The relationship between land-holding magnates and urban communities in England and Normandy was always fraught but never more so than during war time. Fortified urban centers were key strategic objectives, vital to the projection of military force and the defense of territory, but rulers could not always rely on the citizens’ loyalty as they could with their own garrisons. This essay will analyze incidents when urban communities shifted their loyalty during war time and helped attackers to gain access to their fortifications, often in opposition to the garrison of their own citadel, and the motivations that chroniclers ascribed to them. This will reveal the complex political relationships that existed between rulers and urban citizens and how communities in key strategic locations, such as the Franco-Norman frontier, tried to exploit conflicts between polities for their own gain.

European medieval society had a particular horror of treachery. Famously, the lowest circle of hell in Dante's Inferno is reserved for traitors, where Satan's three mouths chew forever on the bodies of Judas Iscariot, Brutus and Cassius. In a culture structured around the bonds of mutual obligation between lord and vassal, master and servant, king and subject, the person who violated that bond was the most heinous criminal, guilty of attacking the fabric of society itself. Moreover, as these bonds were often confirmed with a religious oath or vow, the traitor offended both the earthly and divine order. Treachery was not just criminal, it was sacrilegious.

The Pilgrim's Guide lingers on descriptions of sculpture around the portals of the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela. By contrast, it has nothing to say of the spectacular theophanic tympana completed at Cluny, Autun, Vezelay, Sainte-Foy at Conques, Saint-Pierre at Moissac, Beaulieusur- Dordogne and Paris. It does not even mention the Ascension depicted on the Porte Miegeville at Toulouse. Indeed, beyond his detailed account of the cathedral at Santiago de Compostela, the author of the Guide acknowledges few architectural achievements elsewhere. He is content to refer only to the occasional “immense” basilica on the other side of the Pyrenees, which may also be “of admirable workmanship”. Yet, around the time of the compilation of the Codex Calixtinus, an unusual number of churches in Iberia received new facades. In this chapter, I shall argue that they can be seen as reflections of changing institutional identities, parallel to foundation legends and forged charters. Their archives or scriptoria often inform these displays. The backdrop for the new facades was an architectural landscape that preserved a large number of buildings, including palaces and mosques built by the taifa kingdoms and a significant number of Christian structures from the ninth, tenth and eleventh centuries.

Popular culture's interest in the Middle Ages has rarely been as great as it is currently. Fantasy adapts and popularises motifs, archetypes and epistemes of medieval literature and culture. Yet stories such as The Lord of the Rings, The Once and Future King and A Song of Ice and Fire neither revive the Middle Ages as an historical period nor have an interest in a scientifically legitimised representation of the period. In fact, fantasy has a special relationship to the Middle Ages, as ‘[n]eomedievalism finds a way of clinging to the past by rejecting the “history”, the alterity, the time and space that separated it from its desired object and bringing it into the present’. In epic fantasy, medieval motifs, narratives and inventories are removed from their original contexts, recombined and thus transformed within modern narratives and aesthetics. The ‘hyperreal, neomedieval texts’ created produce a simulacrum that appears authentically medieval to the reader. This is how neomedieval narrative worlds are formed: they are not trying to be ‘the Middle Ages’. Rather, they create a ‘secondary Middle Ages’, which in various media (such as literature, film and TV shows) frequently achieve top positions on bestseller lists, in download charts and at the cinema box office. The secondary Middle Ages of fantasy are popular.

This neomedieval fantasy frequently combines elements from medieval literature and culture with key themes within contemporary social discourse. Neomedieval worlds, such as Arda, Gramarye or Westeros, reflect on race and diversity as well as on female agency (gender) or question fair political governance.

On May 23, 1889, Brahms received a telegram from Carl Petersen, the mayor of Hamburg. This brought word of the Hamburg Parliament's decision to confer on him the right of honorary citizenship (Ehrenbürgerrecht). The composer gratefully acknowledged receipt of this news by return wire and then, on May 30, followed up with Petersen in a heartfelt letter of gratitude. Playing a discreet role behind the scenes was Hans von Bülow, a long-time friend and champion of Brahms who was then serving as the conductor of the city's Abonnement Concerte. In late March the archivist of the Hamburg Senate, Otto Beneke, prepared a memorandum of recommendation for that body's consideration—likely ghostwritten by Bülow—in which he vouched for Brahms's artistic significance by referring to his sterling reputation in the leading music journals and encyclopedias of the day and suggested that the conferral of an honorary citizenship might induce the composer to write a new work specifically for the inauguration of the city's new city hall, which was then in the early stages of construction. On April 26, the Senate submitted its formal nomination to the Hamburg Parliament. Word of this soon leaked in both the political and musical press, and on May 8 the Neue Zeitschrift für Musik published the text of the nomination in full.

The long eighteenth century provides the setting for countless studies of gambling by historians, cultural theorists, literary critics, philosophers, and sociologists. Champions and detractors of wagering and games of chance, from rulers and local administrators to public intellectuals and average citizens, contributed to the era of play that grew out of the Enlightenment. Around the middle of the century, the expansion of lotteries across Europe exemplified both the ascent of reason and the enduring appeal of superstition. As rational beings weighed the costs and benefits of wagering, the contrast between homo economicus and homo ludens blurred. At the same time, unchecked Spiellust fueled with a belief in luck could quickly be transformed into Spielsucht. Gambling has always been about calculated risks, but by the eighteenth century, the calculation of probabilities and emphasis on mathematical outcomes augmented how gambles were evaluated. Fate gave way to chance and, by the end of the long century, the calculability of accidents. The contributions to this special section address gambling and its various forms— cards, dice, lotteries—in the work of marquee authors and important yet lesser-known figures. Drawing on a variety of approaches, the essays analyze the intersecting topics of play within limits, managing information overload, the subjective experience of gambling in the age of reason, and fallibility in decision-making. The authors demonstrate how major cultural, political, and scientific developments across Europe shaped approaches to contingency and risk in Germany during this period. Since the Age of Goethe, forms of gambling have not changed significantly. However, technological advances have transformed where and how bets are placed as well as the speed with which one learns the results.

Coming Out to Battle As Las Casas “came out” of his outpost on the north coast of Española in the early 1530s, he came out fighting. In 1533 the judges of the Audiencia of Santo Domingo accused him of preaching sermons while prior at Puerto Plata, “prejudicial to the service of His Majesty and people of this land.”1 Preposterous, Las Casas responded with a Pauline-style defense that sounds whiney, and self-serving at first glance.

By now we know that Bartolomé was no loving, saintly, quiet individual given to piety, forgiveness, and suffering in silence. In a long letter to the Council of the Indies sent in 1534, he recounted his past endeavors, over many years, in the service of the Crown, trying to protect the Indians, although “now I’m getting old, and, to tell the truth, I’m a bit tired.” But that was just the prolog to the letter. He then lambasted the council. Perhaps he was imagining his smug, self-righteous adversaries in Guatemala, or Mexico, or Spain reading this, and so wrote with special force, his concentration probably scaring off even his closest retainers used to puttering around his quarters.

“But, for the glory of God and the service of Your Majesty, and Your Excellencies, I cannot stop.” Indeed. He was coming out swinging.

“Why, in your service, I have not only done so much on this (Española] island, but also specially in securing all of the island of Cuba [emphasis added] and subjecting it to your Royal Service.”

The aim in preparing this edition has been to provide an accessible edition of the second part of William Porlond's Brewers’ Book.

Passages in Latin are indicated [Latin] and have been calendared. In this part of the book Latin was used only occasionally for margin notes or side headings.

The names of London parishes and streets have been modernised, for ease of identification.

Place names have been modernised unless they are obscure or unusual, as in ‘Flanndrissh tile’. Where dwelling places or names of brewhouses were given, the entry ‘atte Lamb’ has been translated as ‘at the Lamb’.

First names have been modernised, unless they are unusual, or have no modern equivalent, such as Weveyne.

Surnames have been left as written, with a Head Word in the Indexes and the variations shown.

Money has been converted from Roman numerals to Arabic, i.e. xijd. to 12d.

The accounting has been left as Porlond recorded it, without the addition of corrections. Frequently the amounts are correct. Sometimes, however, there must have been more information, known to the clerk, but now lost.

Round brackets ( ) show a repeated or unnecessary word in the manuscript.

Square brackets [ ] indicate an editorial insertion.

Regnal dates are taken from C. R. Cheyney (ed.), A Handbook of Dates for Students of English History, revised by Michael Jones (Cambridge, 2000). Dates falling within 1 January–24 March have been silently modernised.

On March 9, 1888, Emperor William I died in Berlin just two weeks shy of his ninety-first birthday. He was followed on the throne by the moderately liberal Crown Prince Frederick William. As everyone had known for months, the new German emperor, who took the regnal name Frederick III, was not well. Already deep in the throes of throat cancer, he was unable even to speak, and on June 15 he died after reigning for only ninety-nine days. Thereupon his twenty-nine-year-old eldest and decidedly non-liberal son became Emperor William II.

Kalbeck supposed that Brahms “sought to find comfort” at this time of “distress and affliction” by giving musical expression to the words of the Fest- und Gedenksprüche. Beller-McKenna expands this tragedy trope to take in a far broader context than Kalbeck intended. Attributing a personal piety to the composer that strikes me as unfounded, he proposes that Brahms offers in the work a series of national prayers for Germany at a time of what he calls “ominous divisions in the Kaiserreich” between those who viewed the German state in terms of top-down dynastic patriotism and those who viewed it in terms of bottom-up völkisch nationalism.

During the long period considered in this edition, there must have been numerous proposals for religious anniversaries that did not result in the issue of orders or forms of prayer, and are consequently not listed in the main section on anniversaries. Many were no doubt informal suggestions by individuals, which gained little or no support. Two of these are noted elsewhere in the edition: by Richard Morison during the late 1530s for an annual commemoration of the Henrician break with Rome (p. 7 in this volume), and by Sidney Godolphin in 1705 for an anniversary thanksgiving for Marlborough's victory at Blenheim (volume 2, p. 234). It would be supererogatory as well as difficult to attempt a listing of all known proposals from individuals. This appendix comments only on a number of the more substantial proposals for religious anniversaries, defined as those sufficiently advanced as to be raised in parliament or submitted formally to the sovereign, and which reveal points of political or religious significance.

1621: proposed anniversary sermon day to commemorate a royal speech (England & Wales)

In March 1621, members of the House of Lords were unusually pleased with the turn of political events. After seven years, James I had summoned a new parliament. In contrast to the acrimonious meeting in 1614, the new session began well. While the king persisted with his desire for peace with Spain, he was now prepared to undertake rearmament to assist the defence of continental protestants, and more particularly the lands of his son-in-law, Frederick, Elector Palatine. The House of Commons obliged, by supporting the king's requests for financial subsidies.

Historians of military history have tended to emphasize the infantry of the city states of the plain of the Po. In fact, aristocrats played a very important role in their political and social life and, as a result, were especially important in military affairs. This article examines the wars between the cities in the late twelfth and early thirteenth centuries, and suggests that their armies, while they did have good steady infantry, were dominated by knightly cavalry, reflecting their complex social make-up.

Studies in English of the military history of the Lombard cities have tended to emphasize the infantry element in their armies. Hans Delbrück remarked: “With independence, there grew a unified sense of citizenship, a communal patriotism that bound the classes together and reawakened the warlike spirit in the previously unwarlike classes,” while according to Verbruggen, in many ways a great champion of the knightly virtues: “The foot-soldiers of the Italian cities were the forerunners of all good medieval foot-soldiers.” Albert Settia has remarked that “Italian communal armies were, as is well known, largely made up of infantry,” and has convincingly argued that their foot had a degree of training. Michael Mallett was primarily interested in late medieval military developments, but he believed that in the twelfth and thirteenth centuries “The communal militias were largely, but by no means exclusively, made up of infantry.” Mallett's qualification is important, and points the direction of this article.

Women are almost entirely absent from the Codex Calixtinus, barring the odd misogynistic aside as in the interpretation of the woman with the skull. Even female saints play only a minor role in the list of recommended holy sites in the Pilgrim's Guide. Churches with Marian cults feature rarely, perhaps because they lack the whole-body relics that the author privileges. St Foy of Conques receives merely a brief mention, despite being celebrated so visibly in the ambulatory chapel dedicated to her at Santiago de Compostela cathedral. Only the cult of the Magdalene at Vezelay is given an enthusiastic recommendation. Women are also notably absent as direct beneficiaries in the miracle collection of St James. On the one hand, this is in sharp contrast to the Iberian women who occupied prominent political positions in the early twelfth century, most obviously Urraca, queen of Leon and Castile from 1109 to 1126, but also her halfsister, Teresa, countess of Portugal who ruled as ‘queen’ from 1117 to 1128. On the other hand, it tallies with threats to another, more ambiguous, structure available to royal women, the infantado. The nature and function of the infantado have been much debated, as it was, as Patrick Henriet has said, a malleable institution.

Affect, Morality, and Society

This book, through a detailed analysis of four key affective values, aims to throw new light on the history of affect, cultural norms, elite governance, and English society. By unraveling the understanding and practice of love, gratitude, repentance, and obedience in the landed ranks in England from circa 1580 to 1700, it uncovers the prevalent system of affective morality. Academic research on emotions, ethics, and early modern English social history has been compartmentalized, different disciplines working according to different assumptions, asking different questions, and addressing different historiographical debates. This book brings disparate disciplines into conversation with each other. It merges social, cultural, and intellectual history, explores how ideals and concepts were rendered in daily life by actual people, emphasizes the importance of the domestic, familial world for the understanding and exercise of public authority, and insists on the centrality of the passions and affections to early modern ethics. It contributes to the history of emotions by reconnecting affect and ethics, arguing that the passions and affections were crucial components of the good life. Early modern individuals may not have looked at life through rose-colored glasses, but they certainly did so through an affective lens. Passions, affections, and ethics were intertwined and must be understood together: feelings enabled ethical conduct, constituted the enacted value, and were often mandated obligations, while cultural norms were based on affective concepts. I sought, also, to advance the history of English society by showing how authority was based on affect, thus demonstrating the relevance of emotion to larger historical issues. The passions and affections were central to the construction, enactment, and navigation of the moral frameworks of the English elite.

The sociable world of the Bluestockings is especially associated with the behavioural formations of the city, such as the world of sociable and yet intellectual pleasures found in assembly rooms, salons, theatres and domestic houses, described by Elizabeth Montagu as ‘visiting the Beau monde, & conversing with the Beau esprits of the Academies’. At the same time, though in a different place, Montagu also considered herself as a person engaged in agriculture: she was a farmer, or, as she termed it, with ironic modesty, a ‘farmeress’. Bluestockings and Landscape in Eighteenth-Century Britain: The Prospect of Improvement addresses how these seemingly disparate self-perceptions found some consistency through a discourse of improvement in which Montagu might both be farmer and intellectual, an agricultural reformer and a philanthropist, concerned as much with the plight of her crops as that of her tenant farmers. These competing interests are in evidence in a letter to her sister-in-law, Mary Robinson, in 1772:

We have had the finest weather I ever saw for any long continuance; as a Farmer I have some fault to find with it. Our Wheat, & barley, & turnips, have all sufferd by drought. We had not any reason to complain of our Hay, but the Grass is now much burnt. The dearness of all kinds of provision have reduced our poor Neighbours to a state of wretchedness which I never saw before in England.