* * *
1. See C.N.L. Brooke, The Twelfth Century Renaissance, London 1969.
2. For a general summary of the impact of the crusading encounter on the culture of medieval Europe, see F. Heer, The Medieval World, 1100–1350, London 1962.
3. ‘… Mirabilia vero dicimus, quae nostrae cognitione non subiacent, etiam cum sint naturalia; sed et mirabilia constituit ignorantia reddendae rationis, quare sic sit …’: Otia Imperialia Gervasii Tilburiensii, ed. G.W. Leibnitz, Scriptores Rerum Brunswicensium I, Hanover 1707, p. 960. Gervase’s definition of marvels can be compared with that of Giraldus Cambrensis (‘… those things which, being contrary to the course of nature, call forth our wonder and amazement …’) in his introduction to Part II of the ‘Topo-graphy of Ireland’: The Historical Works of Giraldus Cambrensis, ed. and trans. T. Wright, London 1863, p. 57.
The ‘Ecclesiastical History’ of Orderic Vitalis
Orderic Vitalis (1075–c.1142) was an Anglo-Norman monk whose thirteen-book Historia Ecclesiastica was an attempt to provide for the Norman people the equivalent of Bede’s earlier history of the English. The work was written at the abbey of Saint-Evroul in Normandy, and its author would have been acutely conscious of recent pressures upon the abbey arising from the rivalry between successive bishops of Lisieux, in whose diocese Saint-Evroul was situated, and leading lay barons of the region. In Orderic’s account of the reported vision of a local priest in the last decade of the eleventh century, many of the misdeeds which have led to the spirits of the dead being punished in the afterlife were committed in the context of local disorder. The priest Walchelin initially assumes that the ghostly army is a real troop of soldiers on their way to join the fearsome Robert of Bellême’s campaign against another warlord of the region, while Orderic’s monkish disapproval of the lifestyle of the local aristocratic families is apparent in the relish with which he describes the torments of the noblewomen who are being punished for their lasciviousness while alive. What makes this account different from other medieval examples of the morally instructive ghost story is the tacit acceptance on the part of the chronicler that the subject of his narrative was witnessing a troop of the dead, a ‘rabble’ or retinue gathered around a mysterious dark lord called Herlequin or Hellequin. This name may have derived from the Old French ‘hèle-chien’ – ‘hunting dog’ – or may have been a diminutive of ‘helle’, the German word for the underworld. In the first part of this book, there have been other references to spectral armies (see, for instance, Peter the Venerable’s ‘Apparitions in Spain’, and Rodulfus Glaber’s ‘Army of Wraiths’), but in the passage that follows the familiar monastic theme of purgatorial suffering for secular transgression is addressed in the context of a much older vernacular tradition of a Wild Hunt or troop of phantoms. This tradition is rooted in the folklore of Northern Europe, and derives perhaps from the popular concept of the pagan god Wotan as a wandering huntsman. From the twelfth century onwards, the theme of the Wild Hunt recurred as a Mirabilium, a supernatural phenomenon which offered both diversion – in that it was something to be marvelled at – and the opportunity for moral instruction.
The Priest Walchelin and Hellequin’s Hunt
Book VIII, Chap. XVII
I cannot ignore or remain silent about an event involving a priest of Lisieux diocese on New Year’s Day. The priest was named Walchelin, and he had responsibility for the church of St Aubin the confessor, a former monk who became bishop of Angers, in the hamlet of Bonneval. On the night of 1st January 1091, this priest was called out to attend a sick man, as was his duty, in an outlying area of his parish. He was coming back alone, through an isolated part of the country, when he heard the kind of sound that is made by the passage of a great army. He assumed it was the personal guard of Robert of Bellême, making a hurried approach to the siege of Courcy. The moon shone brightly under the constellation of the Ram, and the road was clear ahead. Walchelin was a young man, courageous and strongly built, but when he heard the kind of sound made by a rabble of soldiers, he became fearful. He remained there, uncertain whether to flee and so avoid being attacked and robbed by ruffians or to stand his ground and defend himself. He noticed four medlar trees standing in a group some distance away from the path and decided to hide in this little grove until the mounted horsemen had gone by. But a figure of enormous size, wielding a great mace, stood in his way and, holding the weapon above his head, shouted: ‘Stay where you are. Do not move.’
The priest immediately stood still, and supported himself on his staff. The grave figure who carried the mace took up position beside him, and together they waited for the army to pass. First of all a large crowd on foot appeared, bearing on their shoulders and draped round their necks the animals, clothes, furniture and household possessions that make up the plunder of every raiding army. However, they all complained bitterly and chivvied each other onwards. Walchelin saw among them many of his fellow-villagers who had died recently, and heard them lamenting the fact that they were in torment because of their sins. Next came a group of bearers, whom the giant suddenly joined, supporting the weight of some five-hundred biers, with two men carrying each bier. On these biers were seated dwarfs with huge barrel-shaped heads. One gigantic beam was carried by two Ethiopians, and a hapless man was tightly lashed to this beam, undergoing severe torture and screaming aloud in his pain. A terrible demon sitting astride this beam was digging into his back and thighs with red-hot spurs so that the blood flowed freely. This man was immediately recognised by Walchelin as the murderer of a fellow-priest called Stephen, and Walchelin understood that he was being tortured for the crime of spilling the blood of an innocent man only two years before, so that he had not had time to complete the penance for such a terrible misdeed.
Next came a group of women, who seemed to the priest to be innumerable, riding side-saddle in the fashionable manner, but with their saddles studded with red-hot nails. As the gusts of night air caught them, they would be lifted a few feet out of the saddle, and would then drop back onto the pointed nails. In this way their thighs and buttocks were tortured by the burning nails, and so they loudly called out ‘O woe, O woe’ in lament for the sins which had caused them such punishment. It was because of the sensuous lechery in which they had indulged when they were on earth that they now underwent the flames and stench and torture, complaining of their punishment with such loud cries. Walchelin noticed a number of high-born ladies among this group, and also saw that there were horses and mules belonging to many who were still alive, drawing women’s carriages which were as yet empty.
The priest remained there trembling and began to ponder the meaning of these awful visions. The next group to come along was an assembly of clerics and monks, and he could see their leaders, bishops and abbots, carrying their pastoral staffs. The clerics and their bishops wore black caps; the monks and abbots were dressed in black cowls. They moaned and complained, and some of them even hailed Walchelin and beseeched him to pray for them for old times’ sake. The priest said he noticed there many highly regarded figures, who, according to the respect in which they were held by their fellow humans, should have gone straight to join the saints in heaven. He even saw Hugh, bishop of Lisieux, and the famous abbots Mainer of Saint-Evroul and Gerbert of Saint-Wandrille, along with many others whose names I cannot remember. The estimation of humans is often wrong, whereas nothing can be hidden from the sight of God. Men’s judgment depends on external appearances; God searches the very heart of things …
… Shaking with fear and amazement, the priest steadied himself by leaning on his staff and awaited further dreadful sights. Next to come along was a great troop of knights, with no colours except that of darkness and flickering flame. All the knights rode enormous horses, all of them were armed as if they were charging into battle and all of them bore pennants of deepest black. Among this troop were Richard and Baldwin, the sons of Count Gilbert, who had recently died, and many others whom I cannot name. Landry of Orbec, who had been dead less than a
year, addressed the priest in a loud shout, gruffly ordering him to take a message to his wife. But the other soldiers around him in the troop shouted louder and said to the priest: ‘Do not listen to Landry; he is a liar.’ This Landry was once sheriff and advocate of Orbec, and he had risen from humble birth by virtue of his intelligence and personal qualities. But in the court-cases in which he was involved he decided the outcome according to his own advantage, and took bribes, being more committed to corruption and personal gain than to justice. Thus he merited the shame of open torment, and deserved to be called a liar by his companions in torment. That was a judgment in which there was no flattery or supplication for his clever casuistry; indeed, because he had closed his ears against the laments of the poor during his time of authority, now in his suffering he was not even accorded a hearing.
After this great army, thousands upon thousands strong, had passed by, Walchelin began to tell himself, ‘Without a doubt this is the retinue of Herlequin. I have heard from those who claimed that they had seen them, but I used to mock those who told such stories and did not believe them because I had seen no firm evidence of such things. Now I myself can see the spectres of the dead with my very eyes, but no one will believe me unless I can take back some proof to show the living. I will seize one of the spare horses following the troop, and ride it home, so as to ensure that my neighbours believe me when I show it to them.’ At this he grasped the bridle of a jet-black horse, but it broke free and went galloping after the dark army as though it had wings … Nothing daunted, the priest stood in the middle of the track and held out his arm to stop another of the approaching horses. It paused and waited for him to mount, letting out a great breath of steam which formed the shape of a tree. Walchelin set his left foot onto the stirrup, and holding the reins, grasped the saddle. But immediately he had the sensation of burning fire under his foot, and the hand that held the reins sent a shiver of icy cold straight to his heart.
At the same time, four dreadful knights approached and thundered at him: ‘Why are you troubling our horses? Come along with us. You have not been hurt by any of our companions, but you try to take what belongs to us.’ Dreadfully frightened, Walchelin released the horse, but as three of the knights were about to seize him, the fourth said: ‘Leave him alone and let me talk to him, so that I may send messages to my wife and sons.’ Then he addressed the frightened priest: ‘I pray you, listen to me, and take this message to my wife.’ Walchelin replied: ‘I do not know who you are, and nor do I know your wife.’ The knight said: ‘I am William of Glos, son of Barnon, who was well-known as steward of William of Breteuil and, before him, of his father William, earl of Hereford. I was responsible for unlawful judgments and seizures while I was alive, and have carried out more sinful actions than I can tell. But I am troubled most of all by the sin of usury. While I was alive, I made a loan to a poor man, and was given his mill as security for the loan. But he was unable to repay me, and so I kept the mill and displaced the lawful heir by bequeathing it to my heirs. You may see that in my mouth there is the burning shaft of a mill-wheel which weighs upon me more heavily than the fortress of Rouen. You must give a message to my wife Beatrice and my son Roger that they should bring me comfort by returning this security to the rightful heir. They have benefited from it far more than the amount of the original loan.’ The priest replied: ‘The death of William of Glos occurred a long time ago, and no-one who truly believes could carry a message such as this. I have no idea who you are, or who are your heirs. If I were to give such a message to Roger of Glos and his brothers and mother, they would mock me as a fool … Under no circumstances will I carry out your orders or take your message.’ Enraged, the knight reached out and seized the priest by the throat, pulling him along and making as if to attack him. The priest felt that he was being held by a hand that burnt like fire, and in great fear called out: ‘Blessed Mary, Mother of Christ, come to my aid.’ As soon as he implored the help of the glorious and compassionate Mother of the Son of God, help came to him … Another knight appeared, bearing a sword in his right hand; wielding the drawn sword as though he were prepared to strike, he said: ‘You miserable wretches, why are you threatening to kill my brother? Be off and leave him alone.’
When the other figures had departed, the knight stood alone with Walchelin in the midst of the trackway and asked: ‘Don’t you know who I am? I am Robert, son of Ralph the Fair-Haired. I am your brother.’ As the priest stood there, astonished at this unexpected news, and troubled by all the sights and sensations of the evening, the knight began to recall their time together as boys and to bring forward many proofs that he was indeed who he said he was. The priest remembered everything that he spoke of, but did not dare to admit it, so that eventually the knight said: ‘I am astonished at your stony response. I raised you after our father and mother died, and took more care of you than anyone alive. I sent you to France for your education, I provided you with apparel and livelihood, and I helped you in many other ways. Now you will not recall any of this, and cannot even be bothered to acknowledge me.’ With such sincere truths being spoken to him, the priest tearfully acknowledged that it was indeed his brother, who continued: ‘It would have been right if you had died and been carried away with us to share our suffering, for you foolishly tried to take things that belonged to us. No-one else has ever attempted this; but your celebration of Mass earlier today has saved you. It is also the case that I have been allowed to appear to you and show you how wretched I am. After we spoke for the last time in Normandy, I departed for England without consulting you; there my life ended as my Creator ordained, and I have undergone severe punishment for the weighty sins which bore so heavily upon me. The weapons which we carry are burning hot, and they give off a terrible stench and bear down upon us with an unbearable weight, and smoulder on forever. Until this time, I have undergone terrible torment, but after you had been ordained in England and had celebrated your first Mass for those who had died in faith, your father Ralph was released from his torment and the burden of my shield, which had been a cause of great torment to me, fell away. You can see that I still bear this sword, but I faithfully await release from its burden in the coming year.’
When the knight had said all of this and more, and the priest had examined him closely, he noticed that there seemed to be a great clot of blood, shaped like a human head, attached to the spurs on the heels of his feet. The priest was horrified, and asked: ‘Why do you have that great mass of blood around your heels?’ His brother replied that it was not blood, but fire, ‘and it is heavier to me than if I were carrying the Mont-Saint-Michel. I am rightfully forced to carry this enormous weight on my heels, because I once wore shining pointed spurs in my eagerness to spill blood … Those who are still alive should always remember such things, and should take care not to risk such awful punishment for their sins. But I cannot speak with you any longer, my brother, for I have to hurry onwards with this troop of the damned. Pray for me, I implore you. Remember me in your prayers and your alms-giving. Exactly a year after Palm Sunday I hope I will be saved and freed from torment by the compassion of my Creator. Look to your own salvation. Amend your own way of life, for it is stained by many misdeeds, and you must surely understand that this cannot last. For the moment, you must not speak of this. Do not tell of all that you have heard or witnessed, or reveal it to anyone for the next three days.’
With these words, the knight rode off. The priest Walchelin was taken gravely ill and remained unwell for a whole week; as he began to recover, he went to Bishop Gilbert of Lisieux and told him of all that had happened to him, and was given by the bishop everything that he needed to restore him to health. He lived on for fifteen years or more, and I myself heard from him everything that I have written down and saw the mark on his face left when he was touched by the dreadful knight …
Source: Re-told from the Latin Orderici Vitalis Historia Ecclesiastica, in Patrologiae Cursus Completus, Series Latina, ed. J.-P. Migne, CLXXXVIII, cols. 607–12. A six-v
olume edition of the Ecclesiastical History, ed. and trans. M. Chibnall, was published by the Clarendon Press, Oxford, between 1969 and 1980. For a review of the extensive bibliography relating to Hellequin’s Hunt in medieval literature and folklore, see H. Flasdieck, ‘Herlekin’, Anglia LI (1937), pp. 225–338.
The Peterborough Continuation of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle
Although, as its title implies, the major part of the Anglo-Saxon Chronicle contains records from the centuries before the Norman Conquest, when England was ruled by Anglo-Saxon and Danish kings, some regional continuations of the Chronicle were maintained well into the Anglo-Norman period. One of these was at Peterborough Abbey, which continued to record yearly entries during the first part of the twelfth century. This extract from the entries for the years 1127–28 is notable in that it uses the motif of the Wild Hunt of ghostly figures for purposes of what in a later age might have been regarded as political comment or even satire. To the twelfth-century chronicler and his fellow monks, the monstrous hunters who were seen stalking around their abbey deerfold would have signified the disruption of the natural order caused by what they evidently regarded as an inappropriate royal appointment to the position of abbot of Peterborough. The preface to this entry gives a disparaging description of the abbot in question, Henry of Poitou, and summarises his career as one of avarice and exploitative association with remunerative abbeys and monasteries in France and England.
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