Cultures of Death and
Dying in Medieval and Early
Modern Europe
Edited by Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
VOLUME 18
Published in 2015
by the Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies
P.O. Box 4 (Fabianinkatu 24)
FI-00014 University of Helsinki
Finland
ISSN 179 6 -29 8 6
ISBN 978 - 951- 51-1221-7
© Editors & Contributors 2015
______________________________________________________________
COLLeGIUM: Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences
Editors-in-Chief
Sari Kivistö, Johanna Sumiala
Managing Editor
Maija Väätämöinen
Editorial Board
Elvira Brattico, Eva Johanna Holmberg, Nora Hämäläinen, Juliette Kennedy, Simo Knuuttila,
Klaus Laalo, Merja Polvinen, Silvija Serafimova, Flutur Troshani
Board of Consulting Editors
Laura Assmuth, Marghareta Carucci, Denis Casey, Douglas Davies, Charles Husband, Mika
Kajava, Leena Kaunonen, Kuisma Korhonen, Dan Lloyd, Petri Luomanen, Matti Miestamo,
Marianna Muravyeva, Andrew Newby, Mika Ojakangas, Tom Popkewitz, Katariina SalmelaAro, Hanna Snellman, Koen Stapelbroek, Ian Thatcher, Kristiina Taivalkoski-Shilov, Miira
Tuominen, Karen Vedel, Alan Warde
www.helsinki.fi/collegium/journal
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval
and Early Modern Europe
Edited by Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Contents
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe: An Introduction
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
1
The Remembrance of the Deceased in the Traditional Polish Culture of the Middle Ages
Beata Wojciechowska
32
Deviant Burials: Societal Exclusion of Dead Outlaws in Medieval Norway
Anne Irene Riisøy
49
Parental Grief and Prayer in the Middle Ages: Religious Coping in Swedish Miracle Stories
Viktor Aldrin
82
Transforming the Investment in the Afterlife: Readings of the Poem De Vita Hominis
in Pre-Reformation and Post-Reformation Denmark
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
106
Dicing towards Death: An Oracle Game for Miners at the Falun Copper Mine from the
Early Seventeenth Century
Iris Ridder
129
“To Help the Deceased Guild Brother to His Grave”: Guilds, Death and Funeral Arrangements
in Late Medieval and Early Modern Norway, ca. 1300–1900
Håkon Haugland
152
Post-Mortem – an Afterword
Ditlev Tamm
184
List of Contributors
191
List of Illustrations
193
Cultures of Death and Dying
in Medieval and Early Modern
Europe: An Introduction1
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
University of Turku
This volume investigates certain aspects of medieval and early modern mentalities
related to death in Europe, exploring some of the expressions of the European
cultures of dying: customary beliefs, social practices and values related to death
and dying that were shared by the people of medieval and early modern Europe.
To a large extent, the Church and religion left its hallmark on this culture, defining it
and giving it substance. Medieval canon law also regulated interment and who had
the right to be buried in hallowed ground.2
However, we have chosen to talk about cultures in the plural to emphasize that
there were parallel cultures and customs aside from the prevalent Catholic one in
the Middle Ages. There was divergence and variation depending on status, social
group, ethnicity, age, religion and so on, in addition to inevitable regional variations.
After the Reformation, the new Evangelical churches started to form their own sets
of beliefs and customs on the basis of the common Christian background while
revising or abandoning some central tenets. This created more parallel cultures.
The volume deals with issues related to the Christian ideal of good death (Lat.
mors beata).3 This notion had corollaries in terms of strategies of salvation and
coping with death emotionally. The Church also influenced the material preparations
1 The editors wish cordially to thank the Federation of Finnish Learned Societies and the Helsinki
Collegium for Advanced Studies, which enabled the organizing of the conference “Preparing for
Death in Medieval and Early Modern Europe” that formed the general inspiration for this volume.
In addition, thanks are due to Maija Väätämöinen and the editorial board of the COLLeGIUM for
their seamless cooperation. The editors would like to wish to extend their gratitude to the many
anonymous readers who generously shared their expertise, helped to improve the articles and
thereby made this a higher-quality volume. Alfons Puigarnau also kindly commented on earlier
drafts of the essays. Mia Korpiola would like to acknowledge the friendly staff of the Centre for
Advanced Study (CAS) at the Norwegian Academy of Science and Letters, which has been an
inspiring environment in which to write this introduction. She would also like to thank Dominique
Bauer and Rod McConchie for suggestions concerning literature.
2 E.g., Liber extra [hereafter X] 3.28.1–14; Liber sextus, 3.12.1–5 both in Corpus iuris canonici 2,
ed. Friedberg (1881).
3
About mors beata in, for example, the early modern Nordic context, see, e.g., Stenberg 1998.
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.) 2015
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 1–31.
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
for death and rituals of treating the dead body. A key tenet formulated in the high
Middle Ages was the notion that the individual is responsible for his or her actions
in life. This religious worldview revolved around the idea of salvation based on
individual merit – both sins and good deeds. Souls were destined either to heaven
or hell, depending on how the individual had behaved during life. The emergence
of the doctrine of purgatory (between ca. 1150–1250) as a waiting place for souls
to be cleansed by divine fire for their sins between death and the Final Judgement
meant that the intercessions of the saints and the living for the souls in purgatory
were very welcome.4
The Reformation changed many of these teachings. However, as several of
the following articles point out, the devolution was not always abrupt. Instead,
old concepts and practices were negotiated and given a new context. The social
functions of rituals and customs helped to preserve them regardless of religious
changes. From this perspective, combining medieval and early modern, Reformation
and Counter-Reformation in the same volume makes perfect sense as it will help to
make insightful comparisons across time and space.
The Universality and Unpredictability of
Death and Emotional Responses to It
In medieval and early modern European society, Death, the Grim Reaper, was
a recurrent and omnipresent guest. The Biblical metaphor from Jeremiah (9:22)
likens the falling of human corpses to dung on the ground or hay behind the back
of the reaper.5 The image of mowing hay or grain was familiar to medieval and
early modern people, as was the visualisation of Death as a reaper with a scythe.
Epidemics, malnutrition and warfare took their toll of the human population and, in
the mid-fourteenth century, the Black Death spread terror that reinforced the images
of death in art and folklore. Even in times of peace, death was a regular visitor in
families, and especially ruthless when wrenching infants from their parents’ arms.
When the Parisian lawyer Nicolas Versoris started to write a journal in 1519, his
first entry was about his marriage. The next entry recorded the demise of a Parisian
advocate.6 In fact, during the following decade until 1530, Versoris made dozens
of entries on the deaths of members of his family, lawyers, executed criminals and
members of the royal house and aristocracy.7 He noted the passing away of his
4
Le Goff 1981, esp. 14–26, 178–447.
5 In the Latin Vulgate version: “loquere haec dicit Dominus et cadet morticinum hominis quasi
stercus super faciem regionis et quasi faenum post tergum metentis et non est qui colligat.” In King
James’s Version of the Bible, the English rendering is: “Speak, Thus saith the LORD, Even the
carcases of men shall fall as dung upon the open field, and as the handful after the harvestman, and
none shall gather them.”
6
Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, ed. Joutard (1963), 27.
7
Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, ed. Joutard (1963), passim.
2
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
first wife Marie, the demise of Princess Charlotte of France (1516–1524), as well
as the deaths of his own three children: first his son and a couple of years later his
daughter, who both breathed their last the day they were born. Another daughter
lived fifteen days.8
Although Versoris’s entries tended to be laconic, barely noting their demise,
this did not mean that the death of so many of his family members and in-laws
left him indifferent. He occasionally wrote something on the personality or the life
of the deceased, as in noting the death of his mother-in-law in 1520: “She was a
good, honest and virtuous woman.”9 However, if Versoris made any comment on
the death, it was more often a wish for the salvation of the soul of the dead. After
the loss of his first wife within three days after she had fallen ill with the plague, he
added on a personal note: “I pray God that he will pardon and show mercy to her
poor soul.”10
Emotions expressed by Versoris were echoed by many other people who have
left records from the medieval and early modern period. Although people may have
been more used to the omnipresence of death, they were far from being unmoved in
the face of it. Both the death of individuals and mass death affected people. During
one of the recurrent carnages of the Armagnac-Burgundian Civil War (1407–1435),
an eye-witness wrote that the streets of Paris were littered by the corpses of some
hundreds of people. Indeed, “[t]hey were heaped up in piles in the mud like sides
of bacon – a dreadful thing, it was.”11
Then, just as now, death stirred many feelings: grief, a sense of bereavement,
relief, and so on. Both men and women spontaneously expressed their inconsolable
loss.12 William the Conqueror, King of England (r. 1066–1087), was described in a
chronicle as having been “weeping most profusely for many days” for his wife after
her demise, which demonstrated “how keenly he felt [her] loss.”13
Attitudes towards male demonstrations of grief may have changed in the course
of the later Middle Ages. Society came to view violent passions caused by strong
emotions like grief with wariness as potentially disruptive powers that had to be
channeled and restrained by the more decorous rituals of mourning. When King
Louis IX of France (r. 1226–1270), the future saint, heard about the death of his
mother, he is reported to have fallen down with grief. However, he was reproached
for demonstrating his sorrow and feelings too strongly in the presence of his
subjects.14 This suggested a difference between private moments of unrestrained
distress and public displays of more sedate grief.
8
Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, ed. Joutard (1963), 34, 38–39, 50–51, 72, 119.
9
Ibid., 31: “Elle estoit bonne, honneste et vertueuse femme.”
10 Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, ed. Joutard (1963), 38–39: “Je prie Dieu qu’il aist fait pardon et
mercy à sa pauvre ame.”
11 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 114.
12 E.g., Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 206, 210–213.
13 Daniell 1997, 54.
14 Binski 1996, 51.
3
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Picture 1. This German fifteenth-century stained glass shows the Virgin and Saint John in tears
at the crucifixion. In the course of the Middle Ages, crying was increasingly considered to be an
unmanly thing to do in public.
In the course of the high Middle Ages, the uncontrollable demonstrations and
outbursts of grief that had been associated with the epic masculine laments of
knightly culture were increasingly perceived as unmanly expressions of feminine
passion and thus unsuitable for men. Consequently, many thirteenth- and fourteenthcentury communities in Italy went so far as to legislate on expressions of grief
and forbid the unseemly emotional outbursts of mourners on pain of punishment.
The orderly town depended on self-possessed citizens who maintained decorum
in the face of calamity. Consequently, appearing bareheaded, clapping, tearing
one’s own hair or clothing and ripping at one’s own face as a sign of grief, became
punishable by a fine by law. While crying was tolerated, public wailing and loud
crying was penalised even if lamentations were permitted indoors. Noisy public
mourning – this seems largely to have been an elite male custom – was targeted,
and some communes even enforced these criminalisations. “Stability required
male emotional restraint and decorum.”15
Even in places in which expressions of grief were not restricted by law, it was
more socially acceptable that women, considered more emotional and unrestrained,
should display spontaneous emotion and ritual wailing both at the deathbed as well
as after death. In some Italian regions, professional female mourners were hired.16
However, in certain cases even widows could be perceived as too sorrowful. When
Ludovic Stewart (1574–1624), Duke of Lennox and Richmond, died suddenly
in 1624, Lady Frances Howard (1578–1639), his now widowed third wife, was
said to have cut off her hair at her husband’s death and performed “divers other
15 Lansing 2008, esp. 53–98, quotation 187.
16 Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 223–224; Lansing 2008, 63–64.
4
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
demonstrations of extraordinary grief.” After his funeral, the Duchess of Richmond
thoroughly mourned her third husband whom she had married only two months
after her second husband’s death and now lost after less than three years of
marriage. But she did it:
so impatiently and with so much show of passion that many odd and idle tales are daily
reported or invented of her, insomuch that many malicious people impute it as much to
the loss of the court as of her Lord, and will not be persuaded that having buried two
husbands already and being so far past the flower and prime of her youth she could
otherwise be so passionate.17
Even if adults were supposed to master their emotions and display moderate
grief, this probably did not apply children, who could feel the loss deeply when
bereft of one or both of their parents. In 1673, little Gertrud Fleming, deeply upset
by the death of her father, Baron Herman Fleming (1619–1673), was reported to
have wept and wailed for her father for many days, until the emotional jolt gave
her fever, which led to her own death.18 And even if the first shock of bereavement
was over, it was often followed by lifelong sorrow and feelings of loss. In the
memoirs of the aristocratic Agneta Horn (1629–1672), the seventeenth-century
Swedish protagonist lamented the fate of a motherless child left at the mercy of
hard relatives. Agneta’s mother and little brother died of disease and lack of proper
care in the chaotic conditions of the Thirty Years’ War. Agneta wistfully compared
her childhood and teenage under the eye of a scolding aunt to that of her peers
who had the benefit of a living and caring mother. She recorded hearing that some
people would have rather seen her dead instead of her brother, and also described
herself as in constant fear of losing relatives such as her maternal grandmother
who loved and cherished her. Agneta Horn’s memoirs are highly partial and often
vehement about many of her relatives, so one should not take all her recollections
at face value; however, her text still reflects the thoughts and experiences of a
person who, in spite of a high societal position, lived with the feeling of loss and
fear of losing more people around her.19
The keen sense of loss is palpable in, for instance, the notebook of Duke
Charles, later Charles IX of Sweden (1550–1611). Many a time did he write down
the happy news of the birth of his offspring, organised their christening festivities
and wrote down his hopes for the future of the child, or praised the Lord for his
grace, having come home and found his spouse and children wealthy and safe.20
Very often, however, he had the sad task of writing down the date of death of his
beloved children, making references to his “sorrow and grief,” although consoling
17 Gittings 1984, 192–193.
18 Personalia Öfwer Högwälborne Herr Herman Flemming friherre til Libelitz, herre til Wilnäs. samt
dess K: dotter Jungfru Gertrud Flemming.
19 Horn 1961 (1656), 15, 30–31, 39–40, 53.
20 Calendaria Caroli IX, ed. Lewenhaupt (1903), 24–25, 41, 43, 73, 75, 76, 79.
5
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
himself with their resurrection.21 In 1589, he lost one of his daughters and his wife
and described mournfully how his dear spouse was laid in the grave with many
beloved departed children. Being left alone with only one surviving daughter, he
wrote down his wish that he could soon join his wife. Then, however, he turned to
God for consolation:
God Almighty be thanked and praised for his grace in good times and bad times alike.
The Lord gave, and the Lord hath taken away, blessed be the Name of the Lord, may
he give me patience in all my sorrow.22
Indeed, research has indicated that bereavement and the death of one’s children,
spouses and close relatives led to melancholy and depression for medieval and
early modern people just as now. However, the hope of a reunion in Paradise and
the religious doctrines provided consolation. Resignation in the face of death was
a strategy of coping with inevitability.23
Loss felt by parents is also discussed by Viktor Aldrin in his analysis of parental
grief in light of Swedish miracle stories. In “Parental Grief and Prayer in the Middle
Ages: Religious Coping in Swedish Miracle Stories,” Aldrin discusses stories that
record accidents that happened to children, the parents’ immediate reactions and
attempts to cope with the situation in which their beloved child was supposedly
dead. Aldrin considers the phases of parental grief from the first shock and disbelief
to starting to let go of the deceased child, organising the funeral.
Aldrin observes that there was less gendered difference in the expressions of
grief in the parents of the dead children in Sweden than on the Continent and Britain,
as both Swedish fathers and mothers cried. The study by Carol Lansing suggests
that earlier Italian miracle stories depicted even men wailing and crying loudly at
the loss of close relatives before the expressions of grief permitted for Italian men
were transformed in the later Middle Ages.24 Thus, emotions were universal, but
their manifestations were culturally determined and changed over time.
In the midst of their deep sorrow, the Swedish parents were partly directing
their thoughts to funeral preparations, but partly still resisting what had happened,
praying to the saints for a miracle. Demonstrating the intensity of love and grief,
the narratives analysed by Aldrin describe fervent prayers for a miracle, divine
intervention that would restore the loved one to life. These stories reveal the sorrow
and reactions of grieving parents in general, although they have an unusually happy
ending through the miraculous deliverance of the children from death.
21 “[M]edh sårgh och bedröffuelse”, Calendaria Caroli IX, ed. Lewenhaupt (1903), 18, 20, 39–41,
43, 52, 63, 71.
22 “Ten alzmechtige gudh ware tack och låff för sine nåder både för mott och medh, herren gaff
och herren togh, welsignett ware herrens namn och förläne migh tålemodh i all min bedröfuelse,”
Calendaria Caroli IX, ed. Lewenhaupt (1903), 65–66.
23 E.g., Laurence 1989, 62–76.
24 Lansing 2008, 88–93.
6
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Such extraordinary resurrections from death to life could also occasionally be
witnessed in other instances as well. For example, in 1528, a score of Parisians
testified as eye-witnesses when a criminal was resuscitated after having been
hanged for half an hour when his body was cut down and put on a wagon. His
amazing return to life was considered by the onlookers as a miracle by the will of
God and the Virgin Mary. It was attributed to the fact that the condemned, swearing
to his innocence of the homicide he was accused of, had wished to deliver a speech
to honour the Virgin Mary. This oration had been interrupted by the hangman.
While this was hailed as a miracle by the people and the young man was pardoned
by the king because of the intervention of the Virgin, at least some thought that
the executioner had simply done a botched job.25 Such miracles could also result
in canonisation processes as Robert Bartlett has mentioned: the hanging and
resurrection of the Welsh criminal William Cragh in 1290 became evidence in the
canonisation investigations of Thomas de Cantilupe (ca. 1218–1282) in 1307.26
Leaving emotional aspects aside, the imminence of death required people to
prepare for the possibility of dying. A person could be here one moment, gone the
next, suddenly as by a thunderbolt just as happened to a man quite literally during
a thunderstorm in Paris in 1409. The other afflicted man had only been “knocked
senseless,” surviving the unexpected stroke of lightning.27 The unpredictability
of fate and the fickleness of Fortune was also a well-known late medieval topos
in art and literature. Life was aleatory and its duration could neither be known
nor influenced. The famous poem Fortuna Imperatrix mundi (Fortune, Empress
of the World) in the Carmina Burana collection (number 17), describes how fate
plays with the lives of people. Fortune was as changeable as the moon. Fate could
suddenly melt away both poverty and power like ice as the cruel and inane destiny
turned the wheel of fortune.28 The anonymous chronicler of Paris described how
Thomas Montacute, Earl of Salisbury (1388–1428), died as a consequence of a
cannon shot at the age of forty in 1428: “Fortune, to none a faithful friend, showed
him how she can behave without warning to those who trust her […].”29 Similarly,
when the chronicler accounted the accidental drowning of Thomas, Baron de Ros
(1406–1430), together with some other nobleman and soldiers in 1430, he wrote
that “Fortune was unkind to him.”30
The transience of life had also an effect on art. The wheel of fortune (rota
fortunae) was a popular topic in late-medieval art. It usually depicts a king in the
25 Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, ed. Joutard (1963), 122–123, 178–180.
26 Bartlett 2004.
27 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 50–51.
28 “O Fortuna,/ velut luna/ statu variabilis […]/ egestatem/ potestatem/ dissolvit ut glaciem/ […]
Sors immanis/ et inanis/ rota tu volubilis […], quoted from Lehtonen 1995, 110.
29 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 226.
30 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 251. For a contrary example, see
ibid., 350.
7
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
four stages of the wheel of fortune. First he is on his way up, to govern in the future.
Then, after reigning and having reigned, the king loses his reign and becomes earth.
The wheel of fortune showed in a very illustrative way how even the potentates of
the world were merely hapless pawns in the game of fortune in life and death.31
Picture 2. The wheel of fortune, a popular topos in the later Middle Ages, demonstrated the fickleness
of fate. The ruler is shown at different stages with the accompanying texts: Regnabo (I will rule),
Regno (I am ruling), Regnavi (I ruled) and, for the corpse under the wheel, Sum sine regno (I am
without a reign).
The ubi sunt (“where are”) genre in literature called to mind the whereabouts of
those who were already dead. The great men and women of the past or the former
comrades of one’s youth had already been eaten by worms and had become dust.
31 Lehtonen 1995, 73–122.
8
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
For example, the epic poem Beowulf, written in Old English and preserved to our
days in a single manuscript (British Library MS Cotton Vitellius A XV) from ca.
1000, contains a lament about the loss of a warrior’s entourage and men through
death.32 Late medieval mentalities were attuned to the cultures of death by the
vicissitudes of the time: the Black Death, recurrent epidemics and warfare. In the
Middle Ages, a whole form of literature, the ars moriendi, instructing people about
the way of dying properly, developed for the use of the clergy and laity alike. Some
ars moriendi versions recalled of the mortality of all, high and low alike, who all
were “under the hand and will of Almighty God.” “We all, regardless of our position,
popes, emperors, archbishops, kings, high or low, rich and poor, have to die. We
have all come to here to this world like pilgrims so that we are to leave it.”33
The memento mori, remembering one’s mortality, became a popular motif in
art. The dance macabre, with Death leading all sorts of people, rich and poor,
young and old, men and women, to the dance, gained in popularity after the Black
Death. The dance macabre reflected the powerlessness of people in the face of
death, the great equaliser. Temporal wealth, power, beauty and youth were fleeting
and useless in the face of death. Worldly pursuits were futile and empty in one’s
last hour as everyone was destined to be a rotting corpse, food for maggots, in the
end.34 As the character of Death stated in the morality play Everyman:
Lord, I will in the world go run overall,
And cruelly outsearch both great and small.35
The suddenness of death was further highlighted by its most common
symbols, arrows, darts or javelins that came suddenly from nowhere and hit the
unsuspecting victim.36 While the Dance of Death was a general motif, such images
of the universal mortal lot of mankind could also be customised. The tragic and
premature death of Duchess Mary of Burgundy (1457–1482) as a consequence of
a hunting accident may have led to the commissioning of miniatures of the Duchess
32 “Hold, ground, the gold of the earls!/ Men could not. Cowards they were not/ but took it from
thee once, but war-death took them,/ that stops life, struck them, spared not one/ man of my people,
passed on now./ They have had their hall-joys, I have not with me/ a man able to unsheathe this. […]/
Who shall polish this plated vessel/ this treasured cup? The company is elsewhere./ This hardened
helmet healed with gold/ shall lose its shell. They sleep now/ whose work was to burnish the battlemasks; so that the cuirass that in the crash took/ bite of iron among breaking shields:/ it moulders
with the man. This mail-shirt travelled far/ hung from a shoulder that shouldered warriors: it shall not
jingle again./ There’s no joy from harp-play,/ glee-wood’s gladness, no good hawk/ swings through
the hall now, no swift horse/ tramps at the threshold. Terrible slaughter/ has carried into darkness
many kindreds of mankind,” Beowulf, trans. Alexander (1987), 122.
33 Gersons lärdom huru man skall dö, fol. Aiiiv: “[A]th wil ære alle saman liggiande wnder allmectogx
gwdz handh ok wnder hans helgha wilia. Ok wi alle saman æ aff hwadh stath wi ære Pawe kesare
ærkebiscopar konungar høgha eller lagha fathigha ok rike wi ære alle pliktoge dø. Vi ære kompne
hyth y thenne wedhene sa som pelegrimer ath wi skwle wetha fara hædhan.”
34 Kurtz 1934; Oosterwijk 2011, 20–41.
35 Everyman and Medieval Miracle Plays, ed. Cawley (1959), 209.
36 Kurtz 1934, 40–41, 52, 63, 77, 86, 91, 134, 143; Oosterwijk 2011, 26–28.
9
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
on horseback, being chased by a mounted corpse, symbolizing Death, armed with
a spear. The topos of three living young men meeting three dead men on a hunting
trip was adapted to include the Duchess and her spouse Maximilian of Austria
(1459–1519), the future Emperor Maximilian I. Alternatively, the Duchess had had
it commissioned in her lifetime, depicting herself, little knowing that she would be
dead in the flower of her life, crushed by her horse after a fall when hawking with
her husband.37
Picture 3. The “three living and the three dead” was a well-known topic in later medieval literature
and art. The three young men or kings were hunting when they came across the three corpses.
These reminded them of the transience of life and of the necessity to prepare for death while living.
Georges Duby has argued that the late medieval culture of the macabre is to be
interpreted rather as a sign of an “excessive love of life” than the “real misfortunes of
the times” (traduit moins le malheur réel des temps qu’un excès d’attachement à la
vie). The bigger the passion to live, he argues, the more painful was the bitterness
37 Kralik 2011, 146–154.
10
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
of being torn from it.38 Yet, it is hard to imagine that the cruel ravages of war and
plagues of various kinds would not have its effects on the collective mindset of
people. Chiffoleau talks about a Great Melancholy (La Grande Mélancholie) and a
deep traumatisation.39
It is hardly a coincidence that the first known danse macabre mural was painted
in 1424–1425 at the Cemetery of the Innocents in Paris, a city tortured by famines,
pestilence and war for a long time.40 The Parisians took their afflictions to be a sign
of divine wrath and punishment. Similarly, it can be asked whether the frequency
of the representations of the Day of Judgement, the purgatory and the pains of hell
in wall paintings in fourteenth- and fifteenth-century churches is coincidental or
related to changes in mentality.41
Indeed, because of the uncertainties of life and the capriciousness of fortune,
people had to devise strategies to cope with death. One of these, described by
Georges Duby, was to “domesticate” or “tame” death so that it was very rarely
perceived as coming as a surprise. According to Duby, one of “its essential
characteristics was to give advance warning of its arrival.” Something anticipated
became easier to handle and accept.42
Some people, like the inhabitants of Siena, attempted to domesticate death by
a sense of manipulating the future through their intricate post-plague testamentary
practices. Sienese testators sought increasingly to control the existence of the
living after their own death by minutely detailed clauses in their wills. “With complex
contingency plans, they sought to dictate events in that previously unchartered
geography of time between the day of death and earthly perpetuity.”43 Jacques
Chiffoleau has observed that late medieval testators from Southern France tended
to see death as a “slow and precise ritual scenario” concentrated especially
between the death agony and the return from the cemetery. The stage-like process
of dying took as much as a year to complete. In addition, the testators started to
dramatise their death by making it – and their funerals – into a spectacle for the
rest of society.44
38 Duby 1983, 164.
39 Chiffoleau 1980, 205–207, 430–432.
40 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 204.
41 Vovelle & Vovelle 1970, 14–16.
42 Duby 1981, 6, 10.
43 Cohn 1988, 67. See also ibid., 140–145.
44 Chiffoleau 1980, 149: “Pour la majorité des testateurs la mort n’est pas un acte instantané;
elle se ‘fait’ lentement, dans un scénario rituel précis, qui se concentre entre l’agonie et le retour
du cimetière, mais qui dure en fait le plus souvent douze mois, jusq’au bout-de-l’an. L’idée que
le passage dans l’au delà, ou que l’au-delà lui-même, comporte plusieurs étapes, est installée
solidement dans les consciences. [...] L’image d’une mort théâtralisée par le testateur lui-même
remplace peu à peu celle d’une mort entièrement prise de charge par les parents et les voisins. Au
lieu d’être socialisée dans un rite professionnel où la participation de tous est requise, le dècès est
seulement, et magnifiquement, offert en spectacle au reste de la société.”
11
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
However, although people were generally aware of the fickleness of Fortune
and attempted to domesticate death, some groups of people were involved in more
dangerous activities than others. They needed to form special strategies to control
the uncertainty present in their everyday life. As Iris Ridder argues in her article
“Dicing towards Death: An Oracle Game for Miners at Falun Copper Mine from
the Early Seventeenth Century,” the miners had their own strategies in trying to
cope with the unexpected death, mors improvisa. Using a little book written for his
amusement, a miner would first wish for something, throw three dice, see the score
and then find a poem linked to the score. Every poem gave the miner different
advice for his life and in regard to his wishes. Ridder gives an example of the ways
people in a very hazardous position could try to maintain some feeling of control
over their lives – or (rather probable) deaths.
Parallel Cultures of Dying: Christian, Heretical,
Pagan and Reformation Challenges
When a person realised that death was close, he or she turned his thoughts to
arranging his soul for the afterlife. The omnipresence of imminent death made
people invest in their salvation by what the French historian Jacques Chiffoleau
has called the “accounting of the afterlife” (la comptabilité de l’au-delà). Through
the process of the “mathematics of salvation” (mathématique du salut), people
assessed the necessary sums to be spent on pious causes (ad pios usus),
including masses, anniversary masses, alms, legacies, wills and donations, to
guarantee some relief from the pains of purgatory pending the Last Judgement.
They organised their budget for the afterlife.45 Preparing for death could also mean
worrying about the memory and post-mortem reputation of the dying. This could be
done by, for example, preparing or commissioning works of art, effigies, memorials
or literary works.
Confession of one’s sins, contrition and making amends were part of the
penitential process that was to be concluded before death. Because of this, it was
generally presupposed – in law as well – that a man facing death would speak the
absolute truth as otherwise his soul risked eternal damnation. In addition to the
confession of sins, praying for the dying and extreme unction formed part of the
religious deathbed rituals in medieval and early modern Europe. Priests had their
own handbooks advising them on how to approach a person on his sickbed and
how to console him. The administering of the viaticum, the eucharist or communion
for the dying, was also central.46 Naturally, regional variations also existed. In
medieval upper Ariège and many other parts of Western France, Le Roy Ladurie
45 Chiffoleau 1980, 212–229, 389–425, 434–435. For such customs, see also, e.g., Daniell 1997,
11–24.
46 See, e.g., Fallberg Sundmark 2008.
12
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
tells us, extreme unction was not part of the normal preparation for death. Instead,
confession and communion was what the dying wished for.47
Sudden death was perceived as shameful and a threat because the soul could
not be prepared for the afterlife in accordance with the cultural understanding of a
good death. Moreover, as the ideal death took place at home surrounded by one’s
family and friends, this was not necessarily the case with sudden death.48 However,
even a condemned criminal could stage a good death by steadfast devotion,
confession, repentance, atonement, mortification of the flesh and meeting the
executioner with fortitude.49
In addition, both at the deathbed and after death, the rites of passage consoled
the living if properly performed. As death was omnipresent and attendance at
deathbeds was a feature of every-day life, people internalised the elements of
a good death and learned how to stage and prepare for one. However, the ars
moriendi handbooks also lamented that, through diabolical instigation, people
were too confident about still living for a long time, and thus neglected to prepare
themselves for death.50
The common perceptions involving the mortality of the body and the immortality
of the soul define the medieval ecclesiastical culture of death and dying. In Christian
belief, the soul of the person left the physical body, which started to decompose at
the moment of death. The Catholic theologians rejected the Aristotelian notion that
“[o]f all terrible things, the death of the body is the most terrible” as the soul and
its salvation were considered much more important. The death of the soul was,
indeed, detestable.51
In addition to the Catholic perceptions of dying, other beliefs and rituals existed
in the Middle Ages. Pagan elements existed alongside the Christian – and heretical
– cultures of death. Some of these were related to beliefs about spirits and dead
bodies. In medieval Montaillou, for example, some believed that through clippings
of hair and nails that contained the particularly potent energy of a dead head of the
family, this energy could be transmitted into his relatives. Thus, his house would
remain fortunate. Neither were dead bodies bathed, their faces only being sprinkled
with water, so that nothing essential would be washed away from the skin.52 Some
also believed that owls flying in the night could in fact be demons on a mission to
carry away the souls of the recently dead.53
47 Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 313.
48 E.g., Beier 1989, 56–60; Duby 1981, 10–11, 108.
49 Boyden 1999, 256–261, 265; Beier 1989, 60.
50 Campbell 1995, 18, 21.
51 Campbell 1995, 20–21: “Omnium terribilium mors corporis sit terribilissima.”
52 Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 31–33, 42, 61.
53 Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 42.
13
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
In her article, “The Remembrance of the Deceased in the Traditional Polish
Culture of the Middle Ages,” Beata Wojciechowska investigates the interaction
between pagan and Christian cultures of death and dying. She discusses beliefs
and ideas about the other world and ancient Slavic conceptions that were present
in local belief systems even centuries after initial Christianisation. She analyses
the remaining fragments of the pre-Christian concepts of the afterlife, emphasising
the efforts of the living to secure the well-being of their deceased ancestors.
The souls of the dead were taken care of according to old traditions, and were
commemorated and even called on during many Christian festivities, such as All
Soul’s and Pentecost. Traditional celebrations reflected the belief that the souls
of the dead were present among the living. Although the Church opposed these
practices, many continued for centuries, removed from the once coherent systems
and partly assimilated to Christian teachings.
Some Christian burial customs, discussed below in more detail, also had
superstitious and popular significance. For example, the vigil over the dead from
the moment of death to burial and the accompanying prayers and sprinkling of holy
water not only eased the soul’s stay in purgatory, but also protected the living as
long as the corpse was among them.54 Similarly, the ringing of bells was considered
to have a protective function by warding off demons. This was why some Puritans
dismissed bell-ringing at funerals as superstitious.55
Some sects, such as the Cathars, labelled heretics and persecuted by the Church,
presented alternative deathbed ideologies and rituals. The Cathars considered the
consolamentum their only sacrament. The “consoling” purified the believer of the
pleasures and sin of the world in order to get closer to God and heaven. The ritual
involved the reading of Biblical texts and the “perfect,” the spiritual leader, who had
received the consolamentum and who observed the regulations of purity, laying his
or her hands on the consoled. One of the main duties of the perfect was to console
the dying, but the dying had to be conscious of being able to answer the questions
posed in the ceremony.56 After receiving the consolamentum on their death-beds,
some Cathars refused food altogether, wishing to accelerate dying in the pure state
and to minimise the risk of breaching the duties of the perfect even if fresh water
could be drunk after the ritual. This fasting leading to death was called the endura,
and sometimes even family members watched over the dying lest the fasting be
breached and so that death would come in this pure state.57
Because of the persecutions, the consolation of the dying had become secret,
with few other Cathars present. Sometimes the ceremony had to be hidden
from close family members who opposed Cathar beliefs. Some individuals even
54 Harding 1999, 179.
55 Daniell 1997, 53; Gittings 1984, 48–53.
56 Lambert 1998, 239–240.
57 Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 211–212, 218–220, 223–230; Lambert 1998, 240–244.
14
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
received both the extreme unction and the consolamentum, while others protested
against the visit of the local clergyman wishing to administer the last rites.58 Thus a
covert subculture with secret rites could take place beyond the orthodox Catholic
deathbed rituals and the communal vigil at the bedside. On the other hand, some
French Huguenots, as the French Protestants were called, did their best to avoid
having the Catholic parish priest administer the last rites to them and received
the Huguenot ministers in secret. Others alleged that the death had been so
sudden that there had not been enough time to send for the Catholic priest, while
Huguenot nobles especially wished to preserve their patrimony from confiscation
and preserved an outward conformity by accepting the Catholic deathbed rites.59
It is also important to be sensitive to the changes in the cultures of death resulting
from transitions from the Catholic Middle Ages to Reformation Protestantism.
Many of them were quite sudden and very concrete. For example, the Parliament
in England forbade purchasing masses for the deceased by law in 1529.60 The
Protestants also changed “the geography of afterlife”61 as reformers dismissed as
unbiblical both the doctrine of purgatory and the limbo where the souls of unbaptised
infants awaited.62
More subtle changes took place in religious literary genres. The ars moriendi
literature was transformed from the fifteenth to the seventeenth century to reflect
various trends: humanism (e.g., by adding classical exempla) and Reformation
beliefs (e.g., by attacking certain Catholic customs and doctrines).63 For example,
the late medieval ars moriendi literature had played upon the uncertainty of salvation
and offered consolation accordingly. Vacillating between hope and despair, the
lonely dying person, the moriens, was to choose the right path to death and to
resist temptation in order to maximise the chances of salvation by, for example,
good works. However, Reformation theologians rejected the notion of earning
one’s salvation, emphasising that Christ had defeated the powers of death, sin
and hell for mankind. Faith was foregrounded, as well as joy over the certainty of
salvation.64
This theme is also further examined in Eivor Andersen Oftestad’s article
“Investing in the Afterlife in Medieval and Early Modern Denmark: Two Readings
of the Poem De aetatis hominis.” The article investigates how the message of the
poem (first published in 1514) was later transformed according to the theological
rearrangement that followed the new certainty of salvation. Oftestad shows how
58 Lambert 1998, 239–240; Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 223.
59 Roberts 1999, esp. 134–137.
60 Binski 1996, 122.
61 Expression (géographie de l’au-delà) of Jacques Le Goff (1981, 10).
62 E.g., Marshall 1999, 112–116.
63 Beaty 1970.
64 Reinis 2007, 243–258.
15
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
the poem was not abandoned but re-elaborated by the Danish humanist Anders
Sørensen Vedel (1542–1616) in 1571. Originally, the main character had died a
lonely death as a consequence of his evil life. As the Reformation emphasised faith,
not deeds, even the moral of the poem was changed. While the medieval version
underlined the insecurity of salvation, Vedel’s version distinguished between evil
and pious human beings. Evil consequences faced those who had rejected the
Word of God, while the obedient and penitent could be confident of their salvation.
Oftestad’s analysis provides an intriguing example of how medieval motives were
partly maintained, partly re-negotiated in the Reformation period.
Bodies and Burials of the Dead: The
Dominant Ecclesiastical Culture of Interment
and Examples of Parallel Cultures
This frightening passage from the land of the living to the realm of the dead was
perilous for both those who had died and those remaining. Therefore, there had
to be a variety of rites of separation, transition and incorporation – as Arnold
van Gennep has so perceptively pointed out in his Les rites de passage (1909)
– ensuring a smooth and successful passing. The souls of the dead had to be
made comfortable in the next world so as to prevent them from returning. The risks
related to the perilous dead had to be harnessed by first achieving the culturally
defined good death and posthumously by performing all the necessary communal
rites pertaining to a dignified burial.65
Indeed, funeral rituals had a number of functions to fulfil in society. One of the
most fundamental of these was to guarantee that the dead are comfortable enough
in their dwelling place to leave the living alone and not hinder them in any way. The
rites also helped to fill voids left by the death in the family and larger community,
a function even more pronounced in the case of dignitaries, and to manifest grief
and loss. The transfer of property and status from the deceased to the living was
also marked by such rituals. In addition, funerary rituals highlighted “shared kinship
and corporate solidarity,” exhibited status and largesse and thus demonstrated or
attempted to renegotiate existing social hierarchies.66
65 Van Gennep 1960 (1909), 146–165.
66 Houlbrooke 1989a, 1.
16
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Picture 4. Funerals were important status symbols in medieval and early modern Europe. However,
some preferred a simple interment due to personal preferences or religious notions. The burial
scene is from a French Book of Hour from about 1478.
Funerals were important status indicators. The lavishness of the ceremonies
often became an important aim as obsequies were shows of wealth, connection
and power. Funeral expenses consequently became the target of sumptuary laws
regulating the expenditure and limiting such things as the number of attendants.
Such laws already existed in ancient Greece and Rome. As a sign of largesse,
funerals could involve the distribution of items of clothing, footwear, and food to
17
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
attendants and poor people. A mixture of secular and religious motives was behind
such munificence. On the one hand, it was again a display of individual and family
wealth. On the other, almsgiving was a pious act, and the recipients were expected
to pray for the soul of their deceased benefactor.67
The funeral procession, an important rite of passage in itself, was one of the
most visual parts of the ceremonies. It was public and meant to be beheld. The
more people attending the cortege, the better. The more times the church bells
rang for the deceased, the higher his or her status. The place of final repose was
also an important status symbol, as burial in church, especially close to the altar,
could be reserved for clerics and members of the elite. Candles or torches carried
by the participants were an integral part of the funeral procession.68 The more
torches and the bigger they were, the higher was the status of the deceased, as
Håkon Haugland has pointed out in his article “‘To Help the Deceased Guild Brother
to His Grave:’ Guilds, Death and Funeral Arrangements in Late-Medieval and Early
Modern Norway (c. 1300–1900).”
The procession of a member of a corporation became a show of mutual solidarity
and the power of the collective. As Haugland discusses in his article in this volume,
mutual aid and the participation of guild members was essential in organizing the
funeral for a deceased member of a craft guild. Haugland analyses the mutual help
the guilds of late medieval and early modern Norway could provide when one of
their members died, and how the Reformation in 1536 changed the role of guilds.
One of the consequences of the Reformation was that guilds in the countryside
withered away. The continuity, on the other hand, is represented in the role of
both medieval and early modern guilds in supporting the burials of the deceased
members. Haugland points out that the craft guilds had religious functions both in
the Middle Ages and the Early Modern period; thus he emphasises the continuity
over the Reformation period, challenging the previous outcomes of Norwegian
research.
Nevertheless, at the time of war, pestilence or famine, the mortality rates were
so high and, in case of disease, the fear of contagion so acute, that the ordinary
solemnities had to be forgone and the piles of corpses disposed of with curtailed
ceremonies or even without ceremony altogether. During the Black Death, burials
had indeed to be curtailed and new plague cemeteries consecrated.69 According to
Giovanni Boccaccio, writing about Florence during the Black Death: “Nor therefore
were the dead honoured with aught of tears or candles or funeral train; nay, the
thing was come to such a pass that folk recked no more of men that died than
nowadays they would of goats.”70
67 E.g., Daniell 1997, 55–57.
68 In general, see Daniell 1997, 44–58; Epstein 1984, 157–158; Gittings 1984, 28–29.
69 Wray 2009, 225–226, 232.
70 Boccaccio 1925 (1348–1353), trans. Payne, 15.
18
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Serious epidemics caused havoc, especially in towns, pre-empting carefully
made plans concerning burials and graves. As the anonymous Parisian chronicler
reported in the autumn of 1418, towns-dwellers were dying like flies. “[P]eople died
as fast as ever. When it got so bad that no one could think where to bury them, huge
pits were dug, five at Holy Innocents, four at the Trinity, at the others according to
their capacity, and each pit held about six hundred people.”71 Amidst another bout
of the plague in Paris in 1522, Nicholas Versoris recounted how more than forty
victims of the pestilence were buried at the cemetery of the Innocents alone on
a single day.72 As Boccaccio reported in his Decamerone of Florence during the
Black Death:
Many breathed their last in the open street, whilst other many, for all they died in their
houses, made it known to the neighbours that they were dead rather by the stench
of their rotting bodies than otherwise; and of these and others who died all about the
whole city was full. […] The consecrated ground sufficing not to the burial of the vast
multitude of corpses aforesaid, which daily and well nigh hourly came carried in crowds
to every church,—especially if it were sought to give each his own place, according to
ancient usance,—there were made throughout the churchyards, after every other part
was full, vast trenches, wherein those who came after were laid by the hundred and
being heaped up therein by layers, as goods are stowed aboard ship, were covered
with a little earth, till such time as they reached the top of the trench.73
In Christian belief, when the dead were resurrected at the Last Judgement, the
physical body and the soul were reunited. Because of the Christian doctrine of
bodily resurrection and rejoining body and soul, the Church favoured burials of the
intact body instead of cremation, and the total destruction of the body was a drastic
action. The burning of the body of heretics, sodomites and witches was a powerful
way of preventing them from resurrecting – the worldly parallel was the burning
or razing of a heretic’s house to the ground.74 In times of crisis, even the corpses
were not safe. Reports of hungry wolves digging up recently buried cadavers
in graveyards and devouring them circulated in the Middle Ages.75 Theologians
considered the question of whether beasts that had devoured people would also be
resurrected at the Last Judgement in order to vomit their prey so that these could
be resurrected.76
Certain other religions, like Tibetan Buddhism, practice sky burials or vulturedisposal, a means of recycling corpses in which the dead bodies as dissected,
defleshed and crushed before leaving these human remains to be devoured by
71 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 132.
72 Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris, ed. Joutard (1963), 39.
73 Boccaccio 1925 (1348–1353), trans. Payne, 15.
74 Le Roy Ladurie 1987, 37.
75 E.g., A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 162.
76 Binski 1996, 202–203.
19
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
vultures.77 Such practices would have been considered dishonouring the dead in
the Western tradition. It is known that the Catholic Church was against cremation,
largely successfully as archaeological evidence indicates. At least it is customary to
assume that abandoning cremation in Nordic burial places as well as the introduction
of items with Christian symbols in the graves, is a sign of Christianisation.78
However, there were other funerary customs viewed by the Church as irreverent
and cruel abuses that it attempted to ban in the Later Middle Ages. Especially
among dignitaries dying far from home, it was customary to disembowel the
cadaver, dismember and cook it so that the bones were dissevered from the
flesh. The bones could then be easily transported and interred. This practice was
known as “embalming more teutonico,” an originally German custom that became
widespread by the thirteenth century. Indeed, the bodies of certain saints such as
Saint Louis XI of France (1214–1270) and Saint Thomas Aquinas (1225–1274) were
treated this way.79 It came, however, to be vehemently opposed by the papacy. In his
bull Detestandae feritatis, Pope Boniface VIII (r. 1294–1303) forbade this practice
regardless of the status or condition of the deceased on pain of excommunication
ipso facto in 1299. The strongest possible expressions were used to condemn
the custom of chopping up and boiling the body in water: it was called a “savage
abuse” (feritatis abusum), and the custom is called “cruel” and “horrendous for the
faithful” (saevitia […] mentesque fidelium horror conmoveat). This abomination was
considered impious both in the eyes of the Divine Majesty as in those of humans,
and the body thus treated would be denied Christian burial.80
Even though the rubric only applied to the cutting up and boiling of bodies, it
also encompassed the “dispersed burials,” cutting up, eviscerating and division
of corpses and the burial of various body parts (such as the heart, entrails and
body) at different locations. Thus, dispersed burials were also banned by the
papacy. However, papal dispensations are known to have been granted to persons
of influence so that instead of abolishing the custom, it became an even more
desirable status indicator of the highest echelons of medieval society.81 Thus, from
the early fifteenth century, it is reported that after an English nobleman, Sir Robert
Harling, had died while fighting in France, his cadaver was dissected and
boiled in a cauldron at the St. Nicholas cemetery until the flesh came off the bones.
These were then carefully cleaned and packed in a chest to be taken to England. The
flesh, the entrails and water were buried in a big grave at the St. Nicholas cemetery.82
77 Wylie 1964–1965, 232–235.
78 See, for example, Taavitsainen 1989, 13–28; Mägi 2002, 153–154.
79 Brown 1981, 226–246; Binski 1996, 63–64; Bynum 1995, 203–208.
80 Extravagantes communes, 3.6.1. in Corpus Iuris Canonici 2, ed. Friedberg (1881); Brown 1981,
221–223; Binski 1996, 63–64.
81 Brown 1981, 228–246, 250–265.
82 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 297.
20
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
The defleshed skeleton of the knight was then easily transported to his domicile
in East Harling in Norfolk where it was entombed in the local Church.83
It has been argued that the dispersed burials were a “final exertion of the royal [or
noble] virtue of largesse” as the cut-out bodily parts were donations and indications
of patronage.84 Indeed, the same Parisian chronicler described another dispersed
burial, that of Margaret of Burgundy, Duchess of Guyenne (1393–1442), with less
gruesome details. While the Duchess’s body was interred in a Parisian church
dedicated to Our Lady, her heart was to be taken to Notre-Dame of Liesse.85
Both “embalming more teutonico” and dispersed burials represent other,
parallel cultural expressions linked to death. Considering that important royal
dynasties persisted in disembowelling their dead members, this ban seems to have
largely disregarded among the elite, even without special authorisation or fear of
excommunication. Moreover, another important motive for chopping up bodies was
naturally related to a central tenet of Christian doctrine, namely, the cult of saints.
The trade in relics, severed body parts of saints, had been initiated in late Antiquity
and continued throughout the Middle Ages and caused the Church fathers to
debate the possibility of resurrection in these cases. For example, Saint Augustine
of Hippo (354–430) considered resurrections as “the reassemblage” of all the bits
and pieces of the body. Yet, judging by Roman legislation and Christian sermons
banning the chopping up of and commerce in body parts, the trade in relics started
to grow in the latter half of the fourth century.86 It continued to flourish in the Middle
Ages, and the boiling of dead potential saints was necessary to have “the bones
[…] more quickly available for distribution.”87
It is also important to keep in mind that “Christian” burial practices were not
necessarily static in the course of the period in question nor were followed across
the whole Church. For example, evidence from burial sites in Anglo-Saxon England
suggests that pregnant women who died before or during childbirth were buried
with the foetus still in the womb. These “in utero double burials” suggest that the
practice differs from the norms found in thirteenth and early fourteenth-century
conciliar statutes according to which unborn and thus unbaptised foetuses were
to be cut out from their mother’s uterus before burial.88 Twelfth-century Norwegian
ecclesiastical norms however forbade this practice even though the foetus was
unbaptised and heathen.89 Related to this was the question of whether a pregnant
woman could be buried in consecrated ground or not in her unclean state. The
83 Ibid., 297 fn. 1.
84 Binski 1996, 64.
85 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 347.
86 Bynum 1995, 104–106.
87 Bynum 1995, 201–203.
88 Sayer & Dickinson 2013, 289–290.
89 Sellevold 2008, 63–64; Carlsson 1972, 136.
21
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
matter had been debated in the earlier Middle Ages, but had been resolved in
the high Middle Ages by authorising that pregnant women should be buried in
the churchyard like any other Christian. Nevertheless, contrary opinions were
expressed even later in the Middle Ages.90
There were also other parallel cultures and popular beliefs regarding the bodies
of executed criminals. In seventeenth-century Sweden, people believed that the
flying smoke from the pyre of criminals burnt for committing the heinous crime
of bestiality caused crop failure, which explains why the people of the locality
preferred to have the penalty of burning commuted to a heavy, collectively raised
fine. However, this was dismissed as popular Catholic superstition by the King, who
wished to enforce the law according to its letter and the word of God as an example
for all.91
Thus, one can observe that side by side with the standard religious practices,
other cultures existed partly because of regional customs. For example, in his
analysis of Sienese wills, Samuel K. Cohn, Jr. has observed that testators included
more instructions on how their bodies were to be dressed in the post-plague era
after 1363.92 Here, obviously, a comparative study would be interesting as such
clauses on how to dress the body seem not to have been customary, e.g., in
medieval Scandinavian wills.
Parallel cultures also existed for status-related reasons, although some may
have been condemned by the official Church. The Church usually advocated a
speedy burial. For example, medieval Norwegian legislation insisted on timely
burial within five days unless extraordinary circumstances prevented this, in which
case the corpse was to be moved into an outbuilding and hoisted up for safety until
interment could take place.93 However, as aristocratic and royal burials in particular
took long to prepare for in the Middle Ages and the early modern period, embalming
was often a necessity to prevent putrefaction before burial. As embalming required
skill and expensive materials, it also became an elite status symbol, just like the
dispersed burials discussed above.94
While funeral customs usually marked splendour and wealth, other statusrelated funeral customs underlined humility. Some monastic rules prescribed
penitential elements for the post-mortem preparation of the corpses of monks, to
be laid on sackcloth with ashes shaped like a cross. After washing, the corpse was
dressed in a hair shirt and habit.95
90 Nilsson 1989, 91, 244, 249–252, 289; Daniell 1997, 103; Carlsson 1972, 136–140.
91 Almquist 1926, 21–22.
92 Cohn 1988, 61. See also Daniell 1997, 31–32.
93 Nilsson 1989, 230–231. See also Lansing 2008, 50.
94 E.g., Weiss-Krejci 2008; Gittings 1984, 104–105, 166–171, 216.
95 Daniell 1997, 30–31.
22
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Yet, in addition to this, one must allow for individual preferences.96 Some highstatus testators wished to underline their humility or penitential rigour. For example,
a Sienese nobleman ordered that he be buried “without funerary pomp” (senza
pompa funebre) in the simple robes of a Flagellant brother.97 Henry the Young King
(1155–1183) was anxious to be reconciled to his father, Henry II of England (r. 1154–
1189) on his deathbed for his rebellion. After falling seriously ill, he demonstrated
his penitence by lying naked on the floor in front of a crucifix. After his death, Prince
Henry was placed on ashes and sackcloth, with a noose around his neck and with
stones under his head and feet to demonstrate his dying a penitent.98 The French
nobleman and soldier Philippe de Mézières (ca. 1327–1405) wished to have iron
chains around his neck at death. Instead of being carried on a bier, he wanted to
be stripped naked and hauled by the feet to the church. His body was to be roped
to a plank and cast into a grave “like carrion.”99
The Holy Roman Emperor Maximilian I took this even further. He instructed that
his dead corpse receive an unusual and morbid penitential treatment and after
this, be displayed to demonstrate that death was the lot of all men – even glorious
rulers. Maximilian’s hair was to be cut off, his teeth pulled out, his body whipped
and covered with ash and lime. The body was to be buried together with burning
coals. Indeed, this seems to have been what happened. The practically toothless
skeleton had been buried under lime together with twig whips.100
These were individual funerary wishes of an unusual kind. However, in the case
of criminals, burial rites were usually not a question of individual choice. The cruel
shaming and public deaths at the hands of an executioner were set as “cautionary
deaths” to large audiences in order to provide just retribution and deter others
from similar criminal paths.101 The treatment of the bodies of criminals after death
followed suit. In Paris, the body parts of the “false traitor Colinet de Puiseux,”
beheaded on 12 November 1411, had been exhibited as deterrents: the head stuck
upon a spear, the torso on the gallows and the four limbs over the main gates of
Paris. When these body parts were taken down for burial nearly two years later,
the anonymous Parisian journal-writer considered execution and dismemberment
too lenient a punishment. He thought that instead of being buried, Colinet’s “body
should have been burned or given to the dogs, not put into hallowed ground,” even
if that would not have been a Christian thing to do.102
96 See also Gittings 1984, 36–37, 39.
97 Cohn 1988, 179–180.
98 Daniell 1997, 160.
99 Binski 1996, 133.
100 Weiss-Krejci 2008, 186.
101 Boyden 1999, 242–243.
102 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley 1968, 59–60, 81.
23
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Precisely because of this, revenge-killing could include the mutilation and
desecration of the cadavers. Preventing the murdered bodies being prepared
for death by relatives or, worse, having them defiled by animals was also a way
to dehumanise them and cause them further dishonour. The treatment of the
massacred corpses of the so-called “Cruel Carnival” of Udine in Friuli in 1511 was
heavy with symbolism. The pursuit and butchering of noble political opponents and
members of their households was linked with hog slaughter and hunting. Some
corpses were cut up “like beef,” while others were thrown into wells and latrines.
Many mutilated cadavers, some rendered quite unidentifiable, were left in the streets
for days so that the pigs and dogs would eat them while relatives were prevented
from retrieving them.103 Similarly, the bodies of several notables, including those of
Count Bernard VII of Armagnac (1360–1418), massacred in Paris during civil strife,
had been buried “in a big rubbish dump.” Only in 1436 were the bones honourably
reburied in a nearby church, while the Count’s remains had their resting-place in
the more privileged location of its choir.104
Disrespectful or indifferent treatment of their corpses was something those who
had committed particularly abhorrent crimes could expect. Yet, in displaying the
grisly cadavers of executed criminals, gender played a bigger role than the status
of the dead. Christine Ekholst has discussed the gendered punishments passed
upon those sentenced to death. She has pointed out that visible shaming was
especially poignant when it came to the death sentences of men: “The male body
in life, as in death, was public.” Male punishments aimed especially at exposing
the dead body of the criminal – as a warning sign, while female criminals were
more often destroyed by fire or covered by earth, because their dead bodies were
considered impure and were also dreaded.105
Demonstrative and differentiating treatment of criminals in death followed in
burial. For example, the Anglo-Saxon laws demonstrated a concern for the final
resting place of wrong-doers of various kinds. In addition, special cemeteries for
executed criminals have been discovered in Anglo-Saxon England.106 As Anne
Irene Riisøy points out in her article in this current volume, the death and burial of
an outlaw was a special process. The dead body of the criminal was considered
a danger to the community, and part of the punishment was denying an outlaw
Christian burial.
This again reflects parallel cultures. In this sense, the body of an outlaw can be
compared to that of those killed by lightning, suicides or unbaptised children, whose
souls could neither enter the world of the deceased nor become incorporated into
the society of the dead. Wishing to be “reincorporated into the world of the living”
103 Muir 1998, 94–97, 113–119, 133–134, 138–139
104 A Parisian Journal 1405–1449, trans. and ed. Shirley (1968), 309.
105 Ekholst 2009, 274–276, 292–293.
106 E.g., Thompson 2004, 172–180; Buckberry 2008, 148–168
24
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
but being denied this, these homeless and wandering souls became malevolent.
“These [were] the most dangerous dead.”107 Some Icelandic sagas also discuss
ghosts and restless dead harming the living, although this could be prevented
by certain burial rituals through which hauntings could be made to cease.108 For
example, medieval popular belief could consider paying for masses for the deceased
a necessity, because otherwise the spirits of the dead, as their ghostly doubles,
would haunt the living, especially around cemeteries.109 Some of the aggressive
ghosts and revenants who had been criminals and excommunicates in life could be
put to rest by absolution or had to be prevented from returning by destroying their
corpses by burning or driving spikes through their bodies.110
Thus, in burying outlaws, medieval Norwegians paid special attention to choosing
the site of burial, so that the community would not be tainted. The outlaws belonged
neither to the earth, nor to the water and were to be placed outside the society even
in death. However, no principle was without exceptions, and Riisøy discusses the
debates on the burials of outlaws, also revealing the change and fluctuations in
burial principles. In cases of burials of outlaws, suicides and suspected witches,
pagan practices and popular belief obviously collided with the more sober views of
the Catholic Church. Canon law contented itself with forbidding excommunicates
from being buried in the Church’s cemeteries and, if already buried, their bones
had to be exhumed (exhumari debent) provided they could be identified among
the other corpses. In fact, the papal decretal on the subject was addressed to the
archbishop of Nidaros (present-day Trondheim) indicating, as Riisøy has remarked,
that the burial of outlaws and excommunicates was a topical question in Norway
at the time.111 However, the separation of excommunicates from ordinary burial
grounds went on long into the early modern era, as even English examples show.112
Another sign of parallel cultures shows how the official church norms of dealing
with those killed in tournaments was followed in practice. The stance of the Church
was that tournaments were forbidden. If anyone died in such combat, he was to
be denied ecclesiastical burial (sepultura ecclesiastica) if he had entered it with
a wish to fight (si accessit animo pugnandi).113 This ban was almost universally
disregarded in medieval Europe.114 This example reminds us of how crucial it is not
to assume that normative sources automatically reflected everyday practices.
107 Van Gennep 1960 (1909), 160–161. See also Caciola 1996.
108 E.g., Kanerva (forthcoming). See also, McConchie 1982, 482–483.
109 Binski 1996, 139.
110 Caciola 1996, 21, 23, 27–29.
111 X 3.28.12 in Corpus iuris canonici 2, ed. Friedberg (1881): Title: “Si ossa excommunicatorum
sunt sepulta in ecclesiastico coemeterio, et discerni possunt, debent exhumari et proiici; alias
secus.”
112 Gittings 1984, 76–77.
113 X 5.13.1–2 in Corpus iuris canonici 2, ed. Friedberg (1881).
114 Daniell 1997, 104–105.
25
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
As tournaments, dispersed burials and embalming demonstrate, noble traditions
and an aristocratic way of life created and preserved parallel cultures of death and
dying regardless of the notions of the official Church. Some such elite traditions
even survived changes of religion. In Reformed countries, the dissolution of the
monasteries meant that many noble families lost access to the monastic abbey
churches or priories where the tombs and funerary monuments of their ancestors
had been erected. During an early phase of the English Reformation, tombs –
even royal ones – were officially destroyed even if some nobles were successful
in rescuing their family graves. In Scotland, where the Reformed church forbade
burials within church buildings, some families continued to use their traditional
monastic burial sites, which had lost their former role, for many decades.115
The dissolution of monasteries was only one of the changes caused by the
Reformation in death-related practices. Many Catholic traditions were denounced
as unbiblical Papist superstitions.116 After the Reformation, the rejection of
purgatory naturally also eradicated the necessity of intercession from the living to
the agonised soul in purgatory. Consequently, the prayers of the living on behalf
of the deceased were curtailed. Ralph Houlbrooke has observed that there were
fewer services and a temporal concentration of the obsequies. The process of
interment, including the funeral service delivered by the priest, was transformed
from a means of assisting the deceased in purgatory to a means to teach and
comfort the living.117 A very material change in the ceremonies brought about by
the Reformation was the disappearance of extreme unction as a sacrament and
part of the deathbed rituals. As a consequence, the presence of clerics at the
deathbed was not as necessary in Protestant regions as before, which reduced
their influence on the will-making and led to a “secularisation of the will.”118
In early sixteenth-century England, two death-related causes célèbres had
provoked anticlerical feelings and escalated into disputes about the powers of
ecclesiastical officials and the immunities of the Church. In 1511, Richard Hunne
(d. 1514), a London merchant tailor, had refused to pay the mortuary fee after
the death of his small baby son. Cited eventually to an ecclesiastical court, he
countered by challenging the powers of the ecclesiastical court in a secular court.
Hunne was found hanged in his cell in 1514 – apparently a rigged suicide – after
being arrested for heresy. The Church had Hunne convicted in a post-mortem trial,
and his corpse was burned, but his death was pronounced to be murder and the
family recovered his forfeited property.119
115 Daniell 1997, 200–201; Spicer 1999.
116 E.g., Gittings 1984, 39–49.
117 Houlbrooke 1989b, 29–32; Helt 1999, 194.
118 Houlbrooke 1989b, 29–32.
119 Haigh 1993, 77–83.
26
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Another famous case was triggered by a will made by William Tracy in 1530,
in which he stated his belief in his salvation by God’s grace and the merits of
Jesus instead of relying on prayers, masses and intercessions. Accordingly, no
property was willed to ecclesiastical institutions. Copies of the will circulated, and
it was pronounced heretical in 1532. Consequently, Tracy’s corpse was exhumed,
because the body of a heretic could not remain in consecrated ground. However,
in ordering that it be burned, the ecclesiastical official overstepped the jurisdiction
of the Church and was punished.120 Thus, bodies living and dead formed religious
politics in the pre-Reformation years.
In sixteenth-century France, funerals became the battleground between the
Catholic and Reformed faiths. The bodies of Huguenots, as French Calvinists were
called, were defiled, exhumed or refused proper burial because of their heresy
and refusal to adhere to the true Catholic faith. Thus, the cadavers of Huguenots
– like those of outlaws, suicides and excommunicates – were separated from the
rest of the community and excluded from the hallowed communal cemeteries. As
a result of these bans on burials in cemeteries, some Protestants were claimed
to have embalmed the corpses of their deceased and kept them at home. This
was perceived to be “against humanity,” and in 1563, after some uneasy years,
Huguenots were allowed to establish unobtrusive burial grounds outside the towns.
However, their funerals were restricted: the number of attendants could be thirty at
the most and the interment could only take in the darkness of the hours between
dusk and dawn.121
In post-Reformation England, excommunicates were sometimes buried
nocturnally in the churchyard either clandestinely or by permission if, in the latter
case, the excommunicates were Catholics. At the same time, the 1610s saw
the rise of an aristocratic fashion for night-time funerals with torch processions,
nocturnal services and interments. For some, such nocturnal funerals represented
a more individual, personal and less formal burial.122 Thus, the exceptional time of
the funerary ritual that was meant to brand some deceased as excluded deviants
became the vogue among the elite. Nocturnal funerals came to send different
signals, depending on social class.
Even among Protestants, the rise of religious sects within the Protestant church
may have influenced funeral customs as Houlbrooke has argued for the English
Puritans who advocated simplicity. “Many puritans were hostile to lavish expenditure,
especially on the outward trappings of mourning, because it was wasteful and often
seemed hypocritical.” This may have been a reaction to the exorbitant interment
expenses of the English aristocracy, “marking the zenith of expenditure on funerals”
120 Haigh 1993, 70–72.
121 Roberts 1999, 131–148.
122 Gittings 1984, 76–77, 188–192.
27
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
during some decades around 1500.123 For example, various Protestant groups – as
well as Catholics – had somewhat differing funerary customs in post-Reformation
England.124
Thus it may still be appropriate to talk about cultures of death and dying in the
plural rather than one uniform culture even for Reformed regions. Similarly, many
popular beliefs regarding the souls of the dead lived on until the modern era.
All in all, the articles in this volume show that local and interregional cultures
of death and dying were intertwined, in constant interaction, and experienced
individually even in a time known for its collective mindset. Beliefs about bodies
and spirits were labelled pagan and superstitious first by the Catholic and later, by
the Reformed Churches as well. Side by side with Catholic beliefs and practices,
heretical customs were covertly observed. After the Reformation, these could
become more visible and even clash with the dominant culture. Changes in funeral
fashions could also develop into parallel customs.
While the Reformation led to the abolition of many strong death-related traditions
such as masses for the dead, others were simply remodelled and reinterpreted in
accordance with the new tenets. In other instances, the social functions of the
customs were considered so important as to carry them over religious turmoil
and change. The accepted expressions of emotion may have been culturally
determined, but the feelings of fear, loss and grief in face of the inescapable death
were largely universal in medieval and early modern Europe.
References
Almquist, J. E. 1926. Tidelagsbrottet: En straffrätts-historisk studie. Uppsala Universitets
årsskrift 1926, Juridik 1. Uppsala Universitet: Uppsala.
A Parisian Journal 1405–1449: Translated from the anonymous Journal d’un Bourgeois de
Paris. Trans. and ed. J. Shirley, 1968. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Bartlett, R. 2004. The Hanged Man: A Story of Miracle, Memory, and Colonialism in the Middle
Ages. Princeton: Princeton University Press.
Beaty, N. L. 1970. The Craft of Dying: A Study in the Literary Tradition of the ars moriendi in
England. Yale Studies in English 175. New Haven/London: Yale University Press.
Beier, L. M. 1989. The Good Death in Seventeenth-Century England. In R. Houlbrooke (ed.)
Death, Ritual, and Bereavement. London/New York: Routledge. 43–61.
Beowulf: A Verse Translation. Trans. M. Alexander, 1987. Harmondsworth: Penguin Books.
Binski, P. 1996. Medieval Death: Ritual and Representation. London: British Museum Press.
Boccaccio, G. 1925 (1348–1353). The Decameron. Trans. J. Payne. New York: Horace Liveright.
Boyden, J. M. 1999. The Worst Death Becomes a Good Death: The Passion of Don Rodrigo
Calderón. In B. Gordon & P. Marshall (eds.) The Place of the Dead: Death and
123 Gittings 1984, 25–26, 48–53; Houlbrooke 1989b, 34, 37.
124 Gittings 1984, 39–59.
28
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Cambridge University Press:
Cambridge. 240–265.
Brown, E. A. R. 1981. Death and the Human Body in the Later Middle Ages: The Legislation of
Boniface VIII on the Division of the Corpse. Viator 12, 221–271.
Buckberry, J. 2008. Off with Their Heads: The Anglo-Saxon Execution Cemetery at Walkington
Wold, East Yorkshire. In E. M. Murphy (ed.) Deviant Burial in the Archaeological Record.
Oxford: Oxbow Books. 148–168.
Bynum, C. W. 1995. The Resurrection of the Body in Western Christianity, 200–1336. New
York: Columbia University Press.
Caciola, N. 1996. Wraiths, Revenants and Ritual in Medieval Culture. Past & Present 152,
3–45.
Calendaria Caroli IX. Ed. A. Lewenhaupt, 1903. Stockholm: P. A. Norstedt & Söner.
Campbell, J. 1995. The Ars Moriendi: An examination, translation and collation of the manuscripts
of the shorter Latin version. Unpublished thesis, School of Graduate Studies, University
of Ottawa, available online. <www.ruor.uottawa.ca/bitstream/10393/10313/1/MM07840.
PDF> (visited 6 February 2015)
Carlsson, L. 1972. “Jag giver dig min dotterˮ: trolovning och äktenskap i den svenska kvinnans
äldre historia 2. Rättshistoriskt bibliotek 20. Stockholm: Institutet för rättshistorisk
forskning.
Chiffoleau, J. 1980. La comptabilité de l’au-delà: Les hommes, la mort et la religion dans la
région d’Avignon à la fin du Moyen Age (vers 1320 – vers 1480). Collection de’École
Française de Rome 47. Rome: École Française de Rome.
Cohn, S. K. Jr. 1988. Death and Property in Siena, 1205-1800: Strategies for the Afterlife. The
Johns Hopkins University Studies in Historical and Political Sciences 106:2. Baltimore/
London: The Johns Hopkins University Press.
Corpus iuris canonici 2. Ed. E. Friedberg, 1881. Leipzig: Tauchnitz.
Daniell, C. 1997. Death and Burial in Medieval England 1066-1550. London: Routledge.
Duby, G. 1981. The Hour of Our Death. Trans. H. Weaver. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.
Duby, G. 1983. Images de l’homme devant la mort. Paris: Éditions du Seuil.
Ekholst, C. 2009. För varje brottsling ett straff: Föreställningar om kön i de svenska
medeltidslagarna. Stockholm: Historiska Institutionen vid Stockholms universitet.
Epstein, S. 1984. Wills and Wealth in Medieval Genoa, 1150–1250. Cambridge (Mass)/London:
Harvard University Press.
Everyman and Medieval Miracle Plays. Ed. A. C. Cawley, 1959. New York: E. P. Dutton & Co.
Fallberg Sundmark, S. 2008. Sjukbesök och dödsberedelse: Sockenbudet i svensk medeltida
och reformatorisk tradition. Bibliotheca Theologiae Practicae 84. Skellefteå: Artos/
Norma Bokförlag.
Gersons lärdom huru man skall dö: tryckt i Upsala 1514, fotografiskt återgifven. Samlingar
utgifna af Svenska Fornskrift-Sällskapet 24, 1881. Stockholm: Svenska FornskriftSällskapet.
Gittings, C. 1984. Death, Burial and the Individual in Early Modern England. London/Sydney:
Croom Helm.
Haigh, C. 1993. English Reformations: Religion, Politics, and Society under the Tudors. Oxford:
Clarendon Press.
Harding, V. 1999. Whose Body: A Study of Attitudes towards the Dead Body in Early Modern
Paris. In B. Gordon & P. Marshall (eds.) The Place of the Dead: Death and Remembrance
in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
170–187.
29
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Helt, J. S. W. 1999. Women, memory and will-making in Elizabethan England. In B. Gordon &
P. Marshall (eds.) The Place of the Dead: Death and Remembrance in Late Medieval and
Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 188–205.
Horn, A. 1961 (1656). Agneta Horns leverne. Stockholm: Albert Bonniers förlag AB.
Houlbrooke, R. 1989a. Introduction. In R. Houlbrooke (ed.) Death, Ritual, and Bereavement.
London/New York: Routledge. 1–24.
Houlbrooke, R. 1989b. Death, Church, and Family in England between the Late Fifteenth and
the Early Eighteenth Centuries. In R. Houlbrooke (ed.) Death, Ritual, and Bereavement.
London/New York: Routledge. 25–42.
Journal d’un bourgeois de Paris sous François Ier. Ed. P. Joutard, 1963. Le monde en 10-18 69.
Paris: Union Générale d’éditions.
Kanerva, K. (forthcoming). Restless Dead and Peaceful Cadavers: Preparations for Death in
Medieval Iceland. In A. Lahtinen & M. Korpiola (eds.) Preparing for Death in Medieval
and Early Modern Northern Europe. Leiden: Brill.
Kralik, C. 2011. Dialogue and Violence in Medieval Illuminations of the Three Living and the
Three Dead. In S. Oosterwijk & S. Knoell (eds.) Mixed Metaphors: The Danse Macabre
in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars
Publishing. 133–154.
Kurtz, L. P. 1934. The Dance of Death and the Macabre Spirit in European Literature. New
York: Publications of the Institute of French Studies.
Lambert. M. 1998. The Cathars. Oxford/Malden: Blackwell Publishers.
Lansing, C. 2008. Passion and Order: Restraint of Grief in the Medieval Italian Communes.
Ithaca/London: Cornell University Press.
Laurence, A. 1989. Godly Grief: Individual Responses to Death in Seventeenth-Century Britain.
In R. Houlbrooke (ed.) Death, Ritual, and Bereavement. London/New York: Routledge.
62–76.
Le Goff, J. 1981. La naissance du purgatoire. Paris: Éditions Gallimard.
Lehtonen, T. M. S. 1995. Fortuna, Money, and the Sublunar World: Twelfth-century Ethical
Poetics and the Satirical Poetry of the Carmina Burana. Bibliotheca Historica 9. Helsinki:
Finnish Historical Society.
Le Roy Ladurie, E. 1987. Montaillou: Cathars and Catholics in a French Village 1294–1324,
trans. B. Bray. London: Penguin Books.
Marshall, P. 1999. “The Map of God’s Word”: Geographies of the Afterlife in Tudor and Early
Stuart England. In B. Gordon & P. Marshall (eds.) The Place of the Dead: Death and
Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press. 110–130.
McConchie, R. 1982. Grettir Ásmundarson’s Fight with Kárr the Old: A Neglected Beowulf
Analogue. English Studies, 63:6, 481–486.
Muir, E. 1998. Mad Blood Stirring: Vendetta in Renaissance Italy. Reader’s Edition. Baltimore:
Johns Hopkins University Press.
Mägi, M. 2002. At the Crossroads of Space and Time: Graves, Changing Society and Ideology
on Saaremaa (Ösel), 9th-13th centuries AD. Culture Clash or Compromise Papers 6.
Tallinn: Institute of History, Department of Archaeology.
Nilsson, B. 1989. De sepulturis: Gravrätten i Corpus iuris canonici och i medeltida nordisk
lagstiftning. Bibliotheca theologiae practicae 44. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell.
Oosterwijk, S. 2011. Dance, Dialogue and Duality: Fatal Encounters in the Medieval Danse
Macabre. In S. Oosterwijk & S. Knoell (eds.) Mixed Metaphors: The Danse Macabre
in Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Newcastle upon Tyne: Cambridge Scholars
Publishing. 9–42.
30
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Personalia Öfwer Högwälborne Herr Herman Flemming friherre til Libelitz, herre til Wilnäs.
samt dess K: dotter Jungfru Gertrud Flemming. In Skoklostersamlingen I 74, Riksarkivet
(National Archives of Sweden), Stockholm, Sweden.
Reinis, A. 2007. Reforming the Art of Dying: The ars moriendi in the German Reformation
(1519–1528). Aldershot: Ashgate.
Roberts, R. 1999. Disputing Sacred Space: Burial Disputes in Sixteenth-Century France. In B.
Gordon & P. Marshall (eds.) The Place of the Dead: Death and Remembrance in Late
Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 131–148.
Sayer, D. & S. D. Dickinson. 2013. Reconsidering Obstetric Death and Female Fertility in AngloSaxon England. World Archaeology 45:2, 285–294.
Sellevold, B. J. 2008. Child burials and Children’s Status in Medieval Norway. In S. LewisSimpson (ed.) Youth and Age in the Medieval North. Leiden: Brill. 59–71.
Spicer, A. 1999. “Defyle not Christ’s kirk with your carrion”: Burial and the Development of
Burial Aisles in Post-Reformation Scotland. In B. Gordon & P. Marshall (eds.) The Place
of the Dead: Death and Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe.
Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 149–169.
Stenberg, G. 1998. Döden dikterar: En studie av likpredikningar och gravtal från 1600- och
1700-talen. Stockholm: Atlantis.
Taavitsainen, J.-P. 1989. The Finnish Limousines: Fundamental questions about the Organizing
Process of the Early Church in Finland. In C. Krötzl & J. Masonen (eds.) Quotidianum
Fennicum: Daily Life in Medieval Finland. Medium Aevum Quotidianum 19. Krems:
Medium Aevum Quotidianum. 13–28.
Thompson, V. 2004. Dying and Death in Later Anglo-Saxon England. Anglo-Saxon Studies, 4.
Woodbridge: The Boydell Press.
Van Gennep, A. 1960 (1909). The Rites of Passage. Trans. M. B. Visedom & G. L. Caffee.
London/Henley: Routledge and Kegan Paul.
Vovelle, G. & M. Vovelle 1970. Vision de la mort et de l’au-delà en Provence, d’après les
autels des âmes du purgatoire XV-XX siècles. Cahiers d’Annales 29. Paris: Annales –
Économies, Sociétés, Civilisations.
Weiss-Krejci, E. 2008. Unusual Life, Unusual Death and the Fate of the Corpse: A Case Study
from Dynastic Europe. In E. M. Murphy (ed.) Deviant Burial in the Archaeological Record.
Oxford: Oxbow Books. 169–190.
Wray, S. K. 2009. Communities and Crisis: Bologna during the Black Death. The Medieval
Mediterranean 83. Leiden: Brill.
Wylie, T. 1964–1965. Mortuary Customs at Sa-Skya, Tibet. Harvard Journal of Asiatic Studies
25, 229–242.
31
The Remembrance of the
Deceased in the Traditional Polish
Culture of the Middle Ages
Beata Wojciechowska
Jan Kochanowski University
In the Middle Ages, Polish Christian holidays remained consistent, except for minor
temporary deviations. They included the basic structure of pre-Christian rituals.
Yet, traces of the old Slavic ritual calendar can be clearly identified in the Polish
and Czech sources from the fourteenth- and fifteenth-centuries. Those were rituals
and practices of the ancient, broad context of beliefs which confirmed that certain
traditional attitudes and behaviour were still very much alive. The Slavic calendar
of annual rites was consistent with the crucial moments of the solar cycle. The
whole year was imbued with ritual contacts with the dead, waiting for their arrival,
presence, and supporting them in various established ways.
Traditional beliefs and practices intertwined with the dominant Christian
behaviour and attitudes associated with death and funerals, as well as the methods
recommended by the Church to support the soul of the deceased. A Christian
funeral, crucial for the salvation of the dead, consisted of ritual celebrations,
gestures and a series of prayers recited for the deceased.
The circle of beliefs and ideas about the other world was an area where religious
syncretism was very clear even many centuries after the initial Christianization. The
remaining fragments of the ancient Slavic conceptions of the afterlife, plucked from
the once coherent systems, still coexisted with the assimilated threads of Christian
teaching in the waning centuries of the Middle Ages. They were expressed in
the efforts to secure well-being, supernatural care and the integration with dead
ancestors.
Introduction
In the late Middle Ages, the increasing concern for salvation as the full reward for
fulfilling the precepts of faith and the Church was a sign of uncertainty about the
posthumous fate of the human being. Exertions such as prayers and the final parts
of religious songs contained an element of hope for the successful completion
of the earthly existence. All eschatological issues had a widespread foundation.
The doctrine of the Church, a component of which is the doctrine of reward and
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.)
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 32– 48.
Beata Wojciechowska
punishment for sin and the posthumous fate of the human soul, was common to all
countries of the Western christianitas. They also shared the basic teachings and
the essential religious content which were transmitted to the faithful during sermons
and confession, and placed on the walls of churches in the form of iconography.
In recent decades, the French, Anglo-Saxon and American studies which
culminated in the extensive, synthetic works by Philippe Ariès and Michel Vovelle,
identified a broad program of study of the evolution of attitudes towards death in the
long term.1 They also influenced the analytical trend in research which relates to the
ideas, rituals, practices, devotional behaviours, and collective feelings associated
with a larger discourse of death. 2
The Christian doctrine of reward and punishment after death was confronted
with the local traditional beliefs. Initially, they clearly emerged from Slavic paganism,
and later, after being forgotten, were manifested in practices and attitudes which
theologians refer to as superstitious. Studying the phenomena of medieval
culture in the field of collective mentality and imagination raises questions about
the possibility of moving to the level of the common and the uneducated. Those
“illiterati et idiotae” did not leave any direct records of their thoughts, feelings and
ideas. A look at the pre-Christian layer of the Slavic notion of the world of the
dead is only possible due to the writings left by theologians and preachers who
meticulously recorded all traditional folk beliefs and practices in order to stigmatize
them as errors and excesses in faith and Christian worship. In its teachings about
punishment after death, the Church aimed primarily at effectiveness, and hence
agreed to various concessions to the traditional image which was inherent in the
minds and imagination of the lay faithful.
There are a number of legitimate and compelling questions about the meaning
of the remembrance of the deceased in most Christian holidays, and how far
the compromise reached between the practitioners of pre-Christian origin and
the Christian eschatological content and ideas. The answers are contained in
the fourteenth- and fifteenth-century synodal statutes, texts of sermons and the
reflections of theologians, scholars and chroniclers who studied the issue of
attitudes and the behaviour of the faithful which grew out of their native traditions.
These sources confirm the observance of feasts of the dead in various seasons of
the year and practices related to faith in the life of the deceased, which were not
accepted by the clergy. The confrontation of the Church with the content hidden
behind the annual rites leads to rich and complex issues. One of the battlefields
of this clash was where the Christian eschatology met folk beliefs which contained
the echoes of archaic notions of the fate of the dead.
The Christian worldview was influenced by traditional ideas such as folk beliefs,
attitudes and practices of the local population, especially in rural areas.3 In the
Middle Ages, Polish Christian holidays remained consistent with the basic structure
1
Ariès 1981; Vovelle 1983.
2 Paxton 1990; Finucane 1981, 40–60; Caciola 1996; Braet & Verbeke (eds.) 1983; Lecouteux
1990.
3
Brown 1979, 1–115.
33
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
of pre-Christian rituals, except for minor temporary deviations.4 Yet, traces of the
old Slavic ritual calendar can be clearly identified in the Polish and Czech sources
from the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries. These are rituals and practices of
the old and wider belief context which confirm the liveliness of certain traditional
attitudes and behaviours. The Slavic calendar of annual rites was consistent with
the crucial moments of the solar cycle. The whole year was imbued with ritual
contacts with the dead, waiting for their arrival, presence, and supporting them in
various established ways.
In the traditional culture, the world of the living remained in a stable and close
connection with the world of the dead.5 Stanisław of Skarbimierz (ca. 1360–
1431), a fifteenth-century theologian, preacher and rector of the University of
Crakow, explained in one of his sermons that it is impossible for the dying and the
deceased to inform the living about their posthumous fate, either because they are
condemned, remain in chains and cannot return, or they have become saints, fix
their eyes on God and will not say anything until he sends them, or are doing their
time in purgatory and cannot reveal anything to people without God’s command.6
The preacher pointed to the beliefs regarding the possibility of maintaining contact
with the dead and the desire to learn about the posthumous fate of loved ones. The
relationship was to be established at the initiative of the dead, whose fate remained
at the sole disposal of God. Stanislaw addressed the community of the faithful with
reasoning based on the Christian doctrine which proved the groundlessness of
such an attitude and acknowledged such behaviour as sinful. Jacob of Paradyz
(about 1383–1464), an eminent scholar and theologian, reproached the faithful for
asking old women for advice and about the whereabouts of their dead mothers.7
Elements of the remembrance of the dead appeared in most Christian holidays
and related folk customs. The souls of the dead which were properly taken care
of after death left the mundane world with the prospect of numerous subsequent
visits. Establishing contact with the dead in their own world, outside the human
settlements, at crossroads, on graves or in other places was to make souls share
their knowledge of the future with the living. In their relation with the community of
the living, the deceased possessed magical qualities. As beings which belonged
to another world they were believed to possess the knowledge of its secrets and
the ability to reveal signs of a divinatory nature concerning the future of the living.
People were awaiting the souls of their loved ones on particular occasions called
4
Geremek 1985, 432–482.
5
On the ties between the living and the dead in the early Middle Ages, see Geary 1995, 77–92.
6
Chmielowska (ed.) 1979, Stanisław ze Skarbimierza Sermones sapientiales, 2, 86–87.
7 Porębski (ed.) 1978, Jakub z Paradyża Wybór tekstów, 305: “Mortua est alteri mater sua, inquirit
a vetula, an fit in poenis sive in gaudio.” John of Freiburg considered the desire to learn about the
posthumous fate of loved ones as the fulfillment of the natural human desire for knowledge; see
Ioannes de Friburgo (1518), Summa confessorum, fol. 32 verso b: “Nulla autem inordinatio in hac
inquisitione videtur, si aliquis requirat a moriente cognoscere statum eius post mortem subiciendo
tamen hoc divino iudicio. Unde nulla ratio videtur, quare debet dici hoc esse peccatum, nisi forte ex
dubitatione fidei de futuro statu quasi tentando inquirant.”
34
Beata Wojciechowska
zaduszki (All Souls’). The arrival of these souls, however, took place beyond the
reach of the senses of the living.
As for the research questions, it is necessary to consider the practices which
commemorated the dead, as well as the forms of support for the souls of those who
had passed away, and the Christian ways of supporting them. These problems seem
to be particularly important because the Slavic world of the dead was obscured by
the Christian doctrine of reward and punishment after death. Nevertheless, the
reception of the West-Slavic eschatological system did not erase the late medieval
fear of the dead and the need to support them by means different from those
which are taught by the Church. All these elements influenced the development
of a specific syncretism of beliefs which was reflected in the traditional Polish
culture of the Middle Ages. It was represented in the behaviour and attitudes of
the broad masses of society where the Slavic pre-Christian beliefs merged with
the Christian content. Among the research sources for this issue are statutes of
diocesan synods, fragments of sermons, treatises by theologians and preachers,
as well as records in the annals.
In the Circle of the Eschatological Folklore
Among the medieval annual ceremonials, the winter cycle of rituals seemed
particularly important. It combined the winter solstice, the transition from the old to
the new year and the birth of Jesus. The symbolism of that “boundary” time was
complex. In the traditional Polish culture, Christmas was called Gody. Not only did
the name refer to the holiday itself, but also to the days from Christmas to Epiphany.
The etymology of the word in Slavic languages refers to the dignity, relevance and
the proper moment, emphasizing the time of holidays and celebrations.8 The Slavic
language background, as well as historical and ethnographic data, indicate that
the term originally referred to the initiation of the rites in honour of the deceased
ancestors, the collective zaduszki, celebrated before the start of each rural season,
as well as to individual zaduszki observed several times, a certain number of days
after someone’s death.9
For the fourteenth- and fifteenth-century inhabitants of the Polish lands, the
Christmas period (Gody) was the culmination of the deepest and the most powerful
ritual in the whole annual cycle. In a broader context, this finding can be applied to
the area of Central and Eastern Europe. The exertions and activities undertaken
during this period were supposed to provide success for the family, the farm
and the ploughland until the next holidays. All the activities took on symptomatic
significance. The culmination was the Christmas Eve supper, preceded by fasting
and most probably derived from the ancient feast of abundance and prosperity.
8
Słownik staropolski 2 1956–1959, 446–447; Brückner 1993, 147–148.
9
Wojtyła-Świerzowska 1994, 17–18.
35
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Christmas Eve was a particularly crucial time. It was the moment of separation
from the old time, from everything that was unpleasant and imperfect, and the time
of entering into a new and better time. Apparently, the usual hierarchy of social
relations was suspended. Masters with their servants, the rich with the poor –
at the Christmas Eve table everybody was equal and sat alongside each other,
which obviously was not a common daily practice. This temporary equality was
also manifested in giving gifts to the poor and allowing the servants to behave more
freely.10
In addition to the suspension of social distinctions, the ontological order was
also becoming unbalanced by blurring the boundary between the worlds of the
living and the dead. The mundane world and the afterlife merged and the souls
of the ancestors came to reside among the living. The most intensive “visits” from
the other side took place in the evening and on Christmas Eve. This was pointed
out in the Largum sero seu largissmus vesper treatise by a Benedictine monk from
Moravia, John of Holešova (1366–1436).11
This little book written in 1400 and dedicated to Christmas Eve, was made to
the order of the parish priest Przybysław of Łysa upon Elbe. Having doubts about
the orthodoxy of many traditional Christmas rituals, Przybysław asked his friend
to explain which of them could be observed and which ones were to be opposed.
Not only is John’s treatise noteworthy because of the approach to folk religiosity,
but also because of the popular Christmas Eve customs noted by and well-known
to the author. John of Holešova complained that on that day divinations (sortilegia)
grow more than on any other day of the year. He listed making wishes, gift-giving,
eating bread and crumpets from quality white flour, spreading straw on the floors
of residential chambers and churches, the game of dice, piling money on the table
to multiply one’s wealth, telling fortunes from cut-open fruit, refusing to lend heat
from the hearth and loud singing of carols. John of Holešova also mentioned that
some Christians used to leave bread for pagan idols so that they could come at
night and feed on the leftovers.12 The idea of idols eating food was absurd for him.
Assigning material needs to those demons was considered by him a vulgar error.
He compared this custom to the tradition of bringing food to the graves of the
deceased for their souls to dine.13 John of Holešova judged the aforementioned
10 Wojciechowska 2000, 46–47.
11 Fasseau (ed.) 1761, Largissimus vesper seu colledae historia; Brückner 1916, 308–351; ibidem
the edition of the treatise. Two manuscripts of the treatise remain in the possession of the Jagiellonian
Library, sign. 1700 and 1707. For a shortened Czech translation, see Havránek & Hrabák 1957 (eds.)
Výbor z české literatury od počátkú po dobu Husovu, 743–749; Bylina 1998, 69–73.
12 Brückner (ed.) 1916, Przyczynki do dziejów języka, 332–334, 336–339.
13 The motif of setting a table on Christmas Eve resembles the rite observed on the Roman New
Year which was described by Caesarius of Arles (ca. 470–542). A table was set for the goddesses
of destiny, who usually appeared on special moments such as the turn of the old and the new year.
This legend, in the sense of literary tradition, reached Central Europe as an echo of the beliefs of
the Roman province through Caesarius of Arles and with the help of William of Auvergne (b. after
1180–1249), a thirteenth-century bishop of Paris, as shown by D. Harmening. See Harmening 1979,
121 and further.
36
Beata Wojciechowska
habits according to their conformity with the Christian tradition as well as Christian
attitudes and intentions.
Christmas All-Souls rites are found in the folklore of the whole of European
culture and reveal a huge wealth of observances and customs. It was believed that
during the period of the solstice the mundane world would open to the visitors from
the underworld. People shared their food with the shadows of the dead (leaving
or spilling food and drinks), heat and light (lighting candles and bonfires), and took
precautions so as not to interfere with, and especially not to harm the deceased.14
Christmas Eve was one of the most important continuations of the ancient All
Souls, repeated several times during the year. The souls of the ancestors used to
become (as in some other periods) guardians of the family hearth and warrantors of
a good harvest. Obviously, the belief in the earthly stay of the souls of the dead, so
contradictory to the Christian religion, must have led to repugnance and opposition
from preachers and theologians.
After the Christmas period, winter would deprive the deceased of activity for
some time and a kind of stupor was attributed to them at that time. The winter
sleep of the dead ended with the first signs of the spring recovery, as is evidenced
in the mid- and late-medieval Czech and Polish syllabic calendars, the so called
cyzjojany (Lat. cisiojanus). Their secular content, although subservient to the
superior liturgical content and the elements of religious education, refers to some
ancient beliefs and ideas. Be the snake alive. Spring [Bud’ had živ. Vesna], the
oldest thirteenth-century Czech cisiojanus, reports the awakening of snakes at the
beginning of the second half of February, which was identified in the folk culture of
the West and East Slavs with the souls of the dead and the underworld.15
A long series of spring rites began in March, with their first culmination around
the date of the spring equinox. It was a kind of spring All Souls’ cycle, repeated
from time to time with an uneven intensity of beliefs and celebrations associated
with the dead. The beginning of the spring revival of nature was a signal for the
dead to awake and for their impending visit on earth. Late-medieval Czech and
Polish texts contain descriptions of rituals and practices loaded with their longterm coexistence with the Christian cult and influenced by the Christian liturgical
calendar. The Slav-wide early spring rite of carrying the effigy of Death beyond the
boundaries of human settlements concerned, among other things, the souls of the
dead. Such efforts were possibly aimed at various demonic powers and against
the deceased who died from unnatural causes, that is “the impurely deceased”. In
Poland, the effigy was called Marzanna, Mara or Marena, which in the West Slavic
languages have an etymological connection with death (mór). It was made with a
bundle of hemp or straw, dressed in human clothes and carried away beyond the
14 Bylina 1992.
15 Nováková 1967, 27–28; Bylina 1999, 25–26.
37
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
city gates with superstitious, rhythmical singing and dancing.16 The noise made
during this procession was supposed to drive away evil spirits and prevent them
from causing harm to people. Such rites were attended by residents of villages,
towns and cities alike.
We are therefore faced with a popular ritual which was not limited to rural
environments only. This ritual was a common concern of the whole community.
The destruction of the effigy by dropping it into the water, swamps or mud was
supposed to prevent death in the following year and dismiss the inner conviction of
the inevitability of leaving this world.17 Getting rid of this symbol of winter deadness
was considered a dangerous act. The hostile force which was being destroyed
could reveal its destructive powers even at that very last moment of its existence.
The fear of the unknown power made the participants hastily leave the theatre of
the effigy’s destruction. Since the escape was an attempt to achieve liberation from
evil forces, those who fell during the return home were predicted to die soon. The
ritual of dumping the effigy was observed on the fourth Sunday of fasting, called
the lethal or white Sunday (in the liturgy “Laetare”). This term suggests a trace
of the Indo-European custom devoted to death and the dead.18 One of the many
meanings of this content-rich custom can be associated with the habit of sending
signals by water, a kind of “messenger” to the other world, in order to encourage its
residents to renew their interest in the affairs of the living.
The written sources indicate an intense celebration of the earthly residence of
the dead during Holy Week. The East Slavs used to contact the deceased through
the preparation of a feast and ritual baths. A traditional festival called Radunica
was celebrated. In Slavic languages, its name may be etymologically derived from
“ancestry” (ród), “parents” (rodzice) or “the memory of the grandfathers” (dziady).19
In Poland, the days preceding Easter, that is Holy Wednesday and Holy Thursday (in
English also known as Spy Wednesday and Maundy Thursday), were of particular
importance for the cult of the dead. In the fifteenth century on the Holy Wednesday
people piled up branches and lit special bonfires (called grumadki) to warm the
souls of the deceased ancestors.20 The few written sources confirm that on the
16 This rite is confirmed in synodal statutes of Prague from 1366 and 1384, synodal statutes of
the Bishop of Poznań Andrzej Łaskarzowic from Gosławice (1362–1426) from around 1420, Jana
Długosz’s Chronicles, a part of a sermon by Stanisław from Skarbimierz and a fragment from Marcin
Bielski’s Chronicles from the sixteenth century. See Höfler (ed.) 1862. Concilia Pragensia 13531413, 63–64; Sawicki (ed.) 1952, Concilia Poloniae 7, 156; Dlugossi 1961, Annales seu cronicae
incliti Regni Poloniae. lib. 1, 166, 244; Zawadzki (ed.) 1978, Stanisław ze Skarbimierza, Sermones
super „Gloria in excelsis”, 104; Bielski 1764, Kronika polska niegdyś w Krakowie, 34.
17 Höfler (ed.) 1862, Concilia Pragensia, 64: “[…] in eorum ignominiam asserentes quod mors eis
ultra nocere non debeat tanquam ab ipsorum terminis sit consumata et totaliter exterminata”.
18 Gieysztor 2006, 242.
19 Bylin 1992, 28.
20 Belcarzowa 1981 (ed.), Glosy polskie w łacińskich kazaniach średniowiecznych 1, 57: “Item feria
quarta magna admoneantur ne crement focos grumathky ardentes secundum ritum paganorum in
commeracionem animarum suarum cariorum. Item qui mentiuntur, qui dicunt quo animae ad illum
ignem veniant et se illic calefaciant.”
38
Beata Wojciechowska
following day, Holy Thursday, the souls visited homes. Stanisław of Skarbimierz
mentioned the habit of leaving the dishes unwashed, in order that the souls of
deceased could dine on the leftovers.21
Under the influence of the stories circulating among the people, an anonymous
preacher of the Benedictine Monastery of St. Cross on Łysa Góra completed
the reflections of the Krakow scholar adding information about the home spirit
called uboże. Every Thursday and on Holy Thursday, uboże was offered a food
sacrifice. The unnamed author explained that contrary to what “the silly and vain
people believed”, it was usually the dog, not the spirit, to fed on the nourishment.22
Uboże impersonated the remembrance of the dead associated with compassion
for the poor posthumous fate of the miserable soul wandering somewhere in
an indeterminate, empty and barren space. The exiled soul pined for the loved
ones. The homelessness of the soul determined the most important feature of the
traditional vision of the afterlife and its destiny after death.23
In another sermon, Stanislaw of Skarbimierz reproved those who sacrificed
to demons, asked them for something or left some food for them on plants and
trees.24 The author of the sermon did not clearly indicate the relationship between
the domestic demons and the souls of ancestors, but showed the similarity in the
concern for both categories of beings from another world.
Although the Polish late-medieval sources describe customs opposed by
preachers and theologians, we do not know what changes they had undergone
since the pre-Christian period. Generally, however, they present basic forms of
support for the souls of the deceased: leaving food for them and lighting bonfires
secundum ritu paganorum in order to help the arriving spirits keep warm. The
general goal was a warm welcome for the souls of the deceased loved ones.
The traditional annual Slavic celebrations were concentrated in the period
between Easter and Pentecost and contained many minor exertions which
expressed the cult of the dead and the belief in the presence of their souls among
the living. The Czech chronicler Kosmas noted a custom known to him from the
twelfth century. On Tuesday or Wednesday after Pentecost, villagers celebrated
over their dead “dancing with face masks attached and calling the shadows of the
dead.” He also reported that the Slavs believed that the souls of the dead somehow
resided at crossroads; hence they used to build shelters and wooden booths for
21 Chmielowska (ed.) 1979, Stanisław ze Skarbimierza Sermones sapientiales, 90: “Nonnuli sunt,
qui non lavant scultellas post caenam feria quinta magna ad pascendum animas. Stulti, credentes
spiritus corporalibus indigere, cum scriptum sit: Spiritus carnem et ossa non habet [Luc.24,39]. Si
ergo carnem non habet corporalibus pasci non indigent. Aliqui dimittunt remanentias ex industria in
scultellis, tunc post caenam quasi, ad nutriendum animas; quod est erroneum.”
22 Brückner 1895, 345.
23 Bracha 2011, 49–70.
24 Zawadzki (ed.) 1978. Stanislaus de Scarbimiria, Sermones super “Gloria in excelsis”, 104:
“Daemonibus sacrificia offerunt vel ab eis responsa petunt […] aut in arboribus vel plantis aliquod
nutriminis ponunt.”
39
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
their souls to rest in.25 In a burial custom a few centuries later, bundles of straw were
thrown out at the intersections of roads and at the borders of villages for the souls
of the dead to rest on.26 People who died prematurely or from unnatural causes,
especially suicide, were also buried in these places. They became dangerous
in the magical-religious sense. Their spirits wandered in and inhabited different
places away from human settlements.
Picture 1. In the Biblical story (1 Sam. 28:3–25), King Saul who had expelled all necromancers
wished to communicate with the dead prophet Samuel about his war against the Philistines. For this
purpose, he visited the witch of Endor who summoned the ghost of Samuel.
The relation between the souls of the dead and the cyclical seasonal changes
made them participate more closely in the life of nature. The spring awakening of
the dead began at a time when plants were coming back to life and arable land was
being prepared for sowing. The ritual lighting of spring fires stimulated vegetation
and could be one of the signals inducing the activity of the sleeping souls. In the
Slavic languages, the proximity of two words is very meaningful: the verb for “light
a fire” (krzesać) is very similar in pronunciation to “resurrect” (wskrzeszać).27
The traditional cult of the dead weakened over the summer, probably because of
intensive harvesting.
Traces of the autumn earthly stay of the souls (autumn All Souls) have been
quite strongly blurred. A Polish rhyming calendar from the second half of the
25 Bretholz (ed.) 1923, Cosmae Pragensis: Chronica, lib. III, cap. 1. 161.
26 Fischer 1921, 330–331.
27 Tyszkiewicz 1976, 591–597.
40
Beata Wojciechowska
fifteenth century placed between St. Francis “grating hemp” (4 October) and St.
Hedwig (15 October) a day or a few days in which peasants were preparing a ritual
feast for the dead (a wake).28 This record indicates the habit of preparing a special
meal for the souls of ancestors or the deceased loved ones which might have also
been consumed in their honour.
Later, just before the winter, the spirits of the dead revived around 13 December,
the day perceived by the people as the shortest of the year. Some echoes of the
fear of that day can be found in the medieval Polish proverb “Stay at home Lucy”
(“Łucyja siedź doma”).29 The invisible souls of ancestors did not avoid visiting their
descendants, adapting to their way of feeling the rhythm and the changes taking
place in the environment.
The symbolic nature of rituals meant that the time of celebration took on special
characteristics. It was the time of re-integration with the sacred order, a time when
the earth and the underworld became reunited. The dead would leave their graves
and come to visit the living. This was normal during the suspension of the common
order while the change between seasons was taking place. As the time of the visit
was coming to an end, the dead were seen off until the time of the next celebration.
Their constant presence was unwanted.
The Christian Concern for the Fate of the Soul
Traditional beliefs and practices intertwined with the dominant Christian behaviour
and attitudes associated with death and the funeral, as well as the methods
recommended by the Church to support the soul of the deceased.30 A Christian
funeral, crucial for the salvation of the dead, consisted of ritual celebrations,
gestures and a series of prayers recited for the deceased. Poor people were buried
naked or wrapped in straw. Most of the dead were wrapped in a shroud. The Church
also tried to ensure a proper funeral for the poor, as evidenced in synodal acts. The
statute of the Wroclaw diocesan synod of 1446 ordered parish priests to serve the
rich and the poor equally.31
The posthumous fate of the soul was influenced by a proper funeral service.
From the fourteenth and the fifteenth centuries we do not find any traces of gifts
put into the grave which were supposed to help the deceased in the afterlife.
Many different rituals over the dead body and the grave which, according to preChristian beliefs, were inevitable for the posthumous well-being of the dead, had
been forgotten or rooted out by the Church. On the first evening after death, called
“an empty evening”, relatives, neighbours and friends guarded the corpse. The
28 Fijałek 1927, 2445.
29 Vrtel-Wierczyński (ed.) 1952, Średniowieczna poezja polska świecka, 99.
30 Burgess 2000, 44–64; Caciola 2000, 66–86.
31 Sawicki (ed.) 1963, Concilia Poloniae 10, 454.
41
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Polish name for this custom reflected the situation of the deceased person, not yet
buried, no longer belonging to the world of the living but not fully belonging to the
other world either.
The uncertainty of the posthumous fate of the human soul was expressed in the
fifteenth-century Polish song “The soul has fled out of the body” (“Dusza z ciała
wyleciała”). A soul, after leaving the body, arrives in a meadow and bursts into
tears as it does not know where to go. An unnamed interlocutor takes it to paradise,
to the kingdom of heaven.32 That theme of the insecurity and confusion of the soul
also appeared in other beliefs, clearly Christianized, referring to the early afterlife
phase of the human fate. An anonymous fifteenth-century Polish sermon reported
that on the first night after death the soul stays with St. Gertrude, on the second
with St. Michael and on the third night leaves for the designated place. On Saturday
evening, the souls leave Purgatory and rest until Monday, until someone starts to
work.33
Picture 2. The pains of the souls in purgatory are depicted in this decorated initial by the workshop
of Gerard Horenbout (1465–1541) from about 1500.
32 Michałowska 1995, 512.
33 Bracha 2007 (ed.) Nauczanie kaznodziejskie w Polsce późnego średniowiecza. Sermones
dominicales et festivales, 165.
42
Beata Wojciechowska
Very much alive and supported by the Church, however, was the deep conviction
of the obligation to bury the body and how important for salvation was a solemn funeral
service.34 The candles lit by the bed of a dying Christian played a very important
role. They lit up the darkness in which the sins were buried and accompanied
the angels in their fight against evil spirits for the soul of the dead. Later, burning
candles were an important element of the funeral procession and symbolized the
sky which, according to the hopes of the living, the dead were entering. This belief
was confirmed by a fifteenth-century Polish preacher: “Those shall be condemned
after whom candles will not be carried.”35 In honour of the deceased a meal was
collectively consumed, in the belief that the soul of the deceased also participated
in that meeting. It was reflected in the custom of throwing crumbs of food under the
table for the deceased. Polish diocesan synodal statutes from the fifteenth century
called on the clergy participating in funeral feasts (wakes) for restraint or totally
prohibited participation in them.
Traditional beliefs prevailed in the period between the human death and moving
of the soul into the unknown beyond. The burial of the body was seen as the end
to the earthly human existence. People feared the possibility of the return of the
dead to their homes shortly after the funeral. The belief in the possibility of their
return to home not long after the funeral filled people with fear. Perhaps this fear
stemmed from the archaic conviction about the consequences of failing to prepare
an adequate funeral ceremony, which was combined with the concern for the wellbeing of the deceased in the afterlife. A preacher and theologian, Stanisław of
Skarbimierz, condemned preventing the resurgence of the dead as superstitious.
Among other things, he mentioned spilling ash before the threshold of the house of
the dead and burying some objects of magical significance under the threshold.36
He attributed these practices to women and men, the elderly and the young. The
threshold of the house served as a boundary which separated the living from
the dead, which was to prevent unwanted returns of the buried dead from the
underworld.
There were also souls which showed no benevolence to people, however, not
in a very dangerous manner but rather with a tendency to scare anyone surprised
by seeing or hearing them. They came from ancient beliefs combined with the
Christianized idea of the atonement for the sins unexpiated in the earthly life.
Those sorrowful, repentant souls could stay in very different places: near the tomb,
at the site of the sudden loss of life, under bridges, rocks, at crossroads, in caves,
wells, forests, bushes, under the threshold and inside the home. The fear of the
drowned was common. They were seen as evil and insidious and used to pull
bathing people into whirlpools. The Church rejected the belief in the corporeal form
of ghosts hostile towards people. It was critical of the idea of protection against this
34 Bylina 2009, 136–137.
35 Zaremska 1977, 139–140.
36 Chmielowska (ed.) 1979, Stanisław ze Skarbimierza Sermones sapientiales, 87.
43
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
or similar categories of the dead, at the same time criticizing the non-Christian ways
of helping the visitors from the other world. The Christian belief in the immortality
of souls combined with the long-standing belief in their circulation around the
house, arrival on All Souls’ Day, warming up by the fire and eating foods. The
Church imposed prohibitions on human interference in matters relating to death:
its prediction or indication through divinations about who was to pass away next.
Some practices to guard against death were also recognized as superstitious; for
example, the wearing of protective amulets.
In the Christian eschatology, the place where the immortal and incorporeal soul
and those souls deprived of their earthly needs resided was connected with the
places of reward and punishment after death. The funeral liturgical forms used in
the initial phase of the Christianization of Poland included prayers for the salvation
of the human soul and the lack of punishment by fire and other torments.37 In the
late Middle Ages, the concept of the soul was well-known in Polish lands. The
faithful learned it from the liturgy, sermons and prayers. At the end of their lives,
they devoted their souls to God and the Saints. The soul, however, was difficult
to imagine. In the iconographic teaching, it was depicted as a small, vague (nonmaterial) silhouette of a human shape, coming out of a dying man’s mouth. It was
also imagined as a small but distinctive figure lifted up to heaven by the angels.
Preachers and writers of religious works claimed that the souls of the dead
experienced joy and passion similarly to the living. In the mass imagination, the
soul was somehow another body, similar to that which was buried in the ground.38
All the actions taken by the living, in addition to grief, were motivated by their
faith in the effectiveness of their gestures towards the dead. Church teaching
promoted the belief that the living may reduce the suffering of the souls in purgatory
by attending Holy Mass, saying prayers and performing good deeds. Crakow
synodal statutes by bishops Nanker (Nankier, ep. 1320–1326) and Grotowic (Jan
Grot, ep. 1326–1347) confirmed the observance of funeral eves. According to
the synod of 1323, they were to be celebrated once a week in every parish. The
dead were commemorated in breviary prayers. The office of the dead, the officium
defunctorum, was a daily duty of the clergy. Fasting and alms also helped to relieve
the souls in purgatory. The official liturgy of the Church set the prayers for the dead
in the canon of the mass, the funeral service, funeral masses, and in the custom
of wypominki, that is, reading the names of the deceased after every sermon.
Reflection on death became a part of thinking about one’s own fate.
37 Labudda 1983, 271–276.
38 Bylina 1992, 19.
44
Beata Wojciechowska
Picture 3. This skull illustrates the office of the dead, the officium defunctorum, in the Gualenghid’Este Hours by Taddeo Crivelli (d. ca. 1479). The office begins with the words “Placebo Dominoˮ (I
will please the Lord).
Conclusion
The attitude of the Church towards the non-Christian manifestations of the ties
between the world of the living and that of the deceased is characterized by a sort of
ambiguity, sometimes difficult to recognize. There were prohibitions imposed when
the content traced in popular practices was considered to be clearly discrepant
from the Christian truths of faith. However, there was also tolerance for certain
behaviours and rituals, especially those which were considered superstitious or
pagan. In the fifteenth century, the warming of souls by the fire after they came back
from the cold underworld was perceived by Polish preachers as “ritus paganorum”,
while leaving food for them was seen as “erroneum”. The vigil by the deceased and
mourning during the “empty evening” was described as “consuetudo”. Therefore,
cyclic practices were treated more severely (feeding and warming souls) than
occasional ones which related to death and burial.
The circle of beliefs and ideas about the other world was an area in which religious
syncretism was very clear even many centuries after the initial Christianization. The
remaining fragments of the ancient Slavic conceptions of the afterlife, plucked from
the once coherent systems, still coexisted with the assimilated threads of Christian
teaching in the waning centuries of the Middle Ages. They were expressed in the
efforts to secure well-being, supernatural care and integration with dead ancestors.
The reflection on the nature of death was commemorative in character. It led human
memory beyond the earthly horizon, became a kind of warning or encouragement
which could not be forgotten in this life. The remembrance of the deceased was
undoubtedly an element of thinking about oneself.
45
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
References
Ariès, P. 1981 (1977). The Hour of our Death. Trans. H. Weaver. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.
Belcarzowa, E. 1981.Glosy polskie w łacińskich kazaniach średniowiecznych. Part 1. Wrocław:
Ossolineum.
Bielski, M. 1764. Kronika polska niegdyś w Krakowie drukowana teraz znowu z doprowadzeniem
aż do Augusta III przedrukowana [continued F. Bohomolec]. Warsaw: J. K. Mości y Rzpl.
u XX. Societatis Jesu.
Bracha, K. 2007. Nauczanie kaznodziejskie w Polsce późnego średniowiecza: Sermones
dominicales et festivales z tzw. kolekcji Piotra z Miłosławia. Kielce: Wydawnictwo
Akademii Świętokrzyskiej.
Bracha, K. 2011. Uboże w świecie zmarłych. In T. Grabarczyk & T. Nowak (eds.) Dynamika
przemian społecznych i religijnych w średniowieczu. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo DiG.
Braet, H. & W. Verbeke (eds.) 1983. Death in the Middle Ages. Leuven: Leuven University
Press.
Bretholz, B. (ed.) 1923. Cosmae Pragensis. Chronica Boemorum. Berlin: Weidmannsche
Buchhandlung.
Brown, T. 1979. The Fate of the the Dead: A Study in Folk-eschatology in the West Country
after the Reformation. Cambridge: Rowman and Littlefield.
Brückner, A. 1895. Kazania średniowieczne. Part 2. Rozprawy Akademii Umiejętności. Wydział
Filologiczny, series 2, vol. 24. Cracow: Akademia Umiejętności.
Brückner, A. 1916. Przyczynki do dziejów języka polskiego. Rozprawy Wydziału Filologicznego
Akademii Umiejętności, series 4, vol. 54, 261–351.
Brückner, A. 1993. Słownik etymologiczny języka polskiego. Warsaw: Wiedza Powszechna.
Burgess, C. 2000. “Longing to be prayed for”: Death and commemoration in an English parish
in the later Middle Ages. In B. Gordon & P. Marshall (eds.) The Place of the Dead: Death
and Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press. 44–65.
Bylina, S. 1992. Człowiek i zaświaty. Wizje kar pośmiertnych w średniowiecznej Polsce.
Warsaw: Instytut Historii PAN.
Bylina, S. 1998. Między Godami a Wigilią: Kilka uwag o traktacie Jana z Holešova. In H.
Gapski (ed.) Christianitas et Cultura Europae: Księga Jubileuszowa Profesora Jerzego
Kłoczowskiego. Part 1. Lublin: Instytut Europy Środkowo-Wschodniej. 69–73.
Bylina, S. 1999. Kultura ludowa Polski i słowiańszczyzny średniowiecznej. Warsaw/Łowicz:
Mazowiecka Wyższa Szkoła Humanistyczno-Pedagogiczna w Łowiczu.
Bylina, S. 2009. Religijność późnego średniowiecza: Chrześcijaństwo a kultura tradycyjna w
Europie Środkowo-Wschodniej w XIV – XV w. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Neriton Instytut
Historii PAN.
Caciola, N. 1996. Wraiths, Revenants and Ritual in Medieval Culture, Past and Present 152,
3–45.
Caciola, N. 2000. Spirits seeking bodies: death, possession and communal memory in the
Middle Ages. In B. Gordon & P. Marshall (eds.) The Place of the Dead: Death and
Remembrance in Late Medieval and Early Modern Europe. Cambridge: Cambridge
University Press. 66–86.
Chmielowska, B. (ed.) 1979. Stanisław ze Skarbimierza Sermones sapientiales. Part 2.
Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej.
Dlugossi, J. 1961. Annales seu cronicae incliti Regni Poloniae. lib. 1. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo
Naukowe PWN.
46
Beata Wojciechowska
Fasseau, A. T. (ed.) 1761. Largissimus vesper seu colledae historia authore Joanne
Holeschoviensi, antiquissimi monasterii Brzevnoviensis ordinis s. Benedicti in Bohemia
monacho professo[…]. Olomucii: Typis Josephae Himlianae, Fact. Martini Francisci
Karletzky.
Fijałek, J. 1927. Ciziojan polski z r.1471. Prace Filologiczne 12, 428–448.
Finucane, R. C. 1981. Sacred Corpse, Profane Carrion: Social Ideals and Death Rituals in the
later Middle Ages. In J. Whaley (ed.) Mirrors of Mortality: Studies in the Social History of
Death. New York: St. Martin’s Press. 40–60.
Fischer, A. 1921. Zwyczaje pogrzebowe ludu polskiego. Lwów: Zakład Narodowy im.
Ossolińskich.
Geary, P. J. 1995. Exchange and Interaction between the Living and the Dead in Early Medieval
Society. In P. J. Geary (ed.) Living with the Dead in the Middle Ages. Ithaca/London:
Cornell University Press. 77–92.
Geremek, B. 1985. Człowiek i czas: jedność kultury średniowiecznej. In J. Dowiat (ed.) Kultura
Polski średniowiecznej X-XIII w. Warsaw: Państwowy Instytut Wydawniczy. 432–482.
Gieysztor, A. 2006. Mitologia Słowian. Warsaw: Wydawnictwa Uniwersytetu Warszawskiego.
Harmening, D. 1979. Superstitio: Überlieferungs-und Theoriegeschichtliche Untersuchungen
zur kirchlich – teologischen Aberglaubensliteratur des Mittelalters. Berlin: Erich Schmidt
Verlag.
Havránek, B. & J. Hrabák (ed.) 1957. Výbor z české literatury od počátkú po dobu Husovu.
Prague: Nakladatelství ČSAV.
Höfler, C. (ed.) 1862. Concilia Pragensia 1353–1413. Prague: K. Seyfried.
Ioannes de Friburgo. 1518. Summa confessorum. Lugduni.
Labudda, A. 1983. Liturgia pogrzebu w Polsce do wydania Rytuału Piotrkowskiego (1631).
Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej.
Lecouteux, C. 1990. Les esprits et les morts: Croyances médiévales. Paris: H. Champion.
Michałowska, T. 1995. Średniowiecze. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN.
Nováková, J. 1967. Počátky českého cisiojánu. Sbornik historický 15, 5–43.
Paxton, F. S. 1990. Christianizing Death: The Creation of a Ritual Process in Early Medieval
Europe. New York/London: Cornell University.
Porębski, S. A. (ed.) 1978. Jakub z Paradyża Wybór tekstów dotyczących reform Kościoła.
Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej.
Sawicki, J. (ed.) 1952. Concilia Poloniae: Źródła i studia krytyczne. Synody diecezji poznańskiej
i ich statuty, vol. 7. Poznań: Poznańskie Towarzystwo Przyjaciół Nauk.
Sawicki, J. (ed.) 1963. Concilia Poloniae: Źródła i studia krytyczne. Synody diecezji wrocławskiej
i ich statuty, vol. 10. Wrocław/Warsaw/Cracow: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich.
Słownik staropolski, vol. 2. 1956–1959. Wrocław/Warsaw/Cracow: Instytut Języka Polskiego
PAN.
Tyszkiewicz, J. 1976. “Nowy ogień” na wiosnę. In S.K. Kuczyński (ed.) Cultus et cognitio: Studia
z dziejów średniowiecznej kultury. Warsaw: Wydawnictwo Naukowe PWN. 590–597.
Vovelle, M. 1983. La mort et l’Occident de 1300 a nos jours. Paris: Gallimard.
Vrtel-Wierczyński, S. (ed.) 1952. Średniowieczna poezja polska świecka. Wrocław: Zakład
Narodowy im. Ossolińskich.
Wojciechowska, B. 2000. Od Godów do św. Łucji. Obrzędy doroczne w Polsce późnego
średniowiecza. Kielce: Wyższa Szkoła Pedagogiczna im. Jana Kochanowskiego.
47
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Wojtyła-Świerzowska, M. 1994. O niektórych nazwach czasu w językach słowiańskich. Rocznik
Slawistyczny 49, 15–29.
Zaremska, H. 1977. Bractwa w średniowiecznym Krakowie: Studium form społecznych życia
religijnego. Wrocław: Zakład Narodowy im. Ossolińskich.
Zawadzki, R. M. (ed.) 1978. Stanisław ze Skarbimierza, Sermones super “Gloria in excelsis”.
Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej.
Zawadzki, R. M. (ed.) 1978. Stanislaus de Scarbimiria, Sermones super “Gloria in excelsis”.
Warsaw: Akademia Teologii Katolickiej.
48
Deviant Burials:
Societal Exclusion of Dead
Outlaws in Medieval Norway
Anne Irene Riisøy
Buskerud and Vestfold University College
In Norway, an outlaw was “placed outside the law” and, after the introduction
of Christianity in the eleventh century, the worst kinds of outlaws, perpetrators
described in terms revolving around the vargr and the níðingr, were denied burial
in the churchyard. Such people had committed their crimes in an unmanly and
stealthy way. Additionally, they may have avoided taking responsibility for their
actions. Such behaviour made an otherwise redeemable act irredeemable.
This norm for proper conduct is firmly rooted in pre-Christian notions, and
the Church used it as a platform to make it easier for the populace to understand
that whereas most people belonged within the churchyard, others clearly did not.
With some modifications during the high Middle Ages, typically when additional
categories of criminals were excluded from Christian burial, this principle carried
through well into the early modern period. Documents which can tell us how these
rules worked out in practice are few and far between, but are enough to show that
the Church tried to ensure that the worst outlaws remained out of the churchyard.
The outlaws’ bodies may have been buried at the place of execution, typically close
to the gallows, or at the shore or under heaps of stones far away from settlements.
Introduction
In Viking Age and medieval Norway, an outlaw was “placed outside the law”, a loss
of legal protection which had several consequences.1 An outlaw might be expelled
from a legal province or from the country, forfeit property and risk being killed
by anyone with impunity. The concept and applicability of outlawry changed over
time.2
1 Ebbe Hertzberg, who wrote the glossary of Norges gamle Love indtil 1387 [hereafter NgL], ed.
by Keyser et al., NgL V, 676, interpreted útlagr, útlægr, útslægr as “fredløs, stillet udenfor loven”, i.e.,
“outlaw, placed outside the law”.
2
Riisøy 2014.
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.)
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 49 – 81.
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
The introduction of Christianity brought about alterations; for example, outlaws
were denied burial in the churchyard, which will be the topic of this article. The
defined and enclosed churchyard implies that someone controlled that particular
space and access to it, and I will ask why exactly outlaws were denied Christian
burials, who controlled this process and where deceased outlaws were buried.
This article will cover a long chronological span, and hence touch upon various
“cultures” of death, which were influenced by both heathen and Christian ways of
thinking. The focus will primarily be on the Middle Ages, which in Norway lasted
from approximately the early eleventh century to the coming of the Reformation in
1537. To a certain extent, this study will delve into the Viking Age because the rules
on exclusion of outlaws evidenced in the earliest Norwegian Christian laws have
found inspiration in pre-Christian provisions on outlawry. Hence rules which placed
some categories of people outside the sphere of the good Christian dead were
based not only on Christian notions of life after death, but were also very much
rooted in a heathen secular way of thinking about the punishment of criminals in
this world. This combination of various legal and religious notions was probably
facilitated by the fact that before, during, and after the Middle Ages, the populace
at large saw no clear demarcation lines between the living and the dead, between
flesh and soul.
The Christian culture was not a given once and for all, and the Middle Ages saw
changes which also had a bearing on rules of exclusion of various categories of
criminals from the churchyard, and although traditionally considered a watershed
in regard to introducing new religious and legal ideas, the introduction of the
Reformation did not initially touch upon the question of how to treat dead criminals.
Hence, some discussion of the treatment of dead outlaws after the Reformation is
also in order.
Rules on Burial: Inclusion and Exclusion
The archaeological evidence for the tenth century is fragmentary, but enough to
show that the oldest Christian cemeteries and churches in Norway go back to
this time. At Veøy on the coast of western Norway, the remains of a church and
a cemetery dating to the mid-tenth century were found, and further south along
the coast, at the royal manor at Fitjar, Christian burials may have taken place
at the same time.3 At Kvinesdal in southern Norway, stratigraphic analysis and
radiocarbon dating evidence a church built ca. AD 1000, while a Christian cemetery
at the same site may be 100 years older.4 Comparable early dates exist for Faret
in Skien in south-eastern Norway, where a Christian grave area, limited by a ditch,
was established inside a pre-Christian cemetery in the mid-tenth century, and in
3
Veøy see Solli 1996, 89–114; Fitjar see Iversen 2008; Dunlop 1998.
4
Brendalsmo & Stylegar 2001, 5–47.
50
Anne Irene Riisøy
the early eleventh century a church was built.5 This pattern, where a Christian
cemetery was a direct continuation of a pre-Christian burial ground, and where
the building of a church came last, is evidenced in several places in Norway.6
Christianization was a protracted process, and heathen burials of the eleventh
century are still documented along the coast of Agder in southern Norway.7
Because churches and churchyards are very visible manifestations of the new
religion, I will rule out the idea that rules on Christian burial were enacted in law
before Christianity finally gained universal political acceptance, which happened
during the first half of the eleventh century in most of Norway. At this time, there
were four large legal provinces: Gulathing (west coast), Frostathing (the area north
of the Gulathing), Eidsivathing (east) and Borgarthing (south-east), each of which
had its own representative assembly. The dating of the oldest Christian laws will
always be open to some debate because the oldest manuscripts and fragments
in which they are preserved date from around 1200.8 Although these laws were
undoubtedly written down before then, there is contention over how much earlier.
Whether the laws contain even older, orally transmitted material is also debatable.
However oral traditions were much stronger in the Middle Ages than today and,
because a law may consist of several chronological strata, it is possible to see that
some laws, or sections of laws, are indeed older than others; this can be seen both
in choice of terminology and concepts, and in the existence of obsolete regulations
alongside new rules.
In the area of the Gulathing, some Christian law legislation may already have
been enacted during the reign of King Haakon the Good (r. ca. 933–959), who
was sent to Wessex to be fostered at the court of King Æthelstan (r. over Mercia
and Wessex 924–939, r. over England 927–939).9 Wessex probably exercised
considerable influence on the Christianization of Norway, particularly the western
parts of the country.10 When Haakon came back to Norway, it is quite likely that
5
Reitan 2006.
6
Vibe Müller 1991.
7
Rolfsen 1981, 128. For a study including various parts of Norway, see Walaker Nordeide 2011.
8
See, for example, Helle 2001, 17–23, Rindal 1996, Røsstad 1997. A short description of each
law manuscript is found in NgL IV, xiv–xv.
9 According to Bergsöglisvisur, a poem composed by Sigvat in the 1030s, King Haakon was King
Æthelstan’s fosterson (Hollander 1964, 553), and a total of five different sagas, written in Old Norse
or in Latin also mention this; see Williams 2001, 113–114.
10 This influence may have been less in Eastern Norway, and Landro 2010 has shown that the Old
Christian Borgarthing Law also had Continental influence.
51
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
missionaries were among his entourage.11 Haakon probably transferred his
experiences in regard to Christian beliefs and rituals from Wessex by initiating the
building of some churches and by introducing a Christian law which included a few
basic rules.12
Christian missionaries were present in Wessex from the early seventh century.
The transition from field cemeteries to churchyard burial was slow, but the majority
of burials are adjacent to ecclesiastical buildings by the mid-eighth century.13 In
England, it was no longer the norm to inhume criminals in community cemeteries
from the eighth century onwards. Some of these ended up at so-called execution
cemeteries; burial grounds used to inter those denied churchyard burial, including
criminals, the unbaptised and suicides. The deceased often lay on their sides or
in a prone position with their limbs akimbo, decapitated or interred with bound
hands; the so-called “deviant burials”.14 Early tenth century legislation, which starts
to refer to the exclusion of criminals, may thus have reinforced existing practices.15
Hence Anglo-Saxon missionaries who came to Norway in the tenth and eleventh
centuries were long used to legislation and legal practice that excluded certain
categories of criminals from churchyard burial.
In a comprehensive study on the legislation on burials in Corpus Iuris Canonici
and in the medieval Nordic laws, Bertil Nilsson has found that canon law had no
uniform rule regarding exclusion from Christian burial. The canonists showed
frustratingly little interest in this issue and canon law is less specific than the Nordic
laws in this respect.16 Canon law had two main reasons for exclusion; first, people
who had never been part of the Christian community, baptism being the ultimate
criterion, and secondly, people who had been separated from the Church. This
latter group is of interest here. The most numerous group were excommunicates,
11 See Jørgensen 1995; Birkeli 1995; Williams 2001. William of Malmesbury (ca. 1095/1096–ca.
1143), the distinguished twelfth-century English historian, probably had information about an AngloSaxon bishop who served during Haakon the Good’s rule. De Antiquitate Glastoniensis Ecclesiæ
contains a list of death dates for ten Glastonbury monks who became bishops, and who lived during
the reign of King Edgar (r. 958–975). Fridtjov Birkeli suggested that the first five names constitute
the original list, and hence number four on the list, Sigefridus norwegensis episcopus, may have
been a bishop in Norway during Haakon’s reign. Sigefridus may have been forced back to England
during the heathen reaction which followed in the wake of King Haakon’s death. According to Gareth
Williams, this information is quite consistent with the Saga of Hákon the Good, chapter 13, that “he
sent to England for a bishop and other priests”, Hollander 1964, 106.
12 Williams 2001, 116–117. For example, he may have transferred the celebration of Yule from the
midwinter nights to “the same time as is the custom with the Christians”, and the king himself kept
Sundays and fasted on Fridays, Hollander 1964, 106, chapter 13.
13 Cherryson 2008, 115–130, Buckberry 2008, 148–168.
14 In a study of Anglo-Saxon burial practices from 1992, Helen Geake was the first to use the
expression “deviant burials”, Buckberry 2008, 148.
15 Reynolds 1997, 38. Athelstan II 26, decrees that anyone who swears a false oath shall not be
buried in consecrated burial ground unless the bishop permits it, Attenborough 1922, 140–143.
According to King Edmund (r. 939–946), a man “who has intercourse with a nun, unless he make
amends, shall not be allowed burial in consecrated ground any more than a homicide. We have
decreed the same with regard to adultery”, Robertson 1925, 7.
16 Nilsson 1989, 242, 255.
52
Anne Irene Riisøy
who died before they had been reconciled and hence been reintegrated into the
Christian community.17 Among the excommunicates may also have been various
categories of criminals. Otherwise canon law excludes from Christian burial people
who had broken the Ten Commandments, including crimes against the religion,
and thieves and robbers. Nilsson points out that canon law does not specifically
mention outlaws.18
As a general rule, all Christian people who died should be brought to the
churchyard for burial,19 but there already were explicit exceptions to this rule in
the oldest Christian laws: “evildoers, traitors, murderers, truce breakers, thieves,
and men who take their own lives” are listed in the Old Christian Gulathing Law,
while in the Old Christian Eidsivathing Law people who broke temporally or locally
imposed peace or protection (griðniðingar), arsonists (brænnui vargar) and violent
housebreakers (hæimsoknar vargar) are listed as well.20 Suicide is condemned
according to ecclesiastical law; otherwise all these specified crimes are punished
with outlawry according to the oldest secular sections of the laws which have
survived, those from the Gulathing and the Frostathing.21
Other crimes than those enumerated above also entailed outlawry according to
the secular sections in the medieval Norwegian law codes, and it therefore seems
that not all outlaws were equal, some not being excluded from the churchyard, so
the question then is, what characterizes those who were denied Christian burial?
Outlaws Excluded from Proper Burial
First in the enumeration of these outlaws, the Old Christian Gulathing Law
lists traitors (drottens svica). A dróttin was a title for a lord in a broader sense,
whether he was a king, leader of a war band, or an owner of slaves and, after the
introduction of Christianity, even Christ.22 To betray one’s lord was the worst crime
imaginable; and the traitor was branded as a níðingr, implying lack of masculinity
– a coward. Thomas L. Markey found that níð was part of an ancient pre-Christian
tradition among the North Germanic peoples, best maintained in the West Norse
Area.23 Here it was clearly also associated with the most cowardly crimes, and a
17 Nilsson 1989, 255.
18 Nilsson 1989, 271–272.
19 G 23 and F II 15, NgL I, 13–14, 135–136; Larson 1935, 51, 232.
20 E II 40, NgL I, 405. The paragraphs on burial in the Old Christian Borgarthing Law do not
mention anything about whether outlaws should be allowed Christian burial or not. The primary
concern in early medieval Borgarthing seems to have been whether people were buried according
to their social standing: B I 9, B II 18, B III 13, NgL I, 345, 359–360, 368.
21 Only a few paragraphs and a fragment are preserved from the secular sections in the Borgarthing
and the Eidsivathing, so only the Christian law sections have survived from these two laws, Riisøy
2003, 155–156.
22 NgL V, 139–140. For an in-depth study of the dróttin, see Green 1965.
23 Markey 1972.
53
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
níðing-crime was committed under such circumstances and by such methods as to
give the criminal the reputation of a wicked and deceitful person with an unmanly
and weak personality. Primarily on the basis of runic inscriptions, Judith Jesch
discusses how betrayal was considered the “deed of a níðingr” in the Viking Age
when ideally a man showed complete loyalty within his group, a group who formed
a partnership in war or in trade.24 During the eleventh century when Scandinavian
kingship grew more powerful, concepts of loyalty and treachery moved away from
relationships within a more equal group towards a more clearly defined “above and
below” perspective, the king and his subjects. This point of view is also reflected in
Norwegian law; for example, according to the Old Frostathing Law, F IV 4, plotting
to deprive the king of land and subjects was the worst form of a nithing crime
(níðingsverc hit mesta).25
There were also other acts committed by a níðingr, including several categories
of murder, which ultimately led to exclusion from the churchyard. The distinction
between manslaughter – which it was possible to atone for – and murder – which
led to irredeemable outlawry – was an old and very important one in Norwegian law.
Morð was a homicide committed in some underhand way and the killer concealed
the deed and avoided assuming responsibility for it by declaring what he had done.
The punishment for murder was more severe than for ordinary slaying, and the
murderer could be killed in his turn, without legal consequences.26 According to
paragraph 178 in the Old Gulathing Law a so-called níðingsvíg, which includes
violent housebreaking (heimsokn), burning another to death (brenner mann inni)
and murdering a person (myrðir mann), entailed irredeemable outlawry, loss of
personal rights and all property.27 Comparable rules are laid down in the Old
Frostathing Law.28
24 Jesch 2001, 258–265.
25 NgL I, 158; Larson 1935, 257. In the Swedish provincial laws, niþingsværk only appears in
the oldest version of the Västgötalagen, written around 1220. This law was used in West Gothia
(Västergötland), the western province bordering on Norway. When a new king rode the so-called
eriksgata, he had the power to grant peace and protection (friþ) to three criminals, but not men who
had committed niþingsværk, SSGL I, 36–38, Holmbäck & Wessén 1946, 70–74. The eriksgata was
a ritual-judicial royal progress performed at the royal election; see Sundqvist 2002, 306–333. This
concept clearly also existed in eastern Scandinavia. The now lost memorial stone from the Swedish
province of Uppland U 954, in eastern Sweden, has the term niþiksuerk “the deed of a niðingr”;
see discussion in Jesch 2001, 255. The so-called Pagan Law from Uppland, which is preserved in
a fragment from the thirteenth century, contains a section where a man who uses an unspeakable
word (oquæþins orð) to another: “You are not a man’s equal and not a man at heart.” [He answers:]
“I am as much a man as you.” A duel should follow this verbal exchange, but if only the insulted man
turned up was he allowed to shout three niþing-shouts” and mark the other man in the ground”; see
Foote & Wilson 1980, 379–380.
26 Regarding the proper report of a slaying, see F IV 7 and G 156, NgL I, 61–62, 159–160; Larson
1935, 130–131, 260. It was also murder if a man killed his slave without reporting it according to G
182, NgL I, 66-67; Larson 1935, 138.
27 NgL I 66; Larson 1935, 137.
28 Killing of a man after peace pledges have been given (vegr á veittar trygðir) or killing a man
to whom temporary protection (griðum) was given and if a man murders a man (ef maðr drepr
mann á morð) were defined as foul killing (scemdarvíg) in F IV 2, F IV 3 and F IV 4. Setting fire to
another man’s homestead and burning it down was also labelled foul killing as well as a nithing crime
(níðingsverc) in F IV 4, and F IV 5 stress that all free men shall enjoy security in their homes. NgL I,
158–159; Larson 1935, 257–258.
54
Anne Irene Riisøy
Later legislation on homicide which applied to the rest of the Middle Ages also
builds upon these principles. The relevant paragraphs in the Book of Personal
Rights in the Law of King Magnus IV “the Law-Mender” (r. 1263–1280), codified
in 1274 and which applied to the whole country, specify that if a man killed (uegr)
another person, the killer forfeited all his property except his real estate, (iorðum
sinum). However, if a person committed a vile murder, (niðings uigh), he forfeited
his real estate as well.29
Picture 1. This decapitation scene is from a text written by Aeneas Sylvius Piccolomini (1405–1464),
future Pope Pius II. The text is a long letter to a friend depicting court life in realistic terms, sometimes
resulting in political violence. In the background, a man is being lead to gallows for hanging and on
the left, another is facing drowning.
29 With King Magnus’s Law of 1274, legal uniformity was achieved in Norway. Vile murders are
further specified in L IV 1 (especially items 3.4 and 3.5); NgL II, 48; Amongst other things it is a
niðings uig if a man murders a person, (ef maðr myrðir mann); NgL II, 50–51.
55
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Burning someone to death was one of these vile murders and considered a
very cowardly deed. Not only was it an excruciatingly painful way to die, but it was
also derogatory because often the victim had no way of escape and no opportunity
to fight his way out. According to Finn Hødnebø, it is not made explicit in Norwegian
law whether people who set fire to houses did so with murder in mind.30 The Old
Gulathing Law paragraphs 98 and 99 distinguish between fire set by a so-called
“unfriendly hand” or not. However, while a person who caused fire without being
“unfriendly” should restore what he had burned down “to full value”, the punishment
was indeed severe if the fire was started with an “unfriendly hand”. If convicted, the
perpetrator “shall be outlawed and shorn of all personal rights (utlagr oc uheilagr);
and he shall be called a firewolf (heitir brennuvargr) and shall have forfeited all
his property to the last penny, both land and movables.”31 This severe punishment
and harsh terminology (especially vargr; see below) indicates that the perpetrator
had done something more than burning down an empty dwelling or barn. Swedish
legislation, particularly the provincial Law of East Gothia (Østgøtalagen), offers
additional support for this interpretation. Someone who set fire to another’s house
in order to let him burn shall be called a firewolf: (heti kasnar warghær; kase denotes
a pile of logs), a compound term, which shows striking similarity to the Norwegian
term quoted above.32 Ragnar Hemmer points out that what made this act heinous
was not only the intention to kill people through burning, but an aggravating factor
was the stealth with which it was done. The Østgøtalagen presumes that the
arsonist (warghær) was “stealing” fire into another’s house.33 However, this was not
the only murderous vargr denied Christian burial.
The compound term heimsoknar vargar gives the impression of a vargr who was
seeking out someone in order to attack him at home. In early Germanic society,
since the house was enclosed by a safety zone, which accorded it higher legal
protection, an attack on people at home was particularly reprehensible. Rebecca
V. Colman discusses this crime in a wider Western European context, but without
including Norwegian sources, argues that the original meaning of heimsókn was
violent attack, which often resulted in someone being killed.34 There is also every
reason to believe that the heimsoknar vargar denied Christian burial in the Old
Christian Law of the Eidsivathing not only caused material damage to houses,
but also caused personal injury. This interpretation is supported by paragraph 178
30 Hødnebø 1966, 694–695.
31 G 98, NgL I, 46–47; Larson 1935, 105.
32 Eb 31, ÖgL, Schlyter 1830 (ed.), 43: “Nu stial maþær eld i hus annars ok will han inne brænna.
Þæn sum sua gør han heti kasnar warghær.”
33 Hemmer 1966, 693–694. Hemmer notes that while the term morðbrænnari/mordbrander
(which also alludes to stealthy “murderous” acts) is used in the mid-fourteenth century town laws of
Bjärköarätten and the Town Law of King Magnus Eriksson as well as in Law of King Christopher of
Bavaria (1442), the older term kasnavargher appears in several Swedish provincial laws.
34 Colman 1981, 95–110. For more focus upon Scandinavia, see Carlsson 1935 and Brink 2014.
56
Anne Irene Riisøy
“Concerning Housebreaking” in the Old Gulathing Law which states that it was a
nithing crime to break into another person’s house to attack him.35
While killing someone had two main classifications, murder and manslaughter,
the earliest laws also drew distinctions between various kinds of stealing, and
primarily that between robbery (rán) and theft.36 While a robber (ránsmaðr) commits
his depredations by daylight and makes his intentions clear, although he often uses
violent methods, he is regarded as less reprehensible than the thief who works
in secret or under the cover of night. The opening line in the Book of Theft in
the Old Gulathing Law stipulates that anyone who desires to remain in the king’s
realm shall refrain from stealing. The value of the stolen goods determined the
punishment; an ertog or more qualified as theft, and the thief should be outlawed
or slain. The amount which qualified for theft was rather small; in the Gulathing
province an ertog amounted to approximately the value of 1/7 of a cow.37 Similar
rules also applied in the Frostathing.
Since in a (pre-)state society solving conflicts and enforcing the law depended
upon the parties involved keeping to their agreements, it was paramount that
promises of peace and security, whether temporary or permanent, were kept.
There is every reason to believe that in Scandinavia elaborate rules on truce and
pledge already existed in the Viking Age.38 Evidence to this effect has survived
outside Scandinavia; Vikings abroad confirmed peace with the Anglo-Saxons on
ceremonial oaths (evidence has survived from the late 800s), Constantinople (in
the tenth century), and with the Franks in the late 800s.39
Grið refers to a limited period of peace and security granted to a law-breaker to
enable him to put his affairs in order, or to peace and security that was enforced at
certain times and in certain places, such as the assembly or on the way to and from
the assembly.40 This principle also carried great weight in later centuries, as letters
of grið from the late Middle Ages and Early Modern period witness. These letters
show that before a case was closed, it was subject to a public investigation in which
the royal representative (sýslumaðr) or his aides, in cooperation with the local
community where the crime had been committed, were in charge of gathering the
evidence. During this period, a grið-letter was issued, which offered the offender
35 G 178, NgL I, 66; Larson 1935, 137, cf. E II 40, NgL I, 405.
36 See discussion of rán in NgL V, 505.
37 G 253, F XIV 12, NgL I, 82–83, 252–253; Larson 1935, 164–165, 397–398. According to G 223;
Larson 1935, 151 the value of a cow was 2 ½ øres.
38 Only a fragment of a trygða mal has been preserved from Norway, in the Old Gulathing Law; G
320, NgL I, 110. However, a similar provision found in the Icelandic lawbook Grágás is possibly a
Norwegian import. See, for instance, Sunde 2007.
39 Stein-Wilkeshuis 2002, 155–168; Lund 1987, 255–269; Reuter 1992, 71.
40 NgL V, 248–249. Grið could also refer to peace and security at home, and a griðmaðr or
griðkona, for instance, although not of the family, shared in the rights of the family they had been
admitted into.
57
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
temporary legal protection (grið) in the name of the king.41 Ideally, a limited period
of peace and security was followed by permanent protection and peace. Trygð
has the sense of protection, peace, and settlement confirmed by oath; it was used
particularly in cases of manslaughter and revenge, and someone who broke a
peace pledge (trygðar) was a pledge-breaker (tryggrofi).42 Trygð made under oath
was of great importance in the Nordic countries from the Viking Age and at least
until the late Middle Ages, where legal procedures were normally not put down on
parchment, a contrast with procedure under canon law, which relied on written
testimonials to a much greater extent.43 A pledge-breaker may also be someone
who withheld wergeld money, which several paragraphs in the Old Gulathing
Law attest.44 If someone accused of breaking a grið or a trygð was unable to be
defended with a threefold oath, this person became an outlaw, and was therefore
appropriately designated a griðnidingr or a tryggrofi.45 It was probably fitting that
because they had violated the legal process and placed the peaceful resolution of
conflicts in jeopardy, they were denied Christian burial.
Principles of Exclusion
After this survey of various outlaws denied burial according to the early medieval
Christian laws, it is necessary to discuss the ideologies which underlie the basis of
exclusion in the first place. Central to this understanding are two terms which were
frequently used to reinforce the description of this particular outlaw, niðingr and
vargr, either one of these terms, or both combined.
As noted above, níð was part of an ancient tradition in North Germanic
societies, and I endorse Preben Meulengracht Sørensen’s view that old Norse
society revolved around a militant concept of morality.46 The concept of nið entailed
that some misdeeds were unworthy of a warrior, and this concept of honour and
loyalty within the group also applied to the armed merchants of late Viking Age
Scandinavia and, in a wider context, it is probably correct to say this principle
permeated society as a whole.47
These ideas may help to explain why some outlaws were denied Christian burial
in early medieval Norwegian law. Outlaw (útlagr) was a general term, and we often
have to rely on the context or additional terms to decide whether the outlaw had
41 Imsen 1998, 489–490; Hamre 1977, 259–264; Agerholt 1965, 297–298.
42 F IX 19, NgL I, 213, Larson 1935, 337.
43 Nilsson 1989, 271.
44 G §§ 316–319, NgL I, 106–109; Larson 1935, 201–210.
45 F V 9, NgL I, 178; Larson 1935, 284–285.
46 Meulengracht Sørensen 1980, 24.
47 Jesch 2001, 258–261.
58
Anne Irene Riisøy
committed an irredeemable crime or not. We have seen above that nið is one such
distinguishing term, and it is clearly evident that an outlaw was not necessarily
a niðingr. For instance, paragraph 314 in the Old Gulathing Law stresses this
distinction. G 314 concerns men in longships, Vikings, who could be outlaws but
whether they were branded as nithings or not was dependent upon whether they
renounced the peace before they started raiding.48 This is in line with the principle of
distinguishing between murder and manslaughter, theft and robbery. It was the lack
of public declaration of intent, the clandestine and unmanly way in which the wrong
was done which made an otherwise redeemable act irredeemable. Therefore it
seems that the outlaws explicitly debarred from the churchyard according to the
oldest Christian laws had committed nithing-crimes, which went against the Viking
Age code of conduct.
Another interesting facet is the relationship between the niðingr and the vargr.
While a murderer was branded a niðingr, he could very well also be a vargr. This
is an ambiguous term; in Old Norse it could mean outlaw as well as a wolf, but it
is probably significant that the word for the animal itself, wolf (úlfr) is never chosen
in these legal compound terms, probably because it is not strong enough or
precise enough. The concept of the outlaw or criminal encapsulated in the term
vargr stretched back prior to the Viking Age, and it may even have been common
Germanic.49 It is difficult to assess the use of the various “wargish” compound
terms in Old Norse chronologically, but it is probably significant that whereas such
terms occur in the family sagas (Íslendingasögur) describing events that took place
in the tenth and early eleventh centuries but which were written down in the twelfth
and thirteenth centuries, none are found in the Sturlunga Saga (events that took
place 1117–1264).50 This way of designating outlaws in the Icelandic sources is
probably an import from Norway, since the only indigenous Icelandic mammal is
the artic fox.
The image of the outlaw as the vargr has caught the attention of scholars since
the early nineteenth century.51 While some consider the association between the
criminal and the vargr as symbolic, others think this association was something more
than the criminal being cast in the image of the wild wolf living in the wilderness,
hunted by all. Building upon older research and comparing a wide range of sources,
continental, English and Old Norse, Mary Gerstein presents some interesting ideas.
She argues that the criminal by means of a magical-legal pronouncement was
transformed into a vargr, a monstrous evildoer who was “not human”; something
48 G 314, NgL I, 103, where the following formulations occur: “outlaws but not nithings” / (utlager
oc eigi niðingar) and “they are outlaws and nithings too” / (þa ero þeir utlager. oc niðingar); Larson
1935, 198–199.
49 Gerstein 1974.
50 Vatne Ersland 2001, 20.
51 See overview in Gerstein 1974.
59
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
far worse than the animal wolf. Thus, according to Gerstein, there was more than
an allegorical association between the criminal and the vargr.52
At this point, I think it is important to underline that whether a physical
transformation from man to beast actually took place is not important. What matters
is whether Viking Age and early medieval people actually believed a transformation
like this possible.53 Although the earliest written Old Norse evidence is sparse,
it is consistent. Therefore, I endorse Gerstein’s claim that vargr is an old term
which survives as a terminus technicus for a particular subclass of outlaw who
had committed odious crimes. More evidence has recently been published which
supports the view that the association between vargr and outlaw or criminal is very
old, and that at one time this notion was probably recognized among most, if not
all, of the Germanic peoples. For instance, while no examples which attest that an
odious criminal was designated as a vargr are found in Anglo-Saxon law, other
sources attest to the earlier existence of this association. In a study of execution
sites and cemeteries, Andrew Reynolds has found fifteen instances of placenames in Anglo-Saxon charter bounds where warg is used in combination with
other terms to describe execution sites, the earliest dating to 891.54
As we have seen above, some outlaws were clearly worse than others. Vargr
was a technical term for outlaws guilty of especially heinous crimes which were
committed in a underhand and unmanly way, characteristics which also fit the
description of crimes committed by a niðingr.
Medieval literature from all over Europe, including old Norse society, provides
evidence that the undead frequently had led an evil life, and continued his evil
ways after death.55 A good death was tame, according to Philippe Ariès.56 As
far as outlaws were concerned, however, death was often violent. In medieval
Norway, it seem clear that the pre-Christian Viking-age ideology concerning crime
and punishment, nithing-crimes which were frequently committed by a vargr,
was adapted to ecclesiastical needs when the oldest paragraphs distinguishing
between in-groups and out-groups in the churchyard were worked out. The notion
of the irredeemable outlaw who had to be excluded from society, placed outside
the law, was ingrained in popular custom. This made the next step much simpler:
the deceased but still irredeemable outlaw also had to be excluded from the society
of the Christian dead, the churchyard.
52 Gerstein 1974, 133–134.
53 Well into the early modern period it is evidenced that creatures which we today would regard
as ridiculous and at best superstitious actually played a part in court cases in Norway, for instance
trolls and changelings. At least by the late seventeenth century, a distinction between popular and
elite beliefs is discernible; the elite no longer seem to take such creatures seriously, while they still
existed for the populace at large. See Knutsen & Riisøy 2007, 42–48.
54 Reynolds 1997, 38. See also Reynolds 2009.
55 Caciola 1996, 3–45.
56 Ariès 1981.
60
Anne Irene Riisøy
New Times, New Principles
Norwegian law was transformed between the late twelfth and the late thirteenth
centuries in many ways.57 These alterations also affected rules on burial, and
new categories were added to those variously denied Christian burial, including
assassins, robbers, excommunicates, and usurers (and some manuscripts include
adulterers as well). In addition, the Old Christian Frostathing Law and Archbishop
Jon’s Christian Law of 1273 contain some special rules.
Some of these additions can be linked to legislation to ensure the king’s peace,
a common European phenomenon, which was stepped up during the early years
of Magnus Erlingsson’s reign (1161–1184).58 The Old Gulathing Law, particularly
the Christian law section, was thoroughly revised, possibly at a meeting in Bergen
in 1163 or 1164 in connection with the crowning of King Magnus.59 In paragraph
32, “Magnus made this new ordinance”, robbers, “whether they plunder men on
shipboard or on land” and assassins (flugu menn) were declared irredeemable
outlaws.”60 These rulings have also been included in the Old Frostathing Law, F
V 45.61 As I have discussed above, in older legislation a robber was given a more
“honourable” treatment because his intentions were fairly clear, whereas in the
late twelfth century he was degraded to the legal status of the skulking thief. The
flugumenn, literally “men of flies”, were possibly given their name because they were
the image of enticement, like the flies tempting the fish to bite.62 Frederic Amory
has used primarily Icelandic sources to show that the “men of flies” were also easily
fooled; in ninety percent of attempted assassinations, the outlaw-assassin is killed
himself.63 In order to further peace in the country, late twelfth century Norwegian
law decreed that hired assassins could no longer hide behind their employers, but
were made personally responsible and their deeds became a royal plea.
In the 1170s during Archbishop Eystein’s episcopacy (1161–1188), the Christian
law section in the Old Frostathing Law was thoroughly revised and the strong
influence of canon law is palpable.64 The Frostathing law applied to the province
where the archbishop had his seat, and it is not therefore surprising that this law
also has a strong focus on the peace of God; a person who threatens, wounds
or slays someone with a weapon forbidden in the Church or the churchyard was
57 Riisøy 2009.
58 Helle 1974, 95, 100–101.
59 Helle 2001, 17–23.
60 G 32, NgL I; Larson 1935, 58–59.
61 F V 45, NgL I; Larson 1935, 290–291.
62 NgL V, 198.
63 Amory 1992, 200.
64 Archbishop Eystein’s role in the revision of this law and the influence of canon law has been
discussed by Erik Gunnes in particular; see Gunnes 1996, 149–171; Gunnes 1970, 127–149; Gunnes
1974, 109–121.
61
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
excluded from burial. Burial was however possible if the bishop consented, and the
perpetrator had “formerly been a decidedly peace-loving man” and his kinsmen
would honour the Church where the peace was broken with money or gifts.65
The Old Christian Frostathing Law does not enumerate a long list of specific
outlaws denied burial, but did exclude someone who “had been separated from his
Christian faith while he was still living” (eða hann hafe veret fra kristni skilder meðan
hann uar lifs).66 According to Bertil Nilsson, it is not entirely clear whether “had been
separated from one’s Christian faith” alludes to the unbaptized or excommunicates
or both; but most likely it concerns excommunicates who had been separated from
Christianity, that is the Church.67
Nilsson has pointed out that the question of whether excommunicates were
allowed Christian burial or not was debated in Norway at the latest about the
year 1200, because in a letter now lost, the archbishop of Nidaros (present-day
Trondheim) had asked Pope Innocent III (r. 1198–1216) for advice on this topic.
We know of the existence of this letter because of the Pope’s reply, and here we
learn that “we may not communicate with those persons dead with whom we have
not communicated while they lived”.68 In the letter, the Pope also stressed that if
excommunicates were buried in the churchyard they were to be removed, but only
if it was possible to identify them. In the mid-thirteenth century Christian laws,
people who died while excommunicate were added to the list of people excluded
from the churchyard.69 Excommunicates could be regarded as a kind of spiritual
outlaw, and the link between an incorrigible excommunicate and an ipso facto
outlaw is attested in the Christian laws, possibly from the late twelfth century.
The Old Christian Frostathing Law stipulates that an excommunicate who did not
repent and concluded his affairs within a specific time, should be summoned by
the bishop’s bailiff before an assembly and declared an outlaw.70 The injunction to
expel excommunicates from the churchyard if it was possible to identify their bones
was analogously applied to the various categories of outlaws denied burial in the
mid-thirteenth century Christian laws.
It is also possible that someone who “had been separated from his Christian faith
while he was still living” had a broader application than simply the excommunicates,
65 F II 10, NgL I, 134; Larson 1935, 229–230.
66 F II 15, NgL I, 135; Larson 1935, 232.
67 Nilsson (1989, 242) points out that, the legal expression for excommunication was normally
“skildir fra heilagri kirkiu”; NgL V, 567.
68 Nilsson 1989, 40 refers to DN XVII, no. 10 [1200]. LatDok no.39; Vandvik 1959, 125–127. The
Pope answers a request from Archbishop Eirik of Nidaros (archep. 1189–1213), then living in exile in
Denmark because of the quarrel with the King. As Vandvik points out, the contact with the Pope was
most likely initiated because of the excommunication of King Sverre Sigurdsson (r. 1184–1202) and
his followers. Cf. X 3.28.12: “Si ossa excommunicatorum sunt sepulta in ecclesiastico coemeterio,
et discerni possunt, debent exhumari et proiici; alias secus.”
69 These were excommunicati major (bandsættir menn) and excommunicatio minor (þæir er tælia
oc fræmia rangan atrunað firir mannum), see NgL V, 88, 200.
70 F III 21, NgL I, 154; Larson 1935, 254. This rule is also found in, J 60, NgL II, 382.
62
Anne Irene Riisøy
and also referred to un-Christian behaviour in general. Again the outlaws are
brought into the picture.
The oldest Christian laws had already explicitly associated outlaws with unChristian conduct. According to the Old Christian Borgarthing Law, an outlaw not
only lost legal protection and absolutely all he owned, he was also often exiled
to a heathen country. During the eleventh century a “heathen country” may, to
some extent, have existed in remote parts of Norway and Sweden and around the
Baltic. Some provisions add that the act of becoming an outlaw is a refusal to be a
Christian. Thus the outlaw chooses to be a heathen, and therefore he shall never
again be allowed in a country where Christians live.71 Presumably this expulsion
also assumed an element of purification: not only getting rid of troublemakers, but
also delivering the country from all non-Christian beings. According to Absalon
Taranger, Anglo-Saxon Church law is a possible source of inspiration. In AngloSaxon England in the first decades of the eleventh century, persistent opposition to
the Church commands normally led to expulsion from the country, which was thus
delivered from un-Christian beings.72 In the Norwegian Christian laws, we also find
this idea manifest in prohibitions on having heathens in the country. Even someone
who gave the heathen food risked a heavy fine.73 This line of thought is discernible
in the rules on burials: not only was removal of the outlaws’ remains required, but
the Church risked staying without a service until the bodies had been taken away.74
Thus, the body of an outlaw continued to pose a threat, and his impurity did not
cease with death.
So-called okr karlar, which literally means “usury men”,75 were also denied
burial; one exception is two manuscripts of the New Christian Gulathing Law, which
exclude horkallar (literally “whoring men”) rather than the okr karlar.76 Usury was a
new crime in high medieval Norway. In pre-Christian and early Christian society, a
man who had sexual relations with any other woman but his own wife risked being
71 For example, outlawry because of incest in the first degree, B I 15, NgL I, 350; murder of a
newborn, B I 3, NgL I, 340; refusal to baptize a newborn within 12 months, B I 4, NgL I, 341; divorce
without proper cause B II 6, NgL I, 355, cf. B III 6, and failure to pay tithes, B I 11, NgL I, 346. We
also find traces of this in the Old Christian Eidsivathing Law , E I 52, NgL I, 392 on incest and E I 27,
NgL I, 384, concerning meat-eating.
72 Taranger 1890, 299–300.
73 G 22, NgL I, 13; Larson 1935, 61.
74 F II 10, NgL I, 134; Larson 1935, 230.
75 This is a prohibition which found inspiration in canon law; Nilsson 1989, 264. Nilsson, however,
is of the opinion that, compared with canon law, this indicates that the Old Christian Eidsivathing
Law cannot be older than the late 1230s. However, as pointed out by Lars Hamre (1967, 491), “okr
karlar” or “manifesti usurariis” may be a later interpolation since the oldest manuscripts of this law
are all later than 1300.
76 NgL II, 292, 314, MSS. D as well as MSS. A from the beginning of the fourteenth century.
The term hór was normally applied for adultery, which was possibly made a crime in Archbishop
Eystein’s late twelfth-century revision of the Old Christian Frostathing Law according to Gunnes
1996, 160.
63
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
killed; for the offended party compensation clearly was a less honourable option.77
Adultery was criminalised in the Frostathing law province in the 1170s, and in the
1260s outlawry was decreed for adulterers who were utterly obstinate and refused
to cease their behaviour.78 At the same time, the Old Christian Frostathing Law
decreed that “wicked men” who run away “with the wives of other men” shall be
regarded as forever outside the law and were denied “burial at Church.”79 In this
context, the expression “run away” probably refers to the abduction of women, while
in the later Middle Ages it could also refer to a more gender-neutral extramarital
affair, in which women also took a more active part.80 Thus whether the woman
consented or not, adultery was considered a reprehensible crime and the sentence
might extend to the churchyard.
As we have seen in the oldest legislation, categories of irredeemable outlaws
like murderers and thieves were denied Christian burial. According to Nilsson, the
Norwegian principles of exclusion basically follow canon law, while some categories
are peculiar to Norway, the griðniðinga and the tryggrova.81 This perhaps mirrors
the great importance these procedures played in Old Norse society, which hardly
relied on written evidence, but on people keeping their oaths and promises.
The Christian laws of the mid-thirteenth century also introduce a few exceptions
to the rules denying burial. If a person called on the priest before dying and
confessed, then the priest had the power to grant permission for a Christian burial.
In addition, the outlaw’s heir was also obliged to compensate for the deceased
outlaw’s crimes. However, convicted thieves, murderers, robbers, and people who
were not baptized were not allowed any reprieve.82 Ideally, a member of the Church
who had repented, confessed, and thus become reintegrated into the community
of all Christians was entitled to a Christian burial. Therefore denial of burial in
consecrated ground was a second punishment in addition to the sentence proper.
However, the threat of having one’s remains interred in unconsecrated ground might
77 I have discussed this aspect of the legislation in Riisøy 2003, 163–167. The right to kill for
revenge in the provincial Gulathing laws, § 160 and the Frostathing IV § 39, list seven women
(NgL I, 62-63, 169–170; Larson 1935, 132, 273–274). According to the Old Christian Borgarthing
Law, version II, § 15, (NgL I, 358) lendmenn (who had obtained land from the king) and hauldar,
(who were important farmers and who may have ranked alongside earls during the Viking Age)
had a right to kill for revenge against thirteen categories of female relatives. According to the Old
Christian Borgarthing Law, the further a man descended the social ladder, the proportionally fewer
female relatives he could protect from sexual advances from other men through the right to kill. In
addition, female slaves and servants were under the authority of the paterfamilias with regard to
their sexuality, but in their case family honour was not considered to have been insulted to such a
degree that it justified killing. Rather, the head of the family could claim economic compensation in
proportion to the woman’s position within the household, G § 198, see also F XI 21, NgL I, 70–71,
234; Larson 1935, 143–144, 369.
78 NgL I, 459; NgL II, 454.
79 F Introduction § 10, NgL I, 123; Larson 1935, 216. This rule was probably added by Håkon
Håkonsson in ca. 1260, Hagland & Sandnes 1994, XXXI.
80 Riisøy 2009, 25–28.
81 Nilsson 1989, 289.
82 NB I 8, NgL II, 296, NG I 16, NgL II, 314–315, NB II 10, NgL IV, 166, J 16, NgL II, 350.
64
Anne Irene Riisøy
have acted as a powerful deterrent to potential criminals. This view is also reflected
in the New Christian Borgarthing Law II of 1267–1268 because henceforth the
king’s approval was also required to obtain a Christian burial for outlaws, as well as
for “cases of irredeemable outlawry according to the Christian laws” (wbota malom
y christnom rette).83
The Protracted High Middle Ages and the Reformation
The Catholic faith was rejected with the Reformation,84 and Christian III (r. 1534–
1559) ratified a church decree in Latin on 2 September 1537, which with minor
changes was translated into Danish two years later.85 For Norway, this decree of
1539 was intended to be merely an interim regulation, but it was only in 1607
that a Norwegian church decree was issued.86 In his forthcoming study on
dishonourable death in early Reformation period Norway, Arne Bugge Amundsen
points out that since the decree of 1539 does not contain any rules on exclusion
from the churchyard, the medieval Christian laws were an obvious place to look
for guidance.87 The medieval Christian laws were often translated and diligently
written into the law-books in the post-Reformation sixteenth and early seventeenth
centuries, and we also know that they were applied in ecclesiastical lawsuits during
this period.88
Bugge Amundsen draws attention to a burial sermon preached by
Superintendent89 Jørgen Eriksen in 1578.90 According to the superintendent, socalled “ungodly people” should not be buried together with “God’s chosen children”,
83 NB II 10, NgL IV, 160, see also 166–167: “En om da men som før ere talde tiuffue, mordere,
och ransmen maa ey y kirkegaard komme wdenne kongens samtyke see till med, och det samme
huaruetna der som kongsomenom ber med halfft sekt, aa wbota malom y christnom rette”. This
addition is not found NB I 8, NgL II, 296; NG I 16, NgL II, 314–315, J 16, NgL II, 350, NB II 12, NgL
II, 330–331.
84 In Denmark and Norway, the Reformation was implemented by King Christian III after a
protracted civil war. On 30 October 1536, Christian issued a royal charter which stated that Norway
should no longer exist as an independent country but become a province of Denmark, and on the
same day the Catholic Church in Denmark was abolished. In 1537, the last Catholic Archbishop left
Norway, and Christian signed a new Lutheran Church Order or Ordinance, which was accepted in
Norway in the same year. For an overview, see Montgomery 1996, 147–179.
85 Amongst other things, the church decree enjoined rules regarding faith, choice of ecclesiastical
personnel, and moral conduct. The church decrees of 1539 and 1537 were published in
Kirkeordinansen 1537/39: Det danske Udkast til Kirkeordinansen (1537); Ordinatio Ecclesiastica
Regnorum Daniæ et Norwegiæ et Ducatuum Sleswicensis Holtsatiæ etc. (1537); Den danske
Kirkeordinans (1539) by Martin Schwarz Lausten.
86 Kolsrud 1917, 189–190, 193, 199–205.
87 I would like to express my thanks to Professor Bugge Amundsen (University of Oslo), who gave
me access to his manuscript before it went to print.
88 Kolsrud 1917, 185–211; Bang 1895, 158–160; Riisøy 2009.
89 Superintendent was introduced as an alternative title for a bishop after the Reformation.
90 Bugge Amundsen 2015.
65
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
but in places where they would be eaten by birds and animals. According to the
superintendent, “ungodly people” had flagrantly profaned or despised the name of
God and the sacraments, and they ought to be buried underneath gallows or other
places outside the churchyard as warning examples for other ungodly people.
Translations into Danish of the Norwegian medieval Christian laws were
circulating in various versions, and Bugge Amundsen found that they were important
when the Norwegian superintendents in 1604 made a draft of a Norwegian church
ordinance. The draft of 1604 has an extensive chapter on churches on churchyards,
which is not included in the final version of the church decree of 1607 but, as noted
by Bugge Amundsen, the draft can tell us how Post-Reformation ecclesiastics
reflected and debated on this matter. The churchyard should be available for “every
honest human being”. Characteristically for Lutheran notions, which considered faith
alone sufficient for salvation, the draft added that “being interred in the churchyard
is no guarantee of salvation; likewise, being interred outside the churchyard does
not automatically lead to perdition”. Then follows a familiar quote from the Christian
laws on exclusion from burials, and then with a novel twist referring to Jeremiah
22:19, stating that there are people who are deserving of “the burial of a donkey –
dragged away and thrown outside the gates of Jerusalem”.91 The church ordinance
of 1607 does not contain such details, but it suffices to decree that all Christians
were to be buried in the churchyard or in the church, but with the knowledge of
the “leading men” of the church, presumably a priest or bishop. The rule went on
to stipulate that no one was to be buried outside the churchyard who deserved to
be in it, a formulation which presupposes that there were dead people who did not
belong in the churchyard.92 As Bugge Amundsen points out, the Church obviously
tried to ensure some sort of control over burials in consecrated ground. The Church
Ritual from 1685 and King Christian V’s Norwegian and Danish laws from the same
period decreed that executed criminals were not be buried before the authorities
and the claimants were satisfied.93
91 Bugge Amundsen 2015.
92 Bugge Amundsen 2015.
93 Bugge Amundsen 2015, refers to Danmarks og Norgis Kirke-Ritual 1685, 335; Kong Christian
Den Femtis Norske Lov, 1687, 2-10-4.
66
Anne Irene Riisøy
Picture 2. This scene shows the execution of Philotas, son of Parmenion who was Alexander the
Great’s general. Philotas was accused of failure to report a conspiracy against Alexander. For this,
was tried, tortured and executed in 330 B.C.E. Medieval miniaturists depicted the execution as a
beheading, befitting a high-ranking soldier and nobleman.
From Principles to Practice
A handful of legal cases have survived which show that the rules excluding outlaws
from the churchyard were known among the populace, who occasionally tried to
evade these rules in order to give deceased relatives who died as outlaws burial
in the churchyard. On the other hand, the authorities tried to ensure that the rules
that excluded the same outlaws from the churchyard were applied. Because the
medieval rules on burial still had effect in the sixteenth century after the Reformation,
a few late sixteenth-century cases will also be referred to.
67
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Picture 3. This burial scene is from a fifteenth-century German manuscript telling the story of
Barlaam and Josaphat, early Christian saints. However, the legend is modelled on the life of Prince
Siddhartha Gautama, the Buddha.
In 1443, the bishop of Bergen instructed all the priests in town to command the
monks who had buried a criminal in their churchyard to dig him up and remove
him. If this command was disregarded, the monks would be excommunicated
and the churchyard placed under interdict.94 Whether the monks did as they were
told we do not know, but a diploma from 1492 gives evidence that commands to
remove illegally buried corpses from the churchyard were not always adhered to.
94 DN I no. 786.
68
Anne Irene Riisøy
The diploma narrates how Bishop Eilif of Stavanger (d. 1512~1513) pardoned a
family for failing to carry out the dean’s order to exhume and remove the body of an
outlaw from the churchyard. The bishop stated rather laconically that the outlaw’s
body “shall have to rest in the churchyard because it is buried together with the
corpses of other good Christians” (maa liggæ nu framdeles i kirkæ gardh som
kommen er med andhrom godæ kristnæ manne liik).95 The bishop’s resignation in
this situation reflects stipulations in the revised Christian Laws of the mid-thirteenth
century which state that bodies that had been buried illegally, but which had been
in the ground for so long that it was no longer possible to “distinguish their bones
from the bones of other Christian people” (skilia bein thieris fra annar christna
manna beinom), should remain in situ.96
Fear of damnation was always present in medieval people, who viewed their
short and brutal earthly existence as merely preparation for the eternal life. In an
age where the belief in the resurrection of the body on the Day of Judgement was
firmly dependent upon whether the deceased had received a Christian burial or not
(although theologians may not have taken such a clear-cut view), the question of
whether punishment precluded burial in consecrated ground was an important one.
Similar principles applied in the Protestant tradition.97 Therefore, threats of heavy
fines and expenses relating to the re-consecration of the churchyard did not stop
people from at least trying to bury their outlawed relatives and friends there.
Although serious attempts were made to keep condemned criminals out of the
churchyard, this process also worked the other way. It was imperative that people
who had a place among the society of the Christian dead were not excluded, and
the mid-thirteenth century Christian laws stipulated a fine if someone interred a
body entitled to a Christian burial outside the churchyard.98 I have not come across
any evidence of medieval legal practice regarding this, but the process of including
people wrongfully excluded from the churchyard is evidenced in two cases which
were brought before the Herredag in the late sixteenth century. When the king
and the Council of the Realm sat together during meetings (called Herredag in
Denmark in the sixteenth and the first part of the seventeenth century), they were
acting as the highest court in the kingdom. The first is a case of adultery, which
was reopened by the Herredag in Oslo in 1585.99 The court concluded that judicial
murder had been committed. The previous judgement was annulled, and the
twelve jurors who had passed it were ordered to exhume the body from the place
of execution and to transfer it to the churchyard for a proper burial.100
95 DN I, no. 975.
96 NB II 10, NgL IV, 166–167, NB I 8, NgL II, 296, NG I 16, NgL II, 314–315, J 16, NgL II, 350.
97 Koslofsky 1995, 327–328.
98 See references in Appendix 1.
99 Protocols from the Herredag have been preserved, beginning in 1578; they continue until the
early 1660s, and have been published in six volumes by Thomle 1893–1903.
100 Thomle 1893–1903, III, 63–67.
69
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Towards the end of the sixteenth century, documents from the Herredag in
Trondheim from 1597 show that a man called Mikkel brought an action against the
steward. In the name of the relatives of the poor tailor Søren Madsen, Mikkel had
paid the steward 10 riksdalers to assure that the heretic Søren was buried in the
churchyard. Exactly what crime the heretic had committed we do not know. During
the later Middle Ages and early modern period it seems that sexual perversion in
particular became associated with ideas about religious/moral perversion, and the
term kjetteri [heresy] occasionally appears in legal documents and judgements in
connection with the most reprehensible sexual crimes.101 In this case, it cannot
be ruled out that the term kjetteri denotes controversial theological views. It was,
after all, only sixty years since a new confession had been introduced. Discussing
Lutheran funerals in the post-Reformation sixteenth century, Craig Koslofsky shows
how popular conceptions of pollution influenced questions pertaining to burial. The
deceased without the proper “confession” were seriously at risk of being considered
heretics, and thus denied burial in the communal churchyard.102 To proceed with
the case above; when the steward had the heretic’s head “placed on a pole and his
corpse placed underneath” (sette paa en steigle och legemit under neden), Mikkel
of course asked to have his money back. The steward argued in his defence that he
had received the ten riksdalers in order to change the punishment from burning at
the stake to beheading, but the court was not convinced. When it could be shown
that the governor Ludvig Munk (1537–1602) had issued an open letter to the effect
that the tailor was to be buried in the churchyard, the 10 riksdalers were returned
to Mikkel.103
These few cases give a glimpse of how burials were controlled. The oldest
Christian laws had already prescribed fines to the bishop for improper burial, and
snapshots from the late Middle Ages indicate that the bishop may have played an
active part. One of the cases shows that the dean was also involved, but without
any effect. After the Reformation, secular courts clearly had some control over
this process, but we only have evidence from two cases, which were dealt with by
the Herredag, the highest court in the kingdom. At a local level, priests might have
been more actively involved; Johannes Steenstrup discusses how Danish priests
in Seeland towards the end of the sixteenth century were reluctant to grant burial
to outlaws and other criminals.104 The situation in Norway might have been similar.
Admittedly, the evidence from legal practice is rather meagre, but it is enough to
show that rules denying the burial of outlaws in consecrated ground were applied
to a certain extent. But where were outlaws buried?
101 Riisøy 2009, 50–54.
102 Koslofsky 1995, 327–329, 332, 336–337.
103 Thomle 1893–1903, IV, 45–46.
104 Steenstrup 1930–1931, 408–409.
70
Anne Irene Riisøy
Disposal of Outlaws Excluded from Christian Burial
According to the Old Christian Gulathing Law, the most suitable place to inhume
outlaws excluded from Christian burial was on the shore (floðar male) where “the
tide meets the green sod.”105 A similar stipulation is enacted in the Old Christian
Law of the Eidsivathing,106 and it was retained in the mid-thirteenth century
Christian laws. Nilsson points out that this ruling has no parallels in canon law,
and he suggests that this location was chosen to avoid corpses being placed
back in the heathen burial mounds.107 It should be noted that the Old Christian
Gulathing Law explicitly prohibits burials in “a mound or heap of stones”.108 Nilsson
puts forward the plausible suggestion that the inhumations of outlaws mirror their
outcast status in life. Thus in death, they did not belong to the earth, nor to the
water.109 Andrew Reynolds quotes a similar rationale from early modern England.
When the case of the Gunpowder Plot, the failed assassination attempt against
King James I (r. 1603–1625) of 1605 undertaken by English Catholics, was heard in
1606, the convicted were to be “hanged up by the neck between heaven and earth,
as deemed unworthy of both, or either.”110
But why, exactly, was the shore chosen? It seems that only one episode from
the Old Norse sources describes the shore as appropriate for burial. According to
the Book of the Settlement of Iceland (Landnámabók), one of the earliest Christians
in Iceland expressed her wish to be buried on the shore (flöðarmálet) in order to
avoid burial in unconsecrated ground. Since the shore was not consecrated either,
it was a geographical location which was neutral.111
This particular placement of the dead was perhaps not connected with deviant
burial in the first place. As Leszek Gardela points out, Viking Age burials showed
great variety, and some so-called deviant burials may in fact have been relatively
normal.112 An analysis of Viking Age burials at Kaupang (Skiringssal) situated
along the coast of South-Eastern Norway also concludes that there were various
contemporary concepts relating to death and burials. However, the placement of
the burials in the landscape relates to transitional zones, the mountains or the
shore. As ship burials attest, the sea was also somewhat related to concepts of
death. The idea of the “holy mountain” can be traced in Iceland (Eyrbyggjasaga),
and is probably a tradition brought over from Norway but later forgotten in the
105 G 23, NgL I, 13: “scal grava i floðar male. Þar sem særr møtesc oc grøn torva”; Larson 1935, 51.
106 E I 50, NgL I, 392.
107 Nilsson 1989, 276.
108 G 23, NgL I, 13; Larson 1935, 51–52.
109 Nilsson 1989, 276; Reynolds 1997.
110 Reynolds 1997, 38.
111 Nilsson 1989, 277.
112 Gardela 2013.
71
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
home country.113 However, after the change of religion when all dead Christians
belonged within the sacred churchyard, the outsiders had to be placed somewhere
else, and the shore was known for burials after all. An interesting addition in the
New Christian Borgarthing Law, NB II 10, explains that the shore was chosen
for deviant burials because here they cannot cause damage or desecration.114 A
shore is normally stony, and stones heaped on top of executed corpses, may have
prevented the unruly dead from walking. Perhaps there was also an idea that the
sea, washing over the deviant dead, had some cleansing and regenerative effect.
The anthropologist Mary Douglas has been highly influential on questions of
purity versus impurity in her studies of the differences between the sacred, the clean
and the unclean in various societies. In agreement with the notion proposed by the
historian of religion Mircea Eliade in Patterns of Comparative Religion, Douglas
maintains that because water dissolves everything, it also gets rid of impurities
as well as regenerating.115 Moreover, as Nancy Caciola points out, water was an
important barrier in medieval thought about the dead; rivers, for instance, are often
depicted as barriers between the realms of the living and the dead.116
In Viking Age and early medieval Norway and Iceland, water played an important
part in the sentencing of sorcerers and witches, who were to be drowned and sunk
to the bottom of the water. Folke Ström lists several examples from the sagas,
which show that it was common practice to tie a stone round the neck of the culprit
and then push him or her into the water. The practical advantage of the stone was
that it facilitated the drowning while at the same time ensuring that the sorcerer
would remain at the bottom of the sea or lake.117 Sexually abused animals were
also drowned.118 Sorcerers, witches, revenants as well as sexually abused animals
were clearly connected with moral perversion or pollution, and as a last resort
they were also often burned. Some hundreds of years later, after the Reformation,
possibly reinforced by Biblical inspiration, fire and burning had taken over as a
more exclusive cleansing remedy in such cases. Once upon a time, however, water
may have played a far greater part in getting rid of impurities.
In addition, some outlaws, in particular if they were considered to remain
quiet after death, may have been buried where they were executed. For the postReformation period, Bugge Amundsen has found that an executed person was
normally buried without further ceremony at the place of execution, which probably
113 Lia 2001, 45–46, 116–117.
114 NgL IV, 166: “der som ingen er till meins eller skade”. This addition does not seem to appear in
the other manuscripts of the new Christian laws. According to NgL V, 441, mein has meanings like
damage, outrage or desecrate.
115 Douglas 2002, 198–199.
116 Caciola 1996, 30.
117 G 28, NgL I, 17. See comments by Robberstad 1937, 43, Larson 1935, 56–57; Ström 1942, 171–
173.
118 G 30, NgL I, 18, Larson 1935, 57.
72
Anne Irene Riisøy
accords well with medieval practice.119 The Old Frostathing Law (F XIV 12) points
out that the king’s bailiff should take a thief to the assembly, and from the assembly
to the shore (fiöru) where he should find a man to slay the thief.120 Although the
paragraph does not state that the thief should be buried at the place of execution, it
is perhaps not unreasonable to assume that this is what happened, in which case,
the burial would have taken place on the shore. Grágás places the execution of an
irredeemable outlaw as well as the burial of his body in one and the same location:
“a place beyond bowshot of anyone’s home field wall, where there is neither arable
land nor meadow land and from where no water flows to the farm; […]”. 121 It seems
that Grágás also conceptualises a geographical neutrality or no-mans-land, a place
which evades neat classification. Besides, the formulation “no water flows to the
farm” might actually fit the description of the shore, because water which flows from
the farm, would sooner or later normally flow to the shore on its way to the ocean.
In any case, as outlaws were outcasts in life as well as in death, burial at a liminal
place was appropriate. Burial under heaps of stones away from settlements was
probably also an attractive option. For instance, Sturlunga Saga describes how
criminals and outlaws were caught, summarily executed and buried under heaps
of stone or in a rockslide.122 Burial under heaps of stone is also explicitly prescribed
as suitable for deformed newborns in the Old Christian Borgarthing Law.123
Separate cemeteries for criminals are not attested in early or high medieval
Norway, but this might have changed during the later Middle Ages. Excavations
of a cemetery in the small town of Skien in southern Norway, published by Gaute
Reitan, evidences deviant burials from the period around the Reformation. The
cemetery was in use from the late tenth century until approximately 1600. It went
out of general use after the plague in the mid-fourteenth century but there are
indications that it was subsequently used to bury people whose death sentence
had been carried out at the town’s place of execution Galgeholmen (i.e., Gallows
skerry), which was a mere fifty metres away. This place name resembles other
places of execution located outside Norwegian towns during the Middle Ages.124
Three skeletons of people who had been beheaded were excavated, probably
dating back to the Reformation period.
119 Bugge Amundsen 2015.
120 NgL I, 252–253; Larson 1935, 397–398.
121 §§ 2 and 131, Dennis et al. 1980, 30, 236. Grágás distinguishes between two types of outlaw;
a lesser outlaw was sentenced to a three-year exile from Iceland, while a full outlaw or the so-called
skóggangsmaðr could be slain with impunity.
122 Kålund 1904 (vol. 1), 150 (year 1187) and 260–261 (year 1209).
123 Olavsson 1914, 3.
124 These have been discussed by Gade 1985, who included place-names with the prefix “gallows”
in Iceland; see also Blom 1960, 163–165.
73
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Picture 4. This Allegory of Death and Fame from 1518 relates to the memento mori theme by
reminding that even the famous and the mighty end up as skeletons. The winged skeleton
represents death, but it may be that the party is debating the deeds of the supine skeleton. The
presence of Envy, the old hag with sagging breasts, may imply slanderous talk.
Two of the heads were facing downwards; the third had also been burnt in
addition to the beheading, and the head had been placed between the legs. This is
probably a very ancient and derogatory custom, perhaps to prevent the deceased
from returning from the dead, and this practice is attested in other cultures too, in
Anglo-Saxon England, amongst other places. 125 Prone burial had little to do with
orthodox Christianity; Kristina Jonsson claims that it may possibly be set in relation
to popular religion rooted in pre-Christian times.126 As Jonsson also observes,
people who had died a violent or dishonourable death would be more at risk of
returning from the dead. Prone burials are often connected with punishment and
humiliation, and it may also have prevented the dead from walking. John Blair
points out that an inversion of the corpse would cause it to dig downwards when it
tried to dig out, and such corpses therefore had to “bite the dust” as Gardela aptly
puts it.127
The same chronological layer at the cemetery in Skien also yielded five other
skulls, nicely arranged in a half-circle. As Reitan explains, it is possible that these
skulls had been displayed on posts as a warning to others before their burial in the
125 G 241, NgL I, 80–81; Larson 1935, 160: “When the wergild shall be increased” states that if
the head is severed from the body, and the head is placed between the feet, the wergild shall be
doubled. As regards deviant burial and the dangerous dead in Anglo-Saxon and early medieval
England, see Reynolds 2009; Blair 2009, 39–59.
126 Jonsson 2009a, 97–98.
127 Blair 2009, 549–550; Gardela 2013.
74
Anne Irene Riisøy
disused cemetery.128 Decapitation followed by burning reflects a very conspicuous
effort to make sure the dead had really been killed and gone once and for all.
Whereas the medico-theological way of thinking the afterlife is spiritual, however,
there clearly was a parallel tradition in Northern European beliefs, probably with
roots in pre-Christian times, which saw the life force held within the flesh and
bone.129 Thus a corpse may possess vitality as long as it remained partly intact. A
living dead who was able to hurt other people or animals, was clearly more flesh
than spirit, and the Icelandic family sagas attest to this way of thinking.130 Elements
of such popular beliefs lingered on for centuries; in fact life after death was still
considered to have a corporeal side well into the twentieth century. Among the
general populace there were no contradictions between viewing life after death as
a physical existence and the soul as being an immaterial substance which moved
on.131
Conclusion
During the Viking Age, some acts were considered so reprehensible that the
perpetrators were defined as the worst kind of outlaws, described in terms centring
on the vargr and the níðingr. Thus they were forever declared “not humans” and
placed outside the law. This way of thinking influenced the rules on burials in the
earliest Christian laws, because with the arrival of Christianity the irredeemable
outlaws were also outlawed from the community of the Christian dead. In
practice, this means that certain categories of criminals were denied burial at the
sacred churchyard, and the Church tried to enforce this prohibition. With some
modifications, typically when the Church during the High Middle Ages added new
categories of criminals to the list of categories of people excluded from Christian
burial, this principle carried through the Middle Ages and well into the early modern
period. The impurity of the bodies of dead outlaws did not cease with death and
therefore burial at a liminal place such as the shore or under heaps of stones away
from settlements was deemed appropriate.
128 Reitan 2005, 183–184.
129 Caciola 1996, 36–37.
130 This is further discussed in Kanerva 2011; Kanerva 2013a; Kanerva 2013b. See also Riisøy &
Knutsen 2007.
131 Jonsson 2009b.
75
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Abbreviations
Full bibliographical references to the works mentioned in the list below are given in
the footnotes.
B
Old Christian Borgarthing Law
DN
Diplomatarium Norvegicum
E
Old Christian Law of the Eidsivathing
F
Old Frostathing Law
G
Old Gulathing Law
J
Archbishop Jon’s Christian Law
KL
Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til
reformationstid
L
Landlaw of 1274
NB
New Christian Borgarthing Law
NG
New Christian Gulathing Law
NgL
Norges gamle Love indtil 1387 (5 vols), I–V
SSGL
Corpus iuris Sueo-Gotorum antiqui: Samling af Sweriges gamla
Lagar (13 vols)
Appendix 1: reference to particular outlaws and which law/paragraph they are listed.
G
23
E II
40
EI
50
NB I 8; NG I 16, NB II 10
J
16
Traitors
X
X
X
X
X
Murder-wargs
X
X
X
X
X
Breakers of truces and pledges
X
X
X
X
X
Thieves
X
X
X
X
X
Breakers of temporarily legal
protection
X
X
X
X
Arsonists
X
X
Violent house-breakers
X
Hired assassins
X
X
X
Robbers
X
X
X
Excommunicates
X
X
X
Usurers
X
X
X
horkallar (2 MSS in NG
I 16)
(Male) adulterers
76
Anne Irene Riisøy
References
Agerholt, J. 1965. Landsvistbrev. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk leksikon
for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, X. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og
Bagger. Cols. 297–298.
Amory, F. 1992. The Medieval Icelandic Outlaw: Life-style, Saga, and Legend. In G. Pálsson
(ed.) From Sagas to Society: Comparative Approaches to Early Iceland. Enfield Lock:
Hisarlik Press. 189–203.
Amundsen Bugge, A. 2015 forthcoming. Manuscript Æreløs død (in English: Dying without
Honour).
Ariés, P. 1981. The Hour of Our Death. New York: Knopf.
Attenborough, F. L. (ed. and trans.) 1922. The Laws of the Earliest English Kings. Cambridge:
Cambridge University Press.
Bang, A. C. 1895. Den norske Kirkes Historie: i Reformations-Aarhundredet (1536-1600).
Kristiania: Hjalmar Biglers Forlag.
Birkeli, F. 1995. Tolv vintrer hadde kristendommen vært i Norge. Oslo/Gjøvik: Verbum.
Blair, J. 2009. The Dangerous Dead in Early Medieval England. In S. Baxter et al. (eds.) Early
Medieval Studies in Memory of Patrick Wormald. Aldershot: Ashgate. 539–559.
Blom, G. A. 1960. Galge o. galgbacke, Norge og Island. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.)
Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. V.
Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger. Cols. 163–165.
Brendalsmo, J. A & F.-A. Stylegar. 2001. Kirkested i 1000 år. Grend, gård og grav i Liknes,
Kvinesdal kommune i Aust Agder. NIKU publikasjoner 111, 5–47.
Brink, S. 2014. The Hälsinge Law between South and West, King and Church, and Local
Customs. In S. Brink & L. Collinson (eds.) New Approaches to Early Law in Scandinavia.
Turnout: Brepols. 37–56.
Buckberry, J. 2008. Off With Their Heads: The Anglo-Saxon Execution Cemetery at Walkinton
Wold, East Yorkshire. In E. M. Murphy (ed.) Deviant Burial in the Archaeological Record.
Oxford: Oxbow Books. 148–168.
Caciola, N. 1996. Wraiths, Revenants and Ritual in Medieval Culture. Past and Present 152,
3–45.
Carlsson, L. 1935. Högsätet och hemfriden. Rig, 65–92.
Cherryson, A. K. 2008. Normal, Deviant and Atypical: Burial Variation in Late Saxon Wessex. In
E. M. Murphy (ed.) Deviant Burial in the Archaeological Record. Oxford: Oxbow Books.
115–130.
Colman, R. V. 1981. Hamsocn: Its Meaning and Significance in Early English Law. American
Journal of Legal History 25, 95–110.
Karker, A., Danstrup, J. et al. (eds.) 1956–1978. Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder
fra vikingetid til reformationstid. 22 vols. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger.
Dennis, A. et al. (eds.) 1980. Laws of Early Iceland, Grágás I. Winnipeg: University of Manitoba
Press.
Douglas, M. 2002. Purity and Danger. London/New York: Routledge Classics.
Dunlop, A. R. 1998. Diverse arkeologiske oppdrag i og omkring Bergen 1996-97. NIKU.
Oppdragsmelding. Bergen: Norsk institutt for kulturminneforskning.
Ersland, G. V. 2001. ‘… til død og fredløshed …’ Fredløysas innhald og funksjon på Island frå
1117 til 1264. Unpublished hovedfagsoppgave. Oslo: University of Oslo.
77
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Foote, P. & D. Wilson 1980. The Viking Achievement: The society and culture of early medieval
Scandinavia. London: Sidgwick & Jackson.
Gade, K. E. 1985. Hanging in Northern Law and Literature. Maal og Minne 3–4, 159–183.
Gardela L. 2013. The Dangerous Dead? Rethinking Viking-Age Deviant Burials. In L. Słupecki
et al. (eds.) Conversions: Looking for Ideological Change in the Early Middle Ages.
Vienna: Fassbaender. 99–136.
Gerstein, M. 1974. Germanic warg: The Outlaw as Werewolf. In G. J. Larson (ed.) Myth in IndoEuropean Antiquity. Berkeley: University of California Press. 131–157.
Green, D. H. 1965. The Carolingian Lord: Semantic Studies on four Old High German Words:
Balder, Fro, Truhtin, Hero. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Gunnes, E. 1970. Erkebiskop Øystein som lovgiver. Lumen 39, 127–149.
Gunnes, E. 1974. Erkebiskop Øystein og Frostatingsloven. Historisk Tidsskrift [Norway] 52,
109–121.
Gunnes, E. 1996. Erkebiskop Øystein: statsmann og kirkebygger. Oslo: Aschehoug.
Hagland, J. R. & J. Sandnes (eds. and trans.) 1994. Frostatingslova. Oslo: Samlaget.
Hamre, L. 1977. Landsvist, Norge. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk
leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. XXI. Copenhagen:
Rosenkilde og Bagger. Cols. 259–264.
Hamre, L. 1967. Ocker, Noreg. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk leksikon for
nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. XII. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde
og Bagger. Cols. 491–492.
Helle, K. 1974. Norge blir en stat: 1130-1319. Handbok i Norges Historie, vol. 3, [2. ed.]. Bergen/
Oslo/Tromsø: Universitetsforlaget.
Helle, K. 2001. Gulatinget og Gulatingslova. Leikanger: Skald.
Hemmer, R. 1966. Mordbrand. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk leksikon for
nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. XI. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og
Bagger. Cols. 693–694.
Hertzberg, E. et al. (eds.) 1846–1895. Norges gamle Love indtil 1387. 5 vols. Christiania: Chr.
Gröndahl.
Hollander, L. M. (ed. and trans.) 1964. Heimskringla: history of the kings of Norway, by Snorri
Sturluson. Austin: University of Texas Press.
Holmbäck, Å. & Wessén, E. Sandnes (eds. and trans.) 1946. Äldre Västgötalagen, Yngre
Västgötalagen, Smålandslagens kyrkobalk och Bjärköarätten. Stockholm: Geber.
Hødnebø, F. 1966. Mordbrand, Norge. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk
leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. XI. Copenhagen:
Rosenkilde og Bagger. Cols. 694–695.
Imsen, S. 1998. Kunsten å konstruere. Noen kritiske merknader til Erling Sandmos avhandling
“Slagsbrødre. En studie av vold i to norske regioner i tiden fram mot eneveldet”. Historisk
Tidsskrift [Norway] 77, 489–490.
Iversen, F. 2008. Eiendom, makt og statsdannelse: Kongsgårder og gods i Hordaland i yngre
jernalder og middelalder. University of Bergen: Bergen.
Jesch, J. 2001. Ships and men in the late Viking Age: The vocabulary of runic inscriptions and
skaldic verse. Woodbridge: Boydell Press.
Jonsson, K. 2009a. Practices for the Living and the Dead: Medieval and Post-Reformation
Burials in Scandinavia. Stockholm: Department of Archaeology and Classical Studies,
Stockholm University.
78
Anne Irene Riisøy
Jonsson, K. 2009b. Dangerous Death and Dangerous Dead: Examples from Scandinavian
burial practices from the Middle Ages to the Early Modern Period. In I.-M. Danielsson
(ed.) Döda personers sällskap : gravmaterialens identiteter och kulturella uttryck = On
the treshold, burial archaeology in the twenty-first century. Stockholm: Institutionen för
arkeologi och antikens kultur, Stockholms Universitet. 173–186.
Jørgensen, T. 1995. Kristningen av Norge: Naturlig samfunnsutvikling eller resultat av bevisst
misjonsstrategi. Frå haug ok heidni, 3–14.
Kanerva, K. 2011. The Role of the Dead in Medieval Iceland: A Case Study of Eyrbyggja saga.
Collegium Medievale 24, 23–49.
Kanerva, K. 2013a. Messages from the Otherworld: The Roles of the Dead in Medieval Iceland.
2013, In M. Hviid Jacobsen (ed.) Deconstructing Death: Changing Cultures of Death,
Dying, Bereavement and Care in the Nordic Countries. Odense: University Press of
Southern Denmark. 111–130.
Kanerva, K. 2013b. Rituals for the Restless Dead. The Authority of the Deceased in Medieval
Iceland. In S. Kangas, M. Korpiola & T. Ainonen (eds.) Authorities in the Middle Ages:
Influence, Legitimacy and Power in Medieval Society. Berlin/Boston: de Gruyter. 205–
227.
Knutsen, G. & A. I. Riisøy. 2007. Trolls and Witches. Arv: Nordic Yearbook of Folklore 63, 31–
69.
Kolsrud, O. 1917. Kristenret og Kirkeordinant. In O. Kolsrud (ed.) Den Norske Kirkes Mindeskrift
ved Reformationens 400-Aars Jubilæum. Christiania: Dybwad. 185–211.
Koslofsky, C. 1995. Honour and Violence in German Lutheran Funerals in the Confessional
Age. Social History 20, 315–337.
Kålund, K. (ed. and trans.) 1904. Sturlunga Saga vol. 1. København/Kristiania: Gyldendalske
Boghandel, Nordisk Forlag.
Landro, T. 2010. Kristenrett og kyrkjerett: Borgartingskristenretten i eit komparativt perspektiv.
University of Bergen: Bergen.
Larson, L. M. (ed. and trans.) 1935. The Earliest Norwegian Laws, Being the Gulathing Law and
the Frostathing Law. New York: Columbia University Press.
Lausten, M. S. (ed.) 1989. Den danske Kirkeordinans (1539). Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag.
Lia, Ø. 2001. Det rituelle rom. En fortolkende analyse av vikingtidens graver og landskap på
Kaupang. Unpublished hovedfagsoppgave, University of Oslo: Oslo.
Lund, N. 1987. Peace and Non-Peace in the Viking Age: Ottar in Biarmaland, the Rus in
Byzantium, and Danes and Norwegians in England. In J. E. Knirk (ed.) Proceedings of
the Tenth Viking Congress. Universitetets Oldsaksamlings skrifter. Ny rekke, 9: Oslo.
255–269.
Markey, T. L. 1972. Nordic Níðvisur: An Instance of Ritual Inversion? Mediaeval Scandinavia
5, 7–18.
Meulengracht Sørensen, P. 1980. Norrønt nid: forestillingen om den umandige mand i de
islandske sagaer. Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag.
Montgomery, I. 1996. A reformation without a reformer: The Realisation of the Reformation in
Norway. In I. Brohed (ed.) Church and People in Britain and Scandinavia. Lund: Lund
University. 147–179
Nilsson, B. 1989. De sepulturis: Gravrätten i Corpus Iuris Canonici och i medeltida nordisk
lagstiftning. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell.
Olavsson, T. (ed. and trans.) 1914. Ældre Borgartingslov. Kristiania: P. Soelbergs boktrykkeri.
Paus. H. (ed.) 1752, Samling af Gamle Norske Love, 2. Part. Copenhagen: Kongl. Univ.
Bogtrykker Ove Lynov.
79
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Reitan, G. 2005. Fra kokegroper til halshugginger på Faret. De gåtefulle kokegroper. Varia,
Kulturhistorisk Museum Fornminneseksjonen 58, 177–187.
Reitan, G. 2006. Faret i Skien: En kristen gravplass fra vikingtid og nye innblikk i tidlig
kirkearkitektur. Viking, 251–274.
Reuter, T. (ed. and trans.) 1992. The Annals of Fulda, Ninth-Century Histories. Manchester/
New York: Manchester University Press.
Reynolds, A. 1997. The Definition and Ideology of Anglo-Saxon Execution Sites and Cemeteries.
In G. De Boe & F. Verhaeghe (eds.) Death and Burial in Medieval Europe – Papers of
the “Medieval Europe Brugge 1997” Conference – Volume 2. Zellik: Institute for the
Archaeological Heritage. 33–41.
Reynolds, A. 2009. Anglo-Saxon Deviant Burial Customs. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Riisøy, A. I. 2003. Komparativt blikk på “verdslig” rett i Eldre Borgartings kristenrett. In J. V.
Sigurðsson & P. Norseng (eds.) Østfold og Viken i yngre jernalder og middelalder. Oslo:
Senter for studier i vikingtid og nordisk middelalder. 155–177.
Riisøy, A. I. 2009. Sexuality, Law and Legal Practice and the Reformation in Norway. Brill:
Leiden.
Riisøy, A. I. 2014. Outlawry: From Western Norway to England. In S. Brink et al. (eds.) New
Approaches to Early Law in Scandinavia. Turnhout: Brepols. 101–129.
Rindal, M. 1996. Kristninga av Noreg og dei norske kristenrettane. Misjon og Teologi: Årsskrift
for Misjonshøgskolen 1996, 76–99.
Robertson, A. J. (ed. and trans.) 1925. The Laws of the Kings of England from Edmund to
Henry I. Part one Edmund to Canute. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Robberstad, K. (ed. and trans.) 1937. Gulatingslovi. Oslo: Samlaget.
Rolfsen, P. 1981. Den siste hedning på Agder. Viking 44, 112–128.
Røsstad, R. 1997. A tveim tungum: Om stil og stilvariasjon i norrønt lovmål. Oslo: Noregs
forskningsråd.
Schlyter, C. J. & H. S. Collin (eds.) 1827–1877. Corpus iuris Sueo-Gotorum antiqui: Samling af
Sweriges gamla Lagar. 13 vols. Stockholm: Haeggström.
Solli, B. 1996. Narratives of Encountering Religions: On the Christianization of the Norse
around AD 900-1000. Norwegian Archaeological Review 29, 89–114.
Steenstrup, J. 1930–1931. Fredløs: Betydningen af denne Straf og Tvang i de sidste
Aarhundreder af dens Bestaaen. Historisk Tidsskrift [Denmark] 10 rk, 1, 408–409.
Stein-Wilkeshuis, M. 2002. Scandinavians Swearing Oaths in Tenth-Century Russia: Pagans
and Christians. Journal of Medieval History 28, 155–168.
Ström, F. 1942. On the Sacral Origin of the Germanic death penalties. Lund: Håkan Ohlssons
Boktryckeri.
Sunde, J. Ø. 2007. “De skal vera samde menn” – Ei vitskapleg fundering og spekulasjon over
den eldste norske prosessen. In P. Asp (ed.) De Lege - Juridiska Fakulteten i Uppsala
Årsbok 2007: Eftersyn og eftertanke. Uppsala: Iustus. 305–322.
Sundqvist, O. 2002. Freyr’s Offspring: Rulers and Religion in Ancient Svea Society. Uppsala:
Uppsala Universitet.
Taranger, A. 1890. Den angelsaksiske kirkes indflydelse paa den norske. Kristiania: Grøndahl
& Søns Bogtrykkeri.
Thomle, E. A. (ed.) 1893–1903. Norske Herredagsdombøger. Norske Herredags-Dombøge,
Første Række, (1578-1604). Udgivne for Det Norske Historiske Kildeskriftfond. 6 vols.
Christiania: Thronsen & Co.s Bogtrykkeri.
80
Anne Irene Riisøy
Unger, C. R. & H. J. Huitfeldt et al. (eds.) 1847– . Diplomatarium Norvegicum. Vol. I-XXII.
Christiania/Oslo: P. T. Mallings Forlagshandel.
Vandvik, E. (ed.) 1959. Latinske dokument til norsk historie: fram til år 1204. Oslo: Samlaget.
Vibe Müller, I.-H. 1991. Fra ættefellesskap til sognefellesskap: Om overgangen fra hedensk
til kristen gravskikk. In G. Steinsland et al (eds.) Nordisk hedendom. Odense: Odense
Universitetsforlag. 359–372.
Vinogradoff, P. 1908. English Society in the Eleventh Century: Essays in English Medieval
History. Oxford: Clarendon Press.
Walaker Nordeide, S. 2011. The Viking Age as a period of religious transformation: The
Christianization of Norway from AD 560 to 1150/1200. Turnhout: Brepols.
Williams, G. 2001. Hákon Aðalsteinsfóstri: Aspects of Anglo-Saxon Kingship in Tenth-Century
Norway. In T. R. Liszka & L. E. M. Walker (eds.) The North Sea World in the Middle Ages:
Studies in the Cultural History of North-Western Europe. Dublin: Four Courts Press.
108–120.
81
Parental Grief and Prayer in the
Middle Ages: Religious Coping
in Swedish Miracle Stories
Viktor Aldrin
Lund University
This article focuses on expressions of bereavement and religious coping in
medieval miracle stories from Sweden. The stories come from the collections
of St. Birgitta (Bridget) of Sweden, the Blessed Bishop Nicolaus Hermanni (Sw.
Nils Hermansson) of Linköping and the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena, and were
recorded in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries.
Catherine M. Sanders’s modern five stages of bereavement have been used
as the theory of analysis through Kay Talbot’s adaptation of the theory for parents
in grief. This theoretical foundation has provided new insights into how parental
grief was expressed in medieval Sweden – and in stark contrast to Continental
research on the same topic. Parents of both sexes expressed their grief outwardly
through tears and crying, and a reluctance to accept that their children were
dead. Throughout the miracle stories, lay people constructed their own prayers
for miraculous intervention without the aid of any priests. This makes fathers and
mothers in medieval Sweden agents of their own in terms of praying to God and
being able to construct their own forms of religious coping.
Introduction
The death of a child is one of the most feared things that could happen to a parent.
Nonetheless, it happens, and causes grief not only among parents but also those
close to the bereaved family.1 While this is just as true today as it was in medieval
society, some nineteenth- and twentieth-century scholars such as Philippe Ariès
believed that public emotions of mourning were not accepted or visible in the
medieval period before the sixteenth century.2 He emphasised this even further
when considering parental expressions of mourning by claiming that parental
emotions towards children were something that developed as a result of the
1
See Avery & Reynolds 1999; Kaartinen 2014.
2
Ariès 1983.
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.) 2015
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 82–105.
Viktor Aldrin
progression of the modern era.3 These conclusions have been refuted by scholars
who have examined the dense levels of primary sources constituted by medieval
miracle stories.4 It seems that scholars such as Ariès were not keen on accepting
that parents grieved for the loss of their children regardless of modernisation and
enlightenment.
The ways in which parents try to understand and survive the trauma of a dead
child have often been described as coping strategies. Since all of the miracle
stories examined here contain religious elements, and atheist attitudes were nonexistent in the Middle Ages, the aspect of religion in coping strategies is of primary
significance for this paper as the religious framework provides the bereaved with a
context of meaning and support. No previous study has been published on coping
strategies in a medieval context, but there are studies on the role religion plays in
coping strategies for bereaved parents in modern society.5
The purpose of this chapter is to examine this religious coping among parents in
the Middle Ages through the use of Swedish miracle stories. By “religious coping”,
I mean coping strategies for confronting extreme situations in life, such as death
and illness, which are constructed and established within a religious framework.6
It is not possible to use modern theories of grieving parents for their dead or dying
children – a field of research of its own – without combining them with theories
of miraculous intervention. The miracle of bringing a child back to life is a lifechanging event and alters the way in which a parent understands his or her own
existence. As a reader of medieval miracles, one comes into constant contact with
parents whose lives have been transformed through divine intervention.
Mortality among children was, unfortunately, frequent in the Middle Ages, and
the modern expectation of being outlived by one’s children was not considered
the general rule. In fact, a great number of children died, and the catastrophe was
therefore something considered as an ordinary reality rather than an extraordinary
event. Each miracle story which concerns a dying or dead child deals with this
ordinary situation – but with the difference that something extraordinary followed,
the divine miracle, that led to the defeat of death. Still, for the absolute majority of
children dying in the medieval period, there is nothing written about what happened
and how the parents acted. Miracle stories provide considerable information about
individual women and men, with every stratum of medieval society represented,
although with an over-representation of the lower peasant stratum in the Nordic
miracle stories. One should, however, not consider these miracle stories to be
realistic and precise accounts of the normal procedures of the death of a child,
since they were reported only after a successful miracle. Nonetheless, in some of
the miracle stories information is provided about how parents reacted when they
3
Ariès 1975.
4
Cf. Finucane 2000; Krötzl 1989.
5
Klass 1991; Breslin & Lewis 2008.
6
Cf. Bänziger et al. 2008.
83
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
discovered or realised that their child was dead or dying, their emotional responses,
as well as how the corpse was initially prepared for the funeral before the miracle
altered the situation.
Miracle Stories as a Genre
Miracle stories consist of reported divine miracles. How then can a miracle be
defined? If prayer can be understood as communication with the divine and entities
close to the divine, miracles can similarly be defined as divine communication with
human beings through extraordinary actions. God is understood in Christianity to
be able to act in the human world a priori but miracles traditionally need to be asked
for by someone before God performs them (and no one knows if a miracle will be
performed at all). Miracle stories differ from other stories of disastrous events and
thus cannot as such be properly analysed without this particular difference in mind
– divine intervention. All miracles end with a positive outcome with the divine will
revealing itself and healing the sick, which is traditionally the primary meaning of a
miracle in Christianity.7 When a miracle story is recorded, those reporting it already
knew the positive outcome and are interpreting the whole incident in this light.
According to Niels Christian Hvidt, miracles need to have a combination of three
aspects, none of which can be omitted. The first aspect is the nature of the miracle
where God acts beyond or in ways different from the natural order. The second
aspect is the psychology of the miracle, whereby the response of those present
at the miraculous occurrence causes them to consider it an act of God. The third
and final aspect is the symbolic meaning of the miracle by which God is seen and
interpreted as wishing to communicate with the human race.8
The sources used in this chapter come from three of the largest miracle
collections of medieval Sweden with a total of 450 miracles, which were recorded
in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries: Saint Birgitta of Sweden (ca. 1303–1373),9
her daughter the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena (1331/1332–1381)10 and the bishop
of Linköping at that time, the Blessed Bishop Nicolaus Hermanni of Linköping (ca.
1326–1391).11 The material is relatively homogenous since it comes from three
presumed saints connected to the Brigittine Abbey of Vadstena. None of these
miracle collections alone can provide sufficient breadth and depth of knowledge
of how lay people formed religious practices, but combining the general and the
specific brings unique insights into everyday religiosity and the practices of miracle
praying.
7
Cf. Hvidt 2003, 14–17; Pawlikowski 2007.
8
Hvidt 2003, 14–17.
9
Collijn (ed.) 1924–1931.
10 Collijn (ed.) 1942–1946; Lundén (ed.) 1981.
11 Schück (ed.) 1873–1895. For numbered lists of all Swedish medieval miracles, see Myrdal &
Bäärnhielm (1994, 133–156). The symbol # within square brackets, e.g., [Miracle #40], is used in my
article to refer to the numbers in these lists.
84
Viktor Aldrin
In order to use miracle stories as a source for religious practices, certain sourcecritical problems must be dealt with. Miracle stories were usually recorded with the
one primary purpose of advocating the canonisation of a deceased holy person.
This avowed purpose, while obvious, does not make the source useless for other
studies once it is identified. Source-critical analysis of miracle stories reveals vital
information for use in identification and analysis of religious practices. Sourcecritical criteria for miracle stories have been developed by scholars such as Janken
Myrdal and Göran Bäärnhielm, who have identified a number of critical points,
namely: 1) the time between miracle and report; 2) witness testimonies correcting
the stories and adding more information; 3) the knowledge that over-dramatised
stories could create a bad reputation for a cult; 4) the lack of unlikely stories even
after the death of the holy person; 5) the lack of coherence with biblical stories; 6) the
lack of coherence with other saint legends; and finally 7) considerable information
on details regarding the context, such as horses, stables and the environment.12
Myrdal and Bäärnhielm conclude that the Swedish miracles are reliable as sources
of information for studies concerning what is related in them.13
There is little specific research on medieval religious practices. Considerable
research has been done on medieval miracles, but this has had little or no interest in
religiosity, often focusing rather on other aspects of miracles, such as medicine and
canon law. The aim of this study is to contribute a religious perspective on miracle
stories. Emphasising the core of these stories – the religious aspect – is, however,
an approach much less frequently used in research. Among those who have done
so are Ronald C. Finucane, in his Miracles and Pilgrims (1977), which analyses
the spread of miracle cults in medieval England, and his The Rescue of Innocents
(2000), in which children and deaths of children are examined; and André Vauchez
in his La sainteté en Occident aux derniers siècles du moyen âge (1981), which
has become something of a manual for quantitative analysis of miracle stories and
their narrative structures. Other researchers working with similar approaches are
Christian Krötzl in “Parent-Child Relations in Medieval Scandinavia According to
Scandinavian Miracle Collections” (1989), which focuses on parental behaviour in
miracle stories; Sari Katajala-Peltomaa’s Gender, Miracles and Daily Life (2009),
in which she describes everyday phenomena in European miracle collections;
Anders Fröjmark’s Mirakler och helgonkult (1992), which examines late medieval
Scandinavian miracle cults, and “Childbirth Miracles in Swedish Miracle Collections”
(2012) in which the phenomenon of stillborn children is examined; Janken Myrdal
and Göran Bäärnhielm’s Kvinnor, barn och fester i medeltida mirakelberättelser
(1994), which not only analyses medieval miracle stories as historical sources,
but also lists all extant medieval Swedish miracle stories; and my own study, The
Prayer Life of Peasant Communities in Late Medieval Sweden (Aldrin 2011), which
12 Myrdal & Bäärnhielm 1994, 119–124.
13 Myrdal & Bäärnhielm 1994, 119–124; cf. Aldrin 2011, 136–142.
85
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
concentrates on practices of lay prayer, should also be mentioned in this group of
studies.
Two aspects will be highlighted: firstly the initial reactions and responses of grief,
and secondly the ways in which prayer was used as a religious coping strategy.
Since miracle stories only tell of successful miracles, the first aspect will investigate
the coming of death into the family regardless of a miraculous outcome, and the
second aspect will focus on the exit of death through the prayers of the parents.
Enter Death: The Grieving Parent
Since the Middle Ages, many theories of bereavement have evolved which aid the
understanding of sorrow and coping among parents. The perhaps most commonly
cited bereavement theory is that of Elisabeth Kübler-Ross (1969) – the five stages
of grief – where dying patients were coping and realising that they were going
to die. This theory has been much criticised, especially as it has been popularly
used as a general pattern for grieving regardless of situation. Instead, it seems
that parental grief over a child’s death is different to the realisation of one’s own
immediate death and grief for adults.14
In this section, I will examine the initial reactions of bereaved parents in the
medieval material. What is perhaps the most fruitful modern theory of bereavement
has been outlined by Catherine M. Sanders (1998) and further developed by Kay
Talbot (2002). It can be described as the five phases of bereavement, and focuses
explicitly on parental grief over the death of a child. The five phases are: phase
one, shock; phase two, awareness of loss; phase three, conservation; phase four,
healing; and the fifth and final phase, renewal.15 In the case of the medieval miracle
stories, it is plausible to assume that they all belong to phase one – shock – which
“usually passes into the next phase when rituals of death are over and constricted
emotions begin to release and overflow”, since the time of bereavement is short in
the miracle stories and, before the child is buried, the miracle has been received
and death is driven off.16
According to Sanders and Talbot, the first phase usually lasts until after the
burial, when parents can release their pent up feelings of loss and thereby move on
to the second phase of bereavement, the awareness of loss.17 Sanders presents
both characteristics and symptoms of this first phase, several of which are seen in
the miracle stories.
Notwithstanding the great time difference between the contemporary theory and
the miracle stories, Sanders’ theory can still shed some light on the understanding
14 Calderwood 2011.
15 Talbot 2002, 66.
16 Talbot 2002, 66.
17 Sanders 1998; summarised in Talbot 2002, 66.
86
Viktor Aldrin
and interpretation of parental grief in these medieval narratives. It is possible to see a
correlation between psychological behaviour both prior to and during bereavement,
presuming that the ways in which one acted previously have set the patterns for the
ways in which grief is expressed.18 Since Sanders’ bereavement theory does not
focus on cultural behaviour as much as on physical and psychological behaviour,
it will be used here as a means to analyse bereavement behaviour in medieval
miracle stories.
The examples examined in this section provide information about actions and
reactions beyond simple information on the discovery of a dead child and the
parents praying for a miracle which subsequently happened. Out of the 37 miracle
stories on dying or dead children examined, 12 stories (5 Birgitta, 0 Nicolaus
Hermanni, 7 Katarina) provide information regarding the discovery, 17 (5 Birgitta, 3
Nicolaus Hermanni, 9 Katarina) describe parental emotions when they realise that
their child is dying or dead, and 14 (1 Birgitta, 4 Nicolaus Hermanni, 9 Katarina)
relate the preparation of the corpse. First, the discovery itself will be examined.19
Picture 1. This image shows a posthumous miracle by two Italian saints, Aimo and his brother
Vermando. The girl Allegranzia was accidentally crushed under carriage wheels, but her mother
prayed for the intervention of the saints, and she was saved.
18 Cf. Riley et al. 2007; Schwab 1996.
19 Childbirth miracles are included in the material, but are not examined further since they have
already been examined recently in Fröjmark 2012.
87
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Discoveries of Death
All miracle stories begin with a description of the reason why a miracle was prayed
for. In the case of dead or dying children, this description includes not only the
sequence of events that ultimately led to the death, but sometimes also information
on when the parents become aware of this. The stories can be organised into
two strands, where the first concerns is a child who becomes ill and gradually
becomes worse until the child has died, while the second is some extreme and
sudden situation in which the child dies without previous illness. In the case of
gradual death, the parents are described as being close to the dying child, and
their reactions to when this transfer from life to death occurs will be examined here.
In contrast, the parents were not always present when death occurred suddenly.
Instead they discovered the child when it was already dead, or when they were told
of it by someone else who was present at the child’s death.
An example of a powerful reaction when a child was discovered can be found
in a miracle of the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena from 1472, in which a child of
eighteen months disappeared and the grandfather and mother were searching for
it. The child was later discovered drowned in a well, stuck upside down:20
With the aid of the mother, he dragged the boy out, laid him on his mother’s knee and
rolled him to and fro in order to see if he could find life in him, but it could not be found,
since the child was all cold and stiff.21
In this story, the mother and the grandfather tried to discern whether or not the
child was dead by rolling him over the mother’s legs, but the child gave no sign of
life. Rolling the child also occurs in other similar miracle stories of dead children as
a way of trying to bring the child back to life.
Of the five senses – hearing, sight, touch, smell and taste – three senses are
represented in the miracle stories – hearing, sight and touch – as these would have
been the only actual senses used in the discovery of a newly deceased person. The
most common way to determine the death of a child in the stories is by sight, in 9
out of 11 miracles which tell of the discovery (out of the total 37 miracles examined).
This is exemplified in a miracle story of the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena from
1471, where a father and his child (no age is given) were coming back from doing
business when the horses bolted.22 The boy was cast out of the wagon and a
sack of malt fell onto him, crushing him to death. The father is described as being
“half dead in pain at seeing his son”,23 and the boy lay dead for three hours. The
20 Lundén (ed.) 1981, fascimile 74 (Miracle #40).
21 In Latin: “[...] quem mediante matris adiutorio ipse extraxit et in sinu matris ponens voluit et
reuoluit / ut videret si vitam in eo inuenire posset / sed non est inuenta / quia omnino frigidus et
rigidus erat.”
22 Collijn (ed.) 1942–1946, 96–97 (Miracle #11).
23 Ibid., 96. In Latin: “Pater vero prefati pueri hec videns quasi semimortuus pre dolore [...].”
88
Viktor Aldrin
parents are described as first seeing that the child was dead or dying, and then
their reactions came. Still, the example cited above of the child being rolled to and
fro is not of this kind, illustrating instead proof of death made through touch and the
temperature of the child.
The two kinds of death discoveries differ in the sense of the emotional preparation
for the realisation that the child is dead. When death approaches gradually, the
parents will have some time to consider what is about to happen, although this
is not seen as an emotional protection by the parent. When death is sudden, the
parents are unprepared for it and their reactions differ from those of parents whose
realisation is gradual. When the parents have realised that their child is dead, the
life-long existence of being a bereaved parent begins.
Emotional Responses
In many of the miracle stories, the discoveries are directly followed by the emotional
responses of the parents. Although the emotions of being bereaved as a parent are
the same regardless of time and culture, the ways in which they are expressed are
culturally encoded. In Western European medieval miracle studies, it is common to
have a gender-coded grief pattern, where men and women express their emotions
differently.24 This pattern has been interpreted as resulting from the differing roles
men and women had in medieval society, where men had more outward, societyfocused activity than women, who had more inward, family-focused activity. This
generalisation has, however, been questioned. In the Icelandic sagas, for example,
bereaved fathers often show strong emotions that may indicate strong links
between father and child.25 In Scandinavian miracles, it has also previously been
concluded that the gender-specific roles found on the continent do not apply to the
Nordic region.26
24 Lansing 2008; Finucane 2000, 151–158; Houlbrooke 1998.
25 Katajala-Peltomaa 2013; Jørgensen Itnyre 1996.
26 Krötzl 1989.
89
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Picture 2. In the Biblical story (Gen. 21:1–20), Hagar, Abraham’s concubine, and their son Ishmael
were banished into the wilderness at the insistence of Abraham’s wife. As they ran out of water,
Hagar left Ishmael under a bush as she could not watch him die. She started to cry in desperation,
but God sent her relief in the form of an angel and helping her find a well.
Over half of the miracle stories examined, 17 of the 37 (5 Birgitta, 3 Nicolaus
Hermanni, 9 Katarina), describe the emotions of the bereaved parents. In the
miracle stories not describing any particular emotional response, the only reaction
by the parents to the death of their child is to pray to a particular saint. Still, this
response is omitted in this paper since it provides little new for the investigation –
all such stories involve someone praying for a miracle and the miracle itself.
Perhaps the most peculiar emotional response from a modern point of view is
the commonly occurring custom of leaving a dead child for a couple of hours in
order for it to come back to life – or to determine that it really is dead. In almost all
the miracle stories mentioning this, the child is described as physically dead; that
is, not moving, stiff, cold, with a bluish skin tone, etc. In one miracle story of the
Blessed Katarina of Vadstena from 1471, however, the same description is given
of a girl of seven, who was lying still, but foaming at the mouth for the whole period
90
Viktor Aldrin
of time and whose skin colour seemed blue.27 She lay like this for an hour, during
which everyone seeing her considered her dead. Still, in all these examples with
the child lying as if dead for a couple of hours without the parents touching it, the
child returned to life only after a miracle.
In the miracles examined, both mothers and fathers wept for their dead children,
contrary to what has been argued for Continental and British miracle stories.28
Fathers were allowed to express their grief in tears and by showing great pain in
the same way as mothers, without being criticised for this by the redactors of the
miracle collections. It seems that public grief was natural and common to both
sexes in medieval Sweden and that a strong emotional response by the parents
emphasises the greatness of the divine intervention in the form of the miracle.
In a story of the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena from 1441, a visiting Carmelite
monk visited the house of a family whose loss of their three-year-old daughter
shows a particularly good example of this gender-neutral weeping.29 The monk
found both parents and their friends in grief, weeping and lamenting, and when he
asked them the reason for their sorrow he was told that they wept for their daughter
who had been running just a moment ago before she was killed in an accident:30
While she was indeed, together with her husband and other friends, grieving and
weeping for the death of their beloved, Porse entered [...] asking the cause of such
great sorrow. The aforementioned wife said: “We mourn for this daughter of ours, who
an hour ago killed herself by playing with and using a knife”.31
Another example of similar responses can be found in the miracle of the same
Blessed Katarina of Vadstena that occurred in 1441, when a son of eighteen months
had died.32 The boy had swallowed a large ear of wheat and was tormented by it
for five weeks before ceasing to show signs of life. The story relates that the father
and the mother saw this and “grieved more than anyone can imagine” (ibid, 85).33
In one of the miracle stories, the emotions of a parent are vividly presented,
describing not only the grief and tears but also how the mother wanted to come
physically into contact with the deceased. The example comes from a miracle by
the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena from 1472, where a three-year-old girl fell out of
a window and died from the fall, and was found by the city guard and brought to
27 Collijn (ed.) 1942–1946, 99–100 (Miracle #30). This presentation comes from two reports of the
same miracle (one recording the miracle and one later complementary recording).
28 Gertsman 2001.
29 Collijn (ed.) 1942–1946, 122–123 (Miracle #8).
30 Ibid., 122–123.
31 “Ipsa vera cum marito suo et alijs amicis mortem eius amare dolente et lugente, superuenit
quidam Porse [...] querens causam tante tristicie. Cui prefata mulier dixit: ‘Lugemus hic filiam
nostram, que hic ante vnam horam iocando et ludendo vno cultello seipsam interfecit.’”
32 Lundén (ed.) 1981, facsimiles 84–85 (Miracle #55).
33 In Latin: “Pater et mater hec videntes et plusquam credi potest con gementes.”
91
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
the mother.34 When the mother realised that her daughter was dead, she did not
leave the body for burial preparations for several hours and instead tried to bring
her daughter back to life again:35
The mother was indescribably upset when she saw her daughter dead and pitiably
covered with blood. For almost three hours, she embraced, caressed and stroked
her, and rolled her back and forth; still, the spirit, which had burst away, by no means
returned to the body it was separated from. She therefore directed that the corpse be
carried to a private room, according to the custom.36
This is often not the case in the other miracle stories, it being more common
for dead children to be laid out to rest in either the common room or a separate
room after it has died as described in the miracle. It seems that the emotions of the
parents, if they are described, are mostly aimed at the living and the divine. One
should, however, not draw the conclusion that no such emotions occurred at all –
as this example effectively demonstrates.
The most obvious emotional reaction in all miracle stories is that of hoping for a
miracle – which eventually did occur – which illustrates the religious coping involved
in the medieval context. The ability of God to create miracles exists in these stories
and was considered to be something natural and accepted within the context of
religion in the medieval period. Still, these miracle stories give an unrepresentative
image of bereavement since the vast majority of dead children did not come to life
again through a miracle, only miraculous events being preserved for analysis. In the
stories, not all those present consider the option of divine miraculous intervention.
Often it is only one or two people who begin to pray to a particular saint for a
miracle or, as in one of the stories, an external visitor mentions the possibility and
hope for a miracle arises. The emotional responses in the miracle stories are often
direct and impulsive, such as efforts to bring the child back to life through physical
activities including rolling it to and fro – although it does not seem possible to
regain life at all. Parents also cried a great deal in the stories, while some parents
seem paralysed in their grief so that others needed to continue the procedures of
preparing the deceased or praying to a saint.
Preparation of the Dead for Burial
The actions immediately after the moment of death were also part of the preparations
for the burial of the dead, when it is realised that the person is really dead and
34 Lundén (ed.) 1981, facsimiles 76–77 (Miracle #43).
35 Ibid., facsimiles 76–77.
36 “Mater vero turbata inestimabiliter filiam videns mortuam et sanguine miserabiliter circumfusam
amplecitur tractat palpat voluit et reuoluit spacio fere trium horarum Verumptamen spiritus a corpore
separatus minime reuertitur Jdeo percepit cadauer in domum priuatam deportari ut moris est.”
92
Viktor Aldrin
that the corpse needs to be made ready for burial.37 Religious coping plays an
important part here since the rite of passage of burial is an important step between
the living and the dead. The deceased joins the dead and is part of memory, and
in the medieval Christian context also becomes a part of the afterlife (where it was
perfectly normal to communicate with the deceased through prayer).
In nearly half of the miracle stories, 14 of the 37 (1 Birgitta, 4 Nicolaus Hermanni,
9 Katarina), preparations for the burial had already begun when one or both of the
parents began to pray for a miracle. All of these mention the immediate preparation
or how the corpse was laid out in the house before the actual burial. None of the
miracles tell of divine intervention during or after the burial. It is as if the miracle
could only occur during the first days after death – indeed, corpses were buried
quite quickly in the medieval period.
The most common preparation of the deceased in the miracle stories (12 of
14) was to lay the child out either on the floor or on a bench in a separate room.
In cases where there seems to be a possibility for the child to return to life as
previously mentioned, there is apparently a pattern of keeping the child aside. In
contrast, in only five of these miracle stories is the reader told of more specific
and final preparation of the deceased (where death is certain). In the miracle story
cited above about the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena and the girl who fell out of the
window, the reader is told that the mother carried the corpse of her daughter to
a separate room, according to custom, that this house was high and had several
rooms since one could be spared for the deceased.38 Similar to this positioning of
the corpse is the miracle of the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena, occurring sometime
between 1416–1455 or 1470–1477, which concerns another girl dying of illness
when her father was away on a long journey.39 When the father returned, he went
into the room where the deceased child was placed on a bier. He told the others in
the household that they were not allowed to touch the corpse and he then began
to pray for a miracle. In this story, the corpse was being prepared for burial, hence
the touching of the corpse, but the reader is not told how this was done except for
placing the dead girl on a bier in a separate room. The practice of laying corpses on
biers also occurs in a previously cited miracle story of the same Blessed Katarina
of Vadstena where a monk visited a household and found the family grieving and
lamenting.40 The monk went to the bier where the dead girl lay and mentioned the
possibility of a miracle.
37 For studies on burials in medieval Sweden, see Mejsholm 2009; Nilsson 2009; Nilsson 1989.
38 Lundén (ed.) 1981, facsimiles 76–77 (Miracle #43).
39 Lundén (ed.) 1981, facsimiles 55–56 (Miracle #9).
40 Collijn (ed.) 1942–1946, 122–123 (Miracle #8).
93
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Picture 3. Hannibal Gustav Wrangel af Salmis (1641–1643), the firstborn of Count Carl Gustaf
Wrangel af Salmis and Anna Margareta von Haugwitz, died at the age of 16 months in Germany.
His distraught parents had a posthumous portrait painted of their son on his lit de parade.
Only two miracle stories specifically reveal more about the preparation of
the deceased other than the positioning of the corpse. In a story of the Blessed
Bishop Nicolaus Hermanni of Linköping from 1405, a three-year-old boy died of
the plague.41 While he lay dying, the relatives read and said prayers for his soul,
and after the death his father made the sign of the cross over the boy and said five
Paternosters and Hail Marys “as for the dead” (pro defuncto).42 Whilst saying this,
the father began to consider the possibility of a miracle, according to the recorder
of the story. Here the reader is told of prayer practices for a dying child and for
the newly deceased. The story also tells of the two standard prayers of medieval
religiosity – the Paternoster and the Hail Mary recited five times over. (The third
standard text, the Creed, was not used here.) The father thought of something
greater while saying these prayers and was rewarded for his faith:43
His father Olov marked the boy with the sign of the cross and read five Paternosters
and Hail Marys as for the dead. But while he was praying, it came to his mind that he
would make a promise on his behalf to master Nicolas’s tomb if he could be given his
life back. And after a short while, the father and the mother discovered a small red
blush on his cheeks and eyelids, and finally his limbs began to move, he began to
41 Schück (ed.) 1873–1895, 347–348 (Miracle #5).
42 Ibid, 347.
43 Ibid, 347–348.
94
Viktor Aldrin
breathe, opened his eyes, came back to life and is living healthy and sound today, the
day of the apostles Saint Peter and Saint Paul in the year 1411.44
It was customary in the medieval period to say these standard prayers and
consider various mental themes, such as the grief of the Blessed Virgin Mary
or of the healing abilities of particular saints.45 The second miracle comes from
the Blessed Katarina of Vadstena in 1472, where a ten-year-old boy died when a
haystack and a ladder fell onto him.46 The boy’s brother and mother saw this, and the
brother wanted to take the dead brother away for burial preparations immediately.
Those preparations were described as shrouding the body and then burying him.
The Process of Grief
The first phase in Sanders’ bereavement scheme can be traced in the miracle stories
although it is necessary to keep in mind that the medieval context is different from
today in terms of gestures and emotional expressions. Sanders’ system allows,
however, expressions of bereavement to be categorised and analysed as part of a
grieving process, which enhances the authenticity of these stories.47
Of the general characteristics of the first phase, disbelief and confusion
particularly can be found expressed in the miracle stories.48 Disbelief emerges in
the perception that the death is not real and that the child is still somehow alive
– striking examples of this are the stories of the mother who refuses to leave her
dead daughter, as well as the mother and father who try to bring their child back
to life by rolling him to and fro, even though he has already been declared dead.
Confusion occurs where the bereaved parent realises that the world will be very
different without the deceased – this is especially the case with the widow who lost
both her children. Other characteristics such as restlessness, feelings of unreality,
regression and helplessness, and finally a state of alarm cannot be found explicitly
in these miracle stories. One should, however, bear in mind that the accounts of
these events were recorded after the miraculous intervention and in the light of
God’s ability to break through this world’s harsh realities.
44 “Pater vero predictus Olauus incepit puerum signo crucis signare et legit quinque pater noster
et aue maria pro defuncto, sub qua lectura uenit ei in mentem, ut uotum ad sepulchrum domini
Nicholai pro eo faceret, si vitam suam recuperare posset. Et modico interuallo facto deprehenderunt
idem pater et mater parvum unum ruborem in maxillis defuncti apparere et in palpebris suis, et
tandem cepit primo moueri in membris et demum spiritum ducere et demum oculos aperire et vitam
consequi et viuit hodie sanus et incolumis, id est die apostolorum Petri et Pauli de anno domini M
CD XI.”
45 Aldrin 2011, 59–64.
46 Lundén (ed.) 1981, facsimiles 77–78 (Miracle #44).
47 Sanders 1998; Talbot 2002, 66.
48 Talbot 2002, 60.
95
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Of the physical symptoms described by Sanders, only one – weeping – can
be found in the miracle stories. There is no indication of dryness of the mouth,
the need for sighing, loss of muscular control, uncontrolled trembling, startled
responses, sleep disturbance or loss of appetite. It may be that the only reason for
this is that the miracles occur before these physical symptoms begin to occur, and
moreover that the parents did not find it necessary to include information about
these things. The psychological symptoms are perhaps the most difficult to discern
in these miracle stories. It can be argued that both egocentric phenomena and
preoccupation of thoughts with the deceased occur, but these are also part of
describing the act of becoming bereaved. Sanders’ model of interpretation49 is a
weak instrument of analysis for medieval miracle stories, but it still seems to be
the most useful of the bereavement theories in respect to these stories and the
analysis of parents in grief.
This theory suggests the conclusion that the parents are affected by the dreadful
events not only physically but also psychologically – trying to survive and respond
to harsh events. Talbot argues that losing a child is different to other bereavement
experiences as it alters so much for the parent in terms of identity, emotions and
thoughts of the future.50 A dead child never leaves the bereaved parent in terms of
psychology, but continues to be an important part of his or her life.51
The Miracle Story as Narrative Coping
An effective means of psychological survival for the parents is to create narratives
of what happened and about the deceased child, thereby creating a memory for
coping.52 Miracle stories can, in my view, be seen as pertaining to extreme situations
– narratives of escaping bereavement by a hair’s breadth. The event that caused
the miracle to happen was remembered by the parents for their entire lives – even
as it would have been today, or any other time. Miracle stories are, in this sense,
not only evidence of a particular saint’s power and God’s ability to heal, but are also
reconstructions of tragedies to aid parents in their recovery from the shock.
Grief and Gender
Research on medieval miracle stories from Central Europe, Italy and the British
Isles would suggest that the stories differ from Swedish ones in one particular
respect – that of gender differences in emotional expressions of bereavement.
49 Sanders 1998; Talbot 2002, 66.
50 Talbot 2002, 1–21.
51 Talbot 2002, 169–181.
52 Gerrish & Bailey 2012; Arnold et al. 2007.
96
Viktor Aldrin
Gender differences are present in forms such as how emotions are expressed
and, when these expressions differ from the expected gender roles, the person is
mocked in British and Continental miracle stories.53 This phenomenon of genderspecific expressions of bereavement or criticism of such behaviour is non-existent
in my material. Both men and women weep publicly and often act together in order
to take care of the deceased or pray to a particular saint. It seems that bereavement
took different forms in medieval Sweden from other parts of Europe.
Why this is so can possibly be explained through modern gender studies on
parental bereavement. Correlations have been found between gender and grief,
and between how a person reacted and coped with extreme situations before
the death of a child.54 Gendered behaviour by the parent in the ways in which
the father and mother are supposed to behave in a normal situation – where the
mother is supposed to be more emotional in her expressions than the father – have
consequences for how the process of bereavement is expressed emotionally.55 If
these correlations were also true for the medieval period, as Katajala-Peltomaa
has indicated in line with my own analysis,56 one can draw the conclusion that the
gender roles of parents differed between parents in Scandinavia, where both men
and women showed strong emotions, and the British Isles and Continental Europe
where men adopted a less emotionally expressive behaviour than women.
Exit Death: The Praying Parent
In this section, I will examine the ways in which these bereaved parents used their
religiosity in terms of prayer to cope with the situation of loss. The key point in
understanding medieval miracle stories is the fact that a miracle occurs and that
God thereby acts directly in the world. Nonetheless, many studies of medieval
miracles have focused instead on illness, behaviour and the statistics of the actors
in these stories. But the very reason why these miracle stories were recorded and
used in the promotion of presumed saints was religious. Miracles happened only to
a few, and one could never know whether God wanted to perform a miracle or not,
regardless of the severity of the situation and the depth of grief. This has always
been one of the mysteries of Christianity, and even Jesus Christ himself did not
cure all illness and did not revoke death for everyone. The reason for this cannot be
understood in terms of theology; it must simply be accepted that it is beyond human
capacity to know how God’s reasons.
53 Finucane 2000, 151–158.
54 Riley et al. 2007; Schwab 1996.
55 Riley et al. 2007; Schwab 1996.
56 Katajala-Peltomaa 2013.
97
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
God and Saints as Healers
The prime example of healing throughout the history of Christianity has been God
the Father himself performing miracles through his son Jesus Christ – healings
often referred to and viewed as role models. In the New Testament, readers are
told of two miracles Jesus performed for dying children and their parents. The
first miracle can be found in Mark 5:21–43, where the twelve-year-old daughter of
the Synagogue leader Jairus was brought back to life.57 The second miracle can
be found in Luke 7:11–17, where the only son of a widow from Nain had died and
was about to be carried away when Jesus passed the widow.58 Both stories tell
of bereaved persons and Jesus asked the dead children to stand up – both were
lying down when he spoke to them – and he then ensured that these resurrected
children were helped in appropriate ways. The girl was given food and the boy was
given back to his mother. Still, these were the only two miracles of this kind that
Jesus performed. He must have seen a great many more dead and dying children,
although he also brought the adult Lazarus back from his grave (John 11:1–44).
These stories of Jesus’ ability to heal must have been known to lay people, as
the most powerful stories of God’s ability to act and heal the sick and the dead.
The power of God as healer is recalled in the miracle stories, as well as God’s
power to perform miracles. In the miracles analysed in this paper, however, no
references to these stories are made – either explicitly, such as recalling God’s
actions in these cases and the possibility of repeating these miracles, or implicitly
through the imitation of these miracles in terms of modus operandi or using the
same phrases. This gives authenticity to the stories since it is relatively easy to
mimic Biblical miracles in miracle collections – something common to European
collections, but almost non-existent in Scandinavian ones. In the anatomy of a
miracle story, someone needs to pray to a saint or God, asking for a miracle, this
prayer usually including some kind of offering in return for the miracle such as a
votive gift to the shrine of the saint which has to be fulfilled once the miracle has
occurred. Otherwise the illness could return.
Parents in Prayer
In all the miracle stories analysed here, parents or someone related to the dying or
dead child, prayed to the presumed saint. The majority of the 37 stories say only that
the parents prayed for the dead or dying and that the miracle took place, whereas
11 (1 Birgitta, 2 Nicolaus Hermanni, 8 Katarina) explain more specifically how this
57 Synopsis: Jesus asks why they are all crying and weeping, and tells the father that the girl is just
sleeping, although Jairus’ servants have said that the daughter has died (she is dying when Jairus
asks Jesus for help) and calls for her to awaken again, with the famous words talitha koum (“little
girl, get up”). The girl wakes up and Jesus asks for food for her.
58 Synopsis: Jesus tells the widow not to cry, touches the bier, and then tells the boy to stand up.
The boy does so and begins to speak. Jesus then gives the boy back to his mother.
98
Viktor Aldrin
prayer was performed. The stories commonly describe the emotional expressions
and gestures of the bereaved parent when he or she prayed (17 miracles in total:
5 Birgitta, 2 Nicolaus Hermanni, 10 Katarina). These emotions were often either
submissive (humbleness) or lachrymose.
A typical example of how prayer was expressed can be found in a miracle
story of Saint Birgitta of Sweden from somewhere between 1374 and 1390, where
two children fell from their widowed mother’s arms into a stream and could not be
found.59 The children were later discovered safe in the water, described “as if they
have been resting on a bed of flowers”. In the miracle story, the bereaved widow,
having realised that she was about to lose her only children, cried to the saint with
many tears and began to pray. The content of the prayer itself, in which the widow
submitted herself in sorrow to the miraculous powers of God through Saint Birgitta
of Sweden, was then summarised for the reader:60
It was about noon, when the woman, who saw that she was bereft of her children
and had lost the comforts and hopes of her widowhood, called sobbing to the lady
Birgitta that she – this honourable widow who for more than thirty years, long before
her husband’s death, with his consent had promised to live in chastity, who had lived a
commendable life and in truth already seems to be inseparably united with her heavenly
groom – that she ought to think it worthy to come to the aid of the abandoned and
miserable widow, who promised to make a pilgrimage with the children to Vadstena if
she could take them alive from the whirlpools of the water. She then wiped the tears
away and saw that [...].61
Another quite common way of describing prayer is to present the thoughts of
the bereaved parent when he or she began to think of the possibility of miraculous
intervention. In the miracle story of the Blessed Bishop Nicolaus Hermanni of
Linköping cited above, where a boy was dying and the parents prayed the standard
sequence of Paternosters and Hail Marys, the father was described as thinking
in terms of a miracle while praying for his boy as a dead person.62 The father
then made a vow to visit the late bishop’s tomb, whereupon the boy came to life
again. The way in which the praying father used his mind to voice another prayer
whilst still reciting a standard prayer was something common and recommended
in the Middle Ages.63 The fact that the father mentioned this change in his thought
illustrates his acceptance of doing so, and the recorder of the miracle made no
remark concerning this.
59 Collijn (ed.) 1924–1931, 125 (Miracle #30, Series “B”).
60 Ibid, 125.
61 “Et hora erat quasi sexta, cernens mulier se liberis exorbatam spemque consolationem viduitatis
sue perijsse, dolorosis singultibus dominam Brigidam jnuocabat, vt illa venerabilis vidua, que
triginta annis et eo amplius diu ante mortem mariti illo consenciente castitatem seruare vouerat et
laudabiliter vixerat et celesto sponso iam inseparabiliter coniuncta vere creditur, desolate et misere
vidue succurrere dignaretur, vouens se cum paruulis ad Wastenam peregre profecturam, si eos
viuos de gurgitibus aquarum recipere posset. Deinde extergens lacrimas ab oculis vidit [...].”
62 Schück (ed.) 1873–1895, 347–348 (Miracle #5).
63 Aldrin 2011, 59–64.
99
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Two miracle stories of the Blessed Nicholas Hermanni discuss lot casting, a
particular way to discern to whom to address a prayer for a miraculous intervention.64
Lots were cast in a particular order to determine whom God wished to be the
addressee for prayer.65 When, as in this miracle story, the Blessed Bishop Nicolaus
Hermanni of Linköping was selected by the lots, those at the house of the deceased
began to pray to him and the miracle occurred. The process of lot casting is
described by the miracle compiler as being according to the customs of the people,
but with no remark on whether it was unacceptable behaviour and, accordingly,
whether this was the way to discern the will of God. Lot casting was common in
medieval Sweden and considered to be something good and in opposition to evil,
since God’s will was requested rather than the Devil’s power.66
In all the miracle stories discussed here, no priests were present when the
prayer for the miracle was made,67 which is thus something which lay people did for
themselves and which they were respected for and trusted to do.68 In fact, nowhere
in the entire miracle material of late medieval Sweden are there any remarks made
that the prayer was inappropriate because of the lack of a priest,69 suggesting
that lay people in the Middle Ages, at least in Sweden, were not as dependent on
the clergy for their religious practices as had been previously thought. Instead,
bereaved parents had the opportunity to create their own prayers and to construct
business-like agreements with presumed saints in return for a miracle.
Picture 4. After their son had fallen seriously ill, Leone Otasso and his wife presented the boy
to Saints Aimo and Vermando so that he would be cured. This happened miraculously by divine
intervention.
64 Schück (ed.) 1873–1895, 384–386 (Miracles #56, #58).
65 Aldrin 2011, 112–118; Fröjmark 1993, 98; Krötzl 2012.
66 Aldrin 2011, 112–118.
67 See also, Aldrin 2011, 109–144.
68 See also Aldrin 2011, 109–144; Källström 2011, 305–309.
69 See also Aldrin 2011, 109–144.
100
Viktor Aldrin
The Miracle
When the miracle occurred, God had acted in that particular situation by bringing
the child back to life. This is the epicentre of the miracle story narrative – where
God’s healing powers are proved and manifested. Although the miracle itself is not
focused on in this paper, it is necessary to say something about what came after
the prayer – the miracle itself and its aftermath. Unlike the biblical miracles and
the ways in which such miracles occur, the miracles in the medieval stories are
often a process rather than an instant healing. The stories often graphically relate
how the child came to life again, limb by limb, and was later examined to show no
vestiges of the illness or accident that led to death or, in the case of infants, that
they instantly began to suckle again.
After the miracle had occurred, the votive promise made by the parents, often
a visit or a gift to the tomb of the presumed saint, was fulfilled. A common feature
of medieval miracle stories is that some did not fulfil their promises to the saint
and were punished with even fiercer pains than before. However, in the case of
bereaved parents in Swedish miracles, no parent is said not to have fulfilled the
promise – perhaps they did not wish to risk their children’s health. The miracles
often also include specific information about witnesses such as names, villages
and occupations in order to control the facts of the miracle.
Religious Coping through Prayer
Little is related in the miracle stories of the actual prayer process in relation to the
bereavement process, which is more often described in these stories. A glimpse
of ordinary death preparation is given – of how bereaved parents prepared their
dead child for the final rites of passage, the burial. The stories say little of clerical
intervention and activity in this preparation, it being the parents and relatives
themselves who prepare the dead and the dying. All of the stories also include
prayer, sometimes not only to a particular saint for a miracle, but also standard
prayers that were used throughout the life of a lay person in the Middle Ages. Prayer
surrounded both the living and the dead in the process of dying.70 No evidence is
found for any use of the ars moriendi procedures for a dying person, where he
prepares himself spiritually to enter heaven.71 The dying children do not prepare
themselves for their death; their parents react to their deaths through praying for a
miracle.
If these miracle stories provide a glimpse of ordinary death preparations for
deceased children, then much of what has previously been assumed regarding the
use of ars moriendi procedures and extreme unction needs to be reconsidered.
70 Aldrin 2011, 109–144.
71 For research on death preparation and extreme unction in medieval Sweden, see Fallberg
Sundmark 2008.
101
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Although religion provided ways to interpret and understand the world and the
difficulties in life, none of the miracle stories tell of parents interpreting the death
of their child in terms of religion. They all knew, or were told of, the possibility of
praying to God for a miracle, but they did not accuse God or claim that He had
taken away the life of the child. All deaths were described as natural facts, due to
natural causes such as illness or fatal accidents. The parents were not complaining
to God that the lives of their children were all too short, or that they were bereaved
unjustly.
The religious context provides a strong framework of coping for the bereaved
parents into which to place themselves and their dead children. They knew what
had happened to their dead children and what was required of them to do – both
in the short term (burial) and the long term (life as a bereaved person). Still, none
of this took away the strong emotions of bereavement and nothing in the miracle
stories tells of denial or neglecting such emotions.
Conclusion
The purpose of this article has been to examine religious coping among parents
in the Middle Ages through the use of Swedish miracle stories. Two aspects have
been highlighted, that of bereavement expressions and that of coping through
prayer.
We can now say of the first aspect, bereavement, that two different approaches
have been found regarding the discoveries of death, depending on the speed of
the events that led to the death of the child. When death occurred gradually, the
reactions of the parents were less emotionally expressive than when death was
sudden. The most usual way to deal with the deceased was to place the child in a
separate room if available or on a bier, but it was also normal to leave the deceased
for a couple of hours in order for him or her to recover from death through a miracle.
Catherine M. Sanders’ and Kay Talbot’s studies on parental bereavement in
modern times have been used to analyse the physical and psychological aspects
of the responses of the parents in the miracle stories. In this analysis, it has proved
complicated to use a modern theory for the medieval period for bereavement, but
several of the reactions described in Sanders’ first phase of bereavement – shock –
apply to the parents in the miracle story, such as disbelief in the reality of the death
and confusion about how to continue after the realisation of bereavement. Another
approach to bereavement and miracle stories can be found in the use of narratives
as a psychological aid for the bereaved. Miracle stories fit this approach well, and
can thus be understood as narratives constructed by the parents to understand
and find strength in the face of what has happened – the hair’s-breadth encounter
with death.
102
Viktor Aldrin
Picture 5. Many worshippers expressed their gratitude to Saints Aimo and Vermando for their many
miracles.
The parents’ emotional reactions are described in a few miracle stories as strong
and expressive, and both men and women grieve in similar ways. This situation
contrasts with research on British and Continental European miracle stories and
can be interpreted through a connection between emotional reaction to extreme
situations before and after the moment of bereavement. In earlier research, gender
differences have been identified which cannot be found in the Swedish miracle
stories examined here. This might suggest that gender roles in medieval Sweden
(and possibly Scandinavia) differ from those of Continental Europe and the British
Isles.
We can now conclude of religious coping through prayer that the second
emotional behaviour and gestures of the praying parent are occasionally described
in the miracle stories. These stories depict the praying parent as either weeping or
submissive towards the addressee of the prayer; that is, to the person revered as
a saint. In two such stories, lot casting is described as a way to discern the will of
God when the parents cannot decide to whom to address the prayer. The use of lot
casting in these miracle stories was considered normal and accepted.
The miraculous recovery is often described as a process whereby life was
regained limb by limb. This is, however, not the case for infants who immediately
came to life and began to suckle from their mothers’ breasts. In the miracle stories,
no parent blamed God for the death of a child, considering it to be something that
occurred naturally, in term of accidents or stillborn children. What is striking in
these stories is the absence of priests providing extreme unction and of the thenpopular manuals for dying, such as the ars moriendi. Instead, it seems that the laity
were able to construct their own prayers, and in the end, receive miracles in the
most crucial situation of all to a parent – the death of a child.
103
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
References
Aldrin, V. 2011. The Prayer Life of Peasant Communities in Late Medieval Sweden: A Contrast
of Ideals and Practices. Lewiston, NY/Queenston: The Edwin Mellen Press.
Ariès, P. 1975. L’enfant et la vie familiale sous l’Ancien régime. Paris: Seuil.
Ariès. P. 1983. The Hour of Our Death. Trans. Helen Weaver. Harmondsworth: Penguin.
Arnold, S., W. J. Woods & L. Hawryluk 2007. Parental Bereavement: From Grief Theory to
a Creative Nonfiction Perspective on Grieving the Death of a Young Adult Child from
Cancer. In B. A. Knight, B. Walker-Gibbs & J. Delamoir (eds.), Research into 21st Century
Communities. Teneriffe, Qld: Post Press. 231–247.
Avery, G. & K. Reynolds (eds.) 1999. Representations of Childhood Death. London: Palgrave
Macmillan.
Breslin M. J. & C. A. Lewis 2008. Theoretical Models of the Nature of Prayer and Health. A
Review. Mental Health, Religion & Culture 11:1, 9–21.
Bänziger, S., M. van Uden & J. Janssen 2008. Praying and Coping: The Relation between
Varieties of Praying and Religious Coping Styles. Mental Health, Religion & Culture 11:1,
101–118.
Calderwood, K. A. 2011. Adapting the Transtheoretical Model of Change to the Bereavement
Process. Social Work 56:2, 107–118.
Collijn, I. (ed.) 1924–1931. Acta et processus canonizacionis beate Birgitte. Svenska
fornskriftsällskapets samlingar 2:1. Uppsala: Svenska fornskriftsällskapet.
Collijn, I. (ed.) 1942–1946. Processus seu negocium canonizacionis B. Katherine de Vadstenis.
Svenska fornskriftssällskapets samlingar 2:3. Uppsala: Svenska fornskriftssällskapet.
Fallberg Sundmark, S. 2008. Sjukbesök och dödsberedelse: Sockenbudet i svensk medeltida
och reformatorisk tradition. Bibliotheca theologiae practicae 84. Skellefteå: Artos.
Finucane, R. C. 1977. Miracles and Pilgrims: Popular Beliefs in Medieval England. London:
Dent.
Finucane, R. C. 2000. The Rescue of the Innocents: Endangered Children in Medieval Miracles.
1st paperback edition. New York: St. Martin’s Press.
Fröjmark, A. 1992. Mirakler och helgonkult: Linköpings biskopsdöme under senmedeltiden.
Studia historica Upsaliensia 171. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell.
Fröjmark, A. 1993. The Miracles of St. Bridget and Her Daughter St. Katherine. In J. Hogg (ed.)
Spiritualität heute und gestern. Bd 19:1, Studies in St. Birgitta and the Brigittine order.
Salzburg: Inst. für Anglistik und Amerikanistik, Univ. Salzburg. 65–84.
Fröjmark, A. 2012. Childbirth Miracles in Swedish Miracle Collections. Journal of the History of
Sexuality 21:2, 297–312.
Gerrish, N. & S. Bailey 2012. Using the Biographical Grid Method to Explore Parental Grief
Following the Death of a Child. Bereavement Care 3:1, 11–17.
Gertsman, E. (ed.) 2011. Crying in the Middle Ages: Tears of History. New York: Routledge.
Houlbrooke, R. 1998. Death, Religion, and the Family in England, 1480-1750. Oxford: Clarendon
Press.
Hvidt, N. C. 2003. Mirakler: Möten mellan himmel och jord. Örebro: Cordia.
Jørgensen Itnyre, C. 1996. The Emotional Universe of Medieval Icelandic Fathers and Sons. In
C. Jørgensen Itnyre (ed.) Medieval Family Roles. New York/London: Garland Publishing.
173–196.
104
Viktor Aldrin
Kaartinen, M. 2014. “Nature had form’d thee fairest of thy kind”: Grieving Dead Children in
Sweden 1650-1810. In C. Jarzebowski & T. M Safley (eds.) Childhood and Emotion:
Across Cultures 1450-1800. London: Routledge. 157–170.
Katajala-Peltomaa, S. 2009. Gender, Miracles and Daily Life: The Evidence of FourteenthCentury Canonization Processes. History of Daily Life 1. Turnhout: Brepols.
Katajala-Peltomaa, S. 2013. Fatherhood, Masculinity and Lived Religion in Late Medieval
Sweden. Scandinavian Journal of History 38:2, 223–244.
Klass, D. 1991. Religious Aspects in the Resolution of Parental Grief: Solace and Social
Support. Prevention in Human Services 10:1, 187-209.
Krötzl, C. 1989. Parent-Child Relations in Medieval Scandinavia According to Scandinavian
Miracle Collections. Scandinavian Journal of History 14:1, 21–37.
Krötzl, C. 2012. How to choose a Saint? On Propagation, Advice, and Decision-Making in
Medieval Communities. In P. Golinelli (ed.) Agiografia e culture popolari/Hagiography
and popular cultures: Atti del Convegno Internazionale di Verona (28-30 ottobre 2010) in
ricordo di Pietro Boglioni, Bologna: Cooperativa Libraria Universitaria Editrice Bologna.
371–388.
Kübler-Ross, E. 1969. On Death and Dying. New York: Scribner.
Källström, H. 2011. Domkyrkan som andaktsmiljö under senmedeltiden: Linköping och Lund.
Bibliotheca theologiae practicae 89. Skellefteå: Artos.
Lansing, C. 2008. Passion and Order: Restraint of Grief in the Medieval Italian Communes.
Ithaca/London: Cornell University Press.
Lundén, T. (ed.) 1981. Vita Katherine: Facsimile tryck av Bartholomeus Gothans i Stockholm
1487 tryckta bok. Uppsala: Pro veritate.
Mejsholm, L. 2009. Gränsland: Konstruktionen av tidig barndom och begravningsritual vid tiden
för kristnandet i Skandinavien. Occasional Papers in Archaeology 44. Uppsala: Uppsala
universitet.
Myrdal, J. & Bäärnhielm, G. 1994. Kvinnor, barn och fester i medeltida mirakelberättelser med
en katalog över svenska mirakelberättelser och en nyöversättning av Brynolfsmiraklerna.
Skrifter från Skaraborgs länsmuseum 19. Skara: Skaraborgs länsmuseum.
Nilsson, B. 1989. De sepulturis: Gravrätten i Corpus iuris canonici och i medelteida nordisk
lagstiftning. Bibliotheca theologiae practicae 44. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell.
Nilsson, B. 2009. Die Kleinen, die nie erwachsen wurden: Kirche und Kinderbestattungen im
mittelalterlichen Norden. In J. Staecker (ed.) The Reception of Medieval Europe in the
Baltic Sea Region: Papers of the XIIth Visby Symposium held at Gotland University.
Acta visbyensia 12. Visby: Gotland University Press. 293–315.
Pawlikowski, J. 2007. The History of Thinking about Miracles in the West. Southern Medical
Journal 100:12, 1229–1235.
Riley, L. P., L. L. LaMontagne, J. T. Hepworth & B. A. Murphy 2007. Parental Grief: Responses
and Personal Growth Following the Death of a Child. Death Studies 31, 277–299.
Sanders, C. M. 1998. Grief: The Mourning After: Dealing with Adult Bereavement. 2nd ed. New
York: Wiley.
Schwab, R. 1996. Gender Differences in Parental Grief. Death Studies 20, 103–113.
Schück, H. (ed.) 1873–1895. Två svenska biografier från medeltiden, Antiqvarisk tidskrift från
Sverige 5, 295–476.
Talbot, K. 2002. What Forever Means After the Death of a Child: Transcending the Trauma,
Living with the Loss. New York/London: Routledge.
Vauchez, A. 1981. La sainteté en Occident aux derniers siècles du moyen âge: D’Après les
procès de canonisation et les documents hagiographiques. Bibliothèque des Écoles
françaises d’Athènes et de Rome 241. Paris: École française de Rome.
105
Transforming the Investment in the
Afterlife: Readings of the Poem De
Vita Hominis in Pre-Reformation
and Post-Reformation Denmark
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
University of Oslo
This article investigates continuity and change in the economic and spiritual
investment in the afterlife in the religious contexts of Denmark before and after the
Reformation. The transmission of the late medieval poem De Vita Hominis, first
printed in 1514, and then re-edited by Anders Sørensen Vedel in 1571, provides the
main material of the investigation.
In the text, the main character had to die a lonely death as a consequence
of his wicked life. The intensity in the pre-Reformatory version was due to the
experience of lack of intercession in the transgression to afterlife. Changed
theological premises meant that the Protestant principle of security of salvation
undercut the very heart of the late medieval De Vita Hominis. Intercession was
no longer necessary as faith was what saved. This article investigates how the
message of the poem was transformed according to the theological rearrangement
that followed the new certainty of salvation. One important consequence was a
changed notion of memory, and a new function for memorial genres, which Vedel’s
1571 edition testifies to.
Introduction
Throughout history, attitudes towards death and the dead change slowly in our
western Christian culture. The Reformation in the sixteenth century was however
one of those periods when the premises of both theological teachings and religious
practice were not necessarily abandoned but transformed, and in which both
continuity and change may be traced in attitudes towards death and the dead. The
reformer Martin Luther (1483–1546) had redefined salvation as by justification by
faith, and a new certainty of salvation was preached together with the denial of
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.)
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 106 –128.
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
purgatory. Scholars have analysed how the new arrangements for salvation led to
new attitudes and practices concerning death and the dead.1
In the Reformed areas, the doctrine of predestination, in addition to the rejection
of purgatory and the efficacy of good works, served to dramatically change funeral
practices. To contrast the Catholic practice based on intercession for the dead, the
dead in Reformed areas could now be buried in silence without signs of sorrow by
their friends and relatives. It was considered improper to grieve over those who
were saved.2 In Lutheran areas, a moderate show of sorrow was recommended
because of the value of natural friendship. Despite redefinitions of the doctrine of
salvation, scholars have however argued that the concern and care for one’s dead
was not removed, but rather transformed.3
This article provides a glimpse of the culture of death in Lutheran Denmark. It
compares a pre-Reformation and a post-Reformation Danish version of the poem
De Vita Hominis, showing how the text testifies not only to new theology but also
to transformations of the culture of death. The transmission of the poem offers a
perspective on care for one’s dead, namely, the religious notion and practice of
what can be called investment in the afterlife. What was it to invest in the afterlife
according to the late medieval death preparations? And what happened to the idea
and practice of investment when the premises changed in accordance with the
notion of secure salvation in Protestant theology?
De Vita Hominis can be classified according to the memento mori motive that
reminded man of inescapable death, and which was expressed through a variety
of literal and visual genres.4 The poem existed in a late medieval version, but was
re-worked by the Danish humanist Anders Sørensen Vedel (1542–1616) in 1571.5
Thus, it is a particular and concise example of how a pre-Reformation text on man
and death was interpreted and transformed within the religious literature of postReformation Denmark. In the preface, Vedel briefly describes the history of the
book he had discovered:
“I have found this booklet among some old papist books that were written by Sir Michael
[Her Mickel], previous pastor of the Church of St Alban’s in Odense, at the request of
the blessed Queen Christina, and printed here in Copenhagen, fifty-seven years ago.
Anyone who compares the old exemplar with this one can see in this what I have
improved in the rhymes and meanings”.6
1
Cf. Koslofsky 1999; Marshall 2002; Reinis 2006.
2
Karant-Nunn 2010.
3
Marshall 2002; Oftestad 2015.
4
Daniell 1997, Gertsman 2010.
5 On Anders Sørensen Vedel, see Rørdam 1904; Akhøj Nielsen 2004; Akhøj Nielsen 2005 and
Akhøj Nielsen 2006.
6 “Jeg haffuer fundet dette scrifft/ iblant nogle gamle Papistiske Bøger/ som vaare aff Her Mickel
fordom sogneprest til S. Albani Kircke i Odensee/ screffne effter salige Dronning Kirstines begæring
oc Prentet her i Kiøbenhaffn for siu oc halfftrediesindstiue Aar forleden. Huad ieg her udi haffuer
forbedred / paa Rimene oc meningen/ kand den forfare som uil ligne det gamle Exemplar met dette”,
Vedel 1571a, f. Aiiv–Aiii. It is typical of Vedel to render the history of the book; cf. introduction in
Vedel 1575 (cf. Friis-Jensen: 1993) and Vedel 1571b.
107
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Vedel transmits a late medieval text printed by Pouel Ræff in 1514. Ræff, in his
turn, described it as one of three texts in a manuscript composed in Danish by an
old man called Sir Michael, pastor in Odense, in 1496. And, as Ræff mentions,
according to Sir Michael’s autograph comment in this manuscript, this was done at
the request of Queen Christina of Saxony (1461–1521).7 We do not know if the text
had a Latin model or not.
Vedel’s contribution to the Danish language has been widely acknowledged
and analysed.8 As one of the most influential Danish humanists and historians,
Vedel is perhaps most renowned for his translation of Gesta Danorum (Den
Danske Krønicke, 1575)9 by Saxo Grammaticus (ca. 1150–1220) and his edition of
a hundred folksongs (It Hundrede vdvaalde Danske Viser, 1591). His transformation
of this old text, De Vita Hominis, fits into his efforts to refine and renew the Danish
language which he carried out in translations and in “improvements” of older texts.
However, his edition of De Vita Hominis not only testifies to his role as transformer
of language but also of religion. Moreover, his theological efforts have been less
commented on than his philological contributions.
When we compare his version of De Vita Hominis from 1571 with the version
from 1514, as he himself recommends us to do, it is noticeable that the changes
are significant and can be analysed in terms of the theological project in his own
period. As I will show, the ideas about death and the way they were presented, both
in matter and form, confirmed each other.
The Pre-Reformatory De Vita Hominis
The late medieval text that was printed in 1514 originated from a milieu characterized
by the religious awakening and devotion associated with the Dominican order.
Sir Michael composed or translated the text of De Vita Hominis along with De
Creatione Rerum, and had edited it together with his translated compilation of a
text on the Rosary composed by the Dominican preacher and visionary Alanus de
Rupe (1428–1475).10 De Rupe had worked not only in Paris, Lille and Ghent, but
also in Rostock, a place that influenced the religious culture around the Baltic Sea,
not least Denmark. When Vedel edited De Vita Hominis in 1571, other fragments
7 Cf. a postscriptum after Expositio pulcherrima super rosario beate Marie virginis, which was
edited together with De Creatione Rerum and De Vita Hominis in 1514 (LN 175). Ræff prints these
texts at the request of the Dominican Hans Bartolomeus of Copenhagen. On Sir Michael, see
Paludan 1897; Dahlerup 1998, I, 526–531, Dahlerup, 2010.
8
Akhøj Nielsen 2005; Akhøj Nielsen 2006.
9 Saxo Grammaticus was a Danish historiographer. His Gesta Danorum, in 16 volumes, was the
first important work on the history of Denmark.
10 On the Rosary in late medieval Danish tradition, Alanus de Rupe and Sir Michael, see Dahlerup
2010, 347–403. The small text collection presented by Sir Michel was described by Paludan (1897)
in the nineteenth century as the “swansong” of Nordic Catholicism.
108
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
of Sir Michael’s texts had also been reused in Danish psalms, as in the psalm
on the passion of Christ, “Nu lader oss tacke Gud” in the Psalmbook by Hans
Thomissøn (1532–1573) from 1569.11 Vedel’s transformation and reintroduction of
De Vita Hominis thus builds on a specific thread of religious devotion in the Danish
literary culture.
The text printed in 1514 is presented as a booklet designed to be useful for
man and for the salvation of the soul, and treats all stages of human life from birth
to death and the Day of Judgement. Each paragraph is introduced by a Danish
heading, a Latin strophe and a Latin heading taken from the late medieval poem of
De Aetatis Homini, and the text appears as an explanation of this poem.12 Various
actors, not simply the man himself, but also death, the body, the corpse, and Christ,
are given voices at different stages. This literary device resembles other late
medieval poems, not least in its disputation between the body and the soul. This
had also been edited in Danish in a little booklet printed in Copenhagen in 1510, as
a frightening example of “a miserable history of a lost soul that accused the body
because she was damned to the pains of hell”.13
De Vita Hominis describes and comments on the stages of human life. In short,
this appears as a story of how a prosperous man neglects to think of God and to
do good during his lifetime. He is busy with love affairs, with feasts and business,
and is concerned for his body instead of his soul. Finally he arrived at old age, and
is confronted with illness and death. His money cannot help him any longer, and
as he has neither been honest to his friends, nor supported the poor who needed
him. He had no one to take care of his soul. He is left alone in the face of death. He
realizes how he has been seduced by the world and uselessly squandered his time
instead of doing his Christian duties. This has consequences both at the deathbed,
11 Thomissøn 1569, f. 74–77v.
12 The headings: Nar thu fødhæs/ Nascens (When you are born); Nar thu liggher uti wugghe/
Infans (When you lie in the cradle); Nar thu gaar offuer vii aar/ Puer (When you pass seven years);
Nar thu gaar offuer xiiii aar/ Adolescens (When you pass fourteen years); Nar thu gaar offær xxviii
aar/ Iuvenis (When you pass twenty eight years); Nar thu gaar offuær l aar/ Vir (When you pass
fifty years), Nar thu bliffuær gammel/ Senex (When you become old), Nar thu bliffuer graahæret/
Decrepitus (When your hair grows grey). The course of life is interrupted by the struggle of death;
Nar thu bliffuer siwgh/ Infirmus (When you become ill); Nar thu schiffther lydh/ Mutatio Coloris
(When you change color); Leghomet sigher/ Verba Corporis (The body speaks); Nar liiffuet och
dødhen stridhae/ Pugna vite et mortis (When life and death struggle), Nar hiartet brøster/ Fractio
cordis (When the heart bursts); Dødhæn han sigher/ (no Latin heading) “Death speaks”; Nar thu
æsth dødher/ Mortuus (When you are dead), Nar thu jordhes/ Sepultus (When you are being buried),
and is followed by the resurrection; Nar bassonen gaar/ Tuba celestis (When the trumpet sounds),
Nar køddhet kommer til benænæ igen/ Rediens in hominem (When the flesh returns to the bones
again); the Day of Judgement; Nar thu ffar til dommen/ Pergens ad iudicium (When you go to the
judgement), Thu sigher paa domædaghen/Dies Iudicii / “Day of Judgement” and Cristus vil sighæ/
Verba Cristi Iudiciis (Christ will say). On this genre, see Sears 1986.
13 “Her begyndes en ynkelig historie aff een fortabede siel Ther gjorde stoor kæremoll paa kroppen
Ath hon war fordømth tijl helwidis pijne”. The booklet was printed by Gotfred of Ghemen, the first
printer who settled in Copenhagen. The modern editor of the booklet, Poul Lindegård Hjorth, argues
that the 1510 edition is a Danish translation of a Swedish vernacular version from the beginning of
the fourteenth century. The poem of the wicked soul describes a quarrel between the soul and the
body, a form well known from medieval tradition of the “debate between body and soul genre” since
the thirteenth century, both according to several Latin manuscripts as well as numerous redactions
into vernacular languages; Hjorth 1971.
109
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
“No one wants to look after me”,14 and also for the afterlife: “Who is going to help
me when I am dead/ to give a piece of bread for my soul?”15 He has, in other words,
invested in earthly instead of heavenly happiness. The moral is explicitly stated as
an urgent request to the reader to do good while there is time. If not, one will be
deceived both here and in the afterlife (cf. “Pugna Vitae et Mortis”).
The tragedy of the wealthy man is that his wealth could have ensured his eternal
destiny by means of donations and alms, but he has wasted it on earthly pleasure.16
The horror of the consequences can be understood against the background of the
late medieval practice of the “communion of saints”; “late medieval Catholicism was
in large measure ‘a cult of the living in the service of the dead’”.17 The heavenly
happiness of the dying man seems to depend on someone who intercedes for his
soul, but here he is left alone without friends and intercessors. On his way through
death and to the Day of Judgement, he pleads with Christ to save his soul (cf
“Fractio Cordis”) and takes refuge in the Virgin Mary (cf. “Pergens ad Iudicium”).
While Christ’s sentence and division between good and evil is referred to at the
stage of the Day of Judgement, it is not stated in the text whether the prayers of
the dying man succeeded or not. The outcome is uncertain and seems difficult to
predict. This is in accord with one of the important theological premises of the late
medieval death culture; the uncertainty of salvation.18 This uncertainty is turned
into an admonition in the concluding verses in which the readers are encouraged
to behave righteously during life, and to repay what they have obtained by fraud,
“then you will be safe when you are dying/ and will enjoy with the angels and the
Virgin Mary/ when God calls you there over”.19
The function of the text is to remind the reader of his own death. This function
is described as a mirror: “If you want happiness and salvation of the soul/ then
often look into this mirror/ which I will now present you”.20 The same metaphor
recurs when the burial is described in the text. The readers are invited to look
at themselves in the mirror when they gaze down at the corpse, wrapped up in
a shroud beneath their feet.21 The aim of looking into this mirror is to learn what
14 “[I]nghen wil mig sckødhæ eller see”, De Vita Hominis 1514, f. Aviv (Infirmus).
15 “Hwo schal mig hielpæ nar ieg er død/ giffvæ for myn sjæl eth styckæ brød”, De Vita Hominis
1514, f. Bi (Mutatio Coloris).
16 Ariès 1981, 193–196.
17 Galpern 1974, 149; Marshall 2002, 7.
18 Reinis 2006; Hamm 2010.
19 “Tha bliffva i tryggha nar i schulla døø / och glades met angla och maria møø / nar gwd ether
hadhen wil kalla”, De Vita Hominis 1514, Bviii.
20 “Wilt thu haffua løcka och siælens heyl/ tha see tig offthæ i tetthæ speyl/ som ieg wil tig nw
sændhæ”, ibid, the introductory verse, Aii.
21 Ibid, f. Bv.
110
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
attitudes and deeds benefit the soul; “Then you let everyman be your equal/ Do not
believe in the world, she will deceive you/ To God you should turn”.22
The fundamental condition of the text is that death comes when one least expects
it, when one is in the prime of life. It is not possible to avoid it either with silver or
gold. This is also a common feature of the memento mori genres, visualized by the
dance macabre where no one escapes the grip of death.23 This is also explained in
more detail by the personified death himself later in the text (“Verba Mortis”). Death
proclaims how every man and woman of every estate is going to be his victim
necessarily and without warning.24 Confronted with the inevitable death of one’s
own life, the moral appears to be to invest in the afterlife during one’s lifetime. The
text also indicates how to do this; good deeds towards equals as well as the needy
are emphasized as investment. A penitential practice or any inner disposition is
not mentioned. It is reasonable to ask how this arrangement is to be explained
according to a late medieval preparation for death.
The arrangement in the text becomes easier to grasp if we compare it to Berndt
Hamm’s description of the late medieval art of dying.25 Hamm defines the three
uncertainties of death: first, moment of death and way of dying, second, one’s
own condition of grace and third, the outcome of the Day of Judgement.26 He also
describes how one prepares for death according to a co-operatio model. While
the preparation for the moment of death consisted in a perfection of the Christian
virtues that achieved maximum merit in the hour of death,27 Hamm refers to what he
explains as “the protective Extra-nos-sanctity” along with this inner formation.28 The
centrality of the dying man’s imploring prayers for help, protection and compassion
in the ars moriendi tradition, points to how important it was for the theologians to
place the dying person within a powerful sphere of protection from outside.29 The
dying man sought refuge and wrapped himself first and foremost in the vicarious
suffering of Christ.30 But this powerful sphere also consisted of the entire earthly
and heavenly “communio sanctorum”, the angels, the saints, the family and friends
who surrounded the deathbed.
22 “Tha Ladher thu huar mand waræ thin lighæ/ troo æy paa wærdhen hun wil dig swighæ/ til gud
sckalt thu tig wændhæˮ, ibid, the introductory verse, Aii.
23 Gertsman 2010.
24 Another text in this genre is the added text “Death [speaks] to the reader” in Luther 1538, ff. 35v–
36.
25 Hamm 2010.
26 Zeitpunkt und Art des Todes, eigenen Gnadenstand, and Ausgang des Gerichts.
27 Ibid, 127.
28 “[D]ie beschirmende Extra-nos-Heiligkeit”, ibid, 128.
29 “[E]ine Kraftsphäre des Schutzes von aussen”, ibid.
30 This is not least evident in the so-called Anselmian questions, which constituted an established
part of the ars moriendi tradition; cf. Rudolf 1957, 57–58.
111
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Picture 1. The deathbed was a place to worry about the state of one’s soul and to ensure salvation
by word and deed in the presence of family and friends.
The dying person was thus both dependent on an inner disposition of virtues,
as well as of an extra-nos sanctification, and Hamm describes how these elements
were aligned towards a finalization at the moment of death. Looking back to the
pre-Reformation version of De Vita Hominis, it is easy to recognize how this text
relates merely to one of these elements, which is the extra-nos sanctification. And
to achieve this “protective Extra-nos-sanctity”, one has to invest in good deeds.
The other element, the inner disposition of virtues, which was not least expressed
through a true and sincere penitence, is not emphasized at all in this text. On
the other hand, this element is central to the other texts transmitted together with
De Vita Hominis by Sir Michel and edited by Pouel Ræff in 1514; the Expositio
pulcherrima super Rosario and De Creatione Rerum. While the Expositio explained
a devotional practice, the De Creatione Rerum explained the story of Adam (and
Eve) as an example of penitential practice for all men. The concluding verse states:
“This should all men know, That like Adam he did strong penitence and duty and
made amends for his sin: so should we do also if we want to escape and avoid the
pains of hell”.31
When Anders Sørensen Vedel chose De Vita Hominis and edited the text in
1571, he thus transmitted a partial picture of the pre-Reformation preparation
for death. The transmitted elements were further rearranged according to a new
religious practice as we will see in the analysis of Vedel’s reading of the text.
31 “Thettha sculla alla menniscka widha/ At ligherwiis som adam han giordha strangh penitentz
och plicht och bood for syn synd : swo sculla wii och gøre : om wii willa fly oc undgaa halffuedes
pyna”, De Creatione Rerum, 1514, f. Diii.
112
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
An overall perspective should be pointed out before we turn to Vedel’s version.
The focus on the failed investment of the dying man in the pre-Reformation De
Vita Hominis underscored a premise of the text, which was the mutual social
contract between the living and the dead. One is to do well towards others so
that they intercede for one’s soul when it becomes necessary. In this version,
the way to heaven depends on this mutual relationship. Without the good deeds,
and consequently without such intercessors, man is left friendless and alone on
his deathbed, and, even worse, without intercessors when he has to face Final
Judgement. As this mutual relationship between the living and the dead was such
a central premise of the text of De Vita Hominis, the changes carried out by Vedel
provide a striking example of how this pre-Reformation notion was transformed
during the Reformation and was expressed in other ways.
Anders Sørensen Vedel and the Early
Modern Religious Context
The religious context of Vedel’s edition of the text was defined by the Lutheran
Reformation that had been established in Denmark in 1537.32 Vedel, himself born in
1542, was not among the early reformers, but belonged to a generation of educated
Lutheran theologians. During studies in Wittenberg, he became inspired by the
Christian view of history, not least as it was presented by Philipp Melanchthon
(1497–1560) and Caspar Peucer (1525–1602). After being admitted to his degree in
1562, he returned to Denmark and became part of the circle of Niels Hemmingsen
(1513–1600), Melanchthon’s pupil who led Danish theology in a Reformed direction.
At the time when he edited his version of De Vita Hominis he was court preacher
at the royal castle of Copenhagen (1568–1581). Despite this important position,
his inclination towards the history and language of the Danish people occupied his
time as much as possible.
It is not difficult to imagine how his interest was captured by a late medieval
Danish text, a poem that testified both to the development of the Danish language
as well as to the continuum within the religious sources. The fact that it had been
edited at the request of Queen Christina probably also motivated a reprint within
the aristocratic circles where Vedel served as historian.33 Vedel was asked to edit
the old book, but it is not known by whom
As a humanist, Vedel sought to raise Danish literature to the level of European
literature, not least in his Danish translation of Saxo Grammaticus in 1575.
Nevertheless, there is also another direction in his works. As Marita Akhøj Nielsen
comments, behind his translations the other way, from Danish into Latin, there is
an immodest idea that Danish literature also has something to offer the outside
32 Schwarz Lausten 1990 and 1995; Lyby & Grell 1995; Larson 2010.
33 On Vedel’s relation to the aristocracy, see Friis-Jensen 1993.
113
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
world.34 Characteristically, this concerns his translations of theological texts, most
significantly Niels Hemmingsen’s text on the necessary principles of a Christian
life, Via Vitae, edited in Leipzig in 1574. This little example testifies to one of the
conditions of the religious culture of Anders Vedel’s time, the notion that Denmark
was leading the way as an example of true evangelical religion. Denmark was a
shelter for the true faith, and the Protestant King Christian III (r. 1534–1559) was
its pre-eminent defender. This idea was confirmed by Melanchthon,35 who also
portrayed the Danish nobility as an exemplar for all of Christendom,36 and it was
inherent in the ideology of the Danish kings, who defined their role as to protect the
true religion that was established in 1537.37
Two years before Vedel’s edition of De Vita Hominis, the “articles of religion”,
written by Niels Hemmingsen, were published by Frederick II (r. 1559–1588).38
The intention was to secure the Lutheran confession against the rival Catholic,
Calvinistic and Anabaptist confessions. The Catholic religion had been defeated,
but it was still described as a threat, not least in Vedel’s Antichristus Romanus,
edited in 1571, the same year as De Vita Hominis. According to this and other
contemporary texts, the Catholic faith was more than a political threat, it was the
false religion, the spiritual Babylon, from which the Danish people had been led by
the revelation of the true Gospel. Vedel described his contemporary time as the
dangerous last period of history, in which God by his Word had revealed the Roman
pope as the Antichrist and through his servants led his people out of Antichrist’s grip
and into the kingdom of God.39 It is hence no less than wretchedness, pharaonic
hardness and devilish blindness when people complain that they are bored with the
Gospel and long to return to the ceremonies of the pope.40 Vedel exhibited a strong
and conscious Lutheran intention in all his theological works. The same inclination
can be found in his “improvement” of the meaning of De Vita Hominis, which he
transformed according to a Lutheran religious practice.
34 Akhøj Nielsen 2005, 4–5.
35 Melanchthon’s preface to Laetus 1560, cf. Skovgaard-Petersen 1998; Melanchthon’s foreword
to Operum Lutheri Germanicorum, tom. XII (1559), cf. CR, vol. 9, nr. 6794. Cf not least the
correspondence between Melanchthon and Christian III, where the reformer praises the Danish
king more than any other regents on earth, cf. Schwarz Lausten 2010, 264–270.
36 Melanchthon’s preface in Palladius 1557, f. A2–A6, cf. Oftestad 2015.
37 Cf. the royal announcement (Kongens kunngjørelse), KO 1537/39.
38 Rørdam 1886, 126–134.
39 Vedel 1571b, f. (a)iif.
40 Ibid., f. (a) iiif.
114
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
Vedel’s Version of De Vita Hominis
In his version, Vedel organizes the booklet according to the Danish headings and
Latin strophes. He also follows the late medieval text closely, but makes some
significant theological changes, which are consequently followed up throughout
his version. I will not comment on all the details, but rather concentrate on the most
significant changes that concern the premises of the investment in the afterlife.
The fundamental conditions of the message of the pre-Reformation version of
De Vita Hominis were the uncertainty of the moment of death, the uncertainty of
one’s own condition of grace as well as the uncertainty of the judgement. Two of
these conditions, the uncertain condition of grace and the uncertain judgement,
are removed in Vedel’s version in accordance with the Lutheran theology that
focused the extra-nos sanctification on Christ alone and emphasized the certainty
of the eschatological justification. When Hamm describes Luther’s rearrangement
of preparation for death, he points out how this meant a refusal not only of
intercessors after death, but also of the co-operatio model, and the importance of
the inner dispositions finalized towards the moment of death.41 The new certainty
of salvation had consequences both for anthropology and religious practice. In
Vedel’s version of De Vita Hominis, the new certainty and the abolition of purgatory
was expressed through a distinct dualism between the wicked and the pious. It was
also expressed through a transformation of the relation between the living and the
dead, as well as of a transformation of memory.
Transformed According to a Dualistic Worldview
The thorough transformations of the text were reflected in the changed title of
the booklet. The pre-Reformation version was introduced as “an instruction and
teaching to the advantage of men and to the salvation of the soul”;42 it had one
and the same message for all men. Vedel’s version is however introduced with
different intentions according to two kinds of men; as consolation for the pious and
as terror to the impious.43 This distinction, and hence the dualistic address of the
text, depended on the fundamental Lutheran notion of the certainty of salvation.
In contrast to the pre-Reformation version, the separation of man into wicked
and pious is continued throughout Vedel’s version and expressed most explicitly
in the face of the approaching Day of Judgement. The trumpet sounds, the skin
again clothes the naked bones and the buried man is to rise from his grave and
41 Hamm 2010.
42 “Met stoer wnderwiissningh och lærdom: til mennisckens nyttha. Och sjælsæns saligheed”, De
Vita Hominis 1514, f. A.
43 The title-page reads: “VITA HOMINIS. Undervisning Om Menniskens leffned […] gantske
trøstelig for de Gudfryctige / oc saare gruelig for alle Ugudelige” (”VITA HOMINIS. A teaching on the
life of man […] consoling to the pious / and quite horrible to all the impious”), Vedel 1571a, f. Ai.
115
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
walk towards his Judge. In the pre-Reformation version his trembling is expressed
as a universal terror; “every heart should bleed because of this”.44 This is however
changed in Vedel’s reading: it is now not any longer every heart that bleeds, but
only the hearts of the wicked; “The evil hearts must bleed”.45 The same change
occurs before the Judge. In the pre-Reformation version, the dead man prays;
“God save me from this danger”, and presents himself among the trembling crowd
of people ready to receive the Judge: “how difficult is it to see this day / when
everyone cries and no one can laugh/ everyone carries a great danger to himself/
of all those that stand before the Judgement/ no one knows how to escape hell/
because God then will not spare anyone.”46
In Vedel’s version, this shared trembling of all men was replaced by a
characteristic of the evil: “For the wicked ones, this day is gruesome to see/
They all cry and no one laughs/ everyone carries a great danger to himself: Of all
those who stand in front of this one/ The wicked ones/ could not escape the pain/
Because God will not spare them”.47 And similarly, to distinguish himself from this
group, the dead man counted himself among the other group: “God save us from
this danger”.48 Vedel’s version has thus distinguished between the good and the
bad even before the Judge has pronounced. In the version by Sir Michael, the
distinction between the good and the wicked appears first in the declaration of
Christ following the gathering before the Judge, when Christ judges the good into
his community in heaven and the bad to hell.49
The dual address in Vedel’s version corresponds with a rearrangement
of the hereafter. The removal of purgatory was a consequence of the notion of
righteousness and salvation by faith alone. When salvation was secured outside
man’s conditions, there was no need of suffering to amend and hence no need of
purgatory as a means of preparing for heaven.
The removal of purgatory is both explicit and implicit in the text. The last verse
of Vedel’s version refers to a future time when hell will be closed and the power of
the devil will be destroyed, while the same verse refers to the time when purgatory
will be laid waste in the late medieval version. Whereas the dead in this version
stands before the Judge to mend what he has offended – referring to the purgatory
44 “[H]werth hiarthæ maa ther foræ blødhæ”; De Vita Hominis 1514, f. Bv v (Tuba Celestis).
45 “De onde hjerter maa bløde”; Vedel 1571a, f. Diiiv (Tuba Archangeli).
46 “[G]ud frælsæ mi gaff thennæ waadhæ. Hwar swaerth er thenne dag at see/ som allæ grædhæ
och inghen kan lee/ hwer bær for sig stoer faræ/ Aff allæ the paa dommen staa/ wedh inghen hwo
hælwedha kan undgaa/ gud wil tha inghen sparæ”; De Vita Hominis 1514, f. Bvii (Dies Iudicii)
47 “De onde er denne dag grum at see/ De græde alle/ ingen aff dem lee/ huer bærer for sig stor
fare: aff alle de som for dennem staa/ De wgudelige/ kunde ey pinen undgaa/ Thi Gud vil dem ey
spare”; Vedel 1571a, f. E (Dies Iudicii). “We” is also replaced by “the wicked” in the last verse of
Vedel’s poem, f. Eii. “Det samme Legeme de onde her bære/ Met Sielen skal det tilsammen være/
Oc brendei helffuedis gløde”.
48 “Gud frelse oss fra denne vaade”, Vedel 1571a, f. E.
49 Cf “Verba Christus iudicis”. While the late medieval text says that Christ “judges” the good to
heaven and the bad to hell, Vedel’s version states that he “calls” the good to heaven and “judges”
the bad to hell, Vedel 1571a, f. Ev.
116
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
to come, in Vedel’s version, the dead listens to how he has sinned against God.50
Since purgatory as a place and opportunity after death is thus removed in the text
and, the question of being pious or not is much more crucial than it was earlier.
This dual address in Vedel’s version also accords with a redesign of the communio
sanctorum in the Protestant theology. It is no longer achieved by a co-operatio of
inner dispositions and external intercession, but coincides with the community of
the followers of the true faith. This went along with the dualistic worldview that
sustained the Lutheran religion from the introduction of the Reformation. The
Reformation king, Christian III, had established the Danish church firmly on Christ’s
side in the fight against Satan and the Antichrist, and proclaimed that the Danish
people were among the true children of God.51 The dualism was established both
as theological ideology and as royal politics with sociological implications, as in the
“foreign articles” edited in 1569. But while the definitions here primarily concerned
doctrinal threats, Vedel addresses impious behaviour and inclination. To address
the impious with warnings was not something new; it belonged rather to classical
religious rhetoric, and resembled such things as the message in the dispute
between the body and the soul from 1514. What is however characteristic of the
new approach as expressed by Vedel is the proclamation of a distinction between
men even before the Last Judgement.
Picture 2. The Last Judgement loomed in the mind of medieval and early modern people. Christ the
Judge sentences all souls either to heaven or hell depending on their merits and/or faith.
50 De Vita Hominis 1514, f. Bvii–Bviii; Vedel 1571a, f. E.
51 Cf. KO, Kongens kunngjørelse, Schwarz Lausten 1989, 150–156.
117
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
According to the Lutheran theologians, salvation counted on faith alone at the
hour of death as well as in life. This was however explained differently according to
theological direction. The emphasis on good deeds in the pre-Reformatory De Vita
Hominis is transformed not according to a pure notion of faith alone, but according
to a notion of deeds as the visible fruits of faith. The old text emphasizing the
deeds was thus easily adapted within the Danish theological context of Vedel’s
time. This context was largely defined by Niels Hemmingsen, who emphasized
how faith was recognized by penitence and good deeds, and was expressed by a
good conscience, which was most important in the hour of death.52
In Vedel’s version of De Vita Hominis, the principle of a certain salvation was
ensured by the proclaimed dualism in the address, as well as with a few inserts that
emphasise obedience to the word of God as well as penitence as the secure path.
The evil consequences accrue to those who have rejected the word of God, and
the final message is summarized in the message: repent in time.53
A Transformed Relation between the Living and the Dead
The security of salvation undercuts the very heart of the pre-Reformation De Vita
Hominis. This crux was the experience of lack of intercession when the dying man,
as a consequence of his wicked life, had to die a lonely death. According to the
Lutheran theology, however, man was always alone in the face of death, as Luther
himself out it: “Wir sind alle zum tode gefoddert und wird keiner fur den andern
sterben”.54 Man could only be saved by the knowledge of faith. The necessary
dependence on intercession that caused the tragedy in the pre-Reformation version
of the text is hence made irrelevant, and it is consequently rejected in Vedel’s
version. While one was exhorted to pray for the deceased in the late medieval text,
this was no longer relevant. The dead were no longer dependent on the living, and
the mutual relationship was broken.
What can be seen, however, is that the concern for the salvation of one’s departed
is not just removed, but rather transformed into other material ways of concern. A
central point in Peter Marshall’s “Beliefs and the Dead in Reformation England”
is that this concern was most resistant to being wiped out by the Reformation.
52 Cf. Hemmingsen 1577, and N. Palladius, 1558: “Thi it menniskis døds stun der hans Domme
Dag/ oc met huad hiertelau hand dør/ met det same kommer hand for Dom/ Thi endog Legemet
leggis ned til huile udi Graffuen/ Dog farer sielen ud aff Legemet heden til den sted/ udi huilken
Gud haffuer beskicket/ en skal bliffue udi til domme Dagen/ oc tager met sig enten en ond/ eller en
god samuittighed/ Enten en viss forhoffning til den euige salighed/ eller en uiss fryct for den euige
fordømmelse” (“Because Man’s hour of death is his Judgement day/ and with what kind of heart he
dies / with the same kind he stands before the Judgement/ Because even if the body is put down to
rest in the tomb/ the soul however travels out of the body to a place/ where God has ordained/ it to
be until Judgement Day/ and it takes with it either an evil/ or a good consciousness/ Either a certain
hope of eternal salvation/ or the certain terror of eternal damnation”) (f. Aiiiiv).
53 Vedel 1571a, f. Eiiv–Eiii.
54 WA 10/3,1,15f and 2,1f.: followed by: “So muss ein Jederman selber die hauptstück, so einen
Christen belangen, wol wissen und gerüst sein”.
118
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
Consequently, it was actually not removed, but rather expressed in other ways.55
Vedel’s changes in the text show exactly this. Where the medieval text spoke about
concern for the suffering soul of a deceased person, the revised post-Reformation
text points out consolation of the dying man, concern for the funeral and for the
memory of the deceased. I will explain this through the most relevant paragraphs
of the text.
The transformation of the concern for the dead is already evident in the description
of the first stage of life; “When you are born” (“Nascens”). In this paragraph, the
relation with the mother illustrates human life as a mutual dependency on others,
a dependency that should be repaid when it is needed, which means in death. The
relation and obligations towards the mother are described in two verses; to honour
her, please her, give her gifts and help her. Vedel follows the late medieval version
closely, except when it comes to her death. The old version insists that one should
not let one’s mother suffer long in purgatory, regardless of the troubles it takes:
“help her, is what you should let stand firm/ not only in life, but also after her death/
let her not endure much the pains of purgatory/ if you ride with a hundred horses”.56
Picture 3. In this woodcut from Der Seelen-Wurzgarten (1483), each deadly sin has its parallel
torment in purgatory.
55 Marshall 2002.
56 “[H]ielp hennæ thet thu kant læsthæ/ Ey enesthæ i liffua, mæn efther hennæ død/ lad hennæ ey
møghet taalæ skiærsildet nød/ ridhær dhu met hundredhæ hæstæ”, De Vita Hominis, 1514, f. Aiii.
119
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
In Vedel’s version, however, the concern for the dead mother is expressed in
the arrangement of an honest funeral: “Turn everything to the best for her / the
time she lives in all her needs /With honest funeral after her Death/ even if you ride
with a hundred horses”.57 The concern for the dead soul is replaced here by the
obligation to arrange a proper funeral. And in the contemporary funeral sermons
this obligation is explained as one of the deeds proper for the dead.58
Another change in Vedel’s text expresses the transformation of concern for
the soul into pastoral consolation at deathbed. In the pre-Reformation version, the
dying man is afraid, expressing this in the fear that nobody will care for his soul after
death: “Who will help me when I am dead/ give a piece of bread for my soul?”59 In
Vedel’s version, active concern for the soul is no longer demanded, but is replaced
with a rhetorical question: “Who will help me when I am dead/ who can comfort me
in such a need?”60 The implied answer is that nothing worldly, not even your own
family or friends can provide you proper consolation. This is also the premise of the
next stanza (“When life and death struggles”/ “Pugna vitæ et mortis”), where Vedel
proclaims faith alone as the only secure ground for a dying man.
In the pre-Reformation version, the premise of the stanza on the fight between
life and death is set by the previous stages, the dying man having conducted his life
in such a way that no one cared for him or interceded for his soul. All they cared for
was to take charge of his property. The pitiful prospect is that his wife and his friends
will quarrel over what he has left in the hour when he is carried to the grave. The
dying man lamented the grave consequences: “A Pater Noster I will never receive/
more than the time I stand dead on the floor/ of this you must all take notice/ It has
to be a pain of the heart/ I have no friends when I am dead/ besides monks and
priest and clerks”.61 He can trust neither his friends nor his small children as “they
let me burn in pain”.62 The lesson was clear and was proclaimed as follows: “I ask
all of you now to look around/ Do good for yourselves while you have time”. The text
concluded with a warning: “If not you will be deceived both here and there/ This I
tell you/ this comes true/ this everyone surely should know”.63
57 “[V]end hende allting til bæste/ Den stund hun leffuer i all hendis nød/ Met erlig Jordeferd effter
hendis Død/ Rider du end met hundrede hæste, Vedel 1571a, f. B.
58 For example, in the sermon addressed to the widow of Anders Bing, cf. Lauridsen 1593, f. Cv.
59 Cf. note 22.
60 “[H]vo skal mig hielpe naar ieg er død/ hvo kand mig trøste i saadan nød”, Vedel 1571a, f. Cii.
61 “En pater noster ieg aldrig faar/ lengher end ieg døder paa gulffued staar/ thet maa wel allæ
mærckæ/ Thet maa wæl waræ en hiarthens nød/ ieg haffuer ey wæn nar ieg er død/ udhen mwncka:
och præsther: och klærcka”, De Vita Hominis 1514, f. Bii.
62 “[I] pinæ ladhæ the mig brændhæ”, ibid.
63 “Jeg bedher nw allæ i see ether om/ gører goth for ether mædhen i haffuæ rom/ ther mwæ i
sielffuæ paa lidhæ/ Ellers i bliffua swighenæ baadhæ hær oc hist/thet sigher ieg nw : thet bliffuer alt
wist/ thet schal huær wissælighen widhæ”, ibid.
120
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
Picture 4. This Book of Hours (ca. 1430–1440) shows the office for the dead. Candles and torches
could be were important status indicators at funerals.
In Vedel’s version, the premise of intercession was no longer relevant and the
example of the dying man received another meaning. While the point in the first
version was that the man had caused this miserable lonely occasion himself, the
point in the changed version is that the material world has nothing to offer when the
hour of death arrives. The complaint about no Pater Noster is replaced by “Nothing
more I then receive from the world/ when I stand dead on the floor”.64 The sentence
that refers to the prayers of the clergy is replaced by an affirmation of the pain
caused by being left alone in death: “I have no friends when I am dead/ it makes
my heart suffer”,65 and the sentence that referred to him being left in purgatory is
replaced by an affirmation that his friends and children could do nothing. “No help
64 “Intet mere ieg da aff Verden faar/ Naar ieg døder paa gulffuet staar”, Vedel 1571a, f. Ciiiv.
65 “Jeg haffuer ey venner naar ieg er død/ Det giør mit hierte at vercke”, ibid.
121
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
they could give me”.66 The final lesson was also transformed. While the readers are
still exhorted to do good while there is still time, this was nevertheless explained
not according to investing in intercession, but as a consequence of faith: “I ask all of
you to look around/ Do good while you have time/ This you can trust: / if not you will
be deceived both here and there/ if you don’t believe in Jesus Christ/ this everyone
surely should know”.67
Transformation of Memory
In Vedel’s version of the next stanza (“Pugna vitæ et mortis”), faith alone is what
counts, and the lack of intercession or concern seems hence to constitute no
problem other than an emotional reaction of sad loneliness. However, it is relevant
to ask what such loneliness implied in a Protestant context. Perhaps the text gives
a clue in the “Mutatio coloris” stanza, where the pre-Reformation version reads:
“Quite little I have sent ahead of me/ The time I have been alive/ Hence as I come
I am unknown/ and I will forever be”.68 A deceased person who does not receive
his friends’ prayers is described as “unknown”. The investment in friends and good
deeds, which in the face of death brought about intercession, is presented as an
investment in the future life and described according to the notion of “memory” in
the pre-Reformation version of the text.
In Vedel’s version of the same paragraph, he inserted a short explanation.
He had “sent little ahead”, because he was “like the rich glutton/ with injustice,
violence and deceit”. His evil and less memorable deeds were what caused him
to be unknown by men and will forever be.69 In the pre-Reformation version, to be
unknown implied that the dying person left this world without intercessors. To be
remembered was a liturgical category that implied being prayed for before God, as
the Good Thief had begged Christ; “Lord, remember me when thou comest into thy
kingdom” (Luke 23:42). In Vedel’s version, to be unknown meant that no one found
a reason to uphold the memory of the deceased, which has to be understood in
accordance with the early modern memorial culture. To be remembered meant to
shine forth in his good deeds as an example to the living. Such a rememberance
was just what the preachers aimed at in constructing in the contemporary funeral
works, which was also the context of Vedel’s editon of De Vita Hominis.
66 “Ingen hielp kunde de mig giøre”, ibid.
67 “Jeg beder eder alle i see eder om/ Giører gaat den stund i haffue rom/ Der kunde i noget paa
lide: /Ellers vorder i svegen her og hist/ Om i tro icke paa Jesum Christ/ Det skal huer visselig vide”,
ibid.
68 “Fuld lideth haffuer ieg foræ mig sænt/ mædhen ieg haffuer wæreth i liffuæ/ Thiid som ieg
kommer er ieg ukænt/ och ieg schal ewigh bliffuæ”, De Vita Hominis 1514, f. Bi.
69 “Ganske lidet haffuer ieg for mig send/ Den stund ieg haffuer værit i liffue/ Den rige Fraadzere
lig/Met wret vold oc suig: Thi bliffuer ieg aff huer mand wkiend/ hen skickis som ieg skal evig bliffue”,
Vedel 1571a, f. Cii.
122
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
Vedel’s De Vita Hominis in the Protestant Memorial Culture
In his introduction, Vedel dedicated the booklet to the Danish nobleman and overlord
Christoffer Valkendorf (1525–1601).70 Vedel had several benefactors among
the Danish nobility. Some were mentioned in the preface to his edition of Saxo
Grammaticus in 1575, Christoffer Valkendorf being one of them. One of Vedel’s
services in return to these noblemen was to preach at his friends’ funerals, or as
in this case, to raise their memory. The occasion seems to be somehow related to
Valkendorf being appointed royal administrator in Gotland in that year, 1571. Vedel,
however, places the poem within the context of the memory of Valkendorf’s brother,
Axel, who had died six years before.71 This context, consisting both of a testimony
of Axel Valkendorf’s life and death, as well as an added epitaph both in Danish and
Latin, makes Anders Vedel’s edition of De Vita Hominis an example of memorial
literature with the same function as the published funeral works.
The genre of published funeral works, which generally appeared with a sermon
and a funeral biography, arose at the princely houses in Saxony-Anhalt in the
1550s, and was continued by other dynasties associated with the Wittenberg
Reformation.72 Because of the close connections between the king, the nobility and
the Lutheran priesthood of Denmark-Norway on the one hand, and the Wittenberg
reformers on the other, it comes as no surprise that funeral works were published
for the Danish nobility from as early as 1565.73 This was also the year in which
Axel Valkendorf had died. The text relates not only how the Danish reformers
transformed the concept of death, but also how the deceased, at least the nobility,
were remembered within the Danish Lutheran culture.
Vedel addressed Christoffer Valkendorf, reminding him of a gathering that had
once taken place in the home of Lady Karine, the second wife of Bjørn Andersøn,
the palace steward in Copenhagen.74 Their hospitable home often housed the
powerful men of the time and was also open to the young historian Vedel. There
Vedel heard accounts of the heroic deeds of noblemen, those of Axel Valkendorf
70 Christoffer Valkendorf was an important man in the administration of the kingdom of DenmarkNorway. He was appointed royal administrator – in different periods – to Bergenhus, Iceland, Gotland
and Stavanger, he was member of the Council of State (riksrådet) from 1576, and, was appointed
Stattholder in Copenhagen, second only to the king in power, from 1579.
71 Axel Valkendorf was killed at the Falkenberg heaths during the Nordic Seven Years’ War (1563–
1578) on 20 October 1565.
72 Moore 2006, 100.
73 The terminology refers to Moore 2006, 19. Niels Hemmingsen’s sermon for Herluf Trolle (1565)
is often referred to as the first funeral sermon printed in Denmark, Billeskov Jansen 1990. The early
origin of the printed Danish funeral works distinguishes the Danish tradition from that in Sweden,
where the first printed funeral work occurs in 1598. It is more relevant to compare the Danish tradition
with the Lutheran heartlands in Saxony and Württemberg. The printed Danish funeral sermons (ca.
40 registered works) from the period 1565–1600 had been composed for the funerals of the higher
nobility; see Oftestad 2015.
74 Cf. Wegener 1851, 59.
123
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
being among them.75 Lady Karine had related how the sisters of Valkendorf had
asked their brother Axel why he spent so much more time than other people in
his prayer chamber. To this, he had answered that one could never pray enough.
Moreover, if the only thing to pray for was a Christian and blissful departure, then
this alone would be enough to pray for as long as we lived on earth. What happens
next is not only an example of the central position of the moment of death in this
religious culture, but also of how a preacher, sensitive to good testimonies of the
deceased, collected the elements to construct an edifying memory. Vedel refers
how he was astonished by Axel’s pious answer and had followed up by asking
about his last hours. Christoffer Valkendorf had then talked about his brother’s
death, which was caused by a shot during the siege of Falkenberg in 1565. Hearing
this, Vedel immediately wrote an epitaph in Latin, and at the request of Christoffer
Valkendorf, also a translation in Danish.76
The epitaph had so pleased Christoffer Valkendorf that because of this, Vedel
claimed to have dedicated the booklet, including De Vita Hominis, to him as a
reminder “that everyone in his days of prosperity, should behave himself such that
he with a Christian departure/ could walk as an heir into the reign of heaven and the
eternal life”.77 Axel Valkendorf’s pious life and Christian departure thus shine forth
as an example of one who had followed the central message of De Vita Hominis,
and consequently as a blessed opposition to the wicked man described in the text.
Vedel did not dedicate the booklet to Valkendorf as consolation as was frequently
done in similar introductions,78 but rather as a remembrance of Axel Valkendorf.
Perhaps the long time that had passed since Axel’s death made consolation for the
brother less urgent than ordinarily. But perhaps the lack of a published funeral work
for this important royal military man made the promotion of Christoffer Valkendorf
to royal administrator at Gotland just a suitable occasion to raise his brother’s
memory. The late Axel Valkendorf thus became a paragon of virtue for the benefit
of his brother Christoffer Valkendorf about to commence his administrative and
religious duties at Gotland.
It is reasonable to emphasize the Protestant memorial culture as the opposite
of the miserable fortune of the dying man in De Vita Hominis. The genre of printed
funeral works and dedicated booklets, like Vedel’s edition of De Vita Hominis,
became an important element in this culture in which the memory of the deceased
was upheld and preserved.
75 “[E]der dragis vel til minde/ huad tale der falt en gong ind/ om eders kiere Broder salige Axel
Valkendorp/ hoss Velbyrdige oc Gudfryctige Frue Karine Biørn Anderssøns”, Vedel 1571a, f. Aii.
76 Cf. Wegener 1851, 59–60. Vedel wrote three epitaphs on the occasion of Axel Valkendorf’s
death; one Latin prose, one Latin poem as well as a Danish version of the poem, all printed at the
end of the edition of De Vita Hominis, 1571.
77 “[A]t huer udi sin velmact skal saa beskicke sig/ at hand ved en Christelig affgang / kand træde
en Arffuing ind i Himmerigis rige oc det euige Liff”, Vedel 1571a, f. Aiiv.
78 Oftestad forthcoming 2015.
124
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
Conclusion
Anders Sørensens Vedel’s edition of De Vita Hominis is a concise little example
of the transformation of the religious culture of Denmark in the aftermath of the
Reformation. Vedel’s education and career and his reputable theological and
historical works mean that his revision can be considered an important example of
how the early Danish Protestant theologians interpreted and transformed the preReformation literature on death.
When Vedel revised De Vita Hominis, he re-arranged the elements of an
anonymous late medieval text and transformed it according to an established
Lutheran faith. Thus, his revision neither represents a continuous use of a source
nor the negation of the late medieval heritage, but rather a conscious establishment
of continuity between the religious practice of his own days and the previous
generations. What the Lutheran faith defined as foreign elements were abolished
and replaced by the new religious practice.
The pre-Reformation version of De Vita Hominis was intended to remind the
reader of his own death and urge him or her to invest in good deeds and a just life
to secure intercession when death arrived. This constituted a central element in
the pre-Reformation preparation for death, and was completed by a focus on the
formation of inner dispositions as it appeared in the texts that had been transmitted
together with De Vita Hominis. The premise of the message in De Vita Hominis
was a community of living and dead, expressed in the duty to intercede for the
souls of the deceased. As a contrast to this community, the edifying text depicts the
horror of dying alone, without friends or intercessors. The miserable man appears
as a warning to the readers: invest in the afterlife while you live!
When the text was edited anew by Vedel in 1571, the experience of dying alone
was still used as a warning. It had, however, a different function in Vedel’s religious
context. The miserable situation confirmed another message: when it came to
death, this world had nothing to offer. The only thing that was counted was faith.
While the theology of the Reformation abolished the uncertainty of salvation, one
of the fundamental conditions was still the same since the hour of the inescapable
death remained always unknown.
The booklet was presented in a way that confirmed Vedel’s changes to the
message. While the late medieval text was a general warning, a memento mori
presented to all men, among general devotional literature, Vedel’s edition is
presented in connection with a particular person, to raise the memory of Axel
Valkendorf. Both the introduction as well as the added epitaphs in Latin and Danish
point to Valkendorf’s exemplary life and death. In this respect, De Vita Hominis
functions as an antitype that sets off Valkendorf’s pious life and Christian death
as a glorious example to the living. He is remembered through these texts. He is
remembered not by his sisters’ intercession for his soul, which there is no need for
as he already is counted among the blessed ones, but by the exhibition of his faith.
125
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
In the epitaph that concludes the book, Valkendorf was praised for his glorious
deeds, giving his life for the fatherland. However, these deeds were not the reason
for true honour and joy which can only be achieved by a Christian death. The final
verse proclaimed the moral: “Then everyone should skillfully learn this art/ while he
is alive/ the one who wants to die well/ he has to behave well/ this only can be given
by God”.79 What then was Valkendorf’s good behaviour? It was clearly underlined
in the introduction. He had always prayed for a Christian death. He invested in his
afterlife, not by alms, donations or glorious deeds that brought about intercessors,
but by prayers that reinforced his own faith and strengthened his dependence on
Christ alone. Consequently, after his death, he depended neither on his brother
Christoffer nor on his sisters. He had taken care of his own Christian departure
alone.
A reading of Vedel’s corrections of the late medieval De Vita Hominis displays
that the notion of investment in the afterlife was a continuum through the religious
transformations which was brought about by the Reformation. What the investment
consisted in was however described according to different religious premises. While
the pre-Reformation version emphasized that one should invest in intercession,
the post-Reformation version emphasized faith and prayer during life. When
Christoffer Valkendorf raised the memory of his brother Axel, he presented him
as an example of faith, and invested in his brother’s immortality through printed
letters. While donations and alms were a way to secure remembrance before God
in the late medieval version, money still secured a memorial in the early Protestant
culture. According to the new religious premises, however, it could only secure this
memorial in the human world left behind.
References
Anon. 1510. Her begyndes en ynkelige historie aff een fortabede siel, ther giorde stoor Kæremoll
paa Kroppen, Ath hõ war fordomth tijl helwidis pijne. København: Godtfrid aff Gemen.
Anon./Sir Michael 1514. De Vita Hominis. København: Pouel Ræff.
Anon./Sir Michael 1514. De Creatione Rerum. København: Pouel Ræff.
Akhøj Nielsen, M. 2004. Anders Sørensen Vedels filologiske arbejder. 2 vols. Copenhagen:
Reitzels forlag.
Akhøj Nielsen, M. 2005. Anders Sørensen Vedels indsats for dansk som kultursprog.
Renæssanceforum 1. <renaessanceforum.dk/rf_1_2005.htm> (visited 11 February
2015)
Akhøj Nielsen, M. 2006. Anders Sørensen Vedel. In C. Bach-Nielsen & C. Appel (eds.) Danmark
og renæssancen 1500-1650. Copenhagen: Gad.
Ariès, P. 1981. The Hour of our Death. Trans. by Helen Weaver. New York: Alfred A. Knopf.
79 “Saa lære sig huer den konst met skel/ Den stund hand er i liffue/ huo vil vel dø/ hand leffue sig
vel/ Det kand Gud eniste giffue”, Vedel 1571a, f. Eiiiiv.
126
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
Billeskov Jansen, F. J. (ed.) 1990. Humanitas christiana: mindetaler over Herluf Trolle / af Niels
Hemmingsen og Christian Machabæus; ved F. J. Billeskov Jansen under medvirken af
Peter Fink og H. D. Schepelern. Copenhagen: C.A.Reitzels Forlag.
Dahlerup, P. 1998. Dansk litteratur, Middelalder, Vol 2: Religiøs litteratur. Copenhagen:
Gyldendal.
Dahlerup, P. 2010. Sanselig Senmiddelalder. Litterære perspektiver på danske tekster 14821523. Århus: Aarhus Universitetsforlag.
Daniell, C. 1997. Death and burial in medieval England, 1066-1550. London: Routledge.
Friis-Jensen, K. 1993. Vedels Saxo og den danske adel. Copenhagen: Museum Tusculanums
Forlag.
Galpern, A. N. 1974. The Legacy of Late Medieval Religion in Sixteenth-Century Champagne.
In C. Trinkhaus & H. Oberman (eds.) The Pursuit of Holiness in Late Medieval and
Renaissance Religion. Leiden: Brill.
Gertsman, E. 2010. The Dance of Death in the Middle Ages: image, text, performance.
Turnhout: Brepols.
Hamm, B. 2010. Luthers Anleitung zum seligen Sterben vor dem Hintergrund der
spätmittelalterlichen Ars moriendi. In B. Hamm (ed.) Der frühe Luther. Tübingen: Mohr
Siebeck. 115–163.
Hemmingsen, N. 1574. Via Vitae, Christiana et orthodoxa instituvtio complectens praecipva
christianae relligionis capita [...], tradita A Nicolao Hemmingio, ex Danica in Latinam
translata, ab Andrea Seuerino Velleio. Leipzig: Andreas Schneider in officina Voegeliana.
Hemmingsen, N. 1577. It vist oc fast tegen/ huor paa huer kand kiende sig selff/ huad heller
hand er Guds barn eller ey. København: Laurentz Benedicht.
Hjort, P. L. 1971. Sjælens og kroppens trætte og ars moriendi: med faksimileudgave af Ghementrykket. Copenhagen: Akademisk Forlag.
Karant-Nunn, S. C. 2010. The Reformation of feeling: Shaping the religious emotions in early
modern Germany. New York/Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Koslofsky, C. 1999. The Reformation of the Dead: Death and Ritual in Early Modern Germany,
c. 1450-1700. New York: St. Martin’s Press.
Laetus, E. 1560. Bucolica. Wittenberg: Georg Rhaw.
Larson, J. L. 2010. Reforming the North: the Kingdoms and Churches of Scandinavia, 15201545. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Lauridsen, H. 1593. En Predicken aff Den 39. Psalme, som skede vdi Erlig, Velbyrdig Mands,
Salig Anders Bings Begraffuelse i Varbiergs Slotz Sognekircke den 11. Ianuarij Anno
1593 / aff Hans Lauritzsøn. København: Matz Vingaard.
Luther, M. 1538. Huorledis hwert Christet menniske skall berede sig mod døden. Trans. Chr.
Schrock. Viborg: Hans Wiingaard.
Lyby, T. C. & O. P. Grell 1995. The consolidation of Lutheranism in Denmark and Norway.
In O. P. Grell (ed.) The Scandinavian Reformation: from Evangelical Movement to
Institutionalisation of Reform. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 114–178.
Marshall, P. 2002. Beliefs and the Dead in Reformation England. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Moore, C. 2006. Patterned Lives: The Lutheran Funeral Biography in Early Modern Germany.
Wiesbaden: Harrassowitz Verlag.
Oftestad, E. A. 2015, “’Let’s kick the devil in his nose’: The introduction of a Lutheran Art of
Dying in sixteenth-century Denmark-Norway”. In Tarald Rasmussen (ed.) Preparing for
Death, Remembering the Dead. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
127
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Palladius, N. 1558. Om Dommedage. En nyttelige Tractat. København: Hans Vingaard.
Palladius, P. 1557. Catalogvs aliqvot haeresivm hvivs aetatis, et earvm refvtatio. Wittenberg: ex
officina Petri Seitzii. (Melanchthons preface in f. A 2–A 6.)
Paludan, J. 1897. Mikkel. In C. F. Bricka (ed.) Dansk Biografisk Leksikon tillige omfattende
Norge for Tidsrummet 1537-1814, Vol. XI. Copenhagen: Gyldendal. 324–325.
Reinis, A. 2006. Reforming the Art of Dying: The Ars Moriendi in the German Reformation
(1519-1528). Aldershot: Ashgate.
Rudolf, R. 1957. Ars moriendi, von der Kunst des heilsamen Lebens und Sterbens. Cologne/
Graz: Böhlau.
Rørdam, H. F. 1886. Danske Kirkelove 2. Copenhagen: Selskabet for Danmarks Kirkehistorie.
Rørdam, H. F. 1904. Anders Sørensen Vedel. In C. F. Bricka (ed.) Dansk Biografisk Leksikon
tillige omfattende Norge for Tidsrummet 1537-1814. Vol. XVIII. Copenhagen: Gyldendal.
292–301.
Schwarz Lausten, M. 1989 (1537/39) Kirkeordinansen 1537/39. Copenhagen: Akademisk
Forlag. (KO)
Schwarz Lausten, M. 1990. Weltliche Obrigkeit und Kirche bei König Christian III. von
Dänemark (1536-1559): Hintergründe und Folgen. In L. Grane & K. Hørby (ed.) Die
dänische Reformation vor ihrem internationalen Hintergrund. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck
& Ruprecht. 91–107.
Schwarz Lausten, M. 1995. The early Reformation in Denmark and Norway 1520-1559. In
O. P. Grell (ed.) The Scandinavian Reformation: From evangelical movement to
institutionalisation of reform. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press. 12–41.
Schwarz Lausten, M. 2010. Philipp Melanchthon: Humanist og luthersk reformator i Tyskland
og Danmark. Copenhagen: Forlaget ANIS.
Sears, E. 1986. The Ages of Man: Medieval Interpretations of the Life Cycle. Princeton N.J.:
Princeton University Press.
Skovgaard-Petersen, K. 1998. A Safe Haven for the Church – on Melanchthon’s Influence on
Historical Discourse in Sixteenth-Century Denmark. In B. Stolt (ed.) Philipp Melanchthon
und seine Rezeption in Skandinavien. Stockholm: Almqvist & Wiksell. 113–135.
Thomissøn, H. 1569. Den danske Psalmebog/ met mange Christelige Psalmer/ Ordentlig
tilsammenset/ formeret oc forbedret. København: Laurentz Benedicht.
Vedel, A. S. 1571. Vita hominis, Vnderuisning om menniskens leffned, fra hans Fødsels time,
indtil opstandelsen oc Dommedag, gantske trøstelig for de Gudfryctige, oc saare gruelig
for alle Wgudelige. København: Laurentz Benedicht.
Vedel, A. S. 1571b. Antichristus Romanus: Romerske Paffuers leffnede oc gerninger, fra
Apostlers tid indtil 1571. København: Matz Wingaard.
Vedel, A. S. 1575. Den danske Krønicke. København: Hans Støckelman oc Andreas Gutteruitz.
WA (Weimarer Ausgabe): WA 10/3: Luther, Martin. D. Martin Luthers Werke: Kritische
Gesammtausgabe. Vol. 10/3, Weimar: Hermann Böhlaus Nachfölger, 1905.
Wegener, C. F. 1851. Historiske efterretninger om Anders Sörensen Vedel, kongelig
Historiograph i Frederik II’s og Christian IV’s Dage. Copenhagen: Samfundet til den
danske Literaturs Fremme.
128
Dicing towards Death: An
Oracle Game for Miners at the
Falun Copper Mine from the
Early Seventeenth Century
Iris Ridder
University of Dalarna
In the early seventeenth century, the city of Falun was among the most important
cities in Sweden because of its profitable copper mine, called Stora Kopparberget
(the Great Copper Mountain). Working as a miner was, particularly in this period,
a dangerous profession with high risks. The lives of the miners were frequently
exposed to the unpredictability of this dangerous work, and mine accidents were
a constant peril. During the Middle Ages and the early modern period, both the
accidents and misfortune which befell the miners as well as their successes and
wealth were seen as expressions of God’s plan for salvation. People therefore often
turned their faith into religious or magical strategies in their effort to protect their
lives.
The aim of this article is to highlight the connection between dicing and dying in
early modern mining industry by analysing an oracular dice game book for miners,
printed in Stockholm in 1613. A local mining clerk, Gisle Jacobson, published the
text, entitled Ett litet Tidhfördriff (A small pastime), which exploits the peculiar fact
that the miners at Stora Kopparberg made decisions with the help of a ritualized
dice game.
Introduction
Death was always present in older societies, but few social groups were as
generally aware of it in their daily work as miners and their families. For the miners
at Stora Kopparberg in the Swedish region of Dalarna, being killed without warning
and being exposed to a sudden and unforeseen death (Lat. mors repentina et
improvisa), a Bad Death (Lat. mala mors) was a characteristic of the profession.1 As
described in the introduction to this volume, the art of dying demanded preparation
and planning. An ars moriendi which would encourage a harmonious and conscious
1 For mors repentina et improvisa which was considered a bad death (mala mors), see Kaiser
1983, 65 and Ariès 2008, 10, 108, 118. For the significance of the place of death, see Ariès 2008,
107.
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.)
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 129 –151.
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
“good” death, a death which one was prepared for, was an experience that not
all miners had the advantage of experiencing. If it happened that miners died in a
mine collapse, it was not even certain that the body could be found, in which case
a church burial would be prevented.
Therefore, this group of professionals put their faith in magical and supernatural
practices in their attempts to avoid their own violent and unexpected deaths. They
used various oracles and other superstitious activities sometimes practised in the
form of games. Today, we know of one game in particular, a dice game called
the “dobblet” or “dobblet vid gruvstugan” (gambling at the mining cottage) which
is exceptional for the mine as a place of work and also crucial for its internal
organization and the taxation of the mine’s yield. The miners used this game to
agree upon the order in which the work cooperatives were allowed to operate in
various mining chambers at Stora Kopparberg. The game was played over many
centuries on the most significant and mystical day of the year, New Year’s Day, in
order to help the miners make difficult decisions in connection with the organization
of this hazardous work.2
Among the various forms of superstitious practices that developed at the
mine, I found a strange little oracular game book entitled A small pastime (Ett litet
Tidhfördriff), which was printed in Stockholm on 2 September 1613.3 The booklet
was obviously written at Stora Kopparberg, and is one of Sweden’s few examples
of fiction from the working community during the early modern period. One exciting
thing about the text is that it does not rework or translate a German (or Latin, French
or English) original, like so many other Swedish texts from this period. The booklet is
unique for this Swedish mining environment from the beginning of the seventeenth
century, and reflects this specific milieu in a special way. Nevertheless, the text has
not been noticed in Swedish literary history, since it does not fit into the familiar
early modern literary genres. Unlike many entertainment texts from this period,
this work of fiction is not anonymous and has no dedication. The author’s name
is Gisle Jacobson and, among other things, his text concerns chance, luck and
God’s almighty power. The booklet illustrates not only how the miners attempted to
prevent dangerous situations by looking into the future, but also shows their feelings
towards the omnipotence of chance in relation to the idea of God’s providence.4
2 For a discussion of the game in connection with the work in the mine during medieval and early
modern times, see Ridder 2013b. On the miners’ belief in supernatural beings, see Forslund 1924;
Åmark 1951; Tillhagen 1981.
3
Collijn 1943, 418.
4 See my article on the subject, Ridder 2013a, in which I describe the attitude to games of chance
and fortune during that period. In Ridder 2013b, 327–330, I mention the parallels between this
fortune-telling book and a medieval game by the name of Ludus regularis seu clericalis, a dice game
developed by a pious monk in the tenth century, which has strong similarities with the miners’ oracle
game.
130
Iris Ridder
Today, the function and meaning of Gisle Jacobson’s text is rather hard for
a modern reader to comprehend. In one of the most important standard works
on Swedish mining history, Gruvbrytningen och kopparhantering vid Stora
Kopparberget intill 1800-talets början from 1955, the historian Sten Lindroth
comments that Gisle Jacobson was a man of “literary ambition”, which resulted “in
a quite special product, called A small pastime” which “presented a collection of
faithful didactic poems, amply linked to the game for the mining shift rooms which
was well-known to the Kopparberg’s miners”.5
This wording illustrates that Lindroth has not really understood the point of the
mining clerk’s “literary ambition” and that his “special product” is as much a poetic
text as a parlour game for miners. However, research in literary history on early
modern narratives, with their sometimes experimental and unconventional hybrid
forms, was not especially voluminous in the middle of the 1950s.6 Oracular gaming
texts, or dice fortune books (Würfellosbücher) as they are also called, belong to a
mixed genre, and have been noted to some extent in German research on literary
history.7
The starting-point of Gisle Jacobson’s text, its inventio, is the miners’ dicing
ritual, the “dobblet”. The text deals with the discrepancy between the observation of
contingency and the expected providence in each lot, which is based on the throw
of the dice. The die as an oracular instrument symbolized life’s unpredictability and
the vagaries of Lady Luck. There is a long philosophical discourse on people’s
thoughts about chance in relation to God’s almighty power in which the problem
was solved theologically by letting Lady Luck constitute a part of God’s plan.8 The
Western philosophical tradition deals with the question of random events by using
the term contingency, which describes something which is temporarily what it is,
but which could also have turned out differently. This goes back to Aristotle, and
links etymologically to the Latin verb contingere, which literally means “to touch
each other”.9 Thus, contingencies are events that are neither necessary nor
impossible, and which coincide in time and space but unpredictably. A thing or
event happens either in one way or another. The door can be open or closed.
Therefore, contingency refers to the future and how it could be represented, but
implies more than simply chance, since chance actualizes contingency and the
fact that the world and future are not determined and governed by a higher power.
As a result, the term contingency is in opposition to the idea of the world being
predictable through God, which is called providence, or the Latin term providentia
dei, and is, for example, manifested in situations where decisions are to be made.
5
Lindroth 1955, 67.
6
This still can be a problem; see Ridder 2012.
7 About Würfellosbücher and Losbücher, see Böhm 1932/1933; Bolte 1925 and the bibliography
Zollinger 1996.
8 Walter Haug has drawn our attention to the fact that medieval people understood that conditions
in the form of Lady Luck having no place in God’s plan is the solution to the contingency problem, in
particular where she is offered as the one mastering this contingency, Haug 1995, 1, 7.
9
The Latin term contingentia is a translation of Aristotle’s endechómenon, which means possible.
131
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Contingency occurs in the obvious randomness of catastrophes or disasters,
which becomes more observable in societies where technological developments
bring with them the risk of accidents and the danger of an unpredictable and quick
death.10 Catastrophes in connection with technological developments, in contrast
with natural disasters, for example, affect human attitudes to the environment
and other people, which is clearly illustrated by the description of catastrophes
or disasters after the event.11 In the same way, the early form of capitalism which
developed at the Stora Kopparberg had a strong influence on people’s relationship
with and attitude to negative events and death. People threw dice to test their
individual luck, and the general view was that luck in connection with games that
rest on chance is an expression of some form of divine favour. Luck demonstrates
that higher powers are sympathetic towards the player.
The aim of this article then is to emphasize the connection between dicing
and dying, and to illustrate how miners dealt with their life-threatening work by
using dice as an instrument for decision-making in their dangerous but frequently
lucrative working conditions. At first, I will introduce the oracle book, its author
and the miner’s dice game. I then use contemporary sources to describe how this
dangerous work was perceived, and how people at that time dealt with risk and
danger. After this, I will illustrate various superstitious practices to place the miners’
rituals in a larger context.
Picture 1. Title page of Gisle Jacobson’s A small pastime (Ett litet Tidhfördriff) printed in Stockholm
in 1613.
10 In this regard, the history of life insurance is interesting, as it started to take shape seriously
during the eighteenth century in England where they could also bet on other people’s lives in a more
organized way, which was later banned. For this, see Clark 1999.
11 Clarke & Short 1993, 377–379.
132
Iris Ridder
Dobblet vid gruvstugan (Gambling at the Mining Cottage)
The full title of Jacobson’s booklet is A small pastime, wherewith one can delay
time and get rid of evil thoughts, which can easily come when one has nothing to
do and to be used when time allows.12 The text is not very long; in a modern edition,
it comprises about 20 pages. Directly after the title-page, before the oracular text
begins, the booklet offers a passage called Education (Underwiszning), followed
by an address to the reader (Til Läsaren). The text is meant to be entertaining and
thought of as a diversion when you are depressed and have been afflicted by evil
thoughts. You are allowed to use the text if you do not have anything else, that is,
more reasonable things to do. The modern concepts of “leisure” and “entertainment”
are not applicable in an early modern context, and to understand what exactly is
meant here, we should look at the passage called Education, which consists of a
kind of manual:
My name is A small pastime. If anyone agrees to spend some time and wants to do
it right, you must get three dice. Then you wish for something, preferably something
honourable. And when you then throw the dice, you must remember the score and
look it up in the book. […] If you are two or more players, everyone should freely throw
the dice and then interpret without force or danger the answer they get from the text. If
anyone should not be able to manage it, there are hopefully good interpreters among
the party who can help by giving advice and ideas.13
Clearly, the text should not just be read. To use it correctly, the reader should
fetch three dice, wish for something “that can bring the best of honour” (“helst kan
lända til ähra”, A2r), throw the three dice, and then look for the same score in the
booklet. Three six-sided dice, numbered from one to six, give a total of 56 different
combinations if you throw all three simultaneously. Consequently, the text itself
consists of 56 rhymed stanzas, combined with schematic pictures of three dice that
are linked to all possible combinations. The description given above provides the
rules of the game which, according to the text, shall be used to amuse the miners
or junior mining-hands, for example, in connection with a journey.
The booklet can be read as a narrative but since its conception is based on the
miners’ game, it also functions as a parlour game. When the miner then wishes for
12 Gisle Jacobson, Ett litet Tidhfördriff/ Der medh man kan fördröye Tidhen/ och affslå onde
Tanckar/ som letteligen kunne komme när man intet tager sigh före/ och må brukas när tiden så
medhgiffs/ stält och vthdragin wid Kopperberget af Gisle Iacobson och af trycket vtgångin den
2. septembr. 1613. Stockholm. All original quotes from the text in the article are my modernized
translations. See the edition of the text and my German translation in Ridder 2014, 264–303.
13 “Eet litet Tidhfordriff må jagh heta/ Om någon wil efter migh leta/ Och der hoos wil migh rätt
förstå/ Skal han lata efter try Terningar gå/ Och sedan en god önskan begära/ Den honom helst kan
lända til ähra/ Och sedan kasta medh Terningar try/ Så skal han wäl merckia och si/ Huar han får
samma ögen igän/ […] Ähre j flere än twå eller trij/ Skal hwar kasta sitt kast frij/ Och hwar sielf sins
kasts vthtydare wara/ Förutan all nögdh och fahra/ Kan en det icke allene göre/ Hoppes man det
att see och höre/ Att ibland selskap finnes vthtydare gode/ Det man icke annan kan förmode/ Som
leggie för hwar annan löök opå/” (A2r– A2v)
133
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
something honourable and throws the dice, this throw leads him to a poem that is
thought of as a lottery oracle. Every poem gives the miner different rules for living
and moral advice as an answer to a wish made before he threw the dice.
Picture 2. Oracle game text in Gisle Jacobson’s A small pastime (Ett litet Tidhfördriff). The booklet
shows all the 56 combinations of the three thrown dice with a rhyme stanza for each and every
combination.
The author’s name is printed on the title-page, and he has even signed his
address to the reader. Gisle Jacobson was one of the first mining clerks in the
Falun mine at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The title of mining clerk was
administratively a very important post, which meant the maintaining the register of
such things as fires in the mine or minutes from inspections. Such a post was not
granted to just anyone, and it is shown that the author had a past within the Royal
Chancery.14 He owned a part of a smelting shed, and lived with his wife in Falun, at
least some of the time.15 This explains why he was familiar with the environment,
the town and the people, and why he knew about the dobblet vid gruvstugan.
A closer investigation of the medieval documents related to this game
demonstrates that many functions which have to do with mining organization were
linked to this custom. This ritualized lottery took place once a year around New
Year, and Gisle Jacobson has described it in one of two poems which follow the
dice game text itself and end his booklet. One poem is a pious admonition to the
junior mining-hands, and the other is called Yet another way to throw three dice
14 Lagergren 1913, 16. Contemporaneous sources state that he had been working as a customs
clerk or “kegenskrivare” in Stockholm at least until 1593 and in Åbo between 1595 and 1599. De
Brun 1924, 822f. Gisle Jacobson is mentioned several times between 1587 and 1615 in Stockholms
stads tänkeböcker. Nikula & Nikula 1997, 213 lists him for the period between 1595 and 1599. He
then came to Falun, where he was mentioned in the Kopparberg church accounts between 1614
and 1620, but not the following years. This information is in Biographia Cuprimontana, a collection of
biographical material on people who are associated with the copper mine in Falun and its company,
Stora Kopparbergs Bergslag AB. The collection is found in the company archive of Stora Enso AB,
now the archive centre of Dalarna.
15 According to one of Eric Hammarström’s unprinted collections.
134
Iris Ridder
used by the Miners at Stora Kopparberg (Ännu ett annat sätt att kasta med tre
tärningar som används av Bergsmännen vid Stora Kopparberget), a description of
the dobblet vid gruvstugan. This poem addresses a person who means to visit the
copper mine in Falun, a place which was already a well-known attraction:
At the Stora Kopparberg mine, you usually do what gives the miners both honour and
fame. Every miner must hurry to throw three dice at New Year. Those who manage to
score highest may be first in the pair line and have an advantage over the others, who
must wait further down the pair line. But the one coming last will be stuck there because
of his low and unlucky throw. This may be due to a three, four and six on the dice. When
that happens, you hear shouts of pleasure. Every man laughs and is happy about it.
Then there is delight and no cries. Those who come first are likely to get copper, and
those who are last get just rocks. Of course, many are afraid of this. Anyone who wants
to know and ask more about it may find his way to Stora Kopparberg at New Year, as
said above.16
Here, Gisle Jacobson mentions something called the pair line, and assumes that
even a reader who does not come from Falun and Stora Kopparberg understands
what this means. The term was used to denote the order in which the mining teams
took turns to break ore in the mine. The author explains that if one gets a high score
at the gambling game, it meant a good position in this order, while a low number
gives a bad position. If one threw three dice simultaneously, the lowest number
one could get was 1:1:1, that is, three; followed by 1:1:2, which gave four; 1:2:2 five
and so on, and the highest number in this regard was 6:6:6, that is, 18. The miners
played this game in order to decide the mining order and allotment of the ore, and
as a result every mining team’s success or failure, profit or loss or, in the worst
case, death. It was impossible to know in advance where and when the rich ore
would reveal itself, and when and where a devastating and deadly mine collapse
would happen in connection with the different shifts. Thus, the right order and a
good position in the mine were often of life-changing importance.
To understand Gisle Jacobson’s oracle gaming text and dice fortune books
(Würfellosbücher) in general, the relation between oracles and gaming, which is
quite complex, has to be considered. Through the ages, gaming seems to be a
constant activity but has been valued differently. The joy in being able to forget
oneself and time in order to relax in an apparently goalless activity, which at the
same time was its goal, is as tempting now as it was 5000 years ago. During the
Middle Ages and the early modern period, rich and poor, nobles and clerics alike,
gambled. Medieval sources talk of the large sums of money the rich nobles or
16 “WJd kopperbergz Gruffua plågar wara wijs/ Der af Berkmännen bäre både äre och prijs/ Nyårs
tidh medh try Terningar att kasta/ Det til hwar Berksman moste sigh hasta/ Den högste ögon på try
Terningar kan få/ Han får fremst j par gongen gå/ Och haffuer en fördel/ fram för andra/ Som länger
åther j gongen monde wandra/ Men den som j rumpan kommer/ han sitter der fast/ Det waller hans
ringa och arma kast/ Try es fyra eller sex ögon kunne det göra/ När det skeer/ skal man glädie höra/
Hwar man skratta och lee der ååt/ Då är lust och glädie och ingen grååt/ Den fremst kommer får för
kopper än den eftrest malm/ Derföre gör det mongen stor ångest och harm/ Den widare her om wil
wetta och fråga/ Han må sigh hijt til kopperberget wåga/ Nyårs tidh som förre är sacht” (D2v–3r).
135
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
church leaders wagered, even if gambling was forbidden for churchmen. Games
of chance particularly were considered to be an inappropriate diversion for monks
and priests, as well as for women and children. From the perspective of medieval
moralists, gambling and above all games of chance were linked to a catalogue of
sins which was repeated constantly over many centuries. Gambling was associated
with behaviour unfit for Christians, like swearing, lying and cheating.17 But even
evil acts like violent behaviour, gambling addiction, whoring, drinking and ruthless
enrichment were considered as the bad deeds seen to be promoted by games of
chance and dice. Moralists of the time and the authorities were quite simply worried
about the extent to which the gamblers, with their sinful behavior, jeopardized the
salvation of their souls. But gambling and games of chance also worked as a
relaxing activity in an environment characterized by and a dangerous and often
life-threatening existence, especially for miners. For them, games of chance meant
the possibility of quick riches and a way out of an often poor existence, although
the chances of success were insignificant, and the risk of being cheated and losing
hung over one.18
The function of throwing lots as an aid in difficult and complex decisions is an
old and well-documented custom. What is classical in a literary historical context
is Augustine’s (354–430) famous conversion scene from his autobiographical
book Confessions (Confessiones) where a decision, resting on chance, was the
beginning of a religious conversion situation. Certain forms of lottery oracle were
accepted; above all, when they made decisions easier or could decide and settle
conflicts. In the Bible, casting lots are only talked about positively in connection
with important decisions.19 Dobblet vid gruvstugan is a medieval custom which also
continued after the Swedes went over to the Lutheran faith, even though Luther
clearly did not like the Bible’s view of lotteries, especially the passages mentioning
priests using them.20 His dislike of the lottery relates to the church’s negative
attitude to gambling in general, and dice games in particular.21 Obviously, he did
not distinguish between the lottery as organized decision-making and games of
chance. The dice were used for both, and the line between them was not always
easy to determine. However, the Church was convinced of the dice’s negative effect
on people. The propaganda of late medieval moralists against gambling, and above
all dice games was extensive, and it was argued that the dice had been invented by
17 “According to religious commentators, the gambler was an exemplar of an immoral man, prone
to blasphemy, idolatry and superstition,” Walker 1999, 42; Schwerhoff 1995. See Ariès 2008, 11
for the problem of dying while playing a popular game. See also Ariès 2008, 69 for the Church’s
prohibition of dancing and gaming in the cemetery.
18 On cheating and gaming from a historical perspective, see Mehl 1981, and on dice games
Tauber 1987. On the way a sinful player had the right to a church burial, see Ariès 2008, 11.
19 Mann 1994.
20 In Luther’s own translation, lottery is therefore deleted from the context; Mann 1994, 51, esp.
footnote 11.
21 Nedoma 2007.
136
Iris Ridder
the devil himself.22 Neither Luther’s negative attitude to lotteries nor the generally
negative attitude of the time against gaming and dice had any significant effect
on the miners’ custom. The advantages of this practice were probably decisive;
enabling the miner to make decisions in accordance with God’s will and by this
means ensuring success in the mine and at the same time avoiding arguments.
That must have been the reason for the custom continuing uninterruptedly until the
early eighteenth century at Stora Kopparberg.
Copper Mining and Risk-taking during
the Early Modern Period
Sweden’s dominant role in Europe during the seventeenth century would have
been difficult to finance without copper, one of the most important metal resources
in the country. So much of this metal was mined that it is estimated that Sweden
produced almost two-thirds of the world’s copper during this time. Iron certainly
also had an important bearing on metal exports, but copper production had one
decisive advantage: unlike iron production, which was spread over the whole of
mid-Sweden, all the copper came from the large mine in Falun. The growth and
success of its mining company, Stora Kopparbergs Bergslag, goes hand in hand
with Sweden’s era as a great power, and has imprinted itself on the people and
landscape in and around Falun for hundreds of years.23 During the seventeenth
century, Falun was one of Sweden’s most important and most populated cities, and
the mine was by far the biggest employer with distinctive pre-industrial forms.24 The
price which the population in general and, above all, the working force at the mine
paid was high. Countless collapses and accidents that took place in connection
with the dangerous work killed and injured numerous miners.25
Several contemporary sources illustrate the people’s living and working
conditions in and around the Falun mine during the early modern period. In 1555, the
Swedish bishop Olaus Magnus Gothus (1490–1557) wrote a comprehensive work
in Latin, History of the Northern Peoples (Historia de gentibus septentrionalibus),
which is a unique depiction of the life of people in the North during the sixteenth
century. Mining was already an important industrial source, and in the sixth book
of his work, which comprised 22 books, he describes the risks of the work under
the title On mines and mining (De mineris et metallis). He sees the mines as prison
camps in which the workers carried out their daily work under horrible conditions.
22 On the devil as the inventor of dice, see Mehl 1990, 314; Also in Tauber 1987, 11. “Just as God
invented the twenty-one letters of the alphabet, so the Devil invented the dice, on which he placed
twenty-one points.” G. de Barletta quoted in Purdie 2000, 178.
23 Boëthius 1951. Heckscher 1968, 102–104; Hildebrand 1946, 432–439.
24 Boëthius 1965; Lindroth 1955, “Bornsbrukstiden“.
25 Lindroth 1955, “Gruvans historia”.
137
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Miners could be “suddenly buried under stone blocks or suffocated by the fumes
and the smoke and pitifully die in the middle of their work, or the trains break down
and they would be suffocated in the middle of a shaft.” He mentions that only
through “the defying of endless dangers and the wasting of countless human lives,
could one gain entrance into the inner bowels of the mountain, Pluto’s abode.”26
Drawing a parallel between contemporary literary descriptions of the
underground kingdom of Hades and work in the mines is a topos that is often used
in connection with depictions of mining. A prominent source from the first half of
the seventeenth century which describes the Falun copper mine in more depth is a
travel report by a French diplomat by the name of Charles Ogier (1595–1654), who
travelled in the Nordic countries and in particular in Sweden during 1634–1635 to
guard French interests throughout the on-going war. The travel report he wrote in
Latin was published in diary form under the title Carolii Ogierii ephemerides sive
iter Danicum, Svecicum, Polonicum in 1656. The Swedish part of his journey is an
often cited source to illustrate Sweden when it was a world power.27 He compares
the work in the Falun mine to Virgil’s description of Aeneas’ visit to the underworld:
Nor is anything [than this] more appropriate to exemplify the underworld depicted by
Virgil. Here are both Sisyphus and Ixion amply represented: you see some toppling
stone blocks, others turning wheels, and yet more doing other heavy and awkward
work, as a kind of punishment for their sins.28
Similar thoughts were expressed by Carl von Linné (1707–1778) in his description
of the Falun mine in connection with a journey to Dalarna at the beginning of the
1770s. In the text, Iter Dalekarlicum, he compares the interior of the mine to both
Hades and the Christian Hell: there is a “poisonous, pungent sulphurous smoke
which poisons the air far around, so that you cannot go there without courage.
It corrodes the earth, so that no plant may grow.”29 During the 1980s, another
manuscript was discovered in the Vatican library by the aforementioned Charles
Ogier, which contains a comprehensive description of his visit to the silver mine in
Sala and the copper mine in Falun. The description gives a vivid picture of work in
the Falun mine during the seventeenth century:30
So the one who in his understanding wanted to search for a picture of this mine may
imagine a dark hole, horrible, deep […] vaulted artfully in different directions, which was
kept up by nothing other than itself, full of lighted fires in different places, full of smoke
and sulphur and metallic smells, full of dripping water; in the bowels of the earth black
26 Olaus Magnus 2010 (1555), book VI, quotation on 268. All translations from original texts by the
author.
27 Ogier 1914 (1656). See also Appelgren’ s annotated edition, Ogier 1978 (1656).
28 Ogier 1978 (1656), 72.
29 Linné 1953, 148.
30 Wis 1988.
138
Iris Ridder
people like little devils, the noise of hammers and iron spikes which broke the stone, the
cries of the miners from those who work transporting the ore to baskets, and finally the
destruction and noise that can arise if such terrible and heavy work rages.31
Picture 3. Hans Ranie’s mine map of Stora Kopparberget from 1683 depicts a mining accident. The
risks of the job and the proximity of death made miners turn to divination by dicing.
The historian Sten Lindroth characterises the work at the Falun mine during the
early modern period in the following way:
Mining was always something of a hazard, sometimes fortune smiled, new rich deposits
were brought to light and production improved, sometimes the better veins ran out
or landslips and the ravages of water prevented access to the ore, and less copper
was produced. Such more or less random factors, actual conditions at the mine, have
above all been crucial for the size of copper production.32
31 Wis 1988, 10.
32 Lindroth 1955, 56. This and other translations mine unless otherwise indicated.
139
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
What Lindroth comprehends as “random factors” was given a different
significance by people during the early modern period, and illustrates the miners’
attitude not only to chance but also to luck and profit, accident and death. Sudden
reversals in connection with success or failure in mining have been hasty and
unpredictable throughout the centuries. However, people did not speak about
chance, seeing a connection between mystical powers and the profitability of the
mine. Mining was dangerous and cruel, with constant unexpected cave-ins and
death near at hand, which inclined people to trust to higher powers or various forms
of superstition. Contemporary documents illustrate that people during those times
attributed random incidents to divine intention or the work of supernatural powers.33
From this perspective, it seems logical to believe that it is possible to affect this
intention or power; for example, through magical or religious practices. People had
another conception of events that we would today attribute to chance during the
Middle Ages and into the early modern period, one which in its allegorical form
is called Lady Luck. The Latin name fortuna really only means happiness, but
it includes both happiness and the lack of it, and thereby meant both good and
bad luck.34 During the seventeenth century, Lady Luck was still seen as a “raging,
shameless lady” and was generally depicted as a woman standing on a wheel
which symbolizes the abrupt shifts in happiness.35
Mining documents from that period illustrate how people had a quite clear
awareness of when they were actually putting themselves at risk with the aim of
making a profit. The first regulated safety measures on the part of the Board of
Mining (Bergskollegiet) take shape at the beginning of the seventeenth century. The
Board of Mining was a central agency which worked between 1637 and 1857, with
responsibility for directing and controlling the mining industry in Sweden. What we
today call risk insight became fully developed and distinctive during the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries. Today, we make a clear distinction between risk and
danger. The question of whether an action is risky or dangerous is answered by the
one carrying it out. If you are aware of the damage which can happen in connection
with a certain action, you are in a risky situation. In a dangerous situation, on the
other hand, you are unaware of the danger. We take a risk when we know that an
unforeseen event can take place, and can even calculate the risk of a particular
action.36 The term risk came into use during the fifteenth century in Italy in maritime
trade where it was applied in connection with the maritime insurance system.
33 This is further discussed in Ridder 2013a.
34 Savin investigates the concept of fortuna in Sweden during older times, pointing out that a
similar sense of the Latin word fortuna is also implicit in “the Swedish term lycka which in older times
played an important role in people’s understanding of the world, life and themselves,” Savin 2011, 11.
35 Jesaias Rompler von Löwenhalt (1605–ca. 1672) quoted in Krause 2010, 1.
36 Luhmann 1991. For a smoker, cancer is a clear risk when lighting a cigarette. On the other hand,
a non-smoker who comes in contact with smoke is rather in a dangerous situation than a risky one.
140
Iris Ridder
When risk was dealt with rationally, a mathematical calculation of risk followed,
and theories of probability were developed during the seventeenth century.37
In a world where everything is preordained by God, on the other hand, no
probability calculations are needed, and the relation between risk and danger
therefore lead directly or indirectly to the problem of the world’s absolute
randomness, or contingency. A possible reaction is that people tried to protect
themselves against risky situations by dealing with them in some way; that is, they
expected contingent events instead of passively letting God’s providence decide
the outcome of a dangerous situation. How the miners at the Stora Kopparberg
dealt with and related to this problem will now be described in detail.
Oracles and Other Apotropaic Practices
Throughout all times and in all cultures, people have tried various forms of prediction
and strategies to affect fate. Divinatory acts were supposed to influence instances
which were thought to have an impact on one’s own fate; for example, spirits,
demons and ancestors. Lottery oracles belong to the same research area as magic
rituals, and when I talk about magic here, I mean from a general perspective “a
system of conceptions and attitudes that aim to place the visible everyday world in
relation to a space outside this world.”38
Oracles and oracle games are considered to be a kind of medieval and
late medieval everyday magic and superstition, and oracle literature is one of
humankind’s oldest literary genres. An oracle has two main functions, to see
into the future, and to help with decision-making, which is principally based on
predictions about the future.39 During the Middle Ages and the early modern period,
the borders between magical thinking, alchemy and medicine were flexible, and
the popular medical texts of the time often contain various hybrid forms. A magical
worldview characterized human thinking, and was weakened only in connection
with the rise of experimental science. In the framework of a magical worldview,
there is no chance. Nothing happens without there being a meaning, God’s plan,
or at least the intention expressed by some form of higher power. Simple and
unassuming events were interpreted in a larger context, the throw of a dice, or the
dealing of cards, as much as the flight patterns of birds or patterns in coffee dregs.
Fateful events like war and disease or storms and death were also understood as a
part of a larger plan of action and salvation.40 At the end of the sixteenth century in
Sweden, the new Lutheran faith was declared in the entire country, and the Church
37 Hahn 1998.
38 Definition according to Dillinger 2007, 13.
39 In this context, alchemy is sympathetic: the sympathetic effect of different materials and things,
an in-vogue term from the turn of the eighteenth century, in the sense of “with each other in a secret
relation”.
40 For a discussion of the Swedish view, see Sandén 2010, 97, 104.
141
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
fought against anything perceived as belonging to Catholic doctrine. The Lutheran
Church counted not only the old Catholic rites but also blessings, spells or magical
acts as Catholic doctrine.41 The magical exercises and their function normally
aimed to resolve and above all deal with both practical and existential problems.42
Therefore, during the late Middle Ages, magic was not prohibited in principle,
but only the form called black magic or wizardry, which was about hurting people
by using sorcery. In Germany, for example, only someone who hurt others by
black magic (Schadenzauber) incurred the death penalty. Those who could not be
proved to have used some kind of black magic or maleficium would be treated as
charlatans instead. In another legal context, someone who had clearly benefited
from someone else through magic (this could relate to curing someone who was
sick or protecting crops through magical means) could be exempt from legal
consequences.43 In Sweden, however, any form of witchcraft was considered a
crime in the late sixteenth century.44
The miners’ exposure to danger can be compared to another social group with
similar circumstances, that is, soldiers. Soldiers in seventeenth-century Germany
tried to prevent a quick death on the battlefield by magical procedures. One
example of this magical thinking is the so-called “Passauer Kunst”, a superstition
that was intended to make soldiers invulnerable on the battlefield. Why it is called
the Passauer Kunst is not clear, but it has been suggested that the name is linked to
a hangman from the town of Passau who about 1611 made notes with secret signs
on them that he sold to soldiers. The soldiers sewed the notes into their uniforms
or ate them which, according to legend made them “frozen” or “stuck” as it was
called in German (Festmachen, that is, stick, stick on), invulnerable and protected
against wounds by gunshot, cutting or stabbing. The Passauer Kunst became a
widespread superstition among German soldiers during the Thirty Years’ War,
since it was rumoured that the notes from the hangman in Passau really worked.45
In the same way as soldiers during the Thirty Years’ War tried to protect
themselves from death through magic, miners also practised various so-called
apotropaic rituals. The Greek word apotrépein, meaning “to ward off”, forms the
basis of the term, which is used in research on religion to describe magic rituals to
prevent accidents and death. These magic rituals are symbolic rites which work,
in a modern way of speaking, as preventers of accidents. These include amulets,
oracles, inscriptions and so on. In Swedish mining history and above all at Stora
Kopparberget, miners observe a particular attitude to different types of mountain
41 For a further discussion about the view on magic and magical practices during the seventeenth
and eighteenth centuries in Sweden, see Oja 1999 and Lindstedt Cronberg 2010.
42 Knoblauch 1996, 226. For a further discussion of the characteristics of a magical worldview, see
Birkhan 2010, chapter II.
43 Funke 2009, 18.
44 Oja 1999, 62–70.
45 Funke 2009. Also compare other superstitious practices that soldiers were devoted to.
142
Iris Ridder
spirits, both when they were inside and outside the mine. Correct behaviour on
the part of the miner, characterized by respect for these spirits, would increase the
chance of surviving this work and not being taken by a sudden and unpredictable
death.46 Sten Lindroth writes of the miners’ piety and superstition that in “the
continent’s mines a distinctive mountain religion coloured by mysticism played a
very substantial role. Our own miners used to content themselves with placing their
work under the Lord’s protection based on their evangelical faith, without further
comment.”47
The quote reminds us of Luther’s advice to soldiers facing their dangerous
work and how he addresses their superstitious attitude. In Ob Kriegsleute auch
in seligem Stande sein können (How soldiers can enter a state of mercy) from
1526, he deals with the question of whether participation in war can be united
with a Christian conscience. Luther, who was really against the idea of a holy war,
accepted it in cases where soldiers were defending their own country. He certainly
rejected every form of idolatry as sinful behaviour, but included the idea that the
superstitions of soldiers served the Christian need to ward off danger. Otherwise,
he recommended saying one Credo and one Lord’s Prayer, but then to give body
and soul to God, an attitude which seems similar to the “resolute evangelical faith”
of the miners which Lindroth speaks of.48
Numerous forms of apotropaic rites and divination practices were therefore
public property during older times. They were comprehensive and widespread
among different population groups and social strata. People used blessed hosts as
frequently as spices or bible texts in various material forms. Amulets were in use in
the same way as prayers or spells for specific purposes and situations, and formed
part of everyday magic and folk piety. A clear difference between folk medicine
and experimental science started to take shape during the seventeenth century,
although one must imagine this as an elitist mindset during this time. Distinguishing
between the natural world and the supernatural, superstitious ones was an attitude
found among few enlightened learned people. At the same time, one is able to
observe an increased production of texts like witchcraft books and similar magical
instructions throughout the second half of the seventeenth century.49
Mining was seen as a risky venture in all ages. Sometimes rich new seams
were found which could support the miners for some time, and then their income
was very good. But quite often contemporary literature bears witness to dry seams,
mine collapses or water ravages which prevented the retrieval of ore, so that miners
produced much less. Copper ore mining could even become unprofitable during
46 Åmark 1951; Tillhagen 1988. For the prohibition of swearing in the mine, see Kristiansson 1996,
24.
47 Lindroth 1955, 202.
48 Luther 1982, 220. On Luther’s view of soldiers’ superstitions, see Funke 2009, 20. On the
expected negative attitudes of Protestants and above all Swedes as apotropaic rites in the form of
the Passauer Kunst during the Thirty Years’ War, see Funke 2009, 22, 29.
49 Daxelmüller 1996.
143
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
certain periods and consequently shut down. The general opinion was that chance
had nothing to do with people’s opportunities to find treasure in the earth. The
common understanding was that the conditions for making significant finds were
entirely dependent on God’s providence and merciful intervention. It was important
not to ascribe success to one’s own wisdom. Believing that one could find God’s
gifts based on one’s own power would have been seen as vanity, a dangerous
trait, since signs of arrogance could be expected to be incur punishment by God
with accidents and death. If unforeseen rich ore deposits were found, it is carefully
pointed out in the old sources that the find was owing to “God’s strange blessing
was detected in Stora Kopparberg Mine.”50 Many superstitious practices are linked
to ore finds. In Germany, for example, you meet a distinctive, mystical mountain
religion. According to old folk beliefs, the mountain’s evil powers would guard its,
and would pre-ordain which families and which generations would make certain
finds. If the wrong person made the find, things would go badly and, not infrequently,
death was a common penalty. The same holds if the finder is not secretive about
the find for a determined period, as the powers demand. If a lode is about to be
exhausted, it is usually explained by sinful or unworthy behaviour having affected
the higher powers. It is frequently argued that the finds “become unfruitful” because
of “people’s vices”.51
The general understanding was, therefore, that fate was predetermined by
God’s providence. The idea of accident, sickness or war being God’s retribution
and punishment for man’s sins is deeply rooted in contemporary thinking.52 If things
were going well for the people, it was a sign of their virtuous lives, while happiness
was God’s reward for this effort. If things went badly or people were struck by
misadventures, accidents and death, it was a direct result of living sinfully. But even
a person in the seventeenth century must have had a perception of the omnipotence
of chance, especially if they were involved in mining in some way.
The history of the Falun mine bears witness to the countless attempts to seek
the possibility of a good ore find, of how capricious happiness was, and how quickly
a find could be mined out. The seventeenth century has been characterized in
Swedish mining history research as “the century of great collapses” as regards
mining labour at Stora Kopparberget. They point to the frequent collapses and
continuous accidents which, especially at that time, cost the lives and health of so
many miners.53 In comparison to Germany, for example, one observes that mining
in Sweden was not characterized by the same safety measures. Rammelsberg
is a mine near the town of Goslar in the German region called the Harz in Lower
Saxony. This mine was an important medieval German copper mine and was
50 Lindroth 1955, 204.
51 Söderberg 1932, 15.
52 Sandén 2010, 104.
53 Lindroth 1955, 103.
144
Iris Ridder
in many respects a role model for Stora Kopparberget.54 While in Rammelsberg
they built strong shoring to prevent collapses to a far greater extent, in the Falun
mine they contented themselves with simple tunnels and rooms that were seldom
even equipped with timbering. This is related to the location of the deposit in Falun
where, unlike Rammelsberg, it is not located within a mountain but could only be
reached from above, so it was not possible to build shafts from the side of the
mountain, into the deposit. Instead the miners worked open cast, which was then
dug down. After that, they worked inwards under great roofs which were widened
into great constructions to extract as much ore as possible. Leaving pillars and walls
behind from a safety standpoint in such a situation was never really consistently
done. When the mine was once again affected by excessive collapses during the
seventeenth century because of this thoughtlessness, people started to complain
about their ancestors’ lack of care of the mine. It was as late as the beginning of the
seventeenth century that the first ordinance on mine safety came, recommending
more thoroughly planned mining operations. Although these safety measures
were soon adopted and carried out, the lack of care of the ancestors could not be
undone in time.
During this time, people obviously had an appreciation of risk, even if they did
not use that word, talking instead about “hazard” in risky or dangerous contexts,
a word taken from the gaming background. The rooms that were especially risky
to work in were called “hazardous” (hazardelige) chambers, where work was
forbidden by the Board of Mining because of the impending risk of collapses. The
question of whether the mine should be secured with walls or by timbering was
also discussed at length. The general position was that the latter “would put the
whole mine in jeopardy” (satte hele grufvan i hassard) because of the fire risk
from wooden constructions. Severe punishments were handed out to miners who
were guilty of sloppy work which could put the whole mining operation at risk, for
example, irresponsibility with fire. The threat of punishment hung heavily over the
person who fell into the temptation to break the rich ore clearly visible in the safety
supports left behind.55
54 For a discussion about the connection between Rammelsberg and Stora Kopparberg, see
Ridder 2014, 256. Rammelsberg as a role model for Stora Kopparberg, see Söderberg 1932, 59.
For the mining history of Rammelsberg, see, for example, Kraschewski 1997 and Liessmann 2010,
with further references.
55 Boëthius 1951, 376–377.
145
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Conclusion: Dicing towards Death
During older times, ecclesiastical jurisdiction, just like secular courts, used
dice for judging where a life was at stake in various situations,56 as well as for
resolving contention and disputes. In Swedish, we know of the words decimate
and decimation, which are related to the Latin word for ten, decem. Decimation
originally denotes a military punishment frequently used in the Roman army on
military units that had been guilty of mutiny or cowardice before the enemy. In
order not to execute the whole unit and thereby weaken the army, they chose to
execute every tenth man by letting the lottery decide who would die. Decimatio as
a punishment was used in exceptional cases, and primarily when it was impossible
to find out whom in a group was responsible for a reprehensible act. Sometimes
the lottery was used to choose every twentieth (vicesimatio) or every hundredth
(centesimatio) soldier for the death penalty, and the others were punished more
leniently. To maintain discipline, particularly in connection with mutiny or revolt, this
punishment was also used in war-related situations after Roman times, and is also
known in the Swedish military history context. Gustav Adolf decreed decimation
as the punishment for desertion or the like in the Articles of War from 15 July 1621
(article 74). This punishment was probably used even earlier in Sweden.57
Picture 4. One of the most famous depictions of the horrors of the Thirty Years’ War come from
Jacques Callot (1592–1635). His series Les Misères et les Malheurs de la Guerre (“The Miseries
and Misfortunes of Warˮ) include “The Hanging”, the punishment of the unruly soldiers who had
terrorised the civilian population.
The dice worked as an instrument for setting the level of punishment, which is
also documented in legal documents from medieval German towns. The delinquent
could throw three dice, and their score decided how great the punishment would
56 See Whitman 2008, chapter I, about the role of chance in connection with easing the judge’s
sense of moral responsibility, especially when it comes to the decision to execute someone.
57 On decimation in Sweden, see Wedberg 1935.
146
Iris Ridder
be.58 In Sweden, civil courts used dice and lotteries to decide who was guilty of
murder and assault where several perpetrators were involved during the early
modern period up until the nineteenth century. If the suspects blamed one another
and it was impossible to decide who had done what, the dice decided the matter.59
People’s attitudes during the early modern period were characterized by an Old
Testament attitude that throws of the dice were a way of letting God judge. They
referred to lotteries as divine judgement, preferably with a link to the mottos of the
Book of Proverbs (16:33): “The lot is cast into the lap, but the decision is the Lord’s
alone.” 60
After the Enlightenment, the attitude to this method started to change. Certainly,
gambling on life and death continued; it was however no longer literally referred to
as God’s will being discovered through the dice, but rather to “the love of human
life.” If the court did not know which of two suspects was guilty of murder or assault
on someone, and both blamed one another, the recommendation was to let the
dice decide the matter. The general understanding was that it was more humane to
let the dice decide, since murder only demanded the execution of a single person
as retribution, not the death of both suspects.61
Chance was functionalized with the help of dice, not only in connection with
justice. And in many ways, a successful approach to avoiding arguments and
conflicts has apparently been to make use of a ritualized form of dice game. Dobblet
vid gruvstugan at Stora Kopparberg was one way of making important decisions
which otherwise would cause conflicts among the miners.62 They joined together
after the New Year before the mining court, threw three dice, calculated the score,
and made a list in which the order of the different mining gangs was related to
the score. The team that got the highest score had first access to the first mining
chamber. The team with the next highest score got the second mining room, and
so on. The success or adversity of every team, the triumph or failure of every miner,
and in some cases accident and death, could in this way be attributed to God’s
justice, and not be blamed on a single person who had drawn up a particular roster.
At this meeting, they also put the teams together in order to prevent any destructive
group formation.63
In Gisle Jacobson’s oracle book, A small pastime, the miner’s dice game is
the basis for letting the player/reader draw lots. One cannot know with certainty
whether the book only had an entertainment purpose or if there were more serious
intentions on the part of either the writer or miners regarding this game and the
58 Tauber 1987, 29.
59 Wedberg 1935; Nilson 1997.
60 Wedberg 1935, 26.
61 Wedberg 1935, 26.
62 For the way in which conflicts negatively affected the result of mining during this time, see
Ridder 2014, 256.
63 Ridder 2013b, 326.
147
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
oracle associated with this practice. Thinking of the dangerous work of the miners
and the necessarily related feelings of anxiety and insecurity, the divine events
associated with such a book can help – either in jest or seriously – to manage the
individual crisis every miner found himself in.
The book was published around 70 years before the greatest collapse occurred
in the mine in the year 1689. The decade before was characterized by the Board
of Mining’s attempt to get the more and more frequent collapses under control. The
miners were well aware of the neglect of mountain safety by previous generations,
and they must have seen working under such conditions as a massive threat to their
lives and health. This feeling of powerlessness and helplessness has traditionally
led to people seeking help from magical strategies to channel their anxiety, and
above all to increase their chances of survival. The haphazardness of the throw
of the dice was functionalized at Stora Kopparberg in order to avoid quarrels, and
thereby increase the profit of the mine. It also helped to allocate the risk of dying
and the prospect of becoming rich equally between the miners. Making use of
dice rolls in such a situation appears to be an attempt to avoid chance, but from
a modern perspective and considering the fact of contingency, it is more like a
densification of it. Miners used dice because they were afraid of chance; they used
them as a sort of rescue attempt to protect them from chance and to keep some
kind of illusion of autonomy in the face of the haphazardness of death.
References
Ariés, P. 2008. The Hour of Our Death: The Classic History of Western Attitudes towards Death
over the Last One Thousand Years. Trans. H. Weaver. New York: Random House.
Biographia Cuprimontana, Archive of Stora Enso AB, Archive Centre of Dalarna, Falun,
Sweden.
Birkhan, H. 2010. Magie im Mittelalter. Munich: C. H. Beck.
Boëthius, B. 1951. Gruvornas, hyttornas och hamrarnas Folk: Bergshanteringens arbetare från
medeltiden till Gustavianska tiden. Stockholm: Tidens.
Boëthius, B. 1965. Kopparbergslagen fram till 1570-talets genombrott: Uppkomst, medeltid,
tidig vasatid. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell.
Bolte, J. 1925. Zur Geschichte der Punktier- und Losbücher. Jahrbuch für historische
Volkskunde 1, 184–214.
Böhm, F. 1932/1933. Losbücher. In H. Bächtold-Stäubli & E. Hoffmann-Krayer (eds.)
Handwörterbuch des deutschen Aberglaubens 5. Berlin: de Gruyter. 1386–1401.
Clark, G. 1999. Betting on Lives: The culture of life insurance in England, 1695-1775.
Manchester: Manchester University Press.
Clarke, L. & J. F. Short Jr.. 1993. Social Organization and Risk: Some Current Controversies.
Annual Review of Sociology 19, 375–399.
Collijn, I. 1943. Sveriges Bibliografi 1600-talet: Bidrag till en bibliografisk förteckning. Uppsala:
Almqvist & Wiksell.
Daxelmüller, C. 1993. Aberglaube, Hexenzauber, Höllenängste: Eine Geschichte der Magie.
Munich: Deutscher Taschenbuch Verlag.
148
Iris Ridder
De Brun, F. 1924. Strödda anteckningar rörande Stockholms Storkyrka. Holmiana et alia 5:23, 820–847.
Dillinger, J. 2007. Hexen und Magie: Eine historische Einführung. Frankfurt am Main: Campus.
Funke, N. 2009. “Naturali legitimâque Magicaˮ der “Teufflische Zauberreiˮ? Das “Festmachenˮ
im Militär des 16. und 17. Jahrhunderts. Arbeitskreis Militär und Gesellschaft in der
Frühen Neuzeit e.V. Militär und Gesellschaft in der Frühen Neuzeit. Themenheft Militär
und materielle Kultur in der Frühen Neuzeit 13 (1), 16–32.
Hahn, A. 1998. Risiko und Gefahr. In G. v. Graevenitz & O. Marquard (eds.) Kontingenz. Poetik
und Hermeneutik XVII. Munich: Wilhelm Fink. 49–54.
Haug, W. 1995. O Fortuna: Eine historisch-semantische Skizze zur Einführung. In W. Haug &
B. Wachinger (eds.) Fortuna. Tübingen: Niemeyer. 1–22.
Heckscher, E. 1968. Svenskt arbete och liv: Från medeltiden till nutid. Stockholm: Bonniers.
Hildebrand, K.-G. 1946. Falu stads historia 1641-1687: Akademisk avhandling. Falun: Falu Nya
Boktryckeri AB.
Jacobsson, G. 1613. Tidhfördriff: ett litet tidhfördriff, der medh man kan fördröye tidhen, och
affslå onde tanckar, som letteligen kunne komme när man intet tager sigh före, och må
brukas när tiden så medhgiffs / stält och vthdragin wid Kopperberget af Gisle Iacobson
och af trycket vtgångin den 2. septembr. 1613. Stockholm.
Kaiser. G. (ed.) 1983. Der tanzende Tod: Mittelalterliche Totentänze. Frankfurt am Main: Insel.
Knoblauch, H. (1996). Vom Wünschelrutengehen zur Radiästhesie. Die Modernisierung der
Magie. In Jahrbuch für Volkskunde NF 19, 221–240.
Kraschewski, H.-J. 1997. Zur Arbeitsverfassung des Goslarer Bergbaus am Rammelsberg im
17. und zu Beginn des 18. Jahrhunderts. In H.-J. Gerhard (ed.) Struktur und Dimension
1: Mittelalter und frühe Neuzeit. Vierteljahrschrift für Sozial und Wirtschaftgeschichte
132. Stuttgart: Franz Steiner. 407–444.
Krause, B. 2010. “Ein rasend freches Weib”: Geschichte von der Göttin mit dem Rade. In S.
Finkele & B. Krause (eds.) Glück – Zufall – Vorsehung: Vortragsreihe der Abteilung
Mediävistik des Instituts für Literaturwissenschaft im Sommersemester 2008. Karlsruhe:
KIT. 1–48.
Kristiansson, S. 1996. Rättskipning i teori och praktik: En studie vid Stora Kopparberget 16501682. In Bergslagsarkiv: årsbok för historia och kulturhistoria i Bergslagen, 21–32.
Lagergren, H. 1913. Jacob Ingelssons berättelse om Stora Kopparberget år 1716. Göteborg:
sine nomine.
Lindroth, S. 1955. Gruvbrytning och Kopparhantering vid Stora Kopparberget intill 1800-talets
början. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell.
Lindstedt Cronberg, M. 2010. Guds folk och djävulens anhängare: Onda praktiker och kampen
mot magi i reformationens tidevarv. In C. Stenqvist & M. Lindstedt Cronberg (eds.)
Dygder och laster: Förmoderna perspektiv på tillvaron. Lund: Nordic Academic Press.
115–134.
Linné, C. v. 1953. Linnés Dalaresa Iter dalekarlicum jämte Utlandsresan Iter ad externos och
Bergslagsresan Iter ad fodinas. Stockholm: Geber.
Luhmann, N. 1991. Verständigung über Risiken und Gefahren. Die politische Meinung 36
(258), 86–95.
Luhmann, N. 2005. Soziologische Aufklärung 5: Konstruktivistische Perspektiven. Wiesbaden:
VS.
Luther, M. 1982. Ob Kriegsleute auch in seligem Stande sein können. In K. Bornkamm & G.
Ebeling (eds.) Ausgewählte Schriften. 4: Christsein und weltliches Regiment. Frankfurt
am Main: Insel. 173–222.
149
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Mann, H. H. 1994. Missio sortis: Das Losen der Spieler unter dem Kreuz. In H. Holländer & C.
Zangs (eds.) Mit Glück und Verstand: Zur Kunst- und Kulturgeschichte der Brett- und
Kartenspiele, 15.–17. Jahrhundert. Katalog zur Ausstellung im Museum Schloß Rheydt
vom 26. Juli bis 30. September 1994. Aachen: Thouet. 51–69.
Mehl, J.-M. 1981. Tricheurs et tricheries dans la France médiévale: L’exemple du jeu de dés.
Réflexions historiques 8, 3–25.
Mehl, J.-M. 1990. Les jeux au royaume de France du XIIIe au début du XVIe siècle. Paris:
Fayard.
Nedoma, R. 2007. Würfel und Würfelspiel. In H. Beck, D. Geuenich & H. Steuer (eds.)
Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde 34. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. 255–259.
Nikula, O. & S. Nikula. 1987. Åbo stads historia 1 (1521-1600). Åbo: Åbo stad.
Nilson, T. 1997. Tärningskast med livet som insats. Ale: Historiskt tidskrift för Skåne, Halland
och Blekinge 1, 22–28.
Ogier, C. 1914 (1656). Från Sveriges storhetstid: Franske legationssekreteraren Charles Ogiers
dagbok under ambassaden i Sverige 1634-1635. Trans. and ed. S. Hallberg. Stockholm:
Norstedt.
Ogier, C. 1978 (1656). Från Sveriges storhetstid: Franske legationssekreteraren Charles
Ogiers dagbok under ambassaden i Sverige 1634-1635. Ed. S. Appelgren. Stockholm:
Nordiska museet.
Oja, L. 1999. Varken Gud eller natur: Synen på magi i 1600-talet och 1700-talets Sverige.
Stockholm: Symposion.
Olaus Magnus 2010 (1555). Historia om de nordiska folken. Vilnius: Gidlunds.
Pesch, A. 2003. Orakel. In H. Beck, D. Geuenich & H. Steuer (eds.). Reallexikon der
Germanischen Altertumskunde 22. Berlin: Walter de Gruyter. 134–139.
Purdie, R. 2000. Dice-games and the Blasphemy of Prediction. In J. A. Burrow & I. A. Wei (eds.)
Medieval Futures: Attitudes to the Future in the Middle Ages. Woodbridge: Boydell. 167–
184.
Ranie, H. 1957 (1683). Stora Kopparberget: En gruvkarta av Hans Ranie från 1683. Falun:
Stora Kopparbergs Bergslags AB.
Ridder, I. 2012. Recension: RIKARD WINGÅRD, Att sluta från början: tidigmodern läsning och
folkbokens receptionsestetik. Sjuttonhundratal: Nordic Yearbook for Eighteenth-Century
Studies, 175–178.
Ridder, I. 2013a. För alt det ondt är/ så skal tu rädas/Och emot alt gott/ så skal tu glädias/:
Emotionernas didaktiska funktion i en moralisk tärningsspelbok för bergsmän från
början av 1600-talet. In I. L. Ångström Grandien & B. G. Jansson (eds.) Fornstora dagar.
Falun: Högskolan Dalarna. 163–182.
Ridder, I. 2013b. Fortune Telling, Gambling and Decision-Making at Stora Kopparberget in the
Early Seventeenth Century. In B. G. Jansson (ed.) The Significance of World Heritage:
Origins, Management, Consequences. Falun: Högskolan Dalarna. 317–332.
Ridder, I. 2014. Das Losbuch Ett litet Tidhfördriff des Grubenschreibers Gisle Jacobson und
das mittelalterliche dobbel-Spiel. In M. Teichert (ed.) Sport und Spiel bei den Germanen:
Nordeuropa von der römischen Kaiserzeit bis zum Mittelalter. Ergänzungsbände zum
Reallexikon für Germanische Altertumskunde Band 88. Berlin/Boston: De Gruyter. 245–
306.
Sandén, A. 2010. Abraham Angermannus och de helgade medlen. In C. Stenqvist & M.
Lindstedt Cronberg (eds.) Dygder och laster: Förmoderna perspektiv på tillvaron. Lund:
Nordic Academic Press. 95–114.
Savin, K. 2011. Fortunas klädnader: Lycka, olycka och risk i det tidigmoderna Sverige. Lund:
Sekel och förf.
150
Iris Ridder
Schwerhoff, G. 1995. Der blasphemische Spieler – zur Deutung eines Verhaltenstypus im
späten Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit. Ludica 1, 98–113.
Söderberg, T. 1932. Stora Kopparberget under medeltiden och Gustav Vasa. Stockholm:
Pettersson.
Tauber, W. 1987. Das Würfelspiel im Mittelalter und in der frühen Neuzeit: Eine kultur- und
sprachgeschichtliche Darstellung. Europäische Hochschulschriften 959. Frankfurt am
Main: Peter Lang.
Tillhagen, C.-H. 1981. Järnet och människorna: Verklighet och vidskepelse. Stockholm: LTs
förlag.
Tillhagen, C.-H. 1988. Malmsägner och gruvskrock. Grycksbo: Strålin.
Walker, J. 1999. Gambling and Venetian Noblemen c. 1500-1700. Past and Present 162, 28–
69.
Wedberg, B. 1935. Tärningkast om liv och död: Rättshistoriska skisser. Stockholm: Nordstedt.
Whitman, J. Q. 2008. The Origins of Reasonable Doubt: Theological Roots of the Criminal
Trial. New Haven/London: Yale University Press.
Wis, C. 1988. En relation från 1600-talet om gruvor i Norden. Med hammare och fackla 30,
4–21.
Zollinger, M. 1996. Bibliographie der Spielbücher des 15. bis 18. Jahrhunderts. Erster Band:
1473-1700. Stuttgart: Hiersemann.
Åmark, M. 1951. Gruvskrock och gruvböner. Med hammare och fackla 19, 129–140.
151
“To Help the Deceased Guild
Brother to His Grave”: Guilds,
Death and Funeral Arrangements
in Late Medieval and Early
Modern Norway, ca. 1300–1900
Håkon Haugland
University of Bergen
This article examines the help the medieval guilds and the early modern craft guilds
in Norway could provide when their members died, and how the Reformation of
1536 changed the extent of this help. For the medieval period, the paper discusses
the funeral arrangements in urban guilds and rural guilds. For the early modern
period, the discussion is limited to the towns, since few, if any rural guilds survived
the Reformation.
The essay argues that aid to deceased members was essential both to the
medieval guilds and the craft guilds that were founded after the Reformation, thus
stressing a greater degree of continuity between the medieval guilds and the postReformation craft guilds than previous Norwegian research has claimed. The social
and religious functions, exemplified by the funeral arrangements, were essential to
the early modern craft guilds, as they were in the medieval guilds. Furthermore, there
was a continuity in form in the various elements of which the help to the deceased
consisted, including being with the dying in his last hours, waking over him, eating
and drinking in his honour, following him in a procession to his grave and providing
economic support for his funeral. However, the Reformation also constituted a major
change, as guild chantries were confiscated, doctrine of purgatory was abolished,
the masses for the deceased prohibited and intercession for the deceased made
obsolete. Thus, the guilds that survived the Reformation and the new craft guilds
that were founded afterward were forced to shift the focus of their help from the
intercession for the dead to give them an honourable funeral. A second shift came
after the craft guild reforms in the 1680s and 1690s, when attempts were made to
limit the extent and the splendour of the funeral processions, and attendance at guild
members’ funerals were made optional. This led to the decline of the communal
funeral and the privatisation of the Lutheran funeral ritual. Still, one aspect of the
help, the financial support for their members’ funerals, continued to be important
right up to the dissolution of the Norwegian craft guilds in 1869.
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.)
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 152–183.
Håkon Haugland
Introduction: The Two Wills of Jochym Gherken
On 22 July 1527, Jochym Gherken, a Bergenfahrer1 merchant and member of
the Lübeck town council, met with the town scribe Jakob Dus in the town hall.
Gherken, perhaps worried about death or being ill, wanted to make the necessary
preparations for his own death, and met with Dus to have his will written down.2 In
his will, which still exists, Gherken bequeathed gifts to his family, friends, various
churches, hospitals, monasteries, convents and guilds in Lübeck. However, being
a Bergenfahrer merchant Gherken had strong ties to the Norwegian town of
Bergen. Gherken had come to Bergen from Lübeck as a young boy to be trained
in the stock-fish trade at the Hanseatic Cunthor in Bergen.3 A few decades later,
he returned to Lübeck and established himself there as a Bergenfahrer merchant,
becoming a member of the town’s Bergenfahrer guild,4 and owning a staven or
trading company in Bergen which was run on his behalf by his deputy and junior
partner, Marten Elers.5 Gherken’s ties with Bergen are evident in his will through
numerous bequeaths to persons and institutions, including Elers, several churches,
monasteries and convents, the two poorhouses of St. George and St. Catherine,
and two guilds, the Corpus Christi guild, and the St. Catherine’s and St. Dorothy’s
guild, where, according to the will, he was still a member.
Sixteen years later, on 18 November 1543, the year before he died, Gherken,
now the town mayor, had his will written down for a second time.6 As in his first
will, he made bequests to his family and friends in Lübeck and Bergen and the
two poor houses in Bergen. However, no gifts were given to churches, convents
or monasteries in the two towns, nor were there given any gifts to any guilds in the
two towns.
The reason for this was the Reformation. Introduced to Lübeck in 1530 and to
Denmark-Norway in 1536, the Lutheran Reformation marked a shift from a late
medieval Catholic culture of death to an early modern Lutheran culture of death in
Northern Europe. The late medieval culture of death was marked by the doctrine
of purgatory and the belief that the living could intercede for the deceased, either
by praying and singing masses for their souls or by buying letters of indulgence,
1 Bergenfahrer was the common term for Hanseatic merchants that traded with the Norwegian
town of Bergen, Bruns 1900.
2 The will was published by Friedrich Bruns in 1900, Bruns 1900, 150, no. 229. The original will
is kept in the City Archives of Lübeck, Germany, Archive der Hansestadt Lübeck, Testamente 1527
Juli 22.
3 The Cunthor was the Hanseatic merchants’ guild in Bergen. See Helle 1982; Haugland 2006;
Haugland 2012.
4
The Bergenfahrer guild in Lübeck is first mentioned in 1393, Bruns 1900, XX, CXI–CXII.
5 For more on the Bergenfahrer merchants and their trading companies, see Bruns 1900; Helle
1982, 738–740.
6
Archive der Hansestadt Lübeck, Germany, Testamente 1543 Nov. 18.
153
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
both of which could shorten a soul’s time in the purgatory. The masses for the
dead and the letters of indulgence, based on the doctrine of purgatory, linked what
the American scholar Craig M. Koslofsky has called the late medieval economy of
salvation to the material economy of money, goods and services.7
This is clearly seen in the many preserved wills and deeds of gift from the
late medieval period, including Gherken’s first will from 1527, where money and
landed property were given to the churches, monasteries, convents and guilds,
which in turn could offer prayers and masses for the release of the donor’s soul
from purgatory. The Reformation radically changed this. Martin Luther (1483–
1546) and the other early reformers, teaching a new doctrine of salvation by faith
alone, rejected the Church doctrine of purgatory as well as the belief that the living
could intercede for the dead, stating that such intercession was neither needed nor
possible.8 The rejection of purgatory was followed by laws prohibiting the practices
associated with it, including vigils, masses for the dead and letters of indulgence.
Furthermore, Church property was confiscated, including chantries and the landed
property belonging to them, convents and monasteries were dissolved, and guilds
were prohibited. This had huge consequences for the economy of salvation and
its institutions, as the testators were no longer allowed to donate money or landed
property in exchange for the reading of masses for their souls. The institutions on
their side were either no longer allowed to offer such services, as was the case
with the churches, or they were dissolved, as was the case with the convents,
monasteries and guilds.
This explains why Gherken had his will made for the second time. Having
converted to Protestantism, Gherken no longer needed to make bequests to religious
institutions to be certain of salvation, nor was he allowed to do so. Furthermore,
many of the institutions he had bequeathed goods to in 1527, including the Corpus
Christi guild and the St. Catherine and St. Dorothy’s guild in Bergen, no longer
existed.9
Gercken’s two wills demonstrate quite clearly the religious and social
consequences of the Reformation. This paper will focus on some of these, notably
the changes made to the funeral ritual, from the perspective of the guilds in
Norway, of which Gherken’s first will mentioned two, the Corpus Christi guild and
the St. Catherine and St. Dorothy’s guild in Bergen. The first guilds in Norway were
probably founded in the twelfth century, and they flourished in the late medieval
period.10
Founded by people from different social layers of the Norwegian medieval
society, and for a whole range of different purposes, the Norwegian guilds still had
7
See Koslofsky 2005, 11.
8
Koslofsky 2005, 2.
9
Haugland 2006.
10 Haugland 2012, 39–70.
154
Håkon Haugland
important features in common, features they also shared with guilds in other parts
of Western Europe. As pointed out by the German historian Otto Gerhard Oexle,
the guilds were sworn communities. When founding a guild, all the members had
sworn an oath, promising to follow a set of common norms or rules, which often
were written down at a later stage (guild statutes), and to help and to protect each
other. Whenever newcomers were admitted as members, they had to swear the
same oath. The sworn community of the guild was often expressed through the
language of ritual kinship; the members were called brothers and sisters, and the
guild as a whole was often called a fraternitas, brotherhood.11 The sworn bonds
between the members was further strengthened by regular gatherings at which the
members met to eat, drink and pray together, in Norwegian guild statutes usually
called gildedrikk or stæfni (meeting) and held in a guild hall, the house of the master
of the guild or in houses rented for the occasion.12
Finally, all guilds were religious communities. Fundamental to all were what
Oexle calls fraternitas as a norm, to treat each other as brothers, a norm rooted
in Christian ethics. Furthermore, most guilds had their own patron saint, and the
religious activities of a guild were in part associated with the cult of the saint. They
often held their guild gatherings at their patron saint’s feasts, arranged and took
part in processions venerating their patron saints, and founded chantries to their
honour in churches, monasteries and convents.13
Because of their close relation to the Catholic Church, the Norwegian guilds, like
guilds elsewhere in Northern Europe, came under attack from the new Lutheran
state, resulting in the dissolution of most of the urban and rural guilds that had been
founded for religious purposes (often called confraternities). Still, some Norwegian
craft guilds and the Hanseatic merchant guild in Bergen, which in addition to their
religious and social functions also had occupational and economic functions,
continued to exist after the Reformation.14
Thus, the Reformation marked a change, both when it came to the number
of guilds, their functions, and their importance in society as a whole. However,
expressions of continuity between the medieval and the early modern period could
be found. This continuity is first and foremost reflected in the guilds that survived
the Reformation, but, and this is perhaps more surprising, it is also reflected in the
arrangements for helping living and deceased members. Central to the medieval
guild was mutual aid. The extent of this varied from guild to guild, but it was
customary to help sick, poor and deceased members. Similar provisions are also
found in preserved craft guild statutes from early modern Norway.
11 Oexle 1985; Oexle 1998. For more on ritual kinship in guilds, see Terpstra (ed.) 2000.
12 Bisgaard 2001, 83–103; Haugland 2012, 145–178.
13 Oexle 1998; Anz 1998, 13–15; Bisgaard 2001; Haugland 2012.
14 For more on the guilds and the Reformation in England, see Crouch 2000; Duffy 2005; in
Germany, see Gierke 2002 (1868); in the Benelux, see Prak et al. 2006; in the Nordic Countries, see
Christensen 1931; Bisgaard 2001; Haugland 2012.
155
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
The scope of this paper is to examine the guilds’ help for the deceased. What
help could the guilds of late medieval and early modern Norway provide for their
deceased members? How did the Danish-Norwegian Reformation of 1536 change
the extent of this help? Were the guilds what the French historian Philippe Ariès has
called institutions of death?15 The paper argues that helping deceased members
was essential not only to the guilds of late medieval Norway, but also to the craft
guilds founded after the Reformation,16 thus stressing a greater degree of continuity
between the medieval guilds and the post-Reformation craft guilds than previous
research has done. In Norwegian research, and in North European research on
guilds in general, it was long held that the craft guilds were solely the economic and
political bodies representing groups of craftsmen in the medieval and early modern
towns, with few or no social and religious functions.17 While more recent studies,
particularly over the last three decades, has shown that this no longer could be
considered to be true when it comes to the late medieval craft guilds,18 it is still a
widely held view about the early modern craft guilds in Norwegian research.
Furthermore, the paper argues for a basic continuity in the forms such help to
the deceased might take, although the main focus of their help shifted from the
late medieval focus on prayers and masses for the soul in purgatory to a focus on
giving the deceased an honourable funeral.
15 Ariès 1991, 184–189.
16 Merchant guilds are, except for the Hanseatic merchant guild in Bergen, not known from early
modern Norwegian towns.
17 See discussion in Haugland 2012, 32–38; also Blom 1960, 308–313; Ljung 1960, 302–305;
Jacobsen 1980; Lindström 1991; Anz 1998; Bisgaard 2001; Black 2007.
18 Jacobsen 1980; Anz 1998; Bisgaard 2001; Haugland 2012.
156
Håkon Haugland
Picture 1. Willem Vrelant: Mass for the Dead, early 1460s.
Guild statutes are the main source for the help guilds provided to deceased
guild members. Few such statutes have survived from medieval Norway. Only
nine medieval guild statutes exist today. Three of them belonged to guilds in the
countryside: Trøndelagsskråen, dated to the second half of the thirteenth century,
belonged to a guild in the district in Trøndelag;19 Gulatingsskråen, also dated to the
second half of the thirteenth century, belonged to a guild in Sunnhordland, in the
19 Trøndelagsskråen was first published by Gustav Storm in 1896, Storm 1896, 217–225. For more
on the dating of the statutes, see Haugland 2012, 52–61.
157
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
south of the county of Hordaland in Western Norway,20 while Onarheimsskråen,
dated 1394, belonged to St. Olaf’s guild at Onarheim in Sunnhordland.21 The
remaining six sets of statutes are from urban guilds, of which four were situated in
Bergen: the 1412 statutes of the German shoemakers’ guild;22 the statutes of the
Hanseatic merchant guild or Cunthor;23 the statutes of the St. Catherine and St.
Dorothy’s guild, which consisted solely of Hanseatic merchants at the Cunthor, dated
to the first half of the fifteenth century;24 and the 1529 statutes of the skytningr or
guild of Jacobsfjorden and Bellgården, each being a row of houses that went from
the docks by Vågen up to the Øvrestræti, a guild consisting of the people living in
the two rows of houses.25 A few more statutes have survived from craft guilds in the
early modern period. From the Reformation to the craft guild reforms in DenmarkNorway in the 1680s and 1690s, when all existing guild statutes were annulled
and new statutes given to all craft guilds within 41 different crafts in the Danish
and Norwegian towns, 21 statutes from Norwegian craft guilds are preserved.26
20 Gulatingsskråen was first published in Norges gamle Love, NgL, 1 R, V, 7–11. According to the
German legal historian Max Pappenheim, the statutes belonged to a guild in the town of Bergen, but
this has later been rejected by Gustav Storm, who concluded that the statutes must have belonged
to a guild in Sunnhordland, a thesis that is widely accepted today. Oscar A. Johnsen has suggested
that the statutes are an older version of Onarheimsskråen from 1394, but this thesis has not won
support from other scholars; Pappenheim 1888, 36, 56; Johnsen 1920, 8; Blom 1984, 6.
21 Onarheimsskråen is published in Norges gamle Love, NgL, 1 R, V, 11–13.
22 NgL, 2 R, 1, no. 376.
23 The statutes, often called the Statuta Vetera (the old statutes), are dated to the beginning of the
sixteenth century (NgL, 2 R, 2, no. 416. For more on the dating of the statutes, see Haugland 2012,
112, footnote 4). Statutes also exist from the two Hanseatic merchant guilds in Oslo and Tønsberg.
The Hanseatic merchant guild in Oslo received sets of statutes from the town council of Rostock in
1378, 1420 and 1472 (NgL, 2, 1, no. 352 [1378]; 2, no. 424 [1472]). In addition, the two guilds in Oslo
and Tønsberg received a common set of statutes from the town council in Rostock in 1452 (NgL, 2,
2, no. 403; also Haugland 2012, 110–111, 292–295).
24 The statutes were found and first published by Yngvar Nielsen in 1878 (Nielsen 1878, 4–10), and
later in Norges gamle Love (NgL, 2, 1, no. 342) and Diplomatarium Norvegicum (DN XVI, no. 39).
25 Jacobsfjorden and Bellgården were each called a garð. In Bergen, a garð consisted of one or
two rows of houses that went from the docks. There were several households in each garð. Each
household had their own storage rooms, living rooms and bedrooms in the garð, as well as shares
in the dock in front of the garð, the eldhus and the skytningsstofa, which all the households in garð
the owned in common. There were over 30 such garðs at Bryggen in the late medieval period. By
the middle of the fifteenth century, most of them were owned by German merchants. The Germans
probably adapted the way the garðs were organized before the Germans became dominant at
Bryggen. For instance, they kept the skytningsstova, which they called schutstaven, as an assembly
hall where the members of the garð met regularly for social and religious gatherings, and kept
dividing each garð into several households. Each of these garðs were organized as guilds, led by
the leaders of each of the households in the garð, and with their own statutes, called Gartenrechts.
The oldest Gartenrecht is the one from Jacobsfjorden and Bellgården, dated 1529, but copied from
an older one. The Gartenrecht in Jacobsfjorden and Bellgården was published with a translation in
Bergen Historiske Forenings Skrifter in 1895 (BHFS 1, 13–67). For more, see Helle 1982, 220–246,
738–742; Haugland 2012, 116–118.
26 Grevenor 1924, 120–140; Kjellberg and Stigum 1936, 339–344.
158
Håkon Haugland
Of these, eleven were from craft guilds in Bergen, six from Oslo and two from
Kristiansand and Trondheim respectively.27
The focus on preserved guild statutes does of course mean that the discussion
will mainly concern what help the guilds wanted to provide for their members,
rather than what help they in fact did provide. This is because the main sources,
and particularly when it comes to the Middle Ages often the only sources for the
help guilds could provide its deceased members are the guild statutes. However,
from the second half of the seventeenth century, the preserved statutes are to
an increasing extent supported by guild records, accounts and other sources that
makes it possible to see what help the guilds in fact did provide.
The discussion will mainly focus on the late Middle Ages and the period between
the Reformation in 1536 and the Danish-Norwegian craft guild reforms in the
1680s.28 For the medieval period, the paper will discuss the funeral arrangements
in both urban guilds and guilds in the countryside. For the early modern period, the
discussion will be limited to the towns, since few, if any guilds in the countryside
survived the Reformation. In addition, the discussion will mainly focus on Bergen,
the largest Norwegian town in the late medieval and most of the early modern
period.
Intercession for the Dead: Guilds and the
Late Medieval Culture of Death
Whenever a member of a medieval guild died, the other members were obligated
to attend his or her funeral. The obligation comprised the whole of the funeral
ritual. This is perhaps most clearly seen in the statutes from St. Catherine and
St. Dorothy’s guild in Bergen. Whenever a member died, the masters of the guild,
which were called schaffers, would send out a message to the other members
informing them of the coming funeral and instructing them to gather in the house
of the deceased the evening before the funeral. There, in the presence of all the
members, the deceased was laid on a bier and swathed in a cloth while a vicar
recited prayers and gave him extreme unction. The ritual would continue during the
night with vigils and a wake. From the statutes, it is difficult to determine whether
27 In Bergen, statutes are preserved for the goldsmiths’ guild (1568), the bakers’ guild (1597/1607,
1626, 1648), the barbers’ guild (1597 and 1672), the tailors’ guild (1605), the smiths’ guild (1625), the
shoemakers’ guild (1635), the baker apprentices’ guild (1641) and the coppersmiths’ guild (1671).
In Oslo, statutes are preserved for the tailors’ guild (1607 and 1636), the smiths’ guild (1671), the
shoemakers’ guild (1671) and the goldsmiths (1671–1673), in Kristiansand for the tailors’ guild (1652
and 1658), and in Trondheim for the carpenters’ guild (1657) and the shoemakers’ guild (1662). See
Kjellberg 1936, 64–65; Lindström 1991.
28 Grevenor 1924, 69–89; Kjellberg & Stigum 1936, 175–189.
159
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
all the members were to watch over the deceased, or if some of the members were
elected to do so.29
The burial ritual continued the next morning with a funeral procession from the
house of the deceased to the church where the burial of the deceased was to take
place. The St. Catherine and St. Dorothy’s guild statutes describe a procession
in which the bier with the deceased, which was carried by a number of members,
was flanked by other members holding the finest of the guild’s two canopies
over the bier and twelve members carrying elevated processional torches.30 The
statutes do not reveal where burials of deceased members would take place. It is
possible that they were at one of the two chantries the guild owned, either the St.
Catherine chantry in the Franciscan convent church or the St. Dorothy chantry in
the Dominican convent church, but it is also possible that they would take place
in St. Mary’s or St. Martin’s, the two parish churches the guild members belonged
to.31
When the procession had entered the church, the bier and the torches were
placed on the church floor so that the torches still flanked the bier. The requiem
mass followed, in which the soul of the deceased was commended to God. This
was also to be held if a member had died abroad and no bier with the deceased
could be carried to the church, since attendance at the mass was still obligatory,
as if the member had died in the town.32 The requiem mass was to be followed
by a small sermon by the guild vicar, before the vicar swung the censer over the
deceased, sprinkled him with holy water, and read the relief prayer for the soul of the
deceased.33 Then a second procession followed, in which the members followed
the bier with the deceased from the church to the grave. There the deceased
was buried, accompanied by the reading of the benediction for the deceased, the
singing of psalms and more prayers might be offered for the soul of the deceased.34
29 Both kinds of arrangements are known from guilds in Danish and Swedish towns, Haugland
2012, 234–235.
30 DN XVI, no. 39, 35–36.
31 Helle 1982, 749–750; Haugland 2012, 224, 234–235.
32 DN XVI, no. 39, 35.
33 Johansson 1956, 415–417.
34 Johansson 1956, 415–416.
160
Håkon Haugland
Picture 2. This deathbed scene (below) from the 1420s shows an angel and a devil fighting over the
soul of the dying man, while a corpse is being buried in the central image.
In the rural guilds, whose members often came from different parishes or
districts, it was probably more difficult to gather the whole guild when a member
had died. The obligation to attend the funeral of a deceased member was therefore
limited to members living in the same neighbourhood, parish or district as the
deceased. For instance, if a member of St. Olav’s guild at Onarheim had died, then
those members that lived in the same parish as the deceased had to follow him
or her to the grave and hear a mass for his or her soul. Those who did not were
fined.35
The funerals were financed in different ways. St. Catherine and St. Dorothy’s
guild in Bergen financed them through a fee the members paid each time a member
35 NgL, 1 R, V, 12, art. 21. A similar provision is found in Gulatingsskråen, which states that if a
member had died, his heir would cut a fiery cross and send it to the other guild members. Those who
received the fiery cross, either had to attend the funeral, read a mass for his deceased soul or give a
sum of money to the guild’s funeral fund. Those who had not received the fiery cross were excepted
from these duties (NgL, 1 R, V, 10, art. 34).
161
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
had died.36 In other guilds, funerals were financed through the incomes from
entrance fees, membership fees and fines. This appears to have been the case in
St. Olav’s guild at Onarheim, although the statutes do not mention it explicitly. In
fact, they do not mention how it would finance funerals at all, confining themselves
to declaring that the guild should provide for and finance deceased members’
funerals. However, the only fees mentioned in the statutes are the entrance fee and
the membership fee, and these, together with the fines mentioned for violations of
the statutes, probably financed the funerals.37
From the surviving statutes, it is evident that the guilds could provide for and
finance the funerals for their deceased members. It was usually the family of the
deceased that was expected to pay for the funeral costs whenever one of the family
members died. That the guilds here filled a function usually exercised by the family
shows how the ritual kinship of a guild created bonds of solidarity and community
similar to that in families, and could expand or even replace the social safety net of
the family that came to one’s support when at the deathbed. This was particularly
important in the towns, where many of the town dwellers, such as the German
merchants and craftsmen in Bergen, did not have their own family as a social
safety net, and thus did not have a family to provide for and finance funeral and
masses for their souls if they died. The provisions stating that attendance at the
funerals of members were obligatory shows how important the guilds considered
this collective support for their members in death.
However, it also shows how guild funerals also had a public or communal
aspect. The funerals were occasions at which the collective identity and wealth of a
guild was put on display. It was therefore important that the guild show its best side
at the funerals. This could be seen, for instance, in the statutes of St. Catherine
and St. Dorothy’s guild, which stress that the best canopy and twelve large torches
were to be used in funerals.38 Large torches were expensive, and four torches were
considered as a minimum. Thus, St. Catherine and St. Dorothy’s guild could afford
to use twelve large torches in funerals shows clearly how the wealth of the guild
was displayed in guild’s funeral processions.39
The guilds’ help for deceased members did not end with the funeral, but
continued after it with masses for the release of the soul of the deceased from
purgatory.40 This was possible either by founding a chantry or by taking over an
already existing chantry in a church or a monastery. A chantry consisted of a side
altar in a church or a monastery and a landed property large enough to cover
36 DN XVI, no. 39, 35. A funeral fee is also mentioned in Gulatingsskråen, but here the fee appears
to be limited to those who lived in the same parish as the deceased (NgL, 1 R, V, 10, art. 34).
37 NgL, 1 R, V, 11–13.
38 DN XVI, no. 39.
39 For more on the use of torches in the medieval funeral ritual and for their use in the guilds, see
Duffy 2005, 142–141; Bisgaard 2001, 63, 78–83.
40 The section is based on Bisgaard 2001, 105–147; Haugland 2012, 201–208.
162
Håkon Haugland
the costs of having a priest singing masses. The priest was responsible for the
maintenance of the side altar, but could also, if agreed upon between the guild that
founded the chantry and the priest, sing masses for the souls of guild members
and for others that benefited the guild or the guild chantry in their wills. Thus, the
founding of a chantry made it possible for the guilds to provide help for the souls
of the deceased members as well as the souls of any non-members that had left a
bequest to the guild or its chantry. In fact, the Church from time to time called upon
non-members to endow guild chantries, usually by promising indulgence for those
who gave gifts to particular guilds or their chantries.41
There is evidence for guild chantries in the towns of Bergen, Marstrand, Nidaros,
Oslo and Tønsberg in the late medieval period. A majority of the known guild
chantries were situated in Bergen, which had ten known guild chantries.42 Guild
chantries were founded by rural guilds as well. In the statutes of Gulatingsskråen,
Trøndelagsskråen and Onarheimsskråen, the guild chantries are implicitly
mentioned in provisions mentioning guild vicars and masses for the deceased.43
As we have seen, it was customary to sing one or more masses for the deceased
on the funeral day. Furthermore, masses for the deceased seven days and thirty
days after the funeral were also customary, as well as on All Souls’ Day and on
the anniversary of the funeral. Such annual masses for the deceased are also
mentioned in the guild statutes, but here it does not seem to have been normal to
sing masses for the deceased on the anniversary of the funeral of each deceased
member, but to have one or more annual masses for all deceased members.
Whenever a member died, his or her name would be written down on a list or
in book kept by the guild or the guild vicar. Such a list or a book is mentioned in
the will of the Hanseatic merchant and Bergenfahrer Hinrik Kemenade from 1452.
According to the will, Kemenade endowed the Corpus Christi guild in Bergen so
that the guild would sing masses for his soul and have his name be written down
in the guild’s denkelbuch.44
The names on the list would then be read and masses for their souls sung
one or several times a year. The reason for this way of arranging the anniversary
41 Letters of indulgence are preserved for St. Anne’s guild in Bergen (DN I, no. 1040 [1514]), the
Corpus Christi guild in Marstrand (Erkebiskop Henrik Kalteisens Kopibog, 208 [1453]), the Corpus
Christi guild in Oslo (DN II, no. 726 [1437]), and St. Nicholas’s guild in Øystese (DN VIII, no. 410
[1482]).
42 For more on guild chantries in Bergen and Oslo, see Haugland 2012, 221–229. In Tønsberg, the
St. Anne’s guild had a chantry in the Franciscan convent church (DN IV, no. 409), while the town’s St.
Olaf’s guild probably had a chantry in Lavranskirken, Johnsen 1929, 252. The Corpus Christi guild in
Marstrand had a chantry in the Franciscan convent church, mentioned in 1453 (Erkebiskop Henrik
Kalteisens Kopibog, 208). The existence of guild chantries in Nidaros is more directly mentioned, in
two letters dated 1293 that mention guild vicars, which again implies the existence of guild chantries;
DN III, nos. 34 and 35. There is also a possible reference to a guild chantry in Stavanger, mentioned
in the will of Bishop Alf Thorgardssön from 1478; DN IV, no. 987; Haugland 2012, 87, footnote 4.
43 NgL, 1 R, V, 7–11 (Gulatingsskråen), 11–13 (Onarheimsskråen); Storm 1896, 218–220
(Trøndelagsskråen). The same is implied in a letter mentioning help to the soul of the deceased in
St. Nicholas’s guild at Voss. The letter was published by Alexander Bugge (1917, 231–232).
44 Bruns 1900, 91, footnote 2.
163
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
masses for the dead was probably that it enabled all the living members to attend
when the names of the deceased members were read and masses sung for their
souls. That all the living members attended these masses was of great importance
to the guilds; in fact, attendance was obligatory for all the guild members. The
medieval guilds, like the medieval Christian community at large, were believed to
consist of both the living and the deceased. This relationship, as we have seen,
was summed up in the medieval funeral ritual, where the body of the deceased
was brought to rest in a consecrated churchyard at the centre of a village or a town
while the clergy offered prayers and masses for the soul of the deceased.45 When
the guild statutes insisted on the living members being present when the masses
for the deceased where sung, it was because these masses were gatherings of the
whole guild, celebrations of the community of the guild, both living and deceased.
For the same reasons, the masses for the deceased were usually a part of
a larger guild gathering, such as the celebration of the guild’s patron saint(s) or
the guild’s annual social gathering. The members of the St. Catherine and St.
Dorothy’s guild in Bergen were to meet for four annual masses for the deceased:
the first one at the St. Catherine chantry in the Franciscan convent church on the
second day of the feast of St. Catherine (25 November), the second at the St.
Dorothy chantry in the Dominican convent church on the second day of the feast
of St. Dorothy (6 February), the third at the St. Catherine chantry in the evening of
the feast of St. George (23 April), and the fourth, again at the St. Dorothy chantry,
during the gildedrikk, the annual social guild gathering. Attendance at the readings
was obligatory. However, exceptions could be made for those that were unable to
attend because they were abroad at the time.46
It has to be noted, however, that at least two of the guild’s readings were held in
the winter, outside the sailing season, thus ensuring that most if not all the members
were in the town when the readings were held. In rural guilds, it appears to have
been usual to have an annual reading of masses for all deceased members during
the gildedrikk. For instance, in St. Olaf’s guild at Onarheim, which held its gildedrikk
at the feast of St. Olaf, the guild vicar was to sing masses for the deceased in the
church each evening during the gildedrikk. Furthermore, each evening the names
of all deceased members would be read out in the guild hall and masses for their
souls would be sung. On the last day of the gildedrikk, masses would be sung for
all Christian souls and for all members that were alive, again marking the guild as
a community of the living and the dead, where the living interceded for the souls of
the deceased.47
The guilds could also make agreements with monastic orders in order to ensure
the singing of masses for deceased members. In 1409, the shoemakers’ guild in
45 Koslofsky 2005, 2.
46 DN XVI, no. 39.
47 NgL, 1 R, V, 11–13. Daily readings of masses for the deceased is also mentioned in
Trøndelagsskråen (Storm 1896, 219) and Gulatingsskråen (NgL,1 R, V, 10).
164
Håkon Haugland
Oslo made such an agreement with the Dominican order of the province of Dacia.
According to the agreement, whenever a member of the guild died, the guild would
notify the provincial chapter, so that all the Dominicans in the province could sing
masses for the soul of the deceased shoemaker. In return, the guild would annually
collect an amount of money to give the order, probably for the convent in Oslo.48
The masses for the deceased were financed in various ways. They could be
financed through gifts given by the members each time the members met to read
masses for the deceased, as mentioned in Trøndelagsskråen and Gulatingsskråen,49
through an annual fee on all the members, in Onarheimsskråen called saala skoth,50
or through an obligation on all members to bequeath the guild an amount of money
in their wills. Such an obligation is for instance known through the statutes of St.
Catherine and St. Dorothy’s guild. According to the statutes, all members had to
bequeath the guild three Lubecker marks when writing their wills. If a member
could not afford to make such a bequest, the guild would still read masses for his
deceased soul. In such cases, the friends of the deceased should pay the three
marks instead, or, if the friends were unable to pay, the reading of masses for his
soul would be financed by the guild.51
The surviving guild statutes from medieval Norway, both the towns and the
countryside, show how the guild was present beside the deceased member at all
stages of the funeral ritual, helping the dying through his last hours, as well as on
his way to the grave and in purgatory. The members watched over the dying guild
brother in his last hours and between his death and the day of his funeral, arranged
a funeral ale drinking in his honour and the funeral procession to his grave, followed
him to grave, carried the bier with the deceased, prayed for his soul, covered the
funeral costs and, after the funeral, the guild ensured that annual masses would
be sung for the release of the deceased’s soul from purgatory in the presence of
all the living members. Thus, the statutes show how the Norwegian guilds were a
part of the late medieval, Catholic culture of death, marked first and foremost by
the doctrine of purgatory and the belief that the living could intercede for souls in
purgatory through prayers, masses for the dead and letters of indulgence. Still,
the guilds were not what the French historian Philippe Ariès called institutions of
death.52 While it is true that the service of the dead was one of the main purposes
of the medieval guilds, and some urban guilds were even founded mainly for the
purpose of giving poor people or strangers a proper burial,53 the service of the dead
48 DN VII, no. 350. The shoemakers made a similar arrangement with the Franciscans in 1407;
NgL, 2 R, 1, no. 201.
49 Storm 1896, 219 (Trøndelagsskråen); NgL, 1 R, V, 10 (Gulatingsskråen).
50 NgL, 1 R, V, 11. St. Michael’s guild at Voss appears to have had a similar arrangement; Bugge
1917, 232.
51 DN XVI, no. 39.
52 Ariès 1991, 184–189.
53 Bisgaard 2001.
165
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
was not the only purpose for founding a guild, and was never the sole purpose of
a guild, as Ariès had suggested. As pointed out by Miri Rubin, Gervase Rosser,
Susan Reynolds and Lars Bisgaard among others, as well as myself, the late
medieval guilds usually filled a whole range of purposes, both socially, religiously,
economically, judicially and politically, of which the service for the dead was one.54
The Honourable Funeral: The Early Modern Craft
Guilds and the Lutheran Culture of Death
The Reformation was introduced to Denmark-Norway in 1536, and a church
ordinance for both countries came the following year. The church ordinance laid
the foundation for the new Protestant church, declaring that the Danish-Norwegian
king was the head of both state and church, that all Church property previously
owned by the Catholic Church now belonged to the king, and contained provisions
concerning the reorganisation of the church, the redistribution of the newly
confiscated Church property, prohibitions on Catholic practises and expressions
of Catholic belief, such as the cult of saints, vigils and masses for the dead, and
provisions concerning the new, Protestant liturgy for the mass, the ordination of
priests, weddings and funerals. The church ordinance also had a whole section
on the guilds. According to the ordinance, incomes from guild chantries should no
longer go to the guilds that owned the chantries. Instead, the incomes should be for
the foundation of poor relief funds in the towns.55 However, in 1540, King Christian
III (r. 1534–1559) had already issued another decree concerning the guild chantries
in the Danish towns, according to which, the incomes from these chantries were to
go schoolmasters and teachers at the cathedral schools in the towns.56
The church ordinance was first and foremost written with the Danish provinces
in mind, and the decree of 1540 only concerned the Danish towns. However, the
fate of guild chantries in Norway did not differ greatly from that of the guild chantries
in Denmark: They were confiscated, and their incomes were redistributed for other
ends. In Bergen, a prohibition on guilds was issued at the bylagting in 1544. It was
also decided that the incomes from guild chantries in the town should partly be
distributed to poor relief funds, and partly to finance restoration of the Cathedral.57 In
Oslo, the incomes from the chantries belonging to St. Anne’s guild and the Corpus
Christi guild had been redistributed to two clerks at the royal castle of Akershus by
1541.58 Possible conflicts connected to the confiscation and redistribution of guild
54 Rubin 1993; Rosser 2006; Reynolds 2007; Bisgaard 2001; Haugland 2012.
55 Kirkeordinansen av 1537, V, 99–100.
56 Christensen 1931, 271–272, 278.
57 Bang 1895, 34–35; Haugland 2006, 91–93.
58 Haugland 2012, 378–379.
166
Håkon Haugland
chantries is only found in Tønsberg. The incomes from St. Anne’s guild’s chantry
first fell to the king in 1575, indicating that there had been conflict over the royal
confiscation of the chantry and its property.59
We know less about the fate of the guild chantries in the countryside. In the
diocese of Bergen, the royal captain at the town castle, Christoffer Huitfeldt (1501–
1559), and the newly appointed Lutheran bishop Geble Pedersøn (ca. 1490–1557)
issued a prohibition on guilds in 1542. In addition, they decided that all guild halls in
the bishopric, their inventories as well as other possessions belonging to the guilds
were to be confiscated and sold, and that the incomes from the sale should go
partly to poor relief in the countryside, partly to the leper hospital and the Cathedral
in Bergen, and partly to the parish churches in the bishopric.60 The prohibition does
not however mention guild chantries, but it is likely that they, like other properties
owned by the guilds, were confiscated and redistributed for different purposes, as
they were in the town of Bergen. In 1552, a prohibition referring to and repeating
the content of the one from Bergen dated 1542 was issued in the diocese of
Trondheim, stating that guild halls and other possessions belonging to guilds in the
bishopric, which probably included the guild chantries, were to be confiscated and
sold, and their incomes redistributed.61 Prohibitions against guilds are not known
from the other Norwegian bishoprics, but we can assume that similar prohibitions
were issued there as well.
Few urban guilds and no rural guilds are mentioned in post-Reformation
sources. Thus, it is likely that church ordinance from 1537 and the decrees issued
in the 1540s and 1550s ordering the confiscation of guild chantries and guild halls,
thus taking away the religious and social meeting places from the guilds, ultimately
led to the dissolution of most Norwegian guilds. However, some urban guilds did
survive the Reformation. In Bergen, at least seven of the German craft guilds as
well as the Hanseatic merchant guild continued to exist. The Hanseatic merchant
guild existed up to the 1760s, while the German craft guilds were dissolved in 1559,
after a long conflict with the king and his representatives in the town.62 However,
shortly after the dissolution of the German craft guilds, new craft guilds were
59 ARR, 6, no. 89.
60 Kolsrud 2007, 212–213.
61 DN XII, no. 636.
62 Fossen 1979, 52–69, 679–689.
167
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
founded,63 often by and mainly consisting of German craftsmen, thus showing a
strong element of continuity with the town’s late medieval guilds.64
The development in the other Norwegian towns in the second half of the sixteenth
century does seem to be that of discontinuity, although the sources are too few and
fragmented to make any certain conclusions. Shoemakers’ guilds are known from
Oslo, Trondheim and Tønsberg in the late medieval period,65 but none of them are
mentioned after the Reformation, and no new craft guilds are mentioned in the three
towns before the turn of the seventeenth century.66 During the seventeenth and
eighteenth centuries, craft guilds were founded in other towns as well.67 Altogether,
83 different craft guilds are known to have existed in Norwegian towns between the
Reformation and the dissolution of all craft guilds in 1869.68
All the craft guilds that survived the Reformation as well as the craft guilds that
were founded in the late 1500s and during the seventeenth century, insisted, like
their late medieval counterparts, on helping deceased members. However, as the
Reformation had abolished purgatory and prohibited extreme unction and masses
for the dead, making it no longer possible nor necessary to intercede for the dead,
their help for deceased members was redefined from intercession for the deceased
members to the funeral and in particular the funeral procession. This shift of focus
is evident in the craft guild statutes from the second half of the sixteenth and the
seventeenth century, which concentrate solely on matters related to the funeral,
63 A goldsmiths’ guild was founded in 1567, and in 1571, a new tailors’ guild is mentioned for the
first time. Furthermore, a barbers’ guild and a bakers’ guild are both mentioned in 1597, while a
shoemakers’ guild is mentioned in 1602, a coopers’ guild in 1604, a brewers’ guild in 1608 and a
cutters’ guild in 1614. Statutes for four of those guilds still exist: the 1568 statutes of the goldsmiths’
guild (DN XV, no. 729), the 1597 statutes of the bakers’ guild (NRR IV, 203–207), the 1597 statutes
of the barbers’ guild (Sollied 1931, 11–15) and the 1605 statutes of the tailors’ guild (NRR IV, 111–
116). The other four guilds are also said to have had statutes, but these no longer exist (NRR IV, 70
(the carpenters); 185 (the shoemakers) and 252 (the brewers); Lindström 1991, 248 (the cutters).
64 For instance, most founders of the new goldsmith’s guild in 1568 were German goldsmiths.
Furthermore, a copy of their statutes dated 1596, which used to hang on a wall in the guild hall, is
written in German (Bøgh 1893, 15–19), while their record book was written in German from 1568
to 1690 (Grevenor 1924, 216). Other examples are the surviving seal from the bakers’ guild dated
1598, and from the shoemakers’ guild dated 1602, both with inscriptions in German (Grevenor 1924,
146, 166).
65 The shoemakers’ guild in Oslo is first mentioned in 1304 (DN II, no. 74), the shoemakers’ guild in
Tønsberg in 1395 (DN IV, no. 649), while the shoemakers’ guild in Trondheim is mentioned in 1370
(NgL, 2 R, 1, no. 99).
66 In Oslo, a shoemakers’ guild is mentioned in 1600, a goldsmiths’ guild in 1604 and a tailors’ guild
in 1607 (Kjellberg & Stigum 1936, 40; Lindström 1991, 76). In Trondheim, the first post-Reformation
craft guild to be mentioned is the bakers’ guild, first mentioned as late as 1633, Kjellberg & Stigum
1936, 64. In Tønsberg, craft guilds are not mentioned at all in the early modern period.
67 Craft guilds were founded in Bragernes, Kongelv, Kristiansand, Skien, Stavanger and Strømsø
in the seventeenth century, and in Arendal and Fredrikshald in the eighteenth century; Grevenor
1924; Kjellberg & Stigum 1936.
68 Grevenor 1924; Kjellberg & Stigum 1936; Fossen 1979. Their numbers could have been even
higher. According to Stigum, there were apprentices’ guilds in all the crafts that had a master’s guild.
Since there are known 62 master craft guilds, but only 21 apprentices’ guilds, the total number
of craft guilds in early modern Norway could be well over a hundred (Kjellberg & Stigum 1936,
201). Not all the craft guilds existed until the dissolution of all craft guilds in 1869. According to a
registration of existing craft guilds in Norway in 1839, there were 45 craft guilds that year; Grevenor
1924, 136–140.
168
Håkon Haugland
including obligatory attendance at the funeral and the funeral procession, how to
select members to carry the bier with the deceased, and how to finance a members’
funeral. To help the deceased meant to follow him to the grave, and the members’
obligations to the deceased ended when the graveside ceremony had ended. This
is clear in the 1607 statutes from the tailors’ guild in Oslo stating that the members
were obliged to “follow and to help the deceased in his funeral and to his grave”.69
The 1636 revision of the statutes is slightly more detailed, stating that it was the
responsibility of the alderman to gather the members when a member had died,
and to choose which members were to carry the bier with the deceased in the
funeral procession.70 Similar provisions are also found in the statutes from Bergen.
For instance, according to the 1597 statutes from the barbers’ guild, all members
had to attend when a master or an apprentice in the guild had died. Those who
did not attend were fined.71 The 1605 statutes from the tailors’ guild states that if
a member died, all members were to attend his funeral, and the youngest master
tailors were to carry the bier with the deceased. Those who did not attend, and
those who left the church before the deposition was over, were fined.72
The guild members’ obligation to attend at funerals also included the funerals
of wives, servants, children and others that belonged to the households of the
masters,73 which shows how the members of the masters’ households were
included in the solidarity of the craft guild to which the master belonged. The 1568
statutes from the goldsmiths in Bergen stated that “if any of our guild brothers or
sisters, apprentices, servants or children dies, then those who do not follow the
deceased to his or her grave, shall pay a fine of eight shilling.”74 The 1635 statutes
from the shoemakers in Bergen stated that if any of their craftsmen, their wives,
children or others in their households died, then all the guild brothers were obliged
to attend the funeral. Only sick members were excused from attending. Those
who did not attend, or left the funeral before the graveside ceremony was over,
were fined. It was the responsibility of the youngest master to notify and gather
the members when a member or someone in the member’s household had died.75
69 NRR IV, 177, art. 26: “[...] at følge og hjælpe den afgagne ærligen til sin Begravelse og Leiersted.”
70 Those who were chosen, but refused to do so, were fined. Sick and old members were excepted
from carrying the bier; Grevenor 1924, 251, art. 35 and 36.
71 Madsen & Sollied 1931, 15, art. 14. A similar provision is found in a revision of the statutes from
1672; Carøe 1921, 20.
72 NRR IV, 114, art. 9.
73 See the 1568 statutes from the goldsmith’s guild in Bergen (DN XV, no. 729), the 1625 statutes
from the smiths’ guild in Bergen (Deichman, fol. no. 13, art. 21), the 1626 and 1648 statutes from the
baker’s guild in Bergen (Deichman, fol. no. 13, art. 10–11; NRR IX, 56, art. 14), the 1635 statutes
from the shoemakers’ guild in Bergen (NRR VII, 114, art. 12), and the 1636 statutes from the tailors’
guild in Oslo (Grevenor 1924, 241, art. 35).
74 DN XV, no. 729: “Bliffuer och nogenn aff wore Embitzbrødere eller Søstere, suenne, drennge
eller Barnn dødt, huilcken ther icke da følger thenn døde tiill sin leigerstædt, schall haffue forbrott
ottehe skellinge”. My translation.
75 NRR VII, 114, art. 12.
169
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
The importance of obligatory attendance at the funeral procession was connected
to the importance of giving deceased guild members a Hederlig Jordeferd, an
honourable funeral, an expression made explicit in several of the guild statutes.76
A large procession, of which the members would make up a significant part, from
the house of the deceased to the grave, would make up what was considered an
important part of an honourable funeral; thus, it was considered important that all
the members take part in the procession. In addition, to attend another’s funeral
was considered to be an act of good Lutheran charity, or as the Norwegian Church
ordinance from 1607 puts it, the last good deed or favour one Christian could give
to another.77
The guild statutes’ emphasis on the honourable funeral was much in accordance
with the notions of Martin Luther and the other leading reformers, as well as with
the new Lutheran funeral ritual, as described in the Danish-Norwegian church
ordinance from 1537 and the Norwegian church ordinance from 1607. Luther
justified the display of secular honour in funerals by linking it to the promise of
resurrection as a consequence of salvation by faith:
For it is meet and right that we should conduct these funerals with proper decorum
in order to honour and praise that joyous article of our faith, namely, the resurrection
of the dead, and in order to defy Death, that terrible foe who so shamefully and in so
many horrible ways goes on to devour us. […] Here also belong the traditional Christian
burial rites, such as that the bodies are carried in state, beautifully decked, and sung
over, and that tombstones adorn their graves. All this is done so that the article of the
resurrection may be firmly implanted in us.78
The same understanding of the Lutheran funeral is found in the church
ordinances from 1537 and 1607, which laid the foundation of a new Lutheran
culture of death in Denmark and Norway.79 Whenever someone died, it was,
according to these ordinances, the duty of his or her friends or family to prepare
for an honourable funeral, and to notify the priest, the parish clerk, the sexton and
the schoolmaster so that they all could make the necessary preparations for the
funeral. However, the family and friends of the deceased were not allowed to watch
over the deceased between the time of his or her death and the time of the funeral,
nor was it allowed to invite people to the house for a gathering or for drinking, as this
76 The expression is found in the statutes from the bakers’ guild in Bergen from 1626 and 1648
(Deichman, fol. no. 13, art. 10–11; NRR IX, 56, art. 14), the statutes of the smiths’ guild in Bergen
from 1625 (Deichman, fol. no. 13, art. 21), and the statutes from the shoemakers’ guild in Bergen
from 1635 (NRR VII, 114, art. 12).
77 Kirkeordinansen av 1607, 54: “De Dødis Begraffuelse er regnit iblant Miskundelige gierninger”.
The Church law of 1537 and the Norwegian Church law of 1607 both define attendance at funerals
as a charitable act.
78 Cited from Koslofsky 2005, 93–94.
79 The following section is based on the chapters on funerals in the Church laws of 1537 and 1607;
Kirkeordinansen av 1537, 72–73; Kirkeordinansen av 1607, 54-57. See also Fæhn 1994, 147–151;
Amundsen 2005, 213–243.
170
Håkon Haugland
was considered to be a Catholic practice. In accordance with this, the early modern
craft guild statutes do not mention a wake or drinking. This does not necessarily
mean that they did not arrange wakes or drinking. On the contrary, from the many
prohibitions issued against such practices in the towns and countryside alike in
sixteenth and seventeenth centuries Norway, it is likely that the early modern craft
guilds continued the medieval practices of watching over deceased members and
arranging drinking in their honour.80
Picture 3. The death of Virgin Mary as depicted by Albrecht Dürer (1471–1528) set an example of
how to stage a Good Death in the best ars moriendi fashion. It also demonstrates what a busy place
a deathbed could be.
According to the Danish and Norwegian church ordinances, the funeral itself
was to start when the church bells started tolling, but the two laws stressed that
the tolling did not mark the beginning of the deceased soul’s journey to purgatory,
80 Fæhn 1994, 149. The prohibitions did not seem to have any effect. The practice continued in
many parts of Norway into the nineteenth century, Amundsen 2005, 178.
171
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
as it was believed to be in the late medieval Catholic funeral, but was intended to
wake up the living, and to remind them of their own death and the promise of their
salvation and resurrection by faith. As the church bells started tolling, in towns with
a school and a school pupils’ choir, the schoolmaster and the school pupils were
to start walking to the house of the deceased. When they had come to the house,
they would start singing psalms, thus marking the start of the funeral procession.
The choir would also lead the procession with the bier with the deceased through
the streets to the church or the churchyard and the grave of the deceased,
accompanied by the ringing of church bells. The tolling of church bells and the
participation of family, friends, neighbours, the priest, the school choir and, in the
case of the craft guilds, of the deceased guild member’s brethren, gave the funeral
procession a public or communal character. It was the urban community’s farewell
to the deceased. Furthermore, it was considered an honourable procession, taking
the bier with the deceased in state, beautifully decked, as Martin Luther put it, from
his house to his grave.
The funeral was to end with a graveside ceremony, where the priest sprinkled
earth on the bier carrying the deceased while the choir and the parish sang psalms,
followed by a short sermon – here both church ordinances urged the priests to
preach about penance and conversion – before all would kneel beside the grave
and pray that they all might maintain their faith.81
When the graveside ceremony was over, the members had no further obligations
towards the deceased. However, the craft guild statutes were also concerned,
as were the medieval guild statutes, with how to ensure that all their members,
including poor, sick and old members, could be given a proper funeral. In cases
where a member was too poor, sick or old to pay for his or her own funeral, the craft
guild would step in and finance the funeral, thus ensuring that he or she would be
given just as proper a funeral as any other member.82 This was financed in different
ways. In the tailors’ guild in Bergen, funerals were financed through a fee called
tidegjeld, and according to its 1605 statutes, the members had to meet four times
each year to pay the fee.83 In the tailors’ guild in Oslo, the funerals were partly
financed through the entrance fee. Whenever a new member was admitted, he had
to pay a fee that partly went to the alderman, partly to the clerk who had written
81 During the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries the small sermons held in the
funerals of people from the top stratum of society became more and more extensive, and came to
deal more with the life of the deceased, often portraying him or her as a role model of the life of a
good Christian, than with penance and conversion. Koslofsky, who has looked at funeral sermons in
early modern Germany, has argued that by the sixteenth century, the funeral sermon had become
the most significant element of the Lutheran funeral liturgy; articulating both doctrine and honour,
consolation and prestige, they had become the culmination of a ritual focused on the living and the
honour that their dead brought them; Koslofsky 2005, 107–114. For more on the funeral sermons as
a literary genre in early modern Norway, see Stensby 1996; Gilje and Rasmussen 2002, 183–201.
82 See the 1625 statutes of the smiths’ guild in Bergen (Deichman, fol. no. 13, art. 21), the 1626 and
1648 statutes of the bakers’ guild in Bergen (Deichman, fol. no. 13, art. 10–11; NRR IX, 56, art. 15),
the 1635 statutes of the shoemakers’ guild in Bergen (NRR VII, 114, art. 12), and the 1636 statutes
of the tailors’ guild in Oslo (Grevenor 1924, 241, art. 35).
83 NRR IV, 113–114, art. 8.
172
Håkon Haugland
the name of the newcomer in the guild book, partly to the guildhall and partly to
“the help and comfort of old and poor brothers and their wives and to give them
a funeral when they die.”84 The tailor apprentices in Oslo had their own sick and
funeral fund, to which all the members paid an annual fee.85
The Lutheran funeral ceremony, as well as the craft guilds’ participation in its
various stages, shows many elements of continuity with the late medieval requiem
mass and the role of guilds in the late medieval funeral. In particular, the Lutheran
funeral shows a basic continuity in form, with its communal procession from the
home of the deceased to the church or the churchyard, led by the clergy, the
funeral hymns, the funeral sermon, the tolling of church bells and burial among the
Christian dead.86
The continuity is also seen in the participation of the guild in the stages of the
ritual. Like their late medieval counterparts, the members of an early modern craft
guild were with the deceased through all the stages of the funeral, including the
funeral procession and the graveside ceremony. The guild arranged that selected
guild members carried the bier with the deceased in the procession, and the guild
could finance the funeral if the deceased or his relatives were too poor, sick or old
to do it themselves. It is even likely that the craft guilds continued the late medieval
practice of watching over deceased members and arranging drinking in their
honour, although the practice was prohibited repeatedly by the Danish-Norwegian
authorities during the course of the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. However,
the Lutheran funeral and the guild participation also marked a break on one vital
point, the intercession for the dead. Whereas the service for the dead in the late
medieval period continued after the funeral with the prayers and masses for the
dead seven days and thirty days after the funeral and from then on annually on the
anniversary of the death, the service for the dead in the Lutheran funeral stopped
with the graveside ceremony. Thus, although showing continuity in form, the focus
in the Lutheran funeral had shifted, from the dead to the living, from the intercession
for the dead to the honourable funeral.
The Decline of the Communal Funeral and
the Privatisation of the Funeral Ritual?
In the 1680s, attempts were made by the Danish-Norwegian state to change the
Lutheran funeral ritual as well as the funeral arrangements in the craft guilds in both
countries. Most important was the attempt to limit the extent and the splendour of
the funeral procession, thus marking the beginning of a decline in the communal
funeral.
84 Grevenor 1924, 245, art. 5: “[...] At Komme gamble och fattige forarmede Embidts Brødre
Och Deris hustruer Thill Hielp och Trøst saa och At bestedis thill Jord med naar de Wed døden
Bortkalldis.” My translation.
85 Grevenor 1924, 249, art. 23.
86 Koslofsky 2005, 94.
173
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
In 1681, a royal decree tried to limit the obligation to attend craft guild members’
funerals to those who had been appointed to carry the bier with the deceased to
the grave.87 Furthermore, the decree prohibited members from meeting at other
places than the house of the deceased, and then only for the funeral procession.
This prohibition probably attempted to prevent that the craft guilds gathering for
a wake in the house of the deceased before the funeral or in their guild halls for
drinking after the funeral. The decree also prohibited the craft guilds from notifying
others than the parents, children and siblings of the deceased whenever a member
had died. This too marked a break with the craft guilds’ funeral arrangements,
which made it normal for the alderman or the youngest of the master craftsmen to
notify all the members of a member’s death, so that all the members could attend
the wake, the funeral and the drinking for the deceased.
The decree from 1681 must be seen in connection with a general decree on
funeral arrangements that came out the following year, which limited the number
of people who were allowed to attend the funeral procession, and repeated the
prohibitions on wakes and drinking in honour of the deceased. The decree also
stated that no one except for the family of the deceased were to be notified of his
or her death.88 The reason for the decree was theological. The funeral processions,
the decree argued, had become too large, filled with too much splendour and luxury,
focusing too much on the honour of the deceased, and too little on the living, their
penance and salvation. Limitations therefore had to be imposed on the number
of people that took part in the procession, and the deceased should no longer be
honoured with a choir of school pupils singing psalms in the procession. Instead
of attending the house of the deceased, the choir now was to meet in the church
where the funeral ceremony was to take place.89 Interestingly, the decree of 1682
also mentions nocturnal funerals, which were only allowed after royal approval had
been given.90
As Koslofsky has pointed out, by 1700 the majority of funerals in the towns
and cities of Lutheran Germany took place in the evening or night. In the exclusive
nocturnal funerals, he argues, the tension between Christian worship and the
display of social status had shifted in favour of the latter, which opened the way
for the family to replace the Christian community as the framework of the funeral
in the longer term, and the funeral to become a more private family ritual.91 It is
uncertain how widespread nocturnal funerals became in Norwegian towns, but the
possibility of funerals being held in the evening or at night, together with the limits
87 Smith 1823, 34–40, Kjellberg & Stigum 1936, 176.
88 Forordning om Begraffelser, Hafniae die 7. November Anno 1682, KD VII, no. 31, art. 8, 12; also
Stensby 1996.
89 Forordning om Begraffelser, Hafniae die 7. November Anno 1682, KD VII, no. 31, art. 20; also
Fæhn 1994, 150.
90 Forordning om Begraffelser, Hafniae die 7. November Anno 1682, KD VII, no. 31, art. 14.
91 Koslofsky 2005, 133–152, 159.
174
Håkon Haugland
imposed on the funeral processions could, as in German towns, very well have
been the beginning of the end of the communal funeral and the privatisation of the
funeral ritual.
The royal decrees from 1681 and 1682 were followed by a number of statutes
issued for all craft guilds within a single craft in Danish and Norwegian towns
during the 1680s and 1690s. The limits in the decree on the obligation to attend
the funerals of deceased members, is found in the 1685 statutes for the goldsmiths’
guilds, for those in Bergen, Oslo and Trondheim among others. According to the
statutes, “if a Master, his wife, children, apprentices, servant or servant girl die,
then the alderman of the guild shall point out as many as is needed from the guild
to carry the bier with the deceased to the grave”.92 Thus, in accordance with the
1681 and 1682 decrees, there was no general obligation for the guild members
to attend the funerals of deceased members, the obligation being limited to those
who were appointed to carry the bier.
We do not know whether the Danish-Norwegian state succeeded in its attempt
to limit the number of guild members that attended at the funerals of deceased
guild members, but considering that it no longer was obligatory to do so, it is likely
that it did, thus contributing to the decline of the communal funeral. However, we do
know that from the end of the seventeenth century onwards, the craft guilds were
no longer alone in offering the carrying of the deceased to the grave. The 1682
decree prohibited the custom of taking payment for the carrying of the deceased,
and decided that only those who had been given a licence to carry the deceased
by the town council were allowed to take payment for the carrying.93 It is probable
that the prohibition was directed at the craft guilds, who could have offered the
carrying of the deceased to non-members for payment. At least the craft guilds
had had experience with carrying the deceased, and they owned the equipment
needed in funerals, such as a bier and torches.94
Towards the end of the seventeenth century, and partly as a consequence of
the decree from 1682, funeral clubs were founded in several Norwegian towns, the
first being founded in Trondheim in the 1680s.95 The funeral clubs had their own
statutes, sanctioned by the town council, and were often given a monopoly on the
carrying of the deceased to the grave for payment within the town. Like the craft
92 Guldsmed-Laugs Artikler, Hafniæ die 7. Novembr. 1685, art. 23: “Naar nogen Mester, hans
hustrue, Børn, Svend, Dreng eller Pige ved Døden afgaaer, Da skal Oldermanden lade af Lauget
tilsige, saa mange som behøfves, efter ordentlig Omgang at bære Liget til Jorden.” Similar provisions
could be found in the 1685 statutes for the button-maker’s guilds (Knapmager Laugs Articler. Hafniæ
die 7. Novembris Anno 1685, art. 16) and the coppersmiths’ statutes dated 1744 (Ryttvad 2010, 24,
art. 25).
93 Forordning om Begraffelser, Hafniae die 7. November Anno 1682, KD VII, no. 31, art. 12.
94 Lorrange 1935, 309.
95 In Christiania, the first funeral club, Det store kiøbmands liig-laug, was founded by a group of
merchants in 1686, while the first funeral club in Bergen, Studenter-Socitetet, was founded by a
group of academics in 1697. Funeral clubs were also founded in Strømsø (1713), Halden (1723),
Kristiansand (1731), Arendal (1740), Bragernes (1759), Molde (1785) and Moss (1800), Lorrange
1935, 309–314. For more on the merchants’ funeral club in Christiania, see Hoffstad 1931, 244–252.
175
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
guilds, the funeral clubs aimed at giving their members an honourable funeral by
providing financial support for their funerals and by using the funeral equipment
owned by the clubs at the funerals of their members. Many of them were probably
founded by craftsmen not organized in guilds or by several small craft guilds that
otherwise were unable to ensure financial support for their members’ funerals or
carrying them to the grave.96
The craft guilds, although their members were no longer obligated to attend
deceased members’ funerals after the craft guild reforms in the 1680 and 1690s,
continued the late medieval practice of providing financial support for the funerals
of their members’. Although no such support is mentioned in the common statutes
issued for many craft guilds in the 1680s and 1690s, they all mention funds for
internal poor relief. It is likely that these funds were in reality funds partly for the
support of poor guild members, and partly for providing financial support for their
members’ funerals. Such combined funds were quite normal in the surviving guild
statutes from the first half of the seventeenth century, and they are mentioned in
the law from 1839, although much later, concerning crafts in Norway, which states
that all craft guilds were to have their own funds for providing financial support for
poor and sick members as well as for the funerals of deceased members.97
Some craft guilds even founded their own funeral clubs to ensure that their
members were given financial support to their funerals. In 1690, the 24 masters
of the shoemakers’ guild in Bergen founded Skomagerlaugets Dødelade to make
sure that the masters were given “an economic contribution for a decent civic
funeral.” The foundation had its own statutes, and its accounts were written in
the foundation’s own account book, but matters concerning the foundation and
its accounts were to be decided by the shoemakers’ guild, and all the masters as
well as their wives were to become members of the new foundation. The members
were to pay a weekly fee to the foundation, which was to be paid to an appointed
steward of the foundation. Whenever a master or a wife of a master died, it was the
steward’s responsibility to pay a funeral contribution to the widow or widower. The
size of the contribution depended on how long the deceased had been a member.98
Later, probably after the dissolution of the shoemakers’ guild in 1869, but
before the issuance of a new set of statutes in Skomagerlaugets Dødelade in
1883, membership was opened up to others than master shoemakers and their
wives. According to the foundation’s new statutes from 1883, “[e]veryone that have
96 For instance, in 1768 the carpenters’ guild and the smiths’ guild in Trondheim agreed on carrying
their deceased members to the grave together, since “in both guilds no longer are [there] Masters
enough to carry their deceased members to the grave”; Lorrange 1935, 308: “[...] i begge laugene nu
ei ere saa mange Amts-Mæstere, at de hver særdeles kan bortbære sine avdøde”. My translation.
97 Grevenor 1924, 136–140.
98 The statute is found in one of the foundation’s record books, which is kept in the Department of
Special Collections at The University Library of Bergen (Skomakerlaugets dødelade. Fortegnelse
1690-1890). Similar foundations were founded by the button-maker’s guild in Bergen in 1791, of which
the statutes are kept in the Department of Special Collections (Et Liig Fundas for Knapmagerlaugets
Mestre), and the coppersmiths’ guild in Bergen in 1859, which existed until 1897. The foundation’s
statutes have been published by Ryttvad (2010, 101–106).
176
Håkon Haugland
been given citizenship as a master shoemaker in this town, can become members.
Likewise, membership can also be given to other master craftsmen, apprentices
and other honourable men and women not being sailors or belonging to the class of
wage-earners”.99 In addition, the statutes demanded that new members be over the
age of 30, and that they have a certificate from a doctor proving that they were of
good health. All members had to pay an entrance fee and an annual membership fee.
After fifteen years as members, unmarried members were exempted from paying
the membership fee, while married couples were exempted only after thirty years.
The statutes from 1883 mention that a steward, as in 1690, was in charge of the
foundation, and that it was still the steward’s responsibility that funeral contributions
be paid when members died, but now the foundation also had three managers and
a paid auditor which, together with the steward, constituted the executive of the
foundation. The three managers were to be elected at a general meeting which,
after the dissolution of the shoemakers’ guild in 1869, was the supreme organ of
the foundation. The paying of funeral contributions was to take place the day after
the steward had received the message that a member had died, and as in 1690,
the size of the contribution would vary depending on how long the deceased had
been a member.100 The last entries concerning paid funeral contributions in the
foundation’s accounts are dated 1910. The foundation itself was formally dissolved
five years later, in 1915.101 With it, the last remains of the guilds’ help for deceased
members, the financial support to their funerals, had disappeared.
Conclusion
This article argues that helping deceased members was essential not only for
the guilds of late medieval Norway, but also the craft guilds founded after the
Reformation, thus stressing a greater degree of continuity between the medieval
guilds and the post-Reformation craft guilds than previous research has suggested.
Furthermore, this essay argues for a basic continuity in form in the various elements
of which the help to the deceased consisted, although the main focus of their help
shifted from the late medieval focus on prayers and masses for the soul in purgatory
to a focus on giving the deceased an honourable funeral. As shown in the surviving
guild statutes from medieval Norway, the members of a guild were obligated to
participate in the wake and follow their deceased members to the grave, cover their
99 Skomakerlaugets dødelade, 8. Fortegnelse 1690-1890: “Enhver, der har erhvervet Borgerskab
som Skomakermester her i Staden, kan […] blive optagen som Medlem. Ligesaa skal der være
Adgang for andre haandværksmestere, samt Svende og andre ordentlige Mænd og kvinder, der
ikke ernære sig som Søfarende og ei heller henhøre til Daglønnerklassen, at blive optagne som
Medlemmer.” My translation.
100 Skomakerlaugets dødelade, 2. Forhandlingsprotokoll 1851-1892.
101 Skomakerlaugets dødelade, 3. Forhandlingsprotokoll 1892-1906.
177
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
funeral costs and read masses for their souls’ salvation from purgatory, for which
many guilds founded chantries in churches and monasteries.
The help for the deceased was partly financed through entrance fees,
membership fees and fines, and partly through fees paid at the funerals or when the
members gathered to hear masses for the souls of the deceased. This assistance
was rooted in the Christian norm of fraternitas or brotherhood, to treat each other
as brothers and sisters. The funeral arrangements did however also have a more
practical function, providing the guild members with a social security net that gave
them a feeling of certainty that when they died, they would be given an honourable
funeral by the guild, and they would be prayed for by the living guild members for
eternity.
Picture 4. The priest blesses a corpse to its grave in this mid-fifteenth-century image. It also shows
how the coffin could only be used for the transportation of the corpse to the burial site.
178
Håkon Haugland
Most of the guilds that existed in Norway in the Middle Ages appear to have
been dissolved during or in the decades that followed the Danish-Norwegian
Reformation of 1536. However, the few urban guilds that survived the Reformation
and the new craft guilds that were founded in Norwegian towns during the second
half of the sixteenth century and during the seventeenth, continued to provide help
for deceased members. Like the medieval guilds, the early modern craft guilds
covered the funeral costs of their members, the funeral equipment owned by the
craft guilds was used in members’ funerals, and the craft guild members were
obligated to attend the funerals of their fellow craftsmen, their wives, apprentices,
children, and servants. Furthermore, the funeral costs were financed in the same
way as in the medieval guilds, partly through entrance fees, membership fees and
fines, and partly through fees paid by the members at the funerals. To help the
deceased continued to be important for the craft guilds until their dissolution in
1869, and in some cases, as in that of the shoemakers in Bergen, it even outlasted
the guild itself.
However, the early modern craft guilds not only continued to help their deceased
members, their help seem to have been rooted in the same Christian norm of
brotherhood. This could be seen in the guild statutes from the early modern period
which, like the statutes of the medieval guilds, often describe the social bonds
between the members through the use of family analogies. For instance, in 1568 the
statutes from the goldsmiths’ guild in Bergen the members are called Embitzbrødre
(brothers) and søstre (sisters), the 1672 statutes from the barbers’ guild call their
members amtsbrødre, lavsbrødre and embedsbrødre, while the 1607 statutes
from the tailors’ guild in Oslo call their members brødre, søstre, laugsbrødre and
gildebrødre.102
While such family analogies are found in most of the preserved guild statutes
from the second half of the sixteenth century and for most of the seventeenth,103
few such references are found in the statutes issued during the craft guild reforms
of the 1680s and 1690s. This difference might be explained by the fact that most of
the statutes dated before the craft guild reforms were compiled by the craft guilds
themselves and then sanctioned by the town council or the Danish-Norwegian king,
while the statutes issued during the craft guild reforms were provided by the king.
Thus, it was the craft guilds themselves who used the family analogies to describe
the social bonds between the members, and who called themselves brothers and
sisters. Furthermore, the craft guilds themselves continued to use family analogies
102 DN XV, no. 729 (the goldsmiths in Bergen); Carøe 1921 (the barbers in Bergen), NRR IV, 174–
179 (the tailors in Oslo).
103 See the 1568 statutes of the goldsmith’s guild in Bergen (DN XV, no. 729); the 1597 and 1672
statutes of the barbers’ guild in Bergen (NRR IV, Carøe 1921); the 1625 statutes of the smith’s
guild in Bergen (Deichman, fol. no. 13); the 1626 and 1648 statutes of the baker’s guild in Bergen
(Deichman, fol. no. 13; NRR IX), the 1635 statutes of the shoemakers’ guild in Bergen (NRR VII); the
1641 statutes of the baker apprentices’ guild in Bergen (University of Bergen Library, Department
of Special Collections. Ms. 167–70. De bergenske laugsarkiver. Bakerlauget. 6); and the 1607 and
1636 statutes of the tailors’ guild in Oslo (NRR IV; Grevenor 1924).
179
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
after the craft guild reforms as well. For instance, the glassmasters’ guild in Bergen
called itself a brotherhood in 1801,104 while the shoemaker apprentices in Bergen
called themselves Skoemagersvendenes Broderskab (the brotherhood of the
shoemaker apprentices) as late as the 1830s.105
The continuity between the medieval guilds and the early modern craft guilds,
as far as the help they provided to their deceased members is concerned, also
had consequences for the understanding of the early modern craft guilds. It has
been customary to define the craft guilds as the artisans’ economic and political
organisations, with few or no social or religious functions. However, as shown in
this essay, it is rather the other way around. The social and religious functions,
exemplified by the funeral arrangements, were essential to the early modern craft
guilds, as they were in the guilds in late medieval Norway.
References
Akershusregisteret af 1622 (ARR), ed. G. Tank, G., E. Krabbe & H. Hög. Skrifter (Kjeldeskriftfondet) 44. Kristiania: Grøndahl, 1916.
Amundsen Bugge, A. (ed). 2005. Norsk Religionshistorie. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget.
Amundsen Bugge, A. 2005. Religiøs reform mellom makt og avmakt. In A. Amundsen Bugge
(ed.) Norsk Religionshistorie. Oslo: Universitetsforlaget. 213–242.
Anz, C. 1998. Gilden im mittelalterlichen Skandinavien. Veröffentlichungen des Max-PlanckInstitut für Geschichte 139. Göttingen: Vandenhoeck & Ruprecht.
Archiv der Bergenfahrerkompanie zu Lübeck und des Hansischen Kontors zu Bergen in
Norwegen von (1278) bzw. 1314 bis 1853 (=Bergenfahrer). Archive der Hansestadt
Lübeck. Findbücher 9. Lübeck: Archiv der Hansestadt, 2002.
Ariès, P. 1991 (1981). The Hour of Our Death. Trans. H. Weaver. Oxford: Oxford University
Press.
Bang, A. C. 1895. Den Norske Kirkes Historie i Reformations-aarhundredet (1536-1600).
Kristiania: Hjalmar Biglers Forlag.
Bendixen, B. E. & W. D. Krohn 1895 (eds.). Dat Gartenrecht in den Jacobsfjorden vnndt
Bellgarden 1895. Bergen Historiske Forenings Skrifter 1. Bergen: Bergen Historiske
Forening. 1–67.
Bergen bakerlaugs vedtekter 1626. Deichmanske bibliotek, Oslo Public Library, MS. fol. no. 13.
Bergen bakersvennelaugs vedtekter 1641. University of Bergen Library, Department of Special
Collections. MS. 167–70. De bergenske laugsarkiver. Bakerlauget. 6.
Bergen smedelaugs vedtekter 1625. Deichmanske bibliotek, Oslo Public Library, MS. fol. no.
13.
Bisgaard, L. 2001. De glemte altre: Gildernes religiøse rolle i senmiddelalders Danmark.
Odense: Odense Universitetsforlag.
Black, A. 2007. Guild & State: European Political Thought from the Twelfth Century to the
Present. London: Transaction Publishers.
104 Bøgh 1904, 44.
105 Grevenor 1924, 173.
180
Håkon Haugland
Blom, G. A. 1960. Gilder, Norge. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk leksikon
for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. V. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde
og Bagger. Cols. 308–313.
Blom, G. A. 1984. Die Uhrsprung der Gilden in Norwegen und ihre Entwicklung in den Städten
während des Mittelalters. In Friedland, K. 1984 (ed.). Gilde und Korporation in den
nordeuropäischen Städten des späten Mittelalters. Cologne: Böhlau. 5–26.
Bruns, F. 1900. Die Lübecker Bergenfahrer und ihre Chronistik. Berlin: Pass & Garleb.
Bugge, A. 1917. Tingsteder, gilder og andre gamle mittpunkter i de norske bygder. Historisk
Tidsskrift (Norway), 5. Række, IV (1917–1920), 97–152, 195–252.
Bøgh, J. 1893. Bergens guldsmedelaugs ældste dokumenter. In Bergens museums aarbok 6.
Bergen: Grieg. 3–19
Carøe, K. 1921. Af Bergens bartskærlavs historie i det 18de aarhundre. Tidsskrift for Den
norske lægeforening/Tidsskrift for praktisk medicin – ny række 41, 241–243.
Christensen, A. E. 1931. Gilderne i Danmark i 15. og 16. Aarhundrede. Unpublished thesis,
University of Copenhagen.
Chrouch, D. J. F. 2000. Piety, Fraternity and Power: Religious Gilds in late medieval Yorkshire
1389-1547. York: York Medieval Press.
Diplomatarium Norvegicum I–XXI. Eds. C. C. A. Lange, C. R. Unger et al. Christiania/Oslo: P.
T. Mallings Forlagshandel, 1849–1976.
Duffy, E. 2005. The Stripping of the Altars: Traditional Religion in England 1400-1580. 2. ed.
New Haven/London: Yale University Press.
Ellingsen, T. 1990. Kirkeordinansen av 1537: Reformasjonens kirkelov. Oslo: Verbum.
Erkebiskop Henrik Kalteisens Kopibog, ed. A. Bugge. Skrifter (Kjeldeskriftfondet) 34.
Christiania: Kjeldeskriftfondet, 1899.
Et Liig Fundas for Knapmagerlaugets Mestre. University of Bergen Library, Department of
Special Collections. Ms. 167–170. De bergenske laugsarkiver, Knapmakerlauget.
Forordning om Begraffelser, Hafniae die 7. November Anno 1682. Kjøbenhavns Diplomatarium
vol. VII, ed. O. Nielsen. Copenhagen: Thiele, 1886.
Fossen, A. B. 1979. Borgerskapets by 1536-1800: Bergen bys historie bind 2. Bergen:
Universitetsforlaget.
Friedland, K. 1984 (ed.) Gilde und Korporation in den nordeuropäischen Städten des späten
Mittelalters. Cologne: Böhlau.
Fæhn, H. 1994. Gudstjenestelivet i Den norske kirke: Fra reformasjonstiden til våre dager.
Oslo: Universitetsforlaget.
Gadd, I. A. & P. Wallis (eds.) 2006. Guilds and Association in Europe, 900-1900. London:
Centre for Metropolitan History, Institute of Historical Research, School of Advanced
Study, University of London.
Giercke, O. von 2002 (1868). Community in historical perspective. Ed. A. Black, trans. M.
Fischer. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Gilje, N. & T. Rasmussen 2002. Norsk idéhistorie 2: Tankeliv i den lutherske stat. Oslo:
Aschehoug.
Grevenor, H. 1924. Fra laugstiden i Norge. Kristiania: Kristiania haandverks- og industriforening.
Guldsmed-Laugs Articler, Hafniæ die 7. Novembr: 1685. University of Bergen Library,
Department of Special Collections, Ms. 167–170. De bergenske laugsarkiver.
Gullsmedlauget, 60.1.
181
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Haugland, H. 2006. Gilde og edsfellesskap i senmiddelalderbyen: En sammenlikning av
noen sammenslutninger i Bergen mellom 1250 og 1550. Unpublished master’s thesis,
University of Bergen.
Haugland, H. 2012. Fellesskap og brorskap. En komparativ undersøkelse av gildenes
sosiale, religiøse og rettslige rolle i et utvalg nordiske byer fra midten av 1200-tallet til
reformasjonen. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Bergen 2012.
Helle, K. 1982. Kongssete og kjøpstad: Bergen bys historie 1. Bergen: Universitetsforlaget.
Hoffstad, E. 1931. Det store kiøbmands liig-laug. St. Hallvard 9, 244–252.
Jacobsen, G. 1980. Guilds in Medieval Denmark: The social and economic role of merchants
and artisans. Unpublished doctoral thesis, University of Wisconsin-Madison.
Johansson, H. 1956. Begravning. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk leksikon
for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. I. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde
og Bagger. Cols. 415–417.
Johnsen, O. A. 1920. Tre gildeskråer fra middelalderen. Oslo: Helge Erichsen & Co forlag.
Johnsen, O. A. 1924. Gildevæsenet i Norge i middelalderen: Oprindelse og utvikling. Historisk
Tidsskrift [Norway] 5. Række, V, 73–101.
Johnsen, O. A. 1929. Tønsbergs historie, Bind 1: Middelalderen. Oslo: Gyldendal.
Karker, A., Danstrup, J. et al. (eds.) 1956–1978. Kulturhistorisk leksikon for nordisk middelalder
fra vikingetid til reformationstid. 22 vols. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og Bagger.
Kirkeordinansen av 1607 og Forordning om ekteskapssaker gitt 1582. Oslo: Den rettshistoriske
kommisjon, Norsk historisk kjeldeskrift-institutt, 1985.
Kjellberg, R. & H. Stigum 1936. Det norske håndverks historie: Fra senmiddelalderen til nyere
tid. Oslo: Norges Håndverkerforbund.
Kjøbenhavns Diplomatarium (KD), vol. VII, ed. O. Nielsen. Copenhagen: Thiele, 1886.
Knapmager Laugs Articler. Hafniæ die 7. Novembris Anno 1685. University of Bergen Library,
Norway, Department of Special Collections. Ms. 167–170. De bergenske laugsarkiver.
Knapmakerlauget, 69a.
Kolsrud, O. 2007. Noregs kyrkjesoga II: 1500-ca. 1570. Ed. S. H. Birkeflet. Oslo: Biblioteket ved
Det teologiske fakultet, Bibliotek for humaniora og samfunnsvitenskap.
Koslofsky, C. M. 2005. The Reformation of the Dead: Death and Ritual in Early Modern
Germany, 1450-1700. 2. edition. Houndmills: Palgrave.
Lindström, D. 1991. Skrå, stad och stat: Stockholm, Malmö och Bergen ca. 1350-1622. Studia
Historica Upsaliensia 163. Uppsala: Almqvist & Wiksell International.
Lis, C. and H. Soly 2006. Craft guilds in comparative perspectives. In M. Prak, M. C. Lis, J.
Lucassen & H. Soly (eds.) Craft Guilds in the Early Modern Low Countries: Work, Power
and Representation. Aldershot: Ashgate. 1–31.
Ljung, 1960. Gilde. Sverige. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk leksikon for
nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. V. Copenhagen: Rosenkilde og
Bagger. Cols. 302–305.
Lorrange, K. 1935. Forsikringsvesenets historie i Norge inntil 1814. Oslo: Grøndahl.
Lucassen, J., T. De Moor & J. L. van Zanden 2008. The Return of the Guilds. International
review of social history, supplement 16, Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
Madsen, S. Tschudi and O. Sollied 1931. Medisinsk liv i Bergen: Festskrift i anledning av 100
års jubileet for Det Medicinske Selskap i Bergen. Bergen: Det Medicinske Selskap.
Nielsen, Y. 1878. St. Catharinas og St. Dorotheas Gilde i Bergen. Forhandlinger i VidenskabsSelskapet i Christiania 11, 1–10.
182
Håkon Haugland
Norges gamle Love (NgL), eds. R. Keyser, P. A. Munch, G. Storm & E. Hertzberg, 1–5.
Christiania 1846–1895; eds. A. Taranger & G. A. Blom, 2. rekke, 1–3. Christiania:
Grøndahl, 1912/Oslo: Den rettshistoriske kommisjon, Norsk historisk kjeldeskriftkommisjon, 1966.
Norske Riksregistranter (NRR) 1–12, eds. C. C. A. Lange et al. Christiania: Norsk historisk
kjeldeskrift-kommisjon, 1861–1891
Oexle, O. G. 1985. Conjuratio und Gilde im frühen Mittelalter: Ein Beitrag zum Problem der
sozialgeschichtlichen Kontinuität zwischen Antike und Mittelalter. In B. Schwineköper
(ed.) Gilden und Zünfte: Kaufmännische und Gewerbliche Genossenschaften im frühen
und hohen Mittelalter. Sigmaringen: Thorbeck. 151–213.
Oexle, O. G. 1998. Gilden. Reallexikon der Germanischen Altertumskunde, 12. Berlin: de
Gruyter. 102–103.
Pappenheim, M. 1888. Ein altnorwegisches Schutzgildestatut nach seiner Bedeutung für die
Geschichte des nordgermanischen Gildewesens erläutet. Breslau: Wilhelm Koebner.
Prak, M, C. Lis, J. Lucassen & H. Soly 2006. Craft Guilds in the Early Modern Low Countries:
Work, Power and Representation. Aldershot: Ashgate.
Reynolds, S. 1997. Kingdoms and communities in Western Europe 900-1300. 2nd edition.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Rosser, G. 2006. Big Brotherhood: Guilds in Urban Politics in Late Medieval England. In I. A.
Gadd & P. Wallis (eds.) Guilds and Association in Europe, 900-1900. London: Centre
for Metropolitan History, Institute of Historical Research, School of Advanced Study,
University of London. 27–42.
Rubin, M. 1993. Fraternities and lay piety in the later Middle Ages. In P. Johanek (ed.) Einungen
und Bruderschaften in der spätmittelalterlichen Stadt. Cologne: Böhlau. 185–198.
Ryttvad, H. 2010. Dokumenter, referater: Kobberslagerne og blikkenslagerne i Bergen 15811916. Bergen: H. Ryttvad.
Schwineköper, B. (ed.) 1985. Gilden und Zünfte: Kaufmännische und Gewerbliche
Genossenschaften im frühen und hohen Mittelalter. Sigmaringen: Thorbeck.
Seip, D. A. 1960. Gildeskråer i Norge. In A. Karker, J. Danstrup et al. (eds.) Kulturhistorisk
leksikon for nordisk middelalder fra vikingetid til reformationstid, vol. V. Copenhagen:
Rosenkilde og Bagger. Cols. 320–321.
Skomakerlaugets dødelade. Forhandlingsprotokoll 1851-1892. University of Bergen Library,
Department of Special Collections. Ms. 600. Skomakerlaugets dødelades arkiv, 2.
Skomakerlaugets dødelade. Forhandlingsprotokoll 1892-1906. University of Bergen Library,
Department of Special Collections. Ms. 600. Skomakerlaugets dødelades arkiv, 3.
Skomakerlaugets dødelade. Fortegnelse 1690-1890. University of Bergen Library, Department
of Special Collections. Ms. 600, Skomakerlaugets dødelades arkiv, 8.
Smith, P. H. 1823. Kongelige forordninger og aabne breve samt andre trykte Anordninger m.
m., som fra Aar 1670 til 1814 ere udkomne og vedkomme Kongeriget Norges Lovgivning,
vol. 1: 1670–1754. Christiania: Wulfsberg.
Steen, T. B. 1957. Oslo skredderlaug gjennom 350 år: 1607-1957. Oslo: Oslo skredderlaug.
Stensby, V. 1996. “Med Liigprædiken og fuld Ceremonie”: Begravelse og sosial lagdeling i
Bergen på 1700-tallet. Unpublished master’s thesis, University of Bergen.
Storm, G. 1896. En gammel Gildeskraa fra Trondhjem. In C. R. Unger (ed.) Sproghistoriske
studier tilegnet professor C. R. Unger. Kristiania: Aschehoug. 216–226.
Terpstra, N. 2000 (ed.). The politics of ritual kinship: Confraternities and Social Order in Early
Modern Italy. Cambridge: Cambridge University Press.
183
Post Mortem – an Afterword
Ditlev Tamm
University of Copenhagen
When Epicurus (Greek: Epikouros, 341–270 B.C.E.) told us centuries ago that we
need not be concerned with death, because when we are there, death is not there,
and when death comes, we will not be there any more,1 he gave us to understand
that life should be enjoyed even if we know it will be short. Life and death are
complimentary, but one should not exclude the other. The idea of life overcoming
death is essential for the understanding of Christianity. At the same time, the
conviction that mors omnia vincit has been an important guideline for humankind
in understanding that death also means that there is an end and that life must be
lived on that premise.
Attitudes towards death in different cultures and at different times are still
fascinating subjects, which have been the object of vigorous and often very
interesting research for decades. The history of death is the history of human
attitudes towards death as it is reflected in art, literature, religion, and law. For
former generations death was always present and coping with death was a part
of everyday life. In many ways, it is like this today in that poverty, terror, and
catastrophes on the media confront us with death. Looking at exotic death rituals
can be part of a tourist trip abroad and churchyards still attract visitors. However,
looking directly at death in this way does not convey the idea of vanity and that
nothing will last forever in the same way as the traditional image of the man with
the scythe. Death in the modern world has changed its meaning. It is no longer
seen as the logical fulfilment of life but more as an absurd interruption which can
even bereave life of its meaning, instead of giving it meaning. Studying death in a
historical perspective, including the understanding of the aesthetics of death and
the confrontation with the idea of dying as an art, mastered by former generations,
may contribute to a dialogue on death which accepts it as something natural. The
mors omnia vincit in this way becomes a saying based on a deep understanding of
the human condition.
1 “Death, therefore, the most awful of evils, is nothing to us, seeing that, when we are, death is not
come, and, when death is come, we are not. It is nothing, then, either to the living or to the dead, for
with the living it is not and the dead exist no longer.” Letter to Menoeceus, published in Hicks (ed.)
1910, 169.
Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen (eds.)
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
Studies across Disciplines in the Humanities and Social Sciences 18.
Helsinki: Helsinki Collegium for Advanced Studies. 184–190.
Ditlev Tamm
Picture 1. Albrecht Dürer’s (1471–1528) Knight, Death and the Devil belongs to the memento mori
genre. Death awaits the high and mighty as well as the poor and whether they will belong to the Devil
or not depends on the actions of the individual rather than his or her position in life.
The history of death is the story of how mankind has endeavoured to cope with
the reality of death; not hiding it but looking at it as something natural which you
actually have to master. Confronting death is the last exam and, if you master it, it
may well serve as a model for others. The death of Socrates (ca. 470–399 B.C.E.)
as described by Plato (ca. 428–347 B.C.E.) in the dialogue Crito or the way in
which other individuals whose last moments have been recorded as exemplary
may serve us as examples of how to die. The history of death and attitudes
towards death throughout history are thus matters which allows us to understand
not only cultures of the past but also our own culture better. To pursue research
on this theme is to contribute to social history but also to a better understanding of
changing conditions and anxieties in the world today.
185
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
The present author published a book on the history of death in 1992 under the
title The Triumph of Death.2 As is well known, it was Petrarch (Francesco Petrarca,
1304–1374) who coined this expression in the fourteenth century under the
depredations of the plague. My inspiration, apart from possible personal motives,
came from the inspiring French research into the history of attitudes and behaviour.
Names like Ariès,3 Vovelle4 and Chaunu5 had taken new paths in research into the
Middle Ages and modern times in the 1970s and 1980s by stressing exactly how
much could be learned from studying attitudes towards death. At the same time, a
historian like Richard Cobb by skilfully using official documents from the coronial
inquests in his book on death in Paris from 1978 could tell new stories of people
who had chosen to commit suicide at the time of the French Revolution by throwing
themselves into the Seine.6 In 1987, Richard J. Evans took us to death in Hamburg
explaining how the cholera epidemic in the nineteenth century still caused havoc
in a civilized society.7
I was deeply impressed by such books and my intention was to investigate
whether ideas from this research might be helpful in understanding attitudes
towards death in a Nordic country like Denmark. In fact, one of the oldest Danish
written laws, the law of Scania, begins with: “If a man has a wife, and she dies
before the child is born.”8 The reality of death is clearly reflected in the old medieval
laws. The first time death was mentioned in a Danish text it was in order to lay down
its legal consequences. Medieval laws often tell small concentrated stories, as
does the Church Law of Scania from around 1171 in which we read about “a man
who lies on his deathbed and gives his property to God.”9 This new idea of giving
something for the soul was an important novelty in medieval society, which caused
many conflicts between legal heirs and the Church.
Nordic laws are also an important source for Anne Irene Riisøy in her study on
dead outlaws in medieval Norway in this book and their exclusion from a Christian
burial. She takes as her starting point that certain crimes were considered
morally reprehensible and that denial of burial was a concomitant of the general
repudiation of such crimes, which were mostly those committed in a cowardly and
concealed way and without notifying anyone after the deed. Riisøy thus uses the
source material to combine reflections on death and death rituals with legal history.
2
Tamm 1992.
3
Ariès 1977.
4
Vovelle 1983.
5
Chaunu 1978.
6
Cobb 1978.
7
Evans 1987.
8 Author’s translation from the original text of the Law of Scania (ca. 1200), Danmarks gamle
landskapslove med Kirkelovene. Vol. 1:1, Ch. 1, 1.
9
Danmarks gamle landskapslove med Kirkelovene. Vol. 1:2, Ch. 5, 834.
186
Ditlev Tamm
Norwegian sources are much richer than the Danish medieval laws in terms of
Church law and rules on burials, and thus give a much more detailed picture of
how various views of death intersect in old Norse society, including when people
who were excommunicated were denied burial. In the present volume, Beata
Wojciechowska also stresses the importance of the Christian Church in the Middle
Ages for its attitudes associated with death and funerals, and she also refers to
the research of figures like Ariès and Vovelle. She deals with the clash between
Christianity and traditional pagan concepts of the afterlife and how rituals for the
remembrance of the dead were actually fused into Christian belief and considered
as efficacious.
The idea of the afterlife as depicted by Dante Alighieri (1265–1321) in his Divine
Comedy from shortly after 1300 makes a tremendous impression, quite different
from the places for repentant souls described by Wojciechowska. The idea of
Purgatory, which is such an important feature of Dante’s geography of the world
beyond death is a curious and interesting phenomenon studied by Jacques Le
Goff.10 As mentioned, death is an important theme for Francesco Petrarca (1304–
1374) in his Triunfi of about 1340. His contemporary Giovanni Boccaccio (1313–
1375) wrote his famous collections of short stories, Il Decamerone, about a group
of young people trying to flee death outside Florence.11 How difficult it could be
to avoid fate if you were actually destined to die is depicted in tremendous pieces
of art in the Campo Santo of Pisa and other places. These pictures show death
as an invincible force that may snatch us away at any moment. The other side of
death, parental grief, is treated in this volume by Viktor Aldrin who, in opposition
to Philippe Ariès, stressed that the emotions of mourning, especially for children,
actually did exist in the Middle Ages and were not only accepted or visible later as
proposed by Ariès. Aldrin’s source material is taken from accounts of the saints and
their miracles, in which grief is mentioned as one of the phases of bereavement. He
also shows how reactions to the sudden death of a child were especially strong.
Protestantism did not necessarily lead to a radically different attitude. Money
could still be bequeathed to ecclesiastical institutions or the poor. In the sixteenth
century, however, the funeral monuments for royal personages or noblemen also
become more imposing until ordinances on luxury in the seventeenth century
called for a certain modesty. Eivor Andersen Oftestad has analysed a late medieval
Danish poem, De Vita Hominis, with the aim of showing continuity and change in
the economic and spiritual investment in the afterlife in the time before and after
the Lutheran Reformation. She shows how after the Reformation, this late medieval
work was formed by A.S. Vedel (1542–1616) to introduce a new way of seeing the
afterlife. Instead of depending on intercessions from others, faith showed during
one’s life became central. How the Reformation actually meant a change is also
illustrated in the article by Håkon Haugland on the guilds and death and funerals
10 Le Goff 1981.
11 Boccaccio 1972 (1348–1353), trans. McWilliam.
187
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
in Norway in the late Middle Ages and early modern times. Such guilds in the late
Middle Ages played an important role, one of which was helping their deceased
members. Assistance with funerals continued after the Reformation. However, the
Reformation changed the framework within which the guilds worked, and although
they continued to help in situations of death they lost their importance, albeit
gradually.
What perhaps impressed me the most when writing my small book in the 1990s
was the study of the sermons preached by leading Danish clerics from the sixteenth
and seventeenth centuries when distinguished members of noble families had
passed away. An extended description of the last days and hours of the deceased
was part of composing such a funeral sermon. People with whom conversations
were held, the quotations from the Bible which were referred to by the dying, last
words and the dignified attitude towards death were recorded and pointed out. The
art of dying, ars moriendi, thus became a popular theme and death and the way to
face it became a genre of its own. Reading such descriptions may be comforting
even today. The Swedish King Charles X Gustav (1622–1660, r. 1654–1660) is
another example. As a “soldier and a scholar”, he could quote extensively from the
Aeneid (ca. 30 B.C.E.) of Virgil (70–19 B.C.E.) just the day before he died in 1660
from an attack of fever, depicting how Aeneas visited the realm of death and was
told that to come back from there was the most difficult art: “Hoc opus, hic labor
est.” It was the King’s doctor who related the last days of the King and how two days
before he died he had said, confronted with the possibility that he might not survive
but die: “Ad utrum que paratus sum.”12
Picture 2. The German David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl (1629–1698) who became the famous Swedish
court painter, immortalised King Charles (Karl) XI of Sweden (1655–1697) on his lit de parade in
1697. King Charles XI, only child of King Charles X Gustav, died a lingering death of cancer at the
age of 41 after a reign of 35 years.
12 Önnerfors 1987.
188
Ditlev Tamm
From the top of society we virtually descend into the underworld when it comes
to Iris Ridder’s article in this volume on the oracle games used by the miners
in Falun in Central Sweden at the beginning of the seventeenth century. She
describes how miners used dice to decide where to work in the mine and thus how
playing a game was a means not only of making decisions but also a strategy to
avoid chance and randomness by casting lots and let the decision be taken by Him
who in the end was considered the master of fate.
The articles in this volume are concentrated on themes from the Middle Ages
and early modern period. The story of death however goes on. Death as a penalty
and the discussion of the effectiveness of the death penalty that started in the
eighteenth century when the Italian Cesare Beccaria (1738–1794) challenged the
death penalty in his Dei Delitti e delle pene of 1764 is another aspect of attitudes
towards death.13 The culture of churchyards and the modern idea of having burials
not in the church or in city graveyards but outside also show new attitudes since the
end of the eighteenth century. The horror of suspended animation leading to being
buried alive also stems from this time. In the nineteenth century, we encounter the
attitude that death shall be denied and that the patient should be maintained in the
belief that they will recover as long as possible. A famous short masterpiece by Leo
Tolstoy (1828–1910), The death of Ivan Ilyich from 1886, tells the story of a Russian
judge who realizes during an extended struggle with death and the idea that he
is actually dying in the end that life is over, that he is “done for, there was no way
back, the end was here, the absolute end [...].”14 The story in many ways reflects an
attitude completely the reverse of the one we met when kings and noblemen died
their exemplary deaths in the seventeenth century.
An important contemporary discussion is voluntary euthanasia when further
medical treatment seems both painful and useless. In the medical language,
death is still “mors” and a clinical concept. As this rich collection of articles shows,
historians have other ways at looking at a phenomenon which – even if Epicurus
tried to convince us of the contrary – is always there. In the sixteenth century,
Michel de Montaigne (1533–1592) wrote that “all philosophical reflection had to do
with the preparation for death,” even stressing how death was the final goal of our
life.15 The complementarity between the two notions is obvious when we look at
customs, attitudes and laws concerning death. The articles in this volume show that
when we as historians take up death and attitudes towards it as an investigation of
“some aspects of the medieval and early modern mentalities related to death and
what expressions the cultures of death took in Europe,” we visit a rich field with an
abundance of fascinating concepts which add substantially to our knowledge not
only of death but also of life in the past.
13 Beccaria 1984 (1764).
14 Tolstoy 2006 (1886).
15 “[L]et us learn bravely to stand our ground, and fight him. And to begin to deprive him of the
greatest advantage he has over us, let us take a way quite contrary to the common course. Let us
disarm him of his novelty and strangeness, let us converse and be familiar with him, and have nothing
so frequent in our thoughts as death,” quoted from Montaigne’s essay “That to Study Philosophy is
to Learn to Die,” in Hazlitt (ed.) 1877 (1580), Book I, Chapter XIX.
189
Cultures of Death and Dying in Medieval and Early Modern Europe
References
Ariès, P. 1977. L’homme devant la mort. Paris: Seuil.
Beccaria, C. 1984 (1764). Dei Delitti e delle Pene. Ed. G. Francioni. Edizione nazionale delle
opere di Cesare Beccaria 1. Milano: Mediobanca.
Boccaccio, G. 1972. The Decameron. Trans. G. H. McWilliam. Penguin Classics: London.
Chaunu, P. 1978. La mort à Paris, XVIe, XVIIe et XVIIIe siècles. Paris: Fayard.
Cobb, R. 1978. Death in Paris, 1795–1801. Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Danmarks gamle landskapslove. Vol. 1:1, Skånske lov. Intr. E. Kroman, ed. J. Brøndum-Nielsen
& S. Aakjær. Copenhagen: Det Danske sprog- og litteraturselkab, 1933.
Danmarks gamle landskapslove. Vol. 1:2, Anders Sunesøns parafrase, Skånske kirkelov, etc..
Ed. S. Aakjær & E. Kroman. Copenhagen: Det Danske sprog- og litteraturselkab, 1933.
Evans, R. 1987. Death in Hamburg: Society and Politics in the Cholera Years, 1830–1910.
Oxford: Oxford University Press.
Hazlitt, W. C. 1877 (1580) (ed.). Essays of Michel de Montaigne. Trans. C. Cotton. London:
Reeves and Turner.
Hicks, R. D. 1910 (ed.). Stoic and Epicurean. New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons.
Le Goff, J. 1981. La Naissance du Purgatoire. Paris: Gallimard.
Tamm, D. 1992. Dødens Triumf: Mennesket og døden i Vesteuropa fra middelalderen til vore
dage. Copenhagen: Gad.
Tolstoy, L. 2006 (1886). The Death of Ivan Ilyich. Trans. A. Briggs. Penguin Classics: London.
Vovelle, M. 1983. La mort et l’Occident, de 1300 à nos jours. Paris: Gallimard.
Önnerfors, A. 1987. “Ad utrumque paratus”: Karl X Gustavs sista sjukdom och död 1660. In
Årsbok från Vetenskapssocieteten i Lund. Lund: Vetenskapssocieteten i Lund. 153–160.
190
List of Contributors
Viktor Aldrin is Associate Fellow of Research at the Centre for Theology and
Religious Studies at Lund University. He holds a doctorate in Religious Studies and
Theology (2010) and has been recognised as an Excellent Teaching Practitioner,
ETP (2015). Aldrin has written a monograph in religious studies on lay religiosity,
The Prayer Life of Peasant Communities in Late Medieval Sweden (2011), and
several articles on professional ethics.
Håkon Haugland is a historian and a researcher at the University of Bergen. He
defended his doctoral thesis at the University of Bergen in 2012 on the subject
of guilds in the medieval Nordic towns. His main field of research is the history
of guilds in the Nordic countries, but his research also includes other topics in
urban history and church history. Among his publications are several articles on the
subject of guilds and the book Dypvåg kirke (2012) on a medieval parish church in
the south of Norway.
Mia Korpiola is Professor of Legal History at the University of Turku. She has
published Between Betrothal and Bedding: Marriage Formation in Sweden, 1200–
1600 (2009). She has also edited the books Regional Variations in Matrimonial
Law and Custom in Europe, 1150-1600 (2011), The Svea Court of Appeal in the
Early Modern Period: Historical Reinterpretations and New Perspectives (2014)
and co-edited the book Authorities in the Middle Ages: Influence, Legitimacy, and
Power in Medieval Society (2013) together with Sini Kangas and Tuija Ainonen.
Anu Lahtinen is currently acting as University Lecturer in Finnish and Nordic history
at the University of Helsinki. She is Adjunct Professor (Docent) in Finnish History
at the University of Turku and in Finnish and Nordic History at the University of
Helsinki. She has published and edited numerous articles and books on medieval
and early modern social and cultural history, often with a focus on gender history
in the Nordic societies.
Eivor Andersen Oftestad is a church historian currently working as a postdoctoral
fellow in the project “Death in Early Protestant Tradition” at the Faculty of Theology
at the University of Oslo. In her doctoral thesis The house of God: The translation
of the temple and the interpretation of the Lateran Cathedral in the twelfth century
(2010), she analysed how the Lateran Cathedral in Rome was perceived and
represented in the twelfth century after the First Crusade.
191
Iris Ridder is Associate Professor at the University of Dalarna in Sweden. She
defended her doctoral thesis in comparative literature in 2002 on the subject
of a thirteenth-century Latin text, Dialogus Salomonis et Marcolfi and its late
medieval vernacular translations, mainly focusing on the Swedish version from the
seventeenth century. Ridder is currently working on a monograph on the use of
games in the medieval and late medieval Swedish mining society of Falun and its
mining enterprise, Great Copper Mountain (Stora Kopparberget in Swedish).
Anne Irene Riisøy is Associate Professor of History and Social Sciences at
Buskerud and Vestfold University College in Norway. Her main research interest is
legal history. At present, she works on Viking Age outlaws and outlawry. A revised
version of her doctoral dissertation, Sexuality, Law and Legal Practice and the
Reformation in Norway, was published by Brill in 2009.
Ditlev Tamm is Professor of Legal History at the University of Copenhagen.
He has published extensively on many aspects of Danish and European legal
history, political history, and cultural history. His many books and articles in several
languages include biographies, studies on the history of legal science, ballet,
literature and collaboration during World War II, in addition to a book on death in
Western Europe from the Middle Ages until the present (Dødens triumf: mennesket
og døden i Vesteuropa fra middelalderen til vore dage, 1992).
Beata Wojciechowska is Professor of History at the Jan Kochanowski University in
Kielce, Poland. She received her doctorate in 1997. Wojciechowska has published
a book on annual rites in the traditional Polish folk culture of the Middle Ages and
another on excommunication in medieval Poland. She specialises in the religious
and legal culture of late medieval Poland.
192
List of Illustrations
Cover
Master of the Chronique scandaleuse (French, active about 1493–1510): Denise
Poncher before a Vision of Death, about 1500, Tempera colors, ink and gold on
parchment. Leaf: 13.3 x 8.7 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 109,
fol. 156. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Introduction, Mia Korpiola and Anu Lahtinen
Picture 1. Unknown maker, German: The Virgin and Saint John, from a Crucifixion,
ca. 1420, Dark brown vitreous paint, coloured pot metal and clear glass, silver
stain, 58.5 x 50 x 1 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles. With the kind
permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 2. Unknown painter: Wheel of Fortune. Fifteenth-century wall painting,
Church of Birkerød, Denmark. Photo by Mia Korpiola.
Picture 3. Master of the Dresden Prayer Book or workshop (Flemish, active about
1480–1515): The Three Living and the Three Dead, about 1480–1485. Tempera
colours and gold on parchment, 20.5 x 14.8 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los
Angeles, Ms. 23, fol. 146v. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum,
Los Angeles.
Picture 4. Master of Guillaume Lambert (French, active about 1475–1485): Burial,
1478 (based on date included in Easter calculation). Tempera colours, gold paint,
and iron gall ink on parchment bound between pasteboard covered with brown
jansenist morocco. Leaf: 14.6 x 9.8 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles,
Ms. 10, fol. 116. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
The Remembrance of the Deceased in the Traditional Polish Culture of the
Middle Ages, Beata Wojciechowska
Picture 1. Bernardo Cavallino (Italian, 1616–1656): The Shade of Samuel Invoked
by Saul, about 1650– 1656. Oil on copper, 61 x 86.4 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum,
Los Angeles. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
193
Picture 2. Workshop of Gerard Horenbout (Flemish, 1465–1541, active 1487–ca.
1520): Initial G: Souls in Purgatory, ca. 1500. Tempera colours and gold paint on
parchment, 15.2 x 11.1 cm. The Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. Ludwig IX
17, fol. 67. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 3. Taddeo Crivelli (Italian, died ca. 1479, active ca. 1451–1479): Initial D:
A Skull in a Rocky Field, ca. 1469. Tempera colours, gold paint, gold leaf, and ink
on parchment. Leaf: 10.8 x 7.9 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms.
Ludwig IX 13, fol. 106. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los
Angeles.
Deviant Burials: Societal Exclusion of Dead Outlaws in Medieval Norway,
Anne Irene Riisøy
Picture 1. Unknown: A Massacre of Family Members, about 1460–1470. Tempera
colors, gold leaf, gold paint, and ink on parchment. Leaf: 17.6 x 11.4 cm. The J.
Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 68, fol. 21. With the kind permission of the
J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 2. Decapitation scene from a French history of Alexander the Great, a
version of the Gesta Alexandri Magni by Quintus Curtius Rufus. Anonymous
miniatyrist, ca. 1470s. Tempera colours, gold paint and ink on parchment. Book
collection of Skokloster Castle, Sweden. With the kind permission of the Skokloster
Collection, Sweden – thanks to Monica Sargren.
Picture 3. Follower of Hans Schilling (German, active 1459–1467) from the
Workshop of Diebold Lauber (German, active 1427–1467): Burial Scene, 1469.
Ink, coloured washes, and tempera colors on paper, 28.6 x 20.3 cm. The J. Paul
Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. Ludwig XV 9, fol. 123. With the kind permission
of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 4. Agostino dei Musi, called Veneziano (Italian, ca. 1490–after 1536)
after Rosso Fiorentino (Italian, 1494–1540): Allegory of Death and Fame (or The
Skeletons), 1518. Engraving, 31.3 x 51.1cm. Yale University Art Gallery, 1966.94.
With the kind permission of the Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven.
Parental Grief and Prayer in the Middle Ages: Religious Coping in Swedish
Miracle Stories, Viktor Aldrin
Picture 1. Attributed to Anovelo da Imbonate (Italian (Lombard), active around
1400): The Mother of Allegranzia Appealing to Saints Aimo and Vermondo to Save
Her Child, about 1400, Tempera colors, gold leaf, and ink on parchment. Leaf: 25.6
x 18.4 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 26, fol. 8v. With the kind
permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
194
Picture 2. Gerbrand van den Eeckhout (Dutch, 1621–1674): Hagar Weeping, early
1640s. Oil on canvas, 76.2 x 68.6 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 3. Posthumous portrait of Hannibal Gustav Wrangel af Salmis (1641–
1643), age 16 months, on his lit de parade. Anonymous German painter, 1643.
Oil on canvas, 91.0 x 78.0 cm. Skokloster Castle, Sweden, 11690. With the kind
permission of the Skokloster Collection, Sweden.
Picture 4. Attributed to Anovelo da Imbonate (Italian/Lombard), about 1400: Leone
Otasso and His Wife Presenting Their Sick Son to Saints Aimo and Vermondo.
Tempera colours, gold leaf, and ink on parchment. Leaf: 25.6 x 18.4 cm. J. Paul
Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 26, fol. 9. With the kind permission of the J. Paul
Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 5. Attributed to Anovelo da Imbonate (Italian/Lombard), about 1400.
Tempera colours, gold leaf, and ink on parchment. Leaf: 25.6 x 18.4 cm. J. Paul
Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 26, fol. 9. With the kind permission of the J. Paul
Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Transforming the Investment in the Afterlife: Readings of the Poem De Vita
Hominis in Pre-Reformation and Post-Reformation Denmark,
Eivor Andersen Oftestad
Picture 1. Workshop of Gerard Horenbout (Flemish, 1465–1541, active 1487–ca.
1520): Initial O: A Woman on her Deathbed with the Virgin and Child and Devils,
about 1500, Tempera colours and gold paint on parchment. Leaf: 15.2 x 11.1 cm.
The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. Ludwig IX 17, fol. 54. With the kind
permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 2. Follower of Hans Schilling (German, active 1459–1467) from the
Workshop of Diebold Lauber (German, active 1427–1467): The Last Judgment,
1469, Ink, coloured washes, and tempera colors on paper, 28.6 x 20.3 cm. The
J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. Ludwig XV 9, fol. 93. With the kind
permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 3. Unknown: Purgatory, illustration from Der Seelen-Wurzgarten, 1483.
Woodcut, handcoloured, 24.6 x 17.3 cm. Yale University Art Gallery, 1985.29.2.
With the kind permission of the Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven.
Picture 4. Master of Sir John Fastolf (French, active before about 1420–about
1450): Mass for the Dead, about 1430–1440. Tempera colours, gold leaf, and ink
on parchment, 12.1 x 9.2 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 5, fol.
170v. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
195
Dicing towards Death: An Oracle Game for Miners at the Falun Copper
Mine from the Early Seventeenth Century, Iris Ridder
Picture 1. Title page, Gisle Jacobson, A small pastime (Ett litet Tidhfördriff),
Stockholm 1613. With the kind permission of the National Library of Sweden,
Stockholm.
Picture 2. Oracle game text, Gisle Jacobson, A small pastime (Ett litet Tidhfördriff),
Stockholm 1613. With the kind permission of the National Library of Sweden,
Stockholm.
Picture 3. Mine map of Stora Kopparberget (Karta över Stora Kopparberget), Hans
Ranie, 1683. Photography by Birger Roos. With the kind permission of Stora Enso
AB’s archive, Archive Centre in Dalarna, Sweden.
Picture 4. Jacques Callot (French, 1592–1635): La pendaison (The Hanging),
1633. Engraving 11 in the series “Les Misères et les Malheurs de la Guerreˮ (“The
Miseries and Misfortunes of Warˮ). Source: Wikimedia Commons.
“To Help the Deceased Guild Brother to His Grave”: Guilds, Death and
Funeral Arrangements in Late Medieval and Early Modern Norway, ca.
1300–1900, Håkon Haugland
Picture 1. Willem Vrelant (Flemish, d. 1481, active 1454–1481): Mass for the Dead,
early 1460s. Tempera colours, gold leaf, and ink on parchment. Leaf: 25.6 x 17.3
cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. Ludwig IX 8, fol. 189. With the
kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 2. Spitz Master (French, active about 1415–1425): A Burial, about 1420,
Tempera colors, gold, and ink on parchment. Leaf: 20.2 x 14.9 cm. The J. Paul
Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms. 57, fol. 194. With the kind permission of the J.
Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles.
Picture 3. Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471–1528): Death of the Virgin, from The Life
of the Virgin, 1510. Woodcut, 29.6 x 21.1cm. Yale University Art Gallery, 1956.16.2r.
With the kind permission of the Yale University Art Gallery, New Haven.
Picture 4. Workshop of the Bedford Master (French, active first half of fifteenth
century): A Burial, about 1440–1450. Tempera colours, gold leaf, gold paint, and
ink on parchment, 23.5 x 16.4 cm. The J. Paul Getty Museum, Los Angeles, Ms.
Ludwig IX 6, fol. 133. With the kind permission of the J. Paul Getty Museum, Los
Angeles.
196
Post-Mortem – an Afterword, Ditlev Tamm
Picture 1. Albrecht Dürer (German, 1471–1528): Knight, Death and the Devil,
1513. Engraving, 24.4 x 18.8 cm. Yale University Art Gallery, 1925.59. With the
kind permission of the Yale University Art Gallery.
Picture 2. David Klöcker Ehrenstrahl (1629–1698, German, active in Sweden) and
David von Krafft (1655–1724, German, active in Sweden): Posthumous portrait of
King Charles XI of Sweden (1655–1697, r. 1660–1697) on his lit de parade, 1697.
Oil on canvas, 91.5 x 71.5 cm. Skokloster Castle, Sweden, 11733. With the kind
permission of the Skokloster Collection, Sweden.
List of Contributors
Godfried Maes (Flemish, 1649–1700): Man on his Deathbed with Priest and
Others, n.d. Brush and gray ink and gray wash, 18.1 x 14.4cm. Yale University Art
Gallery, 1961.64.45. With the kind permission of the Yale University Art Gallery,
New Haven.
197