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A long time ago, I began a project on women’s letters in the collection formerly known as Ancient Correspondence (Kew, The National Archives, SC 1). In the course of events, this project took a number of turns, catapulted around the dark side of the moon, and eventually became a project on letters that didn’t discuss women’s letters at all, except in passing.

Now I’m back. I’m revisiting the data I collected about female representation in the correspondence of Edward I. For a thirteenth-century archive, there are lots! At the moment I’m considering the connections among the women represented in the collection, and between them and the (largely) men they corresponded with. It’s part prosopography, and part epistolary-cultural history. I want to know what conditions enabled women to send these letters, and I suspect that this was partly to do with who they were in combination with who they knew. What I really want is some whiz bang software that can help me visualize this network while also encoding relationships between them – like the interface they’ve got at the Six Degrees of Francis Bacon project which I often drool over.[1] In the absence of said amazing software, I’ve begun to plot this out on my amazing personal double whiteboard (see previous posts!), and I have to say, the results surprise even me.

Even when it’s part of your hypothesis, it’s hard to imagine how closely inter-connected the upper echelons of British society were in the thirteenth century. I’m not even talking about royalty here, which, as anyone with the slightest acquaintance with medieval history is probably aware, was as interrelated as the proverbial. I’ve begun my investigations down among the people whose names are not immediately recognizable. I asked myself what was the lowest social rank represented among women whose letters ultimately came to be preserved by the royal government (which, I acknowledge, is by no means the same as all women who sent letters)? So far, Alice la Converse, a converted Jew living on royal charity in Worcester,[2] is the lowliest of the correspondents – but she’s an isolated case. So far, most of the less recognizable women in the sample[3] turn out to be married into the minor nobility, tenants in chief in their own right, relations of the chancellor at some remove, and, frequently, related to one another. Take for example, the descendants of William FitzAlan, 2nd Lord of Oswestry:

fitzalans2

Boxes represent generations of the FitzAlan family and their marital relations. Boxes include spousal details of the primary FitzAlan relation where relevant. Wavy red box outlines indicate women with letters preserved in SC1. Colour coding indicates the primary patronymic under which individuals in a given generation are known.

Although the details are probably too small to make out here, it’s probably enough to say that all the ‘wavy’ boxes with red outlines indicate women whose letters are represented in the SC1 collection. It strikes me as impressive that so many women in this fairly restricted kinship map wrote letters to the thirteenth century government of England which have survived. Are the FitzAlan women unique? Or was this level of female epistolary involvement standard? Can we know? Or is the evidence too incomplete? These women shared degrees of kinship with Edward I’s confidant and chancellor, Robert Burnell (rectangular red box): was this the ‘in’ that opened up high status epistolary opportunities to them? Or were other factors at play? This looks like data worth mining in more depth…

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1. Although, let’s be honest, I don’t actually think software that cool comes for free, and I am just a lowly level A academic, not a well-funded, multi-investigator research project… Yet, I can dream!
2. Two letters from Alice survive: Kew, TNA, SC 1/16/63, and SC 1/24/201. The former (to Edward I) is printed in Recueil De Lettres Anglo-Françaises, ed. by F. J. Tanquerey (Paris, 1916), no. 61; and translated in Letters of the Queens of England 1100–1547, ed. by Anne Crawford (Thrupp: Alan Sutton, 1994), pp. 246–47. The latter (to Robert Burnell) has not been printed.
3. There are 440 letters from women that can be dated to the reigns of Henry III and Edward I in this collection, 92% of which (406) date from Edward’s reign. For some more cool stats about this corpus, see my ‘From Letters to Loyalty: Aline la Despenser and the Meaning(s) of a Noblewoman’s Correspondence in Thirteenth-Century England’, in Authority, Gender and Emotion in Late Medieval and Early Modern England, ed. by Susan Broomhall (Basingstoke: Palgrave MacMillan, 2015), pp. 18–33.

Oh boy, I have been waiting a long time for this kind of software to be free and accessible to mere mortals, and finally, it is here! This is the preliminary result of me testing out a piece of shareware devoted to displaying frequency analyses as pretty cloud diagrams.[1] Basically all I’ve done here is paste a random, small assortment of Latin letter transcriptions from TNA, SC 1 (familiar to many readers here) into an online tool I recently discovered, called Wordle, and play with the display settings until I liked what I saw:

latin cloud

How cool is that?! In one visual sweep, you can start to pick out the most commonly recurring elements of vocabulary (granted, in declined form – but maybe that’s important and interesting in a different way from the stem lemma…).

My next project is to build some select files so that word clouds can be compared between, for instance, letters to the King, and those sent in his name; or letters from men, compared to letters from women… Such tantalizing possibilities! Bring on the summer!

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[1] Perhaps it’s the scientist in me, but I often find visual data so much clearer to deal with. Give me a nice graph and a regression line, and we know where we stand – including the awareness that those little lines/dots/asterisks are a product of fallible human intent and design, rather than any kind of all-knowing objectivity whether derived from or metaphorically similar to an ultimate deity. Got that? Good.

Recently on the MedFem Listserv, the valuable online forum of the Society for Medieval Feminist Scholarship, discussion was piqued by the question of whether we’re ‘done’ with the history of medieval queenship by now. I think most people ended by agreeing that the answer is ‘no’, even if some individual queens sometimes seem to be getting all the attention;[1] the usefulness of studying exceptional individuals for understanding the role of women generally in society at large may be small; and the value of looking at less well-known queens, not to mention non-royal women, certainly shouldn’t be denied. Theresa Earenfight has begun to address this through her recently established blog, Queens in the Middle Ages, which will be a great place to watch for more developments if you’re interested. Theresa recently posted:

royal women were highly visible to their contemporaries. Their lives were recounted in chronicles, the management of their estates and households recorded in fiscal documents, their letters collected in archives, and their religious and artistic patronage remembered in the books, buildings, and works of art they sponsored and treasured. Yet later scholars put kings at the center of the history of medieval Europe and ignored most queens, dismissed them as unimportant, forgot their actions, and obscured their lives…

This is certainly the case for a particular episode of English, French and indeed wider European history from the late thirteenth century. I’ve talked briefly about this before, and I’ll be waxing eloquent on the topic in Winchester in July, since my paper has just been accepted for the Kings & Queens conference, so I won’t go into loads of detail here. But suffice to say, the more I looked into the contextual background of three letters from Edward I to queens of France, the more horrified I became at the almost complete silence of historians on the involvement of these women in diplomatic efforts to avoid an Anglo-French war in the 1290s. They are almost completely invisible in the diplomatic historiography. Some works mention the presence of Marie of Brabant and Jeanne of Navarre at a meeting with Edward’s brother, Edmund of Lancaster, at which (depending on whose account you read) Edmund was duped into agreeing to a ‘secret’ peace pact with Philip IV, or did some duping of his own which resulted in Philip’s animosity. And that’s about it. No further comment or analysis. Not even a flicker of a pause in which to wonder why these queens were involved in negotiations, how they may have been involved in setting up or facilitating the occasion, or what their response to its failure might have been. No reflection on what the royal men considered to be the role of these women in diplomacy, or whether they sought it, or expected it, or resented it. No curiosity over how normal or extraordinary this kind of activity was. No mention of the subsequent correspondence from Edward to Marie, Jeanne, and Marguerite of Provence, even though two of these letters have been in print since Champollion-Figeac’s two-volume collection Lettres des Rois, Reines et Autres Personages des Cours de France et d’Angleterre depuis Louis VII jusqu’à Henri IV, Tirées des Archives de Londres appeared in 1839, and all three are noted in the Calendar of the Close Rolls, Edward I, Vol. III: 1288—1296, first printed in 1904.[2] What this means is that despite having had the resources to hand for at least one hundred and seventy-four years it simply hadn’t occurred to anyone to ask these questions, even though the presence and influence of the three queens was not invisible to their contemporaries. I’d say that shows we aren’t done yet.

On the upside, it means there are still plenty of opportunities to add to the story of thirteenth-century diplomacy. That, at least, makes me smile.


[1] Eleanor of Aquitaine, I’m looking at YOU!
[1] J. J. Champollion-Figeac, ed., Lettres des Rois, Reines et Autres Personages des Cours de France et d’Angleterre Depuis Louis VII Jusqu’à Henri IV, Tirées des Archives de Londres. 2 vols, Collection de Documents Inédits de l’Histoire de France (Paris: Imprimerie Royale, 1839-47); Calendar of the Close Rolls Preserved in the Public Record Office. 61 vols (London: HMSO, 1900-1963). Point of trivia – Jacques Joseph Champollion-Figeac was the elder brother of Jean-François Champollion, famous for translating the Rosetta Stone, one of the other iconic British Museum posters of my childhood previously discussed here. I guess I was always doomed to be an Egyptologist or a Medievalist…!

This is one of those wonderful moments in which something one reads for “breadth” turns out to be an essential spark for restarting the engine of the project one is supposed to be working on. But perhaps that’s not so surprising: the brain becomes attuned to thinking about certain things. It might not even strictly be thinking, because while new flashes of insight can come of it, it is really a kind of mental path of least resistance through which new information is processed by reference to old. The brain – or perhaps I should say ‘the mind’ – likes patterns. As shown in the famous, or infamous, pigeon experiment discussed by Richard Dawkins in The Enemies of Reason (above), it is attuned to seeking them in the exterior world; it is equally attuned to performing them in the interior mechanisms of thought. Thinking about, or returning to the familiar idea of codes and encoding as a mode of producing and understanding texts (whether we mean then or now) is one of my ‘mind habits’, as some readers may know.

So, speaking of patterns, I suppose no one ought to be surprised that this comment leapt out at me from Michael Camille’s discussion of Derrida’s engagement with the image of Socrates and Plato from Matthew Paris’ copy of The Prognostics (Oxford, Bodleian, MS Ashmole 304, f. 31v.), videlicet:

[a] message… is encoded and its decipherment is dependent upon the addresser and addressee sharing the same code.[1]

Read the rest of this entry »

The Call for Papers for Kings and Queens II sent me scurrying through my *large* database of potential letters for a neat little nugget I might be able to turn into a conference paper. As I have about 13,000 individual items from the SC 1 (Ancient Correspondence) series at TNA saved as photographs on my hard drive, I’m quite spoilt for choice! I’d initially considered the correspondence of Edward I with his first cousin-once removed, Philip IV of France, as a potential case study. This seemed like an appropriate and interesting proposal since their relationship started off rosily, but took a particularly nasty turn around 1294 when Philip decided to annexe Edward’s Gascon territory to the French crown, despite having given assurances in private diplomatic meetings that he wouldn’t.[1] Sadly (although perhaps, on reflection, not particularly surprisingly), none of the extant letters between the two monarchs date from this crucial period. They come from earlier (up to 1293) and later (from about 1303). There’s probably still much of interest to be had from them, but this set back put a damper on my initial idea.[2]

Kew, TNA, SC 1/13/28. Detail of a draft letter from Edward I to Marie of Brabant, dowager queen of France, 12 August 1295. Photo by Kathleen Neal.

What does survive from the crisis period, however, is a set of draft letters drawn up on a single day in the name of Edward I to no fewer than three queens of France: his aunt, Marguerite of Provence, widow of Louis IX; Marie of Brabant, widow of his cousin Philip III; and Jeanne of Navarre, queen consort of Philip IV. Interestingly, in the same breath, as it were, the king also wrote to his ally against Philip, Adolph of Nassau, the so-called King of the Romans, but this letter was the last to be drafted in the set: it’s fourth on the parchment sheet under Edward’s letters to the three queens. Is this perhaps an indicator of a hierarchy of significance in political communication in which the royal women of Edward’s network were more important to his diplomatic efforts? Possible, although perhaps not provable… Nevertheless, this tantalising find – or rather rediscovery, since I’ve passed my eyes across this letter before – has got me rather excited in the context of the conference theme. Read the rest of this entry »

Time seems to be getting away from me of late, so while I do have some pensive posts on simmer, they’re not quite ready for human consumption. In the mean time, I offer you this juicy morsel, which is the Call for Papers for Kings and Queens II, the second conference of the Royal Studies Network. The theme in 2013 is ‘Making Connections: Alliances, Networks, Correspondence and Comparisons’, and, as you may imagine, if I can’t come up with something to say about that I should probably hand in my credentials now and give history up as a bad job. The meeting will be held in Winchester in the week after Leeds 2013, so why not do both and gorge yourself on a feast of medieval wonderment?

Submissions for individual papers (250 word abstracts) or three paper panels (500 word abstracts) should be emailed to the organizers at monarchyconference@gmail.com by 31 December 2012.

So, excuse me while I blather on about this. As I was saying, gender is a complex historical phenomenon, and part of a much bigger social matrix. In this post I want to talk about one example, Katherine Paynel, a widow in late 13th-century England, whose case helps, I think, to dispel a few mythical assumptions of the kind that students tend to make about the position of women in medieval society.

Katherine’s story hasn’t yet completely been unpicked – this is one of the projects sitting in my ‘to do’ tray at the moment, and will sadly remain on the back burner for a few months yet while I finish up my thesis. However, what we do know indicates that she was a woman of some independent means, and certainly a woman of character. Katherine was a tenant in chief of the king,[1] having jointly inherited the lands of her father, Adam de Periton, with her nephew, Robert, and sister, Isabel;[2] but she is known to us principally because a letter she sent to the chancellor, John Langton, c. 1292,[3] survives in The National Archives, Kew, as SC 1/27/113. In my rough translation,[4] it reads:

To her own very dear special friend in God, if he please, Sir John de Langton, chancellor of our lord king, his own liege and erstwhile mother,[5] if he please, Katherine Paynel, greetings and her blessing and [herself] always ready for your commandments. Dear lord and son, I have great joy in the heart from your advancement and may God be praised for the grace which he has given you that all men love you, and [for] that perserverance which ought to remain all your life; that is my prayer and it has been and will be as long as I live. As to that, dear lord, it is known to you, if it please you to remember, that since our first meeting I have had a difficult task to sustain and guide myself and my children with scarcely any aid. But, blessed be the Lord, they are agreeable enough to me, and humble, and each of my sons has some livelihood, and my daughter can take counsel with them when she desires. Dear lord, my younger son, Stephen Paynel, prays and requests me often that I send him to court in service or company where he can acquire sense and manners, so that he can recover the goods (pust aver recoverir) after me if he should be of service. And indeed, lord, I now have no sure aquaintance except, if it please, yours. Thus, I pray and request you, dear lord, for love of me and for all friendship that by your counsel and aid he may be entrusted to you yourself, lord, or to your bailiff. And I, lord, will work on his behalf for the costs in every way in my power, if by that he may support himself. Dear lord, concerning this prayer may you wish by your letter to tell me through this same bearer; and often, in all other matters, your pleasure; and concerning your state of body and health, which may God cause to be good and long. Lord, I commend you to God and His sweet mother.

Reading this letter in light of some of my complaints from the previous post, let me point out a few of the most salient points.

First, this letter constructs a gendered world in which men and women are both participating, actively yet differently. As a widow with children Katherine is in some ways the chief of her household: her children remain under her guidance to some degree, despite that they seem to be adults. They are ‘humble’ and agreeable to her; and she on her part ‘stuggles’ to sustain and guide them. Her sons’ role in life is clearly distinct from that of her daughter – the sons have livelihoods, while the daughter implicitly does not – and yet the daughter is not described as an empty or passive instrument. She can ‘take counsel’ with her brothers ‘when she desires’, and is thus recognised as a person who (a) has desires, and (b) has affairs in which she may require advice. Part of Katherine’s role as mother, which is clearly articulated here, is to establish and advance careers for her sons by whatever means open to her. One of those means is this letter. Read the rest of this entry »

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I teach and research at the Centre for Medieval & Renaissance Studies in the School of Philosophical, Historial and International Studies, Monash University (Australia). Views expressed here are my own and not representative of the CMRS, SOPHIS or Monash.

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