Having said this, and wiping the blood from her eyes and walking on her own feet, she came closer to the tomb of the holy martyr, prayed and offered a candle, which was brought to her; and, turning to the people, she announced that she had received her eyesight. The people present were amazed, sorrow turned into joy, and with a single cry of all they extolled the glorious and manifest power of the blessed martyr William to the praise of God.
[IX] OF PHILIP DE BELLA ARBORE AND THE IRON RING – AROUND HIS ARM – WHICH WAS SHATTERED
The wonder and fame of the holy martyr grew daily. And people gathered to him from afar and from many regions, as the bound were freed, the sick were cured and those who came in sorrow went away in joy. Indeed, Christ spread by miraculous signs the grace He had conferred upon His saint. As great miracles were succeeded by even greater, the praise of the blessed martyr – by whose merit they were done – grew, not undeservedly, and the glory of his fame spread more widely. If I were to record all of those events, my mound of prolixity would induce distaste. Therefore, we have gathered with a simple pen for the pious devotion of the reader what we have deemed to be most worth telling or most celebrated; those events which will neither wound the mind of those who browse through them nor temper the feeling of devotion.
And so I deem it worth the effort to invite the devotion of the readers’ prayers, and, having done so, to kindle it, and, having kindled it, to amplify it by recounting that truly wondrous case of Philip de Bella Arbore.12 He was a native of the region of Lorraine, of noble descent, a knight by profession, pre-eminent in the honour of secular affairs. He obtained through inheritance from his father ample lands and very many castles, but he had a brother who was his adversary and rebelled against him: he [the brother] had diminished the property due to him by a significant part through fraud and rapacious violence. And so it happened that brotherly affection was driven from their minds as hatred entered and grew. The malice of hatred had already grown so much that they thirsted for nothing more than each other’s blood, and hoped for well-being in nothing except the death of the other.
And as well-being and danger were tossed by the hazard of fortune, it so happened that Philip, on a day when he was travelling with his men, unexpectedly came upon his rebellious brother with a few of his men. In this crisis, the brother was terrified, turned his bridle round and placed his hope of safety in a speedy escape. And so in flight he reached a church nearby in which some canons lived under the habit of religion, serving God. Trembling, he entered it with his men, as if it were the sole haven of his safety, and the doors were locked shut. Soon Philip arrived in pursuit, speedy in his course, and banged on the locked doors, angrily requesting that his enemy be handed over to him. When he had persisted for a long time with requests and threats and sensed that he was trying in vain, finally in his anger he lit a fire, so as to extract by the fear of fire what the terror of threats was not achieving. And so the fire was lit and, as there was a strong wind, the church – what a crime! – was burned down including its domestic buildings and its inhabitants and everything in it, and the place was reduced to a bare plain.
The victor thought little of the crime he had perpetrated, because, with his enemy consumed in this way, his spirit only rejoiced with a victor’s joy. But so cruel an act could not go unnoticed for long, because at the time of the action the news of what had happened became common knowledge all around, so that at last news of it came to the Archbishop of Trier, to whose diocese Philip belonged. He was summoned to the archbishop once, twice and a third time to answer for so great a crime. But as on the day before, and the one before that, he was found to be insolent and contumacious, and – as the rigour of Christian religious faith determines – he was at last punished by the sentence of excommunication, and his lands and all his goods were bound by the chain of anathema, as ecclesiastical custom decrees.
But he, burning with youthful fervour, unbridled and unrestrained, cared nothing for it all, respecting neither God nor men, driven by the Furies,13 and he persevered for two years on the course of unrepentant malice upon which he had embarked. During that time, worn out by the recurrent warnings of his men, he was finally persuaded, and this most savage of lawbreakers returned to his true self. And because dire wrath does not see right,14 blinded by anger he had never appreciated the ferocity of the crime he had perpetrated; but later, as he returned to his true self, he was horrified and deplored it deeply. And so when he was humbled and deeply distressed, he fell prostrate at the feet of the archbishop, wailing: he begged for forgiveness and earned it. And so the archbishop sent him and his fellow malefactors to the Pope, who at the time was Eugenius,15 and added to the letter an account of the crime; the Pope sent them back to the sender with a response, laying down a penance.
What need of many words? Philip wore mail on his bare body and he was girded with his own sword and irons gripped his arms. What is more, exile and pilgrimage were enjoined for a period of ten years and he was commanded to have that holy place repaired.16 Those who were his partners in the terrible crime were similarly subject to the punishment. And so they, too, were condemned to the irons, similarly left their lands and their people, living as pilgrims in a foreign land for the period enjoined. After seven years of travel through many regions, by divine mercy at the Lord’s sepulchre in Jerusalem the iron rings on Philip’s mail were broken and loosened and he was freed of the greater part of his punishment. Also, in Ireland, at the shrine of St Brendan,17 by the grace of divine virtue, the sword with which he was girded was broken. And in England, at Norwich, at the tomb of the blessed martyr William, the iron ring on his right arm was broken.
And after a lengthy journey, during which he reached many regions of England and sought out the places and prayers of the saints, and, drawn by divine grace, we believe, he arrived in Norwich at the now most famous tomb of the illustrious martyr William. There, while he poured out prayers of pious devotion, immediately in front of our eyes the iron ring of the right arm cracked and the sound of it was astonishing to the ears of those present. In that deed, done by the martyr, the power of divine pity shone forth clearly to us. That holy community of monks gathered to see so glorious a spectacle, and proclaimed God wonderful in His holy martyr, giving praise and due thanks. And I do not think that we should believe those who attribute these events to the fraud of vagabonds.18 For whatever malicious wanderers might do for the sake of finding some food, we boldly testify to what our eyes have truly seen. Moreover, there is the testimony of truth in support of believing it. In those days there was a merchant of Cologne, who had brought wine in his ship from those parts. Seeing the said Philip, whom he had sometimes seen in the province of Trier, that man recognized him, and he told us what he had later learned of him. From that it appears that what we have written about Philip is most true and the detractors on this matter should not be believed.
[X] OF ANOTHER MAN WHO WAS FREED OF AN IRON RING ON HIS RIGHT ARM
But I also think we should not pass over in silence the case of Glewus, who had been formerly condemned for the injury caused by his crime to be bound with iron fetters, and whom we later saw freed by the merits of Saint William. He was a native of the province of Lincoln and lived in the village of Reepham19 from an early age, where he had for some time houses and land. And he had a brother, who was younger by birth, but who was more powerful than him, because he was richer. Although he had enough possessions to be sufficient to such a man, he was led by the desire to extend his lands, and he seized a field of his brother [Glewus], which he reckoned he needed, because it was adjacent to his. While the brother [Glewus] frequently raised the issue of that violent injury with his sibling in a fraternal way, and quite mildly, in front of friends and family, [the brother] now insolently and haughtily conceded nothing. Glewus became enflamed with vexation, which was all the greater in that he saw that his brother’s malign insolence was entirely irrevocable. Irritated by this and gradually more and more embittered, he soon forgot he was his brother and
shook off all feelings of fraternal love. And over that time, as if he were a foreign enemy, he began to turn over in his agitated mind in what manner he could avenge his injury on a vengeful enemy.
And while his mind was disturbed by these thoughts, it happened one day that the usurper brought a plough into the field he had seized and remained there with his two sons. When Glewus heard this, hastily grabbing an iron pitchfork, he went into the field, attacked his brother and nephews and killed them with the fork. This done, Glewus was carried off to court as the perpetrator of so execrable a crime and, accused of fratricide, was condemned to exile. He was inspired by a feeling of penitence and with the agreement of William, Archdeacon of Lincoln,20 whom he consulted about his guilt, he turned the offending pitchfork into a circle around the fratricidal right arm, and, dressed in a hair shirt, entered an eight-year period of exile from his homeland, and travelled round the shrines of the saints throughout England, seeking mercy.
After three years had passed in such travel, he entered the borders of the diocese of Norwich, reached Bury St Edmunds21 and entered the church in which the eminent king and martyr Edmund lies at rest, in order to pray and seek pardon. He uttered his prayers with tears, hands raised high for a while in the presence of the holy martyr, and suddenly the iron circle snapped, broken by divine power; but I do not know by what secret design of God, although the crack stretched to an opening the size of a thumb, it still remained so, unmoving, around the arm. And so it was that one end of the broken ring pressed the flesh most tightly, and the other stuck superficially to the skin. And so it happened that it caused more acute pain when it was broken than it had done while it was whole. So acute was the pain of this tight grip that he professed he would have preferred not to have come to St Edmund, rather than taste in this manner the potency of that power.
Subsequently, however, as he himself later told us, he was warned by the blessed Edmund in a vision that he should quickly go over to Norwich and wait there at the tomb of the holy martyr William for absolution from the rest of the divine penance. Encouraged by these words, he immediately hurried to Norwich to Saint William, where for a few days he awaited the desired effect of that promise. And, as he faithfully waited in hope of the promise, on a day when he prayed at the tomb of the blessed William with palms stretched out to heaven, suddenly that iron circle on his right arm broke on the other side, in such a way that it appeared divided in two parts. One of these parts split asunder and was thrown back by some divine power; the other fell in front of him on the pavement. A great crowd was present at this spectacle, and the community of monks also gathered to offer thanks and praises to divine grace. And Bishop William hastened over when he had heard news of so great a power, and, having examined its truth, he led a hymn of praise to the Lord, with the monks and clerics chanting responses to him in turn, with tears of joy.
[XI] COMMENDATION OF THE MIRACLE
It is a pleasure to tarry briefly and proceed, meanwhile, to admire this mighty miracle: ‘God’s wisdom is a great deep.’22 If someone roams in that deep to investigate or adjudge the case of each and every thing with human reason, it is clear that if it finds no conclusion, it either turns back into itself or wanders into illicit tracks and falls into error. ‘How incomprehensible are his judgements, and how unsearchable his ways!’23 And so, among the daily miracles of our times, you should not dispute why this one is cured and another is not heard, why he is absolved in this place, but not freed in that, unless you wish to err. Because we know, and hold for certain, that the royal martyr Edmund and the blessed boy and martyr William are truly, greatly meritorious with God, and we know them to have been crowned for His love with the palm of martyrdom. One triumphed in the times of the ancients; the other suffered in the days of our own time. One sustained the law of Christ, which was being savaged by the pagans; the other endured the Jews, who were repeating, as it were, the death of Christ. The former, indeed, has shone with miraculous signs up until the years of our own time; the latter multiplies his miracles every day.
Nevertheless, in this sign of eminent power which we have just recorded, as this case shows, both equally have worked together for a good result. As we have said, the former broke the circle on one side, and the latter, on the other. And since things are so, I do not assert that the latter is to be preferred over the former, nor do I affirm that the former is not equal to the latter. But let envy not be stirred against us for this reason in anyone, if we compare the blessed martyr William to other saints in the display of miracles, because since saints are not envious of each other in glory, why indeed should we bite into each other for the miracles the saints perform? I single out one in particular, but I speak of every one. If indeed our church flourishes thanks to the merits of our holy martyr, why, therefore, should it be thought that this diminishes yours? If yours grows strong in enhancement of praise, does that force ours into disrepute? Let the biting of envy cease, cease, and let us record with a vow in love and praise the mighty wonders of saints, and by recording magnify them.
Whoever you are, when the question strikes your mind, why did the glorious king Edmund, a martyr of such virtue, not release that Philip whom I have mentioned above, or at least did not wholly free Glewus? I answer with confidence that I believe that he could have done it if he had wanted to. But because we have no right to know the causes of a divine secret, do not raise on high the horn of your wisdom, for if you are not inspired by sobriety, you will be refuted as a fool. What, then, I can assert for sure about Glewus I shall put briefly. As we conjecture from the manner of the affair, in this particular miracle the glorious king and martyr Edmund wanted to have the glorious martyr William as his fellow-worker, whom he happens to have as an associate in martyrdom of his own region; and what Edmund had begun, he directed William to complete. Oh, how great is the power and wisdom of God the highest, which so miraculously operate in His saints, that He in them and they through Him are glorified!
[XII] OF A CERTAIN WOMAN, AMAZINGLY BENT, WHO WAS CURED
There was at that time a woman called Matilda, who from the flower of her adolescence was condemned to a painful disability. From that age, indeed, she was so weak in body that her spine became curved and she herself became bent; her legs grated against each other and her knees knocked against each other. The result was that if at some point she wished to move from one place to another, she supported her feeble limbs with a stick and either made progress by small steps or did not manage to make even a little progress. Peter, the priest of Langham24 – a village belonging to the bishop – supported her for a long time in his house as an act of charity, fed and clothed her. And whenever she desired to visit holy places in order to recover her health, he had her carried on a horse – crosswise – like a full sack. And when no fruit resulted from the effort, she was carried back in the same state as before.
As the news of the frequent acts of power of Saint William spread widely, she conceived a hope that her health might be restored thanks to him. Full of enthusiasm and confidence, she took up her stick and set out on the road to Norwich. And as she was walking, she enhanced her mobility more from the fervency of her heart than from the physical support of her feet, and, trusting little in her own powers, she put more faith in the support of her stick. And each step was hardly the size of a finger, and between one step and another there was a long delay, and if you had seen her walking, you would not have thought a tortoise any slower.
And so at last it happened that having set out on the twelfth day before Lent, she arrived in Norwich on the fourth week after Easter. As soon as she entered the cathedral church, she felt as if the soles of her feet were being pricked by thorns. She stood in front of the tomb of the glorious martyr and supported her weak limbs with the stick, stretching her palms out in prayer; she poured her whole heart out in God’s presence, but pain suddenly interrupted her in the midst of her prayers. With the anguish of pain pressing upon her, she rolled on the ground and beat the ground with her head, shoulders, feet
and palms; filling the church with her clamour, she acted in a manner at once astonishing and wretched. Could one, I ask, be so hard-hearted as to stand there looking on and not weep?
Finally, after such great anguished contortions, the heat of her pain eased, as the raging of a turbulent sea grows calm when the fury of a wind is abated. So the woman stood up after a while, and, because she was still weak in her limbs, she dragged herself to the wall enclosing the tomb; and, thrusting with her hands through the lattice of little columns, she finally reached out to the tomb of the blessed martyr which she had longed for. There she offered vows and thanks, and there she remained a part of the day full of thanks. She then turned to the throng of bystanders and testified with a confident tone to the many great things she had experienced, thanks to the merits of the blessed William. But lest some faithless and unbelieving person might attribute it to a fraud rather than to a miracle, she took an oath not to leave Norwich as long as it took, until her master would come, the aforesaid Peter of Langham, who, by being witness to its truth, would demolish the gossips’ charge that it was false. And so it happened that she waited for Peter’s arrival, and when he came he gave witness to the truth.
The Life and Passion of William of Norwich (Penguin Classics) Page 23