THE CHANSON DE ROLAND, although contemporary with the development of chivalry,shows the value system of a highly aristocratic society of revenge, preserved in holy war. It exudes disdain for serfs, used as a foil for the “baron (ber)” and the “vassal,” and is not interested in the bulk of the army, largely consisting of “soudoyers.” It glorifies the heroic death of great warriors wishing to live up to their lineage and their ancestors, all Franks, and for this reason they are not afraid of dying or killing.

The Chanson d’Aspremont was composed shortly before 1190, either in southern Italy or in the French domains of the Plantagenets, or in both. Widely circulated during the Middle Ages, it lacks the poetic force of the Chanson de Roland. Perhaps nearer to a romance than an epic poem, it is two and a half times longer. The climate is changing and there is no unity of action. Martí de Riquer was even able to write that, “it had more than a little literary success, but the enormous mass of the chanson makes it tough to read.” The tensions and social diversity it reveals are also interesting for the historian: it may be that we can learn more from it than from Chanson de Roland, which Aspremont wishes to complete by recounting the “enfances” of Roland during one of Charlemagne's great battles in Calabria, on the slopes of Aspromonte. It was fought to defend Roma and the empire against the offensive of King Agoulant, preceded by his son Eaumont.

The Chanson d’Aspremont appears to borrow all its great values from the Song of Roland: its elegy of the great but terrible fight to the death in fair combat; its aristo cratic system; and a number of its formulas and narrative motifs. However, all this is transposed, shifted, and inserted into a more prosaic form, even diluted in a composite ensemble of interesting debates and combats, which are piquant rather than moving. Its composition is more like a game, and it juxtaposes various value systems. Most important, I think, is being able to read into it more truly chivalric elements. In fact, the succession of Frankish victories pushes sacrificial death somewhat into the background; instead, the stress placed on the actual ritual of knighting involves the theme of the promotion of the young, vavasours, and even serfs.

The Battle of Bouvines is known in detail from the narratives of William le Breton but his reports are less objective than modern historians, let alone those in military studies, have generally thought them to be. William's accounts are infused with Capetian propaganda in the way they put King Philip Augustus at the centre of the battle. Here, constructive criticism is offered of that line of argument relying in particular on the report by the so-called Anonymous of Béthune. It is suggested that the scale of the battle should be reduced and a discussion of what was at stake and what the battle's impact was is set out along similar lines as has been done for other battles in the context of warfare and feudal relations.

Bouvines appears at the juncture of two types of operations. A true chivalric battle engaged the right flank of the French and Count Ferran's knights with its codes and scenes similar to those found in the Anglo-Norman world of Orderic Vitalis, such as the use of a knife, and not arrows, with which to kill horses, as in the games of the ‘poignées’. Further to the left, it was essential for the French to disperse the footsoldiers, who protected the mounted knights, and whose flight left the calvalry exposed. It is uncertain whether organised mercenaries took part in the battle of Bouvines. The defection by the duke of Louvain was an important reason for the defeat of Emperor Otto and the ‘men from Brabant’ who offered resistance to the last man standing – for which they were praised by many French commentators – and who were probably men who had come with the emperor.

Orderic Vital n'a pas relaté la bataille de Bouvines. Pareil oubli s'explique vraisemblablement par le fait qu'il est mort près de soixante-dix ans auparavant. Mais c'est bien regrettable car du coup nous ignorons s'il aurait été frappé, comme à Brémule, par le petit nombre de morts et s'il aurait laissé entrevoir là une des ces batailles partielles dont l'histoire de la conflictualité féodale est émaillée, et qui ne sont que des fractures exceptionnelles, vite réduites, de la société chevaleresque et chrétienne.

The ‘Peace of God’ excites the modern imagination. It is thought of as a pacifist movement to abolish a feudal system based on war or halt its progress towards total domination. The Church of the year 1000, so the story goes, faced down the lords and rescued the Capetian kingdom from chaos pending the reinvigoration of kingship around 1100. What a vital moment in social and Christian history it was indeed! The bishops of Aquitaine, Gothia, Burgundy, and France had heard the sighs of the peasant victims of the castle-knights’ warlike pillaging. They summoned them one and all into the presence of holy relics and forced them to swear on the relics that they would keep the peace. Those who bowed to the law of God and swore to respect the holy places and the unarmed had their sins forgiven. Those who refused to swear or, having sworn, went back on their oaths became objects of terrifying malediction. Unfettered social violence was thus met by a vehement religious response, and it was just that, a religious response. The knights had been disarmed by fear of God and the relics of His saints. Such is the historical representation that was canonized by Michelet and given a new lease of life in 1992 by Thomas Head and Richard Landes. Yet it is impossible not to be struck immediately by the often warlike – and simoniacal – behaviour of several of these bishops. Indeed I wonder whether I used strong enough words back in 1999, when I questioned the supposed pacifism of certain bishops between 989 and 1119.

Historians often quote Rodulfus Glaber's praise of the Aquitainian pacts and Ademar of Chabannes's sermons in their favour, but what of the contemporary criticisms levelled at Aimon of Bourges and Hugh of Auxerre, two of their main promoters? Again, it is all very well to enthuse with Suger of Saint-Denis, a century later, about King Louis VI's role as agent of the peace of God of 1111 and 1115. But what about the adverse comments of Guibert of Nogent and Orderic Vitalis, if not about the king himself, then certainly about the bishops who supported him?

True, we have a great deal of documentation. But it is very patchy and rather problematic.

The period culminating in the eleventh century has bequeathed to us a range of narratives that describe the heroic deeds of noble young heroes who determinedly served their nation, lord, faith, or kindred. They fought for important and collective stakes of honor, interest, or both. If they died in battle, they were honored for their courage, and their death called for revenge. If they won, they gained valuable rewards: an enhanced status, an inheritance, a wife, a fief, glory. Such is the fate of the legendary Ingo described by Richer of Reims in his Histories; the same author also speaks of a more historical (albeit anonymous) warrior who obtained a reward for killing a German giant in single combat. Richer's book reveals some of the tales that were current within the noble households of tenth-century Frankish kings, a milieu to which Richer's own father, Ralph, belonged.

Richer's father could pride himself, in the second half of the tenth century, on having succeeded in some dangerous and decisive actions, even if they were rather covert and underhand. Yet evidence suggests that even at this time nobles seldom died in battle or during campaigns between French principalities. They deferred to the implicit norms of intracultural ‘war’ which directed them to avoid killing one another and to spare their noble enemies, with the expectation of gaining the success they desired through pleas, the mechanisms of social life, and by gaining the loyalty of their supporters.