WHILE FOR SOME time the papacy had tried re-establish stronger bonds— perhaps even a renewed union—between the Western and Eastern churches, attempts had not been crowned with any significant success during the thirteenth century. Henry of Livonia bears great witness to the rising conflicts between the Catholic Westerners and the Orthodox Easterners during the conquest of both Livonia and Estonia. Mutual tolerance was replaced by hostility and outright war between the various Rus’ princes and the Germans and Danes in Livonia and Estonia; famous is the battle on Lake Peipus in 1242 with Prince Aleksandr Nevskij (1221–1263) defeating the knightly brethren of the Teutonic Order and their vas-sals. This was only one of many encounters throughout the hundred-year period up to 1346, when the Danish kings finally withdrew from Estonia, a region continually marked by unrest and wars.

The death of King Valdemar II in 1241 meant that the Danish involvement in Esto-nia became somewhat weakened in the years to come. Internal conflicts concerning the succession of the dead king's sons and the various branches of the family made it difficult to pursue a consistent foreign policy in an extremely unruly region that saw the Teutonic Order strive for more power and land. Also decisive were the internal and repeated disputes between archbishops and kings in Denmark, which gained momen-tum under Archbishop Jakob Erlandsen (1254–1274) and reached a critical peak under Archbishop Jens Grand (1289–1302), absorbing (more or less) the full attention of the Danish rulers.

Formally, of course, the Danish kings were present in Estonia even during these critical and turbulent years. There were two important Danish officials in Estonia: a bishop (in contemporary sources referred to as “the bishop of Reval,” Episcopatus Revaliensis) and the king's bailiff. The bishopric formally belonged to the archbish-opric of Lund, but ever since 1219 it had been the Danish kings who appointed the bishops of Reval/Tallinn. In addition, there was the aforementioned bailiff, who was the king's formal deputy, having his seat in the castle on Toompea Hill. Around 1282, a council was set up consisting of twelve of the king's most important vassals in the region.

THE SUNY PRESS volume Holy Men and Holy Women (edited by Paul Szarmach in 1996) was crucial for showing the way with its dual focus on the materiality of hagiographical texts and their intertextuality, and so it was a great privilege fifteen or so years later to contribute to the 2013 collection of essays that came out of one Paul's wonderful NEH Summer Seminars: Writing Women Saints in Anglo-Saxon England. Holy Men and Holy Women was important also for the equal footing on which it placed biographies of men and women: here, I want to honour those values in Paul's work, as well as his own generous support from an early stage in my career, by advancing a conjecture that would expand the oeuvre of a hagiographer from England, potentially giving us his earliest foray into the genre, writing about holy women. The hagiographer in question is known to us only by the first letter of his name, B., and was active during the second half of the tenth century. The holy women with whom I am going to try to connect B. are the sisters Harlindis (or Herlindis) and Renula (or Reinula, or Relindis), eighth-century founding abbesses of a monastery some sixty kilometres (forty miles) northwest of Liège, at Aldeneik, near Maaseik, where their relics became the focus of veneration, and for whom there exists a joint Vita (BHL 3755), which will be the focus of this article.

The cult of Harlindis and Renula has intriguing links both directly and indirectly with England in the form of the non-bodily relics that were kept at Aldeneik (and are now at Sint-Catharinakerk at Maaseik)—namely, textile panels traditionally referred to as a “casula” (chasuble) and two “uelamina” (veils), made from previously separate pieces of gold and silk embroidered fabric, some of which have been definitely identified as work from southern England perhaps from the late eighth or early ninth century, an eighthcentury purse-reliquary with the appearance of Insular origin, and the Codex Eyckensis, a book made up from the remnants of two high-grade eighth-century Gospel books written at Echternach under strong Insular influence. It is not known exactly when or how this array of objects reached Aldeneik, in particular those that came from England.

Having collected a very huge army King Valdemar set out for Estonia with one thousand five hundred longships (longis navibus), and having fought many bat-tles he eventually converted the entire country to Christianity subjugating it to Denmark as it still is.

SUCH IS THE brief mention in the medieval annalistic chronicle, Annales Ryenses, of the military conquest of Estonia in the early thirteenth century by Western (mostly Danish and German) crusaders and one of the pivotal events during the conquest, namely the Battle of Lyndanise 1219. While the chronicle is believed to have been com-pleted sometime around 1300, the actual battle mentioned in the text had taken place in Estonia some eighty years before: on an early summer's day in June a Danish force of crusaders led by the Danish King Valdemar II of Denmark (r. 1202–1241), and sup-ported by the Danish Archbishop of Lund, Anders Sunesen (r. 1202–1224, d. 1228), joined battle with an opposing force of local Estonian warriors led by their elders and war chieftains. As we shall see in this book, the battle was a hard-fought and brutal affair that nearly ended in a total Danish defeat. A series of chance events however completely changed the outcome of the battle and resulted, instead, in what seems to have been a total Estonian defeat—at least according to one (near) contemporary source. It was a defeat that enabled the Danes to firmly establish themselves (politically, militarily, and ecclesiastically) in the northernmost provinces of Estonia for the next almost one hundred fifty years, though they were sincerely challenged by strong ecclesiastical and military powers from German-controlled Livonia as we shall see in this volume.

From a military perspective and with all due consideration to the tactical and the strategical implications, the conquest of Estonia and the Battle of Lyndanise do not seem overly important in a general medieval setting. The Middle Ages saw countless other battles involving many more fighting men and resulting in outcomes that, in many more profound ways, decided the fate of great lords and entire nations. Not even among the many battles that took place in a distinct crusading setting does the Battle of Lyndanise stand out as something very spectacular or decisive.

THAT THE WOMEN's community at Chelles featured a scriptorium during the abbacy of Charlemagne's sister, Gisela (r. ca. 785–ca. 810), is now widely accepted. Based on manuscript survivals, moreover, we know that the scriptorium was industrious as well as sophisticated, capable of producing deluxe manuscripts for export as well as more ordinary books for in-house or local use. In this chapter, I would like to focus on one book produced at Chelles early in that period to consider the nature of their intellectual labour and the extent of its reach, and to demonstrate that the women of the Chelles scriptorium did not just disseminate knowledge, they helped shape it.

Halle (Saale), Universitäts- und Landesbibliothek Sachsen-Anhalt, Quedlinburg Codex 74

Quedlinburg Codex 74 (Qu. Cod. 74) represents an early effort to produce a comprehensive collection of the letters of Jerome of Strido (ca. 342/47–420). It may be the earliest such initiative and, based on evidence of survivals, seems to have been extraordinarily well received from the time of its production in the late eighth century (ca. 785/90) into the early modern era. And yet, it is all but invisible to modern scholars of Jerome due to a combination of unfortunate variables. This essay is an attempt to pull this codex out of the shadows and into the limelight and to demonstrate its role in the development and transmission of Jerome's epistolary corpus.

At 417 folios (originally more like 470 fols.) and 32.5 × 21.5 cm, Qu. Cod. 74 is substantial. Though not a deluxe manuscript, it is an elegant one, clearly intended for private reading and study among an elite audience. Its folios are well ruled in long lines with double vertical border lines, compiled in gatherings of eight with hair-side facing out, following insular style, and copied by a set of skillful hands in a measured Caroline minuscule of the Chelles variety with titles in uncial. What ornamentation graces the folios distinguishes letter titles and openings, chapters, and key words, and assists navigation through the text: titles are rubricated in typical Carolingian fashion, usually in red ink, but sometimes with alternating green and red letters or letter groupings; large initials mark openings and key chapters or passages, and are sometimes rubricated or highlighted with a yellow wash (see Figure 3.1).

STONE SPEAKS WITH many voices. It can be made to make music, like the stone xylophone made for Evelyn Glennie as part of the Ruskin Rocks project, which was established to explore the musical qualities of the stones of the Cumbrian Lake District. The project built on a tradition of making musical instruments from the local stone that went back to the nineteenth century, although outside of England musical stones are some of the earliest instruments ever created. A different type of sound can be created by the wind or breath blowing against or around stone. The Blowing Stone near Wantage (fig. 2.1) is the weathered remains of a standing stone and makes a noise if you blow into the correct hole. It could conceivably be understood as both a work of sculpture and a musical instrument. According to local legend King Alfred blew through it to summon his forces against the Danes, and according to a description in Tom Brown's Schooldays, its moaning sound can be heard for a distance of seven miles (eleven kilometres). Obviously, neither of these are examples of early medieval stone sculpture, but all stone makes sound when struck by human hands or breath or simply by the wind. Such interactions create vibrations that reach our ears as a series of waves, which, if we could see them, have patterns that have been made visible in the many images that have been taken of musical notes striking water. It is impossible to illustrate these patterns adequately in two-dimensional form but there are images and videos available on the internet, and anyone who has listened to music or singing inside a stone church has experienced some of the effects of musical notes hitting stone. Even if we may not be able to hear them with the naked ear alone, those effects are reproduced in miniature when notes hit the stone surfaces of the many early medieval crosses that are now parts of church interiors, like the eighth-century cross at Ruthwell, Dumfriesshire (fig. 2.2) or the tenth-century cross in Leeds Minster.

Military Demography

For military history, the problem of assessing the size and make up of armies is of critical importance, and the question “how big was an army?” echoes in the mind of any historian interested in the history of war. This “million dollar” question has stirred up such a heated debate within the academic community in the last century that historians should tread with caution when referring to issues of military demography. Therefore, it is my intention here to assess the various factors that would have affected the army estimates of the primary sources for the Battle of Manzikert, and to explain to what extent the figures they provide for army sizes are reliable, both in absolute numbers and in the ratios given between mounted and dismounted troops.

In terms of how contemporary historians obtained their numbers, we may consider two broad categories: first, those who had no access to official reports and data because of their position in society and/or because of any secrecy act/policy by the state; and second, those who did have access to official reports and data, and therefore provided numbers based either on military reviews or on regulations or custom. To begin with, the accounts of historians belonging to the first category would have been affected by three factors, depending on whether they were eyewitness to the events they describe. The first factor relates to the time when their work was written, and the reliance on oral testimonies by the historians. Such accounts always bore the risk of inflation and/or miscalculation. We should also consider that memories inevitably focus on the outcome and significant incidents. In fact, Thucydides observes that battles are difficult enough to reconstruct because each witnesses only knows what is happening in their immediate vicinity. This becomes more acute the lower an eyewitnesses was in the military hierarchy and, as a result, would have had a limited opportunity both to observe and to grasp the reality on the battlefield, which could provide us with a distorted picture of the day's events (although not always).

Chaos in the Camp

Because he was present in the fortified Byzantine camp, Michael Attaleiates was able to offer a highly emotional personal account of the unfolding disaster, as he experienced it through what he saw and what he heard from the soldiers who fled from the battlefield.1 There is a mixture of feelings in Attaleiates's account; panic and confusion about how the events unfolded, and uncertainty over who to ask for information: “Meanwhile, the flight of the others had led them to cluster outside the camp palisade and all were shout-ing incoherently and running about in disorder; nobody could say what exactly was going on.” Critically for Attaleiates, the fate of the emperor was of utmost importance, hence we read the contradicting reports that he received throughout Friday afternoon, “some claimed that the emperor was firmly resisting with what was left of his army and that he had routed the barbarians. Others said that he had been killed or captured. Everyone had something different to report, claiming victory for each side and then alternately denying it.”

Tthere was the growing awareness of the outcome of the battle, coupled with Atta-leiates's desperate attempts to avert the unfolding disaster by trying to convince some of the retreating soldiers to return to their posts, like in the aftermath of the desertion of some of the Oghuz on Thursday (August 25): “Finally, many of the Kappadokians who were with the emperor, one group after another, began to desert. Whether I myself was trying to stop many of the soldiers from running away and getting them to return to their posts to save us from defeat, I leave it to others to report.”

It was when Attaleiates had finally accepted that everything was lost, and a feeling of sadness and desperation set in that we read his harrowing words about the fate of the emperor and his army. There are reports of the Turks seizing and looting the imperial camp, but the loss of prestige was far harder to bear:

THE MAIN AIM of this chapter is to examine the primary sources for the Battle of Manzikert strictly from a military perspective and attempt to reach some conclusions regarding their value for the history of eleventh-century warfare in the region of Asia Minor. The major questions that will be raised in this chapter are: how accurate and detailed are their descriptions of pitched battles and clashes between enemy units during the Byzantine campaigns of 1068 to 1071 in the East? How far do their narratives permit an accurate reconstruction of chains of events, especially regarding the battlefield manoeuvres of armies in action?

The “Battle-Piece”

Why do historians write “battle-pieces”? And how should a modern reader attempt to understand the narrative of such a dramatic and complex event? Examining what a battle narrative can tell us and how to read it should be a central part of our approach to military history. But first, what is a “battle-piece”? We could say that it is the battle account that forms the essential element in the warfare narrative; a literary piece that was incorporated into hagiographies, letters, rhetorical works, epic poetry, romances, and, of course, historical texts. Yet, what remains unclear in the aforementioned definition is the perspective from which the battle narrative is written. Because the vast majority of the battle narratives from ancient to early modern times focus on events from the perspective of the commander(s) who inevitably had a disproportionate influence on the course of events, modern scholars have followed the same well-trodden course of writing about battles, adopting a traditional “command-centred” approach to the strategic, operational, and tactical movements of armies, where the thoughts, decisions, and actions of the commander(s) are far more visible than those of the common soldier(s).

Accordingly, one of the toughest challenges involved in writing about medieval warfare is describing what battle in that period “was really like”: how it might have felt to be there, including not just the physical but also the emotional sensations. What would have been running through the combatants’ minds? What were the motivations used to suppress their primal instinct for running away from danger?

IN SEEKING TO honour Paul E. Szarmach's commitment to medieval studies—and his role as co-editor of Studies in Medieval and Renaissance History (SMRH)—we organized a series of three panels at the 57th International Congress on Medieval Studies at Western Michigan University in 2022. The call for papers drew scholars from around the world, and the panels were bursting at the seams. Fifteen papers of exceptional quality were presented. We cheered as we raised a glass in Paul's memory, celebrating his contributions in Kalamazoo and more. As was true with the Congress panels, there was significant interest in developing these papers for a special issue of SMRH, and contributions numbered more than one volume could sustain. Volume 17, published in 2023, features nine articles on late medieval literature, history, and culture, as well as studies of medievalism. A few were accepted for publication before Paul's death, but the majority were cultivated to honour his legacy, as are the contributions that constitute Volume 18. The following, which are offered by long-time colleagues and former students, are focused on early medieval England and beyond, a tribute to Paul's engagement with early saints’ lives, Anglo-Latin and Carolingian manuscript production, and the reception of early literature and history.

Volume 18, which will conclude Joel Rosenthal's stint as editor of SMRH, will fittingly close the chapter on his long-time collaboration with Paul, but we would be remiss not to indicate how Paul has (posthumously) fostered yet another collaboration that has resulted in the publication of excellent scholarship. Paul loved to bring people together and to publish their smart ideas. In taking up the editing of these volumes, we have enjoyed rich conversations with the various contributors and know readers will find much here to provoke further scholarly engagement. We are grateful to acknowledge too the many rewards we have discovered during our partnership as editors. Paul is the lodestar that framed this work, and we are all enriched by the results.

Nota bene: SMRH vol. 17 and subsequent volumes are now published by Arc Humanities Press. After this volume, the journal will be titled Studies in Medieval and Renaissance Sources. To continue or start a subscription, please contact the Journals Manager Rob Edwards at [email protected].

THE RISE TO power of Constantine had an important and lasting impact on British history, literature, coinage, and art. To this day, his association with Britain continues to be highly regarded and observed, as shown in the exhibition and book, Constantine the Great: York's Roman Emperor, celebrating, in 2006, the 1,700th anniversary of his accession at York upon his father Constantius's death on July 25, 306. Although Constantine initially took the title of Augustus (i.e., Emperor) as successor to his father, he later changed his mind because such an assumption of power was an illegal act in the tetrarchic system of the time, accepting instead from the Augustus Galerius the legitimate title of Caesar. Yet the transfer of power from father to son in Britain would continue to be important to Constantine personally, to Roman Britannia, and to Early England.

Upon Constantine's promotion, however, a resentful Maxentius, retired Emperor Maximian's son who found himself left out of the succession, usurped power in Rome on October 28, 306, only to be defeated six years later, to the day, by Constantine during the battle at the Milvian Bridge, October 28, 312. Leading up to that encounter, while recruiting forces, Constantine apparently made a return visit to Britain in late 311 or the early part of 312, commemorated by a special adventus coin-type that was produced as part of a large issue with a wide range of types (notably an armoured-bust type to be discussed at greater length below), struck at the London Mint in preparation for Constantine's campaign against Maxentius. Thus Britain came to serve as a double starting point for him: a place to which he would always trace the root of his authority and a place from which he could fund that decisive march to Rome.

Eusebius's Life of Constantine, composed after the emperor's death in 337, describes Constantine's determination to set out on that campaign to liberate Rome from Maxentius and how Constantine called upon the god of his father Constantius (actually Sol Invictus, “the unconquered sun,” whose image appears on many of Constantine's coins) to protect him against the sorcery of the enemy.

THE MAJOR RIVAL to the Danes and their expansion into Estonia was the German mission in Livonia. This mission had taken roots in the mid-1180s not long after the first attempts had been made to establish a formal (Danish) mission in Estonia through the consecration of Bishop Fulco. While we do not know if anything actually came of this early attempt to convert the Estonians, German clerics managed to establish themselves in Livonia along the lower runs of the Daugava River, connecting the market places of western Livonia with the rich markets of the Rus’ lands further to the east.

The early history of the Livonian Church is described in great detail, although with a strong supportive bias towards the Germans by the aforementioned chronicler, Henry of Livonia. In his chronicle, German priests and missionaries (who also included Henry himself), and the Livonian Church headed, in turn, by the bishops Meinhard (r. 1186–1196), Bertold (r. 1196–1198), and Albert are portrayed essentially as God's only true representatives among the local (pagan) people. Any encroachment by foreign (ecclesiastical) powers was fiercely opposed by the Livonian Church as well as by Henry himself. Primary among these foreign powers were, of course, the Danes and to a lesser extent, the Swedes and the Norwegians.

The Chronica Livoniae is, in essence, the foundational narrative of the German mis-sion in Livonia and Estonia and, therefore, a very important source with regards to the various aspects of the conquests of these lands. In the chronicle, Henry explains, how Meinhard came to Livonia in the early 1180s together with some German merchants who had sailed there in order to trade at the local market in Ikšķile. This village lay near an important crossing over Daugava River and was an key centre in the region's travel networks. It was a well-chosen starting point for the intended mission. The sources indicate that Meinhard had been sent to Livonia by the archbishop of Hamburg-Bremen as part of a well-planned attempt to establish a permanent mission among the pre-dominately pagan Livs who inhabited these lands.