11 December 2024
The arrest of Eleanor Rykener
Exactly 630 years ago today, a woman called Eleanor Rykener found herself in trouble. On the night of 11 December 1394, on Soper’s Lane off Cheapside, she had agreed to go into a stall with a client named John Britby, having first demanded an unspecified amount of money for her services. Medieval London’s anti-prostitution laws made this a hazardous venture, but Eleanor was an experienced sex worker, and must have concluded that Britby’s money was worth the risk. Unfortunately, they were discovered by city officials while engaging in ‘that detestable, unmentionable, and ignominious vice’, and were hauled up before the Mayor of London for questioning. It was during the questioning that Eleanor, still wearing the dress she had been arrested in, was revealed to have been born John Rykener. We might describe her, in modern terms, as a transgender woman. Eleanor’s remarkable story is preserved in a single document: the record of her questioning held in the London Archives, currently on display in our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words.
‘Calling [herself] Eleanor’; the account of Eleanor Rykener and her arrest; London, 1395: The London Archives, Plea and Memoranda Roll A34, Membrane 2.
The manuscript and its account are not immediately eye-catching—a dense block of unadorned, bureaucratic text written on a parchment roll, bookended by many other accounts—and, indeed, it went almost entirely unnoticed for several centuries. This is partially due to deliberate censorship: a 1932 summary of the Plea and Memoranda Rolls completely obscured Eleanor’s gender-nonconformity, describing the case as an ‘examination of two men charged with immorality’. The truth of the case was eventually uncovered by Ruth Mazo Karras and David Lorenzo Boyd in 1995. Since then, it has generated a huge amount of scholarship and popular interest, pivoting around fascinating and complex questions: what does it mean to describe a fourteenth-century individual as ‘trans’? Was Eleanor’s supposed ‘crime’ sodomy, sex work, gender nonconformity, or something else entirely? And—perhaps the most conspicuous gap in the record—what happened to her after this one recorded moment of her questioning?
It’s not possible to answer all those questions today, but we can focus on what we do know of Eleanor’s story, as recorded by a court clerk. Even though her narrative was doubtless filtered through the preconceptions and prejudices of the court that sought to judge her, it remains one of the most detailed accounts we have of a medieval sex worker in something close to her own words.
Eleanor’s early life—the period in which she was, presumably, still known as ‘John’—is completely obscure to us. Her story in the record begins at some unspecified point in time before her arrest with Britby, when a woman named Anna, also a sex worker, ‘taught’ Eleanor how to have sex ‘in the manner of a woman’. It is worth noting that, while the courtroom must have been dominated by men, Eleanor begins her account with a moment of intimacy, knowledge-sharing, and perhaps even friendship between herself and another woman. This theme of feminine community continues when Rykener describes herself being ‘dressed in women’s clothing’ and employed in sex work by a certain bawd called Elizabeth Brouderer (‘Embroiderer’).
Joan of Arc chases away a group of sex workers from her army camp, from Martial d’Auvergne’s Vigiles de Charles VII: Bibliothèque nationale de France, fr. 5054, f. 60v
Eleanor practiced more than just sex work with Elizabeth. It may well have been in her house that she picked up the embroidery skills she put to work while she was living in Oxford. Eleanor’s employment history—she worked for stints as an embroideress and barmaid alongside sex work—indicates that her feminine self-presentation was not confined to sexual role-playing. She positioned herself, and was apparently read, as a woman in almost all aspects of her daily life, including in the courtroom, where she insistently ‘call[ed herself] Eleanor’ and retained her feminine attire. This cannot have been easy. Existing as a woman—let alone a trans woman—in the world of medieval England was often a gruelling business. The fact that Eleanor chose to do so suggests that there were reasons, known only to her, because of which she felt more comfortable as a woman. A trans identification, or something like it, is one plausible explanation for the shape of Eleanor’s life.
The Assyrian king Sardanapalus dressed in women’s clothing spinning silk with a group of noble women, from a 15th-century copy of Valerius Maximus’ Facta et Dicta Memorabilia: Harley MS 4375/3, f. 179r
There are still more complexities to Eleanor’s story. While she had sex ‘as a woman’ with several named and unnamed male clients (she preferred taking on priests, she explains, because they tended to pay better), she also had sex ‘as a man’ with ‘many nuns’ and ‘many women both married and unmarried’: too many, apparently, for Eleanor to keep count. Several aspects of this part of the story are unclear. Were the women also clients, or did Eleanor have sex with them without financial motive? Did she genuinely desire these women—was she possibly, to use more modern terms, bisexual or queer?
We can never know the answer to these, and countless other, questions about Eleanor. As mentioned above, this is the only known surviving record of her life, and will remain so, barring another remarkable discovery in the archives. We don’t even know if she was found guilty of any crime or faced punishment. What we do have is a glimpse into the life of an exceptional, resourceful woman making her way in the medieval world, one of many on display in our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words.
The roll bearing the account of Eleanor’s case on display
To see Eleanor Rykener’s account in person, visit our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now.
This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
Rowan Wilson
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30 November 2024
Don't try this at home
Imagine you’re a medieval woman with a stomach-ache. Oh, and you’ve got jaundice. And gout. And you’re trying to have a baby. And you’ve recently been bitten by a rabid dog. And, to top things off, you’ve recently been thrown out of a moving vehicle. What’s a girl to do? Well, according to the Tractatus de herbis, a medieval herbal treatise, all these problems could be solved by differing preparations of the herb betony.
Betony (betonica): Egerton MS 747, f.14r
The treatise appears in a late 13th-century Italian manuscript (Egerton MS 747) currently on display in our Medieval Women exhibition. It's full of just such marvellous cures, many of them relating to gynaecological ailments and problems facing pregnant women and nursing mothers. For example, if you need to treat ‘suffocation of the womb’, a condition attributed to the womb’s wandering about the body and compressing the heart and lungs, you might turn to clove, ambergris or laudanum. To stimulate lactation, the herbal recommends asafoetida, aniseed, hemp, mint or chickpeas. Meanwhile, a staggering number of different herbs are prescribed for what the text vaguely calls ‘cleansing the womb’.
Laudanum: Egerton MS 747, f. 51r
Is there any evidence that these cures actually worked? We are used to imagining that medieval people were ignorant of the medical knowledge required to properly treat diseases. Certainly, some of the cures listed might have harmed more than they helped. ‘Monkshood’, recommended as a treatment for afflictions including intestinal worms and pains of the womb, is extremely toxic, as is ‘lords-and-ladies’, recommended for scrofula, haemorrhoids, and ‘cleansing’ and ‘refining’ the face. At least when the text lists white lead as a cosmetic for women, it also includes a warning that those who make it often suffer from epilepsy, paralysis and arthritis, suggesting that the author was aware of lead's toxicity, but the herbal seems to conclude that white lead’s potency in ‘wiping away impurities’ is worth the risk.
Monkshood (anthora): Egerton MS 747, f. 11r
However, with popular interest in sustainable alternative medicines on the rise, it's worth noting that at least some of the treatise’s cures are not quite as bogus as our preconceptions about medieval medicine might lead us to believe. Camphor, which the text suggests can induce sneezing, is still used as a decongestant in products like Vicks VapoRub. Many of the text’s recommended uses for aloe—such as strengthening digestion and promoting wound healing—have been affirmed in recent scientific research. And both the medieval herbal and modern researchers agree that garlic is good for more than just aioli. It also has anti-inflammatory, antioxidant and antifungal properties—though today’s scientists are less confident than their medieval counterparts in recommending garlic as a sure-fire treatment for venomous animal bites.
Garlic (allium): Egerton MS 747, f. 5r
Like many other pre-modern herbals, our manuscript uses covert language to identify plants that could be used to induce abortions. Arabian balsam tree, centaury, yellow gentian, madder and rue, for example, are all described as effective in ‘inducing menstruation’ and ‘bringing about the abortion of a dead foetus’. Some of these—like yellow gentian—are still warned against for pregnant people due to risk of unwanted abortion. Given the insistence of medieval canon law on the sanctity of life, herbal writers couldn’t afford to be explicit about identifying plants as a means of bringing about the end of a pregnancy by choice. Medieval women must have been capable of reading between the lines to seek out the help they needed.
Madder (rubea): Egerton MS 747, f. 84v
Mugwort (artemisia): Egerton MS 747, f. 7v
However baffling the advice of herbals may sometimes seem (did you know that if you anoint yourself with marigold juice at night, you will find yourself transported somewhere else in the morning?), it is clear that they still have a great deal to say to medics and patients today. Whether in providing healthy eating tips—celery is indeed as good for you as the treatise suggests—or informing us about the history of women’s medicine, they make for fascinating reading. Still, though, we have to warn you: the British Library cannot advise that you follow our herbal’s advice and include gold, bitumen, opium or cuttlefish bone in your morning herbal tea!
Cuttlefish bone (os sepie): Egerton MS 747, f. 71r
Medieval Women: In Their Own Words is on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now.
This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
Rowan Wilson
Follow us @BLMedieval
28 November 2024
The Eleanor Crosses
When you visit our exhibition, Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, the first item you’ll find on display isn’t a manuscript, a document or a printed book. It’s a statue. A crowned female figure in formal robes, weathered to a ruddy brown, her body damaged in places and missing a hand, but whose distinctive likeness remains. This statue and the woman she represents lay claim to one of the most poignant stories to survive from medieval England, a testament to the strength of affection of a husband to his wife, as well as an elaborate display of royal power. This is the story of Eleanor of Castile (b. 1241, d. 1290), Queen of England, and the Eleanor Crosses made in her memory.
The reproduction of a statue of Eleanor of Castile, on display in Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, made by Michael Whitley
Eleanor was the daughter of King Fernando III of Castile and Juana of Ponthieu. She came to England in 1255 at the age of only 14, following her marriage to Prince Edward, son of Henry III, who later became Edward I. They ruled the country together for some 18 years. During their reign, Eleanor became renowned for her skill as a landowner and administrator, her devotion to the Church, and her patronage of the arts, particularly the production and copying of books. Among the manuscripts associated with her is the Alphonso Psalter (Add MS 24686), a lavishly illuminated copy of the Book of Psalms, made to commemorate the betrothal of her son Alphonso to Margaret, daughter of Florent V, Count of Holland and Zeeland in 1284.
The Alphonso Psalter, made for Eleanor of Castile’s son: Add MS 24686, f. 11r
Towards the end of her life, Eleanor’s health began to decline, some have speculated because of an underlying heart condition or possibly a case of malaria. She eventually died on 28 November 1290, a record of which can be found in a set of accounts made by her personal treasurer, John of Berewyk (see our previous blogpost on the details of this fascinating account-book). At the time, Edward and Eleanor were engaged in a tour of her properties in the Midlands, their final stop the village of Harby in Nottinghamshire. Perhaps aware of her impending death, Eleanor had already made preparations for her final resting place. Notably, she was to receive a triple burial: her internal organs were to be buried at Lincoln Cathedral, her heart in Blackfriars Priory in London, and her body in Westminster Abbey.
The final page of Eleanor of Castile's household account book, including a note of her death: Add MS 35294, f. 15v
Such was the depth of Edward’s affection for Eleanor that after her death he commissioned a permanent memorial to his departed queen, a series of large stone crosses placed at 12 sites along the route her body was taken from Lincoln to Westminster. Constructed between 1291 and 1295 at a collective cost of at least £2000 (over £1.5 million in modern currency), each cross was at least 13 metres tall and featured a representation of her likeness. Now known as the ‘Eleanor Crosses’, these sculptures stood at Lincoln, Grantham and Stamford in Lincolnshire; Geddington and Hardingstone in Northamptonshire; Stony Stratford in Buckinghamshire; Woburn and Dunstable in Bedfordshire; St Albans and Waltham in Herfordshire; Cheapside in London; and Charing in Westminster.
The sites of the Eleanor Crosses, from Lincoln to Charing Cross (Source: Wikipedia; © OpenStreeMap)
The statue in our Medieval Women exhibition is a handmade reproduction of a sculpture owned by Hertfordshire County Council and now housed at the Victoria & Albert Museum. It was originally part of the Waltham Cross, crafted by Alexander of Abingdon, one of the leading sculptors in England around the turn of the 13th century. The statue was removed and replaced by a replica in the 1950s because of the weathering it had suffered over the centuries. This was the fate of many of the other Eleanor Crosses too, which either deteriorated through exposure to the natural elements, or instead were dismantled or destroyed. Aside from the Waltham Cross, only two others now survive in their original state (Geddington and Hardingstone). But even though the statues may not mark Eleanor's final journey as they once did in the 13th century, the story behind the crosses, Edward's love for Eleanor, and the strength of the queen's image in the popular imagination has persisted.
A drawing of the Waltham Cross as it looked in the 18th century: Add MS 36367, f. 49r
To see the statue of Eleanor of Castile in person, visit our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now.
This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
Calum Cockburn
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24 November 2024
Medieval Women at the British Library shop
There are many reasons to visit our major exhibition, Medieval Women: In Their Own Words. There are the hundreds of fascinating women whose stories you'll encounter, from Eleanor of Castile and Hildegard of Bingen, to Margaret Paston and Birgitta of Sweden. There's the collection of unique items you’ll find on display, including The Book of Margery Kempe, the Melisende Psalter, an original medieval birthing girdle and a signed letter by Joan of Arc. There’s the opportunity to play interactive quizzes to check if you’re a witch or if you’d be entitled to a divorce. You can even smell what medieval fragrances might have been like, with our recreation of an original cosmetics recipe from the 14th century.
But, all those aside, one of the main reasons to see our exhibition is the absolutely incredible line-up of medieval women-themed gift available from the British Library Shop, including one of our favourite items we’ve ever made (we’ll leave you to guess which one that is…)
Here are just a few of our top picks from the range, also available to purchase online.
Medieval Women: Voices and Visions, ed. by Eleanor Jackson and Julian Harrison
A beautifully illustrated, large format volume, accompanying the exhibition, which seeks to recover women's voices, visions and experiences in Britain and Europe from around 1100 to 1500. It includes a selection of detailed expert essays and some 40 spotlight studies, revealing the rich and complex world of the women of the Middle Ages, full of colourful characters and intriguing stories from personalities both famous and lesser known, including Christine de Pizan, Joan of Arc and Julian of Norwich.
Medieval jewellery
A range of gorgeous pieces, including this stunning necklace, created by Tatty Devine and inspired by the artistry of original brass rubbings and manuscript depictions of medieval women.
Medieval Women 2025 Calendar
Our calendar showcases twelve full-colour illustrations of women from the Middle Ages, drawn from the British Library’s extensive collections. You’ll see women from all walks of life, from queens, teachers and saints, to nuns and writers, each accompanied by a brief biography.
Christine de Pizan’s cushion cover
A wonderful addition to any living room sofa: a cushion cover with the famous portrait of the French author Christine de Pizan, taken from the ‘Book of the Queen’. It shows her sitting writing at her desk in her study, with her ever-faithful dog at her side.
Medieval Women Christmas jumper
Perfect for the festive season, our Christmas jumper brings iconic women from history to life with a brass-rubbing inspired design. It features figures such as Joan of Arc, Christine de Pizan, Hildegard of Bingen, Eleanor of Acquitaine and Julian of Norwich, each adorned with subtle details hinting at their legacy.
To see all these items and more, visit our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now.
This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
Follow us @BLMedieval
21 November 2024
Nunning amok
Many of the manuscripts on display in our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words portray medieval nuns as holy creatures, devoting themselves to prayer, contemplation and good works. Ancrene Wisse, a 13th-century guide for female anchoresses sets out rigorous expectations for those women who chose lives of permanent enclosure and isolation in cells attached to churches. Notably, anchoresses must ‘never [be] idle’, ‘think about God all the time’, commit to a vegetarian diet, and ‘be as little fond of your windows as possible’, avoiding distraction from the outside world. The fact that the author of Ancrene Wisse felt obliged to write out these strict guidelines suggests that religious women did not always act in ways befitting their holy houses. It raises the question: where are the badly behaved nuns in the Middle Ages?
Anchoresses are warned not to keep any animal ‘bute cat ane’ (except one cat): Cotton MS Cleopatra C VI, f. 193r
We find plenty of them in the art and literature of the period. Then, as now, the ‘naughty nun’ seems to have been a popular trope. In William Langland’s Piers Plowman, ‘Wrath’ speaks about the behaviour of the nuns at his aunt’s abbey:
And dame Pernele a preestes fyle,
Prioresse worth she nevere,
For she hadde child in chirie-tyme,
Al our chapitre it wiste.
Dame Parnel, a priest’s mistress
she'll never be a prioress
For she had a child in cherry-time:
all our chapter knows it!
In the 15th-century satirical poem ‘Why I Can’t Be a Nun’ (Cotton Vespasian MS D IX), a would-be bride of Christ is aghast to discover that many convents are ‘not well governed’, but are instead populated by figures like ‘Dame Disobedient’, ‘Dame Hypocrite’, ‘Dame Lust’ and ‘Dame Wanton’. And who can forget the infamous image of a penis-harvesting nun from a 14th-century copy of the Roman de la Rose, illuminated by the Parisian artist Jeanne de Montbaston (active c. 1325–1353)?
A penis-harvesting nun from a 14th-century copy of the Roman de la Rose: Bibliotheque nationale de France, ms fr. 25526, f.106v
While these examples owe more to lewd fantasy than to historical reality, other evidence suggests that their portraits of convents in chaos contain a grain of truth. Medieval bishops regularly surveyed monasteries and nunneries in their dioceses, and many kept detailed records of their visitations. Eudes Rigaud, archbishop of Rouen, visited several convents between 1249 and 1265, and was not pleased with what he found. He wrote up nuns for faults ranging from ‘singing the hours with too much haste’, wearing costly pelisses of ‘the furs of rabbits, hares and foxes’, to drunkenness and sex with priests and chaplains.
A dancing nun in the margin of the Maastricht Hours: Stowe MS 17, f. 38r
English visitation records give examples of whole convents in disarray. At Cannington in 1351, in addition to poor leadership from a cash-hungry prioress and a lazy, Matins-shirking sub-prioress, a nun called Joan Trimelet was found pregnant—‘but not indeed by the Holy Ghost’, as the bishop’s commissioners wryly remarked. Joan Trimelet’s pregnancy was not unique. The convent of Amesbury was dissolved in 1189, following reports that the abbess had given birth three times, and that many of the sisters were living in ‘infamy’.
The misbehaviour of individual nuns could put a strain on their entire community. Bishop Alnwick’s 1442 report of Catesby Priory gives an insight into the disorder that could arise in a poorly governed convent. Through Alnwick’s documentation of the nuns’ voices, we find hints of a quarrel between the prioress Margaret Wavere and sister Isabel Benet, who accused each other of sexual misconduct with local knights. While other nuns commented on Benet and Wavere’s impropriety—one accuses Benet of having ‘passed the night with the Austin Friars at Northampton... dancing and playing the lute with them... until midnight’—they seem more upset by the prioress’s poor management of convent finances, and her tendency to ‘sow discord among the sisters’. Under such conditions, it is understandable that some nuns could not keep to the high standards of behaviour set out in their monastic rules. Most medieval convents were small and poor in comparison to equivalent men’s houses. It is no wonder that underfed, underfunded nuns living together in close quarters didn’t always abide in holy harmony.
A flirtatious nun with a male companion from the margins of the Maastricht Hours: Stowe MS 17, f.226r
Is it a surprise that some nuns wanted to call it quits entirely? Medieval ecclesiastical records give several examples of nuns on the run, attempting to leave their orders for reasons ranging from trying to reclaim an inheritance, running away with a lover, to simply having had enough of convent life. Sometimes convents would see flights of multiple nuns at once: in 1300, Isabella Clouvil, Matilda de Thychemers and Ermentrude de Newark all fled Delapré Abbey in Northampton, much to their bishop’s disappointment.
Church authorities often exerted considerable force to haul such nuns back to their houses. In the 14th century, Agnes de Flixthorpe, a nun of St Michael’s in Stamford, ran away from her Order at least three times, once dressed in a man’s gilt embroidered robe. She claimed that she had never been legitimately professed as a nun and was legally married to a man she refused to name. Bishop Dalderby of Lincoln responded by branding Agnes an apostate, sending secular authorities to imprison her, and eventually excommunicating her. The last reference to her case is in 1314, when Agnes was still at liberty, and we don’t know whether Dalderby’s forces managed to catch her again.
The greatest escape artist of all was surely Joan of Leeds, a nun of St Clement’s by York. In 1318, Joan slipped the convent’s net by ‘simulating a bodily illness’ and then faking her own death. She made a dummy ‘in likeness of her body’, which was buried in ‘sacred space’, leaving Joan free to ‘wander at large to the notorious peril to her soul and to the scandal of all her order’, as Archbishop Melton of York put it. Exactly what motivated her to leave is unclear. In 2020, researchers at the University of York discovered another 1318 letter from Melton, in which he reports that Joan had come to another priest, ‘Brother John’, ‘with great sorrow in her heart’. She apparently described how ‘as a girl and being under the age of personal discretion she was forced to enter the Order... by her father and mother... she both never consented to this and continually protested and also never uttered any vow of profession’.
A specific mention of ‘Johana de Ledes’ in Melton’s Register. Archbishop of York’s register, 9A f. 326v, entry 2
Joan’s story is not just one of ingenuity and bravery, but also reflects a harsh reality of medieval monastic life. Many nuns were professed at a young age, compelled to the religious life not by a legitimate calling, but by their parents’ desire to keep them out of trouble, be rid of an inconvenient second or third daughter, or even deprive them of an inheritance. Convent life was a rich tapestry, in which nuns of various levels of commitment lived and worked together: as the author of ‘Why I Can’t Be a Nun’ writes, ‘some are devout, holy and obliging’, while ‘some are feeble, lewd and forward’.
The procession of nuns to the mass: Yates Thompson MS 11, f. 6v
For more stories of complicated, daring medieval women, visit our exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, which runs until 2 March 2025. Tickets are available to order now.
This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
Rowan Wilson
Follow us @BLMedieval
09 November 2024
Joan of Arc at the British Library
There are many incredible items on display in the British Library's Medieval Women: In Their Own Words exhibition. One of the most special is undeniably a letter bearing the oldest known signature of Jeanne la Pucelle, known to English-speaking readers as Joan of Arc. Written on 9 November 1429, this letter has never previously left Riom, the town to which it was sent by Joan almost 600 years ago. We are immensely grateful to the Archives municipales de la Ville de Riom (Puy-de-Dôme) for entrusting us with their precious document, and to Jean-François Moufflet (Archives nationales, Paris) for helping to facilitate this loan.
Letter from Joan of Arc to the citizens of Riom, featuring the earliest surviving example of her signature (Moulin, 9 November 1429): Archives municipale de la Ville de Riom, AA33
Joan was born into a prosperous peasant family in the village of Domrémy during the Hundred Years' War between England and France. Urged by heavenly voices, she ran away from home to join the cause of the Dauphin Charles, son of the French king, to drive the English from France. Riding into battle with the French army at the siege of Orléans in May 1429, Joan inspired a spectacular victory, paving the way for Charles to be crowned King of France on 17 July. But Joan then experienced a downturn in fortunes. Leading an assault on Paris on 8 September, Joan was wounded and the French suffered over 1,500 casualties. Charles ordered a retreat, and Joan became increasingly isolated at the French court, without allies to support her.
When Joan sent her letter to the citizens of Riom in November 1429, she had been sent to recover an area of the eastern Loire from the clutches of the mercenary Perrinet Gressart, who was working for the Burgundian and English forces. On 4 November, a force under her command captured the town of Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier, prompting Joan to turn her attentions towards the town of La Charité-sur-Loire, also held by Gressart. In this letter, she requested gunpowder and other military supplies that would aid the assault.
The text of the letter reads as follows:
Chers et bon amis vous sauez bien comment la ville de Saint-Pierre le Moustier a esté prinse d’assault; et, à l’aide de Dieu, ay entencion de faire vuider les autres places qui sont contraires au roy. Mais pour ce que grant despense de pouldres, trait et autres habillemens de guerre a esté faicte devant ladicte ville, et que petitement les seigneurs qui sont en ceste ville et moy en sommes pourveuz pour aler mectres le siége devant la Charité, où nous alons prestement. Je vous prie sur tant que vous aymez le bien et honneur du roy et aussi de tous les autres de par deça, que vueillez incontinant envoyer at aider pour ledit siége, de pouldres, salepestre, souffre, trait, arbelestres fortes et d’autres habillemens de guerre. Et en ce faictres tant que, par faulte desdictes pouldres et autres habillemens de guerre, la chose ne soit longue, et que on ne vous puisse dire en ce estre négligens ou refusans. Chiers et bons amis, Nostre Sire soit garde de vous. Escript à Molins, le nèufviesme jour de Novembre.
Jehanne
A mes chers et bons amis, les gens d’église, bourgeois et habitants de la ville de Rion.
'Dear and good friends, you know well how the town of Saint-Pierre-le-Moutier has been taken by an assault; and, with God’s help, it is my intention to empty the other places that are against the king. But because a large amount of gunpowder, projectiles and other materials of war were expended before the said town, and because I and the lords present in the town are poorly equipped to besiege La Charité, where we will be going soon, I ask you, in the name of the love you have for the honour and well-being of the king, as well as all the others who are here, to send us gunpowder, saltpetre [a type of early explosive], sulphur, arrows, arbalests [a type of crossbow] and other military supplies without delay to help with the siege. And do this well enough so that the siege does not drag on because of a lack of powder and other materials, and no one can accuse you of being negligent or unwilling. Dear and good friends, may Our Lord protect you! Written at Moulins, the 9th day of November.
Jehanne
To my dear and good friends the people of the church, the bourgeois and the citizens of the town of Riom.'
This is one of only a handful of surviving letters of Joan of Arc, and one of just three — the first, no less — to bear her signature. Joan dictated her letter to a scribe, but signed her own name at the end. You can almost see the pen held tightly in her hand, as she carefully inscribed the letters 'Jehanne'. Despite being illiterate, Joan of Arc (aged just seventeen) undoubtedly knew the value of the written word. We do not know whether Joan succeeded in persuading the citizens of Riom to come to her aid, and the assault on La Charité-sur-Loire certainly failed. But what we can witness in Joan's signature is an emotive physical link to one of the most inspiring figures in medieval European history.
In the British Library exhibition, the letter to Riom is displayed alongside copies of the proceedings of Joan's trial, which resulted in her burning at Rouen on 30 May 1431, followed by her rehabilitation trial in the 1450s, at which the charges laid against Joan were nullified. We are thrilled to be able to show this letter to the visitors to our exhibition, thanks to the generosity of the Archives de Riom.
The exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
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07 November 2024
Requesting a raise: the petition of Joan Astley
At a time when women’s work was often undervalued, one woman petitioned for a raise in her salary. Her name was Joan Astley and she was nurse to Henry VI (r. 1422-1461, 1470-1471), who became King of England at only eight months old. She made her petition to the king and his council on 14 January 1424, when Henry had just turned two, asking for her annual salary to be doubled from £20 to £40, equivalent to around £35,000 in modern currency. The petition, written in Middle French, now survives on a single leaf in the British Library’s collections (Stowe Ch 643), and is currently on display in our exhibition, Medieval Women: In Their Own Words.
The petition of Joan Astley to Henry VI, asking for a pay increase; 14 January 1424: Stowe Ch 643
Joan came from a well-connected family. Her father, Sir Thomas Gresley (d. 1455) was a Lancastrian nobleman and landowner in Derbyshire who had fought in recent military campaigns in France. Meanwhile, her husband, Sir Thomas Astley (d. by 1432) was a relative of Richard Beauchamp (d. 1439), Earl of Warwick, a figure at the very heart of the English government. Upon her appointment in 1422, Joan entered a household that was principally based at Windsor and almost wholly composed of women. It included two additional nurses, Elizabeth Ryman and Matilda Fosbroke, a chamberwoman by the name of Agnes Jakeman, a laundress named Margaret Brotherman and at least two other female attendants.
As the king’s nurse, Joan had an essential role to play. The high infant mortality rate during the period meant that, even with the wealth and privilege that befitted his status, the king needed to receive the best care if he was to survive to adulthood. Joan would have been expected not only to breastfeed the young Henry, but also take responsibility for his general health and well-being, his daily life, and his education in his formative years.
A mother chooses a potential wet nurse, from Aldobrandino of Siena’s Regime du Corps: Sloane MS 2435, f. 28v
Joan’s role was even more significant considering the sudden death of Henry VI’s father, Henry V (r. 1413-1422), in 1422. Henry VI was the sole surviving heir from his father’s marriage to the French princess Catherine of Valois (d. 1437). When the infant king ascended to the throne, England had to be ruled by a regency council until he came of age. If Joan had failed in her care and Henry had not survived into adolescence, the whole country could have been plunged into a major succession crisis.
The birth of Henry VI, showing Catherine of Valois with her nurses and attendants, from the ‘Pageants of Richard Beauchamp’: Cotton MS Julius E IV/3, f. 22v
When Joan submitted her petition to the king and his council in January 1424, the two-year-old king was too young to answer her request. Yet the council evidently felt that Joan had done her job well because an inscription on the back of the document indicates that the increase in her salary was not only granted but given to her for life, a fact corroborated by the pipe rolls (a collection of financial records maintained by the English Exchequer). The same year, the composition of the royal household began to change. In April 1424, a governess called Alice Butler was appointed to teach Henry courtesy, manners and discipline. A few years later, at the age of seven, the young king had all but transitioned away from the community of women who had looked after him, spending most of his time under the care of the Earl of Warwick and with other boys from noble and royal families. He no longer had any need for a nurse and Joan’s time in the household ended altogether.
However, this was not the end of her story. After her husband died in the early 1430s, Joan remained in the king’s favour. Further grants and annuities were awarded to her in the following years, probably as a reward for her service. Most notably in 1446, she was one of three founders given a royal license to establish a fraternity and chantry for St Botolph’s without Aldersgate, a parish church in the Smithfield area of London. Joan lived nearby, one of a number of widows who rented properties within the lands owned by St Bartholomew’s Hospital during this period. A rental for the hospital, compiled in 1456 by Brother John Cok (and now known as SBHB/HC/2/1) lists her as the resident of a tenement above the Smithfield Gate and tenant of a small garden in the vicinity. She probably remained there until her death (sometime after 1463), when she was said to have been buried in St Botolph’s Church. Though Joan’s home no longer exists, in 1907 a plaque was installed to commemorate the site, serving as the foundation stone for a new building in the complex of the hospital.
A plaque marking the site of Joan Astley’s home in the grounds of St Bartholomew’s Hospital
You can see the petition of Joan Astley in person by visiting our major exhibition Medieval Women: In Their Own Words, which runs from 25 October 2024 until 2 March 2025, at St Pancras in London. Tickets are available to order now!
This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
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05 November 2024
Birgitta's marvellous marginalia
A monumental manuscript is on display in our Medieval Women exhibition. Harley MS 612 measures 54.5 x 38 cm, weighs over 15kg, and usually requires at least two British Library staff members to place it back onto its shelf. It is a compilation of Latin material by and about Birgitta of Sweden (d. 1373), copied in the mid-15th century for the Birgittine brothers of Syon Abbey. With its gorgeous, illuminated initials, wide margins, and elegant script full of decorative flourishes—courtesy of Thomas Colyngbourn, the manuscript’s scribe—one can easily imagine the awe of the Syon brothers on seeing it lying open on a lectern to be read aloud during the evening meal.
A monumental copy of the works of Birgitta of Sweden, made for the brothers of Syon Abbey: Harley MS 612, ff. 164v-165r
The text begins with a Latin translation of Birgitta’s Revelations, her visions and teachings originally written down in Swedish, but Birgitta’s voice peters out over the course of the manuscript. Considerable space is devoted to defences of Birgitta by male ecclesiastical authorities, posthumous accounts of her miracles, and even lives of other saints. As you move through the volume, it becomes more of a ‘Birgittine book’ than it is ‘Birgitta’s book’: less a document of the Swedish saint’s mysticism, and more of a grand testament to the cementing of her cult in England—and to the wealth of the community whose order bore her name.
So, amid all this institutional grandeur, what’s this doodle doing in the margins?
A marginal figure marking an addition to the text: Harley MS 612, f. 118r
Or what about this cheeky little face that peers out from the letter ‘h’ in the Latin word ‘humiliter’?
Peekaboo: Harley MS 612, f. 138r
The manuscript is full of these surprises. Marginal images are dotted throughout—some glossing the text, some marking additions, and some of them seemingly just for fun. Where they came from is something of a mystery. The volume’s exemplar (the model from which it was copied) has not been identified, so we can’t tell whether the scribe was copying them out from a manuscript sitting open in front of him, or making them up as he went along. Some patterns of marginal images seem to suggest the scribe was working with a planned programme in mind, such as the concentration of images on ff. 78v-82v, all illustrating bits of text next to which they appear. They include a trussed-up corpse head with a banderole warning about the spiritual death of worldly souls:
‘For just as they died a bodily death’ (Sicut enim illi morte corporali moriebantur): Harley MS 612, f. 78v
… and this yapping creature, a fox in a shell, seemingly representing the ‘serpent-born’, devil-suckled beast described in the text as seeking to supplant its superiors:
‘Tending towards treasons’ (proditiones tendere): Harley MS 612, f. 80v
But other marginal images seem less integral to the manuscript’s design. Instead, they are like little Easter eggs, visual treats tucked into the pages to delight any reader willing to look closely enough. This tiny critter, buried in the gutter, playfully glosses the Virgin Mary’s words to Birgitta about bad bishops being as flashy and insubstantial as butterflies:
A butterfly buried in the gutter: Harley MS 612, f. 32v
On another page, what at first looks like a simple doodle to prop up an overflowing line reveals itself as a clever illustration of the accompanying text, in which Mary tells Birgitta that Christ is like a poor peasant carrying around brushwood:
A wooden support illustrating an overflowing line of text: Harley MS 612, f. 50r
My own favourite marginal images play with the manuscript’s physical dimensions, creating trompe-l’œil effects that turn the two-dimensional page into a playground of light, shadow, and depth. You feel as though you could almost step into this tiny door, which represents Christ’s promise to protect all those who enter the Bridgettine order from their enemies:
Knock, and it shall be opened unto you (Qui in eam intraverunt): Harley MS 612, f. 164v
Then there’s this addition suspended on a ‘rope’, which, when you turn the page, appears to be driven through the folio and attached on the other side. The scribe was clearly enjoying himself here.
A real page-turner: Harley MS 612, ff. 232r-v
Since this manuscript is on display in our Medieval Women exhibition, however, I would be remiss if I didn’t end this tour of the manuscript’s marginalia with what appears to be its only image of Birgitta herself, a small portrait peeking out between two columns of text.
After all, even though this image appears alongside a male bishop’s words, defending and ‘authorising’ Birgitta’s sanctity, it’s the rich, strange, dizzying images of the divine in Birgitta’s own Revelations that must have inspired the scribe to create his gallery of wonders in the margins. However demure she looks in this portrait, Birgitta was a woman of remarkable force and intellect—just one of many whose stories are represented in our Medieval Women exhibition.
Holy Birgitta, pray for us: Harley MS 612, f. 207v
Medieval Women: In Their Own Words is on show at the British Library from 25 October 2024 to 2 March 2025. You can purchase your tickets online now.
This exhibition is made possible with support from Joanna and Graham Barker, Unwin Charitable Trust, and Cockayne – Grants for the Arts: a donor advised fund held at the London Community Foundation.
Rowan Wilson
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