The Church Fathers inherited from their social and intellectual environment a long tradition of debate about the physical, moral, and intellectual capacities of women. It would be an oversimplification to say that the uniform teaching of ancient philosophers and rhetoricians was that women were in every respect naturally inferior to men. Plato, for one, defended the view that moral goodness is the same for women as for men; the fact that they perform different tasks—the duties of a citizen in the case of a (free) man, and of a good wife, directing her household in obedience to her husband, in the case of a woman—does not mean that the same moral qualities of justice and temperance are not required of both. In his Republic, a radical programme for the restructuring of traditional society, Plato advocates equal access to education for women and an equality of opportunity for the intellectually able, regardless of sex, to rise to leading roles in the administration of the State. He continues to believe that most women will be inferior to most men at important tasks; but ‘it was something to have it said that sex is not relevant to natural ability and moral capacity’, and it is possible to detect the influence of subsequent philosophers who agreed with Plato in forming ‘an increasing belief in the competence and trustworthiness of women’ in financial and political affairs, even if the belief was to have little practical effect in changing socially-accepted roles.

The Empress Judith has been assigned a central role in the reign of Louis the Pious. But the part she has played has been a controversial one. Judith has been stigmatized as a problem, if not the problem, in the reign. In July 817 Louis had made arrangements for the succession in the Ordinatio imperii, which divided the Empire between his three legitimate sons, Lothar, Pippin, and the young Louis: a few months after the death of their mother, Irmengard, in October 818, the forty-year-old Emperor married for a second time. The young Judith gave Louis another son, Charles, born on 13 June 823. A long historiographical tradition has isolated Judith’s political activities on behalf of her son as a cause of strife, provoking, for example, the rebellions against Louis in 830 and 833. And she stands condemned for this as a woman. In the nineteenth century Judith was seen as motivated not by reason but by emotion—blind Mutterliebe—and as having deployed ‘feminine wiles’ to further her ends. In the 1980s the language may have changed, but Judith is still seen in similar terms: Pierre Riche has described her influence over her middle-aged husband as ‘toute-puissante’. This view of Judith is overly dependent upon two sources which are not only hostile to Judith, but also reveal a strong ecclesiastical bias.

To our daughter Immena whom we give to God and to be clothed as a nun (sanctimonialis)… for the fear of God, and so that souls fighting for Christ can receive a remedy for their sins through our intermission …’. An aristocratic couple decide to give two of their children (a boy, as well as this girl) to the religious life, and their intention is recorded in a private charter. Lands which have been set aside for the economic support of Immena and her brother are listed at length; then the document concludes with the statement that the two donors, Count Rodulf and Aiga, his wife, ‘requested this concession to be made in the month of November in the tenth year of the reign of our most serene lord Louis, Emperor Augustus’ (that is, the Emperor Louis the Pious, AD 823). A girl is being given to God. Her entry into this new way of life is solemnized by a ceremony in which she will be dressed in clothes appropriate for her withdrawal from the ‘profane’ world: she will almost certainly be veiled in black or purple—although at this time that was a matter for debate in ecclesiastical legislation. The charter may also be interpreted as recording a ‘rite of passage’ which seems to signal Immena’s ‘aggregation’ into a new sacred community, and her separation from the social world of her kin.

‘It is one thing for the mother of a family to teach the household by I word and example, but quite another for her, teaching certain useless things, to interfere with bishops or anyone in ecclesiastical orders, or even in a public synod.’ Thus the Libri Carolini, in the 790s, in its continuing attack on the Byzantine empress Irene, defined the proper role for the Frankish woman in doctrinal and educational matters. Dhuoda, wife of Bernard of Septimania, is by this definition an exemplar of Carolingian thought. She explicitly states that she wrote the Liber manualis, addressed to her son William, a hostage at the court of Charles the Bald, because she was unable to educate him in the godly life by her words and deeds. For his sake, then, she committed to writing, in the early 840s, what she would have taught him in person.

It is a characteristic merit of Richard Southern—recently voted the historians’ historian in The Observer—that as long ago as 1970, in Western Society and the Church, he devoted some luminous pages to ‘the influence of women in religious life’. Though these pages nestle in a chapter called ‘Fringe orders and anti-orders’, twenty years ago such labels were not pejorative. Southern made women emblematic of what could be called a pendulum-swing theory of medieval religious history. First came a primitive, earlier medieval age of improvization and individual effort, of spiritual warriors and local initiatives; the central medieval period saw ‘a drive towards increasingly well-defined and universal forms of organization’ in an age of hierarchy and order; then, in the fourteenth and fifteenth centuries, back swung the pendulum towards complexity and confusion, individual experiment, and ‘small, humble, shadowy organizations’.

Although the principal relationship observable in an early medieval manuscript illustration is that between the artist and his or her text, the interests of the reader, and in many cases the first owner or commissioner of an illustrated book, could to some degree determine the extent and the elaboration of the illustrations, and, possibly, aspects of the iconography. The incidence of women in the illustrations of Christian books of the Carolingian and Ottonian periods, therefore, is a potentially fruitful source for examining the attitudes towards women’s role in the Church in the early Middle Ages. It may be possible to see, firstly, whether the prominence of women in the New Testament, and in the Gospels in particular, is enhanced and elaborated in ninth- and tenth-century visual interpretations of these Christian texts, or, secondly, whether there are any other innovations in Carolingian or Ottonian illustrations which shed light on the religious work of women within the Church. But to what extent is this potential realized? Are omissions as significant as inclusions? Can we conclude much from the relative dearth of pictures of women in Carolingian books, as opposed to the greater number of women portrayed in Ottonian books? It is the purpose of this paper to examine this phenomenon and its context and thereby to suggest some preliminary explanations.

Jacques De Vitry (c. 160-1240) was a most perceptive and sympathetic observer of all that the religious life meant to women at the beginning of the thirteenth century. He thus took care to address some of his preaching to particular groups of these women. In his Sermones vulgares, probably set down at some time after 1228, he put forward messages appropriate to each of these groups. He was uniquely qualified to do so.

In the spring of 1267 Abbot Philip of Clairvaux, visiting the Cistercian abbey of Herkenrode in the diocese of Liège, was informed of the exceptionally holy conduct of a woman living a few miles away, in the village of Spalbeek. Philip went to see her and was greatly impressed, for, as he wrote upon his return to Clairvaux,

Shortly after 1290 an anonymous Alsace Dominican set down in writing what he thought had changed since about 1200. The range and variety of the themes and details in his account of changes between 1200 and 1290 are extraordinary. One did not yet have iron-wheeled carts, he wrote, nor that sort of plaster which is called cementum. The buildings of Strasbourg and Basel were mean, small-windowed, with little light, and there was no bridge across the Rhine. Now, on the other hand, the masters of mechanical arts have achieved much. His changes include newly imported breeds of poultry, differences in clothes, and much emphasis on expansion: the little towns of today did not yet exist. There were as yet few merchants. Now, there are many, as well as many surgeons and physicians. The picture of learning and books of 1200 included a Paris which was already flourishing, and lots of law books, though they were difficult to buy, presumably because books were more expensive. Since then many books have been compiled—and he lists many of the major Dominican works, including the libri naturales of Albert the Great.

‘From the earliest days of Christianity, the domestic community has served as a unit of worship’. In the later medieval period, the home certainly played an important part in the religious observances of many laypeople. By the fifteenth century in England, chapels in private houses were increasingly common, even if they were simply small rooms adapted for the purpose. The practice of informal prayer and private devotional reading did not require special accommodation. We know that individuals prayed in their bedrooms, while Italian women were encouraged to have a bedroom image of the Virgin and to conduct themselves properly in her presence. Italian preachers also thought that children should join in holy play-acting at home, and that they should set up and decorate toy altars. The garden, too, could furnish a setting for the spiritual life. Agnes Paston gives us a haunting glimpse of the life and death of a pious layman in 1453:

The cult of the saints, according to Emile Male, ‘sheds over all the centuries of the middle ages its poetic enchantment’, but ‘it may well be that the saints were never better loved than during the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries’ Certainly their images and shrines were everywhere in late medieval England. They filled the churches, gazing down in polychrome glory from altar-piece and bracket, from windows and tilt-tabernacles. In 1488 the little Norfolk church of Stratton Strawless had lamps burning not only before the Rood with Mary and John, and an image of the Trinity, but before a separate statue of the Virgin, and images of Saints Margaret, Anne, Nicholas, John the Baptist, Thomas à Becket, Christopher, Erasmus, James the Great, Katherine, Petronilla, Sitha, and Michael the Archangel.

The system by which medieval nuns and monks administered their monastic households has long been known to historians. Headed by a prioress, prior, abbess, or abbot, a group of officers executed the daily running of a monastery’s internal affairs by what is called the obedientiary system. But our evidence about the heads of the houses, their monastic officers, and their incumbent duties comes almost exclusively from the numerous accounts and studies of male houses. Knowledge about the officers and administration of female convents has been inferred largely from what we know about the male monasteries, and from a lone description of the officers and their duties found among the records of the convent of Barking Abbey.

This paper will centre on the relationships of women to men and women to women which form the backbone of the history of the Benedictine convent of Le Murate in Florence in the fifteenth and early sixteenth centuries. Le Murate started in a quiet way with one pious woman deciding to live virtuously by herself, but under no rule, in a house on the Ponte Rubaconte in 1390, and expanded to become perhaps the largest female convent in Florence in 1515, situated on Via Ghibellina, with 200 enclosed women and their servants living under the Rule of St Benedict. I want to examine the relations between these nuns and the outside world and look at how the male government of the outside world, secular and ecclesiastical, both at an individual level and in a more collective, formal way, tried to restrain and weaken this group of females, even to the point of forbidding them to earn their own livelihood. I would like to posit that religious life on a large scale and in a large city offered opportunities for the exercise of power by women not available to those of the female sex who stayed within the structure of the family and who were, therefore, in direct competition with men at every stage. Daughters, sisters, wives, and widows were legally and socially subject to their male relatives, in varying degrees. Nuns were not, and were permitted a measure of self-government. Just how irksome, worrying, and unacceptable to men it was for women to take their own decisions will become clear later. Barred by their sex from an active life in the hierarchy of the Church, and barred by their Order from an active life in the community, nevertheless in the Renaissance these enclosed Benedictine nuns devised strategies for obtaining access to power and money unparalleled by their secular counterparts. Le Murate exerted a strong attraction on women, both the powerful and famous and the more ordinary. Due to the increasing politicization of Florentine society, it secured, in addition, the patronage of the two most important Florentine political families during the period, the Medici and the Soderini. It was this seeming capacity to mobilize support from every sector of the population, regardless of sex, social group, income, political hue, or place of origin, which enabled the convent to prosper.

It was not until after almost thirty years in the royal service and on the episcopal bench that Richard Fox retired to Winchester and turned his full attention to his pastoral office. There, at the age of sixty-eight and afflicted with failing eyesight, he set out to reform his flock. In a letter to Cardinal Wolsey he admitted that his mind had been ‘trowled nyght and daye with other mens enormites and vices’, and that he was anxious to ‘do soom satisfaccion for xxviij years negligence’. Ten years later there was a modest undertone of relief in his report to the Cardinal:

The title of this paper, ‘Segregation in Church’, may sound like an appendix to the theme of this year’s conference on Women in the Church. I hope to persuade you otherwise. For although my topic focuses on the ostensibly narrow question of the physical position of the sexes at worship, it is related to much broader issues. Ancient rules about impurity and the protection of holy rites and holy places; the fear of sex and the threat of sexual encounters intruding into divine offices; the elevation of virginity and the Virgin Mary; these are all matters that had to do with the seemingly simple question of the individual’s place at public prayer.