Medieval Curses and More - Lindsay Townsend

Medieval people believed in magic, both good and bad. Spells and charms cast with evil intent were called curses and several have survived from that time. The Anglo-Saxons believed in both charms and curses, including a curse chanted against a wen or boil. The little wen is told to go away, to become smaller and vanish into nothing (Her ne scealt thu timbrien, it says - “Here not build your timbered house.”)

The Vikings also believed in the power of words and words for magic and curses. In one saga a witch called Busla issues a curse against King Hring, who has captured and threatened to kill Busla’s foster son. The curse is chanted at night (a good time for such dark matters) and Busla’s magical threats are made manifest.  In lines of poetry, the witch claims that her curse will cause Hring to go deaf, make his eyes to the leave their sockets,  make his bed like burning straw and make him impotent. In addition, any horse he rode would take him to trolls– and more.

“Shall trolls and elves and tricking witches, shall dwarfs and etins (giants) burn down thy mead-hall…”

 The king is still reluctant and  Busla chants the strongest part of her curse, magic so dark that she does not utter it at night but which will cause Hring to be torn into pieces and flung into hell.  Faced with these gruesome outcomes, the king swears an oath to release his captives. The witch then stops the curse.

Curses could be used both as items to propel malice and as a curious form of protection. Curses were often attached to medieval and Anglo-Saxon wills, mostly to ensure the last wishes were observed, or for more day to day purposes.  The will of Siflaed (composed between 1066-68, soon after  the Norman conquest of England, which may explain the strength of the curse)  states “Whoever alters this, may God turn his face away from him on the day of judgment.”   The Will of Wulfgyth, dated 1046, promises that anyone who detracts from his will shall be denied all human comfort and joy and be delivered into hell “and there suffer with God’s adversaries without end and never trouble my heirs.”  

This form of invoking God by means of a curse to protect others remained popular throughout the Middle Ages.  In 1407, the Will of Thomas of Tyldeslegh gives a hundred shillings of silver to a John Boys to make him an apprentice in a trade and “If anyone hinder this, may God’s curse be upon him.”

                                                 

Curses could be used by medieval people everywhere and in all circumstances. When a monk  in 1420 discovered that the monastery cat had peed  on the manuscript he had been copying, the monk cursed the cat and recorded his curse—with a small drawing, showing pointing hands toward the cat pee—

Hic non defectus est, sed cattus minxit desuper nocte quadam. Confundatur pessimus cattus qui minxit super librum istum in nocte Daventrie, et consimiliter omnes alii propter illum. Et cavendum valde ne permittantur libri aperti per noctem ubi cattie venire possunt.

Which translates as:

Here is nothing missing, but a cat urinated on this during a certain night. Cursed be the pesty cat that urinated over this book during the night in Deventer and because of it many others [other cats] too. And beware well not to leave open books at night where cats can come.

http://medievalfragments.wordpress.com/2013/02/22/paws-pee-and-mice-cats-among-medieval-manuscripts/

Curses as medieval swear words can be found in this article here:

http://www.medievalists.net/2013/11/08/by-gods-bones-medieval-swear-words/

The ultimate curse could be considered to be excommunication, where a person and a person’s soul is cut off from God and the comforts and body of the church. This was feared as a terrible punishment but was not seen as being permanent, since a person could make amends and have the excommunication lifted.  Bishops and popes used excommunication as a political weapon and means of control.

 Objects could also be used in a malicious way. An amulet containing such vile materials as human waste, a splinter of wood from a gibbet or menstrual blood might be hidden under a bed to cause anything from impotence to sickness. Corpses of dead animals, such as black mice, were sometimes wrapped in cloth and buried under a threshold to create trouble for the inhabitants. Sympathetic magic, where a witch would ‘milk’ a knife stuck in the wall of her cottage, would enable her to steal milk from a cow. In Lucerne in 1486 2 women were accused of making hail by pouring well water over their heads. In Coventry in the 14^th century a sorcerer created a wax figure of his neighbor, then drove a spike into the figure’s head and then heart. The neighbor died. In the 1130s the Jews of Trier were accused of making a wax figure of the archbishop and melting it in a fire to cause his death.

Some people were believed to have the power in themselves of cursing others, particularly if members of their family had been accused of sorcery. In 1454 at Lucerne a woman called Dorothea  was widely believed to be an ill-wisher—her mother had been burned as a witch and Dorothea, being unpopular, was accused in her turn.

Certain things were considered to be inherently cursed or evil in the Middle Ages. The wood of the elder tree was believed to be unlucky (it was said Judas had hung himself from an elder tree)and it was also thought to be a witches’ tree. Elder wood can easily splinter, so strictures against its use were in some ways sensible.  Juniper was another plant with a mixed reputation. Although a sprig of juniper was believed to protect the wearer from curses, to dream of juniper was said to foretell bad luck or a death.

What could protect against curses? Rowan was said to be a strong protector. The rowan tree, taken from the Norse “runa” meaning charm, was often planted close to houses to protect the household  against evil. Around Easter time medieval people would make small crosses from rowan wood to give further safety to the house.

Illness, famine, flood, plague and all manner of misfortunes in the Middle Ages were believed to be either due to God’s anger (as with the Black Death) or the result of a curse. Given the state of knowledge about the natural world at that time, the idea of deliberate evil by a person (or in some cases an animal) makes a strange kind of sense. Moreover people were comforted when they could use prayers, amulets, witch bottles and, in extreme cases, the law to protect themselves against the occult forces.

Belief in magic was strong in the Middle Ages. I write about curses and have characters use, or fight against them, in Dark Maiden, The Snow Bride and A Summer Bewitchment . I touch on the idea of God's anger and the Black Death in To Touch the Knight and belief in magical creatures in The Virgin, the Knight and the Unicorn 

Lindsay Townsend

Lindsay Townsend: 'To Touch the Knight' - new excerpt

Here's an excerpt from my medieval historical romance, 'To Touch The Knight', where the hero tries his hand at cross-dressing...

Excerpt:

When Ranulf was escorted into the tent of the Lady of Lilies by a heavily pregnant maid, the princess laughed. He could hear her chuckling clearly through her veil and saw her eyes sparkling, half-closing in sheer amusement.

"My lord!" Seeing him and his costume - devised by Ranulf in a moment of madness on his way from the castle bath-house through the camp - Sir Tancred was clearly scandalized. His pale eyes bulged with indignation as he spilled most of his cup of wine down his gray beard and scarlet tunic.

"This will not do!" her gaudy steward protested, huffing and squawking like a hen thrust off its nest. The pregnant maid was giggling through her fingers.

Ranulf struck a pose. "I am Venus, a fair woman, and all is seemly between women." How did girls walk in long skirts? He felt to be hauling a mile of sacking around with him. "I come to give my sister-princess a kiss of peace."

As the princess continued to laugh, clutching her side, he puckered his lips, provoking another stream of laughter from his intended target.

"My lord, please!" the steward tried again, but the princess held up a hand.

"What is your hair made of, sir? Is it wool?"

"Bought from a spinster in camp," Ranulf replied, dragging the messy cloud of uncombed wool from his head and stepping with relief out of his rough bundle of sacking "skirts". "Where did my disguise fail, princess?"

He ignored the steward's snort and the maid's tittering.

"A lady with stubble? Venus in sacking? I think not. Ask Sir Tancred; he is behind you."

"Ah, your chaperone!" Ranulf turned and nodded to the older knight. "She saw through my play, it seems."

"You are outrageous!" Sir Tancred was another old hen, planting hands on hips and scarlet with indignation. "It is an insult to the princess!"

"Not so, good sir," put in the lady swiftly, slipping between them with a soft swish of her silks. "Sir Ranulf has learned that I too can take a jest against myself, and bear no ill-will for his foolery."

Ranulf thought: that is so, and she is right: she can take a joke against herself. But all I had planned with this was to jest a little, and to steal a kiss.

As if she guessed his mind, the princess went on. "Still, for my patience and forgiveness I would request a favor in return. The small silken star in silver, pinned to your breast: it is a favorite of mine."

"Come take it, then," he said at once, recognizing the justice and straightening as she closed in, drawing in his belly and praying his body would not betray him. It was a near thing, though, with this slender, shimmering moon of a princess, delicate as any courtesan of his dreams. She was still in her gold and cream, with many sparkling jewels and now she glided to him on cloth of some amazing stuff that was as fine and supple as spiders' threads, actually walking on it. The whole tent was carpeted in it, he now realized, and he felt shamed by his own great boots.

She drew near, her perfume slapping him lightly to arousal as a maze of images whirled in his head: a pair of bright eyes, a running scrap of a maid in brown, dainty feet.

Her fingers brushed over his chest, over his best tunic, and his heart hammered his ribs in answer. "Do not take too long, or I may change my mind," he muttered. Only the thought of the pregnant maid being shocked into labor stopped him from snatching her to him and seizing the kiss and all that he desired.

She had been unpinning the favor. Now she glanced up, her startled eyes showing how young she was, in truth, and, with the smile in her voice, how knowing.

"I will soon be done, my lord. There." She held up the silly scrap of cloth and he kissed it, and her gloved fingers. They were cool under his lips, quivering softly. He thought of them de-gloved, tracing down his ribs, scooping lower to his belly, and was lost afresh.

She knew, of course, and stepped back. "Do you go to the revels this evening, my lord?"

"Not without you, my lady," he retorted, glad of the distraction as the steward and Sir Tancred hissed through their beards, no longer hens but geese.

"You know I do not indulge in such revels," she answered easily. "I spend my nights in contemplation."

"Surely not of angels or god? I thought you did not believe in anything you could not touch or see."

The glow faded a little from her eyes. "In my experience that is the best guide."

"And all knights are dreamers to you, yes I know. But have you not considered that you may be wrong, princess?" he replied, feeling somewhat in the ascendancy again, "That there may indeed be more than the narrow realm of the senses?"

Expecting a sharp rejoinder, he was disconcerted when he saw her narrow shoulders sag. In truth he had not meant to hurt her, he realized, only to shake her a little. "But have you seen your other favors?" Keen to change the subject he held out his arms, where the favors won were threaded and tied like tiny banners amidst the long dagged-cut sleeves of his green and gold tunic.

"So many," she said, and a stricken look rose in her eyes, swiftly hidden as she turned away.

Lindsay
http://www.lindsaytownsend.net
http://www.twitter.com/lindsayromantic

New excerpt from 'To Touch the Knight'

Here is a new excerpt from my latest historical romance, To Touch The Knight, published this month:

     Edith had not been allowed to return to her camp. She had retired with Lady Blanche and her ladies, to bed down in the solar of the castle, although she did not sleep a jot. At dawn she heard a creaking of wagons and the steady march of men and peeped through a shutter to see the captain of Sir Tancred's guard already on his way, riding steadily by castle Fitneyclare on the road to London. She recognized his banner, and then spotted the wagon Teodwin had brought from the miller's house at Warren Hemlet.
     She put her fist in her mouth and bit down hard on her knuckles, so as not to cry out. Her people were going. It was good sense that they left, safer for them, but, selfishly perhaps, she had hoped they would stay. Now she was alone, without friends, and she would never be able to relax and be herself, never put aside her veil.
     Perhaps this is how a true princess feels?
     Gregory's barbed irony made her want to snort with laughter, except she could not - that would be unlady-like. Instead she watched the slow column creep past until the rising dust of their travel obscured them, wishing she could slip like a sparrow through the narrow casement to join them. When she was sure they were gone, she knelt in a corner in a pose of prayer, so as not to be disturbed, and tried very hard not to cry. She had thinking to do.


      Later, she waited until Lady Blanche and her women were in the midst of dressing and maids and heralds were darting in and out of the solar, carrying gloves or messages, and then mentioned she was for the gardrobe. She left the room and when she was certain she was unnoticed, Edith set off for the bath-house instead. There, for her own veil and cloak, she bartered a drab tunic from a weary mid-wife who had been up all night at a birth and, with a thought and good-wish for Maria, also close to her time, she dragged on the tunic. Flinching at the coarse cloth and fleas, she set off for the postern gate of the bailey, planning to be far away before she was missed.
     "Princess."
     Ranulf fell into step beside her and dangled a long scarlet sleeve before her face - one of his own? She could not tell, since his own huge cloak covered his large frame.
     "I will not look," was all he said. Indeed, he stared resolutely ahead at the grooms walking the palfreys in the bailey yard, while Edith tied the sleeve about her head and face, "veiling" herself afresh.
     "I had meant to give you a sleeve later," he went on, before she could protest. "I suppose now is as good a time as any."
     Edith ran forward so she could stop smack in front of him. "You followed me! You must have done so!"
     "I watched out for you, princess, as a knight should for his lady, and recognized you by your height and shape and way of walking." Now he made great play of staring, head tilted on one side, like a man buying at a fair. "I like your silks better."
       "You are not to judge." Said more harshly than she intended.
       "No." He smiled and offered his arm. "May I escort you to your tent?"
       She remained unmoved. "I will not be any man's prize." She had not broken the shackles of her serfdom for that.
       "Not even your lover's?"


      Ranulf expected her to protest, or deny his question. Instead she confounded him afresh by replying "Perhaps," an exasperating answer that made him wish he had looked at her properly while she was unveiled.
     "Who is he?" Even as he knew he was being stupid, driven by jealousy, Ranulf touched the rough knot where she had tied the sleeve, as if he would strip her face then and there. "Who sees you, princess?"
If it was Giles, he would maul him, best him, beat him.
     Without waiting for her answer, he dragged her into his arms.
     "I am in mourning!" She closed her eyes, refusing to look at him. She was fragile in his grip but unyielding, like a killing knife. "And I am not your wife!"
     A scald of rage broke through him like a bursting blister, followed by horror. He shook with the force of both emotions where he wanted to compel her.
     "Master yourself." Her scorn ripped down his back like a flail.
     "You ask much, madam," he said, and her eyes opened, giving him a fleeting glimpse of regret, but not fear.     
     "If you were my maid, I would take you back into the bath-house and dunk you in a tub."
     "Good, for it would rid me of these wretched fleas!"
     In her answer, he saw maid and princess and he laughed, lifted out of his temper in the knowledge he had at last her full attention and he was facing all of her. "You are such a little liar. One day, I may put you over my lap and smack your bottom very soundly for all those lies."
     Taking advantage of her rare silence, he lifted her off her feet, warning, "We go this way, princess, back to your tent, and you can travel in comfort, in my arms, or over my shoulder." Part of him, the base part, wished she would struggle, so he could carry out his threat.
     "Being in mourning does not mean I have forgotten how to walk."
     "The ground is dusty and your feet are bare - had you forgotten that?"
     She smiled. He did not know how he knew that, with the red sleeve wound about the lower half of her face, but he felt her rest her head more comfortably into the crook of his arm.
     Ignoring the leering guard, he walked very slowly with her through the postern gate.

Lindsay