The art of giving diplomatic gifts is an age-old tradition, practised by kings and queens, popes and emperors, presidents and prime ministers. But what to give?

The elephant at the Tower of London (London, British Library, MS Cotton Nero D I. f. 169v).

That very question must have dawned on King Louis IX of France (reigned 1226-1270), when he was seeking a gift for Henry III of England (reigned 1216-1272) in 1255. How to impress the English king, and in the process give him something that he did not already have? The exchange was recorded by Matthew Paris, the chronicler of St Albans: "About this time, an elephant was sent to England by the French king as a present to the king of the English. We believe that this was the only elephant ever seen in England, or even in the countries this side of the Alps; thus people flocked together to see the novel sight."

Paris wrote a short tract on the elephant, found in the Chronica maiora (Cambridge, Corpus Christi, MS 16). He had evidently seen the elephant for himself, and described its principal features, based on observation and deduction. The elephant was 10 years old (how to tell?), 10 feet high, grey-ish black with a tough hide, and used its trunk to obtain food and drink. It lived in a specially-constructed house at the Tower of London, 40 feet long by 20 feet wide, and its keeper was named Henry de Flor.

The image above is one of two of Henry III's elephant drawn by Matthew Paris, and is found in his Liber Additamentorum or Book of Additional Things (British Library MS Cotton Nero D I). Suzanne Lewis, author of The Art of Matthew Paris, suggests that this is Matthew's first attempt to draw the elephant, in part since it includes a second rendering of the trunk in a different position. As Lewis observes, the elephant is here "drawn horizonatally on the page in heavy brown line and tinted with similar dark grey and ochre washes ... the details of the skin folds on the trunk and rear flanks, as well as the flap covering the upper part of the tusk, are more freshly observed and convincing that those in MS 16." The assumption would seem to be that the elephant in the Liber Additamentorum was drawn from life, with the illustration in the Chronica maiora being based on the earlier drawing, perhaps with other sketches which have not survived.

Lewis also points out that both drawings of the elephant show that it had knee joints, contrary to the widespread medieval belief that the elephants' knees were joint-less! You can read more about this phenomenon in our post Elephants on Parade.

For more about Matthew Paris and Henry III's elephant, see Suzanne Lewis, The Art of Matthew Paris in the Chronica Majora (Aldershot: Scolar, 1987), pp. 212-16. There is a great blogpost by our friends at Corpus Christi College, Matthew Paris and the Elephant at the Tower, and you can access images from the famous Parker library here (subscription only).

Miniature of Jacob's Ladder, before Psalm 80, with a bas-de-page scene of cannibal hybrids, from the Rutland Psalter, England (London?), c. 1260, Add MS 62925, f. 83v

 

'Such a book! my eyes! and I am beating my brains to see if I can find any thread of an intrigue to begin upon, so as to creep and crawl towards possession of it.'

           -  William Morris

Thus spoke William Morris, we are told, when he first laid eyes on the Rutland Psalter in 1896.  Morris was said to be so enamoured of the Psalter that when he was suffering his final illness a friend brought it to his bed-side in order to lift his spirits. We are very pleased that it is no longer necessary to go to such extremes to see this spectacular manuscript; a fully digitized version can be found online here.

The Rutland Psalter (Add MS 62925) is a relatively recent addition to our collections; the manuscript was purchased by the British Library in 1983 from the estate of the ninth Duke of Rutland, whose family had owned the manuscript since at least 1825.  The Psalter was produced c. 1260 in England, possibly in London, although it is unclear who the original patron was.  In the centuries after it was produced, the manuscript passed through quite a few hands before ending up with the Dukes of Rutland.  Many of these people seem to have shared Morris's desire to possess the Psalter, even if only virtually; a vast gallery of signatures and inscriptions can be found on the manuscript's calendar pages and flyleaves (see, for example, f. i, ii and v).

 

Full-page historiated initial 'B'(eatus) at the beginning of Psalm 1, of King David harping, and the Judgement of Solomon, amidst men in combat astride lions and dragons, with roundels containing scenes from Creation and men in combat, with a curtain above, from the Rutland Psalter, England (London?), c. 1260, Add MS 62925, f. 8v

 

It is not hard to see why the Rutland Psalter was an object of such fascination.  It contains a number of spectacular full- and partial-page miniatures (see above), as well as other historiated and illuminated initials.  But the Psalter's true claim to fame is its marginalia. A staggering variety of creatures populate the margins and borders of virtually every folio; amongst the men and women, animals, hybrids, dragons, and vignettes of daily life are scenes influenced by the traditions of the bestiary and the Marvels of the East, and some from sources that still have yet to be traced.  A few of our favourites are below; be sure to check out the entire manuscript here.

 

Bas-de-page scene of a grotesque hybrid and a goat musician, f. 49v

Bas-de-page scene of a man hitting a bear (?) that is eating a human head, f. 51r

Bas-de-page scene of a rabbit musician, f. 54r

Bas-de-page scene of a hybrid musician and a semi-nude man dancing, f. 56v

Bas-de-page scene of a blemmya with a crossbow, f. 57r

Bas-de-page scene of a female centaur suckling her child, f. 58v

Bas-de-page scene of mice hanging a cat, f. 61r

Bas-de-page scene of a men 'pick-a-back' wrestling, f. 70v

Bas-de-page scene of a conjoined man fighting a dragon, f. 72r

Bas-de-page scene of a man butting his foot against a ram, f. 72v

Bas-de-page scene of a nude man with a stick riding on a many-legged dragon, f. 83r

Bas-de-page scene of a man with an axe and a scold on a ducking stool, f. 86r

Bas-de-page scene of a grotesque hybrid with a panotii (a monstrous race of men with enormous ears), f. 88v

Some of you may be familiar with the Just So Stories of Rudyard Kipling (1902), which include "How the Leopard Got His Spots", "How the Elephant Got His Trunk", and "How the Camel Got His Hump". We like to think that Kipling, a man of letters, might have been able to draw inspiration from the British Library's collections when concocting these tales, not least when it came to his famous story of the camel.

Two camels in the Marvels of the East (London, British Library, MS Cotton Vitellius A XV, f. 101v).

Have you ever asked yourself what a camel looked like in medieval times? Marvellously, we have some idea, thanks to drawings found in three of the greatest Anglo-Saxon manuscripts, all at the British Library: the Beowulf-manuscript (Cotton Vitellius A XV); the Old English Hexateuch (Cotton Claudius B IV); and an illustrated miscellany from 11th-century Canterbury (Cotton Tiberius B V).

Ants and camels in the Marvels of the East (London, British Library, MS Cotton Vitellius A XV, f. 101v).

In the text known as the Marvels of the East is a passage describing ants the size of dogs, which live beyond the river Gorgoneus, and dig up gold from the earth. Men seeking gold are described crossing the river with their camels, leaving the young tied on their own side; the she-camels are laden with gold and return to their young, but the male camels are left behind, for the ants to devour, enabling the thieves to escape. In the Beowulf-manuscript, this scene is depicted by a large miniature (sadly damaged by fire), in which three dog-like ants attack a tethered camel on the right, while a man holds another camel bearing a saddle, and a young camel (or brontosaurus, take your pick) is tied to a tree at the bottom. In the copy of the same scene in the illustrated miscellany, a camel is attacked by ants while a man crosses the river to safety on the back of a she-camel.

The dog-sized ants and the camels (London, British Library, MS Cotton Tiberius B V, part 1, f. 80v).

If this wasn't enough to give the male camel the hump, what else was? Well, in the Beowulf-manuscript, the next scene, describing a place where many elephants are born, is illustrated with two slightly grumpy-looking camels (shown at the beginning of this post). Presumably the camels are saying to each other, "Doesn't the artist know what an elephant looks like?" The illustrated miscellany represents the same passage (in Latin, "in his locis nascitur multitudo magna elephantorum") with a pig-like elephant standing on an island.

The elephant in an Anglo-Saxon illustrated miscellany (London, British Library, MS Cotton Tiberius B V, part 1, f. 81r).

Of course, it's highly likely that few Anglo-Saxons had ever seen a camel in real life, and so we should not be surprised that their pictures of them are quirky, to say the least. But is this a world-first, a chorus line of dancing camels? Riverdance, anyone?

A line of camels in the Old English Hexateuch: part of Genesis, chapter 24 (London, British Library, MS Cotton Claudius B IV, f. 39r).

You can read more about the manuscripts of the Marvels of the East in the facsimile of the same name by Montague Rhodes James (Oxford: The Roxburghe Club, 1929). For the Hexateuch, see Benjamin C. Withers, The Illustrated Old English Hexateuch: The Frontiers of Seeing and Reading in Anglo-Saxon England (London: The British Library, 2007). And don't forget to look at our Digitised Manuscripts site, to see both the Beowulf-manuscript and the Hexateuch in their entirety.

With apologies for the tortured reference to our previous post on medieval owls!  Regular readers will know that this blog has an ongoing series about animals in medieval manuscripts; our menagerie so far has included dogs, cats, beavers, hedgehogs, elephants, and more.  To shake things up in time for the weekend, let us turn our attention to an animal that you might not recognise as readily as you would a Lolcat or Mrs Tiggy-Winkle -- the caladrius bird.

 

Detail of a miniature of a caladrius perched on the bed of a king, from a bestiary, with extracts from Giraldus Cambrensis on Irish birds, England (Salisbury?), 2nd quarter of the 13th century, Harley MS 4751, f. 40r

 

Although they are little-known today, caladrius birds were common features in medieval bestiaries.  The caladrius, we are told in the bestiary text, makes its home in the courts of kings, and is pure white 'like the swan'. The dung of the caladrius was believed to cure blindness, but this remedy was rather a mixed blessing since it required the direct application of guano in the eyes of the afflicted.  But the real value of the caladrius was in its infallible prognostic abilities.  If it was brought into a sickroom and turned away from the man or woman within, that person would surely die.  If, however, the caladrius kept his gaze on the ill person and 'directed itself towards his face' (sometimes this is depicted quite literally; see below), it was a different story.  After staring down the sick man or woman, the caladrius would fly into the air, taking the illness with it, and the patient was destined to make a full recovery. 

 

Detail of a miniature of a rather alarming caladrius on the sickbed of a man who will be cured, from a bestiary, England, 2nd or 3rd quarter of the 13th century, Sloane MS 3544, f. 24r

 

Outside of manuscripts, only two medieval depictions of the caladrius survive: on a much-worn piece of 12th century sculpture adorning the village church of St Mary's at Alne, near York in England, and in a panel of a 13th century stained-glass window on the cathedral of Saint-Jean-Baptiste in Lyon, France. But knowledge of the caladrius bird's amazing abilities must have been fairly widespread, as they can be found depicted in a number of manuscript miniatures without any explanatory text.  A black version of the caladrius, for example, is shown in a French Bible miniature in the act of curing the prophet Tobias. 

 

Detail of a miniature of Tobias in bed, stretching out his hands towards a flying black caladrius bird, at the beginning of Tobit, from a Bible (imperfect), France (Paris), last quarter of the 13th century, Harley MS 616, f. 259r

 

And an interesting double act can be found in the bas-de-pages of facing folios in the Queen Mary Psalter.

 

First the good news, then the bad… detail of a bas-de-page miniature of a caladrius bird indicating that a sick man will get well, and a detail of relations mourning at the bed of a man who will die, from the Queen Mary Psalter, England (London or East Anglia?), between 1310 and 1320, Royal MS 2 B VII, ff. 89v-90r

 

Caladrius birds also make an appearance in the medieval histories of Alexander the Great, where they are included amongst the marvels Alexander encounters during his travels in the east. Unlike the pure white bestiary-caladrius, those in Alexander manuscripts are often depicted with tan or yellowish feathers (see below).

 

Detail of a miniature of Alexander the Great enthroned, being presented with caladrius birds, from Historia de proelis in a French translation (Le Livre et le vraye hystoire du bon roy Alixandre), France (Paris), c. 1420, Royal MS 20 B XX, f. 83r

 

It is possible that this tawny version of the caladrius might be a reference to much older sources.  The Roman scholar Pliny the Elder (AD 23-79) names it as the 'icterus' because of its colour.  Probably not coincidentally, he also mentions its particular skill at curing those afflicted with jaundice ('ictericus'); one of the unpleasant symptoms of that disease is, of course, yellowing of the skin.  Classical scholars often referred to jaundice as the 'morbus regius' ('royal disease') because it was believed that the touch of a king could cure it, and this early association might explain why caladrius birds are so often shown with royalty and inside regal settings.

 

Detail of a miniature of Alexander with caladrius birds and ill people, from the Talbot Shrewsbury book, France (Rouen), 1444-1445, Royal MS 15 E VI, f. 21v

 

It is difficult to find many references to the caladrius after the 15th century, but this amazing avian has experienced a very minor renaissance in recent decades.  The obvious associations with diagnosis and healing make it an ideal symbol for medicine, and the caladrius has been included in coats of arms recently granted to the Medical University of South Africa, the South African Medical and Dental Council, and the Isle of Wight Health Authority.  Perhaps most charmingly, a caladrius bird featured in a 1978 'Theodoric of York, Medieval Barber' sketch on the programme Saturday Night Live, during which the barber/doctor Theodoric (played by the incomparable Steve Martin) tries to use the bird (played by an uncooperative live dove) to diagnose an ultimately-doomed patient.

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- Sarah J Biggs

Researchers at the British Library have found sensational evidence for the existence of the Loch Ness Monster. Hidden within the pages of a 12th-century manuscript is not only a description but also a
drawing of the beast known to millions as Nessie.

 

Loch Ness in Scotland, courtesy of Wikimedia Commons; image of the British Library, London, from Wikipedia

Walter of Bingham (d. c. 1197) was a minor cleric from Nottinghamshire who, unable to fulfill his vow to go on the Third Crusade, made a pilgrimage to the holy sites of Scotland. William's own manuscript of Itinerarium Scotiae (The Journey Through Scotland) has been long neglected , but shows the author's fascination with Scottish history, customs and wildlife. One commentator has remarked that "Walter of Bingham is to Scotland what Marco Polo is to China". The tone of The Journey Through Scotland emulates the writings of Walter's famous mentor, Gerald of Wales, who wrote accounts of Ireland and Wales in the 1180s and 1190s.

 

 

Walter’s encounter with Nessie came one summer evening, as he approached the banks of the River Ness. Students of the Loch Ness Monster will be aware that in the earliest account, found in Adomnán’s Life of St Columba (written around AD 700), Nessie was seen not in the loch but in the neighbouring river; and this is corroborated by Walter’s story. Seeking safe passage across the river, Walter of Bingham asked a group of fishermen mending their nets, but they rejected his request with terror in their eyes. Next, walking downstream, Walter encountered a young boy dragging his coracle along the shore. Hesitating at first, the boy agreed to row Walter of Bingham across in return for a silver coin. They crossed without mishap, much to Walter’s displeasure, for he was self-confessedly thrifty; but as he watched the coracle heading back to the other shore, a great beast with fire sparking from its eyes suddenly erupted from below the waters, uttered an almighty roar, and then dragged the coracle and its unhappy occupant beneath the waves.

 

The Loch Ness Monster, and the boy in the overturned coracle, as seen with the naked eye (London, British Library, MS Cotton Hilarius A. XV, f. 104r). The page is now exceedingly faded, but the image can be recovered using RZS©.

Walter of Bingham’s account provides firm proof of the existence of the Loch Ness Monster in the 12th century. But what is perhaps more remarkable is the drawing of Nessie which accompanies the text, now severely faded and barely visible with the naked eye. The drawing’s significance was first recognized by an international team of imaging scientists, cryptozoologists and manuscript experts, who for the past year have been analysing the British Library’s pictures of mythical beasts. Using a pioneering technique known as Re-Zoom Spectroscopy (RZS), the scientists took multiple photographs of the page in question, which were overlaid and processed using a “Guggenheim manipulator”. The resulting image demonstrates that Walter of Bingham made a careful depiction of Nessie, and can now be revealed as the earliest known picture of the Loch Ness Monster.

 

The Loch Ness Monster, as recovered using RZS©. Walter of Bingham is depicted on the right (an early example of a self-portrait), with the wretched occupant of the coracle about to be tossed into the water.

The shape of Nessie as recorded by Walter is hugely significant. Traditionally, the Loch Ness Monster is depicted in serpentine form, often with long humps protruding above the waves. The beast seen by Walter of Bingham most closely resembles a gigantic bear, and experts suggest that it may have been an enormous cousin of the modern-day Grizzly Bear or Kodiak Bear, now restricted to North America, or perhaps a descendant of the extinct Cave Bear. To judge by the survival of animal bones, the presence of a massive bear in remote, 12th-century Scotland is not entirely unexpected, and its behaviour indicates that, when observed by Walter of Bingham, it may have been defending its territory or guarding its young. But this is the first occasion that Nessie has received plausible identification as a bear: perhaps a relict population of bears survived in the vicinity of Loch Ness for many years, giving rise to the legend which surrounds it.

 

Could this be the oldest picture of Nessie? (recovered using RZS©).

Angus McFadden, a veteran monster watcher, believes that Loch Ness still holds many secrets. As he recently declared, “If you don’t see what you don’t see, and you don’t know what you don’t know, how can you know what you don’t see?”

We are extremely grateful to Professor Otto Haas (Osnabrück), Dr Ida Winchester (Delaware) and their team for sharing their research with us. A full account of the discovery will be published in the Journal of Applied Cryptozoology, but for regular updates subscribe to our Twitter feed, @blmedieval.

 

An artist's reconstruction of the Loch Ness Monster, restoring what are believed to be the original colours, based on detailed study of the pigments used in comparable western European drawings (Sarah J Biggs, 2013).

  Detail of the opening words of Beowulf, beginning 'Hwæt' ('Listen!), from Beowulf, England, 4th quarter of the 10th century, Cotton MS Vitellius A XV, f. 132r.

 

We recently announced – to great fanfare and excitement – the digitisation of the Beowulf manuscript; the famous Cotton MS Vitellius A XV can be viewed online in its entirety here. 

Although the manuscript has gone by a number of names over the course of its long history, it is most frequently referred to as the Beowulf manuscript in reference to the renowned poem, beloved of Anglo-Saxonists and English students alike.  But Cotton MS Vitellius A XV is in fact a composite codex, made up of a number of different parts, many in Old English.  Paleographical and codicological evidence suggests that these seemingly disparate bits were intended as part of a coherent whole, with a single scribe writing the bulk of the material.  Besides Beowulf, the manuscript includes some texts from St Augustine, The Homily on St Christopher (now incomplete), the Letter of Alexander to Aristotle, the poem Judith, and a number of others as well as the subject of today’s post, The Marvels of the East.

 

Detail of a miniature of gold-digging ants in the land of Gorgoneus, from the Marvels of the East, England, 4th quarter of the 10th century, Cotton MS Vitellius A XV, f. 101r

 

The Marvels of the East (sometimes called The Wonders of the East) is a unique and fascinating text which first appeared in the 4th or 5th century.  It is a composite work of long and complicated pedigree, although scholars have been able to track down a number of its sources.  These include the works of Isidore of Seville, St Augustine, Virgil and Pliny, and other texts of ultimately classical origin.

 

Detail of miniatures of two-headed snakes and deadly horned donkeys, from the Marvels of the East, England, 4th quarter of the 10th century, Cotton MS Vitellius A XV, f. 99v

 

Copies of the Marvels were apparently produced throughout Europe, but only three survive, all of Anglo-Saxon origin.  The British Library’s version from the Beowulf manuscript is the oldest, dating from c. 1000; the other two are British Library Cotton MS Tiberius B V (first half of the 11th century) and Bodleian Library, Oxford, MS Bodley 614, c. 1120-1140.   All three copies of the Marvels were bound in miscellanies, and all three contain painted or drawn miniatures.  Secular subjects such as these were very rarely illustrated in Anglo-Saxon texts, so the existence of three such copies of the Marvels is no doubt significant.

 

Miniatures of sheep and rams in the land of Antimolima, from the Marvels of the East, England, 4th quarter of the 10th century, Cotton MS Vitellius A XV, f. 98v

 

The text of the Marvels begins without preface or explanation, with a description of an area near Babylon, called Antimolima; we are told of this place that ‘there are rams born there as big as oxen.’*  This opening section is typical of the Marvels.  There is no consistent geographical setting to the wonders described therein; the text jumps from marvels in Africa to those in Asia and back again, suggesting that the author’s interest is the strangeness of these creatures themselves, rather than their surroundings.  A series of disconnected descriptions takes the place of any narrative in the Marvels.  They are short and basic, generally consisting of four pieces of information: the name of the marvel or monstrous race, where it can be found, what it looks like, and finally, what it eats. 

 

Detail of a miniature of the long-eared panotii, from the Marvels of the East, England, 4th quarter of the 10th century, Cotton MS Vitellius A XV, f. 104r

Belief in the existence of monstrous races of human beings was central to medieval thinking, although almost everything about them was open to debate and discussion.  The only characteristic universally agreed upon was that they were always to be found far away, beyond the borders of the world as it was then known.  Almost as common were references to the physical deformities of the monstrous races: there were gigantic races and tiny races, those with extremities misshapen, missing, enlarged, or multiplied, and every variety of human/animal hybrid.  The Marvels provides us with a number of these creatures, many of which are unnamed.  One such is the race that would later be called the panotii (see above), best known for having large ‘ears like fans’, which they were said to wrap themselves in at night to keep warm. The panotii were so timid that they would flee immediately upon seeing a stranger, ‘so swiftly one might think that they flew.’

 

Detail of a miniature of a blemmya, from the Marvels of the East, England, 4th quarter of the 10th century, Cotton MS Vitellius A XV, f. 102v

The blemmyae are another monstrous race left unnamed by the author of the Marvels of the East (see above).  We are told that ‘on another island, south of the Brixontes…are born men without heads who have their eyes and mouth in their chests.  They are eight feet tall and eight feet wide.’ This short description does little to hint at the later fame of blemmyae; these creatures were extremely popular subjects for later medieval artists.

Physical deformity in monstrous races was of course their most obvious characteristic, and arguably the most visually striking as well.  But other deviations from the European norms of language, dress, social structure, and dietary habits could be just as powerful.  One final example from the Marvels might be useful here.

 

Detail of a miniature of a donestre consuming his victim, from the Marvels of the East, England, 4th quarter of the 10th century, Cotton MS Vitellius A XV, f. 103v

 

This race of people is called the donestre, ‘who have grown like soothsayers from the head to the navel, and the other part is human.’ Donestre, we are told, are capable of speaking every human language, and use this knowledge to ‘beguile’ any strangers that approach them.  Having disarmed the travellers, the donestre then attack and eat their bodies below the neck (see above), ‘and then sit and weep over the head.’

Be sure to check out the rest of the manuscript for further marvels, and remember that the Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts is an excellent resource for keyword searching (and now Creative Commons images) - I would particularly recommend having a look for blemmyae there.  As always, please follow us on Twitter @blmedieval.

 

* Translations of The Marvels of the East are taken from the appendix in Andy Orchard’s excellent Pride and Prodigies: Studies in the Monsters of the Beowulf-Manuscript (Toronto: University of Toronto Press, 1995), pp. 184-203.

- Sarah J Biggs

Just a reminder that images from our Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts are now available under a Public Domain mark. This means that they are available for download and reuse, on condition that certain basic principles are observed: (1) please respect the creators; (2) please credit the source of the material; (3) please share knowledge where possible; (4) please consider the efforts of the British Library in preserving and making such works available, should they be used for commercial or other for-profit purposes.

Initial word-panel Shir (song) inhabited by a unicorn and bear, in the "Duke of Sussex's German Pentateuch" (Germany, 14th century): London, British Library, MS Additional 15282, f. 296v.

That's the legal bit out of the way. You can search our Catalogue of Illuminated Manuscripts by keyword, search for a particular manuscript, explore our virtual exhibitions (such as the Royal collection of manuscripts, French illuminated manuscripts and the medieval bestiary), and search our glossaries of terms used when describing illuminated manuscripts and Hebrew manuscripts. Just think -- a simple search for "unicorn" produces no fewer than 34 results, including manuscripts made in England, France, Germany, Italy, the Netherlands, Scotland, Spain and Switzerland. Maybe in time you'll even be able to download images of our infamous unicorn cookbook.

Miniature of a unicorn, in Philes, De natura animalium (France, 16th century): London, British Library, MS Burney 97, f. 18r.

Let us know how you're using our images, either by sending a comment (via the link at the foot of this post) or tweeting us @blmedieval. A selection of uses will be publicized in a future blog-post.

Detail of a miniature of Dante conversing with Virgil (right) and Dante being attacked by a wolf representing Greed (left); from Dante Alighieri, Divina Commedia, Italy (Siena?), 1444-c. 1450, Yates Thompson MS 36, f. 2r

We have already taken a brief look at wolves as gluttonous threats to flocks and the enemies of sheepdogs.  But if wolves represent greed and savagery, they can also be savagery tamed.  When the retainers of the slain King Edmund searched the forest for his severed head, the king's sanctity (and natural dominion over man and beast) was demonstrated when a wild wolf did not desecrate the head, but protected it.

Detail of a miniature of the discovery of the head of St Edmund, guarded by a wolf; the head has called out to the searchers, crying 'Heer, heer, heer!'; from John Lydgate, Life of St Edmund and St Fremund, England (Bury St Edmunds?), 1461-c. 1475, Yates Thompson MS 47, f. 54r

This is not to discount the threat of the wolf, however.  In one of the more bizarre bestiary stories, the reader is warned of the dangers of encountering wolves in the wild.  If you see the wolf before he sees you, you are safe.  But if the wolf catches sight of you unawares, you will be, not attacked, but instead rendered mute.  There is only one cure for this condition.  You must quickly take off all your clothes, throw them on the ground and trample them.  Then you must pick up two stones and bang them together to make a loud noise – only then will your power of speech be restored!  A valuable tip for public speakers struck dumb by stage fright.

Detail of a miniature of wolves and (below) the man they have struck dumb, effecting his cure by stripping out of his clothes and striking rocks together; from the Rochester Bestiary, England (Rochester?), c. 1230, Royal MS 12 F. xiii, f. 29r

Stripping off clothes seems to be a recurring theme in stories about wolves, and even more in tales about werewolves. There, clothes symbolize civilization, cast aside to take on the appearance as well as the habits of the wolf.  Pliny's Natural History tells of a people who leave their clothes hanging in a tree and transform into wolves.  If, after nine years, they have abstained from eating human flesh, they can return, retrieve their clothes, and become human again.

Miniature of Pliny writing in his study, overlooking a vista that comprises the whole of creation, including land, sea and heavens, as well as animals and human habitation; from Pliny the Elder, Historia Naturalis, Italy (Rome), c. 1457-1458, Harley MS 2677, f. 1r

Marie de France tells a similar tale about Bisclavret, a knight with the power to change into a wolf by taking off his clothes.  But his unfaithful wife learned the secret and stole his clothes, trapping him in werewolf form.  While hunting, the king encountered his transformed retainer, who lay down before him and made a show of submission, convincing the king to adopt the loyal animal as a pet.  But when the knight's treacherous lady came to court one day, the usually placid wolf attacked her, biting off her nose.  Only then did the king realized the wolf's identity and give him back his clothes, changing him once more into a human being.

The first page of Bisclavret, beginning 'Quant de lais faire mentremet...', and headed by the added title 'bisclaueret'; from Marie de France, Lais, England, 3rd quarter of the 13th century, Harley MS 978, f. 131v

Nor is Bisclavret the only werewolf to show signs of humanity.  An Irish story tells about a priest who became lost on the road and encountered a werewolf.  The wolf spoke to him, asking him to perform last rites for his dying wife (also a werewolf).  The priest complied, and the grateful werewolf then directed him on his way.  Was the priest right, the story wonders, to assume that the soul of a good Christian might reside in the cursed and savage form of a wolf?

 

The next time you see a wolf, therefore, remember the lessons of the werewolf.  There is only a thin separation between man and beast.  And always remember where you left your trousers!

Detail of a miniature of two werewolves: the cursed husband on the left, and the priest administering last rites to the dying wife on the right; from Gerald of Wales, Topographica Hibernica, England (perhaps Lincoln), c. 1196-1223, Royal MS 13 B. viii, f. 18r

Nicole Eddy