Nottingham Medieval Studies-63, 2019 Heretical Self-Defence in Late Antiquity

Nottingham Medieval Studies
Editors
Rob Lutton, Department of History, Nottingham
Natasha Hodgson, Department of History, Nottingham Trent University
Editorial Board
Nicola Royan, chair, School of English, Nottingham
Christopher King, secretary, Department of Archaeology, Nottingham
Ross Balzaretti, Department of History, Nottingham
Helen Barr, University of Oxford
Julia Barrow, University of Leeds
Chris Callow, University of Birmingham
Jayne Carroll, School of English, Nottingham
Catherine Cubitt, University of York
Peter Darby, Department of History, Nottingham
Gwilym Dodd, Department of History, Nottingham
Richard Goddard, Department of History, Nottingham
Natasha Hodgson, editor, Nottingham Trent University
Judith Jesch, School of English, Nottingham
Mike Jones, School of English, Nottingham
Richard Jones, University of Leicester
Christina Lee, School of English, Nottingham
Doug Lee, Department of Classics, Nottingham
Christopher Loveluck, Department of Archaeology, Nottingham
Rob Lutton, editor, Department of History, Nottingham
Joanna Martin, School of English, Nottingham
Gabriele Neher, Department of Art History, Nottingham
Sarah Semple, Durham University
Claire Taylor, Department of History, Nottingham
Jan Vanderburie, University of Leicester
Monica White, School of Cultures, Languages and Area Studies, Nottingham
Emily Wingfield, University of Birmingham
Simon Yarrow, University of Birmingham
Nottingham Medieval Studies
63
(2019)
Edited by
Rob Lutton and Natasha Hodgson
Review Editors
Jennifer Caddick and Alex Marchbank
Special Issue
Heretical Self-Defence in Late Antiquity
and the Middle Ages
Edited by
Peter Darby, Rob Lutton, and Claire Taylor
© 2019, Brepols Publishers n.v., Turnhout, Belgium
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,

stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means,
electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise,
without the prior permission of the publisher.
ISBN: 978-2-503-58284-9
ISSN: 0078-2122
DOI: 10.1484/J.NMS.5.118189
Printed in the EU on acid-free paper
D/2019/0095/176
Contents
List of Illustrations ix
Introduction: Heretical Self-Defence in Late Antiquity

and the Middle Ages
PETER DARBY, ROB LUTTON, and CLAIRE TAYLOR 1
The Best Defence Is a Good Offence:Arnobius the Younger’s
Praedestinatus and the Debates on Predestination in
Mid-Fifth-Century Rome
RAÚL VILLEGAS MARÍN 23
The Heresiology of the Heretic: The Case of the Valentinians
PAUL LINJAMAA 37
Paulician Self-Defence and Self-Definition in the Didaskalie
CARL DIXON 61
Turning Towards Heresy: Bogomils and Self-Defence
MAJA ANGELOVSKA-PANOVA 81
The Inquisition and Popular Pressure in the Languedoc
DEREK HILL 95
Talk, Communication, and the Avoidance of Inquisitors in

Thirteenth-Century Languedoc
SAKU PIHKO 111
Self-Defence and its Limits in Marguerite Porete’s
Mirror of Simple Souls
JUSTINE L. TROMBLEY 129
vi CONTENTS
Scripting Defence: Textual Arguments and their Readers

amid the Pursuit of Heresy in England
FIONA SOMERSET 153
Resistance, Self-Defence, or Sticking Up for Your Friends?
A Discussion of Purgation in the Prosecution of
Fifteenth-Century Lollardy
ESTHER LEWIS 169
Review Article
‘No Thanks, But I’ll Send Someone.’ Proctors for Parliament:
Clergy, Community and Politics, c. 1228–1539, vol. I and II
(by Phil Bradford and Alison K. McHardy)
J. T. ROSENTHAL 191
Reviews
The Medieval Military Engineer: From the Roman Empire
to the Sixteenth Century
(by Peter Purton)
JOHN FRANCE 201
The Beginnings of the Cult of Relics
(by Robert Wiśniewski)
GEORGINA FITZGIBBON 204
Coming of Age in Byzantium: Adolescence and Society
(ed. by Despoina Ariantzi)
SIREN ÇELIK 207
Saints of North-East England, 600–1500
(ed. by Margaret Coombe, Anne Mouron,
and Christiania Whitehead)
IAN STYLER 210
Les structures seigneuriales rurales: Bretagne méridionale (XIVe–XVIe)
(by Brice Rabot)
MICHAEL JONES 213
Middle English Mouths: Late Medieval Medical,
Religious and Literary Traditions
(by Katie L. Walter)
MICHAEL LEAHY 218
This volume is dedicated to the memory of
Bernard Hamilton, 1932–2019.
Illustrations
Figure 1, p. 180. A network graph of the parish of St Thomas the Martyr

with edges maintained between the deponents tried by Bishop Bubwith in
1414.
Figure 2, p. 181. A network graph of the parish of St Thomas the Martyr
without edges maintained between the deponents tried by Bishop Bubwith
in 1414.
Introduction: Heretical Self-Defence in
Late Antiquity and the Middle Ages
Peter Darby, Rob Lutton, and Claire Taylor
I n recent years medieval heresy has increasingly become the subject of popular
media, books and films, and its modern resonances are felt in politics and
society as well as religious life. In parallel to these developments, the academic
study of heresy has developed considerably in the last few decades with strongly
revisionist positions emerging in some familiar subject areas whilst new lines of
enquiry have opened up into previously underappreciated areas of late antique
and medieval history and theology. The capacity for premodern heresies to rouse
heated debate and generate conflicting schools of thought has not diminished
with the passing of time. In recent years a number of important new books have
emerged which showcase a broad range of interests across the late antique and
medieval periods and demonstrate the vibrancy of this field. The last four years
Peter Darby, Rob Lutton, and Claire Taylor ([email protected]), Department of

History, University of Nottingham
Abstract: This introduction sets out the shared themes and questions of this special issue of
Nottingham Medieval Studies. It begins by highlighting some recent developments in the
historiography of heresy and the emergence of new questions and approaches in the field before
discussing how these are pursued in the articles gathered together in this volume. Each of these
articles highlights episodes or strategies of resistance by groups and individuals from the second
to fifteenth centuries, from England to the Eastern Mediterranean, from the perspective of the
accused. Across this long period, dissident groups adopted heresiological strategies in their
attempts at self-defence in ways which highlight how the boundary between orthodoxy and
heresy was subjective, contingent and shifting. The articles collectively indicate that accusations
of heresy and responses to them were struggles over the very nature and limits of orthodoxy itself
and the discourses and processes by which it was defined and policed. The volume demonstrates
the value in integrating consideration of the actions and arguments of those accused of heresy in
the Middle Ages with the wider historical discourse surrounding the subject. Not only does this
special issue open up new ways of thinking about specific societies and events covered in depth
in its articles, it also reinforces the realization that medieval heresy controversies are stories with
multiple sides.
Keywords: Dissent, heresy, heresiology, historiography, orthodoxy, chronology, strategies of
defence
Nottingham Medieval Studies, 63 (2019), 1–21 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.NMS.5.118190

2 Peter Darby, Rob Lutton, and Claire Taylor
alone have witnessed the publication of a comparative survey of medieval heresies

which integrates the study of Christianity, Judaism, and Islam; a provocative
collection on the fiercely contested issue of the ‘Cathar heresy’; a new monograph
on the teachings of the Frankish priest Gottschalk of Orbais, and another on
the writings of Pelagius; new studies of late antique heresiological texts and the
catalogues that they were based on; and a Festschrift for Robert Lerner which
showcases a variety of new approaches to heresy in the later Middle Ages.1
The field is poised to continue moving forwards at a fast pace as major research
initiatives are completed and more new projects emerge. As interest in the subject
matter has grown, the questions being asked of the medieval source material
proliferate. Heresy and orthodoxy are rarely now considered as dichotomous
sides of a black and white binary, and much current scholarship has been inclined
to investigate the grey areas which surround these two theoretical categories.
The ways in which scholars study medieval discourses concerning heresy are also
changing to account for the fact that unravelling the emergence and transmission
of complex ideas is a far from straightforward task. Heresies are rarely now seen
as theoretical positions that emerged to directly challenge a widely accepted
orthodoxy, since heterodox ideas arose for different reasons in different historical
periods. Indeed, what constituted an agreed ‘orthodoxy’ at any particular
moment in the Middle Ages can itself be very hard to establish, and this problem
is reflected in the chronologically ordered chapters in this volume.
A good example of recently published research which explores these themes is
the aforementioned monograph on Pelagianism by Ali Bonner. Bonner challenges
many of the common assumptions that have been made about her subject from
the late antique period through to the present day by offering a fresh appraisal
of textual material which has routinely been regarded as heretical since its
anathematization at the Council of Carthage in 418 ce , but which cannot fairly
be said to have emerged in response to an orthodox position for which there was
anything approaching a widely held consensus at the time at which Pelagius was
writing.2 An influential work, which deals with these issues in another cultural
context entirely, is John Arnold’s reading of ‘heresy’ and ‘orthodoxy’ within the
spectrum of popular belief and doubt.3 Kathryn Kerby-Fulton has called for a
broader understanding of heterodoxy and heresy in late medieval England
1
Caldwell Ames, Medieval Heresies; Sennis, Cathars in Question; Gillis, Heresy and Dissent
in the Carolingian Empire; Bonner, The Myth of Pelagianism; Smith, Guilt by Association;
Berzon, Classifying Christians; Bailey and Field, Late Medieval Heresy.
2
Bonner, Myth of Pelagianism.
3
Arnold, Belief and Unbelief in Medieval Europe.
introduction 3
by examining the significance of ‘revelatory theology’ alongside Wycliffism,

even going as far as to suggest that ‘revelatory writing’ was the greater threat
to orthodoxy.4 In a similar revisionist turn, but sticking with Wycliffism, Fiona
Somerset’s Feeling like Saints aims to redefine what we understand as lollardy but
also how we think about the religiously orthodox mainstream in late fourteenth-
and fifteenth-century England.5
Studies of medieval heresy have traditionally focussed on areas such as doctrine,
social context, persecution, and repression. The articles gathered together in this
issue instead highlight episodes or strategies of resistance, each investigating an
instance in which individuals or groups were required, like Pelagius, to defend
themselves against accusations of heresy. The result is a collection that approaches
its subject matter from the point of view of the accused and not their accusers.
In spite of the problems inherent in trying to tease out the intentions and ideas
of people who were often marginalized, it stresses their agency and attempts to
shine a spotlight on people who lost the particular struggles that they engaged
in, and who as a result were subjected to various forms of stigmatization and
often persecution.
The closest that medieval scholars have come to thinking about the act or
practice of resistance to accusations of heresy as a distinct subject area is to con-
sider how thirteenth- and fourteenth-century ‘Cathar’ heretics and supporters
used the process and discourse of inquisition trials to negotiate their ways around
and through power relationships, individually and as communities.6 The aim of
this special issue of Nottingham Medieval Studies is to address questions such as
how, and how well, did a broader spectrum of people defend themselves from
persecution and accusations of heresy, how different were the heresiological
strategies employed by heretics to those used by their accusers, and did these
things change and develop across time? The contributions gathered here cover
a diverse range of late antique and medieval topics, from the debates over
Valentinianism that took place across the Mediterranean world in the second
and third centuries to those over lollardy in fifteenth-century England. The
chronological and geographical breadth of the subject matter encountered in this
issue serves to remind us that the prospect of being exposed to an accusation of
heresy was a very serious hazard for Christians of late antiquity and the Middle
4
Kerby-Fulton, Books under Suspicion.
5
Somerset, Feeling like Saints.
6
For example, Given, Inquisition and Medieval Society; Vise, ‘The Women and the
Inquisitor’.
Ages, be they writers like Marguerite Porete, merchants and burgesses of Bristol,
or members of dissenting groups like the Paulicians.
Perhaps the clearest common thread to emerge from the research articles
presented across the volume is that many of the defensive strategies employed
by those accused of heresy in the late antique and medieval periods closely
mirrored the tactics deployed against them by their accusers. This is apparent
in the case of Valentinianism, a popular form of Christian belief which came to
be comprehensively rejected by the Church Fathers. The classification of belief
became an increasingly important topic of discussion within Christian circles
from around 150 ce onwards as second- and third-century figures such as Justin
Martyr, Irenaeus, and Tertullian took their lead from the sentiments advocating
unity expressed in the Pauline epistles to argue against contemporary sectarianism
and diversity.7 Those labelled as Valentinians by their opponents represent just
one of many competing Christian communities who were prevalent in the
Early Church, a period during which no normative ‘orthodoxy’ was dominant
or manifest.8 Operating in a climate in which persecution was still a clear and
present threat, since Christianity was yet to be officially subsumed into the
formal apparatus of the Roman Empire, the key figures in these debates opposed
Valentinian teachings on doctrinal matters such as Creation, the nature of Christ,
and the formation of the universe. Paul Linjamaa’s article demonstrates that a
shared suite of heresiological tactics was employed on both sides of these debates
through close study of Valentinian materials preserved in the Nag Hammadi
texts. In doing so, Linjamaa reminds us that the theological views of Valentinus
(the figure who came to be identified as a heresiarch after whom the Valentinians
were named) do not seem to have disbarred him from having a prominent
ecclesiastical career in second-century Rome, a city also inhabited at that time by
one of his chief opponents, Justin Martyr.
The early years of the fourth century brought the toleration of Christianity
by the Roman Empire, a development which profoundly changed the face of
Christianity and the standing of its believers. With this improved status came
new opportunities for Church leaders to attempt to standardize beliefs and
practices across the Mediterranean world. The impetus for much of this activity
came from the ecumenical councils, beginning with the Council of Nicaea
convened by Constantine I in 325, which was substantially concerned with the
7
E.g. i Corinthians 12. 12–27; Colossians 3. 11–17.
8
For discussion: Bauer, Orthodoxy and Heresy in Earliest Christianity; Williams, ‘Does It
Make Sense to Speak of Pre-Nicene Orthodoxy?’; Brake, ‘ Self-Differentiation among Christian
Groups’.
introduction 5
issue of Christology. The Nicene Creed was developed against the backdrop of
alternative ideas about Christ’s status within the Trinity associated with Arius
(d. 336), as well as debates concerning the Incarnation and the wider nature of
Creation in opposition to dualism. This period also witnessed a growing interest
in heresiology, the formal study of heresy by expert intellectuals.9 Such figures
produced texts that categorized heresies into schematic compendia, offering brief
descriptions and repudiations of known heresies from the past and present. By the
late fourth century, heresiological texts had become popular and influential, with
key contributions emerging from Epiphanius of Salamis (d. 403) and Filastrius
of Brescia (d. c. 397).10 A generation later St Augustine (354–430) issued his
own heresiology, De haeresibus, having spent much of his career engaged in
debates with others over the nature of orthodox belief.11 The proliferation of
encyclopaedic texts in late antiquity had a substantial impact upon how literate
people conceptualized heresy and orthodoxy. Such texts, which suggested to
their readers that heresy was something to be detected, recorded, and repudiated,
also influenced those who encountered them as they continued to be copied,
circulated, and imitated in later centuries.
The risk of ideas being misinterpreted, misunderstood, or misconstrued,
whether wilfully or accidentally, was very real in a pre-print world where ideas
generally circulated through face-to-face preaching, word of mouth oral networks,
or handwritten texts or letters. A well-founded anxiety over the potential
misattribution of pseudonymous material to his canon was one motivating factor
which inspired St Augustine to provide a definitive list of his genuine writings
shortly before his death.12 A letter by Bede (c. 673–735) reveals that he turned
pale and felt physically sick on learning that he had been accused of heresy
because of a misunderstanding fuelled by a local monastic rumour mill.13 In the
case of nonliterate people, their beliefs could be misrepresented, constructed, and
misconstrued by their accusers even without their knowledge. In light of these
potential pitfalls, it was therefore crucial for even those who regarded their own
credentials as flag-bearers for Christian orthodoxy to be beyond reproach to have
a suite of well-formed strategies for defence ready to be deployed, should they be
9
McClure, ‘Handbooks against Heresy in the West’; Cameron, ‘How to Read Heresiology’;
Flower, ‘Genealogies of Unbelief ’; Smith, Guilt by Association.
10
Epiphanius of Salamis, Panarion, ed. by Holl; Filastrius of Brescia, Diversarum hereseon
liber, ed. by Heylen.
11
Augustine of Hippo, De haeresibus, ed. by Vander Plaetse and Beukers.
12
Augustine of Hippo, Retractationum libri ii, ed. by Mutzenbecher.
13
Bede, ‘Epistola ad Pleguinam’, i, ll. 7–8, ed. by Jones, p. 617.
needed in an emergency. Bede’s response to being accused of heresy took the form
of a public letter which employs a multitude of defensive strategies inherited from
the Christian Latin literature of late antiquity, and which are commonplaces of
the heresiological tradition.14 These strategies were adopted time and time again
by premodern writers, and many of them are observable amongst the figures
and groups featured in the research articles gathered together in this volume.
They include: attempting to turn the tables on one’s accusers by levelling against
them a counter charge of heresy; overtly signalling an advanced awareness of
the history, language, and practices of heresiology; trying to establish that the
accused’s understanding of the Scriptures is more comprehensive and more
accurate than the accuser’s; casting doubt upon the moral standing and character
of the opponent (the pinnacle of this peculiar art form being achieved in the early
fifth century by Jerome’s polemic against the unfortunate Vigilantius);15 and the
gathering together of earlier texts to demonstrate that the contested position is in
fact supported by the weight of tradition.
The various writings commonly attributed to Arnobius Iunior were issued in
the immediate aftermath of Augustine’s death in 430 ce. The doctrinal controversy
over predestination to salvation that Augustine had engaged in with various
opponents, chief amongst them the Italian bishop Julian of Eclanum (c. 380–
454), very much lived on after Julian continued to campaign for his reconciliation
to the Church in the aftermath of his condemnation by the Council of Ephesus
in 431. A remarkable text in three books known as the Praedestinatus entered this
intellectual milieu in the early 440s. Raúl Villegas Marín’s contribution to this
issue discusses some of the different strategies that its author devised to try to paint
his opponents as heretics on the one hand, and present himself as a champion
of orthodoxy on the other. Taking a lead from Augustine’s De haeresibus, the
author of the Praedestinatus adopts several well-established strategies from
the Christian heresiological tradition, such as linking his opponents to earlier
movements already condemned by conciliar or patristic authority, and creating
for them a label (and concomitant group identity) to give the false impression
that the so-called Praedestinati were a distinct heretical sect. What emerges
with clarity from Villegas Marín’s contribution is the idea that a comparable
arsenal of heresiological tactics was being used on both sides of the debate over
predestination that took place in Rome in the aftermath of Augustine’s death.
There are remarkably few surviving accounts of heresy as we move through
the Carolingian period, although it may be that the subject has not been studied
14
Bede, ‘Epistola ad Pleguinam’, ed. by Jones.
15
Jerome, ‘Contra Vigilantium’, ed. by Migne.
introduction 7
to the extent that it could be.16 But it is commonly acknowledged that once we
move into the High Middle Ages, we find the first examples of what we can call
‘popular’ heresy. That is to say, dissident beliefs and practices apparently taken
up by societal groups, even though they often seem to have originated with a
particular, named heresiarch. These were influential over wider communities,
and even whole cities. As such, the first and last individual of the High Middle
Ages apparently to remain isolated in his unorthodox beliefs, the scholar
Vilgard of Ravenna,17 was followed by a cluster of Western European accounts
of phenomena labelled heretical, the best known of which follow.18 They are the
first ‘popular heresies’, and our articles which relate to the High Middle Ages deal
with movements which fall into this historiographical category.
In c. 1000 ce we encounter a smattering of remarkable-sounding minor
movements such as that of the peasant Leutard of Vertus, in the diocese of
Reims. He had the message revealed to him by bees that he should become
chaste and that it was wrong to pay tithes.19 Around the same time, the monk
known as Héribert of Périgord, in Aquitaine, informed Christians everywhere
about a heresy being spread by ‘false Apostles’ who eschewed clerical authority
and the materialism of the Church, interpreting the spiritual world and its rituals
quite possibly from a dualist perspective and sharing their goods in common.20
Recording events for the year 1018, another Aquitainian monk, Adémar of
Chabannes, informs us that ‘Manichees’ were spreading their ideas amongst
the common folk.21 In 1022 the trial took place of a group of canons at Orléans
and their lay supporters, whom Adémar also calls Manichees, although their
beliefs are more reminiscent of Docetism, which involves the denial of Christ’s
Incarnation. The canons had apparently followed the teachings of the former
precentor of the cathedral, Deodatus, whose remains were burned along with his
living acolytes.22 Three years later, heretics at Arras returned to the Catholic faith
under the guidance of the bishop, rejecting their leader Gundulf of Italy. They
had opposed clerical authority, rituals and materiality, and the use of the Old
Testament, and were identified by the bishop with another group at Châlons-sur-
16
See now Gillis, Heresy and the Carolingian Empire.
17
Wakefield and Evans, Heresies of the High Middle Ages, p. 73.
18
For a survey of Western European sources in the eleventh century and a summary of the
varying interpretations, see Taylor, Heresy in Medieval France, pp. 55–116.
19
Wakefield and Evans, Heresies of the High Middle Ages, pp. 72–73.
20
Reproduced in Lobrichon, ‘The Chiaroscuro of Heresy’, pp. 78–79.
21
22
Marne. They also sound rather like a group of ‘Manichees’ discovered at Goslar
in the same decades.23 Somewhere between 1028 and 1040 vegetarian Docetists
holding their goods in common were being sheltered at Montfort d’Alba in the
diocese of Milan.24
Taken together, such stories of popular heresy from the first half of the
eleventh century have some common themes. The medieval sources — all of them
hostile — indicate that they were ‘Manichees’, had Docetic traits, claimed falsely
to live the Apostolic life, did not kill or eat animals, and rejected the material
world to the extent that this was possible. They also rejected clerical authority,
the need for churches, and the sacraments, especially baptism (as unnecessary)
and marriage (in favour of chastity). Furthermore, they were dangerously
egalitarian and connected to each other by widely travelled missionaries. They
were understood to be the heretics predicted by the Apostle Paul, and they were
regarded in a millennial context, appearing as they did in the decades around the
1000th anniversary of the earthly life of Christ. Medieval and modern scholars
might recognize similarities between these groups, but this does not prove that
there was a widespread, self-aware movement, let alone of dualists. In each case,
completely localized explanations could account for them being ‘discovered’, in
other words invented, be it local political or monastic politics, generalized anti-
clericalism, early attempts at clerical reform, or, in the case of Leutard, infection
by ergotism, a sickness causing hallucinations brought on by consuming damp rye.
Beyond this, historiographical analysis of these millennial mini-movements
rather stalled in the late twentieth century in its attempts to proceed beyond
the discussion of whether dualism was in evidence or not. But an earlier
orthodoxy about what these reports represent has persisted, which is that some
at least of these accounts indicate westward missions by south-east European
heretics specifically, and thus reflect an alien dualism. This is because dualism
had re-emerged far more certainly in Asia Minor and Armenia, in the form of
Paulicians, and in Bulgaria and Greece in the form of Bogomils. In spite of the
extensive translation of sources for these heresies,25 Paulicians and Bogomils have
received relatively little attention in Anglophone scholarship.
Carl Dixon’s contribution to this volume approaches Paulicians through one
of their sources, the Didaskalie, a work produced in the early ninth century in
response to Byzantine persecution but which survives only in a version in Peter of
23
Wakefield and Evans, Heresies of the High Middle Ages, pp. 82–85, 89–93.
24
25
See Hamilton and Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies, and Hugh Eteriono, Contra
Patarenos, ed. and trans. by Bernard and Hamilton.
introduction 9
Sicily’s ninth-century History of the Paulicians.26 The form of Paulician self-defence

was two-fold: one strategy was ideological, with heretics identifying themselves
quite sophisticatedly with the earliest Christians, and their persecutors with
Roman oppressors of that early Christianity; another was to become, in the ninth
century, one of the few militarized dissident movements of the Middle Ages, with
their armies both attacking and evading their Byzantine enemies. These processes
were regarded by Paulicians themselves ambivalently. This raises the question
of whether they were ‘heretics’ attacking ideological opponents, or enemies of
Byzantium before they were designated ‘heretical’ by Constantinople. Dixon
concentrates on the period of the composition of the Didaskalie, and as well as
adding to the small body of Anglophone literature on Paulicians, significantly
challenges much of it, not least that Paulicians were only portrayed as heretics by
their Byzantine and Armenian enemies.
As part of their persecution and assimilation into the Byzantine Empire,
Paulicians were deployed as military units by Constantinople in various regions
into which it was extending its influence. This included Bulgaria. Influenced in
part by Paulicians and in part by the decentralized monasticism of the Bulgarian
Church, the semi-mythical ‘Bogomil’ (Beloved of God) evolved an aesthetic,
nonviolent, and evangelizing form of dualism. This movement is thought by
some to have entered the West in around the year 1000. When Bulgaria fell to
the Byzantines in 1018, its elite migrated to Constantinople and took with it the
teachings and practices of Bogomil. Its greatest strength was during the period
of the Komneni emperors, but this rise had been covert. When Bogomils were
uncovered, it was through trickery, as in the case of the Bogomil Basil’s cell in
the capital itself, exposed through the guile of Alexius Comnenus in c. 1100.27
Maja Angelovska Panova’s article concentrates on this period and refers us
to a scholarship which is little read in Anglophone countries. She challenges
Western historiography of the First Crusade, which confuses what are most likely
Bogomil fortifications with those of Paulicians. Conversely, she observes that the
survival of Bogomilism into the fifteenth century was because of its extraordinary
adaptability and its avoidance of conflict, both of which are shown to have been
passive but effective forms of self-defence, which allowed it to exist briefly but
significantly even at Mount Athos.
Whilst dualism was thriving in Byzantium in the late eleventh century, we
have something of a lacuna in records for heresy in the West. This is possibly a
26
Peter of Sicily, History, 94–129, ed. by Papachryssanthou, pp. 40–51 (trans. by Hamilton
and Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies, pp. 76–83).
27
Anna Comnena, The Alexiad, ed. and trans. by Sweter, pp. 497–99, 502–04.
reflection of a new optimism ushered in by clerical reform movements, which

perhaps diminished the appeal of religious radicals outside of the Church. But
in the first half of the twelfth century, we have detailed accounts, from various
quarters, of a new kind of heresy. The consensus is that ‘heresiarchs’ such as
Henry of Lausanne, Peter of Bruys, Tanchelm of Utrecht, and, tarred with the
same brush although merely politically dangerous, Arnold of Brescia,28 resonated
specifically with people recently dislocated from rural communities and seeking
religious community in European towns. Specifically, this was in the wake of
failed reform idealism and a frustration leading urban dwellers to create their
own forms of religious life, sometimes beyond clerical control.
But accounts relating to the second half of the century indicate something
quite different again. The existence of dualism in the West in the twelfth century
is disputed as it is in the eleventh, and a great deal has been written on the subject
in the last couple of decades.29 The weight of the evidence, however, is in favour
of Bogomil missionaries undertaking the widespread conversion of people in
Germany, the Low Countries, northern France, and possibly England, but most
successfully and lastingly in southern France and northern Italy. This derivation
of Bogomilism is known to historians as ‘Catharism’.30 The extent to which the
thousands of people who aligned themselves with this heresy were actually fully
fledged dualists is contested, but a really interesting debate perhaps now concerns
the relationship between heresy and the forms of repression it attracted. The
waves of legislation which were passed against the heresy at a series of church
councils, most importantly the bull Ad abolendam of 1182, made self-defence on
numerous levels essential.
In southern France, from the start of the thirteenth century, physical attacks on
Roman clergy formed part of an arsenal of strategies protecting the independence
of both heretics and local elites. These were at first undertaken by small groups of
individuals, perhaps representing secular authorities, such as in the slaughter of
the papal legate Peter of Castelnau (1208) and William Arnold and his brother
inquisitors at Avignonet (1242). But within a few decades, unrest was being
perpetrated by entire communities, as at Cordes, Albi, and Carcassonne in the
years around 1300. Derek Hill’s article illuminates the extent to which even the
most senior levels of inquisition were reliant to some extent on a local, social,
28
29
For a recent overview, see Sennis, Cathars in Question.
30
The relevant sources, see Wakefield and Evans, Heresies of the High Middle Ages, pp. 159–
73 (Italy) and 189–241 (southern France); Hamilton and Hamilton, Christian Dualist Heresies,
pp. 250–53, and most recently, Arnold and Biller, Heresy and Inquisition in France, 1200–1300.
introduction 11
and political complicity, including that of secular leaders. Conversely, blocking

consensus was a means of defending heretics. Offering important specific
proofs, Hill demonstrates that by c. 1325, inquisition was reliant to some extent
on consensus. Even in this later period, in which Catharism was at last being
successfully eliminated, individuals as well as communities exercised agency
in relation to the most sophisticated and feared manifestations of repression.
Inquisition, in other words, was a process of negotiation as well as persecution, if
approached by defendants and communities in the right way.
In the next article in this thematic special issue, Saku Pihko reflects on
something apparently mundane: people talking to each other about heretics, as
evidenced in inquisitorial depositions. He shows just how important this sort
of quotidienne evidence is to the historian, using these rich textual sources as
evidence for something otherwise lost: the exchange of ideas and information
orally. He uses the evidence to recall the significance of oral communication in
non-elite and semi-literate secular communities, and specifically its role in the
secrecy and evasion that members of such communities had to engage in. He
writes of an era in which people could be, and often were, trapped by inquisitors
through what they had said, or had apparently said. As such, speech is of great
importance to historians, even though the evidence of it is partial and indirect.
In some cases, information could only be communicated orally; because of the
danger of writing and reading, careful talk was essential in building solidarities
around people under threat, in defining and redefining networks of solidarity,
and it could even mislead and misdirect the inquisitor in his turn.
All of the themes and questions that are relevant for earlier periods remain
so for the later Middle Ages, but new dynamics were at work from the late
thirteenth century onwards, that made heresy something that affected a broader
range of people and involved new sorts of contestations over the boundary
between orthodoxy and heresy. One of these dynamics was reformism and the
broadening of reformist agendas to appeal to the lay as well as the clerical and
religious. In the history of Wycliffism and various forms of Hussitism in the late
fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, heretical self-defence can be seen as a means
of defending reformism against its enemies and as a struggle over the limits and
legitimacy of reform of the church. As was the case in earlier centuries, the point
at which reformism became heresy was not fixed. While there sometimes seem to
have been doctrinal red lines, beyond which one was deemed to have passed into
heresy, historians would do well to remember that doctrinal orthodoxy was never
set in stone and was always shaped by factors other than theology. Eucharistic
doctrine is perhaps the most important case in point in the later Middle Ages:
it became a ‘litmus test’ for heresy in England by the fifteenth century, but one
based on the adoption of a particular interpretation of transubstantiation that

emerged in reaction to Wycliffism.31 The vernacular translation of the scriptures
is another case in point, this being a subject for open debate without the threat of
accusation of heresy in England as late as 1401, but Archbishop Thomas Arundel’s
Constitutions of 1409, which aimed to severely restrict Bible translation,
demonstrate just how quickly the question became hereticized.32 The tradition,
in England, of rendering the Holy Scriptures in the vernacular can in fact be
traced back as far as the 730s,33 and this builds upon a still longer tradition of
making the Bible more widely accessible through translation which encompasses
the Latin versions of the Scriptures produced in late antiquity such as the Vetus
Latina and Jerome’s Vulgate.
The lack of a fixed boundary between orthodoxy and heresy means that there
was much at stake for those faced with the choice of whether to defend reformism
or not; one could quickly find oneself on the ‘wrong’ side. Accusations of heresy
and responses to them were much more than a game of name-calling in which the
battle lines were clearly drawn: they were a struggle over the very nature and limits
of orthodoxy itself, not just in terms of doctrine but also in terms of enforcement
by Church and state. In Bohemia, after the condemnation and execution of Jan
Hus at the Council of Constance in 1415, the masters of Charles University in
Prague and the pro-Hussite nobles who formed the Hussite League not only
declared Hus’s innocence but also that there was no heresy in Bohemia. Moderate
Hussites would eventually secure a settlement in 1436, based on the Compacts of
Basel, that officially declared the orthodoxy of a set of principles that sixteen years
earlier had been declared heretical but that now formed the basis of a reformed
church of Bohemia. This notwithstanding, these concessions were only made
possible by years of armed resistance against crusade, considerable compromise,
and the brutal repression and alienation of some of the more radical groups in the
Hussite movement. It was far from a complete victory, but they had succeeded in
gaining an unprecedented degree of religious independence and the basis for the
coexistence of different confessions.34
31
Hudson, ‘The Mouse in the Pyx’; Macy, ‘The Dogma of Transubstantiation’.
32
Hudson, ‘The Debate on Bible Translation’; Watson, ‘Censorship and Cultural Change’.
33
Cuthbert, a monk of Wearmouth-Jarrow, reveals in his ‘Epistola de obitu Bedae’ that
Bede was working on a vernacular translation of the Gospel according to John at the time of his
death in 735.
34
For differing assessments of the success of the Hussite movement, compare Kolpacoff
Deane, A History of Medieval Heresy and Inquisition, pp. 247–88, esp. pp. 268–70 and 286, with
the more circumspect Lambert, Medieval Heresy, pp. 306–82, esp. 367–70.
introduction 13
One response by church authorities to the indeterminacy of the boundary

between orthodoxy and heresy in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries was to
attempt to codify and categorize heresy. As we have seen, this was a phenomenon
that went all the way back to the Church Fathers, but it gathered in pace and
complexity in the later Middle Ages and profoundly shaped the ways in which
individuals and groups attempted to defend themselves from accusations of
heresy. With regard to Wyclif, this process began in earnest in 1377 with the
condemnation by Pope Gregory XI of nineteen errors ostensibly drawn from
the Oxford master’s teachings. Several more lists of condemned points were to
come, including that drawn up in 1382 by the Blackfriars council, the articles
condemned by the Canterbury convocation in 1396, 267 points taken from
Wyclif ’s works by the University of Oxford in 1411, and two lists drawn up at the
Council of Constance in 1415.35 This hostile codification extended to Bohemia
where forty-five condemned Wycliffite articles, over half drawn from the
Blackfriars list, were presented to the cathedral chapter in Prague in 1403. These
provided fertile ground for contention between Czech and German university
masters for years to come, and a rallying point for the emerging reform party
which refused to condemn Wyclif ’s teaching.36
Such categorization and lists of errors provided the basis for the inquisition
of heresy, feeding directly into the drawing up of lists of questions used to
interrogate suspects.37 The Wycliffite texts discussed by Fiona Somerset in her
contribution to this volume are either informed by or are, in some cases, direct
responses to such codified lists of so-called errors, and some, it seems, may even
have been intended to educate lollards in the defence of their beliefs under
interrogation. Indeed this appears to have been the purpose of the Sixteen Points,
one of the two main examples examined by Somerset. As she shows, however,
by aiming to shape emotional responses to persecution and by setting out the
limits of certainty on questions concerning doctrine and canon law, these texts
went further than simply providing the logical argumentation with which to
rebut specific accusations. The Sixteen Points, the Thirty-Seven Conclusions, and
the other texts discussed by Somerset demonstrate that as well as setting out
Wycliffite beliefs for the purposes of education, they aimed to address the very
real dangers of inquisitional methods designed to elicit admission of either assent
35
For references to sources, see Hornbeck, Bose, and Somerset, A Companion to Lollardy,
p. 110.
36
Kaminsky, A History of the Hussite Revolution, pp. 23–55; Lambert, Medieval Heresy,
pp. 320–22.
37
Hudson, ‘The Examination of Lollards’.
to heresy or denial of orthodoxy. We might even go as far as saying that these texts
aimed to regain control over the actual parameters and terms of accusation and
interrogation: to usurp the inquisitorial discourse. How successful they were in
practice is another matter. The differences in the positions set out in these texts
on how to answer on questions of uncertainty and on how to respond to the
sorts of treacherous propositions that contained both truth and falsehood are a
reminder of the considerable difficulties facing those examined for heresy.
The codification of heresy and the extraction and summary of doctrinal
errors from larger works for the purpose of legal inquisition made it very difficult
for the accused to defend themselves, especially when they were not given the
opportunity to set out their position and to contextualize otherwise isolated
statements. The condemnation of Jan Hus at Constance in 1415 is perhaps the
most infamous case in point. Hus appears to have thought he would be permitted
to debate with his accusers but was merely presented with a list of Wycliffite
articles taken from his own writings and asked whether he assented to them
or not. His appeal to Christ and refusal to recant any of the points put to him
were principled attempts to resist the judicial process but they only ensured his
fate.38 It was precisely these sorts of dangers and the moral quandaries they posed
that the texts examined by Somerset attempted to address. As she points out,
the account of William Thorpe’s turning of the tables on Archbishop Arundel
in his Testimony is a fantastical literary fiction but it nevertheless suggests that
Wycliffites clung to argumentation as a defence against accusations of heresy, no
matter how much the odds were stacked against them.
Such attempts at defence were not just reactive but could be pre-emptive
also.39 Justine Trombley’s article on The Mirror of Simple Souls shows how
Marguerite Porete wrote in the knowledge of the need to defend the orthodoxy
of her work and so qualified potentially heretical statements as she went along,
and probably responded to accusations of heresy as she revised the work over
a number of years. In the event of her Paris trial of 1310, all these efforts to
hedge her more daring teachings with careful qualifications were no defence
against the list of extracts from the Mirror which, taken out of context, were
deemed heretical. We cannot know if her inquisitors had read the extracts in
38
Kolpacoff Deane, A History of Medieval Heresy and Inquisition, pp. 267–68; Fudge, Jan
Hus, pp. 117–46.
39
We might see this as a tactic of self-defence prior to the ‘preventative theology’ of copyists
and writers who worked to contain and control the potential for heretical diversion through the
misinterpretation of radical mystical works, for which see Kerby-Fulton, Books Under Suspicion,
pp. 1–15 and 260–301.
introduction 15
context, but her refusal to speak to her accusers and her earlier circulation of
her book to those considered ill-equipped to handle its theological subtleties
render such questions superfluous.40 What Trombley’s article shows, however, is
that it is possible to reconstruct responses to Porete’s work by those who read it
over subsequent years, and to assess the effectiveness of the author’s attempts to
qualify her more radical assertions. She shows how these readers and critics of
the Mirror interpreted its contextual qualifications, and thus gives us access to
how debates were conducted which took into account preventative self defence
by authors of their own works.
The examples of critical reception of the Mirror that Trombley examines
eloquently demonstrate how interpretative starting points made all the difference
to how a text was read, and that writing about mystical ascent in a way that
employed metaphor left one open to hostile readings. It is salutary that, even with
its qualifications intact, some readers of the Mirror condemned it as heretical.
Once again, the crucial issue appears to be the very terms on which contestations
of orthodoxy were fought rather than clear doctrinal differences. The talking at
cross-purposes that so often seems to characterize accusations and attempted
defences of heresy in the later Middle Ages can perhaps be better understood
within the wider context of the considerable social and cultural changes of the
period. Rising levels of education and spiritual aspiration and what Malcolm
Lambert calls the ‘democritisation of the mystical way’,41 of which writing in the
vernacular was an increasingly important element, raised the stakes when it came
to judging the orthodoxy or otherwise of spiritually ambitious texts. Lay religious
enthusiasm was the other side of the coin of reformism, and the questions posed
by claims of revelatory vision were equally vexed for ecclesiastical authorities.
Anxieties were only made more intense by deeply misogynistic attitudes which
viewed with suspicion any claims to religious authority by women.42
Argumentation was not the only defence against accusations of heresy. Its
limitations in the face of a formidable and conservative institutional church
meant that often a far more effective means of defence was the patronage
and protection of the powerful. Hus vainly hoped he could rely on Emperor
Sigismund’s protection at Constance, but his uncompromising statements on
dominion alienated his most powerful ally.43 That Wyclif escaped a similar fate
40
Kolpacoff Deane, A History of Medieval Heresy and Inquisition, p. 169.
41
Lambert, Medieval Heresy, p. 202.
42
See, for example, Elliott, Proving Woman.
43
Fudge, Jan Hus, p. 131.
may have been due to the protection of powerful figures, most notably John
of Gaunt, King Richard II’s uncle. Scholars have long debated the possible
Wycliffite sympathies and influence of a group of Richard II’s household knights,
which may have afforded early Wycliffites some protection up to the end of the
fourteenth century.44 Such support became more difficult to sustain and seems
to have declined as the English Church and crown developed a legal machinery
against heresy and increasingly acted in concert in applying it. The immediate
aftermath of the Oldcastle Revolt marked the high point of the involvement of
crown officers in pursuing heretics, largely because of the crown’s fear of treason,
and from then on the church regained the initiative in investigating heresy. But
the royal statute of April 1414 nevertheless marked a watershed in action against
heresy in England, by making it pro-active rather than reactive, and from 1416
onwards it became, in theory at least, a regular and on-going activity of the
senior clergy.45
It is the aftermath of the Oldcastle Revolt of 1414 that provides the context
for Esther Lewis’s exploration of the heresy trials and social networks of a group
of suspects from Bristol, who were allegedly involved in the plot. As well as its
significance as a turning point in action against heresy in England, the year 1414
has also long been regarded as the crucial moment when any remaining noble and
gentry support for Wycliffism evaporated as lollardy became synonymous with
treason.46 What has been perhaps less considered is the significance of lower-
status support for lollardy and resistance by local elites against its legal repression.
Lewis’s exploration of the trials and, in particular, the successful compurgation
of these Bristol suspects raises important questions about the degree to which
suspects beneath the level of the gentry were able to mobilize support from their
social peers to clear their names of accusations of heresy. Successful compurgation
was a commonplace in large-scale heresy trials, and Lewis’s careful reconstruction
of the social networks of these suspects and their possible bearing on the outcome
of their trials suggests a potentially productive avenue for future research into
other groups and networks and those who managed to escape conviction. Lewis’s
article suggests that for the same reasons that Ian Forrest has caused us to think
of heresy as a social as well as legal category, so heretical self-defence could also
be social.47
44
Hornbeck, Bose, and Somerset, A Companion to Lollardy, pp. 45–46.
45
Forrest, The Detection of Heresy in Late Medieval England, pp. 28–59.
46
A question explored by many of the essays in Aston and Richmond, Lollardy and the
Gentry.
47
Forrest, The Detection of Heresy in Late Medieval England, esp. 207–230.
introduction 17
The articles collected together in this special issue of Nottingham Medieval

Studies demonstrate that there is considerable value in integrating a consideration
of the actions and arguments of those accused of heresy in the Middle Ages with
the wider historical discourse surrounding this subject, which has normally
tended to focus on the actions and arguments of those making the allegations.
Such an approach leads us towards the realization that orthodoxy and heresy are
subjective categories influenced by a wide range of social, political, and cultural
circumstances, in addition to religious convictions and doctrinal concerns.
Despite the obvious weighting of the source materials in favour of those whom
posterity came to deem orthodox, it is clear that the perspectives of those on
the losing side of the various controversies covered by this volume’s contributors
can be reconstructed in various different ways, be it through the study of under-
used textual sources, by engaging in new methodologies such as social network
analysis, or through the piecing together of evidence for physical acts of resistance
to persecution. By considering the strategies that a variety of individuals and
groups from the late antique and medieval periods devised in the service of their
own defence, this volume opens up new ways of thinking about the specific
societies and events that its articles cover in depth. But it also encourages us to
refine further our views of medieval heresy in more general terms by reinforcing
the idea, which has grown increasingly prevalent in recent scholarship, that
medieval heresy controversies must always be regarded as stories with multiple
sides. It is hoped that this collection of articles will stimulate new interest in this
fascinating area of historical research and encourage other scholars in the field
to bring additional examples of heretical self-defence to light in the course of
future research.
* * *
The articles presented in this volume, with the exception of the one authored
by Paul Linjamaa, were first read at the international conference ‘Heretical Self-
Defence in the Middle Ages’, held at the University of Nottingham, 11–12
April 2018. The conference was organized by the directors of the Medieval
Heresy and Dissent Research Network and editors of the present volume: Claire
Taylor, Rob Lutton, and Peter Darby. We are very grateful to the University of
Nottingham for supporting the conference through generous grants from its
Pro-Vice Chancellor (Faculty of Arts), International Collaboration Fund, the
School of Humanities, and Department of History. We would like to thank all
of those who presented papers at the conference, who chaired sessions, or who
otherwise participated as delegates; Vicki Morris and Alexandra Marchbank
for their help with the administration of the event; and those who provided
support during the peer review and editorial processes. Since 2013 the members
of the Medieval Heresy and Dissent Research Network have collaboratively
taught a Masters-level module on medieval heresy to graduate students at the
University of Nottingham; this volume is inspired in part by those students,
who make learning and teaching about heresy and dissent such a pleasurable
experience year after year.
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introduction 19
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introduction 21
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The Best Defence Is a Good Offence:
Arnobius the Younger’s Praedestinatus
and
the Debates on Predestination
in Mid-Fifth-Century Rome
Raúl Villegas Marín
The Fifth-Century Author Arnobius Iunior

Little is known about the fifth-century Christian author Arnobius ‘the Younger’
— so called to distinguish him from the apologist Arnobius of Sicca. It is widely
assumed that he was an African expat in Rome, where he composed his works
between the 430s and the 450s. In addition to the Praedestinatus, transmitted
in its manuscripts as an anonymous and untitled work,1 he authored the
Commentarii in Psalmos and the Conflictus Arnobii et Serapionis, the report
of a public discussion between Arnobius and an Egyptian miaphysite,2 as well
as two important Roman Gesta martyrum, the Passio Caeciliae, and the Passio
Sebastiani.3 Recent scholarship has called into question Arnobius’s authorship of
1
On the manuscript survival of the Praedestinatus, see n. 53 below.
2
See, most notably, Morin, ‘Étude d’ensemble sur Arnobe’.
3
Lanéry, ‘Arnobe le Jeune et la Passion de Sébastien’; Lanéry, ‘Nouvelles recherches
d’hagiographie arnobienne’.
Raúl Villegas Marín ([email protected]), Universidad de Barcelona

Abstract: The scant available evidence about Arnobius Junior’s life suggests that he was a
prominent figure in the Christian circles of mid-fifth-century Rome, well connected to the
Roman church and the ascetic, aristocratic milieus of the Vrbs. Yet, at some point of his career
Arnobius’s critical stance with regards to Augustine’s views on predestination exposed him to
accusations of heresy (Pelagianism). To clear himself of these charges, Arnobius composed the
Praedestinatus. In this work, the author relied upon his knowledge of Christian heresiological
literature to present his theological antagonists as the members of a ‘Predestinarian sect’. This
article analyses the rhetorical devices used by Arnobius to hereticize his opponents.
Keywords: Arnobius ‘the Younger’; Praedestinatus; Heresiology; Religious Identities; Pre-
destination.

24 Raúl Villegas Marín
two further works attributed to him in the past, namely the Liber ad Gregoriam in
palatio constitutam and the Expositiunculae in Euangelium Iohannis euangelistae
Matthaei et Lucae.4
What emerges from his works is that Arnobius was a monk — he styles
himself as seruus Christi5 — who felt accountable to God for the salvation of the
souls entrusted to him.6 From this aspect, it may be inferred that he was the abbot
of a Roman monastery, most likely the one established by Pope Xystus III near
the tomb of Saint Sebastian ad catacumbas.7 Indeed, during the pontificates of
Xystus III (432–40) and his predecessor Celestine (422–32), Arnobius was very
well connected with the Roman ecclesiastical milieus. In the Conflictus Arnobii
et Serapionis (written shortly after 454), Arnobius excerpts official documents
related to the Nestorian controversy dating back to some twenty-five years
earlier which he likely obtained from the scrinia of the Roman church: I refer,
for instance, to the acts of a Roman synod held under Pope Celestine in August
430.8 Yet, by the late 440s to early 450s, Arnobius’s relationship with the Roman
Catholic hierarchy had deteriorated, for the anti-miaphysite arguments displayed
in the Conflictus show that its author was ill informed about the core issues of the
theological controversy which focused the attention of the Roman ecclesiastical
milieus in those years.
Arnobius’s fall from grace in the Roman church during the pontificate of Leo
the Great (440–61) was probably due to his involvement in controversies over
grace and, more specifically, over Augustine of Hippo’s views on predestination
to salvation. It is quite possible that these debates resurfaced in Rome by 439 in
the wake of the attempt by the deposed ‘Pelagian’ bishop Julian of Aeclanum to
get reconciled with the Roman Church, which failed due to the opposition of the
powerful arch-deacon Leo, who only a year later succeeded Xystus III as bishop
of Rome.9 Indeed, Arnobius’s stance on the issues of grace and predestination as
4
See Cooper, The Fall of the Roman Household, pp. 44–53; Dorfbauer, ‘Neues zu den
Expositiunculae’, especially pp. 261–97.
5
See, for instance, Arnobius, Conflictus 1, 2, 2.
6
Arnobius, Commentarii in Psalmos 139.
7
Liber Pontificalis 46, 7.
8
Arnobius, Conflictus 2, 13, 8–14.
9
See Prosper, Epitoma chronicon, a. a. 439, ed. by Mommsen, p. 477: ‘hac tempestate
Iulianus Eclanensis iactantissimus Pelagiani erroris assertor, quem dudum amissi episcopatus
intemperans cupido agitabat, multimoda arte fallendi correctionis spem praeferens, molitus
est in communionem ecclesiae irrepere. Sed his insidiis Xistus papa diaconi Leonis hortatu
uigilanter occurrens, nullum aditum pestiferis conatibus patere permisit: et ita omnes catholicos
the debates on predestination in mid-fifth-century rome 25
expressed in the Praedestinatus and in the Commentarii in Psalmos is so similar

to Julian’s that some scholars have even attributed these two works to Julian,
who would have circulated the latter work under the pseudonym ‘Arnobius’.10
However, this hypothesis is undermined by the biographical information about
Arnobius which can be obtained from the Conflictus as well as by Arnobius’s
hagiographical activity in Rome as reconstructed by Cécile Lanéry. Be that as
it may, Arnobius’s ‘Julianic’ prise de position and his criticism with regards to
Augustine’s views on predestination account for the fact that he, too, came to
be accused of ‘Pelagianism’, perhaps by Prosper of Aquitaine, a zealous disciple
of Augustine who served as a theological advisor to Pope Leo the Great.11
These accusations somewhat lessened Arnobius’s reputation after his death,
for his opuscula are included among the apocrypha in the so-called Decretum
Gelasianum.12
The charges of Pelagianism raised against Arnobius left him in a difficult
position. In 418, the Pelagian heresy had been officially condemned by the
Roman Church and the Imperial authorities. Besides, Arnobius’s writings bear
witness to Augustine’s influential authority within the Roman ecclesiastical
milieus.13 To clear himself of the charges of Pelagianism, Arnobius published
the Praedestinatus at some point in the early 440s. But there is something more.
Relying upon his knowledge of the Christian heresiological literature, Arnobius
also went on the attack presenting his theological antagonists as the members of a
heretical sect, the Praedestinati, who until then had never been denounced: ‘contra
quos adhuc nullus scribendo pugnauit’.14 These heretics, according to Arnobius,
availed themselves of the authority of Augustine to spread their false teachings,
circulating works falsely attributed to the bishop of Hippo. In the following, I
analyse the heresiological devices used by Arnobius in the Praedestinatus to
hereticize his theological opponents.
de reiectione fallacis bestiae gaudere fecit, quasi tunc primum superbissimam haeresim
apostolicus gladius detruncasset’.
10
See, most recently, James, ‘Who was Arnobius the Younger?’.
11
Arnobius accused of Pelagianism: Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, 30, ed. by Gori, p. 116: ‘quid
conuertitis caput ad calumnias, et Pelagii nobis dogma obicitis?’ On Prosper as the theological
antagonist of Arnobius, see Gumerlock, ‘Arnobius the Younger against the “Predestined One”’.
12
Decretum (pseudo-) Gelasianum, 5.
13
Arnobius, Conflictus 4, 10, 1–11, 26, for instance.
14
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, Prologus, ed. by Gori, p. 65.
Arnobius’s Praedestinatus
The Praedestinatus is composed of three books. Book i is a catalogue of ninety
heresies,15 ending with the entry devoted to the sect of the Praedestinati. This
catalogue of heresies is based almost entirely on Augustine’s De haeresibus, even
though Arnobius never makes any mention of this work. Arnobius moves away
from his source material in two important points:16 first, he focuses on the
individuals who, for the first time, denounced and defeated the heresies, thereby
providing the background for his self-portrayal as the champion of orthodoxy
against the new heresy of the Praedestinati; second, he defends the orthodoxy
of Origen of Alexandria, arguing that his authentic books had been interpolated
by heretics, an argument borrowed from Rufinus of Aquileia’s De adulteratione
librorum Origenis. This is clearly to underpin Arnobius’s claims about the
adulteration of Augustine’s works by the Praedestinati.17
Book ii purports to be one of the pseudo-Augustinian writings which those
heretics circulated as a rule of faith (in modum symboli).18 Nonetheless, Franco
Gori has demonstrated beyond every reasonable doubt that this book was written
by Arnobius himself: it is a ‘fake fake-Augustine’.19 Finally, Book iii consists of a
refutation of the predestinarian views as expressed in Book ii.
Hereticizing the Opponent in the Praedestinatus

Naming and Classifying the New Heresy
Christian heresiology has been defined by Daniel Boyarin as the ‘practice of
anatomizing, pinning down, and making taxonomies’ of Christians whom the
15
For a short overview on some Latin examples of this literary type, see McClure,
‘Handbooks against Heresy’.
16
See Lambert, ‘Augustine and the Praedestinatus’, pp. 151–53.
17
Compare Arnobius, Praedestinatus 1, 43, ed. by Gori, pp. 27–28: ‘hic (sc.: “Ampullianus
quidam haeresiarches Bithynius”) dum argueretur ab uniuersali ecclesia, coepit proferre libros
Origenis quos ipse uitiauerat, et dicere: “ecce quia Origenes ita sensit, et praecipue in quattuor
perí archon libris”’; with Praedestinatus 2, prologus, p. 65: ‘cum illi scriptis suis sub sacerdotis
Augustini nomine totum pene iam uulnerauerint mundum, uitiatos libros proferendo, et uarias
epistolas dando quas memorati Hipponensis episcopi esse confingunt’.
18
Arnobius, Praedestinatus, Praefatio, 3, ed. by Gori, p. 9: ‘ad manus nostras peruenit liber,
qui Augustinum mentitur in titulo cum se haereticum ostendat in textu’.
19
Gori, Il ‘Praedestinatus’ di Arnobio il Giovane, esp. pp. 89–90. Gori draws on structural
and lexical parallels between Praedestinatus 2 and Books 1 and 3 of this same treatise, the
Conflictus, and the Commentarii in Psalmos.
heresiologist sees as unworthy of that name.20 Accordingly, Arnobius’s first move

to hereticize his opponents and to exclude them from Christianity was to attribute
them an alternative name. As Eduard Iricinschi and Holger Zellentin have pointed
out, the heresiological texts may be approached as ‘“performative discourses” that
strive to bring “the heretic” into being by the “social magical” act of naming’.21 In
this case, Arnobius was prevented from naming his ‘newly discovered heresy’ after
the name of its ‘heresiarch’ by the fact that these heretics proclaimed themselves
followers of the much-revered Augustine of Hippo. That’s why Arnobius chose
to call them Praedestinati, and not Augustiniani,22 as the heresiological logic
would have demanded.23 Perhaps for this same reason, both the author of the
so-called Gallic Chronicle of 452 and Gennadius of Marseilles in his appendix to
the Indiculus de haeresibus of the Pseudo-Jerome24 preferred to label the Gallic
defenders of Augustine’s predestinarian views as Praedestinati/Praedestinatiani.25
Once named in this way, the new heresy finds its place in the heresiological
catalogue of Book i as the last one of a long series of sects, many of which allegedly
spread in the past teachings very similar to those attributed to the new heretics.
Arnobius’s description of the dogmas of the Sethiani and the Floriani, to give
an example, clearly parallels that of the Praedestinati.26 This is the well-known
heresiological argument of the ‘genealogy of error’ or ‘guilt by association’, that
20
Boyarin, Border Lines, p. xi. For a good introduction to Christian heresiological literature,
see also Cameron, ‘How to Read Heresiology’.
21
Iricinschi and Zellentin, ‘Making Selves and Marking Others’, p. 20.
22
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 1, 90, ed. by Gori, p. 54: ‘nonagesima haeresis, quam in
praefatione nostra diximus de nomine Augustini episcopi esse mentitam, Praedestinatorum
nomen accepit.’
23
See Iustinus, Dialogus cum Tryphone, ed. by Bobichon, 35, pp. 270–72, for instance.
24
Dekkers, Clauis Patrum Latinorum, no. 959, p. 310.
25
Chronica Gallica a. cccclii, 81, ed. by Mommsen, p. 656: ‘Praedestinatorum haeresis,
quae ab Augustino accepisse initium dicitur, his temporibus serpere exorsa’; Gennadius,
Indiculus de haeresibus 1 (52), ed. by Migne, col. 644: ‘Praedestinatiani sunt qui dicunt quod
Deus non omnes homines ad hoc creauit ut omnes saluentur, sed ut multitudine hominum
ornetur mundus’.
26
Compare Arnobius, Praedestinatus 1, 66, ed. by Gori, p. 41: ‘sexagesima sexta haeresis
Florianorum a Floriano, qui dicit malas animas et bonas a deo creari. “Ideo, inquit, qui malitiosi
sunt, mali sunt, et non mutantur, et boni simpliciter uiuentes non in audaciam iniquorum
hominum protrahuntur”’; with 1, 90, pp. 54–55: ‘hi (sc.: “Praedestinati”) electionem bonorum
et recusationem malorum deo decernente definiunt, non homine uel studente uel negligente.
Nolunt dei iura uel ab studentibus custodiri uel a negligentibus uiolari’. See also Gori, Il
‘Praedestinatus’ di Arnobio il Giovane, p. 13–16.
enables the author ‘to draw on an established tradition and on well-established

existing arguments’ against the heresy.27
The New Heresy Destroys the Sacraments of the Catholic Church

Arnobius repeatedly blames the Praedestinati for making meaningless the
sacraments of the Catholic Church. He accuses them of teaching that baptism
is of no avail for the predestined to damnation, a distorted presentation of
Augustine’s doctrine of predestination also found in Gallic polemical texts.28
He also stresses that in construing human sexuality as a punishment inflicted
by God to castigate original sin, the Praedestinati are at odds with the Catholic
Church, whose priests sanctify marriage and connect it with God’s sacraments.29
More generally, Arnobius accuses the Praedestinati of depriving the Church of its
salvific function, since the assumption that God predestines men to salvation and
damnation renders meaningless the pastoral care of the Christian priests.30
Again, in these passages, Arnobius resorts to the argument of the ‘genealogy
of error’. In the catalogue of heresies, the African monk had outlined that
heresies such as the Manichaeans and the Seleucians reject baptism,31 whilst the
Encratites, Adamians, Apostolics, Manichaeans, Hieracites, and Aerians condemn
marriage.32 But it is also worth remembering here that in his anti-Pelagian works,
27
Cameron, ‘How to Read Heresiology’, p. 480.
28
Arnobius, Praedestinatus, Praefatio, 1, ed. by Gori, p. 8: ‘dicentes iam homines ita
praedestinatos ad mortem per dei praescientiam ut illis nec passio Christi nec baptismatis
redemptio nec fides nec spes possit nec caritas subuenire’. Cf. Prosper, Pro Augustino responsiones,
2, obiectio, ed. by Le Brun des Marettes and Mangeant, col. 157: ‘quod ab eis qui non sunt
praedestinati ad uitam, non auferat percepta baptismi gratia originale peccatum’.
29
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, 37, ed. by Gori, p. 123: ‘si hoc non est in membris quod deus
condidit, et super fabricam dei inimicus apparuit, et deo inuito fecit creaturam eius alterum
ordinem continere, non quem ipse instituit, maledictae sunt nuptiae, et ex maledictione
uniuersa humani generis massa ueniens diabolo auctore subsistit […]. Emendate ergo ecclesiae
regulam, damnate qui in toto orbe sunt sacerdotes nuptiarum initia benedicentes, consecrantes
et in dei mysteriis sociantes’.
30
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, 14, ed. by Gori, p. 91: ‘ideo enim dicitis hoc testimonium
ut nullus monita sacerdotum studiosa aure suscipiat, nullus festinet ad matris ecclesiae
gremium […] omnes fugiant domum dei, et quis ad quod uoluerit uitium occupetur, exspectans
quando mittat manum pater de caelis ut eum trahat inuitum et nolentem atque contradicentem
et non consentientem faciat electum et sanctum’.
31
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 1, 46 (Manichaeans); 1, 59 (Seleucians).
32
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 1, 25 (Encratites); 1, 31 (Adamians); 1, 40 (Apostolics); 1, 46
(Manichaeans); 1, 47 (Hieracites); 1, 53 (Aerians).
Augustine also accused those who denied original sin of depriving infant baptism
of its salvific function.33 In this same controversial context, the bishop of Hippo
outlined that denying that faith is a gift from God renders meaningless the prayers
of the Christian priests for the conversion of the unbelievers and the perseverance
of the faithful.34
As can be seen, Arnobius used against his accusers the same heresiological
arguments once employed by Augustine against the Pelagians, charging the
Praedestinati of undermining the sacraments and the pastoral and liturgical
practices of the Catholic priests.
The New Heresy Fosters Immorality

Arnobius claims that predestination leads to moral quietism, if not to debauchery,
for it entails that no human activity can change one’s predestined fate.35 In
Arnobius’s days, this was a traditional argument against the predestinarian views
allegedly taught by several Christian Gnostic sects. In the entry devoted to the
Valentinians in the Panarion, for instance, Epiphanius of Salamis accused them
of asserting that they were the spiritual class, predestined to salvation regardless
of their ethical behaviour.36
Modern scholarship has shown that these were no-less distorted presentations
of the ethical teachings of the so-called ‘Gnostic schools’. As Kurt Rudolph has
pointed out, in Gnostic systems:
the ethical behaviour itself may be preordained but its manifestation in the life
of the individual is nevertheless a prerequisite for redemption. That is, it is not
33
Augustinus, De haeresibus, 88, ed. by Vander Plaetse and Beukers, p. 341: ‘paruulos etiam
negant secundum Adam carnaliter natos contagium mortis prima natiuitate contrahere. Sic
enim eos sine ullo peccati originalis uinculo asserunt nasci, ut prorsus non sit quod eis oporteat
secunda natiuitate dimitti, sed eos propterea baptizari, ut regeneratione adoptati admittantur
ad regnum dei, de bono in melius translati, non ista regeneratione ab aliquo malo obligationis
ueteris absoluti. Nam etiam si non baptizentur, promittunt eis extra regnum quidem dei, sed
tamen aeternam et beatam quandam uitam suam’.
34
Augustinus, De haeresibus, 88, ed. by Vander Plaetse and Beukers, p. 341: ‘destruunt etiam
orationes, quas facit ecclesia siue pro infidelibus et doctrinae dei resistentibus, ut conuertantur
ad eum, siue pro fidelibus, ut augeatur in eis fides et perseuerent in eo’.
35
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 2, 4, ed. by Gori, pp. 59–60: ‘quid ergo tu qui in peccatis
permanes expauescis? Si te deus dignatus est, sanctus eris. Aut quid tu qui in sanctitate uiuis,
sollicitus redderis, quasi tua te sollicitudo conseruet ? Si deus noluerit, numquam uterque
corrues. Vterque de deo securi estote’.
36
Epiphanius, Panarion, 31, 7, 8.
as though one has a fixed pneumatic nature that will be saved no matter how
one acts in this life. Rather, if one does have a pneumatic nature, one will behave
accordingly.37
The same principle applies to Augustine’s teaching. According to the bishop

of Hippo, his doctrine of predestination does not undermine Christian ethics.
Rather, on Augustine’s viewpoint, every man predestined to salvation will behave,
sooner or later, according to these ethical principles. And yet, Augustine’s critics
persistently insisted on the dramatic consequences for Christian ethics that his
views on predestination allegedly entailed.
The New Heretics Form a Sect

Arnobius portrays his theological antagonists as being part of a secret, elitist sect
whose members are assured of their election to salvation: on purpose he calls
them, somewhat sarcastically, Praedestinati (‘the Predestined ones’). The members
of this sect, according to Arnobius, only share their apocryphal teachings with
the happy few ones whom they believe able to properly understand them.38
Again, the parallels with the heresiological descriptions of the Gnostic groups
are obvious.39 Basilides, for instance, is said to have taught to his disciples that
‘[they may] not reveal anything at all to anyone about the Father, and about
his own mystery, but [must] keep it secret within themselves and reveal it to
one out of thousands and two out of ten thousands’.40 Arnobius’s portrayal of
his Augustinian opponents as members of an elitist religious group is based on
Augustine’s assertions about the pauci electi: the scarce number of men elected
37
Rudolph, Gnosis, pp. 117–18. See also Williams, Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’, pp. 189–
212. In ancient intra-Christian debates, accusing the opponent of defending a soteriological
determinism on the grounds of his use of ethnic reasoning was a powerful rhetorical weapon,
because it made ‘the Other’ seem sectarian, in contrast to one’s own claims of universalism. See
Buell, Why This New Race, pp. 116–37.
38
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, 31, ed. by Gori, p. 118: ‘hic est libellus uester, quem nulli
datis legendum nisi sub sacramento. Vide ne prodas, ne des legendum imperitis: regnum dei
paucorum est. In hoc apparet quia te deus praedestinauit ad uitam, si hunc libellum tu sicut
tuam animam serues’.
39
With the purpose of dressing his opponents in Gnostic garb, Arnobius even pretends to
have doubts as to whether they acknowledge the authority of the Old Testament (Arnobius,
Praedestinatus 3, 35, ed. by Gori, p. 122: ‘uerum quia testamenti ueteris forte uos auctoritas non
tenet’). In Praedestinatus 1, he outlines that the Carpocratians and the Severians rejected it:
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 1, 7 (Carpocratians); 1, 24 (Severians).
40
Epiphanius, Panarion, 24, 5, 4, trans. by Williams, p. 80.
to salvation. But since Augustine also asserted that in this life, God does not
reveal His eternal decree of election to the predestined ones to avoid them falling
into pride and moral nonchalance, his predestinarian views could hardly have
led to the kind of religious elitism here described by Arnobius.41 This grotesque
description of the ‘socio-religious consequences’ of teaching predestination
stresses the opposition between ‘sectarianism’ and ‘universalism’, a traditional
argument in intra-Christian debates: Vincent of Lérins also used it against the
Gallic advocates of Augustine’s views on predestination in his Commonitorium,
almost contemporary to the Praedestinatus.42
The New Heresy Attracts Women

If we were to believe Arnobius, the ‘sect of the Praedestinati’ was particularly
appealing to women.43 The ‘heretical woman’ is a well-known heresiological
commonplace whose origins can be traced back to ii Timothy 3. 6–7.44 As Virginia
Burrus has put it, ‘our sources speak loudly and clearly of the preoccupations of
the men who articulated their orthodox identity through the use of woman as a
symbol of the threatening forces of sexuality, social chaos, and false belief ’.45 In
Christian literature, the symbolic figure of the heretical woman is counterbalanced
by the orthodox virgin, frequently depicted with male emotional attributes: it is
worth remembering here that in Arnobius’s account, the first who revealed the
existence of the heresy of the Praedestinati was certainly a woman, femina corpore,
41
On this, see Salamito, Les virtuoses et la multitude, pp. 265–93.
42
Vincentius Lerinensis, Commonitorium, 26, 8–9, ed. by Demeulenaere, p. 185: ‘iam
uero illis, quae sequuntur, promissionibus miro modo incautos homines haeretici decipere
consuerunt. Audent etenim polliceri et docere quod in ecclesia sua, id est, in communionis
suae conuenticulo, magna et specialis ac plane personalis quaedam sit Dei gratia, adeo ut sine
ullo labore, sine ullo studio, sine ulla industria, etiamsi nec petant nec quaerant nec pulsent,
quicumque illi ad numerum suum pertinent, tamen ita diuinitus dispensentur, ut angelicis
euecti manibus, id est, angelica protectione seruati, numquam possint offendere ad lapidem
pedem suum, id est, numquam scandalizari’.
43
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, 31, ed. by Gori, p. 118: ‘maxima pars muliercularum a uobis
hunc merentur libellum accipere. Denique quae eum prodidit, femina corpore, sed uir animo,
dum istum a uobis libellum sub sacramento suscepisset, scriptum legens exhorruit, et his quos
catholicos nouerat examinandum dedit’.
44
Clearly echoed by Arnobius in the passage above: ‘ex his enim sunt qui penetrant domos
et captivas ducunt mulierculas oneratas peccatis quae ducuntur variis desideriis semper discentes
et numquam ad scientiam veritatis pervenientes’.
45
Burrus, ‘The Heretical Woman’, p. 248.
sed uir animo. In many ‘heresy tales’, women are who provide access, in some way
or another, to the sect to the orthodox ‘heresy hunter’.46 As one might expect, in
the catalogue of heresies of Book i of the Praedestinatus Arnobius also draws on
the symbol of the heretical women: he mentions the Carpocratian Marcellina as
well as Prisca and Maximilla, the prophetesses and disciples of Montanus, and he
blames the Peputians for ordaining women as priests.47
Conclusions
In the Praedestinatus, Arnobius makes an intra-ecclesiastical debate over
Augustine’s views on predestination into a fight between the orthodox church he
championed and a specific, cohesive, and structured group of heretics. The gulf
between reality and Arnobius’s heresiological misrepresentation of it is obvious.
As we have seen, the African monk accuses his opponents of circulating pseudo-
Augustinian writings. Yet, Book ii of the Praedestinatus, which purports to be
a pseudo-Augustinian creed used by the Praedestinati, was drafted by Arnobius
himself, doubtless because he knew too well that to defend their viewpoints, his
theological antagonists availed themselves of authentic Augustinian texts. Also,
despite portraying his opponents as members of an elitist sect, Arnobius admits,
too, that they are within the Catholic Church48 and share communion with him.49
Furthermore, though accusing the Praedestinati of keeping their teachings under
the disciplina arcani, Arnobius also express his concerns about the spreading of
the predestinarian views all over the world.50
With its roughness, the Praedestinatus provides a nice introduction to ancient
Christian heresiology. Arnobius’s making of the heresy of the Praedestinati
warns us about the risk of describing heresies as ‘real and concrete social
movements, rather than as (subjective) perceptions of a specific religious group
46
See, for instance, Epiphanius, Panarion, 26, 17, 4–9 (Epiphanius and some lascivious
Gnostic women); Consentius, apud Aug., Epist. 11* (Fronto, Severa, and the ‘Priscillianists’).
47
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 1, 7 (Marcellina); 1, 26 (Prisca and Maximilla); 1, 27 (the
Peputians ‘tantum dantes mulieribus principatum ut sacerdotio quoque apud eos honorentur’).
48
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, 37, ed. by Gori, p. 123: ‘miror qua fronte intratis ecclesiam,
ubi quidquid agitur contra uestras sectas uenire cognoscitis’.
49
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, 32, ed. by Gori, p. 120: ‘ergo si adhuc non estis gratiam
consecuti, sed consecuturi estis, quid nobiscum clanculo communicatis?’
50
Arnobius, Praedestinatus 3, Prologus, ed. by Gori, p. 65: ‘cum illi scriptis suis sub
sacerdotis Augustini nomine totum pene iam uulnerauerint mundum’.
or individual’.51 Arnobius’s ‘heretization’ of his theological opponents — who

in turn charged him with Pelagianism — clearly illustrates the necessity of
‘rethinking orthodoxy and heresy in a relational, contextual, and discursive
perspective’.52 As shown by the Praedestinatus, in ancient Christian debates
hereticizing the opponent was a form of proving one’s orthodoxy, a form of self-
defence.53
51
52
53
Although the accusations of heresy tainted Arnobius’s reputation as an orthodox writer
(see above, n. 12), the Praedestinatus continued to be copied after his author’s death. There are
five extant manuscripts of this work, which was occasionally used in the medieval and early
modern controversies on predestination. It is worth remembering here that the Jesuit Jacques
Sirmond’s 1643 editio princeps of the Praedestinatus relied on the ninth-century manuscript
Remensis 70 (Reims, Bibliothèque municipale) once owned by Hincmar of Reims, who quoted
from the Praedestinatus in his De praedestinatione dei et libero arbitrio against Gottschalk. As
for Sirmond’s edition of the Praedestinatus, it aimed at providing evidence for the late antique
‘Predestinarian heresy’, the existence of which was denied by the Jansenists. On this, see Quantin,
‘Histoires de la grâce’, pp. 339–42.
Works Cited
Primary Sources
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Series Latina, 25 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1990)
—— , Conflictus Arnobii et Serapionis, ed. by Franco Gori, Corona Patrum, 14 (Torino:
Società editrice internazionale, 1993)
—— , Praedestinatus, ed. by Franco Gori, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 25B
(Turnhout: Brepols, 2000)
Augustinus, De haeresibus, in De fide rerum invisibilium […], ed. by Roland Vander Plaetse
and Clemens Beukers, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 46 (Turnhout: Brepols,
1969), pp. 283–345
Chronica Gallica a. cccclii, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae
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Epiphanius, Panarion, trans. by Frank Williams, Nag Hammadi and Manichaean Studies,
63, 2nd edn (Leiden: Brill, 2009)
Gennadius, Indiculus de haeresibus, in Patrologiae cursus completus: series latina, ed. by
Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris: Migne, 1844–64), lxxxi (1862), cols. 644–45
Iustinus, Dialogus cum Tryphone, ed. by Philippe Bobichon, Paradosis, 47.1 (Fribourg:
Academic Press Fribourg, 2003)
Prosper Aquitanus, Epitoma chronicon, ed. by Theodor Mommsen, Monumenta Germaniae
Historica: Auctores Antiquissimi, 9: Chronica Minora, 1 (Berlin: Weidmann, 1892),
pp. 341–500
—— , Pro Augustino responsiones ad capitula obiectionum Gallorum calumniantium, ed. by
Jean-Baptiste Le Brun des Marettes and Luc Urbain Mangeant, in Patrologiae cursus
completus: series latina, ed. by Jacques-Paul Migne, 221 vols (Paris: Migne, 1844–64),
li (1856), cols 155–74
Vincentius Lerinensis, Commonitorium, in Liber contra Arrianos […], ed. by Roland
Demeulenaere, Corpus Christianorum Series Latina, 64 (Turnhout: Brepols, 1985),
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Boyarin, Daniel, Border Lines: The Partition of Judaeo-Christianity (Philadelphia: Univer-
sity of Pennsylvania Press, 2004)
Buell, Denise K., Why This New Race: Ethnic Reasoning in Early Christianity (New York :
Columbia University Press, 2005)
Burrus, Virginia, ‘The Heretical Woman as Symbol in Alexander, Athanasius, Epiphanius,
and Jerome’, Harvard Theological Review, 84 (1991), 229–48
Cameron, Averil, ‘How to Read Heresiology’, Journal of Medieval and Early Modern
Studies, 33 (2003), 471–92
Cooper, Kate, The Fall of the Roman Household (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press,
2007)
Dekkers, Eligius, Clauis Patrum Latinorum, 3rd edn (Turnhout: Brepols, 1995)
Dorfbauer, Lukas J., ‘Neues zu den Expositiunculae in Euangelium Iohannis euangelistae
Matthaei et Lucae (CPL 240) und ihrem vermeintlichen Autor “Arnobius Iunior”’,
Revue Bénédictine, 124 (2014), 65–102, 261–97
Gori, Franco, Il ‘Praedestinatus’ di Arnobio il Giovane: l’eresiologia contro l’agostinismo,
Studia Ephemeridis Augustinianum, 65 (Roma: Institutum Patristicum Augustini-
anum, 1999)
Gumerlock, Francis X., ‘Arnobius the Younger against the “Predestined One”: Was Prosper
of Aquitaine the Predestinarian Opponent of Arnobius the Younger?’, Augustinian
Studies, 44 (2013), 249–63
Iricinschi Eduard, and Holger M. Zellentin, ‘Making Selves and Marking Others: Identity
and Late Antique Heresiologues’, in Heresy and Identity in Late Antiquity, ed. by
Eduard Iricinschi and Holger M. Zellentin, Texts and Studies in Ancient Judaism,
119 (Tübingen: Mohr Siebeck, 2008), pp. 1–27
James, Norman W., ‘Who was Arnobius the Younger? Dissimulation, Deception and
Disguise by a Fifth-Century Opponent of Augustine’, Journal of Ecclesiastical History,
69 (2018), 243–61
Lambert, David, ‘Augustine and the Praedestinatus: Heresy, Authority, and Reception’,
Millenium-Jahrbuch, 5 (2008), 147–62
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augustiniennes et patristiques, 53 (2007), 267–93
——, ‘Nouvelles recherches d’hagiographie arnobienne: la Passion de Cécile (BHL 1495)’,
in Parva pro magnis munera: études de littérature latine tardo-antique et médiévale
offertes à François Dolbeau par ses élèves, ed. by Monique Goullet, Instrumenta
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Late Sixth Centuries’, Journal of Theological Studies, 30 (1979), 186–97
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l’érudition ecclésiastique du xviie siècle’, in Europäische Geschichtskulturen um 1700
zwischen Gelehrsamkeit, Politik und Konfession, ed. by Thomas Wallnig and others
(Berlin: De Gruyter, 2012), pp. 327–59
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Category (Princeton: Princeton University Press, 1996)
The Heresiology of the Heretic:
The Case of the Valentinians
Paul Linjamaa
T his article is devoted to the assertions of theological purity and authority

forwarded by Valentinians, ancient Christians who were inspired by a form
of theology that was popular around the Mediterranean area in the second
to fourth century. This form of Christianity has its name from Valentinus
(c. 100–160), a Christian teacher and theologian of Egyptian origin, whose
preaching gathered a substantial following in Rome around the middle of
the second century. Valentinus’s particular take on Christian theology would
inspire many during the end of the second and throughout the third centuries.
Offshoots of his teachings would take root in several of the large cities around
the Roman Empire. The spread and popularity of Valentinian theology was met
with disapproval by some Christian thinkers, many of whom today are known
as ‘Church Fathers’. The Valentinians were, Irenaeus of Lyon (c. 130–202) tells
us, the most dangerous heretics. Irenaeus, as many other Christian theologians
after him, wrote much solely devoted to refuting the Valentinians, and because
of this we know much about what was thought to be the danger and error of
Valentinian thinking. He argued that the Valentinians were irrational and
brought disorder to the Church with their theology, and that they could not
even agree amongst themselves.1
1
Irenaeus, Against Heresies I.1.
Paul Linjamaa ([email protected]), Centre for Theology and Religious Studies,

Lund University
Abstract: This chapter investigates the heresiological techniques employed by the Valentinians,
one of the most popular forms of early Christian theology, later refuted by so-called ‘Church
Fathers’. The chapter begins with a critical review of the history of the concept of early Christian
heresy as well as the category ‘Valentinianism’. It is here argued that Valentinian heresiological
techniques did not differ in any significant way from those of their orthodox contemporaries.
The heresy of the heretics should, just as for orthodox writers, chiefly be understood as a way to
highlight differences and similarities alike, in order to create a sustainable group identity.
Keywords: Valentinianism, Nag Hammadi, Early Christian Heresiology, Gnosticism.

38 Paul Linjamaa
But what about the Valentinians? How did they defend themselves against
the critique they faced? And what constituted a heretic in the eyes of the
Valentinians? By familiarizing ourselves with the standpoints and arguments of
those Christians who would lose the theological struggles of early Christendom,
we stand to gain insights into the character of ancient Christian heresiology,
which has so far most often been read from the perspective of the victors:
because, as Geoffrey Smith has argued, heresiology is not unique to orthodoxy.2
The term ‘orthodox’ is here used to refer to those authors and theological views
that the Church would come to adopt in the fourth century and onwards as
representing ‘right practice’, and by ‘heresy’ is meant those whose teachings
came to be rejected. Thus, in pursuit of a more nuanced understanding of
early Christian claims to theological authority and legitimacy, the following is
devoted to the ‘the heresiology of the heretic’.
The Invention of Heresy and Valentinianism

Most of the writings Christians produced in the first four centuries are lost
today.3 What has been preserved most often reflects that which was considered
to be orthodox. The writings of those Christians who were subjected to intra-
Christian persecution, and whose theology would lose its relevance because its
adherents disappeared, are even more rare. The writings of the Valentinians,
however, is one exception where we still have some sources. A fair number of
Valentinian texts (compared to other ‘heresies’) have survived, most of them in
Coptic translations, in a corpus today known as the Nag Hammadi collection.
Below, extracts from these Valentinian texts will be discussed, extracts that treat
what we today would call orthodoxy as the real heresy. But before we look closer
at this aspect of ancient Christian heresiological writings, it is crucial for this
short study that we elucidate the term ‘Valentinianism’.
The first time we encounter the mention of Valentinians in ancient sources
is in the middle of the second century, in Justin Martyr’s (c. 100–165) writing
Dialogue with Trypho (35.6). The Valentinians were those Christians, Justin
tells us, who were inspired by the theology of a Christian preacher and writer
named Valentinus. Valentinus, born in Egypt around 100, started his career as a
preacher in Alexandria but then moved to Rome, where he seems to have become
immensely popular. He is even said to have run for the office of bishop of Rome
2
Smith, Guilt by Association, pp. 87–130.
3
Hurtado, The Earliest Christian Artifacts, pp. 1–14.
The Heresiology of the Heretic: The Case of the Valentinians 39
but came in second in the election.4 Irenaeus of Lyon, a Christian writer who
lived a generation after Valentinus, accused Valentinus of having started a church
in competition with the mother Church (somewhat like the famous ‘heretic’
Marcion had done).5 However, there is little evidence for this. In fact, Valentinus
was never ousted from the Christian community in Rome during his lifetime,
and the fact that he ran for the office of bishop (a position which he nearly
won) would rather suggest the opposite, that Valentinus’s particular theological
outlook was not viewed as an issue that disqualified him from being part of the
Christian community in Rome.
Valentinus was a prolific writer and had the gift of speech, according to one
of his later and most ardent theological opponents, Tertullian (c. 155–240).6
He is said to have written his own hymn book and many other texts, even his
own ‘gospel’. Unfortunately, no texts by his own hand have been preserved. What
remains are a few fragments of Valentinus’s texts, quoted by his opponents. From
these few fragments we still can conclude that he seems to have been much
inspired by Plato, and that he also valued greatly the Jewish scriptures (contrary to
Marcion), which he interpreted in light of his philosophical interests.7 Valentinus
seems to have preached that there was a world beyond the cosmic realm where
people could find eternal rest, that people’s true selves could be found within
themselves and actually derived from a world above and beyond the cosmic
realm. He maintained that at creation, Adam had been aided by an invisible
spirit sent from God in order to help him resist the angels that sought to suppress
humankind and keep them from discovering that they actually were superior to
the lower angels who had moulded their bodies.8
Valentinus was a learned man: he wrote in verse and was much inspired by
the philosophy of the time.9 He was most likely also a great supporter of Pauline
theology. It was said that he had been taught by one of Paul’s immediate disciples,
4
Tertullian, Against the Valentinians IV.
5
Irenaeus, Against Heresies I.8–11.
6
Tertullian, Against the Valentinians IV.
7
There are six fragments preserved in Clement’s Stromata: fragment I: II, 36.2–4; fragment
II: II, 114.3–6; fragment III: III, 59.3; fragment IV: IV, 89.1–3; fragment V: IV, 89.6–90.1;
fragment VI: VI, 52.3–53.1. One of Valentinus’s psalms is preserved by Hippolytus in his
Refutation of All Heresies VI, 37.7. For a discussion of Valentinus theology in light of these
fragments, and for an argument that the other passages that Church Fathers attribute to
Valentinus are probably not accurate, see Markschies, Valentinus Gnosticus?, pp. 388–407.
8
Valentinus’s Fragment 1.
9
See his psalm, in Hippolytus’s Refutation of All Heresies VI, 37.7.
40 Paul Linjamaa
a man named Theudas.10 Just like Paul, Valentinus placed great emphasis on
combatting evil and lowly powers that were thought to threaten the human heart
and lead humans to temptation and sin.11 Valentinus’s interest in contemporary
philosophy of his time was far from unique: on the contrary, it was rather
common. Many early Christians, those we today would label ‘orthodox’ included,
viewed their Christian doctrines as a culmination of pagan philosophy, the next
level of a natural and logical zenith of human knowledge.12
Many Christians were inspired by Valentinus, and some developed his theology
further. It is these people who were considered by some of their contemporaries,
who did not agree with them theologically, to be a great threat to Christianity.
Justin Martyr writes that the Valentinians only posed as Christians but were
actually heretics. The word Justin uses to denote his opponents is hairesis
(αἵρεσις), which is the word we still use today for people whose opinions conflict
with what is considered the norm. The word hairesis, however, literally means
choice, and so it did in Justin’s time, a choice that was not necessarily laden
with the negative connotations it has today.13 A ‘heretic’ was someone who
had chosen to follow a particular set of principles attached to a philosophical
school of thought. What Justin was insinuating by associating the Valentinians
with hairesis was that these Christians had done what philosophers in his time
did, namely deliberately chosen to follow the teachings of a certain human. The
person whose teachings the Christians Justin disagreed with had chosen to follow
was Valentinus. Justin, who himself had sampled many of the philosophical
10
Clement writes that Valentinians claimed this background for Valentinus (Stromata VII,
17), and judging from the Valentinian texts we have in the Nag Hammadi collection, Paul is
undoubtedly a great inspiration for the Valentinians. For more on Paul and the Valentinians, see
Pagels, The Gnostic Paul.
11
Fragments I, II, IV, and V. For Paul, see Ephesians 6. 12.
12
See for example Justin, Second Apology 2.13 where he compares Christianity with the other
philosophical schools; see Clement, Stromata VI.8; Eusebius, Demonstratio Evangelica I.6.56;
and Gregory of Nyssa, Life of Moses 305b. Here Christianity is spoken of as the true philosophy.
This attitude is, somewhat paradoxically, combined with the view that philosophy leads to
heresy and false beliefs. However, there is a distinction made between pagan and Christian,
between atheist and god-fearing philosophy. For more on this, see Karamanolis, The Philosophy
of Early Christianity, pp. 29–59.
13
There is, however, indications that philosophers used the term hairesis as designating
different schools of medicine and philosophy one could choose to adhere to. However, the use of
the term did not carry the same value judgement it has in a later Christian context. For more on
the development of the term, see Simon, ‘From Greek hairesis to Christian Heresy’; von Staden,
‘Hairesis and Heresy’.
traditions that the second-century Greco-Roman milieu offered, maintained

that one should not follow human teachings at all but rather the divine message
of Jesus, the son of God.14 The followers of Justin’s teachings could of course just
as easily have been accused of the same thing that Valentinians were accused of,
and there is little to suggest that Valentinians would have agreed with how Justin
portrayed them. In fact, the words ‘Valentinian’ and ‘Valentinus’ never occur in
any Valentinian texts, and there is no evidence supporting the fact that they used
these terms about themselves, nor that they saw themselves as anything other, or
more, than Christians.
As has been argued fairly consistently by previous scholars, in the middle
of the second century, in Rome, there did not exist one mainstream Christian
Church.15 The people Justin called ‘Valentinians’ represented just one of the
multiple strands of interpretations of the Christian message that existed and
most often co-existed. What Justin did when he called the Valentinians hairesis is
an early example of Christian identity politics: an attempt to outline which of the
plethora of Christian teachers and theological outlooks active in second-century
Rome should be considered ‘right opinion’ (ὀρθοδοξία) and which was a choice
(hairesis) to follow something else, a heresy.
This way of driving a wedge between ‘true’ Christians and ‘those who chose’
human delusions in favor of God’s truth, was picked up by other Christian
writers, like Irenaeus. He, too, condemned the Valentinians and wrote a famous
and influential work entitled On the Detection and Overthrow of Knowledge
Falsely So Called, commonly known as Adversus haereses (Against Heresies).
In this work Irenaeus lists, describes, and refutes certain Christian groups’
doctrines and practices. His main opponents in this multivolume work are
the Valentinians, some of whom actually seem to have been part of the same
congregation Irenaeus himself at times frequented (thus making his refutation
even more urgent from his perspective).16 Irenaeus cautions against ‘knowledge,
falsely so called’, just as ‘Timothy’ and his congregation had been cautioned by
the anonymous author of the New Testament epistle i Timothy. They are told
to beware of what is ‘falsely called knowledge’ (i Timothy 6. 20). Irenaeus, and
many Christian theologians who would come to use his heresiological writings,
did not necessarily reject knowledge (γνῶσις) but opposed false knowledge. Who
14
Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 2.2–6, 35; Second Apology 12.
15
See, for example, Thomassen, ‘Orthodoxy and Heresy in Second-Century Rome’; and
the work by Lampe, From Paul to Valentinus, which deals with this question en masse.
16
Against Heresies I.1.1. The people Irenaeus knew in France were chiefly inspired by the
Valentinian Ptolemaios’s teachings.
42 Paul Linjamaa
gets to define which knowledge is considered true and which is false is, as is
well known today, a topic that belongs to the negotiation and procurement of
authority and power.
Irenaeus and many other Christian intellectuals were adamant in maintaining
that Christianity was different from the many philosophical schools of the time.
The Christian community, or church (ἐκκλησία), did not belong to the multitude
of doctrines and practices on offer in the Hellenistic philosophical landscape.
Irenaeus writes that Valentinus had established his own school (διδασκαλεῖον/
Ualentini scola)17, and thus the Valentinians were not Christians like him: they
belonged to a school of thought, not the Church. What Irenaeus does here is in
line with what Justin had done before: he distinguishes between the pure and true
‘divinely inspired’ (Church), and what was created by humans, the ‘man-made’
(school), that is, diluted and less true (or rather outright false). Valentinians
belonged to the latter category according to Irenaeus and Justin.
Irenaeus was the most prominent anti-Valentinian writer of the second
century, but he and Justin were far from alone. Origen (c. 185–254), Clement
(c. 150–215), Hippolytus (c. 170–235), Tertullian, and Epiphanius (c. 315–403)
also wrote texts refuting the Valentinians.18 However, we need to recognize that
the Valentinians were just as convinced as those we today associate with orthodoxy
that they in fact were the ones who had the right opinion (ὀρθοδοξία), and that
the writers refuting them were in the wrong. We also need to recognize the very
diverse nature of theology that is often summed up into the term ‘orthodox’ here.
Sometimes the term ‘proto-orthodox’ is used in modern scholarship on early
Christianity, to highlight the fact that the ancient writers that are often placed
under this category did not actually all agree with each other or forward the
same theology, but that orthodoxy was a later construction that was projected
on certain ancient writers who were only later considered to have represented
acceptable theology while others were excluded. From a purely theological
standpoint, one could argue, as some have done, that Valentinus and Clement,
for example, were much more alike than Clement and Irenaeus.19
17
Irenaeus, Against Heresies I.11.1.
18
Irenaeus, Against Heresies I–II, IV.35, V.1; Hippolytus, Refutation of All Heresies X.9;
Tertullian, Against the Valentinians; Clement, Stromata II.3, II.8, III.1, III.4, IV.9, IV.13,
V.1, VI.6, VII.17; Origen, Commentary on John II.8, 15, VI.2, 8, 12–24, X.9, 14, 19, 21–22;
Epiphanius, Panarion II.31.
19
See, for example, Dunderberg’s discussion of Clement’s mitigating attitude toward
Valentinus, in Dunderberg, ‘Recognizing the Valentinians’, pp. 46–49. See also Brakke, The
Gnostics.
The history of heresy itself is full of error and inaccuracy. The Valentinians
have often been associated with the phenomena Gnosticism, which is ultimately
a modern concept first used in the seventeenth century. The protestant apologist
Henry More coined the term in order to refute Catholicism by claiming that it,
like ‘ancient Gnosticism’, seduced true Christians into idolatry and paganism.20
Gnosticism quickly became a term denoting many different groups the proto-
orthodox heresiologists had combatted, supposedly inspired by paganism and
Hellenist philosophy, distinct from clearer outside groups like Jews and pagans
and essentially opposite to a pure form of Christianity.21 Gnosticism came
to denote those whom the Church Fathers had written about and whom they
said called themselves ‘Gnostics’, or whom they labelled as such. The portrayal
of the Church Fathers’ opponents, ‘the Gnostics’, was polemical in nature, a
fact that was often disregarded.22 These Gnostics were people who were prone
to mythologizing and distorting, and were lured by syncretistic ‘Hellenism’,
according to, for example, the theologian Adolf von Harnack.23
The Valentinians have traditionally been associated with this category, even
though the earliest heresiologists, like Irenaeus, never call the Valentinians
‘Gnostics’. Irenaeus rather wrote that they were inspired by ‘the multitude of
Gnostics’ (referring to Ophites or Sethians).24
In light of the polemical and apologetic origins of the category ‘Valentinianism’
as well as the problem some scholars see in the term as a typological concept (see
more on this issue below), some have stopped using the category altogether,
arguing that it is just too difficult to apply with precision and without potentially
creating greater differences on apologetic ground than actually existed.25 These
20
This is pointed out by in Layton, ‘Prolegomena to the Study of Ancient Gnosticism’.
21
For a thorough survey of the history of the term ‘Gnosticism’ in Protestant apologetics,
see King, What is Gnosticism?. See also Williams, Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’, for a work which
criticizes the usefulness and accuracy of the category itself.
22
See King, What is Gnosticism?, pp. 5–19.
23
von Harnack, History of Dogma.
24
Irenaeus, Against Heresies I.29–31. Most likely he did this because both Valentinians and
Sethians were inspired by Plato’s view of creation which separated the True God from the creator
of the cosmos. The Simonians, Irenaeus wrote, were the other inspiration of Valentinians. This
has lead scholars as Tuomas Rasimus and David Brakke (following Layton) to only use the
term ‘Gnostics’ for those who Irenaeus uses it for: namely, Sethians and Ophites. See Rasimus,
Paradise Reconsidered; Brakke, The Gnostics. The term ‘Valentinian’ is still associated with
Gnostics, but many who today still employ the term have stop using the term ‘Gnosticism’ and
would not categorize Valentinianism as belonging to something outside of early Christianity.
25
What is more, we must admit that the sources for Valentinus’s theology are too scant for
44 Paul Linjamaa
notes of caution should be taken seriously indeed. Those Christians who were
lumped together as Valentinians never organized systematically, and there was
no Valentinian Church that officially stood in opposition to the Great Church
(whatever one means by this in the second and third centuries).26 Irenaeus’s
and Justin’s heresiological move is brilliant, if consciously made, or at the
very least ironic; they constructed a uniformity that probably never existed
while simultaneously arguing against this unity by pointing out the pluralistic
teachings of those that it was supposed to constitute (Irenaeus, especially,
puts much emphasis on the fact that the Valentinians do not agree with each
other). Considering the fact that Valentinians never constituted a homogenous
movement, it is not strange at all that they would disagree with each other.
Here, in Justin’s and Irenaeus’ ‘othering’ of fellow Christians, we have the
beginnings of Christian heresiology. It started off with the othering of certain
Christians, by inventing group constellations named after a presumed originator,
groups that are then made ‘other’ by identifying doctrines and imposing
structures on people who were inspired by certain theological traits. According
to Irenaeus and Justin, the doctrines of their Christian opponents made people
strangers to God, led them away from the fold of God.27 Irenaeus’s insistence that
Valentinians represented a school of thought, and Justin’s claim that Valentinians
were more like philosophers than Christians, are very early attempts at identity
politics within the context of the pluralistic Roman Christian community, the
beginnings of Christian heresiology, as it were.28 But what about the identity
politics and heresiology of those Christians who ended up on the losing side
of the theological struggles of the second to fourth centuries? What about, for
example, those Christians who were labelled ‘Valentinian’ by the Church Fathers?
Did these Christians ever answer the accusations of heresy? Did they not argue
us to get a systematic view of his theology, and thus we cannot draw the conclusion that the
detailed theological systems produced by the Valentinians Irenaeus and the other heresiologists
describe, those that describe advanced Aeonic relations, a myth of a falling Sophia, and a
Demiurge who created the world, derived from Valentinus and not other people thought to
be inspired by him. Thomassen, however, has argued (convincingly, in my view), against
Markschies, that it is unlikely that Valentinus shared the views found with later Valentinians,
because already Justin rejects Valentinians in he year 150, when Valentinus was still active in
Rome. See Thomassen, ‘Orthodoxy and Heresy’.
26
This term, ‘the Great Church’, is used by Lampe, e.g. in From Paul to Valentinus, p. 101.
27
Justin Martyr, Dialogue with Trypho 2, 35 and Second Apology 12; Irenaeus, Against
Heresies I.8.
28
For more on the origins of heresiology, see Eshleman, The Social World of Intellectuals,
pp. 1–66.
for the primacy of their own theology in favour of the one Irenaeus, Justin, and
other ‘non-Valentinians’ purported? Was there a difference between orthodox
heresiology and the heresiology of the heretics?
So Who Exactly Were the Valentinians?

Even though Valentinianism did not exist as something outside Christianity (no
matter what Irenaeus and Justin claimed), and even though Valentinians did
not organize themselves in opposition to other Christians (as far as we know),
I still argue that the category of ‘Valentinianism’ has some value as a heuristic
tool.29 It is useful when we want to point out certain early Christians with
particular theological interests. So, what are these interests? It is obvious that
many of the people and texts that are today classified as Valentinian forwarded
particular theological views that differed from many of the proto-orthodox
theologians. Some of these theological traits include: interest in protological
and pleromatological issues;30 the view that the cosmos was not formed by
the highest God but a lower being (sometimes called the Demiurge); the view
that the heavenly world (often called the Pleroma) was populated by eternal
beings called Aeons (sometimes identified as the emanations of the Father);
and that the cosmic life was created as the result of a fall of the youngest of the
heavenly beings (often called Sophia), and that the Saviour Jesus was sent from
29
Contrary to, for example, Lundhaug, ‘“Gnostisisme”’. The main argument is that the
category is too methodologically problematic and also derives from polemical origins, and
thus carries with it value-laden connotations. For a summary of the methodological problems
associated with the term, see Desjardins, ‘The Sources for Valentinian Gnosticism’. Williams
finds the term still useful (Williams, Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’), and I, too, would argue that in
abandoning the term we risk losing track of interesting differences that actually existed amongst
different early Christians. However, contrary to some scholars (for example, Thomassen) I do
not find that there is enough evidence to us the term as a category referring to a homogenous
movement or a fixed theological system in antiquity (Thomassen, ‘Going to Church’). There
is no evidence of a Valentinian canon, or fixed set of doctrines that all Valentinians agreed on.
What is more, there is not even evidence for the fact that those identified as Valentinians ever
called themselves that, nor do we find the term in any of the texts that have been identified as
Valentinian. With all this being said, I do think the category ‘Valentinian’ can still be useful,
in order to point out particular early Christian theological traits and help situate them in a
specific context.
30
By protology, I refer to the theories concerning what happened before Creation during
the time and place before cosmos was created and ordered. Pleromatology refers to the theories
that focus on the constellation of this world, often called Pleroma (fullness), what beings exist
there and what happened there that resulted in the creation of the cosmos.
46 Paul Linjamaa
the Pleroma in order to bring back the spiritual substance that issued forth as a
result of the Fall.31
Proto-orthodox heresiologists discussed many people who displayed these
theological traits, such as Ptolemy, Theodotus, and Heracleon (just to mention
a few referred to in more detail by the Church Fathers).32 Before the discovery
of the Nag Hammadi collection in 1945, however, the sources for Valentinian
theology came from the Christian theologians who opposed and combatted
them. They described the doctrines of their opponents unforgivingly, often
recounting complicated cosmological and theological systems while rejecting
them, making it difficult for us to separate polemical exaggerations (or, indeed,
simplifications) from the voices of Valentinians themselves. Only very little
first-hand material was transferred through the Church Fathers’ own writings,
but some material is less infested with polemical obfuscation, for example: the
seven fragments of Valentinus’ writings (quoted by Clement and Hippolytus); a
collection of Valentinian texts called The Excerpts of Theodotus; Ptolemy’s Letter
to Flora, a letter written by a Valentinian named Ptolemy which Epiphanius
preserved; and quotations from Heracleon’s commentary on the Gospel of John,
preserved by Origen.33 But in 1945, with the unearthing of the Nag Hammadi
texts, many new Valentinian writings were discovered.
The Nag Hammadi collection contains twelve papyrus codices, much of
which is fairly well preserved, numbering a total of fifty-two separate texts
written in Coptic. Most of these texts are obviously Christian, but in the codices
one can also find Hermetic writings, partial translations of Plato, and Sethian
material. We should avoid using the term ‘library’ for the Nag Hammadi texts, in
order not to insinuate that we are dealing with one stable collection with one and
the same origin and use. The Nag Hammadi codices are in fact a miscellaneous
collection, which is indicated, for example, by the fact that we find duplicates
of the same basic text in several of the codices (Apocryphon of John, for example,
is found in Codices II, III, and V). Thus, we are dealing with isolated codices
31
Many more traits could be added to separate Valentinians from other types of theology,
for example Sethianism, for example: the raising of a barrier between Pleroma and cosmos;
a particular anthropology made up of material, spiritual, and sometimes psychic people;
particular ritual behaviour, such as the mysterious ritual called ‘bridal chamber’, which is not
always clearly defined in the sources. The above four points are, however, sufficient in order for
us to discuss the points about heresiology that are the issue here.
32
For a list of individuals identified as Valentinians by the Church Fathers, see Thomassen,
Spiritual Seed, pp. 491–508.
33
These too, especially the quotes in Origen and Clement, are followed by comment and
often condemnation.
or several different collections.34 Most of the texts are probably translations of

Greek originals deriving from earlier times and contexts than the Coptic versions
today preserved in the codices, most likely copied around the end of the fourth
century by Christian monks in the burgeoning Egyptian monastic milieu.35
Several of the texts discovered in Nag Hammadi fit the Valentinian typology
elaborated upon above and what Church Fathers attacked, beginning in the
second century. The Valentinian Nag Hammadi texts include, but are not
restricted to, texts such as The Gospel of Truth, The Tripartite Tractate, The Gospel
of Philip, and The Interpretation of Knowledge.36 Not all of these texts have every
one of the features used above as a typological definition of Valentinianism, and
the features do at times differ between the texts. This highlights my point that the
Valentinians were not homogenous: they did not belong to a systematic ‘school
of thought’, but the category should rather be thought of as denoting a collection
of theological traits that interested some Christians, especially in the second to
fourth centuries (as defined above). There is in fact no consensus on how the term
should be defined, and a multitude of different definitions exist among scholars,
leading to much disagreement about which texts should and should not be viewed
as Valentinian. However, in order to facilitate a discussion on the heresiology of
Valentinians, the above-mentioned four texts will be used as a point of departure
on which this study on Valentinian heresiology will be based.37
Valentinian Heresiology
It is not possible in the confinements of this article to present a comprehensive
picture of Valentinian heresiology, only to give a few examples of the views
that Valentinians thought erroneous. We do not encounter, unfortunately —
in any of the Valentinian writings in the Nag Hammadi collection — detailed
34
Codices I, VII, and XI are, for example, closely connected because they seem to have
been copied by the same scribal team. For more on the context of the materiality of the Nag
Hammadi collection, see Lundhaug and Jenott, The Monastic Origins, pp. 1–11, 104–145.
35
Lundhaug and Jenott, The Monastic Origins, pp. 1–11, 263–68.
36
A Valentinian Exposition, a text following The Interpretation of Knowledge in Codex XI, is
perhaps the most obviously Valentinian text that fits best the form of Valentinianism that Irenaeus
chiefly refutes in his works, but this text is unfortunately damaged, and there do not occur any
obvious passages in the text that lend themselves to the current discussion concerning heresiology.
37
What one at least has to agree with is that these texts, even if they are not called
Valentinian, at least can be seen as representing views of those Christians who lost the theological
struggles in the third to fifth centuries, i.e. what could be called heterodoxy.
48 Paul Linjamaa
discussions of any Christian theologies that were refuted. These texts are not
chiefly heresiologies, this much is clear: they were not written with the chief aim
of refuting other Christians but are rather concerned with laying out a particular
theology. We do, however, as we shall see, find instances of theological points
where the Valentinians are obviously taking a theological stance and also passing
judgement on those who argue for other theological positions. Let us look at
some of these examples.
The longest Valentinian text extant today, The Tripartite Tractate, is a text
most likely derived from a third-century Alexandrian context, replete with
philosophical refinement.38 Here we encounter several passages where certain
forms of Christian theology are presented as erroneous and are rejected. One
issue of particular importance in The Tripartite Tractate, taking up a considerable
part of the first part of the text, is the issue of the nature of God:
ϫⲉ ⲡⲉⲉⲓ ϭⲉ ⲛ̅ⲧⲉⲉⲓϩⲉ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲡⲓⲥⲙⲁⲧ· ⲁⲩⲱ ⲡⲓⲛⲁϭ ⲛ̅ϯⲁⲉⲓⲏ· ϫⲉ ⲙⲛ̅ ⲕⲉⲟⲩⲉⲉⲓ
ϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲛⲙ̅ⲙⲉϥ ϫⲓⲛ ⲛ̅ϣⲁⲣⲡ̅ ⲏ ⲟⲩⲧⲟⲡⲟⲥ ⲉϥϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲛ̅ϩⲏⲧϥ̅· ⲏ ⲁϥⲉⲓ ⲁⲃⲁⲗⲙ̅ⲙⲁϥ· ⲏ
ⲉϥⲛⲁⲛⲁϩⲟⲩϥ· ⲉϩⲟⲩⲛ ⲁⲣⲁϥ· ⲏ ⲟⲩⲥⲙⲁⲧ· ⲛⲁⲣⲭⲁⲓⲟⲛ ⲉϥⲣ̅ ⲭⲣⲁⲥⲑⲁⲓ ϩⲛ̅ⲛ ⲟⲩⲧⲁⲛⲧⲛ̅
ⲉϥⲣ̅ ϩⲱⲃ ⲏ ⲟⲩⲙ̅ⲕⲁϩ ⲉϥϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲛⲉϥ ⲉϥⲟⲩⲏϩ ⲛ̅ⲥⲱϥ· ⲙ̅ⲡⲉⲧϥ̅ⲉⲓⲣⲉ ⲙ̅ⲙⲁϥ· ⲏ
ⲟⲩϩⲩⲗⲏ ⲉⲥⲕⲏ ⲛⲉϥ ⲁϩⲣⲏⲓ̈ ⲉⲥⲧⲥⲉⲛⲟ ⲁⲃⲁⲗ ⲛ̅ϩⲏⲧⲥ̅ ⲛ̅ⲛⲉⲧϥ̅ⲧⲥⲉⲛⲟ ⲙ̅ⲙⲁⲩ ⲏ̅ ⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ
ⲉⲥⲙ̅ⲡⲉϥϩⲟⲩⲛ ⲁⲃⲁⲗ ⲙ̅ⲙⲁⲥ· ⲉϥϫⲡⲟ ⲛ̅ⲛⲉⲧϥ̅ϫⲡⲟ ⲙ̅ⲙⲁⲩ ⲏ ⲕⲉϣⲃⲏⲣ· ⲛⲙ̅ⲙⲉϥ ⲣ̅ ϩⲱⲃ
ⲉϥⲣ̅ ϩⲱⲃ ⲛⲙ̅ⲙⲉϥ ϩⲱⲃ ⲁⲣⲁⲩ· ⲁⲧⲣⲉϥϫⲟⲟⲥ ⲛ̅ⲧⲉⲉⲓϩⲉ ⲟⲩⲙⲛ̅ⲧⲁⲧⲥⲃⲱ ⲧⲉ· (53.21–39)
(He [the Father] is of such a type and form and great magnitude that no one else
has been with him from the beginning; there is no place in which he is, or from
which he has come forth, or into which he will go; nor is there a primordial form
that he uses as a model when he works; nor is there any difficulty accompanying
him in what he does; nor is there any material next to him, from which [he] creates
what he creates; nor any substance within him from which he begets what he
begets; nor a co-worker working with him on the things at which he works. To say
anything of this sort is ignorant.39)
In this short extract from the first part of the text many views on the nature of
the Highest Father are rejected as ignorant, but we are not actually told exactly
who it is that are claiming these things about the nature of God. Those who
immediately spring to mind as holding similar views as what is here disallowed,
active shortly prior to the third century, are Middle Platonists like Numenius
and Alcinous, the teacher of Galen, both active in the second half of the second
century. Middle Platonists were moving away from a dualistic view of the first
steps of Creation, the view that matter existed separately and simultaneously with
38
For the most recent study into this text, see Linjamaa, The Ethics of The Tripartite Tractate.
39
All translations from the Nag Hammadi texts are my own.
the Father in the beginning. These ideas grew to full bloom with Alexandrian
Neoplatonist philosophers like Ammonius Saccas (d. 242) and his adept Plotinus
(d. 270), contemporaries of Origen (who also studied with Ammonus Saccas)
and most likely also the Valentinians behind The Tripartite Tractate.40 The
Tripartite Tractate takes a clear position against those who suggest that there was
anything besides God in the beginning of time. This seems to include the idea
that God has any attributes that are applicable to how things are in the cosmic
system. But there were also Christian dualists, such as Marcion and his followers,
who argued that there was a second principle next to God, a dark force that lured
people away from God.41 Another example of a similar view, which maintained
that in the beginning there existed a darker principle next to the light of God, we
find in the Nag Hammadi text On the Origin of the World. The second principle
outside the highest realm is called ‘a shadow’ (ⲟⲩϩⲁⲓ̈ⲃⲉⲥ), and from this, which is
ⲉⲧⲙ̅ⲙⲁⲩ ⲁⲟⲩⲥⲓⲁ ⲙ̅ⲙⲟⲟⲩ (99.14) (like a watery substance), matter derives. We read
that this shadow ⲑϩⲣⲁⲓ̈ⲃⲉⲥ ⲇⲉ ⲟⲩⲉⲓ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ⲡⲉ ϩⲛ̅ⲛⲟⲩⲉⲣⲅⲟⲛ ⲉϥϣⲟⲟⲡ ϫⲓⲛ ⲧⲉϩⲟⲩⲉⲓⲧⲉ
(98.3–5) (comes from a product that has existed since the beginning). These
views are clearly rejected in The Tripartite Tractate; there is no substance outside
or next to God in the beginning. Thus, what we have here seems to be a ‘heretical’
text rejecting the views of Christians (and pagans of course) who would also have
been regarded as heretics by proto-orthodox writers.
The Tripartite Tractate also tells us of people who lived before the coming of
Christ, Jews in particular, who are described as people who did not have the full
knowledge of God: ⲁⲩⲧⲉϩⲟ ⲁⲣⲉⲧⲟⲩ ⲛ̅ϩⲛ̅ϩⲉⲣⲉⲥⲓⲥ ⲉⲛⲁϣⲱⲟⲩ ⲛⲉⲧⲁⲩϣⲟⲟⲡ· ϣⲁ ϩⲟⲩⲛ
ⲉⲧⲉⲛⲟⲩ ϩⲁⲧⲉ ⲛⲓ<ⲓ>ⲟⲩⲇⲁⲉⲓ (112.19–22) (they established many heresies which exist
to the present among the Jews). Here we encounter the term ϩⲛ̅ϩⲉⲣⲉⲥⲓⲥ (heresies),
the same term Justin first uses regarding the Valentinians. It is used as a term applied
to people and opinions who are fundamentally in error (even though the Jews are
not as ‘bad’ as Greeks and barbarians in The Tripartite Tractate). Here the Jews
are labelled as heretics, not fellow Christians, as with Justin. This is not the first
time Jews were identified as heretics by Christians. According to Eusebius the early
Christian writer Hegesippus also called the many different Jewish sects heresies.42
The term ‘heretic’ has here become a pejorative term, in contrast to earlier uses,
40
For a closer reading of Middle Platonic relation to The Tripartite Tractate, see Kenney,
‘The Platonism of the Tripartite Tractate’. For more on the dating of The Tripartite Tractate, see
Linjamaa, The Ethics of the Tripartite Tractate, pp. 12–35.
41
Justin Martyr, First Apology 26.5, 58.1; Tertullian, Against Marcion. For a summary of
Marcion’s worldview, see Williams, Rethinking ‘Gnosticism’, pp. 23–26.
42
Eusebius, Historica Ecclesia IV.22.5.
50 Paul Linjamaa
such as, for example, Josephus (himself a Jew), who used the term ‘heresy’ for the
three ‘choices’ of Judaism, referring to Essenes, Sadducees, and Pharisees.43 Josephus
himself favoured the Essenes and Pharisees, but recognized the ‘Jewishness’ of
the Sadducees and even Zealots. There were, thus, room for choices, or different
schools/sects, within Judaism, according to Josephus. Thus, The Tripartite Tractate
rather follows later trends seen among Christian writers of employing the term
‘heresy’ more pejoratively, like Justin and Hegesippus had done.
Valentinians followed what seems to be another rather well-established Chris-
tian heresiological strategy, that of dividing humanity into three heresiological
groups: Greeks, Jews, and erroneous Christians. Epiphanius’s Panarion, perhaps
one of the most famous heresiological works from antiquity, is composed of a
long catalogue of errors.44 First, we encounter a list and discussion of various
‘pagan’ philosophies, Greek and Roman religious traditions and practices, as well
as different Jewish sects. In the second volume of the book, Epiphanius turns to
various erroneous Christian viewpoints. This division is also followed by one
of the more comprehensive heresiological treaties preserved from antiquity:
the text known as Refutation of All Heresies, presumably by Hippolytus.45 This
multivolume work lists the different theological and philosophical errors one
could encounter (according to its author), and begins with those who are furthest
away from the truth of Christianity. In several Valentinian treatises, like Excerpta
ex Theodotus, in the fragments of Heracleon, and The Tripartite Tractate, the way
humanity is viewed follows similar practice. Some people (sometimes called ‘the
material’ class) are portrayed as simply in error (even though their philosophers
may come close to the truth). The Jews are often described as partly right but
nevertheless get it wrong in the end because they reject Christ ( Jews are often
associated with the ‘psychic class’ of humans). Lastly there are Christians who
have the capacity to see the truth but obviously need guidance (these are, along
with the Jews, also associated with the ‘psychic’ class of people).46 Those who are
right are associated with the spiritual seed. From a heresiological perspective, this
43
Josephus, The Jewish Wars, II.8.14; Against Apion XIII.5.9.
44
See Epiphanius, Panarion, ed. and trans. by Williams.
45
Since the work of Litwa, the attribution of Refutation of All Heresies to Hippolytus is in
question. For a discussion of the authorship of the text and for a translation of it, see Hippolytus,
Refutation, ed. and trans. by Litwa.
46
There seems to have been a debate among Christians whether the psychics people would
be saved in the end or not. The Tripartite Tractate, where the psychics are described as Jews and
Christians alike, maintains that they will be saved as long as they assent to Christ. For a discussion
of different Valentinian anthropologies, see Dunderberg, Gnostic Morality, pp. 137–48.
version of Valentinian anthropology corresponds well with what Epiphanius and

Hippolytus present.
Another Valentinian text that condemns people who do not understand and
accept the wisdom of Jesus is The Gospel of Truth, a very poetic homily whose
origins are unclear, although some have suggested it was authored by Valentinus
himself.47 Whatever the case may be, the text makes it clear that some people
seem to reject or ignore the truth, even though it stares them in the face:
ⲟⲩⲉⲉⲓ· ⲙ̅ⲡⲣⲏⲧⲉ ⲛ̅ϩⲁⲉⲓⲛⲉ ⲉⲁⲩⲡⲱⲛⲉ ⲁⲃⲁⲗ ϩⲛ̅ ϩⲛⲙⲁ ⲉⲩⲛ̅ⲧⲉⲩ ⲙ̅ⲙⲉⲩ ⲛ̅ϩⲉⲛⲥⲕⲉⲩⲟⲥ·
ⲛ̅ϩⲣⲏⲓ̈ ϩⲛ̅ ϩⲛ̅ ⲧⲟⲡⲟⲥ ⲉⲛⲁⲛⲟⲩⲟⲩ· ⲉⲛ ⲛⲉϣⲁⲩⲟⲩⲁϭⲡⲟⲩ· ⲁⲩⲱ ⲙⲁϥϯ ⲁⲥⲓ ⲛ̅ϭⲓ ⲡⲛⲉⲡ
ⲙ̅ⲡⲏⲉⲓ ⲁⲗⲗⲁ ϣⲁⲥⲣⲉϣⲉ· ϫⲉ̣ ⲛ̅ϩⲣⲏⲓ̈ ⲅⲁⲣ ϩⲛ̅ ⲡⲙⲁ ⲛ̅ⲛⲓⲥⲕⲉⲩⲟⲥ ⲉⲑⲁⲩ· ⲛⲉⲧⲙⲏϩ
ⲛⲉⲧⲉϣⲁⲩϫⲁⲕⲟⲩ ⲁⲃⲁⲗ ϫⲉ ⲧⲉⲉⲓ ⲧⲉ ⲧⲉⲕⲣⲓⲥⲓⲥ ⲛ̅ⲧⲁϩⲉⲓ ⲁⲃⲁⲗ· ⲙ̅ⲡⲥⲁ ⲛⲧⲡⲉ· ⲉⲁⲥϯ ϩⲉⲡ·
ⲁⲟⲩⲁⲛ ⲛⲓⲙ· ⲉⲩⲥⲏϥⲉ ⲧⲉ ⲉⲥϣⲁⲗⲙ̅ ⲙ̅ⲫⲟ ⲥⲛⲉⲩ ⲉⲥϣⲱⲱⲧ· ⲛ̅ⲥⲁ ⲡⲓⲥⲁ ⲙⲛ̅ ⲡⲉⲉⲓ· ⲉⲁϥⲓ
ⲁⲧⲙⲏⲧⲉ ⲛ̅ϭⲓ ⲡⲓϣⲉϫⲉ· ⲉⲧⲛ̅ϩⲣⲏⲉⲓ ϩⲛ̅ ⲡϩⲏⲧ· ⲛ̅ⲛⲉⲧϣⲉϫⲉ ⲙ̅ⲙⲁϥ ⲟⲩϩⲣⲁⲩ ⲟⲩⲁⲉⲉⲧϥ̅
ⲉⲛ ⲡⲉ ⲁⲗⲗⲁ ⲁϥⲣ̅ ⲟⲩⲥⲱⲙⲁ· ⲟⲩⲛⲁϭ ⲛ̅ϣⲧⲁⲣⲧⲣ̅ ⲁϥϣⲱⲡⲉ ⲛ̅ϩⲣⲏⲓ̈ ϩⲛ̅ ⲛ̅ⲥⲕⲉⲩⲟⲥ ϫⲉ
ϩⲁⲉⲓⲛⲉ ⲁϩⲟⲩϣⲟⲩⲱⲟⲩ ϩⲛ̅ⲕⲁⲩⲉ ⲁϩⲟⲩⲙⲁϩⲟⲩ ϫⲉⲥ ϩⲛ̅ⲕⲁⲩⲉ ⲁϩⲟⲩⲥϩⲛⲏ ⲧⲟⲩ· ϩⲛ̅ⲕⲁⲩⲉ
ⲁϩⲟⲩⲡⲁⲛⲟⲩ ϩⲁⲉⲓⲛⲉ ⲁϩⲟⲩⲧⲟⲩⲃⲁⲩ ϩⲛⲕⲉⲕⲁⲩⲉ ⲁϩⲟⲩⲡⲱϣⲉ. (25.25–26.15)
(People who have moved from a place, if they have some jars around which are
not good, they usually break them. Nevertheless the householder does not suffer
a loss but rejoices, for in the place of these defective jars there are those which are
completely perfect. For this is the judgement which has come from above and which
has judged every person, a drawn two-edged sword cutting on this side and that.
When it appeared, I mean, the Logos, who is in the heart of those who pronounce
it — it was not merely a sound but it has become a body — a great disturbance
occurred among the jars, for some were emptied, others filled: some were provided
for, others were removed; some were purified, still others were broken.)
Here humanity is likened to jars in a household, the cosmos. When the

judgement comes (the move from the neighbourhood, that is, cosmos) some jars
are discovered to be broken. Some people are like broken jars: they are not able to
47
See, for example, Pearson, Ancient Gnosticism, pp. 147, 153, 173; Layton, The Gnostic
Scriptures, p. 251; Thomassen, The Spiritual Seed, pp. 147, 424. The attestation is chiefly based
on two ancient sources. According to Hippolytus, Valentinus had a gospel of his own (Against
All Heresies 4), and according to Irenaeus, some Valentinians valued their own texts along
with the Gospels, and one of them they had named ‘The Gospel of Truth’ (Irenaeus, Against
Heresies III.11). However, there is no source saying that Valentinus had written a text called
‘The Gospel of Truth’. What is more, the Nag Hammadi text which is now known as the Gospel
of Truth does not have a title in the strict sense at all, but gets its name from the text’s opening
line, ‘The gospel of truth is a joy’ (ⲡⲉⲩⲁⲅⲅⲉⲗⲓⲟⲛ ⲛ̅ⲧⲙⲏⲉ· ⲟⲩⲧⲉⲗⲏⲗ ⲡⲉ) (16.31). Thus, some
scholars have, fairly convincingly in my opinion, rejected the attestation; see, for example, Tite,
Valentinian Ethics, pp. 217–21.
52 Paul Linjamaa
accept the message of God or to retain the truth, but leak and are broken. In this
passage the text does not reject a specific theology, but indirectly it is suggested
that those who do not subscribe to the world-view of this particular theologian/
congregation are like broken vessels, and are lost in the end. This passage might
reflect a fairly early Christian context when Christians in general suffered
persecution and ridicule. It is also a possibility, however, that the seemingly
deterministic views presented in The Gospel of Truth reflect an internal Christian
sectarian context where the particular individual/group behind this text was in
a minority position, and that when the world-view forwarded in The Gospel of
Truth did not manage to convince people in the desired degree, they rationalized
their theology by describing it to be the will of God that some people would not
listen, that they were broken from the start.
The anthropology we encounter in The Gospel of Truth, which could be viewed
as displaying a kind of determinism, was one of the chief objections levelled at
the Valentinians by Origen of Alexandria (c. 184–253).48 Origen wrote that
Valentinians (and some others, like Basilides and Marcion):
αὐτοὶ τὸ αὐτεξούσιον ἀναιποῦντες διὰ τὸ φύσεις εἰςάγειν ἀπολλυμένας, ἀνεπιδέκτους
τοῦ σώζεσθαι, καὶ ἑτέρας σωζομένας, ἀδυνάτως ἐχούσας πρὸς τὸ ἀπολέσθαι (Peri
Archon III.1.8).
(destroy free will by bringing in lost natures, which cannot receive salvation, and on
the other hand saved natures, which are incapable of being lost.)49
As argued elsewhere, what Origen rejects here also fits the view we find in The
Tripartite Tractate,50 where human will is restricted, and the material humans
are described as those people who are incapable of receiving the saving grace of
Jesus. However, Origen’s view on free will was not without challenge, and we
are told that his most ardent opponents in the question regarding the nature
of human choice came from among the Valentinians. Jerome (347–420), who
lived several generations after Origen, tells us that a certain Valentinian named
Candidus thought that the devil was evil and could not be saved. Origen replied,
according to Jerome, that the devil was not destined for destruction because of
the substance he was made up of, but that he could freely choose destruction
or salvation.51 Jerome takes Origen’s side against Candidus, but the argument
48
Origen, Peri Archon III.1, also I, preface 2.
49
Translation by Butterworth, On First Principles, p. 212.
50
Linjamaa, The Ethics of the Tripartite Tractate, chap. 3.
51
Jerome, Apologia adversus libros Rufini II.18. Translation by J. D. Gauthier from Crouzel,
‘A Letter from Origen to Friends in Alexandria’, pp. 143–44.
forwarded by Candidus was one of the most forceful arguments against

Origen’s view of choice and accountability, something many criticized, not just
Valentinians.52 Valentinians, as well as other Christians, had a very hard time
reconciling themselves to the notion that even the devil could be saved.
The question regarding the nature of human choice was not the only large
theological issue that Valentinians debated with proto-orthodox theologians.
The following passage comes from The Gospel of Philip:53
ⲡⲉϫⲉ ϩⲟⲉⲓⲛⲉ ϫⲉ ⲁⲙⲁⲣⲓⲁ ⲱ˜ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲙ̅ ⲡⲡⲛ̅ⲁ̅ ⲉⲧⲟⲩⲁⲁⲃ ⲥⲉⲣ̅ⲡⲗⲁⲛⲁⲥⲑⲉ ⲟⲩ ⲡⲉ ⲧⲟⲩϫⲱ
ⲙ̅ⲙⲟϥ ⲥⲉⲥⲟⲟⲩⲛ ⲁⲛ ⲁϣ ⲛ̅ϩⲟⲟⲩ ⲉⲛⲉϩ ⲡⲉⲛⲧⲁ ⲥϩⲓⲙⲉ ⲱ˜ ⲉⲃⲟⲗ ϩⲛ̅ ⲥϩⲓⲙⲉ ⲙⲁⲣⲓⲁ ⲧⲉ
ⲧⲡⲁⲣⲑⲉⲛⲟⲥ ⲉⲧⲉ ⲙ̅ⲡⲉ ⲇⲩⲛⲁⲙⲓⲥ ϫⲁϩⲙⲉⲥ ⲉⲥϣⲟⲟⲡ ⲛ̅ⲛⲟⲩⲛⲟϭ ⲛ̅ⲛⲁⲛⲟϣ ⲛ̅ⲛ̅ϩⲉⲃⲣⲁⲓⲟⲥ
ⲉⲧⲉ ⲛⲁⲡⲟⲥⲧⲟⲗⲟⲥ ⲛⲉ ⲁⲩⲱ [ⲛ̅]ⲁⲡⲟⲥⲧⲟⲗⲓⲕⲟⲥ ⲧⲉⲉⲓⲡⲁⲣⲑⲉⲛⲟⲥ ⲉⲧ[ⲉ] ⲙ̅ⲡⲉ ⲇⲩⲛⲁⲙⲓⲥ
ϫⲟϩⲙⲉⲥ ⲟⲩ[….ⲁ]ⲛⲇⲩⲛⲁⲙⲓⲥ ϫⲟϩⲙⲟⲩ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲛ̣[ⲉϥⲛⲁϫ]ⲟ̣ⲟⲥ ⲁⲛ ⲛ̅ϭⲓⲡϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ ϫⲉ
ⲡⲁⲉ̣[ⲓⲱⲧ ⲉⲧϩ]ⲛ̣̅ ⲙ̅ⲡⲏⲩⲉ ⲉⲓ ⲙⲏⲧⲓ ϫⲉ ⲛⲉⲩⲛ̅ⲧ̅ⲁ[ϥ ⲙ̅ⲙⲁⲩ] ⲛ̣̅[ⲕ]ⲉⲉⲓⲱⲧ̣ ⲁⲗⲗⲁ ϩⲁⲡⲗⲱⲥ
ⲁϥϫⲟⲟ̣[ⲥ ϫⲉ ⲡⲁⲉⲓⲱⲧ]. (55.23–36)
(Some say, ‘Mary conceived by the Holy Spirit.’ They have wandered astray! They
do not know what they are saying. When did a woman ever conceive by a woman?54
Mary is the virgin whom no power defiled. She is a great anathema to the Hebrews,
who are the apostles and the apostolic men. This virgin whom no power defiled […]
the powers defile themselves. And the Lord [would] not have said ‘My Father who
is in Heaven’ (Mt 16.17), unless he had had another father, but he would have said
simply [‘My father’].)
This passage reflects the debate concerning the nature of the birth of Christ.
Some Christians argued that Christ had been conceived in the womb of Mary, a
position that the above passage seems to reject. Jesus was born as a full human, his
father being Joseph, and his second father being God; Christ was actually born in
the moment of baptism. The importance of rebirth is highlighted in the following
two passages that at the same time reject certain erroneous Christian views:
52
For more on Origen’s view on free will and the critique he received, see Frede, A Free
Will, pp. 102–24.
53
For details concerning this text, see Lundhaug, Images of Rebirth. Lundhaug, however,
questions the Valentinian background of the version we have in the Nag Hammadi collection,
which should, he argues, be read in light of fifth-century intra-Christian debates. I agree with
Lundhaug that there are passages that must be read in light of a later context, but I also think
that there are parts of the text that draws on earlier traditions.
54
This refers to the idea that the Holy Spirit is female. This is one reason that some have
suggested that The Gospel of Philip comes from a Syrian background, because in Syriac texts the
Holy Spirit is often referred to in female terms, most likely a result of the grammatical gender
the word has in Syriac.
54 Paul Linjamaa
ⲛⲉⲧϫⲱ ⲙ̅ⲙⲟⲥ ϫⲉ ⲁⲡϫⲟⲉⲓⲥ ⲙⲟⲩ ⲛ̅ϣⲟⲣⲡ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁϥⲧⲱⲟⲩⲛ ⲥⲉⲣ̅ⲡⲗⲁⲛⲁ ⲁϥⲧⲱⲟⲩⲛ ⲅⲁⲣ
ⲛ̅ϣⲟⲣⲡ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲁϥⲙⲟⲩ ⲉⲧⲙ̅ ⲟⲩⲁ ϫⲡⲉⲧⲁⲛⲁⲥⲧⲁⲥⲓⲥ ⲛ̅ϣⲟⲣⲡ ϥⲛⲁⲙⲟⲩ ⲁⲛ. (56.15–20)
(Those who say that the Lord died first and [then] rose up have wandered astray,
for he rose up first and [then] died. If one does not first attain the resurrection, he
will not die.)
And again later in the text this is repeated:

ⲛⲉⲧϫ̣ⲱ ⲙ̣̅ⲙⲟⲥ ϫⲉ ⲥⲉⲛⲁⲙⲟⲩ ⲛ̅ϣⲟⲣⲡ ⲁⲩⲱ ⲥⲉⲛ̣ⲁ̣ⲧ̣ⲱⲟⲩⲛ [ⲛ]ⲥⲉⲣ̅ⲡⲗⲁⲛⲁⲥⲑⲉ ⲉⲩⲧⲙ̅ϫⲓ
ⲛ̅ϣⲟⲣⲡ ⲛ̅ⲧⲁⲛⲁⲥⲧⲁⲥⲓⲥ ⲉⲩⲟⲛϩ ⲉⲩϣⲁⲙⲟⲩ ⲥⲉⲛⲁϫⲓ ⲗⲁⲁⲩ ⲁⲛ ⲧⲁⲉⲓ ⲧⲉ ⲑⲉ ⲟⲛ ⲉⲩϫⲱ
ⲙ̅ⲙⲟⲥ ⲉⲡⲃⲁⲡⲧⲓⲥⲙⲁ ⲉⲩϫⲱ ⲙ̅ⲙⲟⲥ ϫⲉ ⲟⲩⲛⲟϭ ⲡⲉ ⲡⲃⲁⲡⲧⲓⲥⲙⲁ ϫⲉ ⲉⲩϣⲁϫⲓⲧϥ
ⲥⲉⲛⲁⲱⲛϩ. (73.1–8)
(Those who say they will die first and then rise have wandered astray. If they do
not first receive the resurrection while they live, when they die they will receive
nothing. So also when speaking about baptism, they say, ‘Baptism is a great thing,’
because if people receive it they will live.)
People are reborn, just like Jesus was, in the moment of their baptism, and The
Gospel of Philip forcefully rejects those who believe otherwise. Here The Gospel
of Philip employs, among other things, references to rationality, a common mode
of argumentation among proto-orthodox heresiologists too. Irenaeus, a master
of portraying his opponent as irrational, wrote that this Valentinian position
denying that Christ was born of Mary entailed maintaining that the Saviour had
been composed of different beings: the human — who, Irenaeus adds, had to have
passed through Mary like water through a straw and was the son of the Demiurge
— and then another part which would have to had come down from the heavens
later, ascending at baptism in the form of a dove.55 This was absurd and irrational,
according to Irenaeus: there was only one Christ, and he was delivered by the
Virgin Mary. Irenaeus, as well as Justin Martyr, were also ardent supporters of
the doctrine of free will, arguing that it was thoroughly irrational to deny it. If
one did not reject the premise that God was just, one would have to accept the
doctrine of free will, because a just god would never create a world where some
where lost from the start.56
Let us look at the last Valentinian text to be discussed here, a text that will bring
the point that this chapter is getting at to the fore: that proto-orthodox Christian
and Valentinian ways of arguing theologically are actually fundamentally alike. In
55
Irenaeus, Against Heresies I, 7.2.
56
Justin, Dialogue with Trypho 141, Second Apolog y VII.5–6; Irenaeus, Against
Heresies IV.37, 39.
the Valentinian text The Interpretation of Knowledge we encounter a context that

does not seem to have been all that unusual among early Christian congregations:
one of dissent and disagreement among its members. The genre of the text is
debated, but something most scholars agree upon is that the text’s second part
is devoted to addressing dissent in a community fraught with jealousy.57 The text
rebukes the members of the congregation for either displaying jealousy of other
members’ spiritual gifts or hatred toward those lacking understanding (15.34–
35; 16.31–38). Everyone is part of the same body, and one should not complain
about the hand one has been dealt:
ⲟⲩⲧⲉ ⲙ̅ⲡⲣ̅[ⲣ̅]ⲫ̣ⲑⲟⲛⲉⲓ ⲁⲡⲉⲛⲧⲁⲩⲕⲁⲁϥ̅ ϩ̅ⲛ̅ ⲟⲩ[ⲙⲉ]ⲣ̣ⲟⲥ ⲛ̅ⲃⲉⲗ ⲏ ⲟⲩϭⲓϫ ⲏ ⲟⲩⲣⲓⲧⲉ ϣⲱⲡ
ϩⲙⲁⲧ ⲛ̅ⲇⲉ ϫⲉ ⲛ̅ⲕϣⲟ[ⲟ]ⲡ̣ⲉⲛ ⲙ̅ⲡⲃⲁⲗ ⲙ̅ⲡⲥⲱⲙⲁ. (18.30–34)
(Do not be jealous of that which has been put in the class of an eye or a hand or a
foot, but be thankful that you do not exist outside the Body.)
The text seems to make clear the position that some people are just naturally
more gifted than others, and that the people who lack spiritual (and
theological?) authority should be content with their role as low-level members
of the congregation and not cause dissent. Clement of Alexandria seems to
have maintained something similar: that for some, knowledge came naturally,
while others had to be taught.58 The exact context of the congregation behind
The Interpretation of Knowledge remains unknown, but it is not unthinkable that
the text represents an attempt to quiet dissent within a congregation containing
members who questioned the particular Valentinian interpretations presented in
the text. What The Interpretation of Knowledge does seems to be just what Paul
did in i Corinthians 12, as argued by Dale Martin:59 it uses body metaphors to
lift the status of the unfortunate members, while at the same time legitimizing the
authority of the leaders of the congregation.60
What should have become clear from the above examples is that even though
proto-orthodox and Valentinian theologies differed, the techniques used to
57
For details concerning this text, see Linjamaa, ‘The Pit and the Day from Above’;
Linjamaa, ‘The Female Figures and Fate’.
58
Clement, Stromata VI.10–18. In his work Paedagogus, Clement discussed the moral
development of ‘ordinary Christians’. For insights into Clement’s pedagogical plan, see White,
‘Moral Pathology’.
59
In The Corinthian Body, Dale Marin deals with this image en masse.
60
For a work that explores this and other Pauline themes in Valentinian Christianity, see
Pagels, The Gnostic Paul. For a more updated discussion, see Dunderberg, Gnostic Morality
Revisited, pp. 137–48.
56 Paul Linjamaa
affirm and reaffirm theological standpoints and the social impact they were
intended to produce did not differ in any significant way.
Concluding Remarks
Second- and third-century Valentinians should not be treated as an obscure sect
outside the early Church, as they in fact contributed to those early Christian
theological debates which would mould the Church into what it later would
become. Which theology become orthodox and which was in retrospect
associated with heresy is ultimately a matter of power struggles and claims to
authority. This much is clear. Did the heresiological techniques used by so-called
Valentinians differ from proto-orthodox writers? Not in any essential way. Some
techniques they shared are, for example: the referring to erroneous theology as
hairesis; distancing themselves from Jews and pagans as well as other Christians
in an attempt to argue for their own theological views; and arguing for certain
theological opinions by referring to rationality (for example: ‘When did a woman
ever conceive by a woman?’61). There are also other similarities between proto-
orthodox and Valentinian attempts to homogenize in order to sustain stable
group identity. In the Interpretation of Knowledge and The Gospel of Truth we
encounter examples that rather remind us of descriptions of very early Christian
communities’ attempts (as Paul in i Corinthians 12) to explain the reasons why
there were differing opinions within the group. Why did outsiders reject the
group’s theological message of eternal bliss? According to The Gospel of Truth,
these people could not hear: they were like broken jars from the start.
Justin, Irenaeus, Origen, and other proto-orthodox writers spent enormous
energy on refuting fellow Christians, such as Valentinians, and as we have seen,
the few Valentinian texts that survived — even though they are not heresiological
treaties — contain plenty of passages with heresiological tendencies. From an
outsiders’ perspective, for the viewpoint of a non-Christian person of the time,
it would have been virtually impossible to distinguish Valentinians from any of
the proto-orthodox Christians. Perspectives from social psychology, for example,
the work done by Marilyn Brewer on formation of group identity, give part of
the answer for why early Christian writings focused so much on the deviating
thoughts of fellow Christians, which might look strange when there were
obviously people (like Jews and pagans) who differed in much more radical ways
61
Thus rejecting the theological notion that Mary could have conceived through the Holy
Spirit.
(whom one nevertheless did not neglect to critique). The feeling of uniqueness
is central for any attempt toward creating a sustainable group identity. In order
to safeguard a feeling of uniqueness, it becomes crucial to distance oneself from
individuals and groups one risks getting mixed up with, groups who are similar
to one’s own standpoints from an outsider’s perspective, and thus threaten one’s
feeling of distinctiveness within a larger context.62 The nature of heresiology is in
this way intimately intertwined with identity construction, and it has been the
aim of this essay to show, through the above case study on Valentinian texts, that
heretical and proto-orthodox heresiology generally worked in much the same way.
62
Brewer, ‘The Social Self ’.
58 Paul Linjamaa
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Paulician Self-Defence and
Self-Definition in the Didaskalie*
Carl Dixon
H eretics are, almost by definition, the losers of history. Few of them have
ever gone on the attack. Along with the Hussites, a rare exception to this
rule is the Paulicians, who became one of the most significant geo-political
actors in the Eastern Mediterranean c. 844–72, raiding the East Roman Empire
from their strongholds at Argaous and Tephrikē in eastern Asia Minor, striking
as far as Ephesus and Nicaea.1 But this period of ascendancy stemmed from their
attempts at self-preservation. In 843/44 Empress Theodora, regent for her young
son Michael III, followed her reestablishment of icon veneration by persecuting
Paulicians, thereby causing the Paulician Karbeas to flee the empire with several
thousand followers and align himself with the Emirate of Malat.iya (Melitene),
with whose aid he would found Argaous and Tephrikē.2
* This research was funded by the Midlands 3 Cities AHRC Doctoral Training Partnership.
I would like to thank Esther Lewis, Claire Taylor, and the anonymous reviewers for their
suggestions on earlier drafts of this paper.
1
Genesios, Basileion, 4.34–37, ed. by Lesmüller-Werner and Thurn, pp. 85–88 (trans.
Kaldellis, pp. 106–10).
2
Theophanes Continuatus, 4.16, ed. by Featherstone and Signes Codoñer, pp. 236–39.
For Theodora and the end of the second iconoclasm, see Brubaker and Haldon, Byzantium: A
History, pp. 447–52.
Carl Dixon ([email protected]), University of Nottingham

Abstract: The Paulicians came to prominence within the East Roman (or Byzantine) Empire
during the ninth century, not only as a dissident religious movement but also as a regional
military power. They have conventionally been understood as a continuation of Armenian
adoptionism, as the beginning of a distinctly medieval dualism, and/or as a product of the
iconoclast controversy. By contrast, this paper will examine Paulician self-defence within the
context of the persecutions conducted by Michael I (811–13) and Leo V (813–20). It will
examine the Didaskalie, arguing that this source demonstrates that Paulicians reacted to these
persecutions by casting themselves as the spiritual heirs of the Christians who were persecuted
in the Acts of the Apostles. This reappropriation of Acts was a crucial factor in the short-term
expansion of the movement.
Keywords: Byzantine Studies, Heresy Studies, Identity Formation, Paulicians, Persecution

62 Carl Dixon
This period marks the apogee of Paulician history, but in this contribution I
shall focus on the early ninth century, when Paulicians were on the defensive, by
analysing a Paulician text known as the Didaskalie.3 This source is less a narrative
account of Paulician history than a mythologized narrative written to legitimate
a style of Paulician leadership, but, despite this, its testimony allows us to assess
modes of self-defence (and other forms of resistance) such as martyrdom, flight,
and military reprisals.4 The Didaskalie is invaluable because it shows that Paulicians
imagined themselves as the spiritual successors of the Christian communities
described in the Acts of the Apostles and imagined their Roman (or, in the terms
of modern scholars, Byzantine) persecutors to be akin to those who persecuted the
early church.5 Persecution is central to this text, which in turn suggests that, as I have
argued elsewhere, the convergence of a fully developed Paulician identity hostile
to the East Roman Empire only arose through the experience of persecution, even
if more fragmented networks of Paulicians existed beforehand.6 Persecution was
so integral to Paulician identity from the 810s onward that it is difficult to assess
the Paulician response to it: their identity was, in itself, a response to persecution.
Self-defence and self-definition are two sides of the same coin.
I have limited myself to the persecutions conducted during the reigns of
Michael I (811–13) and Leo V (813–20) because this is the only period for
which we have Paulician testimony. There are two relevant Paulician sources;
the Didaskalie, which was inspired by these persecutions, and the Letters of
3
Peter of Sicily, History, 94–129, ed. by Papachryssanthou (subsequent citations to this
edition), pp. 40–51 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, pp. 76–83).
4
Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 190–94. In this paper, I have preferred ‘resistance’ to the
conference theme of ‘self-defence’ because martyrdom cannot be straightforwardly understood
as a form of the latter.
5
Ludwig , ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 193–94, 224–25. Note, however, that Acts cannot
straightforwardly be understood as an anti-Roman work in its original context, since the
text’s emphasis is principally anti-Jewish. On this, see Matthews, Perfect Martyr, pp. 58–77.
Paulician readings of the text were perhaps influenced by other scriptural texts, or later Roman
persecutions of Christians.
6
Dixon, ‘Between East Rome’. In the quoted article, I argue that early Paulicians arose
through labelling processes among provincials in eastern Asia Minor during the eighth century.
These labelling processes centred upon the contested meaning of the Armenian-derived term
‘Paulician’. Paulicians themselves credited the Apostle Paul as being the inspiration of their
belief, whereas their opponents understood them to be followers of Paul of Samosata or Mani,
if they attributed any significance to the term at all. In a broader sense, the article proposes that
Paulician identities were plural and contingent for much of the eighth and ninth centuries, as a
result of complex negotiations of identity between Paulicians and other actors, be they Roman,
Armenian, Muslim, or otherwise.
paulician self-defence and self-definition in the didaskalie 63
Sergios.7 Both sources no longer survive as standalone texts and are now only
extant in a reworked form within Peter of Sicily’s History of the Paulicians.8 I shall
concentrate on the Didaskalie in this paper. First, I shall provide an overview of
its narrative, in the process showing that it was commissioned by the Paulician
didaskalos Sergios-Tychikos (c. 800–834/35) in order to legitimate a style of
leadership based on cunning and preserving the faith community.9 Second, I shall
argue that the Paulician reappropriation of Acts played a crucial role in their later
success, insofar as it rationalized the experience of persecution in an intuitive
and readily comprehensible way which appealed to Paulicians and others. Third,
I shall suggest that the Didaskalie adopts a nuanced attitude to contemporary
Paulician attitudes to persecution, thereby suggesting that its narrative was not
entirely subordinated to Sergios’s interests.
Such detailed conclusions are possible thanks to the richness of the
Didaskalie. As for the text which now preserves it, Peter of Sicily claims that
he wrote the History of the Paulicians after a mission to the Paulician settlement
of Tephrikē, which he undertook in order to negotiate a prisoner exchange
during the reign of Basil I (867–86).10 Despite noting some chronological
difficulties with the transmission of the text, Paul Lemerle accepted Peter’s
claim, thereby dating the text to c. 870.11 By contrast, Nina Garsoïan interpreted
the text as a tenth-century forgery, primarily due to its relative ignorance of the
ninth century and its compilatory reworking of other sources.12 I agree with
Garsoïan’s reservations and have adopted her analysis here. The History seeks to
demonstrate that Paulicians are the inheritors of the Manichaean heresy and, as
such, deserve the death penalty, which was prescribed for Manichaeans under
earlier legal codes.13 To do so, it traces Paulician belief back to the third-century
heresiarchs Mani and Paul of Samosata, whose careers it describes by drawing
upon Cyril of Jerusalem’s Catechetical Sermons and a mid-ninth-century anti-
Paulician text known as the Treatise.14
7
For the extant fragments of the Letters of Sergios, see Peter of Sicily, History, 153, 157, 158,
161, 163, 166, 167, pp. 56–63 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, pp. 86–89).
8
Peter of Sicily, History, pp. 6–67 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, pp. 66–92).
9
See also, Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 209–10. The literal meaning of didaskalos is ‘teacher’.
10
Peter of Sicily, History, 187, pp. 66–67 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 92).
11
Lemerle, ‘L’histoire des Pauliciens’, pp. 17–40.
12
Garsoïan, The Paulician Heresy, pp. 27–79.
13
Ludwig, ‘The Paulicians’, pp. 29–35.
14
Cyril of Jerusalem, Catecheses, 6.22–31, ed. by Reischl and Rupp, i, 184–201 (trans. by
64 Carl Dixon
The History then gives an account of Paulician history which is so detailed

that Carl Rudolf Moeller posited that Paulician texts underpinned it as long
ago as 1910.15 Garsoïan and Paul Speck espoused similar views in the 1960s
and 1970s, yet no scholar analysed this Paulician material in and of itself until
Claudia Ludwig in the 1980s.16 Her ground-breaking work remains fundamental
to the study of this material and Paulician belief more generally. Indeed, her most
lasting contribution has been the interpretation that Paulician belief was founded
upon reverence for the Apostle Paul and a sense of continuity with the Christian
communities of the apostolic period, rather than being informed by adoptionism
or dualism.17 I have adopted Ludwig’s view here, although a sustained examination
of Paulician belief lies outside the scope of this paper.
As for the Paulician sources, like Garsoïan before her, Ludwig believed that
Peter of Sicily had access to only a single Paulician text, which she named the
‘Didaskalie’.18 She argued that this source was commissioned by the didaskalos
Sergios-Tychikos after the persecutions of the 810s.19 According to her, the
Didaskalie originally recounted the career of Sergios by incorporating the Letters
of Sergios, but there are reasons to doubt this. First, Peter of Sicily acknowledges
the Letters of Sergios as a distinct source but never mentions a Paulician historical
text.20 Second, as we shall see, the symbolism of the Didaskalie’s narrative
reaches its logical culmination during the career of Sergios’s predecessor Joseph-
Epaphroditos, thereby suggesting that it did not recount Sergios’s life.21 For these
reasons, it seems that the Didaskalie and Letters of Sergios were distinct sources.22
Since the Letters of Sergios are now only preserved as extracts within the History,
they are more difficult to contextualize than the Didaskalie, and for this reason I
shall acknowledge the few occasions when I make use of them.
McCauley and Stephenson, i, 161–67); Treatise, ed. by Astruc, pp. 80–92. For the date of the
Treatise adopted here, see Garsoïan, Paulician Heresy, pp. 50–54.
15
Moeller, De Photii Petrique Siculi, pp. 41–43.
16
Garsoïan, The Paulician Heresy, pp. 62–67; Speck, ‘Petros Sikeliotes’, pp. 384–87.
17
Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 224–25. For adoptionism, see Conybeare, The Key of Truth,
pp. xxiii–cxcvi; Garsoïan, The Paulician Heresy, pp. 112–230. For dualism, see Stoyanov, The
Other God, pp. 126–54; Hamilton, ‘Introduction’, pp. 31–35.
18
Garsoïan, The Paulician Heresy, p. 67.
19
Ludwig, ‘The Paulicians’, pp. 25–26; Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 209–11.
20
21
See pp. 8–13 below.
22
See also Moeller, De Photii Petrique Siculi, pp. 41–43; Speck, ‘Petros Sikeliotes’, pp. 385–86.
The Persecution of Paulicians c. 811–20

Before proceeding to an analysis of the Didaskalie, it is necessary to give an
overview of the persecutions of the 810s and of Paulician activity within the
empire before them. An overview of Paulician activity is simpler: there are no
references to Paulicians in Greek sources which were written before the ninth
century.23 The first reliable reference to Paulicians lies within Theophanes’s
Chronographia, which alleges that Emperor Nikephoros I (802–11) favoured
Paulicians.24 Paulicians thereafter appear frequently in the Chronographia until
its narrative ceases in 813. Within these years, Paulicians are portrayed as the
successors of the Manichaeans, although Theophanes does not accuse them of
dualism.25 This allegation first arises in later heresiological sources.26
From the above evidence, it appears that Paulicians only became a pressing
concern within the empire around the turn of the ninth century. Ludwig has
noted that Theophanes’ references to ‘Manichaeans, now called Paulicians’
implies that the equivalence of the two terms had only recently become accepted,
but it may also be that this terminology represents an attempt to explain the
recent prominence of the Paulicians by invoking a recognizable precursor.27 The
Paulicians’ sudden appearance seems to be predominantly a consequence of a
changing religio-political context. During the reign of Hārūn al-Rashīd (786–
809), when the power of the ‘Abbāsid Caliphate was arguably at its zenith, Islamic
raiding into Asia Minor was incessant: it only ceased with the death of Hārūn,
which precipitated a civil war between his sons al-Amin and al-Ma’mūn.28 As a
result of this conflict, the empire could reassert control over areas which were
previously beyond its authority. One such area was eastern Asia Minor, where
Paulicians were primarily based. Besides this, the early ninth century saw further
tumult within the empire, such as the challenge to its prestige posed by the
23
For the reference to the supposed relocation of Paulicians during Constantine V’s reign
(741–75), see Dixon, ‘Between East Rome’.
24
Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. by De Boor, i, 488 (trans. by Mango and Scott, p. 671).
25
Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. by De Boor, i, 488, 495 (trans. by Mango and Scott,
pp. 671, 678).
26
Treatise, 9–10, ed. and trans. by Astuc, pp. 85–86 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton,
p. 94).
27
Ludwig, ‘The Paulicians’, pp. 31–32; Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. by De Boor,
i, 488, 495 (trans. by Mango and Scott, pp. 671, 678): ‘τῶν δὲ Μανιχαίων, τῶν νῦν Παυλικιάνων
καλουμένων; Μανιχαίων, τῶν νῦν Παυλικιάνων’.
28
Brubaker and Haldon, Byzantium: A History, p. 289.
66 Carl Dixon
coronation of Charlemagne as Roman Emperor.29 Moreover, the notable victories

of the Bulgar Khan Krum at Pliska (811), at which Emperor Nikephoros I lost
his life, and Versinikia (813) further weakened the empire.30 Paul Alexander has
argued that the persecutions of Michael I and Leo V were informed by these
Bulgar victories, and I would extend this to cover all of the above events.31 The
resumption of iconoclasm by Leo V, who replaced Michael I when the latter
abdicated after the debacle at Versinikia, in 814 is conventionally explained by an
attempt to regain the divine favour which the aforementioned disasters suggested
that the empire had lost.32 The contemporary persecution of heretics was
presumably also a means to this end. As noted at the outset, these persecutions
served to consolidate a more unified sense of Paulician collective identity. It is
therefore understandable that Romans did not identify Paulicians before this
time, thereby explaining their absence from our sources before the ninth century.
The persecutions did not target solely Paulicians. Upon the advice of his
patriarch Nikephoros I, Michael I persecuted Paulicians, Athinganoi, and,
according to a later source, Jews.33 Theophanes, who is the main source for this
event and approved of Michael’s measures, implies that the persecutions were
little more than a series of massacres. The truth is perhaps more complex, but
Theophanes Continuatus’s testimony on Theodora’s later persecutions also
suggests indiscriminate violence.34 In any case, upon the entreaties of Theodore
the Stoudite, Michael I halted these persecutions, much to Theophanes’s ire.35
Nevertheless, Theodore’s letter to Leo the spice dealer tells us that persecution
was restarted by Leo V.36 Persecution continued during the reigns of Michael II
29
Brubaker and Haldon, Byzantium: A History, p. 293.
30
For Pliska, see Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. by De Boor, i, 489–91 (trans. by Mango
and Scott, pp. 672–73); For Versinikia, see Chronographia, i, 500–02 (trans. by Mango and
Scott, pp. 684–85).
31
Alexander, ‘Religious Persecution’, p. 245.
32
Brubaker and Haldon, Byzantium: A History, pp. 366–85. The first iconoclasm spanned
c. 730–87 and the second spanned 815–43. For the ambiguity surrounding the start of the first
iconoclasm, see Brubaker and Haldon, Byzantium: A History, pp. 69–155.
33
Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. by De Boor, i, 494–95 (trans. by Mango and Scott,
p. 678). For the claim that the persecution targeted Jews, see Ignatios the Deacon, Vita
Nicephori, ed. by De Boor, pp. 158–59 (trans. Fisher, p. 65). For the Athinganoi, see Speck, ‘Die
vermeintliche Häresie der Athinganoi’.
34
Theophanes Continuatus, 4.16, ed. by Featherstone and Signes Codoñer, pp. 236–37.
35
Theophanes, Chronographia, ed. by De Boor, i, 495.
36
Theodore the Stoudite, Epistulae, ep. 94, ed. by Fatouros, ii, 214–15.
(820–29) and Theophilos (829–42), although this occurred on an ad hoc basis.

Our extant sources suggest that Paulicians were the primary target of persecutions
after the initiatives of Michael I and Leo V. They are the only heretics mentioned
in Theodore’s letters and Theophanes Continuatus’s account of Theodora’s
persecutions. Consequently, the impact of persecution on other heretics is
difficult to assess.
The Didaskalie, the Acts of the Apostles, and Persecution

Paulician responses to these persecutions are now known to us through the
Didaskalie and, to a lesser extent, the Letters of Sergios. As noted above, the
Didaskalie was written under the direction of the didaskalos Sergios-Tychikos,
who is conventionally credited with expanding the Paulician faith to its greatest
extent.37 Ludwig argued that Sergios commissioned the text in eastern Asia
Minor after a supposed flight of Paulicians to Malat.iya in the 810s.38 However,
this flight is described only in the History of the Paulicians and is a mistaken
duplicate of the later flight which Karbeas undertook during Theodora’s
regency.39 Hence, the earlier flight to Malat.iya never occurred.40 Nonetheless, it
is at least certain that the Didaskalie was composed shortly after the persecutions
of the 810s. The theme of persecution recurs frequently in the text. All of the
Paulician didaskaloi which it describes are persecuted by Roman (and in some
instances, Islamic) authorities, generally during the course of a dispute with a
rival Paulician leader.41 None of the persecutions can be corroborated outside
the text, and as a result we may doubt their historicity. The same is true of several
Paulician didaskaloi: only Sergios-Tychikos, and perhaps his predecessor Joseph-
Epaphroditos, seem to be historical figures.42 The manner in which the didaskaloi
respond to persecution develops one of the primary narrative meanings of the
37
Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 209–10.
38
Ludwig, ‘The Paulicians’, p. 25.
39
Peter of Sicily, History, 175–78, pp. 64–65 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 90).
This episode is, in my view, moulded on the account of Theophanes Continuatus and should be
considered unreliable. See also Theophanes Continuatus, 4.16, ed. by Featherstone and Signes
Codoñer, pp. 236–37.
40
For a more detailed exposition of this argument, see Dixon, ‘Between East Rome’.
41
For the importance of competing rivals in the Didaskalie, see Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’,
pp. 193–94.
42
Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, p. 223.
68 Carl Dixon
Didaskalie: namely, that the most important legitimating criterion of a didaskalos

is to preserve the faith community through cunning or duplicitous means. This
portrayal is, unsurprisingly, rather similar to the text’s commissioner Sergios.
Thus, the Didaskalie is a mythologized account that portrays Paulician history as
its authors wished to present it, rather than an accurate narrative. It was intended
for a Paulician audience and was composed in Greek.
Since the source is now only preserved within the History of the Paulicians, we
must question the degree to which our extant source corresponds with the original.
Ludwig posited several instances in which Peter of Sicily may have amended the
archetype but believed that our extant text is largely faithful to the original.43 In
fact, Peter’s alterations are more extensive than Ludwig realized, but despite this,
the original source was so symbolically rich that its underlying meaning survives.44
This much should be apparent from the analysis outlined below. Confidence is
also inspired by the extant text’s contradiction of Peter of Sicily’s aims. Notably,
our text does not support the interpretation that the Paulicians are the inheritors
of Manichaeism, despite the fact that this is Peter’s intention.45
For our purposes, the Didaskalie is interesting for two reasons: first, it demon-
strates clear intertextual references to Acts; and second, it explores Paulician
responses to persecution and gives us an impression of how these responses were
received by contemporary Paulician adherents. An overview of the Didaskalie’s
narrative represents the best way of investigating these matters. At the outset,
a certain Constantine resides in Mananalis, beyond the confines of the empire
in western Armenia. Constantine offered hospitality to a Syrian deacon and in
turn received two books, those of ‘the Gospel and the Apostle’.46 According to
the History, these were the only books he considered canonical.47 Constantine
then began a teaching career, adopting the name Silvanos from the disciple of
Paul mentioned in Acts and the Pauline letters.48 His successors similarly adopted
the names of Paul’s disciples. Constantine-Silvanos left Mananalis for Kibossa,
near Koloneia in north-eastern Asia Minor and within imperial territory. He
remained there for twenty-seven years, until he became subject to an imperial
inquiry. Notably, Peter of Sicily states that he is unaware of how the emperor
43
Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, p. 158; Ludwig, ‘The Paulicians’, p. 24.
44
For an example of Peter’s alterations, see pp. 11–12 below.
45
See also Ludwig, ‘The Paulicians’, pp. 29–34.
46
The latter presumably incorporates both Acts and the Pauline letters.
47
Peter of Sicily, History, 95–96, pp. 40–41 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, pp. 76–77).
48
in question, ‘Constantine the grandson/descendant of Herakleios’, who cannot

be precisely identified, learnt of Constantine-Silvanos (I shall return to this
important point below).49 The inquiry was headed by an imperial official named
Symeon, who found Constantine-Silvanos to be heretical and consequently
ordered the latter’s followers to stone him to death. They refused and remained
faithful to their master, thereby causing Symeon to select one of them, Justos,
Constantine-Silvanos’s adoptive son, whom Symeon ordered to stone his father.
Justos then did so, slaying his father outside Kibossa.50
After these events, Symeon remained among the Paulicians, attempting to
convert them to the orthodox faith, although his charges generally remained
defiant until their deaths.51 He then returned to Constantinople and slowly
became sympathetic to the Paulician cause. He consequently fled the capital in
secret and returned to Kibossa, where he succeeded Constantine-Silvanos as the
Paulician didaskalos, in the process adopting the name Titus.52 Symeon-Titus
later became embroiled in a controversy concerning the interpretation of the
passage Colossians 1. 16–7 with the same Justos who had killed Constantine-
Silvanos. Unfortunately, our extant account only discusses this matter briefly,
so we cannot glean anything about Paulician belief from this incident. In any
event, Justos told the bishop of Koloneia about this disagreement.53 The bishop
referred the matter to Justinian II, who decreed that all of the Paulicians should
be executed. Symeon-Titus and his followers were martyred at Kibossa, like
Constantine-Silvanos before them, although on this occasion the sentence was
enacted by burning.54
We are as yet halfway through the Didaskalie’s narrative, but the main
scriptural allusions to Acts are already evident. Most notably, Constantine-
Silvanos is modelled on the proto-martyr Stephen, while Symeon-Titus is based
on Saul, who would later become the Paulicians’ primary spiritual inspiration:
the Apostle Paul.55 In Acts, when Stephen is stoned at Jerusalem, Saul approves of
his death. The passage reads as follows:
49
This emperor could be identified as either Constans II (641–68) or Constantine IV
(668–85). For the chronological difficulties, see Lemerle, ‘L’histoire des Pauliciens’, pp. 56–61.
50
51
52
53
54
Peter of Sicily, History, 111, pp. 46–47 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, pp. 79–80).
55
Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 168–71; Loos, ‘Le mouvement paulicien’, pp. 258–62.
70 Carl Dixon
Then they dragged him [Stephen] out of the city and began to stone him; and the
witnesses laid their coats at the feet of a young man named Saul. While they were
stoning Stephen, he prayed, ‘Lord Jesus, receive my spirit.’ Then he knelt down and
cried out in a loud voice, ‘Lord do not hold this sin against them.’ When he had
said this, he died.
And Saul approved of their killing him.
That day a severe persecution began against the church in Jerusalem. (Acts 7.58–8.1)
Several elements of this account are of considerable importance to our under-

standing of the Didaskalie. Foremost among these is Stephen’s association of
stoning with sin. In our extant version of the Didaskalie, Justos’s stoning of his
father Constantine is not explicitly identified as a sin, but the association of
stoning and sin elsewhere in Christian traditions, notably John 8. 7, suggests that
this was the case.56
In fact, a reference from the Letters of Sergios shows that in this instance
stoning is linked to sin through another of the Paulicians’ most pronounced
anxieties: schism. Sergios’s words are as follows:
Ἡμεῖς ἐσμεν σῶμα Χριστοῦ· εἴ τις δὲ ἀφίσταται τῶν παραδόσεων τοῦ σώματος τοῦ
Χριστοῦ, τοῦτ’ ἔστι τῶν ἐμῶν, ἁμαρτάνει, ὅτι προστρέχει τοῖς ἑτεροδιδασκαλοῦσι καὶ
ἀπειθεῖ τοῖς ὑγιαίνουσι λόγοις.57
(We are the body of Christ; if someone overthrows the traditions of the body of
Christ — these are my things — he sins, because he runs to teachers of error and
disobeys healthy words.) (i Timothy 6. 3)
Since Sergios regards those who divide the Paulician community or apostatize
as sinful, there can be little doubt that Justos’s stoning of his adoptive father
was considered sinful, particularly as Justos also opposes Symeon, Constantine’s
successor as didaskalos. This association of sin, stoning, and schism goes to the
heart of the Didaskalie’s symbolic meaning. As we shall see below, Sergios’s
predecessor Joseph-Epaphroditos is stoned by his rival Zacharias, although Joseph
survives this attack. Since Joseph’s career originally closed the Didaskalie, these
references to stoning bookend the narrative. This stoning brings the narrative of
the Didaskalie to its symbolic conclusion, and thus we can confidently state that
the text did not recount the career of Sergios-Tychikos.
56
For the wider context of sin in Stephen’s martyrdom, see also Matthews, Perfect Martyr,
pp. 101–04.
57
For the present purposes, Peter of Sicily’s admission that he does not know
how the obscure emperor Constantine learnt of the Paulicians is crucial. This
implies that the Paulicians were previously unknown to the empire and that there
was no persecution of Paulicians before the stoning of Constantine-Silvanos.
This mirrors Acts, where persecution begins after the martyrdom of Stephen. As
a result, the themes of sin and persecution coincide in Acts and the Didaskalie.
Since Constantine-Silvanos and Symeon-Titus are based on Stephen and Saul,
Paulicians evidently read these two texts in conjunction with one another. This has
two important implications. First, the close relationship between the Didaskalie
and Acts potentially implies a similarly close relationship between the Letters of
Sergios and the Pauline epistles that is now difficult to assess due to the fragmentary
preservation of the former. Peter of Sicily states that Paulicians regarded the Letters
of Sergios as canonical, so the same is perhaps true of the Didaskalie.58 All of this
suggests that Paulician textual traditions were evolving at the beginning of the ninth
century, as is natural if a communal identity was only crystallizing at this time.
Second — and more importantly — this intertextuality demonstrates that
Paulicians saw themselves as the continuation of the Christian communities that
were persecuted in Acts.59 Insofar as Paulicians considered themselves Christians
and were persecuted by the Roman Empire, it is unsurprising that Acts played
such a central part in defining their identity.60 This reappropriation of Acts again
demonstrates the centrality of persecution to the Paulicians’ world-view. Since
Acts was understood throughout Asia Minor, the narrative of the Didaskalie
proved comprehensible and attractive to other provincials. This, I believe, was a
crucial reason for the dissemination of Paulician belief during the ninth century.
As yet we have seen little evidence of Paulician self-defence in the Didaskalie.
The most notable example of resistance encountered thus far is martyrdom.
Martyrdom is a complex form of resistance, insofar as it could be considered
as flight from the world, but since it involves bravery to the point of death, it
could also be interpreted as a defiant, almost militaristic act. Even if it cannot
be considered self-defence, it can be interpreted as the ultimate defence of the
faith. Consequently, martyrdom will assume some importance when we come
to analyse Paulician modes of resistance. Surprisingly, the efficacy of martyrdom
comes to be questioned as the narrative of the Didaskalie progresses. From this
point onward, the source is no longer noticeably dependent on Acts.
58
59
See also Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, pp. 193–94.
60
But see also n. 5 above. For the Paulicians’ Christian identity, see Treatise, 9, ed. by Astruc,
p. 85 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 94).
72 Carl Dixon
The ambiguous portrayal of martyrdom becomes apparent in the careers of

the next two didaskaloi, Gegnesios-Timothy and Joseph-Epaphroditos. After
the near-extinction of the Paulicians following Justinian II’s inquiry, a few
survivors fled to the obscure village Episparis under the direction of a certain
Paul the Armenian.61 Since this Paul is not given the name of a Pauline disciple,
he was never considered a didaskalos. Instead, the next didaskalos was his son
Gegnesios-Timothy, who contested the leadership of the Paulician community
with Theodore, Gegnesios’s brother. As a result of their disagreements, Leo III
learnt of them and summoned Gegnesios to Constantinople so that he could
be examined by the patriarch.62 The account of this interview in the History is
suspicious because the questions which the patriarch addresses to Gegnesios
correspond closely to the six main heretical beliefs which Peter of Sicily attributes
to the Paulicians.63 Thus, it seems that Peter has amended the original account in
order to include them here.64 This is important because Gegnesios is portrayed
as a cunning deceiver who dupes the patriarch by outwardly professing orthodox
beliefs, while actually remaining steadfast in his heresy.65 This is a common
polemical trope levelled against heretics, and consequently we may suspect that
Gegnesios’s portrayal is not faithful to the original account. Yet his successor
Joseph-Epaphroditos is characterized in the same way, and, on this occasion, there
is no reason to suspect that Peter of Sicily has altered the narrative. This suggests
that Gegnesios’s portrayal is representative of the original account. In any event,
the History notes that Gegnesios fooled the patriarch and, after receiving safe
conduct, fled from the empire to Mananalis together with his disciples.
In Gegnesios’s case flight and subterfuge were considered appropriate
responses to danger. The same is true for Joseph-Epaphroditos, his successor as
didaskalos. Although Gegnesios had a son named Zacharias, he was succeeded
by Joseph, who was illegitimate and had been abandoned at birth. Upon the
death of Gegnesios, the two contested the succession and Zacharias struck
Joseph with a stone, in the process almost killing him.66 The adversaries left
Mananalis separately and were intercepted by Islamic forces, who suspected them
61
62
63
Compare Peter of Sicily, History, 115–20, pp. 46–49 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton,
pp. 80–81) with Peter of Sicily, History, 36–45, pp. 18–23 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton,
pp. 72–74).
64
For an alternative interpretation, see Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, p. 180.
65
See also Peter of Sicily, History, 121, pp. 48–49 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 81).
66
of fleeing to the empire. The Muslim force initially encountered Zacharias, who
fled unharmed but allowed his disciples to be slaughtered. By contrast, Joseph
convinced the Muslims that he was travelling to Syria in order to make cheese and
find pasture for his flocks. They were fooled by this pretence and allowed his party
to go unmolested.67 After reaching Episparis with his followers, he settled there
for some time, until a Roman official named Krikoraches tried to apprehend him.
Krikoraches succeeded in capturing Joseph’s disciples, but the heresiarch himself
escaped to Antioch in Pisidia, far to the west.68 The History proceeds to narrate
Sergios’s career after Joseph’s death, but, as I have argued above, this account was
not original to the Didaskalie.69
As Ludwig has shown, the Didaskalie was conceived as a whole for specific
ends. This was undoubtedly to legitimate Sergios, who is elsewhere characterized
as a cunning leader who successfully expanded the Paulician community, like
Gegnesios and Joseph.70 In our source, the cunning of Gegnesios and Joseph saves
their communities from their Roman and Islamic enemies, whereas the defiant
martyrdom of Constantine and Symeon almost leads to the extinction of the
Paulician community. The core narrative of the Didaskalie has a straightforward
message: martyrdom is not advantageous, whereas subterfuge and flight are. As
we shall see however, the narrative is rather more complex than this.
Forms of Paulician Resistance in the Face of Persecution

We shall shortly examine these forms of resistance, but beforehand we must
assess the significance of the most notable Paulician response to persecution: the
Didaskalie itself. As noted above, the Didaskalie comprehends the oppression
of Paulicians by East Roman authorities through intertextual references to the
Acts of the Apostles, in the process envisaging Paulicians as the successors of
the Christian communities of the apostolic period. Narratives of this kind were
surely crucial to the dissemination of Paulician belief after these persecutions.
Although Paulicians were considered heretics by their Roman persecutors, the
Didaskalie’s invocation of Acts provided a blueprint which allowed Paulicians
to understand their fate and interpret it positively as an indication of their
67
68
69
70
For Paulician expansion under Sergios, see Peter of Sicily, History, 163, pp. 60–61 (trans.
by Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 88).
74 Carl Dixon
sanctity, thereby turning the tables on their adversaries.71 Since Acts was one
of the Paulicians’ favoured scriptural texts, they already had the conceptual
tools for interpreting persecution to hand, which suggests that they explained
and internalized this experience swiftly.72 Since this explanatory process was so
intuitive, it served to consolidate a more cohesive Paulician shared identity. It is
for this reason that I consider it inadmissible to understand Paulicians without
reference to persecution and their response to it. Self-defence and self-definition
are inseparable in the Didaskalie. Even more importantly, because Acts was widely
read and understood throughout the empire and elsewhere, the Didaskalie’s
narrative was comprehensible and appealing not only to Paulicians, but also to
the populace of the empire more broadly. Paulician modes of explaining the world
not only invoked recognizable scriptural texts, but also tapped into the anti-
imperial sentiment which was endemic in much of Asia Minor.73 Consequently,
Paulician narratives were accessible and could transcend particular social and
religious contexts. This appeal is one of the principal factors which explains why
Paulician proselytism was so successful in the aftermath of the persecutions,
although a broader politico-military context assumes greater importance in their
rise to regional importance during the mid- to late ninth century.74
Read in this way, the Didaskalie convincingly rationalizes Paulician responses
to persecution, and, as a result, it seems to be representative of Paulician modes
of understanding the world despite its purpose of legitimating the self-serving
Sergios. Unsurprisingly, however, some aspects of the Didaskalie’s account
are less typical of Paulician views than this central narrative. Foremost among
these is the text’s portrayal of modes of resistance, which I shall henceforth
understand in terms of defiant resistance on the one hand (including martyrdom
and militarized resistance), and clandestine acts on the other (such as flight
and subterfuge).75 The portrayal of these forms of resistance differs from what
71
In a prescient comment, a reviewer of this article proposed that Acts was not necessarily
the obvious choice for the Paulician internalization of persecution, while positing that other
scriptural precedents, such as Old Testament personages or later Christian martyrs, could have
served the same purpose. Some potential correspondences between Joseph-Epaphroditos and
Moses noted by Ludwig might point in this direction. See Ludwig, ‘Wer hat was’, p. 186.
72
Treatise, 4, ed. by Astruc, p. 81 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 93).
73
Haldon, The Empire, pp. 183–85.
74
See also Dixon, ‘Between East Rome’.
75
I have conceptualized resistance in these terms because flight is frequently associated
with other forms of duplicitous behaviour, while martyrdom and military action meet with
Sergios’s disapproval.
other Paulician testimony would lead us to expect and thus we may suspect that
Sergios’s preoccupation with legitimating himself is at work here. By far the most
surprising element of the Didaskalie’s narrative is the ambivalent portrayal of
martyrdom, which is celebrated in most Christian traditions but is presented as
inefficacious here. More surprising yet is the observation that the two martyrs in
the Didaskalie’s narrative are based on the proto-martyr Stephen and the Apostle
Paul. It seems inconceivable that Paulicians did not consider these figures to be
worthy of emulation, but the narrative seems to undercut their authority.
It may be that this conundrum is a result of Sergios’s aim of legitimating
himself. He may have attempted to show that martyrdom was praiseworthy but
no longer appropriate, or was appropriate only under certain circumstances.
Importantly, this attempt was not necessarily successful. A significant extract
from the Letters of Sergios, which implies that Sergios attempted to reach an
accommodation with the Paulicians’ Roman adversaries, testifies to this fact:
Ἐγὼ τῶν κακῶν τούτων ἀναίτιός εἰμι· πολλὰ γὰρ παρήγελλον αὐτοῖς ἐκ τοῦ αἰχμαλωτίζειν
τοὺ Ῥωμαίους ἀποστῆναι, καὶ οὐχ ὑπήκουσάν μοι.76
(I am innocent of these evils, for many times I told them to desist from taking the
Romans prisoner and they did not listen to me.)
The sentiments that Sergios expresses are surprising for a number of reasons.
First, throughout the History Peter of Sicily attempts to portray Sergios as the
worst of all heresiarchs, but here the didaskalos appears impotent, indecisive, and
surprisingly favourable to his Roman adversaries.77 Second, Paulicians would
later become famous for exactly the kind of militaristic reprisals to which Sergios
alludes. Unfortunately, because the extant passages of the Letters of Sergios are
fragmentary, we cannot contextualize this passage securely. Still, it is evident that
some Paulicians preferred more militaristic methods than Sergios was willing to
accept. Insofar as the Didaskalie advocates a cunning and successful didaskalos,
we must suspect that Sergios approved of conciliatory or clandestine activity
wherever possible, but not overt resistance. This perhaps explains the Didaskalie’s
distrust of martyrdom, which may have brought Paulicians to the attention of
Roman audiences in a similar way to militarized resistance. In a complementary
sense, since martyrdom and military activity both involved defiance until the
point of death, they may have been conflated in Paulician understandings,
76
Peter of Sicily, History, 157, pp. 58–59 (trans. Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 87).
77
Compare the above extract with Peter of Sicily, History, 133–34, pp. 50–53 (trans.
Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 83).
76 Carl Dixon
especially if death in combat was considered martyrdom. In any event, later

evidence of Paulician militarism, such as those with which I began this paper,
suggests that Sergios’s disapproval of open resistance was atypical and unpopular.
If Sergios disapproved of martyrdom and military reprisals, the same is not
true of flight, which occurs ubiquitously in the Didaskalie. The text implies
that it is the most logical Paulician response, which reflects the geographical
context of their settlement, which was centred on the geographical, political, and
cultural frontiers between the East Roman Empire, the ‘Abbāsid Caliphate, and
Armenia.78 The dominant impression which arises from the source is of a heresy
based in inaccessible areas, such as Mananalis, Episparis, and Kibossa. In such
areas, fleeing one form of authority for another was relatively simple. This seems
to be the rationale for Joseph’s flight from Islamic territory. In fact, this episode
may explain why Paulicians adopted flight so readily. As noted above, when Joseph
is confronted by the Muslim army, he claims that he was travelling to Syria for
pasture and cheese-making, thereby implying that some Paulicians practised a
pastoral lifestyle.79 This is probable because this form of activity is appropriate
to some, although admittedly not all, parts of central and eastern Asia Minor.80 I
am reluctant to place too much emphasis on pastoralism while the archaeological
evidence for eastern Asia Minor is so slight, but it seems apparent that Paulicians
favoured modes of subsistence which were difficult to tax or control.81 Still, we must
note that not all references to movement can be related to pastoralism. Joseph’s
later flight from Episparis (which has eluded precise identification) to Antioch
in Pisidia in western Anatolia can hardly be related to pastoral activity, especially
since he fled alone. On the whole, the emphasis that the Didaskalie places on
flight suggests that this approach was versatile, as well as an appropriate last resort.
Perhaps the most significant way in which flight is characterized in the
Didaskalie is that it is habitually associated with cunning and dissimulation.
Joseph’s first flight to Episparis only succeeds because he manages to hoodwink
the Islamic army that confronts him by convincing them that he is seeking new
pasturage. Likewise, after Gegnesios fools the Patriarch of Constantinople into
thinking he is orthodox, he returns to Episparis and immediately flees imperial
territory. This suggests that even if flight is a quintessentially Paulician form of
self-defence, it is understood within a broader appreciation of deceit, at least in
the Didaskalie. This impression is corroborated by Roman heresiological sources,
78
On these frontiers, see Eger, The Islamic-Byzantine Frontier.
79
80
Eger, The Islamic-Byzantine Frontier, pp. 259–60, 280–85.
81
Scott, The Art of Not Being Governed, pp. 182–207.
which frequently accuse Paulicians of concealing their heresy from orthodox

believers.82 Irrespective of the trustworthiness of these allegations, the general
picture suggests that Paulicians had an antipathy for religio-political oversight.83
Consequently, the Didaskalie’s espousal of duplicitous forms of resistance is not
as contentious as its renunciation of martyrdom. Although the narrative of the
Didaskalie suggests a distinction between overt and covert forms of resistance, it
seems that in practice these approaches could be complementary and should not
necessarily be seen in diametrical opposition to one another.
This observation is corroborated by the surprisingly nuanced portrayal of
resistance in the Didaskalie. Even flight, which is characterized as the most
efficacious form of resistance, is portrayed negatively on occasion. When Zacharias
flees his followers at the onset of the Islamic attack, he allows them to be massacred
and loses any authority he might have had. This is unsurprising because he is not
a didaskalos, but when his rival, the legitimate didaskalos Joseph, is surrounded by
the forces of Krikoraches at Episparis, Joseph also flees his followers and allows
them to be captured. Yet the narrative never suggests that he lost any credibility
as a result. Likewise, although the narrative downplays martyrdom, some of
its essential characteristics, such as bravery, are considered positively in other
instances. Gegnesios’s interview with the patriarch must be seen as a conspicuous
act of bravery, when it is considered that he travelled alone to a showdown at
Constantinople, while bearing responsibility for the entire Paulician community.
In a similar vein, Joseph’s willingness to stand alongside his followers in the face of
danger must be counterpoised to the cowardice of his rival Zacharias.
The crucial factor here seems to be the ends to which a form of resistance
is directed. Although bravery and the ethical example it provides are laudable,
the Didaskalie’s disavowal of martyrdom suggests that the preservation of the
community takes precedence. When a didaskalos flees with his followers, there is
little scope for complaint, but when a Paulician leader flees alone, this is liable to
be considered negatively. Still, as Joseph’s flight from Krikoraches shows, there is
an acknowledgement that in some instances there may be few viable alternatives.
This observation is crucial because although the Didaskalie was written under
the purview of Sergios, it does not slavishly advance an agenda preferable to
him, nor is it consistent in its portrayal of resistance. Paulicians disagreed on
the most appropriate responses to persecution, and the Didaskalie reflects this.
More surprisingly, the source even echoes some criticisms of Sergios. East Roman
persecution and the Didaskalie’s reappropriation of Acts may have served to
82
Treatise, 17–18, ed. by Astruc, pp. 89–90 (trans. by Hamilton and Hamilton, p. 95).
83
Loos, ‘Le mouvement paulicien’, pp. 270–71.
78 Carl Dixon
consolidate a more cohesive Paulician shared identity, but despite this many
differences of opinion remained regarding persecution and, we must suspect,
many other matters.
Conclusion
Paulician responses to the East Roman persecutions of the 810s can be fruitfully
investigated by expanding upon Claudia Ludwig’s analysis of the Didaskalie.
This source was written in the aftermath of these persecutions and is now only
preserved within Peter of Sicily’s History of the Paulicians. Persecution looms large
within the Didaskalie, which comprehends it by understanding Paulicians to be
the spiritual analogues of the early Christian communities described in the Acts of
the Apostles, while their Roman persecutors are likened to the persecutors of the
early church. The Didaskalie tells us a great deal about the forms of resistance that
the didaskalos Sergios-Tychikos preferred, such as flight and duplicity, but rather
less about how often these responses and others were employed. Our evidence
suggests that the most habitual form of resistance for Paulicians was flight, which
seems to have been widely espoused irrespective of period. Martial reprisals were
also popular among many Paulicians, but were disavowed by Sergios. The most
difficult response to assess is martyrdom, due to both its ambivalent portrayal
in the Didaskalie and the possibility that it may have been associated with other
forms of resistance.
Irrespective of this, it is clear that the Paulicians’ textual response to persecu-
tion was sophisticated. The Didaskalie’s reappropriation of Acts was a crucial
factor in the consolidation of the movement, since it helped Paulician adherents
and others to internalize the experience of persecution in an instinctive and
accessible way. The Didaskalie therefore marks the ultimate expression of
Paulician self-defence, in that it articulates the narrative logic by which Paulician
communal identity would come to be defined and circumscribed in the following
decades. The centrality of persecution to this narrative may lead us to ask whether
the experience of persecution was as crucial to the communal identities of other
heretics, or whether the Paulicians are exceptional in this regard. I cannot begin
to address this complex topic here, but it is significant that persecution is the lens
through which we have come to question our most fundamental assumptions
about the Paulicians, most notably regarding their supposedly adoptionist or
dualist beliefs. Neither of these interpretations can be corroborated through an
analysis of the Didaskalie. In this case at least, in the act of self-defence we see
heresy at its most dynamic and contentious.
Works Cited
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Wilhelm C. Reischl and Joseph Rupp, 2 vols (Hildesheim: Georg Olms, 1967)
——, Catecheses, in The Works of Saint Cyril of Jerusalem, ed. and trans. by Leo P. McCauley
and Anthony A. Stephenson, Fathers of the Church, 61, 64, 2 vols (Washington, DC:
Catholic University of America Press, 1969)
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Australiensia, 11 (Canberra: Australian Association for Byzantine Studies, 1998)
—— , Iosephi Genesii regum libri quattuor, ed. by Anni Lesmüller-Werner and Ioannes
Thurn, Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae, 14 (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1978)
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Lives in Translation, 2 (Washington, DC: Dumbarton Oaks Research Library and
Collection, 1998), pp. 41–142
—— , Vita Nicephori, in Nicephori Archiepiscopi Constantinopolitani opuscula historica
ed. by Carl De Boor (Leipzig: Teubner, 1880), pp. 139–217
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Gouillard, Travaux et Mémoires, 4 (1970), 6–67
——, History of the Paulicians, in Christian Dualist Heresies in the Byzantine World c. 650-
c. 1405, ed. by Bernard Hamilton and Janet Hamilton (Manchester: Manchester
University Press, 1998), pp. 66–92
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(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1997)
—— , Chronographia, ed. by Carl De Boor, 2 vols (Leipzig: Teubner, 1883–85)
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and Juan Signes Codoñer, Corpus Fontium Historiae Byzantinae, 53 (Berlin: De
Gruyter, 2015)
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Byzantinae, 31–32, 2 vols (Berlin: De Gruyter, 1992)
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Treatise, in Christian Dualist Heresies in the Byzantine World c. 650–c. 1405, ed. by
Bernard Hamilton and Janet Hamilton (Manchester: Manchester University Press,
1998), pp. 93–96
80 Carl Dixon
Secondary Studies
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238–64
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History (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2011)
Conybeare, Frederick C., The Key of Truth: A Manual of the Paulician Church in Armenia
(Oxford: Clarendon Press, 1898)
Dixon, Carl, ‘Between East Rome and Armenia: Paulician Ethnogenesis c. 780–850’, in
Transmitting and Circulating the Late Antique and Byzantine Worlds, ed. by Mirela
Ivanova and Hugh Jeffery, The Medieval Mediterranean (Leiden: Brill, forthcoming)
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Bernard and Sarah Hamilton, The Medieval Mediterranean, 55 (Leiden: Brill, 2004),
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(New Haven: Yale University Press, 2000)
Turning Towards Heresy:
Bogomils and Self-Defence*
Maja Angelovska-Panova
B eing a heretic in the Middle Ages meant, most obviously, to have a different
religious and social lifestyle. Different in terms of convictions, religious
practice, the exegesis of biblical content: categories that were definitely in
confrontation with the standards established by official Christianity.1 So, if at
the beginning the supporters of an ‘illegal Christianity’ were persecuted and
subjected to fierce repression by the polytheists, centuries later, the protagonists
of official Christianity, now institutionalized with a strict hierarchical system,
became ruthless enemies of those with different beliefs. Initial gestures of tolerance
and reconciliation increasingly lost significance.2 In that sense, the notion of
religious tolerance not only entirely lost its meaning but was transformed into a
fierce type of persecution, anathemas, physical punishment, and even death. The
* I especially wish to give warm thanks to Prof. Claire Taylor for her insightful comments
and all the kind support.
1
Schweizer, ‘Preface’, p. vii.
2
Cacanovska and Angelovska-Panova, ‘The Edict of Milan’, pp. 2–3.
Maja Angelovska-Panova ([email protected]) is Full Professor at the Institute

of National History-Skopje, ‘Ss. Cyril and Methodius’ University, Republic of Macedonia
Abstract: According to the data from the relevant sources, Bogomilism appeared in the middle
of the tenth century and it existed on the historical stage until the fifteenth, adapting its activity
to social, political, religious, and ideological circumstances. The first period relates to the priest
Bogomil, who managed to coordinate his followers into a complete realization of Bogomilism as
a movement and as a teaching. The biggest upsurge in Bogomilism is seen during the Komnenos
era (1081–1185) in Macedonia and the Balkans, and also throughout the Byzantine Empire,
including the capital, Constantinople, itself. In the period between the thirteenth and fifteenth
centuries Bogomilism penetrated even the monasteries on Mount Athos. Bogomil self-defence
during this five-century period was in principle based on pacifism, the ability to adjust their
activity to specific social and political processes, and presenting themselves as representative of
official Christianity.
Keywords: priest Bogomil, Bogomilism/Bogomils, self-defence, Macedonia, Balkans, Byzan-
tine Empire

82 Maja Angelovska-Panova
values of early Christianity, where religious enthusiasm and the principles of the
vita apostolica were prioritized, were transformed by the higher-ranking clergy in
a perceived hedonism.
The integral study of heresies in a wider chronological discourse in both
East and West points to the conclusion that they appeared at a certain historical
moment and developed, peaked, and declined, either disappearing completely or
being partially implemented in some new doctrine. Yet, what is common for all of
them is that they were always under the surveillance of the official church, which
acted using all available means to preserve its own monopoly.
The focus of our attention is the example of Bogomilism, which, in comparison
with the other known heresies, existed for the longest and continuous period of
five centuries, from the middle of the tenth century until the fifteenth century.3
At the very beginning it should be emphasized that this reconstruction of
Bogomilism as a specific category is mainly through official Christian sources,
given the paucity of other data, not least that originating with heretics
themselves.4 So one should be very careful, especially because most of the anti-
heretical works are tendentious and polemical. Nonetheless we can establish that
Bogomilism as a religious alternative survived for five centuries because of its
essential pacifism, but more specifically because of the ability of its protagonists,
followers, and sympathizers to adapt to the current social-political environment.
The appearance of Bogomilism in the middle of the tenth century is principally
associated with the priest Bogomil, who is presumed to have originally been an
educated priest within the orthodox religion, but at the same time was a man
of revolutionary spirit who saw inconsistencies within the teachings of the
Church as he knew it.5 There was probably a specific point of inspiration for his
spiritual conversion and the creation of Bogomilism as an alternative religious
3
On the history of Bogomilism, see: Obolensky, The Bogomils; Runciman, The Medieval
Manichee; Angelov, Bogomilstvoto v Bălgaria; Loos, Dualist Heresy; Dragojlović, Bogomilstvo
na Balkanu; Stoyanov, The Other God; Vasilev, Bălgarski bogomilski; Angelovska-Panova,
Bogomilstvoto vo duhovnata kultura; Lazarova, Bogomilo-katarskata filozofiia kako zhiviana etika.
4
The practice of book burning increased as the number of books did. As Murray points
out ‘its logical fissures opened up, in response to the familiar long-term changes of the medieval
period — the spread of literacy and its materials, breaches in the Latin monopoly of learning and
similarly shifting definitions of what was ecclesiastical and what was not, growing sophistication
in moral and political thought, and much more’; Murray, ‘The Burning of Heretical Books’, p. 87.
5
It remains unconfirmed whether his real name was Bogomil, or whether it was a
pseudonym that he later accepted after he had started his preaching and missionary activity. See
Primov, ‘Pop Bogomil i bogomilsko dvizhenie’, p. 100; Angelov, Bogomilstvoto v Bălgaria, p. 90;
Dragojlović, Bogomilstvo na Balkanu, ii, 76–78.
Turning Towards Heresy: Bogomils and Self-Defence 83
platform.6 It is commonly accepted that the rebirth of suppressed versions of

Christianity, in this particular case proceeding Bogomilism, were more attuned to
contemporary culture than to traditional orthodoxy. Heresy had become fashion-
able.7 Certainly, it is not a spontaneous ad hoc process, but rather a venture that
implied continuous and immediate engagement in the conception, establishment,
and development of an organizational network, its dispersion and authentic literary
articulation providing a powerful weapon for gaining as many followers as possible.
In the initial phase of the development of Bogomilism, its supporters were mainly
representatives of the lower social strata and persons largely without education,
who were attracted to Bogomilism because of its simple beliefs and rituals. It should
be emphasized from the very beginning that pacifism was intrinsic to Bogomil
doctrine,8 not least as a survival mechanism. The idea of being ‘hidden in plain sight’
was evidently also a good strategy, if only for a limited time: for example, the ‘Sermon
against the Heretics’ by Cosmas the Priest, who writes that ‘indeed externally the
heretics appear sheep: they are gentle and humble and quiet. They seem pale from
their hypocritical fasts, they do not utter vain words, they do not laugh out loud,
they do not show curiosity, they take care not to be noticeable and to do everything
externally so that they may not be told apart from orthodox Christians. Inside
they are ravening wolves, as the Lord said’.9 Cosmas, like others before him, was
motivated by the image Jesus uses in Matthew 7.15: ‘Beware of false prophets, which
come to you in sheep’s clothing, but inwardly they are ravening wolves.’ In other
words, such prophets were probably part of the Christian community, presenting
themselves as spokespeople of Christ. Thus, the innocence and gentleness of the
sheep, that is, the lamb with the evil and the wisdom of the wolf, are juxtaposed.10
Although he is alarmist, Cosmas is in fact accurate concerning the physical
appearance of the heretics. Bogomils believed in modesty as an aspect of pacifism
which would serve to protect them. This is also related to the fact that they
probably wore clothes that resembled those of the monks, contributing to the
impression that they were part of the Christian community, further protecting
them. In its first phase, with a modest network and probably a small number
6
Angelovska-Panova, Bogomilstvoto vo duhovnata kultura, p. 71.
7
McGrath, Heresy, p. 1.
8
Mishev, Blgarija v minaloto, pp. 97–103; Szwat-Gylybowa, Bogomilis, p. 72.
9
Christian Dualist Heresies, ed. by Hamilton, Hamilton, and Stoyanov, p. 117. These
biblical metaphors — lepers, wolves, serpents, and so forth, became institutionalized by the
beginning of the new millennium in the Church’s condemnation of heretics and their books.
See Bosmajian, Burning Books, p. 42.
10
More about the interpretation of this sentence, see Gnilka, Comentario theologico, p. 159.
of fully professed Bogomils as an ideological substrate of the movement, it still

did not pose a serious danger to the official church. As such, punishments were
exclusively only anathemas.
This relatively more ‘comfortable’ state of safety was due, among other things,
to the fact that the official church authorities at this stage were not experienced
in the identification of Bogomils: in fact, they did not have specific knowledge of
the heretical dogmas and theologism. But with the evolution of Bogomilism, the
situation in the field changed drastically. The Church changed its tactics, and the
heretics changed their mechanisms of action and self-protection.
The period from the end of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth
century is the period of the greatest increase in Bogomilism in Macedonia, in the
Balkans, and even in the very capital of Byzantium, Constantinople: ‘The glory
of Bogomilism — according to Anna Komnene, has been spread everywhere
[…] and evil as a fire destroyed many souls.’11 The dispersion of Bogomilism on
a wider geographical level, and in that sense, in the capital itself, appears as a real
consequence of its predisposition to overcome local boundaries and features,
gaining increased international dimensions and characteristics. Pre-formed
heretical structures infiltrated higher social layers of Byzantine society reflecting
a clearly differentiated dualistic-theological world-view and the educational spirit
of Bogomil doctrine. These were present in literary works with an authentic
articulation,12 and also in interpolated apocrypha.13 The religious-philosophical
exegesis was a solid camouflage for the transmission of heresy, which to some
extent also guaranteed the safety of Bogomil preachers.14 In fact, the cosmology
and eschatology of Bogomilism were reshaped into a coherent system, and it
assumed the character of a philosophical sect, in spite of also expressing some
cultural and educational tendencies. So, in spirit of intellectualism, Bogomils
managed to coordinate their activity whilst avoiding the suspicions of Church
authorities. But this it would not last long.
The fact that Bogomilism, according to Anna Komnene, had penetrated the
‘houses of nobles’ and ‘higher spiritual men’,15 even in the capital of Constanti-
11
Anna Komnene, Alexiadis, ed. by Schopen, 8.351–52.
12
Angelovska-Panova, Bogomilstvoto vo duhovnata kultura na Makedonija, 192.
13
Velev, Makedonskiot knizheven, p. 293; Angelovska-Panova, ‘Apokrifnoto nasledstvo’,
pp. 303–08.
14
According to Obolensky, ‘in Byzantium, on the contrary Bogomilism come into contact
with the upper classes, always eager for theological speculation, and with various philosophical
theories of an unorthodox nature’; See Obolensky, The Bogomils, p. 202.
15
Anna Komnene, Alexiadis, ed. by Schopen, 9.358, 360.
nople, contributed to it no longer being treated as a problem with a provincial and

peripheral character, but one assuming serious political and religious dimensions.
The Italian philosopher and founder of the Department of Dialectics and History
of Philosophy, John Ital, and the Constantinople patriarch Eustathius Garrida are
examples of the Byzantine intellectual elite who were impressed by the belief in
metempsychosis and nihilism toward the icons, beliefs which were characteristic
of Bogomils.16
Hence, it is not by chance that the emperor Alexios I Komnenos ‘rid himself
of much of his anxiety about the East and the West and turned his attention to
more spiritual matters’.17 He ordered the questioning of Bogomils, amongst
them on Diblatius, who could not resist torture and revealed the names of their
teacher, and other Bogomils. In this way, says Anna Komnene, the chief minister
of Satanael, Basil, was revealed, whom she described as a ‘man in monk’s habit,
with a withered countenance, clean shaven and tall of stature’. 18 Regarding
the outward appearance of the heretics more generally, she emphasizes that
“a Bogomil looks gloomy and is covered up to the nose and walks with a stoop
and mutters, but within is he is an uncontrollable wolf ”, which is very similar
to Cosmas’s description.19 Certainly, the monastic style was in accordance with
their mission, but it was also a means of self-defence. Some scholars suggest
that their deceitfulness explained why they were able to survive for so long
unnoticed and could gather followers so easily.20 But, it is a misperception, because
Bogomils were deliberately visible as radical ascetics. Instead, Bogomilism was
a kind of folk religion, with a simple hierarchical structure and ritual system. Its
organizational structure was modelled on the early Christian communities as a
point of principle, not simply to deceive. As such, they were against temples and
performed their rituals under the open sky. So their security came not so much
from hiding their nature but from the fact that they often changed meeting places.
The fact that the above-mentioned Diblatius betrayed the name of Basil suggests
that during this period, he and his disciples, ‘twelve apostles’, acted in secrecy
in order to protect themselves from possible repercussions and persecutions.21
The strategy of Alexios I Komnenos consisted of his apparently inclining
himself toward heresy. Anna reports that he said, “I admire thee for thy virtue
16
Tatakis, Istorija na Vizantija, p. 262.
17
18
19
Obolensky, The Bogomils, 199.
20
Hoyle, ‘The Apostolic Emperor’, p. 199.
21
[…] and beseech thee to teach me the new doctrines thy Reverence has intro-
duced, as those of our Churches are practically worthless and do not bring any-
body to virtue.”22 Basil, although he initially tried to refrain, succumbed to the
Emperor’s efforts, and, without realizing the fraud, he exposed the dogmas of
the Bogomil heresy. There remains doubt as to whether Alexis really used this
deceit to realize his intentions, or whether other coercive methods against
Basil forced him to speak out. As Jonathan Shepard has pointed out, ‘the role
of guardian of religious orthodoxy was axiomatic of any basileus. Yet Alexios
went to extraordinary lengths to establish a personal reputation for himself as
the castigator of religious error’.23
The conversation took place away from the city noise, and a scribe was hidden
inside the room, who recorded everything Basil had said. This was Euthymios
Zigabenos.24 During the composition of his Dogmatic Panoply, between 1111
and 1115, he himself stated that he referred to Basil’s personal statements.25 There
is no doubt that Alexis’s motives were political, and he was increasingly identified
with caesaropapism as a preventive mechanism for protecting the Empire against
deviant worldly and spiritual dangers. Through his verbal duel with Basil he
intended to reveal the remaining preachers of the Bogomil heresy, the ‘perfect
Bogomils’, and thus completely suspend their movement.
This moment was the start of a period of activity by Alexios against the sect.
He commanded the patriarch Nicholas III, the ‘Grammarian’ (1084–1111), to
convene the Synclite (the Byzantine Senate). This institution had the authority
to impose punishment in support of its own interests and doctrine. Thus, the
burning at the stake commanded for Basil was a very common practice for this
period.26 However, although the pyre and other tortures threatened, ‘[Basil] was
tightly held by the demon, and held his Satanael tightly’.27
Certainly, this was a man who stood up with extraordinary courage and power
of spirit, ‘ready to enter into fire and die a thousand times, but not to renounce his
22
Anna Komnene, Alexiadis, ed. by Schopen, 8.353.
23
Shepard, “Hard on Heretics’, p. 765.
24
In the period between 1111 and 1115, Euthymios Zigabenos, another high ecclesiastical
dignitary, created the work Dogmatic Panoply, which consists of twenty-eight chapters. In the
penultimate Chapter 27, Zigabenos refers to Bogomilism, detailing the theological-dogmatic
organization of the learning. Zigabenos, Adversus bogomilos, ed. by Migne.
25
About the dates and in general about the trial against Basil, see Rigo, ‘Il processo del
Bogomili Basilio’, p. 199; Barber, The Cathars, p. 18; Roach, The Devil’s World, pp. 62–63.
26
Gress-Wright, ‘Bogomilism in Constantinople’, p. 170.
27
faith’: as Anna Komnene writes, ‘he was a resolute, true Bogomil’.28 Despite her
firmness regarding her orthodox orientation, Anna Komnene could not remain
indifferent to his courage and determination in his conviction. This episode from
Alexiad culminated with Basil’s execution. The executioners, exalted by the idea
that they were carrying out God’s justice, giving a kind of legendary character to
Basil’s personality, threw the heretic’s cloak on the pyre with great caution, and
then Basil himself.
The dignitaries of the Byzantine court did not merely see Basil as a religious
figure whose preaching contradicted those of canonical Christianity but also
treated him as a conspirator against state security and the imperial crown.29 The
reason for the intensified activity of the Bogomils in the period from the end
of the eleventh and the beginning of the twelfth century, among other things,
is a consequence of the foreign policy of Byzantium, which in this period was
faced with the Norman expansion, and somewhat later with the crossing of the
participants in the First Crusade. These armies mainly used the Via Egnatia,
which largely covered the territory of western Macedonia, resulting in a noticeable
worsening of the situation of the local Macedonian population. According to
the Latin sources for the First Crusade, in this period in Pelagonia there was a
fortified heretical settlement (castrum haereticorum), which was located by a lake
(in quodam lacu).30 This was perhaps located between Prilep and Bitola, because
tradition associates Bogomilism with this region. Some historians have associated
this castrum haereticorum with Paulicians. Obolensky, Runciman, and following
them Lambert find that the heretical castrum was inhabited by Paulicians,
supporting their view by the fact that the use of weapons did not correspond
with Bogomil’s pacifist conviction.31 However, the Latin sources do not in fact
indicate of armed resistance by the heretics: on the contrary, they say that the
Crusaders themselves ‘burned the castrum together with its inhabitants, in other
words, the entire heretical community’.32 Given the superiority of the crusaders,
the heretics were probably not in a position to offer organized resistance, let
28
29
Angelov, Bogomilstvoto v Bălgaria, p. 320.
30
Anonymi Gesta Francorum, ed. by Brehier, p. 22; Petri Tudebodi seu Tudebovis sacerdotis
Sivracensis, p. 16; Wilermy Tyrensis, Historia rerum in partibus transmarinis gestarum, pp.
90–91; Latinski izvori za blgarskata istorija, ed. by Mihail Voinov and others, pp. 16, 26, 192.
31
Obolensky, The Bogomils, p. 163 n. 2; Runciman, A History of the Crusades, p. 156;
Lambert, Medieval Heresy, p. 23.
32
‘combusserunt castrum illud una cum habitatoribus suis, scilicet haereticorum
congregatione’; see: Latinski izvori za blgarskata istorija, p. 16.
alone armed opposition. Considering that Pelagonia is geographically located

in the vicinity of southwestern Macedonia, where Bogomilism came into being,
then the opinion that the castrum was inhabited by these heretics is justified.33
The existence of more communities of this type in Macedonia and the Balkans
is possible. An organizational structure based on smaller heretical communities
enabled easier mobility in case of persecution, and was noted by Western sources.
Bogomilism continued with the same vibrancy into the period of Emperor
Manuel Komnenos (1143–1180), as noted in ‘The Life of St Hilarion of Meglena’:
namely, with the assumption of the bishopric of Meglen, Hilarion ‘learned that a
multitude of Manicheans, Armenians and Bogomils were preparing various revolts
and craftiness against him and were rushing to plunge those with righteous hearts
into darkness’,34 thus, he acted to bring about their conversion. It is interesting to note
that Hilarion succeeded in converting into orthodoxy a multitude of Paulicians and
Monophysites, which was not the case with the Bogomils, who ultimately remained
consistent with their religious orientation. The extent to which Bogomilism was
present is shown by the fact that Manuel himself succumbed to it.35 But, having
returned to orthodoxy in order to protect himself and the rest of the Empire from
religious reorientation, he ordered that all those who did not belong to the ‘flock
of the Orthodox’ were to be excommunicated. There is no doubt that Manuel
did not act only to excommunicate the heretics, but also towards their physical
liquidation. Theodore Balsamon, patriarch of Antioch (1185–90), mentions that
at the time of Manuel many Bogomils were burned at the stake. It is obvious that
the Church’s practice of anathematizing the supporters of the Bogomil heresy
during the period under consideration was significantly disrupted after Alexios I
Komnenos, so that the spiritual dignitaries did not hesitate in pronouncing death
sentences.36 A large percentage of Bogomilism’s followers were executed because
the Church had become experienced in the identification of the heretics, on
the one hand, and on the other hand because of the growth of Bogomilism had
resulted in more self-confidence and but less caution on the part of the heretics.
Despite the evident losses, Bogomilism continued to exist in the second half
of the twelfth century, spreading to several regions of the Byzantine Empire.
Theodore Balsamon is categorical in recording the existence of fortresses and even
whole regions inhabited by Bogomils. According to Obolensky and Angelov,
33
Angelovska-Panova, Bogomilstvoto vo duhovnata kultura, p. 88.
34
Milovska and Takovski, Makedonskata zhitijna literatura, p. 127.
35
Milovska and Takovski, Makedonskata zhitijna literatura, p. 137.
36
Concerning the punishments that the official church had pronounced against the
heretics, see Roach and Angelovska-Panova, ‘Punishment of Heretics’.
these were mainly found in Macedonia, where during that period Bogomilism
began to spread more intensively in the neighbouring Balkan countries, and in its
modified form in the countries of Western Europe.37 However, in order to unveil
heresy, a great contribution was made by the Italian theologian Hugh Eteriano,
who wrote the work Contra Patarenos in order to ‘provide his imperial patron
with authoritative theological justification for the more severe prosecution and
death penalties for the Bogomils that were requested in Manuel’s court’.38
The thirteenth century is a period of evident inactivity in Bogomilism, which
had positive implications for their safety. In this period, the areas in Macedonia
under the Latin government were exposed to occupational expeditions by the
Greek states of Epirus and Nicaea, and occasionally from Bulgaria and Serbia.
Thus, with the conquest of Thessalonica in 1224, Theodore Komnenos put an
end to the Thessaloniki Latin kingdom and proclaimed himself emperor. Most
of the territory of Macedonia was included within Epirus’s state until 1230, when
after the Battle of Klokotnitsa a turning point emerged for the Bulgarian king
Ivan Asen II (1218–41). His death in 1241 and a state of military and political
powerlessness of Bulgaria was exploited by the emperor of Nicaea, John III Vatatzes
(1222–1254), who succeeded in imposing his authority over most of Macedonia’s
cities, including Serres, Melnik, Pelagonia, Prilep, Veles, Skopje, and others. These
changes in political power reflected on the activity of Bogomilism in Macedonia
and the Balkans. It remained present in these regions, but not with the previous
intensity. Although unable to eradicate Bogomilism, the official Church did
manage to localize it to several traditional strongholds in Macedonia and Thrace.
This situation drastically changed in the fourteenth century, especially during
the reign of Stefan Dušan (1331–55), who in May 1349 promoted the Code
(Zakonik) in the function of strengthening the emperor’s position, orthodoxy,
and feudal social relations. The Code included, inter alia, provisions to punish
heretics with persecution and beatings for any spoken ‘baboon word’,39 which
should have been understood in a pejorative sense as a heretical word, mentioned
by someone who was not directly involved in the preaching but rather indirectly
as a sympathizer of the movement.
In the fourteenth century, solid protection for Bogomils represented hesy-
chasm.40 The term hesychasm, meaning ‘silence, quietness’, derives from the
37
Obolensky, The Bogomils, p. 229; Angelov, Bogomilstvoto v Bălgaria, p. 241.
38
Stoyanov, The Other God, p. 182; See also Hugh Eteriano, Contra Patarenos, ed. by
Hamilton, Hamilton, and Hamilton.
39
Zakonik cara Dushana, ed. by Begovich, p. 184.
40
Georgieva, Filozofija na isihazmot, p. 82.
philosophical tradition of the ancient Greeks, and Eastern Christian mystics used
the term to denote the state of spiritual peace, which resulted in overcoming and
total abstinence from the passions. The movement appeared at the beginning of
the fourteenth century at the Holy Mount, and its ideological platform consisted
of revitalizing early Christian ascetic principles and emphasizing mysticism.
Having in mind some of the common aspects of both movements, heretics
dispersed Bogomilism, hiding behind the ideas of hesychasm, practised in monastic
environments in the monasteries of Mount Athos. For hesychasts, death was a
‘mysterious’ separation of the soul and the body, with the body losing its life-giving
force, and the soul continuing to live as a nonexistent being. The understanding
of the immortality of the soul among the Bogomils and the hesychasts was of
philosophical and anthropological rather than religious significance. It was, in
fact, the foundation of the entire philosophy of salvation.
Bogomilism and hesychism, in spite of their evident differences, had some simi-
larities, especially with regard to contemplation, which was to result in a hypo -
static union with God. Realizing the divine illumination through ascetic prayer,
the Bogomils and the hesychasts believed that they achieved immortality and
eternal life before the universal resurrection. This is confirmed by the data of
Euthymios Zigabenos, according to whom ‘the Bogomils did not die, but as a
pretense they stripped off that mundane and bodily cover and put on the immor-
tal and divine attire of Christ’.41
The spread of Bogomilism from its stronghold in Macedonia to Thessalonica
was made possible by the River Vardar, the main artery connecting Macedonia
with Byzantium and the principal link between the monasteries of Mount Athos
and the outside world. Monks would visit the city (Thessalonica) to replenish
their supplies or transact commercial business.42 Mount Athos became a safe
refuge for the Bogomils, who continued to be educated in the spirit of Bogomil
theologism thanks to the nun Irina of Thessalonica, who, according to the data of
Theodosius of Trnovo, after “carefully studying all the bad Masalian heresies, she
secretly prophesied to all those who went to her to do evil things.”43
The Byzantine historian Nikephoros Gregoras observed that the heretics
preached secretly, but in 1344 the Athonite church authorities discovered their
teaching and excommunicated the monks Joseph, Gregory, Moses, David, Isaac,
and Job, who were forced to leave Mount Athos and to go to Veria, Thessalonica,
41
Euthymios Zigabenos, Adversus bogomilos, col. 1317. Dragojlović, ‘Isihazam i bogomilstvo’.
42
Obolensky, The Bogomils, p. 255.
43
Kiselkov, Zhitieto na Teodoosij Trnovski, p. 14.
and Constantinople.44 Indeed, Bogomilism existed for only three years in the
monasteries of Mount Athos, but the short period of time is irrelevant in com-
parison with the fact that this teaching penetrated in the strongest monastic
center of orthodoxy. Infiltrating orthodoxy, the Bogomils at least briefly felt safe
even among their opponents. Their monastic appearance and lifestyle also proved
to be a good method of self-protection in this case.
Finally, let us summarize. In a situation where ecclesiastical authorities had
modest knowledge about the essence of their teaching, the Bogomils successfully
protected themselves, concealing through an externally monastic appearance,
which was probably compulsory for the members of the category of the perfect.
In that sense, it should be noted that they abandoned their families primarily
because of the idea of full commitment to ideology, in accordance with the
example of Jesus’s apostles, but most likely for their own protection, which in
such conditions enabled easier mobility.
The situation changed dramatically at the moment when the Church became
experienced in identifying the Bogomils, which was during the period of the
greatest growth in Bogomilism, from the late eleventh to the beginning of the
twelfth century. Then they protected themselves by being quite cautious in their
sermons and their approach to the recruitment of followers. From the beginning,
according to Euthymios Zigabenos,
they educate the common people by persuading them to believe in the Father,
the Son and the Holy Spirit, and to know that Christ received a human body and
gave the Holy Gospel to the holy Apostles. They advise them to accept evangelical
charters, to pray and fast, to be clean from all sorts of vices, to usurp nothing and
not to harm, to be calm, to speak the truth, and to love each other.45
The general impression is that the initial phase of the introduction into heretical
dogma was identical to the preaching of official Christianity, due to caution,
gaining mutual trust, and, ultimately, self-protection.
Once they attained a recognizable religious-ideological platform, Bogomils
protected themselves by stressing the philosophical implications of their learning
and presenting themselves as part of the Byzantine intellectual elite, intrigued
by the exegesis of certain phenomena. Hesychasm as a spiritual movement in
monasticism also represented a comfortable and partially safe space for the
flow of Bogomil ideas. Finally, a significant segment of the self-protection of
Bogomils throughout the entire period of their existence is the configuration
44
Obolensky, The Bogomils, p. 255.
45
Euthymios Zigabenos, Adversus bogomilos, col. 1320D.
of the terrain of their main strongholds in Macedonia: namely, an inaccessible

mountainous landscape, which abounded with natural resources such as water
and lush vegetation, which enabled their material survival and at the same time
represented a solid shelter, especially in conditions of persecution. Legends about
the caves and secret passages around the villages Bogomila and Nezhilovo in the
central part of Macedonia are still an enigma for speleologists.
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The Inquisition and Popular Pressure
in the Languedoc
Derek Hill
W hen necessary and possible, heretics in south-west France in the thirteenth

and early fourteenth centuries would defend themselves by direct action
against the medieval inquisition — the inquisitio heretice pravitatis (inquiry into
heretical depravity) to give it its full title — which was set up to deal primarily
with the Cathars. The most dramatic examples involved physical attacks on
the inquisition such as the massacre of inquisitors at Avignonet in 1242 or the
botched attempt to steal inquisition records in Carcassonne in 1285. There was
also collective action in the form of extensive civil unrest in Albi in 1299 and
Carcassonne in 1303 designed to curtail the inquisition’s activities. At a micro
level attempted personal defensive strategies can be detected in the records of
interrogations that have come down to us ( John Arnold has explored in depth
the strategies followed by suspects and the inquisition in interrogations) and
many heretics simply moved elsewhere (in the case of south-west France to
Lombardy).1 These actions, which transgressed societal norms (e.g., absconding,
resisting interrogation, violence) often left traces in inquisition and other
documents, and make fascinating stories. But these stories are essentially about
those in a weak position vis-à-vis the inquisition and were products of desperation
and powerlessness, which generally did not produce positive results.
1
Arnold, Inquisition and Power.
Dr Derek Hill ([email protected]) is an independent scholar who in 2019 published

Inquisition in the Fourteenth Century: The Manuals of Bernard Gui and Nicholas Eymerich, a
book based on his doctoral work.
Abstract: Heretics adopted different strategies to defend themselves. This article explores how
heretics used the formal machinery of the inquisition in south-west France. The inquisition was
in considerable part under the control of the French Crown, which had an interest in mitigating
any too harsh actions by the inquisition. Evidence for this, and for the consensus-building
which was a feature of inquisition work after 1305, can be found in Bernard Gui’s Sentences and
Practica. The inquisition was a body which could at times be responsive to public pressure.
Keywords: South-west France; heresy; inquisition; Cathars; Bernard Gui; French Crown.

96 Derek Hill
The medieval inquisition, particularly after 1271, was in good part a political
project aimed at delivering social/political ends as well as religious ends, in so
far as these can be disentangled in a medieval context. The inquisition was not
as autonomous as it sometimes seemed and was dependent on, and in some
ways part of, the secular arm. In the light of that reality, this article explores the
interplay between the inquisition and people — heretics or otherwise — in the
Languedoc between 1305 and 1325, broadly the period when Catharism was
finally eradicated, when the inquisition was reined back in various ways following
the rabies carcassonensis (Carcassonne madness) (a process which was codified
in the Bulls Multorum querela and Nolentes), and when the inquisition started
to deal with new heresies, notably the Spiritual Franciscans.23 This period is of
interest for two reasons. First, as I hope to show, the events in Carcassonne and
the subsequent reforms of inquisition practice created an environment in which
the inquisition became more sensitized to external interests and interventions.
Mass action against the inquisition ceased, and increasingly rare direct action
was largely contained within heretic circles.4 Second, in Bernard Gui’s Practica
we have a work that sets out how the mature inquisition functioned outside the
interrogation and sentencing processes and shows — not always transparently
— how inquisitorial power was constrained and how individuals could defend
themselves within its structures.
We do not know the exact extent of heretical belief after 1305. Belief — or
perhaps more accurately participation — in Catharism was in decline well before
2
The Inquisitor Bernard Gui called the events of 1303 in Carcassonne the ‘rabies carcas-
sonensis’. See Gui, De fundatione et prioribus conventuum provincorum, ed. by Amargier, p. 103.
3
Corpus Iuris Canonici, ed. by Friedberg (hereafter CIC), ii, cols 1181–3. The effect of
Multorum querela was to require the inquisitors to get the agreement of the local bishop to any use
of torture or strict confinement or to sentence anyone to ‘release to the secular arm’ or perpetual
imprisonment, providing that the bishop or deputy could be reached within eight days. If these
requirements were not complied with, any action would be null and void. The Bull also required
the inquisitors and bishops to run jointly staffed prisons, with the aim that this should preclude
any corruption in the prison authorities, and it placed a duty on bishops and inquisitors to pursue
those who should be pursued on a charge of heresy, and made it an offence to pursue someone
vexatiously. The penalties were excommunication and (for bishops) suspension. Nolentes required
inquisitors and bishops to return any money extorted from anyone, and churches in particular,
on the pretext of heresy, with a sentence of excommunication imposed until the money had been
returned, and it enjoined inquisitors not to abuse the right to carry arms conceded to them and
not to have more men than they needed. Gui hated these measures. The Spiritual Franciscans
and their followers known to Gui as Beguini (Béguins) were made heretics by John XXII in 1317
following a long dispute about the practice of poverty amongst the Franciscans.
4
See Given, Inquisition and Medieval Society, pp. 114–16.
The Inquisition and Popular Pressure in the Languedoc 97
1305, to judge from the small number of perfecti interrogated in the inquisition
from 1273 to 1282, a pattern which is also reflected in Geoffroy d’Ablis’s and
Jacques Fournier’s registers and Gui’s Sentences, which all date from the period
1305 to 1325.5 The inquisition’s working methods were directed towards
capturing perfecti, and it seems unlikely that a significant number remained at
large; the registers mention only one or two perfecti at large. Without perfecti
Catharism was deprived of its essential rituals and destined to wither on the vine.
The decline of Catharism was not solely due to the activities of the inquisition
and the risks that being involved in heretical activity entailed; the development
of Toulouse University providing an educated elite much like that in other parts
of France and the preaching activities of the friars defining more carefully the
nature of Christianity must also have played a considerable role.6 The south-west
of France after 1271 might therefore best be described as an increasingly post-
heretical society, which was being integrated into wider French society. James
Given has described this process of bringing the Languedoc into the kingdom of
France and concludes that it was competently done.7 Nevertheless many in the
Languedoc had committed heretical actions in the past before the destruction
of Montségur in 1244, when accessibility to perfecti was much greater; and those
who had been born since may well have been vulnerable because their parents
or grandparents had been involved in heresy. Confiscations of property and the
5
There were two essential rituals in Catharism. First the hereticatio in the inquisition’s
language, or consolamentum in that of the Cathars, made the recipient a perfectus (inquisition
language, literally a ‘completed, heretic for the Cathars capable of delivering the rite to others.
Most believers took the rite at the point of death, but a few took it earlier and effectively became
Cathar priests ministering to others by delivering the rite at the point of death (sometimes
referred to as vestitus or wearing Cathar dress: this became rare when Cathars could no longer
operate publicly). The status of perfectus entailed strict abstinence from sex, milk, and meat. The
second rite was the adoratio (inquisition) or melioramentum (Cathars), a ritual greeting given to
perfecti. The practice or receipt of either rite was considered a proof of heresy by the inquisition.
Only one perfectus who was ministering to the Cathar flock was interrogated by the inquisition
of 1273–82: William Raffard, who was ‘turned’ by the inquisition. There were two other perfecti
active: William Prunel and his companion Bernard of Tilhol, who are discussed in depositions
but not captured. See Inquisition and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and Sneddon, pp. 44–45.
Only two perfecti are covered in by Gui’s Sentences, Amiel de Perles and Pierre Autier, who were
both burned. See Le Livre des Sentences, ed. by Pales-Gobilliard (hereafter Sentences), pp. 35,
326–30, and 538–44. No perfecti were interrogated in Geoffroy d’Ablis’s register (d’Ablis,
L’inquisiteur, ed. and trans. by Pales-Gobilliard).
6
See Vicaire and Gilles, ‘Le Rôle de l’université de Toulouse’.
7
See Given, State and Society in Medieval Europe, pp. 245–69.
98 Derek Hill
banning of individuals from public life were still possibilities for the inquisition
to pursue against those who had heretics as forebears.8
The French Crown believed that the elimination of heterodox belief was
essential to secure the loyalty, or at least the acquiescence, of the Languedoc
nobility. The inquisition was used to do this. This can be seen in Toulouse both
in the 1270s inquisition and in the 1279 Royal Diploma.9 The inquisition in the
1270s dealt with some active heretics but also showed a particular interest in
the past heretical activities of the nobility, and sought assurances of no further
activities, almost certainly with the aim of exercising some level of political control
and discouraging future heretical activity.10 The Royal Diploma, effectively
wiping the slate for those families active in heresy in the past, was part of the
same tactic. The links between heterodox belief and the unrest in Carcassonne
in 1303, which had a treasonous element, show that the French authorities were
not wrong in taking the view that heterodox religious views could be linked to
heterodox political views.
Because the French Crown saw the inquisition as part of the means to achieve
its main aim of integrating the Languedoc smoothly into France, actions by the
inquisition which seriously compromised that aim could not be accepted. For
that reason, Philip IV was anxious to address and quell grievances about the
behaviour of the inquisition which might lead to serious unrest. The inquisitor
Jean Galand seems to have extracted confessions through bad prison conditions
and the use of torture in Carcassonne in the 1280s. This led to protests and the
departure of Galand to Albi, where a sympathetic bishop, Bernard de Castanet,
conducted a similar regime. In 1291 Philip ordered officials not to cooperate
with the inquisition, and in the ensuing period he vacillated over supporting
the inquisition.11 Dissatisfaction with inquisitors continued. In 1299 in Albi
there were widespread arrests of prominent citizens by the inquisition, leading to
Philip IV deciding to send down a team of enquêteurs to investigate. As a result,
in 1301 Philip introduced a policy under which important decisions had to be
8
CIC, ii, col. 1070 (Alexander IV): ‘Heretici autem, credentes, receptatores, defensores,
et fautores eorum, ipsorumque filii usque ad secundam generationem ad nullum ecclesiasticum
beneficium, seu officium publicum admittantur. Quod si secus actum fuerit, decernimus
irritum et inane’ (But heretics and their followers, receivers, defenders, and supporters and their
children to the second generation may not be admitted to any ecclesiastical benefice or to any
public office. If this has been done otherwise, we declare it null and void).
9
Mundy, The Repression of Catharism at Toulouse.
10
See Given, Inquisition and Heretics, pp. 41–48.
11
Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, x, Preuves, cols 273–74.
made by bishop and inquisitor jointly. Trouble flared again in Albi in 1302, and
Carcassonne in 1303 under the leadership of Bernard Délicieux. In 1304, Philip
reaffirmed restrictions in an edict, and in 1306 two cardinals were commissioned
to report on the situation and made similar recommendations.12 At no point,
however, did Philip go as far as to seek the inquisition’s abolition.13 Philip’s
initiatives eventually led to the papal Bulls Multorum querela and Nolentes,
ostensibly a substantial change in the inquisition’s way of operating. The French
Crown had an interest in placating Languedoc society — even if parts of that
society had or had had heretical connections — and in ensuring the inquisition’s
good behaviour. In such an environment members of Languedoc society were
able to modify inquisition behaviour and establish a modus vivendi with the
inquisition. It is no coincidence that the three Languedoc inquisitors for whom
we have most information — d’Ablis, Gui, and Fournier — seem to have been
cautious in their exercise of their office.
All inquisition records present problems of analysis and interpretation (they
were not written to provide answers to historians’ questions!). Interrogations
shine a light on the lives and beliefs of heretics and on the inquisition itself but
have a very narrow focus created by the ideas and prejudices of both sides and
the straight jacket of the law. Manuals show the overall inquisitorial machinery,
but any inquisitor’s manual is necessarily normative: it shows how the author
believed the inquisitorial process should be carried out, rather than precisely
how it operated in practice. This is a bias that can be found in any textbook and
is present in Gui’s manual. One example is the detection of suspects. At no point
does Gui’s Practica address this as an issue: the manual mentions the period
of grace, when heretics can surrender or be denounced.14 It does not directly
mention the other means, for which there is evidence scattered throughout the
Practica and the Sentences and other sources, and which inquisitors certainly
employed. These include rewards, use of informers and the use of torture on
12
Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, x, Preuves, cols 428–31.
13
Vic and Vaissette, Histoire générale, x, Preuves, col. 439. This seems to demonstrate the
continuing support for the principle of inquisition even when it is being restrained by the
monarch: ‘nos totis desideriis affectantes, quod officium ipsum ad laudem divini nominis et
ejusdem augmentum fidei sic rite, sic juste procedat et executionis debite sortiatur effectum,
quod omnis dissentionis et scandali tollatur occasio’ (we with all our desires seeking that the
office [of inquisitor] should proceed properly and justly to the praise of the divine name and the
increase of the faith and should choose to carry out its work appropriately and that all occasion
of dissension and scandal should be removed).
14
Gui, Practica inquisitionis heretice pravitatis, ed. by Douais (hereafter Practica), p. 182.
100 Derek Hill
a tactical basis.15 The reason for this shyness was because inquisitors in part
saw their principal job — rightly by their lights — as dealing with the souls of
their suspects (hence Gui’s long Part 5 dealing to a great extent with securing
confessions), but also because the grubby business of dealing with informers was
probably not what Dominicans joined up for, and because they were unwilling
to discuss explicitly the limitations and realities of inquisitorial power. The
Dominicans were a preaching order that wanted to project a certain image of the
Church. These points are central to any reading of Gui’s manual and inquisition
records generally. How the whole inquisition system worked in practice has to
be inferred from occasional pieces of evidence in manuals and other documents.
The biggest constraint on the inquisition’s behaviour was the necessity to
maintain a consensus with other parties, notably the secular authorities and the
rest of the Church, a necessity which Multorum querela and Nolentes intensified.
The secular authorities — the king, his senior local representative the Seneschal,
and other more local officials (viguiers) — were the more immediately powerful
of these two groups. Gui’s (and d’Ablis’s) inquisition was in large part a branch of
the French state. It was paid for out of state funds, and its receipts in the form of
confiscations went to the state. It depended on the state for apprehending many
heretics and for executing those who were ‘released to the secular arm’. Without
the buy-in of the state, the Toulouse and Carcassonne inquisitors simply could
not operate. Philip IV’s restrictions on the inquisition showed this beyond
any doubt. The secular arm in its turn, while sharing the inquisition’s religious
aims, also put a high premium on its aim of integrating the Languedoc into
the kingdom of France. The acquiescence of the population of the Languedoc
to what the inquisition was doing was important. Given has also pointed to
the fact that in the Languedoc the traditional ruling class retained much of its
previous influence.16 This would mean that some traditional sympathies towards
Catharism would still be in place.
There is evidence that in all aspects of its work Gui’s and d’Ablis’s inquisitions
were conscious of the need to seek the approval of the secular arm for its decisions
as part of a wider effort to secure public acquiescence. The formal prescribed
procedure for securing the cooperation of the secular arm was to require officials
to take an oath of support for the inquisition.17 That oath had been required to
15
For 1272–80 register, see Given, Inquisition and Heretics, pp. 346–47, 414–15; see also
Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Fonds Doat, MS 30 (Doat 30), fols 100r–101v.
16
Given, State and Society, pp. 181–82.
17
Practica, p. 87.
be taken triennially by the Council of Albi in 1254 and commits those taking
it, with hand on the gospel, to thorough-going support for the Church and
the inquisitors.18 This support includes detaining heretics and excluding them
from civic life, if necessary when they are identified by the inquisitors.19 The
oath concluded by an undertaking to be obedient to God, the church, and the
inquisitors in matters pertaining to heresy.
In Gui oath-taking by the officials of the royal court, consuls and others present
who have temporal jurisdiction occurs early in the sermones generales before any
sentences are announced.20 From 14 June 1309, Gui endeavoured to make the
swearing of this oath by the seneschal personally an invariable component of
the sermones generales. He went to the seneschal, the senior secular judge as well
as the king’s senior representative in the Languedoc, on the day before a sermo
generalis in June 1309 and got him to swear the oath, an event which is recorded
in the Sentences.21 Subsequently the seneschal attended the sermones generales to
take the oath on 23 April 1312 and 30 September 1319; on other occasions he
sent a locum tenens. That Gui attached importance to the swearing of the oath
is clear from its being recorded as a separate event in the Sentences and from the
fact that he visited the seneschal specially to get it sworn. The effect of this oath
would have been to bind the secular authorities into the sentences about to be
pronounced on heretics as well as more generally into the inquisitors’ work.
However, realistically, the secular authorities would only have taken such oaths
if Gui’s work was acceptable to them. The oath was an important part of creating
a consensus, of binding the work of the inquisition and the secular arm together
and a discipline requiring them to co-operate effectively.
This consensus building was not restricted to formal oath-taking. D’Ablis,
perhaps understandably in the aftermath of events in 1303 when the inquisitors
were driven out of Carcassonne, carefully arranged for his suspects’ confessions
to be witnessed by those in authority so that he had the sort of consensus that
Gui tried to achieve at his sermones. For example, a list of dignitaries attended
the confession of Raimond Issaurat de Larnat at Carcassonne in 1308, when
the inquisition remained fragile after the events of 1303. This list included the
18
Mansi, Sacrorum conciliorum nova, xxiii, col. 837.
19
Practica, p. 87.
20
Practica, p. 84. Sermones generales were what later became known as ‘auto-da-fé’, solemn
religious ceremonies at which sentences on heretics, and the remission of those sentences, were
announced.
21
Gui, Le Livre des Sentences, ed. by Pales-Gobilliard (hereafter Sentences), p. 322.
102 Derek Hill
vicarius of the king and three consuls as well as various religious dignitaries.22
The register indicates that the practice was carried out consistently. Such a high-
powered attendance is not regularly the case in other registers such as Fournier
or in the 1270s Toulouse register. In the latter there are only two appearances by
identified representatives of the secular authority. D’Ablis was making sure his
verdicts would stick. It is not known if Gui did the same in his interrogations, but
given that he worked closely with d’Ablis it must be likely.
This need to maintain a consensus helped make Gui and probably d’Ablis
cautious. There is a passage in Part 5 of the Practica where Gui talks of the public
impact of the release of suspects because a case could not be made against them.
This would be seen as being done ‘quasi confuse’ (in a confused way) and the
faithful would see it as ‘materiam scandali’ (a matter of outrage).23 Inquisitors
had to think carefully about every public move. Suspects could not be picked
up on little or no evidence: every move had to be carefully thought out and
the prospects of success carefully weighed. How much this constrained the
inquisition’s activities is impossible to know.
Another piece of evidence showing how much Gui depended on the Crown
and needed to maintain a consensus comes in the discussion of impedimenta or,
let’s say, bureaucratic obstacles, in Part 4 of the Practica. Gui gave in the midst of
his rewritten Italian text a condensed view of the form of his relations with the
secular authorities:
In regno autem Francie inquisitores agunt et utuntur ministerio officialium regis,
et comitum, et baronum et aliorum dominorum castrorum seu locorum aliorum in
territoriis suis, sive sint senescalli , vel baylivi, vel judices, vel bajuli, vel servientes,
seu quibuscumque aliis nominibus vel officiis censeantur, quos inquisitores
possunt requirere et requisitos, si negligentes fuerint aut desides, per censuram
ecclesiasticam compellere et cohercere.24
(But in the kingdom of France inquisitors act and use the services of the king’s
officials and of counts and barons and the lords of castle and other places in his
territories; be they seneschals, or magistrates, or judges or bailiffs or sergeants
or whatever name or office they may perform, the inquisitors can require them
(to act for them) and if, having been required, they are negligent or wanting, the
inquisitors can compel and coerce them by ecclesiastical censure.)
22
D’Ablis, L’inquisiteur, ed. by Pales-Gobilliard, p. 290.
23
Practica, p. 236.
24
Practica, p. 214.
But Gui then points out that

ex virtute litterarum regis Francie ipsis inquisitoribus concessarum omnes et singuli
supradicti tenentur inquisitoribus prebere auxilium et consilium opportunum et in
omnibus que ad officium inquisitionis spectant eisdem inquisitoribus, et eorum
mandatis, et requisitionibus simpliciter obedire, quod prompte faciunt et fecerunt,
scientes ejusdem regis devotam et ad hoc spontaneam voluntatem.25
(by virtue of a letter from the king of France granted to the inquisitors themselves,
they are each and every one required to provide help and opportune advice to
the inquisitors and to obey simply the inquisitors’ mandates and requirements in
everything which pertains to the inquisition. They do so and have done so promptly
knowing the king’s devoted and free will to this end.)
This describes a relationship where formally the inquisitors expected help on a

cooperative basis, and there was a mechanism for compelling cooperation. But in
practice cooperation had to be secured by maintaining the support of the king,
which in turn meant maintaining a consensus. Inquisitors would have been well
aware that cooperation had in the past been withdrawn and was contingent on
the inquisition not rocking the boat. The inquisition’s power was constrained.
The analysis here would suggest that the binding together of the secular arm
and the inquisition through oaths would have a direct effect on the inquisition’s
actions, and there is at least one place in the Practica where part of the elite to
which the inquisition was bound by oath may be seen to be directly intervening
in the inquisition’s activities. There is a formula in Part 2 of the Practica for
relieving ‘someone’ of all punishment and penances. Gui makes clear that this
happened ‘ad instantiam et preces multorum virorum bonorum ac sollempnium
personarum’ (at the instance and prayers of many good men and solemn persons)
— presumably members of the élite. What is noteworthy is Gui’s comment that
this is something ‘quod nunquam vel rarissime fieri debet’ (which should never
or only very rarely happen).26 Evidently in practice some highly placed people
could have more influence on the inquisition’s work than we might think from
Gui’s rhetoric. By including this formula, Gui was giving an indirect lesson on
the delicate question of how to deal with external influence. But it also shows
that pressure could be applied to the inquisition’s work and could be effective.
It would be fascinating to know the seriousness of the case or cases concerned
and how often this happened in practice. Was Gui complaining about a regular
25
Practica, p. 214.
26
Practica, p. 56.
104 Derek Hill
occurrence? Or a very occasional nuisance? But to an extent the frequency does

not matter: the fact is that the inquisition was amenable to pressure, and that
would affect the behaviour of a prudent inquisitor.
There were other points of pressure from the elite. The council of iurisperiti
(legal experts) and prelati (prelates) was a significant part of the inquisitorial
process; it was a body which was composed of people not in the inquisition and
ratified the inquisition’s judgements. It raised one particular issue for Gui: the
members of the council could be swayed by the identity of the person about
whom they were to make their recommendations. As Gui said, he wanted
those consulted to judge ‘sine affectione persone’ (without any feeling for the
individual).27 One way of obviating this difficulty was to present a summary of the
case with the name removed.28 The dilemma was that a summary might not lead
to the best decisions. Therefore where possible ‘omnia exprimerentur’ (the whole
case should be set down).29 This Gui tells us ‘tamen non fuit usus inquisitionis ab
antiquo’ (this was not, however, the custom of the inquisition from the past).30
That is confirmed by the Doctrina de modo procedendi contra hereticos, which dates
from the 1270s and reflects the older way of doing things by means of a brief
summary.31 It is not known whether an expanded submission to the iurisperiti
and prelati was Gui’s personal innovation but that must at least be a possibility. It
may have been the result of Multorum querela which required inquisitors to get
the agreement of the local bishop to the use of torture and to severe sentences i.e.
life imprisonment and release to the secular arm. The implication of Gui’s words
is that iurisperiti and prelati did not always observe impartiality and perhaps
27
Practica, p. 83.
28
Practica, p. 83: ‘petitur per inquisitores consilium a predictis (i.e. prelati et iurisperiti),
facta prius extractione summaria et compendiosa de culpis, in qua complete tangitur substantia
confessionis cujuslibet persone quantum ad culpam illius de qua agitur, sine expressione
nominis alicujus persone ad cautelam’ (advice is sought from the aforesaid (i.e., the prelates and
legal experts), there having first been made a summary but full extract from the grounds for
conviction (culpis), in which the substance of the confession of whoever it may be is completely
covered in so far it is relevant to his guilt, without for reasons of caution there being any mention
of the name of any person).
29
Practica, p. 83.
30
Practica, p. 84.
31
Thesaurus novus anecdotorum, ed. by Martène and Durand, v, col. 1795: ‘et congregato
concilio, Inquisitores abstractionem brevem substantiam confessionis continentem in concilio,
non expresso nomine confitentis, proponent’ (and once the council has met together, the
inquisitors set out a brief abstract containing the substance of the confession, without making
known the name of the person confessing).
confidentiality. How much others would be swayed by knowledge of individuals is

difficult to say. But, in the relatively small area which Gui covered as an inquisitor,
individuals might be known personally to the council, and it would be well
known who was in custody and liable to judgement. A personal knowledge of the
suspect might influence someone’s judgement, as might the loyalties stemming
from the network of personal relations in Languedoc. But equally most sentences
in criminal cases even now take account of the character of the guilty party, and it
is not necessarily the case that knowledge of a person makes for a bad judgement.
It may be that the council’s judgements were in general reasonable and served to
protect the vulnerable. Again, we do not know in practice how much the council
served to curb the inquisition’s activities, either by refusing to endorse cases or
(more likely) by ensuring that weak cases never came forward. But it must have
been a constraint.
There is evidence of more informal means being used to defend those accused
of heresy. Even before the entry into force of Multorum querela Gui was meant to
seek the agreement of the local bishop to the conclusion of cases. Gui gives some
evidence of bishops’ unwillingness to cooperate: one bishop ‘per duos annos et
amplius retardavit processum fieri quarumdem personarum suæ diocesis’ (delayed
a trial of some persons of his diocese for two years or more); another bishop
delayed a case for a year and a half.32 We know nothing about the circumstances
of these cases and whether the bishops’ dilatoriness was in any way justified on
legal or other grounds. But in a way that is perhaps immaterial. A bishop could
delay a case for a considerable period, and he would be far more attuned to local
conditions and open to influence than an inquisitor.
The same sort of lack of zeal might also come from the more junior members
of the secular arm. Gui writes in Part 4 of the Practica that inadequate resources
might be made available for the inquisition’s tasks; this could be circumvented
by the inquisitors being able to specify what they need.33 If officials are negligent
or inadequate the inquisitors can move them aside; and if they do not carry
out their duties (infideles ipsi officio — unfaithful to the office itself ), they can
be moved and punished.34 In reality this would have been difficult to achieve:
administrative failure might not have been clear cut, and removing individuals
might not have solved problems. Ecclesiastical censure was a blunt instrument,
and Gui probably knew that. He saw the value of support which was active and
32
BnF, MS Doat 30, fol. 104v.
33
Practica, p. 213: ‘non sufficierent ad executionem officii’ (they are not sufficient for
carrying out the function).
34
Practica, p. 214.
106 Derek Hill
cemented by the personal authority of the king. But the fact that Gui saw these
as possible obstacles to the inquisition’s activity perhaps indicates that they were
ways in which the inquisition’s activities could be constrained.
The inquisitors’ most important link to the ‘public’ or people were the sermones
generales. The evidence is that these were highly stage-managed to retain both the
support of the ruling elite and the acquiescence of the people. Two aspects of these
sermones show how the inquisition modified its behaviour in the light of popular
feeling while trying to forward its central mission of suppressing heresy.
First, Gui’s extant Sentences are couched in terms of legal rationality, which
in itself was part of the effort to persuade and justify. One example is the case
of Guillaume Cavalier on 30 September 1319.35 This case was difficult for Gui
because it must have been well known that Cavalier had been tortured by the (for
some) notorious Bernard de Castanet, with the implication that his confession
was invalid. Cavalier had confessed in 1301 to heretical activity (attending two
hereticationes — i.e., consolamenta in the Cathars’ terminology — and meeting
heretics), but Gui stresses throughout his sentence that this confession was obtained
legitimately.36 Gui acknowledges that torture took place but points out that
Cavalier was persistent in his admission even when not under torture. As he put it:
Predicta vero confessus fuit in judicio coram inquisitor et notario et religiosis
testibus constitutes, non existens in questionibus seu tormentis, set ab ipsis tam
loco quam ministris, quam etiam tempore post tres videlicet dies penitus elongatus,
et in illis assidue perseverans, elapsis postmodum quinque septimanis, eadem sicut
per notarium scripta fuerant et recepta.37
(He confessed these matters (i.e., the crimes of heresy) in formal session before the
inquisitor, the notary and friars as witnesses, when he was not in torture or torment
and but when he was removed from the place and the torturers (ministris) and, as
can be seen, after the passage of a full three days. He persevered assiduously in his
confessions, and after five weeks were elapsed the same admissions were written
and received by the notary.)
Gui is essentially arguing that the evidence obtained by torture was perfectly
valid and corroborated by a subsequent unpressured confession.38
But the reason for Cavalier’s conviction is not only the confession he made
eighteen years previously but the fact that he is still impenitent. As Gui put it:
35
Sentences, pp. 1178–82.
36
Sentences, p. 1176.
37
Sentences, p. 1178.
38
Practica, pp. 310–19.
monitus et requisites canonice et peremptori ut confiteretur […] aut se defenderet

vel purgaret in judicio […] confiteri noluit et se aliter purgare aut defendere
recusavit.39
(although advised and required canonically and peremptorily that he confess […]
or defend or purge himself in court […], he did not wish to confess and refused
otherwise to purge or defend himself.)
He was released to the secular arm for that reason. Indeed, Gui made it clear that
Cavalier could still save himself by abjuring and gave him time to reconsider.40
What is notable is the detail with which Gui elaborated how he reached his
decision, and how he made it clear that Cavalier would have been convicted
even without the torture. We do not know how this argument was received,
but at the very least it would have provided a rational justification for Cavalier’s
condemnation and arguments against allegations that he was convicted only
because evidence was obtained by torture. This rational language may or may
not have had an impact on all members of the audience but would probably have
resonated at least with the educated elite. Taken together with Gui’s desire to
secure the involvement of the secular elite in the inquisitorial process and d’Ablis’s
similar practices in Carcassonne, it seems likely that Gui was endeavouring
through the use of rational language in his Sentences to ensure that the basis for
his sentence was understood and supported at least by the elite and more widely,
if at all possible.
The other point to make about Gui’s sermones is that they were only part of
what we now consider a trial, consisting only of the judgement and the sentence,
but not the hearing of evidence. That hearing of evidence, which is now largely
in public in modern courts in the United Kingdom, was performed in camera
within the inquisition. But the cases which went to the sermones were a selected
set that conformed to either a template of clear guilt, abjuration, and significant
punishment and/or penance; or a relaxation of penance in the light of good
behaviour; or a refusal to abjure in the face of clear guilt, and the consequent
release to the secular arm. Such cases were likely to conform to the image that
the inquisition wished to project of a merciful but firm body. But in practice
the subjects of the system, the defendants, suspects or heretics, were far from
homogeneous and many cases would have simply failed to meet the template in
some way or other. The inquisitor had to find ways of dealing with such difficult
cases which did not offend public opinion but which also preserved canon law and
39
Sentences, p. 1180.
40
Sentences, p. 1182.
108 Derek Hill
the authority of the inquisitor. The solution was to deal with such cases outside the
sermones, and Part 2 of the Practica contains a number of formulas for resolving
outside the sermones those cases which for a variety of reasons did not conform to
the template of heretic returning to the fold or recalcitrant heretic, for example,
membership of the Orthodox Church, dealing with a person under twelve years
of age who has been caught in heretical activities performed under the influence
of his or her parents,41 giving a pardon to someone who was promised a pardon in
return for giving information,42 allowing someone to leave prison before a sermo
essentially as an exercise of mercy,43 or imposing a fine on a Jew.44
These examples and others in the Practica gave inquisitors a toolbox to use in
those cases which did not meet the theatrical requirements of the sermo generalis
or where a conviction would have been difficult to present as reasonable. It allowed
them to be dealt with away from the public attention at a sermo. Gui’s purpose
in including them was probably to make inquisitors consider the possibilities
open to them for resolving cases which would not have been suitable material
for sermones generales and would have not fitted well with the rational and
reasonable picture of inquisitorial justice which the Sentences show. The regular
and homogeneous picture of inquisitorial justice that appears in the Sentences
was in part the result of the weeding out of unsuitable cases, an important part
of their stage management. This need to present a rational and reasonable face to
the public was a further constraint on the inquisition’s activities.
Conclusion
The inquisition between 1305 and 1325 in the Languedoc was a body whose
behaviours and practices were moulded by the need to retain support from public
opinion and the secular arm. The balanced and rational inquisition conducted by
Gui (and d’Ablis and Fournier) were in part a matter of necessity. Exactly how far
this necessity constrained the inquisition’s activities is difficult to know. One piece
of evidence is that Gui seemed only to be interested in recent cases. For example,
he sentenced the bones of the dead to be exhumed and burnt for heresy in sixty-
six cases, twenty-eight of which had been hereticated or given the consolamentum
by Pierre Autier (condemned by Gui on 9 April 1310) or by one of the other
41
42
43
Practica, p. 54.
44
perfecti recently operating in Gui’s area. In many of the other cases the name of
the perfectus who gave the consolamentum was not known to the inquisition.
James Given also reckons that 62 per cent of the heretics Gui sentenced were
related to each other, again indicating that Gui had no interest in any too wide-
ranging inquiries.45 It seems that Gui was not interested in reopening the distant
heretic past but rather concentrated on cases for which there was good evidence
in the recent past.
Furthermore, there was scope for direct intervention by the elite in individual
cases either formally or by informal methods, and the elite’s support was needed
for the whole of the inquisition’s operation. The elite would of course be aware
of thinking in the community of which it was part. This did not necessarily
help heretics against whom there was good evidence (the secular authorities
had no truck with heresy which could be politically destabilizing), but it ended
the insecurity that had earlier plagued Albi and Carcassonne. This is not to be
taken as suggesting that the inquisition between 1305 and 1325 was in some way
benign: it was not. But it had to temper its operations to the society it lived in.
45
Given, Inquisition and Medieval Society, p. 140.
110 Derek Hill
Works Cited
Manuscript
Paris, Bibliothèque nationale de France, Fonds Doat, MS 30
Primary Sources
Ablis, Geoffroy d’, L’inquisiteur Geoffroy d’Ablis et les cathares du comté de Foix
(1308–1309), ed. and trans. by Annette Pales-Gobilliard (Paris: Éditions CNRS, 1984)
Corpus Iuris Canonici, ed. by Emilius Friedberg, 2 vols (Leibzig: Tauschitz, 1881)
Gui, Bernard, De fundatione et prioribus conventuum provincorum tholosanæ et provinciæ
ordinis prædicatorum, ed. by P. A. Amargier OP, Monumenta ordinis fratrum prædica-
torum historica, 24 (Rome: Monumenta ordinis fratrum prædicatorum historica, 1961)
—— , Le Livre des Sentences de l’inquisiteur Bernard Gui, ed. by Annette Pales-Gobilliard
(Paris: Éditions CNRS, 2002)
—— , Practica inquisitionis heretice pravitatis, ed. by Célestin Douais (Paris: Picard, 1886)
Inquisition and Heretics in Thirteeenth-Century Languedoc: Edition and Translation of
Toulouse Inquisition Depositions, 1273–1282, ed. and trans. by Peter Biller, Caterina
Bruschi, and Shelagh Sneddon (Leiden: Brill, 2011)
Mansi, Giovanni, Sacrorum conciliorum nova et amplissima collectio, 53 vols (Venice: [n.
pub.], 1779)
Saisimentum comitatus Tholosani, ed. by Yves Dossat, Collection de Documents Inédits
sur l’Histoire de France, Série in 8º, 1 (Paris: Bibliothèque nationale de France, 1966)
Thesaurus novus anecdotorum, ed. by Edmond Martène and Ursin Durand, 5 vols (Paris:
Delaulne, 1717)
Secondary Studies
Arnold, John H., Inquisition and Power: Catharism and the Confessing Subject in Medieval
Languedoc (Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2001)
Bernard Gui et son Monde, Cahiers de Fanjeaux, 16 (Toulouse: Privat, 1981)
Given, James, Inquisition and Medieval Society: Power, Discipline and Resistance in Languedoc
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1997)
—— , State and Society in Medieval Europe: Gwynedd and Languedoc under Outside Rule
(Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 1990)
Mundy, John Hine, The Repression of Catharism at Toulouse: The Royal Diploma of 1279
(Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies, 1985)
Vic, Claude de, and Vaissette, Joseph, Histoire générale de Languedoc, 10 vols (Toulouse:
Paya, 1872–1904), X
Vicaire, Marie-Humbert, and Henri Gilles, ‘Le Rôle de l’université de Toulouse dans
l’effacement du catharisme’, in Effacement du Catharisme? (xiiie–xive siècle), Cahiers
de Fanjeaux ; 36. Cahiers de Fanjeaux, 20 (Toulouse: Privat, 1985), pp. 257–76
Talk, Communication, and the
Avoidance of Inquisitors in
Thirteenth-Century Languedoc*
Saku Pihko
D espite the rapid rise in the production and use of written documents in the
Middle Ages,1 social life was dominated by orality, and the spoken word
* Many people have contributed to the development of this article at different stages of
the writing process. I would like to thank the anonymous reader and the editors of the volume,
as well as Holger Kaasik, Sari Katajala-Peltomaa, Christian Krötzl, Ville Vuolanto, and other
participants of the doctoral seminar on ancient and medieval history at Tampere University
for their comments and criticisms. Likewise, discussions during the ‘Heretical Self-Defence’
conference proved extremely helpful in shaping the final form of this article. In this regard, a
special thank you goes to David Zbíral.
1
The classic treatment of these developments in the English context is Clanchy, From
Memory to Written Record. Building largely on Clanchy, Bertrand, in Les Écritures ordinaires
(pp. 11–14, 21, 309, 353), has argued that in the French context, especially the so-called long
thirteenth century (c. 1250–1350) was a key period in the development and transformation
Saku Pihko ([email protected]) is a PhD candidate at Tampere University, Finland

Abstract: Talk was an important aspect of social life in the predominantly oral societies of the
Middle Ages. In thirteenth-century Languedoc, inquisitors looking for heretics were interested
in the talk of the communities under scrutiny, and hence the records of their investigations
contain a lot of references to information related to oral communication. This article examines
entries from thirteenth-century inquisition records, now extant in Toulouse MS 609 and the
Doat collection, which illuminate the functions and significance of talk and communication
in on-going attempts to physically evade the inquisitors. Despite the epistemological problems
related to the analysis of these textual representations of the deponents’ recollections
under interrogation, a careful interpretation of inquisition records shows that while oral
communication was a central part of the activities of the Good Men and their lay supporters,
and could often facilitate escape from imminent arrests, talk was always at least potentially a
double-edged sword: the spread of sensitive information was difficult to control, and it was not
always clear who could be trusted with it. Examining references to communication in relation
to avoidance of inquisitors enables us to read deeper into the intricacies of the social aspects of
religious dissidence in thirteenth-century Languedoc.
Keywords: communication, escape, heresy, inquisition, Languedoc, talk

112 Saku Pihko
remained the primary medium of communication.2 Talk formed the fabric of

life in medieval communities, where people were used to listening attentively
and remembering each other’s words, often in vivid detail, as information about
fellow community members carried immense social and juridical significance.3
Inquisitors looking for heretics in thirteenth-century Languedoc were very inter-
ested in information about talk in the local communities, and, because of this,
the written records of their investigations contain many references to things that
people spoke about.
This article examines the social aspects of talk in these communities subjected
to inquisitorial scrutiny. More specifically, focus is placed on the functions and
significance of spoken communication in the continuous game of high-stakes
hide-and-seek that went on between the authorities and the allegedly heretical
Good Men and their lay supporters. I will look at certain cases in thirteenth-
century Languedocian inquisition records,4 which show us something about the
myriad of ways in which talk could factor into situations where suspects physically
avoided capture or failed to do so. The specific question that I ask is: what can
these problematic records tell us about talk in relation to the practicalities of
secrecy and evasion? In addition, the more abstract question that I pose is: what
implications arise from a reading into the intricacies of communication for our
of the relationship between society and writing, leading to both quantitative and qualitative
changes in the use of written documents.
2
Gauvard, ‘Rumeur et stéréotypes’, p. 157; Richter, The Oral Tradition, p. 32. Lett and
Offenstadt, ‘Les pratiques du cri’, p. 5 note, borrowing from Zumthor, that people in the Middle
Ages lived in a société d’oralité mixte, where texts existed, but only few had access to writing, and
where communication was primarily oral and gestural.
3
Fenster and Smail, ‘Introduction’, p. 8–10; Kamensky, Governing the Tongue, pp. 12,
47–48; Migliorino, Fama e infamia, pp. 9, 46. For an overview on the historiography of medieval
communication in general, see, e.g., Gauvard, ‘Introduction’; Mostert, ‘New Approaches’.
4
The inquisition records that are referenced in this article can be found in MSS 23, 25,
and 26 of the Collection Doat of Bibliothèque nationale de France, Paris (of which MS 25 and
parts of MS 26 are edited and translated in Inquisitors and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and
Sneddon), and in MS 609 of Bibliothèque municipale, Toulouse, of which a high-quality version
is now made available online on the CNRS website ‘Bibliothèque virtuelle des manuscrits
médiévaux’ at <https://bvmm.irht.cnrs.fr/consult/consult.php?mode=vignettes&reproductio
nId=620&VUE_ID=-1&panier=false&carouselThere=false&nbVignettes=tout&page=1&a
ngle= 0&zoom= &tailleReelle=> [accessed 11 February 2019]. All Latin citations are from the
manuscripts, but the English translations of the citations from MS Doat 25 are from Inquisitors
and Heretics. The translations of the citations from MS Doat 23 and MS 609 are my own. On
the Doat collection in general, see, e.g., Albaret, ‘La collection Doat’. On MS 609 in general, see
Albaret, ‘Une enquête inquisitoriale’, pp. 188–92; Pegg, The Corruption of Angels, pp. 20–27.
talk, communication, and the avoidance of inquisitors 113
overall picture regarding the level of social cohesion among groups of alleged
heretics, and the role of individuals within them? The material allows us to draw
interesting conclusions on both levels.
It is relevant to understand the role of information and its historically defined
means of dissemination in both individual and collective action, as this contributes
to a deeper understanding of the phenomena in question and the experiences of
those involved.5 In our specific context, an examination of the social dynamics
related to talk and the avoidance of inquisitors offers an interesting viewpoint into
certain key-aspects of religious dissidence and persecution at the very grass-roots
level of thirteenth-century Languedoc. The approach taken here also presents
an opportunity to engage constructively with certain criticisms raised in recent
scholarship. For example, Mark Pegg has accused scholars of medieval heresy of an
uninterestedness in the lives of the ordinary people encountered in the sources.6
An assessment of quotidian talk and communication is one avenue through
which we can begin to pay more interest towards their existence in the past.
Talk and inquisitio heretice pravitatis

The procurement of socially relevant information is a part of life in any face-to-
face society.7 In the cramped towns and villages of medieval Languedoc, it was
often difficult to avoid hearing something suspicious,8 and vigilance towards what
was said was emphasized, as an integral part of inquisition into heretical depravity
was having members of the laity observe and report each other’s behaviour and
talk.9 People spoke a lot, and sometimes this talk could verge on the heretical in
the interpretations of community members, who grew to be more-or-less primed
towards wariness by years of on-and-off persecution. As deponents in heresy
inquisitions were obliged by oath to reveal everything they knew about heresy
— concerning both themselves and others — people were under a lot of pressure
to confess at least something, if only to seem less guilty themselves. Because of
this, the temptation to report a suspicious neighbour may have often been
5
Kamensky, Governing the Tongue, p. 10; Renouard, ‘Information et transmission des
nouvelles’, p. 95. Cf. also Wickham, ‘Gossip and Resistance’, p. 23 who notes that the analysis of
talk as a social practice is one way towards Geertzian ‘thick description’.
6
Pegg, ‘The Paradigm of Catharism’, p. 35. Somewhat similarly, Sparks, Heresy, Inquisition
and Life Cycle, p. 2, claims that historians of medieval heresy have been ‘relatively untouched by
the “rise of the laity” in the wider field of religious history.’
7
Kamensky, Governing the Tongue, p. 12.
8
Pegg, The Corruption of Angels, pp. 67–71. Cf. also Le Roy Ladurie, Montaillou, p. 38.
9
Cf. Ames, ‘Obeying God, Not Man’, pp. 39, 44–45.
114 Saku Pihko
overwhelming.10 In this atmosphere of mistrust, one had to be careful of what one

said, and to whom one said it, but despite caution, the pages of inquisition records
are flooded with references to talk reported to the authorities by the deponents.
Due to the inquisitor’s attention towards talk in the communities, their records
seem like a promising source for historians interested in the talk of alleged heretics
and in medieval communication in general. However, the traditional problem of
attempting to examine premodern talk is that it must always be done indirectly,
through texts or images that reference it in one way or another.11 Inquisition
records are situated at the epicentre of this problem: despite their seemingly
loquacious content, they are texts, defined in their entirety by inquisitorial
discourse.12 Inquisitors gathered information through oral testimony that
was prompted by questioning and were interested in both eyewitness and
hearsay evidence. After the interrogation, they completely appropriated this
information for their own investigative needs, having their notaries translate,
reword, truncate, and reorganize the answers given by the deponents into rigid
textual form for their archives.13 While writing permits the survival of at least
parts of the information once spoken, it always changes it through processes of
abstraction and selection,14 often omitting many nuances of oral communication,
for example, the visual and corporeal dimension of gestures.15 In the end, what we
are left with are written references to snippets of talk, which were first selected
by the deponents and filtered through their memory,16 then reselected by the
10
Barber, The Cathars, pp. 174–75, argues for this kind of atmosphere of at least potentially
rampant denunciations especially in the context of the so-called period of grace that often
preceded heresy inquisitions.
11
Paul, ‘La parole hérétique’, p. 287.
12
‘Inquisitorial discourse’ is a concept developed in Arnold, Inquisition and Power. It refers
to the authoritative yet heteroglossic language of inquisition records that defines the content
and mode of representation of the written information produced in the name of the legal-
religious agenda of inquisitio heretice pravitatis.
13
Cf. Lett, ‘La langue du témoin’, p. 92 who describes this process as a chaîne d’écritures,
in which a single oral enunciation was followed by many stages of writing and rewriting that
formed the extant record. Kuehn, ‘Fama as Legal Status’, p. 29, pushes the beginning of this
chain of transformations even further back, noting that the amorphous, fluid talk of the streets
changes and becomes the hierarchical talk of the courtroom upon entry into the legal context,
already before anything is written down.
14
Lett, Un procès de canonisation, p. 257.
15
On the importance of gestures in medieval culture, see, e.g., Schmitt, La raison des gestes.
16
Psychological research stresses the reconstructive nature of human memory. Memories
seem to be constructed anew at each moment of remembrance, cued and affected by the context
inquisitors and notaries for documentation, detached from their wider context,
and moulded into juridical proof of heresy. Due to this, the relationship between
the problematic text and the ephemeral phenomenon of talk in the past remains
fleeting at best, and must be evaluated on the case-by-case level.
Communication and the Everyday Challenges of Escape and Evasion

Despite the epistemological problems inherent to inquisition records, the sheer
variety of content related to talk makes the records a privileged vantage point
into the spoken world of medieval Languedoc. Reading through this material,
one is confronted by a cascade of references to things that people had spoken
about, with the level of detail ranging from dull and formulaic to extremely vivid.
According to the records, the deponents made constant reports of, for example,
people talking about the Good Men or to them, asking for their whereabouts or
for help in finding them, and of discussions related to someone’s consolamentum17
or the possibility of procuring one in the future.18 This kind of information was
at the forefront of the inquisitor’s professional interest as they looked to disrupt
these networks of communication, and is hence omnipresent in the records.
Although much is left in obscurity, it is nevertheless clear that talk was a vital
part of dissidence, and effective communication was often a prerequisite for
participation in the religious activities of the Good Men.19
of remembering. In the case of inquisition, stressful interrogation and rigid questioning came
with obvious effects on these reconstructions. On so-called autobiographical or recollective
memory in general, see, e.g., Conway, Autobiographical Memory. On memory and medieval
inquisition, see Bueno, ‘Dixit quod non recordatur’. For a useful general treatment of the
psychological factors of interrogation, see Gisli Gudjonsson, The Psychology of Interrogations.
17
The consolamentum (of which inquisitors usually used the term haereticatio) was a ritual
performed by the Good Men, towards which much devotional fervour seems to have been
directed by both them and their supporters. It was usually administered to a person on his or her
deathbed, but it was likewise the initiatory ritual to become a Good Man or a Good Woman for
those choosing to undergo this spiritual transformation already during their lifetime. For more
detail, see, e.g., Barber, The Cathars, pp. 90–94.
18
For cases regarding talk related to the Good Men and their rituals, see, e.g., MS Doat 23,
fol. 327r–v; MS Doat 25, fols 105v–106r, 253r–v.
19
Wickham, ‘Gossip and Resistance’, pp. 11–12, notes that social bonds within groups
are constructed and maintained, at least in part, by talk. Bruschi, The Wandering Heretics of
Languedoc, p. 169, notes that inquisitorial persecution probably even worked to tighten the
social networks of alleged heretics. For a general overview on communication and medieval
heresy, see Menache, The Vox Dei, pp. 213–41. On communication among the more orthodox
members of the medieval laity, see Krötzl, ‘How to Choose a Saint?’.
116 Saku Pihko
We will now turn our focus towards a specific subset within this wealth of
information related to talk that is included in thirteenth-century inquisition
records: cases in which we can glimpse something about the ways spoken com-
munication could affect situations where suspects were faced with the danger of
potential capture. These entries, often above average in detail, illuminate some
of the related social intricacies. There seems to have been so much talk going on
about the Good Men and those associating with them that it is no surprise that
some of it reached the ears of the authorities and resulted in problems for those
involved. Overall, the records point to the incessant difficulty of controlling the
flow of spoken information in the communities of Languedoc. Inquisitors actively
sought to tap into this information, and instead of only using it to accumulate
juridical evidence for their records, they also used it as operative knowledge in
their on-going attempts of arrest and seizure.
One of the individuals who felt the legal consequences of this impossibility
of completely managing the diffusion talk was Petrus de Beuvila.20 The record of
his interrogation from 1277, now extant in the Doat collection, reads that after
returning to his hometown of Avignonet after spending years in Lombardy, he
stayed in a house of a relative. People came to visit him, and he also sent word to
his two sons about his return but was captured by the inquisitor’s entourage before
having the chance to meet them.21 While the record contains disappointingly
little detail regarding communication related to these events, it would seem to be
the case that word of Beuvila’s return had spread in the community. People knew
they could come to talk with him, and for a while all was fine. However, as time
went by, news of his return apparently spread too much, leading to his arrest and
subsequent deposition.
While this kind of reading into the somewhat unexplicated nuances related to
the spread of information conducted above may be on the speculative side, other
cases provide more insight into similar processes. Telling proof regarding similar
uncontainability of spoken information can be found, for example, in the record
20
When citing by name individuals who appear in the records, I use the Latinized version
of the name used in the documentation, instead of attempting to guess the original Occitan
version. Lett, ‘Les noms des hommes,’, pp. 402–03, has criticized attempts of translating personal
nomenclature in the context of canonization records and emphasized the obscuring effects
of notarial conventions. However, when quoting directly from the translations of inquisition
records provided in Inquisitors and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and Sneddon, I quote the
anglicized names used therein.
21
MS Doat 25, fols 308r–309r (Inquisitors and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and Sneddon,
pp. 794–96). See, e.g., Roach, The Devil’s World, pp. 149–52, 156–58, for more details on Petrus
de Beuvila and his adventures in Lombardy.
of the interrogation of Raymundus Hugonis from 1274. During the beginning

of the 1270s, he was a key player in facilitating the activities of the Good Men
around his home village of Roquevidal, where he and his brother often lodged
alleged heretics in their home. The register reads that:
Bernarda venit ad ipsum testem dicens quod audiverat dicentem praedictum
Stephanum, virum suum quod haeretici erant venditi, et debebant capi in domo
ipsius testis unde consulebat ipsi testi quod caveret sibi hoc idem praedictus
Stephanus ipsa die in sero dixit ipsi testi consules quod modis omnibus faceret inde
eos extremare idest recedere si erant ibi […]. et ipso teste referente omnia praedicta
ipsis haereticis in ipsa nocte recesserunt inde ipsi haeretici praedicto Bernardo
fratre ipsius testis ducente, et associante eosdem qui Bernardus post redditum
suum retulit ipsi testi quod iverunt ad villam vel massetam de pradis ubi steterunt
in quodam manso quorumdam hominum prope dicti loci quorum nomina non
dixit testi […]. de tempore mensis est vel circa.22
(Bernarda came to the same witness, saying that she had heard the aforesaid Stephen,
her husband, saying that the heretics had been sold, and were to be captured in the
same witness’s house, on account of which she advised the same witness to look out
for himself. The aforesaid Stephen said the same thing to the same witness on the
same day, in the evening, advising him to take all means to remove them from there,
that is, for them to go away if they were there. […]. And when the same witness
recounted all the aforesaid things to the same heretics, the same heretics left there
the same night; with the aforesaid Bernard, the same witness’s brother, leading and
accompanying them. This Bernard, on his return, recounted to the same witness,
that they went to the town or farmstead of Prades, where they stayed in a certain
mas belonging to certain men of the aforementioned place, whose names he did
not tell the witness […]. About the time: it was a month ago or thereabouts.)23
The influence of inquisitorial discourse is clearly visible in this passage from the
record of Hugonis’s deposition, for example, in the indiscriminate use of the term
haeretici, quite possibly not part of the vocabulary of the people mentioned in
the register, and in the fact that this seemingly detailed information about oral
communication in relation to evading the authorities is only visible to us due
to it having been of high interest to the inquisitor. The information recalled by
the deponent was prime evidence, as it tied not only him and his brother but
also Bernarda and Stephanus into the inquisitors’ web of knowledge regarding
heretical activities in Roquevidal. In addition to being proof of the couple’s status
22
MS Doat 25, fol. 96r–v.
23
The passage is translated in Inquisitors and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and Sneddon,
p. 385.
118 Saku Pihko
as active supporters of heretics, it is possible that the communicative structure

of the events is represented in such unusually high detail in the record because
the case was very recent. Leaks of information regarding anti-heretical arrests
must have been a nuisance to the authorities, as their attempts could easily be
stymied as a result, which seems to have happened in this case. Documenting the
facts regarding those involved was probably of high interest, as it created at least
the potential to pursue the leak in retrospect, and perhaps even prevent similar
hindrances in the future.
Even with these interesting details of dissident communication and grass
roots agency in mind, we must remember that inquisition records do not contain
a recording of past speech related to the events, but a textual representation of it
serving a very specific juridical purpose.24 This allows us to catch only the general
content of the referenced communication and course of events in abstraction.
We can never know what was actually said during these or other events that are
referenced in the records, and such aspirations must be forgotten in the name
of methodological rigour. However, what does seem to lie within the realm of
possible knowledge is that the same information about the location of the Good
Men, which was so important to those wishing to associate with them, had
backfired and leaked to the wrong people, perhaps even for the sake of material
gain, leading to a potentially dangerous situation. Even so, although we can
never know where Stephanus had picked up on the rumour of the impending
arrests, it is worth underlining that somewhat identical difficulties in containing
vital information also made escape possible. In addition to this record, there are
numerous other references to somewhat similar cases, in which a warning issued
by a fellow community member enabled proactive evasion in comparable ways.25
24
Arnold, Inquisition and Power, p. 7.
25
See, e.g., MS Doat 23, fol. 183r for a case in which the deponent claimed that six weeks
prior certain named people had visited certain female haereticas and informed them that they
had been sold (note that after the numbered fol. 182r, the manuscript skips the running number
on the folio that is actually 183r, ensuing it then on the next folio as 183r. The reference here is to
the latter, numbered 183r); MS Doat 23, fol. 295r for a case in which the deponent claimed that
fourteen years earlier certain named people had sent him with letters containing information
about incoming arrests to give to a certain named man; MS Doat 23, fol. 295r–v for another case
in which the same deponent claimed that ten or twelve years ago he had been sent by certain
named people to warn others of incoming arrests; MS Doat 23, fols 327v–328r for a case in
which the deponent claimed that four years earlier he and other named individuals visited
certain haeretici at a cabin and notified them that they were going to be captured and that they
should leave; MS Doat 25, fols 142v–143r for a case in which the deponent claimed that the
prince of Apulia commanded all haeretici to leave a certain bastide in Lombardy because arrests
Inquisition records usually only show one side of the affairs. A certain case
allows us a glimpse into a similar dynamic as in the previous example, but from
an opposite perspective. Questioned by the inquisitors in 1277, Bernardus Barra
recalled events which he claimed had taken place thirty-five years earlier. The
record states that
ipse testis fuit familiaris Guillelmi de Bella Serra Capellani de Soricino qui fuit
prosecutor haereticorum et quadam nocte dictus Guillelmus de Bela Serra, et cum
eo ipse testis et P. Alagrini, et Raymundus de Bela Serra frater dicti Guillelmi, et
Stephanus Bubulcus dicti Guillelmi, et quidam alius cuius nomen nescit […] et
quidam valdo dominicus nomine […] posuerunt se in insidiis ad hostium domus
Petri Raymundi de Drulia militis, quia dictum fuerat praedicto Guillelmo de
Bela Serra quod ibi erant Arnaldus Hugonis Diachonus haereticorum, et socius
eius, et quod Petrus de Iusa, et Hugo den Galhart de Soricino adduxerant eos ibi
ad haereticandum dictum Militem infirmum aegritudine qua decessit, sed non
ceperunt dictos haereticos nec intraverunt domum, quia per parietem batalheriam
exparte alia fuerunt dimissi, et de dicta domo venerunt in domum Bernardi de
Sancta Fide, et inde cum fune eiecti sicut audierunt postea dici, et in Crastinum
invenerunt vestigium, audivit etiam tunc dici quod dictus Miles fuit tunc
haereticatus per dictos haereticos.26
(the same witness was a familiar associate of William of Belleserre, chaplain of

Sorèze, who was a prosecutor of heretics. And one night the said William of
Belleserre, and with him the same witness, and Peter Alagrin, and Raymond of
Belleserre, the said William’s brother, and Stephen, the said William’s cowherd,
and a certain other, whose name he does not know […] and a certain valdo named
Dominic […] waited in ambush at the door of the house of Peter Raymond of
Dreuilhe, knight, because the aforesaid William of Belleserre had been told that
Arnold Hugh, deacon of the heretics, and his companion were there, and that Peter
of Juzes and Hugh den Galhard of Sorèze had brought them there to hereticate the
said knight, sick with the illness of which he died. But they did not capture the said
heretics, nor did they enter the house, because they were sent away through the
where imminent (Inquisitors and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and Sneddon, pp. 470–71);
MS Doat 26, fol. 1v for a case in which the deponent claimed that twenty-six years earlier a
certain named man told the deponent and two haeretici he was with that he had heard it said
that the bailiff of Saint-Romain was coming to their place of residence to look for heretics, and
the men escaped through a hole in the wall (Inquisitors and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and
Sneddon, pp. 836–37). The identities of those claimed to be behind communicating some kind
of leaked information regarding incoming arrests seems to be visible in all of the cases, but at
least in the older ones, the networks of communication were probably documented for potential
prosecution rather than some kind of operative edge in on-going investigations.
26
MS Doat 25, fols 292v–293r.
120 Saku Pihko
fortification wall on another side, and from the said house came to the house of
Bernard of Sainte-Foy, and from there were hurried out with a rope — as they later
heard said. And on the next day they found their tracks. He also heard it said then
that the said knight was hereticated at that time by the said heretics.)27
Although this case differs in detail from the previous ones we examined, and
is under firm conceptual influence of inquisitorial discourse, it is nevertheless
demonstrative yet again of a similar uncontrollable spread of information in both
ways. Someone had tipped off the chaplain about what was going on, including
details about the identities of those involved. The chaplain had then gathered
a band of goons in order to seize the Good Men. However, word of their plans
must have reached the people inside of the house in one way or another, again
allowing effective evasion. Also telling of the existence and availability of related
information is the fact that the deponent later heard details about the Good
Men’s dramatic escape, and about the consolamentum performed on de Drulia.
It appears that this spoken information was not closed off to those willing to
listen, not even to those like Barra or the chaplain, who apparently held explicitly
negative sentiments towards the Good Men.
Other cases offer more details about the specific ways the sensitive information
about the location of the Good Men could sometimes spread to the wrong
people. The record of the interrogation of Alianus de Vauro in the Toulouse MS
609 reads that
ip(s)e t(estis) et […] frat(er) ip(s)i(u)s t(estis) rogaver(unt) b(er)narda(m)
[…] q(uo)d redderet eis her(eticos) et d(i)c(t)a b(er)narda p(ro)misit eis q(uo)
d redderet si posset et cu(m) ip(s)e t(estis) […] iret ad domu(m) ip(s)i(u)s b(er)
narde et q(uae)reret ip(s)e t(estis) a d(i)c(t)a b(er)narda si fec(er)at aliquid de h(er)
eticis respondit ip(s)a b(er)narda q(uo)d duo h(er)etici era(n)t. i(n) domo quos
ibi posset cap(er)e si vellet et ip(s)e t(estis) intravit domu(m) et invenit duos h(er)
eticos et cepit eos et vinctos dux(it) eos usq(ue) ap(u)d Vauru(m) et tradidit eos
baiulo d(i)c(t)e ville.28
(the same witness and […] the brother of the same witness asked Bernarda […] to
hand heretics over to them and the said Bernarda promised to hand them over if
27
The passage is translated in Inquisitors and Heretics, ed. by Biller, Bruschi, and Sneddon,
pp. 765–67.
28
Toulouse MS 609, fol. 236v; see fol. 222r for a similar case in which the deponent himself
claimed to have tipped off a local chaplain about two haereticas who were hiding in his house.
The chaplain told the deponent to leave them be, until they could find out if other heretics came
to visit them. The deponent told the chaplain that the other haeretica had two sons, who were
also haeretici, and that they were supposed to come there. Four days later, arrests ensued.
she could and when the same witness […] went to the house of the same Bernarda
and the same witness asked the said Bernarda if she could provide someone of the
heretics, the same Bernarda responded that two heretics were in the house whom
[the deponent] could capture there if he wanted to, and the same witness entered
the house and found two heretics and captured them and took them bound to
Lavaur, and handed them over to the bailiff of the said village.)
Based on this passage found in the documentation of the mass inquisition of

1245–1246, it would seem that it was often hard to know who could be trusted,
and if someone with ambivalent loyalties knew something, information could
very quickly spread to the wrong people. The case also hints that those individuals,
who wished harm to the Good Men, just like those who wished to associate with
them, were conscious of the potential availability of spoken information about
their whereabouts, and actively sought it out to use for their own sinister goals.
In similar regard, a certain case referenced in a record from 1243 reminds us
that it was not always self-evident to whom the location of the Good Men should
or should not be disclosed. The record of the deposition made by the knight
Guiraudus Colom reads that
cum […] avunculus ipsius testis infirmaretur […] ea infirmitate qua mortuus fuit
ipse testis venit […] ad videndum dictum infirmum, et invenit in domo ipsius
infirmi Gaucerandum de adalo, et Bertrandum Jarries milites qui dixerunt eidem
testi quaerentes utrum ipse testis volebat videre de bonis hominibus scilicet
haereticis et ipse testis dixit quod non, et alii dixerunt eidem testi in hac domo
sunt haeretici, et videatis eos et ipse testis dixit eis sciatis quod si essent in domo
ista ego facerem eos capi, si invenirem quis caperet eos hoc audito milites iam dicti
dixerunt sciatis, quod male dixistis ista, et ad huc propter hoc amittetis vitam, et
tunc ipse testis dixit eis ego non remanebo hic et his verbis finitis ipse testis exivit
domum, et milites remanserunt cum haereticis in domum, et […] ipse testis dixit
Breseg martino, et Sancho et aliis multis qui erant in domo tunc quod expellerent
ipsos haereticos a domo praedicta.29
(when […] the uncle of the same witness was sick […] of the sickness of which he
died the same witness went […] to see the said sick [uncle], and found in the house
of the said sick [uncle] knights Gaucerandus de Adalo and Bertrandus Jarries, who
spoke to the same witness asking if the same witness wanted to see the good men,
that is the heretics, and the same witness said he did not. And the others said to the
same witness: ‘there are heretics in this house, see them’. And the same witness told
them: ‘know that if they are in this house I will have them captured, if I find the
29
MS Doat 23, fols 152r–153r. Note also that the passage contains examples of references
to speech represented as first-person quotations. Despite aspirations towards homogeneity,
notarial practice was not always uniform in the ways that talk was transformed into writing.
122 Saku Pihko
one who captures them’. Hearing this the aforementioned knights said: ‘know that
what you are saying is bad, and now, because of it you will lose your life’. And then
the same witness told them: ‘I will not remain here’, and after these words the same
witness exited the house, and the knights remained in the house with the heretics,
and […] the same witness told Breseg Martino, and Sancho, and many others who
were then in the house to expel the heretics from the aforesaid house.)
After these vivid details, the record continues with typical answers to the
inquisitor’s line of questioning concerning, for example, if the deponent had
adored the heretics or if he was aware whether or not the sick uncle had received
the consolamentum. The record also shortly states that the deponent had rebuked
Gaucerandus de Adalo about his dealings with heretics,30 but other than this, no
further details are given about the events or the heated argument that took place
in the deponent’s uncle’s house. Due to this, we cannot know how the situation
unfolded afterwards, but what seems clear, is that people may have sometimes
been too careless in speaking about the Good Men to others and spreading
information regarding their whereabouts. It may have sometimes been difficult to
know, where the loyalties of an individual might lie, as they could be fragmented
even within kinship groups,31 as this case reminds us.
Conclusions
Inquisition records are a promising source material for the study of talk and
communication, as long as we understand their epistemological limitations, the
biggest of which being that the voices of the individuals in question are no longer
in any way available to us.32 The main reason for this comes down to the fleeting
30
MS Doat 23, fol. 153r.
31
Cf. Taylor, Heresy, Crusade and Inquisition, pp. 16–17, 111, 156–65, who argues con-
vincingly that the concept of the heretical family seems to be a simplification. In the fluid
social reality beyond the inquisitors, rigid records individuals within family structures formed
their own opinions about religious matters, and directed their personal devotion accordingly.
A similar dynamic is noted by Debergue, ‘Bonas Femnas and the Consolamen’, p. 535. Even so,
there is no denying the insights made in Given, Inquisition and Medieval Society, pp. 111–40,
that resistance was often organized on the basis of existing social structures, such as families
and villages. Looking at information related to talk is one way to nuance our understanding
of details related to individuals within these groups, and Given himself (pp. 185–86, 189–90)
notes that strains within these social structures could often be exploited by inquisitors.
32
Cf. Arnold, Inquisition and Power, p. 15, who notes that ‘ultimately, after whatever
cunning strategies have been deployed to reanimate the voices of the past, the dead must yet
retain their silences.’
oral nature of talk in the past and the obvious bias of the textual sources at our
disposal. Even so, the written vestiges of words spoken in the past should be of
great interest to historians of medieval heresy. Examining the social functions
of talk enables us to read deeper into the intricacies of religious dissidence in
thirteenth-century Languedoc.33
Based on the evidence we have looked at, it seems to be the case that in
thirteenth-century Languedoc talk was an integral part of the social navigation
that people were forced into, as inquisitorial persecution made life an oftentimes
difficult balancing act for those who chose to interact with alleged heretics.
Information that spread via talk was essential for the activities of the Good Men
and their supporters on a general level, and its importance often culminated in
a crisis situation, for example, when it allowed avoiding capture and subsequent
prosecution.34 However, the sources point to the incessant difficulty of controlling
the diffusion of this information. People talked a lot, anyone could hear anything,
and it was ultimately up to the individual to decide how he or she would then use
this information. Loyalties were fragmented, and we have seen how this orally
circulating information could be used towards conflicting goals.35 Based on this,
I find it safe to argue that talk was a double-edged sword in thirteenth century
Languedoc. Things people spoke about could just as well lead to the arrest of a
key suspect or blunder the inquisitors attempts altogether. The potential success
or failure of heretical self-defence often hung in a delicate balance, which could
quickly shift as a result of a single whisper or town gossip. Talk could be a weapon
for the less powerful,36 but it could also be their ruin, depending on the situation
and the individuals involved.
This kind of fragmentariness and unpredictability, unearthed by the reading
we have conducted, also carries subtle implications for our picture regarding the
33
My wider on-going research deals with the construction of information in Languedocian
inquisition records, and the significance of communication and interpretation of information in
the religious dissidence of the Good Men and their supporters, and in the persecution that was
mounted against them.
34
The appreciation towards the importance of grass-roots level communication in the
activities of alleged heretics and in the resistance they mounted against their persecutors is one
way to answer the call for the attribution of agency to the dissidents in our historical explanations,
which has been voiced by Bruschi, The Wandering Heretics of Languedoc, pp. 6–7, 46–47.
35
Cf. Gísli Sigurðsson, ‘Orality Harnessed’, p. 22, who notes in the context of oral culture
in medieval Iceland that ‘the body of oral knowledge was protean and ever-changing, subject to
the external circumstances at any given time, to the individuals who maintained it and passed it
on, to the prevailing political and social conditions, [and] to its audience’.
36
Cf. Walker, ‘Whispering Fama’, p. 25.
124 Saku Pihko
level of social cohesion that can be said to have existed among those who partook
in dissident activities. One of the built-in assumptions of inquisitorial discourse
is that it positions the people that are mentioned in the records as members of a
clandestine but clear-cut talking group. This is done by representing the suspects
as communicating almost exclusively with other assumed supporters of the Good
Men, or the Good Men themselves, mostly about their shared, allegedly heretical
agenda. This kind of frozen snapshot, often devoid of contextual information,
effectively obscures the fluidity of social life and the transient nature of individual
loyalties and motivations. However, when we look more closely at certain
illuminating cases, as we have done here, it begins to seem that we are dealing
with a much more fluid state of affairs: a complex, vacillating network of spoken
information, available at different times and situations to various members of
the surrounding community to do with as they saw best. Because of this, I would
argue for the vital role of the individual as both the interpretative nexus of talk,
and as the prime instigator of subsequent action, which, then, opens the door
towards seeing the continuous potential for flux within these ephemeral group
structures.37 An approach that builds on this insight can help us understand things
from the inside out,38 place much needed focus on individuals within assumed
devotional groups,39 and make a more systematic attempt of imagining medieval
quotidian existence in the richness of all its nuance.40 All of this, I believe, is a way
to work towards what John Arnold has seen as the lofty, yet incomplete objective
of thinking ‘about religion as something truly “lived”, with all the complexity that
that implies’.41
37
A close reading into the micro level intricacies of face-to-face communication serves as an
important complementary partner to the macro level research on inquisition records that uses
network analysis methodologies, which is currently being developed by such scholars as David
Zbíral, Delfi-Isabel Nieto-Isabel, and Jean-Paul Rehr.
38
Cf. Schmitt, ‘Une histoire religieuse’, p. 83.
39
Cf. Pegg, ‘Innocent III’, p. 300, who states that: ‘[u]ne nouvelle histoire doit être écrite […].
Une histoire qui soit plus précise historiquement et plus élaborée au plan méthodologique, plus
attentive aux hommes, aux femmes et aux enfants accusés d’hérésie, tout comme aux individus
qui ont consciemment choisi d’être hérétiques’.
40
Cf. Pegg, ‘The Paradigm of Catharism’, p. 35 where he criticizes scholars of the inability
‘to fully imagine quotidian existence in the past, even if inclined to do so’.
41
Arnold, ‘Histories and Historiographies’, p. 39.
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Lett, Didier, ‘La langue du témoin sous la plume du notaire : témoignages oraux et
rédaction de procès de canonisation au début du xive siècle’, in L’autorité de l’écrit au
Moyen Âge (Orient-Occident): xxxixe congrès de la SHMESP (Le Caire, 30 avril–5
mai 2008) (Paris: Publications de la Sorbonne, 2009), pp. 89–105
—— , ‘Les noms des hommes, des filles et des épouses dans les Marches d’après le procès de
canonisation de Nicolas de Tolentino (1325)’, Mélanges de l’École française de Rome –
Moyen Âge, 119.2 (2007), 401–13
—— , Un procès de canonisation au Moyen Âge: essai d’histoire sociale. Nicolas de Tolentino,
1325 (Paris: Presses Universitaires de France, 2008)
Lett, Didier, and Nicolas Offenstadt, ‘Les pratiques du cri au Moyen Âge’, in Haro ! Noël !
Oyé ! Pratiques du cri au Moyen Âge, ed. by Didier Lett and Nicolas Offenstadt (Paris:
Publications de la Sorbonne, 2003), pp. 5–41
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dico nei secoli xii e xiii (Catania: Editrice Giannota, 1985)
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Medieval Communication, ed. by Marco Mostert (Turnhout: Brepols, 1999), pp. 15–37
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Fanjeaux, 47 (2013), 287–307
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(Princeton: Princeton University Press, 2005)
—— , ‘Innocent III, les “pestilentiels Provençaux” et le paradigme épuisé du catharisme’,
Cahiers de Fanjeaux, 50 (2015), 279–309
—— , ‘The Paradigm of Catharism; or, the Historians’ Illusion’, in Cathars in Question,
ed. by Antonio Sennis, Heresy and Inquisition in the Middle Ages, 4 (York: York
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(Paris: Gallimard, 1961), pp. 95–142
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Salita dei Frati’, Lugano, 17–19 maggio 1990, ed. by Fernando Lepori and Francesco
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160 (1998), 3–24
Self-Defence and its Limits
in Marguerite Porete’s
Mirror of Simple Souls*
Justine L. Trombley
T he story of Marguerite Porete has become iconic in the history of heretical

mysticism.1 Marguerite composed the Mirror — a mystical treatise describing
the Soul’s journey to becoming ‘annihilated’ in union with God — in Old French
in the last decade of the thirteenth century. Sometime between 1297 and 1305,
the Mirror was condemned as heretical by Guido of Collemezzo, the bishop of
Cambrai, and Marguerite was ordered not to possess or circulate it again. She
was later found to have contradicted this order and had again possessed her
book. Marguerite was taken to Paris and given into the custody of William of
* I would like to express my thanks to Rob Lutton, Claire Taylor, and Peter Darby for
inviting me to present the paper upon which this article is based at the ‘Heretical Self-Defence’
conference held at Nottingham in April 2018, and for their editorial efforts on this special
issue. I am also grateful to the reviewer and to Sean Field for helpful comments and suggestions.
1
The standard account of Marguerite’s trial and its aftermath is Field, The Beguine, the
Angel, and the Inquisitor.
Justine L. Trombley ([email protected]) is Leverhulme Early Career

Fellow in the Department of History at the University of Nottingham
Abstract: This article examines how Marguerite Porete defended her ideas in her mystical
treatise The Mirror of Simple Souls, which along with its author was condemned as heretical in
1310. Most scholarship has focused on the final sixteen chapters of the Mirror as evidence of
Marguerite’s self-defence. This article shows that Marguerite was concerned with defending her
ideas throughout the course of composing the Mirror, and not merely while writing the final
chapters. By focusing on two key concepts in the Mirror which were singled out at her trial in
Paris, this article demonstrates how Marguerite repeatedly presented these concepts in ways
which were meant to shield them from criticism. The article then examines the reactions of two
later readers of the Mirror to these defences, exploring their successes and failures and the vastly
different ways in which they could be interpreted.
Keywords: Marguerite Porete, Mirror of Simple Souls, heresy, textual reception, defence,
mysticism

130 Justine L. Trombley
Paris, inquisitor and confessor to Philip IV the Fair of France.2 Here she refused
to take the inquisitorial oath and confess, and was imprisoned for a year and a
half. Finally, in the spring of 1310, at the request of William of Paris, five canon
lawyers reviewed her case and pronounced her a relapsed heretic. Twenty-one
theologians were likewise consulted on at least fifteen articles taken from her
book, of which we know only three, and judged it heretical.3 Marguerite was
publicly sentenced on 31 May 1310, and on the next day, 1 June, after moving
the watching crowd to tears with ‘many signs of penitence, both noble and
devout’, she was burned at the stake.4
One of the most enduring images from this story is Marguerite’s defiance:
her decision to continue to possess her book despite Guido’s condemnation,
and her refusal to formally confess to William of Paris. These actions have taken
Marguerite’s reputation through several personas: a contumacious heretic, a
self-incriminating madwoman, a silent victim of persecution, a defiant martyr
for intellectual freedom, a disillusioned adherent to the Church. Scholars have
commented that some of Marguerite’s defiance — such as her recirculation of
her book — can be seen as neither madness nor deliberate antagonism, but rather
a form of self-defence, born of a genuine desire on her part to be perceived as
orthodox.5 The strongest example of this desire is Marguerite’s acquisition of
the opinions of three churchmen on her work, which she attached to the Mirror
itself; each man offered qualified praise of the work, and did not find it heretical.6
Such an acquisition can clearly be seen as an effort to garner support for her work.
The most often cited textual effort at defence by Marguerite is the modifica-
tions she may have made to her book after the first condemnation in Valenciennes.
2
On the events leading up to Marguerite’s second arrest, see Piron, ‘Marguerite in
Champagne’, and Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor, pp. 39–62.
3
On these events, see Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor, pp. 85–166;
Courtenay, ‘Marguerite’s Judges’; Kelly, ‘Inquisitorial Deviations and Cover-Ups’.
4
The quotation is from the Continuator of the Chronicle of Guillaume de Nangis,
translated by Field in The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor, p. 234.
5
See Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor, pp. 46–55; Newman, ‘Annihilation
and Authorship’, p. 616.
6
The appraisals can be found at the end of the Latin translation and the beginning of the
Middle English; it does not appear in the Chantilly French. See Le Mirouer des Simple Ames/
Speculum Simplicium Animarum, ed. Guarnieri and Verdeyen (hereafter Mirouer/Speculum),
pp. 405–09, and The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, pp. 249–250. The names of the churchmen are John
of Quievrain, a Franciscan; Franc, a Cisterican monk of Villers; and Godfrey of Fontaines, a
famed master of theology at the University of Paris. On Marguerite’s dealings with Godfrey, see
Field, ‘Master and Marguerite’.
self-defence and its limits 131
Many have suggested that Chapters 123–39 were added to the Mirror after
this initial condemnation, as they have a distinctly different tone from the rest
of the work and attempt to explain and clarify some of her ideas using biblical
metaphors and first-person reflections. 7 But how much and in what way
Marguerite might have revised her work is a deeply complicated question that
remains to be fully investigated.8 Recently, Sylvain Piron has suggested that these
chapters may not necessarily post-date the Valenciennes condemnation, and that
the Mirror’s composition process, rather than being linear, was perhaps more an
amalgamation of several existing pieces brought together by the author.9
A focus on these final few chapters as the primary example of Marguerite’s
self-defence means that less attention has been paid to how Marguerite may have
constructed defences in other sections of her work.10 In particular, there has been
little detailed exploration of how Marguerite may have defended the specific
points which would eventually be singled out and condemned at her trial, all
of which come from earlier chapters in the Mirror. Such an investigation need
not be constrained by a pre-condemnation vs. post-condemnation framework,
particularly in light of Piron’s theory of a non-linear composition of the Mirror.
As has been pointed out, someone or something drew Guido of Collemezzo’s
attention to Marguerite and her Mirror.11 It is reasonable to assume that her work
attracted criticism before its public condemnation in Valenciennes, and equally
reasonable to believe that Marguerite herself was aware — and concerned — from
the outset that her ideas may be taken amiss by some of her readers.12 Therefore,
‘defence’ here can be taken on three levels: defence in reaction to condemnation,
defence against received criticism, and pre-emptive defence against anticipated
criticism. Since it is impossible (at the moment) to know precisely what went
7
Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor, pp. 46–49; Newman, ‘Annihilation and
Authorship’, p. 616; Newman, Medieval Crossover, pp. 142–43; McGinn, ‘Evil-Sounding, Rash,
and Suspect of Heresy’, p. 196 n. 3; introduction to The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and
Marler, p. xli. Lerner argues against this in ‘New Light’, p. 100.
8
Field points to this issue as one of twelve ‘major questions’ that still remains in Marguerite
and Mirror studies; Field, ‘Debating the Historical Marguerite’, pp. 26–27.
9
Piron, ‘Marguerite in Champagne’, pp. 136–38.
10
Michael Bailey has recently highlighted some of the other areas in which Marguerite
attempts to defend her work; see Bailey, ‘Magic, Mysticism, and Heresy’, pp. 65–66.
11
Piron, ‘Marguerite in Champagne’, pp. 146–47; Van Engen, ‘Marguerite of Hainaut’, p. 61.
12
Van Engen notes that the Mirror hints at ‘tensions’ surrounding its content; ‘Marguerite of
Hainaut’, pp. 58–61. Bernard McGinn also hints at this thread of concern, commenting that the
Mirror seems to be ‘flaunting its extreme statements at the same time that it often seeks to qualify
them and to protect its essential orthodoxy’; McGinn, The Flowering of Mysticism, p. 253.
into the Mirror at what stage, the defences discussed here will not be considered
as the result of any specific incident, but instead will have all three serve as the
background.
My focus in this piece is not on the final section of the Mirror but rather on
two main concepts in the text which were explicitly singled out as proof of the
Mirror’s heresy during Marguerite’s trial in Paris. These are arguably the points
from the Mirror which attracted the most attention and controversy both in the
Middle Ages and in modern scholarship. They are:
That the annihilated soul gives license to the virtues and is no longer in servitude
to them, because it does not have use for them, but rather the virtues obey its
command.13
That the Soul annihilated in love of the Creator, without blame of conscience or
remorse, can and ought to concede to nature whatever it seeks and desires.14
There are three purposes for this choice: First, I want to suggest that controversy
and potential criticism were concerns for Marguerite throughout her composition
of the Mirror, rather than something which only preoccupied her when writing
the final chapters of her book.15 Second, focusing on the extracts from her trial
allows us to analyse how Marguerite presents points from her work which are
13
From the theologians’ judgement of the Mirror, Latin printed in Verdeyen, ‘Le procès
d’inquisition’, p. 51. The English is taken from Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor,
p. 128.
14
From the continuation of the chronicle of Guillaume de Nangis: Latin in Verdeyen, ‘Le
procès’, p. 88; English from Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor, pp. 128 and 234.
For useful tables showing the concordance between the trial excerpts and passages in the Mirror,
see Field, Lerner, and Piron, ‘A Return to the Evidence’, p. 161. I have not included the third
error, ‘That such a soul does not care about the consolations of God or his gifts, and ought not
to care and cannot, because [such a soul] has been completely focused on God, and its focus on
God would then be impeded’ (Verdeyen, ‘Le procès’, p. 51; Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and
the Inquisitor, p. 224), as it was not specifically commented on by later readers, and Marguerite
herself does not seem to have focused on explaining it as she did the other two.
15
Sean Field, among others, has noted that scholars looking to use the Mirror as an avenue
to Marguerite herself have to proceed carefully, as the copies of the Mirror which have come
down to us — and upon which modern editions are based — are all far removed from the time
of the Mirror’s composition, and there are numerous variations between the various traditions. It
is, however, safe to assume that where the content between traditions matches, then the general
idea — if not the mode of expression — was a product of Marguerite, and not the addition of
later scribes. See Field, ‘Debating the Historical Marguerite’, p. 20. Particularly troublesome are
Chapters 121–37, as the French, Middle English, and Latin versions all share various — and
differing — lacunas in these sections.
known for certain to have been controversial during her lifetime and beyond.
Third, I have selected these two points because we have specific written reactions
to them from later medieval readers of the Mirror. This allows for a glimpse into
how these defences fared in the Mirror’s wider reception. These three aims allow
for an assessment of self-defence regarding both Marguerite Porete’s possible
mindset, and what effect — if any — these defences had upon later readers of the
Mirror, detached from the events of her trial.16
The Mirror’s Internal Defences

The Mirror takes the format of a trialogue between the voices of Love, the Soul,
and Reason; other voices, such as Truth or Pure Courtesy, occasionally interject
their own comments. Love and the Soul explain the main ideas of the Mirror,
sometimes of their own prompting but often in response to the questions or
exclamations of Reason. Reason serves as the uncomprehending voice in the
Mirror, representing those who do not understand the spiritual status which Love
and the Soul describe. Marguerite explicitly presents Reason as the voice which
rules the institutional Church.17 Constantly asking questions, expressing shock,
and occasionally being insulted by the Soul, Reason is often both a punching bag
and the springboard for Marguerite’s ideas, as her shocked questions and cries
of dismay prompt explanations from Love or the Soul which expand upon key
concepts. This moves the narrative forward and allows Marguerite to present her
ideas in a (relatively) straightforward and recognizable format.18 It also reinforces
the idea that Reason is an impediment to annihilation, and that debating and
overcoming Reason’s constant queries is a crucial goal of the Soul’s journey.
This format in and of itself could have served as a defensive layer. By expressing
her ideas not in the first person but through the personas of various characters,
Marguerite employs an age-old device that puts a slight distance between herself
and what her Mirror says, and as a result places it in a more allegorical, rather
than literal, realm.19 Within this format, the voice of Reason itself also serves as
a tool of self-defence. In voicing dismay, fear, and bewilderment, Reason may be
16
My focus here is on the way in which Marguerite presented her ideas in the text and how
they were later perceived, rather than with the theological implications of her ideas and whether
they were truly ‘orthodox’ or ‘unorthodox’.
17
For example, in Chapter 43; Mirouer/Speculum, p. 133.
18
On the parallels between the treatment of Reason in courtly love literature and the
Mirror, see Newman, Medieval Crossover, pp. 153–160.
19
On functions of the dialogue format, see Piehler, The Visionary Landscape, pp. 31–33.
a self-conscious representation of Marguerite’s critics.20 Reason’s cries of shock,

in addition to prompting Love’s and the Souls’ explanations, can also be seen
as acknowledgements of the jolt that readers themselves may feel when reading
some of Marguerite’s statements on virtuous behaviour and institutional Church
practices.21
Such an undercurrent can be clearly seen when we turn to the ideas condemned
during Marguerite’s trial. The first, concerning the Soul’s freedom from the
Virtues, first appears in Chapter 6 of the Mirror. Here the Soul does indeed
state that it is free of the Virtues and rejoices in this freedom, characterizing
her servitude to the Virtues as slavery and torment.22 A little later in the text, in
Chapter 8, Reason expresses her concern:
Ah, Love, says Reason, who understands only the obvious and fails to grasp what
is subtle, what strange thing is this? This Soul experiences no grace, she feels no
longings of the spirit, since she has taken leave of the Virtues, which give to every
pious soul a form of good life, and without these Virtues no-one can be saved or
attain to perfect living, and with them no-one can be deceived; and none the less this
Soul takes leave of them. Is she not out of her mind, this Soul who talks like that?23
This amazed speech serves several purposes. First, the reader is reminded that
Reason is unable to understand ‘the subtle’. By having Reason then repeat the
standard view of the Virtues immediately after this, Marguerite makes it clear that
such a view is not a correct understanding of her words. Finally, by adding Reason’s
concerned statement on the state of the Soul’s sanity, the text is anticipating
not only a lack of understanding on the reader’s part, but also anticipates the
discomfort or dismay which such a statement on the Virtues may provoke. The
20
David Kangas comments that Reason’s statements sometimes ‘eerily […] cause her to
channel Porete’s inquisitors’; Kangas, ‘Dangerous Joy’, p. 302.
21
Paul Piehler notes that the reader is inclined to identify him- or herself with the questioner
in a dialogue, allowing for the process of conversion to the viewpoint being advocated by the
respondent; Piehler, The Visionary Landscape, p. 32.
22
Mirouer/Speculum, pp. 24 and 25; The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, pp. 254–255. Chapter
references are to the Chantilly chapter reckoning, which is used in the French and Latin critical
editions and the modern English translations. Danielle Dubois has shown how Marguerite’s
concept of leaving behind the Virtues aligns closely with some thirteenth-century scholastic
conceptions of natural and supernatural virtues; see Dubois, ‘Natural and Supernatural Virtues’.
23
English from The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler, p. 18. The Latin conveys
an even stronger sense of dismay: ‘Quomodo igitur haec anima sic effronte recedit a uirtutibus?
Amisitne sensum quae sic temerarie loquitur?’ (How then does this Soul brazenly recede from
the Virtues? Has she not lost her mind to speak so rashly?); Mirouer/Speculum, pp. 28 and 29
(my translation). The Middle English can be found in The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 257.
entire passage shows that Marguerite knows what she has written will shock, but
this self-conscious acknowledgement allows her to present such shock only as the
result of misunderstanding, rather than it being genuinely wrong.
Reason’s dismayed question, then, strengthens the second and more obvious
layer of defence, that of Love’s following explanation. Immediately after
Reason asks if the Soul has lost her mind, Love responds ‘No, not at all’.24 The
unencumbered Souls ‘possess the Virtues better than any other creature’, but do
not have the use of them, and the Virtues serve the Soul as their ‘mistress’.25
This effort to contextualize has been mentioned frequently, but less attention
has been paid to just how much Marguerite seems to have been concerned about
this issue. This passage was not left as the only defence of her statement on the
Virtues: Marguerite returned to this idea repeatedly and explained it multiple
times. Each time, the explanation is prefaced by statements of confusion,
amazement, or dismay, by either Reason or the Virtues themselves. For example,
in Chapter 19, the Virtues of Faith, Hope, and Charity ask ‘Who are [these
Souls], and where are they, and what do they do?’26 Here, Love is the one who is
surprised. In an almost chastizing tone, Love wants to know why they ask these
questions. Faith, Hope, and Charity already know where these Souls are, because
they are with them ‘at every moment of time’ and make the Soul noble.27 Love
speaks as if it should be self-evident that these Souls are served by the Virtues.
‘Why should they not?’, she demands, ‘Are not all the Virtues praised and written
about and commended because of these Souls, not the Souls because of the
Virtues?’28 Once again, Marguerite steers around the idea of moral abdication by
reiterating that the Virtues are still with the Soul, and that the Soul itself exalts
24
The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler, p. 18; Mirouer/Speculum, p. 29; The
Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 257.
25
The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler, p. 18; Mirouer/Speculum, p. 31; The
26
The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler, p. 38; Mirouer/Speculum, pp. 74–75;
The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 272. This passage also contains an awareness of criticism, as it
continues: ‘Reveal them to us by Love, who knows everything, and so they will be set at rest
who, hearing this book, are dismayed. For all Holy Church, if she were to hear it read, would be
dismayed by it, say these three divine Virtues.’
27
The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler, p. 39; Mirouer/Speculum, pp. 74–75; The
Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 272. Dubois notes that Faith, Hope, and Charity, as divine virtues, are
not meant to be counted amongst the ‘lesser’ virtues from which the Soul has been freed; see
Dubois, ‘Natural and Supernatural Virtues’, p. 184.
28
the Virtues. And, again, she reinforces the explanation with a comment on the
Church’s lack of understanding: ‘But who they are — to speak of their worth and
dignity — neither you nor they know that, and so Holy Church cannot know it.’29
The same formula appears again in Chapter 21. Here, seemingly with no
prompt, Reason once again gets anxious about the Soul’s freedom from the
Virtues:
Now, Love, says Reason, I have still another question to put to you; for this book says
that this Soul takes leave of the Virtues in all matters, and you say that the Virtues
are always with such Souls, more perfectly than with anyone else. These are two
contradictory statements, it seems to me, says Reason; I cannot understand them.30
‘Let me set your mind at rest’, says Love.31 She repeats the argument from Chapter
8, that the Souls have only taken leave of the use of the Virtues, and then adds
that the Soul ‘has within her everything which the Virtues are able to teach, and
infinitely more’, because she has been transformed into Divine Love.32
In the final example, from Chapter 56, we find a more explicit
acknowledgement of how Marguerite’s conception of the Virtues might appear
to readers. The Virtues themselves complain that they are given little honour
by Love and the Soul because they label those who live by the Virtues’ counsel
as ‘lost’: ‘Truly, if anyone said this to us, say the Virtues, we should hold him
for a heretic and a bad Christian.’33 But, the Virtues are not merely accusing the
Soul here. They cannot understand how anyone can be ‘lost’ by following their
precepts, but, despite this, ‘we believe perfectly and with no element of doubt
in all that you say’.34 They don’t understand it because ‘understanding it is not
part of our office’, but, whatever understanding they may have, they still serve the
29
The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 272. Bailey also uses this passage as an example of Marguerite’s
awareness of the ‘inscrutability’ of her work; Bailey, ‘Magic, Mysticism, and Heresy’, pp. 65–66.
30
31
32
The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler, pp. 40–41; Mirouer/Speculum,
pp. 78–81; The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, pp. 273–274.
33
The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 296. The Middle English just has ‘yuel cristen’; the Latin goes a
step further and adds ‘infidel’ (infideli) before ‘bad Christian’ (malo christiano).
34
The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 296.
Soul through the direction of divine love.35 Marguerite (or, rather, the Soul), then
addresses her audience directly:
And so I say to all who will hear this book: Whoever serves a poor lord for long can
expect a poor reward and little payment. Now it is so, that the Virtues have realised
and perceived clearly, as those who have been willing to hear have heard, that they
have no understanding of the state of being of Perfect Love.36
Here Marguerite relies solely on a lack of understanding as her defence. Her

concept of the Virtues is explicitly framed by heresy (or at least as the belief of
a ‘bad Christian’), but it is then made clear that such a perception is only the
result of an inability to understand. The tone, though, is slightly more defiant
here: rather than explain again, Marguerite instead emphasises how poor
understanding is what keeps such ideas from seeming acceptable, rather than any
real deficiency in the concept itself.
This awareness of potential misinterpretation also appears in regard to another
point excerpted at her trial, in which the Soul gives to Nature all it asks without a
troubled conscience. This can first be located in Chapter 9, where it is written that
the Soul ‘does not desire sermons or masses’ and ‘gives to Nature all that it asks
without remorse of conscience’.37 This passage is sometimes used as the prime
example of the Mirror not getting a fair hearing, due to the fact that reading it
out of context omits the following qualifying sentence: ‘But this Nature is so well
ordered through having been transformed in the union with Love, to whom this
Soul’s will is joined, that it never asks anything which is forbidden.’38 This qualifier
is not, however, present in the Middle English, and there has been some doubt as
to whether it was instead a later addition by another scribe, and not Marguerite’s
own words.39 This does not mean, however, that Marguerite made no attempt to
explain or defend this statement, merely that this specific sentence is missing. The
rest of the surrounding text and this point’s reappearance later in the book makes
it clear that Marguerite did attempt to defend this point. Even without the more
35
36
37
38
The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler, p. 20; Mirouer/Speculum, pp. 32–33.
39
Lerner notes this omission in ‘New Light’, p. 103; Colledge and Guarnieri also note it in
‘The Glosses’, pp. 362–63.
explicit qualifying statement, after the passage in Chapter 9 there still follows an
explanation that is meant to push against notions of licentiousness: ‘Such a Soul
is not concerned about what it lacks, except at the needful time; and none but
the innocent can be without this concern.’40 This is less direct than the statement
missing from the Middle English, but it still gets at the same message: the Soul is
in a state of innocence and therefore is not pursuing illicit things, nor does it have
any care for anything outside its innocent state. Reason, though, is not entirely
satisfied with this. While her reaction is more puzzled than alarmed regarding
this point, she still expresses her amazement with one of her favourite phrases:
‘For God’s sake, what does this mean?’ Love then provides a familiar explanation:
Those who persist in obedience to the Virtues, as well as ‘every teacher of natural
wisdom, every teacher of book-learning’, will not be able to properly understand
this point. Only those who seek ‘Perfect Love’ will understand.41
A little later, in Chapter 13, the statement on conceding everything to Nature
is restated, not by Love but by Reason.42 Reason calls this point ‘astonishing’,
then proclaims her confusion and follows up by stating what she thinks spiritual
perfection entails: one should desire sermons, prayers, and so forth, and should
deny Nature what it asks. Once again, Reason concedes that her understanding
is poor and then declares that she is, in fact, in obedience to Love and the Soul,
a statement for which Love commends her. Answering Reason’s confusion,
Love explains that, rather than utterly rejecting poverty, sermons, shame, and so
forth, the Soul is rather just indifferent to them, since in the state of annihilation
she cannot be troubled by such things.43 The issue returns one more time in
Chapter 17: Love again states that the Soul concedes to Nature whatever it asks
and repeats that the Soul is indifferent to temporal things. She then adds that
to refuse Nature’s demands would disrupt the Soul’s ‘innocence’ and ‘peace’ in
which they exist. Once again, a comment on ‘correct’ understanding is integrated
into the explanation.44
40
41
pp. 34–35; The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 260.
42
pp. 54–55; The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 266.
43
pp. 56–59; The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, pp. 266–67.
44
‘But such creatures are so excellent that one dares not openly talk of this, especially of
their customs, which give them a state of being where they understand as should be understood;
In each of these examples, we can discern a consistent model of defence

made of several components. First and most obvious are the explanations and
clarifications themselves. Marguerite makes sure to point out that freedom from
the Virtues, indifference to pious actions and feelings, and giving to Nature
all it asks does not entail anything sinister or licentious.45 But it could be said
that the more crucial defensive element is her acknowledgement of how her
statements may be found shocking, wrong, or even heretical. The surprise and
alarm with which Reason and the Virtues address these concepts can be seen
as a self-conscious representation of criticism, either real or anticipated.46 By
acknowledging the shock value of her ideas, Marguerite then attempts to defuse
them by directly addressing these fears and pointing to their cause, which leads
us to the crux of Marguerite’s self-defence: if some spiritual thinkers resorted
to what Robert Lerner has famously called the ‘ecstasy defence’ to fend off
accusations of heresy, then Marguerite could be said to resort to an ‘esoteric
defence’.47 As Michael Bailey has pointed out, Marguerite was generally aware
of the ‘inscrutability’ of her words and took pains to acknowledge this as part
of her defence.48 In each of the above examples, Marguerite’s explanation of her
ideas is repeatedly coupled with statements that most readers will be unable to
comprehend her words. Furthermore, this tactic is strengthened by linking it to
Reason and the Virtues’ dismay and confusion. By having the ‘unenlightened’
voices cry out in shock, Marguerite clearly links those feelings of discomfort to
an inability to understand. This allows Marguerite to present others’ shock over
her ideas merely as a misunderstanding, rather than any true error on her part.
Importantly, it is not only the voices of Love and the Soul calling Reason and the
Virtues ignorant. The latter two voices themselves admit that their understanding
but there are few who taste such understanding’; The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and Marler,
pp. 36–37; Mirouer/Speculum, pp. 68–71; The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, pp. 270–71.
45
These are some of the exact accusations that the Mirror’s critics would make against it
later on; see below.
46
Dubois also notes that Marguerite recognised the potential for controversy over her
statement on the Virtues; Dubois, ‘Natural and Supernatural Virtues’, p. 179 n. 14.
47
Lerner, ‘Ecstatic Dissent’.
48
Bailey, ‘Magic, Mysticism, and Heresy’, pp. 64–66. This is not to say that the Mirror’s
esotericism exists only as a defence, as it also plays into Marguerite’s concepts of social and
spiritual elitism, but merely that in these specific passages it also serves a defensive purpose.
Jennifer Schuberth also notes the Mirror’s reliance on resisting interpretation, but characterizes it
more as defiant ‘anti-interpretation rhetoric’ aimed at resisting Church models of interpretation,
rather than a defensive mechanism aimed at reconciling with such models; see Schuberth, ‘Holy
Church is Not Able to Recognise Her’.
is inadequate, and that, despite their inadequacies, they still believe what Love
and the Soul say and accept their statements as true. All of this serves to soften
the Mirror’s more daring expressions. Therefore, Marguerite defends her ideas by
both explaining her concepts and pointing out her critics’ inabilities.
The way in which these defences appear in the text is also telling. They are not
presented and explained once, then left alone: instead, we see Marguerite raising
these points repeatedly throughout the text. Reason queries them multiple times,
and Love or the Soul repeat their explanations. Often these points reappear
suddenly, with no connecting thread from the previous discussion. This may also
be part of Marguerite’s defence, repeating a point several times to solidify her
argument and fix it in the audience’s mind. It perhaps also indicates that Marguerite
felt compelled to revisit these points multiple times during the composition
process, prompted by repeated criticisms. Such a pattern also points toward the
more haphazard process of composition and compilation suggested by Piron.
Defences Put to the Test

We know that at least three churchmen saw Marguerite’s work as orthodox
during her lifetime (see above). But in the end, of course, Marguerite’s written
defences did not save her. It has in the past been suggested that the presentation
of these points to the Parisian theologians, as out-of-context passages, would
have stripped these ideas of their defences and therefore made the Mirror’s
condemnation almost a foregone conclusion.49 We have no way of knowing for
certain how the theologians came to their conclusion about the Mirror.50 But,
unlike Marguerite, the Mirror survived and went on to encounter many different
readers across late medieval Europe in anonymous French, English, Latin, and
Italian versions. Some of these readers left behind their own assessments of the
Mirror and commented on the same ideas and passages noted above. Two of
these readers — the translator of the Middle English version and an anonymous
canon lawyer who read a Latin version — will be the focus of the next section.
These two readers offer ideal opportunities to examine how the Mirror’s defences
were received when read in context.
49
For example, Lerner, Heresy of the Free Spirit, pp. 75–77; Epiney-Burgard and Zum
Brunn, Women Mystics, trans. by Hughes, pp. 144–46.
50
Troy Tice casts some light on how Thomas of Bailly, one of the twenty-one theologians,
may have approached Marguerite’s text; see Tice, ‘“Containing Heresy and Errors”’. I am grateful
to the author for allowing me to read this piece pre-publication. See also Field’s sketches of some
of the theologians in Field, The Beguine, the Angel, and the Inquisitor, pp. 133–43.
The first reader to be examined is the Middle English translator of the Mirror.
He (or she) is known only by the initials ‘M.N.’, which he appended on either
end of the glosses he made to his translation, which is thought to have been
completed in the late fourteenth or early fifteenth century.51 M.N. also provided
a prologue, in which he tells us that he had already translated the Mirror out of
French many years before but was now doing it again because some of it had been
‘mystake’, either meaning misunderstood or taken amiss.52 He confesses that he
is uneasy about the task, since the Mirror speaks of ‘high divine matters’ and is
expressed in mysterious and impenetrable language.53 In order to make sure that
its words are not ‘mistaken’ again, M.N. appends glosses to certain passages in
order to explain them more fully. In this, we see a reflection of Marguerite’s own
warnings about readers being unable to understand what the Mirror is saying.
This similarity continues in M.N.’s glosses.
Like those involved in Marguerite’s trial, M.N. singles out the Mirror’s
statement on the Virtues, clearly seeing it as a point which needs clarification.
Immediately after the Soul’s declaration of freedom from the Virtues in Chapter
6, he states: ‘I am stirred here to say more on this matter’.54 He then appends a
lengthy gloss. When the Soul served the Virtues, he writes, she endured ‘many
sharp pains and bitterness of conscience’ because serving the Virtues meant
constant warring against the vices. This vigilance against vice was what kept her
under the command of the Virtues, and at the outset of such striving ‘it is often
very sharp and hard’. But when she ‘has deeply tasted’ of divine Love once she
experiences union, ‘then the Soul is light and gladsome, for the sweet tastes of
Love drive out from the Soul all pains and bitterness and all doubts and dreads’.55
In this sense, when the Soul takes leave of the Virtues, she is really taking leave of
the painful toil and thraldom which resulted from fending off vice. She is then
the Lady of the Virtues, possessing and commanding them as her ‘subjects’.56
What we see in this gloss is M.N. both repeating and adding to Marguerite’s
own defences. He restates her explanation that the Virtues remain with and
serve the Soul, but adds a ‘backstory’. In this backstory, serving the Virtues is
specifically couched in terms of warring against the vices: the Soul does this at
51
On debates over M.N.’s identity and some potential candidates, see Stauffer, ‘Possibilities’,
pp. 264–92.
52
53
54
55
56
The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, pp. 255–56.
the Virtues’ command. It is this war which the Soul finds painful and exhausting,
not necessarily the Virtues themselves. So, in a sense, M.N. lays the blame for
the Soul’s pain in servitude more at the door of the vices, rather than the Virtues
themselves. Therefore, in M.N.’s telling, when the Soul joyously proclaims to
be free from service to the Virtues, it is rejoicing more in being free from the
onslaught of the vices. The Soul united to God has no need to war against the
vices because they no longer pose a threat to her, and therefore in being freed
from servitude to the Virtues she is also freed from the vices. This is arguably a
safer representation of the Soul’s spiritual transformation, wrapping it in more
traditional images of fighting vice and championing virtue.57 Such a portrayal
more forcefully guards against impressions of licentiousness and immorality by
making it explicit that those are the exact things which the Soul is leaving behind
when it declares itself free from the Virtues.
M.N. takes a similar tack with the statement on giving to Nature all that it
asks. His gloss first addresses the question of indifference to things like sermons,
fasting, and prayer. First, he explains that the Soul united to God has no will
nor desire, and therefore thinks on nothing that is beneath her state of union.
But there is also another understanding, he writes. It is not that the united Soul
abandons such actions entirely but rather the manner in which she does them
changes. She still performs these actions, but without any attachment or feeling
for them of her own, because it is Love and God’s will that works in her, rather
than her own will.58 These Souls are so rooted in God and God’s will that ‘they do
nothing of [their] own […] but God does all things that are good’.59
Notably, M.N. not only explains what is meant, but he makes an effort to
directly counter any potential objections by explaining what is not meant. ‘It
should not,’ he writes, ‘be taken that they leave [pious activities] undone. He
would be blind that took it in that way; but all words in this book must be taken
spiritually and divinely’.60 Then, in addressing the question of giving to Nature, he
forcefully asserts: ‘God forbid that anyone be so carnal as to think that it should
57
It also echoes a line from the Mirror itself which occurs later, where Love states that the
Soul ‘makes war on the vices, by fostering virtues’. See The Mirror, ed. by Colledge, Grant, and
Marler, p. 64; Mirouer/Speculum, p. 137; The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 289.
58
The Mirror, ed. by Doiron, p. 259. Kerby-Fulton comments that M.N. ‘rescues’ this
passage by converting it to ‘semi-Pelagianism’; Kerby-Fulton, Books Under Suspicion, p. 286.
This ‘detached’ performance of pious activities is also found in Meister Eckhart. See for example
his Predigt 1, in Teacher and Preacher, ed. and trans. by McGinn, pp. 240–241, and his Predigt
2, in Essential Sermons, ed. by Colledge and McGinn, pp. 178–79.
59
60
mean to give to nature any lust that draws it to fleshly sin, for God knows well it
is not so meant.’61 This is followed by further exegesis: ‘these souls […] have been
so mortified from such wretchedness, and so illumined with grace, and so arrayed
with love of God, that it quenches all fleshly sin in them, and mightily drives
down all bodily and spiritual temptations’.62
M.N.’s interaction with these concepts adds an interesting element to the
story of the Mirror’s self-defence. On one level, it shows that M.N. agreed with
Marguerite’s own defence and explanation of these concepts. By retranslating
the work and adding his glosses, he clearly believes the work to be of value and
worth explaining to readers. His glosses essentially repeat the same explanations
that Marguerite herself provided, although with a little extra detail and in
a more direct manner. With the Virtues, he notes the Soul’s ‘mastery’ and
embodiment, rather than rejection, of them. Regarding conceding to Nature, he
explicitly states that it does not involve anything which is illicit or forbidden, and
commands the reader to understand things ‘spiritually and divinely’, not literally.
Both explanations are already found in the Mirror, as we have seen, but M.N.
addresses the issue more directly.63 In this sense, M.N. himself is comfortable
with how these concepts are presented and explained. This is not to say, however,
that M.N. did not feel any unease whatsoever about the text.64 The very fact
that M.N. penned his glosses indicates that the existing defences in the Mirror
were not entirely effective. That is, M.N. himself accepted how these points were
presented, but other readers might not have, as suggested by his first translation
being ‘mistaken’ by some. His efforts, then, add another layer of defence to the
Mirror’s already in-built defences.
In addition to layering Marguerite’s own explanations, M.N. also reflects her
most basic and essential defence: the Mirror’s inscrutability. By admonishing
readers against literal or, worse, ‘fleshly’ interpretations of its words, and urging
them to take them ‘spiritually and divinely’, M.N., like Marguerite, places the
reader’s own inadequate understanding as the culprit of error, rather than any
inherent error within the Mirror itself. The very existence of his glosses also
61
62
63
Marleen Cré notes that M.N.’s glosses are ‘interpretive rather than corrective’, in that
they clarify the trickier parts of the Mirror by relying on its own internal textual evidence; Cré,
‘Further Thoughts’, p. 256.
64
Kerby-Fulton notes M.N.’s sense of ‘panic’ and his ‘defensive tone’ when glossing some
of the Mirror’s more provocative passages; Kerby-Fulton, Books Under Suspicion, pp. 282–90.
attests to this, as they are a signal to the reader that one’s initial or unsophisticated
understanding of the Mirror will not necessarily provide a beneficial reading of
its words.
While M.N. does represent weaknesses of the Mirror’s defences, overall he
is an example of their success. He is aware of the risks that might come with
its words, but he accepts the explanations of its more controversial points and
merely adds further clarification. The next reader to be examined, however, could
not have been more different.
Sometime before 1317, a canon lawyer — whose identity for now is unknown
— read through the Mirror and sat down to write his assessment of it.65 It was not
a friendly exercise. Working from a full copy of the text, he selected thirty-five
passages from a Latin Mirror and wrote lengthy refutations of each extract.66 The
result is a polemical treatise which both rebuts the Mirror’s main ideas and paints
the book itself as the diabolical musings of an anonymous evil heretic.67 Included
in his thirty-five extracts are the Mirror’s statements on the Virtues and the
passage on conceding to Nature. As will become clear, Marguerite’s defences had
little effect on his opinions and, in some cases, the defences themselves became
the target of his ire.
The Mirror’s statement on the Virtues was a particularly disturbing point
for the polemical author. He interprets it literally, in exactly the manner that
Marguerite and M.N. did not want it to be interpreted: that by rejecting the
Virtues the Soul has turned away from goodness in order to embrace vice. ‘When
virtue is renounced, vice is immediately admitted’, he writes directly after quoting
the passage from the Mirror’s Chapter 6.68 This characterizes his entire take on the
matter, and it colours his view of the Mirror as a whole. In the author’s opinion, if
the Soul has receded from the Virtues, then nothing else that it does can be rooted
in goodness; it must by default be motivated by base desires. Receding from the
Virtues means being manured with the ‘dung of the vices’ (stercore vitiorum) and
receding from obedience to the commandments of God, which therefore means
65
It is not yet known how or why the canon lawyer came to pen his attack on the Mirror,
but it is possible that he did it as a formal commission.
66
The text is found in Padua, Biblioteca universitaria, MS 1647, fols 215v–221v. It survives
only in a fifteenth-century copy, but was probably originally written before 1317. For an
overview of the text’s structure and its potential origins, see Trombley, ‘New Evidence’.
67
On the author’s techniques and use of common anti-heretical tropes, see Trombley, ‘The
Text as Heretic’.
68
MS 1647, fol. 216rb: ‘Cum renuntiatur uirtuti statim uitum asciscitur’. This is an inversion
of a passage from Gratian’s Causa 32. See Gratian, C. 32 q. 1 c. 9, in Decretum Gratiani, ed. by
Friedberg, c. 1117. All translations from MS 1647 are my own unless otherwise noted.
turning towards evil.69 In dealing with this concept, the polemicist makes a direct
attack on the very passages which Marguerite used as a defence: the clarification
from Chapter 8, in which she explains that the Soul merely does not have the
use of the Virtues, but she still possesses and embodies them. Unsurprisingly, the
author did not find this convincing. ‘To him who knows to do good and does it
not, it is for him a sin’, he writes, quoting James 4.17.70 Either one lives temperately
with the use of the virtues, or intemperately without them. If intemperately, one
is therefore full of vice; there is no middle ground: ‘It is not possible to do good
except by being driven virtuously’.71 The Soul’s recession from the Virtues means
a recession from its own salvation, since giving up on the Virtues means giving up
on the commandments of God, which are necessary to salvation.72
This view of the Mirror’s statement on the Virtues blends into the polemicist’s
take on the passage about conceding to Nature. Man’s nature belongs to the
‘lower part’ (inferiorem partem), which is sensuality, and sensuality inclines man
to brutishness: ‘For one wants to eat and drink, to sleep, to luxuriate, unless he is
restrained by the judgement of reason, which according to this author the Simple
Soul has thrust away from itself.’73 He is just as unmoved by the explanations
the Mirror provides on this point. In fact, he finds the defence itself to be what
gives away the Soul’s ‘true’ intentions: ‘And so that it does not seem to have erred,
it excuses itself,’ he writes. ‘Why was it necessary to say “without remorse of
conscience”, since in lawful things remorse of conscience has no place?’74 In fact,
he writes, the Soul instead desired that which was not lawful, since it wanted to
separate from the goodness of the Virtues:
If this Soul was by the grace of God so well ordered in itself as to not ask [for
anything] except that which is lawful in the highest degree, as it said, without
a doubt it would neither have taken itself away from obedience to the Virtues
nor separated [from them] without remorse of its own conscience, because in
something that is lawful one does not have a place for remorse of conscience, as
was said. Therefore let those be silent who try to defend this error on account of
69
MS 1647, fols 218rb and 216rb.
70
MS 1647, fol. 216va : ‘Scienti bene facere et non facienti, pecatum est illi.’
71
MS 1647, fol. 216vb: ‘non posse fieri bonum nisi uirtuouse agendo’.
72
MS 1647, fol. 216vb.
73
MS 1647, fol. 217rb : ‘Uult enim comedere et bibere, dormire, luxuriari, nisi refrenetur
iuditio rationis, quam secundum istum auctorem anima simplex a se repulit.’
74
MS 1647, fol. 217rb : ‘Et ne uideatur errasse se excusat, dicens “sed tamen tallis natura
est”?’ ‘Quid neccessarie fuit dicere “sine remorsu conscientie”, cum in re licita non habet locum
remorsus conscientie?’
this little line: ‘But yet such a soul, et cetera’. Beware, for he has set this to spring
his trap. For, according to the Blessed Leo: ‘How else are heretics able to deceive
the simple except with poisoned cups smeared with some honey, lest those things
which are wholly meant to be deadly might be detected by their sour taste?’75
Therefore, by insisting that it means nothing improper, the Simple Soul, to the
polemical author, ‘protests too much’. It betrays the Soul’s desire for illicit things,
and also tries to deceive the reader into thinking it is innocuous with the ‘honey’
of an explanation. The defence becomes the condemning evidence.
This also happens with Marguerite’s other defence, that Reason’s inadequacy
will keep readers from properly understanding her words. Rejecting Reason is
taken as further proof of the Mirror’s error. Such a rejection means the Simple
Souls are similar to beasts (bruta), because separation from Reason means sinking
into sensuality, by which only beasts are ruled.76 The ‘blind evil spirit’ (non uidens
malignus spiritus) of the Simple Soul defends itself by saying that what it speaks
of is beyond all human senses. But, the author notes, if the Simple Soul advocates
for abandoning Scripture and the doctrines of the saints and the entire Church,
this means that ‘we would henceforth adhere to this evil spirit’ (adhereamus
hinc maligno spirito) who has a ‘deranged intellect’ (insanum intelectum).77 ‘It is
similar’, he writes, ‘to that defence of the sect of Mohammed, which says that one
ought to fight with the sword, not with the reasons of the Scriptures. But we say
one ought to win with Reason, not the sword.’78 Reason, rather than being an
impediment to divine understanding, is for this author an essential component.
As the higher part of man’s nature, it is what keeps the soul from straying into
sensuality. Departing from Reason and the Virtues are acts that must of necessity
lead to madness and licentiousness, allowing the lower part of man’s nature to
rule. Therefore, by making rejection of Reason necessary to understanding its
75
MS 1647, 217ra : ‘Si ista anima dei gratia esset tantum in se ordinata ut non requiererit nisi
summe licitum, ut iste dicit, procul dubio nec subtraxisset se obedientie uirtutum nec disisset
sine remorsu proprie conscientie, quia in re licita non habet locum remorsu conscientie proprie
ut dictum est. Sileant ergo qui conantur hunc errorem defendere propter illum uersiculum: “Sed
tamen tallis anima, et cetera”. Caute, enim posuit illum ad comprehendens decipulam suam.
Quomodo enim, secundum Beatum Leonem, “possent heretici decipere simplices nisi uenenata
pocula quodam mele prelinirent, ne usquequaque sentirentur insuauia que essent futura
mortifera”?’ The quotation is from Leo the Great’s letter to Turibius. See Leo the Great, ed. and
trans. by Neil, p. 91.
76
MS 1647, fol. 216vb.
77
MS 1647, fol. 216vb.
78
MS 1647, fol. 216vb: ‘Similis est ista defensio secti machometi, qui dicit pugnandum esse
ferro, non rationibus scripturarum. Nos autem dicimus ratione uincendum non ferro.’
main arguments, in this case the Mirror, rather than being shored up against
criticisms, is in fact left vulnerable to them.
Conclusion
As we have seen above, while Marguerite Porete did not write a formal written
defence directly addressed to her critics, she did attempt to defend and explain
her more controversial ideas within the Mirror itself. Examining these defences
and how later readers interacted with them provides a few new insights into
Marguerite’s composition of the Mirror and its later reception.
First, it is clear that Marguerite made attempts at self-defence in her text in
places other than Chapters 123–39. The above passages show repeated attempts
to clarify but also to defend and justify her ideas by trying to link any dismay
or shock that her statements may have produced to her readers’ inadequate
understanding. The disjointed presentation of these defences — appearing
several different times in the text, sometimes with an abrupt change of subject —
indicates both an on-going and perhaps sporadic composition process in which
Marguerite felt the need to revisit these points and repeat her explanations.
It is entirely possible that such revisiting was the result of criticism that she
encountered over the course of writing the Mirror, and not just in reaction to the
condemnation in Valenciennes.
We can also see that the Mirror’s defences could both succeed and fail. The
Mirror’s two condemnations and Marguerite’s trial are obvious failures. The
trial context, however, has been seen as an ‘unfair’ failure, in the sense that the
theologians who condemned the Mirror were only given extracts, and therefore
given its most controversial passages with none of the accompanying defences
and explanations, making it inevitable that it would be found heretical. M.N.’s
positive perception of these points seems to reinforce this, as he clearly did not
find them heretical but felt they merely needed further clarification. But, almost
paradoxically, M.N.’s glosses also demonstrate the weaknesses of the Mirror’s
defences. M.N. himself did not find them heretical, but he clearly saw that they
could cause trouble for others. He therefore layered on another defence in order
to ward against such trouble.
The Paduan polemical treatise is, of course, a more obvious example of failure,
and in fact provides a more detailed case than the condemnation from the
theologians. Here, the author did read the more controversial passages in context,
along with their explanations, and came to the exact same conclusion as those
who passed judgement in 1310. What is more, not only did the explanations have
no effect on him, but he seized on them as errors in and of themselves, and turned
them against the Mirror as further proof of its ‘folly’. This is a useful reminder that
the theologians’ judgement of the Mirror in 1310 could still have gone against it
even if they had been allowed to peruse it in full.
In terms of its later readers, part of this mixture of success and failure stems
from the worlds which they each inhabited. M.N., if he was not a Carthusian
himself, was in all likelihood associated with a Carthusian milieu. 79 He
inhabited a spiritual environment that was relatively friendly to the type of
esoteric, complicated mystical expression that the Mirror certainly represents.80
Conversely, the polemical author’s response represents a clash between
fundamentally different world outlooks. While we do not yet know specifically
who the author of the polemical treatise was, it is almost certain that he was
a canon lawyer. He read the Mirror at face value and inhabited a world firmly
rooted in logic and reason, the exact opposite world-view to what Marguerite
said was required to properly understand her words.
This exemplifies both the benefits and the difficulties of mounting a defence
in the mystical and intellectual spheres. Orthodoxy or heresy could hinge on a
text being read in ‘the right way’. The above examples highlight just how little
consensus there was over what ‘the right way’ entailed.81 This is a defining
characteristic of many of the mystical controversies which took place over the
course of the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.82 Defence depended on asserting
the supremacy of one interpretation over another, and how generous or flexible
the audience was in its perceptions. It is of course common knowledge that
there was great ambiguity between heresy and orthodoxy. When it came to self-
defence, such ambiguity could be a double-edged sword. One’s explanation or
defence of their ideas, and whether or not these were successful, could depend
entirely on whom they were being explained to. Ambiguity could be as much of
a weakness as a strength, allowing opponents to dismantle the target as much as
allow its supporters to defend it. The examples of M.N. and the polemicist reveal
that, by defending her ideas, Marguerite Porete provided her readers both with
tools that could shield her work, and with weapons that could tear it apart.
79
On this context, see Cré, Vernacular Mysticism in the Charterhouse.
80
Cré, ‘Further Thoughts’, pp. 243–48.
81
As Michael Bailey has pointed out, the Church was well aware of the difficulties presented
by these ambiguities; Bailey, ‘Magic, Mysticism, and Heresy’, pp. 74–75.
82
In the case of mysticism, Lerner’s Heresy of the Free Spirit remains an excellent summary
of the ‘predicament of the mystics’; see Lerner, Heresy of the Free Spirit, pp. 182–227.
Works Cited
Manuscript
Padua, Biblioteca universitaria, MS 1647
Primary Sources
Gratian, Decretum Magistri Gratiani, ed. by Emil Friedberg, Corpus Iuris Canonici, 1
(Leipzig: Tauchnitz, 1879); accessed through the Münchener DigitalisierungsZentrum
of the Bayerische Staatsbibliothek <https://geschichte.digitale-sammlungen.de/
decretum-gratiani/online/angebot> [accessed 15 August 2019]
Leo the Great, Leo the Great, ed. and trans. by Bronwen Neil (New York: Routledge, 2009)
Marguerite Porete, Le Mirouer des Simple Ames/Speculum Simplicium Animarum, ed. by
Romana Guarnieri and Paul Verdeyen, Corpus Christianorum Continuatio Mediaevalis,
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—— , The Mirror of Simple Souls: A Middle English Translation, ed. by Marilyn Doiron (=
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Meister Eckhart, Meister Eckhart: The Essential Sermons, Commentaries, Treatises, and
Defense, trans. Edmund Colledge and Bernard McGinn (New York: Paulist Press, 1981)
—— , Meister Eckhart: Teacher and Preacher, trans. Bernard McGinn (New York: Paulist
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Late Medieval Heresy: New Perspectives. Essays in Honor of Robert E. Lerner, ed. by
Michael D. Bailey and Sean L. Field (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2018), pp. 56–75
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to The Mirror of Simple Souls’, in The Mirror of Simple Souls: A Middle English
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Porete et le Miroir des simples âmes: perspectives historiques, philosophique, et litté-
raires, ed. by Sean L. Field, Robert E. Lerner, and Sylvain Piron (Paris: Vrin, 2013),
pp. 215–31
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Case of Marguerite Porete’s Mirror of Simple Souls’, Journal of Medieval History, 43.2
(2017), 174–92
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trans. by Sheila Hughes (New York: Paragon House, 1989)
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and Guiard of Cressonessart (South Bend, IN: University of Notre Dame Press, 2012)
—— , ‘Debating the Historical Marguerite’, in A Companion to Marguerite Porete and
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—— , ‘The Master and Marguerite: Godfrey of Fontaines’ Praise of the Mirror of Simple
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Scripting Defence:
Textual Arguments and their Readers
amid the Pursuit of Heresy in England
Fiona Somerset
A ll writers and readers in England who were interested in pastoral reform and
the religious education of the laity were affected by the pursuit of lollardy as
a heresy, whether or not they saw themselves as followers of Wyclif. Accusations,
depositions, arrest and imprisonment, trial, and punishment might be framed as
a corrective process, but they would also disrupt lives and whole communities by
drawing them into the detection and witnessing of religious error.1 Most cases
ended with the accused abjuring or undergoing compurgation; only those who
had relapsed after a previous conviction or who refused to accept correction were
in danger of execution. Still, this polarizing climate could not help but influence how
ordinary people and their priests understood their religious affiliation and practice.2
In the penumbra of the lived experience, or the threat, of prosecution for
heresy in late medieval England there proliferated polemical or pastoral writings
that respond to a perceived need for heretical self-defence. Some were in Latin,
1
Forrest, The Detection of Heresy in Late Medieval England.
2
For a detailed introduction to how heresy trials were conducted in England and what
records they have left, see Hornbeck, ‘Records of Heresy Trials.’
Fiona Somerset ([email protected]), University of Connecticut

Abstract: This article considers how writings that address the pursuit of heresy in England might
have prepared their readers for heretical self-defence, and it surveys the emotional scripts of the
Lanterne of Light, Wordes of Poule, Letter of Richard Wyche, and Testimony of William Thorpe,
suggesting many lollard writings offer training in feeling as much as argument. This essay closely
examines the advice on self-defence in the Sixteen Points, proposing that it aims to teach readers
the simple strategy of denying anything they do not know to be true. However, teaching readers
to doubt, as in the Dialogue between Reson and Gabbyng, is as important as teaching them to
deny. The article finishes with the longest lollard defensive text, the Thirty-Seven Conclusions,
showing how it uses doubt to construct its arguments, and even defend Wyclif himself.
Keywords: Heresy, history of emotions, emotional scripts, uncertainty, John Wyclif, Wycliffite,
lollard, Lanterne of Light, Testimony of William Thorpe, Thirty-Seven Conclusions

154 Fiona Somerset
but many more were in English, and aimed at an audience beyond the clergy. In
this essay I will consider how these writings hoped to inform and influence their
readers. Are they scripts for heretical self-defence, and if so, in what sense? It seems
to me unlikely that texts were written and copied in English with the intention
that their readers without academic training might memorize the intricate details
of their proofs, counterarguments, and corollaries, ready to produce them in
their full detail upon examination.3 Instead, we might consider how these texts
advise their readers in a broader frame. What do these texts aim to teach about
argument, if not a word-for-word script? And what might they teach beyond
argument? I will suggest that these texts instruct their readers in how to feel, as
well as what to say. In reconsidering the purpose and address of these texts I will
attend closely to the Sixteen Points and the Thirty Seven Conclusions, but I will
survey other texts along the way.
Let us consider how writings of this kind might provide an emotional script
for accusations of heresy. The concept of an emotional script will be familiar to
those who have been following new research on the history of emotions.4 Any
narrative, whether presented as autobiographical experience or as a third-person
account, might demonstrate a sequence of emotions that confirms or creates an
expectation of how the reader ought to feel, in this case when threatened by an
accusation. Such a narrative will even give the reader an opportunity to rehearse
these emotions, for reading the story will incite an empathetic echo of the
participants’ feelings. A work of spiritual advice might script emotions yet more
directly, by naming and describing the feelings readers should have and explaining
how to cultivate them, as did conduct manuals or self-help books in later eras.5
3
There is, however, some evidence that lollard communities engaged in memorization of
complex and sometimes lengthy texts. See Hudson, The Premature Reformation, pp. 190–92,
471–72, 487, and 489 (the last two are references to the recitation of a dialogue, presumably
an argumentative text); Lollards of Coventry, ed. and trans. McSheffrey and Tanner, pp. 45 and
124, 126, 154, 200, 201, 224, 226.
4
See, e.g., Rosenwein, Generations of Feeling, esp. p. 8 and n. 26, where she distinguishes
different usages of the concept of an emotional script. Mine, explained in what follows, comes
closest to her usage of ‘emotional sequence’ and draws also on Velleman, ‘Narrative Explanations’
who uses the term ‘emotional cadence’ to discuss how a sequence of emotions is excited then left
resolved or unresolved by reading or hearing a story. For an excellent introductory overview of
approaches to the history of emotions see Plamper, ‘The History of Emotions’.
5
On the changing genres in which advice on conduct and emotional display was delivered,
see Carré, The Crisis of Courtesy. On conduct books and gender see Murphy, Virtuous Necessity.
On the management of emotions in America and its promotion through self-help manuals, see
Hochschild, The Managed Heart; Ehrenreich, Bright-Sided.
scripting defence 155
Thus, the Lanterne of Light, a comprehensive manual of religious instruction

heavily inflected with criticism of corruption in the church on earth and
implicated in the heresy trial of John Claydon in London in 1415, encourages its
readers not to fear as they imagine themselves as God’s ‘litil flok’ (commenting
on ‘fear not little flock’ in Luke 12.32).6 For they are the members of the True
Church, the congregation of persons in whom there is knowing and true
confession of faith and truth. Like a woman in labour, they as members of Holy
Church must endure much as they wander the earth:
[I]n preiers, fastingis, and in wakingis; in abstinence, tribulaciouns, and in
angwische; in persecutiouns, in miche nede, and in prisouns; in boondis, in coolde,
and in greet heuynes; in þrist, in hounger, and in blamyngis; in reprouyngis, in
sclaundris, and in pacience; in longabiding, in symplenes, and in weeping; in
forȝyuyng, in soburnes, and in chastite; in spedines, in largenes, and in charite.7
(In prayers, fasting, and wakefulness; in abstinence, tribulations, and anguish; in
persecutions, in much need, and in prisons; in bondage, in cold and in great sorrow;
in thirst, in hunger, and amid blame; in reproofs, amid slanders, and in patience;
in long enduring, in simpleness, and in weeping; in forgiving, in soberness, and in
chastity; in helpfulness, in generosity, and in charity.
Yet like the woman in labour they can rest secure in the promise that they will
forget their travails amid their joy when the child of their salvation is born.
The Wordes of Poule, a short work of spiritual advice on how to endure
tribulation, exhorts its readers toward a stoic impassivity.8 They should no more
dread fleshly tribulations than stars in heaven are disturbed by tempests on earth.
Instead they should imagine themselves in the position of the woman caught
in adultery, or the thief crucified beside Christ, and willingly share in Christ’s
suffering: ‘siþen Crist glorifiede þe þeef þat suffrede wiþ him […] meche more
he schal glorifien hem þat wilfully suffren persecucioun for his lawe, not a litel
while but alwey durynge’ (since Christ glorified the thief that suffered with him
[…] much more shall he glorify those that willingly suffer persecution for his law,
not only for a little while but forever after).9 These texts, and others like them,
6
The Lanterne of Light, ed. by Swinburn, pp. 22–25 (p. 22 l. 1). For an introductory
summary and translated selections, see Wycliffite Spirituality, ed. and trans. by Hornbeck, Lahey,
and Somerset, pp. 269–76. On John Claydon’s trial, see Hudson, The Premature Reformation,
pp. 211–12.
7
The Lanterne of Light, ed. by Swinburn, p. 25 ll. 31–37. Punctuation modified and
abbreviations expanded.
8
‘A Mirror to See God In’, ed. by Somerset.
9
‘A Mirror to See God In’, ed. by Somerset, p. 279 ll. 441–44.
156 Fiona Somerset
ask their readers to manage their emotions as they embrace the possibility of
martyrdom as vindication of their true faith.
In contrast, autobiographical narratives of heretical self-defence produced
by Wyclif ’s followers are much more ready to acknowledge their defendants’
fear and suffering. The Letter of Richard Wyche provides Wyche’s followers with
an account of his examination for heresy in 1402–03, over many months of
imprisonment that continue until the moment of writing.10 Wyche attempts to
manipulate legal forms to his advantage during his trial, at the encouragement of
a knight who counsels him about how to reply. He swears an oath with a mental
reservation about his interpretation of its content: in his view he has sworn
obedience to the law of God. However the knight betrays him, and his attempt at
redefinition fails: he is told that he has instead sworn obedience to the contents
of the canonical books of canon law, which he thinks only partly conform to the
law of God. Wyche recounts his intense mental and physical anguish in the face
of his continued imprisonment and repeated questioning, and presents it to his
followers as an imitation of Christ’s suffering that they might emulate. Rather
than exhorting impassivity, he provides them with a model of how to persevere
even through shame and despair. While some of the arguments he recounts might
have provided his readers with useful instruction, he does not present them as a
way to prevail under examination.
The Testimony of William Thorpe (c. 1407–15), in contrast, puts the emphasis
on triumphant vindication: not vindication through martyrdom, as anticipated
in the Lanterne of Light or Wordes of Poule, but vindication through argument.
Thorpe’s text may have been written in imitation of Wyche’s letter, and similarly
provides an account of his examination for heresy, this time by Archbishop
Thomas Arundel.11 Like Wyche, Thorpe is afraid when he is apprehended and
examined for heresy, imagining himself in the place of Susannah surrounded by
false accusers.12 But he successfully wrests the terms of debate away from Arundel:
in a way readers of this text could not hope to emulate, for they would be offered
no such opportunity. According to his own retelling of events, Arundel asked
Thorpe to swear to forsake all the opinions held by the ‘sect of Lollers’, reading
10
An edition appears in Matthew, ‘The Trial of Richard Wyche’. A translation with notes
and an introductory essay is ‘The Letter of Richard Wyche’, trans. by Bradley. For a more detailed
discussion of the points summarized here, see Somerset, Feeling Like Saints, pp. 152–59.
11
For the suggestion that Wyche’s letter may have been Thorpe’s model, see The Testimony
of William Thorpe, ed. by Hudson, p. lviii.
12
Thorpe recalls Susanna’s own description of her feelings: see The Testimony of William
Thorpe, ed. by Hudson, p. 35 ll. 365–68.
to him a deposition that listed five beliefs that he had recently preached in
Shrewsbury.13 However, Thorpe presents the whole of his narrative in the form
of a different legal document entirely, a charter, beginning with the standard
opening ‘Knowen be it to alle men þat reden or heeren þis writinge’ (Let it be
known to all men that read or hear this writing), to suggest that he making a
public declaration of his own accord, rather than being forced to submit.14 And
in what is surely a creative reconstruction of events, he recounts that Arundel
allowed him to take control of his own testimony. By his own account, Thorpe
professed his belief and affirmed the value of what named followers of Wyclif had
taught him before addressing the points on which he has been accused. When
he finally responded to the accusations, he redefined each one on his own terms
before affirming them according to his own understanding.
It is worth considering the objective of texts like Thorpe’s Testimony that
rehearse detailed arguments on specific points. The Testimony is certainly an
emotional script, but we might wonder whether its rehearsal of a list of detailed
arguments might be be designed to provide a script for argumentation, perhaps
to help readers defend themselves against accusations of heresy. Writings we
might regard as argumentational scripts would include staged debates in dialogue
form, whether autobiographical like Thorpe’s or third-person like the Wycliffite
dialogues edited by Somerset and Dove, but also straightforward lists of points
or articles like the Sixteen Points, the Twelve Conclusions, or the Thirty-Seven
Conclusions.15 How would works like this have been useful? How might they
have been used?
One purpose all these writings certainly serve is polemical: they aim to
engage in textual competition with anti-Wycliffite writings that assert opposing
arguments, such as the writings of William Rymington, Nicholas Radcliffe, or
Thomas Netter.16 There is of course little hope that any polemical text might
13
The Testimony of William Thorpe, ed. by Hudson, p. 34 l. 351 and pp. 42–43 ll. 621–31.
14
The Testimony of William Thorpe, ed. by Hudson, pp. 24–93 (p. 29). Charters begin with
the tag line ‘Sciant presentes et futuri’ (let all men know whether present or in future). There
is no reference to hearing and reading in this standard opening; Thorpe’s rendition adapts the
formula to the circumstances in which his Testimony circulates. For a more comprehensive
analysis of Thorpe’s as well as other writers’ appropriation of legal forms, see Steiner, ‘Inventing
Legality’.
15
For texts in dialogue form, see Four Wycliffite Dialogues, ed. by Somerset, and also the
Dialogue between a Wise Man and a Fool, edited as ‘Cambridge Tract XII’ in The Earliest
Adocates of the English Bible, ed. by Dove, pp. 130–42. On the other three texts, see below.
16
On William Rymington, see Hudson, The Premature Reformation, pp. 45–46; Catto,
‘William Rimton’. On Nicholas Radcliffe, see Hudson, The Premature Reformation, pp. 93, 98;
158 Fiona Somerset
actually convince its opponents, but it perpetuates the debate in which it takes
part simply by being written and distributed. Part of its purpose for sympathetic
readers is not so much to give them formulae for rebuttal that they might
memorize, as to demonstrate to them that the positions they hold are indeed
capable of being defended. I refer to ‘the positions they hold’, even though it
seems obvious that most people would not have arrived at an interest in lollardy
motivated by a desire to adhere to a list of polemical points, but through communal
aspects of the lived experience of religion such as reformist sentiment provoked
by local experience, a sense of belonging with a group of people or family or larger
household, religious practice, or shared reading. For such would-be like-minded
people, texts made up of arguments might serve an important cohesive function
and consolidate their oppositional identity.
The Sixteen Points makes the most overt claim, among these argumentative
writings, that its narrower purpose is indeed to provide a script for defending
oneself in the context of an examination for heresy.17 This is more than just a text
for readers to rally around, it claims. Rather, it provides overt instruction on how
to answer to sixteen points that bishops’ deputies impute to lollards. It prefaces
its answers with this introductory advice:
Trewe cristen men schulden answere here aviseliche, trewliche and mekeliche
to þe poyntis and articlis þat ben put aȝens hem: aviseliche þat þei speike not
vnkonnyngliche, trwliche þat þei speike not falsliche, and mekeliche þat þei
speke not prowdeliche in her answere, and þan schall be grace in þer speiking or
answering be þe helpe of Crist.18
(True Christian men should answer here advisedly, truly, and meekly to the points
and articles put to them: advisedly, in that they do not speak about what they do
not know, truly, in that they do not speak falsely, and meekly, in that they do not
speak proudly. In this way they shall have grace in their speaking and answering by
the help of Christ.)
Perhaps surprisingly, this preface to a series of carefully qualified arguments against

positions that accused persons would reportedly be asked to affirm or deny is itself
an emotional script, at least as much as it is an argumentational one. A resolve to
speak truthfully that emerges from banishing pride and seeking proper information
Clark, ‘Nicholas Radcliffe’. On Thomas Netter, see Bergström-Allen and Copsey, Thomas Netter
of Walden, and for a brief introduction, Hudson, The Premature Reformation, pp. 50–55.
17
‘Sixteen Points on which the Bishops Accuse Lollards,’ in Selections from English Wycliffite
Writings, ed. by Hudson, pp. 19–24, and for a brief introduction, p. 145.
18
‘Sixteen Points’, ed. by Hudson, p. 20 ll. 50–55.
requires the proper attitude, even while it also depends on acquiring the proper
knowledge; whoever speaks with this disposition can expect God’s grace.
The general instructions that precede this advice provide not specific argu-
ments, nor even strategies of argument, but a cognitive stance, grounded in logic,
that would guide readers through the yes/no format of an examination for heresy:
Whoeuer schal see þes sixtene poyntis, be he wele ware þat in eueriche of hem is
hidde trewþe and falsehed, and who þat euer grantiþ al, grantiþ myche falsehede,
and who þat euer denyeþ al, denyeþ many trewþes. Þerfore witte welle þis þat, want
a coupulatif is madde, þouȝ þer be many trewþes, if it afferme a falshed, it schal be
denyed al togidur; falsenes is so venemus.19
(Whoever may see these sixteen points should be aware that in each of them is
hidden truth and falsehood, and whoever grants them entirely, grants much
falsehood, and whoever denies them outright, denies many truths. Therefore you
should know this: when a copulative is made, though it may include many truths,
if it affirms any falsehood, it should be denied utterly: falsehood is so venomous.)
This advice, too, incites an emotional response in that it describes falsehood as

‘venemus’. But the logical grounding it provides might seem to make the pages
of careful rebuttal and qualification that follow unnecessary. If defendants are to
speak truly, then they cannot agree to any proposition put to them that contains
any falsehood, nor can they deny such propositions outright without denying
some things that are indeed true. Nevertheless, they ought to deny them if there
is anything false in them, even if other parts are true, because any falsehood
invalidates the truth with which it might be joined. This is a basic tenet of
philosophical logic, and easily explained even to someone without training in
that field. If I say that I like steak and chocolate, and it is false that I like chocolate,
then my statement is false, even if it is true that I like steak. The remainder of the
text goes on to demonstrate that each of the sixteen points that has been quoted
mixes truth with falsehood. Even a defendant who cannot reproduce the careful
arguments that follow, or make similar ones for herself, is capable of applying the
training provided here in these introductory instructions by denying any claim
that is not exactly what she or he would affirm.
William Thorpe seems to follow similar advice, or provide a model for
doing so, when he insists in his Testimony that he cannot simply affirm or deny
a proposition put to him on the Eucharist because he does not know enough:
‘[S]er, forþi þat ȝoure axinge passiþ myn vndirstondinge, I dar neiþer denye it ne
graunte it, for it si scole-mater about whiche I neuer bisied me for to knowe in’
19
‘Sixteen Points’, ed. by Hudson, p. 20 ll. 44–49.
160 Fiona Somerset
(Sir, since your question exceeds my understanding, I dare neither deny it nor
grant it, for it is school-matter that I have never busied myself to know about).20
However, he knows enough to reject innovations in terminology when he cannot
prove their authenticity. Thomas Aquinas termed the Eucharist an ‘accident
wiþouten soget’ (accident without a subject) (56/1049) a ‘freris sentence’
(friar’s opinion) (56/1051) that Thorpe dares not grant but utterly denies. If we
look closely, though, we see that even Thorpe’s utter denial is only of a specific
verbal formulation: a term he is not sure that God’s law approves.21 On the
question of the Eucharist more broadly, he instead insists on holding space for
an intermediary cognitive stance, between the certainty of truth and falsehood,
rather than denying outright. Indeed, the rather simple and powerful method of
self-defence in the Sixteen Points — to deny anything containing falsehood and
affirm only what is unequivocally and certainly true — is not the cognitive stance
we see modelled or recommended in most Wycliffite writings, in both Latin and
English. Outside the fraught circumstances of an examination for heresy, most
writers instead insist on the importance of uncertainty, given the limits of human
knowledge. Indeed, this insistence on uncertainty can provide another kind of
defence against heresy, as we will see.
The Dialogue between Reson and Gabbyng, an adaptation of Wyclif ’s own
Dialogus, gives perhaps the fullest explanation of this uncertainty.22 In response to
the challenge that any speech against the court of Rome is speech against Christ
and his law, Reason describes at length the four possible replies to any statement:
granting, denying, doubting, and supposing.23 Someone may speak against the
court of Rome if they know with certainty that it is sinning against God’s law
and harming the church (53/373–75). Like Richard Wyche in his letter, Reason
refuses assent to the pope and to the law of the church in a case where the pope
himself is not obeying God’s law. But he also insists that there are many topics
on which this sort of certainty is not easily available, as for example when we can
only suppose, but not know for certain, whether a given prelate will be saved or
damned on the basis of his conduct and reputation (53/365–68).
This uncertainty about damnation goes both ways, as Ian Forrest has explained
thoroughly in writing about Wycliffite attitudes to excommunication.24 Only
God knows who are the members of his True Church, and thus no ecclesiastical
20
The Testimony of William Thorpe, ed. by Hudson, p. 55 ll. 1029–31.
21
The Testimony of William Thorpe, ed. by Hudson, p. 56 ll. 1049–50.
22
Dialogue between Reson and Gabbyng, ed. by Somerset, pp. 43–53.
23
Dialogue between Reson and Gabbyng, ed. by Somerset, pp. 52–53, ll. 349–75.
24
Forrest, ‘William Swinderby and the Wycliffite Attitude to Excommunication.’
court has the authority to excommunicate.25 In closing, though, I want to look at

the elaboration of this point found in the longest extant lollard text presented as
a list of proofs for specific claims, the Thirty-Seven Conclusions.
Like the Twelve Conclusions, a much briefer manifesto by ‘we pore men,
and tresoreris of Cryst and his apostlis’ (we poor men, and treasurers of Christ
and his apostles) reportedly nailed to the doors of Westminster and St Paul’s in
1395,26 the Thirty-Seven Conclusions is a list of defiant assertions backed up by
arguments.27 However, unlike its shorter cousin, the Thirty-Seven Conclusions
focuses not on scoring a series of polemical and doctrinal points (though a few
such arguments are interspersed where they emerge from the discussion) but on
providing a program of reform for England as a whole, in the form of a loosely
organized anatomy of the estates. These conclusions are anything but a systematic
exposition of Wycliffite thought; like all of the texts surveyed here, they emerge
from and are shaped by opposition. Seven conclusions on the proper conduct
of the priesthood veer to three articles carefully explaining proper confession
and the appropriate use of images and pilgrimages. Three articles on kings and
lords are followed by one on just war, one on lawful and unlawful swearing, and
one on the Eucharist. Twelve articles on papal power and its limitations lead to
three articles on the simple life appropriate for religious possessioners, friars,
and priests. Finally, secular and ecclesiastical power by turns are advised in seven
articles on lords, servants, judges, prelates and priests, parishioners, prelates and
lords, and priests; the advice ranges from conventional (that lords should be
righteous) to highly tendentious (conclusion 37, that priests should govern the
whole church in common according to the form of the Gospel). The summary
chart in the Appendix may be useful in grasping the work’s overall organization.
Both the Latin and English versions of the Thirty-Seven Conclusions order
their points in the same way. The Latin version, extant in a single copy transcribed
25
For the claim that only God’s excommunication is valid see, for example, ‘How Men
Ought to Obey Prelates’, Chapter 2 in The English Works of Wyclif Hitherto Unprinted, ed. by
Matthew, pp. 34–37.
26
‘Twelve Conclusions of the Lollards’, in Selections from English Wycliffite Writings, ed.
by Hudson, pp. 24–29, quotation from line 1; brief discussion of history of text on p. 150. See
further Somerset, Clerical Discourse, pp. 103–34; Scase, ‘The Audience and Framers’.
27
Published as the Remonstrance against Romish Corruptions in the Church, ed. by Forshall,
the text is now known by the title Thirty-Seven Conclusions of the Lollards, to conform with the
title of the much shorter Latin version edited as ‘The Thirty-Seven Conclusions of the Lollards’,
ed. by Compston. See Hudson, The Premature Reformation, pp. 214–18; Somerset, ‘Lollard and
Religious Writings.’
162 Fiona Somerset
by Compston and now lost, provided a list accompanied by brief explanations.28

The English version, extant in three manuscripts and one modernized copy dated
to the turn of the seventeenth century, expands on this considerably (unless the
Latin version is a summary): each conclusion is extensively explained, and many
are accompanied by one or more corollaries that extend their implications.29 Many
proofs are adduced and quoted, drawn from Scripture and patristic authors and
canon law (which is frequently the source of the first two categories of quotation)
or even occasionally from civil law or the statutes of England. This is Wycliffism’s
most extended attempt to demonstrate a broad compatibility between Scripture
and human law, with the proviso that human law can err and must be rejected
where it is plainly incompatible with Scripture and reason.
Conclusions 26 and 27, which come at the end of the sequence of twelve
conclusions on papal power, explain that Christians are not required to believe
that each determination of the church is true. (73) For the church of Rome often
determines against Holy Scripture, and one council against another, and one
pope contradicts another’s sentence as it pleases him without needful reason.
(76) However, describing and resolving discord between canons is the purpose
of Gratian’s Decretum, as well as much subsequent commentary upon canon law.
Given this author’s very extensive citation of canon law, he cannot mean that
readers should simply dismiss it altogether.
Conclusion 35 resolves this apparent conundrum, providing practical
guidance for readers confronted with a quotation from canon law that seems
to them incompatible with truth. In effect, this conclusion demonstrates how
commentators resolve these difficulties in a way that would have been accessible
even for those with no previous exposure to legal training, teaching its readers
just as students of canon law were taught. In the process, this conclusion argues
in favour of uncertainty. The glorious martyr St Cyprian was wrong in thinking
that evil priests cannot make the sacraments (129–31). But rather than providing
grounds for rejecting human law altogether, this example of human fallibility
shows that anyone can be wrong — even the pope. And thus, when we are
uncertain we should neither take a papal determination as belief, nor despise it as
false, but remain in doubt.
28
The paper bifolium was formerly Hastings, Godwin Lodge, Mr J. J. Green, and was
transcribed for Compston by ‘Miss A.F. Parker (now Mrs New) of Oxford, and revised with the
help of the late Dr Collins, Bishop of Gibraltar, and by Mr Hall, of the Public Record Office’
(‘The Thirty-Seven Conclusions of the Lollards’, ed. by Compston, p. 741) It is not clear how
many of these four consulted the original document.
29
On the manuscripts and versions, see Selections from English Wycliffite Writings, ed. by
Hudson, p. 198.
Therfore cristen men shulden accepte the determination of the church of Rome,
eyther of any other, onely in as much as it is foundid in holy scripture openly eyther
priuely, eyther in resoun that may not faile. And where they ben certeyn that it
is foundid so, take it meekly, and certeynly withouten doute eyther grutching of
conscience, and where they ben certeyne that it repugnith to holy scripture eyther
to most certein resoun, refuse it vtturly, as the venym of the deuil; but where they
be vncertein of such founding eyther repugning, put it aback, neyther take it
as beleue, neyther dispise it as false, but rest mekely without dread in truth and
fredom of holy scripture that may not erre, and suffiseth to saluation without
sinfull man’s clouting.
(Therefore Christian men should accept the determination of the church of Rome,
or any other determination, only inasmuch as it is grounded in scripture openly or
implicitly, or else in reason that may not fail. And where they are certain that it is
so grounded, take it meekly and certainly without doubt or grudging conscience.
And where they are certain that it is contrary to scripture or certain reason, refuse
it utterly, as the venom of the devil. But where they are uncertain of such grounding
or being contrary, place it in doubt. Neither take it as belief, nor despise it as false,
but rest meekly without fear in the truth and freedom of scripture that may not err,
and suffices for salvation without patching over from sinful men.) (131)
Once again, this passage provides a training in feeling as much as in argument,

with its direction that readers should accept truthful determinations ‘meekly,
and certeynly withouten doute eyther grutching of conscience’ but ‘rest mekely
without dread’ even when they are not certain. Still, they should strongly reject
obviously false determinations: ‘vtturly, as the venym of the deuil’. The writer
continues by turning the tables, suggesting that those who condemned Wyclif
should have acknowledged their own uncertainty, and allowed that even if in
error, Wyclif like Cyprian had good intentions. Wyclif, like Cyprian, should not
be condemned for speaking according to his conscience, particularly when those
condemning him cannot even understand his books (133–34).
Few if any ordinary persons who were drawn toward lollard affiliations
would have read the Thirty-Seven Conclusions, of course. But even if some of the
writings we have surveyed found few lay readers, I do want to suggest that all of
these texts bear some relation to heretical self-defence, in that they show readers
how to feel or what to say when examined for heresy. By ‘what to say’, I mean
not that their readers or those who encountered these ideas in more attenuated
forms would memorize answers, but that they might absorb and feel justified in
a cognitive stance, as well as an emotional style, that would have been simpler to
communicate: that they should deny anything posed in words they themselves
would not use, and doubt anything they do not know to be certain.
164 Fiona Somerset
Appendix: A Topical Summary of the Thirty Seven Conclusions

I. The reform of the priesthood
1. priests should not be secular lords
2. priests should not hold secular office
3. curates should be an example of holy living
4. those who do otherwise are thieves
5. simony is sinful
6. parish churches should not be appropriated
7. Christians should sustain good curates, but not bad ones
II. The reform of religious practice
8. confession should be made to God
9. nevertheless, confession with the aid of a good priest is helpful
10. some images and pilgrimages are good, others not
III. Kings, lords, and secular law
11. kings and lords fulfil their office best by keeping God’s law
12. king and lords can punish the clergy and even the pope
13. only some war is just
14. some swearing is lawful, most not
IV. Eucharist
15. Innocent III was wrong about the Eucharist
V. Power and the pope
16. all power is from God
17. the pope’s laws are only sound when founded in Scripture
18. like all rulers, the pope should be obeyed only when he follows Christ
19. any given pope may not have the power conferred on Peter and Paul
20. any given pope might not be leader of Holy Church
21. any given pope might not even be a member of Holy Church
22. any given pope may not have the power of binding and loosing
23. any pope may bind and loose only as God has previously decided
24. Christians are not required to believe in indulgences
25. nor that Peter had more power than the other apostles
26. nor determinations of the Church not according to Scripture and reason
27. a new covetous pope would be bad
VI. Reform of religious orders

28. religious possessioners should be poor
29. friars should live more simply
30. priests should lead simple lives
VII. Reform of Holy Church as a whole
31. lords should be righteous
32. servants should serve lords
33. judges and ministers should be just
34. prelates and priests should administer the sacraments
35. sinful priests can minister sacraments, but laymen should shun them
Cyprian erred in this. Error need not lead to condemnation.
36. prelates and lords should ordain able clerics
37. priests should govern the Church in common according to the Gospel
Works Cited
Primary Sources
Dialogue between Reson and Gabbyng, in Four Wycliffite Dialogues, ed. by Fiona Somerset,
Early English Text Series, o.s., 333 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2009), pp.
43–53
The Earliest Adocates of the English Bible: The Texts of the Medieval Debate, ed. by Mary
Dove (Exeter: University of Exeter Press, 2010)
The English Works of Wyclif Hitherto Unprinted, ed. by F. D. Matthew, Early English Text
Series, o.s., 74 (London: Trübner, 1880; 2nd edn 1902; repr. 1998)
Four Wycliffite Dialogues, ed. by Fiona Somerset, Early English Text Series, o.s., 333
The Lanterne of Light, ed. by L. M. Swinburn, Early English Text Series, o.s., 151 (London:
Kegan Paul, 1917)
‘The Letter of Richard Wyche: An Interrogation Narrative’, trans. by Christopher G.
Bradley, Publications of the Modern Language Association, 127 (2012), 626–42
Lollards of Coventry 1486–1522, ed. and trans. by Shannon McSheffrey and Norman
Tanner, Royal Historical Society, Camden Society, 5th ser., 23 (Cambridge: Cam-
bridge University Press, 2003)
Matthew, F. D., ‘The Trial of Richard Wyche’, English Historical Review, 5 (1890), 530–44
‘A Mirror to See God In: An Edition of “Þe Wordes of Poule”’, ed. by Fiona Somerset, The
Yearbook of Langland Studies, 31 (2017), 257–86
166 Fiona Somerset
Selections from English Wycliffite Writings, ed. by Anne Hudson, 2nd edn (Toronto: Uni-
versity of Toronto Press, 1997)
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Text Series, o.s., 301 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1993)
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torical Review, 26 (1911), 738–49
[Thirty-Seven Conclusions of the Lollards] Remonstrance against Romish Corruptions in the
Church, ed. by J. Forshall (London: Longman, 1851)
Wycliffite Spirituality, ed. and trans. by J. Patrick Hornbeck II, Stephen E. Lahey, and
Fiona Somerset (New York: Paulist, 2013)
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Diplomant, and Theologian (c. 1372–1430) (Faversham, Kent: St Albert’s Press, 2009)
Carré, Jacques, ed., The Crisis of Courtesy: Studies in the Conduct-Book in Britain, 1600–
1900 (Leiden: Brill, 1994)
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Ehrenreich, Barbara, Bright-Sided: How the Relentless Promotion of Positive Thinking Has
Undermined America (New York: Metropolitan Books, 2009)
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graphs (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2005)
Forrest, Ian, ‘William Swinderby and the Wycliffite Attitude to Excommunication’,
Journal of Ecclesiastical History, 60 (2009), 246–69
Hochschild, Arlie Russell, The Managed Heart: Commercialization of Human Feeling, 3rd
edn (Berkeley: University of California Press, 2012)
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by J. Patrick Hornbeck II, Stephen E. Lahey, and Fiona Somerset (New York: Paulist,
2013), pp. 45–52
Hudson, Anne, The Premature Reformation: Wycliffite Texts and Lollard History (Oxford:
Clarendon Press, 1988)
Murphy, Jessica C., Virtuous Necessity: Conduct Literature and the Making of the Virtuous
Woman in Early Modern England (Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 2015)
Plamper, Jan, ‘The History of Emotions: An Interview with William Reddy, Barbara
Rosenwein, and Peter Stearns’, History and Theory, 49 (2010), 237–65
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bridge: Cambridge University Press, 2016)
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Text and Controversy from Wyclif to Bale, ed. by Helen Barr and Ann M. Hutchison,
Medieval Church Studies, 4 (Turnhout: Brepols, 2005), pp. 283–301
Somerset, Fiona, Clerical Discourse and Lay Audience in Late Medieval England (Cam-
bridge: Cambridge University Press, 1998)
—— , Feeling Like Saints: Lollard Writings After Wyclif (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2014)
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Literature, ed. by S. Sobecki and C. Barrington (Cambridge: Cambridge University
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Steiner, Emily, ‘Inventing Legality: Documentary Culture and Lollard Preaching’, in The
Letter of the Law: Legal Practice and Literary Production in Medieval England, ed.
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Resistance, Self-Defence,
or Sticking Up for Your Friends?
A Discussion of Purgation in the
Prosecution of Fifteenth-Century
Lollardy
Esther Lewis
Introduction
On 9 January 1414, rebels gathered in St Giles’s field outside of the city of London.
They had come to join Sir John Oldcastle, a lollard and recently ennobled knight,
who aimed to overthrow the king and the archbishop of Canterbury to unite the
two seats of power. Their plot ultimately failed. The Oldcastle Revolt was met by
an armed force loyal to King Henry V. Many were killed, others arrested, and a
few escaped.1 Whilst rebels from all over England participated in the revolt, the
largest group to go to St Giles’s field came from Bristol under the leadership of
Walter Blake, a lollard chaplain who is commonly regarded as one of the revolt’s
leaders.2 He was accompanied by a group of thirty-three from Bristol, including
1
The events of the Oldcastle Revolt are well documented by historians of fifteenth-century
England. For example, see McFarlane, John Wycliffe, ch. 6; Strohm, England’s Empty Throne,
pp. 63–100; Thomson, The Later Lollards, ch. 1.
2
Thomson, The Later Lollards, p. 21; McFarlane, John Wycliffe, p. 176.
Esther Lewis ([email protected]), University of Nottingham, Midlands 4

Cities Doctoral Training Partnership and Arts and Humanities Research Council
Abstract: This article explores the importance of the social relationships of a group of suspected
lollards in Bristol in 1414. Building on the work of Anne Hudson and Henry Kelly, who
both suggest that this group managed to purge themselves despite being lollards, the article
reconstructs social connections and considers how these may have aided the group’s purgation.
It considers the evidence of heresy trials found in Bishop Bubwith’s register and the social
relationships present in last wills and testaments. The use of Social Network Analysis to evaluate
these social networks allows wider conclusions to be drawn about the effectiveness of purgation
and lollards’ self-defence through their social connections in the early fifteenth century.
Keywords: social network analysis, heresy, lollardy, Bristol, Oldcastle, compurgation

170 Esther Lewis
weavers, servants, and chaplains. On 11 January, the king sent out a commission
to the mayor of Bristol, Thomas Norton, asking him to find those who had not
yet been captured and imprison them until the king could give orders for their
punishment.3 This group of thirty-three were indicted and the King’s Bench was
notified.4 However, a further eight people were also arrested and were handed to
the bishop of Bath and Wells for trial. These people had not participated in the
revolt but were imprisoned because of their association with Blake’s rebels. All were
tried for their dissenting beliefs and some for their reputations as heretics. They
purged themselves, suggesting that it could not be proven that they subscribed to
heretical beliefs or behaviours, and then made an abjuration. The first group to
be tried swore their abjuration on the Gospels (‘tactis tunc ibidem corporaliter
sacrosanctis evangeliis abjurarunt in forma juris omnem et omnimodam heresim
et errorem et omnem lollardiam’), while the certificate simply says that the others
abjured (‘factaque abjuracione heresis, erroris ac lollardie’).5 As they were not
found guilty, the abjuration was not intended to correct their wrongdoings but
may have been a legal insurance for the ecclesiastical authorities that they would
not engage with lollardy in the future.6 Copies of their compurgation certificates
survive in Bishop Nicholas Bubwith’s register.7
Contrary to the majority of the historiography, Clive Burgess has broadly
argued that there is little evidence of organized lollardy in pre-Reformation Bristol,
only a ‘network of disaffected individuals’.8 The compurgation certificates might
suggest the innocence of the eight people tried in the wake of the Oldcastle Revolt,
and thus add weight to Burgess’s argument. Indeed, in the context of canon law,
heresy was a legal definition whereby an individual had to be found guilty of the
crime of heresy by an ecclesiastical court in order to be labelled a heretic.9 Only a
formal trial that gathered evidence from witnesses and led to a free confession from
the accused could prove the deponent’s guilt. In the present case, the eight purged
3
Calendar of the Patent Rolls, p. 177.
4
TNA, KB 9/205/1/82–84.
5
The Register of Nicholas Bubwith, ed. by Scott-Holmes, pp. 287, 289.
6
The abjuration is not mentioned in the return in the King’s Bench: TNA KB29/54/20.
7
The Register of Nicholas Bubwith, ed. by Scott-Holmes, pp. 283–290, 298. Certificates
of compurgation demonstrated that the accused had not been found guilty of the crime that
they were tried for, and that they had made a purgation with compurgators to testify to their
reputable nature.
8
Burgess, ‘A Hotbed of Heresy?’, pp. 55, 61.
9
Forrest, The Detection of Heresy, p. 1. Arnold, ‘Margery’s Trials’; Newman, God and the
Goddesses, pp. 305–08.
a discussion of purgation 171
themselves of the accusations made against them in order to restore their good
fama (public reputation).10 However, it is possible that people could be dissenters
beyond this strict legal category. Richard H. Helmholz argues that purgation does
not determine guilt or innocence but instead represents the end of a ‘quarrel’.11
Fredrick Emmison and Ralph Houlbrooke have supported Helmholz’s broader
point by showing that three-quarters of those who attempted to clear their names
through purgation were successful, implying it was attainable even if you were
guilty.12 More recently, Ian Forrest has stated that purgation ‘was an unsatisfactory
and inferior means of testing for trust’ because it was facilitated by the ‘friends
and supporters’ of the accused rather than impartial or trustworthy men.13
In relation to this Bristol group, Anne Hudson and Henry A. Kelly have
questioned their innocence in spite of the purgation, citing procedural fallibility
as the main reason for this point of view. Hudson suggests that inadequate
questioning by the bishop and his commissioners meant that the deponents were
able to give generically orthodox answers despite clearly being engaged in lollard
activities.14 Similarly, Kelly notes that the process of inquisition used was odd. He
writes: ‘We note that they were not required to expound upon any of the articles
and risk making damaging misstatements of doctrine.’ He also implies that they
were guilty but able to purge and restored themselves through abjuration too.15
It has to be acknowledged that these certificates from which this evidence is
drawn are not perfect sources and leave lots of unknowns for the historian. They
cannot be taken as a raw account of the proceedings of investigation, interrogation
or inquisition, but are instead a summary. Unlike deposition books or Act Books
(which must have existed at some point for these trials, but have not survived),
the register gives very little detail. Generalizations and short hands are used. In
many ways, the details of the rumours or lines of questioning were unimportant
10
Oddly, however, they also had to abjure the bad fama and rumours about them in the
suburb, as will be discussed later. Forrest, ‘Defamation, Heresy and Late Medieval Social Life’;
Coleman , ‘Scholastic Treatments’; Fenster and Lord Smail, ‘Introduction’.
11
Helmholz, ‘Crime, Compurgation and the Courts’, pp. 20, 23; Bellamy, Crime and Public
Order, p. 144; Emmison, Elizabethan Life, pp. 291–300; Houlbrooke, Church Courts, p. 45.
12
Emmison, Elizabethan Life, p. 296; Houlbrooke, Church Courts, p. 45.
13
Forrest, Trustworthy Men, p. 334.
14
Hudson, ‘The Examination of Lollards’, pp. 147–48.
15
Kelly, ‘Lollard Inquisitions’, p. 290. It may have been that the bishop’s questions were
intended to let them off the charges, perhaps because of their connections to the powerful of
the town or because they were not directly involved in the treason of Oldcastle’s Rebellion.
However, this is speculation and cannot be directly proven.
172 Esther Lewis
to the scribe at the point of writing these certificates: the trial had concluded,
the outcome had been decided, and the ‘quarrel’ put to bed by the purgation.16
It is only because of the connection to the treason of Oldcastle’s Revolt and the
prompting of the Crown that the copies of the certificates survive. However, their
survival is important to this present investigation into heresy in south Bristol.
They provide a starting point for exploring the nuances of social interactions that
are present in other sets of sources. They allow us to see who was suspected of
heresy and, consequently, who might have been involved in dissenting activities.
By relating these certificates to other types of sources through Social Network
Analysis, we can begin to consider who their compurgators might have been.
The additional evidence and new approach of Social Network Analysis that
this article will discuss will corroborate Hudson’s and Kelly’s arguments that the
eight were engaged in religious dissent through a reconsideration of the certificates
and an exploration of one strategy of self-defence used by the deponents.17 Their
involvement in lollardy before the Oldcastle Revolt is reflected in some of the
accusations made against them. The details of these accusations made against
them, and the different activities that they were involved in (discussed below),
suggest that the bishop was acting on gathered information and defamations
made against the deponents. These rumours, and some circumstantial evidence
to be discussed, suggest further that they had been lollards. In addition to the
apparent resistance to questioning and inadequate procedure outlined by Hudson
and Kelly, and the large number of compurgators required by the ecclesiastical
authorities, this article will consider the importance of social networks in
purgation.18 It will do so through Social Network Analysis and will demonstrate
that social connections were also an important factor in the self-defence of this
group in addition to the factors outlined by Hudson and Kelly.19
16
Helmholz, ‘Crime, Compurgation, and the Courts’, p. 23; Forrest, The Detection of
Heresy, p. 1.
17
A good introduction to Social Network Analysis in historical studies is Innes, ‘“Networks”
in British History’.
18
It was usual for an individual to need between three and six compurgators, or ten in
grave cases. These cases see fourteen or fifteen compurgators for some of the individuals tried.
Helmholz, ‘Crime, Compurgation and the Courts’, p. 45. In Norwich, suspects who managed
to purge themselves of lollardy had seven or eight compurgators, with one exception where the
deponent had sixteen named compurgators and about twenty unnamed compurgators (‘cum
pluribus aliis circa xxti in numero’).This was probably a result of the individual’s popularity.
Heresy Trials, ed. by Tanner, pp. 39–40, 192–93, 210, 215–16.
19
In other parts of the country, integration of lollards into the community around them
Events and Sources

The eight people were split into three groups for trial by the ecclesiastical
authorities. The first four men to be tried were Edmund Broun, Robert Harryes,
Robert Wykeham, and James Mostarmaker, followed by a second group of
three men: John Colchester, John Jordan (also known as Jordan Corverser),
and Jordan Ruell, and finally Christina More.20 We know little about Broun,
Wykeham, and Mostarmaker and their connections to the Oldcastle rebels.
We have some information, however, about Harryes. He was a weaver, and
his servant, Edward Greylake, had gone to St Giles’s field.21 Both Harryes and
Greylake were detained in the King’s Prison in Bristol in February 1414. We
know the most about Christina More’s connection to the Oldcastle rebels. She
was the widow of a Bristol burgess, William More. She was probably arrested
because she was the patroness of Walter Blake, the leading lollard chaplain, and
James Merrshh, another Oldcastle rebel and her servant.22 Both of these men
appear in William More’s 1411 will. This has led Charles Kightly to suggest that
she was the head of a lollard household by 1414.23 She is one of two documented
examples of female involvement in dissent in late medieval Bristol, and
certainly the better documented.24 The details of these eight’s trial come from
compurgation certificates that were copied into Bishop Bubwith’s register. These
certificates had to be sent to the Crown in response to the royal commission that
was dispatched in 1414, but the bishop of Bath and Wells was slow to respond
to this. The purgations were completed by 1415, but the Crown had to prompt
has been successfully demonstrated. For example, Lutton, Lollardy and Orthodox Religion;
Jurkowski, ‘Lollardy and Social Status’; Brown, Popular Piety, p. 218.
20
The Register of Nicholas Bubwith, ed. by Scott-Holmes, pp. 283–90, 298.
21
Greylake is identified as Harryes’s servant when he was mentioned in the indictment sent
to the King’s Bench: TNA, KB9/205/1/84; Thomson, The Later Lollards, p. 22; Kightly, ‘The
Early Lollards’, p. 242.
22
More employed Walter Blake to be the family chaplain in her household. It does not
necessarily mean that she knew about his lollardy or that she engaged in it, but it is likely that
she was aware of it as head of the household after the death of her husband, if not actively
involved. Kightly, ‘The Early Lollards’, pp. 245–48; Fleming, ‘Women in Bristol, 1373–1660’,
p. 40. Walter Blake was hanged, not burnt, which was a punishment for treason, not heresy.
‘Coram Rege Roll, no. 611’, ed. by Sayles, p. 219.
23
BA, JOr/1/1, fol. 117; Kightly, ‘The Early Lollards’, pp. 248–49.
24
The other is Julia Kenseke, wife of John Kenseke. She is mentioned in KB29 with
Christina More but does not appear again and certainly was not tried by the bishop; TNA
KB29/54/20.
174 Esther Lewis
for the certificates in 1417 and waited until 1418 for the certificate relating to
Christina More.25
These groups were dealt with on different timescales. The first group were
released on 28 June and were initially tried in the parish church of St Thomas
the Martyr by Bishop Bubwith’s commissioners, and then by the Bishop in the
parish church of Banwell, approximately thirteen miles outside of Bristol, on 5
July 1414.26 The certificate names the Bishop’s commissioners at Banwell, the
location of one of his palaces, and notes that there were many other people
there in a large crowd (‘ac pluribus aliis in multitudine copiosa’).27 The second
group of men were released from prison over a year after the Oldcastle Revolt
in February 1415 and appeared before the Bishop’s general commissioner in the
parish church of St Thomas the Martyr in southern Bristol. Christina More was
dealt with separately to the men, but there is less detail about her trial. She made
her purgation in October 1414. The compurgation certificate was not sent to
the Crown until 1418, and the details of the number of her compurgators or the
location of the purgation are not given.
During the trials, all eight were questioned on the Ten Commandments, the
Seven Sacraments of the Church, the Seven Works of Mercy, the Seven Cardinal
Virtues, and the Fourteen Articles of Faith. It is unclear why they asked them
about points of doctrine rather than specific lollard beliefs. There are no details of
lines of interrogation that may have accompanied the royal commission.28 These
questions also bore no similarity to those put to Oldcastle by Archbishop Arundel
or to other suspected lollards throughout the fifteenth century.29 Bubwith’s
questions regard generic doctrine of the Catholic faith, rather than specific
questions designed to identify heretics such as those about the material bread at
the Eucharist, the authority of the clergy, the role of saints, and pilgrimages on
which Oldcastle and later lollards were questioned. This may reflect a localized
25
Kelly, ‘Lollard Inquisitions’, pp. 289–92; TNA KB29/54/20.
26
It is unclear from the certificate whether they were free to come and go. Usually, suspects
were delivered to the bishop within ten days of arrest by the secular authorities without release.
Forrest, The Detection of Heresy, pp. 32–33.
27
The Register of Nicholas Bubwith, ed. by Scott-Holmes, p. 285.
28
Powell suggests that the commissioners were probably given a summary of the events of
the revolt along with a list of people to arrest. The list of names had come from those who had
been arrested in London. Powell, Kingship, Law and Society, p. 154.
29
Kelly, ‘Lollard Inquisitions’, p. 289. Arundel’s questions to Oldcastle were specific
about lollard beliefs, whereas Bubwith’s questions to the eight were vaguely about doctrine
more broadly. Also see Hudson, The Examination of the Lollards, pp. 145–59; Lollards of
Coventry, ed. by Tanner and McSheffrey.
flavour to dissenting beliefs. There was, perhaps, anxiety about the laity’s
knowledge of the fourteen articles of the Creed, the Ten Commandments, and
the Seven Sacraments of the Church within the diocese after 1414, as Bishop
Stafford had Ignorantia Sacerdotum (which addressed these topics) translated
into English in 1435 and a copy sent to every parish in the diocese.30 This may
indicate a continuing lay ignorance or misinterpretation of these issues within the
diocese which the Bishop may have considered problematic for the salvation of
souls within the orthodox Church as well as a continuing concern about heresy.
Edmund Broun was the first to be individually questioned. His response to
the questions about the Seven Deadly Sins was that they ought to be avoided by
him and all Christians without hesitation (‘ea fore et debere incuntanter tam ad
eo quam a quolibet christiano vitanda’).31 His other responses were not recorded,
which suggests that they were also of an inoffensive and orthodox nature. The
other seven suspects gave general and suitable responses (‘prout dictus Edmundus
fuit, ut premittitur, interrogatus examinatus, dictisque singillatim suis congruis
et catholicis responsionibus in singulis premissorum’).32 If Hudson and Kelly
are correct about this lollard group, this questioning was inadequate as it did not
force the deponents to reveal their true beliefs. If guilty, Broun and the others
resisted the Bishop by giving generic and orthodox answers to the broad questions
that they were asked.
As well as questioning the eight on points of doctrine, Bubwith and his com-
missioners interrogated them about the reports of rumours about them prior to
the trial. The first group were asked if they had made use of lollardy or were a sect
of lollards (‘fuerunt lollardi usive fuerunt secta lollardorum’), if they had read,
heard read, or possessed lollard books (‘vel aliquos libros lollardorum quovis
modo legerunt vel legi audierunt aut habuerunt’), and whether the rumours
about them in Bristol and the suburbs were true (‘ac utrum fama, que laboravit
in villa Bristollensi ac per viciniam, quod ipsi et eorum singuli forent lollardi
erat vera vel falsa’).33 They answered that all of these were untrue. John Jordan,
part of the second group tried and also known as John Corverser, was accused
of the following:
30
Burgess, The Right Ordering of Souls, p. 44. This may also have been motivated by
large-scale trials elsewhere in the country in the 1420s and 1430s. For example, see Heresy
Trials, ed. by Tanner.
31
32
33
176 Esther Lewis
quodque prefatus Johannes Souter per nomen Jordani Corveser de Bristollo

indictatus fuit coram commissariis predictis de eo quod ipse est communis
lollardus in villa predicta existens ac receptor et manutentor lollardorum ibidem
[…] cognitus ac lollardia et secta lollardia et secta lollardorum per longum tempus.34
(and the aforesaid John Souter by the name Jordan Corveser of Bristol was indicted
before the aforesaid commissioners on the grounds that he is in common with
lollards living in the aforesaid town and is a receiver and maintainer of lollards
in the same place […] and known by lollards and the lollard sect and the sect of
lollards for a long time.)
While the first group protested their innocence, the second admitted that they
had the reputation of which they had been publicly accused.35 These details of
the rumours circulating in the southern suburb add further weight to the notion
that the eight had been engaged in lollard activities before the Oldcastle Revolt
despite their purgation. Defamation, however, was not only used to report crime
but was also used by people wanting to slander others.36 The defamation against
them appears to have been treated as slander as it could not be verified to prove
guilt. A conclusive judgement could not be made from local reports of fama as
they were not made under oath.37
Although they were dealt with in different groups, different places, and on
different time-frames, all eight eventually purged themselves in the parish church
of St Thomas the Martyr. The first four maintained that they were innocent and
made their purgation later in July 1414. Each deponent tried in the first group
had fourteen men as their compurgators to attest to their good nature.38 After a
date was set for their purgations, a call was put out in the suburb for anyone who
knew anything that could stop the purgation from happening, such as evidence
that supported the bad fama around the group, to come forward. No one
appeared and so the purgation went ahead. The perpetual vicars of the church in
Bedminster (just south of Bristol) and the neighbouring church of Holy Cross
Temple were present, along with the leadership of the town and many others
34
35
‘et interrogati de fama que publice laboravit contra eos de crimine lollardy, ipsi omnes
singuli responderunt dicentes assertive eam esse penitus animis veram’; The Register of Nicholas
Bubwith, ed. by Scott-Holmes, p. 289; Kelly, ‘Lollard Inquisitions’, p. 289. Although they
accepted that they had the reputation, they did not accept that they were lollards or heretics.
A distinction was being made between rumour and actual beliefs and actions.
36
Forrest, ‘Defamation, Heresy and Late Medieval Social Life’, p. 148.
37
Forrest, Trustworthy Men, p. 258.
38
in a very large crowd (‘aliis pluribus in multitudine copiosa’).39 This purgation

was a very public event. The certificates state that each man was separately
purged by fourteen compurgators, but their names are not given.40 Examples of
compurgation from the Norwich heresy trials in the 1430s detailed that each
deponent had their own group of compurgators. Thomas White of Bedyngham
had seven compurgators, all named, in 1430, while Thomas Herde of Shipmedwe
had eight in the same year. John Midelton, vicar of Halvergate, had sixteen
clergyman from across the diocese of Norwich as his compurgators in the same
year who were named and around twenty more people who were unnamed.41
It is therefore likely that the 1414 Bristol trial would have followed a similar
procedure to the Norwich trials and that the summative account of purgation
in the 1417 certificate glosses over the details of each man’s compurgators. Some
men may have acted as compurgators for multiple deponents, as they all appear
to be from the same parish and some were of similar social standing. This raises
the possibility that there were between fourteen and fifty-six compurgators. The
actual number is probably between these two. The compurgators risked their
own fama by supporting these men, and so it is significant that each man was able
to get fourteen people to testify to his good nature.
The second group made their purgation in September 1415. The certificate
does not detail each purgation separately but states that all purged themselves
at the hands of fifteen men who were neighbours of good fama (‘manu xvma
compurgatorum, proborum virorum, vicionorum bone fame et opinionis
illese’).42 It implies that the three men had fifteen men between them, unlike the
first group who may each have had fourteen compurgators. But it is possible that
the scribe shortened his account of the second group’s purgation as he had already
laid out the process in his account of the first group’s purgation. In the light
of procedure detailed in heresy trials elsewhere, such as Norwich, I think this
is likely the case. The possibility then remains that this second group may have
had as many as forty-five reputable men of the town attest to their innocence.
The need for more compurgators may be because they admitted to having a bad
reputation within the town.43
39
40
Compurgators are named in the Norwich trials. Heresy Trials, ed. by Tanner, pp. 39–40,
192–93, 210, 215–16.
41
Heresy Trials, ed. by Tanner, pp. 39–40,192–93, 215–16. Also see n. 18.
42
43
178 Esther Lewis
Apart from the date of the purgation (October 1414), there are no further
details of Christina More’s purgation. She probably also gave it in the church of
St Thomas the Martyr, as this was her home parish.44
Who Were the Compurgators?

Richard Helmholz outlines a generic profile for compurgators. They had to be
men of ‘good repute’ who had not committed any public crime. They were often
neighbours of the accused, had to be familiar with the accused’s character, and
were often of a similar status.45 These were the stipulations of compurgation set
out by canon law, but they were not strictly upheld.46 As the compurgators had
to be neighbours, and the compurgation took place in the parish church of the
accused, it is likely that the whole process was contained within the parish.47 In the
current case, this means that all of these eight people were from the same parish. It
also means that there were probably two different groups acting as compurgators,
as the compurgators had to be of a similar status to the accused. Harryes may have
had fellow weavers testify to his good nature, while More may have relied on the
burgesses and merchants who had been her late husband’s friends and business
associates.48 This framework provides an archetype of who these compurgators
may have been. An idea of social connections and personal relationships within the
parish of St Thomas the Martyr can be gleaned by using last wills and testaments
in a Social Network Analysis. It is through such analysis that we can begin to
consider how this group used their social connections to defend themselves
against the accusations made against them by purging themselves.49
44
Helmholz argues that purgations were often done in home parishes; Helmholz, ‘Crime,
Compurgation and the Courts’, p. 18.
45
Helmholz, ‘Crime, Compurgation and the Courts’, p. 17.
46
See Heresy Trials, ed. by Tanner, pp. 39–40.
47
Helmholz, ‘Crime, Compurgation and the Courts’ , p. 18.
48
This mainly seems to have been the case for clerics using other clerics as compurgators,
but it is possible that this principle was applied here too. Helmholz, ‘Crime, Compurgation and
the Courts’, p. 17.
49
Social Networks Analysis has been used previously to evaluate social values in medieval
studies which are less tangible and difficult to identify. For example, Berry discusses fama
between jurors of the Aldersgate ward in late medieval London, while Goddard considers what
social networks can tell us about trust between merchants in Nottingham’s borough court:
Berry, ‘“To Avoide All Envye”’, pp. 201–17; Goddard, ‘Trust’.
Social Network Analysis and Core Arguments

Figures 1 and 2 (overleaf ) are network graphs which detail the relationships
between people and institutions in the parish of St Thomas the Martyr. The graphs
are based on three types of evidence: Bubwith’s register, last wills and testaments
from the parish of St Thomas the Martyr between 1400 and 1426, and shipping
records from 1390 to 1391.50 This is the first time that Social Network Analysis
has been applied to this historical context. The conclusions that can be drawn
from this approach are that the group appear to have been more integrated into
the burgess society around them than previously thought, and that, in addition to
the inadequate questioning that Hudson and Kelly have suggested, this may have
helped them purge themselves, despite their guilt.
Figure 1 tells us about the social life and dynamics in the parish of St Thomas
the Martyr in the early fifteenth century. The shipping records look forward in time
while the wills give a snapshot of the present as well as sometimes looking back.
The graphs visualize a network context within which to place the 1414 group.
Each person or institution is represented in the graphs by a node, with the eight
people under study here highlighted in bold. The relationships between these
nodes are represented by lines called edges. Mass is attributed to each node based on
the number of connections that it has within the network. Consequently, a node
with more connections within the network will appear closer to the centre of the
graph, while a node with fewer connections will be on the periphery of the graph.
Although the graph is essentially an ego network of the parish church of
St Thomas the Martyr, the network extended beyond the boundaries of the
parish. The parish churches of St Mary Redcliffe and Holy Cross of Temple,
which shared the suburb with St Thomas the Martyr, are also near the centre of
the graph. Friaries are also present in the graph, as it was common for testators
to demonstrate a relationship with these houses as they prepared for their
deaths (usually through leaving a momentary sum to the friary), and friars were
often called upon to pray for the testator after their death and to attend their
funeral.51 Clusters, dense collections of nodes with lots of edges between them,
are also visible. One of these clusters is the group which was tried in 1414. The
other cluster, the largest in the graph, is representative of two ships on which
several parishioners in St Thomas the Martyr had cargo. This cluster therefore
50
The Register of Nicholas Bubwith, ed. by Scott-Holmes, pp. 283–90, 298; BA, JOr/1/1
fols 75r–152r; TNA, PROB 11/3; TNA, PROB 11/2a–b; The Overseas Trade of Bristol, ed. by.
Wilson.
51
Burgess, ‘Friars and the Parish’.
180 Esther Lewis
Figure 1: A network graph of the parish of St Thomas the Martyr

with edges maintained between the deponents tried by Bishop Bubwith in 1414.
demonstrates the importance of the mercantile community within the parish,

but is also reflective of the fact that it has come from a different type of source to
the rest of the networks presented in the graph.
Figure 1 shows the 1414 group as a cluster within the wider network. This
clustering is a result of their association in Bubwith’s register. However, their con-
nections to people outside of the group put on trial made them more integrated
into the rest of the parish around them. John Thomson and Kightly have used
William More’s will to examine the lollard group’s connection to the rest of the
neighbourhood. His will was made three years before the Oldcastle Revolt and
gives an insight into the composition of his household. As well as mentioning
Christina, the will also shows that Walter Blake, the lollard chaplain, and another
Figure 2: A network graph of the parish of St Thomas the Martyr

without edges maintained between the deponents tried by Bishop Bubwith in 1414.
Oldcastle rebel, the Mores’ servant, James Merrshe, were part of the household
in 1411. Kightly speculates that the More household may have been the focal
point of heresy in the Redcliffe area.52 On this basis, Peter Fleming regards the
Mores as ‘keeping a lollard household’, complete with a lollard chaplain.53 This
depiction of the 1414 group would suggest that they were isolated and not
representative of the rest of the neighbourhood: they were centred around the
More household. Thomson also notes that Robert Harryes’s servant went to
52
Kightly, ‘The Early Lollards’, p. 248.
53
Fleming, ‘Women in Bristol, 1373–1660’, p. 40.
182 Esther Lewis
St Giles’s field.54 However, Harryes has little connection with the rest of the
community in the surviving wills. Kightly has made the only other connection
between the Oldcastle rebels and the rest of the neighbourhood: the son-in-law
of one of the parishioners of Redcliffe took part in the rebellion.55 But he does not
explore this further, and does not consider the connection to show a dissenting
relationship in the way that he considered the More household demonstrated a
dissenting or heretical hub. Compared to previous assertions about the group’s
social connections, this graph demonstrates that this group was well connected
within their community. The nature of the survival of evidence and the lower
status of some of the deponents’ contacts (who would not have made wills or
been involved in mercantile activities) means that not all individuals who lived
in the parish are included in the network graph, because there is no evidence for
them. Instead, the graph predominantly represents burgess society. Yet it shows
that the group was connected to other people of good repute within the parish
and certainly more connected than has been previously thought by historians.
It is necessary, however, to consider the impact of the source material on
the clustering in Figure 1. Clustering appears, in both the clusters of suspected
heretics and of merchants, because of the nature of the source material from
which the networks have been extracted. The eight deponents, for example,
appear as a cluster because they were grouped together in Bubwith’s register.
The format of this document and the context of the trial may have brought
together groups of people who may not otherwise have been connected to each
other. Figure 2 shows the changes in these social networks when edges are only
maintained between those deponents who were put on trial together in their
three separate groups, and the edges between the eight more widely are deleted.
Some of the deponents are still well connected, but others are on the periphery.
Christina More and Edmund Broun continue to be integrated in the wider social
context, while John Ruell, John Jordan/Jordan Corverser, and John Colchester
are on the periphery of the graph and are not connected to anyone else outside
of their group. This is probably because Ruell, Jordan/Corverser, and Colchester
were less well connected to the burgesses of the parish than More and Broun.
Colchester and Corverser were both masters in the craft guilds, which makes
it unsurprising that they were not part of the burgess’s social networks that are
under examination in this present article.56 Bristol was governed by an oligarchy of
54
Thomson, The Later Lollards, p. 21.
55
Robert Bayon appears in his father-in-law’s will of 1422 having been pardoned for his
part in the revolt in 1415. See Kightly, ‘The Early Lollards’, pp. 247–49.
56
Kightly, ‘The Early Lollards’, p. 249.
burgesses, as Fleming has argued, who were generally merchants (although some
richer members of the artisan trades also obtained burgess status).57 The town
also had several craft guilds, some of which occasionally came to into conflict
with the town’s leadership.58 Colchester and Corverser were certainly not part of
this burgess society. We have the most information about Edmund Broun from
both the trial and the last wills and testaments, making him a good case study
with which to consider the importance of social connections in his purgation.
Edmund Broun is mentioned in three wills. These connections are the reason
that he is more integrated into the rest of the network. John Palmer’s will of 1403
left bequests to Edmund Broun and William Hurdeman of St Thomas’s parish.59
Palmer was a tucker and burgess of the parish of SS Philip and Jacob and was
twice executor alongside parishioners of St Thomas the Martyr. In 1393 he was
executor to Thomas Atte Hay with Hurdeman (a burgess and merchant and
part of the cluster of merchants in the networks graph).60 He appears to have
been an important contact for Broun. Hurdeman made his will in 1417, after
the purgation, and left bequests to Edmund Broun and Broun’s children.61 As
wills were public documents, this demonstrates that Hurdeman was not afraid to
publicly display his relationship with Broun despite the bad fama Broun suffered
during the proceedings against him. Indeed, it suggests that Broun’s fama had
been restored since his purgation three years earlier. David Ruddok, a parishioner
of St Thomas the Martyr who served as bailiff in the 1410s and sheriff of the
town in 1420, named Edmund Broun as his overseer in his will of 1426.62 This
demonstrates that Ruddok held him in a position of great trust and esteem.63
These connections illustrate that Broun was integrated into the community
around him and continued to be trusted after the purgation. Hurdeman and
Ruddok were great men of the town with political and economic authority. It is
feasible that Hurdeman and Ruddok were two of his compurgators. In instances
57
Fleming, ‘Telling Tales’.
58
Sacks, ‘The Demise of the Martyrs’.
59
BA, JOr/1/1, fol. 85.
60
Palmer was executor to Nicholas Chepman in 1382 along with Chepman’s wife and
John Cauntebury (here Cauntelbury) of St Thomas’s parish. He was then executor to Thomas
Atte Hay in 1393 along with Atte Hay’s wife and William Hurdeman, and here he is described
as ‘John Palmer in the Market’. He is also mentioned in William Steyl’s will of 1396 as his
neighbour in the parish of St Philip; Notes and Abstracts of Wills, ed. by Wadley, pp. 8, 32, 50.
61
BA, JOr/1/1, fols 131v–132r.
62
BA, JOr/1/1, fol.155.
63
Colson, ‘Local Communities’, pp. 254–60; Wilson, ‘Community, Kinship and Piety’, ch. 3.
184 Esther Lewis
of dissenting activity in other towns, wills have been shown to shed light on the
social dynamic of heresy. Imogen Luxton finds that wills shed light on the wider
social context of the lollards tried in the early sixteenth century whose trials are
recorded in the Litchfield Court book.64 It would be too far of a jump to suggest
that Hurdeman and Ruddok were lollards or were part of the 1414 Bristol group,
especially as Ruddok was actively involved in prosecuting lollards as sheriff of the
town in 1420.65 It is significant, however, that people like Edmund Broun, who
was accused of lollardy even if he was not found guilty, were associated with the
rich and the powerful of the town. Broun’s contacts may have aided his purgation
and allowed him to avoid conviction of lollard beliefs and activities of which he
was accused.
Another man with the surname Broun in the graph is John Broun. He appears
in late fourteenth-century shipping records with William Hurdeman, David
Ruddok, and other parishioners of St Thomas the Martyr. In the early fifteenth-
century wills, he was closely associated with the Temple parish, appearing in the
wills of Richard Bokeland and Richard Wykyng in 1418 and 1419 respectively.66
Bokeland was a brewer and burgess who requested to be buried by his pew in
Temple, suggesting a parish-centric piety in which his church attendance was
important to him, while Wykyng was a burgess with a brief will from the same
parish. In this network graph, there is no link between Edmund Broun and John
Broun. Therefore, we cannot say that they were certainly connected. However,
their shared surname, their mutual associates and friends, and habitation in the
same neighbourhood suggest that they had a familial connection. If they were
related, Edmund Broun would have been pulled further into the circles of reputable
men in the parish and the suburb more broadly. A will for John or Edmund
would shed more light on this, but unfortunately no such documents survive.
All the suspected lollards tried in 1414 appear to have followed the same
tactics when being questioned by the Bishop and his commissioners. The source
says that they all gave the same generically orthodox answers that Edmund
Broun gave.67 This might suggest a degree of collusion between the eight, or a
retrospective gloss over the details by the scribes in 1417 and 1418. If their
64
Luxton, ‘The Lichfield Courtbook’.
65
Forrest, The Detection of Heresy, p. 179; WAAS, 716.093/5/iii, fols 13r, 16v–18v; Kightly,
‘The Early Lollards’, pp. 250–64.
66
BA, JOr/1/1, fols 134r–135r, 139v–140r.
67
James Mustardmaker, Robert Wykham, and Robert Harryes are said to have given
‘congruis et catholicis responsionibus’ just as Edmund Broun had ‘prout dictus Edmundus fuit’;
resistance to the inadequate questioning was the key to their self-defence, why
did some of the group manage to purge themselves faster than others? Edmund
Broun and the three other men he was tried with purged themselves within
eighteen days of their trial in July 1414, while Cristina More did not do so until
three months after her trial in October 1414 and Ruell, Jordan/Corverser, and
Colchester then had to wait until the following year for both trial and purgation,
waiting more than another seven months after the trial for their purgation. It is
perhaps not a coincidence that those who appear to be more connected in the
network graphs purged themselves faster. Social Network Analysis suggests they
had a greater relationship with reputable men who could support them and act
as compurgators and so speed up their trials and purgation. As already discussed,
Broun was connected to burgesses and merchants, and Robert Harryes was a
weaver. Many weavers in Bristol also obtained the status of burgess despite the
trade being of a lower social status than merchant.68 The second group were
shoemakers (souters) and barbers (barbours) — occupations of a lower social
status than the merchants that the first group were connected to. Despite her
connection to the burgesses, it took Cristina More longer to purge herself, but
this could be because she was the patroness of the lollard chaplain Walter Blake.
If this is the case, it would suggest that there was a collective resistance during
the trial through their simple answers to questioning, but also an increasingly
individual self-defence strategy used by the accused during the purgations as each
person had to rely on his or her own compurgators.
If Broun and the others had managed to purge themselves because of their
social connections, this suggests that purgation was ineffective and an obstacle
to the Church’s fight against heresy. It tends to confirm the arguments outlined
above about the ineffectiveness of purgation as a means of proving innocence. In
this case, the purgation appears to represent the end of the quarrel between the
Church and the deponents, rather than as a process which established guilt or
innocence of heresy, as Helmholz has argued more broadly.69 In Broun’s case, the
purgation appears to have allowed him to continue to exist within the burgess
community and associate with men of good fama. The same cannot be said of the
other seven, of whom there is little to no record after their trials and purgation in
1414 and 1415. But this should not be taken as evidence of a fall from grace after
the trial: it is typical of the town in which few families survived beyond more
than a few generations.70 Nonetheless, the fact that each deponent managed to
68
Hilton, ‘Status and Class in the Medieval Town’, pp. 9–10.
69
Helmholz, ‘Crime, Compurgation and the Courts’, p. 20.
70
Thrupp, The Merchant Class of Medieval London, pp. 191, 200, 202–04.
186 Esther Lewis
get fourteen or fifteen people to testify to their good name, and nobody came
to oppose them, demonstrates that they were all well connected and supported.
It is possible that they could have been found guilty of heresy on the basis of the
rumours about them and their connections to the Oldcastle Revolt without the
compurgators’ testimony of their good nature.
The support for the deponents might be reflective of a wider religious culture
within the southern suburb of Bristol and some sympathy towards the activities
in which they were accused of participating. William More, late husband of
Christina, was a burgess and merchant, and so was clearly a reputable man despite
his lollard sympathies and patronage of the lollard chaplain Walter Blake. This
suggests that there was lollard activity in the suburb before William More’s
death in 1411, but this may have been limited to his household only. However,
others demonstrate engagement with some practices that may suggest lollard
involvement. For example, in 1404 the merchant and burgess of St Mary Redcliffe,
John Bount, left vernacular Gospels in his will to John Caunterbury of the
neighbouring parish of St Thomas the Martyr, along with 40 shillings for his ‘good
and true affection’. It was fashionable for high-status individuals to own English
Bibles in the early fifteenth century and so Bount’s ownership might indicate no
more than orthodox interest in the Scriptures. It is only the benefit of hindsight
arising from the controlling of vernacular literature by Arundel’s Constitutions of
1407/09 and subsequent heresy of the Oldcastle rebels in his immediate locality
that make Bount’s ownership of these Gospels suspect.71 But we also know that
lollards were acquiring and reading English Scripture during this time too.72
Bount stipulated that the Gospels were currently in the possession of William
Stourton, a gentleman of Wiltshire. Kightly has suggested that Stourton had
lollard sympathies. Some aspects of his will, such as his references to his putrid
body which he desired to be buried naked, share some similarities with wills of
knights at the royal court who have been regarded as lollards by some historians.73
However, Andrew Brown suggests that Stourton’s piety was merely particularly
penitential.74 This notwithstanding, Brown also suggests that Stourton may have
known Sir Thomas Broke the elder, a knight who arranged for his son’s marriage
to Sir John Oldcastle’s step-daughter. Through this association to Broke, Stourton
71
Galloway, ‘Writing Heresy’, pp. 226–27.
72
Kightly suggests that Purvey was translating the lollard Bible while in Bristol in the late
fourteenth century. Kightly, ‘The Early Lollards’, p. 222.
73
McFarlane, Lancastrian Kings and Lollard Knights, pp. 210–15; Kightly, ‘The Early
Lollards’, p. 237; Catto, ‘Sir William Beauchamp’, pp. 39–41; Tuck, ‘Carthusian Monks’.
74
Brown, Popular Piety in Late Medieval England, pp. 203–04.
may have been part of a lollard clique at court in the late fourteenth and early
fifteenth centuries at about the same time that Bount was making his will and
specifying that Stourton was in possession of his English Gospels.75 This evidence
is circumstantial, speculative, and is viewed with the benefit of hindsight, but it
suggests some local context to what Bubwith might have meant when he asserted
Broun, Wykeham, Harryes, and Mostermaker were known to have read, listened
to, or possessed ‘libros lollardorum’ (books of lollards).76
Conclusion
As outlined, Hudson and Kelly have both suggested that the individuals tried in
1414 and 1415 by the Bishop of Bath and Wells were able to get away with their
dissenting beliefs and activities because of inadequate inquisitional procedure.
However, this article has explored the possibility that they were also able to purge
themselves because of their social contacts within Bristol and because they used
their social networks as a defence against the ecclesiastical court. Their guilt of
these crimes is highly likely: they had not only been associated with Walter Blake
and the Oldcastle Revolt, but they also had much bad fama against them. The
wording of these accusations suggests that they were drawn from defamations
made in the town. The acknowledgement of these rumours by the second group,
who admitted that they had a bad reputation (whether or not this reputation was
accurate), further suggests that these eight people had been involved in lollard
activities. Reconstructing the social network of Edmund Broun demonstrates
that he had powerful contacts within the parish and the town, some of whom
may have been his compurgators in 1414. The patchy survival of evidence means
that it is only the privileged, wealthy, and powerful who appear in the documents
used for the Social Network Analysis, and that this is a shortcoming of this
methodology. But the networks that it does show are positive, even if they are
incomplete. The examples of Edmund Broun and Christina More demonstrate
the potential for the other six to have been well connected in the suburb even
if there is insufficient evidence to prove this. Other types of documents, such
as deeds or records of common office holding, might shed more light on this
matter.77 For Broun, social connections appear to have been an important factor
in his self-defence and eventual purgation.
75
Brown, Popular Piety in Late Medieval England, p. 209.
76
77
Ricart, The Maire of Bristowe is Kalendar, ed. by Toulmin Smith.
188 Esther Lewis
Works Cited
Manuscripts and Archival Sources

Bristol, Bristol Archives, JOr/1/1
Kew, The National Archives, KB 9/205/1/82–84
—— , KB 29/54/20
—— , PROB 11/2a
—— , PROB 11/2b
—— , PROB 11/3
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1416 (London: Eyre and Spottiswoode, 1910)
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Historical Society, 1977)
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(Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2003)
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Book of Wills in the Council House at Bristol, ed. by T. P. Wadley (Bristol: Bristol and
Gloucestershire Archaeological Society, 1886)
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T. Scott-Holmes, (London: Somerset Record Society, 1914)
Ricart, Richard, The Maire of Bristowe is Kalendar, ed. by Lucy Toulmin Smith (London:
Camdem Society, 1872)
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Book of Margery Kempe, ed. by John H. Arnold and Katherine J. Lewis (Woodbridge:
Boydell, 2004), pp. 75–95
Bellamy, John, Crime and Public Order in England in the Later Middle Ages (London:
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Berry, Charlotte, ‘“To Avoide All Envye, Malys, Grudge and Displeasure”: Sociability
and Social Networking at the London Wardmote Inquest, c. 1470–1540’, The London
Journal, 42 (2017), 201–17
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1550 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1995)
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Possibilities’, in The Friars in Medieval Britain: Proceedings of the 2007 Harlaxton
Symposium, ed. by Nicholas Rogers (Donnington: Shaun Tyas, 2010), pp. 73–96
—— , ‘A Hotbed of Heresy? Fifteenth-Century Bristol and Lollards in Perspective’, in The
Fifteenth Century, iii: Authority and Subversion, ed. by Linda Clark (Woodbridge:
Boydell, 2003), pp. 43–62
—— , The Right Ordering of Souls: The Parish of All Saints’ Bristol on the Eve of the
Reformation (Woodbridge: Boydell, 2018)
Catto, Jeremy I., ‘Sir William Beauchamp between Chivalry and Lollard’, in The Ideals
and Practice of Medieval Knighthood, iii: Papers from the Fourth Strawberry Hill
Conference 1988, ed. by Christopher Harper-Bill and Ruth Harvey (Woodbridge:
Boydell, 1990), pp. 39–48
Coleman, Janet, ‘Scholastic Treatments of Maintaining One’s Fama (Reputation/Good
Name) and the Correction of Private “Passions” for the Public Good and Public
Legitimacy’, Cultural and Social History, 2 (2005), 23–48
Colson, Justin, ‘Local Communities in Fifteenth-Century London: Craft, Parish and
Neighbourhood’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, Royal Holloway, 2011)
Emmison, Fredrick G., Elizabethan Life: Morals and the Church Courts, Mainly from
Essex Archidiaconal Records (Chelmsford: Essex Record Office, 1973)
Fenster, Thelma, and Daniel Lord Smail, ‘Introduction’, in Fama: The Politics of Talk and
Reputation in Medieval Europe. ed. by Thelma Fenster and Daniel Lord Smail (Ithaca:
Cornell University Press, 2003), pp. 1–14
Fleming, Peter, ‘Telling Tales of Oligarchy in the Late Medieval Town’, in Revolution and
Consumption in Late Medieval England, ed. by Michael Hicks (Woodbridge: Boydell,
2001), pp. 177–93
—— , ‘Women in Bristol, 1373–1660’, in Women and the City: Bristol 1373–2000, ed. by
Madge Dresser (Bristol: Redcliffe Press, 2016), pp. 15–44
Forrest, Ian, ‘Defamation, Heresy and Late Medieval Social Life’, in Image, Text and
Church 1380–1600: Essays for Margaret Aston, ed. by Linda Clark, Maureen
Jurkowski, and Colin Richmond (Toronto: Pontifical Institute of Mediaeval Studies,
2009), pp. 142–61
——, The Detection of Heresy in Late Medieval England (Oxford: Oxford University Press,
2005)
—— , Trustworthy Men: How Inequality and Faith Made the Medieval Church (Princeton:
Priceton University Press, 2018)
Galloway, Andrew, ‘Writing Heresy, Apostasy and Anticlericalism in Medieval England’,
in A Companion to British Literature, i: Medieval Literature 700–1450, ed. by Hessok
Chang (Chichester: Wiley Blackwell, 2013), pp. 215–31
Goddard, Richard, ‘Trust: Business Networks and the Borough Court’, in Town Courts
and Urban Society in Late Medieval England, 1250–1500, ed. by Richard Goddard
and Teresa Phipps (Woodbridge: Boydell,), pp. 176–99
190 Esther Lewis
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Law and History Review, 1 (1983), 1–26
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Town, ed. by Terry Slater and Gervase Rosser (Aldershot: Ashgate, 1998), pp. 9–19
Houlbrooke, Ralph A., Church Courts and the People during the English Reformation,
1520–1570 (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1979)
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Innes, Joanna, ‘“Networks” in British History’, East Asian Journal of British History,
5 (2016), 51–72
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Kelly, Henry, ‘Lollard Inquisitions: Due and Undue Process’, in The Devil, Heresy and
Witchcraft in the Middle Ages: Essays in Honor of Jeffrey B. Russell, ed. by Alberto Ferreiro
(Leiden: Brill, 1998), pp. 279–304
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1382–1428’ (unpublished doctoral thesis, University of York, 1975)
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don: English Universities Press, 1952)
—— , Lancastrian Kings and Lollard Knights (Oxford: Oxford University Press, 1972)
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(Philadelphia: University of Pennsylvania Press, 2003)
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Sacks, David Harris, ‘The Demise of the Martyrs: The Feasts of St Clement and St Katherine
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Review Article:
‘No Thanks, But I’ll Send Someone’
J. T. Rosenthal
Phil Bradford and Alison K. McHardy, Proctors for Parliament: Clergy,

Community and Politics, c. 1228–1539 (The National Archives, Series SC
10): Volume I: c. 1248–1377, and Volume II: 1377–1539. Woodbridge,
The Boydell Press, for the Canterbury & York Society, volumes 107–108
(2017–2018). lxii & lxiv + 542 pp (continuous pagination). ISBN: 978-0-
907239-80-2 and 978-0-907230-81-9.
These are volumes of meticulous and awesome scholarship. They are an analysis
of SC 10 (Special Collections) from The National Archives (TNA), listing
the proctors sent to parliament by those, mostly churchmen, who had been
summoned by individual writs and who were authorized to commission someone
else (singular or plural) to go in their stead.1 Analyzing the lists of the hundreds
and hundreds of those who were summoned and then the much greater number
of those whom they sent as their proctors tells us a bit about parliament and a
great deal more about the personnel and networks of the Church.2 Though there
were more proctors than those listed in SC 10, this document covers the bulk of
1
As well as an extensive introduction in each volume, the editors include information
on misfiled letters, those of uncertain date, letters from the Vetus Codex (NA C153/1),
biographical details for the proctors (I, 233–50 and II, 455–72), sample letters, proctors named
in episcopal registers, indices for introductions, appointees, proctors, places, and parliaments,
and a few other documents, with illustrations of some documents.
2
On the presence and role of “minor clergy” in parliament, Alison McHardy, ‘The
Representation of the English Lower Clergy in Parliament During the Later Fourteenth
Century’, in Sanctity & Secularity: The Church and the World, ed.by Derek Baker, Studies in
Church History 10 (1973), 97–107; On parliamentary attendance, J. S. Roskell,’ The Problem
of Attendance of the Lords in Medieval Parliaments’, Bulletin of the Institute of Historical
Research 29 (1956), 153–204; Richard G. Davies, ‘The Attendance of the Episcopate in English
Parliaments, 1376–1461,’ Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 129/1 (1985), 30–81.
Bradford and McHardy list the abbots and bishops who asked for the most authorizations for a
proctor (xxvii–xxviii: 15–30 requests). In this group there are 23 abbots and three bishops (two
of the bishops being from Welsh sees). For a different perspective on ‘substitutionary ability’,
Gavin Fort, ‘Penitents and their Proxies: Penance for Others in Early Medieval Europe,’ Church
History 86/1 (2017), 1–32.

192 J. T. Rosenthal
this bee hive of activity; good coverage from the early parliaments of Edward II
through those of Henry VI’s first reign, then a gap (1447–1523) and then a few
listings for Henry VIII. And despite the losses and the absence of a few names
that we can track from other sources, these volumes offer such riches that it ill
behooves us to complain about loss, destruction, and indifference on the part of
chancery clerks and their successors.
As Table 1 indicates, finding and commissioning a proctor, or a group of
proctors, was fair sized business-as-usual for many of the ecclesiastical recipients
of the king’s invitation to attend his parliament. The English and Welsh bishops
could expect to be summoned, as could many (though not all) of the abbots of
regular houses of the realm. But in addition — with a clerical voice still being part
of parliamentary deliberations as well as those of convocation — summonses also
went on a fairly regular basis to various others, embracing the lesser clergy in a
number of different aggregations such as cathedral chapters and the clergy of the
diocese or archdeaconry.3 These two volumes have exhaustive introductions and
the editors explore reasons why those summoned might have sought permission
to send a proctor; age, illness, a crisis closer to home (like the threat of the Scots),
troubles within the diocese that needed attention, a financial squeeze in the
diocese, etc. Long distance travel — nights on the road and a costly entourage
befitting the status of a bishop or an abbot — were real factors, especially for
impoverished Welsh bishops when summoned to York or Westminster, or for a
northern abbot who might well prefer to send a subordinate who would travel
with a smaller entourage and a modest expense account. That the king chose
to have parliament meet all over the realm and throughout the calendar only
compounded the desire to avoid his summons.4 And, though it is nowhere stated
in the documents, there were parliaments best avoided, as perhaps was the case
with Edward II’s parliaments around 1322.5 A proctor was less likely to draw
attention to himself (or to themselves, as they mostly were sent in ‘teams’) than
was the man whom the proctors represented.
3
There are Tables summarizing the numbers of documents sent and the numbers of proctors
(I, xxiv–xxv and II, xiv). For a summary of the categories of proctors, II, xxii–li.
4
Concerning the practical problems of travel and attendance, we can look at the sites
of parliament for Edward II and Edward III for which proctors were authorized. Edward II
called 18 parliaments at Westminster, 1 at Nottingham, 1 at Stamford, 2 at London, 6 at York,
and 1 at Lincoln. For Edward III it was 41 at Westminster, 6 at York, 2 at Nottingham, 2 at
Northampton, 1 at Lincoln, 1 at Salisbury, and 1 at Winchester.
5
The parliament called for May, 1322 at York ranks high among the no-show parliaments;
40 abbots asked that a proctor be authorized in their place, as did four bishops, one being the
bishop-elect of Coventry & Lichfield and two were the bishops of Llandaff and of St David’s.
Table I: The Number of Proctors (as individual or in groups) sent to Parliament.
Number of men or groups

sending proctors to parliament#
King Number of 1–3 proctors 4–6 teams 7–10 11–14 15–19 20, 20+
parliaments (“teams” Not individuals) teams teams teams teams
Henry III 4 4
Edward I 4 3 1
Edward II 23 4 4 - 2 1 12
῾no thanks, but i᾽ll send someone᾽
Edward III 53 8 2 8 2 6 27
Richard II 22 4 1 - 2 3 12
Henry IV 11 - 1 2 1 7
Henry V 10 2 - - 1 4 3
Henry VI@ 13 2 - 1 4 6 -
Henry VIII 7 3 - 2 2
[Councils & [14 10 1 - 2 1]
Convocation+]
Totals 147 30 9 11 15 21 61
# - The Table does not consider the size of a ‘team’ but only the number of teams of proctors.
@ - SC10 only covers the first reign of Henry VI
+ - The numbers for all the councils and convocation as given in SC10 are combined but not counted in the totals.
193
194 J. T. Rosenthal
This assertion about a heavy reliance on proctors is easily verified. For

Edward II’s parliament of January, 1315, held at Westminster, permission to
send a proctor was given to 22 abbots, eight bishops and one archbishop, three
cathedral chapters, twice to ‘the clergy of the diocese’, once to ‘the prior of St John
of Jerusalem’, once to the archdeacon and clergy of the diocese of Carlisle, once
to the master of Sempringham, thrice to various chapters, once to a dean and his
chapter, once to the archdeacon of Durham, and once to a dean. Though this
parliament drew more proctors than did most, the Leicester parliament of April,
1414 posted comparable numbers. And while there were those who might wish
to avoid having to counsel Edward II in 1315, Henry V was hardly a man to string
along in this fashion. The proctors who went to Leicester in 1414 went in lieu of
17 abbots, three priors, three bishops, two archdeacons, the clergy of the city and
diocese of Carlisle (though Leicester was closer to home than was Westminster),
one prior and his chapter, and the chapter of Worcester. Clearly, not having to
go in person was the preferred pathway for so many, and what might have been
considered the privilege of being summoned by a writ was also — or even more
so — a burden, an obligations to be dodged if possible.
Whom did all those absentees send in their place? Most of those who make
up the long list of proctors are given some sort of identifying tag in SC10. In
addition, our diligent editors have offered a bit more information for a great many
of these men, listing them in two ‘biographical details for proctors’ appendices.
This is of considerable help, enabling us to elevate Thomas de Bamburgh, ‘clerk’
and proctor for the abbot of St Mary, York in 1340 into the man who also just
happened to be keeper of the great seal through much of the 1340s as well as a
greater clerk of chancery, 1332–40. De Bamburgh, like so many of the others,
wore many hats beyond the one listed in SC10.6 If we look at some of the short
tags of identification given in SC10 and ignoring the additional information for
some of them as given in the biographical appendices, our roll call of proctors still
runs to scores of titles, offices, and affiliations. Some are of men who served time
after time; professional proctors, on call virtually 24/7 when a parliament was
announced, ready to respond to the needs of a variety of men and ecclesiastical
organizations. Some of the proctors were men on the way up, while others —
including the bishops — were already there and yet still ready and able to lend
a hand when a colleague or petitioner needed a stand-in. But before we look at
6
Only a few men offer more than one form of identification or credentialing as given in
SC10. For a few examples; archdeacon (of Worcester) (and) doctor of laws; dean of York (and)
keeper of the privy seal (Thomas Langley); doctor of theology (and) chancellor of Lincoln;
official of the Court of York (and) doctor of laws.
῾no thanks, but i᾽ll send someone᾽ 195
several of the most active individuals and plot their impressive records, a mere
listing of just some of the identification tags — and there are too many to give
in full — reinforces the idea of how big a business the proctoring for parliament
really was. It was quickly and well established by the time of Edward II and
even before and it continued to be so until the records break off around 1460.
Experience and networks, here as elsewhere, were clearly worth the price.
The categories of men sent as proctors are too numerous in their varieties of
title and phraseology for a full listing. Most of them, given for whom they were a
stand-in, were men of the church. Under this wide umbrella the proctors ranged
from the Archbishop of Canterbury and numerous bishops to abbots, vicars
choral, deans of collegiate churches, vicars, perpetual vicars, priors, deans, rectors
and canons. Many have a word or two pointing to their affiliation: ‘member of
the order’ of Sempringham, or ‘prior of our cell’, or ‘my clerk’, or ‘clerk of the
bishop’s household’, or ‘bishop of Durham’s clerk’, or ‘clerk in your court’, or ‘our
dear clerk’, or ‘monk of the abbey’ or ‘monk and cellarer’ or ‘our household clerk’.
Some men elaborated on their position: marshal of the lord Archbishop of York
(standing in here for the Abbot of Peterborough), or precentor of the collegiate
church, or advocate of the court of Canterbury or of the Arches, or subdean and
canon, or commissary general of the official of the archdeacon of London, or
canon of the monastery. Some had serious academic and legal credentials: doctor
of both laws, or doctor of civil law, or doctor of canon law, or advocate in the
court of York. Many of the teams of proctors — as we shall see — were composed
of both clerics and laymen (or of lower-level clerics holding secular offices, mostly
in the chancery). But the resort to such as a notary public, or a master of the
rolls of chancery, or a king’s esquire, or a clerk of parliament, or the chief justice
of common pleas (for the Abbot of St Mary, York), or a gentleman, or a layman,
show that the boundaries of status and class could be porous, and there were even
a few knights and ‘gentleman’ and ‘literate’, as well as peers of the realm, to be
found among the proctors. On occasion, we have Lord Beaumont or the Earl of
Salisbury, standing in for high-ranking clerics of their region or kinship network.
Such laymen, like the higher ranking churchmen who also served as proctors,
would be on their way to parliament in any case and they — like so many others
who appear on these pages — must not have had any objection to being asked to
wear more than one hat.
Table I tallies the number of ‘teams’ that were authorized to stand as proctors.
Only a few were one-man teams, while at the other extreme we have groups that
ran as high as seven or eight (or, in one instance, nine) men. Mostly we are in
the middle; teams of two, three, or four men were in the majority. We note that
parliament must have been crowded by all these stand-ins, though many were
196 J. T. Rosenthal
experienced hands and, presumably, knew each other — whether on the same
“team” or not at the time. In addition, there was a good deal of duplication; the
same men serving on a number of teams, standing in for numerous absentees and
doing so within the confines of a single parliament. The composition of most
of the teams — and almost always if they were of a largish grouping — usually
showed some sort of mix: laymen and clerics, men attached to their sender at
his abbey or cathedral or diocese (as in ‘a monk of the abbey’) in harness with
men well versed in the methods and ways of parliament (as a chancery clerk or
a London bureaucrat). The logic of choosing proctors can seem self-evident:
Welsh clerics for a Welsh bishop, but even here it was apt to be in conjunction or
cooperation with a London canon or a chancery clerk.
As far as SC10 tells the tale (and as reflected in Table I) the fourteenth century
was the golden age of proctors, with 15 or more groups of such men at a session
of parliament being quite common. We can look at the composition of some of
these teams, starting with the one-man affairs and then moving up the numerical
scale. Some choices are straight-forward; an abbot sending a monk, etc. However,
even when an abbot did follow this course of action, as he commonly did, he
rarely sent that monk by himself. An analysis of the monk-proctors sent to the
parliament of 1404 bears this out. On this occasion no fewer than 22 abbots
plus the prior of Worcester begged off but in no case was the monk they sent the
only member of the team. He usually had a couple of fellows; a monk as one of
three men being the most common combination and in some instances there was
no regular cleric at all. In the teams without a monk it was rather two chancery
clerks, or two doctors of law, or two M.P.s, among the variations.
When we look at the numerous bishops who sent proctors, there is no
obvious understudy and the diversity and variation that mark so much of this
whole investigation once again is the order of the day. At the same time, bishops
were great powers in the land and at least some of their proctors — though not all
— reflect this. In the parliament of 1371 seven bishops sent others in their place.
The bishop of Llandaff sent the treasurer of York and the chancellor of Llandaff;
the Archbishop of York sent the archdeacon of Lincoln and a canon of York
— not all that impressive given who had chosen them. The bishop of Hereford
did better: bishops of London and Ely, the archdeacon of Wiltshire, and John
Barnet, identified in SC10 as an inceptor in law but a man who was in the course
of his lifetime to hold three bishoprics and serve as treasurer of England. The
bishop of Coventry and Lichfield sent two canons of Lichfield and an advocate
of the Court of arches; a minor see, lesser men. The bishop of Salisbury sent two
clerks, the archdeacons of Worcester and of Wiltshire. The bishop of Rochester
sent three men, but two names are illegible and the third was (only) rector of
St Michael, Queenhithe, London. At the end of the list we have the Archbishop
of Canterbury, able for this occasion to tap the bishops of London, Worcester,
and St David, all of whom would presumably have been present at parliament
without being asked to serve as proctors.
If we follow this line of inquiry and look at the three bishops who bowed out
of the parliament of 1402 we find that they now were choosing larger teams, well
stocked with men of impressive credentials. The bishop of Winchester sent six
proctors: a keeper of the privy seal, a keeper of the rolls of chancery, a receiver
of petitions, an advocate of the Court of the Arches, his own chancellor, and a
man who had been the bishop’s right hand man in the founding of New College
Oxford. The bishop of Durham chose Thomas Langley, keeper of the privy seal
and his eventual successor at Durham, along with a canon of Lincoln (who also
was a keeper of the rolls), a baron of the exchequer, the prior of Guisborough, and
one additional clerk. The bishop of Coventry & Lichfield was able to recruit the
Earl of Stafford, the dean of Hereford, the chancellor of Lichfield cathedral, an
M.P. for Derbyshire, and an officer of the exchequer. These teams were among the
larger ones and they reached well up into the hierarchy of office and administrative
experience. The bishops, or whoever actually steered them to their choices,
needed no coaching when it came to picking the men to tap for such service.
Part of the interest in analyzing SC10 is in charting the number of men on
the teams and in looking at their credentials. One wonders at the harmony of
their collective identity as larger teams became very much a standard practice.
They must have worked ‘well enough,’ given what the different men could offer
and whom they knew. Some of them can be thought of as professional proctors,
given the frequency with which they served; well versed on how to divide their
collective expertise and contacts so as to give their patron value for his money
and a good recommendation for themselves with an eye on future employment.
An early group (1313) standing in for William Greenfield of York was unusual
in being made up of five men all with ties to his own base, at least as far as SC10
lists them: the dean of York, the archdeacon of Cleveland, and three canons of
York. But the team was less provincial than these tags would lead us to believe, as
these men also wore the hats of a king’s clerk, a chancery clerk, the keeper of the
rolls and of the domus conversorum on Chancery Lane, and keeper of the great
seal. How does this compare with an even larger team from 1414, these nine men
constituting the largest of all the groups? In this instance the bishop of Coventry
and Lichfield had recruited the dean of Hereford Cathedral, a canon of Wells,
three canons of Lichfield Cathedral, a rector who held a church in Lichfield
diocese, one knight, and two esquires. Assuming they met as a group, who would
have chaired their meeting, as they could boast of such credentials as a clerkship
198 J. T. Rosenthal
in the privy seal office and an official of the exchequer. The special dividends here
would come, moreover, from appointing several men with undeclared links to
the newly-installed Lancastrian dynasty: Bolingbroke’s attorney, an MP who
was or had been constable of the Tower and steward of the king’s household, and
–best of all — John Wakering, keeper of the privy seal, chancellor of the Duchy of
Lancaster, and to-be bishop of Norwich.
If we follow the career-as-proctors of several men who served in this role
on numerous occasions we have a key that helps unlock that tangled world of
networking and of favours-given/favours-received that were such a lively part
of the “human resources” game played by both church and state. We can follow
Nicholas Bubwith as he wore his hat as a proctor. By 1404 he was Henry IV’s
secretary and keeper of the rolls, set to become keeper of the privy seal in 1405
and then a bishop in 1406 (briefly of London and then Salisbury and finally,
in 1407, of Bath and Wells). He was clearly a man of influence and his many
appointments as a proctor testify to this being widely recognized. As a member
of a number of teams or groups, Bubwith stood in for the bishop of Coventry &
Lichfield and for the abbot of Winchcome for the parliament of 1401 (as part
of team of six and two, respectively, the two being ‘literate’), for the bishops of
Exeter, London, and Durham and the dean and chapter of London in 1404 (four
teams, of three, three, five, and four men), for the bishop of Coventry & Lichfield
and the dean of London and its chapter in 1404 (in groups of two, two, and
seven, with three knights and one gentleman among the seven), for the bishops
of Durham and of Coventry & Lichfield and for the keeper of the spiritualities of
York when the see was vacant in 1406 after Scrope’s execution (groups of three,
four, and three), and finally in 1411 for the bishop of Rochester (a team of four,
all bishops). In addition, Bubwith and Sir Thomas Camoys had been proctors
in 1401 for the earl of Devon. Furthermore, on five of his many teams he served
with Simon Gaustead, one of the real champions of this kind of service.
Gaustead, a chancery clerk, served 39 times in this capacity between 1393 and
1423 (when he fades from the records). Just to tap into his earlier turns of duty
(there being too many to follow all the way through), in January 1393 he stood
in for the bishop of Durham and the abbots of St Mary York and St Albans (on
teams of 5, 3, and 3); for January 1394, it was those two abbots again (on teams
of 3 and4 men); for January, 1395, it was just the abbot of St Mary York (and a
team of 3 men); January 1397, it was for the bishop of Durham and the abbot of
St Mary York (teams of 4 and3). In September 1402, it was for the subdeacon and
Chapter of Lincoln, the bishop of Durham, and those same two abbots named
above (on teams of 5, 5, 5, and 3). Furthermore, while Gaustead had just been
identified as a ‘clerk’ before this, in 1402 he was now identified as a prebendary
of Crackpole and canon of Lincoln. He continued to be a popular choice until

1423 and his identification changes at times to clerk of the petty bag or master
in chancery, though sometimes he went back to being a plain ‘clerk’. While more
active most of his peers and fellow clerks, he must have been reliable and well
thought of. The same ‘employers’ kept coming back and he often was teamed
up with some of the same men. He would know the by-ways of parliamentary
procedures as well as the back doorways and staircases of the old palace of
Westminster. Not many others could match this record of service or employment
— however we choose to label it — though a few others could and they seemed
quite pleased to do so.
The various forms of analysis and enumeration that we have extracted from
the data in these reader-friendly volumes raise a number of questions about
the personnel of the church and personal/personnel relations within the king’s
government. The editors talk of the sheer numbers that would have flooded
the halls of parliament. If we count men sent rather than the number of those
sending, we begin to see a need for crowd control. For the parliament of January
1315 proctors were appointed by 44 men or bodies and these 44 sent 76 men
in their place (assuming all proctors named did show up). In November, 1384,
27 recipients of writs authorized 75 men, of various ranks and affiliations, to go
on their behalf, and in April, 1425, it was 16 summoned and now naming 38 to
stand in for them (including three bishops, the treasurer of England, and two
high court justices among the 38); in February, 1425, it was 15 sending 39 men;
in September, 1429, 17 men sent 32 (plus a few others whose names are illegible);
in January, 1442 it was a mere 14 writ-recipients now sending 35 men in their
stead (including lord Beaumont, lord Sudeley, the Earl of Northumberland, and
three bishops). Of course, there was a fair amount of duplication with one man
being a proctor for a number of parties and neither the proctors nor those who
sent them seem worried about the conflicts that might arise from the need to
simultaneously serve two or more masters. But despite a good deal of duplication,
that Bradford and McHardy devote 34 pages for mostly one-line identifications,
and only for only some of the proctors — many being untraceable beyond their
brief tag in SC10 — tells a tale of big numbers.
Furthermore, the choice and then the presence of the proctors as a regular part
of the process of assembling the personnel for a parliament would indicate that
it was a practice accepted by the king, whether he liked it or not. That so many
authorizations were allowed also leads to the inference that the proctors were
generally deemed to be fair representatives of those who had sent them. Moreover,
the impressive numbers we do have tell us nothing about requests denied, about
men who had to come in person when they would have chosen to send another.
200 J. T. Rosenthal
Nor have we tried to unravel the complex weave of kinship and nepotism that
must have run through many of the teams of proctors. Without attempting an
elaborate prosopographical analysis of the 2000 or so proctors, we can turn to
the “index of proctors” to look for men with the same surname. Though this is
no guarantee of a close relationship, we know that many ‘white collar’ positions
in both the royal government and the vast ecclesiastical bureaucracy were kept
in and transmitted via families — virtual semi-hereditary benefices that could
utilize and be utilized by men of several generations.
Though this is far from an exact science, a glance at the names under the first
three letters of the alphabet (in volume II) gives us five Airmyns, 10 Bartons, 10
Brays, 10 Burghs, seven Charltons, and five Chesterfields. Even given the limited
pool of surnames in late medieval society, it would seem likely that at least some of
these men were tied by more than a matter of nominal coincidence. Being a proctor
raised ones visibility and prestige and offered an opportunity to rub elbows — if
one were not already rubbing such elbows — with men of power and doing so in
a setting and situation of some importance. Just as we can understand why busy
men in high offices in the church were often happy to send another in their place,
so we can see why a long string of would-be proctors was eager to be of service.
Bradford and McHardy have offered so much information in their two
exhaustive introductions (plus appendices) that a reviewer must not only pay
fulsome credit to their labours but tread warily over ground already well-covered.
They offer more statistics, and more analysis, on proctors and on parliament,
than are set out here. Were we to single out one point of appreciation for
their interesting and impressive body of work, it is to note that by tracking all
these proctors they uncover a level of flexibility in the use of that vast army of
churchmen that is not revealed in this same fashion by a focus on the hierarchical
structure of the church. The use of proctors of so many different ranks and offices,
and the mixed composition of so many of the teams, and the ready acceptance
of service to more than one master — all these factors argue for a permeability
within the ranks that a top-down view of the Church hardly reveals. The king’s
call for a parliament was almost like the opening of a modern college job fair,
with many people at many tables, each looking to sign people up for a tour of
duty. Whatever the ups and downs of parliamentary history in the fourteenth
and fifteenth centuries, the wide spread and flourishing system of proctoring
never seems to have caused any problems. In a structural-functional assessment,
proctoring worked. The job fair offered good returns.
Professor Emeritus
Stony Brook University
Reviews
Peter Purton, The Medieval Military Engineer: From the Roman Empire to
the Sixteenth Century. Woodbridge: Boydell, 2018. xiv + 351 pp. £60.00.
ISBN: 978-1783272785.
This interesting book covers the same material as the author’s very valuable earlier
volumes, A History of the Early Medieval Siege 450–1200 (Woodbridge: Boydell,
2009) and A History of the Late Medieval Siege 1200–1500 (Woodbridge:
Boydell, 2010). It could almost be read as an abridgement of the earlier two-
volume work. However, the simple fact is that, especially for the earlier period,
our basic knowledge is so limited that a degree of repetition is inevitable. The
author’s purpose is to try and discover who were military engineers in the Middle
Ages, hence his focus on castles and the techniques of siege warfare including
catapults, wall-breaking and mining. However, he sensibly takes into account the
full range of bridge and church building which can hardly be considered apart
from these areas. Purton’s task is made difficult, as he is well aware (pp. 16–19),
by the lack of clear terms which distinguish engineers from mere artisans while
the sources, even for the Byzantine world, pose many difficulties.
Purton’s work is centred on Western Europe, but considered in relation to
its main neighbours, Byzantium (especially in the early medieval period) and
Islam. It is lighter than might be expected on the crusades, perhaps because
this has been so extensively treated. In Chapter 2 ‘Late Antiquity and the
Early Middle Ages’ subtitled, ‘Were the “Dark Ages” Really Dark’ the author,
as might be expected from the subtitle, argues for a high degree of continuity
between Rome and what followed. However, the effect of combining discussion
of the experience of Byzantium and Islam with that of Western Europe is to
blur an essential point. The early Middle Ages in Western Europe saw the
substitution of self-provision of arms and equipment for central provision in
the maintenance of armies. Without the tax-raising bureaucracy of the old
empire, how was complex equipment requiring substantial investment of
money, resources, and in this context, highly specialized labour, supported, if at
all? There are hints that some kind of tradition of engineering continued, but
Purton perhaps makes more of them than the actual evidence suggests; bridges
certainly continued to be built, but they were not common and the military
ones he notes were temporary. To a degree engineering skill was probably little
needed in war, certainly among the Franks. Under the Merovingians cities
changed hands between kings by surrender with interesting frequency, almost

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always in consequence of ravaging of their hinterlands. It was only in the later

reign of Charles Martel that the Franks attempted assaults, with notable success
at Avignon, but many failures. Even in the Byzantine Empire the sources pose
difficulties to the idea of continuity. Why, in 811, did Nikephorous I (802–11)
have to enlist an Arab who was experienced in engines if his army had its own
engineers, as has been widely supposed? The Islamic evidence is perhaps clearer
and is suggestive of a link between theoretical knowledge and its practical
application.
Purton is surely right that under Charlemagne the arts of engineering must
have improved. Elaborate buildings like the Aachen chapel would have needed
careful design. The ‘St Gall Plan’ of an ideal monastery, which demonstrates
fine draughtsmanship, was produced during his reign, though our copy dates
from a century later. It. The skills of those who did this work, who we would
call architects, were highly transferable to the military sphere. Charlemagne
moved substantial armies over long distances and was heavily engaged in siege
warfare, so surely needed knowledgeable people. It is very difficult to discern
if they could have been specialized engineers in any real sense. We do not
know who built Aachen or who drew the original St Gall plan. And I am not
convinced that the building of banks for earthwork defences such as the burhs
and later Norman mottes needed anything other than the kind of pragmatic
knowledge handed on by generations. Even within my lifetime country people
erected stable berms, even bridges, without any theoretical knowledge. And,
again, I cannot see that the grid plan of the burhs needed much in the way
of design. Cumulative common sense and experience, rather than institutional
continuity linked to theoretical analysis, goes a very long way to explaining
such structures.
The sources present puzzles. Purton (p. 91), though with some reservations,
is inclined to give credit to Abbo’s Siege of Paris which suddenly presents us with
an account of a sustained siege of the city by the Vikings in 885–86 with both
sides using a full panoply of weapons. But there is nothing quite like this in all
our accounts of the Viking attacks in Britain and Europe. Is this a sudden lifting
of the curtain on a reality otherwise hidden from us, or was Abbo embellishing
an undoubtedly important event with material drawn from the classical past?
Similar thoughts are raised by some other material. Richer of Rheims says that
at the siege of Verdun in 985 oxen were used to pull forward a siege tower but
the cables were strung around stakes buried close to the walls so that the animals
were not exposed to missile attack. When I discussed this in an article in 1979 I,
like Purton, was inclined to give Richer the benefit of the doubt, but, again, I am
unaware of any similar proceeding with siege machinery.
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The massive building campaigns of the eleventh–thirteenth centuries in

Western Europe must, as Purton argues, have brought about reflective thinking
as well as the development of practical skills. Yet men with real engineering
skills in the military sphere remained scarce. In the 1090s Robert of Bellême
constructed a siege machine to take Brévol in one of the innumerable petty wars
when Robert Curthose held Normandy. Purton (pp. 131–32) notes Henry of
Esch and Hartman who built a siege machine at Nicaea on the First Crusade
so badly that it collapsed killing 20 knights, and the anonymous Lombard
who proved more competent. But Purton finds few experts in the crusading
sources. Undoubtedly, as he says, skills improved over the twelfth century, and
siege machinery grew more elaborate. But the picture we have is actually very
spotty. On the Fifth Crusade Oliver of Paderborn devised the machine largely
responsible for taking the tower which guarded the city of Damietta. As far as
we know this was an isolated act in his life. In 1238 during the siege of Brescia,
a Spanish engineer in the employment of Frederick II, Calamandrino, was
captured by the Brescians and turned against his former employer, contributing
to the failure of the siege (p. 187). When we have names of engineers they do
seem to be unusual and highly prized. It is difficult to see any concrete learned
tradition underpinning such examples. And it is even harder to believe that
the trebuchet represented ‘a revolution in engineering’ (p. 167) when it can
be so clearly related to cranes, mills and other developments. Purton sees this
weapon as uniquely important, and it is unfortunate that he could not have seen
M. S. Fulton’s, Artillery in the Era of the Crusades (Leiden: Brill, 2018) which
emphasises the limitations of the trebuchet.
The chapters on the later Middle Ages are very strong. Purton has explored
the sources carefully and is able to deploy his considerable scholarship to
investigate the development and diversification in engineering with the invention
of gunpowder, the improvements in metallurgy and the growing complexity of
fortifications. The connection between theoretical science and these practitioners
is nicely illustrated in this sections while the Appendix of military Engineers in
the Pipe Rolls demonstrates the author’s learning and will be widely appreciated
by scholars.
Overall this is a fine and scholarly work. Purton suggests strong and continuing
links between the learned world and practitioners of the military arts, but though
he makes the case, at least for the earlier period there is room for doubt. War
was an expensive business and siege, at least serious siege of real strongpoints,
was relatively rare. Many sieges were not resolved by assault, much less elaborate
machinery, but by ravaging, discussion and agreement. Therefore, until about the
end of the thirteenth century pragmatic one-off solutions, perhaps occasionally
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influenced by learned knowledge, were probably the order of the day. One of the
great virtues of this study is the constant reference to shipping and shipbuilding,
and perhaps this is the constant which provided expertise. On the First Crusade
specific building projects at every siege resulted from the arrival of fleets. Here
was a reservoir of engineering skill which others could dip into if they had access
and real need, a combination which was probably not all that common and helps
to explain the erratic development of military engineering. In the later medieval
period, as Purton so clearly shows, the accumulation of practical and intellectual
knowledge reached critical mass.
John France
Swansea University
[email protected]
Robert Wiśniewski, The Beginnings of the Cult of Relics. Oxford: Oxford

University Press, 2019. 272 pp. £65. ISBN: 978-0-19-967556-2.
This book represents the culmination of Wiśniewski’s long-standing interest in
religious changes in Late Antiquity, and benefits from his involvement in two
large cross-institution projects; Presbyters in the Late Antique West and The Cult
of Saints. The book explores the development of the belief in the power of relics
from the mid-fourth century onwards; first over demons, then physical diseases,
and enemies. This marked a definitive change in attitude for a society that had
previously admired martyrs who died for the faith but believed they should remain
undisturbed in their graves. The book is organised thematically and has a good
narrative flow. Following the first chapter on the ‘prehistory and early chronology
of the cult of relics’, chapters 2 to 5 focus on beliefs, and chapters 6 to 10 on
practices. The final chapter asks how uniform these beliefs and practices were.
Wiśniewski offers a fresh approach to a complex, cross-cultural phenomenon in
the late antique world, to propose a reassessment of an important phenomenon,
focused on relics, rather than the cult of saints in general.
In the introduction Wiśniewski notes that the cult of relics has often been
presented as having existed in Christianity from the beginning or having
appeared fully formed in Late Antiquity; ‘snippets of evidence from the entire
period c. 300–600 (and even later) are often used to reconstruct the picture of
this phenomenon, on the assumption that they are pieces of the same puzzle’
(p. 2). Wiśniewski’s stated aim is to ‘explain why the cult of relics appeared and
how it developed’ (p. 214). He concludes that the veneration of relics, and several
customs related to this phenomenon, did not appear everywhere at the same
moment; practices evolved over time, and often preceded theological reflection.
Throughout it is evident that scholars need to be mindful of contemporary events

REVIEWS 205
and historical context, and that the East/ West distinction is unhelpful because it
is difficult to identify such geographic commonalities.
The Beginnings of the Cult of Relics builds on a wealth of previous scholarship.
Classicists have long been interested in divinity and numinous places. In 1981
Peter Brown argued that the cult of relics developed in specific historical
conditions.1 This encouraged the proliferation of a range of studies on the cult
of saints, usually geographically bound, that touched on relics but did not use
them as their focus.2 Others researched relics and physical remains, but outside
of the time period in question here.3 Wiśniewski also states his debt to work on
reliquaries (‘relic-containers’), for their awareness of the role of relics in organising
space and mediating physical contact.4
Wiśniewski notes there were four factors in developing the belief in the
power of relics as material objects. These were the stories told by pilgrims, relic
translations, ceremonies for newly-acquired relics, and the construction of new
churches and sanctuaries. Wiśniewski states that together these provided ‘the
necessary condition for the relics to display their power- a stage, actors, and
audience’ (p. 47). As an example of the change in belief related to relics over time,
Wiśniewski points to the role of saints as defenders of cities: ‘there was no strict
1
Peter Brown, The Cult of the Saints: Its Rise and Function in Latin Christianity (Chicago:
University Of Chicago Press, 1981).
2
For example Wiśniewski refers to Victor Saxer, Morts, martyrs, reliques en Afrique
chretienne aux premiers sieceles: les termoignages de Tertullien, Cyprien et Augustin a la lumiere de
l’archeologie africaine (Paris: Beauchesne, 1980), Arietta Papaconstantinou, Le Culte des saints
en Egypte: des Byzantins aux Abbassides: l’apport des inscriptions et des papyrus grecs et coptes
(Paris: CNRS Editions, 2001), Brigite Beaujard, Le Culte des saints en Gaule: les premiers temps,
d’Hilaire de Poitiers a la fin du Vie siecle (Paris: Le Cerf, 2000), John Wortly, Studies on the
Cult of Relics in Byzanitum up to 1204 (Farnham: Ashgate, 2009), Elizabeth Key Fowden, The
Barbarian Plain: Saint Sergius between Rome and Iran (Berkeley: University of California Press,
1999), Pierre Maraval, Lieux saints et pelerinages d’Orient, histoire et geographie: des origines a la
conquete arabe (Paris: Le Cerf, 1985).
3
Arnold Angenendt, Heilige und Reliquien: die Geschichte ihres Kultes vom fruhen
Christentum bis zur Gegenwart (Munich: C. H. Beck, 1994), Andreas Hartmann, Zwischen
Relikt und Reliquie. Objektbezogone Erinnerungspraktiken in antiken Gesellschaften (Berlin:
Verlag Antike, 2010).
4
Alan Thacker, ‘Loca Sanctorum: The Significance of Place in the Study of Saints’ in Local
Saints and Local Churches in the Early Medieval West, ed. by Alan Thacker and Richard Sharp
(Oxford: Oxford University Press, 2002), pp. 1–43, Anne-Marie Yasin, Saints and Church
Spaces in the Late Antique Mediterranean: Architecture, Cult, and Community (Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press, 2009), Julia Smith, ‘Portable Christianity: Relics in the Medieval
West (c. 700–1200)’, Proceedings of the British Academy, 181 (2012), 143–67.
206 REVIEWS
topographical correlation between the place where the relics were kept and the
territory protected by the saints’ (p. 61). Here it is important to note that it was
the saints that protected the city, not their physical remains.
As evidence of the development of different uses for saintly relics, Chapter
4 describes enforced confessions, interrogation of demons, throwing lots at the
tombs of saints, and incubation. Christians sought to reveal hidden knowledge
at the tombs of saints. Wiśniewski stresses that ‘the divinatory practices
presented here appear in the evidence after the rise of the cult of relics’ (p. 82).
These practices demonstrate the understanding people held surrounding the
presence of the saints in their relics. At the same time, the book cautions us not
to overestimate the popularity of the cult of relics. It is noted, for example, that in
most regions the practice of burial ad sanctos is poorly attested (p. 100).
The book demonstrates the range of attitudes to this contact with relics.
Wiśniewski asks how contact with relics operated and how close it was. Did
people touch, kiss, or look at the very bones, or just at tombs and reliquaries
which contained them? These enquiries are split across three chapters, chapter 7,
‘Touching Relics’, 8, ‘Displaying and Seeing Relics’, and 9, ‘Dividing relics’. These
thematic chapters allow Wiśniewski to explore the range of attitudes towards
relics across different senses. One of the strengths of the book is the range of
sources consulted. Wiśniewski draws on hagiography, pilgrimage accounts,
letters, papyrological evidence, epigraphy, and archaeological evidence.
The last two chapters take a broader view of the cult of relics, considering the
discussions and polemics concerning relics, and the strength of the opposition
which this new phenomenon had to face, both within and outside Christianity,
as well as the uniformity of beliefs and practices connected to relics. Wiśniewski
demonstrates that belief came before theological theory, and that often the local
habits of different areas varied to an extent that reduces the utility of thinking in
terms of an East/ West divide.
Overall, this is an enjoyable and interesting read. Building upon previous
scholarship and asking new questions of known material, Wiśniewski succeeds
in providing a new narrative for the origin and development of the cult of relics.
Utilising an impressive range of case studies and source texts, this is a rewarding
read for specialists. Wiśniewski’s engaging writing style ensures the material
remains accessible for newer readers.
Georgina Fitzgibbon
University of Birmingham
[email protected]
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Coming of Age in Byzantium: Adolescence and Society, ed. by Despoina

Ariantzi. Berlin: De Gruyter, 2018. 306 pp. ISBN: 978-3-11-057646-7.
This book seeks to offer insights into the concept of adolescence in Byzantium.
Recent years have seen the rise of works dedicated to the study of children and
childhood in Byzantium, such as The Byzantine Child: Children and Childhood
in Byzantium, eds A. Papaconstantinou and A. M. Talbot (Washington DC:
Dumbarton Oaks, 2009) and C. Hennessy. Images of Children in Byzantium
(Farnham: Ashgate, 2008). To these, one must add numerous studies on family
and education. However, despite this growing interest in childhood, adolescence
remains a problematic and rather neglected topic in Byzantine studies. This
collection of twelve essays seeks to remedy this deficiency and to offer an all-
rounded study of various aspects of Byzantine adolescence. Ultimately, it
addresses an often overlooked topic in Byzantine studies. The essays collected
in the volume focus chiefly on the sixth to fifteenth centuries, and span a broad
array of topics and methodologies, from history, legal history, and art history to
modern psychological theories and adolescence in the medieval West. As such,
this volume may appeal to a wide group of scholars with many differing interests
and specialities.
As noted by the editor of the volume, Despoina Ariantzi, the definition of
adolescence remains a contested issue. By relying on historical evidence and recent
studies, she argues that since Antiquity, adolescence was perceived as a distinct
stage of biological and psychological development in all societies, Byzantium
being no exception. All of the contributors adhere to this understanding and
some even rely on modern theories of sociology and psychology. On the whole,
they are mostly careful in their analyses, looking for case studies and patterns
rather than rashly generalizing their conclusions. Similarly, the majority of the
authors acknowledge the limitations of the available source material and refrain
from placing an undue emphasis on modern theories. Overall, the studies and
their conclusions are balanced.
The volume starts with an introduction by the editor, whose interest in
adolescence stems from her doctoral dissertation on this topic. She sets the
background for the essays by reviewing the previous and related scholarship,
as well as discussing studies of adolescence in several fields, such as Western
medieval history, anthropology and sociology. Ariantzi points out that one
cannot actually reach the ‘social reality’ of Byzantine adolescence because of the
limitations of the available source material. She then proposes that by studying
the ideas put forth by Byzantine authors, legal practices, medical doctrines on
age and especially hagiographical works, scholars can discern patterns, concepts
and ideals pertaining to Byzantine adolescence. As examples for possible avenues

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of research, she refers to the literary representations of adolescents, such as their

beauty and facial hair, legal status of the adolescents, passage rites, gender and
family relations. All of these are amply addressed by the following essays.
Caseau studies the threshold of accountability for Byzantine adolescents.
She finds that fifteen appears in the sources as the age at which a person was
held accountable for their decisions and deeds. However, she also points out
that this age threshold could fluctuate between fourteen and seventeen. For
instance, at fourteen, adolescents could write a will, yet could not manage their
properties until seventeen. Similarly, Basil the Great stipulated that the age of
monastic consent should be sixteen or seventeen. Caseau finally studies marriage
patterns for Byzantine adolescents, arguing that in many cases, early marriages
deprived girls of their adolescence. For the boys, she argues that the stereotypical
privileged, misbehaving boys of hagiographical account probably came close to
typical adolescent boys. The lengthy essay by Prinzing offers an extensive study
of adolescence in legal sources between the thirteenth and fifteenth centuries.
He focuses on the corpuses of Chomatenos and Apokaukos, as well as those of
the Patriarchal court. All in all, he studies forty-nine cases and provides helpful
tables that summarize the basics of each case. Prinzing concludes that adolescents
appear in legal sources mostly concerning issues of inheritance and property,
with several cases also pertaining to careers. On many occasions, relatives of the
adolescent heirs, attempt to usurp their rights over their properties. One case
concerns homicide, dealing with the murder of an adolescent boy. The cases and
their legal aspects are meticulously analysed throughout the essay. This study is
one of the strongest contributions in the volume. It constitutes an invaluable
reference for scholars who are interested in issues of adolescence, youth, family
and inheritance.
Talbot focuses on adolescents within a monastic context by chiefly relying on
hagiographical sources and argues that attitudes to adolescents were divergent
in monastic circles. She studies the appearance of facial hair and its perception
as diminishing the sexual temptation posed by adolescent boys, loose behaviour
of the monastic novices and various tasks assigned to them. Concerning this last
point, she concludes that novices were often entrusted with menial and unpleasant
duties to harden their spirits. Like Talbot, Kiousopoulou’s main sources are
hagiographical accounts, but she also incorporates some legal documents and
a satirical text. She examines the representation of adolescence in these Late
Byzantine texts, focusing on the rites of passages, social expectations and the
difference between urban and rural settings. Melichar opts for a gender-specific
study and examines the lives of adolescent women. She analyses the differences
between adolescent women and men regarding social norms and expectations,
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concluding that the goals of women pertained more to familial relationships. To

achieve their goals, women also operated within a more limited sphere of action
than men, and often had to resort to irregular paths.
Brubaker and Hennessy study adolescence within an art-historical context.
Both of these essays are solid contributions to the volume. Brubaker finds that
adolescence was represented as a distinct stage of life in Byzantine images. She
pays special attention to representations of imperial adolescents on coins. She
convincingly argues that the depictions of adolescent emperors and empresses
could be manipulated according to political goals. For instance, the changes in
their bodily size, facial hair and features could point to their gradual maturation.
The depictions on coins could also extend or shorten the youthful appearance of
the imperial figures depending on the political context. For imperial women, it
was not their age, but marital status that altered their depictions. Hennessy’s essay
examines the notions of beauty and youth in Byzantine art. She argues that many
instances reveal a visual appreciation of youth. However, beauty and youth could
also signify sexual temptation. Hennessy demonstrates that artists distinctly
portrayed the bodily size, skin and facial features of adolescents. Like Brubaker,
she concludes that adolescence was represented as a distinct life stage in art. Both
essays are accompanied by good-quality colour images.
Galatariotou approaches adolescence from an anthropological point of
view and examines the rites of passages in twelfth-century Constantinopolitan
literature. She focuses on the cases of Digenis Akrites and romances, arguing
that one can trace rites of passages in these literary works. Ariantzi analyses the
building of social identity among adolescents between sixth to twelfth centuries,
focusing on peer groups. She points out the limitations posed by the ideal saint
figures in attempting to study adolescents. Ariantzi examines the differences
between the social identity and daily activities of imperial, aristocratic, and
lower class adolescents. She concludes that the wild, sporting and irresponsible
adolescent figures in hagiography were actually representative of ‘normal’
or ‘typical’ adolescent boys. The essay by Pratsch looks into the illnesses of
adolescents. By relying especially on healing narratives, Pratsch argues that cases
of women mostly pertain to injuries and illnesses that could prevent marriage,
and that healing was achieved by divergent methods, such as medical doctors and
the practice of sleeping in holy places. Finally, the essays by Sirch and Goetz do
not have Byzantine themes. However, they complement the volume by offering
insights from different disciplines. Sirch discusses the concept of ‘Emerging
Adulthood’, a recent theory in psychology, while Goetz carries out a study of
adolescents in Western medieval texts. He highlights the varied use of the term of
adolescens and discusses the divergent notions ascribed to it.
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All in all, this volume brings together a broad array of topics and
methodologies, and may appeal to a wide group of scholars interested in
adolescence, youth or family structures. In some instances, the reader may find
that hagiographical sources dominate the discussions. This is partially due to the
nature of the available source material. Yet, sources could have been more varied.
For instance, histories or literary/rhetorical texts like poetry and orations hardly
make an appearance. Likewise, it should be pointed out that some authors merely
‘extract’ information from their hagiographical sources as opposed to analysing
them. The length of the essays also varies greatly; some are only two or three pages
long. However, on the whole, this volume addresses a void in scholarship and
offers many insights into various aspects of adolescence in Byzantium.
Siren Çelik
Bogazici University and Ozyegin University
[email protected]
Saints of North-East England, 600–1500, ed by Margaret Coombe, Anne

Mouron, and Christiania Whitehead. Turnhout: Brepols, 2017. xviii + 363
pp. €100. ISBN: 978-2-503-56715-0.
The production of this volume is the result of a conference held at Lady Margaret
Hall, Oxford, in 2015 which brought together scholars whose work covers topics
relating to the North of England. It incorporates contributions both from well-
established medievalists and more recent entrants into the field, and its essays
span the entire medieval period and indeed beyond it. While St Cuthbert appears
frequently throughout the book (he is the subject of four of its fourteen essays,
and is discussed in conjunction with other saints in a further six), it also contains
a welcome selection of work introducing somewhat lesser-known characters such
as St Godric of Finchale and the bishop-saints of Hexham. The essays are grouped
into three sections, with the first concentrating on Anglo-Saxon Northumbria,
the second entitled ‘The Long Twelfth Century’, and the third discussing visual
and material culture.
The scene is comprehensively set in the introduction, with an appraisal
of the establishment of Northumbria’s regional identity centred initially on
Bede’s home institution of Monkwearmouth-Jarrow and subsequently through
Cuthbert’s cult at Durham, followed by a summary of the scholarship preceding
this collection of essays. Perhaps unsurprisingly, the conclusion is that more
needed to be done, and this volume is a very good example of the type of work
that has been needed to fill the twenty-year gap since the production of the last
major set of studies concentrating on the region. While a number of analyses of

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individual saints’ lives and their cults and several studies concentrating on Bede
have been written,5 this volume considers from an interdisciplinary standpoint
the impact of the northern saints on the development of the region’s own identity
and their wider influence across medieval England as a whole. The essays address
very thoroughly the question posed at the 2015 conference and reiterated in
the book’s introduction: ‘Why were these saints and their cults so important at
particular periods and in particular places in the Middle Ages?’6
The Anglo-Saxon Northumbria section commences with Sarah Foot’s essay
within which she posits that Bede had identified a different type of Northumbrian
spirituality, and that the region’s saints who practised it have therefore been
treated differently within his writing. She points to Bede’s descriptions of the
saints and their actions from both his hagiographical texts and his scientific
and historical studies as evidence of this hypothesis, highlighting for instance
the plethora of northern saints appearing in the De temporum ratione relative to
those from other areas, and the comparisons he made in his Historia ecclesiastica
between the characteristics of his subjects and those of the early apostles. Alan
Thacker uses the physical setting of the saints’ shrines and the descriptions of
their relics’ translations to trace the development of Northumbrian enshrinement
practices back to seventh-century Francia, a relationship that he has identified
in earlier work.7 The complex and sometimes strained relationship between the
Northumbrian and Irish foundations is brought into focus in Sarah McCann’s
essay. She provides evidence to suggest that Cuthbert’s early mentor and advisor,
Prior Boisil of Melrose, was an Irishman and that his ethnicity was either glossed
over or completely ignored in Cuthbert’s three vitae. In particular, McCann
argues that Bede’s treatment of Boisil in his hagiography of Cuthbert contained
within the Historia ecclesiastica shows that Bede was deliberately omitting the
prior’s ethnicity in order to avoid diluting the coherent and powerful message
he wished to convey to the Northumbrian church. The final two essays of this
section move the geographical focus away from Northumbria, but only in order
to highlight how the treatment of the northern saints differed outside of the
5
The Bedan studies will soon be augmented by Sarah Foot’s new biography of Bede, which
is forthcoming.
6
Margaret Coombe and Christiania Whitehead, ‘Introduction,’ in Saints of North-East
England, 600–1500, ed. by Margaret Coombe, Anne Mouron, and Christiania Whitehead
(Turnhout: Brepols, 2017), p. 10.
7
Alan Thacker, ‘The Making of a Local Saint,’ in Local Saints and Local Churches in the
Early Medieval West, ed. by Alan Thacker and Richard Sharpe (Oxford: Oxford University
Press, 2002), pp. 45–73.
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north of England. Alice Hicklin analyses the theme of exile in Stephen of Ripon’s
vita of St Wilfrid, concluding that Stephen considered Wilfrid to be exiled
whenever he was excluded from his episcopal homeland, a markedly different
interpretation of the term from other hagiographic accounts. Alison Hudson’s
essay moves us forward nearly three hundred years to examine the importance of
the cult of Cuthbert to the reforming Benedictine bishops Æthelwold, Dunstan,
and Oswald. She attributes their interest in the northern saint to a recognition
of the importance of his cult to the West Saxon kingdom of Æthelstan earlier
in the tenth century, and suggests that it could have been an indication of a less
antagonistic approach by the Benedictine bishops, building on the theory of
reform as process as purported by scholars such as Steven Vanderputten.8
The post-Conquest influence of Cuthbert and Durham are scrutinised in the
first two essays of the book’s second section, with Dominic Marner arguing that
Cuthbert’s cult was strengthened in the twelfth century through the use of a
number of temporal and spatial literary references hearkening back to seventh-
century Lindisfarne. Helen Appleton follows a similar line of thought from a
codicological standpoint, as she identifies the historical references contained
within two poems, Durham and Æthelwulf ’s De abbatibus, from the twelfth-
century Durham manuscript Cambridge, University Library, MS Ff.I.27.
The use of historical memory as a tool to maintain or increase a foundation’s
influence is a thread that continues through into David Rollason’s essay on the
bishop-saints of Hexham abbey. He questions the continued promotion of these
mostly obscure figures, concluding that Hexham’s Augustinian canons were
trying to reflect the abbey’s former status as a bishopric, despite its dissolution
several centuries before. The final two essays in this section introduce the
book’s first post-Conquest saint, St Godric of Finchale, with the authors
concentrating on very different traits associated with this twelfth-century
hermit. Dominic Alexander explores Godric’s asceticism, and in particular the
opposing messages discernible within the story of his encounter with a wild man
contained within Reginald of Durham’s Vita Godrici. Margaret Coombe uses
her extensive knowledge of Reginald’s vita to provide new insights into its songs,
demonstrating how Godric tended to express his devotion to God through
singing, while also articulating how they add to our wider understanding of
vernacular medieval religious song.9
8
See Steven Vanderputten, Monastic Reform as Process: Realities and Representations in
Medieval Flanders 900–1100 (Ithaca: Cornell University Press, 2017).
9
Margaret Coombe is the editor and translator of a new edition of the Vita Godrici,
forthcoming through Oxford University Press.
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The final section of this volume moves the focus on to material and visual
culture, recognising the importance of material objects as primary historical
sources in their own right, and the impact of space and place. A detailed and
extensively-researched evaluation of the ecclesiastical banners of the northern
saints by Richard Sharpe highlights their importance as objects of veneration
and devotion, while Allan Doig examines the significance of the locations chosen
as resting places for Cuthbert’s body prior to its final interment at Durham.
He reflects on the imitative journeys made by pilgrims and their processions
around the shrines. Linda Rollason’s illuminating essay on the painted glass of
Durham Cathedral provides a fitting finale to this section, identifying a hitherto-
unrecognised order and coherence in their portrayals of Cuthbert. As a postscript
to this volume, Margaret Harvey’s essay on the post-Reformation attitudes
towards the northern saints shows how their cults were able to withstand the
attempts by Elizabeth I’s church to destroy them, and how their influence endured
through to the seventeenth century. The volume demonstrates the resilience of
the northern saints’ cults and the sense of regional identity that they were able to
portray. The only criticisms I would make concern the focus on St Cuthbert and
the absence of any substantive narrative on female northern saints such as Æbbe
of Coldingham or Hild of Whitby. However, the editors’ focus on material
culture, the themes of space and place, and the innovative analyses of the textual
sources result in a comprehensive, interdisciplinary study of the saints the volume
contains, while also providing the basis for further research into the region’s cults
and a template that could be applied to other geographical areas.
Ian Styler
University of Birmingham
[email protected]
Brice Rabot, Les structures seigneuriales rurales: Bretagne méridionale (XIVe–XVIe).

Rennes: Presses universitaires de Rennes, 2017. 413 pp. 48 graphs, 12 tables,
24 coloured maps. €26. ISBN: 978-2-7535-5387-3.
Starting from the premise that ‘the lordship offers a privileged angle from which
to study powers, societies and economies in the medieval west’, that lordship
served in both town and countryside to organise people (the ‘encellulement des
hommes’ which Robert Fossier and Pierre Toubert particularly emphasised for
the central Middle Ages), Brice Rabot analyses seigneurial structures in southern
Brittany between the fourteenth and early sixteenth century. In a detailed well-
structured, archive-based study, admirably illustrated by many supporting tables,
appendices and 24 informative maps, he charts what was exacted by lords from
their peasantry in return for their tenements. He traces not only fluctuating

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relationships between lords and their men, but also suggests a major revision of
the accepted chronology of the economic crises affecting lords in this part of
France in the later Middle Ages. An impressive list of the manuscript sources
consulted, an extensive bibliography divided by theme, and an index of matières
and place-names but not personal names are provided.
The area Rabot covers, le pays vannetais and le comté de Nantes, is broadly
equivalent to the two modern départements of the Morbihan and Loire-Atlan-
tique on the western seaboard of France, then part of the largely autonomous
duchy of Brittany. Within the Vannetais an important distinction can be drawn
between the littoral and its immediate hinterland, Armor in Breton, which was
densely populated and fairly well-exploited in this period, and further inland,
Arcoat in Breton, where settlement was sparser, land often more difficult to
work and communications less easy because of many rivers and streams in steep
valleys, heaths and moors (landes), woods and forests. This is country perfect
for the guerrilla warfare that characterised the War of the Breton Succession
(1341–65), the initial starting point in Rabot’s account of changing landlord/
peasant relations. As for the Nantais, three broad areas can be distinguished
which followed three different trajectories. West of Nantes and north of the
Loire as it reaches the ocean, lies la Grande Brière, a large marshy region adjacent
to the highly productive area of salines centring on Guérande, long exploited but
particularly so in Rabot’s period. To the south and east of Nantes, lay a marcher
region between Brittany and the neighbouring provinces of Anjou and Poitou,
then as now an important wine growing area, where very complex local customs
and usages developed in the course of the central Middle Ages that distinguished
a broad swathe of parishes lying either side of this long border, that also allowed
external influences to penetrate the duchy. Much of this area, the Pays de
Retz, was also low-lying, with le lac de Grandlieu at its heart and its economy
increasingly influenced by the international salt trade that developed in the Baie
de Bourgneuf from the fourteenth century onwards. Finally north and east of
Nantes, lay an area with considerable woodland but also extensive pasture and
arable with a strong seigneurial presence and good lines of communication. The
way in which the seigneurial regimes practised in these contrasting localities,
already distinguishable by c. 1300, changed in response to many different factors
is Rabot’s principal theme, discussed in four main sections.
The first describes his sources, especially the manuscript evidence
(pp. 25–73). It is worth stressing one very notable contrast with the records
English medievalists would expect to find for a comparable study: the dearth of
manorial court rolls or accounts. Few estates, whether great baronies, middling
lordships or those of the already plethoric Breton noblesse, parish gentry with
REVIEWS 215
very modest resources, have left such records. Thus out of an estimated 500 or
so families possessing lordship in the Nantais and 350 families in the Vannetais,
only two estates, Les Huguetières and La Blanchardais both in the Pays de
Retz, have left broken series which sketchily cover most of the fifteenth century.
Otherwise accounting material does not become more plentiful until after
1450.10 What survives in huge numbers are aveux, written descriptions of the
rights a lord claimed over the lands worked by his peasantry, rendered to his own
feudal superior. Very comparable documents, minus, furnish similar evidence
presented on the death of a lord so that what was in effect an entry fine, rachat,
usually a year’s revenue, could be levied on his heir. Short in the fourteenth
century these records become immensely more voluminous in the fifteenth,
posing considerable problems for analysis and exploitation.
The general pattern of seigneurial lordship is presented in the second section
(pp. 75–180). There was extensive ducal demesne in both the Nantais and
Vannetais, especially along the littoral, a characteristic certainly dating back to
the Carolingian period, possibly even indicating the location of former Roman
imperial fiscal lands. Baronies and great castellanies, formed c. 1000–1200,
especially in the Vannetais tended to be found inland, while in the Nantais,
they were chiefly located on the north and eastern boundaries of the county or
south of the Loire. In total, however, they were few in number, perhaps a dozen
in all. Larger landed estates (seigneuries foncières), lesser estates and, a particular
feature which first attracted serious modern attention in the Vannetais, but is
equally prevalent in the Nantais, sieuries, small estates lacking judicial rights but
whose owners enjoyed some noble privileges distinguishing them from their
commoner neighbours, are the other major categories Rabot considers, along
with ecclesiastical estates, particularly those held by the bishops and chapters of
Nantes and Vannes, and several abbeys.
As far as tenure is concerned, it is important to point out there is virtually
no evidence of serfdom in this part of Brittany by 1300. The labour services
(corvées) that lords demanded from their free tenantry were modest. Three main
forms of contract are already present around 1300, but their characteristics
were refined and their geographical spread more closely defined as a result of
developments in the later Middle Ages. Letting land at rent (cens, hence censives
for the holdings) was common, though rents could be in money or in kind.
In the Vannetais the most notable development was the spread of domaine
10
Cf. the c. 3500 court sessions and 400 accounts from just 38 manors in Norfolk, Suffolk,
eastern Oxfordshire and western Bedfordshire consulted by Mark Bailey for The Decline of
Serfdom in Late Medieval England: From Bondage to Freedom, Woodbridge, 2014.
216 REVIEWS
congéable or convenants, whereby a landlord let a holding on a short-term lease,

usually six or nine years, again for rents in money or kind, but at the end of the
term he could evict (congédier) the tenant, though the latter was compensated
for improvements made during his tenancy. In theory, this allowed the landlord
to negotiate a new contract with a new tenant at a higher rent, or to make other
changes in the light of economic conditions. In practice, especially when labour
was short, the outgoing tenant normally agreed a new contract to continue
farming, sometimes at the same rent as previously, or with a very modest
increase, but subject to an entry fine (again very variable according to economic
circumstances). Early modern evidence shows that sons, or daughters and their
husbands, often succeeded to a convenant.
Share-cropping agreements formed a third major type, by which a peasant
delivered a proportion of his harvest in return for his tenement. Particular
crops gave rise to specific forms of contract like complant when a tenant took
on a vineyard, especially if this was from scratch and time had to be allowed for
planting and for the new vines to come into production. For many landlords,
the practice of reserving holdings, métairies, to serve as home farms, worked by a
métayer was becoming common in Brittany already by c. 1100. The métayer owed
a proportion of harvested crops or increase in livestock as payment (a proportion
that could be as much as a quarter though often much less). Métairies were
widespread in neighbouring Anjou and Poitou from an early date, and Rabot
suggests that their increasing numbers, especially in the Pays de Retz, might
be partly explained by imitation of Poitevin practice. How landlords arranged
to collect what was owing to them, directly in person, through an officer, or
more indirectly, especially if rents due, e.g from mills, had been let at farm, is
considered in detail as well as the times of year when they were owing (most
frequently in August and around Christmas). A constant refrain, however, is
that many of the sums (or quantities) exacted were very small, their continued
collection as much symbolic as economic, to reflect the superior social status
and rights of lords.
Section three (pp. 181–254) deals with the slow recovery of seigneurial fortunes
after the bitter war of succession (1341–65) swept Brittany into the wider Anglo-
French conflict as rivals for the ducal throne sought support from either the king of
France or the king of England. There was also the local impact of general economic
and social woes caused by the Black Death and its recurrences. The Vannetais and
Nantais were both subjected to the brutality of warring captains and garrisons,
suffering extensive material damage. If the ravages of plague were not initially so
severe in Brittany as in some other regions, nevertheless economic recovery was
slow and hesitant before 1400. The reign of Duke John V (1399–1442), which
REVIEWS 217
was largely peaceful thanks to his success in insulating Brittany from much of the
warfare that afflicted neighbouring French provinces, saw many seigneurs reaping
benefits as estates were brought back into production and trade, both internally
and by sea, picked up. Later chroniclers looked back on this period as a golden
age, but its relative prosperity is carefully qualified by Rabot. Recovery from mid-
fourteenth-century losses in population was slow and new set-backs occurred in
the mid fifteenth century. Fairly extensive tracts of former agricultural land, for
instance, remained waste because both landlords and potential tenants lacked the
resources to bring them back into cultivation or were unwilling to shoulder the
risks of doing so.
These characteristics became even more pronounced in the later fifteenth
century and marked, as Rabot skilfully demonstrates, another important turning
point for seigneurial fortunes and the way in which lords managed their estates
(pp. 255–345). Among reasons posited for the slowing of recovery are natural
ones like deteriorating climatic conditions (highlighted locally by more prevalent
storms leading to flooding and loss of crops), a growing crisis in seigneurial
revenues, and the worsening political position of Brittany once the Hundred
Years War came to an end. This culminated, after Louis XI had sown dissension
among the ranks of the Breton nobility and clipped the wings of Duke Francis II
(1458–88), in a decisive French victory over the Bretons and their allies
(England, Emperor Maximilian I, Ferdinand of Aragon and Isabella of Castile,
king and queen of Spain) in the Breton Wars of Independence (1487–91). It led
to the marriage of the heiress, Duchess Anne, first to Charles VIII (1483–98)
and then Louis XII (1498–1515) and the definitive annexation of Brittany to
the crown of France (1491, 1532), but not before much damage was inflicted by
this long drawn-out process. Unlike the fourteenth-century phase, this time the
survival of seigneurial accounts in some profusion now allows Rabot to measure
the effects of war and the response of seigneurs in a much more detailed fashion.
Finally, with the return to more peaceful conditions after 1500, patterns of
seigneurial exploitation that had been maturing in response to changing economic
and political conditions over several generations can be clearly perceived: the
spread of convenants in the Vannetais, contrasting with the censives and métairies
of the Nantais; agricultural structures and practices more closely adapted to local
geographical conditions; the way in which exactions in kind now produced a
proportionately greater share of seigneurial revenues; the continuing modesty
of many monetary exactions, corvées or other indications of seigneurial authority
and control such as claims to banalités, dues exacted for the use of seigneurial
monopolies (ovens, mills, presses). This pattern of seigneurial governance now
firmly established essentially remained unchanged in this part of Brittany until
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the end of the Ancien Régime. Closely observed and carefully argued, Rabot has
made an important and lucid contribution to understanding lord-tenant relations
at the end of the Middle Ages.
Michael Jones
Norwell,
[email protected]
Katie L. Walter, Middle English Mouths: Late Medieval Medical, Religious

and Literary Traditions. Cambridge Studies in Medieval Literature, 105.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 2018. xi + 253 pp. £75.00. ISBN:
9781108426619.
The current attention towards the role of medical knowledge in medieval culture
has brought important insights into its significance in a range of literary and
religious writings. Works by Louise Bishop, Jeremy Citrome, Joshua Eyler, and
Virginia Langum, among others, have analysed the use of medical metaphors and
rhetoric in medieval writings and, in doing so, have helped to illuminate them in
new and surprising ways. Middle English Mouths adds a new dimension to such
analyses by focusing particularly on the mouth and the interplay of medical and
spiritual discourses with which it is represented in Middle English texts. This
focus is particularly helpful because the mouth is the subject of a great deal of
attention in writings spanning multiple genres such as medical treatises, health
regimens, confessional manuals, moral didactic works and mystical texts. This
makes it an ideal locus for considering the intersection of multiple discourses in
medieval culture.
Middle English Mouths also contributes to the recent scholarly attention to the
role of the senses, and particularly the lower body, in the acquisition of knowledge.
By identifying a persistent emphasis on the mouth as the basis of epistemological
awareness in medieval writings, Walter adds a cogent and relevant contribution
to our understanding of the dynamic relationship often set up between the body
and spirituality. In distinction to the more conventional scholarly consideration
of the eyes and vision as the basis of spiritual knowledge, Walter assembles an
impressive array of writings drawn from medical, encyclopaedic, didactic, mystical.
and literary genres to identify a sustained medieval tradition of considering the
mouth as a mode of knowledge, both of the everyday and spiritual worlds.
Central to the thesis of Middle English Mouths, then, is that knowledge is
rooted in everyday bodily experience. Walter argues that the material mouth,
as represented in late medieval culture, provides a basis for the articulation of
physical, moral and spiritual wellbeing. Indeed, Walter goes further arguing that
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the mouth is ‘the principal point where human and Christian identity is bestowed,
maintained and ultimately dismantled’ (1). This identity is underpinned by
a discourse concerning the care of the self which Walter identifies as operating
similarly across theology and medicine, especially in their vernacular forms in the
later Middle Ages. What emerges from this is an idea of the body based not on
a static model but rather one of flux and mutability and this in turn engenders
more fluid conceptions of identity.
The first chapter focuses on the place of the mouth within medieval under-
standings of the soul particularly as a way of reading or understanding the unseen
or divine. Chapter two considers the mouth in relation to hierarchies of bodily
posture. Noting the idealisation of the upright body, inherited from the classical
world, the chapter powerfully argues that biological understandings of the life
cycles of the body helped to reframe the upright posture as one of a series of
postures in medieval thought therefore engendering a recalibration where the
lower bodily senses of taste and touch could replace that of sight or vision. This
emphasis on the vulnerability of human experience leads to an analysis of the
importance of taste and touch to the development of children in chapter three.
The chapter examines a range of epistemological models, such as sapientia,
meditatio and ruminatio, to show how the mouth and its sensory facilities
was understood to sustain their spiritual and moral dimensions. Chapter four
considers both medieval pastoral and medical contexts of kissing, derived from
the patristic tradition, to highlight how the kiss was seen to bring about material
change. Yet, at the same time, the kiss could be implicated in both spiritual
transformation and sin. The final chapter discusses how references to surgical care
of the mouth in literary and medical texts provide distinctive ways of articulating
the corrective dimensions of pastoral care. In doing so, it underpins the book’s
central claim of the material bases of spirituality in late medieval culture.
Key to Walter’s methodology is the illumination of canonical texts, such as
Langland’s Piers Plowman, Hoccleve’s La Male Regle or Chaucer’s The Prioress’
Tale, through the close analysis of encyclopaedic or medical texts. Walter ranges
across theses different genres offering significant insights through highlighting
the way these different discourses intersect. For instance, examples from John
Lydgate’s Pilgrimage of the Life of Man, the Showings of Julian Norwich and John
Trevisa’s Middle English translation of Bartholomeus Anglicus’ On the Properties
of Things mobilise a discussion of how the classical connection between the
upright body and vision is accompanied in medieval writings by a variant wherein
the upright body is linked to taste and ethical behaviour (48). The identification
of such points of correspondence between different types of writing helps to build
up a firm sense of the shared views of the body and soul that could be found across
220 REVIEWS
different forms of knowledge and culture in the later Middle Ages. While Walter
is sensitive to the Latin traditions which informed late medieval discourses of the
care of the self, she puts forward a compelling account of the symbiosis of these
discourses in English vernacular texts from the late medieval period.
Of particular importance to the book’s argument of the interrelationship
between material and spiritual discourses is the idea of habitus. Medieval
scholastics, drawing on Aristotelian philosophy, understood it to be a condition
or perspective acquired through repeated acts or behaviour, both in formal
institutional contexts and in the domestic sphere. Walter shows how habitus
could be ‘partly accrued through the mouth (in the sensory experiences involving
taste and touch) and derived from mundane knowledge about its care, such as
that about how food is to be chewed and teeth to be cleaned’ (10). The book
shows habitus at work in medieval writings in descriptions and advice relating to
bodily posture, masticating food and kissing. In a particularly lucid reading of the
allegorical figure Dame Penance in Piers Plowman, Walter shows how quotidian
and repetitive actions such as washing clothes, cleaning pots and alleviating
toothache could comprise examples of ‘doing well’ in the material world while
simultaneously acting as points of reflection of spiritual self-reformation (167).
In its analysis of the dynamism between the body and soul, Middle English
Mouths brings welcome attention to bear on the slippery boundaries in medieval
writings between the internal, physiological body and interiority or subjectivity.
Walter points to Henry of Lancaster’s fourteenth-century spiritual work, Le
livre de seyntz medicines, which she notes ‘provides a striking example of the
ways in which notions of interiority might include a medicalised sense of the
interrogation of the body interior’ (43). The book also points to how inextricable
internal organs and interiority seem by examining pastoral descriptions of Judas’s
hanging, such as in John Mirk’s Festial, where, as a result of his treacherous kissing
of Christ, Judas’s soul exits through his stomach (rather than his mouth) which
is reified in the image of his internal organs bursting through his stomach or
anus: ‘The effect of Judas’s kiss — the bursting open of his stomach — reveals
the dysfunction of his interior body, of the system in which the intentions and
thoughts of the heart (and thus of the soul) are materialised and expressed’ (139).
In examples such as this, the internal body not only works as a means of visualising
and understanding the inner soul but is also inseparable from it.
The overlap between the body and soul articulated in Middle English
Mouths is paralleled by the book’s identification of the porous borders between
metaphorical and literal understandings of the body. This is apparent in
Hoccleve’s ‘La Male Regle’ where Hoccleve describes his younger self ’s propensity
to unethical behaviour and misrule through reference to his ‘greedy mowth’
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which only refrains from eating when his stomach is full (63). Hoccleve’s ‘greedy
mowth’ is both the cause of his sickness and a sign of his moral decay.
This is also apparent in the confessions of the seven deadly sins in Passus V
of Piers Plowman, a text which Walter persistently returns to as a means of
exemplifying the overlap of medical and pastoral discourses, particularly in
relation to the mouth and eating. The confession of Envy makes reference to
undigested food which prevents the body from purging itself. As with Hoccleve,
the food refers both to a cause of sin and a way of visualising the effects of envy on
the soul preventing purgation of sin through confession.
In its focus on the mouth as a zone for the intermingling of discourses
pertaining to the care of the self, Middle English Mouths adds an important
contribution to the study of medical and practical knowledge in Middle English
writings. The wide array of texts it analyses drawn from a variety of genres
sustains its argument of the importance of the material basis of spirituality in
late medieval culture. In doing so, it includes significant insights into medieval
perspectives on ethical living, the self and care of the body and soul.
Michael Leahy
University of Nottingham
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Introduction: Heretical Self-Defence in Late Antiquity

Talk, Communication, and the Avoidance of Inquisitors in

Scripting Defence: Textual Arguments and their Readers

Figure 1, p. 180. A network graph of the parish of St Thomas the Martyr

Peter Darby, Rob Lutton, and Claire Taylor

Peter Darby, Rob Lutton, and Claire Taylor ([email protected]), Department of

Nottingham Medieval Studies, 63 (2019), 1–21 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.NMS.5.118190

alone have witnessed the publication of a comparative survey of medieval heresies

by examining the significance of ‘revelatory theology’ alongside Wycliffism,

Sicily’s ninth-century History of the Paulicians.26 The form of Paulician self-defence

reflection of a new optimism ushered in by clerical reform movements, which

and political complicity, including that of secular leaders. Conversely, blocking

based on the adoption of a particular interpretation of transubstantiation that

One response by church authorities to the indeterminacy of the boundary

The articles collected together in this special issue of Nottingham Medieval

Translated Collections of Sources

Watson, Nicholas, ‘Censorship and Cultural Change in Late-Medieval England:

Raúl Villegas Marín

The Fifth-Century Author Arnobius Iunior

Raúl Villegas Marín ([email protected]), Universidad de Barcelona

Nottingham Medieval Studies, 63 (2019), 23–35 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.NMS.5.118191

expressed in the Praedestinatus and in the Commentarii in Psalmos is so similar

Hereticizing the Opponent in the Praedestinatus

heresiologist sees as unworthy of that name.20 Accordingly, Arnobius’s first move

enables the author ‘to draw on an established tradition and on well-established

The New Heresy Destroys the Sacraments of the Catholic Church

The New Heresy Fosters Immorality

The same principle applies to Augustine’s teaching. According to the bishop

The New Heretics Form a Sect

The New Heresy Attracts Women

or individual’.51 Arnobius’s ‘heretization’ of his theological opponents — who

T his article is devoted to the assertions of theological purity and authority

Paul Linjamaa ([email protected]), Centre for Theology and Religious Studies,

Nottingham Medieval Studies, 63 (2019), 37–60 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.NMS.5.118192

The Invention of Heresy and Valentinianism

traditions that the second-century Greco-Roman milieu offered, maintained

So Who Exactly Were the Valentinians?

or several different collections.34 Most of the texts are probably translations of

version of Valentinian anthropology corresponds well with what Epiphanius and

Here humanity is likened to jars in a household, the cosmos. When the

forwarded by Candidus was one of the most forceful arguments against

And again later in the text this is repeated:

the Valentinian text The Interpretation of Knowledge we encounter a context that

Carl Dixon ([email protected]), University of Nottingham

Nottingham Medieval Studies, 63 (2019), 61–80 BREPOLS PUBLISHERS 10.1484/J.NMS.5.118193

The History then gives an account of Paulician history which is so detailed

The Persecution of Paulicians c. 811–20

coronation of Charlemagne as Roman Emperor.29 Moreover, the notable victories

(820–29) and Theophilos (829–42), although this occurred on an ad hoc basis.

The Didaskalie, the Acts of the Apostles, and Persecution

Didaskalie: namely, that the most important legitimating criterion of a didaskalos

in question, ‘Constantine the grandson/descendant of Herakleios’, who cannot

And Saul approved of their killing him.

Several elements of this account are of considerable importance to our under-

The ambiguous portrayal of martyrdom becomes apparent in the careers of

Forms of Paulician Resistance in the Face of Persecution

especially if death in combat was considered martyrdom. In any event, later