A Brief Theoretical Introduction

There are likely to be as many archaeological perspectives on technology as there are archaeologists, but this is not to say that there are no recognizable trends in the way archaeology has approached the issue of technology. One, perhaps the most common, especially among archaeologists who are largely involved in rescue projects, is seemingly atheoretical. Elements of material culture that can be argued to have a more or less close relation to technology are carefully described and inserted into wider narratives without much consideration being given to their points of connection with other aspects of society such as ideology or identity. In fact, there is nothing atheoretical about this position, even if the theoretical basis on which it sits is not made explicit (and is sometimes not even acknowledged as such by the archaeologists responsible for it). Theory is not necessarily an argument full of complicated words with philosophical overtones. The assumptions we have, the way we order reality in our heads, is our theoretical position, the framework within which we place and organize the data provided by our senses.

It is necessary to dispel the idea that if we do not openly or consciously embrace the theoretical premises of recognizable theoretical schools (such as processual archaeology or evolutionist archaeology), we are presenting a completely objective description of the archaeological record that can be regarded safely away from the adulteration of theoretical constructs.

In De sex etatibus huius seculi (‘Concerning the Six Ages of the World’), Ælfric surveys the ages of the world from the Fall to Eternity to complete the story of mankind he began in De creatore et creatura (‘Concerning the Creator and Creation’ [AH II.14]). Picking up where he left off in De creatore, De sex etatibus outlines the six ages of the material world that encompass human history from the Fall to Judgment Day before turning to two spiritual ages, one spanning the whole of human history, the other beginning when it ends. The Eighth Age of Eternity represents the culmination of world and salvation history and the dawning of the ece life (‘everlasting life’), the reward of a Christian life faithfully lived toward which all of Ælfric's preaching points.

The sweep of world history in De sex etatibus opens with a First Age stretching from Adam to Noah [lines 1–76] and featuring descriptions of Adam's arduous post-lapsarian life, death, and damnation, the Flood, and the Tower of Babel. This last story prompts a summary analysis of the sorry spiritual state of post-diluvian humanity, but in the Second Age the idolatry of Noah's day gives way to Abraham's piety [lines 77–84]. Ælfric's description of the Third Age from Abraham to David [lines 85–169] holds pride of place in terms of length. This is due primarily to the treatment of the Ten Commandments [lines 124–65] that occurs between descriptions of the time of the patriarchs, the Exodus, and the Wilderness Years, and the description of the Israelites’ arrival in the Promised Land. From this land to middan þissere worulde (‘at the center of the world’ [line 168]), Ælfric says, the prophets predicted that Christ would come, and with that he transitions to the Fourth Age [lines 170–86], the time of the prophets continuing from David to Daniel and encompassing the Babylonian Exile and return [lines 176–84]. Of the Fifth Age, Ælfric remarks only that it runs from Daniel to Christ [line 187] before moving on to the Sixth Age in which he and his audience live, the time between Christ's Incarnation and his Second Coming at the end of the world [lines 188–91].

The centrality of the role of the scribe in studies of later medieval English literature has developed inexorably over the past four decades. During this time scholarly interest has shifted from literary texts themselves to the manuscripts in which they survive. It has also broadened from an exclusive focus on the authors whose wit, imagination and learning generated works of literature to a more inclusive consideration of the whole process of writing, and one that acknowledges the craftsmanship of those who physically committed the authors’ words to parchment and paper. Any graduate student embarking on the study of medieval literature in the third decade of the twenty-first century can expect to encounter questions of scribal culture and book production sooner rather than later in their studies, and will find that deeper acquaintance of those major medieval authors and texts that have featured on the syllabus at undergraduate level will be freighted with a searching appreciation of their cultural and historical milieux. Even though graduate students may not actually be expected to read medieval texts from manuscript to any great extent as part of their assessed work they will usually be provided with training in at least the rudiments of palaeography, codicology and textual criticism as part of any taught Masters programme, in anticipation that knowledge of these skills will be necessary for successful further doctoral study as well as for parallel careers in the archival and library sectors. Such training has, of course, been available in the past, especially at locations such as Toronto and York and St Andrews where there have traditionally been significant concentrations of medieval scholars, and at those universities which own or have convenient access to extensive collections of medieval manuscripts. The key difference is the now universal and routine expectation that students of medieval English literature will need such skills; previously training in palaeography and diplomatics was assumed to be essential only for students of medieval history, since their research was always expected to require archival work and the examination of original medieval documents. This change in approach in the subject of medieval English literature is due to a combination of factors, not all of which are academically driven.

The answer to the question posed by my title may surprise those coming at it as ‘Chaucerians’: in fact, texts other than the Tales appear in these manuscripts nearly half the time. While a number of manuscripts do contain only the Tales, some thirty-five of the eighty-three surviving manuscripts (counting Ox1 and Ox2 as one), or about 42%, contain texts other than the Canterbury Tales. Fifty-four manuscripts contain oncecomplete or near-complete copies of the Tales, while twenty-nine (again, counting Ox1 and Ox2 as one) either contain extracts or are too fragmentary to resolve the question of their original scope.

Among these ‘Canterbury Tales manuscripts’, aside from the Canterbury Tales proper, I count some 240 Middle English verse texts, 65 Middle English prose texts, 16 Latin prose texts, 10 Latin verse texts, and a single French verse text. While many of these occur only once or twice in Canterbury Tales manuscripts, we can get a sense of what comprised at least one version of the fifteenth century's ‘greatest hits’ by looking at the remaining texts that occur in three or more manuscripts. Of surviving manuscripts containing later Middle English verse, those containing the text of the Canterbury Tales number second only to those with The Prick of Conscience. While it is well-known that Lydgatian texts appear frequently with texts by Chaucer and are often attributed to Chaucer, the wide range of both secular and religious texts speak to the varying perspectives from which Chaucer's texts were read and received.

Two texts make five appearances in Canterbury Tales manuscripts: John Lydgate's Siege of Thebes (Ad1 Ch Cn En3 Ll1) and Chaucer's ‘Truth’ (Balade de Bon Conseyl: Ad4 Gg Ha3 Ph4 Pp[2]). The inclusion of the Siege of Thebes should not be too surprising, since Lydgate composed it as a Canterbury Tale, told by himself as the first homeward tale.

Five texts appear in four Canterbury Tales manuscripts: Chaucer's Parliament of Fowls (Gg Ha3 Pp[1] Tc3), Chaucer's ‘An ABC’ (Gg Hl2 Pp[1] Pp[2]), Benedict Burgh's ‘Cato Minor’ and ‘Cato Major’ (Ha3 Hl2 Hn Pp[1]), Lydgate's Churl and Bird (Ch Cn Hn Tc3), and extracts from Gower's Confessio Amantis (Dl Ee Ha3 To2).

Disguises are a universal story-telling device, from superhero comic books to comic opera. They also have a long history in warfare, from camouflage pattern on modern uniforms to the inflatable ‘dummy’ vehicles deployed by Allied forces during the Second World War. It is therefore unsurprising to find a variety of tales involving disguise in medieval chronicles. While the most of these disguises are visual (e.g. dressing up as somebody else), there is also an important verbal and performative element.

These incidents have been divided into categories according to their intended effect: to make a combatant appear to be some kind of noncombatant, to make a fighting force appear larger than it truly was and to make one combatant look like another, be that friend or foe. This will require a detailed discussion of how medieval combatants distinguished these categories in the first place and how they expected to recognise one another on the battlefield. Many of these disguises reveal important cultural assumptions about the visual markers that distinguished fighting men from other social groups in the central Middle Ages.

Escaping and Infiltrating Strongholds

One way of avoiding an enemy's attention was to look like someone (or something) harmless and beneath their notice. This left the deceiver free to escape from danger or to enter a stronghold or enemy camp unnoticed.

A disguise could be useful if one wished to escape from one's enemy after a major defeat. According to Robert the Monk, the Turkish governor of Antioch, Yāghī Siyān, fled the city in June 1098 ‘covered in cheap rags’ (vilibus pannis obsitus) when he learned that the crusaders had seized the outer defences, probably attempting to pass himself off as a pauper or beggar. Unfortunately for him, he was recognised on the road by a band of Armenians, who killed him and presented his head to the crusaders. While chivalric convention in the West offered a level of protection to a defeated nobleman, who could expect to be spared in return for a ransom, this was not guaranteed. Furthermore, ransoms could be cripplingly expensive, so it is no wonder that chroniclers occasionally reported that individuals evaded capture by adopting a disguise.

Be ðam Seofanfealdan Ungifa (‘Concerning the Sevenfold Evil Gifts’) is a unique, now fragmentary, composite homily slated for the Third Sunday after Easter in the one manuscript wherein it survives. The beginning of the homily is missing, so our title is editorial and the assignment to the third Sunday conjectural, but the fragment is positioned between sermons for the second and fourth Sundays after Easter. We know for certain that Ælfric composed the component parts of the composite homily, but it is not clear if the combination is his. Peter Clemoes thinks it is. Malcolm Godden thinks it might be. John Pope says it is not. We prefer to think of it as ‘Ælfrician’ since it is at least possible that Ælfric compiled it. If so, the compilation dates to between about 1002 and 1005, by which time he had in hand the two pieces on which he drew. The first piece and the first part of the composite homily [lines 1–79] consists of Be þam Halgan Gaste (AH II.17) in its entirety. This was the Old English tract on the sevenfold good gifts of the Holy Spirit and the corresponding evil gifts of the devil that Ælfric wrote between about 998 and 1002. The second piece used for the second part of the composite homily [lines 80–151] was De doctrina apostolica (SH II.19), a non-pericope homily for an unspecified occasion about ideals of Christian conduct that Ælfric wrote between about 993 and 998. Part two consists chiefly of an exemplum about the damnation of an unrepentant thegn drawn ultimately from Bede's Ecclesiastical History and excerpted virtually verbatim from De doctrina apostolica. Be ðam Seofanfealdan Ungifa concludes with an adaptation of De doctrina apostolica's final lines, offering assurance that God will forgive those who do not lose hope in Christ's mercy and repent of their sins [lines 152–62].

Had Ælfric fashioned Be ðam Seofanfealdan Ungifa between 1002 and 1005, then he did so at a time when he was writing pericope homilies for Sundays and non-saints’ feast-days linked to Easter that would become the series known as Temporale Homilies I (TH I).

Introduction

This chapter examines the demand for ceramic construction material in Granada after the conquest of the city, the last redoubt of al-Andalus, in 1492. Specifically, I shall focus on the royal construction works undertaken in the Alhambra. My aim is to establish beyond doubt whether the pottery kilns in the Alhambra remained active after the Catholic Monarchs’ conquest and, if this was the case, the scale of their operation.

The time span under examination includes the 16th and the first half of the 17th century, a period during which the administration of the Alhambra, and therefore the maintenance work undertaken there, was in the hands of the Tendilla family, which held the position of alcaides of the Alhambra almost without interruption during this period, and they were always very keen to maintain the fabrics and decorations of the palace to the highest standards. The enquiry stops in 1646, when the VII Count of Tendilla left office.

Introduction

The Royal Workshops of the Alhambra Project was created with the aim of studying the urban area of the Alhambra, where substantial archaeological remains are still visible. The central role played by glazed ceramics in the material culture and political projection of the Nasrid kingdom of Granada (13th–15th centuries) and the plausible assumption that a good deal of luxury ceramic production took place in the palatial city, right under the gaze of the royal palaces, made the study of industrial remains in the Secano (the name now given to the urban sector of the hill) a very tempting proposition. It is well known that medieval Muslim rulers often encouraged the state sponsorship of craft activity as a way to create a recognizable material culture to represent their house or polity. We aimed to find those royal workshops and establish more firmly the technological knowledge and industrial prowess mobilized by the Nasrid rulers, which was at the forefront of their ideological and material strategies for survival in the convulsive Mediterranean of the Late Middle Ages.

As the reader of this volume may have figured out by now, very little has gone according to plan. Although there are very powerful reasons to still believe that the royal Nasrid workshops that we set out to find were once there, the incontrovertible fact remains that they are there no longer in the area that has been explored so far, at least not in any recognizable shape. There are Nasrid industrial remains, but they are so tenuous that taking their interpretation any further than we have done would be adventurous, to say the least.

Despite this, we are perfectly happy to say that, as far as we are concerned, the project has been a resounding success. This may sound a little eccentric coming from a project called the Royal Workshops of the Alhambra which has managed to find no royal workshops at all, in the Alhambra or elsewhere. Yet we stand by that conclusion, because the result of our research is that we now know a good deal more about the history and archaeology of the Alhambra than we did before we started.