepared.

Many battering rams were also covered with a wooden frame in a pyramid shape to protect the men operating them. Earlier iterations of the battering ram did not have protection, so castle defenders could pour things like boiling water or boiling oil from holes above the castle gates or doors to maim, injure, or kill the attackers.

Battering rams were commonly used in the Crusades and became synonymous with the Crusades as a part of Crusading warfare. While they were commonly used to break down doors, gates, and other entryways, if they were large and powerful enough, they could also be used to break down outer and inner walls of castles, especially those in the Middle East, which were not fortified as thickly as European castles at the time.

The Ballista

Another popular medieval siege weapon was the ballista. While its heyday had been in the ancient world, it was still used on occasion during the Medieval Period.

The ballista was essentially a huge crossbow. It used the natural tension of powerful strings to fire large stones or bolts at distant targets.

This was a popular choice for attackers who were besieging a well-defended castle, as they could fire the ballista over a large range and did not have to get too close. At the aforementioned Siege of Dover, a ballista was used alongside a trebuchet to intimidate the defenders, which, as we already know, was unsuccessful.

The ballista saw a decline in favor of alternative siege weaponry such as the trebuchet in the medieval world, but it was still a powerful weapon that could send a bolt through several people or cause significant damage to ramparts, towers, and castle turrets.

Siege Ladders

Siege Ladders were another popular weapon at the disposal of besiegers.

Siege ladders were often utilized first, once an attack commenced. Made of wood, these ladders could be up to 50 feet tall, as many medieval castle walls stood at around 30 feet.

These ladders typically had metal grapple hooks on the end so that the besiegers could hook them over the castle walls for a good grip and then climb them as quickly as possible to get onto the castle ramparts and begin hand-to-hand fighting with the defenders.

While the defenders would often have buckets of boiling water or oil to pour down the ladders on the attackers, the sheer number of attackers could generally overcome the defenders. It was also advantageous for the attackers because they would generally end up face-to-face with the defenders on the ramparts, who, rather than swordsmen, were often archers.

As such, slaying archers in hand-to-hand combat was much easier than fighting them from afar, and the only swords that many medieval archers were equipped with were generally something light or even something as small as a dagger to not weigh them down.

A notable example of siege ladders being used successfully was at the infamous Siege of Constantinople in 1453, where the Turks used approximately 2,000 siege ladders to gain access inside the walled city.

How Did Siege Towers Get Armies Over Castle Walls?

Built with the same purpose in mind as siege ladders—to give besiegers easy access to the castle or city walls that they were besieging—siege towers were a huge feat of engineering for the Middle Ages.

These towers could house tens or hundreds of men, and they were typically boarded with wood to offer the men inside protection from arrows and other missiles thrown from defenders while the huge tower was wheeled up to the castle walls.

One notable example of a siege tower being deployed was during the First Crusade at the Siege of Jerusalem in 1099. The attackers built huge siege towers to get men over the castle ramparts (known as an escalade) and into the castle itself—they were ultimately successful on this occasion, and went on to capture the Holy City for Christendom.

Another instance of the siege tower being deployed was during the Siege of Kenilworth in 1266, where a huge siege tower was constructed to mount archers and catapults, offering them an elevated platform from where to attack the castle from afar, an unconventional but ultimately successful method of deployment.

Siege towers were often pulled by huge groups of men operating machinery, or even by animals like cattle, horses, donkeys, and more, as they were built on wheels. Again, this method was demonstrated fairly accurately during The Lord of the Rings movie trilogy, where several siege towers (and siege ladders) are unleashed during the Battle of Helm’s Deep.

Final Thoughts

While many medieval siege weapons lasted for hundreds of years, the end of their use coincided with the movement towards gunpowder-based warfare, from the Early Modern Period onward.

Once cannons and guns were the norm in medieval warfare, sieges were few and far between, and especially sieges that lasted for months on end. A fraction of the number of men were required to operate a cannon compared to a trebuchet or a siege tower, for example, while from the defending side, guns were much easier to pick off besiegers than hand-to-hand combat or bows and arrows had been.

Siege weapons also saw a decline in use thanks to the move away from castle-based warfare, and as castles were no longer in use (many of them in ruins from medieval sieges).

However, their legacy as weapons of psychological warfare has captured the imaginations of filmmakers, writers, and other creatives over the years.

While they would seem clunky and redundant in today’s age of groundbreaking technology-focused warfare, few weapons were more formidable in the Middle Ages than siege weapons.

From its origins as the Eastern Roman Empire to its untimely demise at the hands of the Ottomans in 1453, the Byzantine Empire was one of the most powerful and influential empires in the history of the world. Through key leaders such as Constantine, Justinian, and Basil II, the Byzantine Empire rose to prominence, inspiring culture, art, weaponry, and much more. Here is how Byzantium shaped the medieval world around it.

The Preservation of History

One of the most important things that the Byzantine Empire did to shape the medieval world was to preserve history.

Byzantine scholars ensured that classical Roman and Greek texts were copied, re-copied, and preserved so that they had records of the past—and in turn, scholars who were educated in the Byzantine system ended up doing the same for their contemporary texts, which is why we know so much about the Byzantine Empire today.

This also helped to inspire and preserve Byzantine culture, because the scholars who were in charge of copying and preserving Roman and Greek texts did not just copy historical facts, but also the works of playwrights and philosophers, which undoubtedly helped to inspire future Byzantine writers in their works, too.

And as for the outside world, it was not just Byzantine writers and creatives that were inspired by the preservation of these texts. The Renaissance, which arose in Italy around the turn of the Late Medieval Period, was hugely inspired by the texts that became more accessible throughout Europe (thanks to Johannes Gutenberg’s printing press and the fall of Constantinople in 1453). A large part of the availability of these texts was thanks to the diligent work undertaken by Byzantine scholars centuries previously.

Legal Codes and Law Development

Another major influence that the Byzantine Empire had on the medieval world was the development of legal codes and the way that laws were issued.

The most famous example of Byzantine legal influence comes from the Emperor Justinian I (r. 527-65), known as the Justinian Code, or Corpus Juris Civilis in Latin. This was the comprehensive legal document that was the codification of Roman Law undertaken by Justinian.

The document helped to establish and form the basis for modern legal systems, especially modern civil law systems, which are still used in Europe, Russia, and other parts of the Western world to this day.

But it was not just the codification of Roman law that set Byzantium apart and helped to shape medieval Europe when it came to its legal reforms. Standardized procedures were one of the most important things that the Byzantine Empire created from a legal point of view, and the impact can still be seen in the modern world today. One such example was the setting of salaries for official positions, such as for government officials.

This can still be seen across the world today, and a prime example is the idea of the National Minimum Wage. The idea of standardized wages in European politics can certainly be traced back to these very Byzantine legal developments.

Another early legal reform that had an active impact on medieval European politics was known as the Farmer’s Law.

The purpose of the Farmer’s Law was to protect farmers’ property and inflict punishment upon those who damaged it. It also established the village as a tax unit and required all members of the village to pay a communal tax. The importance of farming was clearly highlighted here, and this was the case for the majority of farms in medieval Europe, too. The Farmer’s Law has been modified, but the principle remains the same throughout much of Europe.

Religious Influence

Perhaps the biggest influence that the Byzantine Empire had on the medieval world was from a religious perspective.

Eastern Orthodox Christianity was the primary religion in the Eastern Roman Empire (the Byzantine Empire).

To this day, Eastern Orthodox Christianity has been the primary religion in the Christian Balkans, Greece, Eastern Europe, and parts of Russia, and is dominant there today.

After the Great Schism of 1054—when the Eastern Orthodox Church split from the Catholic Church—it became even more powerful and shaped Eastern Europe and the religious culture of the region for centuries. Furthermore, the Eastern Orthodox Church was never affected by the European Reformation, at least not to the extent that Western Europe was. A prime example is how Protestantism is the most notable denomination of Christianity in many Western European countries now, but Eastern Orthodox Christianity is still dominant in the Balkans, Greece, and parts of Russia.

Art and Architecture

Another influence that the Byzantine Empire had on the medieval world was through its art and architecture.

While early Byzantine art took its primary influences from Greek and Roman works, it was not long before it took on its own theme and became known as Byzantine art.

Mosaics of rulers such as Justinian are just as synonymous with Byzantine art as Roman mosaics are with their leaders in the Western Roman Empire. But it was not just art that set the Byzantine Empire apart and helped it to influence medieval Europe.

Many Eastern Orthodox churches took on a Euro-Asian style, which makes sense geographically, considering where Constantinople (now Istanbul) was located, on the frontier between Islamic Asia and Christian Europe. Their circular-domed buildings might make readers think of Russia first, but remember why Russia became an Orthodox Christian country—because of the lasting influence of the Byzantine Empire.

Byzantine buildings and artworks spread even further than Orthodox Christianity. Just take a look at medieval-era churches constructed throughout Europe in places such as Tallinn (Estonia), Budapest (Hungary), Bratislava (Slovakia), and even more modern iterations built in the Russian-Byzantine style, such as in Helsinki (Finland).

The Military Role of Byzantium in Medieval Europe

Finally, the diplomatic role that Byzantium played in medieval Europe was also hugely important to how medieval Europe developed and was influenced in later centuries.

Because of its geographical location, Byzantium almost acted as a “last frontier” of Europe, protecting the continent (or Christendom) against the Islamic Infidel.

As such, invaders—whether they were Mongols, Huns, or Islamic warriors—often had to go through Byzantium to reach Europe. If Europe were attacked, the location of Byzantium would give other European countries more time to respond and re-arm if necessary.

Byzantium was greatly respected in Europe, and a notable example of when this deal worked both ways was when the Byzantine Emperor Alexios I Komnenos requested military aid from Christendom to fight the infidels who were on his empire’s borders. This call for help was answered by Pope Urban II, who, in 1095, called for what became the First Crusade.

Without Byzantium, there would have been no First Crusade—and likely no Crusades at all.

Final Thoughts

The Byzantine Empire was undoubtedly one of the most influential empires in the history of the world.

From creating legal codes that would influence generations of European lawmakers for centuries to artwork and architecture that spread as far as the Nordic countries, the impact that Byzantium had on the medieval world simply cannot be overstated.

It is therefore fair to conclude that without the Byzantine Empire, Europe would look completely unrecognizable today, and the impact it had on the medieval world cannot be undervalued.

According to legend, if you are in St. John Lateran basilica in Rome and you hear the rattling of bones coming from one of the tombs flanking the nave, the Pope is about to die. The rattling bones belong to Pope Sylvester II, who reigned from 999 to 1003. Sylvester developed a legendary status in the years after his death with rumors that he was a sorcerer with a thirst for forbidden knowledge.

Sylvester II’s Early Life

Gerbert of Aurillac was most likely born between 945 and 950 AD in southern France. As a boy, he was enrolled in a monastery school where he learned the three subjects that were foundational to a classical-style education: grammar, logic, and rhetoric. This grouping of subjects, known as the trivium, was not meant to be the end of the educational journey, as once the trivium was mastered, the quadrivium would build upon the knowledge of those subjects. The quadrivium consisted of the fields of math, geometry, music, and astronomy.

By the time that Gerbert was being educated, the teaching of those upper subjects had become practically extinct in France. In order to expand his knowledge and sate his curious mind, one had to travel far afield to seek instruction in the quadrivium, which is exactly what Gerbert did. He departed from the monastery and made his way south, across the Pyrenees, to Spain.

Secret Knowledge in Spain

Gerbert was a quick study and soon mastered the subjects he had set out to learn. But, Spain was rich in knowledge, some perilous to one’s immortal soul.

While learning the art of using the abacus, he came across a muslim philosopher whom he befriended. It is important to remember that at this time, the majority of Spain was controlled by the Caliphate of Cordoba, the last holdout of the Umayyad Dynasty after the Abbasid revolution in 750. His friendship with the philosopher led to him learning a great deal, for the philosopher was generous with his knowledge. But, according to legend, there was one book that the philosopher refused to show Gerbert, no matter how great his pleading. Gerbert appealed to their friendship, but the philosopher refused. Gerbert appealed to the love of God, but the philosopher refused. Gerbert offered him material riches, but the philosopher did not budge.

So, Gerbert turned to a more duplicitous plan to get the book that eluded him.

He seduced the philosopher’s daughter, and one night they got the philosopher drunk. They plied him with wine and, once he was unconscious from the amount of drink, they stole the book from under his pillow. Gerbert then fled into the night. Alone. Leaving the philosopher’s daughter behind once he acquired what he truly desired.

The philosopher would not give up the book, which contained all the secrets of his art, so easily. He used his extensive knowledge of the stars to track Gerbert. Though this was no mere navigation. The philosopher was able to use the stars to mystically divine Gerbert’s location. Gerbert realized what was happening and hatched a plan.

In order to make himself invisible to the philosopher’s divination, Gerber suspended himself under a bridge. Hanging from the bridge, not touching earth or water, he was able to elude his pursuer.

A Deal With the Devil

Though he was able to elude the philosopher with his clever trick, Gerbert knew that he would not be able to keep the charade up forever. Sooner or later, the philosopher would find him and take his revenge. Luckily for Gerbert, through the dark arts of astrology and necromancy he learned in Spain, he knew exactly what would protect him once and for all.

On the Spanish coast, Gerbert summoned the devil himself in a dark ritual. He said that his soul would be Satan’s for all eternity if the fallen one would protect him from the philosopher. The devil agreed and, his soul pledged to the lord of darkness, Gerbert was able to be transported across the Mediterranean to the coast of France.

Gerbert, knowing that there were always terms to infernal pacts, constructed a mechanical head that would be able to answer yes or no questions with perfect accuracy.

Gerbert asked the head if he would become Pope, to which it answered yes.

After further questioning, Gerbert asked the head if he would die before he sang Mass in Jerusalem. The head answered no.

So, Gerbert had his answer. He would be protected from Satan claiming his soul as long as he stayed away from the holy land. With this knowledge Gerbert could proceed with confidence, knowing that he would achieve the highest office in Christendom.

Climbing the Ladder

Upon returning to his homeland, Gerbert began to teach. He reintroduced the subjects of the quadrivium to France and taught the abacus as a means of computation.

In his years of teaching, he had two pupils who would go on to inhabit positions of great power. First was Robert, prince of France. After his accession to the French throne, King Robert appointed Gerbert as archbishop of Rheims. While there, Gerbert continued to show his brilliance (or perhaps his infernal knowledge) by constructing a mechanical clock as well as a hydraulic organ powered by heated water.

The second of his pupils was the future Holy Roman Emperor Otto III. This is particularly important because in this period, the pope was not chosen by the conclave that we are familiar with today. The pope was appointed by the Holy Roman Emperor himself. It was thus Gerbert’s good fortune that he was able to make such an impression on the man who would have the power to fill that position.

After Otto became Holy Roman Emperor, Gerbert was appointed first as archbishop of Ravenna and then, in 999, pope.

He took the name of Sylvester II.

Sylvester’s Sudden Death

One Sunday, Pope Sylvester was preparing to say mass at the basilica of Santa Croce. To this day, the basilica houses relics thought to be from the Passion of Jesus Christ, brought to Rome by the mother of Constantine, Helena, in the 4th century.

Unfortunately for Pope Sylvester, he either did not know or did not realize that Helena also brought to Rome soil from Jerusalem itself. That is why the full name of the basilica is Santa Croce in Gerusalemme. Technically, when Sylvester sang mass in Santa Croce, he was doing so in Jerusalem.

So, the devil would have his due that day.

Accounts differ on what happened. The more tame say that Sylvester began to feel unwell as soon as the mass had ended. Realizing what was happening, he desperately asked that his hand and tongue be separated from his body as they had blasphemed God. When he died later that day, it was discovered that his request was that his body be dismembered and separated before burial. Perhaps in some last-ditch effort to protect his soul from Hell.

Another version of the story says that Hell itself opened in Santa Croce and Satan and his demons came to collect their owed soul in person. The devil plucked out Sylvester’s eyes, and the demons played with them in the church nave.

Burial in St. John Lateran Basilica

Sylvester was hastily buried in St. John Lateran Basilica.

The inscription in Latin on his tomb reads:

“Iste locus Silvestris membra sepulti venturo Domino conferet ad sonitum,” in English, “This place will yield to the sound the limbs of buried Sylvester, at the advent of the Lord.”

The Latin was often read as “This place will make a sound,” rather than “yield to the sound.” 

This alternate reading gave rise to the belief that when the Lord comes to claim the soul of his servant, the bones themselves come together and rattle. As if Satan himself was clapping at the demise of the successor of St Peter.

What is the Source of Sylvester II’s Life Story?

The fanciful story of Pope Sylvester and his deal with the devil was a popular one throughout the Middle Ages. But where did it come from? And what did he do in order to be remembered as such a diabolical figure?

The primary source used for this particular version of the story comes from the English monk William of Malmesbury. In his book De Rebus Gestis Regnum Anglorum (On the Deeds of the Kings of the English), written over 100 years after Sylvester’s death, William takes a short digression to tell this story about his diabolical allegiance.

He does not cite a specific source for these claims; he just states that these facts are “generally related about him.” As further evidence, he says that in an old volume containing the names and years of all the popes, he found that Sylvester’s entry said, “Silvester, who was also called Gerbert, ten months; this man made a shameful end.” Of course, he only says it was an old book, and does not say what the name of it was.

Interestingly, William himself writes that, “some may regard all this as a fiction” because it was often said of scholars that if they excelled at science, they served the devil.

So, if William was getting these claims from generally known facts, who was the originator of these claims?

The Legacy of Pope Sylvester II

While it is difficult to say exactly, it appears that the claim can be traced back to Cardinal Beno of San Martino e Silvestro, who claimed in an explosive pamphlet that Sylvester consorted with dark powers. Why would he make such a claim? Again, it is difficult to say for certain, but Beno was writing during the Investiture Controversy and was aligned with the Holy Roman Emperor. His pamphlet was an attempt to bolster the status of the emperor’s position in the controversy against the pope.

Accusations of papal sorcery were not uncommon in the Medieval Period, but the legend surrounding Sylvester endured far longer. Perhaps this was because of the general distrust of the sciences and knowledge acquired from non-Christians. The legend of his rattling bones certainly also added to the mystique surrounding Sylvester.

In the mid-1600s, Sylvester’s tomb was opened during renovations to the Lateran basilica. It was said that his body bore no signs of decay, that he was as intact as the day he died centuries earlier. Then, the necromantic spell broke and his body disintegrated into ash. Even hundreds of years later, the legend was strong enough that it was still being added to.

Conclusion

The tale of the pope who sold his soul to the devil is certainly a good one. It is the kind of folk tale that is often told of the powerful. There is often an inherent distrust of authority figures, whom people believe must be in league with dark forces to amass all that they have. It can be seen in the modern era with conspiracy culture and the legends of the Illuminati and their dark allegiances.

If you are in Rome, be sure to seek out Sylvester II’s tomb in the Lateran Basilica. Think of him not only as his legend, but as a scholar who brought knowledge back to Christian Europe that had been forgotten for centuries. Think of him as an insatiably curious mind who, in the best tradition of academics throughout time, had a voracious need to understand how the world worked.

But also, keep your ears peeled. If you hear the sound of rattling bones, be sure to turn on the news, as there might be a new pope soon.

During a period known by later historians as the Saeculum Obscurum (the Dark Age), the Papacy was in a time of crisis. Following the Carolingian Empire’s disintegration, the Holy See became entangled in the petty politics of the Roman nobility. This period was dominated by those who saw the Papacy as a way to enrich themselves and their families. Through much of the 10th and 11th centuries, the Counts of Tusculum had a firm grip on the Papacy. From this ambitious family came one of the most scandalous popes in church history, Benedict IX.

The Young Pope

Theophylact was young when he became pope in 1032 and took the name Benedict IX, but it is debated exactly how young. Rodulfus Glaber claims in his Historium Libri Quince (The Five Books of the Histories) that Benedict was only ten years old when elevated, but that is most likely a gross exaggeration. While his birth year is not known exactly, he was likely born around 1012, making him about 20 years old when he became Pope. Still young, but not a child.

He was a nephew of the two previous popes, Benedict VIII and John XIX. His father, Alberic III of Tusculum, was said to have secured the position for his son solely through bribery. Vast sums of gold and silver were handed out in order for young Theophylact to be chosen as pope.

It is important to know that this occurred before the process of the conclave as we understand it today existed. The pope was not chosen by the cardinals of the Church. Rather, it was a delicate negotiation between the nobility of Rome, the people of Rome, and other interested parties such as the Holy Roman Emperor.

A Scandalous Pontificate

Benedict did not appear to have the constitution of a holy man. Desiderius of Monte Cassino (later Pope Victor III) says that his time as pope consisted of “rapes, murders, and other unspeakable acts.” Saint Peter Damian said of Pope Benedict IX that he routinely engaged in sodomy, bestiality, and orgies. Ferdinand Gregorovius, in his work History of the City of Rome in the Middle Ages, called Benedict “a demon from hell in the disguise of a priest.”

Whether there is some truth to these accusations or they were simply an attempt to smear a political opponent is difficult to know for certain. What we can say for certain is that there was enough discontent during his rule that there was an attempt on Benedict’s life in 1036 by a faction of the Roman nobility. The assassins tried to kill him in St. Peter’s Basilica, but he survived the attempt and fled the city.

Exile

Unfortunately for Benedict, the situation was not much better outside Rome. Northern Italy was in open rebellion against the Holy Roman emperor, turning the whole area into a war zone.

Benedict was on the run until 1037, when he had an audience with the emperor, who had just recently put down the Italian rebellion, and with the Emperor’s military support, he was returned to Rome to resume his pontificate.

But the emperor did not do this for free. The first thing that Emperor Conrad had Benedict do upon returning to Rome was to excommunicate Heribert, the archbishop of Milan, who had led the Italian rebellion against him.

Far from being the undisputed master of the Catholic Church like he is today, the pope in the 11th century was one of many power centers in the Christian world, and often had to take orders.

First Return

Once again secure in the city, Benedict resumed business as usual. However, for Benedict, that business was less holy than might be expected for the Pope.

In the words of Ferdinand Gregorovius, for the next seven years, he was “unceasingly occupied in plundering, murdering, and otherwise oppressing the Roman people.”

Eventually, another faction formed against Benedict, and he was once again expelled from the city in 1044. Lest you think the Roman nobility suddenly began to care about morality, it was far more likely that Benedict overstepped his bounds and upset the delicate balance of feudal power. In any case, Benedict was again driven from Rome, but this time the Romans installed a new pope in his place, Sylvester III.

Sylvester is often listed as an antipope as Benedict was not formally deposed from the Papacy, though Sylvester held Rome and appeared to exercise power as de facto Pope, if not de jure. In any case, Benedict was not away for long. He fled to his family’s power base of Tusculum and, within 50 days, he returned to Rome with an army at his back and retook the Papacy.

Sylvester fled to Sabina, still claiming to be the true pope.

Selling the Papacy

In 1045, shortly after his return to the Papacy, Benedict began to have doubts about the clerical life he saw before him. At this point, he was still a young man, approximately 33 years old, and a woman (whose name was not written in the historical record) had stolen his heart, and he wanted to marry her. That woman just so happened to be his cousin.

With all of his doubts, he went to his godfather, John Gration. Benedict asked his godfather’s advice, and after careful deliberation, John suggested that Benedict could resign from the Papacy. But that would leave the question of who would replace Benedict.

Benedict made it known that he would like to be repaid for his “expenses,” and John dutifully provided Benedict with an estimated 2,000 pounds of gold.

Having sold the papal crown for a kingly sum of money, Benedict went to live the debaucherous life of a young nobleman in the countryside. In the words of Desiderius of Monte Cassino, “Devoted to pleasure he preferred to live rather like Epicurus than like a bishop… he left the city and he took himself to one of his castles in the country.”

The Council of Sutri

The new pope took the name Gregory VI, and immediately found himself having to deal with the antipope Sylvester III, who had never given up his claim to be the true successor of Peter.

Shortly into his retirement, however, Benedict found himself questioning his decision to resign the papacy. Perhaps secular life wasn’t all he had hoped it would be, or perhaps he missed the power he once held. Perhaps his money had simply run out. His cousin may have also rejected his marriage proposal, invalidating the whole reason he sold the Papacy in the first place.

For whatever reason, Benedict reasserted his claim to the Papacy. This left his godfather having to deal with a second antipope.

Different factions in Rome were pledged to all three papal candidates, and violence between them was becoming endemic. Something needed to be done to restore order to the chaos that was engulfing the center of Catholicism.

Enter Holy Roman Emperor Henry III, who crossed the Alps and entered Italy in 1046 to restore order.

He held the Council of Sutri to resolve the question once and for all—although Gregory was the only claimant to show up to receive the emperor’s judgement.

Henry declared that Sylvester and Benedict were both illegitimate, but so was Gregory, as he had only ascended to the See of Rome through open simony. All the papal candidates thus declared illegitimate, Henry named the German bishop of Bamberg, Suidger, Clement II.

Second Return

Unfortunately for the stability of the Papacy, Clement died after less than a year.

Benedict was accused of poisoning Clement, but that is most likely not the case. Clement was old when he became pope, and he had been traveling, so it is entirely possible he died of natural causes.

In any case, Benedict seized the opportunity presented by the Pontiff’s premature passing and marched on Rome. He took the city and ruled it as de facto pope for eight months before he was again driven out of the city by a detachment of the emperor’s troops.

Recent history repeated itself, though, and his successor, Damasus II, only reigned for less than a month before he died of fever on August 9, 1048. However, Benedict was either unwilling or unable to take advantage of the chaos this time.

Later Life

So, what did Benedict’s post-papal life look like?

There are two divergent traditions on the direction of Benedict’s later life. One is that he remained the pleasure-seeking hedonist, never giving up his claim to the Papacy.

However, according to Luke, the seventh abbot of Grottaferrata, Benedict desired repentance in his later life. The Abbot said, “He who then presided over the Apostolic See, a mere youth, was a slave to pleasure, and through human frailty had fallen into sin. At last, turning from passion and seeking absolution for what he had done amiss, he wished to have our father to reconcile him and intercede for him.”

Furthermore, until 1713, it was attested that there was a piece of artwork in the abbey that shows “a cowled monk holding in his hand a tiara which he was presenting to our Lady. Beneath was an inscription, ‘Benedictus IX,’” suggesting that Benedict did renounce his claim to the Papacy and lived out his life in Grottaferrata.

Did Benedict show true repentance for his actions, or was this all wishful thinking by those who knew it would make a great story? As with so many questions in history, we will never truly know.

Legacy

The story of Benedict IX and his many times as pope is a microcosm of the trouble with the Papacy itself in the 10th and 11th centuries. Rather than a source of spiritual authority and guidance, the office of the Bishop of Rome was coveted for its secular power.

The pope was a king like any other in Europe, thanks to the Papal States, that chunk of central Italy that was gifted to the pope by Charlemagne and remained under Papal authority until the unification of Italy in the mid-19th century. In the Medieval Period, land was wealth, and securing a relative or an ally as the Pope was an excellent way to enrich your family.

Because of the unique nature of succession to the office, the seat could change hands multiple times, leading to fierce battles over which family or faction would be able to siphon off the wealth of the Papal States into their own coffers. In addition to the chaos this caused, it meant that men were elevated to the Papacy who were more preoccupied with excess than the Eucharist.

While the legacy of the Saeculum Obscurum in general, and Benedict IX in particular, could have been the dissolution of the Papacy as an institution, that is not what happened.

By being at the absolute nadir of Papal history, Benedict directly influenced a series of reforms by later popes. The chaos of his reign made it absolutely clear that something needed to change. In 1059, the College of Cardinals was established and designated as the sole electors of the pope in an attempt to remove the influence of the Roman nobility. There was a crackdown on simony, the act of buying or selling office, a huge problem in the Church, and brought into focus by the absurdity of the Papacy itself being sold.

So, while the Catholic Church may wish to forget that Benedict IX was once pope, he had a huge impact on how the Church became what it is today. By embodying everything that a pope should not be, he made the case for reform impossible to ignore.

Although the longsword and katana are often compared to one another in hypothetical debates about which sword is better, some commentators point out that the longsword may not be the most apt weapon to compare to the katana because it is too different mechanically. How true that is lies outside the scope of this piece; instead, we’re going to compare the katana to similar cutting blades of various traditions, collectively called sabers.

A caveat: we aren’t attempting to decide which sword is inherently better. Every weapon created is intended for use in its specific context. Where one sword might excel, another may fall short, and vice versa. This is simply an analysis of the katana as it compares to the saber.

Katana Overview

The katana has existed in one form or another since the late 13th century and was in military use until World War II. It is a refinement of earlier swords such as the tachi. It is 36 inches long, and roughly 28 inches of that is the blade.

The weapon has a gentle curvature that lends itself well to drawing and cutting, and once out, it can be used in one or two hands. However, most ryuha (Japanese fencing styles) teach the use of both hands for most situations; the extra length of the hilt grants extra leverage. One aspect that singles out the katana is its distinctive hilt: it is constructed of wood and made to hold the tang of the blade with friction and retaining pins. Atop the wooden core of the hilt, a fishskin wrapping and a flat cotton or silk wrapping make the katana easy to grip, both from the contours of the wrap and the material’s absorbency.

The handguard, or tsuba, is an iron or brass disc or square that offers only slight protection for the hands, mainly being used to keep the swordsman from sliding his own hand up onto the blade inadvertently. However, the comparative lack of protection gave the ability to quickly grasp the hilt and be ready for action.

Although it only weighs a kilogram on average, the lack of a pommel and the relatively thick blade make the katana a slightly tip-heavy sword. Its blade profile is larger than the saber, with the wedge-like curved structure making it suited for fast, powerful blows driven by hip rotation.

Saber Overview

The saber, a single-edged, one-handed sword, was originally the chief close-combat weapon of the various nomadic tribes of 5th-century Eurasia, such as the Avars, Magyars, Huns, and others. These tribes fought mostly from horseback. Cutting downward from such a height advantage and the momentum from a galloping horse with a curved blade like the saber is devastating to the victim. Different variants of the saber had their own curvature. Through the centuries, the saber became the adopted weapon for cavalry and infantry officers, eventually becoming the close-quarters sidearm until swords were phased out of military action altogether because of the bayonet.

Unlike the katana, it is not possible to use the saber in two hands because there is not enough room on the hilt. Also, many saber hilts have a knuckle bow or similar guard that wraps around the hand, so it could be used as a sort of brass knuckle–style implement. The saber weighs about the same as the katana, with some variation. Both the distal and profile cross-sections are thinner, creating a nimble sword that can be used to make cuts from the wrist as well as the elbow.

How Were They Wielded?

Schools of Japanese fencing teach that the katana be held with the smallest and ring fingers gripping the hilt, a moderate grip with the middle finger, and the index finger and thumb barely touching. Cuts mostly receive their power through a step that drives hip and torso movement. The arms and hands naturally follow. The most common targets are the crown of the head, throat, collarbones, torso, wrists, and the insides of the thighs.

The saber tended to be wielded with more emphasis on motions driven from the elbow and wrist. Cuts occurred along diagonal and horizontal lines, with wrist rotations called moulinets aiding in transition from one angle to another. The left hand often rested on the hip to act as an aid in supporting the swordsman’s upright posture.

What Societal Role Did These Swords Have?

To fully compare the katana and the saber, it is also important to consider their social context. The katana was, in addition to being a battlefield backup weapon, the everyday carry weapon for samurai. After the Great Sword Hunt of 1588, ordered by Toyotomi Hideyoshi, only samurai were legally permitted to own a katana or any other weapons, as a means of quelling peasant unrest. Samurai wore it and the wakizashi as a pair called daisho, which served as a samurai’s signifier of social status. Even if they were not master swordsmen, they were expected to have at least a basic skill in handling the weapon. Numerous schools of fencing developed in the Sengoku and Edo periods.

The saber was also a military sidearm worn by the officer class in the military, but unlike the katana, there were fewer legal restrictions on its ownership. Of course, Japan is a single country, while various European countries over the medieval, Renaissance, and Early Modern periods used them to various degrees. That being said, swords were far too expensive to afford for most people and had little practical purpose outside warfare. Wealthy civilians in many European countries in the 17th through 19th centuries would instead use a smallsword or a pistol for dueling or self-defense.

Did Katana and Saber Designs Draw From One Another?

For most of its history, Japan had little to no contact with the various European nations except for Portugal and the Netherlands. When Commodore Matthew Perry landed in Tokyo Harbor in 1854, Japan was forced for the first time in over two centuries to open its ports to the outside world. The exposure to modernized technology drove the Japanese to aggressively pursue a program of modernization and emulation of the Western world. The samurai class was abolished and prohibited from wearing swords.

As Japan developed a nationalized military, they equipped their officers with sabers at first; then merged the design elements with traditional katana. The resulting sword was called the kyu-gunto. It had a closed handguard and shorter grip, as well as a shorter blade. Kyu-gunto and other military swords post-Meiji were made on an industrial scale for equipping officers, gradually replaced by shin-gunto, which more closely resembled a traditional katana. Some officers who came from samurai families would bring their family katana into battle.

There is little to no evidence of the katana’s design influencing Western swords on a widespread scale, although individual swordsmiths may have incorporated aspects they found appealing.

The discovery of the Sutton Hoo burial site revealed many fascinating truths about early Anglo-Saxon burials and funerary practices. Most famous is the magnificent ship burial, which contained many of the artifacts for which the site is famous. Alongside it are many other burial mounds and graves, arguably treasures of knowledge in their own right, which can teach us much about the Anglo-Saxon way of honoring the dead.

Sutton Hoo’s Numerous Tombs

Overlooking the River Deben in Suffolk are 20 or so mounds on the Sutton Hoo estate. When the mounds were excavated in the 1930s, it was immediately obvious that they were tombs from the early Anglo-Saxon Era. Specifically, they belonged to the ancient Anglo-Saxon kingdom of East Anglia, whose ancient capital lies just a few miles away at Rendlesham.

The largest mound, Mound 1, contained a magnificent ship burial, containing a vast array of treasures and a (long since decayed) body. The deceased is believed to have been Rædwald, king of East Anglia’s Wuffingas Dynasty, though some have suggested it was for his son, Rægenhere. Most of the other mounds contained the remains of several cremations stored in funerary urns, alongside a variety of grave goods, although one or two direct inhumation graves were also found in two mounds.

Inside Mound 2 lay another ship burial, sadly robbed of almost all noteworthy treasure, though a few remains suggest it would have been just as richly furnished as the other ship burial.

Meanwhile, Mound 17 held a ritually sacrificed horse buried next to the grave of a man. Interestingly, this was not the only horse buried at Sutton Hoo, as the ashes of a horse and its presumed owner were found in one of the funerary urns. The size, rarity, and vast quantity and quality of grave goods present in the ship burials make it clear they were burials reserved almost certainly for kings or the most senior royals.

The other graves were almost certainly important nobles or members of the Wuffingas Dynasty, no doubt of great importance, but not enough to merit their own ships.

Mound 1 was seemingly the last major tomb at Sutton Hoo, dating to around 625, in keeping with Rædwald’s understood death date and coins found in the grave. The other mounds are believed to date from the 6th to early 7th centuries.

Though worn down by time and human interference, the mounds are still a prominent feature even today. In their prime, they would have dominated the skyline for any inland or outward-bound traveler, asserting the power of those who were buried within and, by extension, their living descendants. In other words, the mounds themselves, arguably treasures in their own right, were symbols of otherworldly majesty and power projected over East Anglia.

The Treasures of the Graves

Before even scratching the surface, Sutton Hoo provides a fascinating glimpse of how the East Anglian elite turned death into a projection of authority, as is often the case for barrows and similar funerary earthworks. However, within the mounds lie more fascinating revelations about Anglo-Saxon burial rituals found in the treasures buried alongside the deceased.

The grave goods at Sutton Hoo include a variety of practical items, including combs, tools, boxes, and the like, and more personal goods like gaming pieces, statues, and jewelry. Mound 14 in particular, reportedly, contained a variety of high-quality items crafted in silver.

Though more perishable goods were likely destroyed, fragments of good-quality cloth and animal bones (presumably from sacrifices or food offerings) have been discovered. A repeatedly occurring motif, however, is weaponry.

Valuable shields, spears, and knives have been found in the graves, and even a Frankish throwing axe. The rider in Mound 17 was buried with the trappings and finery befitting a mounted warrior, including a sword attached to a gold buckled sword belt. The horse buried in a grave next to him also indicates his status, as such mighty steeds were treasures in their own right.

The greatest collection of goods, though, were found inside Mound 1’s ship, which must be counted as a valuable tool and treasure in and of itself. Rædwald or Rægenhere were buried with some of the most astonishing artifacts of the Anglo-Saxon Period, including a magnificent arsenal of weapons and a highly valuable set of chainmail. There were also personal items like coins, fine clothes and cloaks, a lyre, and a gaming board and pieces.

The ship contained all manner of domestic items, seemingly lifted directly from a feasting hall, including a silver dish and bowls, a cooking cauldron, wooden cups, and drinking horns. Then there is the extraordinary Sutton Hoo helmet, which was both perfect for the battlefield and finely crafted with jewels, gold filigree, and intricate decorations of battlefield and mythological scenery.

Given how lavishly the grave was furnished, it is clear why such ship burials are so rare. Indeed, Mound 1 is a textbook example of an Anglo-Saxon “princely burial.” A funeral tradition that arose from the late 6th century, wherein the graves of royal families became far more lavish in parallel with Anglo-Saxon society and politics becoming more overtly monarchical. Even so, the treasures found in the other graves are no mere trifles.

To Honor the Dead

All the items found at Sutton Hoo, from the fantastical to the mundane, were of good quality and value. Some show signs of many years of use and care by their owners. Even Mound 1’s ship was a fully functioning vessel that appears to have been used for many years. They also all served the same purpose: to honor the dead and serve them in the next life.

These were items that would be missed, just like the deceased, possibly seen as a sacrifice to the dead in their honor by the living. This is especially true of the weapons and armor found in many of the graves.

Such objects were not only highly valuable but likely held significance as items to own, donate, and (by extension) be given to the dead for the next life. In the Anglo-Saxon epic poem Beowulf, the eponymous hero often received gifts of weapons and war gear in thanks for his deeds and in a display to show the wealth of his benefactors. Likewise, on Beowulf’s death, his followers lavished him with similar items in his honor, including a helmet not too dissimilar from that found at Sutton Hoo.

To some degree, this idea of gifting objects in sacrifice to the dead is true of all cultures with grave goods. However, it supports the idea of “the fame” of the dead, found across Norse and Germanic cultures like the Anglo-Saxons. That is, the belief in endurance after death through remembrance.

This idea of everlasting fame is common in Scandinavian sagas and appears too in Beowulf. “Let him who can win glory before he dies: that lives on after him, when he lifeless lies.” Yet this fame was not just for the living. Again, from our understanding of Norse paganism, this fame (or the good name of the dead) was a crucial part of the glory required for a worthy afterlife.

Certainly, Rædwald would have earned that fame. During his reign, East Anglia became arguably the most powerful of the Anglo-Saxon kingdoms. The Anglo-Saxon Chronicle even listed him as one of the eight Bretwalda, or rulers over all of Anglo-Saxon England, though more likely their power tended toward soft power hegemons rather than outright rulership. As such, he was buried with all the ceremony such fame earned him, with items to honor his memory and to take with him to the afterlife.

Parallels With Scandinavia

As Germanic pagans, the Anglo-Saxons almost certainly held beliefs around death and the afterlife similar to their cultural cousins in Iron Age and later Viking Scandinavia. As such, the buried goods, like clothes, tools, game pieces, and similar accoutrements, were almost certainly intended to be of use or comfort to the deceased in the next life.

Naturally, those of greater social standing would go to the afterlife with more goods of better quality. The horse in Mound 17, for example, may have served its master in the afterlife. Meanwhile, Mound 1’s dazzling array of goods would have provided Rædwald, or Rægenhere, a very comfortable afterlife. Furthermore, some of the weapons show signs of damage before burial. This indicates they may have been ritually “killed” to go alongside their deceased owners into the afterlife (and in practical terms, made them useless for reuse by grave robbers).

On the topic of weapons, their prevalence in the graves suggests the Anglo-Saxon afterlife was likely somewhat violent. This neatly parallels what we know of the afterlives of their cultural cousins in Scandinavia, where evidence of burial rituals like those at Sutton Hoo abounds.

Ship burials such as Norway’s Mykelbust ship, dated to just a few generations on from Sutton Hoo, show extraordinary similarity with the Sutton Hoo ship regarding goods, ritual, and intent. The best parallels, though, are from Sweden’s Vendel ship burials in Sweden, near contemporary with Sutton Hoo and boasting yet more similarities with the English tomb. The most crucial parallel is the magnificent Vendel helmets, which share much in their design and decoration with the Sutton Hoo helmet. In fact, such are the similarities between the two graves that a connection between the East Anglians and the Vendel Swedes is almost beyond doubt.

Given this obvious connection in practices, it is therefore quite easy to argue that the beliefs and rituals of the Anglo-Saxons mirrored those of their Scandinavian cousins. No doubt the great Anglo-Saxon warriors and kings were set for an afterlife of glory and combat in their version of Valhalla or the Fields of Freya.

Without the literary equivalent of the Viking Sagas, the details of the Anglo-Saxon warrior afterlife cannot be explored with equal certainty. However, the similarity in the archaeological finds helps paint a picture of death as a journey. A journey to an afterlife accompanied by objects precious in life to complement the good name of those who passed.

A Pagan Tomb, a Christian King

The magnificent ship burial would serve Rædwald or Rægenhere well in the afterlife. While the mound loomed over passersby as a reminder of the importance of the next life. Yet it is surprising such a magnificent pagan mausoleum was completed at all, considering Rædwald’s apparent religious convictions.

Though born a pagan, Rædwald converted to Christianity after accepting missionaries from Kent. Furthermore, this conversion seemingly took place before the tomb was constructed, regardless of whether it was for him or Rægenhere. So it must be asked, why did a Christian convert permit himself or Rægenhere to be buried with all the trappings of an ancient pagan king?

It should be noted that Rædwald’s commitment to Christianity is debated, as he allegedly kept a pagan altar for his wife, alongside his Christian one. It is possible he kept to these bet-hedging ways even in death, giving himself a pagan burial alongside some Christian iconography (specifically a set of christening spoons found in the ship). It could also be as mundane as the lack of consecrated ground required for a Christian burial.

Additionally, Rædwald’s successor, his second son Eorpwald, began his reign as a pagan, and so may have wished to honor his father in the old way. Whatever the case, it appears that the last Anglo-Saxon cultural clue revealed by Sutton Hoo is of a society at the crossroads of major religious and cultural change. Even while the kingdom slowly began embracing a new religion, the East Anglians at least still held some of their ancient traditions and rituals in high esteem.

This fascinating sense of transition is not solely found in the coincidence of Sutton Hoo and its Christian king, either, for once again, Beowulf provides a fascinating supporting parallel. Though ostensibly an outspokenly Christian tale, populated with many Christian references, Beowulf was buried, as has been noted, in a manner highly similar to the Mound 1 ship burial. Although, whoever was buried there, they (unlike Beowulf) were not cremated with their treasure, nor did they probably meet their end fighting a dragon. On the balance of probability, at least.

What Does Sutton Hoo Reveal?

While the ship burial denotes that the old ways maintained their prominence in the face of Christianity’s arrival, the lack of any further additions to the site suggests it was a last hurrah, rather than an ongoing transition.

Though East Anglia would have one or two more pagan rulers, the new religious movement was not reversed. Archaeologists have noted a sharp drop-off in Anglo-Saxon grave goods from the seventh century onwards, and while this change is believed to have causes outside the new religion, it is clear that Sutton Hoo’s most famous burial was a finality. The magnificent ship burial was, perhaps, a last hurrah of the old pagan traditions, before new ways of thinking and new rituals regarding death took hold.

Even dragging the ship from the river to its burial site would have been a noteworthy spectacle, given the considerable time, effort, and resources required.

In this final tomb, Sutton Hoo reveals the cultural changeover of the Anglo-Saxons. The magnificent ship burial and the variety of other graves surrounding it demonstrate the Anglo-Saxon dedication to their deceased and connection to an afterlife closely linked to their Scandinavian cousins. It demonstrates the importance they held in providing goods for the afterlife that held significance in life and in honoring their dead with customs and displays that spoke to their traditions and beliefs. Then, for one last time, these traditions were celebrated in the memorialization of their royal dead in a most magnificent tomb.

Yet in the end, the magnificent mounds overlooking East Anglia’s royal hinterland would cease to hold sway as a new religion took hold. The great and famed persons would lie unremembered and undisturbed in their resting places for almost 1,300 years before their majesty would be unearthed.