Justice and mercy: Moral theology and the exercise of law in twelfth-century England

Justice and mercy

Series Editors

Carrie E. Beneš, T. J. H. McCarthy, Stephen Mossman and Jochen Schenk

Artes Liberales aims to promote the study of the Middle Ages – broadly defined in geography and chronology – from a perspective that transcends modern disciplinary divisions. It seeks to publish scholarship of the highest quality that is interdisciplinary in topic or approach, integrating elements such as history, art history, musicology, literature, religion, political thought, philosophy and science. The series particularly seeks to support research based on the study of original manuscripts and archival sources, and to provide a recognised venue for increased exposure for scholars at all career stages around the world.

Previously published

Writing the Welsh borderlands in Anglo-Saxon England

Lindy Brady

Justice and mercy

Moral theology and the exercise of law in twelfth-century England

Philippa Byrne

Manchester University Press

Copyright © Philippa Byrne 2019

The right of Philippa Byrne to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

Published by Manchester University Press

Altrincham Street, Manchester M1 7JA

www.manchesteruniversitypress.co.uk

British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

ISBN 978 1 5261 2534 7 hardback

First published 2019

The publisher has no responsibility for the persistence or accuracy of URLs for any external or third-party internet websites referred to in this book, and does not guarantee that any content on such websites is, or will remain, accurate or appropriate.

For Edward Grey, a great historian

Contents

List of figures

List of tables

Acknowledgements

List of abbreviations

Prologue: the vanishing adulteress

1 Introduction

2 The problem with mercy: the schools

3 The problem with mercy: the courts

4 Twelfth-century models of justice and mercy

5 Who should be merciful?

6 Judgment in practice: the Church

7 Histories of justice: the crown, persuasion and lordship

8 Love your enemies? Popular mercy in a vengeance culture

9 Conclusion

Bibliography

Index

Figures

1 Diagram explaining the many parts and degrees of ‘iustum’. Raoul Ardens, Speculum universale , I.15. Quid sit iustum, BnF, Ms. latin 3229, fo. 4v.

2 Diagram depicting the different parts and degrees of ‘honestum’. Raoul Ardens, Speculum universale , I.16. Quid sit honestum, BnF, Ms. latin 3229, fo. 5r.

3 Diagram depicting the different types and levels of the term ‘expediens’. Raoul Ardens, Speculum universale , I.17. Quid sit expediens, BnF, Ms. latin 3229, fo. 5r.

Tables

1 Anselm of Laon’s scheme of the relationship between the petitions of the Lord’s Prayer, the beatitudes and the gifts of the Holy Spirit described in Isaiah. Originally identified by Lottin, ‘La doctrine d’Anselme de Laon’.

2 Hugh of St Victor’s fivefold model for the relationship between the petitions, gifts and beatitudes, along with the vices and virtues, from De quinque septenis .

3 Thomas of Chobham’s construction of the relationship between the petitions of the Lord’s Prayer and the gifts of Isaiah. As found in Summa confessorum , 3.1.

4 A second table from Thomas of Chobham’s Summa confessorum , connecting the seven beatitudes to their corresponding rewards.

Acknowledgements

Forgive us our debts. Debts: and what debts are these? … It would take a long time to set forth our debts, which it was easier to incur than it is to discharge, and so we are going to postpone this task to another day.

Gervase of Tilbury, Commentary on the Lord’s Prayer, ed. and trans. S. E. Banks and J. W. Binns, in Otia imperialia. Recreation for an Emperor (Oxford, 2002), appendix 3, 922–3

This book is about debts and the paying back of dues. When it comes to the repayment of debts incurred in the writing of this book, I suspect the following may prove inadequate.

I must first thank Matthew Kempshall, who has guided this project with unstinting generosity, patience, sound counsel (and other assorted classical virtues). It was his enthusiasm which persuaded me that medieval justice was an idea worth investigating. More fundamentally, he has shown me why intellectual history is worth doing and how it should be done. Without the support and advice of Jane Garnett and George Southcombe, this would be a much weaker book (and I a much worse historian). Between them, they made the process of learning the historical discipline not just easier, but genuinely thrilling.

This book was begun at Wadham College, an institution which has been unfailingly generous with its resources – intellectually, administratively and financially. It was a privilege to work in such a supportive environment, and a place which encouraged its historians to take ideas seriously. The college’s librarians (Francesca Heaney, Sandra Bailey and Tim Kirtley) were ever-cheerful in responding to my requests, and I thank them for their forbearance. The final parts were put together as a postdoctoral fellow at Somerville College – a convivial and friendly place to undertake such labours.

The Arts and Humanities Research Council funded the research behind this book, and Oxford’s Faculty of History provided funding for research in the Bibliothèque nationale. A visiting fellowship at the Institute for St Anselm Studies in New Hampshire provided the space and time to refine some of the fuzzier parts of my theological thinking.

Colleagues and friends provided much feedback, and, like the mystical miller, helped grind coarse wheat into finer flour. Foremost among them are David D’Avray and Benjamin Thompson, who gently pointed out the missing links in many arguments, and who have been characteristically generous and supportive throughout this process. The final product would hardly amount to a book at all without the ideas and questions they raised. Paul Hyams has offered many thoughtful suggestions and has always been willing to share his expertise on English law. Ingrid Rembold generously read various drafts of several meandering chapters and provided wise commentary. Corinna Matlis has trekked to many seminars and conferences, critiqued many papers and endured many complaints.

Most of all, debts are owed to my family. To Gina Byrne, for preventing me from lapsing into the pomposity that historians are prone to. To Sheila Grey, Edward Byrne and Paula Byrne, for their patience, understanding and unceasing support. A couple of sentences on an acknowledgments page is hardly sufficient repayment for their indulgence. This is a little for a lot. Like Gervase of Tilbury, I can only hope they will indulgently postpone the full reckoning of my accumulated debts until another day.

Abbreviations

Prologue: the vanishing adulteress

De principis instructione, a moral treatise on the cultivation of virtue, composed by the Angevin courtier, scholar and litterateur, Gerald of Wales (c.1146–c.1223), exists today in only a single copy, a mid-fourteenth-century manuscript of unknown provenance.¹ There are no indications that the text was widely circulated, much less that it ever reached the eyes of rulers. Written and revised at intervals between 1190 and 1217, De principis instructione consists of three books (distinctiones), intended to teach both princes and prelates.² The first distinctio looks very much like a traditional speculum principis, praising virtues such as modesty (modestia), chastity (pudicitia) and prudence (prudentia), and explaining the difference between a king and a tyrant. The two subsequent books provide a narrative of how those virtues had, or had not, been practised by princes, in the form of a contemporary history of the Angevin and Capetian dynasties. As Gerald himself explained, the first book instructs through the precepts of theology and ethics, the second and third teach rulership through exempla.³

Along with much of Gerald’s voluminous and varied oeuvre, De principis instructione was edited and printed in the late nineteenth century as part of the Rolls Series, one of seven substantial volumes.⁴ The Victorian editors, however, found very little worthy of remark in the first book of De principis instructione, and, when preparing the text for publication, they excised many of the quotations and exempla which Gerald had so carefully worked into a coherent whole. Most recent scholars have agreed with that nineteenth-century judgment, regarding the first book of De principis instructione as little more than a collection of trite commonplaces culled from florilegia collections, which reveals little about the political, intellectual, or cultural life of late twelfth- or early thirteenth-century England. Robert Bartlett, Gerald’s modern biographer, who has led the way in recognising the distinctiveness of Gerald’s other works, did not find the first book of De principis instructione particularly engaging. He characterised the book as ‘neither original nor very illuminating’, a compilation of quotations intended to reinforce ‘moral platitudes’, and quite separate from the more valuable historical information contained in the second and third distinctiones.⁵ There the meat of Gerald’s text is to be found, in a critical history of twelfth-century rulership, its personnel and its failings. Thus, since serious academic study of the middle ages began, De principis instructione has been available in truncated – one is tempted to say ‘mutilated’ – form. Only when consulted in manuscript form could Gerald’s careful selection of scriptural and classical quotations – and his own commentary upon them – be read and appreciated in full.⁶

Contained within Gerald’s forlorn, forgotten and seemingly formulaic first distinctio is a chapter on clemency (de principis clementia). The focus of the discussion is the judicial role of the prince, and Gerald urges those who have the power to punish to control their anger, to remit offences and to mitigate due punishment.⁷ To this end he quotes from a variety of authorities: from classical poets, moralists and historians (including Lucan, Ovid, Sallust and Cicero); from scripture (the prophets, the psalms, the gospels); from the exemplary history of the ‘proto-martyr’ Stephen, who prayed for his persecutors even while they stoned him to death; and from Ambrose of Milan’s treatise on Christian duties, De officiis. Among these, Gerald takes an episode from the Gospel of John, the story of the woman caught in adultery (John viii.1–11), as an example of clemency. The guilty woman had been presented to Jesus by the Pharisees, who demanded that he pass sentence upon her. The law required that she be stoned to death, but Christ refused, arguing that only a sinless man could justly execute the woman. This pericope – like much other material dealing with moral theology – has been cut out of the Rolls Series edition of Gerald’s text. That removal, in many ways, typifies the more widespread neglect of the practical influence and significance of moral theology by medieval historians. For Gerald to cite the example of Christ forgiving a sinful woman may have seemed to Victorian editors simply to represent a repetitious, formulaic argument for clemency. In fact, this passage has hugely important ramifications for the way in which twelfth- and early thirteenth-century authors sought to bring to bear the moral guidance of scripture on their interpretation of the law.

The episode of the woman caught in adultery was interpreted by medieval readers according to two distinct strategies. It had a central place in legal discussions about interpretation of law and dispensation from written law. In canon and civil law, John viii formed the basis for a legal stipulation concerning the procedural requirement for witnesses. Canonists and civilians specified the legal implications of the gospel passage: Christ had refused to condemn the adulteress because no witness to her crime could be produced: without a witness or witnesses to attest to the proof of the charges, judgment was manifestly unsound. In that legal tradition, the pericope said nothing about morality, but a great deal about procedure. By contrast, the interpretation offered by Gerald in De principis instructione takes Christ’s treatment of the adulteress as a plea for mercy in judicial sentencing. Gerald follows glosses, scriptural commentaries and sermons in which Christ’s words (‘let he who is without sin throw the first stone’) were treated as an admonition to the judge. Those appointed to sentence must be ever mindful of divine judgment on their own sins, and their own desperate need for mercy from the divine judge, lest they act too hastily or too severely towards the earthly sinners brought before them. In De principis instructione, Gerald places the example of the adulteress next to the injunction ‘love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you’ (Matthew v.44), and the example of Christ’s forgiveness for his persecutors at the moment of his crucifixion (Luke xxiii.34).⁸ Deployed in this context, then, Gerald clearly intended the woman caught in adultery to stand as a demonstration of how the judge should temper the harshness of punishment. Far from adding to a list of moral platitudes, Gerald was weighing in on a debate concerning how love for one’s fellow man or woman might override the strict punishment pronounced by law.

The exemplum of the woman caught in adultery has obvious intellectual and cultural significance, and Gerald’s choice here connects him to a long-running tradition of moral debate. The implications of the ‘legal’ interpretation of John viii – the doctrine of witnesses – has been discussed extensively, and the importance of this scriptural story in the development of ius commune legislation has been examined at length in modern historiography. Yet the interpretation of John viii according to moral theology – reading Christ’s refusal to judge a sinner as an exhortation to clemency, the interpretation here provided by Gerald – has received almost no attention whatsoever from medieval historians. The argument of this book is that the role of moral theology in the understanding and application of law – exemplified here in the ramifications of the story of the adulteress – repays careful historical attention. Readings of moral theology and theological traditions shaped medieval responses to law, and, more particularly, considerations of how law should be implemented. Medieval theologians used scripture to argue that the demands of moral justice, not the dictates of written law, should claim primacy in sentencing. Theologians engaged with practice and, just as importantly, lawyers took notice. Most significantly of all, passages such as John viii were deployed to suggest that sometimes true justice lay in the mitigation of punishment and in the exercise of mercy. The definition of justice was, in short, just as much a matter for the schools of theology as it was for the schools of law. Examining medieval readings of John viii, as well as other scriptural, patristic and classical exempla, illuminates what may conveniently be termed the ‘moral tradition’ of justice. This tradition should not be dismissed as platitudinous, trivial or trite – theologians wielded real influence in shaping the ways in which the relationship between judgment, justice and the law was understood by contemporaries, and their discussions informed contemporary legal practice. That, in essence, is the underlying rationale for this book: we grasp only half of what it was to be a medieval judge if we do not grapple with the moral theology of judgment. Simply put, the adulteress, in her dual symbolism – bestriding the domains of theology and law – must be restored to the argument.

Notes

1 Gerald of Wales, ‘De principis instructione’, BL, MS Cotton Julius B XIII, fos 48r–173r.

2 Gerald of Wales, De principis instructione , in Opera omnia , ed. J. S. Brewer, J. F. Dimock and G. F. Warner, RS 21 (8 vols, London, 1861–91), 8, praefatio prima, 5–6.

3 Ibid. , 6.

4 For the history of the series see David Knowles, Great Historical Enterprises; Problems in Monastic History (London, 1963), 99–134.

5 R. Bartlett, Gerald of Wales: A Voice of the Middle Ages (2nd edn, Stroud, 2006), 63. One significant exception to this modern neglect of the text is I. Bejczy, ‘Gerald of Wales on the cardinal virtues: a reappraisal of De principis instructione ’, Medium Aevum 75:2 (2006), 191–201.

6 A situation which will be remedied with the expected publication of Robert Bartlett’s edition of De principis in 2018.

7 De principis , 1.7, 21–7.

8 BL, ‘De principis instructione’, 1.7, fo. 55r.

1

Introduction

Renaissance and crisis

This book is concerned with justice and mercy, with how twelfth- and early-thirteenth century English judges wrestled with the requirement to be both just and merciful in their judgments. It that sense, it represents a study of one particular aspect of the medieval judicial office – the point at which impersonal law and personal virtue met, collided and conversed. But justice and mercy are vast ideas, and such a broad theme must reasonably invite the questions – why England; why this period? One could, after all, quite easily make the case that heated intellectual argument about the nature of justice is – if not a perennial problem – hardly a phenomenon discovered in, or exclusive to, twelfth-century England.¹

The choice of twelfth- and early thirteenth-century England as the subject for this study is justified on two grounds. The period c.1100–c.1250 (the ‘long twelfth century’) in England saw two key and coinciding changes.² The first was the rise of scholasticism across Northern Europe, and the set of intellectual and cultural changes accompanying the proliferation of schools and the beginnings of the scholastic technique, often fitted under the umbrella term of the ‘Twelfth-Century Renaissance’. The profound changes in the way in which learning was approached and texts were read placed tremendous conceptual pressure on the term ‘justice’ (iustitia), and its relative ‘mercy’ (misericordia). It generated a level of debate which – arguably – had not been seen for eight centuries. Those discussions primarily concerned how a judge should set punishment, and how, where and why mercy fitted into the judicial office.

The second development, equal in importance to the trans-national phenomenon of scholasticism, was the ‘English’ change: the emergence of systematic law, or law with systematic aspirations, associated with Henry II’s legal reforms. Although similar legal transformations were set in motion across Europe in the latter part of this period, English common law can still fairly be thought of as distinct and ‘early’ in its development, relative to its European counterparts.³ This reorganisation of law is also packaged up with many other developments under the term ‘Renaissance’.⁴ But whether one describes it as a legal renaissance, or as a process of the professionalisation and systematisation of law, the law changed. In England, legal changes created the conditions and space for a ‘crisis’ of a conceptual and ethical kind: uncertainty regarding the moral duties associated with the office of the judge, and, most particularly, how a judge ought to exercise mercy in his judgments. That question became a matter of particular political and ‘public’ concern for English authors throughout the twelfth century. In the context of a judicial system aspiring to some level of uniformity and ‘national’ coherence, seemingly abstract questions about what justice should look like, and how mercy was to be defined, took on urgent practical relevance.

This book is, in part, an attempt to explain why defining justice, and its relative, mercy, presented such a complex problem for English moralists and judges in the period between 1100 and 1250, and how the struggle over those two terms was fundamental to the way in which the role of the judge was constructed. Of course, that problem was not static and unchanging, and over the course of a century and a half, its dimensions changed. It took on new shapes and was encountered in different settings. Criticisms of King Stephen’s excessive use of mercy, for example, functioned in quite a different political context from later denunciations of the ways in which King John punished malefactors without mercy or abused the system of royal pardons. There is, however, a constant theme which draws these complaints and commentary together: an awareness that mercy and justice do not fit easily together, and a judge is obliged to think carefully about their relationship before giving judgment.

Determining how a judge should behave, and how he⁵ should exercise his judgment, was not a question confined to England in this period. But the English dimensions to this problem are distinct. This is first due to the peculiar lineage, form and content of the common law itself, which emerged in a way markedly different from its Roman-law-derived European contemporaries. Secondly, the historian’s discussion of how ‘English’ judges engaged with moral theology must, by necessity, follow different lines from those discussing continental judges. The thicket of historiographical assumptions and myths which have grown up around the common law, emphasising its isolation, particularism and even ‘native purity’, demand a treatment of their own.

Thus, before one can even approach the medieval law itself, one must consider exactly what historians mean when they talk about medieval justice and medieval mercy. To offer a history of medieval justice can mean to examine the arguments forged in the medieval schools – discussions of soteriology, sin, virtue and the just life, finding its apotheosis in Aquinas’s pronouncements. Alternatively, it can take on a resolutely practical cast, with historians following trails of administrative documents, court records and procedural manuals. In short, a history of medieval justice can trace a history of competing concepts and definitions, primarily moral and biblical; or of actions encompassing the devising of laws and their application. How one defines and approaches justice, therefore, conditions what we look for as evidence of medieval mercy: it is either an ethical and personal choice relating to medieval ambitions to live the virtuous life; or it is a question of searching for pardon rolls that will show how much it cost to purchase forgiveness for a crime from the crown.

Because mercy springs from justice, this book begins from justice. Both intellectual history and (English) legal history have written their own histories of justice, and both disciplines have broadly differing views about the most significant moments of change in the way that medieval people thought about and used justice. There are few, if any, points of contact between the two chronologies. The intellectual history of justice charts shifts in thought and interpretation which have never been mapped onto a legal history of justice. That strict division between theory and practice has led to the assumption – usually implicit – that scholastic discussions about moral virtue had no connection to English legal practice. But, as this book argues, twelfth- and thirteenth-century judges thought very hard, very long and very carefully about both the operation of justice as a virtue and the realisation of that virtue of justice in legal practice. The place where concerns about virtue and the practical giving of judgments most intersected was when those men of the law were required to deal with the issue – or, perhaps more accurately, the problem – of mercy. To put it simply, this book argues that, first, when it came to determining the judicial punishment of offenders in twelfth- and thirteenth-century England, theological thought informed legal practice; and, secondly, that theological modes of thinking drove a sophisticated and long-running debate about judicial ethics. These, in themselves, may not appear to be particularly challenging or surprising statements: that it may prove so is testimony to the very sharp separation of the modern disciplines of intellectual and English legal history. I have tried to strike a balance: the first half of this book draws on the work of theologians and moralists – primarily those working in England but including those active across western Europe – in order to illustrate the depth and complexity of the discussions of justice, mercy and law taking place in the schools. The second half focuses on examples of judgment and judicial dilemmas within the English polity.

Justice and scholastic thought

The contemporary intellectual history of the medieval concept of justice was shaped by explanatory frameworks devised in the first half of the twentieth century. Modern studies take their cue from the work of Odon Lottin’s magisterial Psychologie et morale aux XIIe et XIIIe siècles, an exhaustive exploration of scholastic moral philosophy, published in six volumes between 1942 and 1960.⁶ Lottin’s account of the development of scholastic moral thought was characterised by a clear teleology, where twelfth-century thought served to lay the foundations for the achievements of truly systematic thirteenth-century scholasticism.⁷ Lottin’s discussion of ‘justice’ in Psychologie et morale is in fact a slightly modified version of an article from the 1930s.⁸ That article offers a similar narrative: twelfth-century analyses of the virtue of justice proceeded only in fits and starts. ‘Justice’ was only subject to a fully penetrating analysis with the thirteenth-century schools’ re-engagement with Aristotle. This theme is evident even in the proleptic title of the original article – ‘justice … avant l’introduction d’Aristote’. It was only when scholastic thinkers had access to the Aristotelian categories of ‘general’ and ‘particular’ justice that they were able to give a full account of justice, and fully explain the relationship between a just (virtuous) life and specific (judicial) acts of justice. By contrast, discussions of justice before the mid-thirteenth century were to be characterised as, at best, idiosyncratic, and, at worst, chaotic and disorganised, a mishmash of borrowings from classical texts, lacking any compelling structural principle.⁹ Subsequent historians have reiterated this idea: while there were flashes of brilliance in twelfth-century thought about justice – perhaps, most obviously, Abelard’s ethics of intention – these ideas never entered the main corpus of scholastic thought, and left little legacy.¹⁰ Much of the twelfth- and early-thirteenth century is characterised as frenzied discussion without lasting influence.

More recent scholarship has followed the lines laid down by Lottin, enquiring into the classification of iustitia in scholastic summae, quaestiones and works ‘de virtutibus et de vitiis’. The focus has often been to place justice in relation to its fellow cardinal virtues, prudentia, temperantia and fortitudo.¹¹ Lottin’s argument for a fundamental thirteenth-century shift has been upheld by, among others, István Bejczy, who has argued that the thirteenth century saw a changed conceptualisation of the cardinal virtues, with the view that virtue was a mental habit supplanting the opinion that virtue resided in the will.¹² Whereas twelfth-century authors argued that justice served an important role because it regulated the will, thirteenth-century thought argued that justice did not control its own mental power.¹³ The thirteenth century conceived of only three faculties of the mind: reason, controlled by prudence; the irascible appetite, under the power of fortitude; and the concupiscent appetite, moderated by temperance. Like Lottin’s, this narrative of a thirteenth-century shift in understanding and theorisation, too, condemns twelfth-century thought on justice to near-irrelevance.

This model of the apparent ‘chaos’ (or, at least, disorder) in scholastic thought on justice before the introduction of Aristotle is in keeping with modern narratives of the development of scholasticism itself. In purely formal terms, for example, the twelfth and early thirteenth centuries mark a period in which scholasticism was in something of a state of flux and experimentation.¹⁴ The variety of organising principles on offer led to still greater variety in the expression of arguments about justice. Modern perspectives on justice have accordingly remained a depiction of intellectual disorder, and, as a result, the focus of historians has tended to be limited to salvaging the reputation and thought of individual authors.¹⁵ Yet such studies can only be of limited assistance when attempting to establish what justice ‘meant’ in this period. The most interesting elements in any author’s discussion of justice will be revealed only when their definitions are set alongside those of their contemporaries, and the broader contours of scholastic thought. Indeed, attempting to understand justice though the thought of one individual alone can be fundamentally misleading – because such an approach fails to reveal just how fissiparous and contentious the act of defining justice could be. Disagreement was the order of the day. Contributions to an often fractious debate on the meaning of iustitia might, for example, be hidden among otherwise more uncontroversial assertions in speculum principis literature or sermons. As a result, before the intricacies of that twelfth- and thirteenth-century debate about justice can be appreciated, the broader shape of medieval thought on iustitia must be fleshed out. That includes providing a chronology more sophisticated that Lottin’s original schema of diversity of outlook in the twelfth century, followed by Aristotelian systematisation in the thirteenth. This means identifying, in detail, the arguments which made up that diversity of outlook, and examining exactly how they were deployed in defining iustitia.

The aim of this book is not to deny that twelfth-century debates on justice can be characterised by intellectual disagreement (although disagreement should be detached from the term ‘disorder’, which carries more unhelpful connotations), but to suggest that such disagreement is exactly what makes the period worthy of study. Justice was difficult to categorise not simply because Aristotelian answers still awaited rediscovery: justice was difficult to categorise – and many ‘answers’ were proffered – because scholastic authors recognised the complexity of its nature. Indeed, part of that complexity lay in sketching out the relationship between the concept of justice and its realisation in practice.

Justice and the common law

The historiography of twelfth-century scholasticism treats its subject as an international discipline, defined by personnel and debates that transcended national boundaries – as Richard Southern would have it, a truly ‘European’ phenomenon.¹⁶ The same cannot be said of English legal history: going back to Maitland, and even beyond him, to Selden and sixteenth-century antiquarians, it has proudly proclaimed its insularity and particularity.¹⁷ The common law has ‘a life and logic of its own’, and that life and logic are peculiar to England.¹⁸ This historiographical tradition would appear to impede any attempt to draw meaningful connections between arguments in the medieval schools of northern Europe and contemporaneous developments in the English legal system. This may, in part, account for why the interpretation of the term ‘justice’ across the two disciplines (intellectual history and legal history) appears so starkly opposed in modern scholarship.

Indeed, ‘justice’ as an abstract idea is rarely invoked in this history. English legal historians have focused on the explicitly practical and procedural nature of common law, and the pragmatic approaches of its earliest practitioners. What is striking, however, is that, much like the history of scholastic thought in the twelfth century, twelfth-century English legal history is also framed as movement from disorder towards order, structure and systematisation. That ‘structure’ derives from a narrative of professionalisation – law becoming a full-time job, set against the background of the development of a national court system.¹⁹

The focus of English legal history – at least for the first century of common law, and before the emergence of the Inns of Court – has been the persons of its practitioners.²⁰ Much data has been accumulated on the social background of the earliest judges and advocates. English lawyers and administrators of the law have been characterised as largely self-interested landholders; men concerned with securing or maintaining titles and position. To do justice, therefore, was to carry out the wishes of the crown, and ‘a great gap separated the ideal expressed in the decrees of councils, complaints or moralists, and commentaries of canonists and theologians from the practice of the Angevin kings’.²¹ What drove the development of justice was the need to work around practical problems in administering the law – whether that was the requirement to uphold order, or to generate revenue for the crown.²² This was the case, from the perspective of legal history, even when ecclesiastical officers served as royal justices. On this account, even in those circumstances, even when royal officers had profound knowledge of scripture, of theology or of the practices of canon law, this had no impact on their attitude to administering common law.²³

Such assumptions should not be accepted uncritically, and it is worth considering – in some detail – the biographies of a number of those administrators. Richard FitzNigel, for example, the son of Henry I’s treasurer, Nigel, Bishop of Ely, was promoted through both royal administrative and ecclesiastical hierarchies; serving both as a royal justice and Bishop of London. His Dialogue of the Exchequer (c.1180), explains the performance and routine of royal justice at the exchequer with explicit reference to the scriptural foundations of that justice.²⁴ It is not only Richard FitzNigel whose biography suggests at least a familiarity with moral arguments about justice. Eustace de Fauconberg (1170–1228), educated in either Paris or Bologna, served as a judge both at Westminster and on eyre, and followed a similar path to FitzNigel, as both treasurer of the exchequer and Bishop of London.²⁵ Godfrey de Lucy (d.1204), Bishop of Winchester and Chief Justiciar, was a magister who had studied both in London and abroad, and is a plausible candidate for the authorship of the legal treatise Glanvill.²⁶ Richard Barre, who studied in Bologna with the celebrated canonist Stephen of Tournai, subsequently worked as a preacher, served Henry II as a justice in 1172 and later acted as chancellor for the Young King Henry.²⁷ Barre had also made a study of the Bible, dedicating a compendium of biblical excerpts to William Longchamp, Chancellor of England.²⁸

The reason for reciting these four brief biographies is not to claim that these men rewrote English law to serve ‘theological’ ends, but to show that all four had the education and experience which would have forced them to at least consider